#<- read a study in solidity on ao3 now

[sheila--e]

Day 35. Perdón x joder tanto con el Trisheila, chicas. Va a seguir pasando.

Translation:"Honestly, you do me a lot of good. Maybe sometimes you doubt it" "Stew"

[fligniuz]

sex for homework

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you ask your cute tutor to help you study for your math final.

word count: 5.5k • part of my study buddies series (read here!) • nsfw • read on ao3

warnings : f! reader; EXPLICIT; dumbification if U squint; praise; oral (m! receiving); pre calc lol

notes : crossposting my shit to tumblr and starting with arguably one of my greatest uses of free will in history. title frommm:

You have a bit of a dilemma.

Well, it would be more accurate to say that you had a dilemma, have had one for quite a while now—your current grievances are merely extensions of a constant, one raging, blood-thirsty, borderline psychopathic problem of a class. MTH121, Concepts & Applications, is the only remaining mathematics credit required for your degree, and, coincidentally, absolutely no one told you that that’s really just a fancy name for pre-calculus. Because the universe hates you.

Your final is tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. If that wasn’t bad enough, your brain has utterly fucked you; months spent poring over formulas and right triangles amounts to nothing in the moment, every relevant fragment of knowledge completely foreign to your burnt out, sleep deprived, caffeine ridden psyche. So here you sit, “studying”, armed with just your textbook and Khan Academy tutorials.

Is it too late to switch majors? Yes, you decide, massaging your temples as you take another glance at your notes. A mass of numbers, variables, and scribbled matrices clogs the pages, complete with your near ineligible annotations, details added in the heat of a lecture. You never knew there could be so many different types of numbers. Solve for x. 5 + 2x to the 2nd power = 8x. Factor x3 - 3x to the 2nd power - 4x + 12. Find the vertex of the function f(x) = x to the 2nd power + 4x + 3. Determine the value of x if the sum of the following sequence converges to 5. How any of this is relevant to your future non-mathematics degree is beyond you.

What the hell is a vertex again? And what does it matter? You’d rather be sleeping, or drunk. Whatever.

You have one saving grace. Since your freshman year you’ve been employing a little cheat-sheet, your one-way ticket to having math explained to you in a language understood by plebeians like yourself: one Luigi Mangione, a friend of a friend of a friend, possibly the smartest guy you know (and you’re far from the only person to voice that opinion). Your self-appointed tutor—and unfortunately for you, probably the most appetizing of any of the frat guys you’ve met in college, to put it chastely. The actual knowledge is just a bonus, really, because unlike other tutors you’ve worked with Luigi seems to actually care; he wants you to walk away from him with a solid understanding of the material, rather than a temporary knowledge that gets your homework done but is absent from your memory by the time of your exams. And it’s hard to write off the fact that he’s easy on the eyes.

…Pretty damn hard, actually. Because—in all honesty—you’re really into Luigi. Another thing that’s hard to do is get your math homework done when you’re busy fucking yourself with your fingers, like you tend to do after your time with him, thinking about his cock, his hands, the way he would fill you, pin you down underneath him, smirk at you and tell you dirty things like that’s my girl, that’s my good fucking girl, that’s it, give it to me, show me how pretty you look when you come all over me like this…

Great. At this pace, you’ll never get anything done.

Your phone buzzes.

About an hour ago, you sent him a photo of your current predicament: your laptop and notebook open, and you sitting criss-crossed in front of it, an exaggerated pout on your lips. A few moments later, you sent another, this time of your middle finger pointed directly at your professor’s official portrait. Now, he responds:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : Smh

Who studies the night before their final?? Dummy

You smile, replying:

i do :(

help pls :((

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : You poor thing

And then:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : Come over. In like 15

We’ll work it out together

Score. He adds:

Academic Weapon (Luigi) : And I better not hear any complaining when I make you actually do the math

Your crush feels elementary, like you’ve got the hots for the nerdy jock on the playground that’s miles out of your league and that every girl on planet Earth is fighting tooth and nail for. You respond:

no promises :P

You pray to your lucky stars that you can study as nonchalantly as humanly possible.

You told him you wouldn’t complain, and you’ve tried, you really have. But dividing radicals is fucking stupid and useless and the more you look at your paper the more these numbers and symbols really start to look all the same to you, just scribbles, meaningless scribbles of made-up concepts that have nothing to do with your career prospects whatsoever. Who gives a flying fuck about solving equations with these weird ass numbers that normal people don’t even use?

You must be thinking out loud, because Luigi laughs next to you on the couch. He is laughing at your frustration. What an emotionally supportive tutor. You groan and thread your fingers through your hair, massaging your temples.

Still smiling just slightly, he starts to gather up your things. “Alright, look, how about we take a break?” He glances over at you, still holding your head in your hands. “Yeah, let’s take a break for a minute.”

He gets up from the couch, disappears into the kitchen for just a moment. Comes back with a glass of orange juice. For you. You try not to think about how pathetic it is that the most romantic gesture a man has done for you in the past three years is bring you juice. Instead you watch him, sipping slowly—no pulp, he knows you so well—and peeking through your eyelashes as he scuttles around his dorm, just the two of you alone together, while he throws some laundry into a basket and absentmindedly closes doors of unoccupied rooms. You have never noticed how defined his calves are before, nor how his curls bounce just slightly when he walks fast or how his shorts sag on his hips just right, just enough for you to get a peek of his V-line and the waistband of his boxers when he raises his arms to stretch—

Nonchalant. Demure. Mindful. You are failing so hard at the one thing you’ve forbidden yourself from doing: staring at him until your eyes are practically burning holes in his clothes and he’s melting into the floor. Not entirely your fault. He should’ve known to dress modestly around you. Around anybody, for that matter.

Luigi comes to sit by you now. As you tuck your hair behind your ears you can feel his arm move to rest along the back of the couch, almost around you, but not quite.

“Hi,” you say, propping your head up on your arm.

He smiles at you. You can’t even look him in the eye. “Did you think more about your radicals?”

“Don’t remind me,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “No. I didn’t.”

“Well, what were you thinking about?”

You swallow the conspiratorial intuition that he has to be fucking with you. Maybe he sees it on your face. Can smell it on you. Something.

“I was trying to think of some things I’d rather be doing,” you offer. “Instead of math.”

Your heart feels three beats faster all of a sudden, and when did he get so close to you? Your thighs are touching, his knee brushing against yours. “And what did you come up with?” he asks.

Oh, fuck. He’s definitely fucking with you. Right? He has that goddamn smirk on his face, that one that makes your insides twist with a feeling reserved only for boys who look at you just like this, like you’re busted, like he knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about every second you’ve spent sitting next to him doing algebra. You want to kiss it right off of him.

“Nothing,” you lie, sitting up straight and trying to pretend like you really are interested in your studies. “Here, will you show me how to do it again?”

He calls your name. He doesn’t even have to ask for you to look at him; the tone of his voice and the tilt of his head makes his intentions entirely clear. When your eyes meet his he inches closer, and all you can manage to do is stare at his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, stern and warm enough to boil.

If he truly knew what he was asking for he wouldn’t be asking at all, you think. Not unless he was prepared for whatever your fervent need has in store for him. Embarrassment feels bright red and prickly on your skin. “I shouldn’t say.”

”But I think you should,” he whispers.

Oh. Oh. All bets are off, now. This has officially progressed from studying to “studying”.

Luigi lets you lead, his hand settling on the small of your back as you come a little closer to kiss him, properly. You hear him giggle before your lips meet; the curve of his smile against you is unmistakable, casting sparks through your body and down your thighs. He tastes like spearmint. You learn quickly that he is a fantastic kisser, and his tongue finds yours with curious excitement when your breathing starts to pick up. Without question, he claims the expanse of you, drinking in your essence, licking, biting. Those irresistible curls demand attention, and so you thread your fingers through his hair, your hand sweeping from behind his ear to the nape of his neck. Luigi shivers under your touch, exhaling softly against you.

When the fingers of his left hand raise to grasp your leg, you stop kissing him only to swing your body over his lap so that you’re straddling him. Luigi breathes in deep then, like his nervous system collectively seizes at the feeling of you so close. To give him room to breathe you stop short of settling all your weight onto him. Lips meeting once more, his hands greet your hips; his touch is warm, and timid, like you’re made of sand, like you might collapse and dissolve into immeasurable particles between his fingers.

He groans into your mouth. Murmurs your name. “This isn’t very productive,” he quips.

“Intellectually, no,” you agree, nails brushing the back of his neck. He has goosebumps. A ghost of a smile dancing on your lips, you slowly lower yourself down onto his lap; there are two layers of clothes between your bare skin but he is impossibly warm against you. “But what about physically?”

Luigi smiles, and fuck, he is too fucking beautiful. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

And so you kiss him again and again and again, your heart doing backflips inside your chest when his big hands glide lower, and lower, thumb toying with the waistband of your skirt, and lower still, until he’s gripping your ass. You can’t help but nuzzle against the growing stiffness underneath you, poking between your thighs—and you definitely can’t help but love the way he grinds back, hips meeting yours with just as much enthusiasm. Fuck. About an hour ago you were working through polynomials and linear equations, and now the dreamiest guy you’ve ever met is hard for you, holding you in his lap. You might as well thank your professor.

When Luigi sucks at your bottom lip for a few euphoric moments, you make the most pathetic sound into his mouth, and he growls, his hands suddenly coming up to grasp your hips and hold them steady. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, his lips moving swiftly to the side of your face, your jaw, the junction between your neck and shoulder.

Sharp teeth graze skin and you whimper. “What do you mean?”

“What, now you’re playing coy?” Luigi finds the pulse point in your throat and bites, softly at first, then harder when your fingers curl into the hair at the back of his head. “You didn’t want to study. You called me because you wanted to get fucked, because you knew I’d want to touch you just like this, didn’t you?”

This boy is out of his mind. First he practically eye-fucks you while schooling you about imaginary numbers, and then he “scolds” you like he’s disappointed in your lack of interest in algebra, like he’s mad that you can’t resist him for being so damn gorgeous. That half-hearted meanness in his tone leaves butterflies in your stomach, in no way helped by the feeling of his tongue sliding over your collarbone.

“No,” you mutter. It’s not completely a lie. You really did need his help with the math, which he is really good at…but you can’t deny that you were really hoping you two would end up like this, with him kissing your neck all over until you’re speckled with purple and pink. You don’t even care about the obvious evidence of him on your skin—you want his entire dorm hall to know just how well-acquainted the two of you are by the time he’s done with you. The thought of everyone knowing you’re his makes you weak.

Luigi is kissing you again, slowly and deeply, one hand coming up to cup your breast through your shirt. His touch is too much and not enough simultaneously, your need overwhelming, and your hips are searching desperately for friction, rolling against him eagerly. So much for nonchalance.

He grasps your chin, firm but not at all painful, and flashes you that pretty smile, tutting, “I don’t believe you.”

Your mind is far too preoccupied with thoughts of his touch in other places to try to formulate a witty rebut. You opt instead to kiss him harder and sneak a hand between your bodies, tracing over his chest, down his carefully crafted abdomen, and then over the front of his shorts, groping his hard cock through polyester. Luigi groans into your mouth. He is big, almost intimidating, and imagining him inside of you has your body feeling hot all over.

As you palm the outline of his length through his trousers, his hands make their way underneath your sweater, the sudden warmth of him jolting through your torso. You look up at him through your lashes and he smirks.

“Do you want to sit on it?” he asks you, entirely stoic despite the weight of his words.

You kiss him, still squeezing his cock. “Can I put it in my mouth first?”

Fuck. You have him wrapped around your finger. How could he possibly say no when you ask so sweetly? Luigi is instantly pulling down his shorts for you, the rustle of fabric making your head spin. He’s left in just his boxers and a sweater that you quickly help him shrug off, too. Once you have him undressed, he takes a moment to survey you, your cheeks flushed, eyes lidded, hair tousled from his hands. You feel a surge of confidence now that you have his full attention and so you pull your top up and over your head, smiling when he reaches behind you to help you with your bra. He has it and your skirt off in just a few seconds, leaving your combined clothes to pile up next to the couch.

You shift so that you’re kneeling on the floor in front of him, wearing only your panties, watching him watching you. He is grinning, his cock standing proud, and you know you must be blushing by the way his teeth flash from under the curve of his lips. You feel gooey and hot in the pit of your stomach. Swallowing your shyness, you reach forward to take him in your hand. He’s already sticky at the tip, precum glistening on his slit, and so you begin to stroke him, starting at the head of his dick and spreading slick down his shaft. His cock is probably the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen, at the very least a runner-up for his face: tan and thick, his girth evenly distributed, and big enough to have you feeling your heartbeat between your legs. There is a prominent vein along the underside of him, ending at his frenulum. He pulses with each movement of your hand.

Once he’s as wet as you like, you come closer to tease him with your tongue, licking up the base, tracing his vein, passing over his slit. Luigi groans—“fuuuuuck, baby,”—and threads his fingers into your hair, tugging hard.

“Don’t be a fucking tease,” he rasps. “You asked for this. Show me what that mouth can do.”

Your lips are halfway wrapped around the head of him and when you moan at his words it vibrates through him, his abs flexing deliciously. You move further down, then, mouth closed around his length, applying light pressure on your way back up. He’s too big to take all of him at once and so your left hand grasps the length you can’t reach, pumping gently. You start a subtle, easy rhythm, evenly paced and obviously satisfying enough to have Luigi panting and swearing above you: your mouth starts at his tip, sucking gently, then gliding lower, until you can feel him in the back of your throat and you’re nearly gagging on him—and then you move upward again, cheeks hollowing around him, finally reaching the head of him once more. Rinse and repeat. It is organized. Formulaic. Your process leaves you practically drooling on his cock, spit collecting at the base where you are stroking him. Fuck. You haven’t pleased a guy like this in quite a while, and under any other circumstances you’d probably feel a bit insecure about your work; but it’s difficult to justify any doubts you might have, what with the noises coming from above you:

“Oh, fuck, yes, baby, yes, just like that, fuck yes,” Luigi moans, fingers knotted tightly in your hair. “Oh my god, your mouth…”

You slip your free hand into your panties, middle and ring finger rubbing your clit.

As your ministrations intensify, his reactions do, too. You can feel his thighs and hips tensing in an effort not to fuck into your throat. But you made a promise to yourself; you want to take the entirety of his length in your mouth before all of this is over, and so you move your left hand down to his balls, kneading him and carefully lowering your face until your nose is pressed into the curly hairs of his groin, his cock as deep as it can reach. And Luigi keens, head thrown back against the couch, one hand in your hair and the other gripping the armrest tight. You can feel him twitching in your throat.

There are a few blissful moments of you sucking him just like this, sinking him deep into your throat and pinching your lips around his tip, and you almost wish the two of you were recording because the sounds he makes are top tier jerk material for at least the next few months. He’d be a natural on camera. You want to commit every second of this to your memory.

When he goes quiet for a moment you open your eyes to look at him. You find him staring down at you, mouth agape. “Are you touching yourself?” he asks.

It’s difficult to answer with his dick in your mouth, so you settle for moaning around him again, eyes fluttering shut.

“Holy fuck,” he grunts, his voice sweeter than sugar.

You could sit here sucking him off for the rest of your life—you could die with his dick in your mouth—but you regrettably begin to feel your jaw aching, knowing full well that keeping this up will have you hurting. Not that you really mind. When you begin to sputter and tear up around him, he grabs both sides of your face and pulls your mouth off of his cock. You are crying, just a little, crocodile tears streaming down your cheeks, your throat raw.

Luigi looks down at you sweetly. “Oh, baby,” he coos, wiping your wet face dry with his thumbs. “That’s my perfect girl. So good to me. Come here.”

He welcomes you back onto his lap with open arms and a smile. He is warm, so warm and soft against you, you could fall asleep just like this. But he is kissing you now, so slowly that you feel dizzy, and so you ground yourself, fingers embracing his curls. His hands move to your hips, grasping the waistband of your panties, teasing you, rubbing the fabric against your heat. When he finally has them off his fingers are instantly examining you, collecting your slick, slipping through your folds.

“Let’s see about a little reward for you, hm?” he whispers, capturing your lips with his.

You kiss him eagerly and arch your back so that your thighs spread wide enough for his fingers to enter you with ease—not that it would be difficult without, considering that you’re so wet you can hear him touching you, even over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears. Two long digits move inside of you, stretching you, massaging that spot that makes your knees buckle and your eyes cross, plus a few more that you never knew existed. His touch feels so good, just how you imagined, and you have to lean forward into the crook of his neck to keep yourself upright, your teeth sinking into a firm shoulder. Luigi makes a gruff sound, almost a chuckle, and his cock jumps at your whiny, choked noises when he adds a third finger into your pussy.

“So needy, aren’t you?” he teases. “Have you been thinking about this, gorgeous? About sucking my cock and taking my fingers like this?”

You nod, because of course you have. In that exact order. Who wouldn’t?

Luigi smiles at you, soft and adoring. You make a curious sound and his fingers depart from you, lingering at your entrance until you grind down into his lap. Your cunt brushes against him, raw, hungry, slathering his cock with your slick.

“I want you,” you whine, grabbing his face and kissing him again. “I want all of you.”

“Yeah, baby?” His hands are guiding your hips, moving you slowly against him. “Tell me about it.”

Well, you would, if your brain weren’t short-circuiting at the moment. His fault. You mumble into his ear, something about infinity, something about the way you hug your pillow at night and all the times you’ve fucked yourself stupid thinking about this very image of you and him together like this. But there are countless words for your endless feelings, words you would preach to him from high places if your body had the agency to; your attraction to him is primal, but neatly arranged, layered, wrapped up with variables galore and multiplying with each moment you spend in his presence. A mess, no doubt about it, but one you can control, a tangle to unravel, an equation to solve. Nothing less. You aren’t sure of how this ends but you know that you need him, bad, more than you knew was possible before.

You crash into him, mouths colliding, everything that you left unsaid spilling into your embrace. Words are hard. Kissing Luigi and grinding your warm, throbbing cunt against him takes much less brainpower.

He is speaking to you when you pull away: “Baby, just a second, wait right here, let me get something.” Gently you are pushed from his lap and he disappears into his room momentarily, leaving you waiting, alone, aching for him, until he rounds the corner again with a familiar foil packet, finding his way back to the couch and sweeping you on top of him once more.

“Hi. Sorry.” And now he is fully yours.

You whine and wiggle against him the second the condom is on.

“Shh,” Luigi whispers, “I got you, ‘s okay, gorgeous. Gonna take good care of you, yeah? Don’t you worry. Gonna give you just what you need, baby.”

The tip of his cock is pressing into you, then, slowly easing himself inside, and fuck, he fits just right, fills you up perfectly, has you seeing stars already. The sound you make when he bottoms out is a hop, skip, and a jump away from pornographic. Luigi purrs underneath you.

“Oh, I know, baby, I know.” His hand slides down to grip your ass, spreading you, and from this angle you can feel just how much he stretches you out. And then, as he begins to roll his hips: “My sweet girl, working so hard, can’t even think for yourself, can you, beautiful? That’s okay, baby. I can do all the thinking for you, you just sit back and let me work it out for you, yeah? Don’t think. Just let me please this pussy.”

It’s like he’s trying to kill you. Every single word he says into your ear shoots straight to your cunt, the mere sound of his voice so near you electrifying. He’s deep, and with your thighs spread wide like this you just have to take advantage of the perfect angle to rub your clit against him. You can’t help but squeal into the crook of his neck each time his hips ram up into you, thighs clapping against your ass; by the way his muscles tense you assume it must take much of his energy, and yet he pounds you like you weigh nothing in his lap, exerting himself like it’s a cakewalk so long as he can watch your face shrivel up with overwhelming delectation. You can tell that he loves it when you tug his hair or bite him, and so you do it every chance you get, just in case your hushed utterances in his ear fail to make your message clear enough:

“Luigi, fuckfuckfuck, oh my god, oh, fuck…”

As he paces himself Luigi wraps his strong arms around you, one caging your waist and the other pulling tight at your hair. Your neck is arched and exposed, leaving him free to smother his love all over you in sharp, uneven hickeys. You needed this, so, so bad, and you tell him exactly that, chanting thank you, thank you, thank you and holding him tight.

“Whatever you want,” he whispers. “You can have whatever you want with me. Anything.” His lips meet yours, fleeting, and then, with the slightest hint of a grin: “You earned this, baby.”

You groan directly into his ear. It’s straight from your dreams, you think, like you’ve been swept from your bed in the midst of the night and dropped right here, in the lap of the sweetest, smartest, most handsome boy you’ve ever so much as looked at, bouncing on his cock while he kisses you like you’ll float away if he lets go. The two of you work together to heighten each other’s inevitable undoing, like a function of sorts; Luigi pushes and you push back, meeting his hips every time, your clit brushing against him just right, and him breaching unknown depths of you, hands roaming, learning you inside and out.

“My sweet girl,” he grabs your face and rests his forehead against yours, driving into you with precision. “This is all yours, baby.”

Sweat starts to gather at his hairline and you can feel him shuddering in your arms. Kissing him, you press down on his toned chest, pinning him against the couch, and Luigi is practically singing for you, little grunts and babys and murmurs of your name traveling through your ears and echoing in your mind. You want this to last forever. His hips slow to a stop when you begin to move on your own; you raise yourself up, resting all your weight on your knees, with him sliding out of your cunt until just the tip is still inside—and then you drop down, letting him sink back into you quickly, slick and smooth, his cock so deep you can nearly feel it in your stomach.

Fuck. You love this. You love the way his hands grip your ass, your thighs, rubbing your back, moaning your name and kissing behind your ear. You love the way he looks at you. The pupils of those dark eyes are blown wide, watching you move, worshipping how your tits bounce, the gyration of your hips, the blush of arousal all over you, your bottom lip wedged between your teeth. The sounds of sex and the shameless way he takes in every feature of your body have you feeling hot and ready to burst. You moan his name, drawn out and raspy.

“Yes,” Luigi groans. “You’re so pretty on top of me.”

Even through the haze of your pleasure you smile at his praise. He is telling you everything, every single thought that passes by in his mind, as if there will be no proof of how good he fucked you once you leave his dorm, as if every word will dissipate into thin air and leave you waiting, unsatisfied, hanging on the edge: “You take it so well, baby, my sweet girl, so perfect, so perfect just for me.”

His big hands are all over you. One cups your breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth, with the other splayed over your hip. You start to feel dizzy, anxious for his attention, a little bit crazy. Close. Luigi must notice the way your eyes screw shut and your pussy squeezes him tight, because his hand moves down your chest, over your stomach, and then to your clit, circling his fingers with purpose. He wishes—almost—that you were beneath him, so that he could replace his hand with his mouth, trace down your body with his lips and bring you to your very edge with his tongue, over and over again, until you’re begging him to stop.

He settles instead for kissing you, hard, slowly, lingering. “You have no fucking idea how bad I’ve been wanting this, baby.”

You nod, moaning, “yes, yes, me too,” your noises pained and rough in your throat.

The way his cock slams into you with each movement of your hips is ruthless, bruising; he’s kissing you so sweetly and you can feel your climax churning in your abdomen, rippling through you. It knocks the air from your lungs. Sex with him hurts so good. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

“Gonna come,” you huff. There are fingernail-sized dents in his skin. “Gonna come for you.”

Luigi nods, whispers, “good girl, such a good girl,” and circles his fingers over your clit as fast as he can manage.

You tense around him at that. You can’t even count how many times you’ve come imagining those very words whispered in your ear by the very man that you’re riding right now.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Yeah? You like that? You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod wildly, and everything feels so real all of a sudden, like you’ve been floating mindlessly in space and you are crashing down into reality. His teeth dig into the sensitive skin of your neck and his hips start to pump again and by the time he’s meeting your thrusts you’ve had enough, thighs shaking, and he starts moaning into your ear so that you know he’s right there with you, and fuck, he’s really trying to kill you—

Your orgasm hits you like a truck. A 5’11, dark haired and brown eyed muscle truck that looks at you like you are the only good thing left in the world.

For a moment there is only your deep panting and his equally spent breaths as the both of you rest, his hand tracing gentle patterns on your back, yours combing through his sweat-soaked curls. The dorm is quiet, calm, almost with an air of innocence, completely unswayed by the heady aftermath of what the two of you just did right there on the couch. You lean back and look into his eyes, brooding and trained entirely on you. And he has that stupid grin on his face, the one that gives both of you away for good, the one that screams we’re not the only ones who know what we’ve been up to.

You want to kiss it right off of his beautiful, beautiful face. But right now you just sigh, lean into his shoulder, and let him hold you tight. Tonight you will walk back to your dorm, all the way on the other side of campus, where your roommates will be waiting for you, likely getting ready for bed. You will walk inside and they will watch you without a clue as to whose hands have been on you, whose name has been on your lips, whose cock has been buried to the hilt inside of you for the past hour. Your legs will be aching—you are sure of it.

Your roommates will ask you, “how’d it go?”, completely unaware of what your wobbly smile really means, how you really spent your time with your cute tutor.

And you will respond, “oh, great,” with a barely masked giggle. “I’m gonna ace my test tomorrow.”

^ dividers by cafekitsune

[skzdarlings]

bodyguard: the first guard | part one | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. please note this story will contain a great deal of physical violence, some committed against the reader and some committed by her. this will include fighting, training, torture, and parental abuse. there will also be explicit sexual content. chapter word count: 7500 words.

enjoy <3

-

B E F O R E

Felix takes his place in formation.  He is the youngest in the youth regiment at only ten years old, but he is no less competent.  They all belong to the same special-ops program, a group of specially selected children raised for armed service.  They are in the employ of Mister Miroh – and he says they will save the world. 

The world is full of shadows, dank black holes and grimy stains so embedded that no regular agent can scrub them out.  The young subjects of the soldier program are not regular agents.  Their existence is their mission.  

Felix has no life outside of the house of Miroh.   

He stands straight.  He looks forward.  His feet are the appropriate width apart and his hands are folded behind his back.  He holds this position as the trainers scour the lined formation, studying the young soldiers and reprimanding any flaw. 

They need the best soldier for this mission.  This is the most important assignment the regiment will ever receive.  Felix has trained his whole life for this.   

“Miroh has many enemies,” speaks the head trainer.  It is a familiar speech, more important now than ever.  “But our target is his local rival.  This enemy family has been a corrupting force for generations, taking through inheritance what it has not earned.  Miroh is not like The Enemy.  Miroh is a solider like you.  He came from nothing, fought for scraps, and built his own business one brick at a time.  He understands the world and he will fix it through you. You will be his hands in the places he cannot reach.  Your role is an honourable one.” 

A trainer passes Felix.  Felix straightens his spine that last infinitesimal degree.  They touch his shoulder but do not reprimand him.  It makes his pulse hammer with anticipation. 

Felix is one of the best.  There is a possibility they will pick him, if only because the actual best has a habit of—

“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Chris’s voice comes from a few rows back. “You know what they say: all work and no play makes—”

He is interrupted by a whoosh of air, probably a trainer punching him in the stomach. Felix closes his eyes so he does not wince.

“Bang Christopher Chan,” the head trainer says, his voice booming across the facility floor.  “Step forward.” 

Felix hears a frustrated sigh, then Chris stomps through the lines to reach the front row.  Everyone looks at him. 

He is an unassuming character.  Not very tall but deceptively strong.  Curly black hair and dimpled cheeks.  Felix remembers that smile, the lilting and friendly, “Call me Chris,” when Felix was just six years old and first thrown into the regiment. 

Bang “Call Me Chris” Chan is the best soldier here.  Or he would be, if he did not hate the honour. 

Even now he is glaring.  Like the rest of them, he is dressed in combat clothes, the pitch black of Miroh.  Unlike the rest of them, he stands with a lazy hunch in his shoulders.  His dark hair is dishevelled and he scowls like a petulant teenager.  He is thirteen going on fourteen but he is far from a normal teenage boy.  Even compared to the rest of them, Chris is something special. 

“Bang Chan,” the head trainer says.  “You have been chosen for this assignment.  Congratulations.” 

Felix is not surprised.  When Chris is forced to apply himself, it is abundantly clear he is the best soldier in the program by a huge margin.   Felix is also not surprised when Chris responds with his usual verve and ire.   

“Yeah, uh, you can go ahead and shove your congratulations up your ass, mate,” Chris says.  He crosses his arms stubbornly.  “Even if we kill this guy, do you really expect us to believe that’s the end of it?  You’re putting us in the middle of a fight we didn’t start.”   

He addresses the soldiers behind him just as much as the trainer.  He even glances at Felix who glares back at him, unimpressed with the rebellious dramatics.  Chris never learns.  He gets more chances than the rest of them because he is so good.  If he wanted, he could be unstoppable.  He could use his strengths for good. 

Instead, he just looks at the trainer and shakes his head.

“Nah,” Chris says.  “You started this fight.  I’m not ending it.”

A few of the adult guards move towards him.  The gathered soldiers take a collective breath, watching with anticipation.  It is common knowledge that thirteen year old Bang Chan can take a regular adult guard in a matter of seconds.  When it comes to Chris, the question is not who will win, but will he fight at all? 

He stands there like he has no intention of fighting.  But before anyone can grab him, the door opens. 

Miroh enters. 

The room is so tense and silent, his footsteps reverberate like thunder.  Miroh is every inch a soldier even in his blazer and tie.  He walks with purpose, his face intent. 

Walking behind him, keeping decent pace despite her smaller frame, is his daughter. 

Miroh is a fighter who does not believe in unearned inheritance, so his daughter is trainee soldier like the rest of them.  She is the same age as Chris.  She trains with the regiment, one of the better agents, but she was not in contention for this particular job.  People have tried to kill The Enemy before and it did not work, resulting in the death of innocents.  Miroh wants a strong heir and he is not above putting her through the same grueling regime as the rest of them, but he will not recklessly risk her life. 

