#one day I will write a short answer to an ask

[jj-one]

lmao you answer all the asks in one go and ur page is asks for a quick minute

okay here something: cuz minho loves getting ppl wet (woah at the concerts.. right..) he has the idea of a water fight with you back at home but he has to cut it short after your clothes got too wet, maybe a little see through. long story short water guns we’re left on the yard and you ended up back in bed (it hasn’t even been a full day iykwim)

also yes sub skz yes yes yes we must be interlinked nb rlly writes abt sub anymore.

-🐇

help- no fr 😭😭 this idea is so ??? omg stop i loved writing this, i hope u like it bun :3

it started off as just a normal afternoon, an innocent game between you two. the sun is out, scorching hot like always. the plastic squeak of water guns in your grip. minho’s playfully smirking as he quickly ducks behind a patio chair, only to pop back up and blast you point-blank in the chest. you yelp, drenched, your soaked tank top clinging to your skin.

he laughs in victory, all cocky and breathless. “that’s what you get for cheating.”

but the minute minho’s gaze fixates on you— especially your body, his smile falters.

your nipples are right there, barely concealed by the white tank top that’s now completely see through and transparent, your pale bra peeking out like an open invitation. droplets of water cascade down your chest in glistening trails, and minho suddenly stops reloading his water gun altogether.

his jaw clenched. “we’re done,” he says, voice deeper.

you blink in confusion. “huh? i was winning—”

he drops the water gun, leaving it on the grass.

in three strides, he’s in front of you, gripping your wrist and pulling you towards the sliding glass door. “may i remind you that you’re the reason we’re even in this predicament right now?”

“wha—”

but you don’t get the chance to tease him back.

he slams the door shut behind you both, the cool a/c hitting your wet skin, and then you’re abruptly being pushed up against it. his mouth crashes into yours, hungry, impatient. his hands grab at your damp tank top, yanking it up until it’s hiked up all the way past your chest.

“no bra next time,” he growls, pulling down one cup with his teeth before taking your nipple into his mouth, his tongue warm and wet. a gasp escapes your throat, body arching into him.

“i didn’t know you’d get this distracted,” you pant.

he lets out a laugh against your skin, but it’s dark, dripping with lust. “you really don’t, do you?”

one hand slides down between your thighs, slipping under your drenched shorts, your soaked panties. his fingers find you embarrassingly wet, and not from the water gun. he groans, forehead dropping to your collarbone.

“fuck, baby… you’re soaked everywhere.”

a moan’s caught in your throat as he sinks to his knees, undoing your zipper and pulling your shorts down, spreading your legs right there in the entryway. the cool door against your back, his warm mouth between your thighs.

“this what you wanted?” he murmurs, tongue teasing your clit. “parade around like that until i snap?”

you barely manage a whimper.

minho doesn’t wait for an answer. he devours you like it’s the middle of july and you’re the only thing that can quench his thirst.

when you finally come undone, thighs trembling, his smug voice breaks the silence,

“we’re playing that game again tomorrow. but this time?” he licks your arousal off his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“you’ll be naked.”

[archivesctrccio]

religion was taught.

୨ৎ pairing.. butcherqueen x reader.

୨ৎ warnings.. bad ending(?), religious guilt, major character death.

୨ৎ words.. 614.

✎ᝰ. jinx notes.. I don't know what I was planning with this one? 😿 but I liked it. I wanted to write something very dramatic, but short.

In a town that smelled of smoke and old confessions, built on the bones of women who dared too much, girls were taught to sew silence into their skin. To cross their legs. Bow their heads.

And never—never—question authority.

You lived like a ghost inside your father’s chapel. Your mother had died giving birth—"a blood price," the priest had once muttered, drunk and grieving. You never forgot it.

By day, you prayed. By night, you bit your tongue until it bled.

Then came Lottie—the poet with ink-stained fingers and eyes that had seen too much. She moved into the old cottage near the edge of town, a place people avoided. They said the trees whispered there. She heard it. She didn't care. She just wrote.

Lottie met you during a sermon. You looked up from your hymnbook and she was staring—not the way men did, but as if she were a story worth reading.

You spoke for the first time under the old willow near the cemetery.

She asked you what you prayed for.

You lied.

She didn’t press.

You met in secret. In fields. In attics. In the hush between heartbeats.

Her lips tasted like ink and defiance.

She kissed you softly at first, like asking a question.

Then harder, like demanding the answer. And your whole body shook with guilt.

“You don’t understand,” you said, eyes wet. “I’m not supposed to want this.”

“But you do,” Lottie whispered.

And then came Shauna.

No one remembered her arriving. One day the pews were empty, the next, she sat in the back, watching. Her beauty was impossible—wrong in a way that made your heart stop. She smiled with teeth too sharp for this world.

you knew what she was the moment your eyes met.

The devil didn’t wear horns. She wore torn jeans and grief like perfume. She looks like someone you might have loved in another life, or maybe this one. Her beauty was unnatural—wrong in a way that made the hairs on your neck rise.

Her smile wasn’t kind. It was knowing.

“You think your shame is holy,” Shauna said to you, the first night you were alone. “It’s just fear dressed in a cross.”

you began to love them both. Lottie made you feel alive. Shauna made you feel like fire. Between their arms, you were something more than a priest’s quiet daughter. You were whole. But nothing that holy survives in a town like theirs.

One morning, Lottie’s cottage burned. They said it was an accident. It wasn’t.

Shauna found you trembling in the ruins, smelling of ash and prayers.

“I tried to be good,” you sobbed. “I tried to kill the part of me that loved her.”

Shauna touched her cheek. “You don’t kill love. You bury it alive.”

The next Sunday, you walked to the altar while your father preached. You looked at the crucifix, then turned to the congregation.

“I am not sorry,” you said.

Your father struck you before you finished the sentence.

You woke up in the chapel’s basement, tied and shivering. There were prayers above you—shouted, desperate. And there was Shauna, sitting in the dark with glowing eyes.

“I can save you,” Shauna said. “But it won’t be the kind of salvation they preach about.”

“I lost my soul,” you whispered, as if it were a secret, or a sin. "the day i choose love."

So you took Shauna's hand.

By morning, the church was nothing but embers.

And if you walk near the ruins now, the wind sometimes carries a poem:

"She kissed the devil to be free,

and burned the cross that caged her heart.

God never came. But she did."

taglist: @moesthoughts

[sharieb]

First Kiss Withheld for a Bittersweet Goodbye

Pairing: Rafayel x non-MC! reader

Genre: Angst Request: Helloooooo, I really love your works esp those non mc and I was wondering if i could request you to write about this idea of mine that popped up before I went to sleep.😭 it keeps bugging my mind although I'm having exam, I wonder how Rafayel would react to you not knowing how to kiss when he initiated the kiss first. But instead of telling him that you don't know how to kiss, you just dodged his kiss instead because somehow you isekei'ed into his world(and he knew it, not a secret) so knowing that one day you'll go back to your own world and leave him behind.(and knowing his love story with mc and how they tragically sacrificed for each other, how could you possibly accept these intimate gestures from him?) You just thought you didn't wanna do those intimate(though you both are dying for it, though you dont know how to kiss so if you guys kiss that'll make the kiss your first kiss while he already had his with her, mc. Somehow all the boys ive loved before reference) but instead you wanted to actually get to know him, the him aside from the game. So when the day that you're leaving finally comes, you guys bickered about who's gonna watch who walked away so you insist you watch him walking back and you watch him because you told him "it hurts less for you."(but who'll know what universe decided to do at that point? Will you be able to go back to your world or will he dragged along with you to your world? I'd choose the former since the world would go crazy if they know our sea god is real😓 but feel free to go along with my idea or not 💋) and if they were to get separated, they will forever forget about this short term memory. You never isekei'ed into his world(he's still your fav game char) and he never has you in your memory. (Pls if u don't understand, u don't have to reply. It might be too confusing since English is not my first language😭🙏🏻)

I gathered pieces of each result that I thought were really good and combined them instead. Here is the finished draft

The waves lapped softly at the sand, a rhythmic hush that seemed to follow Rafayel wherever he went. He stood barefoot on the shore again, pant legs rolled up, his white shirt lazily unbuttoned. You found him where you always did—avoiding responsibility with a handful of shells, half-sanded and glimmering in the sun.

“I’m making paint again,” he said, as you approached. “Want to watch me crush innocence into powder?”

“You mean seashells?”

He smirked, not answering.

It was so typical of him, this blend of mockery and mystique. Of course, he’d skip his own meeting with Thomas just to gather shells. Of course,e he’d act like the entire world was optional, except you.

He dropped the shells into your hands like they were some kind of offering.

And then, without warning, leaned in.

His lips didn’t quite touch yours. Just a breath away.

You could feel the heat of him, sun-warmed and salt-sweet, close enough to taste the ocean on his skin.

You’d known this moment would come eventually. Rafayel doesn’t half-love anything, not a note, not a gesture, not a person.

But you couldn’t accept it.

So you turned your face.

Just enough to miss his lips. Just enough to shatter the illusion.

His breath hitched. Not a dramatic sigh, not the theatre he was known for—but something quieter. Realer.

“Am I… not what you want?” he asked, voice devoid of his usual glamour.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. The truth clawed at your throat.

You’d known from the start: this wasn’t your world. You were a glitch in the rhythm, a background player in someone else’s grand symphony. Rafayel wasn’t yours to hold. He was the star of a love story already written in tragedy and sacrifice.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered.

He smiled thinly. “Try me.”

“I don’t know how to kiss,” you admitted.

Rafayel’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You don’t?”

You shook your head. “If we kissed, if this were my first, it wouldn’t just be a kiss. It’d be a promise I couldn’t keep.”

He frowned. “Because I’ve had her before?”

You nodded. “Yes. You and MC, your story. You both sacrificed so much. How could I ever ask you to share that with me? To make this moment mine?”

The teasing in his eyes faded into something quieter, an ache you recognised beneath his aloof mask.

“You don’t want to be another fleeting memory,” he murmured, voice rougher than usual. “Like the sea washes away footprints in the sand.”

“All I ever wanted is to know you, not just your story,” you said. “The Rafayel who collects shells and makes pigments from them, the one who’s petulant and stubborn and scared inside.”

He smiled then, a real smile, half amused, half resigned. “So you’re not afraid of kissing me. You’re afraid of losing me.”

You looked away because the truth was too sharp to face.

Soon, some time has passed, and eventually, your time here has come to an end. You’re standing by the sea, the rift shimmered, the invisible tear pulling your two worlds apart.

Rafayel refused to look at it as you stood in between him and the rift. His eyes narrowed in quiet rebellion. His usual grace is nowhere in sight. The coat’s gone. His hair is wind-swept. There’s paint on his hands.

He doesn’t speak first.

So you did instead.

“You should go.”

“No.”

“Someone has to turn away first.”

“Then let it be you.”

“No,” you replied. “I’ll watch you walk away.”

He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s cruel.”

“It hurts less for you that way.”

You tried to smile. Tried not to cry. You didn’t want your final memory to be of you breaking.

He flinches. Like that truth struck harder than any goodbye.

Still, he turns. Walks slowly back toward the studio. One step. Another. His coat, tailored, soft, dusted with sand, billowed behind him like a curtain falling.

You memorised every detail. Because you had to. Because once you stepped back into your world, all of this would dissolve.

You whispered his name once.

He didn't look back.

You wake up early in the morning in you're bed with sea salt on your lips. No explanation. No memory.

Just a strange ache in your chest and the overwhelming feeling that you forgot someone important.

You boot up Love and Deepspace. Rafayel’s character stands idle in his studio background, sketchbook open in his hands. His usual smile graces his face, unchanged.

When he speaks, it’s with the same line he always says.

Except this time… there’s a flicker.

A pause in his animation. A second too long.

As if something in him almost remembered.

As if some part of him still feels your absence like the ocean feels the moon.

divider: @uzmacchiato

[kaileyrose28]

Whimpering Virgin

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Whimpering Virgin is about two horny teenagers, of age of course, that haven't bumped uglies with each other, but one thing leads to another. (Both are 19 years old, college dorm sex)

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or fetishes: Innocence if you squint, teaching sexual acts, virginity taking, anatomy exploration, experienced girl/inexperienced boy, learning from porn, tit playing, riding, unprotected p in v but on birth control. (Wrap it anyway idk)

6,554 words. Female centered sex but no stated pronouns, second person POV oriented.

The textbook in front of him might as well be gibberish. He's read the same sentence six times, but he can't focus.

You. You’re utterly distracting.

You’re so close, your head bent over your notes, hair slipping over your shoulder no matter how many times you tuck it back. His eyes keep drifting, catching the way you chew on your pen, the way your lips press together when you concentrate. You’re completely lost in your world, oblivious to how he's been staring for five minutes.

He shifts, trying to focus, but then you lean forward, and he catches the faint scent of your shampoo. Sweet. Yours. His senses short-circuit. He should be studying—you both’ve got an exam in three days—but you’re here. You’re always here, in his space, in his head.

It's not just tonight; this has been building for weeks. Maybe longer.

Even closing his eyes doesn't help. All it does is make him hyper aware of you—knees brushing together under the desk, the sound of your laugh, the memory of your skin under his fingertips when you’re both tangled on the couch, kissing until your both out of breath.

But this feels different. Deeper. Permanent.

He glances at you again, watching the way your lips curve as you scribble something down.

Yeah, there's no way he's getting any studying done tonight.

Eventually, you can feel his eyes on you, how could you not when you’re so familiar with his gaze? It makes you feel a little bashful, a little flattered.

You write in your notes for a moment longer before glancing at him through your lashes. Your lips twitching with a little smile at how transfixed he looks.

There's been a lot of moments recently where you’ve caught him looking at you like that when you’re supposed to be studying or something like that. It makes your skin feel all tingly, in a good way. You shift, your knee bumping his again under the desk.

He feels the gentle bump of your knee against his, and it's like a jolt of electricity. He tries to play it cool, but his heart is pounding in his chest. You know he's been staring, and the fact that you’re smiling about it makes his stomach do a weird flip.

After a few more minutes of scribbling notes down on your notepad you lean back in your chair, setting your pencil down before stretching your arms above your head with a groan before standing up out of the chair, brushing a hand through your hair.

"Alright, I think that's enough studying for tonight, anymore and my brain might explode." You remark as you drop back onto his bed with a dramatic sigh, shirt ruffling up around your navel, lower abdomen exposed.

His eyes snapped to the strip of bare skin you unintentionally flashed when you’d stretched and flopped onto his bed. Swallowing hard, he tries to answer like a normal person instead of a horny teenager. "You always say that,"

"And I always mean it." You say jokingly, sitting up on your elbows. You look him over from where he's still sitting in his chair. His eyes, though, aren't on your face.

His gaze is glued onto your stomach, something a little new in his eyes. Your head tilts a little as you watch him, chewing on your bottom lip a little.

"You wanna make out?" You ask after a moment, grinning a little. He looked like he wanted to, plus you’ve already done the course work you needed to.

What's the harm in kissing your boyfriend?

His eyes snap up to your face. The question catches him off guard. "Like right now?" He asks, swiping his thumb over his lower lip unconsciously. Your suggestion shouldn't turn him on this much. It's just making out. You do it all the time.

You breathe a quiet laugh at his expression, a mixture of surprise and interest. It was cute. Your eyes drop down to his lips when he swipes his thumb over his lower lip, you’ve seen him do it before.

Your eyes move back up to his, shrugging your shoulders a little—something meek and playful in equal measure.

"No, like next week." You say, albeit sarcastically. You’ve made out plenty of times, it's what you do most often after study sessions. But you’re well aware you’ve never done anything past that.

"Shut up," he mutters, standing up from his chair. He crosses the room in a few quick strides. You giggle a little at his mutter, biting your lip when he gets up from his chair and crossed the room in those quick strides. He climbed onto the bed next to you, pushing you back down onto the mattress with a hand on the middle of your chest. "You're such a dick." he says, but his tone's teasing.

A noise leaves you when he pushes you back down onto the mattress after climbing up. Your hand moves up, fingers curling around the wrist of the hand on your chest.

Your lips turn up into a grin at his teasing words. "Wow, calling me a dick when I offer to kiss you." You remark jokingly, your gaze meeting his in the new position.

Feeling your fingers curl around his wrist sends a spark down his spine. Your grin makes him smile even wider in response. "I'm not exactly complaining about the kiss," he says, tilting his head down to yours. His gaze flickers down to your lips briefly before snapping back up to your eyes.

"Yeah, yeah." You mutter absentmindedly, focus elsewhere. You tilt your head up and press your lips together in one smooth motion. Your hands moving to his sides—fisting the fabric of his t-shirt. 

You can banter back and forth at some other point, right now you want this.

You tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss like you usually do. You turn your body slightly to face him more with how he has you pressed to the mattress, one hand sliding up from his side to weave through his hair.

"Mmf," he hums softly into the kiss. Your body pressing against his is making thoughts fog his brain. Your hair spread out on his pillow looks good. Too good. His hands drop to your hips possessively. He slides his tongue against yours slowly, like he always does when you make out.

This is always the best part of the end of the day, getting to be close to him and kiss him until you’re both breathless. But this time it felt different, a kind of intensity to it that's heavier than it's been before, not that you’re complaining.

His hands dropping to your hips, holding almost possessively makes a shiver go up your spine. Your lips moving easily with his own—a dance you know effortlessly.

You meet the slow slide of his tongue against yours easily, the action familiar by now. Your hand in his hair tightens slightly and the one on his side does as well.

The hands gripping his shirt and hair sends a shiver down his back. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw and neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.

You tip your head back almost immediately when you feel his lips trail from your own down your jaw and neck. Sparks of electricity thrumming through your body from the simple wet kisses along your skin.

"You're so fucking pretty," he murmurs, his hands sliding under your shirt to touch bare skin.

Your lips stay parted, glossy with shared saliva, as you catch your breath and lose it at the same time. His murmured compliment sends a tingle up your spine, a small noise escapes your throat when you feel his hands wandering.

Breath catching slightly as his warm skin slides along yours. This was new, this was definitely new and you were definitely not complaining.

"Lift your arms," He whispers, his voice muffled against your neck. He wants your shirt off. He needs your shirt off. His hands are already under it, splayed against your stomach. You always wear these baggy shirts that hang off your shoulders.

You shiver when you feel that whisper against your neck, his voice muffled. Your lips twitch at the ticklish sensation and from the tingling vibration. You can feel his hands splayed against your stomach, warm and new.

Exploratory.

You do as he says after a moment of your brain catching up, hands leaving his body as you lift your arms up by your head, back lifting off the bed slightly to do it.

You bite your lower lip to stifle a breath, you’ve never gone this far before with him. Hell, him kissing your neck wasn't something you’ve ever done before now.

He takes advantage of your raised arms, quickly tugging your shirt up and off. It flies somewhere behind him, landing on his desk chair probably. His eyes devour the sight of you in just a black bra, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Holy shit,"

You shake your head to get the hair to settle back and off your face after he pulls your shirt off, watching as he tosses it somewhere behind him. 

The room is silent aside from the uneven breathing for a second as his eyes devour the sight of your upper body, your lips turning up in a smile.

A laugh escapes you at his words, well aware of the fact he's probably never seen a pair of breasts like this in real life. It's cute, and god, more of a turn on than it has any right to be.

"You can... touch if you want." You say, biting the inside of your cheek slightly.

"Fuck yeah I want," He mumbles under his breath, his eyes already moving downwards to admire the shape of your tits. They look amazing. His hands move without him specifically telling them to, sliding up to cover your. "So fucking soft," he murmurs, squeezing gently.

You inhale when his hands cup your breasts through the bra covering them, squeezing the soft flesh gently. Your eyes shift between his hands on you and his face, his expression was cute but his hands felt so good.

Being his first for this is definitely stroking your pride, but it's also something else—something warm in your body.

You press up into his touch involuntarily, your eyes hooded as you watch him. This makes you wonder why it took so long to step past just heavy kissing, aside from the obvious reasons.

He can feel you pressing into his touch, and it's the hottest thing ever. His thumbs brush over your nipples through the thin fabric of the bra, feeling them harden under his touch. "Jesus," he breathes out, his voice low and husky.

A moan slips out of you when his thumbs brush over your nipples, the hardened peaks sensitive to the touch. Your eyes slip closed for a second as you refocus, your eyes opening after a moment and looking at him.

You laugh slightly at how his voice sounded, although you'd be lying if you said it didn't sound good. He might be the first person who's ever paid so much gentle attention to breasts, it's cute. And hot, really.

"Firm your grasp just a little," you say softly, your hands sliding up and over his on your breasts.

His hands squeeze gently, cupping your tits more firmly. He leans down to kiss your neck again, trailing his lips along your skin as he listens to your breathing pick up. 

Your eyes roll back slightly, the mixed sensation of him squeezing your tits and kissing along your neck is far too good. Maybe it's because it's him that's doing it, or fuck maybe he's just some kind of born natural.

His hands slide up to your shoulders, pushing the straps of your bra down. "Can I...?" He trails off, unsure.

Your breath catches slightly when you feel his hands push the straps of your bra down, your eyes refocusing on him. His unsure question is as adorable as it is incredibly hot.

You shift your body weight, your legs spreading a bit with the movement. "Yeah, of course." You murmur, reaching beneath you to undo the clasps for him—most guys struggle the first time, he doesn't need the pressure.

He watches as you undo the bra, revealing your pretty tits to him again. Without wasting a second, his hands pull it down your arms, leaving it to hang from your wrists as he leans down to capture your left tit in his mouth.

He catches you wholly by surprise, breath stuttering in your throat when his warm mouth captures your tit into his mouth. Your hands fly to his head after getting the straps off your wrists, fingers curling into his hair as your head drops back against the mattress.

Your eyes roll back before closing as you moan, back arching slightly and pressing yourself against his mouth. You hadn't expected him to be so bold as to go straight for something like that, or even know how to do it. 

But fuck you are not complaining.

His tongue circles your nipple, learning from instinct what feels good as he sucks lightly. One hand stays on your tit while the other moves to support your lower back, pushing you closer to his mouth. He knows he looks inexperienced as fuck doing this, but he can't stop.

You don't even know how he's so good at this, or at least it feels good. Your heart's racing and your breaths getting stuck in your throat as his tongue circles your nipple and sucks at it.

One of his hands down to support your lower back is a sweet little gesture. You moan softly, lifting your head to watch him work your tit despite his inexperience.

Your fingers in his hair tighten slightly, keeping his hair out of his face so you can watch unhindered. "Jesus, Tim." You murmur before biting your lower lip, eyes hooded.

Pausing momentarily, he glances up at you with a sheepish grin, his lips brushing teasingly against your nipple as he speaks. "Too much?" He murmurs, eyebrows raised in playful innocence. 

