#and oddly yes these are fond memories. because he was never doing it to be mean. i don't think he knew another way to interact.

[hylianengineer]

I need my family friends to stop dying please.

[happi-tree]

(i will) stay for you

“Fighting is - that’s my job, okay?”

“Okay,” Taylor grumbles, not sounding convinced in the slightest.

“Plus,” Lincoln adds before he can stop himself, “Most of my scars are just training wounds - from when I acted too slowly or imprecisely, or I got too distracted, or…”

Lincoln trails off as he notices the way Taylor’s eyes rove over his figure, like he is attempting to picture the map of pockmarks and scores that lie beneath his armor. He feels oddly exposed, uncomfortable in his prince’s burning sight.

“May I see them, then?” Taylor asks.

Or: Prince Taylor, his loyal knight, and their musings on scars and devotion.

ao3

Royal/knight dynamics are so, so very important to me, and as a Swiftli enthusiast, it was only a matter of time before I wrote something about it! Here's some Prince Taylor, knight Link, and a truly ungodly amount of mutual pining. Hope you enjoy!

“Link,” Taylor says quietly, contemplatively. Even with his voice hushed as it is within the haven of Lincoln’s humble quarters, it echoes off the stone, bouncing off the rough-hewn masonry to resound in his ears with inaudible overtones and harmonies.

“Yes?” Lincoln brings his gaze up to look upon his charge, hands stilling from where they smooth over the cloth bandages around the prince’s forearm. He has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since Lincoln brought him here, pliant as he led him through the maze of servants’ passages, patient as Lincoln rummaged about for his poultices and ointments and wrappings, obedient as Lincoln asked him to submit to the disinfecting. 

Though the young prince is a good deal shorter than him, he looks down at him, a focal point amid the drab spartan keep of his cot. The way he looks upon Lincoln now, flint-dark gaze appraising as he takes in the way Lincoln’s dark, calloused hands rest in stark contrast with the ivory cotton bandages, makes Lincoln feel like a small, delicate thing rather than the armored knight that he is.

Those eyes, burning like heated coals, travel the lines of his body, slowly, carefully, and for once, Taylor lets the silence hang in the air for several moments.

Lincoln briefly wonders if perhaps his charge has been bewitched or hexed, though, of course, that could not be, because Lincoln does not leave his side apart from sleeping. 

“How often have you gotten hurt?” Taylor asks, just as softly. 

“What?”

“You know,” He says (Lincoln really doesn’t), gesturing vaguely with the arm Lincoln isn’t holding. “Cuts, scrapes, bruises, the like. It just seems like you’re used to this,” He nods at Lincoln’s handiwork. The bandages are neatly wrapped about Taylor’s arm, by some miracle - thank goodness for muscle memory, or else Lincoln knows he would have been a fumbling, sloppy mess tending to him under his discerning watch. 

“You really don’t need to know about that,” Lincoln says, feeling rather shameful. As his fathers have often said, Lincoln had shot upward like a weed in his youth, and his sudden height had made him a clumsy, bumbling fool more often than not. And with swordplay and squiredom being thrown into the mix, well - Lincoln has his fair share of cuts and scrapes, even if most of them had been earned long before his tenure as prince-guard. 

“Yes, I do!” Taylor exclaims, and Lincoln jolts at the sudden return to his regular volume. “Of course I do.” This is softer, gentler, as if his charge is attempting to comfort him with the sound of his voice alone (and it works splendidly, for Lincoln would love nothing more than to wrap himself in the dulcet tones of his timbre and never re-emerge). 

“You’re my favorite person,” Taylor says (sending an arrow of fondness-melancholy through Lincoln’s chest in the process), “And if you’re getting a bunch of badass scars behind my back, or whatever - I need to know!”

Link chortles apprehensively at his prince’s fervent enthusiasm. “They’re not really that, uh, badass,” He attempts to explain, ghosting his hands along the pale cotton absentmindedly. “They’re actually kind of... awful-looking.”

“Ha!” Taylor exclaims, “So you do have scars!”

Lincoln feels ill. Is it drafty in here? Or perhaps not drafty enough?

“Anyway,” Taylor says imperiously, nodding once to himself. “As your Prince, I order you to tell me who so permanently injured my right-hand man so that I may have them executed swiftly. Or fight them myself!”

“Woah, no no no no no,” Lincoln says, stomach dropping and veins filling with icy dread. “Absolutely not. You are not fighting anyone unless you have to, okay? Or executing them.”

“But - but I must slay them for your honor!” Taylor says, aghast.

“My prince,” Lincoln reminds him gently, “I am common-born. There is no honor for which you need to fight. My sword is your weapon, my shield is for you. Besides, I’ve only just started to teach you to defend yourself.”

And that has not been going well , Link finishes in the privacy of his own mind, glancing down briefly to the cloth-obscured cut on Taylor’s arm as his abdomen roils with guilt.

“Fighting is - that’s my job, okay?”

“Okay,” Taylor grumbles, not sounding convinced in the slightest.

“Plus,” Lincoln adds before he can stop himself, “Most of my scars are just training wounds - from when I acted too slowly or imprecisely, or I got too distracted, or…”

Lincoln trails off as he notices the way Taylor’s eyes rove over his figure, like he is attempting to picture the map of pockmarks and scores that lie beneath his armor. He feels oddly exposed, uncomfortable in his prince’s burning sight.

“May I see them, then?” Taylor asks, looking up at Lincoln through his short, dark lashes, and Lincoln feels heat lick up his throat and warm his cheeks at the shameless question.

Lincoln’s mind is a swirling maelstrom of fragmented thoughts because this is his prince, the young man he would lay down his life for, asking him to bare the shameful parts of himself to him, and he must refuse, he must, but there is a traitorous, treasonous (or perhaps a most loyal?) part of Lincoln that wants to do exactly as he asks, that quivers in delight at the thought of laying down his heavy armor and mail until he rests before Taylor in his softer garments in the quiet of his cramped room, and -

And what? Lincoln thinks, even as his mind conjures up images of the two of them entwined together against his meager bedsheets, warmer than he has ever been, even as another part of his mind shouts Answer him!

“No!” Lincoln exclaims, and his voice sounds rough-edged and raspy and dangerously desperate to his own ears.

He clears his throat. “No,” He tries again, “That’s… improper for a prince to see, and. Well, you wouldn’t like what you would find, anyway. They’re not impressive, and they’re kind of ugly, and-”

“Sir Lincoln Li-Wilson, you listen to me ,” Taylor says, voice every bit as regal and commanding as his station. 

Lincoln’s gaze snaps up to meet his face again (when had it strayed to look at the cobbled floor?) and finds Taylor’s expression open, soft, vulnerable before him, all the things Lincoln has been told he must not be (all the things his heart yearns to be, when he is at his side - which is always). 

“No part of you could ever be ugly,” Taylor says, resting his free hand atop Link’s own. “Not in my eyes.”

And oh , how the hushed night of Taylor’s midnight-dark gaze, the furrow of his regal brows, the upturned corners of his lips send a fluttering feeling in Lincoln’s chest, feather-soft and warm and all things good and lovely.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Taylor continues, “And that’s with you almost completely covered in armor!”

Taylor’s voice is so full of sincerity and conviction that Lincoln has a hard time remembering his prince’s upbringing. From his birth, Taylor has been paraded among the most handsome lords and winsome ladies, an endless barrage of pretty and polished nobility, so surely he’s exaggerating. There is no chance that Lincoln, with his ungainly height and unruly curls and calloused hands and uneven dirt-spattering of freckles and work-worn scarred-bruised-bandaged body, could ever reasonably catch the eye of his future king.

(Lincoln knows, of course, that Prince Taylor’s heart is every bit as unreasonable as his own, though he cannot fathom why or how.)

“I’m sure every part of you is just as pretty, even if you don’t believe it,” Taylor plows onward, unaware of just how thoroughly his words have unwoven the fabric of his brain. “Even if they’re parts of you that I haven’t seen. Could -” Here, his charge fumbles, grasping for Lincoln’s hand in a distinctly un-princelike manner as he struggles to find his words.

Lincoln, as always, takes hold (even as he feels unmoored himself) and listens for him (even as he dreads the words that will leave his lips next).

“Can you show me,” Taylor finally asks, carefully, “One of your scars?”

Lincoln cringes, and Taylor notices.

“Not if it makes you uncomfortable, of course! Just… please? I want to show my gratitude to you, for bearing injuries in order to be at my side.”

Gratitude is the last thing Taylor should offer him, Lincoln thinks, especially after today’s sparring session ended so poorly - due entirely to Lincoln’s own negligence.

Taylor’s thumb brushes against Lincoln’s, and without the coverings of their respective gloves, the touch feels far too intimate, sends sparks alight beneath Lincoln’s skin, and Lincoln can scarcely tear his eyes away from the sight of their hands conjoined, palm to palm, brilliant gold to deep bronze.

“And,” Taylor adds, “You said so yourself - nobody will find us here. It’s just you and me, here, and I - I don’t mean to pressure you, of course, but this is important to me, please…”

Taylor looks at Lincoln pleadingly, and, gods, Lincoln knew what he would do as soon as the first request left Taylor’s mouth, even though his heart is thudding louder than a war-drum against his ears and attempting to crawl up into his throat. 

Lincoln sighs, a breathy, shaking noise as he leans back against the wall, allowing the cool stonework to soothe his heated thoughts as his eyes slide closed. 

Lincoln hears the sad, aborted noise Taylor makes as he slips his hand from his prince’s grasp, followed by the sound of his sharp inhale as Lincoln’s hands find the clasps of his cuirass and begin to unlatch the plated metal from his torso.

Lincoln opens his eyes to find Taylor watching with intense curiosity, a rosy blush sweeping across his cheekbones as he stares. Lincoln cannot bear to see how he looks at him, so he instead focuses on the fastenings, undoing first his shoulder pauldrons, then his cuirass, then his gauntlets with practiced ease. 

They fall heavily onto the cot, clanking against each other, and Lincoln distracts himself further from meeting Taylor’s searing gaze by fidgeting with the sleeves of his blouse.

It’s a simple garment, off-white and sweat-stained from their sparring and wrinkled from its metal-bound confinement, but the fabric is soft and breathable and doesn’t scratch at his skin like a thousand insects the way that some other shirts do, and the sleeves are pleasantly flowy, and the neckline of it is high enough to keep the metal of his armor from chafing against his collarbones. 

Lincoln spares a brief glance at Taylor and forces himself to look back down immediately, for if he lets himself fully take in the look of unabashed awe painting his prince’s expression, he will surely lose his nerve. 

Instead, he silently hikes up the shirtsleeve of his right arm as far as he is able, letting Taylor see the discolored river of scarring that wraps around it.

Lincoln keeps his gaze trained on the mortar in the cobbled floor at his feet, hyper-aware of the way his heart rattles against the confines of his ribs and stops up his lungs, desperate and small and animalistic. Lincoln knows what Taylor sees - though he hasn’t ever been one for vanity, Lincoln has glimpsed at the scar, knows the gnarled, ragged path it has etched into his shoulder, twisting like an angry vine around his bicep to end in the vulnerable hollow of his elbow. As old and faded as it is, the lighter color contrasts starkly against his skin, a lightning bolt amid a tempestuous sky, awful and horrible and damaging.

“Does…” Taylor swallows - out of regret, clearly, his voice wrung-out and raspy. “Does it hurt?”

Lincoln chuckles mirthlessly. “No. Not one bit.” As much as he wants to look upon his prince, he knows that he would only read pity-disgust-horror there, so he keeps his head down, eyes sliding shut as hot shame festers in his stomach.

Then, something warm wraps about his wrist, holding it aloft, palm-up, gentle and soft and uncalloused, and Lincoln opens his eyes in surprise, turning to look at his charge. 

“Then… could I…”  Taylor breathes out a fragment of a request - one that doesn’t need clarifying, not when his thumb strokes against the side of Lincoln’s wrist, not when his other hand hovers over his scarred flesh.

Taylor has never, ever been patient, never been one to ask for permission, headstrong and confident and downright reckless, but his hesitance now speaks volumes - especially when combined with how his onyx eyes fixate upon Lincoln, cataloging his every tell, deep and dark with wanting.

Gods above, this breathtaking boy will be the death of him, his salvation and his undoing.

“Yes,” Lincoln replies almost inaudibly, because not one cell in his body could refuse him anything at this moment.

His prince touches the discolored flesh on his arm, mapping out its path slowly and steadily as he trails the pad of his forefinger upward with great care. His every touch sends tremors down Lincoln’s spine, fills him with a buzzing, thrumming, restless sort of energy.

Touch is… rather hard to come by, in the palace - friendly touch even more so. Sure, Lincoln will be nudged and cuffed around playfully by his fellow knights, and there are times when Taylor will brush up against his side in a purposeful attempt to get accidentally-too-close, but even then, such affections cannot permeate through the glimmering metal of his armor, the tough leather of his gloves.

Lincoln can scarcely remember the last time someone has successfully done so.

And never in all his years has Lincoln been touched with such attention, with such awe and care and reverence - it feels almost worshipful, the way that Taylor traces along every twisted snarl of years-old damage, the way he focuses solely on dutifully following every slight deviation. 

For someone to treat him so delicately, so lovingly - and for that person to be his prince, who he reveres and guards above all else -

Taylor stills his ministrations, looking to him, worry furrowing his brow.

“Are you alright, Link?” he asks, so softly, so considerately, and his finger has stilled against the pale bramble of his scarring, and everywhere he touches singes with a mirage-shimmer, and -

Lincoln makes an ungodly sort of choked whine in the back of his throat, face heating for lack of a proper response.

“I’m no physician, but there might be some damaged nerves here?”

Lincoln looks silently at him, and Taylor must read the confusion in his face, for his expression melts into something impossibly softer as he says “You’re trembling, darling.”

Ah , Lincoln thinks intelligibly, attempting to wrangle his writhing nerves into stillness. Ah, so I am. He fails miserably. Ah, he called me darling.

“I can stop, if it hurts,” Taylor offers, looking rather crestfallen even as he says it.

“No,” Lincoln hears himself reply, voice thickened like honey trapped in the back of his throat . “No, I’m fine, I promise.”

Dramatic though it is, Lincoln thinks he might die if Taylor stops now. He might die if he continues.

Taylor arches a royal brow, considering, and Lincoln thinks for the briefest of instances of leaning forward to kiss it before stomping on said thought with the force of a thousand foot-soldiers.

“Very well,” he intones. “I trust that you know your own limits.”

His prince has never been so woefully, wonderfully wrong, Lincoln thinks as Taylor continues lavishing the most careful of touches upon him, trying his very best not to feel as if his soul is about to shudder out of his body at the tenderness.

The relative quiet of the moment is punctuated by Taylor’s murmured questioning, asking Lincoln how old the injury is, how long it took to scar, how it had hurt, when and where he had gotten it. The inquiries distract Lincoln enough from fully losing himself to his touch, and though he tries his very best to answer, he cannot remember the slightest bit of his responses. 

Taylor’s hands upon his bare skin are like nothing he’s ever felt, ever encountered, ever dared to dream. His hands are far warmer than Lincoln had been able to feel through the thick hide of soldier’s gloves, and they are slightly smaller than his, and they are impossibly soft, devoid of the calluses that roughen his own palms. Most importantly, they are the hands of his prince, the person he lives to serve, to protect, to defend, and they are treating Lincoln like he is precious and beautiful and worthy of adoration rather than the other way around.

Lincoln scarcely realizes that Taylor has leaned closer to him in the midst of all his musings until he feels a rush of warm breath against the base of his scar.

He barely has the wherewithal to gasp before his prince’s lips brush against the mangled line of paler skin, then press surely in the smallest of kisses before drawing back with a soft sound, mouth turned up at the corners in a fond grin.

Lincoln thanks everything that he is sitting down, for otherwise, he may well have collapsed.

Even now, he feels rather faint as Taylor fixes him with that gorgeous close-lipped smile of his, secretive and sly and earth-shatteringly adoring.

“You’re beautiful,” Taylor tells him, simple as truth and appearing horribly, wholly smitten. “Gods, you’re so beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”

Lincoln makes a choked-off, high-pitched noise that is far more audible than he is comfortable with. 

His charge smiles wider, a self-satisfied thing, and before Lincoln can relive the feeling of that smile against his blemished skin, Taylor is upon him again, trailing small, soft kisses along the winding path of his scar, seeming intent on mapping it just as thoroughly with his mouth as with his hands. 

“Thank you,” his prince breathes between featherlight kisses, “For serving me. For being at my side.” Here, he places a kiss in the crook of his elbow. “For protecting me.” Another upon the edge of his bicep. “For putting yourself in harm’s way to ensure my safety.” Yet another atop it. “I know no-one as kind, or as brave, or as selfless, or as pretty.” A trail of kisses from the muscle of his upper arm rising onward to reach his shoulder.

“You are… stunningly gorgeous, every bit of you,” Taylor murmurs, practically in Lincoln’s lap from how far he has leant into him. Instinctually, he places a hand upon his prince’s clothed waist for support, quickly distracted by the heat that emanates from his core.

That distraction is short-lived, however, as Taylor bends downward once more to press a firm kiss atop his scarred shoulder, and the feeling of his pillow-soft lips against his skin renders his mind to nothing but detritus.

Taylor hums appreciatively, and the sound reverberates in his brain, in his chest. “Gorgeous,” his prince repeats, low and syrup-sweet next to his ear. “Even the parts you dislike, because they’re parts of you, and you are the most handsome person I know.”

He pulls away (but not so much that it would allow Lincoln to relinquish his hold on him), looking thoroughly pleased with the mess he has made of his knight. 

“But-” Lincoln tries, and it sounds like a wheeze. He feels faint under the weight of Taylor’s praise.

“No buts,” Taylor cuts him off, pinning him against the cot with his gaze alone.

Lincoln swallows.

“Good boy,” Taylor says, and the phrase coupled with his gentle hold and night-dark eyes and curling, kiss-mussed lips draws another whine from Lincoln’s throat.

“I am so lucky that fate brought you to me,” Taylor murmurs, leaning forward into his chest, and all Lincoln knows is burning, burning, burning. “So lucky that you are mine.”

Yours, his mind echoes, lovestruck and loyal and possessive, yours, yours, yours, always yours . 

And though Prince Taylor cannot be his - not in the way that his heart truly desires - in the stale air turned warm by Taylor’s hot breaths, in the tucked-away corner of Queen Cassandra’s palace, Lincoln allows himself to be held and tries to convince himself that, just this once, what they have can be enough.

[north-blue-hearts]

Heart of Gold

CisFem Reader x Trafalgar Law

CW: ptsd, trauma, depictions/implications of suicide and suicidal ideation, language, violence, blood, canonical character death, mature themes and events 18+

Chapter 7: Unchanged

You rest a bit when you get to your room, but you don’t sleep. Having a private room was a commodity on the space-efficient submarine, and you appreciated the gesture for what it was. The room itself was small, but there was a porthole that let you see the ocean as the ship traveled, a small and comfortable bed, a little storage room under it, a couple shelves and a flat surface for writing. There was even a small lamp that hung from the ceiling to provide light for reading when the main lights needed to be off.

Laying on the bed you watch the dark ocean shift idly by, barely taking note of the occasional fish or shoal that passes by. Dozing a little you try to relax, at least physically. Every time your mind wanders to the past, you force yourself to think of the crew.

The Heart Pirates didn’t exist centuries ago. So you pull their voices and their interactions into your mind. It’s difficult, there’s similarities that trigger older memories, mostly because from your perspective the other memories aren’t that old.

Eventually you fall back on a mantra.

“Every time I close my eyes, the ceiling changes, and the people change.” You murmur into the quiet room. “But the last few times I have closed my eyes, it has been the same. The world has changed, and yet it seems, for me it has stabilized.”

A bittersweet smile plays at your lips. Lami would be happy for you. Banchina would probably scold you for holding onto the past, but you could see her smile just as well.

Resting was beginning to lose its effectiveness, and before your mind could wander off again you left your room. Making your way easily through the mostly identical halls, you reached the mess hall and walked into the back to see Bepo beginning to prep for dinner.

“I hope I am-hem – that I’m not too late to help?” You smile as Bepo turns to you.

“Not at all!” He answers, indicating the board and knife. “If you want to start prepping vegetables, I’ll get the rest.”

“Of course.”

You get to work breaking down the vegetables, following Bepo’s guidance. The mink talked while he worked, but it was mostly what he needed to do, or what he needed you to do, and what he was going to do. It was like he was keeping himself on task by talking everything out. It was extra useful for you, because it was easier to determine what he’d need from you since he was constantly listing off steps and next steps.

According to Shachi it was something he did all the time when it came to chores. Fighting and working in the operating theater, however, and Bepo was almost completely silent, aside from the occasional apology.

“We’re making two dishes tonight?” You ask after a moment, quietly proud of yourself for sounding informal.

“Yes, tonight’s meal is pasta and red sauce with garlic bread. The captain isn’t fond of it so I’m making him some rice balls instead.” Bepo explains, never turning his attention away from his work. “Will you deliver them?”

“Deliver?”

“I bet he’s gonna forget to come eat.” Bepo says, and then promptly apologizes. “He gets focused on a plan or an experiment and if we don’t force him, he can go days without eating or sleeping properly.”

“That is… surprisingly unwise for someone so smart.” You say, grinning deviously at Bepo. “I shall be fierce in my delivery.”

Bepo’s face shifts oddly, and he gets a hand over his mouth before he laughs. It’s a short laugh and he looks away, apologizing again. “Sorry – pfft, hahaha!” He falls into a small fit of laughter, apologizing between outbursts for a few moments before he manages to get himself back under control.

It’s so adorable you don’t even feel bad that he’s probably laughing at you.

“Fierce.” He finally manages to say. “I’m sorry.”

You smile, taking the rice balls. “It is quite alright.” You stop and close your eyes in a grimace. “It’s… all good?”

Bepo tilts his head. “Um?”

“Law has stated- said, that I need to speak informally, for safety’s sake.” You explain. “Mister Bep-er… Bepo I haven’t ever spoken casually before now. I am aware, I mean, I know how to, and I’ve had friends who do, and all of the crew does, but it is proving difficult.”

Your face scrunches up a little in continued frustration. “Hearing and knowing translate poorly to speaking, it seems.”

“Hmm… I can let everyone know. We can… help?” His head tilts a little. “Like if you revert without correcting yourself.”

“Thank you, I think that would be most ideal. It will aid me, ah, it’ll help.”

“Best.” Bepo offers. “It would be best.”

“It would be—Oh! Oh, it’s better to say ‘best’ than ‘most ideal’?” You question and Bepo nods with a smile. “Very well then, thank you. I shall deliver this to the Captain.”