It is fair to Felix.  Miroh’s world makes sense.  He believes in it.  He believes in him.

So he is rapt as Miroh approaches. 

The adult guards fall back and the young soldiers stand at attention.  Miroh’s jaw is set with grim determination.  He stares at Chris.

Chris drops his crossed arms.  He is smart enough not to run his mouth at Miroh directly, but his frustration is clearly simmering beneath the surface.  His fingers curl and uncurl in little fists. 

Miroh stands in front of him.  He speaks loud enough to address the entire room.

“I do not begrudge your desire for information,” Miroh says.  “You’re soldiers, not animals.  I acknowledge that you wish to know about the long-term goals for this company.  But that is not your job or your purpose.  This business is deliberately compartmentalized so if one cog in the machine fails, the apparatus does not cease to function.  The results of your missions speak for themselves.  What we’re doing is good work. That is all that matters.”

“Says you,” Chris blurts.  Even he looks surprised by his own retort, though he does not take it back.  He looks Miroh in the eye. 

Miroh looks back.  Then he reaches into the holster beneath his long coat and draws a gun.  It is smooth, second-nature.  Miroh is used to getting his hands dirty.  His steady hand points the gun at Chris. 

The trigger has not been pulled but the trainers already flinch.  They know Chris is the best and they have worked hard to shape him, even if his stubborn mind is not molded as easily as his body. 

Chris, himself, does not flinch.  He stares down the barrel, unrelenting. 

“You don’t want to do that.” 

The soft interjection makes everyone pause.  Heads turn and eyes dart, everyone’s attention transferring to the thirteen year old girl in the shadows.   

Miroh does not lower the gun but he looks at his daughter.  Chris looks at her too.  Felix is not sure who is more bewildered. 

The girl, herself, is calm.  She has indubitably mastered a stoic countenance, not a hint of emotion anywhere on her young face. 

“He’s the First Guard,” she states simply.  “This is not worth killing him over.”

The First Guard.  The other kids in the regiment sometimes call Chris that, though he doesn’t like it so it is usually behind his back.  Chris does not like that he has been singled out.  Chris does not like anything about the program. 

This is Miroh’s second attempt at the youth soldier program.   The operation raises soldiers from childhood to fight, to withstand pain, to feel no fear.  This training is supplemented with medical treatments, hormonal injections that are only effective if administered in the crucial developmental years of childhood.  It aids in building a body for soldiership, to take a hit just a little harder than most. 

Chris is the only survivor from the first round of injections.  He survived every test that followed.  He is stronger for it, even stronger than the rest of them.  He is a singular asset.  He will never be replicated. 

Thanks to The Enemy, none of them will ever be replicated.  The Enemy recently attempted to recruit Miroh’s developers and killed them when he did not succeed.  Detailed knowledge of the treatment died with them.   

Miroh can never accomplish anything with his enemy on perpetual offense.  Felix knows the stories like the rest of them, the generations of corruption wrought by a single wealthy family with its iron fist wrapped around the country’s throat.  Miroh wants to free them.  Felix knows if they kill this one man, if the household is left to rot in the hands of its weak successor, then Miroh can finally set everyone free. 

It is a noble honour.

Chris does not see it that way.  He never has.  Maybe it is different for him, having watched those other children die.  Felix understands it was a sacrifice, but a necessary one.  The Enemy cannot be killed by a regular soldier.  So many more innocents will die if he is left unchecked.  Surely that is worth the price of a few soldiers.  Wars have casualties.  It will be worth it.

It has to be worth it. 

Bang Chan, the First Guard – call me Chris – takes a deep breath.  It sounds frustrated.  He glares at Miroh’s daughter who is unaffected. 

Felix looks between them.  Then his gaze lands on another soldier in the formation.  Seo Changbin is in the first row, a boy one year older than Felix.  Not the best soldier, not second best, but not the worst. His most notable trait is his humour and his friendship with Miroh’s daughter.  They are close – at least as close as anyone can be down here. 

Changbin is looking at her right now, his gaze searing with intensity.  Their eyes meet briefly and he shakes his head, a small motion, just enough for her to see.  Despite his clear warning to stop, she is not dissuaded from addressing her father. 

“With all due respect, sir,” she says to Miroh, “Eliminating Bang Chan would be a mistake.  He’s the best soldier in the operation.”

“The best,” Miroh says.  He presses the barrel of the gun against Chris’s forehead.  Chris goes tense and everyone takes a breath.    

His daughter is still unmoved.  She is a quiet character in general.  Felix has barely heard her speak never mind argue.  She keeps her head down and goes about her work obediently.  She is a good daughter and a better soldier.     

Maybe that is why Miroh hesitates. 

“He is not the best if this is how he conducts himself,” Miroh says. 

“Father, aren’t you the best at what you do?” she asks without hesitation.  “Surely a proper soldier like you should be able to control a little boy.  Are you saying you are not capable of that task?  It takes no skill to shoot a teenager.  What message do you send to the rest of us if you have to resort to desperate measures to keep your own army in line?”    

The silence is deafening.  Even with a gun plastered to his forehead, a little dimple of amusement pops in Chris’s cheek.  Changbin exhales.  Felix is sick of standing still but he holds his form despite the growing tension. 

The seconds feel like hours.  Eventually, Miroh lowers the gun. 

“Guards,” he says.  The adult guards are immediately at his side.  “My daughter has faith in our order.  I would be remiss as a father to fail her.”  He looks down at Chris and speaks with a snarl in his upper lip, “Let us all try our best to succeed.” 

Miroh snaps his fingers and points at Chris.  The guards swarm him, two of them taking an arm each.  At least Chris is smart enough not to struggle.  He is an indomitable force but he does not have an army at his call.  He lets himself be seized. 

“Take him to the Cell,” Miroh says.

An instinctive hiss leaves the mouths of a few soldiers.  They have all been trained to withstand various degrees of torture, but the Cell is one of the worst.  Even Felix shudders at the mention of it.  It is a small windowless room buried deep in the bunker of the training facility, a small prison cell with no light and no warmth.  Everyone has taken a turn in isolation, camped on the hard ground in the damp and cold and dark.  Down there, minutes feel like days, days like years.  At least literal torture causes sensation.  The Cell is a great black nothing. 

Chris does not argue, knowing it would be useless, but he does glare at Miroh as he is hauled away. 

“Take her too,” Miroh says. 

With a snap of his fingers, two more guards surface and grab his daughter.  Her stoic expression finally fractures, true surprise bursting on her face. 

“Me?” she asks. 

“As my daughter, your perspective is acknowledged and appreciated,” he says.  “As a soldier, you need to remember your place.  Throw them in together.  Double the people, double the time.” 

Felix would not want to be shoved in that tiny space with another person.  Certainly not if the trade was double the duration. 

But then, Felix does not like company.  He does not understand the exhausted look on Changbin’s face.  Changbin isn’t being punished, so why would he feel anything? 

Felix watches.  He holds his form even where others begin to wane. 

The guards and their prisoners leave.  The door closes and Miroh looks over the regiment.

“Who’s the second best?”  Miroh asks. 

There is a beat of silence, the scene settling.  The trainer finally clears his throat and looks down at his papers. 

“Lee Felix Yongbok,” he says in that booming voice.  Felix’s heart soars just as high.  “Step forward.”

Felix marches forward, keeps his eyes ahead.  Miroh approaches him.  Felix does not flinch, not even when Miroh circles him like prey.

“He’s young,” Miroh says.  “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“I want to do good,” Felix answers.  “I’m ready.” 

They put a gun in his hand and a beanie on his head.  He enters the world looking like a normal ten year old boy. 

He puts a bullet in the head of The Enemy. 

He suspects one day he will be back for the son and granddaughter. 

He hopes it will be soon. 

-

P R E S E N T   D A Y

Despite your father’s remarkable propensity for making you feel like a child, you are a grown adult.  You are intelligent and conniving and dangerously competent.  In some ways, having been raised like a soldier beneath his merciless iron fist, you are more steadfast, more severe.  Your life is carved into his, your fates tethered as one to his success.  You are your father’s daughter, a Miroh, irrevocably a product of his upbringing.   

You do not show weakness.  You do not throw tantrums.  You might spend twenty minutes in the lobby bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, and you might spend another five minutes shining your shirt buttons, then ten more folding and re-folding the lapel of your long coat – but walking into his office almost forty minutes late is not the same thing as throwing a tantrum. 

You think you’re composed until you walk through that door, then the week’s anxieties expand in the cage of your chest.  You are capable but you are not stupid.  Miroh might be your father but he is a totalitarian man of influence and it would be foolish not to be wary of his power. 

You are more apprehensive than you appear, but you march in there like a soldier, shoulders back and head high.  You inherited your father’s marble expressions and stone stature.  No one would ever guess your palms were so clammy, your neck hot and damp with sweat. 

“I’m here,” you say by way of greeting.   You are not characters to indulge in artificial small talk.  There is no affection here and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone’s time.  

“I won’t bother with pre-amble,” he says, predictably.   ”You know why you’re here.”

“I do,” you say.  “And I don’t agree with it.”

“I know you don’t.”

The argument ends just like that.  You knew it was a dead-end protestation before you opened your mouth, but you had to say something.  You are adamantly opposed to your father’s latest imposition.    

A personal, twenty-four hour bodyguard.   For you.    

The decision was not made lightly.   Your father’s business rival perished just under a month ago, the bloody circumstances extreme and mysterious.  Until Miroh can ascertain what truly transpired at that house on that fateful night, then he cannot be too careful when it comes to guarding his own legacy.

Your father is a military tactician and business man.  He is in the habit of bracing for every eventuality with a detached, pragmatic determination.   Of course he wants you watched. This bodyguard assignment is imperative in protecting his house. 

“I have a security team,” you say. 

“They are insufficient,” he replies. 

“I trained them myself.”

“They are too numerous.”

“I’ll cut down the roster.”

“Rotations open vulnerabilities.”    

“And who’s to replace them?” Your patience snaps. “One of your dogs?”

“You are also one of my dogs,” he says, voice soft for such a venomous retort.  It stings like a slash across your chest.  “I would not disparage them.” 

“Oh, of course, my apology.”  You speak with the same false gentility.  “What a thoughtful master you are.”

“I must be,” he says, “because the dogs still come when I call.” 

There is so much contempt in his voice.  He looks at you with more hatred than he ever directed to his worst enemy.   It makes you want to leap across this room and throttle him with your bare hands, like you can shake the animosity right out of him. 

You are too old to feel like a little girl on the verge of tears, demanding to know why her father does not love her.   You have long since accepted there is no easy answer to that question.  You would say that Miroh is simply not capable of love but you know that is not true.  He can love.  He just doesn’t love you.  

You are the perfect heir, his exact replica in ability and countenance, but it is not enough.  It will never be enough.  No matter what you do, no matter how faithfully you obey him.   You have bloodied your hands in the shadows while he takes the public credit.  You have helped build the reputation of the family name.  You have given him everything. 

He rewards you with this.   

You are not stupid.  Regardless of his excuses, he does not want you under surveillance for your protection.  You both know your personal training puts you leagues ahead of the overwhelming majority of agents.  Your security team is a superfluous accessory as is.

Miroh has just witnessed the collapse of a previously impenetrable legacy.  This does not put him at ease.  The battle technician accounts for every possible manoeuvre.  You know he foresees his own downfall just as easily as he sees his success.  Unseated before his time, reputation annihilated, replaced by someone as savage and persistent as him. 

A bodyguard will not protect you from the world.  It will protect Miroh from you. 

For all your inner turmoil, you are a steadfast rock, standing across your father in his office and exchanging a knowing glance.  You are just like him.  Of course he is scared of you.  Of course he hates you.  Of course he needs you.  

The feeling is devastatingly mutual. 

“Who is it?” you ask, calmly. 

“Agent Slump, step forward,” your father calls one of the guards posted at the back wall.  “This is your new bodyguard officer.  He will accompany you at all times, day and night, including your office hours and service train—”

The agent steps forward as your father speaks.  You draw your gun out of your chest holster and shoot when the man steps into your periphery.  It blows through his shoulder and knocks him down, all in a piercing shriek that reverberates around the small room.  The other guards flinch in the ringing aftermath. 

You look at your father and re-holster your gun.  You lay the lapel of your long coat back over your chest. 

“He leaves something to be desired,” you say.  “I would have thought you learned your lesson with these undertrained toy soldiers.  Maybe a better bodyguard would have kept your wife alive.” 

Your own mother died during complications in childbirth.  Miroh remarried a few years later, a woman he genuinely seemed to cherish, a woman who was killed in retaliation for a deal gone sour.  Nothing fills your father with more righteous fury than the mention of her.  Miroh loved her almost as much as he hates you. 

You know better than to retaliate with such childish rejoinders, but you want to hit him where it hurts, see something real on that stoic face.  It garners you a flicker of rage, bathed in all that loathing, and it makes you smile. 

“Let me know if you can find a competent replacement,” you say.  “Until then, I have work to do.” 

You turn heel and march to the door.  The guards move out of your way despite lack of command.  They have never respected you the way they respect your father, but they do fear you and it works the same way. 

You are dressed for the office but after an unproductive hour spent stewing in agitation, you give up.  The head of your security team accompanies you across town to the primary training facilities.  Hidden in plain site, here Miroh has trained and developed some of his most deadly assets. 

You are one of those assets.  You spent your childhood in this facility, training among an elite selection of children, raised for the purpose of violence and victory.  It was a unique program.  It has never been revived, the medicant administered to the children lost and yet to be replicated.  

You are one of the few still living. 

Your training was relatively more lax.  As Miroh’s daughter, the trainers could not let you die.  But neither he nor they had qualms with letting you suffer.  Miroh never admonished them and you never complained, at the time naively thinking that if you could prove yourself then he would care about you.

A foolish aspiration long since abandoned. 

But the training has served you well over the years.  It certainly comes in handy when you need to fucking punch something. 

Your security team is comprised of regular soldiers so it does not take much to best them in a fight.  The exertion is nonetheless liberating.  You have always felt more at ease in action than behind a desk.  Combat clothes are less stifling than formalwear.  There is a reason Miroh never paraded you at parties the way his late enemy did with his late daughter.  Your place is in a fight and always has been.  

After a few rounds in the ring, you stop to rest.   Your team knows when to leave you alone to brood.  You lay back on the mat, flat in the ring. 

There is a moment, as often passes, where you question your entire life.  It has been a long, vicious fight, clawing your way to your position, that the road back out seems like an impossibly arduous task.  Too much has happened, too much pain and loss.  It has to mean something. 

You cannot surrender now.  The very thought has you reeling, physically painful to even consider.  

This is where you belong.  It is an irrevocable truth.  You are a Miroh. 

“Yah, murder princess,” comes a voice and the thud of booted steps.  “Just three rounds?  Tsk.  You’re getting soft.”

You roll over, grinning even though you know better.  You look up at Changbin who is dressed in similar fatigues, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark bangs brushing his smirking face. 

“I was waiting for a real fight,” you reply.  “Looks like I’m still waiting.”

He barks out a laugh. 

Changbin is one of the few survivors of your father’s special-ops program.  Unlike others who were imported from your father’s overseas operations, Changbin was raised right here alongside you.  You do not even remember meeting him; he has just always been there.  

He is a few years younger but he always held your attention, both because of his skill and his ability to retain a sense of humour.  It was an often sought breath of relief in the conditions of your training. 

You look at Changbin now, grinning and more jovial than someone like him should be.  It is a testament to his resolute strength that he can hold a dual personality inside him.  He has always been that way.  He can flip between a stoic soldier and goofy guy in the blink of an eye.  It is part of the reason you have never let yourself entirely trust him.  Though you are fond of him, he is like you: just a little too good at what he does. 

“Haha, the princess thinks she’s a comedian now,” Changbin says.  He nudges you with the tip of his boot.  “If you want to make me laugh, you should try fighting.” 

“Oh, I see.”  You cannot help but rise to his bait, like always.  He is a perpetual little brother even though he is not your real brother and certainly not little anymore. 

You swipe at him and he jumps back.  Just like that, the pair of you fall into a long practiced dance.  

It is not the gentle footwork of a real dance, but a violent collision and parry of limbs.  It is just as musical and in sync, and somehow almost as tender.  You know each other’s weaknesses as well as strengths.  You know how to beat each other and how to prolong surrender, where to give advantage so the other can continue.  You used to fight until the trainers called a tie, saving you both from selection for the loser’s punishment.  To everyone else, it looked like a fight.  To you, it was a conversation and consolation.  Even if you had been in solitude for weeks, in that moment you were not alone. 

Changbin reads you now, in every swipe and jump and dodge.  In your matching black clothes and matching strength you collide and converse.  Your frustration strains in every vein and his enquires are plain in the deliberate pause of his complicated steps.

“Daddy problems, ah, murder princess?” he asks, grinning. 

He catches your fist before it collides with that smirk, twisting your wrist so you are forced to follow with a heavy drop.  You roll together, a back and forth until you individually spring to your feet and face each other.  You wait for the next move with equal calculation.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, batting a hit. 

“Really?” he asks.  “Because there are rumours in the pig pen that the general was looking for a big strong soldier to protect his little princess.” 

He lets you clock his jaw but it is a satisfying smack nonetheless.  A drop of aggravation is wrung out with your sweat.  You wipe your brow. 

“There was a change of plans,” you say.

Changbin laughs.   He is loud, always so loud for someone who can be so stealthy. 

“Of course!” he shouts.  “Keeping the doctors busy today, are you?”

He really knows you too well.  It is mutual.  You side-step a movement and body-check him. 

“Guess that’s what the general gets for choosing from the pig pen,” you say.  You infuse your father’s title with all the sardonic venom it deserves and pig pen with the same playful mockery as always. 

“Don’t be jealous,” Changbin teases right back, catching your taunt as easily as he catches your punch.  “If you keep practicing, one day you might be almost as good as me.” He has been making the same wisecrack for years, laughing to himself every single time. 

“Funny,” you say dryly. 

“I am the best,” he continues to tease, embellishing his movements with an unnecessarily dramatic flair.  “I’m sure that’s why the general doesn’t want me on bodyguard duty, right?  I need a real job, not protecting the princess.”

There are a few rapid-fire moves, too taxing for speech.  Then you manage, “Right.”  You take his offered opening and catch the back of his knee with yours.  “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your probation after the last field mission.” 

You expect to take him down but you do not expect the weight of his crash.  It is not like Changbin to fully collapse under you, almost like he was truly surprised. 

You are just as dazed by the impact.  You loom over him, staring bemusedly, like you have no idea how he got on the floor. 

It is not like Changbin to take a hit so personally.  Of all your father’s soldiers, he was always the best at shrugging off his individuality in favour of a mission.   He does not tend to dwell on his losses anymore than he lingers in his victories.  The past is a heavy thing to carry into battle.  He knows to leave it behind.  There is always another job around the corner. 

“You’re not still upset about that?” you ask.

The mission was shortly before the enemy’s downfall.  Years ago, one of your father’s child soldiers betrayed an operation.  Lee Felix switched sides and the enemy did not let your father forget it.   But Miroh is an ever-calculating general who knows which battles are worth fighting.  After one failed attempt at seizing the enemy’s daughter, he waited until the enemy came to him instead.  

When he finally did, you caught him.  You sent Changbin after his daughter and waited for the enemy’s imminent surrender.  He retracted his operation but Felix, that loose canon of a traitor-turned-bodyguard, fucked the Mirohs a second time and disappeared with her.  They all died a week later. 

Changbin was noticeably uneasy after the job, but you did not think much of it.   You were not worried about Changbin taking the mission too personally.  Yes, Felix was a former soldier in this regiment, but Changbin is not sentimental.  You chalked up his despondency to his loss.  It is not like him to let a target slip through his fingers. 

“Upset,” Changbin says.  “Me?”

You know him too well.  The joking tone is diminished, buried beneath the weight of his gloom.  He tries to smile but it does not fit on his face, too big and too wide of a grin. 

You tip your head, your regard scrutinous.  You have no idea how to talk to him with real depth.  You look at each other and understand it, but vocalizing it is another matter entirely. 

Like he can read your thoughts, his face scrunches up and he says, “Yah, you, cut that out!”  He shoves you as he gets to his feet, both of you stumbling.  “I’m fine,” he says.  “Come on, hit me again.” 

You are certainly better at conversing that way.

You take a starting stance but you are interrupted when someone from your security team whistles.  It is a warning whistle, the sharp tone a code for the arrival of your father.

You and Changbin straighten, turning to watch as Miroh approaches with a flank of armed guards behind him.  They are all dressed for combat in their black uniforms and black masks.  The half-mask is regulation for all field agents.  It covers the bottom half of the face and serves as protection in the event of smoke from explosions or exposure to noxious aerosols and gasses.

It also undoubtedly turns a human soldier into a less-than-human figure.  It obscures features, faces, flaws. 

Sharp eyes stare at you, every face uniform and expressionless.  There are half a dozen of them.  Your father’s usual security detail trails behind them.  Your security team eyes them in turn.   The whole room feels like a pot about to boil over.    

“What is this?” you demand.  

“This is my adherence to our agreement,” your father says. 

“Our agreement?” you ask.

“Yes.”  He stops in the middle of the room, standing straight and steady.  He looks at ease, like he barges in here with a small army every day.  “You tasked me to find a competent replacement bodyguard,” he says.  “So here is how this will go: whichever agent can beat you in a fight, right here, right now, will be your new bodyguard.  If you defeat them all, I will drop the issue and leave the matter of your personal security to you.” 

You look at his soldiers then at him.  You force yourself to composure.  It is not like you to instigate so much confrontation. You prefer to keep your head down and get the job done.  Your father does not love you but he knows your work is reliable.  Usually that is enough.

This entire escapade with the enemy has unravelled everyone.  The house of Miroh should be more stable than ever, your father taking over assets left behind by the enemy, but the whole world feels changed.  It is off its axis.  You feel unsteady, your body braced for attack with no reprieve.  You feel like you are looking at the world through someone else’s eyes.  Everything feels wrong.

In difficult times, you fall back on training and soldier instinct.  You are a battle technician, just as competent as your father.  He is not going to drop the issue and this is a fair compromise.  You can fight these guards.  Half a dozen well-trained field agents is a handful but not impossible.  Your body is built to be a little faster, a little stronger, to take a hit harder. 

“Fine,” you say, a single grating syllable.  You bite the word.  Through clenched teeth, you add, “Let’s do this.”

You and Changbin exchange a look.  He reflects your confusion, knowing you can easily take these guards, knowing Miroh knows that too.  It makes you feel even more uneasy.  Your father must be planning something but you do not know what.  But you cannot control him.  You can only control yourself.  You can fight these guys.  You can win. 

You take a swig of water then stretch.  The first guard takes a position in the fighting ring.  You brace yourselves with a starting stance, measuring the other. 

You wait, sweat dripping down your brow.  You feel their eyes on you, every soldier, your father, your friend.  Changbin stands off to the side, sitting in shadows.

It is where your kind belongs.  You are not regular soldiers. 

The fight begins and you take him down swiftly.  Your game with Changbin was just that, a game.  This is real.  This is a battle.  This is what your body was made to do. 

One by one, you take out the agents.  They charge at you, they swing at you, they even try to taunt you.  You deflect it all.  Your fist connects with a temple, your foot their knee.  You pop joints and flip soldiers and springboard back to action. 

You are getting tired by the last soldier but you do not let it show.  You sweat profusely, breathing hard, but you run at him and take him down.  Your bodies are a swirl of limbs and powerful movements.  Then he is on the ground, groaning, and you are rising, victorious. 

“Well?” you say.  You cannot help but grin, elated from the sheer exertion of exercise, and proud of your triumph.  There is a small, stupid part of you that hopes underneath everything, your father is proud too.  That he must relent and admit you are good.  

Miroh just stands there, unmoving and unaffected.  It dims your smile, frustration returning.  It simmers hot beneath your skin. It distracts you. 

Pain explodes in your left cheek, so sharp and searing it turns the world dark for half a second.  You see lightning flashes as you stumble, falling onto your side.  There is another guard in front of you, one you did not even see enter the room.  Did he drop down from the ceiling? 

He is a blurry shape.  You blink the stars out of your eyes, holding your throbbing head until clarity returns. 

Then your stomach drops. 

It is not a guard looming over you.  He wears the same black combat uniform and the same half-mask, but everything about him is different, everything from his build to his stance to the ice cold slash of his dark eyes.  Emotionless.  Empty. 

“Ah, I see,” you say, a breathless slur of words.  You cannot stop your voice from shaking.  “The First Guard.  I should have known.” 

There are only two living soldiers who can fight at your level.  The only two survivors of your father’s special-ops program.  One of them is Seo Changbin.

The other is Bang Christopher Chan. 

He stands over you in his combat gear, unflinching and barely human.  Even without the mask, you doubt you would see any humanity.  There is not a single shred of the boy he once was.  Chan was a problem for Miroh, once.  That was a very long time ago. 

That boy, Chris, is dead.  He has been dead for years.  The soldier in front of you is someone – something – else. 

You get to your feet, slowly and shakily.  He watches you.  He does not speak and he barely blinks, his gaze a meticulous perusal, his body braced for anything. 

Chan has the bloodiest, dirtiest hands of them all.  He does your father’s worst missions, assignments with details that even you are barred from knowing.  He is terrifyingly efficient, deadlier than any weapon in Miroh’s arsenal, and that is saying something because it is a substantial arsenal.  

Your own hands are dirty but it is nothing in comparison.  He is fast, he is deadly, and he feels nothing.  He looks at you like a machine scans a calculation.  A broken bone here, a fracture there.  You are certain he is already picturing a hundred different ways to contort your broken body. 

“Right,” you say. 

You are a strategist.  You know how to fight.  You know when not to fight.  But it is like instinct.  You look at him and something says fight him.   

You feel your father’s eyes on you.  You are not sure who is teaching who a lesson. 

You take a swing at Chan.  He dodges it.  He swings too, faster, but you anticipate it.  You tuck and roll, moving faster than you have ever moved in your life.  You are seldom pushed to the brink of your abilities like this.  Even half your skillset is double what most adversaries possess. 

But Chan is too much.  You spend the fight on constant defense, blocking swing after swing, hit after hit.  You take advantage of the smallest opening and crack your fist on his chest, only to realize he deliberately opened himself to it.  He grabs your wrist and twists you around before you can retaliate.  You are not used to such brute strength.  You follow his twisting to prevent a sprain or fracture, which he anticipates.  He grabs you by the throat and yanks you into him, right off your feet. 

You choke, blue swarming your rapidly blurring vision.  He slams you down on the ground, further disorienting you, still clutching your neck.

You dive somewhere deep inside your head.  You collect yourself as per your training, then swing your knee up between his legs.  It does not fully incapacitate him but it does discombobulate him.  He lets go of your throat and you slide between his legs, jumping up behind him.  He turns just in time to take a kick to the stomach, blasting him backwards to the end of the ring.    He prevents a worse fall by forcing himself down on one knee. 

You take the second he is down to catch your breath.  You try to calculate your next move but your adrenaline is dwindling.  Hopelessness settles in your chest.  You cannot win this fight.  At best, you can prolong it, but—

For the second time, you are blind-sided by pain.  It shatters down the right side of your body, a winded shove that blows right through you.   But it is not Chan.  Chan is still getting to his feet. 

You look up only for Changbin to bring his fist down in your face.  It knocks you off your feet and you land with a heavy thud.  Your heart races inside your aching chest. 

You have never fought Changbin like this. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss when he grabs you by the neck and drags you onto your feet.  You come to your senses and fight back, but you are hurt and tired and he has been recuperating. 

He punches you clear across the jaw and knocks you down again.  The world tilts sideways, spotted with black and blue.  Changbin drops on top of you.  You cannot even wrestle him, so disoriented.  He gets you flat on your front and pins you down. 

Then he takes a second to whisper in your ear, “Stop fighting me, murder princess.  Who do you want as a bodyguard?  Me or that thing?” 

If you were not so tired, you might have laughed. 

Your life is so backwards.  Changbin is helping you by beating the shit out of you.  But it is undoubtedly helpful.  He is right.  If Chan beat you, then Chan would be your bodyguard.  Your father would win.  He would have one of his agents glued to your side.  An agent you would never be able to shake no matter what you did. 

But it is not Chan over you.  It is your friend.  Someone from the same shadows as you.  Someone your father was not anticipating.

Changbin grabs you by the neck and yanks you up.  You look at your father with blood dribbling out of your mouth.

“I win,” Changbin says. 

Your father does not look happy.  That should upset you.  You and Miroh are bound as one. 

But it gives you a thrill.  His abomination of a soldier looms to the side, still staring at you, like he expects the fight to continue any second.  You suppose Chan’s life is one big fight and always has been. 

It doesn’t have to be that way for you, you think to yourself, a dangerous thought, one conjured by the feeling of your only friend holding you in his arms.  It looks like a death grip to anyone else, purely technical, but you feel it, the way he cups your injuries carefully despite his bulk and power.     

Miroh is scared.  He is getting desperate.  He wants you brought to heel.   In doing so, he is only stoking your resentment.

That pot starts to boil over.

“Well?” you say, in a voice as rough as gravel. 

“Yes,” your father says with a petty little snarl.  “I suppose you have won, haven’t you?” 

Changbin helps you off the ground.  You suffer through your pains.  You can feign steadiness for another minute, for long enough to retaliate.

You climb out of the ring.   You pass the other injured guards.  You walk right up to your father. 