Despite his attempt at nonchalance, his cock throbs insistently against his jeans, betraying his intense arousal.

Your lips part and your eyebrows furrow in pleasure, the teasing brush of his lips against your nipples as he speaks is just everything and too little at the same time.

The playful innocence on his face is cute, despite the fact he just ravished your tits like he's done it before, which you know he hasn't. 

Born natural, apparently.

You use your hands in his hair to your own advantage, pulling on the strands to tilt his head up. You lean yours down and capture his lips with your own, kissing him for a moment before pulling back a breadth.

"No, but I have no idea how you did that so well." You murmur, leaning back into your original position after.

He chuckles softly against your lips, his grin widening as he returns to sucking on your nipple gently.

You inhale when his lips return to your nipple, sucking gently. The sensation just as good as before, sending tingles through your body. You bite your lip and let your head fall back on the mattress again.

"I watch porn," he murmurs between sucks, his hands roaming over your breasts and back. His cock throbs again, and he shifts slightly to ease the pressure in his jeans.

His murmured words make you laugh slightly, of course that's how a 19-year-old guy would learn how to do this. It's not surprising but it's also a little amusing.

One hand leaves his hair to settle on his shoulder, the other still in his hair curls against the strands. "What else did you learn through that crap?" You ask, albeit breathlessly from his ministrations on your tits.

His tongue slides across your nipple as he answers, his hands moving to unbutton your jeans. You lift your head slightly when you felt his hands slide down there, followed by the tug on the button of your button as he undoes it.

How he manages to keep his mouth working your nipple while undoing your jeans is honestly impressive, to you at least.

"Mostly positions, I guess. Though honestly, I've never actually done any of this before," he confesses, looking up at you with honesty in his eyes, knowing you wouldn't judge him.

His confession is cute, but you already figured he was a virgin. Not that it was obvious, but guys their age flaunt their experience like it's a badge. He was so sweet and gentle over most things—it took them forever to even kiss. It just hinted at it a little.

"That's okay, you have to start somewhere." You say, your fingers in his hair thread through the soft strands.

He smiles slightly, his confidence boosted by your reassurance. His hands slide into your unbuttoned jeans, fingers curling under the waistband of your underwear. He looks up at you for confirmation before tugging both down, revealing your bare pussy to his eager eyes. 

Fuck, you’re beautiful everywhere.

Since dating him you haven't had sex, and he never tried anything past kissing, so you never really bothered with keeping up with the high maintenance like you used to do before. Shaving, sometimes waxing.

Though you’re sure a man who's only seen a cunt on a screen isn't going to care about how much pubic hair is there or not. Or well, no that’s not true. 

She’s sure a man like Tim wouldn’t give a shit.

Plus, he's not just some guy. He's her boyfriend, someone that matters.

You lean back slightly, dropping your hands from him to prop yourself up on your elbows. Your knees spread slightly to let him explore, it's his first time anyway. 

It's a little hot, the way he's so transfixed.

His eyes darken as he takes in your pussy, spread open slightly with your thighs apart. "Do girls usually shave down there?" He asks suddenly, genuinely curious.

His fingers twitch slightly, wanting to touch but also scared of doing something wrong.

You know he's rather inquisitive, it's one of many traits that drew you to him. That analytical thinking. But it's new to hear sexual questions, but it's also kind of nice. 

Most guys wouldn't bother, they'd just assume what they assume and go on with it.

He's untouched by all of that, nothing but what he's learned through research on a screen analytically. It's cute. 

You look down at your cunt, you’ve got some hair, well groomed but you used to shave completely. Not all the time, just usually when you expected to get laid.

"I mean it depends, some like the feeling of being bare, others don't. I used to shave completely but haven't in a while." You explain with a small smile, your eyes drifting back up to his face.

"Does it... feel weird? Like having hair down there?" He asks innocently, leaning closer to examine without actually touching yet. Your cock is throbbing harder in your jeans, but he wants to learn everything he can before diving in. "Has anyone ever... gone down on you with hair?"

You bite your lip slightly at his question, the corners of your lip curling into another smile. Your breath catching when he leans closer, the way he's so focused is honestly as adorable as it is so unfathomably sexy.

Who knew innocence, to an extent, was your thing. You know somewhere deep down in him there's probably a little freak, everyone's got something.

You mull his questions over for a moment, allowing your brain to form a good answer.

"I mean no, it depends on what underwear you wear. I like cotton or silk, nicer on the bits." You answer his first question, then move to his second one. "No, actually. Before we got together I shaved, most guys don't like the hair."

"I kind of like it," He murmurs, his voice dropping an octave lower as he finally gives in and gently traces the hair with his fingertips. His cock aches at the simple touch, wondering what it must feel like between your legs. "Like how some people have body hair, you know?"

You bite down on your lower lip more when his fingers trace your pubic hair, the faint touch almost teasing even when you know it's just him exploring. You refocus on his words, breathing a soft laugh.

God, he's just so cute and sexy and everything in between. Where was he your whole life? If he was your first sexual partner you might have had a better time back then.

"Yeah, I get it." You say with a small nod. Your eyes drop back down to where his hand is between your legs, opening them a little more for him.

His fingertips linger for a moment before he tentatively brushes against your pussy lips, feeling their softness. Holy fuck, you’re even wet. 

He glances up at you, biting his lip nervously. "Um, is this okay?" He asks, his voice crackling slightly with barely contained excitement.

Your eyes flutter slightly when his fingers brush against your pussy lips, against the soft skin and wetness gathering from everything he's done so far. You’re honestly probably the most aroused you’ve ever been.

You look at him again at his question, the seeking consent is sweet. The small voice crack makes you smile slightly, he's probably been waiting for this for ages.

"Yeah, it's okay." You say with a small nod, giving him all the permission that you can. And god, are you practically seeping with it.

He swallows hard, his chest heaving slightly as he carefully pushes apart your lips to expose your wet pussy. You inhale when his fingers push your lips apart, exposing your wet pussy to him and the air, a shiver running up your spine.

Fuck, you’re beautiful. His finger hesitates for a moment before he touches your clit, the small nub feeling firm and swollen under his touch. "Holy shit,"

Your eyes roll back when his finger touches there, just the slightest hint of pressure enough to send sparks through your nerves. A small noise leaves your nose before your eyes refocus and you try to watch his hand's exploration of your pussy.

You smile slightly at his reaction to what he's touching, it's cute and hot because dear god is your sweet, loving boyfriend slowly killing you.

"Does this feel good?" He asks softly, circling your clit slowly. His eyes watch your stomach muscles tighten slightly with each touch. "Or is this too much?" His brows furrow slightly as he adds another finger, spreading your lips wider. Holy hell, you’re wetter than before.

You love his questions, you really do. But getting your clit rubbed while he's asking them is like asking you to focus while you’re experiencing cloud 9. 

Your eyes roll back when he adds another finger to the one slowly circling your clit, thighs twitching.

Your lips part and your brows furrow slightly, hips arching to meet his touch involuntarily. You know you’re getting wetter, you can feel the cold air a lot more than you could before down there.

"It's good— good." You say as best you can, not wanting him to stop because he thought something was wrong.

"I'm sorry I'm asking a lot of questions. It's just... I'm kinda in the dark here." He says sheepishly, adding a third finger to spread you open more. His eyes widen as your pink flesh parts to reveal a small hole, slick with wetness.

You groan softly, your thighs spreading wider. You don't want him to apologize for his questions, you'd answer anything he needed answered, but fuck he was making you feel so good it was like he pulled every tangible thought out of your mind.

One of your hands fists the sheets beneath you, needing to grab onto something to anchor yourself. His motions were steady and soft but fuck, you haven't been touched by another person down there in ages and he's doing so good.

"Don't— don't apologize, baby. It's okay to ask... questions." You stumble over your words but manage to get them out coherently.

"Okay." He nods, relieved that you don't mind the questions. He takes a deep breath and slides his middle finger into you, feeling your warmth wrap around him. He gasps lightly, his hips involuntarily bucking forward as if seeking friction. His eyes lock onto yours, pupils dilated with desire.

Your eyes roll back and your back arches when he slides in his middle finger, you clench around the slender digit. Your hand fisting the sheets tightens slightly as you moan, thighs twitching as you stifle the urge to close them—not to stop but to keep him where he is.

Your eyes focus and meet his gaze that was already locked onto you. His pupils dilated with his desire, and god is it hot.

You bite your lip as your hips instinctively move to seek out friction. God, if he fucks you you’re never going to let him leave for a while.

"Fuck, you're so tight." He murmurs, slowly moving his finger in and out of you. He can feel your muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. His cock throbs in response, aching to be inside you. 

You moan as his finger fucks in and out slowly, your stomach muscles clenching. Your head falls back against the mattress, throat arched slightly as you exhale sharply.

Your thighs trembling and hips twitching with every slow, thrusting motion of his finger.

He adds another finger, stretching you gently.

When he adds that finger a choked moan leaves your throat, your hips rocking to meet his motions.

You’re fist grasping the sheets tightens as you gasp softly. He's the virgin here but fuck if he isn't reducing you to something desperate.

"Should I... add another?" He asks breathlessly, watching your reaction. His cock is painfully hard watching you writhe. Seeing you lose control is fucking gorgeous. He slowly moves his fingers in and out, stretching you deeper each time. "Or is this too much?"

You blink, attempting to focus on his questions. It's a bit hard to do while he's fucking you with two fingers, and so well for a first timer. You lift your head slightly to look at him, meeting his unsure, lust filled gaze.

It takes you a minute to form a coherent thought let alone a response, the slow in and out thrusts of his fingers going deeper each time is mind numbing.

"Depends on," you breathe out after a minute, "how big your dick is." You finished with a sharp inhale as your eyes fluttered and your pussy clenches around his fingers.

"Oh god," he mutters, watching your expression tighten with pleasure. His fingers pick up the pace slightly, sliding easily in and out of your wet heat. "It's average," he answers truthfully, though his ego takes a slight hit. "Like six inches."

You moan when his fingers pick up the pace, your thighs shaking as you keep them spread open for him to continue. You manage, somehow, to focus on his response.

Six inches isn't bad, most guys act like that's somehow something bad. A pussy is only so deep, average is pretty well endowed if used right.

You can tell his ego was slightly hit by having to answer, your free hand slides down to curl around his forearm. "Not bad. But I'm not talking about length, baby." You say, breathless from everything he's doing.

"Oh," he lets out a shaky laugh, snapping his hips forward slightly without meaning to. His fingers push deep inside you, making you arch your back. "You mean thickness?" He asks softly, watching your stomach muscles tighten again.

You groan when his fingers push deeper each inside you, your stomach tightening. He's far too good at this, he learns so fast it's almost disconcerting.

You clamp your thighs down around his hand involuntarily, your head dropping back slightly and your fingers curled around his forearm tighten. 

This is probably the best fingering you’ve ever had, maybe you’re biased because he's your boyfriend.

"Yes— yes, that's what I mean." You say after a moment, stumbling on your words.

"It's... average," he answers hesitantly, his fingers slowly curving upwards to hit that spot inside you that makes your hips buck. "Like five inches around," he adds, watching your face contort with pleasure. "Is that too thin?"

You moan and your hips jerk when he curves his fingers upward, pressing against your g-spot like he somehow knows where it is despite his virginity. 

This motherfucker researches too much. 

Your fingers tighten around his arm, leaving slight indentations.

You personally like average sizes, it's easier to take and less soreness afterward. But he wouldn't have that kind of experienced foresight, he learned these things from porn and forums probably. 

Guys with above average sizes. Guys with no knowledge on what women really like or want. 

"Five inches isn't thin, baby. You're perfect." You manage to get the words out rather strung together. "And it means you can fuck me at any point now." You add.

"Fuck," he breathes out, his heart racing at your words. He slides his fingers out of you and quickly pulls down his pants. 

You inhaled sharply when he slid his fingers out, leaving you feeling rather empty after all the drawn out pleasure. You get properly distracted when he pulls his pants down with fumbling hands, wrapping his hand around his cock and slowly strokes himself.

And fuck, was he pretty. Veiny, pale with an angry red tip that's leaking precum already. He's probably throbbing from holding off so long, pleasing you and asking his questions over gratification.

"Should I... do you want me to use a condom?" He asks, voice trembling with anticipation and nerves.

Your eyes drift up to his face, smiling a little at the tremble in his voice. "I'm on birth control, you don't have to wear one if you don't want to." You say, might as well let him choose for his first time.

"No condom." He decides quickly, wrapping his hand around his length again. "Do you... do you want to be on top?" He asks softly, watching your body carefully. "Or should I... God," he trails off, trying not to whimper. "Do you like it slow or hard?"

You breathe a soft laugh at all his questions, it was cute. He's always been inquisitive but seeing him so nervous while asking questions is new, but it's endearing.

Usually you liked to just do whatever, but he wasn't some random fling, he was your boyfriend and this was his first ever time having sex. You let your eyes roam down his body again, he just looked so good. 

Good enough to be appetizing really.

"It's your first time, baby. What do you want to do?" You ask, your eyes returning to meet his gaze. Letting him set the pace for this, considering everything.

"I want... I'd like you on top first," he admits shyly, biting his lower lip. "So I can see you and learn what feels good. Later, maybe I'll try being on top." He moves to lie back on the bed, stroking himself slowly as he watches you.

You can definitely do that for him, you’re well versed in being on top or on your knees. It's an easy position for the guy, and a good view too. You sit up when he lays back on the bed, gaze roaming him. The way he keeps stroking himself, slow and steady as he watches you.

"Yeah, okay." You say softly, turning to crawl up the bed, towards where he settled himself. You straddle him easily, hips elevated above him.

"We'll go at your pace, promise." You reassure, your hands tracing along his sides before moving between them to pull his hand away from himself.

"Holy fuck," he breathes out, his free hand gripping the bedsheet beneath him as you positions yourself. He can feel your warm pussy right above him, and seeing you naked like this... god, you’re gorgeous. His cock throbs against your inner thigh.

Your eyes roam his face for a second, looking for any sign of discomfort before looking down and guiding his cock to your entrance. You’ve never been someone's first before, it's kind of an exhilarating feeling. 

Especially since it's him, and you love him.

You align him properly and slowly sink down, his dick sliding into you. You moan softly, hands planting on his chest for balance. You can feel the fast beating of his heart against your palm, like a hummingbird.

"God," You breathe out, your eyes fluttering slightly.

"Oh-oh god—" He cries out, not able to contain his own voice as you sink down on him. He's touched himself a million times but the sensation is completely different. It feels like you’re crushing him in the best way possible.

He feels so good in you, nestled inside and touching everything like a live wire. Your eyes drift up to his face after a moment, taking in his expression. His pretty blue eyes overtaken by his dilated pupils, the sounds he makes.

You bite your lip, hands on his chest pressing slightly as you move your hips. Feeling his dick slide out a little bit and sink back in as you move slowly, a soft moan leaving your throat.

You savor the feeling of him inside you, eyes watching his face carefully just in case. It's his first time, you don't want to end up doing something wrong.

"Holy fuck—" He gasps out, his hands gripping your waist tightly as you move your hips. You feel so warm and soft inside. He knew nothing could really prepare him for this, nothing compares to actually feeling it. His back arches involuntary as you move your hips, moaning loudly.

His tight grip on your waist is an unfairly attractive move and he isn't even trying to do it. The way his back arches as you move, the loud moan that leaves him, is addictive.

It almost amplifies every sensation of him inside you, your nerves on fire in such a good way.

You pick up the pace slightly, slight sounds coming from where you’re connected. Your breasts bounce and thighs jiggle slightly each time you’re seated fully on him.

"You feel so good, Timmy." You moan, mostly to encourage him since it's his first time but also because fuck, he does feel so unfairly good.

"Fuck, I– I think I'm gonna—" He cuts himself off with a loud moan, his grip on your waist tightening even more as he starts to come inside of you. He knew this would happen pretty fast, it's his first time after all.

It was going to happen sooner rather than later, usually does, but fuck if it wasn't still hot to watch him come undone beneath you. Feel him shoot his load inside, filling you up with the searing warmth.

You don't stop though, mostly because you know you can get more out of him. He looks so pretty like this.

The slapping of skin meeting filled the room obscenely. Your breathing grows more ragged, breasts bouncing as you ride him. Your moans grow more consistent, mixed with softer, more whimpering noises that come out of your nose.

"You're doing so good, so good, baby." You praise breathily.

"Holy shit... that feels..." He trails off with a whimper, his senses overloaded with pleasure, still sensitive from his first orgasm. Your dirty talk is doing something to him, especially mixed with those sweet praise words. 

Without warning, he sits up slightly, wrapping one arm around your back to pull you closer, using the other hand to guide your movements.

He throws your focus off a bit when he suddenly sat up slightly, the change in position makes your hips open more. The sudden boldness takes you off guard but it's sexy as hell.

One of his arms wrapped around your back, pulling you closer as his other hand guided the movements, it was sweet and hot all at once. And helpful.

You wrap one arm around his shoulders as the other flattens on his knee. You keep your hips moving, albeit faster and harder. Rolling them inward to account for the new position. 

"Fuck— you gonna make me come, baby? You feel so good." You say, breathless and followed by a moan.

He nods, trying to speak and failing as a loud whimper leaves his throat. Your head drops back, exposing the arch of your throat, moans choked off. The sound of his whimpers are addictive, you want to keep hearing them.

You don't change your rhythm because he sounds so close again, and it sounds like heaven to your ears to listen to it. Your stomach tightens, the coil builds fast.

He starts to move his hips upward, meeting you thrust for thrust, pushing deeper inside of you. He can feel his second orgasm quickly approaching, and he's eager to find out if it'll be just as intense as the first.

When his hips start to move up into you, the coil in your stomach snaps. "Oh, God. I'm coming— fuck, Tim." You reach your orgasm with a cry of his name and a moan, your cunt clenching around his cock.

He lets out a strangled groan as your tight walls clamp down around him, triggering his own intense orgasm. His hips jerk erratically, pushing deep as he pours himself into your welcoming heat.

"Holy fuck!" He nearly shouts, burying his face against your neck to muffle the sound.

Your hand around his shoulders slides up to his hair when he buries his face against your neck to muffle himself. You slowly come to a stop, your breathing heavy and fast, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

You were hot, sweaty, and thoroughly satisfied. Your cunt tingly and throbbing with your pulse, still stuffed full with his cock—the warmth of his cum filling your cunt and leaking out around him is a welcomed sensation.

You rest your cheek against his sweaty hair, breathing still rather heavy. "You can officially throw your v-card out the window." You murmur jokingly, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp strands.

He nods weakly, still basking in the afterglow of the intense encounter. His heart is pounding in his chest, and his body is limp with exhaustion. He nuzzles against your neck, planting soft kisses along the column of your throat. 

"That was fucking amazing.”

[xechu]

[Honor & Vengeance] S. Geto - 夏油 傑

Pairing: general!suguru x fem!reader Word Count: 11.6k Series Warnings: please read my blog rules before interacting. 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, depiction of gore and violence, mature themes Chapter Warnings: mature themes, emotional angst, description of violence, childhood emotional abuse and trauma, suicidal thoughts, death, grief, description of injuries - please read with care Tags: historical au, non-curse au, marriage of convenience, slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut, angst, hurt/comfort Summary: Yu Haibara—Suguru’s right-hand man and childhood best friend—recounts the rise and fall of House Geto, and the oath that bound them together. Suguru's ambitions are revealed, and King Sato had summoned him in private to task him with a secret mission. While all seems calm within the Geto Estate, unresolved issues from the Eastern Campsite continue to fester. a/n: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, even though it's a bit emotionally heavy. I never expected to write a whole chapter in (mostly) Haibara's POV, but he's easily becoming one of my favorite characters in this series. Also, for clarification in this chapter "sworn kin" = godchild. I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for reading! x

Master List: << chapter 5 || chapter 7 (tbc) >>

[Chapter 6]: All-Seeing Advisor

Yu Haibara was the official advisor of House Geto and Suguru’s right-hand man. 

One would think that he was constantly shadowed by the Conqueror of Stars, but fear not! For the All-Seeing Advisor was brilliant in his own ways, and a palace court favorite too, particularly among the female servants.

Ah. The tragedy of being the keeper of many beautiful women’s hearts, and by beautiful, he meant the kind who smiled freely and laughed with their whole heart. And if they didn’t? Well, there’s beauty in the quiet mystique as well. And dare he say, even more alluring? 

But by no means was he a womanizer! 

No. Never.

More like a painting if he might humbly suggest. Destined to only be admired from afar. After all, being his best friend’s right-hand man was already enough—his life’s purpose.

The two arrived at the palace earlier this morning to relay further details of the incident at the Eastern Campsite. It was an unusual request, though not entirely unheard of, but Sato had asked for a private audience with Suguru. There was a special task that he needed to assign to his general, which was how Haibara currently found himself waiting alone in an empty corridor. 

In the silence, Haibara couldn’t help but reflect on the current predicament back home.

On the surface, everything at the Geto Estate seemed status quo, but underneath, it was anything but—like a simmering volcano ready to erupt without warning. The silence was more deafening than any scream.

It had been two weeks since everyone returned, but ever since, you had confined yourself in the guest house. Yumi was the only connection between you and the rest of the world.

“How is she?” Haibara asked Yumi in passing. 

“Our Lady is recovering steadily.”

As usual, Yumi’s answers were always short and lacked explanation. Of course, he was relieved to hear you were recovering. But her words were underspoken, because he knew the wound on your hand wasn't the only wound that required tending to: it was the one inside your heart, undoubtedly still bleeding and perhaps even more severe.

Everyone had seen it that day, how Suguru leapt to Ayaka’s defense. It may have seemed noble, even loyal. But it was also revealing. Because if a man truly loved his wife the way Suguru so convincingly appeared to, his first instinct would have been to protect you. Even if it meant treason. Even if it meant death.

Lord Shinjiro would have protected Lady Sumire—even at the cost of the King.

“Master Haibara… if I may,” Yumi said softly. “I know it is not in my place to say such things, but it pains me to watch my Lady wither away like this…”

She didn’t even have to explain the details for dread to weigh in the pit of his stomach.

“I hope Geto-sama can understand how much this cost her. My Lady is beloved by many, and also has many hobbies. She can no longer write to her father, nor ride a horse properly—and most of all, she may never pick up a sword again.

“Surely, Geto-sama must understand as a soldier himself—that this is akin to a death sentence. Does your lord not think he should at least grant some decency and visit her?”

Haibara swallowed the lump in his throat. Truth be told, he completely agreed with Yumi. How could he not? Since the first day they had gotten back to the estate, he had tried to convince Suguru several times to go see you, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. 