Bepo gives a very quiet sigh as you leave, realizing that this is going to be a lot of work.

Law’s cabin is located fairly centrally in the ship. It gives him access to the bridge, mess, and operating rooms within nearly equal distance. Considering it was easily the largest cabin on the ship, you imagine it had been designed with that kind of perk in mind.

Knocking on the door you wait for a moment in silence before knocking again with a little more force. Your brow crinkle, but you’re certain you can hear movement on the other side of the door. You give it another moment before you open the door and let yourself in.

Law is hunched over the desk, books open and papers set around. It looked a bit chaotic, but there was method to the madness of it, and you realize he’s trying to figure out what he can about your tears.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” you begin to say as he glances over at you before looking back down at what he was working on.

“One moment.” He looks around from book to book and makes a few notes on the paper in front of him before he sets the pen down. He straightens up, stretching a bit and letting his back crack, before looking back toward you. “Dinner time already?”

“Indeed.” You reply, handing over the plate of rice balls, not wanting to risk setting them on something important. “After you eat, I could stay and assist you.”

“Mm, can you phrase that differently?” He prompts, taking the plate and beginning to eat.

You consider for a second. “When you’re done eating, I can give you…. Ah, what was the phrase? Give you a hand job?”

Law chokes on his food and sets the plate down on the desk. Even with all the times you’d caught him off guard before now you’d never seen him so flustered as this.

“I said it incorrectly.” You state apologetically, pouring him a glass of water and handing it over. He’s still trying to clear the food caught in his throat, but he’s nodding as he takes the offered glass. “Sorry.”

He puts his hand up as he drinks, coughing a couple more times before he’s finally cleared things out. There’s a moment of stillness between the two of you as he considers his next words, and without looking at you he speaks.

“It’s just ‘give you a hand’.” He says finally, his face is red from the choking spell, but his ears look red too. “When you’re offering to help someone, you don’t need the qualifier of ‘job’ at the end.”

“Is a hand job something else then?” You question innocently. “Perhaps assault?”

Law lets a breath out slowly; eyes closed, shaking his head. “It’s intimate in nature. Just… don’t go around offering people hand jobs.” He says finally, returning to his meal with a scowl.

“Very well.” You smile a little, staying by the desk, trying not to think too much about how you had accidentally propositioned the captain.

Law regards you while he eats one of the rice balls and finally asks. “Is there something else?”

“Oh, I was waiting for you to finish eating so I could be of assistance.” You answer, gesturing to the research laid out on his desk. “Should I come back later?”

Law considers things for a moment. “No, you can stay. Read over what I have while I eat, and we’ll go from there.”

You nod, stepping around the desk and looking over the notes and books that were laid out. There were history books, referencing the void century and the theories around what may have happened. A book about the Ope Ope No Mi specifically. There were more notes in the margins in, you assumed, Law’s handwriting than there was original text. Whole sections were crossed out in some places just from what little you skimmed.

Connecting the books to the notes you realize that half his query was about the variances and safety of the tears you could create, and the other half was on the Devil fruit’s possible impacts on you.

“You… appear to be looking for a… cure?” You question tentatively.

“… yeah.” He replies quietly, finishing the last of his meal.

You're quiet for long moments, but Law doesn’t say anything. He hardly moves as you look over the notes again. You purse your lips, fighting back the emotion welling up inside you. Control is difficult after so long without any emotions, but you manage.

“I wouldn’t have to count my tears?” Your question is quiet, and you’re blinking rapidly trying to beat back the tears threatening to fall.

“You wouldn’t have to hold them in either.” He admits, a tone of frustration in his voice.

The dam breaks at the statement and you step back from the desk as a few tears escape you along with a stifled laugh. A breath of air with a note behind it, nothing more - relief captured in a single beat. Heavy tears slip past your chin and thunk onto the floor with the crinkle of breaking glass.

“Sorry, sorry the gold ones always break.” You explain automatically, wiping your face and trying to calm yourself. “The glass is so thin.”

“Please don’t apologize.” Law says softly, carefully walking over to you and handing you a couple tissues before he crouches down. “Gold comes from… relief?”

“Historical data and personal experience compel me to admit it comes from several, generally positive, emotional states. Though, you are correct that relief is one.” You answer, face warm. “I would prefer to not match all my emotions to tears, doctor.”

“I won’t tell anyone else. Part of it is wanting to keep my crew safe, but part of it is specifically wanting to keep you safe.” He explains, standing back up. “People know you have a unique gift, but I don’t think the exact details of your ability have survived all this time. Would you rather someone experiment on you for the details?”

“… I would rather someone believe the heart was lost at sea.” You admit, eyes more on the floor than Law.

“Are your tears all that change?” He asks quietly, but the implication and concern are obvious.

Your fingers flex, and you chew on your bottom lip. Your hesitation alone is enough of an answer, and you know if you tell him no now, he’ll know better. You had long since decided to trust him implicitly, and with literally not one else alive to have your back, it seemed imprudent to leave him in the dark about anything.

If Law betrayed you, it wouldn’t matter to what degree. You had nowhere else to go.

“If… if I bleed, it… but no one knows. I found out one day by chance, and I didn’t even tell my friends.” You admit.

Law puts a hand on your shoulder leaning down and catching your gaze. The golden-yellow eyes hold your gaze, and he squeezes your shoulder gently. “We’re going to do everything we can to protect you, but people… The Warlords and the World Government will experiment, especially if you don’t give them something.”

“… People believed if I was injured or…” you clear your throat meaningfully and look away. “That my tears wouldn’t… wouldn’t contain anything. All I do know is that be it tears or blood, it needs to be surrounded by air. Soaked into cloth, or dried upon skin, it won’t… change.”

“Use that to your advantage. If anyone presses, then say of course it’s untested. Who would risk it?” He offers.

You nod in agreement as his room fills the small office and he shifts the broken glass and gold into a small pile on his desk.

“I may begin to forget to count my tears, if you continue to gather them for me like that.” You muse, a small smile on your face.

Law reaches out for you, the back of his finger brushing across your cheek. “That wouldn’t be so -.”

A knock at the door causes you both to nearly leap out of your skins.

“Captain!” Shachi’s voice calls from the other side of the door. “Is Bell in there with you?”

Something in the question compels you to take a step back from Law. You can feel your heart trying to pound in your chest, but you were doing your best to keep it from showing on your face. The captain regards you for a moment before answering Shachi.

“Yeah.”

The door opens and Shachi smiles when he sees you. “Sorry, Bepo said he sent you off to bring the Captain his meal before you had gotten to eat.” He holds up a bowl and a couple pieces of bread wrapped in a napkin. “When you didn’t come back, I got sent to make sure you ate.”

You can feel Law’s eyes on you, but you keep your focus on Shachi with a smile. “Thank you, and please thank Bepo for looking out for me like that.” You say as you take the offered bowl and bread. “I can set this on the plate from earlier, and I’ll bring them back to the mess hall later.”

“Oh, that was almost informal.” Shachi beams. “Good job, Bell.”

Law sets his plate down on an open spot on the desk, and you set your meal on it. “Did you ask the crew for help?”

“Mm, Bepo specifically, but he promised to pass the word.” You answer, seating yourself. “Hearing the crew has not – hasn’t effected my affect, it seems.”

Shachi makes a face, but you only catch a split second of it before he smiles. “Well, enjoy your meal. Bye Bell, later Cap’n.” He says cheerfully before leaving the office.

“Effected your affect?” Law prompts, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You couldn’t be more formal if you tried.”

“I mostly certainly could.” You say with a grin. “Would you like me to speak as though you were the king?”

“No.” He answers quickly and flatly, and you smile as you begin to eat.

[newvegascowboy]

7 14 25 31 and 52 for Red, Cecelia, and Killian? Hier sind Kekse.

7. Do they wish they lived before the war / could go back?

Red - Red can't even fathom what life before the war was like. To Red, it may as well have never existed. All Red has ever known is life in the wasteland. Red's heard stories, but doesn't put any stock or wishful thinking in them. The past is the past and Red doesn't belong in it.

Cecelia - Cecelia is much the same, but she is curious aboug pre war life. She knows it had its issues, and it was far from safe, but there's still social and historical value in its study. While she's curious, she would much rather focus on building a good life now than living in the past.

Killian - oof. Pre war had its own problems for Killian, and it was far from a paradise for him. He was still an addict, as well as separated from his wife and in danger of losing his job. After the bombs, he gets worse but..... given enough time he begins to heal for himself. There will always be a part of him that wishes he could go back and start to fix things sooner, though.

14. What is their fondest memory?

Red - Oddly enough, I think it was one from their childhood. Red had few enough things to be fond of when they were younger, but they always liked working with the Legion's horses. Even used to like the dogs.

Cecelia - Her wedding to Will. The Dustriders threw a party for three days, and it was the first time in a long time Cecelia could remember not worrying about anything.

Killian - killian didn't lack for accomplishments, but for the most part they just left him feeling like something was missing. Moving on to the next project or the next task. His fondest memory is sometime after Nuka World, a pretty mundane moment after he realizes he can no longer continue living passively for himself. Sobering memory, but one he holds onto.

25. Are they quick to trust others?

Red - ehhhh not really, but its not personal. It's just life. Red's also good at spotting liars.

Cecelia - less so than Red, honestly. She's jaded and hard.

Killian: kind of depends? It doesn't really matter if he's betrayed or not; he's hard to kill and he's been (literally) stabbed in the back before. At this point he just assumes the best of people and of it ends poorly for him, he shrugs and moves on.

31. What is their goal in life, what would they like to leave behind?

Red - to see their family safe. To provide security for their loved ones. To live in peace, by any means necessary. Red doesn't really give a shit about a legacy; if they had, then their life wouldn't have continued past outlaw infamy.

Cecelia - to have a garden and a green space, a home, where she can do some good for people and raise her son in peace. She wants to study medicine.

Killian - to redeem himself. To make his life worthy of living for however long he has left. To teach and to help others learn, so that future generations won't make his same decisions.

52: can they swim?

Red and Cecelia - Yes, although it happens infrequently because they live in the desert. They both enjoy it though.

Killian - he CAN but he doesn't like it. He sinks like a rock and the damp makes old wounds ache. He avoids it when he can.

[prettycdds]

{{ Ok, I have a cold, and I swear I will get to my older threads but for now let's talk Asha lol

This is one of those characters where I'm like-- Am I restructuring her/making her canon divergent or is this just how she was actually meant to be like, but what I'm going to do is look at the roots of her character and build her up from there and just see where she lands.

Here are her roots and what I extrapolate from them...

Her father was a philosopher and astronomer. She was closest to her father, a real daddy's girl, before he passed away. In turn, she knows how to read star charts, could point out the name of any constellation, and could find her way back home by looking at the night sky. The night sky is a motif of her's in this way. King Magnifico also seems to know who her father is. Now, ofc its very possible he's just unusually good at remembering random citizens, but to me that implies that the father came into contact with the king enough for him to have fond memories of him. Now I imagine their relationship to be this-- they once ( or maybe multiple times ) discussed philosophy but had their disagreements, though amicably so. You can kinda tell by the way Magnifico recalls him-- fondly but a tiny bit dismissive. " oh you, always looking at the stars for answers " kind of tone. But overall, the father still thought highly of the king, and so he sort of relayed to his daughter an incomplete and more perfect picture of him ( though the father himself sort of had a suspicion the king was less than perfect ) which would cause Asha to idolize the king.

Asha thought very highly of the king. She's practically a superfan of the king, even. She owns multiple books about him, has enamel pins of the kingdom's rose insignia, and this eventually allows her to become a literal tourist guide whose primary job is basically to talk up how fantastic he is and show national pride. If she's willing to do this we can assume she's happily and enthusiastically a very big fan of Magnifico ( even if she's one of the only female characters that doesn't express attraction to him lmao ) The books she owns of him implies she likely assumed she knew everything there was to know about him, which is why she was so shocked to find that none of his published stories mention the tragic past he later reveals to her.

She wanted to be the king's apprentice. Now this one is a vague character motivation in the movie, and that... bothers me. So we'll flesh it out and say yes, she did indeed want sincerely to be the king's apprentice, as an extension of her "fan of the king" core trait and... stay with me-- her love for animation. We know she is literally a cartoonist who does a sort of archaic animation with her notebook. What if that is an extension of her desire to learn magic, the desire to make things move that wouldn't, "the illusion of life" as Disney puts it. In a city where magic is outlawed, this was the only way she knew how to "practice magic" with the hope of one day being the king's apprentice. Because that law puts people in a weird position where they have to apply for a job they know nothing about.

She wanted her grandfather's wish granted. This is the part of her that I was never very fond of because the way they conveyed this trait of her's made her come across as oddly... selfish? And they don't really frame it as heroic as she could be with a slight change. They make a point of having her grumpy friend point out that becoming an apprentice, right at this moment, could easily be seen as her trying to game the system for the sake of getting wishes and she just... doesn't convincingly deny that's what she's doing. ( which is a little snakey for a disney princess-type girl, ngl! ) And then, after having this heartbreaking talk with the king and he trusts her enough to show her the wishes, she immediately decides to ask him for a royal favor before she even gets the job. In which, Magnifico looks kind of hurt and mentions most people at least wait months to ask and-- honestly, it just made her look really awful in my opinion. We're going to keep this core trait, but emphasize her desire to be the king's apprentice and a more generalized respect for the wishes of all her people overall, and have her more-so ask WHY the grandfather's wish wasn't granted, giving the king the benefit of the doubt that there was a good reason it wasn't, and that maybe she could discuss it and change his mind. So now, her mistake wasn't demanding a wish, her mistake was assuming the king was someone who could be calmly reasoned with, and it comes across more like a burning curiosity about how the wishes are handled rather than a sudden selfish demand for preferential treatment. Reflecting better her existing core trait of respecting the king and her kingdom. ( It doesn't make sense to me that she wouldn't gather from context clues that some people just don't get their wishes granted. Surely she would guess this based on the population / wish granting ratio lol ) And then they can still argue over what's best for people and all that-- I just think this slight reframing makes more sense. It also helps to emphasize that her primary goal was sincerely to be the apprentice.

Her general personality ... will probably be tweaked just a little. I always found it odd that she is somehow both a tour guide that interacts with people regularly and also severely socially awkward. But here's the thing-- is she socially awkward? Or was she just extremely nervous that day about meeting the king? I would probably depict that as more of an outlier for her instead of how she usually is. I would describe her core personality as... strongly and abrasively opinionated, maybe even a little hard-headed, naturally prone to disobeying authority ( not just because of the king but how she sneaks around and goes against her parents on just about... everything lol ), but deeply empathetic ( and a people person for that matter, she can endear a crowd ) and optimistic. Maybe even optimistic to a fault. She seems to believe that by default most-- if not all-- people are good with good intentions based on how she says " The people of Rosas are good people " which is... a kind of naive assumption lol. But also one additional detail-- she seems to know multiple languages! You can hear her say hello in multiple languages before giving her tour. That, combined with her astronomy knowledge and animation, likely implies she's a quick learner as well !

And that's all I can think of right now !! }}

[an-asuryampasya]

scream

termites are, in fact, the fucking worst.

They make me feel so useless.

We have- had, now- this Telugu-English dictionary. Always called it the 'Brown dictionary' at home, because it was by Charles Philip Brown and it had to distinguished from the host of other dictionaries dotting the shelves (my grandfather has an extensive collection of books and that includes multiple Telugu-English dictionaries, as well as English-Telugu, Sanskrit-Telugu, Hindi-English, English-Hindi, and probably a bunch of others my kid-self couldn't be bothered about. Well now I very much can be bothered and I'll go check on them in a bit, but first, back to me moping about a dictionary. Also yes, my grandfather really likes collecting stuff. It's a goldmine that I'm only now beginning to appreciate as my interest in archives, conservation, and history grows. Also if you're new here (and my url doesn't make sense to you), hi, I'm Very Telugu on main sometimes and ramble about languages occassionally. Right, back to moping).

I'm stupidly fond of that dictionary. I rarely use it of course - probably why this even happened, it never seeing any sunlight - because I google shit like any other person. But just, growing up and having a rare moment of seeing my dad stumped by a word and us pulling out the Brown dictionary to look it up made me oddly excited? It's a nice memory (-I say, ignoring all the times when I'd have been groaning as he sent me to hunt it down because I'm certain those times happened too). Mostly though, the dictionary amuses me for a different reason. That book is wayyyy older than me, and I've been aware of it right since a time when I read books, but was young enough that I didn't really understand the need for author names. I mean, if I like a book and need to identify it, I need the title of the book itself. What do you mean it's possible to like an author and seek out more of their stuff? What good does knowing the author do? What do you MEAN dictionaries have authors??? The Oxford dictionary is just the Oxford dictionary??? And yeah, dad calls this one the brown dictionary, but that's because the cover of the book is brown, see? [Note: it was not, in fact, brown. The cover was orange and white. It was the other Telugu-English dictionary that was brown in colour, but I couldn't care less about that one at the time.]

[I eventually learned why it was called the Brown dictionary when my dad once asked for it and I grabbed the brown coloured dictionary and my dad was all ???]

So y'know, the title of that dictionary always makes me laugh when I remember why it's called that, and yeah I'm kinda emotionally attached to it now. Except today I decided it's time I look up my url on there because sure, I know what it means, but it's the brown dictionary. For old times' sake and all.

[side note: if you're wondering, my url means "she who never beholds the sun" (as my ideal state is me being holed up in my room). It's a Sanskrit word too, but Sanskrit dictionaries tend to carry only the figurative meaning of "part of a king's harem", so I'm particular about clarifying that I mean the more literal Telugu meaning when I use it. Bonus fact! I was delighted to learn of this word for the first time when my brother's ENT called him an asuryampasya. xD Great doc, that one.]

And well. That's when we discovered that the termites had attacked. They got some of the other stuff too, including somthing my mum is inordinately fond of and aaaaaaaah. I tried looking up online to see if we could buy another copy of the dictionary at least, but a used copy is priced at some forty fucking thousand (INR, that is. But still too expensive to buy just for old times' sake when technically I can just google the words I want.)

So that's it, then. The book is not so badly damaged that it's entirely useless so I can't even throw it out without feeling guilty, but large swathes of it are too messed up to use (the entry of asuryampasya is half eaten, with what's remaining reading 'she beholds the sun'). And I just. Feel so helpless. I read up on conservation practices and study the theory of how light ruins books and what chemical treatments are done and stuff but what is the point of me hoarding all that theoretical knowledge when the ONE book from my grandfather's collection I'm actually fond of got chewed up right in front of me, and I did nothing. Just. Scream. I feel very sad and useless. I should go check on the other books and stuff but I'm too upset to do it right now.

I'll get to it eventually, but until then it's moping (and making that the internet's problem like this) I guess. :(

[chaosworthy]

                                                   Sometime in the past.                                                                                                                      Location ¦ Green Hill

                                                                    -------

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

They weren’t words Kintobor had expected from the blue hedgehog, much less in the dead of night. But perhaps that was simply what happened when two people were cursed with sleeplessness -- the scientist more than the hedgehog of course, but the fact remained. It wasn't unusual for them to have these talks, but more and more the hedgehog had opted for conversations via his communicator thanks to the band and touring, not coming to see Kintobor in person. 

That wasn’t to say the scientist wasn’t happy to see the other, his smile betraying that even as curiosity flashed behind his glasses. He was glad that, even after so much time and having so many other people to confide in, that Sonic still came to him with questions.

"You can ask me anything, you know that."

A smile was given in exchange, though it was quickly followed by hesitance on the hedgehog’s part. It wasn’t that he had anything bad to ask, just that he was afraid of it being too much. It was an out of the blue question and he realized that, but it was nagging at him. Even since that day in the city a few weeks ago with his girlfriend, he felt as though he had missed something major. And, next to Rosie, Kintobor was the only one the hedgehog could ask; but it seemed to make more sense to come to the scientist at the moment.

Still, there was silence before the hero looked at the holoprojected form of one of his best friends. Then decided ‘screw it’ and took the dive. "When…did you know that you wanted t’ marry your wife…?"

"I…" Kintobor had made to answer before the bulk of the question had hit him, and he stuttered as a result. It wasn’t the first time the hedgehog had shown interest in the scientist and his past. In fact, Kintobor remembered quite fondly the days when the hero had been far younger and easily entertained with stories of a younger man's journeys. Around a certain planet called Earth. But Kintobor's family had never come up but a few times, always to be disregarded with a short answer. 

And it had only taken one or two times for even a young hedgehog to realize that asking about the man's late wife was near taboo in itself. But that had been years ago, and Sonic was far older, far wiser and it showed as those gem-colored hues looked into Kintobor's baby blues. Yet, even after a moment of staring, all the man could manage was, "why do you ask…?"

"Just curious," the hero's answer was almost too quick, a careful note there as he paused before adding, "we don't have t' talk about it if you don't want t'."

This time it was Kintobor who was quiet, something calculating in his eyes as he looked at the hedgehog. He didn't believe there wasn't a reason, that this had just come up because the hero was bored. No, there was something, and he had a strong sense of what it might have been. Which left him in a predicament. He was never fond of discussing his life before his unexpected transportation to Mobius. Some parts of it, yes, but others he avoided like the plague. And for good reason. Some memories just hurt. 

But the way the hedgehog was looking at him then? Curious, but an inkling of profound obliviousness in those eyes? A question that desperately needed an answer?

"No, no. I don't mind…" Kintobor, after a tick, smiled. It was a difficult question, but one he would try his best to answer and he was pleased to see the hedgehog’s expression light up at the possibility. It was enough to keep the scientist moving forward, even if he did have to take a few minutes to gather his thoughts. It was an oddly deep question as well. "It was never just one thing, I could never pinpoint it when I tried to explain it before to others…and I still can't to this day."

Earnesty coated his words as he glanced at the tiled ceiling of the base, leaning against the meeting table as he pondered for a while more. How odd. He had never had to put it into words before. Now that he had to? He didn’t know where to begin. Luckily the hedgehog was patient, and Kintobor knew he had their undivided attention when mismatched ears perked when he took a breath. 

"I imagine it was when I realized that I never wanted it to stop. I wanted my memories to be with her, all of them…and for our lives to always be built around one another,” wistfully, he continued though with a smile that was both content and melancholy. “Around all our successes, our failures…I wanted us to learn together, and grow together. And we had all of those things up until the very end, and we never regretted it. Any of it."

The silence that dawned over the room as those last few words hung in the air was far from uncomfortable. Just the opposite. There was a lightness that had settled over the scientist, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders even with the pang of loss in his chest. He missed her, every day, and that had never been something Sonic had doubted. There was always an air about Kintobor when he spoke about her, no matter how briefly. And he had always found it spellbinding. 