Miroh stares at you.  You have identical glares, measuring each other.  Two soldiers with the same fire in their blood. 

You punch him.  It is a nice sharp shot across the face, using all the strength you have left.  You are one of the best.  Despite your injuries, it is still one fucking hell of a punch.

Miroh falls back in an undignified sprawl, hitting the hard ground with a painful thud.  He is good but he is not you. A fall like that would not have broken your bones the way it clearly fractures his arm.  

“Until next time, father,” you say. 

You step over him.  His security team immediately surrounds him, helping him up.  Your team comes to your aid as well.  Changbin follows too, coming right up to your side.  He grabs your arm and slings it around his shoulder, taking the brunt of your weight seconds before you would have collapsed. 

You look back over your shoulder.  The injured guards are tending their wounds.  Chan is looming in the background like a living shadow.  Miroh is clutching his arm and staring at you with fury pouring out of him.  You walk away, smiling despite your injuries. 

Your father should know better than to hit you.

You always hit back.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

You Need Only Ask [professor!Marcus Pike x librarian!reader]

Read on Ao3

Pairing: History of Art professor Marcus Pike x art library reader/you (cishet female)

Tags/Warnings: Kind of pining idiots but only one is pining, everyone is being professional but it's clear that Marcus is a pining idiot, implied coworkers to lovers.

Summary: Professor Marcus Pike is one of those cliché absent-minded professors - or so you think, but maybe there's another reason why this brilliant academic is acting a dumb fool around you?

Words: 3,534

A/N: This was inspired by an ask sent to me by @just-here-for-the-moment for a fic ask game thingy. Here's the original ask and my reply. I didn't write it exactly like that (main difference is my fic is set in modern times), but I hope y'all still like it!

”Good morning.”

Your customer service smile in place, you look over your shoulder.

”Morning, Professor. Just give me a second and I will be right with you.”

He hums, and you turn back to the bookcase where you were just about to finish re-shelving returns. Once done, you join Marcus Pike, Professor of Art History, at the desk. He’s tapping his fingers, almost impercievably, against the surface of the old solid wood desk, and you stifle a sigh. He didn’t have to wait that long.

”What can I do for you?” you ask politely. Professor Pike is never rude, but he is the typical professor type: absent-minded, a little awkward, his research always the number one priority.

“I looked for this book in the online catalog, but as I suspected, you don’t have it. It’s probably sold out, too.” He gives you a piece of paper before both his hands disappear into his pockets.

“Another inter-library loan, then?” you state, looking at the title. It’s in French, and you know immediately that your library doesn’t have it. Professor Pike is not the most computer-skilled person, so you usually double-check every book he asks for in the database, but this one you know you don’t have.

“Might have to go international for this one,” you tell him. “Canada or Europe. That’s coming out of your department’s budget, you know that.”

“I’ll make room,” he shrugs, looking towards the door, like he can’t wait to get back to the comfort of his own office. “And could you please give me more time with the last one you got for me? I need it for a bit longer.”

“I’ll contact the lending library,” you nod. “I’ll let you know.”

“Great. Thank you.”

The “Sure thing” has barely left your mouth before Pike is out the door, the sound of his steps against the stone floor quickly disappearing down the hall. You shake your head before sitting down to look up the book for him.

As you work, you once again wonder how people like Marcus Pike get jobs at all. Someone as introverted as that would never have a real shot at getting a library job, which requires people skills, patience, and the ability to stand in front of people. But when it comes to academia, it seems like all you need is credentials and a good research profile, and you’re hired. Unlike you, who had to fight tooth and nail for this position. You have Master’s degrees in art and library science, educational and language studies, job experience, and it was still almost impossible to get this job. People who have these jobs never seem to retire but just sit there, year after year, until they eventually sprout roots that fasten them to their chairs.

But you’re here now, since five years, and while Pike’s predecessor never showed his face in the library but sometimes sent you cryptical emails requests that took you half a day to decipher, it’s nice to see that the much younger professor actually frequents the university’s special arts library.

Finally locating Pike’s book in a university library in France, you quickly find the instructions for ILL’s, and send a loan request. After that, you apply for more time for Pike’s previous book, and by afternoon, you have confirmation for both books: one will be mailed out later during the day in Europe, the other has been renewed. You let Pike know through an email, before performing closing duties in the library. Your computer pings just as you’re about to turn it off, and you see that it’s a reply from Pike. Clicking it up, you see the very unlikely response:

>>Amazing, what a service. Just bill the department, I’ve got it covered. Thank you so much 😊 <<

Shaking your head in disbelief at the informal tone, you turn off the computer, clock out, and go home.

Professor Pike is back two days later, now asking for a book that’s available. When you tell him so, he clears his throat, gaze flickering away from you.

“Could you maybe show me where it is?”

“Sure.” You’re curt, because this isn’t the first time. It’s an easy enough book to find, and every item in the library is labeled, and the database even has an interactive feature where you can click on the item’s call number to open up a layout of the stacks, showing the correct shelf in red. It has freed you up a lot now that most patrons can easily find their literature themselves, but some people just want you to do everything for them.

“You know, Professor, you could maybe my start of term library tour useful,” you dare to tease him as you walk before him to the right case. “Most freshmen find it very helpful, and they can usually manage their own information retrieval after.”

“I think maybe a little touch-up course would do me good,” he replies, voice a little tight. “But I like personal service.”

You find the book, pull it out, and hand it to him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you tell him easily. “Anything else I can do for you?”

He swallows visibly.

“No, thank you.”

He uses the self check-out this time, and leaves quickly without saying goodbye. You shake your head, and catch the eye of Mandy, a Master’s student who works on her thesis in the library almost every day.

“Strange fellow, that one, isn’t he?”

She gives you a peculiar look. “I guess so.”

One thing that you appreciate a lot about your job is the building itself. The campus was built in Collegiate Gothic style in the middle of the 19th century, and compared to the nearby city library with its white surfaces, glass walls, and modern design furniture, the much quieter arts library still seems more alive. The library houses more books than one would think when first seeing it, and it has the charming nooks and crannies that are so common for old houses.

You’re standing in one of those nooks one day; an alcove that houses folios, a cart of tall books parked next to the step stool that you’re standing on. You hear someone enter the library, shout out a “Hello!” as you usually do to let patrons know that you’re in the stacks, and receive a low answer. Mindful not to hurt your wrists, you pick up another folio from the cart, and put it back in its place.

The sound of footsteps stops at the desk, and you pick up the next book.

“Be right with you!”

The patron moves again, slowly walking towards the corner where you are, as if looking for you. You turn your head just as you see Professor Pike come around the corner of a bookcase.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” you nod, picking up the next book. “Almost done.”

“I got your email about the book from France. They sent it rather fast.”

“I was surprised, too,” you admit. There’s one book left, and you really should get down from the stool, move it, and get up again, but you’re lazy. You reach, getting up on your toes, just barely getting the book into place when you feel the stool slip from under you. You gasp, a thousand thoughts rushing through your head during the split second you’re in free fall, and then you land softly, not on the floor, but against a corduroy chest, strong arms holding you.

“Shit, that was close!”

You’re tongue-tied, wide-eyed with shock, heart in your throat and going a mile a minute to make up for the missed beats.

“Are you okay?”

You slowly start to realize that you’re in the arms of Marcus Pike, who caught you when you fell from the stool. And he’s still holding you.

“Yeah, I, yeah, fine, I’m good.” You babble, moving uncomfortably to let him know to let you down, which he does with the utmost care. Your legs are wobbly, and Pike keeps a hand on your waist to make sure you won’t fall.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you now giggle, embarrassed but simultaneously exhilarated by the rush of adrenaline. “That wasn’t stupid at all, was it? I’ve been thinking about having that stool replaced, but I never got around to it, haha. I guess it takes an accident for me to get my thumb out of my a-, I mean, to get it done.”

Your cheeks are heating up, your hands are shaking as you grab the handles of the cart, kicking the accursed stool to the side.

“That was really scary, though,” Pike tells you in a low voice. “You could’ve really injured yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks, I mean, thanks for catching me.” You bite your lower lip and force yourself to look at him. “I’m so embarrassed. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Just glad I was here,” he shrugs, slowly following you as you march to the desk. “Although one could argue that had I not been here, you wouldn’t have tried to restack that heavy book without moving your stool. Sorry if I stressed you.”

“You didn’t,” you tell him lightly. “I sometimes cut corners like that. It’s fine, no harm done.”

You park the cart in its spot behind the desk, and turn to the shelf of reserved books.

“Here’s your inter-library loan. Due date four weeks from now, if you need it for longer, you know the drill.”

“I do,” he replies quietly and accepts the book from you. Holding it in one hand, he carefully opens it with the other, and thoughtfully browses through it. You sit down, flustered and still a little shaky, hoping that he’ll leave so that you can nurse your wounded pride, and maybe have a drink of water.

“It’s about these eighteenth-century art frauds in Europe – “

“I know. I read the title,” you cut him off, more curt than you meant to. Pike closes the book and nervously fingers the paper slip in it.

“You read French?”

“I even speak it.”

A smile breaks out on his face. “Of course you do.”

You stare at him, frowning as you try to understand what his deal is, and why he’s suddenly smiling like that. It’s never happened before.

And you’ve never noticed what a charming smile he has. It reveals a dimple in his right cheek that makes him look younger than he is – not that he’s old in any way, he must be around your age, somewhere between forty and fifty. The smile makes you even more shaky, and you can’t stop staring at him. He eventually notices, the smile dies down, and he lowers his eyes.

“Well, thanks,” he mumbles, turning around and walking away briskly, leaving you to stare after him, wondering what the hell happened.

Mandy comes in from her lunch break, waves a hello, then stops when she sees you.

“Is everything okay?”

You nod dismissively. “I’m fine, Mandy. I just… almost fell from a stool. But no harm done.”

She expresses her sympathies before going to the study area. You take a deep breath, and disappear into the back room for a glass of water.

There’s tittling in the stacks, but you don’t pay it any mind: it’s part of library life, especially on a campus filled with hormonal young adults. It’s not until your hear Professor Pike’s name mentioned that you stop writing on your keyboard, and strain to hear better.

“He’s the best lecturer here.”

“And he’s so fucking hot, don’t you think?”

“Cara! He’s a million years old!”

“No, he’s not, he’s like the youngest of the faculty, except for Langley, but she’s a woman.”

“Well, I’m bi, and she’s fine too.”

Shameless giggling ensues, and you have to stifle one as well.

“Wouldn’t mind doing some extra credit for Professor Pike…”

“That’s so tacky, Mindy.”

“Come on, like you haven’t thought about it.”

The girls appear from the stacks, carrying literature over to the self service check-out.

“I just think that his lectures are amazing. He can explain literally anything so that I get it. And he knows so much.”

You stare at your screen, but you’re listening to the students.

“He should lecture more, why doesn’t he have any classes?”

“Duh, because he’s a professor, he has other things to do.”

“I’d give him something to do…”

More giggling.

“I’m serious! I ended upw atching that Youtube lecture twice just because he’s so good!”

The girls borrow their books while talking, then nod good-bye to you as they leave. You nod back, then hit up Youtube, and type in Professor Marcus Pike.

You find a video of him giving a lecture on the history of art, and open it. And your jaw drops.

The man in the video is confident without being cocky, talkative, engaging, contact-seeking. He speaks clearly, even drops a couple of jokes, and he walks around the podium in the auditorium. If it wasn’t for that corduroy jacket with the leather patches at the shoulders, the one that you had enveloped around yourself last week, you wouldn’t have recognized the man.

You close the video and chew your lower lip. You always thought Pike was this nutty professor who didn’t know how to behave around people and preferred books to socializing. But the man in the video is nothing like that. So what is his problem when talking to you?

Navigating to Facebook, you search his name, finding him easily enough. He doesn’t seem to be very active, but his professional profile is listed.

His status is set to “single”, which surprises you, but you think no further of it. You click on to photos, finding only a few, most of them outdated.

“Good afternoon.”

You look up, startled at the familiar voice. Seeing Marcus Pike’s face, you close the browser window quickly.

“Sorry,” he quickly apologizes. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No worries, I was just… working.”

He clears his throat. “I’d like to return this.”

You accept the book from him, recognizing it as one of his previous ILL’s.

“Thank you.”

A couple of students come in, saying hello to both of you before disappearing into the stacks, phones in hand, library catalog probably open in their mobile browsers. Marcus looks after them, moving his weight from one foot to the other. You put the book to the side.

“Anything else I can do for you, Professor?”

He almost jumps at the sound of your voice.

“Um, no, thank you, I have to get back to work, grad student coming to see me, um, thanks, I’ll let your know if I need anything.”

He leaves the library, and you’re almost laughing. What the hell was that?

As soon as the students have found and borrowed their books, and you’re alone in the library with Mandy, she gets up and comes over to the desk. You smile your mild customer service smile at her, but she returns it with a wry grin.

“You know that he likes you right?”

You blink, not understanding. “Excuse me?”

“Professor Pike. He likes you.”

You shake your head to show her that you have no idea what she’s talking about, and she laughs.

“Oh, come on! The way he stutters and stumbles when he’s here. And he talks about you all the time, every chance he gets.”

“He what?” Your voice goes up, and you clamp your mouth shut. Mandy nods.

“He always tells us to use the library, and ask you for help. The librarian there is really competent, we’re lucky to have such a professional at our service, that sort of thing.”

“Why do you think that means he likes me?” you ask, cheeks heating up. This is stupid, this girl is half your age, and you’re talking like both of you are in middle school.

“Because he’s super confident in class, in meetings, whenever he talks to anyone, except you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Hello!” Mandy rolls her eyes. “Earth to librarian lady! He’s like a flustered cinnamon bun whenever he’s around you – “

“Cinnamon bun?” you interrupt her, incredulously.

“Cutie patootie in old folk speech,” Mandy smirks at you, and you scoff.

“I know what a cinnamon bun is.”

“Whatever. He comes here constantly, doesn’t he? I sit here most days, and no other faculty member visits as much. He’s here practically every day, asking you the simplest questions. He’s into you.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about, Mandy,” you mumble, hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Alright, if you say so,” she smirks. “But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

Later, when she leaves the library, wishing you a good weekend, you open up the browser window again, Pike smiling charmingly at you from his profile picture. You look at it for a long time before logging out, and getting up to reshelf returns.

Friday afternoon in the library makes for slow hours. It’s usually empty – even Mandy has left – and while it gives you the opportunity to prepare for next week, there are Fridays when you’d rather just close up, if you could, and go home early.

A quarter to four, when you’re impatiently tapping your foot for closing time, Marcus Pike shows up again. Mandy’s words echo in your head, making you nervous for the first time, but you manage to suppress that, instead turning on your professional persona.

“Back so soon?” you ask him lightly

“Yeah, I need a book.” He seems to understand himself how stupid that sounded.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

He tells you the title, and you look it up.

“It’s in, call number N5198-5299,” you inform him, then looking up at his hesitant expression. “It’s in the corner over there.”

“Um, could you show me? I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.” You get up and walk around the desk. “But it’s a class that you use a lot, Professor, you should be accustomed to it by now.”

“Marcus.”

“What’s that?”

“Call me Marcus. I don’t much like titles anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

You take him to the right stacks, walking in between the heavy cases. It’s a tight squeeze, this one, and the book is located further in. You pick it out, and turn around, only to find Marcus standing right behind you.

You’ve been in this situation before, many times even. Worst times were when you worked in the city library, and creeps would crowd you between the stacks, not trying anything but coming closer than necessary.

Your heart misses a beat, but you’re not uncomfortable. Instead, you smell something familiar and comforting, something besides old paper, leather covers, and ink. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Marcus’s cologne, the corduroy, his shampoo: earthy but fresh, a little like the forest after rain, but with an undertone of old leather armchair.

You wet your lips, and hold up the book he asked for.

“Your book.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t take it, so you lower your hand. He clears his throat, but this time, he doesn’t look away, but straight into your eyes.

“I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“There’s this classic movie festival this weekend, and I was wondering…”

“If I wanted to go with you?” you finish his sentence for him, as he takes too long for you to wait. He blinks, then smiles that sweet smile again.

“Exactly. Yes. Would you?”

“I’d like that.”

“Really?” The smile seems to broaden even more.

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

“Perfect. I can pick you up, if you want to. At six?”

“Perfect,” you echo, now smiling widely yourself. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath this entirely time.

“Perfect.”

The desk phone rings, startling both of you. The book falls from your hand, and you look down at it, then up at Marcus.

“I need to get that.”

“Of course,” he nods. You make a little movement with your head.

“I need to get past you, Marcus?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sorry.”

He backs out from between the cases, letting you out as well. His cologne seems to rub off on your arm when you brush past him, hurrying to the desk. You answer the phone and try to focus on the person calling, take a couple of notes, and end the call just as Marcus comes walking to the desk, book in hand. You check it out for him, give him your number, and he smiles again as he thanks you. You follow him to the door so that you can close up after him.

“I’ll call,” he promises as he steps out. You nod, hand on the door handle.

“Looking forward to it.”

He raises the book as a farewell, then starts walking down the corridor. You’re about to close the door when you suddenly step out, calling his name.

“Marcus!”

He turns around immediately, and now that he’s standing with his back straight, instead of hunched over, you notice how tall and broad-shouldered he is.

“Yes?”

“For the record… you’re into me, right?”

He chuckles, his ears turning pink. “Yeah, I’m into you.”

“Just checking,” you grin. “See you tomorrow.”

[syneilesis]

[fic] Impact Factor

Impact Factor

Love and Deepspace | Zayne (Li Shen) x Main-Character!Reader | G | 4k words | ao3 link

god, i'm so lovesick. what have you done to me? You tell Zayne that you're co-authoring a research paper. He finds himself wanting and waiting to read it.

A/N: For @seraphiism 's 2024 writing event. I chose Lovesick by Laufey. I know. Zayne? Lovesick? Lmao I don't know if I pulled it off, but I have to write for Zayne at least once.

I gave this fic a single, cursory proofread. Any mistake is still my fault. Divider by @/saradika

“By the way, a professor of mine in college reached out to me last week and asked me if I was interested in co-authoring an article with her on the phenomenology of vocation of the people working in Hunters Association.”

The clacking of the keyboard is crisp and loud in the silverlined office, accompanied by the low hum of the airconditioner. Zayne's attention remains on the computer, updating your status condition. He makes a brief noise to indicate that he's listening, and when he takes his gaze away from the desktop he finds you watching him with a faint grin on your face.

“Do you want me to guess your reply?”

That faint grin grows wide and whole.

“What do you think?”

Zayne leans back and rolls his chair a little farther, reaching out to turn on the printer. The machine whirls to life, chatters.

“You accepted the offer, of course.” He returns to his laptop and clicks on the print icon. “You don't have the heart to refuse your professor.”

“Dr. Zayne, you know me so well.”

Something in the way you said it compels him to turn to you again. Your expression hasn't changed, but the fall of your hair frames your slightly narrowed eyes that sparkle under the bright fluorescent light, like rare midday stars. It staggers the beats of Zayne's heart for two seconds, seizes his throat, and in that sliver of a moment Zayne forgets to breathe.

“Maybe it's because you're transparent,” he says, after retrieving the prescription from the printer. He hands you the paper, and surprise stretches your features. He clarifies: “Supplements. Undoubtedly you will need it when you begin your research.”

“Nothing less from my doctor.” My. The word is malleable around your mouth. And then: “I'm transparent? Is that a bad thing?”

“It's not a flaw.” He signs the healthcare forms you passed onto him. “But neither is it a virtue.”

“Hmm. Then, I guess I'll watch myself.”

His head jerks at your response, and Zayne has something to say to that—something like your not needing to be conscious of how open you are—but then your watch beeps and you apologize for the sudden departure.

Alone in his office, Zayne sinks into his chair and closes his eyes.

▼

That exchange, brief yet odd, lingers in Zayne's mind, like a stone at the base of his brain, next to the stem and cerebellum. He can feel its weight, its matter, solid and bothersome that at one point Greyson stops and asks him, “Are you okay, Dr. Zayne? You seem to be distracted today.”

A flash of memory; the word transparent, your answer. Were it not for the emergency mission, he would have hastened to add that transparency is closely associated with sincerity—and that is a virtue. He imagines a version of you as secretive as a glacier, as closed-off as a fortress, and the dissonance it invites rings discordant in the history between you—you who have always reached out to him first.

His hands itch for the phone that's secluded in one of his drawers, away from distraction, from memory. Zayne is, after all, duty first, the rest a distant second.

“It's nothing,” he tells Greyson. “I'm fine.”

“Maybe it's time for a vacation? You've been busy—busier than usual—lately.”

“I'll take a vacation at the end of the year. Right now, you're needed in the meeting room for a briefing.”

When Greyson clears the area, Zayne turns and sees Yvonne near the entrance of the lobby, studying him, her face arranged in a way that invites him to defend himself for some reason. But he resists the irrational urge.

He meets her scrutiny with a long and stoic gaze, and she shakes her head, wordless, then continues on with her work.

Left in the hallway, Zayne sighs and goes back to his office.

▼

“Dr. Zayne!”

Shapes of different colors coalesce into your reflection on the glass that displays the myriad cakes Zayne's been deliberating upon for the last fifteen minutes. The figure looms larger and larger, until it sidles up next to him and he straightens up, turning to his side.

“What a coincidence,” you continue with a glancing smile, hand on your chin as you survey the available pastries for purchase. “Are you buying desserts too?”

Earlier, Akso Hospital had a rare moment of slowness that allowed its personnel to indulge in a breather, which afforded Zayne to clock out on time. As a treat—and he will never admit this to anyone—he's stopped by the bakeshop on the way home, and to his surprise, here you are as well.

To your question he can only give a noncommittal sound; then to the cashier he points at the sea salt caramel vanilla slice that he's wanted to try for a while now. Both you and the cashier let out an intrigued Oh! before the purchase is processed at the register.

“Sea salt caramel vanilla,” you say with an evaluatory seriousness, “good choice.”

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose.

“By the way, I've started on the research project. Been doing some preliminary reading since I don't want to disappoint my former professor. So far I'm doing well—the supplements are a great help!”

The supplements. He had an inkling that, as you are wont to do with every mission, you were rushing into this project with all your mind and body, tunnel-visioned, only the end goal visible in your sights. This unfortunately excludes concerns regarding your health, and Zayne is correct: all nighters and skipped meals, both of which erode the state of a person's health. When you are focused on something, that something takes the highest priority, and he can't always be with you all the time to remind you to take a break, or eat healthy food, or drink water. Which is why: supplements. They're not preventative, but at least they mitigate.

And it seems you're telling the truth: no tightness in your eyes and tautness in the shape of your mouth. In this case—in the case of your aspiration to conceal—you have not changed—or at least attempted to hold yourself back. Something in his chest loosens, smooths the tenseness out of his muscles that Zayne hasn't realized is there.

This is something to ponder, but not at the moment.

“I don't have to remind you that supplements are not substitutes for healthy food and proper sleep, do I?”

“Of course not! Even I know that.” But then your expression turns sheepish. “In practice, that's a little ...”

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose again.

“But don't worry too much about me, Dr. Zayne! I'm taking care of myself just fine!”

“That doesn't instill much confidence.”

“How about this, then?” And you face him fully, a ready smile brimming with its own confidence and assurance, as radiant as an aurora. “If something happens, you will be the first person I'll turn to.”

At that Zayne pauses. The easy trust you bring between the both of you warms his neck, the back of it, climbing up, up, up to the tips of his ears and to his cheeks. He moves on to the cashier, his back on you.

“Try not to let that 'something' happen, but I know you're too stubborn to listen.”

A chuckle, and then: “I can't make any promises, but I'll try.”

This time, Zayne turns back.

“'Try' implies effort, so I am expecting effort.”

You snap a salute, grinning. “Got it, Doc!”

▼

The day after that, Zayne begins to read up on the subject of phenomenology.

▼

It won't be a couple of weeks until Zayne sees you again—but this time it's under the harsh hospital lights and the din of frantic footsteps and rolling wheels, the mixed scents of blood and antiseptic stinging his nose. A Wanderer surge disrupted the southern part of Linkon, and of the hunters dispatched you had been one of them.

Zayne glides around the moving bodies, steps never faltering until he finds you tucked in a corner, cradling your broken arm.

When his shadow falls upon your involuted frame, you lift your head and a rueful grin greets him. Your glass-sheen gaze doesn't escape his scrutiny.

He's wearing his white coat, and both of his hands retreat into its pockets, where he closes them into tight fists. If Zayne tilts his head a little more to the right, he can see a lengthy gash that lines along your temple and into your scalp, covered by your blood-crusted hair. He is painfully aware that this is part and parcel of your profession, the risk that endangers a hunter during a mission. A part of him is thankful that today it is only a broken arm and a couple of wounds. It could have been much worse, and Zayne refuses to imagine a scenario where you come into the hospital drained of vitality. A frustrated sigh threatens to spill out of him, but he endures, and just pointedly shoots you a disappointed look.

“So this is all the effort that you mentioned just amounted to.”

“To be fair I was doing well for a couple of hours until I had to rescue a civilian trapped in a damaged building.”

“That is commendable.” And he means it. But—“Follow that nurse with the brown clipboard. He's in charge of injuries like yours. Can you walk that far?”

Your uninjured hand braces against the wall and you pull yourself up, the motion not quite fluid but not a slow stagger either. Zayne would have assisted you, but it seems that you can do it on your own.

“It's my arm that's broken, not my legs.” A wincing smile, and you start to make your way forward. “I know that you have to take care of other people, Dr. Zayne, but thanks for checking up on me.”

Behind him, a nurse calls his name, a signal to go back to his work. There are other patients who need his attention more than you do, and overall you seem fine, still put together. A broken arm can heal over time, given proper medical care. And Zayne knows, intimately, that Akso does not lack for anything.

Still. It's not entirely on purpose, but Zayne calls your name.

“I—” he begins, as you slow down to wait for whatever he's going to say. His throat struggles, constricting and opening in subconscious reflex. “I'd still rather not worry about you like this.”

In and around the space between you and him, the hospital remains astir—shadows and silhouettes slipping in and out of Zayne's sight—until they give way to the blossoming smile on your face, eclipsing everything from the back to the fore, a pinpoint mark on the map.

Later, even as he tends to his patients, your smile persists in Zayne's mind, an afterimage that refuses to disappear behind his eyelids.

▼

Exactly one week after that incident, Zayne receives a bouquet of jasmines and a box of banana bread. Attached to it is a pristine white card with a line written: Don't forget to take care of yourself too!

The card stays in his breast pocket well beyond his working hours, right next to his beating heart.

▼

Days pass, weeks, months, and Zayne finds himself browsing through phenomenology journals during his break in the hopes of seeing your name in one of them. He knows that you'll tell him once it's published, but there's a part of him that clamors for the first touch of knowledge, the letters that make up your name woven in the glowing screen of his tablet.

At the same time, Greyson and Yvonne have bitten into their suspicions—whatever they are, Zayne refuses to ask—and swallowed the succulence as if it's a juicy truth. Often he sees Greyson glancing at him with a shadow of a smile, a quick sleight of hand that when Zayne fully faces him his expression is already ironed out and professional. Yvonne is no better: all glimmering eyes and knowing grins and incessant questions about his mood. Once, he asked the reason for the barrage of questions and Yvonne ignored the frost in his voice and tittered, telling him that sometimes in life, they have to combat the monotony with exciting things.

It worries him somewhat that you and Yvonne and even Greyson have been getting along quite well for a time now.

But your name still doesn't appear, and it doesn't seem to be appearing in the foreseeable future. Still Zayne searches, his fingers already making a habit of typing your name in the bar, his heart beating for a yes.

▼

At some point, he's asked about your progress.

“It's been going well,” you answer. “Professor made some comments about the part in my results and discussion, so I'm going to revise that. I think we can submit it by next month if we maintain the pace.”

After a thoughtful pause, you rest your arms on his desk, cushion your chin on them, and angle him a sly look.

“Are you offering to proofread my work, Dr. Zayne?”

“I may need a box of red pens for that.”

That jolts a laugh out of you, and you recover by sending a mock pout his way.

“I’ll have you know that I was a diligent writer in college! I won in essay writing competitions!”

“Is that so? Then I suppose your first foray in academic publishing will be a successful ‘accepted with minor revisions’ reply from the editor.”

“Of course! Oh, fine, fine. I won’t ask you to proofread the manuscript. You can just wait until it’s published.”

A small, genuine smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

▼

Eventually, he receives a text that says, We finally submitted the article! Now we just have to wait 🫣

He excuses himself from a cluster of medical professionals talking about the latest breakthroughs in oncology and parks himself beside the long table of drinks. He texts back: Watch out for Reviewer #2. They’re always the culprit.

It takes a full ten minutes before you reply, and during that period of anticipation four individuals have come up to him and attempted to pull him into a conversation about his accomplishments and recent research—one even braving to entice him into applying to another hospital.

Zayne shakes them off as politely as he can (and to that one poacher he gives a cold and resolute no). When his phone beeps, he turns away and redirects his undivided attention to the screen. All your latest message contains is a single salute emoji and the single-word sentence Gotcha! A laugh startles out of him, which Yvonne—having developed an eagle eye for Zayne in the recent weeks—notices and she scurries over to Greyson, bowing their heads in hushed whispers, glancing at him every now and then.

He's realized what they'd been talking about whenever he's in their vicinity, and he's tempted to refute their assumptions and retaliate accordingly. But the stone-weight in his mind had transformed into a persistent itch that does not choose when it strikes. In most cases it's merely annoying, but on rare occasions it is, frankly, merciless. A good-night text echoes in his dreams, and Zayne wakes with a thick sweetness coating the inside of his mouth. A fleeting touch from your worried hand burns the skin of his arm, the heat seeping into the layers until it reaches the subcutaneous tissue, where it spreads all over his body through the veins. He has to evade your glare to hide the ruddiness of his cheeks. Capitulation is the only option he had to choose in the end, and the idea of surrendering to this melts away the reflexive inquiry of when and how and why—a trait he had to hone as a doctor and a researcher.

