#(she's lamenting how close you are and yet how far away. she's five seconds from writing poetry. if her hands didn't hurt she would.)

[sagendipity]

the law of attraction: de minimis

a quackity x reader law school au

part one, chapter one

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The first myth about law school is that everyone is the same.

In movies, in TV shows, in books- everyone in law school is a certain type of person. Dangerously smart, hardworking to a fault, and absolutely cutthroat.

Now, that is true. To get this far, to get into a competitive law school and make it to your final year, you have to be all of the above. Smart, hardworking, and just a little cunning. It’s impossible to get a leg up unless you’re standing on someone else’s knee.

Or neck.

However, the fact that everyone here has to have a certain few traits in order to survive does not mean that they cannot have other traits.

Some are louder, exuberant, and competitive- the type to yell out the answer to a question before raising their hand, the type to go back and forth with the professor when they’re sure they’re right (and they’re not). There’s the introverts, the sly ones you never see coming, who you barely notice next to you all year until you glance over at the grade on their final and it’s a 110%, somehow.

Of course, there’s also the in-between. The respectable ones, the students that are just there to get through the classes they need and get a respectable job at a respectable law firm and make something nice out of their lives.

Or the hero type, the ones that are convinced they can fix any injustice they perceive in the world- the environmental lawyers, the criminal defense lawyers, the civil rights lawyers. They might be right, too, which is why it seems like a never-ending flow of them are pouring into the school at each orientation.

It’s not always as simple as that, of course. You, like many students, are a mix of a few types. You lie somewhere between the exuberant and introverted sides, not shy about answering questions in lectures, but not jumping the gun to cause discourse, either. A bit of a hero type, you must admit, but you do pride yourself on being reasonable when it comes to your life’s expectations. You don’t expect to become some William Kunstler. You work hard, you get shit done, and like law school has a tendency to do, it seems to become your whole entire life.

The type of person you never quite got a read on is Alex.

He’s been sitting next to you in your upper level criminal procedure class for the entire semester. A whole semester’s worth of lectures means you have plenty of time to observe and analyze the people in your classes- its not like there’s anything else to do when the professor is going over voir dire for the third hour that week.

You pegged the kid in the third row as a die-hard businessman. He’s not going into law to help people, he’s going into law to make the most profit off of the most vulnerable clients he can find. The girl in row six, however, is definitely the hero type, judging by her “save the oceans” stickers on her giant re-usable coffee cups.

Alex, though, you can’t read. He dresses down compared to the other students. They dress up to hide their shortcomings, like their fancy coats can stop them from feeling bad about their less-than-adequate qualifications for the internship they just applied for. Others just like to lean into the New York City aesthetic and dress like they’re already lawyers, even despite failing their last midterm. You fall into that category- you can’t help it, it’s a fun look- but hey, you definitely didn’t fail your midterm, and you’ve lived in New York your whole life, so you think you have the right to dress like that.

Alex dresses like he has nothing to hide. He dresses like the young, high-level professor who is always cracked out on Redbull and hasn’t graded a paper in his life; like the cute, fascinating barista at the local hipster coffee shop you can barely afford. He dresses like that one guy you’d see on the subway one day and never manage to forget because of how his eyes met yours for a split second.

To be fair, that is kind of how it’s gone. It’s not exactly like the two of you met on the subway, and you’ve definitely interacted more than just a passing glance, but goddammit is Alex stuck in your head.

You convince yourself it’s just because he’s such a mystery. It’s not because he has really sweet brown eyes, or the most charming, unruly hair you’ve seen this side of the Midwest. It’s not because he whispers a joke under his breath whenever your professor says something stupid, or because he bumps your ankles together and shares an amused glance with you when that one really annoying kid pipes up with an opinion no one wanted.

It’s just because you don’t know why he’s here, and you don’t know what he wants, and you don’t know how to read him.

It bugs you. It gets under your skin- not like an itch, more like a hum. He’s on the back of your mind constantly, like you’re trying to subconsciously figure out what’s up with him, but to this day you’ve had no success.

It’s not like you think about anything substantial in regards to him- every time your traitorous brain brings him up, you put it down quicker than it came up. Getting attached to people is dangerous in the best of circumstances, but getting attached to the absolute enigma of a guy in your criminal procedure class who you can’t even confidently say is named Alex would be equivalent to signing up for heartbreak.

“Don’t date law boys,” your roommate had lamented after she had done just that, laid across her rose-pink bedspread with a sleeve of crackers clutched in one hand and a tissue in the other. She had then blown her nose unattractively. “Lawyers have a reputation for being soulless for a reason. They’re only here for themselves. Fuck them.”

Despite that, you find yourself friends with Alex. As if you’d be able to resist the self-satisfied grins he flashes at you when the professor praises him for a particularly poignant answer, or the way he holds his hand out under the table for a high-five after you nail the answer to a cold call. You barely know anything about him, and yet, you know enough to decide he’s a good person.

“Alex”, whose name you’re only about 80% sure of- maybe it’s short for Alexander, but you thought you’d heard someone he was on the phone with call him Q, so maybe he’s a Quinn or a Quentin?

“Alex”, who shows up looking more comfortable than you’ve been in your entire life, and still manages to hold an air of confidence around him that you’d not be able to master even in your finest long coat and shirt.

“Alex”, who seems determined to wiggle his way into your heart in any way he can.

“Alex”, who you seem to be powerless to resist.

.

This growing attachment to Alex of yours is only strengthened with each lecture. You share this class three times a week, two hours each on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It’s a focus class, meaning that anyone who wants to go into criminal work should take this course. It’s challenging, it’s competitive, and it’s cutthroat.

And it’s only February.

A cold Monday morning in February, in fact, with the clock above your professor’s desk ticking obnoxiously as the big hand nears the 8. Outside, it’s downright miserable: windy and foggy. The outside of the paneled windows of the classroom are glazed in a sticky frost, reducing the figures of passing students to dull blobs as they hurry through the whipping wind to get to their classes.

The big doors at the back of the classroom close with a bang that reverberates throughout the lecture hall, cutting through the murmuring chatter of the students who are already here. Out of the corner of your eye you catch a flash of green- as you suspect, it’s Alex. He always takes the seat on the very end of the row, and you the one immediately to his right. You look up at him with what you hope is a casual smile, but the one he returns is so bright it could probably melt the frost off of the windows.

“Hey!” he says, too awake for 8 in the morning, and sets his binder down on the desk with a clatter. The whoosh of air rustles the paper of your notebook, which you smooth back down habitually. You watch Alex longer than you should, only tearing your gaze away after you notice the smattering of tiny snowflakes that have gathered atop the beanie he’s wearing.

You stifle a little laugh. This guy wears a beanie to law school.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he settles into his seat. He shrugs off his hunter green jacket, leaving him in just a gray hoodie, dotted with darker spots from melting snowflakes that’d been blown into him. He drops his outer jacket across his lap just as the room goes silent, your professor walking up to his desk.

As the last tails of conversations die off, you turn to Alex, unable to help yourself, “You have… snowflakes, on your head.”

He glances at you, a little huff of laughter escaping him as he brings up a hand to smooth over the beanie. The snowflakes are swiped off, melting on the heat of his hand- you wonder how it would feel held in yours, probably warm, he looks like he runs hot- and you pry your eyes away as he straightens out his beanie and tucks his hair up into the brim of it. He misses a strand, and the black swoop stands out sharply against the frost-paled skin of his face.

“Happy February,” your professor begins, his microphone crackling to life. “The month of love, is it not? Just two weeks until Valentines day.”

He swings his bag up onto the stool next to him, the sound echoing through the microphone. He turns to face the lecture hall, arms spread as if welcoming you all to a talk show.

“I’m about to ruin all of your Valentines Day plans. Welcome to the start of your final project: the mock trial.”

.

[vannybarber]

Know Your Place

Summary: Christopher Jamal Evans puts your ass in place.

Chris Jamal Evans x Reader

Warnings: SMUT, cursing, aggressive behavior (nothing serious), mentions of cheating, implied smut, degrading.

This is based off of Barbershop: The Next Cut with Terri, Rashad, and Draya, with their whole situation😂.

"Just get in the damn car and meet me at the house. We're not doing this here."

"Fine!" You rush around to your car door and slam it shut once you get inside. You watch Chris go to his, also slamming it shut but not for the same reason as you. You were more so the reason.

Starting the car and driving off with him right on your tail, you turn the music up to drown out the many cars that honk at your recklessness and poor wheel skills. If only they knew, they would be acting just like you.

You had come over to the building where Chris was shooting a movie with his female costar, Melanie. You absolutely despised her because she often came onto Chris. Both infront of you and when you weren't around. Of course he shot her down every time because he knows better. He knew you weren't the one to be played with.

But today, when you didn't see him as soon as you walked inside the shoot, you scan the room for Melanie. Not seeing her either, you began to roam around through the halls. You look in a room and see his stuff on a couch inside. You walk into the room calling his name.

"Chris? Baby, where you at?" You check in the bathroom and its empty. "Boy, I got your nasty seafood salad. Where the hell are you?" You scan the room one more time before smacking your lips and heading to the door.

Chris was in the closet changing when Melanie came in trying to feel up on him. He was getting ready to finally cuss her out, but he heard you yelling for him and so he freaked, shutting the door. He specifically told her not to make a sound and she followed orders, up until the last minute.

As you hit the threshold, you hear something hit the floor. The sound seemed to have come from the closet. You pause, scared at first because it was evident that no one was in the room except you. But then you grow suspicious because Chris and that bitch were both missing. You turn around slowly and stalk towards the door.

Chris was fuming when she knocked the box over, but then started to freak when he heard you walking over to the closet door. He gave her the look with a mix of panic and 'I'm gonna fucking kill you'. He sees the door handle turn and prepares for your wrath because you damn sure were gonna give it to him.

You open the door and there was your man and Melanie. Her hands were covering her mouth, eyes wide. Your eyes relocate to Chris and his shirt was halfway on his torso. He clambers to get it fully in, stepping towards you and away from her.

"Babe, just listen and you'll understand everything. She came in while I was changing and-" he doesn't get a chance to finish, for your voice overpowered his.

"You got five seconds to explain to me what the fuck you're doing." You hand is still on the door, not planning on letting them out the closet just yet. Chris was confused, but discerned that you weren't talking to him. You were talking to Melanie. He looks back at her and she was now biting her nail, clearly anxious.

"Look, Y/N, I really don't want any problems." She is trying to be straight about it, but her voice is fastened with fear. She knew exactly what you were capable of and she still is trying to bullshit you.

"You don't want want no problems? You've been trying to sleep with my man since the first day you found out you were working with him!" You must look like boo boo the fool for her to think she was pulling this shit on you.

"And as for you Christopher," you turn towards him, jabbing your finger in his chest, "what the hell are you thinking? Are y'all just lying to me and actually messing around?" You had no problem whooping both their asses.

"Y/N no! Listen, she came inside the closet while I was changing and I was going to kick her out, but I heard you coming and I just...freaked out." He's trying to dissolve the situation, but is only making it worse.

"You instead of coming out, you decide to stay in there with her? You see how this is worse right? You're just giving her the benefit to think she could even get with you. This is entertainment for her. Don't you realize that?" Now your hand was off the door and balled into a fist because you were 2.5 seconds from losing it.

"Baby, I was going to put my foot down this time. I know its long overdue, but I didn't want any issues with the people I work with. And I should've realized how unfair that was to you. I'm sorry. But don't think I would ever cheat on you." He grabs your arm and pushes you back so he could get out the closet.

"Yeah, you damn right. All this could've been avoided. She's harassing you. You need to report her ass!" You snag your arm away from him and point back at her, who's now trying to ease out of the closet. You catch her and she runs off, you not far behind. You damn sure were not a runner, but you were going super sonic right now.

She turns down she same way you came to find them and Chris is right on your ass too. You guys get to the front of the building and you lunge for her, but no contact was made for Chris had you in a hold. You brawl against his wide chest and eventually give up when he doesn't let go.

People are watching in absolute shock and some even were laughing their asses off. It would've been even funnier if Chris had let you get one hit in. Of course that didn't happen since he scooped you up with minimal effort.

"Y/N chill! Stop, you're making a fucking scene!" He grabs on your flailing arms, yanking them back.

"I don't give a shit! Let me get her. Just one good time," you plead and scream at the same time. He literally drags you away outside with great struggle since you weren't giving in. When he got you out there, you accepted your defeat and he let you go, watching you extra closely in case you pulled a fast one.

"You should've let me get her! Why the hell you stop me?!" He runs his hands through his hair, obviously frustrated and very much embarrassed. But you could care less. She needed her ass whooped.

"It's not worth it. We need to go now!"

"I don't have to go anywhere!" You could give less of a fuck if the onlookers labeled you as 'the angry black woman'. Because infact, you are a black woman. And damn right you were angry.

"Just get in the damn car and meet me at the house. We're not doing this here!"

"Fine!"

After reminiscing over the lovely previous moments, you pull up at your even lovelier home. You hop out the car and open the gate. Walking back to the car you peek and see Chris with his arm against the window, leaning on it and watching you. For sure he had a headache by now.

Instead of pulling up all the way into the driveway, you park at the end, leaving no room for Chris to drive in.

"Really? Pull all the way in!" You sit for a minute with your arms crossed for a bit of rebellion before complying like a child. Only because you didn't want to walk the extra way to the door of course. When you park again, Chris pulls in and gets out to shut the gate.

You were already unlocking the door and stepping in, but before you could slam it in his face, he was right behind you. You toss the keys and kick off your shoes.

"Where are you going?" You hear him call from the front of the house.

"None of your business." You were just going to the fridge to get your pineapple juice. You drink it almost every single day. And you definitely needed some right now.

"Okay we need to discuss what the fuck just happened. What the hell was that Y/N?" He's standing across the kitchen island from you staring in anger.

"Well for one, I caught you in a closet half naked with that bitch after I called your name repeatedly. Then she's playing in my face and you're trying to defend her! You really need an explanation for my actions, Chris?" You close the bottle and slam it on the counter.

"Look Y/N, I explained to you what happened. I am sorry. I knew that if I had came out that closet with her, you'd still react the same way, probably even worse. I was literally fearing for my life, no joke." He puts his hands up in surrender. You almost laugh.

"I rather you just have came out and told me straight up. Yeah, I would be mad of course. Who wouldn't? But you made it more difficult yourself." You still have an attitude and even though he apologized, you still wanted to be mad.

"Baby, I tell you you're beautiful everyday. Why? Because I want you to know that no other woman could ever be at the level you are for me. I want you to know that you're the only one I see and there isn't anyone else for me." He's now standing infront of you, his 6'0 figure imposing over your frame.

You can't and won't lie that those words had you in your feels. You swear, Geminis really are sweet talkers. You could've gave in right then. But not just yet.

"You sound like a real bitch right now." You fold your arms and look at him with testy eyes. You slightly regret saying that because what he said was genuine. But who are you without some back talk?

His eyes go caliginous. You've only seen this a one time when you've stepped out of line with him. Your big mouth could argue for days, but you never held a grudge. You kind of forced yourself to keep going as if you were still upset. Stubborn was an understatement.

You scratch your straightened hair nervously before flattening it back down. You internally hope it wasn't obvious that you lamented what you had just said.

"I already apologized to you and explained what happened. Now you can be mature and we can have a real conversation or you can be childish and act like you're still upset and we can end it right here." He steps closer to you, if that's even humanly possible. "But this is will be the first and last time you call me a bitch. Got it?"

He's breathing heavily on your face. If only you could see your face right now. It would read shock, with a bit of fear. He never checked you like this and let you get away with a lot. But this right here, was well deserved. But the way he's over you and his voice lowering with a sharp tone had you...turned on.

Something about him putting you in place made you wet and excited. All the fear had vanished almost immediately. You finally respond.

"Yes," you say quietly, nodding your head. "I'm sorry." Your eyes remained on him looking up through your lashes nibbling your lip. If only you knew what it was doing to him.

The sight of your body go automatically submissive to him after he got firm with you threw him in a complete frenzy. He was dominant most times, but you had many moments where you didn't back down to a challenge and took the lead. You not clapping back and apologizing threw him off a slight bit, but did not disappoint him. It turned him on.

"Good girl." He grabs your arm, spins you around so that your back is turned to him and bends down next to your ear.

"Go into the room, take off everything but your panties and lie on the bed. Mkay?" He moved his hands behind your arm to your lower back. You might as well save yourself the embarrassment and take off your panties too because once he sees the tropical storm, it's a wrap burrito. But you nod your head in compliance.

He gives you a smack on the butt and pushes you forward. You walk the rest of the way to the room and follow his exact orders. You remove every clothing item except the saltwater cloth covering your most needy part. You lay on the bed and wait for him.

He comes in a few moments later and eyes you down, making sure you followed his instructions. Of course you would. He stands in front of the bed and starts to remove his clothes. The entire time his eyes alternate from your body to your eyes. It made you nervous, but still excited.

"I'm very much used to your little tantrums and what not, but there's a limit. And when you pass that limit and step out of line, you need to be taught a lesson." He's in just his briefs by the end of his sentence and crawls in the bed.

You adjust yourself onto your back, shamelessly welcoming him to help himself to you. He positions in between your legs and lowers his face to yours, lips gliding against yours and pulling back when you try to kiss him. You pout and he smirks a little.

"Tell me what you want, honey" he whispers as he rubs up your leg to your thigh, grazing his fingers against your soaked panties. Just when you thought you couldn't get any wetter. Damn.

"I want you to touch me. Please." Your hands are gripping the sheets just thinking about his hands on your body. You completely forgot about messing up your hair as you throw your head back when he starts circling his fingers on your clit.

"I'm starting to think that this isn't very punishing for you, sweetheart." He picks up pace and reaches for your boob, kneading it full in his palms. "You seem to really be enjoying it. A little too much."

You weren't even listening to him, only chasing your orgasm, rolling your hips against his forceful touch. You successfully make it a few seconds to cumming before he snatches his finger away. You pick your head up right away, looking appalled.

"Why'd you stoooop?" you whine out. He looks at you innocently.

"Hmm that's just something us bitches like to do." Before you could respond, he flips you over and smacks your right cheek. "These have been on way too long." He pulls your panties off quicker than Pietro Maximoff. Tossing them to the floor, he starts his teasing.

"Damn, Y/N. All this is for me? If this doesn't tell me you loved the beginning of your lesson, I don't know what does."

He drags his fingers through your wet lips, coating them with your wetness. He brings his hands to his face to taste the mess you made for him.

"Hmm. That pineapple juice is kicking in fast."

The entire time he's talking, you're moving around coding him to stop teasing you and do something to make you feel good.

"You really are a desperate whore, huh?" You moan in the sheets in agreement. You were never into name calling, but it was something with Chris that made you love it.

He lowers down to your pussy, breathe frisking over it. You shiver and wait for him to start.

"As much as both you and I would love this, you don't deserve it. So ass up." You internally start cursing him out, calling him all things forbidden. But you comply and slightly lift your lower half.

Chris gets directly behind you and lines up with your entrance. When did he even take his briefs off? You inhale sharply at the contact and moan as he slips inside you with little to no effort. He fills you quick, starting his thrusts right away.

Your left cheek is against the mattress and both hands are gripping the sheets.

"Oh my- fuck!"

"How's it feel baby?" He asks you, going deeper at every thrust back inside you. Between the loud claps of your bodies, your pornographic moans and the sounds of your WAP, he knew the answer.

"It feels so good Chris" you manage to get out between breathes that were suddenly hard to take. You suddenly get a hard slap on your right cheek, making you squeal.

"That's not my name." You quickly correct yourself.

"Sorry..Daddy."

"Look at this" he starts thrusting faster, both of you not far from climax.

"Just an hour ago you were bitchin' about me and now you're basically grovelling at my feet. You can barely make a word. I guess I'm not such a bitch now, huh? " He locks your arms behind you and you automatically lift your ass up further, helping him slide in you even easier.

"No Daddy, I'm s-sorry." He groans and grabs a fistful of your hair and leans down to your ear. Normally you would be pissed because he touched your hair, especially since it was just done. But you could give less of a damn right now.

"Yeah I bet you are. Would a bitch be fucking you like this? Hm?" He pounded into you hard at every word. Your face in the mattress, you let out a scream that would have the neighbors dialing 911.

"No, baby- oh GOD" you yell, right at your peak. Just a couple more thrusts away and you were gone. Chris recognized that yell. He wanted to send you off right.

"Go ahead and cum for me baby. But just remember,"

He was right behind you and close himself.

"No matter how smart you get with me, at the end of the day, you're always gonna be a little slut for me." The last 4 words sent you over the edge and you cum all over him. He doesn't fall short and fills up the rest of you.

"Fuuuck" he let's out as his seed spills inside you.

His body collapses next to you and you find the energy to move your body. You turn and look at him with this dumb smile on your face. He reciprocates with the same dumb smile and pats down your hair. You slap his arm, turning your nose up at him.

"Ow. Why'd you do that for?" He rubs his now red arm.

"That's what you get for messing up my hair. You're gonna give me money to get it done again." Remembering, you hit his arm again.

"Baby, what the hell?"

"That's for also making me leave my pineapple juice out the fridge."

Idek what I was doing here 😭 This is the kind of stuff I daydream about, but it never looks as good written out 🥴

masterlist

[empyreanwritings]

Traitor

Pairing: Thor Odinson x fem!Reader, (slight) Tony Stark x fem!Reader (Sugar Daddy AU)

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: angst, breakups, smut (oral, fem receiving), lots of tears, a hopeful ending. 18+ Only, Minors DNI

Summary: Thor loved you, but he said he didn't. His own fears kept him from loving you the way he wanted to, and now he had to deal with the consequences

Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated :) As usual, you do not have permission to repost/translate/rewrite my stories. (Divider by @firefly-graphics)

"I don't understand," you choked out. "Why are you saying these things?"