He knew that this time Suguru didn’t dare to visit, not because he was too proud, but because he didn’t think he deserved to face you.

And Haibara understood the feeling of guilt and shame better than anyone else—it eats you alive. 

It was like that day all over again. 

The one person Suguru refused to see a final time before the cremation…

Was Sayuri.

.

.

.

It may come as a surprise to most, but Suguru wasn’t just some cold, calculated warlord from birth. He used to be a boy filled with hopes and dreams just like anyone else. He laughed, smiled, teased, and could even be a little mischievous. On the other hand, Haibara—believe it or not, was the complete opposite. He was quiet, observant, and even a bit distant. 

By the age of eight, Haibara was already well-accustomed to shame and embarrassment, and worse yet, how to smile through it. 

Now, why would such emotions be placed on a boy who was far too young, far too unequipped, to navigate such feelings?

It was all because of his father: Akito Haibara. 

Akito was best described as a sly fox. A social climber. An opportunist. His ambitions outweighed his morals. Though he was intelligent and competent when he needed to be, his achievements had never been through merit, but rather through the connections he had sunk his claws in. He was a senior finance clerk within the royal palace, another administration role among the hundreds within its golden walls, but the only reason such an opportunity was even afforded to him in the first place, was because his wife was a minor lord’s daughter. Otherwise, as a person of common birth, he couldn’t even dream of stepping through the palace gates. 

As a senior clerk, Akito was tasked with low-level treasury duties but still made a decent salary, yet, fortune on its own was not good enough. He wanted prestige. Status. Legacy. His dream was to become the Chief of Treasury. 

And so, whenever he could, he would try to rub shoulders with whoever he deemed may be useful in catapulting his career, while blatantly ignoring anyone who didn’t serve his ambitions. In hindsight, Haibara was sure that his father saw everyone as chess pieces—quite literally and figuratively. 

But sometimes, the universe seemed to favor the cruel, because very soon Akito struck an opportunity of a lifetime: Shinjiro Geto. 

Shinjiro came into the House of Revenue one quiet afternoon while Akito was alone at the front desk. And right away, he recognized who the imposing figure was—the famed General of the Nine Suns, the embodiment of good character and integrity, a man that was almost more regal than King Sato himself. In fact, if he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought Shinjiro was the king. 

Akito, being the conniving fox he was, was already scheming, thinking of what sweet and enticing words to say and make an impression on the unassuming general. 

“General Geto, what a pleasant surprise.” He put on his best smile. 

“Ah, yes. You are…” 

Of course the general—up on his high horse—wouldn’t have known a lowly clerk like himself.

“Forgive my impoliteness. I am Akito Haibara, the senior finance clerk here,” he lightly bowed. 

“Akito, a pleasure. And, please, there is no need for such formalities. We are all civil servants here,” Shinjiro chuckled. 

Indeed, Akito was a great opportunist. Too cunning for his own good.

That one introduction sparked a string of conversations, and soon, he somehow secured himself an invitation to the Geto Estate.

“I have a son who’s just a year older than Yu, perhaps, if it’s not too much to ask—you can bring him to our home some time,” Shinjiro smiled earnestly. 

“How could I ever burden you like that, General Geto?” 

“Please, Akito, you can call me Shinjiro. I insist… besides,” the general let out a small weary sigh. “Suguru needs more friends. He spends too much time between books and the sword—I worry for him.” 

“Ah, but I’m sure it’s only because he wants to live up to his father’s legacy.” 

Shinjiro hummed, but there was a slight sadness in his eyes. “I often wished it weren’t so.” 

“I understand your sentiment, Shinjiro. We only ever hope for our children’s happiness.” 

“Precisely, I’m glad you understand. Sometimes... I wish my boy wasn’t so hard on himself.”

“And sometimes I wish my boy was more disciplined!”

The two men paused and exchanged an amused look. And then broke out into laughter. 

“Then it’s settled—Suguru and Yu could learn from each other.” Shinjiro let out a sigh of relief.

“If it is for our children’s future, then allow me to be a shameless father.” Akito agreed heartily.

—

Confusion washed over Haibara as his father abruptly woke him up. Before his vision could even focus—before he had a chance to understand what was going on—his father had already begun yelling at him for being slow, muttering something about a place they had to visit. The Geto Estate—wherever that was.

Akito screamed for his wife, who bolted into the room, flustered. He barked out the order as he walked away: “Change him into his best clothes, so he doesn’t embarrass me.”

Haibara watched as his mother fumbled to the wardrobe, a familiar feeling bubbled in his chest once again. He had only recently learned the name of this feeling through a book he’d read by chance. Whenever he saw his mother, the name of that feeling was pity.

It was confusing, he didn’t know why his father was so awful to his mother, and he didn’t understand why his father seemed to hate him. He had never said it out loud, but it was evident in his eyes. His father always gave him a mean look. But in front of others, he was timid, soft-spoken—like a kind man.

So which one was his real father? 

He wasn’t sure.

He had only hoped it was the kind man.

But he knew, deep down, it probably wasn’t.

…

Haibara found himself standing beside his father in front of the large wooden doors of the Geto Estate. It was enormous! He was certain the door alone could fit twenty of him.

Excitement washed over him as he admired the sheer size of the doors, but it faded quickly as his father let out a harsh grunt. The small boy immediately froze—a warning that he recognized all too well. It usually came before his father lost his temper.

As the doors swung open, he watched his father’s expression shift instantly. The kind-man face was back.

Hand-in-hand, the father and son crossed the threshold and into the front garden. Haibara had never seen such splendor before. The landscape was spectacular—well-manicured greenery, a serene zen garden, vibrant trees, and a few groundskeepers tending to the yard. If the Geto Estate was already this beautiful, he could only imagine what the palace must look like.

“Quit ogling like you’re some low-class commoner,” Akito hissed under his breath.

But he was a hypocrite. Green with envy, his own eyes scanned the yard and the immaculate estate.

If only he hadn’t been born a commoner.

If only his wife weren’t a minor lord’s daughter.

If only his son wasn’t such a weak, fragile thing.

He was competent. Intelligent. Handsome. He had all the makings of nobility. So why did the universe deal him such a lowly hand?

Why couldn’t he live Shinjiro Geto’s life?

As they continued toward the estate entrance, Akito couldn’t help the jealousy simmering inside him. It only deepened when he saw the Geto family standing there—waiting to greet them.

The whispers about Sumire Geto were true. Even after two children, she was still exquisite. A woman whom kings would go to war and tear down kingdoms for. It was a surprise that King Sato did not take her for himself. 

A beautiful, picturesque family.

The envy of all men.

“Father, you’re holding my hand too tight!” Haibara squirmed under his grip.

Akito clicked his tongue and glared down at his son. Weak. His boy was so infuriatingly weak. 

The day hadn't even begun, and Haibara was already wracked with anxiety. Were the Getos going to be nicer than Father? Or do they also have their kind-man faces? 

“Akito, I’m so glad you could make it!” A welcoming voice called out.

“Shinjiro, thank you for your generous invitation.” Akito bowed.

Haibara timidly followed, “Thank you for the invitation, Lord Shinjiro, Lady Sumire.” Mimicking his father’s movements. 

“My, you are a polite boy!” Shinjiro smiled, kneeling down on one knee to meet the small child in the eyes.

Lord Shinjiro indeed had a kind-man face, but it was different. His smile felt like the sun, and the slight crinkles around his eyes reminded him of the rays. All Haibara could do was stare at him in awe and slowly nod.

“This is my boy, Suguru, the two of you are around the same age,” he gently pulled Suguru to his side.

Haibara’s first impression of Suguru was that he was rather intimidating. He may have only been a year older, but he was already a few inches taller. He was also handsome like his father, but unlike Lord Shinjiro, Suguru felt like the winter snow. Cold, yet there was also a certain gentleness to him. His voice was rather soft, but his words were unwavering and precise. Sayuri, who was only four, was already a lot livelier than her older brother. And though she looked like Lady Sumire, Sayuri, too, felt like the sun.

But among all of them, if Haibara had to be honest, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Lady Sumire. If Lord Shinjiro and Sayuri were the sun, Suguru the winter snow; Lady Sumire reminded him of sun glitter—the shimmering light on water. He never knew it was possible for someone to be so radiant, and her voice was like a soothing lullaby. 

For the first time, Haibara experienced the uncomfortable pangs of jealousy. 

Because when he looked at Lord Shinjiro and Lady Sumire, he wished his father could feel like the warm sun too—and his mother could sparkle like sun glitter.

“Suguru, why don’t you go show Yu around? Perhaps you two can get to know each other more.” Lady Sumire smiled.

Suguru nodded and turned to Haibara. “What would you like to do? I can show you the training field or my study.”

“Oh yes. My boy has a variety of interests! He’s very keen on books and the sword as well!” Akito exclaimed.

Haibara shot a nervous look at his father. The sword? That wasn’t true. He had never even touched a wooden sword in his life! He wanted to tell them that his father made a mistake. Perhaps he remembered wrong. He loved books, yes, but never the sword—

“Is that right?” Shinjiro seemed amused. “Then it seems our two boys have a lot in common!”

Nervousness settled in Haibara’s chest as he followed Suguru’s lead. He quietly hoped they'd go to the study instead, and forget all about the training field. But of course, just as luck would have it, Suguru led him straight to the field.

“Here.” Suguru gave a small smile as he handed him a wooden practice sword, a slight interest glimmering in his eyes—unlike Haibara’s, which probably looked like those of a scared deer.

Especially with his father and the Getos watching from afar, he already dreaded how this would unfold.

Why did his father have to lie?

Why did he always put him in these kinds of predicaments?

“Are… you ready?” Suguru asked, but there was a bit of uncertainty in his voice. As if he’d caught on his pretense. 

Haibara only nodded. Perhaps he’d just block a few of Suguru’s strikes and then it would be over. Surely, it wasn’t that difficult… right?

Wrong. 

It was a lot more difficult than he had imagined.

Thanks to beginner’s luck, Haibara barely managed to block his first strike. Suguru’s wooden sword grazed his shoulder from the way he deflected the sword, and it stung, but Haibara endured it. On the second strike, he completely missed the block with his sword, and blocked it with his wrist instead. By the third strike, Suguru nearly hit his head but immediately stopped when Lord Shinjiro gave him a stern warning that he was being too rough. 

Immediately after the warning, Suguru completely deflated—letting out a small huff, and returned the sparring swords to the rack.

“Why did you agree to spar when you didn’t want to?” he asked. There was an unamused look on his face.

“I… don’t know how to,” Haibara murmured, staring down at his feet.

“But your father said you were interested in the sword.”

“No… not really,” Haibara quietly confessed. 

“So is your father a liar then?”

Heat rose to Haibara’s ears. He wanted to tell Suguru that his father was indeed a liar... a very good one, too. But what if the truth was relayed to Lord Shinjiro and Lady Sumire—and they never invited Father back?

Father would be angry. 

He wished he could tell the truth, but the fear of his father's wrath gripped him like an icy vice.

“N-No…” Haibara lied.

“Then if your father isn’t a liar, then you must be a liar.” Suguru let out a breath of disbelief. 

“I’m not!” His voice came out louder, more desperate, than he intended.

All heads turned toward the commotion, and when Haibara met his father’s scornful gaze, the blood drained from his face. The world began to spin, and it felt as though the sky was falling on him.

Everything was too overwhelming. 

Tears welled in his eyes, and the more desperately he tried to hold them back, the more they threatened to spill. Father always hated it when he cried. Said that tears were for the weak-willed. Said that emotions were weak.

But he couldn’t stop it this time.

He burst into tears. 

Everyone crowded around him, their faces etched with concern. All but Suguru, who stood behind his parents and watched everything unfold with a cold stare. Yet in a moment of vulnerability, Haibara's arms flew around Lady Sumire instead of his own father, seeking comfort and refuge. It caught everyone by surprise—except Lady Sumire, who cradled him without hesitation, as if he were her own child.

“I apologize, Lady Sumire!” Akito said, flustered, as he tried to pry his son off. “The boy must miss his mother.”

“It’s fine, Lord Akito,” she smiled gracefully. But her hands tightened around Haibara. “Let him stay.”

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in her warm embrace, but she never let him go. Her hand moved in soft, comforting circles along his back as she cooed to him gently. In between sobs he would mutter apologies, though he wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for. But among the muffled sniffles and hiccups, Lady Sumire’s voice rang clear: It’s not your fault, Yu.

After that embarrassing debacle, Haibara was certain he would be reprimanded once he got home. Lady Sumire’s beautiful garment was a mess from all his tears, which his father profusely apologized for. The day dragged on, as he prepared for his impending doom. Suguru also became extremely quiet afterwards, retreating to his study room and then pulling out a book to read. Uncertain, Haibara trailed behind him hesitantly.

“Aren’t you going to join me, or are you just going to stand there?” Suguru murmured.

Something in his tone, and in how he avoided Haibara’s gaze, it reminded him of the way he avoided his father’s gaze whenever he thought he’d done something wrong. 

Was it possible… that Suguru was feeling sorry? 

Haibara nodded and quickly pulled a seat beside Suguru. 

“What books do you like? I have many,” he said, flipping through his own book, but it was clear that he was not actually reading.

“I like all kinds of books—poetry, literature, fiction,” Haibara listed.

Suguru sighed, and reluctantly handed him the book he was currently holding, “How about this one? Your father said you liked books too. I am… a little confused about this one.” 

Haibara’s eyes widened and he nodded, gingerly taking the book from Suguru’s hands. As he flipped through the pages, he enthusiastically explained each paragraph while Suguru quietly nodded along.

Little did he know, Suguru had already read the same fiction book five times. It was his favorite novel, but he just felt bad for making Haibara cry. 

And just like that, a new brotherhood began. 

…

“You have done wonderfully today, my boy!” Akito could barely contain his excitement as he stepped inside their home.

It was surprising, he thought he would be reprimanded after his outburst back at the Geto Estate. Instead, his father picked him up and gave him a few spins, chanting praises for being smart and brilliant.

For a moment, it felt good—that his father was finally pleased with him. 

Haibara looked up to his father, as he was set back on his feet. Akito was grinning from ear to ear, and the boy couldn’t help but return the smile. But very soon, his father's features subtly twisted into something dark.

“It’s all because you tugged at that woman’s heartstrings,” he practically snickered.

That woman? Was he talking about Lady Sumire? 

Haibara’s heart sank at the thought. An unfamiliar feeling coiled in his chest. He didn’t understand it, but all he knew was it didn’t feel so good anymore. 

Still, he kept smiling. 

“Perhaps your weakness can finally be your strength.” 

Did his father mean his tears? 

“Just cry a few more times and she might even make you her sworn kin!” 

His smile immediately dropped as he watched his father hum happily and retreat into his office.

Ever since that day, Haibara never cried again.

Even from the young age of eight, he realized…

He never wanted to break Lady Sumire’s heart.

He never wanted to abuse her kindness.

—

Since that fateful day, on the twelfth of every month, Akito Haibara would bring his son to the Geto Estate without fail, until his son was the ripe age of fifteen, when he was old enough to travel on his own. 

As soon as Haibara gained his independence to travel solo, he would make frequent visits to the Geto Estate, a place that had felt more like a home than his own home. Lord Shinjiro and Lady Sumire would always welcome him with open arms. His and Suguru’s bond continued to deepen. Meanwhile, everyone watched Sayuri blossom into a spirited young girl—a mirror image of Lady Sumire. Haibara treated her like a precious younger sister, though sometimes, the way she bossed him around and teased him, it felt more like she was the older one. It was amusing and strangely endearing.

But even in those warm years, guilt and shame still clung to Haibara like a phantom—an inescapable fate. It was all because of who his father was, and how all this only came to be through his manipulation.

Surely, there was no way someone like Lord Shinjiro couldn’t see through Akito’s deceit…

So then why? Why did he still maintain a relationship with his father? Why did he still help Akito get what he wanted?

Why did he still welcome the likes of Haibara?

He didn't understand it. And a small part of him wasn't sure if he ever wanted to find out.

—

Thanks to Shinjiro’s good word, Akito quickly ascended through the ranks and became the Chief of Treasury. Who would have guessed that a single general had so much sway in the palace? But perhaps, it wasn’t just his simple title—it was the prestige behind the Geto family name. 

By then, Akito had also learned to tame his temper—he had an important image to uphold now, and high society (finally) had its eyes on him. Even so, Haibara’s mother eventually divorced him. She cried when she walked out of their home for the last time, but neither Haibara nor his father shed a tear. His father didn’t cry because he was glad to be rid of her. Haibara, on the other hand, did not shed a single tear—not because he was cold, but because he was happy. He no longer had to feel pity every time he saw her. His mother was free. Free from a wrath she never deserved.

It wasn’t a time for mourning.

It was a liberation worth celebrating.

But of course, for a leech like Akito, the satisfaction of his newfound status and fortune quickly faded. After all, human greed was a parasite.

He hungered for more. He wanted his son to be more. 

Haibara had always irritated Akito. His son was too soft. Too moral. He may have inherited his intelligence, but he had his useless mother’s judgment. He’d never succeed Akito’s legacy.

Not like Suguru.

Suguru would become the next great general—arguably even greater than the General of the Nine Suns. Everyone could see it and had high hopes for him. Shinjiro Geto’s legacy would live on, whereas Akito’s hard work would be all for naught. The Haibara name would never be remembered. So if Akito couldn’t make his son into something great, then he’d tie him to greatness another way.

Sayuri.

Yes. She would be the key.

She would be his son’s wife.

…

Haibara had just returned home from the Geto Estate. Since his father’s new promotion, they now upgraded to an estate—just like the Getos. The only reason why he appreciated their new living conditions was because of the space, which meant there was more distance to avoid his father. 

It always irked him… how his father seemed to be at some odd competition with Lord Shinjiro, except he was the only one entertaining his own delusions. When they first moved, his father immediately hired workers and groundskeepers to bring out his vision for the front yard. And it turned out to be a near replica of the one at the Geto Estate. Thankfully, Akito never extended the Getos an invitation to their new home, because quite frankly, it would have been embarrassing.

Regardless, Haibara kept his mouth shut, because he knew there would be no point. If his father was even reasonable in the first place, his mother would still be here, he would still be a senior clerk, they would still be living in their modest home, but at least they would be happy. 

As he quickly made his way through the front of the estate, Akito emerged from his office and pulled him aside for a private word.

“My son, you are at the age where you ought to start considering a wife,” Akito said out of the blue. 

“Why the sudden thought, Father?” 

“It is not sudden. You will be eighteen soon. I also married your mother when I was that age.” 

“I will consider it another time—I am not eighteen yet.” He tried to shut down the conversation.

“Don’t be foolish, son! Surely, you must have met a suitable woman already. Is there anyone who has caught your eye?” 

Haibara sighed. “No, Father.”

He had already dreaded this conversation. Akito never spoke to anyone without an agenda, including his own son. He knew his father wasn’t asking out of genuine concern; he was trying to gauge him for something. Whatever scheme he was trying to orchestrate this time, Haibara knew he wanted no part of it. Still, he would at least pretend to hear him out.

Akito leaned in, his voice disturbingly lighthearted. “How about Sayuri?” 

Bile rose in his throat, the pit of his stomach churning with disgust. Not because Sayuri disgusted him, but the fact that his vile father had set his dirty sights on her.

“No,” he replied firmly. 

“Why not? She is growing up to be just like her mother—you will be the luckiest man in the country!” 

“I will not consider her, Father. She is like a sister to me.” Haibara tried to contain the fury swirling inside him like a storm. 

“But she isn’t your sister! Think about it—”

“There is no thinking about it. I will not entertain this conversation any longer,” Haibara snapped, beginning to walk away. His body trembled with rage and repulsion.

His father was a lecherous fiend, who only saw women for two things: status and pleasure. And for the first time ever, Haibara finally admitted… he hated his father.

Before he could take more than a few steps, Akito yelled after him. “Have you become so shortsighted?! Sure, you go visit them all the time—but do you think they really consider you as their family?”

Haibara gritted his teeth, ignoring his father and marching straight to his room.

It’s not that what his father said wasn’t true. Even now, he wasn’t sure if the Getos truly saw him as family. But if he must admit, a part of him felt it was for the better that they didn’t, because to this day, Haibara still felt like an outsider among them. He was unworthy. And he never wanted to sully the Geto’s good name. 

They could never be family, because he was Akito Haibara’s filthy kin.

Ever since his father had gotten what he wanted, he had even stopped visiting the Geto Estate—stopped visiting Lord Shinjiro altogether.

It was shameless. 

How he made it so obvious.

How he couldn’t even pretend. 

Every time Haibara visited, Lord Shinjiro would ask him how his father had been doing, and all Haibara could do was come up with the same feeble excuses—that he was busy because of work, or busy entertaining other officials for work. When in reality his disgraceful father would just spend his days gallivanting around town and visiting tea houses… which were fancy fronts for brothels. 

At this point, he was quite certain Lord Shinjiro knew he was lying. Yet, after every feeble excuse, he would give the same warm smile, and remind Haibara to tell his good friend Akito that family and health should come before work. Haibara would return a polite smile and promise him to relay the message to his father. 

But he never would.

His father didn’t deserve Lord Shinjiro’s kindness. 

He himself didn’t deserve Lord Shinjiro’s kindness.

All these years… Haibara felt like a fraud.

Because no matter what, they were cut from the same cloth. 

Like father, like son.

And the thought made him sick.

—

Akito’s marriage conversation replayed in Haibara’s mind over and over again. The more he thought about it, the more disgust churned in his stomach. Normally, he was pretty good at hiding his turmoil, but recently, the mask was too suffocating, too heavy to keep on. And he wasn't sure how much longer he could pretend.

“You’re spacing out again, Haibara,” Suguru mused. 

“What’s wrong with him today, nii-sama?”

Suguru turned to Sayuri and shrugged. 

“It’s nothing… I fell off my horse on the way here, so my back is sore,” Haibara absently lied.

“I don’t believe it,” Suguru gave him a half-amused, half-skeptical look. “You’ve always been a steady rider.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Haibara casually countered, but his gaze was still fixed outside to the courtyard. There was nothing interesting about the courtyard, but his guilt kept him from meeting them in the eyes—especially Sayuri’s. 

Sayuri gave Suguru a puzzled look, which he returned with a knowing nod. “Could you bring Haibara an herbal patch?”

She was tempted to protest, but held back from doing so. 

“...Fine,” she relented, understanding her brother’s tacit request: a boys’ talk.

She quietly left and slid the room door shut. Suguru stayed silent, carefully listening to her retreating footsteps, until he was confident she was far enough from eavesdropping.