What else is left when all the signs are pointing to this one immutable conclusion? 

▼

On the day and hour your article is published Zayne is in the middle of a delicate surgery that takes him five hours and two hysterical family members of the patient—even with Evol involved. He emerges from the operating room with good news and exhausted-yet-relieved colleagues, Greyson's smile emerging from the doors the first indicator of a successful operation.

The patient's mother clings to him in tearful gratitude.

He orients the family on the next steps, and as he signs the healthcare forms he discovers a new slice of wound on the back of his hand, thin but lengthy. He has long since accepted that his hands, his arms, will forever be spattered with scars, and if that's the price he has to pay for saving lives, then it's of no consequence to him.

(Once, he had caught your gaze glued to his hands, so he snapped his fingers, startling you into looking at his face.

“What was that for?” you demanded.

“You're not paying attention.”

“I was just—” you bit your lip, torn. A pause, then: “Did they hurt—each one of them?”

He glanced down and studied each scar. Too many, you'd probably think. But not once had they bothered him.

“I never even noticed them in the first place, so no.”

“Okay.” Your eyes were crystal glass and the deep breath you took was stuttering in all its inelegance. “Okay.”)

A sliver of a break provides him the opportunity to sink into reprieve, and his hand gropes for his phone on the desk, peeking out under a sheaf of documents that he has to fill out later.

A cursory look at the screen, and then Zayne is leaping for the computer.

The research article you and your professor had written is kept behind a paywall. Zayne spares a moment to shut his eyes in irritation. He's fortunate that his university library account is still active, so he utilizes that privilege to gain access to the article’s full version, made available by the university’s database.

When the file loads, he syncs it to his tablet, after which he leans back on the chair and settles to read. He can locate which parts you had a hand in writing, and the parts where your style comes out. It isn't his field, but he has read enough to venture that the insights of this paper are valuable. Unwittingly, a proud smile surfaces on his lips.

At the end of the article, in the acknowledgment section, something is curiously written:

The co-author is grateful for the moral and medical support of Akso Hospital's Dr. Zayne. Dr. Zayne, would you like to have dinner with me? As a date. Yes, I'm asking you out.

Zayne’s mind blanks out and the itch returns, scrabbling at the walls of his skull, loud and frenetic and overwhelming all his senses. His entire body warms and the sensation of crawling needles prickle at his skin. Everything is white noise; his heart threatens to jump out of his ribcage. He gets the ridiculous thought that he can't perform a surgery on himself.

The next thing he knows, he's driving his car at the same time dialing your number. The car speakers amplify the ringing tone once his phone is attached to the dashboard. Both his hands tightly grip the steering wheel.

When the call connects, he opens with “What would you do if I hadn't read your article?”

He can practically hear the smile in your voice; it resounds around the car interior. “That's not an option, Dr. Zayne. You would have definitely read the article.”

Laughter bubbles up inside him; he tamps it down. “Confident now, are we?”

“Of course!” A pause; a shuffle of feet. You must be heading to another room. “I hear car engine, where are you now?”

“On the way to your apartment.”

“Wait, don't—go to this restaurant instead. I'll text you the address. I have it all reserved and ready.”

He blinks once, twice, surprise slackening the muscles on his face. “... You haven't even heard my answer yet.”

“You can tell me at the restaurant. And then we'll celebrate with excellent food, excellent wine, and scrumptious desserts.”

“You sound so certain about receiving a positive response.”

“I'm optimistic that way, Dr. Zayne. I'm heading out now—I'll see you in a bit!”

You hang up, and the speakers beep into silence. Two seconds later Zayne presses the hazard switch. The car slows down and then comes to a halt on the side of the road. Other vehicles zoom past him. Without the need to drive, Zayne can finally give in to the urge to exhale aloud and let out a brief yet astounded laugh, forehead pressing against the leather smoothness of the steering wheel.

You've always been transparent. But Zayne has made the crucial mistake of neglecting the fact that you are also clever. If this were a competition, you've already won.

▼

You're already at the restaurant when he arrives, sat on the corner facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, the shifting lights outside dancing over your serene profile. Your elbows rest on the table, where everything is already set up except the food. A vase of red roses at the center completes the picturesque scene.

You lift your head and welcome him with a triumphant grin once he's a few steps away. And when he settles on the chair opposite you, you lean forward and stare at him expectantly.

“You could have asked like a normal person,” Zayne begins.

“I could have,” you agree, nodding, “but I like it this way. I like to get closer to you through the things you do.”

Another moment of Zayne getting caught off-center: the warmth flushing outward from the core of his body like vibrant ink on clean, clear water. He has to lower his gaze from the sheer brilliance of your certainty, the way your patience and care have allowed this moment between the two of you, something that he has never imagined culminating like this: two people sitting opposite each other, in this softly lit restaurant while the world bursts into festive lights outside it. The tender way your hand moves across the table, stopping right before the flower vase, as if affording him the liberty to arrive at a decision Zayne has already made, many, many months (years) ago, just buried under the strata of responsibilities, boundaries, and improbabilities.

Never the when, never the how, never the why. It is, only, sublimely, this.

Zayne sighs with a rueful shake of his head. “It's not yet too late—maybe I should answer by publishing my own research article.” But the hand meeting yours belies his words.

Your smile: pleased, pleasure, like the sun emerging from the winter sky.

He's too occupied with the touch of your hand and the radiance of your expression that Zayne misses the throwaway comment that tumbles past his lips:

“If we're talking about getting closer through doing the things the other does, then I suppose I should propose to you when we're in the middle of a Wanderer invasion.”

And then he realizes what he just said.

Zayne whips his head up, heart in throat, and scrambles for an excuse. “What I meant was—”

“Getting ahead of ourselves now, are we?” Your face is pure indulgence, pure bliss. Your hand squeezes his, not letting go. “Don't worry, Dr. Zayne; I'm looking forward to it.”

And that lustrous smile, sustained. Zayne relaxes and you release him to clap your hands together, delighted.

“Now then! Shall we have our dinner?”

▼

(You have, indeed, delivered in all aspects: excellent food, excellent wine, and scrumptious desserts.)

[alvfr]

you asked for it! im forcing you!

how about a scenario on that particular AU you have cooking around? between nightwing and a spiderperson that is marooned in the black and white gotham city

we love to see it

posting this like you haven't already read all of it >.< a/n: the funniest jokes are princess-marida's and she is a blessed saint that endures my long ramblings about wips, including this one. i know it says a scenario, but this turned into a longer project (shocker) so here's the first part of chapter 1 (eventual) paring: dick grayson/reader rating: m (swearing)/sfw cw: spider-woman!reader who never stops talking, no use of y/n, superhero violence summary: for years, you have been the one and only Spider-Woman of your world. However, after being recruited to the multiversal Spider-Society, you learn that there's a version of you in every other universe too.At least that's what you thought until something goes wrong and you end up in a world with plenty of superheroes, but no Spider-Man. You're stranded, alone and glitching. You need to find this world's Spider-Man and restore your link to the Spider-Verse before you disintegrate completely - easier said than done with both a local detective and a hot vigilante on your tail.

Out of the Spider-Verse (and into Gotham)

All right, guys. Let’s start at the beginning one last time. 

Your name is definitely not Peter Parker, but you were bitten by a radioactive spider, and for the last few years, you’ve been the one and only Spider-Woman. At least, you thought you were until another Spider-Woman showed up to recruit you to the multiversal Spider-Society and you realized you were one of many, many, many Spider-things from all kinds of universes. It was a sweet gig, getting you out and about some, meeting new people, doing team-ups and group work, and your leader was a decent enough guy. A little intense. Borderline scary. Easy on the eyes though. Really easy on the eyes.

And one day, you’re hanging out at the headquarters minding your own business, totally not gossipping about boss-man, when the order comes to capture one of your fellow Spider-Men. Next thing you know, you’re caught up in the whirlwind of Spider-Beings chasing after someone called Miles Morales, and somehow, in the chaos, you slip.

A fluke, really. You never slip. You’re Spider-Woman! You literally stick to walls and ceilings, and somehow, you lost your footing and took a tumble into darkness. 

Real darkness. Where bright flashing lights and psychedelic colors had accompanied you all the other times you hopped through dimensions, this time, you fell into a black pit of nothing. Reflexes had you shooting out webs, desperate to get an anchor point. They disappeared into the void with an embarrassing swish, and you did not even have time to scream before you smacked into something undeniably solid.

Concrete, probably, based on the cloud of debris and dust that rained over you as your body dug several feet into it, knocking every cubic inch of air from your lungs with an oof. Yup, you determined as you lifted your now gray arms to study them. Definitely concrete. You dropped your head back into the rubble and made a face under your mask. Concrete dust was a real bitch to get out of the suit, and you would be forced to cosplay as whitewashed Noir Spider-Man until you could get it dry-cleaned. 

Read more on AO3

[6azia]

Scent| Kakashi x m!reader

—summary. “You’re so warm…” Kakashi murmured, his voice quieter than usual, muffled against (Y/N)’s skin. His silver hair tickled the side of (Y/N)’s face, but neither of them cared. The world outside felt so far away, and in this moment, it was just the two of them, tangled up in each other. Or Kakashi is getting overwhelmed by is first time

—content warning. friends to lovers, humping, Kakashi is a bit dog like?

—word count. ~2,0k

—azia‘s notes. Guys… the AO3 cures got me. My father is in the hospital since the 7th, so I have to work and study for my finals. However I’m trying to finish the rest on the weekend

𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯-𝔏𝔦𝔰𝔱

The rain outside was relentless, hammering against the roof of their small home in steady waves. The storm had come out of nowhere, leaving Konoha streets empty and the night feeling heavy with tension. Inside their home, that same weight hung between Kakashi and (Y/N)-unspoken, yet palpable.

Kakashi sat at the edge of their shared futon, his gaze focused on the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass. He hadn’t said much since coming home from his mission earlier that evening. His body language was stiff, his shoulders tight, and the mask that he still wore felt more like a shield than usual.

From across the room, (Y/N) finished drying the dishes and turned to face him. Kakashi had always been a mystery, even to those closest to him. But not to (Y/N). They had lived together for years-practically since childhood in all that time, (Y/N) had learned to read even the slightest shift in Kakashi’s demeanor.

But tonight, something was different.

“You’ve been quiet,” (Y/N) said, breaking the silence, his voice steady but gentle. He approached Kakashi slowly, his larger frame moving with a softness that belied his size. “Something on your mind?”

Kakashi didn’t respond at first, his eyes still glued to the window, his gloved fingers absently tracing the edge of his mask. His sharp nose twitched slightly, an unconscious movement he made when he was overwhelmed.

It was his sense of smell that gave it away.

Without the mask fully covering his face, Kakashi’s heightened sense of smell always became more pronounced. He could smell everything; the faint scent of rain on wood, the lavender soap they both used, the tea steeping on the counter. But more than that, he could smell emotions, subtle and almost imperceptible to anyone else.

Right now, the air between them was thick with something heady and complicated. He could smell the calm, sure presence of (Y/N), but just beneath it was something warmer, something that made Kakashi’s heart race just a little faster. It wasn’t an unfamiliar scent, but tonight, it felt stronger, more intense. It smelled like anticipation, like tension ready to break.

Slowly, Kakashi reached up and pulled down his mask, revealing his face fully to the dim light of the room. His mole and sharp, almost predatory canines were slightly exposed as he exhaled, a soft, controlled breath. He wasn’t sure why his nerves felt so frayed tonight, but it had something to do with (Y/N)’s proximity, with the way the storm seemed to mirror the storm inside him.

“Nothing to talk about,” Kakashi muttered, though the words felt hollow even to him. He was never good at lying to (Y/N).

(Y/N) didn’t say anything at first. He just moved closer, his hand coming to rest lightly on Kakashi’s shoulder. The touch was familiar, grounding. Kakashi could feel the warmth radiating from (Y/N)’s body, and that scent-steady, solid, reassuring seeped deeper into his senses.

But there was more. Something sharper, something new.

He could smell concern, a touch of worry, but layered under that was something Kakashi had always tried to ignore: affection, desire, want. And it was coming from (Y/N). The realization sent a strange warmth flooding through him.

His nose twitched again, and for a moment, Kakashi was overwhelmed by the way (Y/N)’s scent had shifted. It was comforting and terrifying all at once, because it wasn’t just the emotion in the air-it was his own reaction to it. Kakashi could feel his body responding, drawn to that warmth in a way he wasn’t used to.

Without fully realizing it, Kakashi turned to face (Y/N), his sharp gaze meeting his friend’s. The air between them was charged, buzzing with the emotions Kakashi’s heightened senses had long picked up but had never dared acknowledge. He could practically ‘taste’ the shift in the air.

"You’re not fine," (Y/N) said softly, his voice filled with understanding. It wasn’t a question it was a simple truth, one Kakashi could no longer deny.

For once, Kakashi didn’t argue. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, his gaze locked on (Y/N)’s. His pulse was racing, and he was sure that with his mask down, (Y/N) could see the conflict in his expression. The vulnerability that came with letting his walls drop was palpable.

(Y/N) knelt down, bringing himself to eye level with Kakashi, his larger presence filling the space between them but not in an overbearing way. He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing against Kakashi’s jaw, soft but deliberate. The touch was electric, and Kakashi’s sharp senses were on high alert-he could feel the warmth of (Y/N)’s skin, and smell the faintest traces of nervousness mixed with affection.

Kakashi’s breathing hitched as (Y/N) leaned in closer. He could smell the moment (Y/N)’s emotions shifted-uncertainty giving way to something more certain, more bold. It was all-consuming, that heady mix of trust, care, and affection.

When (Y/N) moved in, Kakashi instinctively mirrored the movement, drawn in by the overwhelming scent of him, the scent of them. And then, their lips met.

Kakashi’s senses exploded, the kiss sending a wave of warmth through him that he hadn’t expected. He could feel every little detail of the softness of (Y/N)’s lips, the heat of his breath, the way his hand cupped Kakashi’s face like he was something precious, something worth holding on to, something that would break or slip away.

The scent of emotion swirled around them-desire, affection, relief. Kakashi could smell it all, feel it all, and for once, he didn’t want to run from it. He kissed back, letting himself melt into the moment, his own hand coming up to grip the front of (Y/N)’s shirt, holding him in place as though afraid this would slip away if he let go.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing heavily. Kakashi’s nose twitched again, and he could still smell it; that lingering scent of affection, of want, of everything that had been bottled up between them for years.

And for the first time, Kakashi didn’t feel the need to hide behind his mask or his walls. Not here. Not with (Y/N).

As (Y/N)’s thumb gently traced Kakashi’s jaw, he whispered, “We’ll figure it out. Together-.”

Kakashi’s heart swelled, and he inhaled deeply, catching the scent of something else now comfort, safety, home. He leaned into (Y/N)’s touch, closing his eyes and letting the warmth between them settle.

This was where he belonged. In this moment, in this space, with (Y/N) by his side. He didn’t need to say anything. His senses told him everything he needed to know.

And it was more than enough. But not quite enough, he realized. (Y/N) was cageing him between the couch he was sitting on. and looked into his great eyes with such admiration he never saw anyone looking at him like that. (Y/N) positioned himself between the other’s thighs, already seeing a prominent bulge forming from only a kiss.

If that was someone else he would have probably made fun of said person, however with Kakashi trusting him so much he couldn’t bring himself to do so. They looked each other in their eyes with such intensity, getting lost in the moment for a second. However their shared problem got them back into reality as they graced each other by accident.

How the light touch affected them threw them both off. Kakashi who never let himself feel that way was conflicted between buckling his hips more to the source that let his heart flutter and his mind wander to his beautiful friend or boyfriend-

Oh shit he shouldn’t make assumptions that the other would even want to be with his in that kind of way.

(Y/N) snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts with a light peak on his light rosy nose. “Hey focus on me” he mumbled with his deep voice. Kakashi took a deep breath and grounded himself with that familiar scent which now drove him kinda crazy with the knowledge that he can’t hide it anymore and that the other now has the knowledge of his feelings.

“More~” Kakashi moaned with a slightly pitched voice making the others' eyes glint with an unspoken promise that he’s going to regret it later. (Y/N)’s hand was creeping to the hem of Kakashi’s pants but quickly stopped when he saw that the other tensed at the implication of his action. With a sigh (Y/N) stopped all his actions and creased Kakashi’s face with as much fondness he could chanal into a touch.

He sat down beside his friend and directed him to sit down on his lap. Kakashi hesitated for split a second but the promise of release and that mind numbing feeling which was described in the books he always reads is something he wants to feel with his own body.

He gripped his friend's shoulder and experimentally rolled his hips. The other‘s hands found themself on Kakashi's hips and directed Kakashi down and into a relaxing rhythm to which the two let out pleased moans.

Not long after setting that pace, Kakashi began to tremble and dug his sharp nails into (Y/N), to which he only go a quite surprised groan as return “Come on relax for me” (Y/N) muttered against the bare neck and kissed it slowly. “Ya almost there” he noted.

(Y/N) did a sharp unexpected thrust up, which tipped Kakashi over and he convulsed on the others lap. His hot breath ticking and sharp canines nearly broke the already blemished skin.

Not long after everything went white in the corners of his eye and he let a satisfied sight out. In a state of bliss he wanted the other to feel the same, so he brought one hand down, to make his friend finish.

”Kashi- Go to sleep. I’m gonna handle this on my own, okay?” (Y/N) reassured. Kakashi looked at him with such adoring eyes but didn’t say anything. His body was too exhausted after cumming for the first time.

After regaining his normal consciousness again Kakashi found himself nestled close to (Y/N)’s chest, his mask nowhere to be seen, allowing his skin to feel the warmth of the other’s body. The rise and fall of (Y/N)’s chest was steady, a soothing rhythm that helped Kakashi relax in a way he rarely allowed himself to.

His arm was draped over (Y/N)’s waist, fingers splayed across his back, pulling him in closer. The scent of him—a mix of soap, warmth, and something uniquely (Y/N)—enveloped Kakashi, making his head spin in the best possible way. He buried his face deeper into (Y/N)’s neck, breathing him in, his normally sharp mind stayed softened at the edges.

“You’re so warm…” Kakashi murmured, his voice quieter than usual, muffled against (Y/N)’s skin. His silver hair tickled the side of (Y/N)’s face, but neither of them cared. The world outside felt so far away, and in this moment, it was just the two of them, tangled up in each other.

(Y/N) ran a hand lazily through Kakashi’s hair, the soothing motion helping Kakashi relax even further. He hadn’t realised how much tension he had been holding onto until now, and it was slipping away with every touch, every steady beat of (Y/N)’s heart against his chest.

“You smell like home,” Kakashi whispered, his words almost lost as he felt sleep tugging at him. The smell, the warmth, the presence of (Y/N) beside him—it was all he needed to finally let go. His breath slowed, his grip on (Y/N) softening slightly as he drifted on the edge of sleep.

For the first time in a long time, Kakashi felt utterly safe. As he nuzzled closer, inhaling deeply, he let himself melt into the comforting scent of his best friend—his boyfriend. And with that, he drifted off, a rare, peaceful smile curving on his lips, as the night wrapped them both in a quiet, content embrace.

[sasheemo]

When We Collide

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: By the lake, after a very tough day, things start to inevitably shift. Playful exchanges give way to unspoken truths and revelations, while you and Agatha begin challenging the expectations that once defined you.

Word Count: 2.5k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

An indefinite stretch of time passes in the quiet of the forest, enough for Agatha’s tears to dry, her trembling to subside, and the puffiness around her eyes to ease. You both sit beside the lake’s edge, her hand still in yours, warm, solid.

A quiet reassurance in a world that suddenly feels different, as if the rules have shifted without warning. Neither of you pulls away, as if you’ve silently agreed to hold onto this small moment for just a while longer.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it gives space for thoughts that have been dormant. Thoughts that, over the past two days, have surged to the surface like waves, eroding everything you once believed.

The idea of holding her hand would have seemed ridiculous, maybe even repulsive, if you’d imagined it just a couple of days ago or any day before. But now, sitting here, feeling the gentle press of her skin against yours, you realize how little you actually know about her.

You can’t help but think of the way you’ve always viewed her as an opponent, someone you were supposed to face off against someday. The entire coven expected it, assumed that as the daughters of two of the most powerful witches, you’d inherit the bitterness and ambitions of your mothers. They’d built up an entire narrative around you and Agatha, as if rivalry was etched into your bones. And so, you’d accepted it, allowed their stories to fill in the gaps, to shape the way you thought about her before you even knew her.

How strange, you think, to have hated her without cause, simply because you were told to. You realize, with a pang of guilt, that you’ve never given her a chance. And, looking at her now, you wonder if she’s ever truly hated you either.

With her hand in yours, the absurdity of it all hits you. Hard. 

Here she is, not a rival, not some looming threat, just a girl sitting beside you in the quiet of the forest. A girl who has suffered, who hides her own pain and frustration behind a tough exterior. How much of her sharpness, her defiance, has been carved out of her by the coven’s expectations, by the endless reminders that she is Evanora’s daughter? And how much of your own distance from her has been a shield, a way to avoid the inevitable comparisons, the pressure to be someone you’re not?

The resentment you thought you felt, that you assumed was mutual, feels hollow in the face of this silence.

The rivalry, the supposed hatred… all a farce now. You’ve been characters in a story that wasn’t even yours, bound to roles that you never chose. You wonder what things would have been like if no one had ever told you to hate her. If circumstances had been different, if your lives hadn’t been shaped by the ambitions and fears of others, would you even have disliked each other at all?

You find yourself looking at her, studying the lines of her face, the way her gaze is now fixed somewhere far off, as if she’s lost in her own thoughts.

And in this moment, it’s impossible to hate her.

Agatha’s hand shifts in yours, a subtle movement, almost unconscious, and the gesture draws your attention back to the red burns along her wrist. The sight stirs something fierce in you, a flash of anger that’s quick and unbidden, simmering beneath your skin. The idea of anyone, especially Evanora, leaving these marks on her is somehow infuriating.

It’s as if Agatha senses the shift in you, the unspoken intensity of your thoughts. Her head turns slowly, her gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, something quiet yet charged passes between you. You can see a hint of question in her eyes, but you release her hand before she can say anything.

Without a word, you lean forward, dipping your hand into the cool lake water and letting it pool in your cupped palm. Murmuring words in a language older than any of the trees around you, you allow the magic to flow, a quiet warmth emanating from your hand. You watch as the water shimmers, faintly glowing with energy. Then, carefully, you pour it over Agatha’s wrist, watching the marks fade, the raw, reddened skin smoothing out until there’s no sign of what had hurt her.

Agatha’s expression is unreadable as her eyes are fixated on her now-unmarked wrist. “Thank you…” she murmurs, her voice soft, as if gratitude is a foreign language she’s still learning to speak.

And then she stands, the suddenness of her movement leaving you momentarily disoriented. You blink, half-wondering if you’ve done something wrong, until she extends her hand, her fingers open in a silent invitation. Hesitating only for a moment, you take her hand, and she pulls you to your feet with a strength that surprises you.

Now, standing, you find yourselves closer than you expected, close enough to see the shards of ice in her irises and the way her dark hair catches the light.

As she releases your hand, you realize the silence has stretched on too long, and you break it with the first thought that comes to mind. “I… I’m actually glad you didn’t volunteer.” you say, the words slipping out before you can question them.

Her voice casual but carrying a hint of amusement as she replies to you “I didn’t volunteer because, frankly, the whole thing is pointless. They’re just men, a few hunters sticking to their own side of the forest. They’re hardly a threat to anyone here.” She pauses, her lips quirking in a wry smile. “Besides, your mother practically jumped at the chance. I think she would’ve volunteered herself twice over if she could.”

You blink, her words hitting you like a splash of cold water. “She… wh-what?!”

Agatha raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your reaction. “Excuse me, but…weren’t you there, too? How did you miss that?” There’s a look in her eyes, a mix of confusion and barely restrained laughter, as if she’s trying to figure out how you could possibly have missed the whole scene unfolding.

You open your mouth, then close it, scrambling for a response. You can’t exactly admit that you were too distracted staring at her to catch a word of what was being said. Her gaze sharpens, clearly noticing how you’re having a hard time coming up with an answer to such a simple question, and her smirk widens. “Aw was someone… daydreaming?” she teases, her tone edged with curiosity.

You scowl, fighting the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “I had other things on my mind.” you say defensively, though you know it sounds weak.

“Other things, huh?” Agatha’s voice is low and teasing, her eyes glinting with amusement. “More important than listening to your own mother announce she was going to lead the group? I’m curious, what could possibly have been more interesting than that?”

You shift uncomfortably, trying to deflect. “I just…didn’t think it was worth paying attention to.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You really are something…”

You don’t reply, but as the humor of the moment fades, a realization settles over you. Strangely, you don’t feel worried about your mother’s departure. In fact, the thought of her leaving for a few days brings a wave of relief, like a weight lifting off your shoulders. With her gone, you’ll be free of her relentless critiques and expectations, free to spend time at home, or in the forest, or however you please.

But almost as quickly, another thought takes root, a darker one. The only reason your mother would jump at something so trivial would be if she had her own agenda, some scheme to satisfy her endless hunger for power. A sense of dread settles over you, sharp and sudden.

“She’s going to kill them, Agatha. She is going to kill the hunters.” you say, your tone grave.

Agatha’s brow furrows slightly. “Why would she even bother?”

“You don’t know my mother.” you reply, glancing away, a bitterness creeping into your voice. “All she thinks about is power. This is just another way for her to prove herself, to show off to the coven.”

Agatha nods, her expression turning thoughtful. “Then I guess that for both of our mothers there’s always some angle, something they’re trying to gain.” She pauses, a flicker of frustration crossing her face.

You nod, sensing the understanding in her words. Even though, it’s still a bit a strange to think that, despite everything, the two of you see things the same way. “Yeah, I’d say so. She’s probably going out there looking for a fight, just to make herself feel strong, taking it out on some weak men.”

As if sensing the tension and wanting to lighten the mood, Agatha’s mouth curves into a grin, and the playfulness returns to her gaze. “Still…” she says, arching an eyebrow “You said you were glad I didn’t volunteer. Should I take that as some kind of compliment?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no mistaking the faint smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I think I will.” she replies, her tone casual but carrying a hint of mischief.

“Please.” you huff, “I was just worried about the forest. It could really use a break from your purple.” you add, a teasing yet gentle smile spreading across your lips.

For a second, you worry you’ve pushed the joke too far in light of recent events, a tiny flicker of doubt tugging at you as you wait for her reaction.

But then Agatha gasps, bringing a hand to her chest in a theatrical display of mock outrage, her mouth falling open in exaggerated shock.

You stifle a laugh, rolling your eyes at her display. But as her hand drops and her expression settles, you catch her gaze lingering on you, her eyes glinting with something that looks almost like approval.

“Bold of you.” she murmurs, her voice soft as a faint smile plays at the corner of her mouth.

You feel a strange warmth spreading underneath your skin at her playful and almost challenging expression. There’s a small, unexpected comfort in seeing her slip back into her usual sarcasm, the teasing edge to her words a familiar part of the mask she wears. It’s hard to believe that only moments ago she was the image of pain, raw and exposed, as if the weight of the world had almost crushed her. But here she is, standing again, slipping back into the familiar armor of her wit and resilience. Agatha Harkness, you realize, is so much stronger than her magic.

As you find yourself watching her, a question slips out before you have time to second-guess it. “Agatha, are you… ok?”

The second the words leave your mouth you almost want to slap yourself. 

‘After everything that’s happened today, that’s what you ask?!’ you scold yourself. It truly feels ridiculous, like trying to sum up a storm with a single raindrop.

For a moment, she seems unfazed, as though she might deflect or offer some sarcastic reply. Then, her gaze softens just enough for you to understand. She does’t answer, not verbally at least, the layered question hanging between you.

You decide not to push it. She’s been through more than enough in the past hours, and you’re beginning to see just how much it costs her to share her feelings and let anyone glimpse that vulnerable side of her.

Glancing up at the sky, you realize the evening has begun to settle around you, a breathtaking full moon growing brighter with each passing minute. Time has passed quicker than you realized, and the thought hits you that it must be close to dinnertime. You remember your mother’s instructions to be home in time for supper, an order you promised to obey.

You sigh in disappointment before another thought occurs to you, sitting uneasily in your mind. She’ll have to go home too, back to Evanora. The idea unsettles you, stirring a quiet worry you’re not sure you can ignore.

“Are you heading back soon?” you ask, the question more tentative than you intended. The thought of her returning to that house, to Evanora’s shadow, makes you feel oddly protective, even if you can’t quite voice it.

Agatha’s eyes narrow just slightly, as if she’s read the concern in your expression. She shrugs, her tone lighter than you’d expect. “I suppose so.” she says, but there’s a weight to her words, something lingering beneath the surface that she doesn’t elaborate on.

And suddenly, you wish you could keep her here just a little longer, away from whatever awaits her there.

You think the conversation has ended as the silence stretches, half-expecting Agatha to turn and leave. Yet somehow, neither of you can bring yourselves to move, to turn away, not after everything you’ve just shared. The weight of the whole day seems to settle over you both, rooting you in place.

You clear your throat, trying to summon the resolve to say goodbye. “I should go… my mother’s expecting me.” The words feel heavy, reluctant, and you hate how much you don’t want to leave.