"Because I don't love you," he lied. Why was it so easy to lie when he could feel his heart breaking? "I think it best if we end this arrangement and see other people."

Thor grimaces at the memory and swallows down another beer to fight off the bile rising in his throat. His gaze keeps flicking over to where you stand. You're breathtaking in that baby blue dress, and he can't stop admiring you until his eyes land on Tony's arm wrapped around your waist. How close you're pressed against his side makes Thor's stomach twist.

Of course you would move on. You have school and your tiny apartment to pay for. Perhaps you wouldn't fall in love with your next sugary daddy the way you fell for Thor, but you still needed the money. He couldn't hold that against you, but it hurts. It hurts to see you at all the same events as him but not tucked under his arm.

He sucks in a breath and forces himself to look away. Perhaps it's better to leave, he thinks. There is nothing for him here besides heartache, and he only came as a favor to Carol.

"You gonna sit there wallowing all night?" Val asks as she waves down the bartender. "Bourbon, please. You want anything?"

"No, thank you. I should be going."

He sets the empty bottle on the bar and goes to leave, but Val places her hand on his arm. "She asks a lot about you, ya know. I don't think she even realizes it, but she catches herself sometimes. You ever gonna tell me what happened there?"

Regret sits on the tip of his tongue. He so badly wants to spill everything he said that night. Purge it from his system and finally move on, but he can't. He deserves to feel sorry for himself after breaking your heart - after watching the light leave your eyes the second he told you he didn't love you. It's all a lie he'll never be able to shake off.

"It doesn't matter now," he laments. "She's got a good thing with Stark. What happened is in the past."

He gently pats the top of her hand before removing it. He can't stand to be in the same room as you anymore; he makes a quick escape without another word. The heat from your eyes following him the entire time burns the back of his head, but he refuses to turn around and look at you. He doesn't know if he'd have enough control not to cross the room and beg for your forgiveness.

The blinking cursor mocks you as you stare at it for another five minutes. You sat at your desk more than an hour ago, and you had yet to write anything for your essay. It's an easy assignment, your professor said. Most of you will be able to complete it within a few days, she assured everyone. What a lie.

You are meant to write about tragic love stories in literature. It's a rather easy assignment for someone not still feeling the burns from a breakup. Every time you try to write about something - anything - your mind drifts. You almost wish you and Thor were immortalized in a book so you could write about it.

That's a real tragedy as far as you're concerned.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing yourself to push the tears back. Seeing Thor at Carol's gallery opening hurt more than you expected. You couldn't believe how easy it was to think about running back into his arms. You wanted to cry and punch at his chest and tell him how much he hurt you. But you also wanted to tell him it didn't matter if he didn't love you back, you just wanted to be in his arms.

The thought alone makes your heart clench. You're pathetic, that's for damn sure.

Tony sensed your mood shift the moment Thor walked out of the party and knew it was time to take you back home. You appreciated how he didn't question it; he simply said goodbyes to his peers and let you wallow.

Your arrangement with Tony isn't anything like yours with Thor. He pays you for your company. He confessed he hated being alone in his penthouse ever since Pepper walked out on him, and in a way, you understood. You had been with Thor for almost three years, and even though you didn't know when the lines between sugar daddy and boyfriend started to blur, it still affected how you felt being alone now.

Neither of you want anything romantic, but it is nice to crawl into bed with someone at the end of the night. You're human after all. But there is never any risk for you falling for him, and he knows that. His heart belongs to Pepper and yours...

You rather not think about it.

"You should take a walk," Tony's voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You lift your head and look over at him, a somber smile on your face. "You're not going to get any work done with all those thoughts clogging your brain."

"Am I stupid?"

His eyes soften, and he quickly crosses the living room to get to you. You say nothing as he takes your hands in yours, but you don't have to. Tony's aware you're not asking about the assignment.

You sniffle. "I should be over him already, right?"

"Sweetheart, there is no timeline for getting over someone," he murmurs. "If there was then I'm convinced I would be screwed too."

"I want to be so mad at him for the things he said but I-"

"Can't help but love him?"

You nod and furiously wipe at the tears falling down your cheeks. "Stupid?"

Tony pulls you out of your seat and into his lap. The warmth of his body offers some comfort, and you melt against his chest. His hand gently moves up and down your back, not saying a word as you sob into his neck.

You think back to how many times he's had to do this for you and try not to feel embarrassed. Part of your arrangement is this - being honest with each other about your feelings. And Tony, surprisingly, is always a good shoulder to lean on.

"No," he whispers after you've somewhat pulled yourself together. "You're not stupid at all."

Thor knows he is only torturing himself whenever he shows up to your old spot, but he can't help it. There's something about the familiarity that brings a warmth to his chest. A warmth he doesn't deserve, but he desperately needs.

He wonders if you've ever returned to this spot since he ended things. Probably not. Only he seems to torture himself in this way despite every voice in his head telling him not to.

His eyes close as he leans back against the tree. Being here feels like picking at an old wound. The longer he sits, the more the scab over that horrible memory gets picked at. He doesn't want to think about it; he doesn't want to remember everything he said that night, but he can't help but revisit it.

Once the wound is open, the blood always flows so easily.

You grip onto the roots of Thor's hair, murmurs of praise falling from your lips and filling the room. He's relentless in the way he feasts on you, and he has no intention of stopping. Eating you out is his favorite part of sex, and he always makes sure to take his time.

He flattens his tongue, licking a stripe up your folds, and your back arches of the bed. You choke out a breathless, Oh God, and it only makes him chuckle.

"He's not here right now, my dove. Only me," he coos as he lifts his head. "Who's making you feel this good? Tell me."

"You, Thor," you moan, pressing your hips up in hopes he'll resume. "Only you."

The smile that spreads across his face makes your heart race. He dives back in with no hesitation, and you scream his name when he sucks on your clit. His focus on the sensitive bundle ignites every nerve in your body. It makes your toes curl and fingers grasp at his sheets. You aren't sure if you're screaming or crying or both, but you beg him not to stop. To just keep hitting that spot right there.

But the thoughts in your head become jumbled as he brings you over the edge again, and you can't stop the confession of love from falling out either.

He freezes between your thighs. You prop yourself up on your elbows, instantly feeling your heart sink into your stomach. The look on his face tells you that you screwed up, but you can't take it back without lying. And, fuck, you are so tired of lying to him about how you truly feel.

"Baby, I-" You start, but he's already sliding off the bed before you can get another word out.

He starts to panic on the inside. You weren't meant to fall in love with him. Everyone he loved ended up dying. His mother. His father. His own brother. He lost so many people throughout the years, and he chalks it all up to love. It's too dangerous, lets you get too comfortable before ripping your heart in two. No matter how he felt, he knew he couldn't let the universe take you away too, so he pushed his feelings down and focused on the arrangement.

The arrangement where you both agreed no one would develop feelings. You needed school to be paid for, and he needed someone to keep him company at night.

It didn't matter that the original arrangement shifted about a year into it. It didn't matter that nights spent in bed blurred into mornings with breakfast and social events with his arm wrapped around your waist. All of it was just the arrangement - at least that's what he convinced himself.

"Thor," you crawl to the end of the bed, ignoring how exposed you feel still completely naked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drop that on you now. Please, just come to bed."

He clears his throat and looks anywhere but you. "I'll call for a car to bring you back to your apartment. Don't worry about packing your things, I'll make sure everything gets to you by the end of the week."

"I don't understand," you choke out. "Why are you saying these things?"

"Because I don't love you," he lies. Why is it so easy to lie when he could feel his heart breaking? "I think it best if we end this arrangement and see other people."

You stare up at him dumbfounded. Tears start to pool at the bottom of your eyes, and he finally wills himself to look at you, but it's already too late. The usual brightness behind your eyes is dulled, and you don't say anything else as you move to get dressed.

He should stop you. Tell you that isn't really how he feels, and he's sorry for saying it. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. But he never gets the chance. You're slamming the door behind you before he can register that you've already grabbed some things and never looked back.

"Thor?"

His eyes snap open, and he sees you standing in front of him. At first he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him, and he has to rub his eyes just to make sure you are real. Sure enough, there you are. Staring down at him in the same way you looked up at him that day. Confused and heartbroken.

He slowly stands and brushes the grass off his jeans. You watch him silently, playing with the sleeves of your sweater that's much too big for you. It takes him a moment to realize, but that isn't your sweater at all - it's his.

"What are you doing here?" You manage to get out.

"I-" He trails off trying to think of the right words to say. He honestly can't believe you're standing in front of him right now, and it's making it hard to piece everything together in his brain. "I don't know. I just- I come out here a lot, I guess."

He figures there was no use in lying now.

Your bottom lip starts to tremble, and you quickly look away so he can't see the tears forming. "Why?"

"Why what?"

Something inside of you must have snapped because you're finally stepping in front of him, jamming your finger against his chest. The tears are flowing freely down your cheeks, but he senses they aren't heartbroken tears. These are hot, angry tears from all the built up frustration over the situation finally pouring out. And he doesn't blame you for being so angry at him.

"Why are you here? Why are you at our spot?" You shout. "You don't love me, right? So why. The. Hell. Are. You. Here." With every word, you jab your finger into him. You're practically trying to shove him backwards, but he's much bigger than you and it doesn't work.

When he doesn't answer right away, a sob falls from your lips and you half-heartedly punch at his chest. He lets it go on for a few moments before he's wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against him as tightly as he can without hurting you. You sob and thrash against him, but it doesn't last long. Eventually, you give up and let yourself collapse in his embrace despite your brain warning you not to.

He's crying too, but you refuse to look up at him to see. You know those damn tears will break through your angry resolve, and you're holding onto your anger as much as you can. You refuse to forgive him for the way he acted with just a hug alone.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my dove," he mumbles against the top of your head. "I love you. I love you so much, you have to believe me."

You suck in a breath and shake your head. "I don't. I don't believe you."

Thor drops to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist. His tears start to soak into your sweater, and you feel your resolve start to crack. In all the time that you knew him, you had never seen him cry. Not even when he buried his brother.

You remembered holding his hand and looking up at him in reassurance, telling him with just your eyes that it was okay if he wanted to break down, but he never did.

He looks up at you as you run your fingers through his hair. You're choking back your sobs, trying your best to give him some sort of comfort now because no matter how mad you may be at him, you can't stand to see him like. Perhaps that makes you a sucker, but you don't really care.

"I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if I have to," he pleads with you. "But I need you to know that I love you. I'm a fool and a coward for letting you walk out that door, but I am a fool and a coward who loves you."

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. A few bystanders are watching you as they walk past, and you try not to feel self-conscious. You both are so vulnerable right now, and you feel exposed.

"You hurt me," you say through gritted teeth. "You broke my heart, Thor. I can't just forget that."

"I'm not asking you to right now. I just need you to give me another chance. Let me love you the way you deserve, my dove." You don't say anything, and his grip tightens slightly. He's begging you in every way he possibly can. "Please."

You nod slowly and help him stand. "Let's talk about this at your place, okay?"

Your words bring a small smile to his face, but he's still worried it isn't enough. He can't risk losing you, so he silently vows to agree to whatever you need in order to heal. He'd do anything to get you to forgive him.

"Okay, let's go. My car isn't too far."

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 6

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language, brief violence, and a line that hints at past physical abuse (depending on how you choose to interpret it) Warnings: Mild TW for implied/referenced abuse Notes: Okay so this was supposed to be somewhat therapeutic? But it ended up taking longer to get to that part than I intended, so... Don't worry though, next chapter will be fluffy and also involve more, like, actual Daniela scenes. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2 Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco

Chapter 6: Elegy

(Elegy: A piece of music in the form of a lament)

When you dream, you do not dream of being locked in a tower, awaiting a kindly knight to come save you. When you dream… you dream of your old home, infested with monsters, nearly unrecognizable. Of being forced to flee, leaving everything you loved behind. Of escaping to a remote, quaint little village, only to end up trapped once again, as friendly faces morph into gaping maws and fangs dripping red. When you dream, it is less a nightmare, more memories retouched, covered in a fresh coat of paint.

Waking up is but a brief source of comfort. One hand goes to your head, rubbing gently, as if you could wipe away all traces of your past. A quick glance around your shared room leaves you confused, but serves as a welcome distraction. Though there are six beds in the room, yours is the only occupied one, the others having all been vacated and made presentable. The only explanation that fit with what you knew was that everyone had gotten up, and gotten to work, without waking you. Panic filled you as you connected the dots, knowing that missing work was a death sentence.

Rushing, you rise to your feet, throwing your dresser open to search for fresh clothes. While the castle’s staff was almost entirely female, the Dimitrescu family didn’t enforce traditional gender presentation, allowing maidens to choose whether to wear a dress or a button-up and trousers. Remembering the wound on your neck, you pause, glancing in the dorm’s singular mirror to inspect your injury. Most of the blood had rubbed off in your sleep (and would likely be a nightmare to clean from the sheets). There were, however, a few spots where dried blood mingled with the protective scab. Considering how late you already were, you didn’t believe you would have time to clean up.

As much as you hated the thought, the best you could do was go for a button-up, hoping the collar would hide the worst of your disastrous appearance. Your hair was another matter entirely, far messier than it normally was, and you struggled to brush/comb it enough to be mildly presentable. Good thing Daniela won’t see me today, you think, remembering her insistence on skipping today’s lesson.

Then you remember the rest of your conversation with her; the yelling, being dragged to your feet, and the pain in her eyes. For a moment you feel woozy, pausing in the middle of buttoning your shirt. Your eyes focus on a spot on the now-closed dresser… and suddenly you wish you had paid more attention when you first woke up. There’s a note stuck to the furniture, clearly addressed to you.

Heard you had some trouble yesterday. We’re just glad you’re alive! A certain someone has been a lot nicer since you started playing the piano, and we’re grateful. To show that, we decided to split your morning duties among ourselves, so you can sleep in. If you’re reading this, then it’s still before 4 AM. Feel free to just relax for a while, or even get some more sleep! We’ll be by to make sure you’re up eventually.

Sincerely,

Daphne, Rosalia, Ygritte, Alexandra, Juniper, and Riley

“I… have… freetime?” You mumbled, still a little drowsy, but now also shocked. This was a complete first for you. Maybe even a first among the servants! Sure, you had been given breaks before, but having a couple hours to do whatever you wanted? No one had ever pulled strings like this for you before. It made your chest feel warm, and you just about forgot the whole mess with Daniela. “I’ll have to find a way to pay them back, even if they think they’re paying me back.” With that said you relaxed a little, no longer rushing getting dressed, though still leaving your neck the way it was. You figured you’d stop by one of the maidens’ restrooms before you officially started your shift.

In the meantime, you knew exactly what you’d be using this time for: finding those damn piano books you had been promised!

-----------------------------------------

“Let’s see… dust, more dust, a dead spider, even more dust, and- oh shit, the spider is not dead,” you said, barely holding in a yelp as the arachnid scurries away from you. If you had known the attic would be so unclean, you might not have bothered to come up here. So far your targets had alluded you without giving so much as a hint towards their location. The library had seemed a likely location, but you had heard Daniela’s voice within, and anxiety had sent you dashing away. Up here, in an area clearly used for storage above all else, was the next best guess, as far as you were concerned. Still, you hadn’t seen anything worth your time yet.

Just insects, really. Not even terribly interesting ones. Well, there had been a shiny beetle of some sort, but it had crawled into a crack in the wall mere seconds after you saw it. Other than that, though, nothing but creepy crawlies. Creepy flyers?... Both, for sure. One fly in particular kept buzzing around you, weirdly interested in what you were doing.

Somehow you didn’t understand what that meant until a firm hand had wrapped itself around your neck. The grip was tight, putting more than enough pressure to make your vision blur. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the culprit didn’t intend to just choke you out. Instead they lift you and toss you aside- casually, at that. You hit the wall with a terrible crashing sound, certain to leave bruises, and narrowly avoid toppling into a stack of heavy crates. So much for enjoying some free time, you think. Stunned for several seconds, you find yourself left helpless as your attacker approaches.

“You’re not allowed to be up here,” a voice snarled, familiar enough to leave you terrified. Of course you had to run into the most violent of the Dimitrescu sisters. “Looking for a way out, hmm? Or are you stupid enough to think we’d leave a weapon where a wretched thing like you could find it?” Cassandra asked, pausing only to send a swift kick your way. A grunt escapes you, leaves you coughing, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as hitting the wall. Despite wanting to curl up and give in, you tried to drag yourself to your feet. Surprisingly, Cassandra makes no move to stop you, perhaps enjoying the sight of you struggling.

“Lady… Daniela… gave me permission,” you said between painful breaths. By the time you’re back on your feet, the vampire before you is watching you with narrowed, albeit curious, eyes. Normally it would take a lot of courage to face her. But you’re exhausted, in pain, and you’ve taken nearly as much hurt from someone who called themselves your lover. It’s not brave to stare down Cassandra, it’s foolhardy. It’s idiotic, really, and yet you find yourself unable to care. “I’m just looking for a couple piano books I’ve been told about, so I can use them to help teach Lady Daniela.”

“Oh? You’re her instructor?” Cassandra asked, a strange smile overtaking her expression. Something in the atmosphere has shifted, dangerously, but you can’t figure out why. Clueless to your self-betrayal, you nod in response. Instantly Cassandra’s smile turns into an open-lipped snarl, and she reaches out to grab you by the shirt, this time slamming you into the wall with her own hands. “Then you’re the reason she kept me up yesterday, crying non stop! I’m going to rip you apart, you vermin.”

The look in her eyes is, most definitely, the scariest thing you had ever seen. It’s feral, inhuman, and unstoppably determined. But when tears fall from your eyes, it’s not because you know you’re about to die. No, it’s because the last thing you think you’ll ever hear is the news that your partner had been sobbing for hours… and that you were the reason why. Your heart aches, both physically and emotionally, as you brace yourself for the bloody end.

Instead, the grip on your clothes loosens. You don’t dare open your eyes to see why.

“What the fuck do you want, sis?” Cassandra asked, sounding like she had turned her head away from you. Before you know it you’ve been let go, and you slide to the ground, too surprised to hold yourself steady. When you look up, you see an irritated Bela pulling Cassandra away from you, whispering something you can’t quite hear. They argue for a minute, under their breath, keen on keeping you out of the loop. Eventually the younger of the two storms away, but not before making a dent in the wall with her fist.

“What a child,” Bela said, rolling her eyes at the display. Then she’s walking back towards you, extending a hand in an offer of assistance (one you gladly accept). “That girl has the foresight of a magic eight ball, I swear. If she had actually killed you… ugh, I can hardly stand to imagine how inconsolable Daniela would become. Then I’d have two insufferable sisters. Regardless, do tell me why you thought it would be a good idea to come up here unaccompanied? It is normally off limits for servants, after all.”

“I-I, well… I mean, firstly thank you for saving me, I had no idea-” Bela holds a finger up in a ‘shut up’ motion, then puts it away as soon as you pause- “right, you don’t care. Look, I was just trying to find the piano books that Lady Dimitrescu mentioned, but I’ve looked all over and I can’t find them, so I should really just go,” you explain, eager to get out of the attic. To your surprise, Bela gives you an odd look before turning away. Then she takes no more than five steps, shifts to the side, and opens an old cabinet. Inside you can see a dozen books of sheet music, notably from several different decades, all worn but still in decent condition. “How did-?... I thought I checked there.”

“Well, you must have been distracted. Nonetheless, you know where they are now, and you owe me twice over. With that in mind… come with me. We have things to discuss,” Bela commanded, walking away before you could protest. All you can do is grab the sheet music, tuck it under one arm, and follow her to who-knows-where.

-----------------------------------------

“I’ll have to have you make my tea more often,” Bela mused, letting the mug keep her hands warm. The two of you were sitting in some sort of study, a room that you had never been inside before. From what you could tell it belonged solely to the eldest Dimitrescu daughter. Inside were several shelves, each filled with well bookmarked collections, a desk next to a massive window, a couple simple chairs, and a few instrument cases. All in all it was an aesthetically pleasing room, organized but not exactly neat. You could certainly imagine Bela spending entire days in this chamber. “Now, why do you think I brought you here?” Her voice brings your focus back into the present moment, as well as sends a spike of anxiety through you.

“Based on what nearly got me killed earlier… Does it have to do with Daniela crying?” You asked, doing your best to indicate just how bad you felt about the subject. No matter how cruel she could be, you did honestly care about Daniela, and even wanted a real, healthy relationship with her. Desire, or willingness, wasn’t the root of the problem by any means. Something told you that Bela understood this, maybe even respected you for it.

“Guess there’s more in that pretty head of yours than air and symphonies, hmm?” Bela replied, laughing a little as she did. It was a far nicer sound than Cassandra’s maniacal giggling, for sure. “Now, I don’t know all the details about what happened- just that there was an argument, clearly a bad one, and Daniela barely made it through dinner before locking herself in her room. Luckily for you, our mother doesn’t seem to know about your little ‘fight’. She’s not sure what upset Dani, and I doubt my sister would tell her, so your secret is safe. Assuming that I blackmailed Cassandra well enough, that is. Anyway, I can’t help you, and by extension my sister, if I don’t know the full story. In case it wasn’t clear, that’s your cue to start talking.”