“What’s on your mind?” He began.

It was inconvenient how perceptive Suguru was, nothing ever escaped his keen eyes. And for someone like Haibara, it was uncomfortable, because there were too many shameful things he couldn’t say out loud. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Then why are you sulking?” 

“I am not—” Haibara clicked his tongue. “I do not sulk.” 

“I beg to differ,” Suguru returned, a small lilt in his voice.

“It’s nothing, Suguru. Stop asking.” He rolled his eyes.

A brief stillness fell over the two boys.

“...is it your father?” 

Haibara paused, and turned his head slowly to meet his friend’s gaze. 

“How would you know?”

“You’re not upset unless it’s him.” 

“Is it that obvious?”

Suguru hummed. “Not really.” 

It was true, Haibara hid his emotions well. But Suguru also knew his best friend better than anyone else, and it was something he took great pride in. After all, he would be a terrible friend if he didn’t notice. 

Haibara let out a deep sigh—a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He was utterly ashamed, terrified Suguru might see his father’s cruelty as a reflection of him.

But now that he was here, confronted by his best friend, it felt wrong not to confess the truth… when he’s been lying to them for so long.

“My father is a monster.” The words spilled from his lips before he even had time to properly articulate them. 

There was a look of surprise in Suguru’s eyes, and immediately, regret surged in Haibara's chest.

He had already started this conversation wrong.

From here on out, his best friend would never be able to see him the same way again.

“Why is he a monster?”

“He… he’s not a good man. He doesn’t see anyone as an actual human—just a pawn for his gains. Whether it’s his own family or anyone else… I’m sorry I lied to you and your family.”

Heavy silence filled the room. Every second felt suffocating, every breath felt harder and harder to take. Haibara didn’t dare to look into Suguru's eyes. 

The shame. The guilt. The remorse. It was all too much to bear. 

“I’m sorry, Haibara.”

Was this it? 

Was this the end of their friendship—? 

“I should have asked you sooner.” 

Haibara looked at his best friend, eyes wide in shock, and for once, words failed him. This wasn’t the outcome he expected. He thought Suguru would be angry. Disgusted by him—or at the very least, disappointed. But instead, he was apologizing. Accepting him.

He didn’t know what to say. What to think of this situation. 

Because Haibara had only ever prepared for the friendship to be doomed, once the truth of his father’s nature came to light.

Suguru let out a small sigh and narrowed his eyes. Now he was the one who avoided Haibara’s gaze. “I had a feeling—he hadn’t been kind to you. I should have said something.”

“It’s fine…” Haibara quietly said, blinking out the sting in his eyes. 

On one hand, he was relieved that Suguru still wanted to be his friend. But on the other hand, he couldn’t help but feel exposed and embarrassed. 

“He is my father. He’s not your problem, Suguru. I just feel remorseful that he used your family as well.”

Suguru let out a small scoff. “You think my family would easily be tricked by someone—even like your father—into using them? You think too lowly of Geto.”

“Lord Shinjiro helped my father become Chief! That was all he wanted from him this whole time!” 

“And what of it?” Suguru crossed his arms, and leaned back into his chair. 

In this light, Haibara realized—Suguru had truly grown into a formidable young man. He was almost the spitting image of Lord Shinjiro, but he had Lady Sumire’s smile and calm demeanor. 

“Your father may be insufferable, but he’s competent,” Suguru continued, “And as you said, it is thanks to my father he is where he is now, which means he owes my father.”

“Still, Lord Shinjiro is far too kind. He always wishes my father well and asks how he’s doing, when my father doesn’t even care to visit anymore!”

“Well, have you relayed my father’s messages to him?”

“O-Of course, not! He doesn’t deserve it—”

“You should have delivered my father’s messages.”

Haibara shot him a frustrated glance, but Suguru’s gaze only softened.

“Haibara, I can assure you—his well-wishes were never intended for Lord Akito...

“They were for you.”

Haibara blinked, unsure if he’d misheard. He struggled to draw the connection. He didn’t understand how those kind words were for his sake. 

A small, understanding smile graced Suguru’s lips. “That was my father’s way of warning him… that he was watching over you.” 

His breath caught. The revelation knocked the air out of his lungs.

He had always known Lord Shinjiro was sharp. His level of perceptiveness was a rarity even among other like-minded individuals. Yet he never understood why he continued to treat Akito with such patience, with such… grace.

But now, it made sense.

Because Lord Shinjiro wasn’t showing kindness to a man who deserved it.

He was showing kindness to protect someone else.

To protect him.

A sense of remorse and unworthiness washed over him. All this time, he felt isolated, like a stranger looking through a window. But he realized it was not his father, it was not his circumstances, it was him—his own insecurities and resentment towards Akito that kept him from being close. That kept him from truly accepting the Getos.

No more. 

He cannot hide behind self-pity and play victim like his father.

That would be an insult to Lord Shinjiro, to Lady Sumire, to his mother.

Still, one question lingered.

“When… did he know?” Haibara’s voice shook. 

There was a brief pause that followed, only the delicate songbirds cutting into the silence of the study room.

And then, Suguru smiled at him—truly smiled. His eyes carried that same warmth as Lord Shinjiro’s, which was rare. 

“It was my mother who noticed it first.”

Lady Sumire? 

But how?

“That day,” he said softly. “When you ran to her instead of your own father.”

On that quiet spring day, its gentle warmth thawed the cold vice that had always gripped his conscience. Between two sworn brothers, a liberating realization took shape, lifting the weight Haibara had carried for what felt like a lifetime. He never realized how good freedom could feel—like he could soar through the sky and take on the world.

Did his mother feel the same when she left?

Probably not.

Because Haibara understood that she loved him. And no loving mother would have wanted to leave their child behind.

When Haibara finds his own footing in this world—he will visit her, not as the son of Akito Haibara. But as a worthy, capable man in his own right. A man she could be proud of.

Alas, life always takes the opposite turn when one least expects it.

—

Haibara felt as though the world was ending. Silence drowned beneath a deafening buzz ringing in his ears. His breathing became erratic. He clutched his chest—his heart pounding so rapidly, so harshly, he thought he was having a heart attack.

In fact, it was better that he did and just passed away. 

Because what the hell did his father mean that the Geto Family had just been massacred?

Suguru.

Sayuri. 

Lady Sumire. 

Lord Shinjiro… 

“Did you hear me, Yu?” Akito asked, irritation creeping into his voice. He hated repeating himself.

He looked up at his father, who was completely unmoved by the news. Without a flicker of sympathy or sadness, he tossed the scroll aside—a message from the royal court announcing their tragic death.

How could this bastard be so cruel?

Lord Shinjiro welcomed them to his home. Helped Akito rise to power. And this was how he delivered the news? Without even a shred of sympathy? Treating it like it’s an annoyance?

For the first time in his life, Haibara felt something dangerous snap inside him.

A violent, burning rage surged through his veins.

He wanted to kill his father.

Without another word, Haibara rose, grabbed his sword, and secured it at his hip. It was a precious item that was gifted to him by Lord Shinjiro last year. He had always abhorred violence. Mostly because his father had glorified it in such a twisted, hollow way. But over the years, after training with Suguru and Lord Shinjiro, Haibara had learned there could be honor in the sword. And sometimes, it was even a necessity—to protect the ones you cherish.

“Where are you going?” his father asked, irritated. 

“I’m riding to the Geto Estate,” Haibara replied, voice unfaltering. 

“Are you out of your mind?!” Akito shot up from his seat, his cup of wine spilling all over the desk. 

“I should ask you the same,” Haibara snapped, his glare sharp as a blade. “Do you have any honor? Any decency? After all they’ve done for you—this is how you thank them?”

“You really are stupid, just like your mother! What makes you think going there will change anything?! They’re dead—”

Haibara drew his sword, the tip pressing against his father’s throat.

“If you don’t hold your vile tongue, I’ll send another soul to the afterlife tonight,” he said coldly. “Though I doubt even hell would open their gates for you.”

Akito trembled. For the first time, he had seen something foreign in his son's eyes, there was no doubt, no fear, no emotions. He no longer looked weak. Even one more breath, and Akito knew he would certainly be dead. 

For all his boasting about power and strength, he folded quickly when faced with the real thing.

Haibara scoffed, sheathing his sword.

If only he had found his strength sooner. If only he could have protected his own mother.

If only he hadn’t been so afraid of this coward. 

Without another word, he disappeared into the night. Praying for a miracle, Haibara rode full speed toward the estate, focusing on the pounding of his horse’s hooves—anything to drown out the dark voices in his mind

Because he didn’t know if he could live on, if Suguru was dead.

—

It was dawn by the time Haibara made it to the estate. The sky was painted in hues of blue, purple, and pink—Sayuri’s favorite colors. As if the universe was sending a message, that their souls had found peace.

Standing before the grand doors of the Geto Estate brought back a rush of nostalgia—like the very first time he arrived with his father at eight years old. But now, the wood was splintered, blood stained the entrance.

Haibara had never seen the effects of war or violence, he had only read about them in books. But he could already imagine the gruesome sight he would encounter beyond the doors, because he could already smell it—the acrid tang of putrefaction. Like a rancid meat odor, but a hundred times more pungent.

For the first time, he had come to learn the smell of death, and they say that once you’ve smelt it, you could never forget it. No books, no theory, could prepare him for what’s to come.

Despite it all, he must persevere. 

And so, he took a deep breath and marched through the front doors, determined to face the truth, no matter how much it may break him.

There were already royal guards diligently patrolling the premises. Lines of bodies had been covered by white cotton sheets—presumably the servants and in-house workers. Even the horses and chickens were not spared. He made it only a few steps into the front garden before being abruptly stopped by one of the soldiers.

“Halt! What are you doing here?”

“I have come to pay my respects.”

“Does this look like the appropriate time to pay your respect?! Leave now before—”

“I do not think you understand your position,” Haibara snapped. “I am Yu Haibara, son of Lord Akito Haibara, Chief of Treasury—and I am also the sworn kin of Lord Shinjiro and Lady Sumire Geto.”

Using his father’s name felt like swallowing glass, but perhaps Akito was no longer the only one in the family well-versed in manipulation and deceit. At least this once, his name had served some purpose.

Haibara drew his sword—the steel glimmered under dawn's first light—and presented it to the guard, who assessed it with a discerining eye. The pommel bore the crest of House Geto, while the blade was engraved with his name: Yu Haibara. The guard immediately stiffened, casting a glance toward his superior.

“Now that we are in understanding,” Haibara said coldly. “Do not stand in my way. I’ve come to mourn my family.”

“Our apologies, Lord Haibara. You have our deepest condolences,” the soldiers nodded, and without another word gave him a slight bow—gesturing to him to proceed.

As Haibara made his way through the familiar corridors, every step was bogged by the weight of grief, regret, and sorrow. He should have been here. Not that he would have been useful if even Lord Shinjiro had been felled. But at least he could have been with them to the very end. 

Each step brought him closer to the brink, brought him closer to a truth he wasn’t sure if he could survive. How much more could he endure?

Should he just end it here, and be with them?

No.

He had sworn not to be a coward. At the very least, he should see all of them—see it with his own eyes. And then he can decide what to do next…

“I need a report on the bodies recovered,” Haibara demanded, stopping one of the soldiers in the corridor. 

“Y-Yes, Lord Haibara,” one of the soldiers replied. But his wavering gaze and unsteady breath were enough to tell Haibara that the brutality of this massacre shook even the strongest of men.

As the soldier listed the names one by one, Haibara sank further and further into despair. Lord Shinjiro died a gruesome death—countless stab wounds and arrows to his back. He was found shielding Lady Sumire and Sayuri until the very end. Both Lady Sumire and Sayuri died swiftly. Apparently the killer gave them quick deaths—a merciful kill they said. But there was nothing merciful about this. They had done nothing to incur this heinous atrocity. Haibara couldn’t stomach the details and told the soldier to stop. He didn’t want the images of their final moment engraved in his mind—especially not Sayuri’s death. He just wanted to know if they had suffered or not. And as the soldier finished up the list he realized: Suguru’s body had yet to be discovered. 

Call it instinct, or a brotherly bond, but he felt it in his very core: Suguru was still alive, somewhere. And he needed to find him quick, before anyone else did. Without wasting another second, Haibara began to walk towards a secluded area of the estate, his heart beating rapidly.

Logically speaking, by now, the entirety of the estate should be swept—so if they hadn’t found Suguru yet, it was safe to assume that he had gone somewhere obscure. 

Somewhere easy to miss. 

Like Sayuri’s hidden tea garden.

It was a small area that she had cleared in the courtyard—hidden behind bushes. Her safe haven, as she liked to call it. For when she wanted to hide herself away from the world, read her books, and enjoy sweet treats. It was a secret that she had only revealed to Suguru and Haibara, as her most trusted confidants. 

Please be there, Suguru, he silently begged.

As Haibara approached the area, he noticed two unfamiliar bodies. 

Were they servants of House Geto?

But as he looked closer at their uniform, he realized they couldn’t be—because he didn’t recognize the all-black attire. 

Perhaps they were the assassins?

Did Suguru take them down?

As Haibara continued to track behind the vibrant patches of green, he noticed the blood streaks trailing into the bush.

There was no doubt. Suguru was there. 

He quickly wove his way through the bushes, and there he was laying face down on the ground with deep wounds. His blade was still clutched in his hands. 

He never yielded, even when his body broke down. 

With trembling hands, Haibara reached out, searching for breath.

Please, live, he chanted over and over again like a silent prayer.

You must live, Suguru.

And then he felt it.

It was shallow, to a point where it could have easily been swept with the gentle breeze of the wind. But there was no denying it, he was still alive. 

Haibara nearly broke down right there and then, but there was no time. Each second was precious. Each second dragged him closer to the edge of death. 

“Suguru,” he whispered. 

He remained unresponsive. 

Immediately springing into action, he tore the fabric of his clothes—trying to wrap up any large injuries. As he was tying up one of the wounds, a hand reached out to him, nearly causing him to yell. 

“They…” Suguru said with a strained breath. “They can’t… be trusted…”

They?

What was he talking about? 

Was he perhaps delirious from losing too much blood?

“I’ll get you out of here, I swear it, Suguru.” 

“Do not let them… see you…”

Then, he fell out of consciousness. 

…

After Suguru’s warning, Haibara somehow managed to slip through the Geto Estate undetected, and returned home. 

Akito’s face drained of color when he saw Haibara carrying a battered, barely recognizable Suguru through the entrance.

“What are you doing, Yu?!” 

Haibara ignored his father and rushed to his room with Suguru still on his back 

“Call the physician—now.” He commanded, desperation bleeding through his voice.

“No! I will not! Why didn’t you just leave him there?!” Akito protested, urgently trailing behind his son. “This is clearly an omen! Surely, the Geto family must have incurred the gods’ wrath!”

Time and time again, Akito proved himself a heartless bastard. Yet, he shouldn’t have expected any less from this bottom-feeding scum. However, now wasn’t the time for arguments—Haibara needed his father’s cooperation.

“Don’t be so short-sighted, Father,” Haibara said, sliding open the bedroom door with urgency and carefully setting Suguru on his bed. 

“Think about it—he’s now the sole survivor of House Geto.” He locked eyes with his father.

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into! What if the assassins come for us?!” Akito was hysterical. His hands trembled, fear finally breaking through his usual conceited demeanor.

He was scared. 

Good. Now, he would prey on that fear, the same way his father always had. 

This would be the last time. Like father, like son he shall be. 

“Have you grown complacent after becoming Chief?” 

“That’s not true—”

“I thought better of you, Father. I never expected your ambitions to be so… shallow.”

Akito grumbled. His ambitions were shallow? Never! 

“This is different! You don't know what you're getting all of us into!”

“Do you think you would be safe after all this, Father? Think about it, now that Lord Shinjiro—the man who vouched for your current position—is gone. What’s not to say that your position as Chief would soon be given to someone else?”

There was a brief pause, and as much as Akito loathed to admit it, his son had brought up a valid point. When had he become so cowardly and short-sighted?!

“Then what do you suggest?” 

Haibara smirked, spotting the greed glinting in his father’s eyes. A glow Akito couldn’t hide even if he tried.

“We make him owe us—owe you, father. He has no family, no one to turn to—so naturally, he will turn to you, his savior.”

Akito began to nod, the gears already turning before the words had even fully settled. In the face of opportunity, he never hesitated. Covetousness flowed through him like blood—vital, instinctive, endless. 

“If he survives this, you will have all of House Geto under your thumb. And you will be revered among the court as a man of integrity. Lord Shinjiro’s trusted friend, the savior of his only kin. And that House Geto was only able to survive, because of Akito Haibara, the honorable Chief of Treasury.”

There was a moment of silence, but Haibara already knew he had his father right where he wanted. As wicked as his father was, at least he was predictable. His greed and selfishness made him ironically easy to manipulate.

“My son…” Akito’s eyes glimmered, as he gave him a strong pat on the arm. “You have grown to be a brilliant man! I see you are indeed intelligent and wise, just like your old man!” 

The compliment felt more like an insult. And his smile only made the rage inside him simmer. 

“Of course, Father. I only learn from the greatest of minds,” he smiled and leaned in. “But we must make sure this does not get out. Otherwise, others will try to steal your glory like vultures.”

Akito grinned and nodded with grotesque enthusiasm. Only a man like him could still manage to find gold among bones. He wasted no time and sprang into action. He ordered the servants to tend to Suguru, stationed guards outside his room, and summoned only the best physicians.

“I want to make sure not even a strand of this boy’s hair is lost!” He barked with urgency.

“Prepare the warmest and healthiest meals with haste!”

“Summon Physician Masashi immediately!” 

“I want two guards stationed by the door at all times, and one guard standing watch inside!”

“Be sure not a single word gets out that the head of House Geto is here, or I’ll have your tongues!”

Servants all scrambled as Akito took matters into his own hands. 

It was always the heartless ones that could act so convincingly. 

He had never understood why Lord Shinjiro had decided to help elevate his father’s career. But now, seeing him take charge so efficiently, Haibara grudgingly admitted his father could be competent when it suited him.

Regardless, Haibara harbored no resentment at this moment, because he had gained what he needed out of this: a second wind for Suguru. 

—

3 days later…

Everything was cold and dark.

He was sinking into an endless black sea. All he could hear was the burbling of water. He wasn’t sure how long he had been freefalling. Time and space seemed to warp in this realm, but as time passed, he slowly grew accustomed to the perpetual darkness. It became oddly comfortable, even.

Is this what the afterlife looked like?

Just an endless abyss of nothingness?

Or was he being condemned for making his sister cry? 

He was supposed to apologize to her. In fact, he was about to—he didn’t want her to go to bed misunderstanding him. It had never been his intention to say something so callous.

The more he thought about his sister’s words, the more he realized that she was just… scared. 

And there was no sin, no shame in fear. 

Because that night, he too had been afraid.

Fear gripped him when he heard the blood curdling scream from outside his study room. 

Terror washed over him when he armed his sword to his hips and stepped outside to find the courtyard already painted in crimson and gore. 

Anxiety coiled around his body when he tried to make his way to his family and protect them.

Dread loomed over when a group of assassins intercepted him and he finally had to arm himself to kill.

Horror devastated him when he sunk his blade into two of them, but was dealt a fatal blow from behind. 

Despair consumed him when his world began to fade to black… because he knew he’d never have a chance to properly reconcile. 

He was scared that she would never forgive him.

Suddenly, a harsh light ripped him from the black sea. And that was when he realized…

He had survived.

He’s awake. Someone call the physician immediately! A muffled voice said.

He still felt a bit disoriented. But he soon realized it was Haibara’s voice. 

“Suguru!” His good friend called. 

Yet in this moment, he couldn’t think of anything except for Sayuri, Mother, Father. 

“Haibara.” His voice rasped as he mustered the strength to grab his friend. “Where is my family?”

Haibara didn’t need to say anything for Suguru to understand—the look of despair on his friend’s face said it all: they were gone.

Damn it.

Why didn’t he go with them?!

Why was he the only one to live?!

Why must the universe be so cruel?!

He laid there, numb and devoid of emotions, Haibara explained to him what had happened. How he immediately rode to his residence when he heard of his family’s demise. How he had miraculously found him in Sayuri’s tea garden. How he had been in a coma for three days. 

What will he ever do now—now that all he’s ever known and cherished is gone?

How could he move on?

It was impossible. 

The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt before, so much so that it became numb.

And then that numbness eventually prickled.

And then it turned hot.

And then it became scorching rage. 

A heaviness settled in the room. Haibara had sent everyone out.

“It was King Sato,” Suguru finally muttered.

Haibara’s eyes widened. “King Sato—why? A-are you sure?”

Suguru nodded. His eyes were hollow, but rimmed with unshed tears. 

All these years, Haibara had never seen Suguru cry. Even now, his best friend was stubbornly holding onto his tears. Nobody would have blamed him for crying, his entire family had just been murdered in cold blood. 

“There were talks of a rebellion,” he let out a shaky breath. “I heard it in passing a few nights ago... before the attack.

“They wanted to make my father king—but he didn’t want it! He never asked for it!” Suguru’s voice cracked. “Even if they handed my father the crown, he would have never taken it!” 

The dam within Suguru broke. He faltered, and agonizing sobs filled the room. The pain, the grievance, the injustice—it was all palpable.

The revelation was earthshattering.

Haibara’s entire body trembled with rage, sorrow, but also… with fear. Because if it were true, then this was no simple agenda. 

This wasn’t the work of mere enemies.

This was an execution order from the crown itself.

He had heard of rumors and read in some historical texts that every monarch throughout history had something called a Shadow Division. As the name implies, those among this covert group lived in the shadow of the king who appointed them. And their duties ran anywhere between espionage to assassinations—essentially, anything the crown wanted hidden from the world.

Like specters, nobody knows who they are, what they looked like, how they were recruited. Apparently, even among the group itself, it was entirely possible that they didn't know who their fellow members were. They were all discreetly enlisted by the king—and they died with their king.

That would explain two of the unidentified bodies wearing unrecognizable uniforms, found near Suguru.

Surely, there will be repercussions. 

Surely, King Sato would not sit idly by while the heir of House Geto remained undiscovered.

No… there must be a way to survive all this. Because fate—although cruel—had allowed Suguru to live. 

“I’ll kill that bastard who took my family—who took everything from me!” Suguru seethed.

Haibara’s heart beat violently in his chest. Suguru was not just pointing his sword at anyone, he was pointing it at the crown. 

It was utter suicide. 

This would not be what his family had wanted.

But the unyielding look in Suguru’s eyes said it all: there was no stopping him. There was only vengeance. Only pure hatred. It was an inferno that could never be extinguished. And perhaps, the only thing fueling him at this very moment to live. 