Agatha keeps her gaze steady, her expression composed, as if the idea of parting doesn’t faze her. “Of course. You’d better get going then.” She shrugs lightly, adding a casual wave, “I’ll see you around the village. When it happens.”

There’s a forced ease in her tone, a practiced nonchalance that barely hides what you sense, that she doesn’t want this moment to end any more than you do.

You linger for a heartbeat, searching for something else to say. “If you… if you need anything, you know where to find me.” you offer, your voice softer than you intended. And before she can respond, you turn and walk away, your steps firm as you force yourself to keep moving, needing to get away before you change your mind.

But just as you take those decisive steps to put some distance between you, Agatha’s voice reaches you in a barely audible, almost hesitant whisper. “Thank you for… caring.”

The words stop you dead in your tracks, a chill washing over you as you freeze mid-step. Your pulse quickens and you find yourself torn, suspended in a heartbeat of indecision, caught between the urge to pretend you didn’t hear her and the pull to turn back. You hesitate, breath shallow, feeling her soft voice tug at something deep inside you. 

Finally, giving in, you turn.

And there she is, her gaze already fixed on you.

[leighsartworks216]

To Be Warm And Comfy

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I was only going to write down this little idea before I took a nap... And then I ended up writing the whole thing

The crochet theme actually came out of nowhere for me. I cannot crochet anything more than a chain to save my life, but I do loom knit from time to time

Warnings: self-deprecation, low self worth

Word Count: 776

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Slotted between his legs, you rested your back against Astarion's chest. His arms coiled around your waist and held you close, while he pressed his nose into your neck and peered over your shoulder. With practiced hands, the yarn slid through your fingers at the perfect tension, hooked and worked together into rows of perfect stitches.

He'd never seen anything quite like it. During his living years, he focused on intellectualism and law, not crafts. And during his servitude, sewing and embroidering came about from necessity, though he did still enjoy them. This was incredible. He couldn't stop watching as you worked in smooth movements to crochet your little project. You wouldn't tell him what it was, but he was content simply to watch.

For several weeks, this became the nightly pattern. You'd lay back in his arms while he held you, watching you work away in silence or with idle chatter. When you finished for the night, you'd set your project aside where it wouldn't get damaged, he'd gingerly bite into your neck and take his share, and he'd lay down with you as you drifted off to sleep. Usually he stayed, if he'd had enough to eat during the day and didn't need to sip on some boar or squirrels. Sometimes he would read while you crocheted, sharing his favorite bits with you. It was nice. Peaceful.

You told him, one night, that you were almost finished. He'd watched with rapt attention then, studying the way you fastened off and weaved the excess yarn back through the stitches. He'd realized almost a week ago that it was a sweater, but it was almost a marvel when you held it up by the shoulders in front of you both to show it off.

He kissed your jaw with a gentle squeeze around your midsection. "It looks wonderful, darling."

You hummed, smiling brightly. "I'm really glad you think so." You sat up and turned in his arms. He didn't fight to keep you where you were, though he certainly missed the solidness and warmth you provided. You held it out to him. "Put it on."

He frowned, confused. "Don't tell me you spent weeks making that just to give it away?"

"Of course I did, now put it on."

"I'm hardly worth the effort," he scoffed. He did not accept the gift. His expressions mixed oddly - light-hearted joy, befuddlement, self-deprecation - all flooding his system and overwhelming him. He simply could not grasp the fact you'd go through all the effort for him. "Surely it would look much nicer on you!"

You sighed, understanding and long-suffering. "Tell you what, if it doesn't fit or you don't like it, I'll keep it. Deal?"

He sighed, too. He'd hardly be able to refuse it once he put it on. But you nudged the sweater in his direction again, and how could he say no?

You watched with a wide grin as he slipped it over his head and slid the sleeves along his arms. It was... really nice, actually. Warm and soft without feeling constricting. It fit him perfectly.

"You're always so cold," you explain, wrapping your arms around his waist and relaxing forward until your chin was against his chest. "So I made you this. You can wear it when touch is too overwhelming, or if you feel too out of it to cuddle. I just want you to be warm and comfy."

He chuckles breathlessly, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. "I'm sure I'll be very comfy in this."

His undead heart ached. You went through so much trouble. He'd seen you struggle to find enough of the same yarn, watched you cuss and groan every time a stitch fell or when you had to undo a section because you miscounted. He'd held and massaged your hands when crocheting began to wear them out. 

And still you persevered. For him. You even ensured it would fit a little loose, so he wouldn't be claustrophobic. It was... a lot. To have someone go through all this trouble.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you up until he could give you a proper hug. He nuzzled his cold nose into your neck, and he sighed. Softly, sweetly - completely relaxed.

"Thank you." He bit his tongue before he could ask if you were sure, if he really was worth the effort. Surely, by making the sweater, you'd proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was. "I shall cherish it always."

"I love you," you coo sweetly by his ear.

He must look like a fool with how wide he's smiling. "I love you, too, dear."

---

Tag List:

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[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note; this wasn't supposed to take so long… but since act 1 ended, i decided to go back and touch up my act 2 plot-plan, change some things that were added/changed as i wrote act 1 and such. also studies took me by the scruff of my clothes and tossed me out back lol.

anyway, quicker updates ahead! won't be almost two months again, half the time went into the act 2 plot revisit and half went into the chapter itself. what is a slow-burn if not the main pair just not being in the same place half the time… the burn will pickup soon… soon… eheh… | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 6.634 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 12 - Calcination

Your feet touch the cold snow once more and your mind reels slightly after being suspended in the air for so long. Morax holds your waist for a second even after you both stand on solid ground—unsure whether you will keep your balance or not. The warm press of his body against yours separates and cold hair flows between you, immediately the shivers that have plagued you for days return, you hadn’t even noticed they had ceased during your proximity with him.

  The winds had settled, and snow fell gently to the ground—high rising peaks begin to show themselves in the distance, and though you had just barely seen enough to watch the massive serpent slither away between the mountains… you had no idea that the south of the Guili Assembly had such a massive reach of mountains, a range stretching as far as you could squint. 

  “W-what do we…” your words have barely left your chapped lips when Morax strides past you, you stutter a bit more as you see his back and quickly move your legs. The snow was shaken significantly and doesn’t reach up to your knees anymore—but you can hardly feel your feet anyway, the cold hums inside your bones and with every step that crunches the snow, a reverberating note of pain surges up your legs. 

  It’s awfully cold, even in the absence of wind. you can feel your nose hairs move with every breath and try to breathe with your mouth instead to stop the feeling. 

  Morax strides ahead, several thoughts swirl around in his head—he assumes you will keep up with him, he must investigate the site of the seal… rather, he should be making pursuit of the serpent and ensuring it will not cause harm. 

  Wracking his mind as he increases his pace, Morax doesn’t notice you lagging behind, breaths heaved as you try to trudge through the cold with aching limbs. There are countless tales of ancient gods and spirits beneath the land—of sealed gods and demons, being a serpent doesn’t narrow it down either, just as if it would have been many other type of spirit. 

  He makes it to the edge of the highest part of the flat mountain, where it sinks into the area where the seal had been placed atop a glassy ice… which has now broken away and given way for an all-encompassing abyss, a hole into the earth so dark one might there is no bottom. 

  Straightening slightly, as if perking up… Morax realises he doesn’t hear the crunch of snow behind him, not as closely as he expected at least. He turns to see that you’re a good distance away still, and a small tug pulls on his brows. He says your name and turns to walk back to you, momentarily putting his thoughts aside. 

  “Sorry… i-it’s just so cold,” you stutter slightly, though your clothes are okay for snow… they’re not exactly made for snowy mountain climbing. Your shoes are wet and practically freezing over again, and your nose feels like it’s about to crumble off your face at any moment. 

  Morax takes your hand, feeling the cold that practically emanates from it. He forgets the fragility of humanity often, even if he should be more accustomed to it by now. He must get you to warmth soon before you get sick—if he isn’t too late already. 

  You blink as you feel warm palms on your cheeks, the texture of Morax’s gloves are uncomfortable against your ice cold, sensitive skin… but as the warmth of his hands seep in and gently soothe your cold skin, you exhale in mild relief. If only he would pinch your nose and warm that too before it falls off. 

  He can assess the situation later… although Morax should do it now, he shifts his priorities—besides, he should ensure Moon Carver managed to protect the rest of the encampment with all the tremors that shook the mountains. “Come, I will take you back to the others. There will be fires and warmth there,” he assures, Morax’s hand finds your shoulder—but he stops before he can scoop you up as he intended. 

  You look over his shoulder and see a form crawling up from the now massive hole in the mountain, the slope has snow tossed everywhere and patches of grass poking out from underneath. 

  Mei Lan’s arms tremble as she manages to drag herself over the slope leading down into the maw of darkness behind her, she lowers and her torso finally touches the ground—splotches of red leaking from beneath her robes and into the white beneath her.

  A silence passes, you don’t dare move—you saw how fast she crossed the mountaintops—and Morax is still beside you, hand still resting on your shoulder. 

  The fallen god coughs slightly and hoists herself up to sit on the crunchy snow. “Y-you… this is your fault… I was focused—I held it well, it held for three hundred years,” Mei Lan didn’t raise her face to look towards you and Morax. The deep wound inflicted on her body bled freely, staining her clothes all the way down to her knees in a curtain of blood. “Four hundred years… gone, he’s free…” 

  Your eyes glance to Morax, his own gaze fixed on Mei Lan with a gaze sharp as steel. “You said nothing of a sealed calamity below the mountain,” his voice is even, a heavy tone that you haven’t heard expressed from his lips before. One guarded and distant. 

  “Why would I have to say anything?! These mountains have been mine for long!” she pounds her fist against the covered earth, with every exertion of her muscles, fresh blood pours from her torso. “Foolish humans climb the peaks in search of blessings and stir his conscious! They build and aggravate the earth above his tomb!”

  Your lips part and you want to say something, but nothing but the sound of your clattering teeth leaves you—if Morax weren’t practically holding you on your feet by your arm you would have fallen into the snow. 

  Morax’s head turns only slightly, but he doesn’t fully look at you. “Whose tomb have you been protecting?” 

  How would it be a tomb, if that massive thing slithered out of it? You nearly shudder (more) at the thought of it not only being a malevolent being, but also a ghost! 

  “He Shan,” she says the name with such vitriol you almost feel the burning heat of her hatred in your skin—it’s almost a relieving warmth, if you had fully felt it. “A bitter, violent creature that has had centuries to churn it deep in his soul.” You’re amazed she still seems so… full of energy considering how much blood coats her and the ground. Perhaps blood to gods is just decoration…? You wonder. 

  A low hum leaves Morax’s throat. He doesn’t recall the name—there are many gods that have risen and fallen within a handful of a hundred years that have names the winds of time have forgotten. Mei Lan has been atop this mountain range for a long time now, but the Guili Assembly is still relatively young, all things considered. Its borders have changed much in merely the last two centuries. 

  Steps approach from behind, boots crunching snow that diverts your attention from Mei Lan’s form and towards an approaching Moon Carver. “Lord Rex Lapis, what happened? This one did not anticipate such terrible shaking of the mountains below our feet!” 

  “Moon Carver, excellent timing,” Morax’s hand on your shoulder shifts to your back and he practically turns you around towards the adeptus. “Please take our friend to safety, I assume the others are well. I will finish asserting the situation here.”

  “Of course,” Moon Carver is quick to agree, despite his question going unanswered. He could practically feel your freezing skin beneath your winter robes as he approached the two of you and took your arm. 

  You would’ve loved to not be passed along like a child, but your feet feel frozen solid, you can’t promise yourself you won’t tumble and faceplant in the snow were you to attempt to walk all the way. “Ah, I’m sorry for the trouble—”

  He only shakes his head and you stop talking immediately… you feel like you’ve caused trouble, again, and lower your head slightly. First taking off and getting your feet swept from under you in Quiche, now rushing outside into the storm and letting a massive serpent loose…

  “Hey,” a finger flicks your ice cold cheek and you jump, head snapping up as an; “ow!??” leaves your lips. Moon Carver's expression is unimpressed. “Stop sulking, let’s go.”

  Morax watches the two of you silently as the adeptus practically drags you with him, not being as gracious as the man you’re leaving behind by offering to carry you—as Moon Carver responds to your complaining, you shouldn’t have rushed out into the cold if you weren’t prepared to trek back on your own two feet. Maybe it’ll teach you a lesson (unlikely).

  A small sigh leaves Morax as he turns his attention back to Mei Lan, whatever hint of emotion or gentleness directed at your presence is now gone in its absence. “Tell me everything.”

–

Thankfully, no one below the sheltered cliffside was injured badly, a few people toppled over each other and someone fell against one of the braziers and burned their leg quite harshly—but all things considered… they were safe. 

  Discussions of new locations were already rumbling along the half-crowd, but you didn’t pay much attention to the chatter—Moon Carver had tossed his own robe over you after you sat down by a reignited brazier, you were shaking like a leaf. You hadn’t even realised how cold you were until the warmth of the fire blossomed over your ice-cold skin, the last of the adrenalin faded and you were left like a pile of shivering bones, you wondered if your nose was still attached. 

 “A large serpent?” Moon Carver touched his chin in thought, despite being stripped of his robe, he doesn’t seem very cold nor bothered. He doesn’t recall tales of massive serpents in this region… but he hasn’t spent much time here either. 

  The more you think back on it, the more you shiver—even as the flames from the brazier start to warm your wet, frozen clothes. Your eyes hurt as you rub them, exhaustion settling in as the adrenalin from the day wanes away. “It could encircle mountains, I’ve never heard of a serpent so large,” you say as you tuck your hand back into your robe.

  “Hm,” there seemed to be a lot of thoughts wrangling in his head, and you really want to close your eyes—thus as Moon Carver falls into a silent thought, you allow them to droop. There’s not much to lean against, but you can probably get a shut-eye like this, sitting on the ground with your knees tucked up to your chest.

  You didn’t get very far into your rest—or that’s what it felt like, as a hand touched your head. 

  Jolting up and almost knocking your forehead into his jaw, Morax leans back in surprise when you suddenly start at his touch. His eyes are slightly wide and eyebrows raised. “Ah, my apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you—I merely meant to make sure you had warmed up enough.”

  A bit embarrassed by your own reaction—you’re not sure why you keep jerking so harshly when surprised, every instance of being caught off guard seems to make your entire body tense up and lock for a brief second. “N-no, it’s alright. I’m sorry,” you lower your legs to sit cross-legged before him, where Morax has kneeled by you. “What happened?”

  Moon Carver stands in front of you by the brazier, arms folded as he watches the exchange silently. 

  Morax stands gracefully. “She gave me valuable information before departing, we will need to reestablish an outpost along the mountains—but as we will not be pushed back further, we can settle with more practicality.” It’s strange how pristine his robes are, considering the events of the day—there’s hardly more than a few dots of blood on him. 

  “Departed?” Moon Carver asks. 

  “Into the mountains, she has not left for the Dark Sea,” he clarifies. “It seems she used a rather flimsy seal that requires the user to uphold the prison mentally at all times—it makes the seal powerful, so long as the user’s will to contain is strong enough… the wound she sustained tore her attention and broke the seal.”

  They don’t seem very concerned that Mei Lan has simply retreated and not departed entirely, perhaps they came to some sort of agreement before they separated… you hope—in any case, if Moon Carver and Morax seem relaxed about it, you shouldn’t worry either. 

  “Where did it go?” your voice sounds, turning the attention of both adepti to you—momentarily you feel a bit embarrassed for distracting them from the conversation.

  But Morax doesn’t hesitate to answer your question, though it wasn’t much of an answer. “I lost track of the serpent’s energy after he disappeared beyond the mountains. I must search the land and assure that he has not begun wreaking havoc.”

  “This one doubts someone that has been sealed for so long has the strength to unleash terror so soon,” Moon Carver adds. 

  “You are likely right,” Morax agrees. “Yet I must ensure the Assembly’s safety. Allow us to find shelter for our people before I depart…” he pauses before turning, eyes moving between you and Moon Carver. “At sunrise, you must return to the capital and inform Guizhong of what has occurred. Both of you.”

  Moon Carver nods without resistance, and thought you feel you should resist… what is there for you to do here? You suppose you could help rebuild, but you’re hardly a skilled enough carpenter. You nod your head as well.

–

It was amazing to see—with a simple raise of his hand, Morax created a shelter of stone. It wasn’t the long winded labyrinth that you had stayed in before, the rooms were a bit uneven and not split properly to allow for barracks… but simply being able to raise a shelter for the amount of people that had come unscathed was impressive. 

  Quickly braziers were lit inside and large cloths used to seal off the entrances. It was rather dark, but it brought shelter from the cool breeze. You finally managed to lie down and get a shut-eye for a while, but hunger eventually woke you… taking away the little peace your slumber brought. 

  As you’re handed a bun that had been prepared some days ago in the routine emergency, your cool fingers warm on the soft dough, heated above the fires raised in one section of the shelter. As you find a place to sit down, you hear two Millelith behind you chattering between themselves as they eat their own buns. “He made it look so effortless, I wonder if lord Rex Lapis could build a castle in a day.”

  “Perhaps… his interior skills might do with some improvement,” he other grumbles, mouth half-full of food.

  “... well, it must be hard to design something on the inside while you’re outside?” the first hums after a brief pause. 

  Though the conversation occurring behind you is amusing, you start to tune them out once they begin to argue the “right way” to design a home, and the first Millelith pulls out at every stop to remind the other that he built his own house as therefor knows exactly how it should be done, despite the other Millelith reminding him that his wife took take of the decorating and he just built the tables and chairs. 

  You wipe your hands on your pant legs after finishing the last bite of your meal and stand up, you’ve already explored the shelter and there’s no crook you haven’t stuck your nose into in curiosity. The hall has been properly warmed and your fingers and nose don’t feel like they’re about to fall off either, which is a relief—you were definitely starting to suspect you might have frostbite. 

  After some searching, you find Moon Carver again. “Will we depart in the morning?”

  The sun has long sunken down below the mountaintops, dawn should be making its way any time now… though it has been quite the long day, perhaps Moon Carver is too tired to leave right now.

  “We leave at noon, rest as much as you can,” he replies without turning to face you. Curious, you try to peek at what he’s doing… only to see him trying to scrub soot out of his robe.

  … the robe he tossed on you earlier this evening. You were leaning so close to the brazier you dirtied it—that robe looked older than you! And crafted so carefully it must be worth heaps of mora for the care alone!

  Immediately, you step next to him. “Gods—I’m sorry, I dirtied your robe after your kindness, allow me to clean it…”

  “It is no matter, one has nothing else to do with his hands,” Moon Carver tells you off easily, so easily that you feel like he just picked you up by the back of your robe and set you aside. 

  “Well… shouldn’t you rest as well? It can’t be good to travel without sleep,” you inquire hesitantly. The thought of Moon Carver dozing off while you’re a kilometre in the hair makes you shiver slightly.

  His movements halt for a moment before he continues. “Adepti do not require sleep.”

  … sure, you’ve heard that before. “But… it’s better, surely? It must give some energy.”

  You’re not entirely sure why you’re debating him on his own energy, but you want him to rest—have you ever seen an adeptus sleep? Or just close their eyes and lay out on the grass for a while? 

  You suppose you’ve been hallucinating a mini-Rex Lapis for a few months now, dozing around like a limp noodle. Maybe you’re going crazy. 

  … though, Moon Carver had been with you. “Moon Carver…”

  Hearing the uncertainty in your voice, he turns his head, but doesn’t fully look at you. “What?”

  “Can… lord Rex Lapis… turn into a small dragon? About the size of a forest snake?” you feel like you’re a toddler asking your grandmother if vishaps are real… again. 

  Moon Carver blinks at you for a moment, his expression rather confused both towards the contents of the question, as well as the rudeness of it. “One supposes he could, adepti choose their forms… why do you not ask him yourself?” The expression you made must have been amusing, because the corners of his lips quirk up. “This one is certain he would find it entertaining, at the least.”

  Entertaining… you had felt like a real weirdo in your first meetings, and then just as you feel that you’ve somewhat started to build up your reputation to at least seem like a relatively normal person—Moon Carver wants you to ask Rex Lapis himself if he indulges in naps as a pocket-sized dragon?

  Absolutely not. 

  “I’ll pass, thank you for the suggestion,” you say, and turn on your heels. What a dumb question, if Moon Carver mentions this to him, you’ll put peppers in his tea—you regret asking immediately.

–

  Soaring into the ice-cold air atop the Fengyuan Peaks, you clutch the Moon Carver’s mane as if it was the only thing between you and certain death… you’re sure he could catch you if you did slip and tumble off his back—but you’re not every excited to test that theory.

  Your eyes quickly dry as cool wind brushes against your face, you turn your head to the side to avoid facing forward and hopefully spare your eyeballs when your eyelids fly open. “Moon Carver! Look—do you see it?”

  The earth between rising mountains, usually filled with deep snow and dark ravines… have flattened, rounded under the weight of a god so large and heavy he broke the sides of cliffs and left behind markings of his movements. 

  “This one has observed our surroundings,” he confirms, but doesn’t move his head to look down.

  It makes your skin tingle, Morax had taken the two of you back far enough that you hadn’t been crushed when He Shan broke free—but seeing the marks he left behind somehow made him seem far larger than you had thought, even in the same vicinity. 

  The earth beneath is darker than you would have thought the land should be, even though the rocks and stone of the mountains even under the sun of day is dark… it feels as if the night sky is below you, streaks of white dragging into the black, creating an unnatural formation between the rising peaks of the mountain range.

  You turn your head into the adeptus’ fur as the scenery fades to high rising trees in place of stone… you don’t wish to see Quiche from above right now. 

  Though you felt a bit bad leaving the peaks of the mountain behind considering the recent events, it was very comforting to arrive back in the capital… the air was still warm, despite the colours of autumn, and the city was lively as always.

  As soon as you set foot inside the courtyard, both Ground Mender—features covered as always—and Ming Hui were waiting. You felt like you were about to be scolded like a child… 

  “You!” Ming Hui quickly approached you, poking you in the stomach repeatedly—it’s about as much ‘poking someone in the chest threateningly’ as she can get with such a short height. “I had to do every single one of your chores while you were gone! Without warning!”

  Ah… you hadn’t really thought of that. Though, you also hadn’t really been re-assigned chores by the time you left…? “I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I’ll take your workload for a while.”

  “Uh-huh, and you’re going to stand in queue for that limited seasonal rice cake that’s been super popular—which I haven’t been able to get all week because of your chores,” she pokes you three more times before then jabbing her finger towards your nose. “Idiot!”

  You blink down at her for a few seconds, you haven’t seen her so expressive before—Ming Hui has been rather quiet and focused on her work since you met her… it’s a little amusing to see such a contrast to her (though she had been very patient and kind by your sickbed), but your guilty conscience of making her work twice as hard outweighs your amusement. “Of course, I’ll buy four—”

  “—five!”

  “Five,” you agree. “What is it anyway? Are people really queuing for it?”

  Ming Hui, finally lowering her hand—for a moment you thought she might just curl her fist and give you a nice knock on the belly. And she’s so strong that it might actually take you down. “Chestnut-paste filled youtiao,” she says and tugs on her clothes to straighten them.

  You’ve never tried that particular combination before… but since so many people are excited about it, it must be at least decent. “Okay, I’ll bring them to you for lunch tomorrow.”

  Ming Hui, who had been about to turn away and let Ground Mender’s turn begin to scold you in some form—you hope it’s not more poking—turns and squints at you. “Tomorrow? The queue is too long for you to make it back before lunchtime.”

  “Then I’ll start waiting before the stall opens,” you say with a little bit more conviction than you probably should for such a little thing… but it’s not so little, you feel. When she gives you a look of doubt, you feel a deep need to right it. That she shouldn’t doubt your ability to do such a simple thing. 

  She sets her hands on her hips. “So long as you don’t hurt yourself, I guess. Remember that you were in an infirmary bed not long ago.”

  She probably doesn’t realise it, but the reminder does make your chest—and arm—pinch a little at the thought. You’d rather not think about it more than you have to. “I’ll be fine.”

  It kind of feels like you’re the twelve year old between the two of you with this scolding and then voice of concern of your well-being and ability to so… such a simple thing and walk to the city and purchase some fried dough sticks. 

  “Hm, I believe you,” she finally gives in and sets her hands down again, the robe she’s wearing today seems far too large on her than it should be, the sleeves are tied back but they still droop below her elbows.

  As she finally takes her leave, you realise you’re left standing alone in the courtyard—not counting guards passing between buildings and attendants leaving out the gates behind you. Moon Carver and Ground Mender have gone as well, hadn’t you just been looking at Ground Mender a moment ago? 

  Perhaps adepti have better stealth than you give them credit for.     -

  Your room feels even more bare than before, as you shut the door behind you and walk inside, allowing yourself to sink down on your bed—it’s far more comfortable than you’ve given it credit for in the past—before you kick off your shoes and toss your thick travel robe on the chair by your desk.

  Falling backward and feeling the mattress against your back, you stare at the ceiling for a good long time.

  The memory of the terrible, strangely fleshy sound of the massive serpent slithering between the mountains makes your muscles tense up briefly before relaxing… the thought of that terrible demon slithering on the outskirts of the Assembly makes you anxious—even more so when you know there’s little you can do. What could a small human like you do against a demon?

  You try your best to not think about Quiche, the more your brain tries to claw into your thoughts and drag them out of the little hole you put them in during the last few days, the more you resist and try to think of something else. 

  But the only other thing that comes to mind… is your empty hands. 

  Returning to your room without the weight of your cleansing tools in your hand feels as if you’ve left parts of yourself behind, the old and crooked shape of that old bell was so familiar against your palm that it had felt as if you were holding your own hand.

  You feel as if you’ve been stuck inside your head for weeks, perhaps even a few months—yet you don’t feel as if you’ve been thinking of very much at all. 

  Raising your left arm to the air, the bandages around your skin are loose and you can see peeks of skin between them. Your palm and fingers look healthy and fine, and there are no eyes watching from beneath the white cloth—but you don’t dare unravel the rest. It has been days, enough to see improvements, or the opposite. And you’d rather not know, so long as you can’t see the state of your skin and tissue, it can’t trap your mind. 

  Letting it fall back down and land on your stomach, you let out a small huff of discomfort as the impact reverberates through your arm and up your shoulder. Ow…

  Sitting up with a groan, you decide to leave your room—you’re tired, and should probably sleep… but now that you’re in a calmer place with enough space for your thoughts to gather, you’re a bit afraid of what that could lead to.

  The air has definitely gotten cooler as the sun sits down, it was comfortably warm when the sun was up… but it was definitely warmer than on the mountain despite the chill. You took a long good walk around the courtyard, it seems the last days of moving so much has really helped your muscles—though you’re sure any doctor or healer would have suggested you re-train your muscles normally, with slow and progressing exercises. 

  Looking to the skies once you’re between thick trees and bushes with yellowing leaves, you squint up at the moon… it’s brighter than usual today.

  Your nose stings, and you rub at it—but it doesn’t stop the filling of tears in your eyes. Damn it… you had come outside so that you wouldn't cry, and now look at you. The tears bubble in your eyes and blur your vision, you quickly wipe them away but as you lower your head—they seem to flow out. 

  That damned bell… why would you leave it in your room? You should’ve had it on you the entire time, even when there wasn’t really a reason to, you weren’t at home, you shouldn't just leave things lying around—who knows what could happen? Perhaps you should even have predicted the attack to happen. 

  “Take good care of it, jiao jiao,” the old, worn hands of your grandmother present the bell to you, even back then, it was old and rusted at the bottom. Her larger hand supports your open palms as the other lowers the bell into them. “Your great-grandmother was very talented, and she will be delighted to see you grow to be like her.”

  “It’s old…” you had said, small fingers rubbing the bottom of the bell and feeling the uneven metal scrape against your skin. “If I drop it, will it break?”

  Your grandmother smiles, and she sets her finger on the ornament atop the bell, where one would hold it to ring. “It’s a resilient thing, your great-grandmother was given it by her father, who received it from his mother. I’m sure someone has dropped it into a bowl of oil before.”

  “Who was cleansing bowls of oil?” your face pinches in confusion. Could spirits and demons even inhabit food? In all the books you’ve read, they go for people or weapons, sometimes even trees or rocks. 

  “Well, the family kitchen doesn’t have much storage space… perhaps you will find a better place to keep it,” her large, wrinkled hand pats your head, the warmth from it clear against your head as you give her a big smile. 

  You shake your head, as if the memory was a snowflake on your hair you’d like to toss off. Don’t think about it, the more you think about it, the more your mind recognises what used to be real and no longer is. 

  Running a hand down your face, and dragging any tears or snot that formed in the meantime into your palm, you blink a few times to gather yourself. You can probably have your tools replaced, perhaps you could even chip the bottom of a new bell to make it look like the old one. 

  Then, maybe then you’ll keep pretending it’s the same, that it’s fine and you didn’t lose them. 

  You don’t want to go back to your room… perhaps the youtiao stall is still open so late into the evening, or perhaps you’ll find something else to distract you on the way. You take a long breath, willing away the tightness in your chest and the ache of your clenched jaw, before turning and leaving the serene gardens.   

  The last thing you expected once you stepped past the gates to the palaces after avoiding conversation with either guard there, was the sound of bare feet tapping on the stone steps behind you—you don’t know of many people who walk around barefoot, so only one guess comes to mind. 

  Stopping and turning to look behind you, you see Guizhong hopping down the steps towards you at… concerning speeds. Her dress is longer than usual, going below her ankles so that you can’t see her feet, but her sleeves always sway far below her hands as usual. “My lady—” you extend a hand to steady her in case she stumbles on her dress, she’s taking more than two steps at a time.