You’re surprised, admittedly, by a number of things. But Bela seems impatient, so you go over the details of the previous night with her, occasionally pausing to let her ask questions. The whole time her focus is on you, unwavering. There’s also a noticeable lack of judgement in her expression, even when you voice your regret about how you handled the situation, and what is there seems directed more towards Daniela than yourself. Once you finish, Bela releases a deep sigh. One of her hands goes to rub her forehead as if warding off a migraine.

“Well, I can’t say I’m terribly surprised, as much as I wish I could. Daniela’s always had her head in the clouds, and it’s left her tripping over her own feet more than once. Still, this is certainly one of her bigger messes…” Bela said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m going to have to talk to her about this, aren’t I? There’s no way she’s going to process this correctly on her own.” This time she seemed to be talking to herself, gaze locked on her tea as if it might suddenly offer to speak to Daniela in her place. When the tea stayed silent, understandably, she returned her focus to you. “You seemed upset, earlier, about this ridiculous situation. I am going to assume, from that, you are genuinely interested in my dear sister. Normally, this would be the part where I drain you of all blood, and possibly keep your skull as a memento... mori. Yours would look lovely on a window sill, I think.”

She pauses, head tilting a little to the side, clearly evaluating your artistic value.

“However, Daniela appears to care about you, far more than her usual fleeting infatuations. So, for now, I have decided not to eviscerate you, you’re welcome,” Bela cooed, teasingly, enjoying the way you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. Still, you were glad that you would apparently be surviving the day. “So I’m going to give you some advice, which you will take, and you won’t even owe me anything extra for this. Daniela is in love with the mere concept of love- and she has been for as long as I can remember. Romance novels are practically the only books she reads. It’s… embarrassing, truly. More than that, I get the impression that she couldn’t even begin to describe what love actually feels like. She’s digested so much of that written drivel that it warped her senses. Of course, the, ahem, situation we find ourselves in, here at the castle, has undoubtedly added to this effect.

“To get to the point, Daniela’s terribly, hopelessly clueless when it comes to things like what she wants from you. And so I take it upon myself, as her older sibling, to ensure that you understand. Moreso, that you are not dissuaded. If this is an actual chance for her to experience real romance, then it could make her happier than I’ve ever seen her,” Bela explained. The look in her eyes was incredibly soft, to the point where it made you realize just how much this odd little family cared for each other. “Don’t give up, don’t let her occasional infuriating antics push you away. Given enough time… I think the two of you could, I suppose, compliment each other quite nicely. But if you break her heart? I will pull yours from your chest and eat it raw. Understood?” Gulping, you nodded quickly, ignoring the feeling of heat rushing to your cheeks. It was one thing for Bela to want her sister to be happy, but another thing entirely for her to acknowledge your “suitability” for the position. “Good. Now return to whatever it is you maidens normally do. I have a sister to talk sense into.”

-----------------------------------------

Hours later, you stand alone in a display room, dusting various relics from bygone times. A trophy here, a bizarre art piece there, strange, unlabeled tools you can’t quite imagine are for wine-making. It’s a fascinating collection, really. But your mind is focused on other, far softer things. All you can think about is what Bela had told you, about how Daniela really is interested in you, and how she thought the two of you could make it work. After the chaos earlier in the day, this was exactly what you needed. Just some time to yourself, working quietly, thoughts all to yourself. Even your bruises bother you less, the pain fading out into the background. Considering where you are, though, it is not at all surprising that your peace cannot last. As soon as you finish your task you move towards the exit.

The door swings open, outwards, at your touch, only to reveal a familiar figure reaching for the doorknob. Both of you gasp, taken by surprise, before your gazes meet. Of course it’s Daniela. Who else would you bump into right now?

“I thought about what you said,” she blurts, suddenly, eyes wide and hands shaking. “We need to talk, yeah?”

[tarlos-spain]

March Day 12

I have some petitions to complete yet, so here's something else for @morganaspendragonss with the prompt "crush injury"

Title: Take my hand, I'll never let you go

Summary: After saving a cyclist trapped under a car, it is TK who gets stuck under the vehicle and it is a matter of life and death to get him out in time.

TK's scream made the whole team fall silent. It was followed by moans and sobs from the paramedic who could barely breathe and for a second wished the agony would end soon and he could die before his entire body was completely crushed by the vehicle that had fallen on him.

"TK!" It was Tommy's voice calling out to him.

But there was also his father's voice, Judd's voice, Nancy's voice, the whole team was calling him.

He would give anything to be able to answer, to have the strength to say something, the air in his lungs to utter a single word. But he had all his efforts on to breathe and remain conscious despite the pain.

"TK, son!" The figure of his father appeared under the car, next to him, as close as he could get to him, and he reached out his hand to reach him. "Let's get you out of here."

"It hurts so much, Dad," TK protested and coughed as if every organ in his body was being crushed at the same time and with different hands. "I don't think I can take it...it hurts...it hurts too much."

"I know, TK, I know...well, I don't know because I've never had a car fall on me, but I promise you we're going to get you out of there and everything will be okay."

TK wished his father would stay down there with him, not let go of his hand and feel safe in case these were the last moments of his life.

"TK," Tommy said appearing a moment later under the car. "I'm going to start you on an IV of painkillers. They won't take away all your pain, but they'll make these minutes until we get you to the hospital less painful."

"Carlos..." managed to say TK.

They had seen each other five minutes when they arrived at the scene of the accident. Carlos was the police officer who was handling what had happened. When the ambulance and the 126 truck had arrived, Carlos was taking statements from the people who were there to find out how the accident had happened, how that cyclist had ended up under the car from which he had been pulled.

They said that the driver was drunk and had not seen the cyclist coming from the other street. They said he was on the phone, arguing. In any case, Owen's team had had to fight against the clock to save a man from being crushed by the car.

Little did they know then to imagine that a few minutes later, when the injured cyclist was already on his way to the hospital with an ambulance, that they would have to go back to work with time against them, but to pull one of their own out from under that same car.

Now TK was lamenting, not to think about how much his chest hurt, his ribs hurt, and the feeling that the car on top of him was about to break his back in two.

He almost felt that it was fate, that he was asking that someone should die under the wheels of that car.

He did not want to be him. He didn't want to always be him between life and death, and he didn't want Carlos to be there either, watching it all. But at the same time he didn't want to see himself in that situation far from the man he loved in case it was, once again, the last chance they had to see each other alive.

Carlos had stopped doing anything other than keeping an eye on what was going on with TK. He knew he couldn't help get him out. Being a cop was useless, he could only stand there and wait for those who could do something to get TK out of there.

His body trembling with nerves, Mitchell told him to sit on the floor. She must have looked bad, though it mattered little to him.

"If you don't breathe you're going to get syncope, Reyes."

"I won't be able to breathe until I see them get TK out from under there."

Mitchell put a hand on his shoulder. But when Judd called him over to approach the car and TK, he jumped to his feet and went to the car. Judd put a hand on his chest to stop him, he knew him well enough to know that he would be able, if they let him, to get under the car to get him off TK.

"Let me get close," he said to Judd and struggled with him for a moment. Not long enough to make the moment awkward.

Keep reading on AO3

[bluwails]

Ive been real inspired by @chipper-smol 's au. I find myself snickering at Ghost/feral's antic mainly because I have young siblings and in my home there is never a dull moment. Child antics are literally my life rn and I cant help but relate.

So while on a nostalgic trip i was struck with this poorly written fic. And I hope you enjoy.

No edits because we die like men!

The time for rest had asserted its hold over Hallownest again as bugs wound down from the days toils. The servants and knights had quietly excused themselves to their personal quarters and the kingsmoulds that marched dutifully down each hall had slowed to a silent pace.

The white Lady had taken in the idea to walk the palace before retiring to her personal quarters for the evening. Dryya, her most respected and loyal guard, walked quietly behind her as she stiffled a yawn much to the white lady's amusement. She had dismissed her hours ago to rest but she stubbornly stuck to her and insisted on being around to protect her on her leisurely stroll.

" Your majesty, you need not worry for me. I will-" Dryya gaped stiffling another sign of encroaching sleepiness," -be with you until you retire to your bedroom."

She still felt fascination bubble under the surface as she observed her; a warm aura seeping off of her.

As a higher being they will never need these things like rest or daily meals. But they merely adopted the actions to blend more with the society around them. Just like her dear wyrm, Things like sleep were never on the forefront of their mind. They could spend decades awake and unbothered by the need. But they made resting a habit to demonstrate that one should rest after work.

Shuffling down the halls toward her favorite veranda befor she heard an unfamiliar scuffling. It was hurried but small. Most likely a small bug.

"Behind me your majesty." Dryya hissed pulling her nail from her side her alert instantly raised. As late as it was not many would be awake, much less in the halls working so fervently.

As they turned the corner they spotted two familiar horns working quickly with a brush and bottles of ink.

It was the feral vessel.

" You cheeky Sqwib! " she screamed shocking the little vessel. Their small hand dropping the brush they'd use to vandalize the walls. "You are at it again!" Dryya huffed indignant at the vessel as she marched over, sheathing her nail, and quickly bonking them between the horns.

" Do you know how you terrified the Queen?" She growled seizing their ink colored hands. " and to top that, you dare vandalize the white palace yet again!"

"Dear knight, there is no reason to be so harsh. " the white Lady softly appealed. "The walls can be cleaned and the ink replaced but the trust from a child cannot." She calmly lectured using a branch to pet the vessel.

"You are to lenient with them my lady." She huffed releasing them. Dryya was no fan of the feral vessel. Time and time again they'd watch and suffer their pranks. Many a time her nail was stolen only for it to be returned muddy or, miraculously, bent at the tip.

She was not the only one of the five knights to have their belongings weaseled from them and returned in less then favorable conditions.

"They are just being a child Dryya." WL cooed as she slowly squatted in front of them. "Soften your heart towards them. If only for me."

The knight reluctantly huffed again as she faced away. "Praise the Queen's endless patience, you little tyrant, you are saved for now. "

The white Lady smiled warmly as she looked the small vessel over. At this time they were meant to be tucked away in bed. The schedule their father made, though strict was optimize for their healthy growth. She suspected in full that the pure vessel had curled themselves into bed without a second thought, while their sibling ran through the halls causing their daily commotion.

In all honesty, she found their outbursts charming. Each trick, prank and shenanigan they pulled continuously showed her how lively they truly were. When they'd arrived from the abyss with their sibling, she lamented at their sight. Seeing them as nothing more than walking corpses until she heard of what would honestly sound like a farce. They'd barely stepped foot into the white palace before they entered a meeting between the dreamers, with no command or reason, and unleashed the most ungodly revolting smell. Shocking and disgusting the entire gathering forcing them to vacate the room entirely.

When her wyrm ranted about them that evening on how they indignantly, stomping their tiny grub feet and blantly ignoring him, forced them to clean the entire room alongside the retainers as punishment she could not help but laugh in an odd mix of relief and joy releasing a knot in her chest she did not know she held.

Looking again to the picture on the wall it was of clearly her dear wyrm. Her giggle chimming like bells as she observed it further. It was simple and childish as but it was an accurate representation of her wyrm. His elegant crown like horns now simple zigzags, their fangs drawn large and silly, with their tongue poked out in a not very gentlemen manner. (She suspects this is how they saw their father when they ranted at them.) It was crude, hurriedly painted, and was encompassed by tiny hand marks and had all the makings of a goofy Caricature and she wished she could save it.

"I see the throws of art beckoned you from your deep sleep small one." knowing full well they did it to mess with the king again. "maybe we should have Lurien tutor you to bring out your talents?" She questioned aloud watching the vessel furiously shake their head from the corner of their eye.

"Then what brings you from bed?"

The child twisted at their fingers looking down as they snuck peeks at her face.

They signed quickly keeping their ink covered hands slightly in sight. But It obvious it was something else. It was no news to her that they held many things back from them. And the curiosity of what it could be danced in the back of her mind, but she refused to force them anymore than they'd allow.

"You know you require rest in order to grow." She purred gently as she angled her small one's mask toward her.

Their mask tilted in a way that mimicked a pouty huff. Her heart swelling at how cute they were. She could not help but poke a small amount of fun.

"So you do not wish to grow anymore?" She questioned exaggeratedly tilting her head and placing a branch to her cheek.

They seemed to freeze at the and mull the thought around in their head. To her, this was the sweetest gesture. She'd remembered when the two vessels first molted and got their bearings. Though they thought no one was watching, she caught them do a small jig in celebration of their new body. Wiggling their newly formed fingers, touching their more angled faces and observing their budding wings.

" I'd say you'd want to." She whispered calmly retrieving her handkerchief to clean them.

"How can one so small hold such large secrets?" She hummed wiping the pink ink from them.

The vessel signed, a cheeky air to them as they flexed their arms nearly rupturing her heart from cuteness alone.

"Dryya please get someone to assist in cleaning up. " with a bow Dryya reluctantly left grumbling to herself.

"Now as much as I would love for you and to stay up and get into all kinds of mischief. I would say its time for bed. " She cooed admiring their clean face.

The vessel gestured again with more emphasis.

"I see." She hmmed making a show of thinking of what to do. In reality she had an idea of what to do. Somewhere deep in her memory was a song that. She could not remember the face that sang it to her but she remembers it working nearly every time. Ushering her to sleep. "Then would you care to accompany me on the veranda?" She asked pointing to the large glass door not far behind them.

Nodding they streched their arms up towards her. Obligating the gesture she swept them up in her branches as she walked slowly to the door.

she allowed small blooms to bloom on her creating a pleasant perfume before sitting on her stool already set up outside.

The vessel signed again gesturing at themselves.

Chuckling she squeezed them close to her. "Not essentially. You are of two pale beings and void." She murred quietly; her light warming them as they sunk into her lap. "You don't really need sleep. But its good because it helps you grow." She hummed wrapping her branches around them.

They gestured wildly again wiggling their fingers above their head causing her to erupted in laughter.

"Yes." She snickered "maybe if my wyrm slept and rested more they would grow as well I will be sure to suggest it to them later." Feeling the small ones shoulders shake in signs of laughter she hugged them.

" you remind me much of him in his younger years." She thought aloud as the vessel shook their head furiously. " well the both of you refuse to sleep on time so I imagine you two are similar in that sense." She mused as the small threw a small tantrum.

"Very well, shall I sing you something to assist you to sleep?" They nodded sinking back into her lap, placing their head on her chest.

As they sat, staring out into the lush garden and flickering lumaflies below she hummed a quiet tone shutting her eyes calling upon the memory.

Her branch rubbing small circles into their child's back as her voice trilled lyrics long thought lost to her:

Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby

Back to the years of loo-li lai-lay

And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow

Bless you with love for the road that you go

May you sail far to the far fields of fortune

With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet

And may you need never to banish misfortune

May you find kindness in all that you meet

May there always be angels to watch over you

To guide you each step of the way

To guard you and keep you safe from all harm

Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay

May you bring love and may you bring happiness

Be loved in return to the end of your days

Now fall off to sleep, I'm not meaning to keep you

I'll just sit for a while and sing loo-li, lai-lay

May there always be angels to watch over you

To guide you each step of the way

To guard you and keep you safe from all harm

Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay, loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay

Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay

Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li lai-lay

Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li lai-lay

Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li lai-lay

Loo-li, lai-lay

Only the soft breathing and the feeling their body relax and their shoulders ease indicated they drifted off.

"Sweet dreams my small one."

Thanks so much for reading. In all honesty i have only played hollowknight for about a month and half and im already so invested in the fandom. (I'm still getting my butt handed to me by ogrim. Please dungy boi stop throwing sh!t at me long enough so i can hit you. You broke all my fragile charms alreday!-🥺😢) You guys are so creative and fluffy and have no problem hurting my tender sensibilities.

For those curious the song is called sleepsong by secret garden. I used to listen to it ages ago before bed.

[wolveria]

Crucible - Ch 2

Pairing: Link x Reader

Prompt: For the Bittersweet Mini Bang!

Series Warnings (18+ only): Eventual smut, slow burn, violence, mild body horror, lots of whump, angst with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: Tarrey Town's always full of surprises, but nothing could prepare Link for this one.

AO3

It had started with darkness swirling around the castle, his companions reacting with either fear or determination.

It ended with darkness taking the form of a giant boar, his friends dead, or worse, trapped within the beast itself.

With the Calamity defeated and the darkness banished, the kingdom freed from evil and the princess restored to herself, Link should have been happy. He’d fulfilled his destiny. His purpose. There was nothing left for him to do.

And that was the problem. There was no duty to distract him from the knowledge he’d been a little too weak and a little too late. So many lives lost and a hundred years of monsters roaming the land to butcher and slaughter even more innocents.

All because of Link. How could anyone call him the Hero after that? Yet, they did, and in droves. They celebrated his victory and the return of the princess.

It felt so hollow at times, the appreciation of the people misplaced, that he began to long for the elder Zora who had despised him. That bitter anger had been honest, genuine, and entirely justified. They were kinder to him after he calmed Vah Ruta, and that was the beginning of the end in many ways.

Five long years had passed, in which Link did all he could to aid the princess in rebuilding the kingdom. At least, for the first four years. The last year, all he did was wander Hyrule, revisiting the places he’d been and retracing his path faithfully from start to finish. He was horrified to learn others did the same, an homage of his journey. A dark pilgrimage they mimicked but couldn’t understand.

They stayed in camps and stables. They didn’t huddle for warmth, bellies empty as they tried to survive on nothing but acorns.

They didn’t cower in the darkness as monsters howled nearby. Link had scoured the land of their kind within the first year.

And they didn’t flee from the Stalkers, spotted so far away he could barely see their roving eye. The Guardians had collapsed along with their dark master, and Zelda’s team of scientists were rebuilding them.

Link wanted no part of that. He was purposeless, and so he wandered.

Zelda was worried for him, he knew, especially since their disastrous expedition several weeks earlier. Link didn’t talk about that. Didn’t want to relive the nightmare of that tomb, especially when actual nightmares plagued him every time he laid down to sleep.

So when she suggested he scout the way before the royal procession celebrating the fifth year anniversary of the defeat of the Calamity, Link knew it was busy work. He also didn’t say no.

Which brought him here. Link shaded his face with one hand, lamenting the scorching midday sun. Tarrey Town bustled around him, now a large city where before he’d help build it when it was nothing but dirt. He could hardly believe how much had changed in just five years’ time.

He moved through the crowds, watching as vendors and patrons haggled over prices, dodging to avoid the carts of fruits and vegetables as they sped by. Denizens from all over Hyrule made their home here, and it was one of Link’s favorite things about this place. Gorons stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Gerudo. Rito and Zora, who would normally never interact, were often found doing business together, haggling over their wares or exchanging gossip.

And of course, there were many Hylians. Link blended in amongst them well, unrecognizable to the average townsfolk. He’d grown taller, a late growth-spurt that had hit him just before adulthood. His hair was longer and let down during his travels, and his Champion’s uniform was gone, replaced by a dark Hylian tunic. Even the Master Sword’s scabbard and hilt were wrapped in black cloth so as not to be identified by its extremely recognizable design.

He looked very little like the boy who saved the world, and that was the point.

Link was already tiring—the nightmare hadn’t let him rest long, but then again, he never slept well—so he found a spot to sit by one of the market fountains. Zora children played in the sparkling water, splashing each other and laughing, and he watched them with a faint smile.

The smile turned into a grimace as he rubbed his right forearm. The ever-present ache was strong today, and he stared at the specialized glove he wore. Purah said it would help with the pain, but it didn’t. Link didn’t blame her. No one understood what had happened to him, least of all him, and he’d been there.

Link tried not to let the pain show. The times he had, Zelda would look so heartbroken, and he hated worrying her after everything that had happened to them both—

A splash of cold water hit him in the back. When he looked over his shoulder, the Zora children shrieked with laughter before apologizing and running away. Link’s smile returned. Despite his rough night, he was glad the goddesses hadn’t listened to his prayers. Prayers in which he’d begged the goddesses to end his cursed existence, and do it in a way that would hurt Zelda the least.

It had been a shameful thought, but some part of him wondered how long until he was granted his morbid wish—

Pain shot up his arm, and Link clenched his teeth as he clutched at the offending limb. Another jolt of pain sizzled up his nerves, and it took everything he had not to scream in agony.

He stumbled to his feet, unable to see through the crowds, his vision fuzzy and too bright. Hylia, it was bad this time, and panic rose in his chest. He half-reached for the Sheikah Slate on his hip before he remembered he’d given it to Zelda years ago, and then a third spasm ripped through his arm.

Link closed his eyes when the world spun around him. Perhaps he was getting his wish, after all.

“Stop! Thief!”

It was the only warning Link received before something shoved him hard and he was knocked off his feet. Landing on his back, the air whooshed out of him as his eyes flew open.

The person who had run him down was also in a jumbled pile on the cobblestone, their tattered cloak open and spilling several apples from within.

Link stared at the face within the hood, eyes narrowed and then widening in disbelief. His heart hammered in confused fear, but his limbs remained frozen.

The would-be thief stared back, eyes also wide, before a second shout of thief! was given from somewhere in the crowd.

That got the other Hylian up and moving, sparing a hostile look at Link before taking off at a sprint.

Link was still flat on his ass, mind reeling as he tried to understand the impossible.

The other Hylian… had his face.

“What are you doing!” someone yelled in his direction. Sure enough, an out-of-breath Hylian merchant appeared, identified by the rich clothing he wore and the indignant fury in his eyes. “You’re letting the thief escape!”

Link would have continued to stare dumbly at the merchant, but the truth of those words smacked him square between the eyes. He couldn’t let the strange Hylian get away.

But try as he might, searching through the crowds and using his rusty skills as a tracker to find which way they went, Link lost their trail with embarrassing quickness. He might have been met with failure, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, Link was wide awake. A new determination filled him, a self-appointed quest forming in his mind.