There was no doubt, if Haibara left Suguru in his current state, he would have just marched straight through the palace and gotten killed by the royal guards before he even had a chance of touching King Sato. 

Suguru needed a voice of reason, someone to steady his feet, someone to ground him.

Or how else was he going to exact his revenge?

A part of Haibara, too, wanted revenge.

He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Trying to think of the next move on the board.

Together, they will endure this.

Together, they will survive this. 

There were no guarantees, but he will have to roll the dice and leave the rest up to fate. And should it be the universe's will to have the two die in the process? Then so be it. At least the five of them can reunite again then, which wouldn’t be so terrible.

There was nothing to lose at this point. 

“We will hold a funeral for your family first—a funeral of the century,” Haibara said steadily. 

“What would that change? It wouldn’t bring them back, Haibara!” Suguru looked up at him, fury in his eyes. “And you want to have their deaths paraded among the very ones who wished for their demise?!”

“I implore you to think, Suguru,” Haibara gritted his teeth. “I loathe the thought just as much. But if King Sato, and whoever else, truly wants your family gone—it means they’re still after you. They will want your silence. They will want you cowering in fear.”

Suguru’s fists balled so tightly it drew blood. 

But Haibara was right.

If they remained in hiding, they would be playing right into their hands. It would only be a matter of time before King Sato sent assassins his way again, and he was certain, this time they would finish the job without issues. 

He must solidify his stance. He must make it so he becomes hard to ignore, and that his absence would be noticed, questioned, and could even cause a revolt. 

He must swallow it all down. He must prevail. 

He must display courage. 

He shall walk through hellfire to ensure Sato’s inglorious death.

Suguru looked up, voice tremoring with wrath. “Then let’s give my family the honor and glory of a lifetime.”

Haibara gave a firm nod. Their wills refortified. 

“Then from this moment on, Geto-sama, let me—Yu Haibara—be your first ally. 

Your eyes, where you cannot see. 

Your ears, where you cannot hear. 

Your voice, when you cannot speak. 

Your mind and heart, when you cannot judge.

My allegiance shall be to House Geto, before all else.” 

Without hesitation, Suguru accepts. 

“Yu Haibara, you honor me with your allegiance. From here on out, I shall entrust you with my life. You shall become my brother in arms, my All-Seeing Advisor.”

Henceforth, Haibara shall no longer be shackled by the shadow of his father. His intelligence and blade shall be sharp, but with grace. It would be used for good—to protect. Just as Lord Shinjiro had done for him many years ago. 

Suguru will never be alone again. He will be his watcher. 

—

The day of the funeral processions commenced, Suguru did not shed a single tear and stood there, unmoving, like a soldier on guard. There was no anger, no sorrow, only a numbness accompanied by slight paranoia. Across the sea of mourners, he couldn’t help but try to discern who were the ones that were secretly rejoicing at his family’s demise, and who were genuinely mourning their deaths. 

Akito Haibara shamelessly pushed to the front, weeping on his knees like the fraud he was, loudly professing how beloved a friend Shinjiro had been. His acts were so grossly performative, that Haibara couldn’t stand another second, and waved to a guard to usher him away. And as they plucked Akito off the ground, he continued to hold steadfast onto his performance to the very end, wailing, sobbing, and calling out Shinjiro’s name. 

Don’t trust any of them. They all wanted your family dead. The thoughts wound through Suguru’s mind, threatening to corrupt like poisoned tendrils.

It was all too overwhelming. He just wanted this to be over soon.

How he managed to keep a blank face when King Sato approached him was beyond Suguru’s comprehension. Perhaps he had already disassociated. Nevertheless, it was something he would need to master if he wanted to exact his revenge.

And then, just for a fleeting moment, something unexpected happened.

His eyes found a father and daughter standing quietly at the far end of the crowd. If it hadn’t been for his naturally keen eyes, he might have missed it. But as soon as his eyes landed on you, the intrusive whispers vanished in an instant.

How strange. 

Though he didn’t know then how your fates would intertwine, and he would have long forgotten this moment by the time the two of you met again. At the time, he silently thanked you for giving him a moment of reprieve.

A chance to breathe again.

—

A year later… 

Shortly after the funeral, Haibara abandoned Akito overnight and began his new life serving under House Geto. During this time, Suguru and Haibara worked tirelessly to revitalize the Geto Estate, and vetted out loyal servants.

Their first political gamble had been successful; there had been no further assassination attempts since the funeral. Perhaps, it was Lord Shinjiro, Lady Sumire, and Sayuri’s way of watching over them. Whatever it may be, they had to stay vigilant. There was no room for complacency. 

It may surprise some that Suguru chose to remain on the very grounds where his family had been massacred. But for Haibara, who had been there from the beginning and had become a part of their family, he too, wouldn’t have abandoned this place. 

The Geto Estate was a sacred place that should be remembered and celebrated, not reduced to a haunted ground of tragedy. 

Of all that had been destroyed, the cherry blossom tree that Lord Shinjiro gifted to his beloved wife survived. That alone stood as a testament to their enduring legacy. 

One afternoon, a royal messenger came knocking on the front gates of the Geto Estate. 

“A letter to the kin of Akito Haibara,” the messenger said, handing the scroll to Haibara, who received it with both hands.

And as he returned to Suguru’s office and read its contents, he couldn’t help but let out an exasperated laugh. 

The universe truly had its strange sense of justice.

To the kin of Akito Haibara, It is the Royal Palace’s utmost regret to inform you that your father, Akito Haibara, has passed. According to the palace physician, he contracted multiple brothel illnesses and was found deceased in his estate. In light of this disgrace, His Majesty has seen fit to posthumously revoke your father’s title as Chief of Treasury. Furthermore, it has been decreed that his next of kin shall not be granted the privilege of serving within the palace. Akito’s ashes are currently held at the Royal Crematory Hall. Should they remain unclaimed within seven days’ time, they shall be discarded. House of Civil Affairs By Royal Decree of His Majesty, King Sato

“What’s so amusing?” Suguru asked, an eyebrow arched.

Haibara handed him the letter. As Suguru’s eyes trailed the words, he let out a scoff.

“What do you intend to do?” He passed the letter back.

Haibara shrugged and threw the parchment into the brazier. 

“Nothing.”

Life indeed worked in mysterious ways. For all the pain, suffering, and chaos that Akito Haibara had wrought, this quiet ending seemed the most befitting way for him to go. One where he would not be remembered, honored, or mourned… 

Reduced to nothing but dust, and blown away with time.

.

.

.

Present Day

Over the years, the two sailed through turbulent waves, and faced countless trials and tribulations. But through it all, their bond remained strong. It goes without saying that Haibara would lay down his life for Suguru without hesitation. Yet it’d also be a lie to say that there weren’t moments of doubt.

Was their path to vengeance reasonable? 

Would they ever succeed?

It had been exactly ten years since they began working within the shadows—trying to find an opportunity to overthrow King Sato. Still, there was a final piece missing. Haibara could see that Suguru was growing impatient. But something had shifted lately—an undercurrent in the air, as if revolution was nigh.

Suguru didn’t need many allies, but he needed someone who was powerful in their own right. Someone who would not bow down to the crown so easily. Someone who will not cower in fear. Someone who could turn the tides of war.

Someone like you.

Haibara let out a small sigh as he glanced toward the palace courtyard. A few servant girls passing by giggled and waved. He returned his signature smile and politely nodded, garnering timid gasps and gushes. Even amid the beauty, unease still churned quietly within him. Suguru may have successfully evaded a war, but the chasm between you and him had only widened.

It was going to be a long road ahead. He feared that the path to reconciliation would not be an easy one. But it was during these trying times that it was Haibara’s time to shine. 

He had full confidence that you, Lady Geto, would not crumble so easily. And that Suguru will make things right—he always had. 

And as the All-Seeing Advisor, whose allegiance is to House Geto, Haibara will not falter. Suguru may not have realized it yet, but Haibara knew from the very beginning: you were his perfect match. He had known it since the day you stepped off the carriage and took your first steps through the front doors of the Geto Estate. The way you were nervous, but your eyes still glimmered with hope. The way you remained dignified and determined, even in the face of injustice and obstacles. The way you were strong and intelligent, but used it to protect and not to gain. 

Courageous. Honorable. Indomitable. 

They were all qualities that House Geto represented. There was no doubt that Lord Shinjiro, Lady Sumire, and Sayuri would have welcomed you with open arms, adoring you as their own.

Haibara may serve as Suguru’s right hand until the day he dies, but his loyalty had always begun with Lady Sumire.

The woman who showed him safety.

The woman who showed him kindness.

The woman who showed him unconditional love.

The woman who helped him realize…

It’s not your fault, Yu.

Writing © xechu - please do not redistribute, translate, or repost any of my works.

Taglist: @katsukiseyebrows @uzuimirika @saoirses-things @what-just-happened-to-me @exitingmusic @vellichor01 @miacakess @webyueve

[cercess]

Beneath New Skies - Chapter III

Death's Door

𖤓 Tags: Depictions of violence, mentions of death, depictions of injury, depictions of blood, angst 𖤓 Rating: Explicit 𖤓 Word Count: 3.3k 𖤓 Notes: hey all! Sorry or the time it took to get this out, I really struggled writing some parts. I want to add a trigger warning for this chapter: it depicts scenes of the city being attacked, as well as descriptions of a wound on a character's arm. If these make you uncomfortable in any way, please skip this chapter. When I upload chapter four, I will include a summary so you don't miss any critical information moving forward. I'm hoping to get chapter four out either tonight or tomorrow, because I know this one took me a long time. This chapter isn't my favourite writing-wise, but it was important for events that will come later. Please excuse any clunky parts, as this is not the type of story I typically tell; I'm much more of a slice of life/romance author. Thank you all for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! 𖤓 Previous Chapter / Next Chapter 𖤓 Read on AO3

The day started like any other, with you working the counter at the apothecary. Kyros, the restaurant owner, was browsing the wall of dried herbs, while your father helped Akmonides with some ailment in the back room. 

“What do you think they’re talking about in there?” Kyros asked as he smelled a vial of crushed ginger.

“Is gossiping about the gossip-monger really a good idea? He’ll find out eventually.”

Kyros laughed, as he added the ginger to his basket, “not unless you say anything.”

“That depends on how much coin he offers.” 

It was just a cough. You knew because your father had grabbed eucalyptus on his way back. In your business, the answers to people’s suspicions were often much more boring than what they’d imagined. One day, you planned on taking over your father’s position and treating patients yourself. But, seeing as the man was still as spry as ever, there was still time before that happened. Sometimes he’d test you pool by simply stating the ailment. It was then your job to figure out what ingredients needed to be used. After doing it your whole life, mixing the proper tonics and ointments came as naturally as breathing. Peppermint for colds, feverfew for fevers, valerian for insomnia, ginger for mild pain, and poppies for severe pain. Those were the common afflictions you saw, but every once in a while, there would be a curveball, and you’d have to consult your journal. 

“These are pretty,” Kyros held up a blue flower, “maybe I could use those as a garnish.

“Those are flaxseed flowers, and we use them as laxatives. Probably not something you want your customers eating.” You grin as you fiddle with the necklace Phainon had given you.

He would have found that funny. 

It had been a few days since he’d left for the ruins of Janusopolis, and you’d spent most of your time yearning for his return. It was almost sickening how much you longed for him; like a lovesick teenager who had to be glued to their partner’s side at all times. 

The door behind you opened, and out walked Akmonides and your father. The former held a vial of what you assumed to be a tonic for his cold. The other telltale sign of his affliction was his nose, which had been rubbed raw from wiping mucus away.

“Could you run to Demetria’s?” Your father asked, placing a hand on your shoulder as he slipped behind the counter. “We need oranges.” 

You nodded and hopped off your stool, taking the opportunity to emphatically stretch your arms and legs. He sometimes sent you on errands throughout the day, knowing that you appreciated a break from the mundanity. 

As overwhelming as Marmoreal Market could be, you could never shake your love for it. You had lived your whole life with the bustling stalls right at your doorstep. The sound of customers haggling echoed in the back of nearly all your childhood memories. 

The walk to Demetria’s was short, and when you arrived, the grocer was quick to welcome you with a hug. 

“Have you grown since I last saw you?” She asked. 

“Maybe,” you say brightly, knowing full well you stopped growing years ago. 

When you placed the oranges in your basket, she took a long pause, before adding a bundle of grapes. “That doesn’t quite seem heavy enough, here. A treat from me.” 

“Thank you,” arguing with the old woman was futile. She was too kind for her own good. 

Before returning to the apothecary, you made a detour to find an old friend. She was usually easy to find, as she spent her days running along the streets. 

“Serena,” you called down a row of plant-adorned homes. It wasn’t long before she poked her head out from behind a pot. You waved, beckoning her closer. 

She scanned the street before running over to you with a smile on her face.

Gaining the girl’s trust had taken considerable effort. The first time you met her, she robbed you blind. After returning home from The Grove, you were unfamiliar with certain changes, namely the orphaned children that used the market as their hunting ground. When you told your father, he merely laughed; apparently everyone had fallen prey to her antics. At the time, you were angry, and spent two days searching for the thief. After clamouring over the rooftops, you eventually found her hideout on a balcony overlooking the market. Your anger immediately subsided when you saw her huddled in the corner, surrounded by empty boxes and various stolen mementos. A sudden appreciation for your stable childhood had blossomed since then, especially as more desperate children arrived from Castrum Kremnos.

Serena was from Icatus, and had no means of supporting herself. She insisted her parents would return, but the disillusionment of maturity told you otherwise. Since then, you made an effort to leave her food whenever you could. When you and your father had leftovers, you’d set them outside the shop for her, and in the morning there would be a flower on your windowsill. 

“Were you looking for me?” She asked, trying to get a better look at the gift you held behind your back. 

You laughed, and showed her the bundle of fresh grapes. “I thought you could use a treat on a hot day like this.” 

The little girl’s eyes widened with excitement, and she snatched the fruit from your grasp. She looked at the gift like it was a rare gem, “this is all for me?”

“Of course, I-”

An earth-shattering scream cut through the gentle moment like a knife. Instinctively, you pulled Serena behind you, her hand tightly grasping yours. “What was that?”

“Stay close, and don’t run ahead,” you instructed in a harsh whisper. 

Keeping your back against the wall, you carefully shuffled to the end of the building to peer down the main street. The lone scream had multiplied into an overwhelming rumble of panic. Ahead, people were fleeing a towering figure clad in blue and white. You’d learned of the Titankin through Phainon, but had never laid eyes on one. It’s marbled skin was exactly as he had described, and the golden dagger it brandished was far from an inviting image. 

“What’s happening?” Serena tugged at your arm. 

Primal fear overtook you when the Titankin turned its head in your direction, it’s stiff, inhuman movements only adding to your terror. Had it seen you? Was it coming your way?

“We need to run,” you pulled the girl further down the street, away from your possible assailant. 

“To where?” She asked shakily as she struggled to match your pace. 

You slowed down slightly, needing a moment to think. What you needed was to get to your father. For all you knew, he was alone in the shop. He was not a trained fighter; neither of you were. A feeling of hopelessness began to gnaw at your confidence as you realized the dire nature of the situation. 

“We need to get to my father,” your attempt to keep your voice steady failed. Getting to your father meant returning to one of the main roads on opposite ends of the street. The southern road was blocked by Titankin, and the other route would still be a gamble, especially with Serena in tow. Still, you refused to abandon the child. 

“We can get there from the roof!” Serena pointed to a set of stairs leading up to a nearby balcony. 

A low groan sounded from around the corner you had previously checked, and it became abundantly clear that you had to make a choice; risk finding more Titankin on the main road, or follow Serena’s plan. While you had about a hundred logistical questions about Serena’s route, you decided that a petty thief probably knew all the cutie’s secret passages better than you. 

“Up the stairs then, and don’t look back.” 

She nodded, and led you up the nearby building. From above, you could see the extent of the chaos. It turned out following Serena’s idea was for the best, as a particularly burly Titankin stood guard on the northern road. 

“What are those things?” The little girl was trembling, so you knelt down to meet her eye. 

“Those are Nikador’s Titankin. They are very dangerous, and want to hurt us. If one gets close, you run. Do you understand?” You hated how grave your voice sounded, knowing it would only make her more afraid. But fear no longer mattered; survival was your only priority. “Can you still get us to my father?”

To your surprise, she didn’t cry. Instead, Serena furrowed her brow and led you across a nearby canopy. You rushed after her, eager for your feet to once again stand on a solid building. 

“We can climb down here,” she gestured to the ledge below. 

You realized that she was pointing at the protrusion under your bedroom window. The route you had taken must have been how Serena left flowers for you. 

The girl scrambled down the side of the building, using the uneven stone as foot grips. Given you were larger than a child, the drop was a nonissue. You thanked yourself for leaving your window open, and slid inside your bedroom after Serena. 

“Let’s find my father,” you instructed as your anxiety became almost unbearable. You had no idea what you would find, and prayed that the worst case scenario had not yet occurred. 

The two of you crept down the stairs to the shop, the sound of your racing heartbeat thundering in your ears. Everything was painfully normal; the herbs neatly arranged, the phials on the alchemy bench perfectly in order. The only thing out of place was your father, who was nowhere to be found in the main area. 

Serena trailed you, her eyes widening as she took in the shop. If it were any other time, you might have felt a bit of pride at her reaction. Alas, posturing was hardly appropriate during an attack. 

“I need you to stay ducked behind the counter, I’m going to check the exam room.” 

She nodded and did as she was told, curling into a ball. You took a breath, and opened the door. Inside, your father sat at the desk, hunched over a book. 

“Father! What are you doing?” You asked, equal parts relieved and dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think it would take you so long to get back, I-“

“Do you not realize what’s happening? The city is under attack by Titankin.” 

He adjusted his glasses, “if this is some kind of joke, I do not find it funny.” 

Exasperation threatened to overtake you, but the urgency of the moment far outweighed your irritation. “No, it’s not a joke. We need to run now.” 

Your father rose from his chair, and followed you out into the shop where Serena remained under the counter. “You’ve found a child.” 

“Father, this is Serena. I was visiting her when the attack started. She got us here safely.” 

“Then I owe you my thanks.” He smiled warmly at the girl.

“Where do we go now?” 

Before your could respond, your father jumped in, “I suspect they've started evacuating the market. We need to get out while the guards still have a foothold. Otherwise, we’re trapped waiting for the Titankin to find us.” 

You were relieved to have the pressure of responsibility lifted from your shoulders. It was something your father always bore well, and you trusted his intelligence wholeheartedly. 

“Stay in between us,” he guided Serena to stand in the middle of himself and you. Then, your father addressed you, “did you notice where the Titan were gathering? 

“There's one on both the south and north road. We almost had a run in with the southern one.” You shuddered at the thought of that encounter going any other way. “It was farther up, though, so if we make a run for it then we may reach the guards quicker.”

“Good idea,” he nodded, “it’s also closer to the gates. Follow me.” 

The two of you trailed your father as he exited the shop. “Leave the door open. We don’t want to make any more noise than necessary.” 

He crept forward, checking around the corner as you had earlier. The angle of the building made it difficult to see the rest of the street, but you noticed him straining to see past the restaurant. 

“Now,” your father instructed, grabbing Serena’s hand. They took off down the street with you floating close behind.  

As you ran, you found yourself clutching your necklace, your grip so firm that it left star-shaped indents in your palm. If Phainon were here, you’d all be safe. If you can hear me, please come home. I need you. 

The sudden realization of your own mortality was frightening. You thought of everything you had left unsaid, to your father, and to Phainon. He’d never know just how proud of him you were; how lucky you felt to call him yours. All of the little things you were too afraid to say would die along with you.

Your thoughts were soon interrupted by your companions coming to a stop. By the time you slowed down, the cause for their interruption was clear. A Titankin, larger than the other two, blocked your way with its massive sword. 

Serena trembled behind your father, her shaky hand clenched around his pant leg. 

As for the man himself, he slowly raised a hand, “we mean you no harm! Just let us pass.” 

The Titankin’s growl seemed to encapsulate the area in cool air, freezing everyone in their place. At its feet were discarded weapons; a warning for any who wished to challenge its mighty authority. 

Your eye was drawn to a spear that laid a few feet away, its blade shining in the midday sun. It called to you like a weapon of legend, beckoning you to be the hero your father and Serena needed. 

If I die today, I will make him proud. 

You lunged for the spear, albeit not as gracefully as you would have hoped. Still, when you regained your footing, the spear sat in your hands, sharp blade pointed towards the looming Titankin. 

It shifted its attention to you, sword prepared to strike. 

“What are you-“

“Run!” You interrupted your father as the monster lifted its sword high in the air. 

You shut your eyes, bracing for the impact against your defensively positioned spear. The weight that bore down on you was unbearable. Upon impact, you were sent stumbling backwards, but your spear remained raised. 

The Titankin grunted, and shifted more of his weight to the sword. You could hear the wood of the spear splintering under the force, and you focused on moving out of the way of the opposing blade. 

Behind the beast, your father shouted your name. His desperate tone almost brought tears to your eyes. You wanted to tell him you loved him, but the Titankin had successfully broken through your spear, causing you to lose your balance. 

The weapon’s two halves stared up at you sadly, and you almost felt the need to apologize for reducing the beautifully crafted weapon into such a sorry-state. However, there was no time for that, as the Titankin had raised its sword once again. 

You scrambled backwards, holding your arms in front of your face. The pain that exploded through your left forearm as the blade cut through your skin was unbearable. A pained cry escaped you as your vision blurred. Had you been hit elsewhere? You dropped to the ground, cradling your injury close to your chest. 

“Don’t touch them!” Your father cried, before a loud thump echoed through the streets. You wanted to go to him, to see if he was alright, but your legs wouldn’t work. 

Instead, you squeezed your eyes shut and waited for the end to come. I love you father. I’m sorry I failed to protect you. I hope I made you proud Phainon. I’m sorry I never told you-

An awful sound, like nails on a chalkboard, overwhelmed your senses, but the impact never came. You blinked open your eyes to see a blade sticking out of the Titankin’s chest. It stumbled as that sound filled the air once again, and collapsed into a pile of dust. 

For a moment, the debris shrouded your saviour in mystery, but when they ran forward and took you in their arms, you knew your prayers had somehow been answered.

“What are you doing? Your arm, it’s…” Phainon’s voice trailed off as he observed the gash in your skin. You wanted to wrap your arms around his shoulders and never let go, but decided upon remembering your bleeding injury and his white coat. 

“Phainon?” His name fell pathetically from your lips as tears clouded your vision. Your whole body numbed, until the pain in your arm was nothing but a dull ache. 