  But thankfully, she stops easily as soon as she reaches you, and takes your extended hand. “There you are! I was preoccupied when you came back, I haven’t had a chance to speak with you properly… for so long! Too long, come!” 

  She seemed very energetic, did she get more energised under the moon? 

  She gave you little choice as she began tugging you down the steps behind her, and you quickly brought your mind back on pace to control your legs before YOU started tumbling down. Falling down this monstrous amount of steps would surely finally be the end of you. “O-okay, please slow down,” you pleaded as she began to hop down the steps two at a time once more. 

  “Slow? We’ll miss our window, no time to hang around!” she simply laughed at your concern. 

  Your mind felt like it was spinning, the emotions of the day being churned around in your head like laundry being washed in a basin. Just moments ago you had been fighting the tightness of your chest and hoping to find a distraction that could occupy your attention until you were too tired to think comprehensive thoughts. 

  “Window…?” you weren’t aware you had anything planned with her today… or ever, Guizhong is lovely—but she’s far too busy to be making friends with someone like you. 

  She doesn’t let go of your hand, grip surprisingly strong even if it’s holding you through her sleeve. “Once the moon sits at its highest, it creates a lovely sight along the river, I always visit it when it’s at its brightest—and since you’re here anyway, you’re coming with me!” 

  You suppose you have no choice, then. 

  Your legs complain as Guizhong picks up her running pace as soon as you leave the long steps behind, but you’ve been pushing through for so many days now that feeling that ache in your thighs is familiar enough to not stop you. 

  Despite it being before midnight, the streets of the city have quieted—they’re never completely silent, with cats meowing loudly at the back of a meat-shop as they clean up after the day until the owner finally comes out with some leftovers to let them nibble on. Some streets are lined with taverns and bars that stay open well into the night for rowdy patrons, with bright lanterns lighting the entrance. Standing on such a street can even feel as if it were daytime with how bright and lively it is. 

  Other streets are dark and still, where people have retired to bed and closed their windows. Signs sit outside closed doors with opening times, and a crafts shop has a sheet laying over the clay pots left outside for the night. 

  Guizhong only slows once you finally pass a large building that looks like a rice-wine making business, at least if the smell is to be believed. “Here, through the little path,” she lets go of your hand and motions for you to follow her. 

  Her body is smaller than yours, so you have to lean a bit down where she doesn’t. It reminds you of the path you took upon visiting the city proper at first, except your face and head is thankfully safe from any cobwebs or insects upon exiting. 

  “We came very far for…” you start, a little annoyed that Guizhong just had you tun halfway across the capital in a few minutes, lungs burning and thighs twitching in discomfort. 

  But your words halt halfway once your eyes adjust to the clearing, it was rather dark at first sight, but now reveals itself to be a small garden of sorts. Vines climb up the back of buildings that face away from each other, the river that flows through the city widens significantly before narrowing again a few houses down from where you entered. 

  A few large trees stretch from three different gardens, and the orange and red leaves create a strangely warm hue from the cold light that illuminates the clearing from the moon. The leaves from the trees litter the ground, making it appear like a warm cushion instead of the hard ground that is surely beneath them. 

  Guizhong walks towards the riverside, where the ground rises above it. She tugs her dress up and lets her feet touch the cool water before looking back to you. “Come, sit with me.”

  Attention taken away from your pretty surroundings, you approach Guizhong and sit down cross legged beside her, not wanting to wet your shoes. “Did you bring me here spontaneously?”

  “Oh, yes. I just happened to spot you on my way out,” she kicks her feet against the flowing stream, small splashes sounding below. Across the river, two children and a dog come out from another little path between homes, they don’t pay either of you any mind as they run up along the river until you don’t see them anymore. 

  It’s… nice. Peaceful. “I see… I suppose I wasn’t on my way to do anything important,” you say, and truthfully, it was very optimistic of you to assume the youtiao stall was still open so late.   

  Guizhong leans back, sleeves resting on the leaf-covered ground. “I thought you’d be resting early, you’ve had quite the trip.”

  … you’d rather not talk about it, if you were to be honest. “As did I,” you simply say. You feel a tingle in your bones, you hadn’t considered the “returning home” of your plan. So desperate to figure out what happened in Quiche, you didn’t think of any consequences to yourself or others. “I will rest soon.”

  “Hm,” a small hum simply leaves the girl. Despite being a god, so many unimaginably long and difficult years older than any mortal in this city, including yourself. She looks so youthful, not a single mar on her porcelain skin. 

  She doesn’t say any more, not for a while. As the moon stretches to the top of the heavens, settling for what feel like mere moments as the light of it illuminates the small garden. The light reflects off the water in the river and creates a projection of waves on the underside of the leaves above your head. As if you were in the ocean itself, swimming along the stream. 

  The scene is undoubtedly beautiful, but you find your mind distracted, occupied with less beautiful things. You wish you could close it off, silence the workings of your mind and simply exist as the moments come and go in front of your eyes. 

  To act as a human living on limited time, and experience time as it exists in your body. Not the ever-slowing clocks of time in your mind, clinging onto past memories—

  You’re torn from your strange thoughts as something dark above you moves, and as you stare at the trees, seems to grow bigger—

   THUNK

  Your forehead throbs as you let out a sound of surprise, a dry, heavy-looking branch bounces off your head and onto the ground with a dull thud. 

  Guizhong looks at you with large eyes as she shuffles closer, sleeve raising to touch your head. “Are you okay? What a misfortune, we should make an offering to the river to ward it away,” she says with a half smile, rubbing her sleeve on your forehead as you squint your eyes. 

  “How is a small branch so heavy… I feel like I just got hit on the head with a staff,” you grumble, your head throbs with a headache that spreads down to your neck. Taking a nicely shaped brown leaf from next to you, you blow on it before uttering a phrase of offering and sending it off on top of the river.

  After it flowed a few metres away… it sank under the stream. 

  Guizhong gave you a sympathetic look. “Perhaps you should wear a red string for a few days…”

[orangez3st]

How Do You Explain Unsolved Murders by Plasma Bolt?!

Clone Commando Sev × GN!Reader 

Season: Autumn - Clone × Reader Prompt-a-thon ✧ @cloneficgiftexchange

✧ Prompt: Monster!Clone

✧ Summary: You always get away from the mysterious deaths of the people who bully you, only because of this dead dude from another galaxy who names himself Sev acting as your avenging angel, if that even exists.

✧ Tags & Warnings: set on our planet earth in the year of our lord, bullying and the classic neglect of some people with position, curse words, mentioned suicide attempt, implied attempt of rape, Sev murders people and is enjoying it.

✧ Word Count: 5.3k

✧ A/N: Heyo and welcome to my first ghost!clone AU 👻 and yeah uh that basically means this is a Sev Dies AU. This may not be my best writing for now, but I really do hope you guys enjoy it still 🫶🏼 thanks for being here, and have a good one!

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Sev (in-header image)

divider by me -> Delta Squad helmet PNG's by @/stars-n-spice

“You want me to drive you back?”

“No that's fine, I got it,” you refuse to the detective as he walks you along one of the corridors of the police station. You shrug. “I'll just Uber myself out of here.”

He studies you for a moment, a little hesitant at your decision. You kinda don't remember his name—maybe it's Jarrick or something, a thirty something year old man of lanky build with a faint cigarette smell coming from his jacket and a solid, grounding tone of voice.

“Okay,” he says, “Let me fetch your things back from evidence.”

“Okay.”

The detective leaves you in the middle of a bustling office workroom that smells heavily like coffee, exhaustion, and neverending paperwork. Around you are officers and detectives alike shuffling through case files, pens scribbling down details, and parental figures breaking down crying upon learning their loved ones are either incarcerated and charged or murdered.

You're having one of those.

Not willing to stand around and disrupt people's pace working their way through crimes, you shuffle your feet towards an empty couch near the door and sit down, the leaves of some real and typical strangely well-cared office plant brushing against your arm. You sigh deeply, planning. Maybe not going home yet. Some burritos to reward yourself after going through a hassle of a criminal investigation that you certainly didn't do, but always finding yourself in it.

“Hey.” The detective walks toward you in long strides, your backpack in one hand and your phone still inside the evidence zip bag. “Here's your stuff, all cleared. If you could sign this one first, here…”

You nod sort of exhaustedly, going through the supposedly last errand quickly and not really bothering to read the last half of the clearance document. He presents you the bag, unzipped, the content free for you to take.

“Thank you,” he says, slipping the clipboard underneath his arm and fishing a business card out of his pocket. With a tight smile, perhaps out of sympathy, he offers it to you. “If something else turns up, or if you need any help at all, you can call me. Okay?”

Det. William Jarrick

Oh, that's indeed his name after all. You take a few seconds to absorb the police logo, your city and state, and his official phone number. He's new, you heard, taking over the case—the previous one apparently is in jail for DUI.

“Understood,” you say, carefully pocketing the card. Jarrick opens the door for you, and you don't look back to the office. “See ya, Detective.”

He waves you goodbye. “Don’t get yourself into trouble again, kiddo.”

With a deep breath, you happily march out of the police station, willing to put it all behind you. There's nothing more stressful than a busy police station, even though you did absolutely nothing wrong. It's the walls, painted muted dark blue, and just… crowded spaces and coffee machine underneath a low lighting of the cabinet and paperwork scattered all over those desks.

The day is particularly chilly today. It's fall. Northern hemisphere autumn is never boring, you always like the cool air and warm color palette slapped across any surface either man-made or natural—trees, shop decorations, unraked leaves, shawls and jackets, thematic discount labels, video thumbnails.

“How's the new guy?”

If you hadn't known Sev and his tendency to quite literally pop up next to you with his oh-so-intimidating phone-scammer deep voice for the last six months, you'd jump and shriek at his sudden presence.

“He's okay,” you sigh, lowering your voice under your breath and digging for your handsfree in your bag. “Less annoying, more understanding. He's younger. Younger than the old frog who can't tell the difference between talking in a closed space and standing by a running jet engine.”

He snorts. “Where'd he go?”

You stick the device in your ear, running on a pretense that you're on a call whereas you're actually talking to a ghost that no one else can see but you.

“Jail, can you believe it? DUI.” You stretch your arms with a weary yawn before walking off the threshold and the entire vicinity, your pack now secured behind you on your back. “Wait, you've got DUI in your homeworld, right?”

He shrugs. “DUI, public indecency, vandalism, auto theft. You name it, Buggy.”

Buggy. Only Sev calls you that because you refused to tell you his name during your first run-ins with each other. You were too busy screaming and muttering incoherent prayers to the top manager of your belief system, or whatever gods above.

Sev follows you along the pavement, sparse of people, his translucent bluish white form floating above the ground, although he’s practically marching. There isn't any hesitation in his steps as he bears a soldier's stance. Intimidating. How could he not, with all that bulky armor set on him? He dwarfs you easily, and he finds it hilarious that he knows you're feeling kind of safe that he's unable to tackle you. Not that he'd want to. Not without reason, anyway.

“So where are we headed?” he asks from behind you.

“Stress-eating,” you say, laughing awkwardly to yourself. To calm your post-police interview jitters, more like. “I was in that stuffy room for like, two hours.”

“One and a half,” Sev corrects.

“Right.”

“You ain't scared that they'd find you suspicious ‘cause you're walking instead of taking a cab like what you told the new case detective?”

“So you were listening all along,” you muse, ducking into your usual small dine-in burrito place. You exclaim your usuals to the cashier and slide into one of the shabby booths. “To answer your question, it's not their business.”

“Could be,” Sev says, his ghostly (heh) form already slipping into the seat opposite you. His pack is already disengaged. “If there's another murder.”

“You wouldn't.”

“What?”

“Doing another murder.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sev,” you groan, “I don't want you to—” you cut yourself off, remembering you're practically in public space. You sigh. “Don't slot anyone again.”

Sev smirks behind his helmet. It's a vocabulary he taught you. “They're bullying the kriff out of you.”

“Ever, Sev.”

“Can’t stand aside and let you be trampled like that. Like you're a useless piece of shit. You're bright. And you're still a person, Buggy.”

“You’re putting dead bodies in my name and making me the prime suspect every time!” you whisper-shout.

“Person of interest,” he corrects you.

You slowly close your eyes.

Sev looks at you. His sniper rifle is leaning casually against the back of his seat. “Can't do much while being a ghost of a soldier with unfinished business, doncha think?”

Before you can retort, your order is slid to the table in front of you, all warm and spicy and invoking the monsters in the depths of your belly. Spicy chicken burrito, ranch and extra pico de gallo, crisps, and cookies ‘n cream milkshake.

“Rough day?” the server, Caleb, asks you.

You blink. “Huh?”

He taps his ear, referring to your handsfree and how you've been talking excessively. ���Another murder that frames you or is that your Slovakian ex girlfriend?”

You let out a dry laugh, your fingers toying with the still-warm crisps. “I don't have a Slovakian ex girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

You kick at his feet. Lucky bastard swerves away cackling. “Shut up, Caleb!”

“Yeah yeah anyway,” he chuckles, his gaze clearly holding some genuine sympathy at you, “Hope you get through it and catch the guy. Mustn't be easy for you.”

“Heard that before,” you mutter, glancing down at your lap before smiling at him anyway. “Thanks, Caleb.”

Caleb offers you a smile and a shoulder pat before sauntering someplace else.

Sev scoffs at your meal as you start to dig in. “Scorch would huff that down.”

You slurp on your shake. “Y'all can handle spice?”

“Loved it, even,” he says fondly, which is a strange sight to you still even though you've known each other for roughly six months. “He handled it better than I do.”

It's sensible to talk about people in past tense when you don't know if they're still alive or not. For Sev, he's lost them anyway. He died. In his past life, in some place called Kashyyyk.

Or in another universe or something, because there were no known previous civilizations on Earth rocking the apparatus that he carries with him.

And he just happened to… land into your life as a ghost tied to you. Wherever you go, he follows. It had been hard to live with that, especially when you couldn't handle his dark gloomy jokes some time in the beginning of your acquaintanceship. Friendship. It's easier now. You're considering him a friend. You're stuck with each other, after all.

“Do you think you really have unfinished business?” you suddenly ask.

Sev blinks hard underneath his helmet to digest your question and, ah, it's poking his private compartment again. Why he's here, how he came here—does it matter? He's stuck as a ghost without so much as a memory about the manuals if they even gave him one somewhere in the limbo.

You continue studying him, placing down your ronto roll ripoff and absentmindedly poking at your crisps. “Like a mission? To complete?”

“Does it matter?” It's not usual for him to defy a question from someone other than a clone.

“It might,” you shrug, mid-chew. Sev is used to it. “We should… find out why you're sent here, right?”

“I lived in a different galaxy than yours, Buggy. Why I'm here is up to whoever's in charge of both yours and mine.”

You scrutinize him. Like, actually putting him under an interrogative pressure. You seem not to care about other people in the tiny diner looking. “You don't wanna find out why? Ever?”

There's something else he hides. Something about ‘unfinished business’? It does feel like that. He's a soldier. A hunter. An accomplisher. Those traits drive him to his goals with utter ambition and, sometimes, sadistic hunger. Hunger to get the job done. Hunger to anticipate what comes next after that job is done. He chases after these things. It satisfies him—the success, the crudeness, the raw elements he gets himself high on.

Then he died and he met you. Poor, unsuspecting and unlikely scrawny kid who's doing whatever they can to sustain their ranks in school. Apparently being too ambitious achieving a goal is a crime because it invites envy and jealousy of others. Now that, he can't comprehend. You're only doing your job, you want the best for yourself.

But your classmates attack you. Calling you names, banging at the locker next to yours just to startle the shit out of you, the cold shoulders, the belittling stares. Your teachers don't feel like intervening. You're used to it, but you're tired. Your utter surrender attracted him somehow, that when you actually really attempted to test how good your belt is using the railings on the second floor of your mother's house, the downstairs phone rang.

It was the news of the sudden death of a student in your school. Bertrand Wilson. He was the one who banged the locker every damn day. “We thought you should know,” your principal had said, before ending the line.

Three days later, Jackie Lombardini. She called you names. Next week; Kellan Peterson. He pushed you into a lake once. That Friday, Melinda Brewster—dunked your head in the toilet. The same day, Lucas Martinez—emptying your locker and setting the contents on fire in the dumpster. The next day; Naomi and Hans Grant, twins. They literally continuously threatened to kill you just because you caught them in the act in the lab after hours.

Everything was a mystery. No one knows what hit them. Cameras never caught the perp; no vehicles, no mysterious figure walking by. No blood. Just bodies dropping to the ground with a scorching hole in the middle of their forehead, smoke rising above it. Everything connects to one thing; you. Motive? Vengeance.

But that's the problem. The police can't place you in any of the crime scenes. It's a variety of places you'd never have the intention to go to—bars, shabby diners, rooftops, dingy hotel rooms, biker lot, or hell, their own house. Your alibis checked out—always. It's fortunate that the local police are immune to local media pressure—they stay on the lane. You're always cleared. You always walk away fine, undamaged, and perhaps, albeit a little guiltily…

Satisfied.

They deserve it.

Sev literally grinned down at you—behind his bucket, of course—when he first manifested in front of you. After every phone call, because the killings are always consistent. After hours. Evening. PM. You stopped testing the belt. You chilled out in your room and you were screaming to death while Sev came forward for the first time and asked you things.

“How do you do?”

“Did you like it?”

“What do you think?”

“I wish I could give them the old shank in the kidney like I did to those ugly lizards, but my Deece is all I've got. And I'm an excellent shot.”

“Taken care of.”

“Don’t have to worry about them anymore, Buggy.”

“I've got you, don't worry. I've got ‘em, too. Went out with a pew.”

It takes some time for you to adjust. Sometimes you're wondering if you still have the right to be called ‘victim’. They bullied you, after all. They bullied you first. They started it.

They deserve it. Sev finishes them. Lessons exhibited to everyone in your school. The aftermath? No friends at all, having absolutely nobody to talk to, and a new sick urban legend circulating around mentioning your name seeking refuge to the devil. What bullshit. Except if they want to call a living dead bloodthirsty psycho sniper from another galaxy the devil. Picking victims and taking them out in your name. It's fitting and eerily beautiful at the same time. At least that's what Sev thinks about.

Sev sighs. “Don't need to find out why,” he says gruffly.

You stare at him. “Um… why?”

He tilts his helmet back at you. “I know why I'm here.”

It's to hunt them down. Those who hurt you. He can feel it in his incorporeal body. Every time he lays on his belly on the next building over with a nice vantage point, every time pulls that trigger, every time he watches the body drop. He's never hesitant with his shots, he's always confident. All that, put into a shaker and poured into a fine, cold cocktail glass for him to enjoy.

You play with your straw as you lower your voice, “It's to kill them, isn't it?”

“I got off on it,” Sev admits shamelessly—but not, at all, in a sexual sense. “And it feels like the right thing to do.”

The corner of your lips twitch. Maybe you're just as sick as him, handling that much pressure and suddenly that pressure is ripped away from you without resolve nor closure. “So,” you muse, “Acting as my guardian angel who brutally kills people?”

“Don't see me doing anything else, do you?”

You look down somewhat guiltily. “I never saw you.”

Sev tears his focus away from you and stares into the plain fucking wall. He won't let himself be seen as soft, at least not now, although it's too late. Something is provoking the guess what I actually fucking care bone inside him. You're being vulnerable, so he can't be, too. At least one of you has to look alive.

“It’s for the best,” he says eventually, “You wouldn't like it—”

“Well, look who it is! My sweet darling baby!”

You’ve never turned around so fast. After one and a half hour being interviewed by a detective who's genuinely trying to help your tired hardass, that voice turns this day boring to plain shitty—a familiar assface with a Canadian accent bursting through the door with his sickening grin and, can you fucking believe it, blond pompadour hair.

“Who the kriff is this?” Sev asks aloud, his hand steadying on his rifle.

“Raph?” you gape, ignoring him, “The hell you doing here?”

Sev watches this Raph dude interrupting his intense conversation and sauntering toward your table with a happy skip in his step with a smile that even Scorch would've slapped away. “Flew over for you.”

You shake your head and let out a dry laugh “Don’t be an asshole, Raphael. Seriously, what are you doing here?”

Raph looks at you offended. “Me? The asshole?” he snorts. He makes a shoo gesture at you and forcefully wedges himself into the booth before smiling his smackable smile again at you. Sev actually considers to punch him across the face—doesn’t matter if his fist and knuckle blade goes through. “Don't be silly, baby darling. You broke us up first.”

You stare at him, scooting to the other side until your back meets the wall. “Because reasons.”

“Aw, you couldn't handle me,” he teases.

“Understatement,” you mutter under your breath, throwing a glance at Sev with a sigh. “Raph, we already broke up. There's absolutely no reason for you to fly over and— and babying me!”

“Right, right, but I can look after you while still being friends, can't I?”

“I don't have friends,” you state firmly. Sev gives you a thumbs-up. You bite your lip to stifle a smile.

“Well, but I want to.” This chakaar actually… seems genuine. Sev relaxes. A bit. The boy sighs in resignation seeing your unconvinced expression. “Okay, you want honesty? I'm in town ‘cause my dad's having a board meeting with your city council. Told him I'm gonna drive around town and, well.” He gestures to you with a flashy smile. “See how you're holding up.”

Sev watches your expression carefully with his arms crossing his chest. It's been a hard month with all the murders around you, and he's not feeling sorry for even one. They deserve it. He can't explain it in words, but his intuition has helped him survive many times by identifying two-faced sha’buire before.

“Yeah, I don't know,” you shrug mindlessly, “This mysterious sniper guy is gonna get the second wave of FBI hounding on my back and that'll be bad for me.”

Raph seems taken aback. “Whoa. Second wave?”

“Yeah. They sent profilers, but they found nothing on the crime scenes—all six of them. Pulled out and been working on it remotely ever since so far. Or at least that's what I hear from the detectives.”

“Right, right,” Raph nods thoughtfully, seemingly taking it all in seriousness. “Want me to hire PI for you?”

You scoff. “Raph. The victim's parents literally unionized to hire a band of private investigators to look into me.”

“Are you serious? You don't seem scared.”

“I've got nothing to hide.”

Sev catches one look too long in the far corner of the diner. He perks up, and that slight gesture from him renders your attention at Raph crumbling for a moment. “One in that corner,” he informs you. Your head swivels following his direction.

“What?” Raph asks.

You roll your eyes. “Speak of the devil. One that's hoping I'm gonna buy that… I don't know, librarian persona.”

“Oh yeah,” Raph muses, nodding as if awed he's got to see a real PI for once. “Doesn't that bother you? I can make a call to ask one of my dad's counselor team—”

“Raph, stop,” you shake your head, “I appreciate it, but I don't need your help.”

“Time to go, Buggy.” Sev stands up. Awkward situation that normally could escalate into a varping shootout like this is something he always runs away from first thing, even in the Before where Fixer usually shouted after him, and he intends to drill this when to walk away lesson into you. He grabs his rifle readily, appearing as the cold and deadly sniper he is as if ready to put a nonchalant bolt through Raph's head right there and then. “I'm saving your shebs from this dumbass.”

You release a loud sigh as you begin to wrap the burrito with its own tin foil and shove the last of your crisps into your mouth quite unceremoniously that makes Raph blink in absolutely not amusement. Maybe disgust. Good. You've got enough eyes on you, you certainly don't need your ex boyfriend to poke around, too.

“Want me to drive you?” Raph tries again.

You stall by slurping your milkshake clean, noisily. “I got it, Raph.” You plot your escape, rather quickly, to the front door where Sev is already waiting for you, rifle raised as if Raph could see him then the kid should be scared.

Raph follows you outside, his steps are more hasty rather than concerned. You groan your frustrations, turning to give him a piece of your mind until he cuts you off.

“Hey, hey. Please. I really am concerned. What if they’ve been targeting you?”

“Targeting me?” “I've been bullied for most of high school for having top marks, Raph! If they were targeting me, why would they kill people around me who've been causing me pain and made me nearly hang myself in my own house?!”

“Maybe jealousy?” Of course he doesn't care about your suicide bit. “They're trying to intimidate you by killing people around you.”

You watch in silence as Sev comes up next to Raph, out on the sidewalk and under the autumn late afternoon sun. The commando you've known as a friend seizes your ex—panting and practically begging you to understand and to be on his page—up close and personal with a predator's prowess. His grip on his rifle may seem relaxed, but you know the finger on the trigger guard is itchy to press.

Sev looks at you. “Want me to shut his hole?”

“No!”

Raph looks at you in disbelief, unaware of your slip-up. “Are you serious?”

“Yes I'm serious!” You gain your focus back but already forget what he brought up. Sev nods grimly and steps back.

“Copy that.”

“Look, I care about you, okay?” Raph says, “Watching the news and your name popped up on screen, it's only just last week that it's now up by seven victims. Seven. I was always wondering if you're okay ‘cause these are people you know, people you went to class with, but what if they get to you finally—”

“Raph.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, and then level your gaze with him, giving in with what you hope is genuine plea. “I don't need your help.”

You turn around again, but Raph grabs your arm. “I get that,” he says, sighing. “Let me drive you home? Then I won't bother you again.”

“Promise?”

“You won't see my face again and you won't even know I'm leaving town.”

And that's how you find yourself in the passenger seat of Raph's car.

It smells rental and you try to focus on it instead of your ex’s presence just a mere feet away. Raph wasn't good to you—his dad being a member of Canadian parliament, all he cares about is himself. You were just an object of his love bombing for five months and you're still trying to pretend to ignore that at least a quarter of your belongings were his gifts to you.

So. Him being concerned about his ex partner who becomes a person of interest in their bullies’ strange murders? Even stranger.

Raph insists on a scenic route. Says he hadn't been here long before moving back to Canada—all those five months here were spent wooing you and bombing the lovesick person out of you, both with love and his pompous bullshit.

And now you’re letting him initiate conversations with you again. You let him steer the topic, because you're too tired to think of one, much less speaking about one to your ex. Sev is watching you and the interaction from the backseat, his quietness isn't unusual.

He can sense something's wrong. He’s certain you’ve noticed too, but what could you do in a moving vehicle, if not launching yourself out the door out of paranoia without injuring yourself? Call it his intuition. Out of his brothers, his intuition never went wrong. It’s his patience and attentiveness when he's locking in. 

So when the chakaar pulls up in the seediest corner of a gas station after fueling up, all this poorly executed bullshit ends now.

The temperature surrounding his incorporeal body freefalls. Always, every time, when his trigger discipline can no longer be contained. It makes his head feel hot and crowded with utter focus, his attention fully locking into his new goal—his target.

The search for vantage point? He lets his body do it. Methodical, careful, as if someone ran the program inside his head to do just so, because he's used to moving so discreetly without risking being seen. Even a ghost now—he can't erase that away. He can't be careless, still. It's who he is. Remove that, and he'll be just a shell of RC-1207 who loses his kick.

He's found a tree, but he doesn't climb, so he covers himself behind the gigantic trunk. He wants to see the bolt penetration. He wants to watch his target's head loll sideways as it claims their life that's been spent on stooping so low belittling other human beings. He wants the thrill. He wants to smell burnt tibanna. He wants to smell the death.

Sev raises his rifle and aims. It's already dark outside, and he's surprised why you didn't choose to go on a screaming match with your ex already to demand to be taken home. Raph drives around, errands here and errands there, even taking his time on grocery shopping and delivering packages. He's already been waiting for the cover of darkness so he could lock the doors and turn off the lights in his car…

And pounce on you.

Once the moving shadows inside the car begin to show signs of resistance and oppression, he wastes no time.

He pulls the trigger.

The boom resonating out of his sniper attachment is followed by the sound of glass breaking. The bolt went through the car's rear window, the seat, and…

The head loll. And not a second later, the entire body, dead, flopping heavily onto you. Dead.

You scream.

You've obviously thought of being present in a crime scene. But you’ve never found yourself in it since it's probably for the best and yet; here you are.

It's just like what they say and what they show to you in pictures. No blood. Scorched bullet hole. Smell of foreign gas flooding your nostrils. Dead body. It's also what they don't show you that's overwhelming your senses. You think dead bodies are cold, but you have no idea they'd still be warm. Or maybe, deep down you knew but it's all happening so fast. Freshly dead bodies are still so warm that it makes you want to believe Raph is possibly still alive.

You push his body away from you. Raph’s dead weight slams against his side of the door with a loud thunk.

“Buggy! Hey!”

Sev is on the other side of your window, wishing on everything he could've done including rapping his knuckle plate against the window and hauling you out of there as fast as he could to get you to safety.

“Let's go. We should go.”

And then the fog clears. It's like you're waking up from a nightmare.

“Sev,” you breathe, finding consolation in the presence of his illuminating bluish white form before unlocking the door manually with shaky fingers. Sev arms go through your body in an attempt to catch you as you stumble out. You hit the asphalt and grass followed by Sev's frustrated grunt.

“Buggy,” he calls you, even crouching to meet your level, “Get up. You okay?”

Your sight blurs—it’s your tears pooling in your eyes, and you don't even realize you've been crying. Sev’s translucent rifle, the one he just shot Raph with, lays on the ground next to him. You're expecting to be eye to eye with Sev’s gruesomely painted helmet but the face behind it greets you instead, and it does seem like your questions about the color of his eyes and what kind of scars marring his face would remain unanswered. The frown between his eyebrows and concern reflecting in his gaze bring you into a shared space of vulnerability.

Your breath hitches.

“Sev…”

“You’re alright,” he soothes, voice softer than you've ever heard of him. Sev raises his hand to your head to push some of your hair away but pauses midair, again forgetting his current state. Glancing away in embarrassment, he turns back to you with sudden encouragement. “Come on. We gotta get moving.”