"What…brought this on, exactly?" Kintobor had to ask, breaking the hedgehog out of their thoughts, and was rewarded with a chuckle from the hero. One that spoke volumes.

"I think you know the answer t' that already." It was confirmation without actual words, and yet the hedgehog felt something flutter inside of him just at the thought. Which was another answer in itself, and even Kintobor had a knowing smile on his face by the time the hero turned on his heel. Giving a salute as he started towards his office. "Thanks for the talk."

"Where are you going?" Kintobor had to ask, but he knew the answer.

"I have t'...plan something. I'll talk t' you later."

[soulmate-game]

Maribat March 2021 @maribatmarch-2k21

Day 1: Found Family

“Ah! Bonjour!” A cheery voice called, as a short Eurasian girl bound over to the unfairly intimidating mob of tall people with sharp eyes. Chloe had called in a favor. “My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Chloe told me that your tour guide cancelled at the last minute, so she blackmail—sorry, begged me to fill in for them. You are the Wayne’s, non?”

The one at the front of the group, clearly Bruce Wayne since Marinette didn’t live under a rock and had seen the man on several American news broadcasts before, nodded and cleared his throat. Man, was he intimidating. Even when he shot her a dazzling smile that was sure to blind Paparazzi with fake cheer. It was a nice smile, Marinette wasn’t about to deny. But it was empty. Distant. And Marinette wasn’t going to buy it for a second.

“Yes, that’s us. Mademoiselle Bourgeois mentioned she had asked a close friend of hers to take care of our tour.”

Marinette nodded again, clasping her hands behind her back. “I guarantee, you won’t miss anything the tour guide would have shown you. In fact, Chloe mentioned that you all were very curious about the now retired Parisian heroes, right? My former best friend ran the Ladyblog back when they were active. I am more than confident that I can answer any questions you have while we go through the city.”

A boy with a white streak in his hair rose his hand, as if he was in a class and needed to wait to be called on. Which, considering the sheer size of their family, Marinette was actually grateful for. But damn, this was another imposing figure. Slightly taller than even the six-foot-three-inches that Bruce Wayne owned, he was solidly built and rocked a brown leather jacket and ripped black jeans. Marinette smiled and nodded for him to speak.

“How old are you? Because I don’t know if twelve year olds are allowed to do guided tours,” there was an obvious tease in his voice, but there was also legitimate concern in his blue-green eyes. Marinette almost missed that concern amid her quickly building annoyance. She even felt her eyes twitch.

“I’m turning eighteen in a few months if you need to know, Monsieur,” she evened out the bite in her voice with an overly sweet smile. “And if you want to get lost and possibly pickpocketed in the busy streets of Paris, then please continue to make comments on my height. If not, we can begin our tour and you might even enjoy it.”

Several Wayne’s snickered at her comeback, one man in particular elbowing the white haired gentleman with a little too much glee. Even the stoic Bruce laughed softly, and a boy with enough bags under his eyes to make the airport jealous nearly fell over himself with his suppressed laughter.

The man himself just snorted, sending her a lopsided smirk that oddly radiated approval. It was almost as if she had passed some sort of test.

“My name’s Jason, Pixie. You already know B. The guy trying to break my ribs,” he pointedly shoved off the one who had elbowed him, “is Dick. He’s Bruce’s first adoptive casualty. The one that looks like a zombie is Tim, we might need to take a break to get him more coffee before he passes out halfway through. The one who hasn’t stopped glaring at you is Damian, the badass redhead is Barbara but we all call her Babs. The annoying blonde is Stephany, the other cool badass over there is Cass. She doesn’t talk much. And the one trying to pretend he doesn’t know us is Duke.”

Each member he introduced gave her a little wave or nod. Even Damian managed a short nod of acknowledgement before resuming his glare. He looked to be a couple years younger than her, so she just brushed it off as teenage drama.

“Alright then! It is very nice to meet you all. Now, Chloe did inform me that you guys are very multilingual, which is another reason she asked me instead of one of our other friends. If you ever need it, I obviously am fluent in both French and English. But added to that, I am fluent in Cantonese, Mandarin, Italian, and I know basic survival Japanese. I also know French Sign Language, though I’m not sure if that’s very useful for you unfortunately. If you ever need to communicate non-verbally, I will do my best to accommodate that. Now, I believe you guys were scheduled to start the tour with a visit to the Louvre, non? Right this way.”

As Marinette led the large group out of the Grand Paris, they didn’t bother taking time to admire the sights before asking questions.

“Have you ever met one of the heroes?” Dick, who might have been shorter than Jason and Bruce but was muscular enough to still inspire caution (and admiration), asked. His blue eyes seemingly stared right through Marinette as he continued; “If you’re almost eighteen, then they must have been active through a lot of your school career.”

Marinette smiled. “They did only retire last year,” she agreed with a nod. “Yes, I have met all of the Parisian heroes at least once,” she snorted at a stray thought. “In fact, I met Chat Noir quite a lot. You see, my old College was basically ground zero for a lot of akuma attacks. And by a lot, I mean a majority of them,” she shook her head before pausing to get everyone to cross a street. “After a while, Chat Noir started calling me ‘princess’ to make fun of how often he had to save me. He’s an annoying ass.”

Despite her words, everyone behind her could easily hear the fondness there. They all traded glances. What if this was a Lois and SuperMan situation? Regardless, they all had a suspicion that Marinette knew more about the heroes than she let on. Or, at least more about Chat Noir.

“When you say that your school was a hotspot for Akuma attacks,” Bruce spoke up cautiously, his Dad Senses going haywire. He didn’t like how nonchalantly she had said it— she was far too casual. Sure enough, he watched as the muscles between her shoulders stiffened slightly at the conversation change. “What do you mean? Surely it couldn’t have been that bad if the school is still around.”

Marinette sucked her teeth, grimacing. “The school is still there, yeah, but only because of Ladybug’s ability. You’ve heard about the Cure, right?” It was Tim who answered her;

“Yeah. It fixed the damage done during a fight, right?” He asked, tilting his head a little. Marinette ignored her brief thought that the gesture made him look like a curious puppy. She sighed.

“Yeah. But when they say damage, they mean everything. Injuries, collateral. Death,” she said the last example darkly, far too much weight behind the word for it to be meaningless. She heard Jason hiss in sympathy. “But there are good things. The Cure also erased anyone’s memories of dying besides the vague knowledge that it did happen, so there isn’t much trauma there to unpack. Not as much as there could have been anyway,” she assured them. “And I’m one of the lucky ones. I never died, and I was never Akumatized.”

“Hmph,” Damian’s voice cut through the brief silence that followed her admission. She looked back at him to see his sharp green eyes staring right into her. “You don’t honestly believe that’s lucky.” It wasn’t a question. Marinette clenched her jaw, turning around and ignoring him.

Because, no. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t lucky that she was the only one that remembered everything— all of the deaths, all of the Akumatizations, everything that others mercifully forgot. Since she lived through all of it, she remembered all of it. And survivor’s guilt is nothing to scoff at.

But she wasn’t about to reveal her trauma, or at the very least the full scope of it, to people she had just met and was leading on a tour.

“If you look to the left, you’ll see a statue that was made depicting Ladybug and Chat Noir back during the first years of their activity,” she suddenly told them, gesturing to the still-standing statue. Nobody missed the obvious topic change, but nobody commented on it either. Turns out the statue was something they had been looking forward to seeing in person, Tim even went up to take a few photos with his camera. Barbara took a few circles around the statue, easily pivoting her wheelchair around it as if she was trying to see every angle and imperfection possible. Marinette couldn’t help but chuckle fondly at the sight.

“Your family are pretty big fans, huh?” She asked Cass and Duke, the only ones that had stayed back with her. Duke snorted, and Cass gave her a small grin.

“They like to keep up to date with all the heroes,” Duke answered with a shrug. “Since we’re so high profile, it isn’t weird for us to be saved by one here or there even when we’re away from Gotham.”

Marinette just gave him an odd look, furrowing her brows. “But the Miraculous team has been disbanded since HawkMoth was defeated,” she reminded them. “There’s no need for them to save anybody anymore.”

“Old habits,” Cass spoke up softly, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes locked with Marinette’s. “Not easy to break.”

The smaller woman had a feeling that Cass wasn’t talking about her family’s habit of keeping up to date on heroes.

“Alright! We need to head to the next stop or we might not have time to see everything!”

The tour went pretty similarly. The walks between stops were pleasant, and filled with questions about the period of time where HawkMoth was active. Marinette wasn’t even the least bit surprised nor put off; everyone was curious about those years now that the tourism restriction was lifted and people could ask freely about it. Besides the many questions about the Heroes, Marinette found the group to be very pleasant company. They were polite, but also rowdy in a very endearing way. She caught a lot of inside jokes they had with each other, and a lot of good natured teasing and fighting. They even managed to rope her into it somehow, and she found herself snidely teasing Damian or casually threatening Tim with not allowing them a coffee break. She even got to ride on Jason’s shoulders for a bit after he made another comment on her height that she Did Not Appreciate. But the ride she got made it worth it.

But soon the sun was high in the sky, and it was about time for them to take a lunch break. They had all been walking for hours with only a few chances to rest, and honestly Marinette was impressed that none of them seemed too tired out by it.

“Alright,” she put her hands on her hips proudly. “Since some of you won’t stop whining about needing coffee or being hungry— Dick, don’t you dare buy anything from that vendor! I’m gonna lead you all to my parent’s bakery so we can have lunch and caffeinate all of you. And conveniently enough,” she smiled widely. “The bakery is right across the street from my old College! So you’ll be able to get a look at where the majority of Akuma attacks happened, and maybe I can tell you a few specific stories if you want,” she offered. There were a couple cheers (Tim and Dick) from the crowd and everyone seemed pretty pleased with the next step in their tour. Smiling, Marinette turned and began to lead them in the direction of her home.

Sirens blared, a fire truck zooming down the street next to them.

Headed in the same direction.

Marinette frowned, watching it go. “That’s weird. I hope everyone’s okay, whatever happened,” she mused idly. But as they kept going forward, the sirens didn’t get any softer. If anything, they started getting louder again after a while. Marinette was visibly concerned by then, her pace picking up. “This is my neighborhood,” she told the solemn group behind her. “I know everyone on this street—“ they rounded the corner, and Marinette stopped in her tracks. Her world ground to a halt.

There was the fire truck, stopped right in front of her bakery.

Which was completely ablaze.

A string of curses flew out of her mouth, the little Eurasian wasting no more time before sprinting towards the building. She could hear people yelling at her to wait, slow down, stop! But she ignored them. The only thing on her mind was that her home was on fire.

“Marinette! Wait!” Dick reached out to grab her arm, but like a snake Marinette easily slipped out of his grip and continued forward. Steph was next, deciding to just tackle Marinette— to no avail. The Parisian just shouldered the bigger woman off of her with pure adrenaline fueling her muscles, and everyone else knew by then that they could not stop her. The Wayne’s decided all they could do was jog behind Marinette, keeping her in sight as they tried to gauge the damage.

“The top floors don’t look like they have even been touched by the fire yet,” Tim whispered, though his eyes flew between the building and their tour guide. Marinette was speaking rapidly with a firefighter that wasn’t immediately busy, trying to get information. But before anyone could decipher what was said, Marinette tore a large strip off the bottom of her shirt and tied it in a hasty mask around her mouth.

“Wait!” Bruce was the first to realize what was happening, with his years of experience with self sacrificing children and their stupid stunts. But Marinette managed to kick him away before he could grab her, dashing into the inferno without paying any heed to the many protests that followed her.

The group of Gothamites could do nothing but watch the flaming building, then. If they went inside, it would only overcrowd a hazardous area. Minutes passed, and there was movement in the fire. Out of the doorway came Marinette and a firefighter, both having to work together to carry the body of a large man outside. The sight of the man made the Gotham family blink— he was as big as Bane! And that was nothing to scoff at. But despite his unusual size and muscle mass, the man had all the signs of being a normal civilian.

Marinette didn’t stop there. She ran back in. Coming out a lot more quickly this time with a barely conscious Asian woman— everyone saw the resemblance between her and this new woman immediately.

It had to be her mother.

“Shit,” Duke hissed. Nobody else could say a word. It wasn’t looking good, and this wasn’t a situation where random vigilantes showing up out of nowhere could actually help. Not this late into the fire. Bruce’s hands curled into fists.

The woman that everyone guessed was Marinette’s mother was suddenly struck by lucidity; she gasped and grabbed at Marinette’s hand without seeming to see who she was even talking to. A single word that none of the Waynes could hear left her throat, and judging by Marinette’s returning panic it hadn’t been good.

She rushed right back into the building, and came back out with the last firefighter who had been searching inside.

Marinette carried a child. She screamed out in panicked French;

“She’s not breathing! I need first aid now!”

That was their cue. The firefighters started their hoses, focusing on getting rid of the flames now that nobody was left inside the building. Bruce and Damian got to Marinette first, and this time she listened as they instructed her to set the child down. Damian, being smaller and having more hands-on medical knowledge, took charge of the resuscitation. Marinette sat there silently, eyes riveted to the small child— a girl.

But Marinette wasn’t reacting like a normal civilian to tragedy. She was eerily calm, eyes focused and barely concealing a terrible rage. She took over chest compressions when Damian started to lose momentum, not giving up.

But then the EMTs arrived, and it was only five minutes with the child hooked onto oxygen that the news arrived—

Marinette heard the monitors on the ambulance flatline before she even registered what people were trying to tell her. Manon. Manon was—

Marinette didn’t register Nadya Chammack at first. She was just another body in the quickly growing sea of them. That is, until she heard Nadya’s pained shriek. A mother who had just lost her baby girl.

“Perhaps we should head back,” Bruce offered softly, giving Marinette space but keeping a keen eye on her. He saw her begin to tremble, then shake. He was pretty sure he could hear the grinding of her teeth for a second before she went still. Just… all movement stopped, the tears that had been building just falling silently for a second before they ended.

And he recognized that carefully practiced emptiness in her bluebell eyes. The same emptiness he had seen in Damian’s eyes when he had first arrived at the Manor. The same emptiness he saw in Dick’s eyes in the days following his parent’s deaths.

The same emptiness he saw in the mirror, every time he had another nightmare about the day Jason had been taken from him, years ago.

Suddenly he could imagine all too well exactly what kind of strength she had to have, to avoid her negative emotions ever being used against her during Hawkmoth’s reign. Especially if she had constantly been dealing with her friends and family being Akumatized and/or dying on multiple occasions.

She didn’t even seem to have heard him. Bruce sighed.

“I called Chloe,” Barbara informed everyone solemnly, holding up her phone for emphasis. “She’ll be here in five.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Chloe hadn’t come alone. With her had been Adrien Agreste, former model when his father hadn’t been… well, in prison. Nowadays he was just a normal student who occasionally gave lectures on neglect and child abuse, and how to help children in those situations.

And, apparently, he was also Marinette’s closest friend. Even more so than Chloe. As soon as they arrived back at the Grand Paris, Chloe herded everyone up into her suite and she and Adrien surrounded Marinette with pillows and blankets. Adrien curled around Marinette like an affectionate cat, and Damien even swore he heard the guy purr at some point

“We should probably leave,” Bruce whispered to their hostess, who looked inbetween him and her friends for a moment before jerking her head towards the door.

“I wanna talk to you first,” Chloe whispered back. Once they all filed out into the hallway and the door was safely closed, Chloe took a breath. “First, I want to tell you that I got a call from the hospital. Marinette’s father is stable, but in a coma right now.”

“Is that the man who looked like he could bench press a car for fun?” Dick asked, earning a weak grin from the Bourgeois heiress.

“Yeah, that’s him. But…” Chloe’s face fell, and she looked around as if to double check nobody was eavesdropping. She still lowered her voice anyway. “Her mother, Sabine. She…” Chloe swallowed a lump in her throat, images of the extremely kind Chinese woman flashing through her mind without permission. “She didn’t make it.”

Several people took a sharp breath, acknowledging everything that had gone so wrong for Marinette on a day that had started so perfectly.

“The smoke?” Cass asked gently, but Chloe winced and shifted on her feet.

“No. They… there were rope marks on Sabine’s neck,” Chloe clenched her eyes shut at the admission. “Marinette’s dad might be big, but he’s not a fighter. Sabine, though… Sabine was. She was raised in a martial arts family back in China. I’ve seen Sabine take down five men at once, all twice her size,” Chloe kicked her lips, shaking her head in disbelief. “Somebody knew… somebody knew that the little Chinese woman was a threat but the big baker with tons of muscle was harmless.”

Nobody took that well. Not only had Marinette just lost her home and half of her family, but her father was in a coma and it had all been foul play.

“Okay,” Bruce nodded once the news had time to sink in. They could help with this; this was their specialty. They might have only known Marinette for six hours, but she had made a big impression. It wasn’t just anybody that could mesh with his family so seamlessly in that short span of time. “Is there anything else?”

“I want you to get temporary custody of her,” Chloe said it the way only Chloe Bourgeois could. With her back straight, chin high, and the tone of a woman who expected to be listened to or else she’d make life Hell for the person that didn’t take her seriously. Bruce could only blink.

“Can I ask for your reasoning?”

“Marinette has been closing herself off more and more over the years,” Chloe admitted. “Hawkmoth’s reign was hard on her. Only Adrien really knows everything she went through during those years. But even after the disbanding of the team, she hasn’t… she hasn’t allowed herself to get close to anybody new. That’s why I tricked her into doing your tour. She needed to socialize with new people, and if she wouldn’t do it herself then I had to pull some strings.”

A few eyebrows raised at the admission that Chloe had fully planned for Marinette to be their tour guide the whole time. It honestly seemed like the kind of well meaning manipulation that one of them would try to pull off.

“She likes you,” Chloe’s voice went soft again, showing how uncharacteristically serious she was about that fact. “She was comfortable enough to let you guys carry her back here. To let you try to help Manon. That might not seem like a big deal to you, but it says a lot to me and Adrien. And… getting her away from Paris for a while is probably a good idea. She was planning to go to Gotham for university anyway.”

The Waynes traded glances before Bruce crosses his arms and asked some more questions first. Doesn’t Marinette have other family? Answer; only her grandmother, who travels all the time and nobody ever knows where she is until she shows up. Bruce agreed that Gina Dupain didn’t exactly seem like a good candidate for Marinette’s new guardian with that description. But finally, to none of his children's surprise, he did end up agreeing.

“But,” he held up a single finger. “We’ll Wait here in Paris for a week, so that she can try to salvage everything she can from her house and so we can get an idea on how her father is doing. There’s still a chance he’ll come out of his coma fairly quickly. And of course, we will only go through with this if Marinette agrees when we ask her tomorrow.”

Chloe agreed to those terms, looking like a weight had been lifted off of her.

Chloe never cut corners when taking care of her hive. And if that meant making sure that her brave soldier bee could move on to start a new hive, one that was better equipped to take care of her, then Chloe would do everything she could to help that move. And really; Chloe was far more resourceful and observant than people gave her credit for. The butts definitely matched, and Bruce Wayne was her last hope to get Marinette the support she needed. Outside of Adrien, anyway.

Chloe took a breath, watching the Waynes trickle off into their own rooms. Marinette was like the little sister she never wanted, but grew to love more than anything. Though, Chloe knew she really chose Marinette as her sister the same way they both chose Adrien as their brother. She just didn’t want to admit she was sentimental like that. But Chloe knew that someone like Marinette needed a bigger family. More support.

She could only hope that Marinette and the Waynes grew to become family for her like she and Adrien had. Kwami knew that Marinette needed all the help she could get for the foreseeable future.

“You did good, my Queen.”

“I know, Pollen. Now we just have to find out who dared hurt my hive.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Dude this took so long to write, but I’m actually really proud of it. Probably gonna take this Maribat March a little differently than last year, and make a few longer stories by connecting some of the prompts together. Maybe each week will be a full story? Idk I’ll figure it out. I know I’m behind but I’m working on it.

I tried to keep the angst out, but it found it’s way in here anyway. Oh well!

[crimsonophelia]

hi basil !! can i request for an imagine with zhongli and an adeptus reader? the reader has been in love w him since the archon war but never told him bc they were scared, and when rex lapis “dies” they’re absolutely crushed. but when they see a certain funeral consultant preparing his funeral, they tell him about their friendship w rex lapis and how they regret never telling him how they felt. thank you!

featuring: zhongli x gn!reader

warnings: angst, a little suggestiveness, some god complex stuff if you squint hard enough, typos lol

published: may 14, 2021

form: imagine

a/n: hi anon! thank you for the request~ i’m assuming reader recognizes zhongli in his mortal form and confesses in that way! in canon, it’s kind of dubious whether or not zhongli explicitly told the adepti that he actually isn’t dead, but i’m going to take some creative liberties and assume that he tells some of his adepti friends that he’s alive in person, like so~

Time slowed to a halt, as the body of the magnificent dragon, Rex Lapis, plummeted to the earth from the heavens, like a meteor summoned by Celestia. You felt like it was all a cruel, eldritch dream that the Archons had cursed you with, frozen among the crowd of onlookers, as the body tumbled, tumbled, and fell in a lump at the alter. Not a single sound emerged from the crowd, as they all stared in horror.

To them, their deity, their Archon who had pulled Liyue from the depths of the abyss and ascended it to wealth and prosperity, had come crashing down to earth in front of their eyes. But to you... Rex Lapis was your world. It was not Liyue that he saved from the grasp of darkness, but rather, you, you were the one he rescued. It was you to whom Rex Lapis had shown more compassion than you had ever thought possible coming from any living being—warm hands grasping your cold limbs, pulling you up, up, and up, into the light of day, giving you a purpose. A reason to live.

The body lied there, as Lady Ningguang acted fast, trying to ease the onlookers, her own horror still painted visibly upon her usually cold and composed countenance. The corpse of your god still retained some semblance of life, you thought, scales still glimmering with a slight sheen, mane fluttering in the wind of commotion, almost as if he were glowing with vibrant life not a few moments ago.

Please. Rex Lapis. Please don’t leave me. I have so much left to tell you. 

*****

“Master!”, you called. “Wait for me!”

You ran to catch up with archon, who had begun his daily routine of assessing the growth of his blossom trees. Tianheng Shan was a favorite location of Rex Lapis, particularly in the springtime when all the flowers on the treas began to bloom, and the glowing flowers that sprouted from the ground took root and broke up from beneath the soil.

Rex Lapis, hands locked behind his back, looked back at you, as you joined him at his side.