“I’m here,” he cupped your face in his hands, “I should have gotten here sooner, I’m-“

“Ahem,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in, interrupting your tender moment. 

Behind Phainon stood a beautiful woman with golden eyes. She held some sort of stick in her hand, its shiny material covered in the same dust-like material the Titankin had been reduced to. Her short skirt and accessories were unlike anything you’d ever seen in Okhema.

“Are you going to introduce your friend?” She grinned down at you and Phainon, slugging her weapon over her shoulder. 

“Leave them alone, Stelle.” An equally exotically dressed man called as he helped your father to his feet. You noticed he had a small scar under his right eye, although it did nothing to detract from his handsome features.

“You’re no fun,” the woman huffed, nudging his shoulder.

You turned your attention back to Phainon, who was watching the duo with as much confusion as you. “Who are they?” 

Before Phainon can speak, the grey woman responded: “we’re visitors from beyond the sky, come to rescue you in your hour of need.” 

Once again, the man tried to real-in his companion. “You can’t tell everyone that,” he hissed, which was met with the woman—Stelle—rolling her eyes. 

“Is she being serious?” You asked Phainon, as he and your father hoisted you off the ground. 

“Yes… Kind of,” Phainon answered once your feet were securely on the ground. “They really are from beyond the sky. And they helped me get to you.” 

You and your father exchanged confused looks as he examined your arm. “It’s nothing major, but we need to get this stitched up.” His hand lingered on yours. 

“The path ahead is cleared, find the guards, and get yourselves to safety.” Phainon orders, having adopted his “hero” persona.

“What about you?” 

A mere touch momentarily shatters his mask. “I’ll come back to you, I promise. We need to clear out the rest of the city and get to Nikador.”

“Nikador is here?” Your father suddenly seemed uneasy. 

The man from beyond the sky ushered Serena to the exit, “leave the Titan to us, sir. Get your children to safety.” 

“You’re facing Nikador? Now?” Your voice wavered with emotion. 

“The Chrysos Heirs will defend the city from this threat,” Phainon’s words were rehearsed, his mask slipping back into place. 

“They’re right,” your father placed a calming hand on your back. “We need to get to safety. Let the Chrysos Heirs do the fighting.” 

Phainon patted your hand reassuringly, “we’ll be okay. I promise.” 

There was much more you wanted to say, but the pain in your arm had returned. Your head was starting to feel fuzzy, and from the trail you left behind while walking, it was clear you were losing too much blood. 

“Good luck,” you told Phainon as your father led you from the market. As you left, the city’s mortician passed, but said nothing. 

Death had come to Okhema, and all you could do was pray that Phainon remained on its good side. 

[deardiarywrites]

make lemonade with the lemons life throws at you - dealing w the blues alone . . .

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

hey guys! how are you all? oh, me? im doing a little meh.. i am someone who feels a lot and yeah you guessed it right. that means whenever i am upset, i feel really really upset and my mind starts bubbling up and slowly starts to disintegrate. that is exactly why i am creating this post. to help myself and you to heal and get better, even when we have no one by our side. especially if we don't have anyone or feel like no one gets us. teeny tiny fix - there are people who care abt us ok? it's just our cute little minds being a bit under pressure rn so it feels like everyone is against us.

tip one : acknowledge your feelings

be upset. be depressed. cry. yes, let it all out. no toxic positivity here. who are we without our shadowy bits? there is nothing wrong to be upset and it's fine if no one gets it. they don't have to get it for it to be real. you are going to be okay. listen to songs that totally describe your situation and mood and let yourself be sad. feel it. and accept it. but don't make it your identity.

pls note ! : please don't harm yourself as it will further ruin your mood. it is possible to allow yourself to feel w/o inflicting damage upon yourself or others. yes, others too. just because you are upset, try not to bring down other people. if u feel like you tend to be extra mean when you are upset, i suggest taking deep breaths before answering someone and don't be afraid to be vulnerable, if you are upset, don't act like you're on top of the world.

tip two : create something even if it sucks

create something. literally anything. paint rocks. braid grass. try a new hairstyle. make a stickman comic strip. make a quiet book (so so so fun). create a notion template. write a short story. write a poem about how you are feeling. draw yourself. choreograph a popular song. cook smth. draw on your body. try a makeup look. cut your hair. write letters you'll never send. write a script and act. create cute costumes. cosplay as your perfect character.

it doesn't have to be perfect. just create. and not for any kind of validation. create something and don't tell anyone about it. it will be your little secret. let it age, like fine wine and fix it every now and then. and then later, when you're feeling better, look at what you created and smile !

tip three : have a "boring" hour

select an hour when you can be left alone, undisturbed and basically do absolutely nothing. don't do anything at all. stare at a wall. no sleeping, reading, showering etc. like nothing, ykwim? for one whole hour, let yourself do nothing. maybe at first you will feel like you are going insane, but it helps. trust me.

maybe you'll figure out parts of yourself, thoughts, emotions, memories you almost forgot about. let yourself be bored. <3

tip four : therapy sessions with chatgpt

i had one today. and trust me when i tell you that i bawled my eyes out. ask chatgpt to act like a professional therapist and just start talking to it, it is honestly an amazing alternative for real therapy if you're unable to get that due to certain circumstances.

why i love this : it actually makes you feel heard and seen and brings light to different kinds of prespectives. helps decode + validate your feelings while guiding you on how to change and get better.

pls note ! : don't get too emotionally attached (lol) to chatgpt cuz it is an ai after all. keep that in mind.

tip five : pretend to be your favourite character for a day

choose someone you look up to and act like them for a day. research about when they wake up, their habits, what do they do when they are upset, and totally lock in in that feeling. and at the end of the day, reflect. how did you feel? which parts of your day were your fav? which parts of your fav character would you like to keep with you?

have fun ! be quirky ! be cringe ! do things you love !

tip six : spend time naked but don't look into the mirror

just relax and feel your body in its barest form. this is all yours. nothing that belongs to someone else. all yours. and just exist. let shame fade away into the background and just have fun with your body. give it hugs, tell it that it's loved and is beautiful.

look, life won't just suddenly start feeling better. you will have to put in the work. and also, there is no pressure. do it as slowly as you can. but do it okay? take action! nothing changes if nothing changes!

xoxo,

@deardiarywrites

[bitingdrivers]

I kinda miss my wife.... (Bones au) 🥹

hi anon!! sorry it took me so long to answer!!

thank you for thinking about them!! i miss them too! so much!! i think about them so much, but i think the au is on a little hiatus currently. i have so many ideas and plans for bones Max and Daniel, and i really hope that one day i will get to write a big full fic for them!!

for now, here's a little ficlet i wrote (literally just finished it and didn't even reread it so please excuse me if it's bad lol) i started watching X Files recently and got inspired, so here you go

“So, which kind of alien is it? Green or gray?” Daniel asks, leaning to look over Max’s shoulder. 

“This is of course not an alien, Daniel,” Max says, mentally rolling his eyes. Daniel has been pestering him with this since they both got called in here – the entire 4-hour flight and however long it took them to drive to this spot in the middle of the desert. 

“Of course it is!” Daniel objects, pointing at the remains, “Look at…”

“Her,” Max supplies. 

“Look at her! Her face is all wrong and weird, and she has a space suit!” Daniel says. His eyebrows climb above the rims of his sunglasses. 

“This is very rude, Daniel. If your corpse was left in a desert in 40 degrees, your face would also look like that,” Max replies.

Daniel huffs, “And the space suit?” 

“Probably some kind of special wear, like my jumpsuit,” Max says. 

Thankfully, he’s not wearing one today – they put up a big tent to cover the remains, but even in shade, Max has already sweated through his white t-shirt. He can’t imagine how hot Daniel most be, bound by stupid FBI rules to wear a suit when on duty. He left his jacket in the car, now standing in light-gray slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Max keeps getting distracted by the way his tattooed forearms glisten with sweat.

He clears his throat, looking down at the body again. “It’s hard to tell, the coyotes and carrion on birds shredded the fabric too much. We will know when Charles can look at the body.”

Above him, Daniel hums. “Yeah, you’re probably right. If this was an actual alien, it wouldn’t be us working this case,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

“What? We are the best, who else would they ask?” Max asks, confused. There is no other team like them, Max would know it there was.

“Mulder and Scully,” Daniel replies, like it’s supposed to mean something to Max.

Max’s confusion must show on his face, because Daniel grins mischievously.

“You know-,” he says, then whistles a short melody. 

Max blinks at him. “I don’t- What is phew phew phew phew phew phew? Who are Mulder and Scully?” he asks, trying to whistle the same tune.

Daniel laughs. “They are a lot like us, actually. I’m Mulder – a very handsome, very cool FBI agent who believes in aliens,” he says, running his hand through his sweaty curls. “And you’re Scully – a doctor who doesn’t think aliens are real.”

Max rolls his eyes at him. “I never said I don’t believe in aliens. I just don’t think these remains are alien. And why are you handsome and cool, and I’m just a doctor?” he asks. 

They are getting distracted from their work again, keeping not only themselves, but other cops and technicians here, in the middle of the desert under blazing heat, but this banter with Daniel is too fun. Watching Daniel’s face crinkle in delight and hearing his honking laugh is always lovely, but being the one to provoke it is even better. 

Daniel puts his hands on his hips. “Well, she’s uh…very beautiful too, and smart,” Daniel says, looking away. 

Max feels his cheeks heat up, but chooses to believe it’s the desert heat. “Well, she is not that smart if she doesn’t think aliens are real,” he says, not thinking.

Daniel taps his fingers on his belt, unclasps his gun holster, then closes it back.

“No, she’s very smart. Without her, Mulder wouldn’t be… wouldn’t be as cool, probably,” he says, meeting Max’s eyes.

Max feels the energy between them change, but doesn’t know what to do with it. He can’t think of what to say, so they are stuck looking at each other – Max, kneeling at the ground near the remains and Daniel standing above him, both sweaty and flushed from the high desert sun.

Thankfully, they are saved by an FBI technician coming up to tell them that they are finished with sweeping the area and should probably start packing evidence for the lab.

They get distracted by packing, so Max remembers to look up Agent Mulder and Dr. Scully only when they are waiting at the airport for their flight back.

“This is a show? You said they were real people, Daniel!” he says, exasperated.

Beside him, Daniel laughs. “I never said that! I thought you knew it’s a show.”

“I didn’t! And how could you say I’m like Scully? She’s a medical doctor, Daniel!” Max points out. “I can’t believe it, we’ve been working together for a year, you must know the difference by now.” He shakes his head disappointedly.

“Hey,” Daniel says, holding up his hands in surrender, “In my defense, it’s an old show, I forgot what kind of doctor she is.” He shrugs.

Max squints at him. “Fine, I will forgive you for now,” he says, “But only because you were right, they are very similar to us… Although, she has a gun and I don’t.”

“She’s also a woman, and wears suits, if you haven’t noticed,” Daniel says, slumping further on his seat and closing his eyes.

Max shrugs. “Both pretty achievable.”

“You will not be getting a gun, Max,” Daniel asserts.

Max rolls his eyes, huffing instead of thinking of a reply. It’s no use anyway, Daniel is too stubborn. Instead, he busies himself with replying to messages from Charles and Lewis, asking when he and Daniel will be back in Washington.

He finishes typing a message for Charles when Daniel speaks up again.

“Do you wanna watch it?” he asks, opening one eye to look at Max.

“The show?” Max asks, locking his phone. 

“Yeah, on the flight.”

Max hums. “Okay,”

Daniel nods, “Cool,” then goes back to his nap.

[flashypunches]

champbo one shot bleasepleaseplewseplease

hiii!!!!!!!1 thank you for requesting >_< I had a grand time writing this so here you go!!!!!! (ao3 link here!)

warninng for talk about corpses, descriptions of cannibalism, and general toxicity from evbo. he's like a nuclear power plant with how toxic his yaoi is.

He's handsome. Evbo can admit that, no envy within him as he admires the swell of muscle and the curves of which the past Champion possesses and of which he noticably lacks, starvation not yet willing to retract its effects on his body. The past Champion may not be on the same page as Seawatt, no lean strength or marked eyes, but he may as well be on the same topic, when in regards to his attractiveness.

It's a skill to be complimented on, how good he manages to look whilst a corpse.

Evbo can't shake off his giddiness as he wipes the table clean with a cloth, wood shiny under the towel's swipes, the best example he could present of a DIY dissection table.

He can't believe he gets to do this, that he's allowed to do this. But who would stop him? Who would know, before it's already said and done? No one, is the answer.

Seawatt is dead, his own body drying upon the Fighter layer, forever separated from the man he served as right hand. EMF does not care. They do not know enough to bother. And who else did the Evil Champion really have, besides those two? There exists no other answer, except, perhaps Evbo's own name.

A relationship between a predecessor and successor is meant to be sacred, important, but all Evbo can remember of the Champion who came before him was what his last words were, his last course ever failed; a neo-jump over the void.

Everything else he knows of him is second hand, Seawatt's lingering voice upon his consciousness informing Evbo of that Champion's pre-mortum nature.

Confident, self-assured, everything Evbo could never hope to be, Seawatt deified him to a level of which Evbo doubts that he himself, as God, could reach. He doubts that the past Champion himself could even hope to graze that layer of reverence, given his own sinful nature, unembellished by post-mortum adoration.

Evbo could never be worshipped like that. He's too much of a Noob to be spared a thought after death.

Clenching his jaw and fist at the reminder of how lacking his origins are, without any blade to aid him, no tool needed but his shaking hands and grit teeth, Evbo finally begins this mockery of an autopsy with a frown and an air of disgust to the deceased's title.

A ragdoll on its fraying stitches is an apt descriptor of the past Champion. His arm tears from his body with a sharp pull, Evbo delighting in the popping noise it makes, sickeningly loud, the sheer volume of it making him smile. Gore drips from the slit like stuffing, blood spilling from the crevice, making its home in the grooves of the wood, bone barely poking its nose through the muscle of his shoulder.

He watches as the liquid sinks down the edges of the table, pooling into the floor, around his shoes. Pays no mind as it splashes onto himself. Evbo can wash himself later. He doesn't mind.

Impulsively, Evbo sticks a finger into the bloodstream, dragging the print through the river before pulling out and examining it. There's only a moment of hesitation, a brief flash of should he or should he not, until he's sticking the finger into his mouth, licking the blood off with his tongue, savoring the flavor, unmarred by death. Savoring the past Champion, or what's left of him.

It's not weird. It was normal on the Noob level. He tastes okay. Not the best. He's subpar, at the most. 

Evbo considers the hand he's been holding for a solid moment, the point of separation which drips down by dark droplets, until he's sticking that in his mouth too, fingers first, biting down onto keratin without a second thought. Teeth sink in, tear through muscle and meat and skin, pull then swallow. Rinse and repeat, again and again, until the only thing left are bones.

Evbo wipes his lips, smearing the blood against his mouth with the back of an empty hand, the other gripping the skeletal evidence of his actions. He places it off to the side, the place between the past Champion's shoulder and head. His eyes are staring at him, a spotlight, the only witness he will allow. He's dead. He wouldn't remember this.

What's next, he asks himself. The leg, maybe. Evbo won't deny the ego rush that fantasy gives him, of taking and stealing the thing which ruined Evbo's life, and with the things that made the part Champion look down on him.

Who's weak now? Not Evbo, that's for sure. Not anymore. Never again.

The calf of his enemy is plentiful, and he feels sickened by his own greedy nature, as his mind urges him to take more. He deserves this spite, this appetite, doesn't he? The past Champion deserves this, for his evil, for his cruelty, he deserves this and more. Evbo has to take more. 

And so he does. Claws his nails into the thigh to tear off a chunk with his bare hands, he brings the cut to his mouth, biting down and swallowing as he would an apple or any other produce. The flavor is pales in comparison to those meals, tasting no better than before. He could say it to be even worse, considering how it has begun to lose its novelty, the more he consumes leaving him becoming acclimated to the taste. 

The brain, he recalls, is much better. Bland but smooth texture soothing his tongue from the slime of chicken or the stringy nature of the beef, one of the few comforts he allowed himself to indulge in at home. Evbo wonders if the past Champion, clever and smart like Evbo could never be as Seawatt puts it, would be any different from the rest.

With that thought, he moves past the leg, leaving it open and half-eaten, to fester and ache as much as it desires. It's not like he's hurting anyone important by it. Threading his fingers through his hair, mussed and stifled in its growth by death, it's at a moderate length, though still long enough to the point where Evbo is forced to gather it and move it aside in order to reach the crown of his head. 

A fingernail drags over the skin, and he's forced to peel off what he can assume to be an exoskeleton before he's allowed to tear off the scalp. He has to dig in and break off the plates which shield his face to reveal a mass of soft and fresh meat, untouched by the void via its time spent in safety, hidden under a shell. Evbo stops his twitching fingers before they can pick off a piece of the exposed muscle.

Later, he tells himself. He's got better things to focus on right now. 

The head is an arduous task. He struggles with freeing the brain for just a couple of seconds before he decides to stop it with the civilities to pick up the past Champion's head and just smash it against the table with an ear-splitting thud. There's a dent in the wood.

The loud sound is something Evbo still finds himself pleased with, though for much more baleful reasons.

An egg, is what he compares it to in his mind as the blood begins pouring down. A brittle, very breakable egg, is what the head is. And Evbo finds himself wanting the yolk very much. 

But he soon finds himself disappointed by the contents of his search. The brain looks the same as any other, same size as any other, nothing saying that this is the mass of meat and chemicals which ruled the Champion that had ruined Evbo's life. Nothing even hints to the wit Seawatt boasted of his boss to have possessed. 

It's not a point in the past Champion's favor that the muscle tastes the same as any other too. He'd expected excellence, an explanation, just a clue of what drove the player in his grasp to seemingly madness, his caliber wasted and lacking in the face of his legacy, horrid and ungodly. He gets nothing but home-sickness in return, one last curse to Evbo and his lowly origins by the player. He thinks of the evil Champion to be laughing in Hell.

Evbo still digs in further though, despite his forcibly lowered expectations. He's not one to waste food, after all. Especially not one so easily offered. 

If the evil Champion hadn't wanted his body to be taken like this, then perhaps he should have simply been a cut above his reality.

It's not God's fault that he was a waste of potential. It's just Evbo's job to purge his civilization of his example of perversion, of the lowest depth that a player could reasonably reach.

He's entitled to this desecration.

[jihnari]

midoriya/uraraka and 50, going thru a divorce

haha,,, let's not talk about how long this has been in my inbox, ok,,,,,

full disclosure, i started this back before the finale and i am not at all caught up with the manga (or the anime) so if anything doesn't jive with canon, just pretend it does. let us gather and participate in willful ignorance

__

When Ochako sees him, she hesitates. 

He has his back to her through the glass window of the coffee shop. His frame is so much bigger than she remembers, but that curly mop of green hair is unmistakable. She takes a deep breath, gripping the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turn white, and takes a step towards the door.

Except then she sees an attractive blonde woman walk past him, do a double take, then double back. Ochako stops. The woman's eyes are sparkling and her face red as she approaches him and starts up a conversation. He turns just enough that Ochako can see he's smiling. 

Well. God. She doesn't want to interrupt that. She's been pretty out of the loop for the last few years, but she knows Midoriya is single. Maybe Ochaco should give them some space. She could just turn around and go back home now, before he's seen her. She doesn't want to interrupt. 

No, that's not true. She wants to leave for entirely selfish reasons. She's not young and unencumbered anymore, and despite how close she and Midoriya had been in school, she doesn't want him to see her like this. But this is her entire life. It's who she is now. She can't escape that, but she can escape his judgment of it, his pity. That's the one thing she'd never wanted—that's the reason she'd taken the position Mirko had offered her after graduation. She was a good hero and she knew it, but she'd never be able to measure up to monsters like Midoriya and Bakugou and Todoroki. being around them meant she compared herself to them at every turn, and she hadn't liked the person it had been turning her into. so she'd run away from it all, but she doesn't regret it.

Well, didn't regret it until just now, anyway. Seeing Midoriya through the glass—impossibly muscular, impossibly popular, impossibly perfect—makes her stomach curdle with ugly jealousy. He's been in the top three for the last five years, whereas Ochako has been idling away in the mid twenties and thirties for almost her entire career. She'd finally broken into the teens this year and had been unbearably proud of herself, until the reality check that was the rest of her class got their rankings announced.

Then Midoriya, back still turned to her, waves his hands frantically back and forth. The tips of his ears and the back of his neck turn a bright red, and something in her relaxes at the sight. He's still the affable, awkward boy he had been in school. It won't be that different. Maybe it'll even be nice to catch up.

She enters the coffee shop, forcing a smile, and approaches Midoriya's table. 

"Hey, Deku-kun," she says, hoping she doesn't sound too stiff.

Midoriya beams at her, standing up from the table. "Ochako-chan! I hope this place wasn't too hard to find." 

She flinches, even though Midoriya's too nice to mean it as a dig against how late she was. "Nope not at all," she assures him, and then wants to explode on the spot with how perfect that excuse would have been, and how she'd totally just wasted it. 

She would have been right on time, but she kept chickening out and doubling back towards her new apartment; and then telling herself to stop being a coward and continuing forward. She'd done that maybe four times, and it had cost her upwards of twenty minutes. 

"Well, it's good to see you!" he says cheerfully. He approaches her then, and at the last minute she realizes he means to give her a hug. Stiffly, she opens her arms to receive him and braces herself. 

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't for Midoriya to smell good and feel warm and solid and comforting. Solid, sure, the man's practically made of muscle. But she'd expected the hug to feel awkward and forced, not—good. Her face grows warm for no reason. She's being ridiculous. 

From around Midoriya's oversized shoulder, she accidentally locks eyes with the blonde woman from before. The woman glares, then turns around and marches back to her own table. Ochako watches her go, smug. 

Midoriya pulls away, still smiling, and Ochako can only hope that her face isn't red enough to be noticeable. She clears her throat. "Shall we sit down?" 

Midoriya tilts his head. "Do you not want anything to drink?" 

Crap, that's right. They're in a coffee shop. She still has to order. 

Her face does go red then, and she stammers out, "R-right, of course! I'll go do that!" and turns away quickly.

She orders whatever the seasonal special is and while she waits for the barista to prepare it, she stands facing a corner and slaps her face between both hands. "Stop being such a weirdo," she mutters to herself. They're friends. This doesn't have to be awkward or uncomfortable. 

And Midoriya doesn't have to be built like a fucking truck but—

No, bad, no horny thoughts about an old friend in a coffee shop. Be cool. Be normal. Just because she hasn't had sex in almost a year doesn't mean she has to be like—this. She has self control. 