“My bag,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper as you try your best to get up even on your jelly-like limbs.

Sev nudges his head. “Go. We'll get out of here.”

You get on your feet with hardship and turn, and you're looking at the nightmare again.

Raph had suddenly become violent when you rejected his advances and landed a solid smack to your cheek. Not three seconds later, he flopped dead against you by Sev’s protective headshot.

“He—” you swallow thickly, “He tried to rape me—”

“What matters now is that you're safe, ad'ika,” Sev affirms behind you, his voice filtering through his helmet again. “He won't bother you anymore, that's what I know.”

It burns. The pain in your cheek has numbed but it still burns. You touch the reddened spot with the tip of your fingers and immediately cringe away—it’ll always be a reminder of a tragedy.

And your mistake.

You're here when he's murdered. You're present at the crime scene, your DNA is all over the place. Within a second, you feel like the best you could do right now is crying again and screaming as loud as you can.

“Buggy,” Sev urges you again.

“I'll never be safe, will I?” Your voice strains as you turn around, your tears hot in your eyes. “As long as this town hates me, I'll never be safe, and you'll never stop.”

“If that's what it takes.”

You know you're supposed to be taken aback by his words—Sev’s sole intention and belief that he should protect you, a vulnerable soul, at all costs. His calling, he called it. But you're not. Your shock has escaped you and you are so used to letting yourself be ushered under Sev’s protective wings that you no longer question his merciless actions. It scares you, your sanity—it scares the little sympathy that's just magically… still there.

After all seven, eight murders.

Have you always been this heartless? Ever since they turn to be so condescending and kick you into the ground that you've had a fair share of the vile earth yourself, and make you swallow what they've spat on?

Maybe they deserve this, after all.

You sniffle, harshly wiping the tears off your sad fucking face. Grabbing your bag to find your phone, there's only one fight left for you.

“Raph’s dad’s lawyers are going to kill me,” you mumble as you tap the three numbers for emergency services. “They're gonna make sure I'll be behind bars for this one. They're powerful people.”

Sev huffs almost boredly. “Then good thing there's a security camera right across from where you are.”

It's a good position, and it's on. It surely caught what had transpired beyond the windshield of the rental car, and all the windows aren't tinted.

“They won't touch you.” Sev raises his rifle again. “I’ll make sure of that.”

You release a breath of laughter—either for him always having your back or the fucking coping mechanism, you're letting the universe do whatever it wants with you, as long as they decree Sev to always protect you against the most vile evil that the world throws at you, at least.

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

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[skies-for-eyes-trees-for-knees]

AZRIS WEEK 2025

The Break

Missed yesterday’s posting, but better later than never!

Synopsis

In the aftershock of yesterday’s searing kiss, Eris and Azriel go fishing, hoping to clear their heads and clear the air. They end up discussing everything they’re not going to do.

TW: sexually explicit and strong language

DAY 4 - Read My Lips

“Don’t worry, brat, I’m not going to kiss you.” Azriel smirks, dipping his head again to Eris’s neck.

The spymaster’s nose grazes the delicate column of the prince’s throat, breathing deeply again, from the nape of his neck to the lobe of his ear. Eris stifles a groan at the sensation, which sends a jolt of pleasure straight down his spine.

“I’m not going to bite your earlobe.” Azriel whispers gruffly, talking into the shell of Eris’s ear.

Eris gasps, realising exactly what Azriel is doing, hating and loving it in equal measure. The spymaster traces a thumb along the prince’s lower lip and the touch ignites him.

“I’m not going to bite you here.” Azriel trails that same thumb down his neck, drawing a line of fire across Eris’s skin.

“Or here.” The spymaster gently grazes the tip of his scarred index finger over the hard edge of the prince’s clavicle and across the thin stretch of linen which covers the plane of his chest, pausing to graze a hardened nipple through the shirt. “Or here.”

Eris gasps at the electric shock of the touch, his gaze locking onto Azriel’s face in bewildered disbelief. The spymaster is studying him closely, his eyes dark with lust. The prince dare not move, in case the last thread of his self restraint should snap.

Torture. Blissful fucking torture.

Azriel’s hand continues its journey south across the plane of Eris’s chest and stomach. When it reaches the waistband of his trousers it stops, splaying flat against his abdomen, a solid heavy weight that burns through the fabric of his clothes. His skin is itching to make contact. Without warning, that same hand begins to pull at each button of the prince’s shirt, popping every one of them open, before laying flat against his chest. Eris’s heart beats loudly beneath Azriel’s palm. Hazel eyes drink him in as the rough skin of the spymaster’s hand slowly works its way back down across the prince’s stomach, ending once more at his naval. The languid touch feels almost possessive, proprietary.

Azriel’s eyes, full of fire, slowly roam the length of the prince, who fights the urge to squirm beneath such scalding focus. Eris shudders, what little remaining blood in his head rushing south. Azriel’s hand, so hot and heavy on his abdomen, is just inches too high from where Eris wants to feel it. Feeling half mad with arousal and ready to crack under the pressure of his wanting, Eris finds himself ready to play this game of dare.

“What else aren’t you going to do?” He asks, voice rough with desire.

Azriel’s eyes flare with delight and he bites his bottom lip. Eris wants to feel it between his teeth.

Full chapter now on AO3.

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@azrisweek @molcat07 @irithiadourden @ejkreader @nestasgoodside @aleksandra25cracow @the-starlight-way @bloodyplunder

[muiitoloko]

RICKMAS 2024: DAY 03. A TREAT

Summary: While shopping for Christmas gifts, you surprise Alex, your quiet but devoted bodyguard, with a luxurious new outfit, insisting he deserves to feel valued. Amid his gratitude and hesitation, he realizes you see him as more than just an employee, leaving him humbled by your kindness.

Pairing: Alex Hughes × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Also read on Ao3

The bustling mall was alive with festive energy as you moved from store to store, gathering Christmas gifts for your family. Despite your attempts at staying discreet, a few fans recognized you, approaching with excitement. Each time, you paused graciously, smiling warmly, taking photos, and signing autographs, always kind and attentive. Alex Hughes, your driver and bodyguard, followed close behind, keeping a protective eye on you while he silently carried your growing collection of shopping bags. His presence was comforting, solid and reassuring, his calm gaze sweeping the crowds as he ensured your safety.

Alex was, by nature, a quiet man, but you could tell he appreciated your down-to-earth kindness. To him, you weren’t just a celebrity or his employer; you were someone who’d looked beyond his past, someone who’d seen him for more than his mistakes. And you knew he valued that deeply. You’d learned early on that finding work was difficult for him, and he’d once quietly admitted how much this job meant to him, even if he didn’t express it in words often.

After browsing through another store and making your final selection, you turned to Alex, noticing the way he held the bags, his hazel eyes sharp yet patient behind his glasses, waiting for your next move. Something about him standing there, carrying all those bags with such quiet dignity, stirred an idea in you.

“You know, Alex,” you began, a mischievous smile forming, “it’s Christmas, and I think it’s time you got a little treat of your own.”

Alex blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “That’s not necessary,” he replied, his baritone voice soft yet firm. “You’ve already been more than generous.” His hand shifted on the bags, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of you going out of your way for him.

“Oh, hush,” you teased, brushing off his protest. “Consider it my way of saying thank you for putting up with me—and all this shopping.”

Alex shook his head, a faint hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Truly, it’s fine. You don’t need to spoil me,” he insisted, his tone polite but resolute.

Ignoring him, you took his arm and guided him toward a nearby luxury store. “I insist,” you replied, casting him a look that told him there was no point in arguing. “Besides, everyone deserves a little something special at Christmas.”

Once inside, Alex looked around, visibly uneasy among the opulent displays. You could tell he felt out of place, but you knew he deserved something just as nice as anything you’d pick out for yourself. You made your way toward a section with men’s scarves, gloves, and coats, knowing he could use something warm and stylish for the winter.

Picking up a cashmere scarf, you held it up to him, studying how it would look draped against his coat. “What do you think?” you asked, reaching out to adjust it around his neck, letting your fingers linger on the soft material. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Alex glanced down, his eyes meeting yours, his expression a mixture of gratitude and resistance. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, his voice low. “Really, you’ve already done more for me than I could ever repay.”

“You’ve earned it,” you replied, giving him a gentle smile. “Now just let me spoil you a little, alright? It’s Christmas, after all.”

Relenting, Alex let out a quiet sigh, his expression softening as he allowed himself to indulge, just this once. As you wrapped the scarf around him, he caught your hand, holding it briefly as he looked at you, a flicker of warmth in his hazel eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with genuine gratitude. “For everything. You don’t know how much it means to me.” His fingers brushed against yours for just a moment before he let go, a subtle but intimate gesture that sent a small thrill through you.

“Consider it a start,” you replied, giving him a teasing smile as you released his hand, watching as he adjusted the scarf around his neck. You couldn’t deny the warmth in your chest at seeing him look a little more comfortable, a little less guarded.

As you and Alex discussed the scarf, a saleswoman approached with a warm smile. “Can I help you find anything else?” she asked, glancing between the two of you.

You returned her smile, gesturing toward Alex. “Actually, yes. I’d like to get him a few things—a nice outfit, something that looks good but also professional. And maybe something more casual, too, for a Christmas banquet I’ll be hosting at my house.”

Alex, who had been quietly watching, suddenly looked startled. “A… banquet?” he stammered, his baritone voice filled with surprise as he tried to gather himself. “You—you’re inviting me?”

Ignoring his protests, you continued, turning back to the saleswoman. “I think a suit jacket would be a great start—maybe a deep charcoal or navy to complement his complexion. And let’s look at some shirts as well.”

The saleswoman nodded enthusiastically, clearly delighted to assist. She led you through the store, selecting a few options while Alex trailed behind, his expression a mixture of gratitude and discomfort.

As you held up a crisp blue shirt against his chest, studying how it might suit him, Alex leaned down, his voice a soft whisper in your ear. “This… this really isn’t necessary. You’ve already done so much,” he murmured, his hazel eyes filled with a hesitant gratitude, almost as if he couldn’t believe your generosity.

You tilted your head, giving him a playful smile. “Oh, hush. It’s a treat, Alex. Just let me spoil you a little. Besides, you need something nice for the party.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but the words faltered as you placed another shirt against his chest, scrutinizing it with a thoughtful expression. “This one might be perfect,” you mused, ignoring his quiet resistance. “It’s classic, and the color brings out your eyes.”

Alex flushed, adjusting his glasses as he looked down at the shirt, clearly at a loss for words. “I—I didn’t even think I’d be invited… let alone need a new outfit,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, you are invited,” you replied, brushing off his concerns with a smile. “And I insist you look your best. So, let’s make sure we get it right.”

You continued browsing with the saleswoman’s help, picking out a tailored jacket, a few shirts, and a pair of slacks. Each time you found a new item, you held it up against Alex, analyzing how it would suit him. Despite his quiet protests, he let you continue, his gaze softened by something almost vulnerable, as if he was unused to someone caring for him in this way.

At one point, he caught your hand, his fingers brushing yours in a gentle, unspoken gesture. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with a depth of emotion you hadn’t expected. “For all of this. It… it means more than you know.”

You squeezed his hand in return, giving him a reassuring smile. “It’s Christmas, Alex. And you deserve to feel special, too.”

A slight smile tugged at his lips as he released your hand, allowing you to continue your search for the perfect outfit, a flicker of warmth in his eyes that told you he understood, even if he’d never say it out loud.

A few minutes later, you settled into the plush couch, a glass of champagne in hand as you waited for Alex to emerge from the dressing room. Shopping bags were piled at your feet, and you couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him trying on the selection of clothes you'd chosen. From the luxurious labels to the finely crafted details, each item had been carefully picked to suit his understated style. The saleswoman brought over a plate of delicate pastries, offering you one, and you accepted, glancing over at the closed dressing room door with anticipation.

Inside, Alex was standing in front of the mirror, his expression a mix of surprise and apprehension as he took in the sight of himself in a shirt he’d just tried on. It was a deep navy, bringing out the warmth in his hazel eyes, and the tailored fit made him look sharper, somehow more confident. But as he reached for the tag, his brows furrowed, his breath catching when he saw the price. The number on the tag was staggering—far more than he’d ever imagine spending on a single shirt. He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the fabric as he weighed the situation. A shirt like this… it was beyond anything he deserved, at least in his mind. He was here to protect and serve, not to receive gifts like some sort of VIP.

And yet, there you were, waiting patiently on that couch, calling this his “Christmas treat,” smiling at him like he was worth every penny. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as he reminded himself of your kindness, your genuine belief in him. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than he deserved, a kindness he hadn’t quite earned.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped on the suit jacket you’d chosen next, smoothing down the lapels. The charcoal gray suited him, giving him a refined, almost dignified appearance, and he realized how long it had been since he’d worn anything remotely formal. He adjusted his glasses, staring at his reflection with an unfamiliar sense of confidence. He wasn’t sure he recognized the man looking back at him—a man who, just maybe, could let go of his past, even if only for a night.

Finally, after a last glance at himself, he stepped out of the dressing room, his quiet hesitance still evident as he approached you. You looked up, your eyes lighting up as you took in the sight of him, the transformation more striking than you’d anticipated.

“Alex,” you said softly, the admiration in your voice unmistakable. “You look… incredible.” You set down your glass, standing to get a closer look, a warm smile on your lips. “See? I told you the colors would suit you.”

Alex shifted slightly, adjusting his glasses as he glanced down, a faint flush of color on his cheeks. “It’s… different,” he murmured, his baritone voice soft, almost as if he didn’t fully believe he could pull off such an elegant look. “But the price…” He hesitated, looking into your eyes. “I don’t think I can accept this. It’s too much.”

You stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Alex,” you replied, your voice reassuring, “this is a gift, something to show my appreciation. I know you’re used to taking care of others, but sometimes… it’s okay to let yourself be taken care of too.”

He looked away briefly, his expression filled with a quiet humility, the weight of his past clearly surfacing as he tried to process your words. “You don’t know how much this means,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper, raw with an unspoken gratitude. “After… everything, I never thought I’d deserve something like this.”

Your hand lingered on his arm, a reassuring presence as you met his gaze. “Alex, everyone deserves kindness, especially you. This isn’t just about clothes—it’s about letting you feel as valued as you truly are. You do so much for me, and this is just a small way of giving back.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he looked down, a soft chuckle escaping him, though his eyes were still filled with uncertainty. “You’re… something else,” he said, his voice laced with warmth, almost as if he were seeing himself through your eyes for the first time. “Thank you. For… everything.”

You reached up, straightening his collar with a gentle smile. “Think of it as a start, Alex. Besides,” you added with a playful grin, “you’re going to be the best-dressed guest at my Christmas banquet.”

His brows raised slightly, a rare flicker of lightheartedness in his expression as he replied, “I’m not sure anyone will recognize me.”

You laughed, stepping back to admire him once more. “Well, they’ll see exactly who you are—a good man, and a very deserving one at that.”

[lilacxquartz]

CHASING HUMANITY • kenjaku x f!reader

masterlist • previous chapter • next chapter • chapter directory • on ao3

plot: ever since 2015, a serial killer had been plaguing japan with no lead on who it might be, until you witnessed something you shouldn't have.

summary: encouraged to fulfil your revenge against your fiancé, you finally let go of what was holding you back before.

warnings/etc: violence and death in this one, reminder that this is a mundane au so no curses, reader finally matches his freak now that she’s close to feeling free so now it’s just about two unhinged people. for new readers: this is a yandere x yandere fic, read at your own risk.

Chapter 11. Nectar

The drive continued quietly and you were all tuckered out in the passenger seat, your head lolled from side to side depending on the turn. On occasion, you’d snort or sigh, but otherwise, you were out cold.

With nowhere else left to go and the old studio that he had before likely compromised, Kenjaku considered going back to the old temple for now. This would bring him closer to the identity of the current name he stole, which hadn’t been a direction he had taken just yet with Geto. The followers that had once blindly listened to that old name had long dispersed, but the generators were still present, making the area a viable place to crash, for now.

His hands patted down his pockets, feeling for the key to the old place, finding that he still had it. Geto, at the time, took a lot of effort into making the temple more so into a fortress, so it wasn’t that he didn’t want to break in manually—it was just that he would rather, simply, not. It was a solid location for the time being, at least, and maybe if luck had it, the kitchen would be left behind with supplies too heavy to loot. The pantry had to have at the very least bags of sugar, so he could assist in helping you settle your revenge.

He decided that he would only minimally assist you in such an act, however. He wouldn’t intervene, but he could help you restrain the guy or gather the required supplies. It was a case study on its own, either way; what someone would do if continuously pushed over the edge when in the company that encouraged the worst in others? You suggested so many, if he was honest, unhinged ideas in your short time spent together, but you never once acted on those thoughts directly. So, Kenjaku was, at best, simply just fascinated with where all of this could lead.

He shuddered as he took in the peaceful look on your face as you slept. It was truly a little unsettling with how content you were despite what diabolical thoughts that pretty head of yours could think of. Somehow, he convinced himself that he was different. His methods had a deeper purpose, whereas yours bordered on madness. It left him wondering if any authorities that were on his tail would be able to spot such a difference.

Eventually, though, the car rolled to a stop just outside the temple. The building grounds were in a rougher condition than the last time he had been here, and the gravel parking lot was overgrown with weeds. The doors were slightly rusted, and it looked like it could be an easy break-in, but he settled on an easier entry instead. An untouched door was good, though. It meant that there was no unwanted company inside.

First things first, he left the car behind, along with you and Naoya, on opposite ends of each other within the vehicle. He took the keys with him and pushed the doors inside, using his phone to light his way on way to the maintenance room, flicking the switches of the backup generator. It then took a while, but eventually, a dim glimmering light washed over the premises.

Time for the second part.

He returned to the car, unlocking it completely but keeping the trunk shut. A good thing about older car models was that not everything was connected, so it gave him more of a safety net with keeping things—or people—put. He dragged you out first and carried you into the stage room, where the identity he held onto once played the role of a crazed cult leader. Not too different from himself, though, for he too became deluded in his path for self-assigned greatness. Hell, he even picked up on a few tricks from studying his life. He liked that Geto manipulated others to such an extent that miracles were a possibility for those who had followed. Kenjaku only lurked in the background before when this so-called power was on display, he didn’t miss instant “judgment” from barely visible fishing wire and pricking poison into volunteers whom he convinced others were unworthy.

Suguru Geto, the man’s face he now worse, indeed wasn’t all too different, but neither with you. He could see himself drowning someone in syrup or preserving them in honey, too. Maybe he should stop being so shocked that other troubled minds existed, because after all, he couldn’t have been the only one. Mahito was close, but he was a man of impulse and shock value. He considered the same about you before a reminder of what you had said crept into his mind.

You wanted to give Naoya as gruesome a send-off as he always called you too sweet.

So your notion to drown him in something of the sort felt poetic, almost.

When he dumped Naoya’s body on the floor, he managed to wake you up in the process.

“What’re you doing now?” you sleepily asked.

Kenjaku dusted off his hands as he helped you up. He looked at you for a long time and then smiled, which unsettled you ever so slightly. “You know, I’ve been thinking—”

You interjected, unable to resist. “First time?”

He blinked at you and then let out a disbelieving scoff. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just say that…” he said before continuing, “now, I’ve been thinking,” he started again, fixing you a warning glare, “we’re not too different, you and I.”

A strange shudder passed through your body. “Oh god,” you replied to him, “that’s a terrible thing to say to someone.”

Kenjaku blinked again. “What?”

“I mean,” you lazily stretched, bringing your palms to press on both sides of your cheeks, leaning playfully to the side, “you’re comparing me,” you winked, “to you,” you said, exaggerating a pout and casting him a thumbs down instead. “It’s not like it’s a compliment.”

“I fail to see the issue?” he asked, hardly believing the audacity that was coming from you.

You shrugged. “I’m just saying… I have a lot to live for. I have potential. Whereas you’ve been at this for a while, right? I’m just a tragic soul who’s gracefully keeping you company,” you said, slapping the back of your hand against your forehead, tilting your chin back to overly exaggerate the reasoning.

Kenjaku’s eye twitched in annoyance, forcing him to regard you in a thoughtful light. He was half torn between murdering you right on the spot—or sparing you—genuinely feeling conflicted whether or not you were even worth keeping around. In the end, the desire to allow you to tag along for entertainment alone had won out.

“Yeah?” he snorted. “Why don’t you take a look around you and see where your so-called ‘potential’ has gotten you…”

Your eyes wandered around the interior of the temple and drifted from the slightly cracked windows to the yellowing, peeling wallpaper. The stage emitted a low light, just barely highlighting your unconscious ex-fiancé on display.

Quickly, you cleared your throat. “R-right…”

His eyes narrowed as you didn’t backpedal, and he took a step closer to you, lifting your chin to meet his unwavering stare. “Just so that you’re aware, I wanted to say something nice to you,” he muttered in annoyance.

You looked back into his eyes, blinking once. “And why would you do that?”

A slow exhale escaped through his nose as he tried to bring his point across without killing you out of frustration in the process. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” he asked with slight resignation coating his tone. “I like your company—hell—I even saved you from him,” he emphasised, jabbing a finger towards Naoya, pointing in his direction.

“O-oh, well…” you nervously laughed, “I thought that you did that so you could have leverage…”

Kenjaku paused. “What do you mean by that?”

As you tried to backpedal that time around, you couldn’t quite form a good enough excuse, having dug yourself into an inescapable pit instead. You wanted to better explain what you had meant, but no matter what words were to come out of your mouth next, they would only serve to worsen the situation. Just as you tried to cough out some weak excuse, Kenjaku cut through first.

“Hey,” he said, “do you remember when I had the common sense to bury you alive?”

You paused and slowly nodded, your voice coming out as nervous, “Y-yes… I actually sometimes have nightmares about that.”

This made him pause. “Wait, really?” he asked with the slight tilt of his head, watching as you nodded once more before choosing to continue regardless. “Do you remember how you devolved into madness and sang for my mercy to let you live?”

You nodded again.

“Good,” he replied, fixing you a brief smile before it fell flat. “Now, do that again.”

You flinched slightly. “What? Why?”

“Because,” Kenjaku said very calmly, “you have managed to offend me.”

You weakly shrugged and tried to talk your way out of it, backing up a few steps. “I-I don’t want to sing for you, and besides,” you urged, blinking towards Naoya, “he’s there.”

Kenjaku’s eyes landed on your ex-fiancé, not seeing the issue. “And? He’s not going to be around for much longer.”

“Can’t I just die instead?” you offered, protesting weakly. “I’m not singing…”

Kenjaku let his head tilt, regarding you with a strange look. “Why are you talking like that?” he asked before adopting the same tone and pitch you used. “Can’t I just die instead? I’m not singing—” he repeated before returning to his usual voice. “What was that?”

You turned your nose away and crossed your arms. “Nothing.”

“Are you… are you embarrassed?” he caught on, splitting his lips into a grin.

“No…” you scoffed. “I’m just standing my ground and refusing to do something stupid.”

Kenjaku could only laugh that time in response to your tantrum. “Oh sure, but you’re surely aware, aren’t you, that this petty argument is much more embarrassing than just singing a few lines, right?”

“I don’t care,” you said, still refusing to face him.

“Yeah, okay,” he laughed once more, before growing thoughtful. When he next spoke, he had a strange look in his eyes as if he was enjoying this. “I’ll also accept you grovelling.”

“I’m not grovelling…” you shut down right away and before he could poke fun at you even more, a strained, yet agitated voice cut in and spoke before he did.

“Can you both,” Nayoa began, “please,” he said between deep breaths, “just shut the fuck up? Seriously…”

Kenjaku stopped for a moment, noticing that the tape that he wrapped around his head now hung loose around his neck instead. “What the… but I wound that around so tightly…”

“Maybe the sweat from your hands got through and you ruined it,” you poked.

Kenjaku could only stare at you with the eyes of someone who was slowly beginning to question their life choices. Within just half a minute of looking at you, all hope he had for you simply faded away. He pinched the roof of his nose, closing his eyes to avoid looking at you lest your foolishness became contagious.

Conversely, Naoya was starting to push forward into full wakefulness. His eyes adjusted to the low light, and he took in the situation around him. The position he was in and who you were bickering with felt like a punch to the gut, but not because he was jealous, rather in the sense that he couldn’t believe you were cheating on him with someone worse.

“This is really who ran off with?” he scoffed from the stage. “Him?”

Your eyes flicked to Kenjaku and then back at Naoya. “Yes,” you said plainly with a shrug, “I mean yeah, I know it’s so weird because I mean… look at him.”

Kenjaku took his attention away from Naoya and settled his focus on you. All he could do was give you a long, hard look. His voice turned flat and annoyed. “What, is that, supposed to mean,” he demanded rather than asked.

You shrugged, waving him off. Naoya, on the other hand, squirmed as you both were reduced to arguing with one another once more before he gave up. “You know, I might be able to reduce your sentence if you let me go. I can’t make any promises for that creep, but I can probably convince everyone else that you were talked into this whole mess.”

“I don’t believe you,” you dismissed, “and besides, I need you tied up.”

Naoya’s brows knitted together in confusion. “Why?”

“I have plans for you,” you revealed, “fun ones, like okay, maybe it’s an out there idea, but…” you trailed off, taking a step towards the stage, “but picture this, you always said I’m too sweet, yes? So why not have that bite you back? I’ll show you ‘too sweet’.”

“I’m genuinely not following whatever sort of nonsense you’re spouting right now.”

You sighed. “What if I force-feed you syrup or honey until you drown in it?”

Naoya laughed. “You think it’ll be that easy?”

“Well, no,” you admitted, “but a tube or funnel should do the trick! You’ll have to swallow it all down eventually, right?”

Naoya looked at you for a long time, slightly unsettled by the chirp in your voice as you happily described the technicalities of his upcoming demise. “Fucking psychotic bitch.”

“Maybe,” you mused.

“This won't last long,” he spat, “one day or the next, you’re going to get yourself caught and you’ll spend the rest of your sorry existence behind bars.”

“But at least I’m having fun?”

Kenjaku finally joined in, letting a sharp exhale run from his nose. His lips twitched into a smile as he brought a hand to rest over your shoulder, pulling you closer next to him. “This was what I meant, by the way, when I tried to say we’re similar…”

However, much to his disbelief, you didn’t respond to him, keeping your focus on Naoya instead. He resigned himself for the time being, letting you trail off on your speech as he went to poke around the temple.

“Besides,” you continued, “you kind of deserve it, don’t you, you asshole? And don’t give me that whole bullshit about you being generous enough to keep a roof over my head, because that’s the bare minimum of care that you can give someone while not allowing them to do anything else.”

You paused to take a deep breath, your next words coming out as set and determined.

“You made my life a living hell, Naoya,” you said. “That’s why I’m going to pay you back by sending you straight to it.”

A long silence then settled after that promise, and for a while, nobody said anything. Naoya bitterly seethed in his restraints, and Kenjaku had only just returned from exploring the building.

All of a sudden, you whipped around to meet with him.

He could only blink back. “Yes?”

You blinked as well. “Did you manage to find anything?” you asked. “Like honey or syrup? I’ll accept cooking oil too…”

He paused. “Well, there are a few bottles of simple syrup, yes,” he responded, thinking back to what he found from a quick poke in the canteen. “There’s a singular jar of honey, but it’s quite crystallised. There was indeed a large jug of oil. Will… that be enough for you?”

You hummed in approval. “Maybe we’ll need something to force it down.”

Kenjaku glanced over at Naoya, who was on and off trying to writhe free and break away, settling on something simpler. “I can keep his jaw open - I can break it if I have to.”

A smile crept onto your lips, and you nodded in approval. “Alright, that works. Can you bring everything here?”

He stepped away, leaving you and Naoya alone again for the second time. He chose the route of delivering one ingredient at a time rather than figuring out a way to haul it back. Both out of laziness, but also to keep an eye on the guy just in case he had a trick up his sleeve. By the time he had returned with the last item in his hand, you had already turned Naoya into a lying position so that he was on his back with his head resting on your lap. The sight made him pause for a moment, feeling something close to jealousy, even if he was abundantly aware that you hated this man. Naoya, all the while, just looked tired. Not even close to accepting his defeat, but worn out from what you both had put him through.

“Take your pick,” Kenjaku said, settling the supplies on the stage next to where you sat.

You glanced around and locked your eyes on the syrup first. “That?”

Kenjaku followed your eyes over to the bottle and then handed it over to you and then brought his hands to clamp over Naoya’s jaw, forcing his mouth to prop open, squeezing along his chin whenever he tried to bite down.

Thick amber liquid then poured in a velvety stream into his mouth, guided by the tapered nozzle of the bottle. It ran quickly at first, but you kept seesawing it back to allow the flow to slow down. Naoya spasmed slightly as he struggled to take in the sweet concoction, feeling a sense of nausea overwhelm him immediately. It also proved difficult to swallow, since after just a few gulps down, he was sputtering far too much for your liking.

You pulled back, a mask of disappointment colouring your face. “At this rate, he might die instantly.”

Kenjaku tilted his head. “I suppose… that it’s too decadent, yes. The oil might be easier to swallow since it’s less dense.”

“Can try,” you shrugged.

Kenjaku let go of Naoya’s chin for a moment, wiping down the sticky matter of sugary bile on the man’s clothes before returning with the plastic jug of oil. It was partially used, but a lot remained. He paused for a moment, pouring out the remainder of the syrup from the bottle before transferring the liquid into the bottle to make it easier on you. Otherwise, you might spill it entirely. There wasn’t quite enough to waterboard—oilboard(?)—him with it, but there was enough to drown a person in it. If drinking six liters of water within a matter of hours was enough to drown a person, then the same amount of oil could come quicker.