“Hello there, [y/n]. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The archon really did behave like an old-spirited mortal, you thought. He had the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies down to a tee, certainly the polar opposite of the likes of Barbatos.

“I was just about to view the blossoms as well! They should be in season within a week or two”, you responded innocently. This certainly wasn’t an opportunity purely to spend time alone with Rex Lapis. You would never be so silly.

The both of you strolled along the banks of the river, eventually reaching an opening where tens, even hundreds, of pink-blossomed trees wove their way about the bottoms of the cavernous cliffs, some delicate petals already beginning to fall, sprinkling upon the river like memories across the stream of time.

Rex Lapis proceeded past you, craning his neck upwards to get a closer look at the blossoms. As he did so, the hood of his robe fell back down onto his shoulders, revealing long, silky locks of earthy amber resting upon shoulders as hardened as Cor Lapis.

“Quite lovely, aren’t they?”, he mused, almost absentmindedly. “These yinghua are often mistaken for taohua—yinghua do not produce fruit, and their blossoming period is much shorter.” For some reason, you thought, the archon’s gaze seemed to stray elsewhere, somewhere beyond the mass of trees.

“That is why the yinghua is renowned for its beauty. Its life is fleeting, yet so utterly captivating.”

Now, it was all gone. All that was left was a husk—a shell of the god you loved and devoted every ounce of your existence to. A mere gnarled tree that once possessed a beauty that transcended seasons.

*****

You entered the foyer of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, hearing the bell jingle solemnly as the door closed behind you. The place seemed to be rather empty, with nobody manning the front desk. Assorted coffins and various floral wreaths adorned the rooms of the parlor, a rather gauche little showroom of death. The taste and aesthetics reflected quite well the nature of the parlor’s director.

You treaded through the silent shop, wood creaking beneath your feet. The building must be quite old, you supposed.

“Hello?”, you called out. “Is anybody here?”

Before you could take another step, you heard a man’s voice coming from a back room, tucked away behind the main desk and obscured by a curtain.

“Just a minute, please. I will be with you shortly”, the voice called back.

After some further rustling emitting from what you guessed was the storage room, a man stepped out from behind the curtain, slightly ducking below the doorframe due to his rather imposing height.

Dressed in sharp formalwear, hair tied neatly behind his head in a long ponytail, he stepped forward from behind the desk. You noticed a geo vision dangling from the belt at his waist. How familiar, you thought. Something about him tugged at a string deep inside you, but for the life you, you couldn’t put a finger upon it.

“Greetings, how may I be of service to you?”, the man queried, amber eyes penetrating into you. There it was again. Maybe it was his voice, or his gaze, or perhaps just the way he carried himself, that felt so awfully familiar. His words seemed so... warm, even. Like some fond old memory that is slipping off the precipices of your brain. I must be going mad, you thought. One thousand years and still fawning over every handsome man I see.

Clearing your throat, you replied, “Yes, I am here on behalf of Lady Ningguang and the Qixing. We are looking for a supply of flowers to send off Rex Lapis at his funeral next week.” The man eyed you, curiously. “I was wondering if perhaps you could suggest a suitable flower wreath, preferably something in-season.”

Without a response, your odd companion began to walk towards an adjacent room attached to the lobby, hands crossed behind his back, quite like an old man, although he looked to be in his early thirties, at most. Assuming you were to follow, you stepped into a side room filled with vibrant flower wreaths of all sizes and colors.

The man begun to the scan the selection closely, as you stood to the side and watched him work. Oddly enough, the silence in the room wasn’t awkward, but was even quite comforting, in the same way a blanket warms a body.

Settling upon a modest, pink-flowered wreath of bouquets, he turned to you, indicating that he has decided upon a suggestion. He turned to you, those same eyes once again boring into you. Those were not the eyes of a young man, but something much, much more ancient, and for a moment, you stood frozen, frightened.

“Might I suggest the lovely yinghua? They are a personal favorite.”

White. White was all you saw for seconds, and when you opened your eyes, everything looked crisper, like a veil had been lifted. The world felt clearer, your thoughts came at you with greater clarity, but above all, it was no longer the funeral parlor manager that stood in front of you.

It was him. Rex Lapis.

The room started to twist and warp again, but this time not because of the spell of fog that the archon had cast to maintain your ignorance, but rather because of the salty tears clouding your vision, and the pressure of pure relief, joy, and utter agony that brought you collapsing to your knees, right then and there.

You couldn’t believe it. What about the body? Was that a mere fabrication ? Or was this vision before you an illusion, an echo of the past that had somehow manifested itself in front of you? Why would Rex Lapis do this to you, make you endure such pain? If he knew how much you loved him, how much gratitude you felt for him, how much you didn’t want to move on without him—

“Oh Archons, [y/n], please, I’m so, so sorry—”, he uttered. You felt a soft pressure surrounding you, as you became vaguely aware that the man you loved was now embracing you, the both of you huddled on the floor. “Please forgive me, I hate myself for it but I had to do it, and for the pain I have caused you, I’d much rather die, myself. ”

You could barely understand his words over the sound of your own weeping, forgoing all manners and letting your tears run free. You felt your master tighten his arms around your middle, as if scared to let you go, after already sacrificing you once.

You mustered up the strength to look up at him, seeing that now the dragon’s eyes themselves had become watery with emotion, something you had never seen in the archon before. The regret you felt was threatening to burst from your throat, a lump preventing you from being civil, or talking like a proper adeptus, or confessing your feelings to the man who you owed your life to. No more. No more weakness that plagued your heart for centuries. You may never have this opportunity again.

“[y/n], I beg of you, please forg-“

You pulled your savior’s face towards you, and without hesitation, placed your lips upon his. Too long, had this moment been forgone, and the both of you knew it, as the archon gradually deepened the kiss, intertwining his hands through your hair. This was life. The clarity of it all, the energy surging into you from the points where your skin touched, the infinity of your lips melding against his. This is the god you worshipped and would lay your life down for. Without him, there is nothing.

His lips, initially hesitant, grew more confident, more desperate as they clung onto yours. His fingers were soft as they traced the back of your neck, as if trying to memorize each one of your vertebrae. A feral yearning, something only a dragon was capable of, was unhinging behind Rex Lapis’ ministrations, as you proudly latched yourself deeper into him. The silence of the parlor was now filled with heavy pants and the rustling of fabric, as the two of you clung onto each other, one not wanting to depart before the other.

As you felt the breath in your lungs dwindling, having given all of your life and energy to Rex Lapis’ mortal body, you pulled yourself off of him. Streaks of wetness along his cheeks glinted in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows. His hair had become undone in the minutes where he had been attached to you, and his face showed something of a quenched desperation. He was mortal, and he was perfect.

“Promise me. Promise me, that you will stay by my side forever.”

a/n: ohoho i hope you like it anon~ this is a little bit spicier than i usually write but tbh i kinda vibe w it

[ilovefandoms102]

My Everything

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Plus Size Reader

Summary: Rafe throws a party and his ex shows up...

Note: I realized that I have not written anything for Rafe and plus size reader so here we go🥰

Click here to be apart of my taglist

=====================================

I wouldn’t call myself a Pogue or a Kook, I’m just Y/n. I grew up here in Outer Banks in the middle of The Cut and Figure Eight. I guess I never really fit in either group because no one really took interest in having me around. That was until I met Rafe Cameron…

I met Rafe at a kegger one night a little over eight months ago since everyone was celebrating school being out. Truthfully, I had always known who Rafe was, but I was too afraid to ever talk to him because he was among the popular crowd who weren’t all that fond of me. You see, I’m not like every other blonde girl that lives here, I’m not what society considers the standard beauty.

Rafe however made me see my worth, he treated me like I walked on water. Not to mention he was completely obsessed with my body and just me in general. I had never felt the things I feel being with Rafe.

=====================================

Rafe was having a house party tonight and begged me to go so he wouldn’t have to listen to his friends all night. I couldn’t deny his puppy dog pout that got me every time he wanted something.

“Please, please baby come! I don’t want to be by myself.” he whined through the phone, the camera right up to his pouting lips as he FaceTimed me.

“Rafe, you have your friends and your sister, why do I need to go?” I complained, truthfully not wanting to go.

“Because I want you to,” he scoffed, as if I had just asked the stupidest question.

“What’s in it for me?” I asked, smirking slightly.

“Whatever you want baby I swear!” Rafe grinned, knowing he was getting his way.

“Hmmm...maybe we could Netflix and chill after the stupid thing-” I suggested.

“Deal,” he said with no hesitation.

“You didn’t let me finish handsome,” I chuckled, smirking evilly at the camera.

“Oh my god if I have to watch Harry Potter again baby I swear-” he said as he glared at me.

“You know you love it, don’t even try to deny it.” I giggled, shaking my head as his cheeks flushed.

“So you’ll come then?” Rafe sighed, smiling his real genuine smile that made my heart melt.

“Yes baby,” I said softly, giggling more when he cheered loudly.

“I’ll be over soon sweetheart so don’t start getting ready yet!” He grinned, jumping into his truck.

“Why?” I asked, curious to his oddly specific request.

“I want to help you get ready,” he smirked.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you’ll be real help Rafey.” I nodded sarcastically.

=====================================

After Rafe came over, we headed back to his house where the party was already in full swing. Kooks crowded every corner of the Cameron house which made you shrink back into Rafe a little more. Since the two of you started dating, people knew better than to even look at me the wrong way.

Still, I couldn’t help but to flinch anytime one of them came near me. Rafe took me to the sitting room where some of his friends and their girlfriends were. I sat with Sarah who I found I was the most comfortable being around in the whole room aside from Rafe. We had become quite close within these months, so I immediately planted myself beside her.

“Hey girlie! I’m so happy you came tonight, I thought I was going to be alone with all of these boys and their bimbos.” Sarah smiles, hugging me as I sat down.

“I’m hoping not to be here long, I hate parties.” I mumbled, scooting closer to her as more people tried to squeeze on the couch to get a line of blow from the stash sitting on the table.

Rafe had calmed down tremendously since with the drugs since meeting me, he admitted once that he wanted to be 100% into our relationship with nothing coming between us. I smiled thinking of the memory, but was quickly ripped away by a very loud voice.

“Hey Kooks!” Bri shouted, making me sink back into the couch more.

Bri is Rafe’s ex, she was absolutely gorgeous. I didn’t know their backstory, never really cared to bring it up either. Their past obviously bothered him still as he would almost flinch every time he heard her or saw her.

Rafe got up from his seat before she could sit beside him, rushing over to where Sarah and I were. I smirked as he came closer, biting down on my lip as he towered over me.

“Miss me already bubs?” I teased, smiling up at him.

“I’m going to get a drink my love, I was coming to see if you wanted one.” he chuckled, leaning down and kissing my lips sweetly. Sarah left after that immediately, claiming we were ‘gross’.

“I’m probably going to head up for a shower, I’m partied out.” I admitted, standing up from the couch.

“Oh, um ok...I’ll see you in a little bit then.” he said, but it sounded like more of a question than a statement.

“Yes baby, I’ll just be in your room.” I giggled, getting on my tipey toes and kissing him again.

=====================================

Rafe had a huge shower, and I used every opportunity to use it not only because it was aesthetically pleasing, but because it felt nice compared to the tiny shower I share with my whole family. I was lost in thought until I saw a familiar blonde head through the glass of the shower door.

“Hey, are we ok?” Rafe asked hesitantly, an almost scared look in his eyes.

“Yeah...why wouldn’t we be?” I asked, confused where that came from.

“Well because um...Bri was here.” he said, looking down at his feet as if he were guilty.

“I saw her Rafey,” I chuckled.

“And I-we...we ya know, used to have a thing.” he said cautiously.

“You told me love,” I said, still confused where he was going with this.

“She still hangs out with our friends and I um-I just don’t want you to be mad at me.” he whispered.

“Baby I have no reason to be mad at you.” I spoke softly, stopping what I was doing to walk a little closer to the door.

“So we’re good? Everything is good?” he asked, pouting slightly which melted my heart.

“Yes everything is ok honey,” I reassured with a smile.

“S-So I can come in?” He asked.

“Of course you can, it’s your shower.” I giggled, watching him strip from behind the fogged glass.

Once he stepped inside and under the water with me, his shoulders relaxed immediately. I reached my hands up and massaged them lightly, feeling the tense knots under his tanned skin. His arms went around me, pulling me as close as possible.

“She broke my heart,” he blurted, opening his eyes as the water ran down his face.

“Rafey,” I whispered, my heart breaking as I could see the hurt in his eyes.

“We were together for three years and-” he started, but stopped as his words seemed to get stuck in his throat. I ran my hands up his chest, stopping at the base of his neck and resting them there.

“Baby you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.” I said, softly kissing his cheek.

“No I-I want to.” Rafe nodded, leaning his forehead to mine.

“Ok, so what happened?” I questioned, trying to help him get started.

“She had been cheating on me our entire relationship.” he revealed, my eyes widening at his statement.

“I’m so sorry Rafe,” I sympathized, moving my hands to his cheeks and rubbing them lightly with my thumbs.

“I broke up with her a few months before I met you, and you...it was instant.” he recalled, shaking his head and staring at me in awe.

“What was instant?” I pressed, wondering what exactly he meant by that.

“Falling in love with you,” he confessed, smiling.

“Rafe,” I beamed, heart skyrocketing.

“You put my pieces back together baby, you’re my everything, my savior.” Rafe professed, sealing it with a sweet kiss.

“I love you Rafey,” I whispered against his lips.

“I love you forever angel,” he whispered back.

=====================================

Taglist:

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[ezamevolni]

Meet Cute Anniversary (Part 2)

... the June 4th saga continues.

I've only thought of these instances in fragments so I didn't know how much there could actually be related to their first meeting... apparently really a whole lot OTL Part 2 is going to be a lot longer than Part 1 because I ain't doing a Part 3. meh. I've also seen threads on twitter before, but trying to compile them from scratch based on memory is hard...

But thanks to this exercise and my desire to make things entertaining I learned how to screen capture, make gifs and resize shxt. this dinosaur is evolving hoho

Before going into Jin's version of events, the latest addition to Jk's chamber of lies: from the newly released Memories of 2021, Jk is shamelessly tricking his members with what June 4th means again. 'Oh you think that? Oh, ok.' 🌝

During the filming for their jacket photoshoot the members were discussing what each of their 6-digit serials meant, so Suga asked Jk "Is that when you came to Seoul?" "Yes! When I came to Seoul!" Then Jk 👀 > Jin (next to Tae)

See Part 1 when he says it's the day he moved into the dorm.

(This kid is so happy and cute whenever he gets away with mentioning his anniversary on camera 😭❤️)

Disclaimer: this one goes a little into shipper territory. Anyways, it's based on opinions and observations.

Because June 4th is Jinkook's anniversary of when they met, Jin is part of the equation. However with Jin, he never mentioned the 'date' itself but rather only the event.

That day, the new trainees were asked to observe their sunbaes, so Jin knew he had to gather at the practice studio with the others. While talking and laughing with friends, Jin walked through the door without much thought. He was ready to take a seat and turned his head slightly towards the crowd on the floor. As if the bright flash from a camera went off, he blinked and squinted from the sudden glare. There was no camera nor did the sun suddenly shine through the low ceiling of the studio, but Jin did suddenly meet the straight gaze of a 15-year-old boy. The round eyes were clear and bright, like a baby deer's caught in the headlights of an oncoming car- (added for dramatic effect) The two locked eyes and for a heartbeat, the universe stopped short. Blood rushed to Jungkook's head and made a whooshing sound, so loud he could barely hear the handsome older guy's question "Who are you?". Jk sat there for a beat, then being sensible, he quickly realized that it would be rude to have his elder come to him so the kid unfurled from his anime girl seated pose, stood up in a rush and walked towards the older boy. Jin smiled as the kid introduced himself all flustered "Ah! My name is Jeon Jungkook!" The two exchanged greetings properly and sat down side by side, hearts thumping oddly fast.

Reads like a fanfic because it's my romanticized version.

Ok I'm allowed a delusional pill once in a while. this whole space could come crumbling down at any second

Before getting into it, I'll make my excuses first - I won't be able to remember all the instances of Jin mentioning [the first time he saw Jungkook at 15yo with big doe eyes] because there's too many, it feels like a blur with their 613 million hrs of content... It's also because Jin tends to mention it in fragments, sometimes the whole thing, sometimes just the eyes, sometimes in a passing remark... I'm not confident about collecting ALL

BTW Jin too seems to have a case of misremembering things. Other than 'Jeon Jungkook', '15 years old', and 'doe eyes', details seem to be changing all over the place...

Not going chronological because it doesn't matter, this is one of my favorite instances:

170219 Jin's Face Photo preview via Vlive

When he stopped talking for a brief second to look at Jk's photo, and then started to tell the story of seeing Jk for the first time I could tell how fond he was of Jk.

Jin's retrieval cue for memory of first meeting: Jk's side profile. He talked about Jk for the longest , and ended the live because he thought of Jk, missed Jk, and wanted to go see Jk.

In this live, Jin said Jk was sitting on the sofa, which might be the only time he mentioned this.

Very recently, when the script called for them to reminisce their past selves, Jin seized the day to cue doe-eyed Jk:

210709 A Butterful Getaway with BTS

They were supposed to answer questions as their younger selves for the show segment and technically they all agreed on their ages at debut, which would make Jk 17yo but Jin called on Jk while saying 15yo instead. Some of them did discuss using other ages, like Jin's one was the most absurd ~2yo. But Jk wasn't shown asking to use a different age.

In Jin's mind, Jk must have remained 15 for a long time.

Look how happy he was when Jk tried to imitate his 15yo self. Jin's always one of the members laughing hard after Jk tries something funny.

Going back in time, this should be the earliest instance Jin talked about meeting Jk for the first time on camera:

151220 BTS Star Talk HK

Here, Jin sounded like he'd been waiting his turn and had rehearsed the whole thing before when he spoke. I don't really need to write out what's in the screenshot, it's the same story.

Here's the earliest instance ever of them bringing up their first meeting in a Japanese magazine:

141022 Haru*Hana vol. 22 (cr. yoogamin)

For a unit interview with Jin, Jk and V (the J reporters sure know what they're doing), he bought it up. And again, the case of ever changing details... is it the same day or a couple days apart? We'll never know.

No matter about that, the important part is them meeting, and during the meeting, Jk had big doe eyes and was 15yo. And it was June 4th.

You know how good students only memorize keywords to bring out the whole concept during exams? I feel like this was what they did. Boil it down to the essentials then someday, when time allows, they're going to tell us word for word, what they wore, what the weather was like, what they said, if their knees touched... they can save it for the wedding, honestly. I don't really care that much.

Moving on. Another excerpt from their Japanese content:

2018 JP Fancafe vol. 4 (cr. kocchi)

Jungkook...Bambi eyes...practice room...

Plus I'm laughing at how Suga, RM and Jhope were referred to as just 'the rappers' 😂. Out of all the things from that day, Jungkook was the most important. Jin did go on to say that RM left a strong impression on him with his dancing, but then I also recall during their BTS Begins VCR, Jin made sure to place Jk in the memory too by pointing at him and exclaiming "you were there too!" when talking about RM.

If anyone has read this far and is thinking wow, he really does talk about Jk and his doe eyes a lot, think about how often more the members have to listen to him. Just the amount of times he might have said it on camera but didn't make it to the final cut, or to friends and staff, or after one beer too many, "Did you know the first time I saw Jungkookie...his doe eyes-"

Because thanks to Jin, Jk is now permanently associated with deer eyes:

200524 RJRJ via Vlive

RM instinctively went "Jungkook..." after hearing Jin say 'deer eyes'. There's also a fox in the drawing but it's like he didn't even see the fox. Jin only picked it because of the deer. The bias.

At this point, I think it's safe to assume the members are primed to know Jin and Jungkook joined Bighit together, and how cute Jin thought Jk was when they first met.

210219 BE.T.S💜 via Vlive

A trivial coincidence: this live was exactly 4 years after Jin started reminiscing about Jk in the middle of promoting their merch aka the first instance mentioned.

RM automatically said 'eyes of a deer' to Jin saying 'Jungkook...15 years old'. A true leader listens, and therefore is more easily primed than the others.

Of first meetings, I know a few other pairs like Jihope, Namkook and Taejin are also famous for them but they don't mention it without prompting like Jinkook does. Tbh I think Namkook and Taejin's stories are way more interesting than Jinkook's like one has 'honey thighs' and the other has 'dirty dancing'. Jinkook only has, what, their eyes met from across the room? And??

But to Jin and Jungkook, it's clear that their meeting with each other has the most significance. The sheer amount of times they talked about it. I'm not even touching on anything else from their relationship, like the 11 years from that point onwards that they've spend together. I've just written some essay length compilation on just one day. I'm impressed and horrified.

And then let's circle back to Jk for a sec. Taking a deeper dive into shipper territory here

So did we all think Jk's obsession with June 4th 2011 ended with him talking about it any chance he gets?

No no no, he inked it.

The screenshot of Jk's new tattoo artist IG story. Behold, not edited:

Yeah no I didn't draw the numbers, the tattoo artist did and added that sticker.

For context, Jk used to just have the skeletal hand in the middle. The new tattoo artist added color and the surrounding extensions.

So. What do you know, 20110604 again. Before seeing this, I didn't even imagine this tattoo would have anything to do with Jinkook. Before the artist's hint, zero idea; after, omg it's so obvious.

And that emoji... that's the finishing touch. What, the artist is embarrassed because Jk joined BTS...?

The little ❤️ in the corner too. That's really sweet.

He deleted the story within an hour of posting. 🤷🏻‍♂️ Understandably, those who know that see this post will get it instantly.

And it took me a second to realize that boi had the date tattooed on him since the beginning.

First round, he got only BTS/Army related ones (Just a random thought does anyone else think the initial tattoo on his shoulder looked like a whale not an angel? Just me? Ok), the next round he got this hand sign and the tiger lily. (I'm saying 'rounds' tentatively because it looks like Jk got multiple tattoos during a few single sessions.)

(I'm also glossing over the fact that he tattooed the single letter 'J' on his ring finger during his touchup session right before vacation ended. You can tell it was recent from the 2019 airport photos because of how pink the flesh looked around the ink and how deep and shiny the black was. That's the look before the tattoo scabs and heals fully.)

I guess he decided the previous version was too subtle.

11 ~ 6 ~ 4

like holy

When I discovered I could spot the 11, 6 and 4 in the hand without the newest add-ons, I thought my shipper brain was in overdrive. I'm being delusional. Not everything is related to Jinkook I know that!!

If we didn't look for 'numbers' in the tattoo, one will never know about 11.6.4.