He was so focused on deciding his next steps that Link didn’t notice the pain in his arm had entirely vanished.

Next Chapter

[fickleminder]

the years start coming and they don’t stop coming

In which Lilith’s return distorts her brothers’ perception of time.

Part 2 here

You’ve never seen the demon prince look so embarrassed.

“I can call for —”

“No, it’s okay. They deserve this.”

But you don’t, goes unspoken. You can see the pity in his eyes, feel the palpable disappointment in the air. Even Simeon and Luke make sure to hug you extra tight before stepping through the portal to the Celestial Realm, and Solomon promises to check up on you after you’ve returned home.

Thanking Lord Diavolo and Barbatos for their hospitality, you turn towards the final demon in the council room and put on the biggest grin your breaking heart can muster. “Hey, c’mere.”

Satan doesn’t hesitate to throw his arms around you. It’s almost like he’s trying to make up for his brothers’ absence, the way he crushes you to his chest and cradles the back of your head.

You can’t find it in yourself to blame them. As far as miracles go, this is a pretty big one. Lilith coming back to life is an unprecedented event, one not even Barbatos had seen coming. Nobody has any answers either. She’s definitely not a demon, not an angel, not human; just an immortal who knocked on the front door of the House of Lamentation three days ago.

Her brothers haven’t left her alone since. You’re happy for them, you really are, but a bitter part of you can’t help but wish her return had waited until after the exchange program ended. At least Lucifer had the courtesy to pull you aside and thank you on his family’s behalf (though you’re quite certain you had nothing to do with your ancestor’s sudden revival), in addition to making a pact with you as a token of his gratitude.

With that, you could have summoned all of them to send you off just as effectively as Lord Diavolo giving the order, but it won’t be the same and you know it. Your only saving grace is Satan, the one brother who’d kept his head and anchored you in the sea of loneliness you’d been set adrift in over the last few days.

“I’m gonna miss you, cat boy.”

“I miss you already,” Satan laughs softly, pulling back with a warm smile. “I’ll stay in touch, I promise.”

You squeeze his arms affectionately and glance past his shoulders at the closed doors. There’s the smallest shred of hope in you that thinks the others will come bursting through any moment now, scrambling for one final chance to see you. You give yourself five seconds, silently counting down to a pipe dream, before pressing a kiss to Satan’s cheek and releasing him.

“It might not seem like it now, but the Devildom will always be here for you,” Lord Diavolo says as the world around you fades to white. “Farewell.”

.

.

.

“Did you lose track of time at the library again? You missed dinner last night LOL.”

“Levi, be nice!”

Satan only hums quietly in response. He can’t be bothered to correct the assumption; it’s a convenient excuse for when his brothers actually notice he’s missing anyway.

The irony of Levi calling him out isn’t lost on him. While the otaku is still obsessed with his games and shows, he’s no longer as shut-in as he used to be, venturing outside the comforts of his sanctuary more often. Satan has passed by the common room on many occasions to find him and Lilith gaming or binging anime together, and the content expression on Levi’s face proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the void from his Henry’s departure has long been filled.

“Oh, but speaking of,” Lilith sets her cutlery down and smiles shyly at the fourth-born, “I haven’t had the chance to explore the libraries here yet. If it’s not too much trouble, can you show me around and recommend a few books?”

Shrugging non-committedly, Satan continues with his meal, not once looking her in the eye.

.

.

.

You’ve always wondered how someone with the Avatar of Lust for a brother can have such terrible fashion sense. It should be impossible to go wrong with dressing for a funeral, but you guess life (along with a certain eyesore of a tie) just loves to disappoint you. Still, you’re too glad to have Satan with you right now to care.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Anytime.”

You lean into the demon’s side as he holds an umbrella over both of you. Your eyes are drawn to the flowers he’d placed on your mother’s grave, the only splash of color against the dull tombstone. For the longest time, all you can process is the pitter-patter of the afternoon rain on the plastic wrap of the bouquet, and the comforting weight of Satan’s arm across your shoulders.

“She was in a lot of pain,” you admit after a while, your voice slightly hoarse. “The doctors had to sedate her. She went in her sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” Satan fidgets awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. He’s no stranger to death, but the loss of someone dear is unfamiliar to him. “Perhaps Simeon can find out if —”

“No, no it’s fine. I just — I need to —”

The umbrella is forgotten as Satan catches you, lowering you gently to the ground when your knees give way. You cling to him desperately, and it’s all he can do to draw you close as you start to wail.

.

.

.

Satan barely makes it three steps into the house before getting pounced on.

“How was it? Where did you go? Ooh you lucky demon, I want to hear all the details!”

“Oi, oi! What are you babbling on about?”

“Don’t act coy with me! Lilith saw you at the florist’s yesterday with the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers!”

“Yesterday? But —”

“How come you never told me someone caught your eye? I would have dolled you up, lent you some of my clothes —” Asmo gasps dramatically. “You didn’t wear that horrid jacket to your date, did you?”

Wrestling a hand free, Satan musses his younger brother’s hair. “None of your business,” he growls, walking away with a smirk when Asmo immediately releases him to fix his appearance. “Who do you take me for, anyway?”

“Aww come on, just give me a hint! Do I know them? Is it someone from RAD? Ooh, did you meet them at the library or —”

Ducking into the safety of his room, Satan shuts the door in Asmo’s face.

.

.

.

“Thank fuck. Who picked your outfit this time?”

“Barbatos. And shut up.”

You grab Satan’s arm with a laugh and lead him towards your table, politely introducing him as ‘Stan from work’ to any relatives who ask about the handsome young man accompanying you. Satan’s usual mask is in place, but there’s no mistaking the gleam of wonder in his eyes as he takes in his surroundings.

“Finally,” you sigh, sinking into your seat and grinning sheepishly at the blond. “Sorry about them. It’s just that they’ve never seen me with anyone, so they’re really curious about you.”

“Well, I’m glad you invited me along. I’ve never been to a wedding before.” The romantic in Satan is openly basking in the ambience of the reception. “You mentioned that your niece had gotten married?”

“Technically my first cousin once removed, but yeah.”

“And you’ve not been seeing anyone?”

“You would have been the first to know if I have,” you tease, nudging him playfully. “Apparently a lot of people are put off by the way I dress. Too modest, they say.”

But not without good reason. The pact marks on your body may be slightly faded from disuse, but they’re still discernable if stared at hard enough: Lucifer’s at the back of your neck; Mammon’s over your heart; Levi’s curled around your right calf; Satan’s circling your left arm; Asmo’s dangerously close to tramp stamp territory; Beel’s just under your navel; and Belphie’s on your ribs at the side you like to sleep on.

Passing them off as tattoos without attracting the wrong kind of attention is a little tricky, so you’d rather take a page from Solomon’s book and cover them up. Being called a prude is easier than dealing with cultists.

(It also helps you to keep your mind off of them, because some wounds continue to hurt even after they heal, so there’s that.)

Sensing the drop in your mood, Satan clears his throat to get your attention. It’s only then that you realize there’s music playing in the background, and couples moving from their tables to the floor.

Your companion stands up and offers you his hand, this time with a genuine smile on his face. “May I have this dance?”

.

.

.

Lucifer’s tone books no room for argument. “This will be a family event, so I expect your attendance. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your little escapades over the past few months.”

“Tch.”

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Whatever. I’ll be there.”

Satan has to resist the urge to hurl his hardcover at the back of Lucifer’s head when he takes his leave. That’s no way to treat a book, after all.

Beel’s Fangol team has an upcoming match and it’ll be Lilith’s first time watching him play. She’s been hyped up for weeks, so it comes as no surprise that Lucifer would use the opportunity to turn it into a family outing. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

Gone is the stuffy first-born who can spend days in his office if left unchecked. Lucifer is still as strict as ever, still fulfills his duties to Lord Diavolo diligently, but it’s like he’s managed to master balancing work and play overnight. He makes more time for his siblings now, even if it’s to dole out punishments for their endless shenanigans, punishments that vary in severity depending on how cutely Lilith pleads on their behalf.

Lucifer has always doted on her, and she has him wrapped around her little finger. Belphie has even gone as far as corrupting her into pranking him, and she need only bat her eyelashes to get off scot-free.

Lilith was the catalyst for the Fall, her descendent the glue that brought her siblings back together, and her return the final piece in making their family whole again.

But you were family too, Satan thinks sourly, pulling out his D.D.D. to mark the date in his calendar.

.

.

.

When you invite Satan over to your apartment for tea, he never expected to be introduced to your new housemate: a handsome fellow with chestnut brown hair, sharp jade eyes, a runner’s body, and the softest-looking toe beans he has ever seen in his immortal life.

“Satan, meet Satan!” You hold out the tabby towards him with a shit-eating grin.

Both demon and cat blink owlishly at each other. The blond doesn’t know whether to feel endeared by the feline sharing his name or insulted that you would replace him so easily, but all it takes is a single bop on the nose with a curious paw for him to melt.

Satan the tabby, who normally prefers to scale your shelves and nap between your books, spends the entire day a purring puddle in Satan the demon’s arms, shamelessly relishing in pets and massages to the extent that at some point, you have a very real fear they might just end up absconding back to the Devildom together. Thankfully, some kibble and freshly baked treats help you separate the two for a while, at least long enough for you to get some decent conversation in.

You brew a pot of Earl Grey with the beautifully crafted tea set Barbatos gifted you when you had first moved in, and serve the scones you made earlier in the morning using the baking tools blessed by Luke during your housewarming. You don’t know if the little angel had actually imbued them with Celestial magic, but everything you cook somehow always lifts your spirits when consumed.

Satan has to catch himself in the middle of regaling you with Mammon’s latest half-baked scheme. The wistful look on your face is new; you’re usually eager to hear what his brothers have been up to, but something feels off today. He pours you more tea, slides another scone onto your plate, and waits.

“…Are they happy?” You ask after a while.

The demon knows better than to lie, even if it’s to spare you from the truth he suspects you’re already aware of. “Yes,” he admits grudgingly.

“I’m glad.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

.

.

.

Lilith stands outside his room, holding a tray of tea and cakes.

“Hey, um, may I come in?” Her smile is both hopeful and uncertain. It’s a gamble, ambushing the fourth-born when he obviously has no interest in her. At best, he’ll make up an excuse to turn her away or just ignore her completely; at worst, well… she doesn’t really want to think about that. To her visible relief, he opens the door wider and steps aside.

Satan clears a space for her to set the tray down. There’s the briefest moment of hesitation before he drags your favorite armchair over and offers her a seat as well. He looks guarded but not openly hostile, a promising sign so far.

“You’ve been in and out of the house lately, so I haven’t had the chance to catch you. I thought we might sit down and talk,” Lilith says, pouring two cups of the hot beverage as she chooses her next words carefully. “The others told me about how you were born, but I understand that you are your own person. I’d like to get to know that person.”

A part of Satan is acutely aware of their one-sided relationship; he is familiar with her through Lucifer, but she has never met him. It makes sense for her to be curious about him, though Satan isn’t so sure he wants to return the favor. She reminds him too much of you in the way she prepares her tea, how she sits on your chair, her shy lopsided smile —

But she’s not you, and you’re not her, Satan has to remind himself lest he commits the same mistake his brothers nearly did after your lineage had been revealed. Now in a convoluted turn of events, it’s you who’s gone and Lilith here, and there’s no reason why he can’t give her a chance and treat her like the sister she could be to him.

It’s what you would have wanted.

Lilith tries not to let her shoulders slump too much when Satan quietly stands up and heads towards his door. She’s prepared to pack up and leave until she spots him grabbing several books from a nearby shelf.

“Have you ever read Mid-Fall Murders?” He asks, handing her a hardcover with a shy smile of his own.

.

.

.

“What’s it like?”

Satan’s grip on your hand tightens. “I don’t actually know,” he confesses, shuffling closer so that your shoulder and arm are pressed against his. It’s a strange sight, the two of you lying side by side on your bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

“Will it hurt?”

“No.”

You’ve never heard a single word hold so much promise, but you have no reason to doubt the demon’s sincerity. Satan wouldn’t take pity on you just because you’re —

A light knock on the door, and in pokes Simeon’s head. “Ah, little lamb! I’m glad we made it in time.”

“Not so little anymore, Simeon.” You laugh softly, greeting Luke and Solomon as they trail in behind him. Satan brushes his lips over your forehead before getting up to receive your guests.

The day is as ordinary as it can be. You talk and catch up with your friends, trading stories and laughter over cups of tea that neither grow cold nor go empty. When the session turns into a mini book club gathering halfway through, Luke helpfully retrieves the debated titles from the massive shelf in the living room. He takes a while to find them; you’ve accumulated plenty of works over the years: recommendations by Satan, literature published under Simeon’s pseudonym, and handwritten tomes from Solomon to keep you in touch with your magic. The shelf is practically jam-packed with books, the only exception being a corner on the topmost tier, housing a little space that’s empty save for a worn green collar with a rusted bell.

Come sundown the five of you are still neck-deep in discussion, but as with all good things, the get together eventually reaches an end.

“Thanks everyone, it’s been fun,” you say, reclining back in your bed as Satan wordlessly cleans up. You squeeze his hand when he returns to your side and bid the others goodbye. “Hopefully I’ll see you guys soon?”

“About that…” Solomon clears his throat, wearing the smug look that usually accompanies a trick being pulled out of his sleeve, but this time it’s tinged more with excitement than mischief. “Simeon has a little present for you first.”

The guileless smile on the angel’s face betrays nothing as he steps forward and reaches into a small pouch at his hip. “Solomon, Diavolo and I have a theory. Now, keep in mind that this is all very experimental, but if it works, you’ll have more options to choose from, should you so wish.”

And then he brings out a ring.

.

.

.

“Are you, uh, are you okay?”

“Not in the mood, Mammon.”

“Oi, I’m trying to be nice here! Who do you think covered for your sorry ass when you came back past curfew the other day, huh?”

“What the hell do you want?”

“You may think you’re all stealthy and shit, but your eyes were pretty red that night. I thought you were at a book club meeting. Did something happen?”

“None of your business.”

“Argh, fine then! This is the last time I try to be a good big brother.”

“…Mammon?”

“?”

“...”

“...”

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh, what are you — you can’t just say that and then run off! Get back here!”

.

.

.

“Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…”

Lilith’s countdown echoes along the deserted hallway, prompting Beel to nudge the deadweight on his back. “Belphie, go get your own hiding place.”

“Mmngh… zzz…”

“Come on, or she’ll win this round with a two for one. Again.”

“…Just dump me somewhere she won’t find me then.”

A tall order, especially since Lilith can easily track them down by listening out for Beel’s stomach and/or Belphie’s snores. Still, the sixth-born lumbers through the house as quietly as he can, doing a one-eighty whenever he hears Lilith’s cheerful hums coming from the opposite direction. Technically they can avoid being caught if they keep moving, but that would be cheating. They hid in the attic previously so that’s a no go, their room’s too obvious, the kitchen too tempting, the common room too exposed…

Maybe Levi’s room? The otaku had sound-proofed his walls to avoid distractions from the outside world when he’s gaming, so it’s an ideal location to hide. He can stash Belphie in the bathtub and run interference until time’s up.

Backtracking, Beel breaks into a light jog towards the other wing, keeping his ears open for their seeker. It’s only because of his heightened senses that he’s able to pick up the faintest traces of magic on one of the walls, causing him to pause in his steps.

“Hmm? Why’d you stop?” Slightly more awake now, Belphie rubs his eyes and slides off his twin, who’s studying the blank space intently. “What’s wrong, Beel?”

“There’s something here, something…”

“It’s just a wall —”

“No, don’t you feel it? I know you weren’t around then, but it’s the same glamor as that time Luke went missing and we —”

Beel goes white. He whispers a name, a name not spoken in the house for years, and a door flickers into view. One hand grabs Belphie’s in a death grip as the other twists the knob and pushes the door open, revealing an old yet familiar room.

The place is devoid of life. Most of the furniture are covered by sheets, resting under thick layers of dust. In the middle sits a tree, sagging with age and soft with rot. Sunken footprints mark the demons’ furtive venture into decrepit memory, and the creaking of floorboards with every step only tethers the growing nightmare closer to reality.

A photo frame crashes to the ground.

.

.

.

They deserve this.

Satan feels it the moment the spell concealing your room was broken. It had been his way of protecting your memory, ensuring that your sanctuary would only be accessible to those who made the effort to remember you. He cast it about a year after you had left the Devildom, after he realized that leaving your door in plain sight wasn’t doing you any favors.

Hidden away in an alcove at the back of the garden, curled up with a blanket and a thermos of hot tea, Satan slides a bookmark between the pages of his latest novel and leans his head back, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh.

Even this far away from the house, he can hear the cacophony of screams and shouts, objects being flung and shattered into pieces, a muted bang suggesting that a wall has just collapsed. The fallout comes as no surprise; waking up after living the past hundred years or so in a daze will do that to a person – or in this case, demons.

Although the sounds of fighting call to the rage bubbling within him, the vindictive thoughts of his brothers getting their just desserts cool it to a simmer. He knows he’ll have to face them eventually, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

“Meow?”

Emerald eyes blink open. There’s a faint rustle from the nearby bushes as a tiny Calico wanders out of the foliage, peering around the garden curiously. Upon spotting the blond demon, it perks up and makes a beeline for him.

“Hm? You’re not Callie. Are you new here, little one?” His mood considerably improved, Satan extends a hand towards the kitten. It skips the finger sniffing step and goes straight to headbutting his palm, begging for attention.

“You’re an affectionate one, aren’t you?” Satan caves immediately and scritches away with a delighted chuckle. He examines the markings on its tri-colored fur, wanting to recognize the friendly feline if it comes back in the future. The Calico is mostly white with patches of brown and black splashed over the back of its neck, near the base of its tail, just under the side of its ribs, and several other spots that seem to collectively resemble a familiar pattern…

Satan’s hand stills. He whispers your name, trembling with hope, and the kitten practically leaps into his arms, nuzzling his chin with a happy purr.

[asmo-ds]

(1) satan has been feeling a bit down lately because he really wants a cat but he knows that lucifer won't allow the cat inside. mc knows how satan feels about cats so as a christmas present they take him to volunteer in an animal shelter and more specifically one that's for cats.

The Purrfect Gift *HOLIDAY SPECIAL*

Satan x gn!MC Fluff

Word Count: 1517~

Summary: Knowing Lucifer would never allow them to bring a cat into the house, MC decides to bring Satan to an animal rescue shelter to keep the kittens’ company on the cold winter holiday, and despite entering the shelter with only two House of Lamentation residents, they leave with three.

“Please, Lucifer! I just know he’d love it and he’s a grown-up he’s responsible enough to have at LEAST one-”

“MC, for the last time, the way Satan’s mind works is if he is allowed to have one cat he’s allowed to have twelve more. It happens every time I’ve ever said yes to giving him a cat.” The first-born shakes his head and MC can see the vein on his forehead popping out from frustration. 

“Well, what the hell else could I get him?! He’s got every book anybody could ever want, he has all the detective movies and games I’ve ever seen, he just doesn’t exactly give me very many options…” MC rants, muttering towards the end. 

“Just take him to a cat café or animal shelter or something. I really couldn’t care less, MC,” Lucifer growls, a dark aura of frustration and annoyance surrounding him as he scribbles his signature onto papers with more and more aggression by the second.

“AN ANIMAL SHELTER! THAT’S PERFECT!” MC jumps and gives Lucifer a hug, making his annoyance only grow as he yells not to touch him while they skip off into the hallway. 

- 

“C’mon! C’mon! You walk so slow, Satan,” MC tugs his sleeve like a child, making him sigh loudly.

“MC, not to be rude, but as much as I’d like to get there quickly, you have me blindfolded and walking down an icy sidewalk, if I move any faster I have no doubt I will fa-ALL” Satan explains, slipping on a patch of ice at the end of his sentence. 

“Woah, careful, Satan, you have to watch your step,” MC snickers, watching his eyebrow twitch, indicating his eye had twitched along with it in annoyance. MC raises their head and looks up at the sign of the small building.

“We’re here!” MC sings letting go of their boyfriend’s hand and walking behind him to untie the blindfold. “Ta-da! We get to keep the kitties company on Christmas!”

Satan’s initial annoyance of the blindfold removal exposing him to the bright sun was quickly wiped away by the scene before him. MC opens the front door, the bell jingling above them as they step inside. 

MC takes the blond’s hand and rushes to the room of cats.

“Hey kitties!” MC falls to their knees almost instantly, petting the cats that had come to see them. They look up at Satan and see his eyes sparkling as Cats pour out of cages and small hiding spots, making their way towards the pair.

“Hey Satan, they seem like they like you,” MC points out, giggling as Satan crouches next to them and lets cats crawl all over him.

“I’ve never known why, but all felines have always been so drawn to me, which is lucky considering I like them so much,” Satan softly smiles. “And I mean felines both big and small. One time Mammon won a tiger while gambling, and when he brought it in the house it tackled me and purred while nuzzling me. It was the best moment of my life.”

MC and Satan play with the cats for hours, both feeling a bit guilty that these cats had no home for the cold holiday. 

While he was playing with an older cat, he heard a soft and broken meow accompanied by some soft thumping and dragging sounds. He turns around and sees a small, white kitten with only three legs attempting to reach him, but being pushed over by the numerous other cats trying to capture the demon’s attention.

Satan reaches over and picks her up, holding her and bringing her to an area of the room further from MC and the other cats.