Continuing, you flushed the oil into his throat, which made it easier that time. Naoya glugged it down with reluctant gulps just fine, but some spilled out as he sputtered from the sheer volume. Kenjaku struggled to retain his grip on him as the oil slipped out from the corners of his mouth and coated his chin, but the fight within Naoya was rapidly dwindling. The two of you watched in grim fascination as, over time, his stomach gradually distended and swelled, and as his legs violently trembled, unable to kick free.

Naoya then soon succumbed to tears. A sight that you thought you would never see. Wet gargling noises escaped from his throat, drowning out any potential pleas for mercy, and eventually, he stopped moving altogether. Burped out globs of oil seeped out on occasion, but he didn’t seem to have any fight left. Foamy saliva mixed in with bile and oil or syrup surfaced on occasion, but otherwise, he seemed dead.

You pulled back for now, taking in the scene, and just as Kenjaku was about to ask you for a break, you managed to somehow surprise him again. He almost forgot about that suggestion you had made before, the one that would require a dreadful number of things that were difficult to get.

“Maybe it would be better to preserve him in honey.”

Kenjaku could only sigh as he wiped his hands as clean as he could. “It was already a miracle that this place had as much of what it did, and you’re asking me for more…”

You tilted your head playfully. “Oil will do too? I just want to keep him all pretty and preserved and—”

He caught you before you could continue. “Pretty? I don’t think this guy will ever be pretty again. Seriously…” he sighed, “give him a few hours and his corpse will become all bloated and disgusting. Not to mention that cadavers tend to shit themselves after a while.”

You looked at him pleadingly.

“But…” he said, adopting a resigned tone. “I suppose that we can drag him into a tub and just cover him in whatever liquid we can find…”

“You’re helping me out an awful lot,” you were quick to point out.

He scoffed. “Don’t start with this again - I did promise you that I would go along with this because it meant a lot to you.”

“But you never said that as the reason for doing so,” you highlighted.

Kenjaku could only blink at you. “Well, it’s the truth. So you’re going to accept my help whether you want it or not. Besides…” he trailed off, “I like your weird ideas. They’re fun.”

You narrowed your eyes ever so slightly. “Are they? Because whenever I suggest anything at all, you look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, not denying it, “because I didn’t expect it from someone like you,” unable to resist a shudder as he took in your otherwise normal and unassuming appearance. You didn’t look capable of anything your mind came to settle on; that was all. However, he was willing to give you more control now that he better understood you. “But, it’s something that I have grown accustomed to. In a way, it’s kind of nice to have met my match.”

You didn’t reply right away, letting the silence simmer and stew. Naoya was in the process of decompressing from the sheer amount you forced fed into him, and the contents of his stomach were starting to ooze out and not just from his mouth.

Quickly distancing yourself, you grabbed one of the syrup bottles and unscrewed the cap, looking at it and then at Kenjaku, fixing him an unreadable look that could only spell trouble.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

You didn’t answer him, acting impulsively instead. You flung the bottle, still holding onto it, launching a wet, gloopy splash of sticky syrup on him. It landed on his hair and his chest, clinging to him and settling.

He could only blink as a result, dropping his mouth partially open.

“Why?” he finally asked, his voice low and exhausted.

“I wanted to practice being impulsive,” you shrugged.

“By putting this shit in my hair?”

“Yes,” you chirped before whipping around on your heel, ready to escape him, “anyway…!”

Kenjaku was quick to catch up to you before you got very far, if anywhere at all. You made it into the hallway, but he caught you just as you rounded the corner, shooting his hand out to grab onto your wrist and pulling you into him. He then walked forward so that you backed up against the closet wall, leaning over you in a way that made you freeze.

Quickly backpedalling, you tried to go back to his earlier request. “Did I ever tell you that you’re surprisingly handsome?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Oh good, you’re grovelling now. Don’t think that’ll save you.”

“I mean it, you’re so… so…” you trailed off.

“Keep going,” he encouraged.

“You’re very smart!” you tried to say. “And, and, and… probably strong.”

“Yes, very good,” he allowed, dropping his voice to a low murmur, his lips pressing against yours, swallowing your next compliment right up. He continued to kiss you quietly, keeping your body pinned in place beneath his. When he pulled away, he spoke again. “I’ll forgive you, but you owe me.”

You swallowed hard. “H-how much? Dare I say that I’m broke? Potentially useless?”

Kenjaku fixed you with a faint smile. “How about your soul?”

Your head tilted as a strange thought entered your mind. “I wonder what my soul would look like… or taste like…”

“You’re so strange,” he said, before thinking the matter over, “but probably rotten; you’re cute, for sure, but look at what you’ve done. I don’t think you’ll be able to fool me with that innocent act for much longer.”

Your eyes fluttered in disbelief but also unease, so you went back to grovelling instead, as that was the easiest thing to do. Resigning your dignity was a form of surrendering your soul, right?

“Has anyone ever told you that you have the most unsettling stare in the world?” you started once more.

“That supposed to be a compliment?” he teased.

“M-maybe?” you winced.

Kenjaku simply hummed. “Then by all means, keep going. Tell me exactly what you think of me, but just remember,” he added, crashing his lips against yours once more, talking directly into your mouth, “flattery will get you everything you want and more.”

But then, a new sort of determination crept into mind. “Anywhere? I’ll keep this all up then, just you watch.”

[selfsindulgent]

burning solid, burning thin (the burning rim)

boyreg / little!shauna w cg!jackie

— “Baby?” She starts, and Shauna just shakes her head, unmoving from her hands. “What’s wrong? Everything okay?”

(She knows exactly what’s wrong. Shauna’s been stressed with exams, her AP tests coming in fast and strong. She’s been getting less sleep, spending less time out of her house, and, most importantly, she hasn’t had time to regress. She’s been on edge for weeks, snapping at the first person she can, playing extra rough at their ‘just for fun’ soccer games with the team.)

OR

Shauna is overwhelmed after not regressing for a while. Jackie helps.

word count: 2025

notes: reposting from my old blog, apologies!! (also posted on ao3!)

“Fuck,” Shauna mutters from her spot at her desk. “Fuck!”

Jackie looks up from where she’s been trying to study on Shauna’s bed — though, it’s very hard when, clearly, Shauna can’t focus. Predictably, she’s sitting in her desk chair with her elbows on her desk and her face in her hands. She’s taking these deep, shallow breaths like she can’t tell if she’s about to cry or not, and Jackie’s resolve breaks.

“Baby?” She starts, and Shauna just shakes her head, unmoving from her hands. “What’s wrong? Everything okay?”

(She knows exactly what’s wrong. Shauna’s been stressed with exams, her AP tests coming in fast and strong. She’s been getting less sleep, spending less time out of her house, and, most importantly, she hasn’t had time to regress. She’s been on edge for weeks, snapping at the first person she can, playing extra rough at their ‘just for fun’ soccer games with the team.)

Shauna just takes another deep breath, exhaling on a soft whimper. Jackie stands from her spot on the bed, closing the book she was definitely reading and setting it on Shauna’s nightstand. She walks over, slowly approaching, because she knows how Shauna gets when she’s like this. “Talk to me, sweetheart.” She says, as soft as she can, and Shauna breaks, body convulsing as big, fat tears stream down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” Is all Shauna says, repeating it like a mantra. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I— I really tried, Jax, I promise—”

Jackie pulls Shauna to rest her head against her chest, hand against her cheek to hold her there. “Shh, baby, what’s wrong? Why are you apologizing?”

Shauna coughs and sniffles a little on her tears, and Jackie moves her thumbs to wipe at her cheeks. Shauna leans into it immediately, almost on instinct, and Jackie’s heart breaks. Her baby boy, her own little angel — always so strong for her, putting on an act in front of everyone so they know not to mess with her, to protect them from seeing what’s vulnerable underneath.

But Jackie sees it. Jackie sees it, and she loves her for it. Not in spite of it, because of it. She loves Shauna for the ways she protects herself, protects the ones she loves. She loves that Shauna trusts her enough to let down those walls around her. She loves that Shauna knows that, right now, she’s just Jackie’s baby.

And, sometimes, she needs a little extra�� guidance, to remember that. Sometimes it doesn’t come so easy. Words can be hard for Shauna, sometimes, even when she’s big. Despite her advanced English classes, despite all the books she’s read and all the journals she’s written, she’s not so good at verbalizing what she’s thinking. It all gets jumbled, mixing up the words in her head until she’s overwhelmed by the mere thought of speaking.

“Love,” Jackie speaks, after a minute. “Why don’t we move to the bed, hm?” She doesn’t let Shauna respond, simply tugging her up and out of her chair. She guides her to sit against the headboard, and, instinctively, her knees come up against her chest and under her chin. She rests her head against them like it’s too heavy for her shoulders, cheek pressing against her soccer-bruised knee. Jackie slides in next to her, avoiding contact so she doesn’t overwhelm her.

They sit in silence for a while, longer than usual. Jackie focuses on the rise and fall of Shauna’s chest, how her breathing is finally, finally, evening out. Jackie’s about to start talking, maybe try to ask Shauna what’s wrong again, when she speaks.

“I’m sorry.” It’s so quiet, barely able to be heard over the fan that sits in the corner of Shauna’s room. Shauna looks so small, tense against her own body like the very idea of her own skin is too much.

“For what, honey?” Jackie asks, soft and quiet to try to not overstimulate Shauna, but she winces a little at the sound of her voice near her ear anyways.

“I was tryin’—” Her words slur, just a little, a telltale sign that she’s slipping, fast and hard. Shauna’s always so proper with how she speaks, a habit drilled into her by her mother at a young age. “Was tryna be good. Didn’t want you to think I was annoyin’. Don’t want you to leave.”

Tears well up in Shauna’s eyes again, and Jackie watches as they gloss over and shine in the dim light of her bedroom. She can’t help it anymore, wrapping her arms around Shauna and hugging her tightly, dragging her — practically — into her lap. Shauna turns her head to tuck it into Jackie’s neck as another wave of sobs overtake her body. She feels her shake against her, pressing her full body weight into Jackie as if asking her to take the pain.

(If Jackie could, she would. If she could take all of her boy’s pain and give it to herself, let her carry it for her until it all feels okay again, she would. She tries, as hard as she can, to get as close as possible to doing so. But it’s not always enough.)

She lets Shauna lean against her. She lets her cry into her neck, muffle her sobs in her shoulder while she rubs comfort up and down her back. She rocks her boy back and forth, just slightly, letting her sobs relent before she fully takes in her form.

She knows her boy is small just by her body language. It’s not often that she regresses this young, but Jackie figures it’s pretty fair, considering she hasn’t regressed in weeks. “Hey, bub,” She brings her hand up to scratch lightly at Shauna’s scalp. “How old is my boy today, hm?”

Shauna’s hand raises, just slightly, before she hesitates, messing with her thumb. After a moment, she holds up two fingers for Jackie to see. Her face is still buried in her neck, but Jackie smiles anyways. “You feel up to talking, baby boy?” Shauna shakes her head no against Jackie’s neck. “That’s okay, honey. Do you want your cards?” A nod. “Okay, love. You have to let me get up, first.”

Hesitantly, Shauna removes herself from Jackie’s lap, giving her the first glimpse of the girl’s face after her sob-session. There’s still remnants of her tears streaking down her face, and her eyes are tinted red and bloodshot from all of it. Her face is flushed and her eyes are big, brown, and vulnerable. She looks up at Jackie, the way she always does, the way that always says This is the real me. The way that says Please don’t leave. I’m giving you my everything. Please don’t break me.

And Jackie won’t. Instead, Jackie kneels down to grab Shauna’s bag from under her bed. She reaches in the front pocket and pulls out a stack of blue index cards, with words and little drawings already set up on them. She puts the bag down at the edge of the bed, in case Shauna needs it, and puts the cards down in front of her boy. “What do you want, sweetie?” Jackie asks. Shauna flips through the cards before landing on the one she was looking for. She holds it out to Jackie, and she grabs it with a grin.

It’s one with a little wolf drawing on it that just says My shirt! in Shauna’s handwriting. Jackie’s grin widens as she reads the card, happy to look back up and see a small smile on her baby’s face. “You want your wolf shirt?” After her nod, Jackie continues. “You want the red or the black one?” She flips the card over, showing the little red box and the little black box. When Shauna points to the black one, Jackie does a mock salute, smiling big and wide and unashamed at Shauna’s giggle.

She reaches down into the backpack, finding the little rolled up black wolf shirt at the bottom of the bag. She reaches into Shauna’s dresser and grabs a pair of boxers, too, assuming she’ll probably ask for them next. “Do you want me to undress you, baby? Or do you want to do it?”

Shauna hesitates, and then points to Jackie. Jackie can’t help but smile softly, reaching over to tug Shauna’s shirt off. When she’s just in her bra, Jackie gestures vaguely, as if to say this off, too? Shauna nods, predictably, and Jackie reaches behind her to take it off for her. She grabs the wolf shirt from where she’d laid it down and puts it over Shauna’s head. Luckily, Shauna’s not too small, and is able to help her by moving her arms and head into the hole with her.

Shauna practically beams once the shirt’s on. Her hair’s slightly tousled from putting the shirt over her head, and her flush from crying is mostly faded now, and Jackie can’t help but lean forward and press a little kiss to the tip of her nose, relishing in the little giggle she gets in response. Jackie reaches over and grabs the boxers, motioning to Shauna. “You wanna do these, baby?” Shauna nods, again, as predictable as before, and Jackie hands them to her with a smile, turning around to face the wall.

(She knows how Shauna gets when she’s small like this. It’s from the lack of privacy she felt in her childhood — the lack of control. She likes having these choices, and she has her little ticks that she can never, ever stand.)

Shauna taps her shoulder lightly when she’s done, and Jackie turns around. She smiles at the girl as she grabs her clothes from before, throwing them in the general direction of Shauna’s laundry basket. When she turns around, Shauna is shuffling through the cards again, the determination in her eyes showing that she’s searching for something specific.

Finally, she seems to find what she’s looking for, and hands Jackie 3 cards. The first reads Paci, then Juice, and, finally, Journal. “Here, baby,” She reaches in the bag, grabbing Shauna’s little journal — a blue notebook with plenty of stickers on it, courtesy of Mel and Van — and her green and blue pacifier, the first one Jackie ever bought her. She’s bought her many more since this one, but it’s always Shauna’s favorite. “You can journal while I go get your juice, okay?”

Shauna seems content with this plan, nodding firmly and grabbing the journal and the pacifier from Jackie’s hands. Immediately, she puts the pacifier in her mouth and moves to sit against the headboard again. She grabs a pen from her nightstand and begins to write as Jackie slips out of the room, walking down to the kitchen to get some juice.

She grabs one of Shauna’s favorite cups — a blue sippy cup with a little Spider-man graphic on it — and fills it up with fruit punch, adding just a little water so it’s not too overpowering for her boy.

As she moves back up to the room, it’s oddly quiet. There’s none of Shauna’s little clipped breaths she gets when she’s fresh out of crying, no light scratch of pen against paper.

The reason for it becomes apparent when she reaches the top of the ladder to Shauna’s room, however.

Her boy — her beautiful, handsome, angel boy — is fast asleep, head lolling against her own shoulder, notebook still open across her lap. Jackie can’t help but smile softly and sigh affectionately before putting the sippy cup down on the nightstand and cleaning up Shauna’s journal, making sure to cap the pen and put it back in the exact spot it was in before.

Once the journal is safely tucked back into Shauna’s backpack, and Shauna’s backpack is safely tucked under Shauna’s bed, Jackie maneuvers her baby so she’s laying down, leaning her head against Jackie’s chest.

Once awake, she knows Shauna will try not to talk about what triggered this. She knows she’ll try to return to her rigorous studying, and try to ignore her own needs yet again.

It’s okay, though. Jackie doesn’t mind helping her stubborn baby when she knows she needs it.

[sssammich]

fic: quiet, so quiet

im stressed so i used my commute to write this out. unbetaed.

swan queen, rated M for brief sex scene. 3k words

read on ao3

--

the early morning is regina's sacred space. a time when she can guarantee that she isn't to be disturbed. when the promise of a new day washes away her tired limbs of yesterday. when the sun hasn't yet woken and she is blanketed in the darkness in a softer, gentler way. not to choke out what embers of light she's gathered and tucked within, but to appreciate it for existing at all.

it's a chance for her to set about her intentions for the day, run through the tasks at hand, and allow herself the moment to breathe before she begins the marathon of a new day, this day.

it's also a chance to allow herself the moment to study emma. emma sleeping beside her, the gravel in her light snores audible just so. today, emma is laid on her front, her head turned to face regina's way, as if even in her slumber she's keeping watch. one arm tucked under the pillow while the other skirts the edges of regina's own, a soft curling of her fist. her hair fans out over one shoulder and all over her pillow, a golden contrast to the deep gray of their sheets.

theirs. hers.

the ownership without possession. it is a thing of wonder to regina, unaccustomed to not knowing how to belong so simply, on equal grounds she never thought she'd step foot on.

regina shifts to her side, brings up her hand and brushes errant locks out of emma's face. it is a marvel they are here in the way that they are. the path behind them paved with blood, with loss, with hurt.

yet she knows that's not all that has strengthened the solid foundation beneath them. there is also an immeasurable amount of love, of light, of choosing. so many choices made for the other, almost to the point that did she ever have a choice at all? was emma a foregone conclusion in her life? maybe. they are, in the end, inextricably linked to emma's lineage, emma's past and future, emma's mother and son. so perhaps in that regard, emma was, in fact, an inevitability.

but in her heart?

no. emma, regina chose for herself.

pulled from her musings is the sound of rustling from beside her. emma's eyes are closed but regina knows better, her thoughts confirmed when emma's loose fist brushes against her chin, the back of her index finger caressing her cheek.

it's a gruff grunt that comes out of emma's mouth and it makes regina smile.

"—time's'it?"

"early."

another grunt and emma is shuffling to lay on her side. she tugs regina into her and regina allows it, lets herself be pulled into warmth she's come to savor. her left arm tucked between their stomachs while her right arm wraps around emma's middle, making a point to land her hand on the edge of her tank top and resting her palm against warm, smooth skin. her face cradled in the crook of emma's neck, her nose grazing emma's throat.

emma wraps both arms around her back, protective, secure. their legs intertwine under the covers.

a kiss makes its way to her forehead and regina sinks further into emma's embrace, shutting her eyes at the feel of lips on her skin.

"stop thinking. sleep."

in ten minutes her alarm will sound, and in twenty minutes she'll begin making breakfast and start the day, her checklist of to-dos in her planner and in her mind.

for now, she allows this. chooses this. hers.

—

henry is a growing boy, sitting at the oddity of fifteen years old where he's shooting up like a bean stalk, gangly limbs unknowing of what to do with themselves. but his capacity for love only grows with him, exponential. despite herself, despite all of her misgivings, he gets to grow up the way she hadn't, the way she couldn't.

even now as the two of them finish lunch at granny's before making their way to the grocery store to buy ingredients for tonight's dinner, she thinks about how good he has it. how lucky he is to be surrounded by love and love and love. so much love.

how lucky is she to receive his love.

after all, he's the direct descendant of true love. it's part of his very being.

she hands him the handwritten list of ingredients and pushes the cart behind him, his face scrunched in concentration as they pass through the aisles. it's not so often that he helps with these chores, the groceries more specifically, opting to let her and emma share this instead. but she remembers the time before, the time when he was half his age and she was his entire world. how he'd clutch at the edges of her jacket and walked beside her while she held a basket on her other side. he'd point at the snacks and the junk food and she'd tell him no and he'd pout and they'd compromise on a slightly healthier snack like he was getting away with the greatest heist of his life.

back then, it was just the two of them against the world. and she'd been content and happy. he was and remains the source of so much of her love and light, her reason for being. without him, she'd be a husk of a woman on the cold stone floors of a cold stone castle waiting until she dissolved into cold stone nothingness.

without him, she wouldn't know what it means to be a mother, to be a good mother, the way her own mother failed her.

without him, she'd be walking through the grocery store already towards the register. but there's a beauty to his steadfast dedication in getting the right ingredients, the best ingredients, confident in her abilities to transform them into the best meal they've ever had.

without him, she wouldn't be grinning into her palm as he holds two bunches of cilantro and deciding which makes the cut.

in a few short years, he'll make his way out into the world, the wider world, away and apart from her, from them. so she doesn't rush him, because each second he stands in front of the produce section with her is a second she gets to keep him there.

—

it's the late afternoon now and regina is in her underwear, bare faced, and staring at her reflection in the mirror. hanging on the door of her closet behind her is her black wrap dress, the one with a light sparkle to it under the light, the one that emma loves seeing her in, the one that emma saw her in when they first went on a date.

soon, she will wear it as the hostess of this dinner. the one where she hosts her once-sworn enemy and her shepherd husband and their second attempt at parenthood for dinner, at the earnest insistence of her own son, at the humble request of his other mother.

for now she studies the lay of her cosmetics, the creams and oils, the brushes, the powders and waxes before her. they are arranged similarly to how she'd arranged her vanity back in the enchanted forest. it had once been her weapon, as sharp and intentional as a blade between the ribs. now, she has no use for it in that way. not when she has gathered strength elsewhere. not when her home is fortified simply because henry is there, because emma is there. they return to her. she is their home as much as they are hers.

still, her reflection strikes something inside of her. an ugliness she cannot wipe away or cover. less a blemish, more a scar. like the one she'd earned right above her lip; a hard slap her mother generously gave after a supposed insubordination. she remembers watching her father watch her clutch her face, blood trickling past her fingers, down her chin, staining her dress. a marker that his love, though plenty, was insufficient to act on. not when her mother overwhelmed them both. not when her mother overpowered them both.

how she can look at herself without flinching is perhaps a testament to how far she's come. but however far she runs to one horizon, she knows the other side will always be there, taunting her, reminding her that it'll always be there, regina need only to return.

she won't, knows that she'll lose more than herself if she ever did. though she is not so foolish to think that she can't fall prey to the depths of her worst qualities, of her worst impulses, not when she'd open up her heart to her son, to his other mother, allowed them in and told them that it's theirs if they promise to take care of it for her.

with another glance at herself, without a grimace or a scowl or a flinch, she plucks the lipstick from its place, uncapping it before twisting it up. the wax presses upon her lips, a kiss for a kiss, staining her rouge. it is not a blade, but it is armor, and that is language she understands.

—

the chirping of crickets fills her ears while she tucks herself into the shadows of her backyard, the setting sun displaying an array of colors that remind her of her mother's robes, a dizzying flurry of fabric and silk when mother sashayed away from her and prompted her to follow suit, quietly and in submission, the backs of them the most often image her downcast eyes grew up seeing.

she is free, she reminds herself. against all odds and against all sins, she is free. to want and to have and to be.

yet a fear of the inevitable destruction only her hands are capable of creating linger within. burrow, more like. digging deeper inside and making a home in her frayed and gray heart. not all the way white, never will be that, and not all the way black either. instead her heart is stuck in limbo, arrested in a space neither sides can reach. perhaps that's better than nothing. perhaps that's better than darkness.

but for how long?

when will her freedom end?

she doesn't get an answer, least of all from the crickets that have ushered in nightfall. certainly not from the lightning bugs that float around the expanse of her garden.

she should have known that emma was watching all along, tucked herself in the shadows of regina's shadows. as if she too is waiting. for what, regina can't decipher. but they're all allowed their secrets.

regina tips her head to the side, enough to signal to emma, i know you're there.

enough to signal to emma, well? are you going to join me?

and she does, you see. emma's boots step on the creaking deck, one after the other in a way regina has only recently learned to do for herself, and then she sidles up next to regina on the bench swing.

"how was your day?"

she wants to laugh, so she does. leave it to the savior of this secret town, her once upon a time paradise before she knew better, the home of her home in henry (and in emma), to ask a silly question as that.

perhaps. perhaps she's as silly as the question when she answers with a deep sigh saying, what's a day like in this town?

emma dares, as she so recklessly does, to place an arm on the back of the swing, resting behind regina's shoulder. regina senses the way those restless fingers drum on the wood, the side of her index finger just so happens to caress the corner of her shoulder.

in a time before, it'd have been the threat of a cage flirting with her freedom, enticing her to turn inward and unto herself. but tonight, in the darkened robes of the evening sky, it is the reassurance that she is freest of all.

—

she isn't at the door when the knocking comes, instead she stays still in the kitchen, hands resting by the edge of the casserole dish. the sounds of emma and henry greeting snow and charming and neal fill the foyer, the echo of life and laughter reverberating against the walls. she hears them, she hears them and she knows that when she walks out there the laughter and the vibrancy will change.

regina has learned compromise, has learned resignation, has learned surrender.

there will perhaps be a day in the future where she will look at snow as more than the harbinger of ruin to her life. the beginning domino placed in the front of regina's life. maybe that day will even happen tomorrow. but it doesn't need to be today. that what happens here now is more than enough.

so she brings the dish to the dining table and places it at the center, then she walks out into the living room where the family has gathered, and she reminds herself that there is love is in this room reserved for her, too.

"dinner's ready."

she sits at the head of the table, at the head of her home, and emma sits across from her. to her right is henry, neal to her left. snow and charming sit opposite one another on either side of emma.

this family, her little family.

"this looks delicious, mom!"

she beams at him, anchors herself to his hand.

snow and charming hoist their own compliments to her on the table, and she accepts them gracefully, finds that this doesn't have to hurt. she smiles at them and takes a sip of her wine.

from the other end of the table, emma watches her, studies her, flashing a smile and tipping her fork a little before taking a bite. a small acknowledgment. recognition. validation.

it is enough. today is enough.

—

they're silent save for the barely audible exhalations of breath, save for the rustling of clothes, save for the distant sounds of people downstairs no doubt none the wiser in her living room. how they managed to sequester themselves for this dalliance is beyond her, frankly, considering all she'd announced was a need for a moment. then, of course, emma found her, because emma always finds her, and held her in her arms before it became a stolen, shivering kiss.

they say nothing because what is there to say. they are lost in this moment, in her bathroom, with emma's fingers inside of her while her nails dig into emma's reddened pale bicep.

each stroke up is like a push closer to a cliff's edge. each press of emma's palm onto her clit is another step back until she's teetering, until she has no choice but to jump at emma's insistence, into emma, into emma, overwhelmed by emma.

when she comes, it's with a gasp, upon breaking the water's surface, muffled only by emma's shoulder that she practically bites into.

emma kisses on the edge of her temple, a delicate press of chapped lips on her sweat-stained brow, while she slowly draws her fingers out—wet and covered with regina.

regina smooths her palms against the wrinkle of emma's shirt. the only evidence she'd been there at all, the only proof she'd marked emma too. the only way she knows that emma jumped right with her.

a shaky breath escapes her and she looks up at emma who's already watching her, at attention, patient and calm. unnerving, is what it is. yet comforting all the same because at least one of them isn't so rattled, isn't so changed. one orgasm does not a life altered make. but it's not too far off.

emma gazes at her, eyes sharp and knowing. all too knowing. tilting her head in a silent exchange.

good? her eyes ask.

regina nods. what else can she say?

she brings her hands up to cradle emma by the sides of her head, her thumbs caressing that sharp jaw. she tugs, enough, and their lips connect, meet in a truce, in accordance.

regina acquiesces, takes, and cuts.

but emma is different. she accepts, she gives, she prolongs.

sooner than soon, they relinquish their hold of one another and emma wipes her fingers on the inside of her own shirt. regina begins to shimmy her dress down, but it's emma who takes the reins from her, catching the edges of her dress, reverent in the way she releases it with accompanying caresses of her hands.

regina leaves first, back to the perfect hostess, but she stops by the door, a small glance over her shoulder, enough to show on the edges of her periphery but nothing more. she doesn't have to guess that emma is watching her every move as she departs and heads downstairs as if this never happened, as if they never happened, watching her disappear from sight.

—

the night ends and the charmings go back to their own home with small talk of hosting at theirs next time.

she decides that she'll worry about that for tomorrow.

for now, the house is quiet and henry is now in his room, satisfied to have all of his family with him. a gift she gives him because he deserves a family where his life bursts with love from all directions. she would never have been enough, she realizes. her love would have sufficed, it would have provided. but seeing him laugh and smile with everyone is a testament to his capacity for love and his ability to inspire love from others. to deny him of this would have been her worst sin.

emma, a stable presence once you allow her to show up for you, is sitting in bed, back against the headboard, her hands resting on her lap, her eyes closed. regina knows better, of course. but the peace on emma's a face is evidence of how far they've come, a journey through a hundred thousand shadows only to come out into the light.

she tugs the comforter down, careful not to jostle, to maintain the sanctity of this peaceful moment. emma peeks from one eye and finds regina laying on her side. so she does the same, the foolish grin on her face matching the one henry inherited.

"not so bad, huh?" emma says, palm resting on her hips, her thumb rubbing at regina's potruding hip bone.

she sighs, exhales the entirety of today, resting her head on her folded arm atop her pillow. "no. not so bad."

"then that's pretty good."

she laughs, then, because emma does that. turns her world upside down, finds another way. emma leans down until regina is cocooned in golden curtains, their noses grazing each other. "you're good, regina. so good."

all regina can do is bring her free hand to close on emma's nape and brings her head down, distantly wishing she'd kept the lipstick on if only to mark emma as hers. mark emma as hers forever. mark emma as hers for as long as this world allows.

she knows that there are debts regina will never be able to pay off. forgiveness she'll never earn. regrets she'll carry in her heart wherever she goes. but emma says she's good. emma believes she's good. and tonight, regina wants to believe too.