Because... maybe he is into hardcore heavy metal🤘🏽 That's why the skeletal 'sign of the horns' tattoo. Or he could have meant it just as 'rock on!' because he's a singer. So I dug a bit more to see if my observation stands.

Quick and easy, a simple search determined it's not some fluke that 11.6.4 can be found. Jk forced the '6' and '4' to both appear in his tattoo. I will explain.

Some examples of skeletal 'sign of the horns':

The drawings all somewhat follow human anatomy and this rule: either the thumb reaches the pinkie and forms the figure 6, or it doesn't and allows 4 bones to be shown across the palm. Jk's one has both.

Tattoos are usually made with consultations and depending on the artist, they take input from the client to varying degrees. Jk's tattoos are clearly all very personal to him and not from flash or ready-made originals. Especially his first round of tattoos in 2019, seems like he went in with self drawn designs or clear ideas of what he wanted.

So if he didn't ask for both the thumb to reach the pinkie to form a 6 and also have 4 bones show across the palm, the artist is highly unlikely going to suggest this weird combo in his drawing. Highly.

110604 is a really, really special date to him.

And wait, there is more.

Maybe the most significant and yet subtle way they've brought the date to our attention is through their songs. My two lovebirds are rockstars and like rockstars, they'll write about each other and romance.

During Festa 2019, Jin released Tonight on June 5th midnight KST. Then exactly one year later on the same day in 2020, Jk released Still With You.

Why June 5th? Can't know for sure. It could be caution, or something more nutty like 'it's still June 4th somewhere in the world' ... who knows. But it can't be ignored that the 2 songs are released right on the cusp of June 4th and 5th. It's the tipping point into the next day, displays as the 5th, but could still count as the day before. And if you place the two songs side by side and read the lyrics, it's a matching set. And if you read the lyrics, it might make sense why midnight, why nighttime, and how specific certain details in the song can't really reference fans or pets...

Noticeably, Jk's verbal mention of June 4th really started around the beginning of 2021, after both songs have been released and his tattoo has been on show for more than a year. Compiling things now might make it look 'obvious' but hindsight is 20/20, and he's tried to make the meaning of June 4th appear as ambiguous as possible.

On the other hand, Jin has been consistent. He used to talk about their first meeting almost every year, and shows signs that he remembers till now. Out of the two of them, I would say Jin is the better expert at hiding in plain sight. I shall have much to say on this topic someday.

So to sum it up the 2 of them had used the date to release songs, and had it tattooed, talks about it a lot...

And just to reiterate, Jk said:

"Kookjin Jin Jungkook" joined at the same time.

Another little thing pertaining to them joining BTS:

Both of them sang This Song by 2am for their auditions. Both didn't do very well with the song 😅 But nonetheless they came to meet eo.

*Tbh I don't know how popular this song was for auditions so it could just be a probability thing.

Lastly, June 4th happens every year during 🌈Pride Month🌈

It's hard to believe in fate or destiny these days but between them, there are really a lot of coincidences that doesn't seem like real life✨

[bunnykawa]

hungry (osamu miya x f. reader)

summary: You have a big crush on the handsome owner of an onigiri shop. He thinks it’s annoying. Or does he?

a/n: eh idk what this is. timeskip love haha. but this might be a triggering so please keep that in mind and read the warnings

warnings: 18+, yandere themes, noncon/dubcon/rape, raw sex, kinda public sex?, some degradation, little bit of spanking and hairpulling, abusive language, violence, stalking, mentions of past sexual abuse, you vomit but it's not sexualized it's trauma-induced, timeskip!osamu :)

The energy of the restaurant is oddly calm tonight. Nights are almost never tranquil at Onigiri Miya with the constant parade of people coming in, so you hum in satisfaction when you scan the restaurant and there's barely anyone here. You stare down at your half-eaten onigiri and the loyalty stamp card that you filled up from how often you come here. After nine visits, you get a free onigiri on your tenth one as long as you show them your stamp card. 

This is your hundredth visit—you remember because the first time you entered Onigiri Miya was ten stamp cards ago. The staff already know your name, if not by your face and your timid behavior that makes you stutter when ordering the same thing every time they see you. As peculiar as they think you are (for coming to Onigiri Miya at the same time on Fridays and Saturdays for the past six months and sitting alone quietly until they close), they warmly welcome you.

It's only you in the dining area tonight. The few employees that Onigri Miya has must have left earlier than usual. You suddenly tense up in your seat and grip onto your cup of freshly-poured hot tea tightly between tremulous fingers. The familiar male figure, standing at over six feet tall with beautiful broad shoulders, passes by the front counter, disappearing as he makes his way to the back. 

After you let out a harsh breath, you adjust your phone from behind your purse on the table. Your phone is propped up behind it, the camera lens slightly peeking over the faux leather. Butterflies form in your stomach when you see that you were still recording and you caught him on camera. 

Yes, you go to Onigiri Miya because the food is amazing. Somehow, they make a dish as simple as a rice ball so delectable and appetizing and you adore them because of it. But hyperfixation is a fucking bitch, your thought process is a little flawed, and the real reason why you frequent the establishment is because Osamu Miya is absolutely gorgeous. Every time you see him, you're left wondering what it would be like to run your fingers through his dark hair or how his lips feel pressed against yours. Your thoughts run wild. How does he like his eggs in the morning? What's his family like? Does he sleep on the right side of the bed? Left side? In the middle? Does he have space for you on his bed? 

How does it feel to be loved by Osamu Miya?

Every time you visit the restaurant, visibly nervous with anxiety beating in your chest and your throat closing as you try to speak, you feel that you're one step close to finding out. And maybe you did feel it once. Just once. You're unsure if that one special moment you shared with Osamu was genuine from his heart with good intentions, but you would do anything for that feeling to last forever. And if that made your whole being feel as if you were floating, then why wouldn't it be the same for him?

So, that's why you're here. To relive that special moment in the way that you fantasized about—something that can become a fond memory instead of a dream deep inside your head that leaves you yearning for physicality. Desire is the only sensation that you've felt for the past six months and it's torture to watch the man that you've fallen in love with barely acknowledge you as a person even if he's seen your face in his restaurant consistently every week since you first met. Since he saved you. 

Six months later. Six months to move on. Six months to get help and yet you're still digging your hands into your panties and biting onto your sheets to gag yourself because of one man after every visit to his restaurant.

"Hey."

Oh, that voice makes your thighs tremble every time you hear it. As stoic and impassive as it is, it's the same voice that gave you solace when you were beaten down in the dark to bleed on concrete. You're gritting your teeth—nearly moaning at the sweet sound—as that voice almost breaks you out of your thoughts. Almost. 

"(Y/N), are you okay?" Osamu asks in a deadpan tone from his place behind the counter. You jolt suddenly. For someone who's so obsessive with small details, you sure don't pay much attention to your surroundings. You quickly shake your head when you realize that he's talking to you. 

"Y-yes. I'm...I'm fine, O...samu," you squeak in embarrassment. You don't realize it, but you're clutching onto your stamp card with white knuckles. His gray hooded eyes seem to be staring right through you, as if he knows why you're here tonight, what you're looking for. But whatever he does notice, he doesn't mention. His eyes dart down to your purse before he maintains eye contact with you. 

He places his hand on the counter to lean on it. The small action makes your mouth dry. He's so fucking beautiful. "It's almost ten-o'clock. I'm gonna close up. You should leave soon." 

But you don't want to leave yet. Tonight was supposed to be the night that you finally made your dreams come true. It's only him and you in the restaurant tonight, so it must mean something.

"Where...where's the rest of the c-crew?" you ask shakily. Fuck, get yourself together. You just need an excuse not to leave. And he might know your name, but he doesn't know you. Not yet.

He raises a thick eyebrow at your question before answering, "Left early tonight. Just me taking care of the shop." You should have noticed. This is why you leave your phone recording while you're there—you don't want to miss anything in case you get distracted.

But does he want you to leave? Your heart aches at the thought of him not wanting your presence when you've been craving his for so long. "I see," you mutter awkwardly.

What do I do now?

"You've got a lot of nerve, you know that?" he says after a few seconds of awkward silence. You haven't moved from your seat and neither has Osamu moved from his spot to "close up" as he said he would. You wonder if the door is already locked.

"What do you mean?" Your heart is thumping more now than it has in the past three hours you've been here. Osamu lives in your brain rent-free yet you can barely breathe around him. Now he's speaking to you. Actually speaking to you.

"You know exactly what I mean," he calmly accuses you. The unexpected shift in his tone makes your blood run cold. "Wonder if your phone has run out of storage yet. Funny you go out of your way to come here twice a week just to record me."

"What?!" you cry out, suddenly shooting up from your seat. Your chair skids a few inches across the floor behind you before it tilts and hits the ground with a crash. The quick movement causes the table in front of you to shake and make your phone to fall back as well, the screen smashing against the wood and the camera lens facing up towards the ceiling. You feel like you're about to have a heart attack. Your vision goes blurry from tears suddenly threatening to overflow because were you that obvious?

"I noticed. A long time ago. Remember you from that night back in the alley. Very unique face you got there," Osamu hums. He steps around the counter to make his way towards you. You cower into the wall beside your table, your eyes darting from your phone and Osamu's threatening figure.

Back in the alley. The image of the back alley behind Onigiri Miya flashes in your mind. Dark, wet, and sadly gray. That's where you first met him.

"Didn't expect to see you back here. Thought you might've developed PTSD or something with how you were crying. Now you're stalking me." 

"No," you loudly plead, shaking your head side to side, "I don't know what you're talking about!" You're lying straight through your teeth. That's funny—you've been coming to his restaurant for a chance to see him again, but he's coming closer and closer and you're terrified instead of happy. Your knees buckle as you press your back against the wall. You squeeze your eyes shut as the memories come flooding back into your system in vivid detail. 

He continues on, "Don't even lie to me. Stalking me like a crazy bitch. I wasn't sure what I should do about you. I felt bad for you and let you continue doing this, even thought about calling the police for a little bit, but…"

Osamu almost never talks to you, maybe a few times where he's handling the register and the orders and he has to talk to you, but he's always in the open kitchen where you can freely admire him when you want to, always an arm's length away. When you would think about what your first conversation together would be like, you always imagined his words to be kind. Sweet. Maybe he'd say he admired you—

"...you're a little fucked up in the head, huh?" 

His tone is hostile. There's no love laced in any of the syllables falling from his tongue. He's annoyed. He hates the fact that you want him—it's that obvious but you don't want to believe it, especially when you think you worked so hard. It's not fair.

Your mind is hazy as he's coming closer and closer to your trembling form. You see his lips moving and the calm expression on his face turn into hard evil, but your ears can't decipher what he's saying. His words have faded into white noise. And you've seen him multiple times, traced his face through the screen of your phone, admired him from afar at the same spot in his restaurant for months, but his face is sharper, harsher, and almost unrecognizable. Is this really the man that saved you? Is this really Osamu Miya?

Your blood is pumping loudly in your ears. It's the only sound that you can make out other than your heavy breathing. God, if he gets any closer...

Then, the adrenaline kicks in and you're lunging at him with your arms outstretched towards his large frame. You don't know what you're going to do and sure as hell you're no match for him, but your body is screaming at you. Your senses are running wild, like the aura that Osamu is emitting is lighting you on fire and making you act on primal instinct. It's telling you to fight. 

To fight him. To bash your tiny fists against his handsome face because he should have fallen in love with you the moment that you fell in love with him, but he has the audacity to leave you hanging for half a year and call you a stalker.

And it's painful. You're not sure which hurts more, but at this moment, the physical pain is excruciating. You can't breathe anymore, not when his calloused hands (from years of training on the court, which you found out from the internet, and in the kitchen) are wrapped around your throat. You can't think straight either—your head hit the ground a little too hard and the world is spinning. Osamu's face is contorted in anger and even if your world is spinning, his features are as clear as day. 

Your memories start crashing down inside your brain in fragments. The pain, frustration, and sadness hit you all at once—it’s nauseating. It’s as if Osamu can sense this, too, because as soon as he notices your sick expression, he flips you over to force you on your knees with one arm around your waist, his hand in your scalp to hold your head in place towards the floor and then you’re heaving and gagging out the rice balls you consumed earlier. Your throat is on fire and you're still coughing up pieces of rice.

“You gross bitch,” he mutters.

You gross bitch.

It's bouncing around in your ear drum until it fades into cotton, a familiar set of words that cut you deep that you were able to pick up on easily among the other curses he's been throwing at you. The same words from six months ago. A trigger? Yeah, that's what the internet calls it. You almost died, or at least that's what it felt like. That's the only way you can describe it, the only way you were able to make sense of what happened, because you feel that you might as well have. 

It was from someone else's mouth—a disgusting, grimy man whose face haunted your dreams for months, a man with greasy fingers that put his hands on you, who beat you until you were nearly unconscious with blood dripping down your chin, who ripped you away of your pride and worth until you were nothing. The concrete was wet and cold, scraping against your sensitive skin and breaking through layers as he rutted into you. His breath fucking stunk and for fuck's sake, you don't know if you've seen anyone uglier, but as fucked up as it is, he made you feel ugly. 

You thought you saw an angel that day. The backdoor to Onigiri Miya opened up and when you finally opened your eyes and looked up, there he was—with blank gray eyes that stared down at the scene before him in slight disgust, and then he ripped the repulsive body off of your half-naked form. You were too weak. 

While you were weak and scared and incoherent, Osamu saw you and didn't hesitate to protect you. At the end of every dream you've had since then, Osamu always came to help you. 

And that should've been the end of it. That should've been the last time. You can't go through that again. No, no, no. You don't deserve to go through that again. 

You don't deserve it.

You don't deserve it.

You don't deserve it.

You're more responsive and awake once Osamu bends you over the table you were sitting at, then your senses are overloading, telling you to resist, to keep fighting. You're so tired, at this point you're completely heartbroken, but you can't—you can't just give up yet. He's holding you down, restraining your wrists with one hand while his other hand is at your waistband pulling your shorts down your thighs. You're kicking at him with whatever strength you have left even if the taste in your mouth is vile, he's much stronger than you, and your head is pounding from the anxiety. You're grateful that you can even breathe.

But it feels like your body has failed you, once again, and for a second you think that you do deserve it. The adrenaline is almost gone, you can barely lift a finger, you feel like passing out, and—fuck—you're so stupid, so dependent on one person to make you feel high. With Osamu...you don't even know what to think. The image you dreamed of is long gone. It's sad that reality can crash over you so easily and ruin everything. 

"Get off of me!" you scream. Over and over again. Until your voice cracks and your throat is on the brink of bleeding, coughing out your poor lungs. Until it's nothing but the essence of your torment. Your cup of tea, now warm, has spilled all over the table and is slowly seeping into your hair as your cheek rubs against the wood. And there's nothing else you can do, because Osamu is still behind you with your hands trapped by his. Your shorts and your panties are around your ankles. His jeans are unbuttoned and it's out. 

You don't want to fight anymore, you're fucking terrified. So terrified that you can't bring yourself to move. As soon as you stop fighting, his breathing becomes steady and he's using less force on you. Sobs rack through your body hysterically when you feel it.

It's throbbing against your thigh—warm, leaking precum, long, and thick. The skin-to-skin contact in such an intimate area is making the hairs on the back of your neck rise. That tiny voice inside of your head is telling you to look back at it to see if his dick matches the image you made up in your head. Is it exactly how you pictured it? Is it as pretty?

He's wiping his precum against your tense skin. When you flinch at the tip of his cock rubbing against you, he bites his lip and kneads one of your ass cheeks with his free hand, spreading your holes open and ever so gently brushing his thumb over your pussy. 

"You're...wet," he comments. You hear it. He dips his thumb between your folds and swipes it up and down and you hear the squelching of your cunt over your heavy breathing. That's—that's not right. No, you shouldn't be feeling this way. He pushes his thumb deeper into your cunt and slowly pulls it back out. You flinch and arch your back slightly at the sudden sensation, making you push your ass towards him. He lets out a breathy laugh at your reaction. 

His thumb disappears for a second but it's instantly replaced with his dick probing at your entrance. With a roll of his hips, he breaks through your squishy flesh with some difficulty. 

A loud yelp and a slurry of protests falls from your wet desperate lips. You wriggle your bottom, trying to create space between your two bodies, jerking away from him with whatever strength you have left. However, Osamu keeps going until he's completely bottomed out, filling you up until his tip is flush against your cervix. He lets go of your wrists so he could keep a firm grip on your hips instead. Whenever you moved, it burned.

Stop.

The stretch is unbearable—it's been half a year since you've had someone else inside you. The burn of having your hole forcefully split open wide again against your will has your head going delirious with so many mixed emotions. Fuck's sake, this isn't right and it's been heavily engraved in your brain for months that you have every right to fight back. Although you haven't been thinking straight for a long time, you're still lucid enough for your ears to work and soak up information like a sponge. He's moving, rutting his hips into your hot cunt cruelly. You can still fight him off, maybe you'd win if you tried again. 

But this is Osamu. Your heart fucking aches for him and you want to get away, but it's Osamu drilling into your heat and it's just not fair. It's not fair because your body is still responding to his malicious touch. It's not fair because even if it hurts—and fuck, it hurts so damn much—you're involuntarily grinding your ass into him. It's not fucking fair because you can't hate him.

Why is life never fair?

"No," you sob, "No, no, no. It hurts. It hurts. Please stop." Your hot tears are mixing with the puddle of tea that's pooling underneath your cheek and your tongue still tastes foul from your little episode. You’re scared you might start gagging again.

"Stop?" he muses, "Haven't you been loitering in my restaurant because you've been craving my cock? You wanted this for months and the one time I give it to you, you're telling me to stop?" Osamu slams into your poor little cunt despite your pained cries and babbling. Your pussy is clamping around him, your body trying to accommodate his length and girth breaking into you so suddenly.

"Osamu." His name would've tasted so good if the situation was different. Little did you know that you pushed him passed his breaking point a long time ago. But Osamu knew that you were beyond yours ever since he met you. If only you weren't so fucking weird, maybe then he would've pitied you—maybe he would've genuinely felt something for you. 

What a shame that you fell in love with a man who wouldn't be able to understand you. 

"I'm tired of you coming into my restaurant," he grunts, snapping his hips against yours roughly, "-and treating me like I'm some kind of animal. Do I look like a fucking animal to you?"

You choke, “No. You don’t—that’s not why—please. You don’t understand.” 

“Then tell me," he coaxes. But how do you tell him? Are you supposed to be honest? You're afraid that if you are honest, Osamu will treat you just as badly as he is now. It's also hard for you to collect your thoughts and find a sincere explanation that he could listen to—you're too focused on the many sensations pulsing through you. He raises a bulky arm only bring it down instantly to smack your ass with rough hands. The sudden impact forces you forward for a split second. Then he brings his hand down a few more times, until he's satisfied with the dark red hand print with tiny splotches dotted across your skin. 

Is this a punishment for everything that you've done within the last six months? Punishment for admiring him through sneaky videos and pictures? Punishment for thinking about him all the time? You feel like a criminal, caught red-handed and forced to go through torture and suffer for your ungodly sins. Each time he hits you, you're twitching from the painful sting and praying for forgiveness. 

"Stop it!" you beg through tears, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It hurts so much." Apologies start spilling from your sore throat impulsively. 

I'm sorry, Osamu. 

Please stop, Osamu.

It really hurts, Osamu.

But nothing that comes out of your mouth convinces him, and after awhile it's more like you're trying to convince yourself more. Suddenly the burning in your sensitive cunt is replaced with the inebriating desire and hunger for more friction between your two bodies and it leaves a shameful tint to bloom over you. You're salivating over his dick—you wanna see it so bad even if you're scared—and the guilt is eating at you on the inside. It feels good, actually enough to have you gripping onto the edge of the table and sucking Osamu into your cunt so that he doesn't pull back too far. 

"Don't tell me that it hurts," he groans, "Your pussy is creaming all over me. You can't lie to me anymore."

He's right. You're lying more to yourself than him, though. You don't tell him to stop anymore, settling with swear words and a chorus of Osamu! Osamu! Osamu! It's amazing, intoxicating, and it also makes you feel disgusting. The way his cock fills up your tight pussy perfectly and how his balls are consistently smacking your clit and stimulating it—you're drooling from the pleasure.

"Does it feel good?" he huffs, "Is this what you wanted? To be a cockwhore for me?" 

Your body betrays you and you're left moaning and crying at the same time with breathy words that Osamu can't decipher because you're a complete mess, but he swears he can hear you agree without hesitation. "Y-yes, fuck yes! Your cock is s-so amazing," you cry out, "Hurts so good, Osamu!"

It's not enough. Although you're gradually submitting to him, it's still not enough for the sadistic side of him. He wants to hear more of you, to push you until you're braindead and nothing more than a hole to stretch and tear apart just for the hell of it. He leans over you just to grab you by the disheveled hair on your scalp. Another scream leaves you as he pulls you up to be able to growl in your ear.

"Tell me everything, you whore," he breathes, softly yet maliciously. You try to answer him but the angle he has your neck at from the grip on your hair is choking you. 

"Why'd you keep coming here? Obsessive little bitch. Why're you still here?" It's like he's laughing in your face even if his voice and expression say otherwise. He's mocking your pain, making you relive your trauma as if it was all a fucking joke. As if you’re incapable of feeling pain.

This isn't even supposed to feel as good as it does, yet it does. The way he calls you an obsessive little bitch has your stomach doing flips and your cheeks to flush even more. Then you're confused. You're enjoying his cock forced inside you and it's damn confusing. 

Fuck, it’s enough to further damage your overstimulated psyche and turn you into someone you never thought you would be. An empty shell of the person you used to be because your body doesn’t even fucking feel like your body anymore. Nothing feels real anymore, like you're shifting through universes and living lifetimes but you're stuck in one place at the same time. Why do you always come back here? 

You turn your head to the side, enough for you to see his face. His eyebrows are furrowed, probably from concentration on your slick pussy, and then he notices you staring at him. You don't utter another word, you might just choke and spew if you even open your mouth to attempt to (and holy shit, you don't want to embarrass yourself anymore), but your eyes—they answer his question in heavy silence. It’s enough for him to understand and see right through you. Loud and clear although you don't speak. 

Because you saved me.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you let out another sob, but this cry is full of guilty pleasure instead with barely any tears. It has you nearly passing out and feeling sick to your stomach and just please—make it stop hurting. But it feels so damn good at the same time, to have the tip of his swelling cock kissing your cervix every time he slams into you, grinding his hips against your sweet cunt. Your body contracts violently as you release your liquids all around Osamu's cock, pushing your ass against his pelvis and knocking your empty tea cup and purse off the table. Intitially, the loud crash makes you jolt but it's nothing compared to how your orgasm crashing over you has you screaming and thrashing around pathetically. 