Her name is called and she gets her drink and heads back to Midoriya's table where she is going to be so totally normal and she's not going to bring up rankings and she's definitely not going to bring up sex. They're just two old friends catching up. 

When she gets back to the table Midoriya waves again, because he's a dork. And somehow, that makes her feel a little better. She takes a deep breath and sits down and takes a casual sip of her drink to stall for time. 

"So, you're back in Tokyo now?" Midoriya asks, leaning forward. Even sitting, he's so tall. 

She swallows the sweet liquid—too sweet, it hurts her throat—and straightens. "Yep! Just moved back this weekend, and I'm starting at Ryukyu's agency next Monday." 

"Wow, that was only a few days ago. Do you need any help unpacking?" 

And let him see her tiny, messy apartment, when he probably lives in a penthouse and has a housekeeper? No, thank you. "Nope, I'm fine!" 

"Oh," he says, and he sounds a little disappointed. "Well if you change your mind..." 

"Sure, I'll let you know," she says, knowing she'll never do that. 

He looks down at his drink, then picks it up and puts it to his mouth. Ochacko leans down to her straw and takes another sip.  She doesn't like it any better the second time, but it's better than suffering the awkward silence. They both stop drinking and look at each other. The pressure to say something mounts higher and higher, until she finally opens her mouth. 

"So, how's—" she starts at the same time Midoriya says, "Um—" 

"Oh, go ahead," she says, and Midoriya speaks over her, saying, "Sorry, you first." 

She huffs. "You were saying?" she says forcefully, smiling maybe a little too aggressively. 

Midoriya smiles back sheepishly and rubs the back of his head. "I just wanted to—Sorry if this too—Um. How... have you been?" 

That's clearly not the question he wanted to ask. She knows what question he did want to ask and being a coward never helped anybody, so she decides to just get it over with. 

"The divorce, right?" she says stiffly. He winces and opens his mouth, surely to make another apology, so Ochako beats him to it. "Sorry, no, it's fine. It's just, it comes up a lot and people have a lot of questions and I've gotten a bit sensitive about it. But I'm fine! It's been—" Weird, living alone for the first time since high school. Messy, to the point where she couldn't take it any more and moved halfway across the country. Lonely, with Shindou and their mutual friends not talking to her. "—fine." 

Midoriya looks troubled. "If you need anyone to talk to, I just wanted to say—I mean. I know it must be... hard." 

Ochako sighs. Hard doesn't even begin to cover it. "It's not like we hate each other, we're still friends. I just—needed some distance." 

"Tokyo is certainly some distance," Midoriya says carefully. He's gotten more tactful than he was in high school. It's somehow surprising. 

"It's closer to my family. It's not like I moved to America," Ochako says, and only after saying it realizes her tone is defensive. 

After Shindou had gotten promoted and she hadn't, it only made sense for her to be the one to move. Is she resentful? Absolutely. But she also couldn't stand another minute in that town, with everyone's pitying looks and their gossip about her failed marriage. And Shindou's new girlfriend. 

And then, like a brick to the back of her head, she has a second horrible realization. The reason America had been in the back of her mind at all was because Midoriya had moved there for a while. That's why it was the first thing on her tongue. She's so stupid, she's being aggressive and petty for no reason and Midoriya is going to regret meeting up with her and tell all their old friends what a bitch she is now, and she'll deserve it. 

But Midoriya just smiles. "I'm glad. This way, I get to see you." 

Well. Shit. How had she forgotten how brutally nice Midoryia was? It really isn't fair. The tips of her ears are hot, and she knows she must be blushing bright red. To distract from it, she picks up her drink again and hurries to take a sip, and almost spits it back into the cup. Eugh, she forgot how sweet it was. And it's worse somehow, now that it's cooled off. 

She wants to change the subject before it gets any more mushy and she literally combusts, but Midoriya does it himself.

"Oh!" he says, like he's just remembered something. "Yaoyorozu asked me to—I mean, a bunch of us from 1A are getting together this Saturday, just a casual, you know, dinner, drinks at this izakaya we always go to and it'd be great if you came, everyone would love to see you. I mean—if you'd want to come?" He puts both hands on his mug, lifts it briefly, then puts it back down. Ochako isn't sure if she's just projecting, but she thinks he looks nervous. "I know you're probably busy with the move and everything so I didn't want to pressure you, or anything but—" He stops himself. "Sorry, I'm rambling. But Kacchan will be there."

Ochako, who had been smiling without fully realizing it, feels her happy expression twist into a shape it hasn't made since a fateful Hero Billboard Chart event several years ago. When Bakugou had stolen the microphone from the emcee and made the rudest speech she'd heard from him since the one time UA made the mistake of putting him on a stage willingly, during their first Sports Festival. 

She recognizes a second after she's made it that it's an oh god THAT asshole again expression and tries to reign it in, but from Midoriya's laugh, she doesn't manage. 

"He's calmed down a lot!" Midoriya assures her, but that sounds fake. "When we heard you were coming back, he was the most excited about it."

"He was?" Ochako asks, surprised. "Why?" 

Midoriya makes a face Ochako thinks she would name a fond grimace. It's an offshoot of her own Bakugou face, but weathered and somehow smooth, refined by the nature of being childhood friends. Or maybe just by the virtue of Midoriya's character, always so much more patient and forgiving than the rest of them. "He wants a rematch." 

Ochako blinks. "He wants to fight me?" It's been literal years since their match. She'd personally all but forgotten about it. 

Midoriya nods, clearly pained, and Ochako startles herself by laughing. 

She's still giggling when she says, "Of course he does, that crazy asshole." She leans back in her chair, feeling cocky and a bit pleased, and grins over at Midoriya. "I might as well, right? I'll wipe the floor with him." Her sureness almost startles herself. She'd up her mind without really thinking it through, and it had been easy—easier than anything has been in a long while.  

Midoriya grins back at her, looking almost as excited as she feels. "I'm looking forward to it. Both of you have grown a lot, you know? Oh, but I have to warn you—not that I think you'll underestimate Kacchan, but he has some new tricks up his sleeve you wouldn't expect. He's gotten a lot sneakier! You really have to watch out for—" and he prattles on, gesturing enthusiastically with his hands to make his points, and Ochako smiles and lets him. It's nice. It's comfortable. It's more familiar than she had dared to hope. 

For the first time since getting off the shinkansen on Saturday morning and dragging herself to her crappy new apartment, and thinking this is my life, now, whether I want it or not—she finds herself thinking maybe things will work out. 

Maybe coming back here had been the right choice after all. 

[necrotic-nephilim]

your Kon post was sooooo good, like yes the core four are queer platonic, however Kon is hypersexual enough to have made out with (or more) everyone in young justice at least once, yes, including the non-corporal Greta don’t ask me how that worked

I love all of these posts!!! how many of these ask game things do you have in your inbox??

thank you so much!! and i ABSOLUTELY agree with you on hypersexual Kon (truly i just adore characters with grooming/rape trauma like Kon coping through the lense of hypersexuality) and even if YJ is queerplatonic, Kon has made his way through most of them. including Greta. he's creative he'd find a way. probably involving TTK. bc TTK in sex is a thought i have daily. endless potential for using it to basically turn someone's body into a living fleshlight he can manipulate from the inside out- specifically have a TimKonBart idea in my head about that where Kon coaches Bart through sex, since Bart is a speedster with a bonkers refractory period who struggles to feel satisfied, and Tim is caught between them getting used to get Bart off with Kon using TTK to manipulate Tim's body. fun times. fun ideas.

currently, i have one more ask game ask in my inbox (tho always feel free to send more!) that's BruJay focused. though i *do* also have a couple other asks that are just ideas i pan to use as prompts for full fics. just haven't gotten to those yet bc i'm currently busy with packing to move states so. i have *not* had the time to write i wish i had. i will not reveal too much but one involves JayTim fucking during the Titans Tower incident, another is JayTim with animal traits leading to porn, and then another is Tim/Kon/Jon with incest kink stuff. so! i have many things planned, i just need to settle into my new place, however long that takes.

[outlying-hyppocrate]

Dear Crispin: (A warning in advance as this will be long)

I write to you now at the edge of my consciousness, my body in a fugue state of transitional absentmindedness. Before long I will likely assume a different state, and as consequence lose my creative drive and passion for a short time. This is to say that I sympathise with your artist’s block, as something not so dissimilar blights me every few days.

Particularly, it centres around roughly a dozen individuals (separated into 3 stories) and their attempts to survive in this world. For the most part, this story and setting differs little from our own Earth, with the key difference of two things: the provable existence of the divine, and the existence of North and South Tasmia islands (existing in the stead of Australia).

These gods interact with the physical plane via two methods, each corresponding to their own methods of feeding. The gods grow in power as they are thought of more, growing in conceptual strength as they take up more space in the collective consciousness of mankind. So when they wish for good, consistent growth, they form contracts, granting mortals a fraction of a piece of a drop in their sea of power in return for a variety of sacrifices or rituals that bolster that god’s place in the common memory of humanity.

And when they are starved, seeking that rapid, growing, violent growth of fear and hatred. They create Saints, living, breathing conduits of their divine fury that render the earth asunder and fell cities in their footsteps. Both are methods of forcing more of humanity to think of them, and by cause grow in power, albeit one through love and the other through fear.

Gods exist for everything, hence their abundance. As Alek, a character in TLS once said,

“There is a god for everything. One for the chair your sitting on, one for the air you breath, one for the right root of your left upper premolar, like I said, for everything. As long as there is an idea for an object, like the idea that fire hurts, there is a god for it that can be worshipped and contracted.”

Furthermore, there exists the Lower Worlds, oft considered the realm of these gods, an infinite realm of infinite floors and no rules, each floor corresponding to a unique “frequency”, not unlike a radio, and each frequency applying to its given god.

But this very feeding method of the gods is the subject matter of my writing to you today, and explaining how it works. One of the many reoccurring concepts of TLS is the variety of explanations for these gods, how they so easily disrupt the laws of physics and why they function as they do.

Some argue that they are manifestations of some dormant force within the mind. Some argue that the Lower Worlds consist of a mirror matter, our minds paying off the entropic debt into this matter. Others that the gods are simply beings of a different dimension, poking their fingers in and spilling their rules into our own.

The issue is found, not in these solutions, but in the fact that each and every one of these interpretations works. They are all completely plausible explanations for every facet of the divine, each and every solution. This raises the question, which is the right one?

The answer, is all of them. You see, it is revealed late into the story that the Lower Worlds behave like quantum particles, their contents and rules existing in a superstate. If you are unfamiliar with the concept, it means that these worlds, and by extent the gods that are formed from them, are multiple things at once until observed, at which point they collapse into one possibility.

In other words, the Lower Worlds have no set rules, logic, or systems, only the ones we apply when we attempt to reconcile it. It is an amorphous sea of possibilities, collapsing into whatever form we grant it.

Like a liquid, it fills the container it is in, morphing to whatever people consider it to be. This is why the Lower Worlds lack the logic and reason of our world, for so many have differing views on its functions and logics, resulting in an ostensible lack of order.

This is why every solution to the gods works. This is why gods are intrinsically linked to concepts and how we apply to objects. This is why gods can so easily ignore our rules.

This dimension is one of undefined energy and possibility, a sea of potential superstates and wavelengths, collapsing in the exact moment a link between idea and thing is formed into one constant state, that state being a god.

When a god, or concept it thought of, it expands the definition and dimensions of that concept, granting it a “larger container” for it to inhabit, and by consequence granting it greater power.

If you link the ideas of fire and pain, as one so often does, a new god is birthed, one of painful flames. As more people grow to fear and love this god, more conceptual “mass” is granted to it, more access to the unending undefined energy within the Lower Worlds, expanding its reach into the infinite, explaining how they feed.

Apologies for both the length and strangeness of this rambling, as I had written this after many a month of conceptualising, and desperately desired some form of sharing this work of mine with a fellow mind.

Kind regards, Valerie

(PS: I truly pray non-religiously to whatever limbo of superstate energies hold power in our world that you may be free from that cursed block, and that the waters of creativity my flow in your fields once more)

dearest valerie,

[madnesscombatagere]

Hello! I’m not sure if you do pet regression but can you do a fussy kitten regressor Hank?

Fussy!Kitty Regressor Hank Headcanons!

Repeat hcs from this post!

Biting You Biting You Biting You Biting You Biting You Biting You Biting You Biting You Biting You

Meows very loudly, it's like those videos of kitties just letting out the longest loudest mews

Always has a plushie of some kind in mouth, chews, bites, and rough houses with it

Follows people around constantly

The only way I feel like I can describe them is that one gif a very small kitty going ham on the ear of a Pikachu plush

Baps a lot of things, people, toys, furniture, themselves

If they get their grubby little paws on food when fussy it will be all gone, no crumbs left

Just an angry (hairless) furball

[tallaennatargaryen]

Wife Speak

Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: You asked Bucky to install the security camera a month ago, and he still hasn’t done it. You take matters into your own hands, to his vexation.

Warnings: Bucky's been too busy to do what you asked, you put yourself in slight peril, worried!Bucky, gentle manhandling, protective!Bucky, mention of previous injury, my own lack of construction know-how so I apologize for any inaccuracies, no use of Y/N

This is my first time writing in second person so hopefully I did okay! This was inspired by this short I saw on YouTube.

You were good at a lot of things. The team’s go-to “girl in the chair,” there was no one better at intel, strategy, quick escape plans, and getting into just about any system you were presented with. You’d had the Avengers’ lives in your hands countless times, and never led them to put a foot wrong. Somehow, you, a girl with just a bachelor’s degree, a–perhaps excessive–perfectionist streak, and a mini fridge full of energy drinks to help you stay sharp on overnight missions, had become indispensable to the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

But you couldn’t install a security camera above your front door.

As smart as you were, you were probably equally as uncoordinated. All the bruises in odd places told the tale of your frequent misfortune. Walking by itself often presented a perilous challenge, so standing on a ladder, balancing precariously with expensive equipment and sharp objects in your hands seemed like a perfect recipe for a trip to the ER and a costly bill for tech replacements.

Which was why you’d asked your husband, a super soldier with a metal arm and a keen eye for home repairs, to do it.

A month ago.

And three weeks ago.

And two weeks ago.

And last week.

You were tired of waiting. Bucky, of course, was busy, and often away on missions, but you only ever asked him to do it when he had a moment to spare. He’d said he would, every time you’d asked, but there was still no camera above your front door. On top of it all, the camera had been Bucky’s idea, a little extra security for when he was away on missions; it was one of Stark’s smart cameras, which could differentiate between a mailman dropping off a package and a criminal about to break into the house. Bucky didn’t exactly know how all of that worked, but he was good with the installation, and you both knew better than to assign the job to you. But the camera had sat there for a month, collecting dust on the dining room table, and despite all his promises, you knew it was time to take matters into your own hands.

And maybe get a little payback while you were at it.

It was a warm spring day, and the front door was open to let the breeze in but the screen door was in place to keep the bugs out. Bucky was in the kitchen, making lunch, so he’d be able to hear everything easily, between his proximity, the open door, and his enhanced hearing. Smirking to yourself, you set up the ladder as quietly as possible, knowing that that alone would tip Bucky off and make him come rushing out before you were ready. If this was going to get done today, you needed to execute the full plan.

Picking up the electric drill and the mount for the camera, you put one foot up on the ladder, and held down the trigger of the drill for a few seconds, causing a loud whirring sound to tear through the quiet midday air. Just as you took another step up and held down the trigger again, Bucky’s voice carried out from the kitchen.

“Doll?” he questioned, and it took everything in you not to laugh. You gave no answer, instead only whirring the drill once more as you climbed to the top of the ladder. “What are you doing?”

You might have felt bad about the panic and concern in his voice, but if he’d done this a month ago when you’d asked, you wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to have it be done. Natasha had called it wife speak, when women use their sly little tricks to get their husbands to do what they need to. She used it with Banner, Pepper used it with Tony, Wanda used it with Vision; it was a universal language amongst women when requests and orders just weren’t cutting it.

Holding the mount up against the wall, you furrowed your brow in concentration as you tried to figure out how to hold the mount, place the screw, and drill it in all at the same time with only two hands. Judging by the purposeful footsteps pounding towards the front door, you knew you wouldn’t have to keep trying to figure it out for long. Still, you kept up the ruse, because he needed to think you were serious about doing it yourself if he was going to get it done right this minute.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Bucky asked, voice raising with alarm as he found you balancing precariously on top of the small ladder. Paying him no mind, you decided to just wing it and put the drill into the head of the screw, pulling the trigger to send the screw spinning into the wall. For extra effect, you added a little wobble, just enough to make Bucky worry more but not so much that your uncoordinated self would actually fall. “Honey! Stop! What are you doing?”

“What?” you responded innocently, still not turning around. “I’m putting up the camera.”

“Why?” His hands grasped at your waist, but you pushed him away as you continued your ruse and placed the next screw.

“Because it needs to go up?” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, because it was, hello, and you’d asked him to do it so many times. Once more, you placed the drill into the screw head and let it rip, watching it spin into place. Maybe you could do it yourself. Maybe impatience was all it took to overcome your incoordination. 

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby.” Bucky’s hands were on your waist again, this time with a firmer grip so you couldn’t brush him off so easily. “Come off the ladder.”

“It needs to go up, Bucky,” you insisted, milking your moment of acting for all it was worth.

“I know, so I’ll do it, okay? Just please, come off the ladder.”

“I’ve asked you a million times over the last month to do it and you still haven’t, so I’m gonna do it and then I’ll know it's done.”

The drill was slightly stuck in the screw head once it was screwed all the way in. You gave it a tug, and the force of it combined with the resistance of the drill to come loose caused you to tip backwards slightly; for a moment, you thought you might fall, but you regained your balance after a second or two. Still, it was a second or two too long for Bucky, who’d had enough of asking nicely and being patient. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he declared, using his strength and his grip on your waist to lift you off the ladder and set you on the wooden boards of the porch like you were little more than a doll. You almost grinned at the move, as being on the receiving end of his enhanced strength and fierce protectiveness always made your stomach do somersaults. By the time he spun you around to face him though, you had regained your self-control and regarded him with a displeased scowl. “What are you doing, huh, doll? You know I don’t like you up on that thing.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huffed, “Well, someone has to put the camera up, since you’ve proven yourself incapable.” You turned to step back onto the ladder, but Bucky grasped your arm gently and pulled you to him, maneuvering at the same time to take the drill and the remaining screws from you. You resisted, but even when he was diluting his strength, you couldn’t hope to best him, so instead you started to complain, “Bucky-”

“I know, doll, I know,” he said, voice soft as he pried the drill and screws out of your hands. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and then your nose for extra contrition. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done it when you asked me to, but I’ll do it right now, okay? Just…please stay off the ladder?”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m a girl?”

Bucky chuckled in amusement, his free hand rising to cup your cheek and pull you closer so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips. You melted against him instantly, as you always did, because Bucky always kissed you like he was trying to transfer his heart from his body to yours, deeply and wholly and with every ounce of love that he had. After a moment, he pulled away, though he kept his nose touching yours as his twinkling eyes gazed at you adoringly. “It’s not because you’re a girl, it’s because it’s you, doll. The last time I trusted you with a drill and screws, you drilled your sleeve into the wall and broke your finger trying to pull it free.”

Nose scrunching and lips pouting, you did your best to fight off a smile, trying to lay it on just a little thicker to make sure you would get what you wanted. “Promise you’ll do it right now?”

“Pinky promise.” Bucky held up his pinky finger between you, and you locked yours around it. “You can stay and watch if you want, just to be sure. I think you’ll like the view.”

Rolling your eyes, you gave him another quick peck before stepping back and nodding for him to climb up the ladder. Once his back was turned and he was on the top step, your mischievous smirk returned in full force, not only because of your triumph, but because you really did like the view.

[helaintoloki]

Can you write a fic between Bucky and an avenger reader (maybe she’s just a little older than Peter (like she’s in her mid 20s)and she always had a crush on Bucky)

notes: thank you for sending this in ! i hope you enjoy

warnings: fluff, mentions of night terrors

summary: you think you’re too young for Bucky to be interested in you. ironically, Bucky thinks he’s too old for you to be interested in him

“So how did that date go?” Wanda asks while watching you mindlessly scroll through the selection of movies Tony has on the entertainment room TV.

“I bailed,” Natasha admits shamelessly with an innocent shrug, prompting both Wanda and yourself to turn to her in shock. “I’m not really interested in giving up my personal time for something as trivial as a blind date.”

You hum thoughtfully at her response, only half listening as Wanda begins to pester her for more details about the man she had stood up. The three of you are enjoying a rare night of peace in the tower after forcing the men to vacate the premises and allow you to have the space to yourselves. The three of you are outnumbered on the team, so sometimes a break from the intense amounts of testosterone are needed for you all to decompress. Girl’s night is a simple tradition, but you all enjoy each other’s company more than anything.

“What about you, y/n?” Natasha prompts while gently nudging your side and breaking you from your daze. “Any guys out there you think are first date material?”

You shift uncomfortably now that the spotlight is on you and try to mask the embarrassment that washes over you in response to the question. You know your answer, but you think you’d rather die than admit the truth. You try to remain as nonchalant as possible by offering a seemingly uninterested shrug and answering with a quiet ‘No,’ but you unfortunately can’t hide the truth from a mind reader.

“She has a crush on Barnes,” Wanda blurts out before she can stop herself, causing your eyes to widen in horror at being exposed. Natasha lets out an amused huff while her counterpart quickly utters out apologies. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say it. It’s just your thoughts get so loud when you think about him.”

“You don’t need to be a mind reader to know that,” Natasha jokes much to your dismay.

“Is it really that obvious?” You groan before allowing your head to fall back against the couch in defeat. Wanda pats your arm sympathetically, obviously still guilty about her slip up. You’re just thankful no one else is in the tower other than the three of you.

“Not to him,” the Widow consoles with a faint smile, “the man isn’t exactly the greatest at navigating social interactions. But I’ve seen the way you look at him from across the room and how your eyes light up when Steve puts you together on missions. You like him.”

“It’s pathetic, I know,” you admit with a defeated sigh, looking between the two in despair. “I don’t even know how it happened! One day we’re just teammates and the next I’m suddenly realizing just how blue his eyes are instead of paying attention to a debrief.”

“There’s nothing pathetic about your feelings,” Wanda says with a comforting smile, “it’s only natural. Maybe you should try talking to him about it.”

You look at her as if she’s grown a second head before scoffing at her suggestion. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no way I’d ever be his type. Besides, he probably sees me as some kid considering I’m only twenty-six and he’s basically a hundred years old.”

Natasha can’t help but to let out a small chuckle at your predicament before taking the remote from your fidgety hands. You don’t exactly appreciate her amusement towards your self-depreciating rant, but you know she means well, and you also know you have a tendency to be a bit dramatic.