“Hey there little girlie,” he says softly, petting the kitten gently and enjoying the vibrations of its purr. Satan plays around with the kitten and feeds it some treats before he hears the soft voice of a human, “we should probably, head home now,” MC comes towards him, only to be met with a big pout and puppy dog eyes. “No no no no NO! Lucifer made it very clear! I am not to bring home any furry friends, no matter how cute and fuzzy and lonely, and FUCK IT LETS BRING HER HOME,” MC gives into his pouting and watches it turn into a big smile. 

The Avatar of wrath picks up the amputated kitten, baby talking to it the entire way to the front desk.

After some paperwork and purchasing of some essential cat stuff, MC and Satan head back to the House of Lamentation, stopping outside the front gate to make their game plan.

“So, put all of this stuff into your bag, and I’ll hold the kitten under my coat.”

MC stuffs the cat food into their backpack, alongside a few small toys they had bought. Satan unzips his coat and places the cat underneath the clothing, holding it tightly to his chest by crossing his arms underneath it to keep it up. “Be quiet kitty, okay?” He presses a finger to his lips and smiles down at the kitty.

They quickly walk towards the front door, opening it quietly and closing it softly behind them. Footsteps come down the hall, both MC and Satan giving each other a worried glance, knowing exactly who was approaching.

“MC, Satan. How was the animal shelter?” Lucifer asks with no sign of emotion. 

“It was nice! I had no idea felines would be as attracted to him as he is to them.” MC giggles. Wow, they’re good at hiding things. I wonder what kind of things they did in the human world to get so good at this, Satan thinks to himself, a bit concerned about their lying skills.

“Yes. It was like a dream, having so many cats around on such a nice holiday,” Satan adds on with a mischievous smirk, “much better than any present you’ve gotten me in the past.”

“Good. Be sure to wash those clothes and shower off all the cat hair. You reek of felines,” Lucifer snarls as he walks away, obviously suspicious of the intense cat smell that his demon nose could easily pick up.

MC and Satan quickly rush to his room, going to the furthest corner to set up their new daughter and her toys. 

They both watch the cat hobble around, sniffing the room and exploring as they whisper to each other. “She needs a name.” 

“How about, MC JR.,” MC says confidently.

“No, she doesn’t seem like an MC, if she were an MC she’d be getting nearly killed every five minutes, yet so far there have been no fatal incidents,” Satan states, earning a big punch to the shoulder from the human.

“Okay fine, you come up with one, then!” MC looks at Satan with a playful glare.

“Fine. How about Icy, y’know since it was so icy today,” Satan suggests, earning a loud purr from the kitten in question.

“I think she likes it. Do you like being called Icy?” MC coos at Icy, receiving another purr followed by a happy meow.

“Who likes being called Icy?” a chilling voice says from behind the couple. 

“Our daughter,” MC smiles, holding the kitten up to Lucifer, showing its cuteness to the annoyed man looming above them. 

“I specifically told you that-” Seeing Satan’s disappointed face for even half a second gave MC the balls to stand up against Lucifer.

“NO! Satan is a grown man, and even if you’re the oldest brother and choose to look down on everyone I will NOT let you ruin this Christmas for him! I got him a cat! You will allow him to keep this cat unless you want me to give a bad essay on my time in the Devildom and go to Lord Diavolo about all of this and your stuck up attitude and pride that have no place interfering with the happiness of your brothers!” As MC finishes they notice Lucifer is in demon form, seconds away from attacking them, they flinch before their lover appears before them, gripping Lucifer’s wrist and preventing him from getting to them. 

MC hears hissing from the ground and sees that even Icy is trying to stand up for her new parents. 

MC takes to caring for the distressed kitten as the two men argued. They hear Lucifer give in and storm out before Satan dives down to where MC and the kitten lay, squeezing both of them tightly and lovingly.

“Fuck Lucifer,” MC grumbles making Satan laugh. 

“Not literally, but yes fuck Lucifer.”

The rest of the night is spent petting and holding both MC and Icy as he truly feels serenity for the first time in centuries. 

“I love you, both,” Satan mumbles, falling asleep and kissing both MC and Icy on the forehead.

“I wuv u too!” MC fakes a voice for Icy making Satan sleepily laugh before he dozes off.

“But I love you the most, Merry Christmas, Satan.” MC places a soft kiss on his cheek before falling asleep holding one tiny kitten and Satan one very large kitten.

[iknowicanbutwhy]

Heads up we got an

Adult Hikikomori Sunny AU

I've been waiting to find an AU after the neutral end of the Hikikomori route for a while. What happened to Sunny? How did his life go on after that? Did he go to college? Did he get a fulltime job? Did he figure out what he wants in life?

these are all very good questions because literally anything could be the case. So this AU is just gonna be stuck in a hospital setting for a while.

Here's what I got so far:

Past:

Hospital Psychiatrist (practicing? Training?) Doctor Hero

I imagine after Basil's death, Hero would (eventually) turn to learning how to identify and help people with suicidal tendencies, if he's gonna be a doctor anyway.

In a choice between psychologist and psychiatrist, Hero went psychiatrist. Hero's parents would pressure him into getting a more lucrative job. PLUS psychiatrists go to college for 8 years, then take four more of psychiatry residency. Hero might feel just a little more accomplished, just a little better about himself for earning a higher degree, just to reassure himself that he's working hard and doing his best towards helping people.

Hero did extra studying in psychotherapy. He tried doing it at the same time as he did medical college. He's not.. the best at it because of that, for several reasons, but he knows it's better to combine medicine and conversation. When he has his head on straight, he can manage it.

I have.. no idea whether to put Hero into practice or residency. He'd have to be at least around.. 31, if he were in practice. That's a long time to have unresolved trauma. That's a nice hunk of research i gotta do.

That's it that's all for Hero. His goals are set in the present and focused around other people, as per usual.

Sunny is... not doing so well. He lied about going to college when he moved into some hole far away from his mother. He has no reason to get up in the morning when he can just lie around. He doesn't enjoy whatever hobbies he used to have.

He doesn't even know Basil is gone and he's so bad off.

He's honestly convinced himself that he doesn't care about anything. He still cares about people, however. He'd have stayed with his mom and burdened her with himself if he didn't. When they had moved from Faraway, it was to a cheaper, smaller place. That meant Sunny's mom didn't have to work so much. That meant more time with Sunny. He decided it was.. preferable not to stay.

The only times he does anything is when he tries to remember the past and relearn the person he used to be. What did he do? What did he like? He'd play games, and read comics, and would get frustrated? move on to something else when those did nothing for him, searching for.. some feeling to occur. And then he'd question why, why, why.

Why can't he enjoy anything? Why does he want to feel enjoyment? Why can't he just do something and be happy? Why can't he just do nothing and be fine? Why does he need to exist? Why does he want to move? Why does he want, but can never have, can never get by himself?

If there's nothing he can do, then what is he waiting for?

Vague memories would become clearer with introspection, until he would feel something, finally. An old guilt aching from deep inside his bones. A haunting self hatred, ripping away whatever minuscule strength his limbs had to try anything fun. A sense of iron resignation blanketing and anchoring his body, reminding him that it's much too late to try getting up now. Ironically, apathy got him up in the morning, as much as it keeps him from enjoying anything enough to stay up.

He was always a little too thin, but he used to force himself to do things like eat and work enough to survive. Mostly because to sleep means to not have headaches, and to not have headaches means to eat well enough, and to eat well enough means to have food, and to have food means to have money from a job.

But it's not as if he was all too desperate to sleep, anyway. His dreams have stayed the same for years. They're more eventful and colorful than bland reality, but it's a mix of the same thing every day. Staring at the swirling kaleidoscope of his dreams is exactly like observing the same beige ceiling for hours on end, until it all mixes together into the same shade of empty grey.

It probably doesn't help Sunny's mood that he thinks dramatic things like the previous point, just to pass time.

He only got worse once he was forced to move into one of those really bad apartments. You know the ones, with the rusted metal stairs nobody wants to risk their life on, and practically no privacy with four-to-five thin-walled neighboring rooms, and bad heating in one corner of the apartment. But it was cheap. Too bad he had to go up and down the stairs all the time.

He didn't have a problem with them when he just moved in. Generally, the most he notices is starting at the top, teleporting to the bottom, and a slight shaking of his hands that he barely glances at with empty curiosity.

As it is, some part of him knew this was going to happen. That he'd have one of those terribly introspective weeks, when he just so happens to have his new job with a boss ready to fire him and his sullen face and poor (somehow complete neutrality is offensive) attitude. He's emotionally vulnerable, and the memories on top of the stairs are devastating.

A week goes by. He's fired. He doesn't look for another job. He hasn't gone for groceries in a while. He's exhausted.

He was waiting for death, he guesses. He still wants, still feels that urge in the buzzing of his fingertips, the ghost of movement from his limbs, the phantom shiver in his back - the intent of every muscle in his body one after the other pleading with him to move, but never all at once - and Sunny laments that the human body is pretty stupid. Moving wont help. What would he do, make the end come quicker? He's already thrown away too many chances for that.

He'll stop wanting once he's gone. That's what happens when you get what you want, right?

His landlord finds him. He forgot the rent. He's taken to the hospital. Ugh.

Present:

Sunny is stunted and underweight. He wears baggy shirts stuffed into slightly less baggy hoodies, and sweats. Warmth. He couldn't find his hoodie after they took it off to put in an IV on his first trip to the hospital.

Usually nurses do things like bring food to patients, but Sunny only ever interacts with Hero and Hero wants to make sure Sunny is okay anyway. Not that it's much easier for Hero to encourage Sunny to eat.

Sunny stresses Hero the hell out. But Hero kinda missed Sunny, and his depressing and concerning reappearance brings with it a deadpan, world-weary, often childish humor that fails to take anything seriously when everything in Sunny's situation should be taken seriously. It's as much a relief as it is incredibly frustrating. Some days Hero loves it. Some days it makes him angry. Some days it makes him want to cry.

I tried doing research into the conduct Hero should display regarding patients/clients in general but it just. Any professionalism quickly devolves between him and Sunny.

As in, at one point, him and Sunny were whaling on each other about having no lives. Hero felt really bad afterwards; he had no idea what came over him. It was a great way for both of them to let out some hidden frustration, though, and they turned out fine afterwards. They even lowkey pick on each other every now and again.

Sometimes one or the other gets a bit too accurate in their teasing, however.

Psychiatrists are supposed to be able to understand, diagnose, and treat mental, emotional and behavioral disorders. So, if Hero were a completely capable psychiatrist, which he is, he wouldn't break down in front of his client. But Hero's late teenage years are wrought with so much grief and trauma, so to see Sunny and not just another client in this state is.. something i imagine he'd break down about eventually. There's also the fact that Sunny is mostly closed off to any help, which only makes things harder.

Hero is trying his best, but after years of never understanding why Mari died, years of thinking and wondering and second-guessing himself, years of guilt after never visiting Basil before he died, years of doing what he was told was "best" yet failing in what's most important to him (his friends) - his best never feels good enough around Sunny. It feels too little, too late. For this reason, and possibly because even if Hero were able to keep himself together he may just not be the right psychiatrist for Sunny, it would be better for him to find another psychiatrist for Sunny. He won't, though.

Hero really needs some time to himself to just think, or perhaps he needs someone else to talk to. Kel is nice, but Aubrey would have better experience handling emotions.

I have a very limited idea of what Aubrey and Kel are doing. Aubrey is a childcare instructor to parents and works in child services. She has studied child psychology. She has studied how childhood affects adulthood. Kel's off trying to make a name in basketball while giving kids high fives and heartfelt support.

Hero, in fact, does not like to be called Dr. Hero, but his shyness (feeling of unworthiness) about it only endears everyone to call him that more. He tells the kids that everyone calls him Hero, but the adults merely find out from the other doctors and nurses. Hero tried introducing himself as Henry to the other doctors, but Kel told them his nickname, and it stuck for obvious reasons.

Sometimes, on days when Hero has to wear his lab coat, he ties it around his neck like a cape. The kids like it, say it makes him look like a superHero.

Hero doesn't really cook. His schedule is always too busy to make anything that isn't quick. But he does eventually figure out that cooking for Sunny is the best way to entice him to eat, so when he makes something, he makes enough for both of them. They eat together.

Hero had to gather Sunny's change of clothes from his apartment when he found out that the reason Sunny has been in the same clothes for the last week is because he's had no one to visit him. Not even his mother. Why?

[cheezritsu]

Elegy for the Living

Fushiguro x reader

One of the tenets you’ve created for yourself when you became a jujutsu sorcerer was that you would save everyone—criminals, bullies, junkies, the like. You were no god; judgement was never yours to give. And yet, Fushiguro Megumi is trying his damndest to break every single one of your beliefs, brick by hard, infuriating brick. It’s all fun and games, until it’s not.

Alternatively: enemies to lovers and back again, in five easy steps.

A/N: currently in the process of writing an Enemies to Lovers Fushiguro fic so here’s the first part:

It’s possibly only seconds after you’ve finished battle. Seconds, he thinks, because his chest is still heaving, because you haven’t moved an inch, not even to pick up the weapon that’s been left behind after the final blow. (His blow, which made lamented card float lamely into the grass. It sits there, the five of cups, his disapproving frown aimed at you.)

Your feet are still, as if nailed to where you stand. The clouds begin to drop rain over the two of you, the run off puddling around your grimy combat boots. That’s how long you stay staring at the dismembered figure; you can only assume it was once a person by the puzzle pieces of body parts left behind after the attack. A hostage, a possessed person, a cursed item. A human being. Or, what was one.

Megumi’s steely eyes hold no reverence, instead watching your movements as you mindlessly reach into your uniform pocket, pulling out a small carton. You shake the box once, and the slim stick reveals itself.

Megumi’s skin prickles. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer to you as you continue to numbly place a cigarette between your lips. “We need to get going. Ijichi’s coming with the car soon, we have to meet him back at the entrance.”

There’s a flicker of blue light that emits from your fingertips; cursed energy, ignited like a flame. Megumi sneers at the misuse, watching in disgust as you take the first few puffs. “Unbelievable,” he mumbles. You tear your eyes away for only half a second to give him a withering glare, and then they’re back where they started.

But they twitch. There’s anger that fuels the blue flames licking your fingertips, and you can’t help but wonder.

“Why’d you attack it with divine dogs before I could secure him?” You don’t even acknowledge his look of bewilderment. “If I’d been able to separate them—“

“You couldn’t have.” He snaps. The tightness in his jaw is visible; it makes the sharp line his face even more defined, while at the same time marring the his boyish handsomeness. Does being a hardass come naturally? Or does he force himself to be this way? You mull over the question as he berates you, catching his customary reply:

“You’re not even close to being strong enough to save everyone.”

Megumi’s truths are white noise, barely decipherable from the drizzling rain. Underneath the awning of this abandoned high school, you’re safe from the onslaught of rain, but the body is not. It sags as water soaks into the clothes—a seifuku, black with white stripes. Blood floods the grass, trickling in rivulets down the sidewalks, sloshing into the gutter. You breath in, as if you’re sighing, taking a long drag of smoke that makes your lungs burn and your eyes finally shed the tear that’s been welling in the corner. The body’s going to bloat in a few days if it keeps raining.

Megumi, not privy to your inner thoughts (and frankly, unsure you even have any,) grabs your left arm. “Are you even listening?”

“How come whenever demons attack it’s always in shitty weather? Ever noticed that?”

Perhaps it’s the way your fingers separate, all of them equally spaced out as your right hand reaches up to drag the cigarette from your lips, that makes Megaumi pause. As the cigarette slides between your digits, a trail of blood stains the pure white. You haven’t wiped your hands yet. You go cross eyed from looking down, examining where the blood on your hands stains the cigarette. Your eyes glaze over, as if throughly entranced.

Megumi tears his eyes away, lest he be caught up in the same hypnosis. “We don’t have time for your stupid questions.”

You scratch your forehead with your thumbnail, humming slightly. “That just means you don’t know either.”

Cold wind sweeps through the thin fabric of his uniform. He looks at you with a pinched frown. “No, it means I don’t care. Let’s go.”

He’s done asking you anything. He heel turns away, leaving you—to do what, exactly? Your unerring stare never leaves the quartered girl, her mouth open to the clouds, like the dammed souls of hell crying for their saviour.

(Did you think that savior would be you? The mocking voice sounds unsettlingly like Megumi.)

Or perhaps, more likely, in her final moments of living she screamed for the safety of her mother, like any little girl would. Like she would.

“Damn,” you sigh, finally squatting down to collect your card. Your knees create a symphony of cracks, and you groan like an old war veteran when you stand back up.

When you spot Megumi, he’s leaning against one of the poles under the awning, his attention turned to the road. He doesn’t see you light another cigarette, inhaling slower this time to ride the drug out.

He only slightly turns his head when your feet start idly sloshing the water where you stand. The pointed toe of your shoe draws words he can only guess before they wash away.

“What are you doing?” He asks, both to get you to stop and from a deep seated curiosity. “Writing,” you say briefly. The cigarette dangles precariously from your barely open lips, your hands splayed out beside you to keep balance.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I gathered that much.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“What are you writing?”

A quick bite of a response loads itself on your tongue, but you hold back. Instead, you divulge the truth to him, knowing it’ll make him angrier.

“Things that deserve to be forgotten. Pain,” deft strokes write the kanji, and Megumi sees it take shape. “Agony. Memories. Sorrow.”

You finally take the cigarette out, the stick already half burnt. His eyes narrow upon it, his blood boiling as you waste your dexterity on vent poems in the rain. Perhaps this is your most vexing quality; your almost childish insistence to succumb to whatever emotion moves you at the moment. You’re as fickle and fragile as the wind, pretending you’re made of stone.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” He suddenly asks, though not for the first time. The first time he asked was far less judgemental than it was now. “Why do you always make things worse?”

Worse for who, you have to ask. You cough, trying not to outwardly cackle in his face. The idea of bringing Megumi misery makes you nearly giddy. The bubble of excitement dies down the moment your eyes catch his expression: brows pinched, eyes flashing dangerously until they give a lidded glare, his mouth turned in an upward sneer. The look saves just for you, just when you’re alone.

“I don’t think anything could get worse than this,” you tilt your head towards him, pointedly blowing smoke. “Besides,” you tack on. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” You laugh again at his response, and his shoulders tense, expression slipping into a boyish anger. “It’s not about you, it’s about the fact that you exacerbate your bad emotions like you want every other demon in a five kilometer radius to find us.”

“Exacerbate,” you snort childishly. “Now that’s a five dollar word.”

His posture has straightened, shoulders defensively squared and facing you. “When are you going to admit you’re not made for this, huh?”

Your shoulders shake with another laugh, this one hollow and bitter. He stands in front of you, expectant, voice laced with an air of maturity he doesn’t have the right to posses. Not even if he was born decades before you, a millennia before you.

“Made for this,” you repeat slowly. “Like the gods themselves crafted you, Fushiguro Megumi, from the mud under my shoe to fight demons.” You relish in the hitch in breath you elicit from him, even if it is followed by the individual cracks of his knuckles. You meet his gaze, and your combined cursed energy signature fluctuates; those same demons in the five kilometer radius must be fainting in its wake.

It doesn’t deter either of you. You’re both as still and stubborn as bulls. It feels like having a stare down with your own reflection, and it is agonizing to know this truth. To know he is your mirror.

“You weren’t made for this either, Fushiguro. You made yourself. So you must forgive me for not suppressing any and all emotions, like you.”

The curl to his lip drags upward even further, like the snarl of a wolf catching its prey. “You can barely keep it together after a grade 2 mission, and you want to come at me?” There’s something cruel in his eyes when he says it, something that wants to dissect your flaws and put them in a glass cage to repeatedly gawk at. Your eyes drop to ground, unable to bear the lens he views you with.

“You’ve lived with sorcery and demons for so long, and you’ve never gotten used to it. So why do you keep pretending like you can do this when you can’t?”

You blow smoke towards your feet. It vanishes quickly, evaporating into thin air. You stare into it, as if your memories are scripted in fog, abs you can make them disappear just as easily.

Megumi scrutinises your face for every micro expression that flits across your features, and he’s disappointed when all he sees is confusion. Like you don’t know the answer either.

He clicks his tongue, training his eyes back to the road. You stay staring at your feet, unblinking, lest you close your eyes see her decomposing body behind your eyelids.

A sudden realization shocks you as you bring the cancer stick to your lips for the first time in minutes. You’re only a quarter of the way through, leaving it forgotten. But there’s a warmth in your veins and a steadiness to your hands, some non-nicotine induced high. You smile callously at Megumi, who stands stiff as a board, pretending not to glance at you from the corner of his eye.

Unfortunate, you think. Seems I’ve found a better drug.

You take a drag off the cigarette. It’s feels like nothing in comparison. You burn through half of it, so that when you open your mouth, smoke curls out like a simpering dragon; elegant, dangerous, intoxicating. Megumi gapes as you grin, and something in you burns.

“You’re fun to argue with.” You snuff the cigarette between your calloused fingertips, putting out the ash in the box careful not to litter. Megumi’s expression is so priceless, you laugh when you say “Let’s do this again sometime, yeah?”

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐎𝐧𝐞

full masterlist - fic masterlist

Rowan glanced at his pocket watch and attempted to swallow his irritation.

How was it only nine-o-clock still? He had already suffered through enough social niceties to last a lifetime.

Now, he listened with but half a mind to his cousin drone on about the night's guests. His head was filled with all the tasks he needed to see to, including searching for a new governess for his sons. His boys kept chasing away every woman he employed and he was hesitant to hire a tutor, because he believed they needed a woman's influence too, now that his own wife was too ill. The physician had done all he could but there was not much hope she would wake, loathe as he was to admit it. Perhaps he should have accepted his mother-in-law's offer and send the boys to their her after all?