You're cumming. You're cumming. You can't believe you're fucking cumming. You've never felt this way before and you always believed that sex was painful but you're still cumming long and hard on Osamu's cock. Your juices are being forced out of you.

And you didn't even want it.

You're embarrassed and oddly satisfied at the same time. Your cum is dribbling down your legs and there's no doubt that it's dripping down Osamu's pelvis and thighs, too. He lets go of your hair and your head drops forward onto the table with a thump. You wince at the contact, but you don't move.

After a few silent minutes (silent other than your audible panting) exhaustion finally hits you, and with a heavy breath you completely collapse against the table. You finally stop your death grip on the sides of the table to let them dangle off the edge. Your scalp is sore, it makes your head pound when you move your head even slightly. 

A soft tired gasp escapes your throat in surprise; you feel little pecks going up your back and across your shoulders.

Then there’s feather-light kisses tickling your shoulder that leaves an agitated tingle in your nerves and—why? Why bother being gentle at this point? But the fluttering in your pelvis doesn't stop. He slips out of you just to turn your weak body over so you're laying on your back. You instantly move your eyes further down and—

It's pretty. Prettier than you imagined. His cock is fucking pretty. It's hypnotizing as you scan the vein running underneath the skin and the pink swollen head oozing clear liquid. It's glistening, dripping, with juices. 

Holy shit, those are your juices. 

It dawns on you that you both connected. Although not in the way that you had hoped, definitely not, but...you connected in the most physically intimate way possible. You felt him, his warmth, his damp skin, everything. Your eyes drift upwards. He's breathing heavily, his chest visibly moving. He has a firm grip on your thighs to keep you in place—you're not going anywhere. You don't want to go anywhere. Examining his face, you can see everything, every single detail. His lips, his lidded eyes, his cute nose, the shape of his face, and—wow—Osamu is pretty. So pretty. He's nearly angelic when you take a closer look. You don’t think you’ve ever been this close to him before.

You hope you're not imagining it, because you see something different behind his blank stare as if he's in as much of an awe as you are while you look up at him lovingly, like he didn't just hurt you. He took you against your will and yet you're staring at him like he just told you that you were his world. Are you a fucking idiot? Are you delusional?

"Do you love me?"

The question leaves him before he realizes his lips are forming the words. Osamu looks down at you, no other emotion laced in any of his handsome features except for distaste and...curiosity? With parted puffy lips and despair etched onto your cheeks, you slowly nod. The glazed look in your eyes draws him closer to your face, scrutinizing every part of your soft skin. He braces his hands on both sides of your trembling form. One part of your cheek is still wet from the tea that spilled earlier and your hair is disgustingly moist from a mixture of sweat and earl grey and you feel anxious again. 

"Okay," he says, voice as monotonous and dead as usual, but also worn out and accompanied with heavy breathing. You tense when he leans even closer, but quickly relax when you feel him kiss your forehead. It's a delicate kiss that makes your heart flutter. Then he trails further and connects your lips. It's short, but wet and sweet. He hadn't kissed you on your mouth the whole night, it probably would have been too weird for him to kiss a sad stalker he didn't know, especially when you vomited on his otherwise spotless floor. The taste of him is lingering on your skin—you're almost afraid to lick your lips in case this'll be the last time you ever have his against yours.

He pulls you into his chest. Your heart might just jump out of yours. His cock is brushing against your shuddering core, hard and sticky, but he doesn't enter you. Osamu simply holds you close, one of his hands in your hair and the other flat against your back. You weakly bring your arms up to wrap around his shoulders and dig your face into the crook of his neck. 

Then you cry. You let out a harsh breath and let yourself cry again, shoulders violently shaking and your chest tightening uncomfortably, for the thousandth time tonight even if you're tired and yearning for the comfort of your bed. Slowly, wet tears seep into his t-shirt. Osamu smells good—musky, sweaty, like a man. You don't understand what just happened—it brought you back to six months ago yet it feels entirely indifferent. He smells like a man, but he doesn't smell dirty like the last one who destroyed you.

He continues to hold you as you break down. Osamu thinks he understands, but you—you're more confused now more than ever.

[edens-melodies]

- happier than ever (3.8k)

warnings: none! (pt.1)

crisp autumn air fills your lungs with a lightness that can only come from the changing of seasons, a content smile on your lips as you bask in the sunlight.

the early afternoon rays caress your chilled flesh as you sit on the oddly comfortable park bench, small box of fresh pastries tempting your nose with their buttery scent while a large apple cider nestled between your gloved hands, iced of course.

the park was lively as ever, joggers passing you by frequently while screaming children ran through the grass.

your gaze softened as you peered at smiling parents watching on with fond eyes as the future of tomorrow crunched the vibrant leaves underneath their feet, giggling in delight.

the future. you smiled to yourself as your gaze shifted from the endearing sight of prospering families in front of you to the humbling beauty of the blue skies above, not a single cloud in sight. the future, huh?

the concept of the future has always been a sensitive subject for you.

the future in your eyes was never certain, and the thought of it used to leave you squirming in uncomfortable silence, strained smile silently begging whoever had asked to change topics.

the future was uncertain because in all honesty, you weren’t able to think far enough into it to see what could potentially unfold; in all honesty, you feared it.

no matter how many times you’ve tried to put it into words, the rough but comforting hand of your therapist silently encouraging you to continue, you have never been able to fully explain the grand scheme of your fear.

to be fair, even now, the thought of putting every little reason as to why you dreaded waking up in the morning, why every time an attractive stranger offers you a kind smile sends you into an anxious mess.

why every time you saw yourself in the mirror the only emotion you could garner was disappoint and disgust, makes you tired before even opening your mouth.

a soft breeze picks up from the east, blowing the chilled air across your face and making you smile softly as your lips pull up from the frown you had unconsciously put on while thinking too deep.

with a soft sigh, you snuggle a little deeper into the soft cashmere scarf, the beige fabric smelling like your home, but with the faint undertones of grapefruit, jasmine, and musk.

at the hidden notes of a scent that didn’t belong to you permeated your senses, you couldn’t help but smile wider, a warmth unlike any other filling your chest.

yes, the future terrified you. it shook you to the core whenever the cursed question of ‘what do you plan on doing for the rest of your life?’ is asked, but that was before. back then, you had every reason to be afraid.

but now? now you had no reason to be afraid of the glittering promise of a happily ever after, especially when the cause of it is now no more than the remnants of a memory— the slightest taste of something once sweet now bitter on your tongue.

a ghost of the past— no more, no less.

time seemed to freeze the moment those words left soft lips, hanging in the summer air as strangers continued to walk past you, unaware of the energy churning like waves between you and the man in front of you.

“who are you?”

aizawa’s mouth was parted in shock, onyx eyes wide in disbelief. you watched as he searched your face for any sign that you were joking, that this was all just a petty attempt to get back at him.

if you were joking, that means there was still a chance for him— that there was still a chance to make you his again.

but to his horror, he couldn’t find a single trace of it in your clear (e/c) eyes.

“what?”

emi tore her eyes from your glowing figure, snapping her mouth shut as she whipped her head back to look at aizawa. there was no way that he was seriously planning on dragging this out—

she might as well have left her mouth open because it dropped right back down when she saw the sheer look of heartbreak dancing across his face.

the slight sheen that had been swimming in his eyes from the moment he laid his gaze on you again for the first time in years erupted into a fountain, distraught clear as day on his features.

“w-what do you mean… y-you don’t- what?!” he blubbered, hands coming up by his face as if he were about to begin pulling at his hair.

emi watched as (y/n) took a cautious step back, seeing the wariness on her face as she watched this strange man show the early signs of hyperventilating in the middle of the sidewalk.

as much as emi wanted to record this because she felt that this justice was long overdue, the whisperings of the crowd beginning to form decided for her that it was time to go.

you startled slightly when a familiar cold hand enveloped your palm, cheeks lightly flushing when she intertwined your fingers to begin pulling you forward again. “c’mon (n/n), we gotta get going before things get ugly.” emi whispered urgently as she continued to pull you down the street.

“who was that?” you questioned, brows furrowed in confusion as you tried to recall why that man seemed so familiar, but all that came up was an empty white canvas.

emi didn’t answer you, her whole body turned forward as she continued to try and tug you down the street before aizawa could cause an even bigger scene.

but due to their many years apart, she underestimated the lengths this man would go to try and salvage what was no longer his.

“i’m your boyfriend!”

your body froze in place as your eyes widened, stopping emi in her process of escape as your body rooted to the ground where you stood.

a heavy sigh left her lips as she brought a free hand up to roughly scrub at her face in exasperation, not caring if she was destroying her makeup in the process.

things are never easy when it comes to you, huh shouta?

aizawa stared at your frozen figure on the sidewalk, feeling lightyears away from you when you were only ten feet in front of him.

with a heart that was pounding in his chest so heavily it grew painful, he watched as you turned around in wonder, eyes searching his for something he couldn’t decipher.

“w-well, i was your boyfriend, but…” he trailed off as you continued to gaze deeply into his eyes.

hope blossomed in his chest so violently it was a little embarrassing, but his lips turned up into a wobbly smile as you began to slowly make your way back to him, hand still clasped tightly in emi’s hand.

aizawa blanched when he saw the murderous glare that emi was giving him, but his attention was immediately back on you when you finally stood before him again. he gazed lovingly at you, soaking up the wide eyes that he used to spend hours staring into in the comforts of the night when the days were long and hard.

“we used to be together?” you asked carefully, still trying to dredge up even the tiniest amount of familiarity in his eyes.

aizawa shuttered when you brought up your left hand to gently trace his face, fingertips gliding down a path they’ve painted onto his skin multiple times before.

“yeah, we were…” he left off softly, relishing in your touch as emi was practically ready to combust as she saw you gaze over this man in wonder.

emi wasn’t stupid— she had been with the company for too long to know that you truly didn’t recognize to sole reason of your decades long torment.

but a small voice whispered her worst fears in the back of her mind; just because you didn’t recognize didn’t mean you couldn’t fall back in love with him.

she didn’t want to admit that her fear had cause of concern, but the amount of times she’s had returning men and women come into her office with tear stricken faces as they beg her to wipe them again after falling into the same trap again.

a wave of nausea rolled over her in a heavy wave, and a fire was lit in her mind.

she won’t let you be taken advantage of, not again. emi can recall every moment over the course of two decades that she has been by your side, every time she helped you back on your feet when the world decided to test how much your kind heart could take before it shattered for the final time.

angry tears began to burn behind her eyes as she recalled the worst fear she ever felt in her life, voice caught in her throat when she found you in the bathroom the summer that they graduated.

the amount of tears that dripped onto your face as she held you in her arms, clothes destroyed from your blood as she waited for the ambulance to reach you in time.

the sudden realization that she could’ve lost you back then has never left her mind since, and she’ll be damned if she just sits back and watches you walk right back into the fox den without intervening.

next to her, you continue to trace aizawa’s face in awe as you took in his features. deep black eyes stared at you in wonder, chapped full pink lips slightly gaped as another shiver lightly racked through his body.

long, thick onyx hair swayed elegantly behind him, pulled into a high ponytail save for a couple of strands that swung tastefully in his face.

strong, lithe arms raised a shaking hand to cover your own against his cheek, cradling it against his cheek as he gazed at you with silent hope in his eyes, pleading you to remember him.

aizawa wasn’t stupid. he knew that he should’ve reached out sooner. he knew that falling under the temptations that nemuri had casted over his mind the moment you had left to attend classes in the summer was stupid and wrong.

but he was a young boy, and his mind was weak.

seeing your figure in the hallways was like watching a shadow dancing along the walls. your fire had been dimmed, an empty look in your eyes as you lied to everyone around you, saying that you were okay and that you’d get over it. but he knew you better than anyone, even emi.

at least, he used to.

he knew that the larger clothes were to hide your once full frame becoming a shell of its former self, the concealer under your eyes never enough to hide the bags from his observant gaze.

but fear kept him from reaching out, fear of you rejecting him, fear of the repercussions from your family and friends that truly knew what had happened.

so he stayed away, heart kept locked by nemuri when he knew you were the one. but when he heard the news of what you had done to yourself after graduation, all he remembers is speeding well beyond the speed limit to the hospital you were admitted to, thanking his lucky stars that he wasn’t pulled over.

with tears streaming down his pale face, he raced through the halls toward your room, the fear of god pounding in his chest as his heart was trying to climb up his throat.

your room was only ten feet ahead of him when he was stooped in his tracks by a dark eyed emi, her clothes still stained with your blood as the fire in her gaze reached a fever pitch.

“YOU DON’T GET THE RIGHT TO BE NEAR HER!” she had screamed at him, grabbing him by the loose collar of his shirt as she shook him.

there were no words that could’ve left him as he let her tear into him, his own tears continuously falling as hers began to stream down her grief stricken face.

“THIS WAS ALL OF YOUR FAULT, AND NOW THAT SHE’S IN PIECES YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO WALTZ BACK INTO HER LIFE LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED?” security guards and nurses rushed to pull her off of him, but their frantic words were like static in his ears as he couldn’t look away from the fire in her eyes.

“YOU’VE ALREADY LOST HER, YOU DON’T GET HER BACK!”

you don’t get her back.

after that day, you had basically disappeared from his life. your phone number was changed, your social medias disappeared.

when he stopped by your house a couple of months after you had been discharged, a confused young couple answered the door and said that your family had moved a little over a month ago. where? they didn’t know.

but now you’re here, in front of his eyes for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. but something deep down tells him that even though he can see your chest rising with each steady breath, can feel your heartbeat under your skin, proof you were alive;

this will be the closest he’ll ever get again.

venom was on the tip of emi’s tongue, ready to unleash everything she’s wanted to say to aizawa since the last time she saw him in that hospital, but a gentle squeeze to her hand stopped her.

she hadn’t even realize she had tightened her grip on you in her anger until she relaxed her fingers, growing soft in your hold.

wondering eyes shifted sideways at you, taking in the gentle smile on your lips as an apologetic emotion swam in your gaze, never leaving your hold on aizawa in front of you.

when emi switched her gaze to the man in question, she realized she never had a thing to worry about.

you had always known how to take care of yourself, no matter how much you got hurt in the end.

fat tears were streaming down fair cheeks as aizawa smiled painfully back to you, his grip on your hand tightening a fraction as he leaned into your touch as much as possible, resignation clear as day in his gaze.

she watched as he closed his eyes, the tears still falling as he reveled in your caress, taking in your scent for the last time. as much as she wanted to deny it, a twinge of sympathy shot through her for the man in front of her as he realized that he really had been late, years too late.

“you’re really handsome, you know that?” you murmured, thumb gently caressing his cheek as you smiled kindly at him, paying no mind to the choked sob that escaped his lips before he could muffle it.

“you’re absolutely ethereal.” he managed to choke out softly, eyes still closed as he gave you another watery smile. a soft laugh left through your nose.

when aizawa opened his eyes, he vowed to forever engrain the shape of your face when you smiled into his memory until the day he died.

“thank you.” you replied, smile still kind. “and i believe you that somewhere in the past, we were once together because something about you just feels… right.”

another sob wracked through his body, only quelling slightly when you cooed at him in comfort.

“don’t cry sweetheart,” you murmured softly, watching as he opened his eyes to stare at you like you hung the moon and stars just for him. “maybe in another lifetime we’ll find each other again.” you patted his cheek affectionately.

“but not this one.” you gently squeezed emi’s hand, and another warm feeling flooded in your chest when she squeezed you back tighter, fingers never letting you go.

aizawa nodded his head, slowly releasing your hand as you gently pulled away from him, smile still on your lips. “i’m glad i got to meet you again…” you trailed off, still not knowing the name of the beautiful man crying in front of you.

“shouta.” he supplied weakly, hand that was cradling yours now wiping the tears off his face as they finally began to slow down, but never stopped.

“shouta.” you repeated, his name ringing like chimes in the air as you tested it out. “i like that name.”

aizawa clenched his eyes shut again in an attempt to stave off the tears threatening to come back, and when he opened them again, you were already walking away.

you turned a final time to him, to the man who unknowingly used to hold your heart in the palms of his hands, and smiled.

“i hope we’ll meet again.”

that was three years ago. and to everyone’s genuine surprise, you did meet with shouta again. not as lovers, not as enemies, but as friends. you learned what he was to you in the past and what he had done, but even to his surprise, you choose to forgive him.

“why be angry over something that is no longer chained to me?” you had replied to emi one early morning a couple of months after your encounter.

you were in the kitchen making breakfast and she sat by the table, still clad in her pajamas.

she stared at you in disbelief, strawberry jam sitting on the corner of her mouth as she held her coffee cup in mid sip, english muffin forgotten on her plate.

“but so you’re just gonna completely bypass everything he did to you? he’s the reason you had to get the procedure in the first place!” she exclaimed in exasperation, brows furrowed as she aggressively sipped her coffee.

you hummed in agreement as you looked at her from the stove, clear (e/c) eyes swimming in amusement and affection. “that’s true,” you admitted, turning your gaze back to the food before you could see the heat that had erupted onto her pale flesh from your gaze.

“but you saw him, and the pain in his eyes. he’s suffering for the rest of his life now for the actions he caused, actions that no longer hurt me like you said they did.”

you turned the stove off as you piled fluffy eggs and seared salted salmon onto two plates before making your way to the dining table.

the heat in her cheeks came back with a vengeance as you sat her breakfast in front of her, a cheeky smile on your full lips as you swiped the jam from her skin.

emi swore you would be the death of her as you booped her nose with your index finger, a laugh escaping with your next words.

“besides, i can finally have my happy end, right?”

you were knocked from your deep thoughts by another body sitting down next to you, thighs pressed right up to yours as an arm was slung around your shoulders to bring you in close with a side hug.

the small smile on your lips bloomed into a full grin as the familiar scent of grapefruit, jasmine, and musk invaded your senses completely now, no longer a lingering scent in the fabric wrapped snuggled around your neck.

“took you long enough.” you teased lightly, eyes warm and soft as they settled onto the familiar sight of emi, bundled up in a jacket and scarf a bit thicker than yours. she had always been more sensitive to cold weather than you.

a light laugh escaped her as she turned sideways to fully take you in, watching with fond eyes as you mirrored her stance at the same time. “you know as much as i do that i can’t control how long an appointment takes. if i could rush them, i would.”

you took a sip of your apple cider, pulling your scarf down to reach the straw at the same time you reached the box of pastries to your left.

bringing it up without breaking contact with your straw, you saw her eyes widen in surprise then delight as she excitedly took the box from your gloved hands.

“you made pastries again?! for me??” she gasped, eyes sparkling. you finally broke away from your drink, a smug smile on your lips as you nodded.

“of course i did, since i know that you damn well didn’t eat breakfast this morning, unless you’re still counting two cups of coffee enough to get you through the day?”

she gave you a sheepish smile before directing her guilty gaze back to the box in her lap, not wanting to see the stern look in your eyes.

you sighed in defeat, deciding to not push it any further. you know she didn’t mean to forget, but it still won’t stop you from worrying.

as you watched her open the box of baked goods, you noticed her pale hands reach into the box, not a single glove in sight on her. that, you won’t let slide.

so before she had a chance to pick up the strawberry cinnamon roll that she’d been eyeing since she opened it, you snatched her hands in yours.

quickly putting on the gloves you had just been wearing, the leather was still warm from your body heat and she shivered as she realized how cold her hands were before.

before she had a chance to question what you were doing, you grasped her now gloved hands in your bare ones, looking her dead in her eyes with that stern look she adores and fears at the same time.

“i’m not gonna have you losing your fingers to frostbite just because you forgot your gloves at home, again.” she shrunk under your gaze as you said again, sheepish smile on her lips returning. “damn, i just can’t win, huh?”

you scoffed at her joking tone before shaking your head, eyes softening. “nope, that’s why you’re lucky i’m here, or else you would be dead in a ditch by now.”

emi gasped offendedly, opening her mouth to retaliate. just as she was ready to argue back, you shoved the strawberry cinnamon roll from earlier into her mouth, efficiently silencing her. a muffled squawk left her in her surprise and you threw your head back with a laugh.

she bit into the still warm pastry and pulled it from her mouth, intent on really letting you get it once she could speak again.

but when she finished chewing and took another deep breath, she gazed at your perfect side profile as you had switched your gaze back onto the scene of the park goers in front of you, left hand coming up to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

her heart melted as the sun's rays bounced off of the gold band that laid on your ring finger, and she felt whatever fight she had left in her dissipate into the air.

instead she chose to rest her head against your shoulder, soaking up your warmth as she held onto your hand tightly. a small smile graced her lips as she brought back the pastry back up to her lips.

even though the scent of strawberries was strong, with her nose turned to press into the fabric of your scarf, she could easily pick out the unique notes of sandalwood, vanilla, and home.

“yeah, really lucky.”

☾ writing belongs to edens-melodies please do not repost without permission ☾

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 7 - ao3 -

Lan Qiren woke up with a pounding headache and no memory of having gone to bed.

This would not have been a surprise had he been at home, as his routine was blissfully static and required no thought whatsoever – each item he needed in its proper place, each movement mapped out through years of practice, his entire body trained such that he would automatically begin to go through the necessary acts at the appropriate time and would immediately begin to feel sleepy once he started the sequence – but it was highly notable that such a thing would occur while he was out of the Cloud Recesses, where each day’s sleep would only be the same in terms of the time at which he fell asleep.

In this case in particular, he also felt sore all over – his head, as mentioned, but also his upper arms and, oddly, his right knee. Had he been exercising unwisely? The bed in the room he had been given at the Sun Palace was not that nice, too hard and unyielding, but it wasn’t enough to cause this sort of aching…

“I will see to it that the next bed lives up to your stringent standards.”

Lan Qiren’s eyes shot open and he sat upright at once: that was Wen Ruohan’s voice.

“What are you doing in my –” he started to say, then stopped.

Wen Ruohan was not in his bedroom.

He wasn’t in his bedroom.

He didn’t even recognize this bedroom.

It was massive, for one thing: a full suite, the way the hanshi was back at home, with place for a bed and a table and plenty more besides. The bed was similar in style to the one in the room he had been assigned but larger in scale – made of dark wood and covered in the red sun motif like all the other décor, but over twice as broad and an extra chi in length, and the brocade fabric used to upholster it was considerably more lush and luxurious and, admittedly, more comfortable than what he’d been sleeping on in the Sun Palace’s guest quarters. The room itself was the same, decorated in luxury extending to the point of opulence: there was a painting scroll on one wall that if genuine would be worth more than everything Lan Qiren owned put together, young master of a Great Sect or not, and on the other wall hung six swords, each more glorious than the next, and he suspected if he knew more about weaponry he would be able to recite their names.  Even the red sun that was painted on every ceiling here glittered with embedded rubies and spiritual stones, emanating pure qi – a tremendous waste, each one of them sufficient to be a cultivation sect’s precious treasure.