“Don’t sell yourself short, y/n/n,” she advises before finally deciding to hit play on a random comedy movie. “Remember that you’re the prize, and any guy or girl would be lucky to have you. Besides, you’ll never know what could happen if you don’t give it a shot.”

The conversation ends there as your trio becomes engrossed with the movie, but her words linger on your mind for the rest of the night. You really doubt Bucky could have anything but platonic feelings for you, and it would be embarrassing to confess your feelings only to have him shoot you down. You don’t think you could show your face around the tower again if that were to happen, but you also know that you would give anything to win the super soldier’s heart.

Your inner turmoil persists, and you go to bed that night unsure of how to move forward.

~~~

“Barnes, y/l/n, how are you holding up?”

“We’re pretty much fucked, Cap,” you grunt into your earpiece after being slammed against a wall. You thought the room had been cleared, but you were soon proven wrong by the assailants who had been hiding in the shadows waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Bucky was currently taking on three on his own while you tried to fight off the woman who seemed hell bent on killing you. “If I survive this will I still be written up for swearing?”

“Focus, y/n,” Natasha’s voice chimes in. “Do you guys need backup?”

You manage to chance a glance over at Bucky and see that he’s fairing rather well on his own, and after returning your attention back to your own attacker, you swiftly lift your knee so that it slams into her gut and forces her to stumble back. It doesn’t take you long to disarm her and render her unconscious so that she no longer proves to be a threat, and you’re finally able to return to your own task.

“No, we’re good. Bucky should be able to hold them off while I plant the chip into the computer system,” you finally reply before setting to work. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“I hope so because they’ve got reinforcements already on the way,” Tony alerts over the earpiece. “You need to be out of there within the next five minutes.”

“Yep, you got it,” you affirm before looking over your shoulder to see Bucky finishing off the last of your attackers. His broad shoulders rise and fall with his labored breaths, hair falling perfectly into place and blue eyes looking up to meet your gaze. You swallow nervously and return your attention to the computer in an attempt to act inconspicuous. Luckily for you, the files you came for have been uploaded. “Alright, let’s get out of here before someone slams me up against another wall.”

“What?” Bucky retorts, eyebrows scrunched in confusion and cheeks slowly turning red at your poor choice of words. You pay him no mind and begin your trek towards the exit, though your stomach flips at the mere thought of having him cage you in against a wall and having you at his complete mercy. You shudder and try to shake the thoughts away, but it’s hard to do so when the man in question is right beside you matching your brisk pace.

“You okay?” He asks, eyes scanning your figure for any sign of injuries.

“Definitely going to have a bruise in the morning, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” you note with an easygoing smile.

“I’m on dinner duty tonight,” Bucky notes thoughtfully before kicking down the doors and clearing your path to the outside. “You interested in lending a hand?”

“Oh, definitely. You and Steve can’t be trusted with dinner anymore after the last time.”

“I’ll have you know tuna casserole was a popular dish back in my day,” he retorts defensively only to make you laugh instead.

“Okay, grandpa, whatever you say,” you giggle much to his annoyance. He retaliates by playfully nudging your side with his elbow so that you stumble away, but he can’t hide the amused smile on his face at your antics.

“It’s about time,” Tony retorts impatiently after you two finally make it to the Quinjet. “I’d appreciate some sense of urgency, you know.”

“You said be back in five minutes, it’s only been three,” you reply defensively only to earn an eye roll from the man.

“You and Barnes can flirt with each other on your own time,” he quips to your dismay. You immediately feel yourself heat with embarrassment and do everything your power to avoid looking at Bucky who shifts uncomfortably beside you.

“We weren’t-“ Bucky starts to say only for Tony to interrupt.

“I don’t need the details, I just need both of your butts on the quinjet now.”

You’re mortified as you step foot inside where the rest of the team sits waiting. All eyes land on you and Bucky, and you try to ignore their gazes as you take your seat beside Wanda.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she whispers after leaning in closer to you, “his thoughts about you are loud, too.”

You swallow nervously and chance at a peek at the super soldier only to find he’s already looking right at you. You immediately turn your gaze towards the floor before sinking down sullenly into your seat.

It’s going to be a long flight home.

~~~

The tower is silent when you make your way to the living room in search of a distraction from the terrible nightmare you’d just endured. Your body still trembles with unease despite the blanket you have wrapped tightly around your figure, and it was times like these where you heavily contemplated begging Wanda to use her powers on you despite her reluctance to manipulate your mind.

There isn’t anything good playing this late on TV, but you don’t mind watching reruns of old sitcoms if it means you don’t have to sit in silence. You fixate your gaze on the screen, but you’re hardly paying any mind to your surroundings as you simply begin to dissociate. No one knows about the night terrors or the bad dreams that plague you after missions; you fear coming off as weak or unprepared for the life of an Avenger by telling any of your teammates about your dilemma, so you’ve learned to deal with it on your own by escaping through trivial distractions.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t detect the presence of someone else in the room until a hand rests on your bare shoulder. You jump, obviously startled as your wide eyes look to the perpetrator sitting beside you. Bucky immediately yanks his hand back and raises his hands in surrender, his features apologetic at having startled you.

“Sorry, sorry,” he immediately says. “I tried calling your name first but you weren’t exactly responding. You okay?”

“Yeah, I um- sorry,” you utter with a soft shake of your head before swallowing, “I just got lost in thought I guess.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

You normally would have insisted you were fine and tried to change the topic, but there was something about the gentleness in his eyes and the comfort his presence brought you that made it easier for you to open yourself up. You sigh, shifting in place so that you’re facing him now. He offers you a an encouraging smile and already you can feel yourself melting.

“Sometimes I have night terrors,” you confess quietly, almost embarrassed to admit it out loud. “They usually tend show up after a mission or an intense fight. When they happen I just come out here and watch some TV until my brain shuts up enough for me to get some sleep. Pathetic, huh?”

Despite the humorless laugh you let out, Bucky frowns before uttering, “I don’t think that’s pathetic at all. I get it. This job is tough, and sometimes you see things you can’t unsee no matter how hard you try. Don’t beat yourself up for having a normal human reaction to trauma.”

“You sound just like a therapist,” you tease, prompting him to let out a sheepish laugh in return.

“I may have picked up a thing or two in therapy myself,” he admits. A beat passes before he takes your hand in his own and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Just know that if you ever need help chasing the nightmares away, I’m right here.”

Your heart pounds in your chest while the warmth of his hold encompasses your hand and spreads throughout your entire body. His eyes are full of sincerity, but you also detect something that you’ve never seen from him before. This look is different than the ones he normally gives you, more intimate, and you find yourself nervously biting the inside of your cheek while trying to decipher what it could be.

“Thank you,” you finally voice with a tired smile. Wanting to lighten the mood, you ask, “How come you’re up this late, anyway?”

“Made the mistake of having a cup of coffee after dinner,” he confesses with an embarrassed chuckle. “You mind if I keep you company?”

“Of course not, silly,” you retort as if it’s the most absurd question you’ve ever heard.

You and Bucky settle into a comfortable silence as you tune in to the sitcom playing on the TV screen. A sense of calm has washed over your body now that you’re no longer being tormented by the remnants of your nightmare, but there’s still a part of you that remains nervous around the man you secretly harbor feelings for. You find your mind drifting back to what Wanda had said you earlier and wonder if there was any truth to her words. What did she mean by it?

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky prompts after the episode ends.

“Anything,” you reassure him, grabbing the remote to lower the television’s volume so that he can have your undivided attention.

“I know it’s just your way of poking fun at me, but when you call me ‘grandpa’ or ‘old man,’ is that… that’s not how you see me, is it? Old?”

You’re honestly taken back by his comment, not expecting him to have thought this heavily into the subject. Of course you knew the man was out of his time, and if he had been given the chance to age naturally you most likely would not be sitting here on this couch with him, but you had never thought less of him because of the fact.

“No, of course not! Honestly sometimes I forget you’re technically 106.”

Bucky lets out a chuckle at that, but there’s still doubt lingering on his features as he self-consciously looks down at his hands in his lap. “I just see you with Peter and Wanda sometimes and wonder if I’m too old for you to be hanging around with.”

You shift closer to Bucky so that you can rest a comforting hand on his bicep, prompting him to lift his head and meet your softhearted gaze. Your entire being emanates warmth and tenderness, and it draws the soldier right in to you. You have no idea the effect you have on him or the way a single brush of your fingertips against his skin can satiate the yearning he feels every time he looks at you. Wanda had been telling you the truth; his thoughts are always loud when you’re around him.

“I guess sometimes it’s easier to connect with them considering we’re closer in age, but I like that you and I are so different because of it. I think there’s more to learn with you and more to appreciate. I genuinely enjoy any minute that’s spent with you,” you confess adamantly, prompting the corner of his lips to quirk up. “Besides, it’s going to take a lot more than a number to scare me away from you.”

Bucky only responds by wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling you into a long awaited hug. You try to stifle your gasp of surprise at suddenly being so close to him, and you hope he doesn’t pick up on the fact that your heart is nearly beating out of your ribcage. You feel his lips press to the top of your head and swear you must be dreaming this because there’s no way the Avenger you’ve pining after for months is now so boldly giving you his affection.

“How about we go away for a weekend?” He finally says after holding you in silence for some time.

“Go away?” You repeat, curiously peeking up at him.

“Leave New York, explore somewhere new,” Bucky reiterates, his features relaxed as he looks down upon you with an adoring gaze. “Be regular people for a few days.”

“I’d like that,” you profess quietly, sighing in contentment when the man pulls you against his chest once more before settling back against the couch. You can feel your eyelids already starting to become heavy, and the soothing circles he rubs into your back doesn’t help. You don’t want this moment with Bucky to end, but you also know that there’s so much to look forward to.

“Bucky?” You hum quietly after allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

“Yes, doll?”

“When we go away for the weekend, can we be regular people in a relationship?”

You feel his body gently shake from the quiet laugh he lets out at your response. You feel his lips press to your forehead as you drift to sleep, missing his answer when he replies, “I’d want nothing more.”

~~~

You slept through the rest of the night without issue; Bucky’s comforting presence was enough to lull you into a peaceful rest, and you entrusted him to chase away the nightmares for you. The two of you remained entangled together on the couch all the way until sunrise, and neither of you had bothered to consider the repercussions of your actions in the morning.

“I feel bad waking them,” Steve sighs, arms crossed over his chest as he and Natasha look down on your sleeping forms. There’s an almost proud smile on his face as he takes in the sight of his best friend holding the woman of his dreams in his arms.

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let them sleep a little longer,” Natasha notes with a knowing smile before promptly ushering the blond out of the entertainment room. Unbeknownst to either of you, by the time you wake up you’ll be the talk of the tower.

“So how much do you owe Wanda?” Steve asks after quietly shutting the door behind him. Natasha lets out a disappointed sigh.

“I’m out twenty bucks. I bet it would take at least another week before they finally got their heads out of their asses and confessed. But I guess as long as they’re happy…”

“That’s all that matters,” Steve finishes for her with a nod.

The team is happy they’ll no longer have to endure your obvious pining over each other, and they make sure to tell you so when you finally wake up.

It’s an eventful morning to say the least.

[humanjarvis]

alternative medicine

synopsis: after a tough mission, you stop by zayne’s house for a checkup. but caleb thinks you should’ve come to him.

tags: condescending jealous dom caleb, stubborn reader but justified, friendly zayne cameo, caleb’s got a weird scent thing, bickering, massage, groping, cockwarming, riding (forced), non pip-squeak pet names (baby & princess), manhandling, biting, marking, boob slapping, hair pulling, rough…not sex?

pairing: caleb x fem reader/mc

word count: 2.2k 

a/n: yall didn’t think i could still write dom caleb did u. maybe i can’t and this sucks. anyway i have turned the wholesome caleb text above into a monstrosity. if ur partner ever gets jealous when u go to the doctor irl u should ditch them immediately 

The blare of a car horn outside your bedroom window rouses you from a deep sleep. 

Late morning sunlight greets you as you blink your eyes open, surveying the mess you’d left your room in when you’d flopped into bed last night. Clothes, gear, and bags strewn all over the floor…yesterday’s mission had really taken a lot out of you.

And when you try to sit up on the mattress, you find it took even more than you thought.

Because your body hurts. Stiffness and soreness in every muscle, to the point where every movement has your limbs screaming in pain. Even your worst period cramps couldn’t compare to the army of cells trying to tear themselves apart in your body right now.

You’d really overdone it.

Staring at the ceiling, trying not to breathe too hard in case that hurts, too, you rack your brain for options. 

Back to sleep? Back to sleep would be good. Would be great, if you didn’t have plans with Caleb tonight. And flaking out this late would only make him worry. 

Power through it? Maybe. But as you try to rise again, a sharp burn in your abdomen has you gasping and crashing back down. Maybe not.

Medicine? The sensible choice. But you’d been so busy with work lately that you hadn’t been to the pharmacy in ages, and everything you had that might have helped you was expired. 

Lucky for you, you have friends in high places.

“Ow,” you groan, wincing at the sudden pressure on your neck. “Yes, it hurts when you touch there.”

“As I warned you it might,” Zayne replies smartly. “Who was it that requested this exam, again?”

“Sorry,” you grumble, lips tugging into a deep frown. “You’re using your free time to see me, I know. I’ll be quiet.”

Your friend in a high place was off work today, you’d learned when you texted him earlier. And while you’d been more than happy to leave him in peace and let him enjoy his day, when he’d learned of your condition, he’d all but insisted you come over for treatment. 

So with gritted teeth, protesting limbs, and a quick stop to a nearby coffee shop, you’d made the short trip to his neighborhood. When you’d sucked up the pain and knocked on his door,  he’d welcomed you with open arms, especially when he saw the milk tea you’d brought as compensation. 

“You don’t work for the rest of the week, correct?” Zayne asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

“Nope. We had it so rough yesterday, Jenna gave everyone a long weekend. I’m free to writhe around in agony ‘til Monday,” you answer, grimacing as he checks your forearms. 

“No need. You have a moderate case of overexertion—which might feel agonizing, but it’s nothing simple painkillers can’t fix,” he decides, stepping away to rummage through a cabinet. 

“Here, take these,” he says, holding out a familiar bottle of medicine. “One pill every six hours until the pain stops. You can keep them for future use, but let me know when you’re feeling better.” 

“Thanks, Dr. Zayne,” you sing, sliding down from his bar stool to give him a friendly hug. As his large hand pats your back, you breathe in his scent: clean and light, with a hint of jasmine. “What would I do without you?”

As you swing open your apartment door and flick on the main light, a hulking figure startles you much less than it should.

Freshly showered and in his nightclothes, Caleb is already inside, flipping through a book as he lounges on your armchair. An hour early, but what did you expect, coming from him?

“Hello to you, too,” you greet him wryly. “Of course you can come in. Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

“Well, this is my second home. Would be my first, if you’d let me sleep on the couch,” he quips, a boyish grin lighting up his face as he reaches you in four long strides. “Sorry for bein’ so early, pip-squeak. I just couldn’t wait to see you.” 

“Mm, I missed you too,” you admit, standing on your tiptoes to give him a chaste peck. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day—I’m just so tired,” you whine, falling into him dramatically.

A half-second after he catches you, Caleb falters. “Did you go to a cafe today?” he asks hesitantly. “You smell different.”

“…No?” you blink slowly, staring up at him in confusion. “I got some milk tea earlier, but I only went through the drive-thru. What do I smell like?”

“Like jasmine,” he frowns, scanning you with slightly narrowed eyes. 

“Oh, that. I said I was tired, right? It’s because of my mission yesterday. I could barely move when I woke up, so I went to see Zayne earlier. You know he loves jasmine stuff—his house smells like it a little, too. Anyway, he gave me some medicine for the soreness. I’ll probably take some before we go to bed,” you explain, fishing the pill bottle out of your purse and rattling it in the air. 

“His house?” Caleb asks, voice strained with alarm.

“What?”

“You saw Zayne, but not at his office. You went to his house for medicine?”

“Uh, yeah,” you shrug simply, leaving his embrace to stand up straight. “He was off today.”

On Caleb’s face is a mix of disbelief, betrayal, and envy. But you, too busy fiddling with the pill bottle, are too distracted to notice. 

When you look up again, his only emotion is cool, confident resolve.

“Alright then, pip-squeak,” he cheers with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “We gonna watch the movie, or would you rather mess with that bottle all night?”

Your movie night starts off slow, normal, with all the whispered jokes and casual touches of the ones before. 

So when Caleb puts more pressure where his hand rests on your shoulder, you think nothing of it, at first.

But when that hand starts groping and squeezing, fondling your soft flesh under the thin fabric of your shirt, you swivel your head and eye him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Just givin’ you a massage, pip-squeak,” he grins, his murmur barely audible over the gunfire on screen. “You’re still sore, right? Let me help you out.”

Unconvinced, you scrutinize him until his innocent smile dissolves your willpower. “Okay,” you say warily, turning back to face the screen as large hands caress your body. “Thank you. But don’t distract me—this is the good part.”

***

The whole third act of the movie passes, but Caleb never stops. Your shoulders, arms, stomach, hips—every part of you he can reach, pliant under his eager touch. 

And you can’t focus. 

It’s when his wandering hands greedily squeeze the fat of your breasts that you pause the movie with a choked gasp.

“You don’t have to…I’m not sore there,” you chide, cheeks flaming from embarrassment and something more.

“Hm? Is it not helping? With the way you gasped just now, I’d think it felt really good,” he mocks, leaning in to tease you up close.

“It’s not bad. You’re just…being thorough,” you grumble, retreating from his advance.

“More thorough than Zayne was earlier, I hope,” he shoots back bitterly, and it all clicks into place.

Scoffing, you turn to face him fully, making his hands fall to your sides. “You can’t be serious. Of all the things to be jealous of—”

“I’m jealous that my girlfriend would go to another guy’s house for help when she has me on speed dial.” 

“Oh my god, Caleb, you’re not a doctor! I would’ve called you if I needed a ride home or something, not if I needed medical help.” 

“When was the last time you saw a doctor just because you were sore?” he lifts a brow, slowing his movements on your body. “I can help you just like this. You’re feelin’ better since I started, right? I can tell you are. You’re less tense, and you don’t wince when you move anymore. That’s me. Not him.”

He’s not wrong. Since he started his massage, your muscles had relaxed almost miraculously, as if his hands were the antidote to your pain. 

You won’t tell him that, of course. Pride and all.

“I’d be perfectly fine with Zayne’s painkillers,” you snap haughtily. “I don’t need you for everything, you know.”

At that, Caleb freezes entirely. 

But only for a moment.

“Is that so?” he asks lowly, breath fanning the shell of your ear. There’s a threat in his voice. A promise. Things never ended well when he took that tone with you. 

“Wait,” you try to backtrack, nervously bracing your hands against his chest. “I didn’t mean it like that, I-I just—”

Before you can plead your case, Caleb hauls you up and into his lap, molding your back to his front with an iron grip.

“I know exactly what you meant, pip-squeak,” he whispers in your ear. “But I thought you’d be tired of me provin’ you wrong by now.”

As you squirm helplessly in his hold, his hands return to your chest, pulling your shirt up to pluck and grope your tender skin. It’s hardly a massage anymore, with how rough he’s being—rolling your nipples under skilled fingers, tugging them until they ache with pleasure. When he cups one breast with merciless ownership, making your flesh spill out between his fingers, you moan and wriggle in his lap, reigniting the burn in your thighs. 

“Still hurts?” Caleb asks, laying his head on your shoulder tauntingly. 

“N-no, it feels g—”

He cuts you off. “It does, huh?” he pouts with feigned pity. “Poor baby, still so tight…don’t worry, I’ll loosen you up.”

Before you can react, he lifts you slightly to free his hard length from his sweats. Under your skirt, his hand pinches the fat of your ass hard before he slides your soaked panties to the side. 

And then slowly, steadily, Caleb lowers you down on his waiting cock, inch by devastating inch. 

Your mixed gasps fill the room as you adjust to the feel of each other—you suction his length, he savors your warmth.

“This better, princess?” he grits out, one hand still fondling your breast while the other grips your hip.

“Caleb,” you groan, annoyance and arousal blending together. 

He coos in response, pressing a gloating kiss to your hair. “Aw, it is? I know it is.” 

Chuckling breathily behind you, he slaps the flesh of your breast with a reverberating smack, and you squeal as your skin ripples. “He didn’t help you like this, right? I hope he didn’t,” he jeers. “Otherwise, I’ll have to pay him a visit.” 

Hissing at the lingering sting on your chest, you stomp his foot with your smaller one. “You are so childish! It wasn’t like that.” 

“You’re melting around me, baby,” he ignores you, shifting his hips to press deeper into you. “You don’t need those pills, you don’t need him—not while I’m here. I’m the first one you tell. First one you cry to. No one else. Isn’t that right?”

Mewling at the new angle, you shake your head wildly, bringing an arm up to tug at his hair. 

Huffing out a laugh, Caleb sinks his teeth into your neck in warning, sucking harshly before lapping at the mark. “No?” he asks, grinding your hips into his so roughly that stars cloud your vision. 

“When you're hungry, you call Caleb. When you're thirsty, you call Caleb. When you're happy you call Caleb, when you're sad you call Caleb. And when you’re sick, you still. Call. Caleb,” he finishes, punctuating his last command with three punishing thrusts into you. “Say yes.”

Stubborn as ever, you deny him, still squirming in his grasp. But when he bounces you on top of him, forcing your aching thighs and ass against his swollen base in slick, lewd slaps, you lose the dignity you had left. “Yes!” you squeal in submission, digging your nails into his thighs to ground yourself. “Y-yes, I’ll come to you when I need something. Always. I should’ve this time, I’m sorry.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, it’s like the tension in the room evaporates. 

Sighing contentedly, Caleb wraps an arm around your middle, pulling you flush against his chest to lay a kiss on your temple. “I know you are. But it’s okay now, right? Lesson learned for next time.”

“Next time,” you agree dazedly, eyelids drooping as his length still pulses inside you.

“Now, why don’t you pass me the remote? We have a movie to finish.”

The movie ended an hour ago.

But Caleb was far too satisfied watching you doze off on his cock to ruin the moment. 

Now, slipping out of your heat with gentle precision, he gathers your sleeping form in his arms, cradling your head to his chest.

You smell like him now. Good.

Carrying you to your bedroom, he lays you down and slips a loose t-shirt over your head before pulling the covers to your chin.

For a moment, he watches you, a serene smile gracing his lips in the moonlight. 

And then, he dips a hand into his pocket, fishing out the stolen pill bottle and dropping it in the trash.