"--and Arobynn's here too—"

That caught his attention. "He is?"

"Mhmm. Look, over there, no, no, to the left—besides the pretty redhead, yes, just so."

A man stood by the entrance with a red-haired woman on his arm, tall and muscular, with a fine-boned face. His auburn hair were pulled back into a bun, offsetting his pale skin and the fine cut of his suit was a stark reminder of his prominent position in society, despite the whole stigma around tradesmen.

"I knew he was fond of flaunting convention but escorting his mistress to a ball?"

"You haven't heard?" James approached them with a drink in his hand. "She is not his mistress but an adoptive daughter of sorts and his apparent heir."

Fenrys choked on his drink.

"He named a girl heir to his trade empire—and not even his own blood—stupid!"

"Spoken like a man," said the gentleman and shook his head. "He raised her himself, is introducing her to all his associates and she doesn't look dumb either."

James nodded towards the redhead he had seen earlier, dressed in the finest black silk with a neckline low enough, it bordered on scandalous. Her copperish-red hair were pinned into an elegant coiffure with pretty, gold hair combs and a simple, pearl necklace completed the striking picture she made. Her sharp, defined features were barely beautiful until she laughed—a musical sound in itself—and he wondered whether he had seen anyone prettier.

"If hers was the last face I ever saw, I'd die a happy man." Fenrys sighed and walked off.

James rolled his eyes. "He's about to seek an introduction to her, isn't he?"

Rowan's lips twitched up.

He had always liked James. The man was completely without artifice and his enthusiasm for everything was so infectious, no one could remain angry with him. He had spent a few summers with the Galathynius children, until their youngest daughter was abducted and the visits stopped.

"I say you must frown a little less, sir, unless you wish to give offense."

Rowan looked up, startled at being addressed by the object of his thoughts. She looks even lovelier up close, thought he.

"I detest these events."

"So do half the people in this room and yet, appearances must be maintained."

"Deceit is not in my nature."

The lady frowned. "It is not deceitful to pretend you are interested in an event in order to spare your host's feelings."

"Your motive may be charitable but it is no excuse for dishonesty."

The lady looked amused but did not pursue the topic further. "I hope you will forgive me for speaking without a proper introduction, sir. I am not a fan of convention."

Rowan smiled.

An unmarried woman, not even of age, and already a heiress to a trade empire—by all accounts, she did not seem like one.

"I will, if you allow me to remedy the situation now." He bowed with exaggerated formality. "I am Mr. Rowan Whitethorn of Harcomb, in Doranelle."

Her cheek dimpled. "Miss Celaena Sardothein—my father—"

"Mr. Hamel, yes, I know." He almost cringed at how rude he sounded. "He and I, we are—"

"—business associates, yes, I know," she teased with an impish grin, replying in a poor imitation of his own deep voice.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement, filled with laughter and mirth—turquoise orbs, ringed with brilliant gold.

All of his resolve flew out of the window. "Miss Sardothein, will you allow me the pleasure of leading you into the first set? The dancing is about to commence."

"The pleasure will be all mine."

In hopes of starting a conversation, he said, "You are a fine dancer."

"I would have believed you to be a liar if we hadn't already established that deceit of any sort is your abhorrence."

He smiled. "And if I were being insincere?"

"I would take it as a compliment to myself, for it will mean that you are acting on my advice from earlier about lying for the sake of appearances."

They fell silent again.

"We must talk some, you know," said Rowan. "For someone who claims to be concerned with appearances, do you not think it would look odd for us to spend a half hour together but in silence."

She startled at the sudden statement. "Introduce a topic then and I will do my poor best to maintain the conversation."

Rowan complied and was pleasantly surprised to find her lively and good-humored and well-informed on most subject from current fashion disasters to books to political bills and movements. Her arguements were passionate and far from taking offense at his dry humor, she matched it with witty quips of her own; and to top it alll off, she was as skilled a dancer as a conversationalist.

Rowan was almost annoyed when the song came to an end. He could not recall the last time he had been half as well entertained.

"You will be the death of me, you foolish, foolish chit!" screeched the old matron.

Fenrys had allowed himself to be dragged into a bookstore, which happened to be one of his least favourite places, by his cousin, James—the second son to his uncle, Lord Rhoe, the Earl of Narrowcreek—and was now eager for any sort of amusement. He turned towards the high-pitched shriek with interest.

A young lady stood near the shelves, tall and proud, even in the face of her mother's ill-bred manners.

Her blonde hair fell down in waves, half pinned by dragonfly-shaped hair combs. The fabric of her dress was fine enough for her to belong to the first circles and yet, he could not recall seeing her—or her mother—anywhere.

"Ungrateful child! Wait until I tell your father what you did; he will be most displeased."

She bit her lip to contain her mirth, though her cheeks flushed with embarassment. Her eyes flitted to the door and back, as if she was looking for some escape.

"Poor girl," the bookshop owner murmured.

The following words had the unfortunate attention of drawing the mother's attention towards the owner.

Lord Fenrys almost laughed at the alarmed look on the owner's face when she began lamenting to him instead and then looked over at the lady who was staring at the door with a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether or not to attempt an escape.

She must have decided in it's favour because she gathered her skirts and made a mad dash towards the door.

Fenrys realised he was standing in her way and hastened to move but it was too late—

"Darn!" cried she.

The commotion drew her mother's attention and upon spotting her wayward daughter lying on the floor with a grimace, she rushed over with a whole new litany of complaints.

Fenrys could have sworn the lady cursed under her breath.

"Stubborn, stubborn child! I told you not to run off without me but oh, how you love vexing me," shouted her mother in her high-pitched voice. "And what are you doing, bothering this fine gentleman over here? You had better not to talk to anyone if you are determined to refuse them all. You broke that poor man's heart—"

Fenrys quirked an eyebrow in interest, looking thoroughly entertained.

Her cheeks flushed further.

He frowned.

Up close, her face looked awfully familiar. He searched his brain for an answer.

A memory flashed in front of his mind. A highly unconventional black dress, a tinkling laugh and a ballroom.

Realisation dawned.

"Miss Sardothein! Fancy seeing you here," said he. "I almost didn't recognise you because of the hair."

"The hair? Oh, yes, I am very fond of dyes, but you have caught me in my natural state."

"I find you lovelier than ever. If you will forgive me for prying, I could not help but observe you haven't bought a thing yet, even though I know you to be a great reader! Is the reading material not to your taste, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena answered wryly, "As a matter of fact, the books here suit my tastes very well—It is only that I am not allowed to buy books for a month—as punishment."

"No books! And what awful crime did you commit to merit that?"

"I rejected a marriage offer."

"A capital offense!"

Celaena smiled, "Indeed."

"I hope you are appropriately ashamed of yourself!"

"Horrified at my own audacity, really."

The lady looked up at him and grinned; Fenrys' own face turned pale and his mouth fell open in surprise. Ashryver eyes! She had ashryver eyes—like James, Aedion, and their mothers Helen and Evalin and—gods. The little poem his cousins had made up in childhood came to the forefront of his mind.

"The fairest eyes, from legends old,

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold."

But how...?

He looked at the woman again: her eyes bright and mirthful and thick eyelashes resting on her cheek, the face tugged at his memory; and she smiled so impishly, he had seen that smile before—

"Aelin," he blurted out.

He was startled when her smile dropped and recognition flickered in her eyes.

Fenrys shot an alarmed look towards the shelf behind which James had disappeared. Aelin was here! But how could this be? His heart thumped loudly inside his chest.

"Aelin?" She inclined her head in question.

He smiled uncertainly.

Was she really his little cousin? Aelin had been five year old when he last saw her.

But if he was wrong about this, could this come to bite him in the ass? She was certainly as old as his cousin would have been, had she been alive and she had the same unruly blonde curls and those ashryver eyes, teeming with life.

It couldn't be...

Arobynn's adoptive daughter.

"Yes, Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her."

"If she is your favourite, then I am inclined to take that as a compliment." Celaena—Aelin?—smiled again, though her eyebrows remained drawn still. "The name does sound familiar. Perhaps I would have heard of her in the newspaper? The society column is a great source of amusement to my father. He reads it aloud to us from time to time."

Father? He wondered if she was talking of Arobynn or Mrs. Rhunn's husband.

Fenrys smiled sadly. "That is not possible for you see, my cousin died when she was five."

At least I thought she died.

"I am sorry for your loss." Then, with an arch look on her face, she asked, "If she was like me as you say, she must have been delightful."

He chuckled. "An absolute troublemaker."

"Definitely like me then," said she, sparing a look towards her mother. "I should leave now, before my mother lists you off as yet another suitor!"

And before he could think to stop her, she curtsied and scurried off.

Fenrys stared at the door, somewhat dumbfounded. Aelin is alive. He marvelled at the thought and then wondered how on earth he would inform her family—James would be ecstatic and his father would have to be informed, and Edward would have to be called to London, gods. Edward!

Aelin had been missed by all but no one grieved her as the poor man had.

Edward would be ecstatic; everyone would.

Fenrys ran towards his cousin out of breath, who was still examining titles in one corner.

"Fenrys, god, slow down, man! Whatever happened? You look like you saw a ghost."

He blinked.

Then, without any attempt at tact or discretion, he blurted out: "Aelin is alive."

"Aelin, Aelin, stop that—no, look at your frock, mother will be so angry, no, Aelin! You will hurt yourself like that."

The man watched, concealed behind the ridge as a little girl skipped from one mud puddle to another, blonde curls bouncing up and down as she moved. Her elder brother followed at a more sedate place, calling out admonishments and threats, not that they had an effect on her.

Aelin grinned over her shoulder and ran, leading her brother on a merry chase.

The man was still debating how to go about abducting the girl when fortune smiled upon him; she twisted her leg and fell down, prompting the boy to run towards her.

"It hurts," she whimpered, refusing to stand.

The man smiled maliciously and waited as the boy looked around. "Very well," he said finally. "If you promise not to go anywhere, I will fetch papa. Do not move, Aelin."

The boy rushed towards the manor house, ignoring the twisted knots in his stomach and burst into his father's private study. In his panicked state of mind, it took a few attempts for Rhoe to make sense of his garbled words.

A foreboding feeling rose in his stomach.

She will be fine, he tried to reassure himself. Aelin, troublemaker that she was, had had a lot worse than a twisted ankle.

But his alarm grew the nearer they came to where she was supposed to be and his heart pounded inside his chest. All colour drained from his face when they didn't find Aelin where she was supposed to be.

"Are you certain this is where you left her?"

Edward nodded.

Rhoe suddenly felt dizzy, his knees buckled and bile rose up in his throat.

He reined himself in and with admirable composure, organised search parties to search around the estate and the neighbourhood.

The search carried on until late that night, when an express rider from the nearby magistrate arrived with a letter: a nearby warehouse had burned down earlier that day and two bodies were found: a man in his forties, who could not be identified and a seven year old girl who had on a silver anklet bearing the word fireheart and requested Mr. Galathynius' presence tomorrow at the warehouse to confirm the girl's identity.

Rhoe folded the letter, excused himself from company and sent his sons to their beds.

Then he entered his study: the study no one was allowed to enter without permission—except his Aelin—slumped into the armchair by the fireplace and wept.

note: ...and it's here. I have so many drafts of this chapter lying around, I'm surprised I actually finally posted it lmao.

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[thetaoofzoe]

FIC: Strawberries In Bed 1/1

Title: Strawberries In Bed 

Pairing: Napoleon Solo x Wife Angela (OFC)

Challenge: 25 DAYS OF CAVILL by @emjayewrites

Summary: Napoleon absolutely loves spoiling his family on the Holidays. 

Word Count: 3000

Rating: Extreme Holiday fluff, oral sex (female receiving), some  intimate hand about the neck (female receiving), Napoleon is a boss and Angela loves it. Mature.

‘Bishop to knight 4,’ said Illya.

He looked up at his laptop camera, and smirked with satisfaction. The move was absolute perfection. There was no way he could lose now.

Sighing, Napoleon took a moment to recognise the move. Then, feeling resigned to losing yet again, he nudged Illya’s corresponding piece to the requested place on his own chess board. He studied how terribly boxed in he was and scowled. Illya was a genius chess player and Napoleon had learned a lot from him when they played on long, quiet missions. Unfortunately, their long quiet missions were long behind them, at least for a while and they had to resort to playing their games by correspondence.

How Illya could be more insufferable when they played their games through Skype, Napoleon just couldn’t understand.

If Illya was doing well, he would call for Gaby to come congratulate him and force Napoleon to watch her spindly-legged uncoordinated ‘Illya is beating Napoleon at chess. AGAIN!’ dance in the background.

‘Doesn’t look like you’re doing too well, Cowboy,’ Illya gloated and moved in close to the camera as if trying to peer through the screen and down at Napoleon’s board. ‘Make sure you move it to right square this time. Put camera down. I want to see.’

Rolling his eyes, Napoleon tilted his own laptop screen down and he could hear Illya laughing.

‘Good, Cowboy. Now, how to get out of this?’

Napoleon righted the laptop again and glowered at his friend’s very punchable face.

‘I’ll get out of it,’ he swore. ‘I just need a moment.’

Napoleon knew he wasn’t going to get out of it, but he wanted to make Illya believe that he had a trick up his sleeve. However, Illya didn’t buy it for a second.

‘Gaby!’ Illya called, turning to look over his shoulder and into the room behind him. ‘Napoleon will not get out of this. Get your dance ready.’

Not wanting to see the dreadful dance, yet again, Naopleon held up one finger, telling Illya to just wait one minute, when a piercing scream broke him out of his muse.

The smoke alarm!

Napoleon looked into Illya’s startled face. The noise must have have been loud enough to come across the computer’s microphone.

‘Convenient!’ Illya said. ‘When check is about to happen!’

‘Later!’ Napoleon snapped and shut the laptop.

There were more pressing matters to attend to now.

Napoleon opened the door of his den and stepped out to the smell of smoke in the air. Sniffing, trying to discern if it was house material burning or if it was food burning, he hurried down the hallway from the den, and into the broad tastefully decorated L-shaped living room. He glanced at the holiday pennants strung above the gas fire burning in the hearth and at the gaily decorated Christmas tree next to it. No fire there.

Turning the corner that led to the adjoining kitchen, he stopped short. From his vantage point he could see into the newly remodelled kitchen where his beautiful and capable wife stood looking helplessly at a spot on the floor beyond the long white marble topped island.

‘Angie, baby!’ Napoleon shouted above the roar of the exhaust fan and the bleating alarm. ‘What are you doing?’

The kitchen was a disaster and Angela gestured helplessly around her as if she couldn’t decide what fire needed to be put out first.

He extinguished the alarm, pulled open the sliding patio doors to let out the lingering smoke, and then went to attend to his wife.

Holding a bag of frozen peas against her palm, Angie stood over an overturned pan of burned sugar cookies on the floor.

‘I thought… I wasn’t expecting it to be so hot through the towel,’ she lamented and drew away the peas to examine the damage the edge of the cookie tin had done to her skin. ‘And then everything just went…’

She made another gesture around and Napoleon couldn’t fight down the sudden surge of adoration for her.

Tsking, Napoleon crouched to sweep the cookies onto the tray, which he then put on the counter.

‘Aw,’ he cooed, and she looked sharply at him, upon hearing the amusement in his voice.

‘It’s not funny,’ she warned him. ‘You’d better not laugh.’

Napoleon made a zipping and locking motion across his mouth, but didn’t suppress the smile that threatening to turn his night into a stint on the couch. He reached drew her close.

‘My poor baby.’

He cradled her hands between his and saw a glassy, angry red streak across her left palm. It didn’t look too bad, so he walked her to the sink and turned on the tap.

‘You’re still making fun of me,’ she groused, leaning her head against him as he held her hand beneath the cool flow.

‘Nonsense,’ he answered fondly and kissed her forehead.

Angie sighed and smiled as the throbbing pain in her hand finally subsided. She liked when Napoleon took control, whether it was of the situation or if it was of her directly. It made her feel loved and looked after. He was very good at taking control. And maybe, though she would not admit it to anyone but herself, it fostered a certain kind of helplessness in her, in order to facilitate Napoleon’s white knight tendencies.

Lifting her face, she nudged his cheek with the tip of her nose and she could see him smile. But, he stubbornly kept his attention on holding her hand beneath the water. She hummed softly and nudged him again.

‘Stop,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m concentrating.’

He wasn’t really concentrating. It was just one of the games they liked to play. Warm up the tiger before he pounces.

Angie reached into the water with her free hand and gathered her fingers into a line along the edge of her curled in thumb, threatening to flick the water from her dripping fingers and onto Napoleon.

That got his attention and with interest, one dark elegant brow flicked upwards.

‘This shirt costs nine hundred euros,’ he warned with a laugh. ‘Dry clean only.’

‘Then give me what I want,’ she replied easily, a teasing smile turning up the corners of her lush mouth.

Napoleon closed the taps and grabbing a tea towel, he gently and thoroughly dried her hands before leaning in to kiss her sweet lips. He backed her up against the edge of the counter and leaned his weight into her. Angie reached to slide her arms round his neck and made a small noise of protest when he grabbed her wrists and pressed her hands down on the countertop.

Trapped, she thought, and the warmth of pleasure suffused her skin.

Napoleon was an absolutely beautiful, high quality man. They’d met five years ago during a masked New Years Eve party and had kissed each other at the stroke of midnight before they had even exchanged names and they had been inseparable ever since.

But, they couldn’t make out like newlyweds in the kitchen when there was a holiday dinner party to prepare for.

She drew away just a little to catch his attention, to remind him that he had still had husbandly tasks to complete before the evening get-together, but he chased her, increasing the pressure of his kiss and slipping the tip of his tongue into her mouth. The heat and familiarity of that possession redirected her intentions and Angela’s thoughts scattered like rose petals on a soft spring wind.

Napoleon circled her waist and leaned back. It took a moment to register that he has moved at all and with a disappointed mewl, she opened her eyes. She looked up into his face, that face that promised that he would never hurt her, but that he would do everything he could to treat her like the queen she was.

The queen to his king.

‘C’mon baby. Up you go,’ he murmured lustily, crouching just a little to hoist her up onto the counter.

Angela reached for him, needy and wanting and slid her hands through his neat hair. Her fingers tightened and gripped him so that he had no choice but to look up at her. When their eyes met again, a silent agreement passed between them.

‘Be a good boy,’ she hissed and wetting his lips, he grinned.

‘Always, darling.’

Napoleon curled his fingers beneath the waist band of her velour tracksuit bottoms and as she lifted herself, he slowly worked then down along her strong, creamy thighs. Her hand tightened in his hair again when he leaned in to kiss her velvety inner thigh. He hummed quietly, relishing the sweetness of her skin, the silkiness of her, and the pulse of her heat that rapidly eroded his self control. He nudged her until she collapsed back on her elbows, and opened herself to his touch. Angela shifted and wriggled just enough, spreading her legs as far as the bottoms would allow. The thick elastic bit into her thighs but it was a punishment that she’d willingly withstand in order to quench the suffering craving she had for her man. She moaned quietly, carefully, still aware of the slow delicate breath that lingered in her chest. She was still aware of how she looked to him, alluring and picture perfect, teetering on the precipice of her awakening desire. She was so close to tipping over the edge.

And Angela kept the sound of pleasure that threatened to escape her lips, a wicked reaction to the slow deliberate stroke of Napoleon’s slippery, questing tongue along her slit.

She arched up high on her elbows and the trembling desire to be dominated by him drew the worst out of her, the part of her that would willingly degrade herself for him. Only him.

Napoleon dragged her to the edge of the counter and slid his hand up her belly, between her breasts to where he eased his fingers about her throat. Angela whined with anticipation of delicious pressure and pushed into his grip giving him permission to keep going. Those strong fingers remained cupped possessively but did not exert any additional force. Angela knew she would come apart at being denied, but she trusted him. She knew him. Napoleon was holding back. This was not the beast he could become, just a shadow of it for now, as there would be time enough for that later.

Napoleon knew exactly what he was doing and how to stoke the fire in her. He knew how to touch her and taste her and when he gently thrust one finger into her Angela cried out and swore indelicately.

The rumbling sensations of Naopleon’s smug laugh against her skin thrilled her and she clutched helplessly at his dark hair.

Napoleon turned his attention to her thigh again, that tender flesh, and bit her gently, but with full intention to leave a mark. Angela yelped, gasped and her orgasm took them both by surprise. Napoleon watched his wife shudder as she lost herself and he pushed in again to ensure that he would not miss a thing, not a taste not a drop. He lapped at her, sliding his tongue in deeper, his fingers spreading her wide open until she begged him to stop.

Too much, baby, too much please!

Napoleon did as she bade him and straightened, wiping up her wetness from his mouth and licking clean his fingers. Angela laughed breathlessly, reached for him and he helped her to sit up. She flopped bonelessly against him, and rested her head on his shoulder. She had no words to describe how light and content she felt in that moment, how lucky she felt to have him, so she remained silent and let him kiss her

Napoleon was about to say something but was interrupted by the front door chimes.

‘Probably the caterers,’ she said, finally getting herself in hand and pushing him aside.

With a smile, she hopped off of the counter.

‘I’m not finished with you yet,’ Napoleon promised, pointing a finger at her as he went to the door leaving her to clean up after them.

**

Angela and Napoleon were the consummate hosts and their annual Christmas party pulled friends and family and neighbours from all over for one night of excellent food and even better company.

Angela took pleasure in the perfect presentation of her house and pride that she had the means to accommodate those people who were dear to her. And because of that, the house was crowded, filled with awful Christmas music, sounds of laughter, joyous voices and a deep seated sense of love.