Amidst all this luxury, Wen Ruohan was sitting not far away from the bed, a book held loosely in his hands – it was as if he’d been waiting for Lan Qiren to awaken.

“I think you’ll find, in fact,” Wen Ruohan said, and his eyes were glittering the way they had been the day before when it had been Lao Nie he’d been looking at, full of malice and self-indulgent amusement, “that this is my bedroom.”

This was not a surprise, but rather the only logical conclusion.

Not that it explained why Lan Qiren was here.

“Did I – fall asleep?” he asked uncertainly, though surely that must be the reason. “And you – brought me here?”

“You did, and I did,” Wen Ruohan confirmed, and seemed amused for some reason. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Lan Qiren wracked his brain, which was hurting and unhelpful and slower even than its usual plodding pace. “…I was thinking that liquor tastes vile.”

Wen Ruohan’s smile broadened. “Mm. It seems that you inherited your grandfather’s head for wine.”

Lan Qiren’s grandfather was one of the elders who refused to obey the rule against alcohol. He had also, in his later years, developed a most un-Lan-like fondness for wine.

He had not at any point developed a tolerance for it.

Lan Qiren closed his eyes in a wince. He must have made a complete fool of himself!

“This foolish junior apologizes to the Sect Leader for his misbehavior,” he said. He wanted to lift his hands to salute, but the movement, when he started it, set off his stomach, and he was forced to wrap his arms around his midsection instead.

There was a rustling sound, robes moving as Wen Ruohan rose to his feet, but Lan Qiren kept his eyes stubbornly closed, fearing that any further input would cause him to bring up everything he’d consumed the night before – only to open them in shock a moment later when he felt a finger press against the acupoint between his eyes, a warm stream of spiritual energy pouring in to cleanse away the nausea and pain of his headache.

Of his hangover.

He had a hangover.

Wen Ruohan, the mighty Sect Leader Wen, was providing him with medical attention to deal with his hangover.

There weren’t going to be words for how much he was going to get punished when he got home.

“Thank you, Sect Leader Wen,” Lan Qiren croaked, feeling hot all over with unending mortification. He had truly been foolish to think that just because there was only one night left in the Nightless City there was little danger of him repeating the mistakes of the past – he had no face left to speak of.

“Oh, no need to be so formal,” Wen Ruohan said, drawing out the words in a drawl. “Not after such a memorable night.”

Lan Qiren did not want to know what he did to make the night get described as memorable. He did not.

Especially not since Wen Ruohan was so obviously enjoying himself over it.

Of course, he wasn’t an idiot: he might be slow and bad at social cues, might find it difficult to understand the unspoken or keep up with sarcasm, but even he knew what was being implied here.

An older man with a younger one, liquor shared, a bedroom…

Yes, he understood the implication.

He just wasn’t stupid enough to believe it.

Lan Qiren folded his hands together and held his head up high.

“It is good that the Sect Leader did not take insult at my foolishness,” he said stiffly. “I thank you for your care and attention, and regret the burden I placed upon you.”

If anything, Wen Ruohan looked even more amused. “Such dignity, little Lan. You’re not even going to ask what happened?”

“This junior is only sixteen,” Lan Qiren said, still stiff and icy. “There is nothing that could have taken place without Sect Leader Wen’s approval, and naturally Sect Leader Wen would not permit this junior to offend his dignity.”

There, he thought with some satisfaction. That neatly turned the situation around: even if something untoward had occurred, which honestly Lan Qiren did not believe past that first initial moment of panic – even putting aside the fact that he wasn't anywhere near sore enough for something like that to have occurred, Wen Ruohan was not known to succumb easily to lust, nor was he so eager for war that he would recklessly try to deflower the son of another Great Sect while the latter was intoxicated for the first time – the blame would fall squarely on Wen Ruohan’s head, not Lan Qiren’s.

Wen Ruohan laughed, understanding perfectly well what Lan Qiren meant.

“You would think so,” he said, sounding almost approving of Lan Qiren’s rule lawyering. “I would have thought so, too, but I find that you Lan have truly remarkable arm strength…especially when trying to keep your conversational partner from escaping while you explain the difference between what the Lan sect consider to be fundamental rules and those considered ancillary.”

Lan Qiren blanched.

That was worse than what he’d thought – because unlike the notion of him making unwanted advances (or receiving them, for that matter), it was plausible. Terribly, painfully plausible.

“Oh, yes. All five iterations of the debate.”

Oh no.

“Four sect discussions. Seventeen separate texts on the subject, not counting later commentaries. Sixty-four subsidiary rulings, all of which you were very enthusiastic in recounting - and here I was thinking that your Wall of Discipline had a surfeit of rules, when in fact it was only the beginning. Apparently, I underestimated you.”

Lan Qiren buried his face in his hands as if that would make it stop. 

“Still, I suppose I’ll have to accustom myself to hearing more about the rules in the future,” Wen Ruohan mused. “We’ll be spending far more time together, after all, on account of our sworn brotherhood.”

Lan Qiren looked up and opened his mouth, then stopped.

He had nothing to say.

His mind was absolutely blank, a state which had never before occurred.

“Forgive me,” he finally spat out. “Our – what?”

Wen Ruohan smiled at him with eyes full of poison and a mouth full of teeth.

“Sworn brotherhood,” he said casually, as if it was nothing. “You were saying that you regretted not being able to see more of the Nightless City before you left, and that you could only leave the Cloud Recesses to visit family, so we became sworn brothers.”

“We did not.”

“Oh, but we did,” Wen Ruohan said. “We drank mixed wine and swore all the appropriate oaths – I have the written version here, if you’d like to see.”

The piece of paper he put in front of Lan Qiren was recognizably in Lan Qiren’s own hand, although his normally impeccable calligraphy was rather wobbly. It was still readable, though, and the first few clauses very clearly laid out a sworn brotherhood oath.

Lan Qiren stared at it.

“We – but we can’t be sworn brothers,” he said blankly. “We’re – you’re two generations older than me. Am I supposed to call you da-ge?”

“No one has called me da-ge since my youngest brother died,” Wen Ruohan mused, and Lan Qiren was abruptly reminded of the rumors, never confirmed, that that particular death had come at Wen Ruohan’s own hands following a challenge for the seat of sect leader. “It’ll be very charming, I’m sure.”

“But…”

Wen Ruohan said nothing, but only smiled at him.

Lan Qiren looked down at the paper.

He didn’t understand what was happening.

He tried to go over it again in his mind: he had left the competition when the celebration had started, he had wandered the halls, he had tried to obey his brother’s instructions in avoiding Wen Ruohan, and when that failed, he had obeyed him in trying to be obedient. He had drunk liquor for the first time, and he had no memory thereafter until he had woken up here and now, in Wen Ruohan’s bedroom, with Wen Ruohan saying that they had –

He didn’t think Wen Ruohan was teasing him over this, though. Not the way he had so obviously been with his implications that they had used the bedroom for purposes other than sleeping.

Not with evidence, written in his own hand.

He didn’t understand.

How could this have happened?

“…did we really?” he whispered, half-hoping against hope that it was still a tease, still a joke, still – something, anything, other than what it was. That Wen Ruohan was just waiting for him to declare that he believed him, to demonstrate dismay, and then he would tell him the truth.

“Yes,” Wen Ruohan said instead, inexorable. “We did.”

Lan Qiren’s mind fell into chaos.

He didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand.

“You’re shaking,” Wen Ruohan observed. “Ah, little Lan – don’t tell me it’s now that you’re scared?”

Lan Qiren’s hands were in fact shaking, he observed, and he put them over his face.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, his whole body starting to rock back and forth in his distress. “Why would you – with me – an oath of brotherhood can’t be taken lightly –”

“It can’t be,” Wen Ruohan said, and for some reason he sounded satisfied. “Certainly not for someone like you, little Lan, who always keeps their word and does not lie.”

“But why?” Lan Qiren asked, his voice rising almost into a plaintive wail. “Our sects aren’t even allies.”

“They are now,” Wen Ruohan said, and put his hand on the back of Lan Qiren’s neck. It felt hot against his skin, like a hot stone used for massage – a little too hot to tolerate for very long. “You know the obligations of a sworn brother oath as well as I. My duty as the elder brother is to guide you and care for you, support you and yours, and in return you are to obey me and be guided by me.”

Did Wen Ruohan want a spy in the Lan sect? Lan Qiren wondered wildly. But surely there were easier ways than this – not only would he make a terrible spy, with his clumsiness and his terrible social skills and his inability not to take everything seriously, but it would be simple enough for his sect to counter such a move. All they would need to do would be to cast him out…

His rocking intensified.

Wen Ruohan brought his other arm around him and pulled him close until Lan Qiren’s forehead, with its forehead ribbon still firmly in place, was pressed against his chest.

“Don’t cry, little brother,” he crooned. “Am I to allow a priceless painting to be kept by those that see it only for its use as spare kindling? A peerless treasure sword left to prop up a door?”

“You have a half-dozen swords hanging on your wall, each more priceless than the next, and all of them rusting away for lack of use!” Lan Qiren cried out. “Even if it’s only a door, at least it’s – it’s my – my brother…”

“Do not worry about your brother, undeserving as he is of your sincerity. Qingheng-jun has been trying to get concessions out of me this entire conference,” Wen Ruohan said. His breath was warm against Lan Qiren’s hair. “I’ve been refusing, but now I’ll grant them. He won’t punish you.”

“That’s not how that works. Punishment isn’t inherently bad; it’s meant to correct and guide the individual – the failure of good conduct will always be my own, no matter the result –”

“What I have taken into my hand, no one yet lives who would dare seek to take away,” Wen Ruohan said. “Anyway, it’s too late to regret now, isn’t it? What’s done is done. Don’t you have a rule like that?”

Lan Qiren sniffed. “No. There are at least four that could potentially qualify as having similar underlying meanings, but none directly on point.”

Wen Ruohan huffed. “Little Lan, if I tore out your heart, would you have time to cite one of your sect rules before you died?”

“…maybe if it was a short one?” Lan Qiren said, blinking at the strange question; his lashes brushed against Wen Ruohan’s lapel. “I mean, there’s a difference between ‘Be loyal and filial’ and ‘Set the wise as your teacher and the moral as your example’, isn’t there? And of course you’d have to consider whether in tearing out the heart you impeded the lungs, and how much time it would take the exsanguination to take effect…”

He was calming down, he realized, and pulled back out of Wen Ruohan’s arms, blushing as he realized that the question must have been meant as a distraction, though how Wen Ruohan had realized that a distraction would be the best way to reduce his distress when even he hadn’t known, he had no idea.

“Thank you for your consideration,” he mumbled, ducking his head in embarrassment.

Wen Ruohan started laughing.  

“Truly I have found an unappreciated treasure, unlike any other,” he said amid his chuckles. “Come along, little Lan. Let’s go break the news to your brother.”

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 15: Wings

Harry was not a big fan of parties.

In fact, Harry downright hated parties because he hated all of the unwanted attention. Fortunately, this masquerade gala allowed him to remain anonymous.

After all, who would expect Harry Potter to arrive in a pirate costume with skintight breeches, a billowy white shirt that exposed his chest (and the fake anchor tattoo), and thigh high boots? The black mask that covered much of his face and the pirate hat with a huge, gaudy feather helped, too.

He'd happily avoided anyone and everyone on his way to the snack table and had just stuffed a tiny, flaky, savory pastry in his mouth when he looked up to the top of the staircase that led into the room and promptly choked. There, standing at the top and looking down at all of them, was a literal angel.

The man had gorgeous white and gold wings magically attached to his back, Harry's fingers twitched as though reaching for the soft feathers as they fluttered in the breeze drifting through the open door behind him. Gold sandals graced his feet, and golden straps wrapped up his legs, stopping mid thigh. Silky white fabric was artfully draped around his hips, protecting his modesty, but only just. He wore a golden corset with a delicate structure that emphasized the narrowness of his waist and the broadness of his bare shoulders. Gold was dusted lightly across his skin, making him shine even more radiantly. His mask was also gold, hiding everything but his sharp chin, strong jawline, and his lovely lips. To finish everything off, a golden laurel wreath graced his pink hair.

He was gorgeous, ethereal. And Harry's gut told him that he had to meet him. His gut was hardly ever wrong.

(Read more below the cut)

Without stopping to think, Harry set off toward the other man, but was beat to him by a man dressed in a muggle constable uniform. As Harry approached, he heard the constable berating the angel and he felt his metaphorical hackles rise.

"Oy!" he said as the constable shoved the man's shoulder. "Back off. What's the matter with you?"

The constable spluttered at him and placed his hands on his hips in indignation. "Well I don't think a costume like that is appropriate."

And suddenly, Harry recognized that voice, recognized posture and his puffed out chest. "Well, first, Auror Hibbards," he said, "It's not your place to enforce a dress code. And second, I don't think the business you conduct with your secretary after hours is appropriate but no one's confronted you or your wife about that. Perhaps you'd like me to go and have a conversation with her about what I find inappropriate?"

He followed the other man's panicked gaze across the room to two women who were standing together talking, and tried to remember what Laura Hibbards had looked like when he'd met her a few years ago.

"She's the one in the striking medi-nurse costume isn't she?" he asked. "Laura, right?"

Hibbards took a step back and his arms fell to his sides, "Who are you?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter," Harry replied. "You mind your business and I'll mind mine."

Without another word Hibbards turned and fled across the room.

He turned to look at the angel standing next to him, "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," the man replied, voice warm and a smile tugging at his lips. "I daresay you arrived in the wrong costume."

Harry looked down at his pirate apparel. "Sorry?" he asked, looking up at him.

"I think you ought to have come as a knight dressed in shining armor," he teased.

"Hardly," Harry replied, rolling his eyes.

The other man's eyes traveled up and down Harry's body, "So, let me guess, you're an auror? I would say that maybe you just work in the auror department but it was clever of you to get him to look at his wife so you could deduce who she was."

"Clever, hmm?" Harry teased. "I wouldn't go that far, but you're not entirely wrong. I've recently left the Ministry and I was an auror."

"What made you leave?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Harry lifted one shoulder, "I got fed up with the bullshit and the hypocrisy; I felt like I was slowly becoming someone I didn't want to be, so I left."

"And what do you do now?"

He laughed, "Do you want the truth?'

"Always."

"I work part time at a muggle coffee shop," he replied.

"Ah, so you're independently wealthy then."

Harry shook his head, "And you said I'm the clever one. What do you do?"

"I'm a solicitor," he replied.

He laughed, "So you really didn't need my help dealing with Hibbards then. I'm sure you could have talked circles around him."

"No, I probably didn't," he conceded. "But it was nice, just the same. A man who spends all of his time fighting on behalf of others appreciates someone fighting on his behalf every so often."

Harry smiled, "Are you here with anyone?" he asked, "Or can I get you a drink?"

"A drink would be great," the angel replied.

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

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed a night as much as he had this one. His angel was quick-witted with a dry sense of humor, he was smart and sexy, and Harry genuinely enjoyed his company. They'd danced, and talked, and enjoyed the food and drinks available; and Harry found himself wishing that the night would never end.

When the clock stuck eleven, surprising both of them, they looked around to see that many people had already left. "Salazar, is that the time?"

Harry nodded, "Seems to be."

"I've an early morning tomorrow," the angel told him, "As much as I've enjoyed this, I should probably be on my way."

"Can I see you again?" Harry blurted.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," the other man replied slowly. "This was meant to be a bit like Cinderella at the ball for me."

"Are you going to leave me your sandal, then? Expect me to come and find you?" Harry teased, really hoping that the other man would give in or at least give him something to go on. He was good a puzzles, good at pulling at loose ends until he'd unraveled the mystery.

"No, no, nothing like that," he said quickly. "I just wanted one night where I didn't have to be me. One night that I didn't have to walk around with my face and all of the baggage that goes along with it. This was never meant to be more than that."

"I hear you," Harry said, emphatically, "I really do. I find it difficult," he confessed, "connecting with people. People can't seem to see past their preconceived notions of who I am, but you..." Harry trailed off and shrugged helplessly, "it was easy. To be with you, to talk to you. I'd really like to get to know you better."

The angel rubbed the back of his neck, "I would like that, too," the other man replied softly. "Truly. But once you know who I am, you're going to change your mind."

"But isn't it worth to find out?" he asked, pleaded. "Even if you're right and I never want to see you again, that's the outcome you've assigned without even knowing."

"Maybe I'd prefer for you to remember this night fondly," the other man suggested.

"Maybe I'd prefer to have many more fond memories with you," Harry countered.

"You were a Griffyndor weren't you?"

"Guilty as charged," Harry replied with a grin. Then he grew serious, "Look, if you enjoyed tonight even half as much as I did, please just give it a chance. You might take one look at me and think this was a mistake, but at least we'll know and we won't have to spend the rest of our lives wondering what could have been."

The angel blew out a breath and Harry fought the nerves that had risen up in his chest. "Fine," he conceded, "but don't say that I didn't try to warn you."

"Okay," Harry said, giving him a big smile.

"Before we do this," he said, "I want you to know that I had a really nice time tonight. Thank you for everything."

"Stop sounding like you're saying goodbye!" Harry protested.

The angel gave him a sad little smile, "Ready, then?"

"On the count of three?" Harry asked. When he received a nod in return, he reached up and said, "One, two, three," as he pulled of his mask.

A slap to the face would have been less of a surprise than the person he saw standing before him.

"Potter?"

"Malfoy?" he splutted. "What? How?"

"This explains so much, actually," Malfoy said, his mouth twisting in a displeased little grimace. "You got to come sailing in like the hero you are to rescue a damsel in distress-"

"That's not fair," Harry replied, still reeling. "I didn't even know it was you."

"No," Malfoy agreed. "It certainly would have changed your reaction if you had." He shook his head, "Well, this has been fun. I do so love being proven right."

"It's still better to know that this was not worth losing sleep over, don't you think?" Harry replied.

"Right," Malfoy clipped. "I'm off. The pirate costume seems a bit like false advertising, by the way," he said as he started to walk away without a backward glance.

"What?" Harry asked incredulously, "And the angel costume wasn't false advertising?"

"It's a Victoria's Secret Costume, Potter. Honestly."

Before Harry could make sense of that statement, Malfoy was up the stairs and out of the door, leaving Harry staring after him with a mixture of irritation, and confusion, and oddly a bit of attraction.

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" a voice called from beside him, "How lovely to see you!"

Harry turned to see Laura Hibbards standing next to him. "Your husband is cheating on you," Harry informed her.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her right hand fluttering up to cover her heart.

"With his secretary. I should have said something a long time ago, I'm sorry," he added, because he was. No one deserved to be cheated on.

Then he walked away, leaving her floundering, and headed out the same door Malfoy had moments before.

When he got outside he looked around, hoping to see wings or a flash of pink hair, but the road was empty. Was he really lonely and desperate enough that he was thinking that he and Malfoy might be a good fit?

Harry gave it up, he didn't even know what he would have said if he had seen him. It wasn't worth losing sleep over, he reminded himself before appartating home.

Whiskers was waiting for him when he arrived and he scooped her up and nuzzled his nose into her fluffy white fur. "You love me, don't you?" he asked her. Her sweet, little meow confirmed it and he kissed her head before going in to get ready for bed. It wasn't worth losing sleep over he reminded himself again.

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

Harry had, in fact, lost quite a bit of sleep. He'd spent the night tossing and turning, grumbling to himself, and hating himself every time his mind replayed a part of the evening and butterflies took flight in his stomach.

By the time the sun was illuminating the sky, turning it bright pinks and reds, Harry only knew one thing: he couldn't get Malfoy out of his head.

He got out of bed and he started to do some digging on the other man. It took half the morning but he discovered Malfoy had made a bit of a name for himself. He worked for a wizarding law firm and he'd made a habit of only taking clients who were desperately in need of help that they couldn't afford. Harry had a hard time learning anything else about his personal life, it seemed like he didn't really have one, but it didn't take long for him to find an address.

From there, the planning was a bit shoddy. Harry hadn't ever really been good at making plans and sticking to them so he just showed up outside of Draco's office at 5:00pm and waited.

And waited.

And then he waited some more. He waited until 6:30, wondering if he'd missed the other man somehow and as he was about to leave and return tomorrow, the door opened and out stepped Malfoy. His hair was blonde and he was wearing a well-tailored suit but he looked just as breathtaking as he had the night before.

He froze when he caught sight of Harry, looking stricken for just a moment before smoothing his features. "What are you doing here?"

Harry opened his mouth, "I'm sorry." They weren't quite the words he was meaning to say but it was too late to take them back now.

"Whatever for?"

"I had a brilliant time with you last night," Harry said.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, "Right up until you realized it was me."

"That's what I'm sorry for," Harry said. "Malfoy," he started, then he changed tracks, "Draco, you made me feel like I was just a person. Just a guy flirting with another person, enjoying life, free of all expectations."

"Yes, we established that last night," he replied as he stepped down the stairs and stood on the pavement in front of Harry. "That was the point of the masks and the costumes."

"Right, but I don't think it was just the masks and costumes. The person I was last night," he licked his lower lip but forced himself to continue, "That's who I really am. Without the weight of being Harry Potter. And I would be willing to bet my vault at Gringotts that the person you were last night is who you really are without the weight of being Draco Malfoy."

"Can you afford to bet your vault at Gringotts?" he asked. "Aren't you a barista? What if you're wrong?"

"Shut up," Harry said, "I'm trying to say something profound here."

"Apologies," Malfoy said, taking one step closer to him as his mouth tilted up at the corner.

"When who we both really are seems to be so compatible, doesn't it seem silly to throw that away on a childhood rivalry?"

"What exactly are you proposing?"

Harry took a breath, "Dinner? Or coffee if dinner is too much. I'd like the chance to get to know you better."

"You would?" Draco asked softly, looking open and vulnerable, and Harry's heart expanded in his chest until he couldn't breathe properly.

"I really would," he said, reaching out to take Draco's hand.

"Alright. Dinner," he agreed. "But don't blame me if this doesn't work out."

Harry grinned at him, "Feel free to blame me when it does."

Day 14: Louder, So Everyone Can Hear | Day 16: Tulips

[ellana-ravenwood]

Sick Day - Batfam x Fem!Reader

Synopsis : It’s never fun to be sick. Duh. But when  you have loving parents there to take care of you, maybe it isn’t so bad ? Just short little snippets of the first time each Batkids fell ill in Wayne Manor, and how Bruce and his wife (you :D) dealt with it. 