On her way through the kitchen for the fifth time to refill a platter of canapes, a loud voice stopped her.

‘Angie, darling!’ shouted a woman who grabbed her up and into a tight embrace.

A year or so ago, Angela had met Adiche and her husband Kofu on a trip to Florence. Napoleon had to travel to the city on business and ensured that his wife could accompany him and tour the country to her heart’s content. Adiche was an architectural graduate student who shared a 100 kilometre taxi trip from one city to another when the train system broke down, leaving she and Angela stranded in the middle of nowhere. On the journey they became fast friends.

‘Adiche!’ she cried hugging her tightly in return. ‘You… I didn’t see you come in. I’m so glad you could make it. You’re back from Dubai already?’

‘Yes! And Napoleon let us in,’ she assured her and held out the gift she’d brought. ‘I don’t know if you’re opening them now, or if they’re going under the tree.’

Angela smiled happily and took the heavy box.

‘Under the tree for now,’ she said. ‘And we’ll do the gifting in an hour or so.’

‘I’ll let you girls talk,’ interrupted Kofu who was standing at his wife’s shoulder. ‘But, where’s Leon keeping his special…’

With eyebrows raised, Kofu pinched his fingers together and made a drinking motion by his mouth.

‘You, sir,’ Angela laughed, shooing him away, ‘need to talk to Mr. Bad Influence himself. That’s his business.’

Grinning with anticipation, Kofu took the box from Angela and kissing his wife’s cheek he waded off through the crowd to find the good stuff.

‘That’s all he talked about on the way here,’ Adiche confided with a chuckle and pitched her voice deeper to imitate her husband. ‘Man, Leon’s got the best shite! Remember that bottle he sent to me for my birthday? Whooeee, I was sorry to see it go!’

The two women laughed and rubbing her hands together, Adiche returned to her normal voice.

‘I don’t ever want to hear about that magical bottle of booze any more! Now, what I want to know is if you’ve got the good shite.’

‘Come on girl,’ said Angie, taking her by the arm and leading her to the adjacent dining room where most of the women were camped out and having after dinner drinks and dessert. ‘I got you.’

As the evening waned and once everyone had their fill and all gifts were exchanged, Napoleon pulled Angela up with him so that they could both stand by the twinkling tree and make a joint toast to their friends and family. Afterwards, it was all new year wishes and hugs and kisses of farewell and soon after the caterers left, it was just the two of them once more. Finishing the last of her wine, Angela yawned and stretched feeling infinitely exhausted, but deeply content as she warmed herself by the fire. She had long ago kicked off her shoes and the white tiles before the hearth were warm and soothing against her tired soles.

Napoleon shrugged out of his dinner jacket and tossed it onto the back of one of the living room chairs. He walked to where she stood and pulled her into his arms.

‘I love you,’ Napoleon whispered, resting his lips against the back of her neck.

Angela sighed and leaned against him.

‘I love you,’ she answered, turning around to drape her arms over his shoulders.

Angela smiled up at her tired looking husband and stroked her thumbs across his cheeks.

‘Now,’ she murmured, rising up on her toes to kiss his lips. ‘What does Santa want for Christmas?’

Napoleon’s grin turned into a boyish laugh and he slipped his hands down from about her waist to cup her bottom. She felt so good in his arms that he didn’t know if his answer could illustrate the depths of his love and admiration for her.

‘I’ve already got what I want,’ he replied and kissed her again.

‘Then you don’t want what I’ve left for you under the tree?’ she teased and glanced back to the single unwrapped box that sat under the tree.

Napoleon followed her gaze and then looked back at her. He then bent a little and swept her off of her feet. With an amused chuckle, Angela settled easily went in his arms.

‘Later,’ he said, his blue eyes warm with mischief and carried her up to their bedroom. ‘I told you that I wasn’t finished with you. I want to make good on my promise.’

-the end

Merry Christmas and tagging some of my girls. I wish you a wonderful holiday and new year

[killian-whump]

Game Night! [Liveblog #4]

I’m gonna try to finish up the last game and the end of the video in this post, so we better get right to it!

The last game they’re going to play is called Quiplash. Okay, they’re going to be given a prompt... and whoever finishes the quip in the funniest way wins. Kat warns that she’s a master at this and that everybody’s going down. Colin seems impressed by her bravado, but incensed to win nonetheless. “Here we go,” says Sam unenthusiastically 😂

AND THE GAME IS ON!!!

...or it’s meant to be on. Sam’s not joined the game yet. Seems to be having some sort of technical difficulty. “You scared of losing, Sam?” Colin asks helpfully. “All the rest of us got in pretty easy...”

Sam has joined. His name is now Colonislosin 😂 It’s hard to see exactly how it’s spelled. I don’t think any of them can see it that clearly, either. Sam has to tell them what it says.

“We’ll see,” Colin says. “We’ll see.”

The game begins. “It’s more like Col-on is losin,” Sam says. “Col-on.”

The audio is breaking all up in this segment, and Josh even comments on “Low internet signal. We’re doing great.” Hmm. I paid $10 for this, you damn well better find a stronger internet signal.

ROUND 1! The first quip is: We can all agree that... The two answers are: “Covid sucks” and “Josh... is... hairy” “Covid sucks” wins ~ and Colin gets all the points.

The second quip is: A terrible name for a funeral parlor. The two answers are: “Happy Times Palace” and “We put the Fun in Funeral” “We put the Fun in Funeral” wins ~ and Kat gets all the points.

The third quip is: “Knock Knock” “Who’s There?” The two answers are: “Me DUH” and “Get the fuck away from my door” “Get the fuck away” wins and Josh gets most of the points. Colin gets some too, I think, for his answer, because Sam voted for it.

The fourth quip is: “Something that would make a creepy replacement for the horses on a merry-go-round.” The two answers are: “Mini Josh’s” and “Creepy Princes” AREN’T THOSE THE SAME THING?! 😂 “One and the same,” says Sammy. “You don’t want to sit on a mini Josh, do you?” Sam ponders. Josh forgets to even vote, and Sam gets points for “Mini Josh’s”

At the end of Round 1, Sam is in the lead, with Kat and Colin tied for second.

I wanna take this moment to apologize for how BORING this post is so far. During the games, all five people (the three stars, Josh, and Sammy the producer) are in these miniscule windows on the far right of the screen. You can barely even see them. And during this game, there’s little to no conversation going on between/during the quips. As much fun as this game might be to play, it’s not a lot of fun to watch. The last one was better, but even that tended to DRAG for the audience at home. Josh really needs to work on the games he’s having stars play if he plans to keep charging $10 a month to watch this stuff. Also, the audio keeps breaking up in this segment, so even when they talk, some of it’s hard to decipher.

“I respect that Colin is doing this instead of reading bedtime stories to his children tonight,” Josh says as everyone’s entering in their answers for Round 2. “[That’s] how committed I am,” Colin replies. Kat says something that is so broken up, I can’t even begin to figure out what it is. Something about bedtime stories and Colin’s kids. It’s probably funny. 🤷‍♀️ I’m getting mad about my $10 gift card being gone again.

Alright. Round 2.

Quip #1: It never ends well when you mix ___ and ___. Answers: “poo and oatmeal” and “Sam and Josh” Okay, that second one is gold. Who did that? Apparently Colin did “poo and oatmeal” and Kat did “Sam and Josh”. Bless her. Colin gets the points with more votes, though.

Quip #2: The worst car feature that ends with “holder” Answers: “penis” and “diaper” Sam is just blinking rapidly. Now he’s laughing. “How does that work?” he asks. No one answers. “But I wanna know,” he says. “How does it work?” Josh wins the points with his “penis” answer - which Colin voted for, by the way - but no one cares now. “Does it move?” Kat asks. “Or does it just-” “Don’t ask too many questions,” Josh says. “What kind of size is it?” Sam asks. “Is it stationary or is there a motor feature?” Kat asks. “Maybe it’s a good idea...” Sam concludes, as Josh laments the kind of dreams he’s going to have now.

The third quip is literally happening in the background now, as everyone talks about the penis holder. Colin is noticeably silent on the topic XD

Quip #3: Something upsetting you could say to the cable guy as he installs your television service. Answers: “you smell like fart” and “want to see my murder room?” I’m sitting here going, “don’t be Colin, don’t be Colin” while simultaneously knowing 100% that Colin absolutely typed “you smell like fart” into his phone and... Yeah. Yeah, I’m right. That was him 😂 And he got 0 points. “Oh, boooo,” says Colin. Honey... Honey, I’m sorry, but that was bad.

Quip #4: The name of the reindeer Santa did not pick to pull his sleigh. Answers: “ohdeer” and “tipsy” Neither of these are very good. I hate this game. Kat gets the points with “tipsy”.

OH WOW, YOU GUYS. The final points are tallied and...

WHAT IS THIS TOMFOOLERY?! Colin is LOSING?!?! I mean, I know “you smell like fart” was bad, but this is unbelievable! I call shenanigans!!!

Colin is literally sitting forward in his chair now, lmao. The determination is intense, you guys. I once again cannot handle him right now. I wish he wasn’t in the teeny tiny window so I could show you guys better, but look at him getting his fucking game face on:

This man is a peanut and I love him with every fiber of my being. Look at him being a competitive little somesuch in last place. I can’t, you guys. Bury me here, etc, etc, I’m just a goner for this ridiculous man.

O’DONOINTENSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Last Round: Quip: Strange side effect to hear during a drug commercial. Answers: “cream cheese will come out of your butt” “seeing double horowitz” and “the screams of baboons” - there’s only three because Kat didn’t get her answer in before the time was up. Aaaaaaand the sound’s breaking all up again 😣 Josh is wondering what the point is of voting, if all you’re doing is giving points to your competitors. “Do you have to give all three votes?” Colin asks. “See,” Josh says. “Colin is thinking strategically, like me.” “Well, I’m not entirely sure the other two, I think, deserve any more than one point.” But it’s... it’s the WAY he says it, OH MY GOD, lol. Lemme... I gotta... Okay, I screen recorded it for you guys.

That O’Donosass is actually almost worth $10, you guys.

Which is good, because the audio is getting worse and worse on this and it’s starting to piss me off. Anyway! Everybody’s got a lot of points, because those were ALL good answers (Colin’s was “the screams of baboons” which I quite like). Let’s see the final tally...

Josh is the winner! But Colin managed a come-from-behind close second, so I’m really proud of him :D Sam mentions how Josh invited them all there to play games and then BEAT them. Josh is closing out the show, saying he hopes everyone enjoyed it... “I enjoyed it,” Josh says "But maybe that’s just 'cause I won at the very last second.” “No, well, you won ONE,” Colin cuts in. “You won ONE game.”

SERIOUSLY. BURY ME RIGHT THERE 😂😂😂

“Colin won the first round,” Josh says.

“...and then we have these two other people.”

Incidentally, I wish everyone’s webcams were as clear as Kat’s.

Anyway, now there’s some sweet summing up... and Josh hawking everyone’s current projects... (gee, it’s like this is promotional content or something) and the show closing down and-

“Can I win next time?” asks Sam Heughan.

~ The End ~

I hope you guys had fun reading this. I gotta say...  this one video isn’t worth $10. I can see if you’re a huge fan of Josh’s or really into celebrity culture, $10 a month might be a fine price to pay for a bunch of this kind of content... but for a one-time video when your fave happens to show up on his channel? Nah. He really should have a “one time access” fee available for individual videos that’s a LOT less. Like, I’m talking, like... $1 or 2. This is literally a zoom call... and as such, the quality’s only as good as his guests’ webcams and audio and everyone’s internet connections. Also, I found the game format enticing... but ultimately boring due to the games chosen. The Would You Rather was the most fun of the three, because we actually got to hear from the stars and get some banter going. The games relied too much on the stars interacting with their devices instead of each other or anyone really engaging the audience. Honestly, if it was any of my faves other than Colin in this video, I might not have even watched the whole thing. Colin’s adorable competitive streak and eagerness to win play games is what kept me watching. The idea is cute, but it needs some work. And the price is too high - especially with the audio issues in the last ten minutes or so. That’s my final verdict.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

77 Minutes | Five Hargreeves

✦ pairing — Five Hargreeves x Plus Size Reader

✦ word count — 1.7k

✦ summary — you’re not having a good day — Five isn’t either and things only seem to be getting worse.

✦ warnings — spoilers for season 2, some angst, mentions of blood and violence, mentions of death, language, a little bit of fluff.

════════════════════════

You were having a bad week, and that day only proved that it would get worse if you didn’t find a solution quickly.

Luther and Diego had been in the middle of threatening to kill a lady through the phone when you arrived, Elliot was dead, you didn’t know where Five was, and you were on a time limit to save the world.

There was also the fact that you hated your temporary job, but that was a petty complaint. People were the worst, honestly, you were still getting used to being around them after years only around Five.

Five sadly stared at Elliot, covering him with the sheet Luther had draped over him again.

“Are you okay?” he asked you, eyes analyzing your face and body in search for injuries.

“I wasn’t here when it happened,” you assured him, observing the curling and uncurling of his blood-stained fingers around the handle of the briefcase he was carrying.

Unfazed by the familiar sight before you, slightly bothered by the fact that taking blood off white clothes had never Five’s most developed skill, you rummaged through the belongings you had bought hours ago.

He stored the briefcase in a safe spot, immediately trying to shimmy his blazer off.

Walking into the bathroom as Diego and Luther questioned him, he gave you a thankful nod when the clean shirt caught his attention.

It wasn’t like you could blame them for being shocked by the sight of Five covered in blood, but you didn’t want to partake in the interrogatory. You knew better. They should have known better, too.

“Five,” Luther pressed, “what did you do?”

Five cursed, shaky hands worsening the red splotches on his shirt as he tried to take his vest off.

You gently removed his hands, helping him to slide the item off and dropping it to the side.

He grunted in acknowledgment, not in the mood to anger you by ignoring your actions. As attractive as he found your angry version, he was tired.

He made a motion with his finger for you to turn around. You did so, facing Diego and Luther as you heard him run more water.

The shuffling behind you helped you guess what he was doing. You rested your head on the doorway, watching Luther fumble with his luggage as he struggled to open it.

“You can face me again, sweetheart.”

The uncharacteristic soft tone caught you off guard. Five could get to be extremely sweet if he wanted, but there was something off this time. He was a private person, not the type of person to use pet names in front of his siblings.

“So I found a way home,” he announced, putting his tie back on.

“What?” Luther inquired, too surprised to be able to hide it. “How?”

“All the details are irrelevant, but... I made a deal to get back to our timeline.”

The shakiness in his voice got on your nerves. Five wasn’t one for getting antsy, much less when solving a problem. And what kind of deal was he talking about?

“What about doomsday?” Diego asked the important question.

“Won’t happen.”

“And the 2019 apocalypse?” Luther followed Diego’s example.

“Everything will be back to normal. All right?” Five glared at his brothers. “Now, no more questions.”

Feeling as though the latter statement was directed at yourself, you followed him and his brothers.

Five put the blazer back on, declaring, “We gotta go. We have to find the others, right?”

He gave clear instructions. Luther would get Allison, Diego would get Klaus, he would get Vanya, you would bury Elliott.

“Now, we meet back in the arrival alley in 77 minutes.”

You frowned. Time limits when it came to time travel had never been a good sign.

He handed you and his brothers synchronized watches. You reached for your gloves, putting them on before clasping the watch on top.

Diego was skeptical. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on. You show up drenched in blood and expect us to believe everything’s gonna go back to normal if we go home now?”

“Elliot just got killed because of us,” Five sneered.

“What about dad? What about JFK?”

Here we go again...

“Diego, we have a chance to go home and make things right. We are taking it.”

“I have to say goodbye to Lila.”

“Lila doesn’t give a shit about you, Diego! She never did.”

You winced. That had been harsh, even for being something coming from Five. You could tell Diego really cared, he was failing miserably to hide his hurt.

“Lila is one of them. She’s a member of the Commission.”

“Not possible.”

“She was just using you to get to me.” Condescendingly, Five added, “You’re the Oswald of this story, my friend. The goddamned patsy.”

Raising his voice, Diego said, “Just because you found someone who is insane enough to want to be with you, doesn’t mean that everyone wants you.” He turned to look at you briefly, “no offense, you’re lovely, but in—“

Five interrupted his brother, approaching him and hissing, “If you don’t do this, I’ll kill you myself. Got it?”

You were truly worried now. That had been unprompted. Before you could say or ask anything, Five teleported. The whooshing sound made you cringe for the first time since you met him.

With a sigh, you kept yourself from entering in a self-absorptive moment. Everything would be okay in less than 70 minutes, there was no use in focusing on things that would only make you lose time.

Walking towards Elliot, you double-checked to make sure you had taken the car keys already.

Diego stopped you from carrying Elliot. “I’ll bury him after getting Klaus. He’s not far away from here.” You were about to deny him, but he pleaded in a low voice, “Please, (Name).”

Damn Diego and his puppy eyes. Nodding, you slid your hand into your pocket and withdrew the keys.

════════════════════════

Five paced. From left to right, from bottom to top. Luther shifted in his spot, checking his watch every few seconds.

Diego was nowhere to be seen, Vanya and Allison were late too. Five was shocked by the fact that a seemingly hangover Klaus had gotten there in time yet his more responsible siblings couldn’t be bothered.

The briefcase charged, Luther and you cursed sadly along with Five who threw the item off. As the briefcase disappeared, Five got angrier.

Sighing, he angrily lamented, “We were that close. That close!”

“Now what?”

“Now nothing, Luther. All right? Make your peace with God.”

“W—What?”

Luther’s confusion would’ve been endearing in any other circumstance, but you were sure Five was about to explode.

“What about Allison and Vanya?”

“Screw them both! They should have been here.”

“What about Diego?” Klaus chimed in.

“Screw Diego, all right? Screw everybody!” he yelled. “(Name) and I were better off on our own in the apocalypse.”

You looked down, avoiding Luther and Klaus. Five didn’t mean it, he would never mean something as brutal as that — not toward his siblings whom he had missed so deeply throughout those years.

Five tended to be hyperbolic, adrenaline got the best of him nine out of ten times. It had always worked in your favor until now. And even now, he must’ve been planning something else already.

“Five, come on!”

“You know what, Luther? It’s every sibling for himself now. How ‘bout that?”

Turning around, Five pulled the door open, slamming it shut after crossing the doorway.

Klaus whimpered, “Did Five just get meaner?”

“I’ll handle Five,” Luther assured. “You two go get the others.”

You shook your head. “It’s my fault that Diego isn’t here, I’ll talk to Five. You two follow the plan to get the others and I’ll see you here later.”

Walking up the stairs, you perked your ears to assess where Five could’ve been. He was being dramatic, and he wanted to be found, perhaps even followed — you knew because he would’ve teleported if that wasn’t the case.

Five was still pacing in the bedroom. He didn’t acknowledge you as you entered, too busy mumbling things to himself.

You weren’t interested in deciphering whatever he was saying under his breath, you wanted him to tell you what was really going on.

And he knew, after so many years together he had to know. Resting your back on the wooden door, you patiently waited for him to be done.

His pent-up frustrations had never bothered you. Perhaps because you had met him in a stressful situation, but mostly because you loved him.

“I’m going to do the unthinkable.”

“Of course you are.”

Five stared at you through his eyelashes. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Then what do we have time for, Five?”

“I don’t want to fight. Not right now.”

“You just want to break the most important rule of time travel,” you deadpanned, mocking him.

“I killed The Board for nothing, (Name)!”

“We can fix it!”

“You’re not surprised? I wasn’t supposed to kill anymore!” He kicked the bed, huffing out of his nostrils.

“Oh, come on,” you breathed out, getting rid of the uncomfortable watch and leaving it on the first surface you found. “We will always be assassins, Five. The difference now is that we’re doing it on our own terms.”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed with his head between his trembling hands, he let out a sob.

God, what a fucking awful day. You pushed yourself off the door. Walking towards him, slowly in case he wanted to have space, you discarded your gloves.

Taking the spot on the bed beside him, you placed your hand on his back and rubbed it. When he didn’t make a move to push you away, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. “It’s okay. I’m here with you.”

Shifting, he wrapped both arms around you as he buried his face in the joint of your shoulder and neck. His shaky frame under your embrace broke your heart.

“The Handler tricked me — there wasn’t supposed to be a time limit.”

If he wasn’t so distressed, you would’ve punched him for making a deal with The Handler from all people.

“Vanya tried to fight me earlier,” he sniffed, resting his cheek on your shoulder. “Then after promising she’d be here she couldn’t do a simple task.”

“Have you considered the possibility that something happened to her, Allison, and Diego?”

“Who knows,” he grunted. “We have other things to worry about now.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled. Closing your eyes, you rested your head on top of his.

You just wanted a few minutes of silence in his embrace, holding him close like you used to after rough missions. And by the way his arms tightened around you, you asserted that he wanted the same.

[and-it-freezes-me]

Day 4 - Giant / Tiny

Content: heavy alcohol use, referenced rape, borrower!Logan attempting to look after a struggling Remus

Words: 4,962

Logan Shelf knew that, logically, he was making a big mistake.

But he had been making this same mistake almost every evening for months now, and he hadn’t died yet.

Besides, the chances of the giant actually waking up were next to zero, he reflected, picking his way carefully around a reddish puddle wider than he was tall.

This close to him, the scent of alcohol on the giant’s breath was almost overpowering: inhaling too deeply made his head spin, and the first few nights he had tried this he had ended up staggering home, woozy enough that he had been almost unable to make the climb up the side of the ferret cage to the painting that obscured the front gate. Patton had been furious with him, wrongly assuming that his nephew had been borrowing from the giant’s liquor cabinet.

Logan couldn’t blame him for that.

Not when Patton and his sister had spent several years doing the same thing with what Patton called religious fervor. Not when Logan’s mother had taken a drunken dare to walk across one of the strings supporting a large plastic spider suspended in the ground floor hallway, a feat she had managed plenty of times sober, and had fallen to her death. Not when Patton had gone cold turkey the day after the funeral, a subdued affair attended only by Cages and Shelves, and struggled to remain sober for the last eight years.

There were five families living in the house: the Cages; the Shelves in the office; the Washers, who lived somewhere under the tumble dryer in the scullery; the Easels, who lived in what had once been a bedroom but had been converted into a crafts room some years ago; and the Cabinet-Chimneys, the largest family, who had once been the Cabinets with their front gate in the bathroom and the Chimneys with theirs near the kitchen fireplace, and had merged into one several years before Logan had been born.

And then there were the giants. There had been five of them when Logan had been young: two adults, a pair of boys (Logan had only heard stories about them, unruly and dangerous, making borrowing difficult to get away with quietly), and an old woman who rarely left her bed and often left food uneaten - the rights to borrow from her had oft been contested between families, and Logan could remember the afternoon his mother had come home triumphant, tipsy from the wine on the woman’s bedside and carrying a squishy, sugary lump she had called Turkish delight. The stuff had been horrible, but the ham and fresh bread and butter that had accompanied it had been delicious, if far from the hot meal Logan had been hoping for.

Then they had gotten a ferret and a cat, and Logan’s uncle Patton had taken some friends from each of the four families and vanished to start his own. Borrowing had gotten more dangerous, with additional obstacles to avoid.

The old woman had died when Logan was ten.

It hadn’t just been the other four humans in the house to mourn her (although Logan heard murmurings that one of the adults - the woman - had been relieved to see her gone, and that the newfound subduedness in the boys made borrowing easier): plenty of borrowers lamented the easy pickings of meals left all but untouched on her bedside as she slept, and still more spoke reverently of the stories she used to tell the boys. Logan’s mother had spoken about her as though she had been an old friend.

Nine years later, and the house was empty apart from the sleeping man that Logan was currently creeping toward, senses on high alert for signs of wakefulness, for other borrowers watching him risk being Seen and bringing scrutiny down on all of them, for the sound of the front door that would signify the return of the other brother or the two older giants.

The giant had his arms crossed loosely on the table, pillowing his head; the hand with the eyes on the knuckles was closest to Logan and flat on the table, so that was where he started. Only two rings on this side today: a bumpy, ridged, neon green one on the fourth finger, and a massive silver skull on the third.

The first few times he had done this, he hadn’t removed the giant’s rings for him. Logically, it was incredibly stupid to be in such easy reach of a giant. It would take barely a second to grab him and crush him to death. Before he had known how deeply asleep the giant truly was, before he had gotten brave enough to attempt the rings, he had stuck to just removing the earrings.

Now, though, Logan removed the two rings with the comfortable ease of an action he had done many times before. They were large enough that Logan could probably wear them around his waist like a belt - although he was very thin, and doubted any of the other borrowers he knew would manage that. He stacked them neatly in the middle of the table, beside a still upright beer bottle.

“Other hand… Then ears…” Logan murmured, beginning to skirt the sleeping form. The other hand was usually more difficult: when one was pressed against the table, the other tended to be tucked between face and elbow, or else arm and body.

It would be wiser not to try to slip the rings from fingers clenched into a fist and hidden so that Logan had to stand directly under the giant’s head to pull them off - it would be wiser not to be doing this at all - but Logan couldn’t help himself.

Six months ago, the older giants had left on a trip around the world. They were in Japan at the moment (Logan had memorised the schedule they had spent months planning out, but even if he hadn’t taught himself to use the computer in the office, he would have been able to tell from the most recent addition to the pile of postcards on the kitchen counter), and would be away for another six months.

Four months ago, the red brother moved out. Well - that wasn’t quite right. He had left most of the things in his room, and he came back every week or so. It had taken Logan a while to figure out that he had moved across town (“just across town,” he had said, as though that were like walking between the sink and the pantry rather than going somewhere no more accessible to Logan than Japan) to live with his boyfriend. At least he had taken the cat.

Two months ago, Logan had been collecting carpet fibre from under the living room couch in a spot of midnight borrowing when the green brother had stumbled into the living room, bringing with him the strong smell of alcohol. His steel-toed shoes were accompanied by a pair of heavy boots attached to a giant Logan had never seen before, and when Logan peeked out to see what was going on, he saw that the green brother looked as though he was leaning heavily on the stranger. Then the couch dipped above him under the weight of two people. There had been the unmistakable sound of wet lips on skin, the sound of shifting fabric, and a slurred voice. “No, sstoppit… ‘M too drunk t-mmph…”

When the kiss ended, there was another complaining murmur, followed by shushing and a much more steady tone. “Shh, shh. You’re fine, see? Brought you home like you asked. Gonna be just fine…”

Logan had spent almost half an hour hiding under that couch, listening to the green brother’s complaints be drowned out by the creaking of furniture and the sounds of skin against skin, terrified that if he moved he would be noticed, sick to his stomach at what he was hearing. It was when he realised that his giant had stopped begging the stranger to stop that Logan finally gave in and made the dash across the room to the cage. If either giant saw him, he’d take the repercussions as they came: he couldn’t bear to listen to what was happening for a moment longer.

He had thrown up halfway down the tunnel leading to the Cage home, and spent the next two days in bed, not wanting to think about anything he had just seen. Then Logan had pushed the memory aside, gotten up, and started borrowing again.

There wasn’t anything else he could do, after all.

It had been a week after that that the Rem- that the giant had started drinking.

Logan shouldn’t have been paying attention as much as he should, but he had started looking out for his giant. The yellow friend had stayed for a week before moving out; it wasn’t as though there was anybody else here to make sure he was eating and sleeping (although Logan couldn’t actually do anything to ensure this). He had started trying to make sure he knew when his giant was in the house, listening for the slamming of the front door or footsteps. He could see the bowl on the living room coffee table where the giant stored his housekeys from the front gate, though keys weren’t the most reliable way of telling whether he was home. Logan had listened to several arguments between the brothers and gathered that the green giant frequently ended up climbing in through a window when he forgot to bring them out with him.

And so Logan had noticed the first night that his giant fell asleep at the kitchen table, and again when he had done it three days later, and again the following night.

Logan had noticed the way he started twitching a few hours after falling asleep, the way he started pawing at his hair and face, at his torso and shoulders and neck and hips.

Logan had noticed the bloody scratches appearing on his bare skin where his giant’s many rings cut against his skin.

Logan had noticed the tattered mess of the torn-out piercings.

It had been painfully obvious, after the first few mornings and the first dozen plasters, that his giant didn’t care enough to remove his often very spiky jewellry before drinking himself into unconsciousness.

Really, it hadn’t taken Logan as long as it should have to gather the courage to sneak close enough to the giant to help him. Logan should have taken weeks to gather data, to use the never-charged tablet to look up giant sleep patterns and the effect of alcohol upon them, to sketch up plans and weigh benefits against costs, to conclude that he needed to keep the giant healthy so the giant could keep bringing food into the house for them to borrow.

Instead, he had found himself sneaking across the table and trying to figure out how to remove a spike as long as his forearm from the giant’s ear.

There were six rings on his giant’s left hand this evening: a thick black one with a large claw on the thumb; a spiked circlet and a golden snake swallowing its tail on the forefinger; the black ring with moving parts that his giant sometimes fiddled with on the middle finger; a silver loop with glittering red and green stones (glass: Logan had checked his giant’s internet shopping history), and an unwieldy ring shaped like an octopus that covered almost the entire distance between the first and second knuckles on the fourth. It took Logan three trips to carry them all down to the small shiny pile he was making in the middle of the table.

The giant let out a rumbling snore that shook the table, and Logan froze, exposed, as he shifted, stirred, and then was still again.

He wasn’t waking up. The night before Logan first started removing his earrings, the borrower had watched a broom propped against the table (Rem- the giant had smashed a bottle on the floor and gotten halfway through cleaning up before giving up) slip sideways until it glanced off his shoulder and crashed to the ground. If the light impact and the subsequent noise hadn’t been enough to wake him, Logan doubted that his own near-silent working would.

Going still at the first loud noise was one of the first tricks Logan had learned, though. The giants rarely seemed to see things if they didn’t move.

The scramble up to the green brother’s shoulder took moments, and then he was using two hands to unscrew the backs of a series of pointed studs, to pull apart the hinges of rings, to snap open the catches of cuffs, and tuck them into his bag. Having no desire to repeat the experience of having to scale back down the giant’s arm after removing each piercing, Logan had started bringing a sack with him to collect the small bits of metal and plastic.

He dealt with both ears before returning to the tabletop to deposit the contents of his bag beside the small pile of rings, and then turned to look back at his still-sleeping giant. He had snored a few more times, each time making Logan cling to the shell of his ear or risk taking the fall to the kitchen tiles far below, but had been almost tranquil aside from that.

What next?

Some nights, the green brother wore spiked bracelets velcroed around his forearms - not tonight. Tonight, he was wearing a hoodie that was chartreuse beneath the stains, sleeves long enough that had he not had them pushed back, they would have covered his hands with ease. Even if he were wearing his spiked wristbands, Logan doubted he would be able to cut himself on them.

“... Which leaves the face…” Logan mumbled.

Right.

Five in the eyebrows, one in the nose, four in the lower lip. There had been two in the nose and seven in the eyebrows, but the extras had been ripped out.

It had been the face that had taken Logan the longest to build up the courage to approach, entirely disliking the idea of being that close. Even now, he took a moment to steel himself before moving closer, slipping over one arm and into the space between face, table, and elbow.

There was also one in his giant’s tongue, but Logan wasn’t about to climb into his mouth.

He wasn’t that stupid.

He wouldn’t be that stupid. (At least until his giant started cutting up the inside of his cheeks with it. Or he started trying to rip it out).

The mouth was closest, though, so that was where Logan started. It still felt weird to tug at one of the large lips until he could reach the back of the piercing, saliva warm and slimy - he had had to start wearing sleeveless tunics to avoid questions about why the arms of his shirts were always damp.

Logan was just reaching up to unscrew the glittery nose stud when the front door opened.

He froze, arms stretched above his head, one hand actually inside the giant’s nostril.

Nobody ever came in this late at night.

If he were lucky, it would be the red brother, exhausted, coming to crash upstairs after an argument with his purple boyfriend. The giant wouldn’t bother coming into the kitchen to-

“Remus? Are you here?”

Fuck. It was Ja- It was the yellow friend.

The yellow friend had spent a lot of time in the house in the days after that night, to the point that he had brought a snake in a cage that had sat on the kitchen table for a week. Logan’s giant hadn’t started drinking until after he had moved back out.

The yellow friend would definitely come into the kitchen - Logan could already hear his footsteps approaching. Jerking his hands back to his sides, Logan glanced around, possibilities racing through his brain.

If he left the shelter of his giant’s arms, he would be out in the open, easy to see and grab and squash. The yellow friend would be able to see him with barely a glance over the table: a small pile of jewelry, a sleeping giant, an upright empty bottle, two on their sides and dripping beer, a closed, half empty bottle of vodka, and a tiny person.

If he stayed where he was… Well, he was hidden from sight until the green brother woke up - and Logan doubted that would happen. He had watched the giant sit down earlier that evening and drink with the air of a man steeling himself for the gallows, as he had three nights out of the previous four (the fourth night, the giant had been drunk already when he got home): he wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

Inhaling deeply (and regretting it as his head spun with the alcohol on his giant’s breath), Logan retreated closer to the green-clad arm and crouched beside it, hoping the shadows of the crook of the elbow would obscure him completely.

“There you are… Oh, Re…” The footsteps had stopped; the smooth voice was right above him now. Logan hissed in another breath as the green brother shifted in place, then realised that it wasn’t a sign of wakefulness but merely the yellow friend resting a hand on Remus’ shoulder.

(Yes, Logan knew their names. Logan knew all their names: Valerie, the old woman who had told stories and had died when he was ten. Dot, the woman who hadn’t been sorry to see Valerie dead, and her husband Larry, who had always wanted to travel the world and finally gotten to do so. Roman, the brother almost always clad in a red shirt, red jumper, red sash or tie or dress, and his boyfriend Virgil with his purple jacket. Janus, the friend with the black hat and the yellow lining in his coats and jackets, his blonde hair. And Remus, Logan’s giant, the one he looked after because Janus was the only one that was really there for him, and even then he wasn’t there all the time. Yes, Logan knew their names, and Logan knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself to know their names, shouldn’t have allowed himself to care about the huge, clumsy giants that never noticed when things were borrowed yet could destroy their lives with a clumsy footstep. It had become harder and harder to stop himself from using their names in the last few weeks).

A snore.

“I wish you talked to me…” The giant was moving again, and from the clink of glass on glass, Logan guessed he was clearing up. A few seconds later, there was the sound of cloth on wood - he was wiping up the spilled alcohol. Good - the table had been getting rather sticky over the last few weeks, ruining the soles of Logan’s most comfortable borrowing shoes. Remus never got around to cleaning it.

Then there was the clink of metal, and a faint chuckle. Was he looking at the pile of rings? “That’s not like you. I’m glad, though… Explains why you started looking slightly less cut up last time you answered your phone.” A pause. “Two answers. In a month. Not cool, Re. You’re better than that…”

The green giant didn’t answer. Neither Logan nor Janus had been expecting him to.

“I wish I hadn’t had to go.” More clinking. What was the yellow friend doing? Logan wished he’d leave. His legs were starting to cramp from his uncomfortable crouching position. “If I could have stayed, you know I would, right?” Was Janus aware that Remus couldn’t hear him? Logically, he must be - so could he save the soul-bearing for later? “I didn’t want to leave you alone.” Apparently not. “I did tell you to call me, though - ‘every night’, you promised. And I thought I was the liar here, huh? Dick. Come on, let’s get you to bed…”

Wait. What?

Logan didn’t have time to react as his cover was pulled away. All he could do was close his eyes and cover his head.

There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere above him.

It seemed that staying perfectly still didn’t quite work when he was the only thing on a table aside from a small pile of metal jewelry.

“Well, I have to say that I completely expected to see a tiny person hiding under the unconscious body of my best friend.” There was the sound of movement, and Logan hunched his shoulders more tightly. “Come on. You shouldn’t look at me or anything. I’m absolutely going to turn you to stone when you make eye contact.”

He couldn’t make a run for it.

Quite aside from the fact that the yellow friend would probably catch him before he had gone half a metre despite supporting Logan’s giant, any hiding place Logan escaped to would result in the giants tearing up the house to try to find him. He couldn’t go home without leading them straight back to his family.

All he could do was make sure he didn’t do or say anything to give away the rest of the borrowers living around the house.

“Oh, come on. You’re the one hiding underneath my friend.” Movement again.

Slowly, Logan allowed his hands to drop, and tilted his head upward.

Janus was staring down at him, vast face impassive, one arm around Remus’ waist. One of Remus’ arms was draped over Janus’ shoulders, though the green brother’s body was limp in what was quite clearly still unconsciousness. It didn’t look as though Janus was struggling with his weight, and Logan suddenly noticed how thin his giant looked.

Maybe he hadn’t done such a great job of taking care of him after all.

“What are you…” Logan’s gaze snapped back to the yellow friend’s face in time to see his eyes (one grey, one pale brown, which was supremely cool) flick between him and the pile of rings still on the table. There was no sudden comprehension dawning over his face, but one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “How long have you been taking out his studs for him?”

Logan swallowed hard, met the giant’s stare coolly, and remained silent. The giant let out a frustrated huff.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know what you’re doing in my friend’s house.”

Logan licked his lower lip, narrowed his eyes, and said nothing.

“If Re had a fairy godfather, I would have expected him to be a little more…” The giant gestured vaguely. “Rock’n’roll. Grimy. Bigger, definitely. You can’t exactly do mu-”

“At least I’ve been here for him,” Logan snapped, and regretted it as soon as Janus’ mouth twisted into a smirk.

“You do talk! Excellent. I’m going to assume that Remus doesn’t know you exist?” Janus glanced around briefly as he spoke, then lowered Remus into a different chair and took the one his friend had just been slumped in. Logan shook his head jerkily, once. “Well, I won’t tell him then.”

It was Logan’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “How can I trust you? You lie.”

A beat of silence.

Then the giant chuckled, a great wave of sound that Logan stumbled away from on instinct, found that his legs had gone to sleep, and stumbled over. The piercings he had rescued from Remus’ lower lip rolled out of his satchel and across the table; they were swiftly caught by a massive finger and pushed into the pile as well. Remus snored again.

The laughter stopped abruptly, and Janus lowered his face until his eyes were on a level with Logan, the grey suddenly the colour of winter, the amber as hard as the wood of the table beneath Logan’s body. “I never lie about looking after Remus.”

Logan paused, then nodded once, just as sharply. He believed the sudden sincerity in his tone. “Five weeks.”

“Five w- Oh. Right. That’s like… Just after I moved out again.” Logan nodded again, trying to massage the pine needles from his calves, and Janus groaned. “He told me he was fine on his own… How long’s he been drinking like this?”

“About six weeks.” Logan glanced sideways at his giant, then returned his attention to the feeling coming back to his toes. “You shouldn’t have left him.”

“He promised he was fine,” Janus repeated. Logan flinched as he lifted a hand, but the giant only moved to rub his face. “And then my cousin died and I had to help pack up and organise the funeral. I came back as soon as I- Why am I explaining myself to a mouse? Why aren’t you explaining what you’re doing in my friend’s house?”

Logan frowned. “I am not a mouse. I am -” He hesitated then. He couldn’t call himself a borrower: Logan knew from years of observation that the yellow friend possessed keen intellect, and didn’t want to imply that there were other borrowers living there. “- Logan. And I live here.”

“Logan, huh? Okay. I’m Janus, this is Remus.”

“I know.”

They lapsed into silence once more, the stillness broken only by Remus’ snoring and the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall. Two in the morning.

“I’ll stay here tonight,” Janus offered, and Logan glanced back at him - he had been staring at the way Remus’ hoodie hung from his thin frame. “Grab Jake The Snake and some clothes from home tomorrow, and come back to stay with him. I can sleep on the couch, and-”

“He burned the couch.” This time it was Janus that flinched, and Logan felt a momentary satisfaction that the sharpness of his words had been felt. Then he regretted it. Janus was just trying to help his giant, after all.

“What?”

“Three nights after you left. Dragged it into the garden, poured a can of petrol and a bottle of vodka on it, threw one of his lighters at it.” Logan shrugged, working hard to bring his voice back to his usual neutral tone. “I watched from the window.”

Janus frowned. “Why would he…” He trailed off at the flinty look Logan was giving him, and glanced over at Remus. Janus’ face was no longer blank. Instead, a mix of horror and nausea that Logan recognised very clearly were rising on it. “Oh. That’s where…”

Logan nodded.

“You were there.” It wasn’t a question, but Logan nodded anyway. “Oh.”

Silence again. They were both staring at Remus now.

After a moment, Janus turned back to Logan and forced a smile onto his face. It didn’t fit, and slid off a moment later. “You’ve been trying to look after him.”

“He needs it,” Logan agreed. “I doubt he would do it if we just left him.”

“We?”

Logan winced. He probably shouldn’t have said that. This was the problem with allowing himself to care for a giant and learning their names… “I meant, ‘I’.”

“Or… It could be ‘we’.” Janus shifted a little, ran his fingers through his blond curls, then rested his hand lightly on the table. Logan edged away from it, watching the giant pretend not to notice. “We could work together. Make sure this gremlin takes care of himself.”

“How do I know you won’t just put me in a jar and dissect me?” It had to be asked, but Logan regretted it at the smirk that flickered over the giant’s mouth.

“Well, now that you suggest it…” He chuckled weakly, then shook his head. “I told you. Looking after Remus comes first. Besides, I have no interest in chopping you up. We’re on the same team now.”

Logan hesitated, then groaned quietly and pushed himself to his feet. “Fine. But I can’t do much, given my size. You’ll have to make sure he eats. I can watch him. I’ll draw up a schedule for-”

“Fine. Do that.” Janus waved a hand, and a gust of air washed over Logan, almost enough to knock him down. “I’m dead on my feet. We can discuss this tomorrow. Kitchen table. Eleven pm. Deal?”

Logan frowned. “You… Seem quite alive to me. And you are currently sitting down - there is very little -”

“It’s a figure of speech. Deal?”

“Fine.” Crouching, Logan picked up his satchel, double checked that he didn’t still have any of the studs in there, and swung it over his shoulder. He wasn’t going to move until he was sure that Janus and Remus were upstairs and he couldn’t be seen, but he should at least be ready to do so. Who knew how long it would take Janus to put his friend to bed? Logan didn’t want to get caught making his way home. “Deal. Tomorrow, twenty-three hundred hours. Tell nobody. Bring a notebook and a pen and be ready to take notes.”

Janus chuckled and stood as well. “Done.”

Logan watched as Janus picked Remus up again and made his way slowly out of the kitchen and into the hallway, and waited until the third step from the top creaked in complaint before he started making his way back toward the cage in the living room.

As terrified as he was by the prospect of having just been Seen, having just spoken to a giant, having promised to speak to him again… Logan had to say that he was relieved to have help in looking after his Remus. There was only so much he could do, given how small he was compared to the man he was attempting to take care of. Maybe having broken every rule he had ever been taught about borrowing wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Maybe making mistakes was a good thing sometimes, no matter how illogical that sounded.