Another “burst of the moment inspiration” story, just a little drabble. Promise I’ll post something more elaborate soon :), hope you’ll like it : 

My master list blog : @ella-ravenwood-archives

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(Thanks to that anon who mentioned the kids getting shots, that gave me with this an idea on how to start this fic :D. The original beginning was different, I think I like that one better hehe.)

"Mister Wayne, if you keep doing this, I'm not going to be able to give your son-Bruce for god's sake !"

Leslie Thompkins, for the first time in her long career, was about to lose her patience and give up on...giving a simple shot to a baby. 

She has seen worried parents before, of course. The one that clung to their child’s hand, or those who would cry because their little one was in pain…

Babies that young, who had to get vaccinated for the first time, never really experienced this sort of quick pain before. 

A lot of them would cry more out of surprise than because it really hurt. Oh and when the parents were extra worried, you could be sure the baby was even more likely to burst into tears, sensing his parents' distress.

Yes. doctor Thompkins gave shots to a LOT of babies, and saw a LOT of worried parents before…But never had she met someone quite like Bruce Wayne.

He always came to her when his kids were sick. He could go to a fancier office, or to one of those pricy fancy private hospitals. But no. 

No because, when it came to his kids’ health, there was no one he trusted more than Doctor Leslie Thompkins. 

So it was no surprise when he brought his youngest son, Thomas, to get his first shot ever. What was a surprise though, was his reaction.

"And now you know why I'm always the only one in the room when this happens."

You say, smiling apologetically to the doctor. But ah, at least your husband's reaction eased a little the tension in your body brought by the mere idea of your baby being hurt. 

Every single time Leslie got the syringe close to your little one, Bruce would reflexively grab her wrist and stop her from giving the shot to his son.

Ridiculous, really. 

But it seemed it was something he couldn't fight. 

He apologized the first time he did it, as Dr Thompskins smiled and said it was ok, rather amused. But then the second time, it was getting clear he didn't seem to quite control himself. At the third time Bruce was visibly sweating. Dr Thompkins finally snapped as she tried for a fourth and fifth time to give a shot to little Thomas (who, at barely 2 months old, was much too young to even understand what was happening, but by his little smiles it was clear he was happy every time his father would come into his vision).

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just…I thought I could do it, but I can't."

And oh. Oh it's adorable the way he turns to you, his eyes saying "I'm sorry" as he takes his son back in his arms and holds him against his chest. You weren’t sure if it was to comfort little Tommy, or if he was comforting himself. 

"I think I should just let you two handle this ?" He asks, unsure. He doesn’t want you to be mad or to think he’s abandoning you. 

"I think this is a good idea Bruce, yes."

You smile at him reassuringly. It’s fine. It was always fine. 

"I'm sorry, sorry I'm letting you do this alone once again. I just can't…"

"Oh it's ok my Broosh, I know you hate shots. I can handle it, and little buddy here sure can too."

Thomas coos happily as you pick him up delicately from his father's arms. Bruce resists a bit, before finally giving in and letting you take hold of the little one. 

He lays a hand on his son's head, looking fondly at him (of this look he only gives his children, of this pure look full of unconditional love, and a hint of “what did I do to deserve this sort of happiness ?”) and then sighs, press a soft kiss to your forehead, murmuring a last “I’m sorry, my love” and leaves the room. 

He feels a little ashamed to let you do this once again, but you've always been the strongest one out of the two. After all, you willingly decided to marry a man like him…

"Alright Mrs Wayne, ready ? And here we-oh not you too (Y/N) !"

"I'm sorry I'm sorry, I don't know what took over me, it was just a reflex too !"

You apologize, as you let go of the doctor's wrist…

Yeah, it was just a gut reaction to seeing a scary needle approaching your baby's thigh. In your line of um, nightly work, you came to be very wary, of syringes. You still remember vividly that time Tim got hit with one of Scarecrows’ needle, and how terrible this night had been...

"Ok ok, now is fine. Go. I'm ready. Go fast though, now. Now I’m not looking. Go. Go. Go."

Tears welling up in your eyes at the mere thought of this happening, you look away as you hold your son still (something he doesn't like as clearly shown by his little sound of protest, and as he starts to fuss about), and in one, two seconds…it's done. 

And not a peep from your son. 

He just stopped making any sound (he've always been rather vocal), his eyes went wide, and he made a face that looked like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to cry or not. Then there’s one more second, and Leslie had a soothing bandaid on his little leg, and you were holding him against your heart, and the pain was so fleeting and already gone, that he just gets over it quickly, feeling your love.

Calming down instantly, not noticing the tears in your eyes (thank god, or it’d be a sure way to make him weep too).

And so he doesn't cry. And everything is ok again.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it ?”

“Actually, it was.”

You say, barely holding your tears in, your son cooing in your arms 

“Um...I was talking to Thomas.” 

Leslie answers, amused. And just like that, you both burst into laughter.

After a few minutes of this uncontrollable fit of giggles, you thank Leslie for her help, and leave the room, joining your husband who had been walking back and forth in the waiting room, nervous. 

He comes immediately to you and Thomas, and as soon as the boy sees his dad he smiles widely and giggles. Bruce gives him a soft smile, before turning to you : 

“How was it ?” 

“For me ? Not great. For Tommy ? He didn’t even utter a sound. Our little guy is brave !” 

You kiss your son on his forehead, and he giggles and coos even more. There’s a short silence, before Bruce says : 

“I’m sorry...”

And then he takes you in his arms, sandwiching little Thomas who’s protesting a bit. Damn, his parents could be so clingy ! 

“It’s ok my Broosh, I already told you. It’s ok.” 

You sort of knew since you stepped into the doctor’s room that you’d end up being the one having to hold your boy anyway.

You knew oh too well how squeamish he was whenever HE had to get a shot done (and oh who would’ve thought the big bad bat hated getting shots so much uh ? You were pretty sure he would rather getting actually shot than take a tiny needle in his arm any day of the week...Alfred always had to fight with him to inject anesthesia when treating him for wounds). It was actually sort of a requirement, that you’d be next to him to give him your hand when he absolutely had to get a shot.

So understandably so, he always skipped on his children’s vaccins. He just couldn’t bear to see anyone he cared for to get that very things he hated so much, it just made him feel ill.

And you’ve always been fine with this. Since that very first day when you took Dick there...But Bruce always felt bad.

Because whenever you’d get out of the doctor’s office, you’d have fresh tears in your eyes, because you were just too pure for this world (is what Damian would say).

Dick always took advantage of this. He was never really scared of shots, and thought they didn’t really hurt...But oh, oh he would always cry a river of crocodile tears just so he’d get extra cuddles and ice cream.

And then, that cheeky little bugger passed that knowledge of “when we get shots, or we get sick, the parents literally let us do WHATEVER we want !” to his little siblings (you were actually pretty sure your kids would pass secret ways to manipulate you and Bruce along to their younger siblings and..you were oddly fine with it. You loved those kids too much to care, really).

This thought reminded you of that very first time Dick fell sick, shortly after you and Bruce officially adopted him. 

And how much you guys freaked out. 

It was both a pleasant, and terrible memory. 

And oh. Oh you already dreaded the day Thomas would have his first real fever...You still remembered how it happened, with all your other children. 

“What is it ?” Bruce asks, always knowing when something was on your mind. And so you say : “Nothing bad, this just reminds me of when Dick got sick for the first time while with us...”

A light of recognition ignited in Bruce’s eyes, he knew exactly what you were talking about. 

Bruce only had fond memories of when he was sick and his mom and dad would take care of him.

He thought they were the best, wether they’d hold a “barf-bucket” for him, or stay up all night because he was too feverish...

What he never realized though, is that having a sick child was actually absolutely terrifying ! Bruce often felt sick himself, when the kids were ill.....ah, but nothing ever beats those first time each of them got sick.

DICK 

Dick wasn't as young as Thomas, when he first came into your life. None of them were. But he was still a cute little bean, your baby. 

Eight years old, and oh so sweet and nice and cute and you could just squish his little cheeks all day (albeit from the few outburst of anger at times, but hey, he was but a child, every kid throw tantrum from times to times).

He had been living with you and Bruce in the Manor for the past six months, when you had your first fright, and realized that being a parent meant being worried about your kid's well being for the rest of your days

Dick was definitely a tiny kid when he came in your life. He was rather short, only having a growth spurt when he was around 14/15. Barbara Gordon used to tease him to no end about this, up until he finally caught up with her and ended up being taller.  

But yes, his small stature for his age, maybe made you baby him even more than the others, sometimes. 

Ah. That first time little Dick Grayson was sick at Wayne Manor. 

You. Freaked. The. Fuck. OUT. 

You and Bruce, both. 

Coincidentally, Dick became ill ON THE ONLY FEW DAYS OFF ALFRED WOULD TAKE A YEAR !! 

Every year, for a theater festival, Alfred would take off to his homeland, to England, in London to be exact, for but a few days. 

The three of you were in the batcave. Bruce was getting ready to go out, while you were on the bat computer and Dick was training on the side, doing some acrobatics on the trampoline Bruce installed. 

And then he came to you, pulling on your sleeve, and he was so pale...

“I don’t feel too well.” 

He said, right before throwing up for a few way too long seconds, as tears welled up in his eyes...it was never nice to throw up, and once again, no matter how mature he acted, you were reminded that Dick was but an eight year old child. 

But he wasn’t only crying because throwing up fucking sucked. He was also crying because he thought you were going to be mad at him. 

You reassured him, as you cleaned his little face up, and Bruce (who looked quite green himself...later on, you’d discover than when his kids or you were sick, he felt sick too...quite a strong reaction, really) carried him upstairs. 

You were frantically googling how to take care of a sick child, as Bruce stayed with Dick, holding a bark bucket to his face, and drawing soothing circles on his back with his hand. 

The panic dumbed the both of you down. It seemed like you couldn’t think, as you tried to make Dick as comfortable as he could. 

You could feel your anxiety blowing through the roof, and knew that Bruce was close to have a panic attack himself (he was prone to them, although you and Alfred were the only one who knew).

You didn’t know what was worst, the fact he was sick and had no idea what you were supposed to do, or how much Dick was sobbing and apologizing. 

“Should we call Dr. Thompkins ?”

“I don’t know her number, Alfred is the one that calls usually...” 

“Should we take him there then ?” 

“I don’t know, Alfred is-” 

This went on for a little bit, as Dick was throwing up and crying. Saying “sorry !” every two seconds. But...Instinctively, Bruce was trying to soothe him with those warm pats on his back. And you were caressing his hair, empathetic. And...

You decided to not go to the doctor today, Dick was sick, but not sick enough to take him to an emergency. And in Gotham ? Leslie was needed for a lot, especially in evenings like this. 

“Alfred um, gives me flat soda when I have a stomach ache ?”

“On it !” 

You say, bolting on your feet and running to the kitchen, taking a cola and opening it up. Meanwhile, Dick’s fit calmed down, and he seemed to instantly feel better as he probably threw everything he needed to up... 

He seemed content, cuddling against Bruce as the man was softly patting his back in small circles, and using his other hand to hold his head delicately. 

You and Bruce were definitely not experienced parents yet, and it showed. 

It showed by those first few minutes of utter panic, as your child got suddenly sick. And it showed as how you instantly just thought of calling Alfred...

That day, you both realized though, that you couldn’t always rely on the butler when it came to raising your son. For situations exactly like that one.

Both you and Bruce were still young, and scared to make mistakes but..You had to try. And you had to keep a cool head. Your motherly instinct kicked in.

It was so odd, seeing the big bad bat, wearing his costume without the cowl on (he didn’t have time to take it off as he rushed upstairs with the boy in his arms), looking so worried... 

Bruce was so pale, and you could see that in a way, he felt his son’s pain too...Which just made your head click, and take action. 

“Ok, ok we can do this. Keep the barf bucket close, let’s wait for the soda to get flat, and um...let’s try to distract him. A movie, perhaps ?”

Dick nodded, and although he wasn’t throwing up anymore, he seemed too weak to stand up (or maybe he was faking, could be, honestly, with that one...doesn’t matter) so Bruce carried him again. 

And it was a sight. Bruce was a tall man. And Dick was a very small kid. 

It was cute. and in that moment...In that moment it felt like you both suddenly realized what it meant, to be a parent.  

Bruce, holding his son in his arms, feeling the little one’s heartbeat and slowed breath as he was kinda nodding off...was this how his own father felt, when holding him ? It was nice. It was a surge of pure love, and knowing that he would die for that kid if he had to. Hell, he would burn the whole world, for that kid. 

It was so odd. The situation wasn’t that crazy, Dick probably just ate something bad, and with the trampoline and all the jumping around...he got sick. 

As a child, you had those rapid sick moments of having a bad stomach ache, which would turn into throwing up, to then feel better. Those sudden moments when your own parents would take care of you...

Ah. You hadn’t realized how much worry being a parent would bring. Bruce didn’t either. You guys adopting Dick felt like an obvious thing to do. Felt like it was meant to be...

But it wasn’t just yet, that you felt like a mom. Or a dad. 

It took some time to build. Just like it took time for Dick to call you “mom” and “dad”. And in that moment, as your kid (yes, your kid) was sick, that was it...

Finally. Yes. That was it. 

You were a mom. 

Bruce was a dad. 

Dick was your son. 

Of course you panicked as he suddenly got sick. But now, it was in your hand to properly take care of him. And thus started the first ritual you’d ever make with one of your children. 

Dick, when sick, liked chicken noodle soups. Made by you. He liked cuddles, up until he turned 12 or 13, then he acted as if he was too grown up for them. This eventually stopped when he turned 19, not long after Jason’s death...He regressed back to a little boy in some ways, and needed you. And Bruce. 

You’d often drive to Bludhaven just to give him chicken noodle soup and sprite, when he got sick. Even as he grew older and older...He loved it. No one could ever beat his mom babying him, when he felt under the weather. 

JASON 

"Hey buddy, are you ok ?” 

“Yes, yes I’m ok mom.” 

He smiles at you sweetly, his eyes half-closed, and clearly still relishing in the fact that he can finally call someone “mom”. But this happiness he felt whenever he realized he was finally safe, and had a home, was oddly dimmed, this morning. 

“Are you su-OH MY GOD !” 

Your hand is burning, as you lay it on his forehead. 

He’s burning up !

“Hey wow hey, kiddo, come here, you’re not feeling well are you ?” 

But Jason shakes his head, and says : 

“No I’m good. Just tired, but I’ll wake up soon.” 

He smiled again, but it felt all wrong. 

Of course, you didn’t take his words for it, even if you knew Jason wasn’t a liar. But the fact spoke for themselves, your kid was NOT alright. No matter what he was saying. 

Turned out, you were definitely right. He really wasn’t alright. 

In fact, Jason had...pneumonia. A bad case of it. That he probably caught when he was playing earlier that day, in the snow, with Bruce, staying out up until his lips were blue and he was soaking wet !! Bruce could just never resist him, and didn’t have the heart to say “no” when the kid kept asking on playing more...

He dearly regretted it. But you reassured him, this wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. 

You rushed to the hospital, Bruce holding a tiny little Jason wrapped tight in a few warm blankets. And the doctor confirmed you made the right call, taking him to the ER. 

It wasn’t like with Dick, where it was obvious the boy had a mild sickness. No. Jason really looked bad, and ready to drop. 

You and Bruce let once again your parental instincts kick in and...It was the right call. 

When Jason woke up, he let out a string of apologies and you realized...You realized the kid was terrified you wouldn’t want him anymore if he bothered you too much. Was scared to death that you’d want to take him back where you found him, that you’d give up on him. 

His real life father bolted at the first signs of troubles. His mother was a drug addict for whom he was never good enough to try and get cleaned up. 

He was abandoned, over and over again along his short life and...he was absolutely terrified that if he was too much of a nuisance to you two, you and Bruce would leave him as well. That you wouldn’t bother. 

And it broke your hearts. 

Softly, when Jason finally got better, after a few days of utter nightmare for you and Bruce, you took him home. He still needed some rest, as he was a little sick, so you tucked him comfortably in his bed and finally, you told him : 

“From now on, you promise me to tell us when you don’t feel ok ? Wether you think it’ll bother us or not. You will never bother us, little buddy, ok ?”

“Ok”, Jason said, unsure. 

“What do I have to say or do, to convince you you’ll never be a nuisance to us ?” 

The question took Jason by surprise, and he wasn’t quite sure of what to say. In his feverish state anyway, he had a hard time thinking. He heard himself say : 

“Stay with me ?” 

“Of course. Always little one, always.” 

And as he softly drifted to sleep, feeling the cold and soothing towel you would wet over and over again to put on his forehead, he heard you hum a song from your childhood, that would become a song always sure to put him to sleep. 

He was out, when Bruce said : “I’ll stay home tonight.” A shame, really. Because maybe, maybe if he heard that the Batman was going to skip patrol just to keep an eye on him...Then he’d know he would never bother him. Ever. 

That he would forever hold a dear, prime place in his heart.

Jason woke up the next morning, and found you and Bruce asleep on the floor, right next to his bed. You were still holding a towel that had long since dried up, and one of Bruce’s hand was clutched tightly on your shirt. 

The basin full of cold water laying on his bed side table was almost empty. Jason smiled. 

He felt better after a few hours of good sleep, and slowly got out of the blankets, pulling them with him, to then lay down next to you two, throwing the thick quilt over all of you. 

Later that day, Alfred found the three of you all cuddled up. He snatched a picture. Picture that was framed, amongst some of your favorite of your children, in your office. And in Bruce’s. 

The way you sung him to sleep when he was sick...When he died, it was the last thing he thought about. When he saw the bomb would explose before Bruce could save him. 

He thought of how soothing it was, to be taken care of by you. And your humming voice rung in his ears, as he realized he was going to die. Right there. 

Oh. Oh he wished he could be a little sick eight years old again, forget all his worries, and just fall asleep with the sound of your voice in his ears, while his dad would hold the both of you in his arms...

TIM 

“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, go back to bed this instant !”

Tim was the most difficult one, when he had a fever. He was a bit of a workaholic (like father like son ?), and always wanted to help. He hated being too sick because then he felt useless.

Your boy just wanted so much to be there for everyone, that he often forgot himself in the process and...yes. 

His first real fever/sickness was punctuated by you constantly trying to get him back into bed.

You almost never even knew Tim was sick !

The boy was so used to taking care of himself, that he tried to handle everything on his own. He even took an appointment to the doctor himself ! But then, before having the chance to go there, he passed out in school, which resulted in a call from his principal that ended in Bruce almost having a heart attack. 

You understood him of course. It wasn’t really a nice feeling to be called out during a business meeting to have someone tell you your son passed out in school ! 

It was just a little flu, but the fever and lack of sleep got the best of him. 

Bruce didn’t even tell anyone where he was going, as he rushed to the school. You met him there, as he was walking out of the building, with a little sleepy Tim in his arms. 

“I can walk, I swear I can walk.” 

The boy was saying, yet his head was on his dad’s shoulder, and the up and down bobble of Bruce’s walk was clearly putting him to sleep. 

Your husband settled your son in the car, and drove home. 

“He was trying to convince me he could finish his school day, and that he had a group work today and didn’t want to let his friends down...”

“Sounds like Tim alright...”

You said, looking back at his sleeping form in the back seat. 

Bruce nods, but you could see something was on his mind. You always knew, when something was on his mind. Brushing a few fingers on his cheeks, you ask : 

“What is it, my Bruce ?” 

His eyes are on the road, of course. But he flicks them quickly to you, and he knows. He knows he can’t lie to you, or get away with telling you half-truth. 

You’ll know, if he’s not really telling you what has been worrying him. He takes a deep breath and, with a small voice says : 

“Is this...my fault ?” 

At first, you don’t understand, and you say : 

“I’m pretty sure it’s because that boy never wears a damn sweater, and we’re in Gotham in the middle of Winter haha.” 

But then...Then you realize what he means. 

He’s talking about the fact that Tim always seem to overcompensate for something. Always seem to want to be there for everyone, forgetting sometimes he’s just a ten years old boy. 

Tim was the only one out of his siblings that became Robin for no personal reason, but just because he loved Batman and wanted to help him. Just because he wanted to help people. 

He didn’t have a tragic backstory (although he unfortunately got one later on...), he didn’t have a reason to become Robin, other than his good nature and really wanting to help...

And Bruce let him. Allowed him to do this. Even after what happened to Jason, he let Tim sneak in your life and become Robin. 

You’d argue that Tim didn’t leave you guys much of a choice, and sort of had a “well I’m gonna help you no matter what, deal with it” sort of attitude. But you understood your husband’s worries. 

He was afraid that he was the one that made him that way. That it was because of him, that Tim worked his health off. 

“Oh, Bruce, my Heart...No. No it’s not your fault. It’s just how this amazing little boy is wired. I actually think that thanks to you, he’s more focused and taken care of. The gods can only imagine what Tim Drake would’ve done if he hadn’t been trained by Batman himself...If you said “no” to him pestering you about becoming your Robin, he would’ve taken it upon himself to go out there anyway. And then...I can only imagine what would’ve happened. So no. No it’s not your fault. It’s just...how he is. He reminds me of you a lot, actually. And I’m so, so glad he managed to convince you...Couldn’t imagine my life without that little one in it. Even if he does give me grief often, overworking like that. But it’s not your fault. It’s not. On the contrary.” 

It took you a while, to convince Bruce he didn’t create Tim the way he sort-of created Dick and Jason. But you managed to, as you always did. You could be very convincing. Plus, the boy helped. It was clear his dedication came from himself mainly, that he was just born this way. 

Too clever and smart for his own good, destined to be a Robin...and maybe a Batman, one day ?

Yes. Tim was the only one that wasn’t in it for himself. For personal reasons. He just wanted to help...

But after that first time he got sick, he understood that sometimes, it was ok to rely on you or his die. That in fact, he would gladly do so ! 

That day, Bruce carried him to his bed, even as the boy protested he was alright. Finally, you’ve had enough and ended up sort of lecturing him...gently. 

“You need to rest, sometimes, ok ? If it’s too much, if you’re too tired, physically AND mentally, you need to take a few steps back...and let others take care of things, and of you. Ok ?” 

“But-”

“No buts Timmy. It’s important. If something bad happens to you because you’ve been ignoring your own body, your own self...What will happen to those you want to help ? In order to continue what you’re doing, you need to take some pauses. Like right now. You are sick. You passed out in school. So...It’s gatorade and crackers time.” 

Gatorade and crackers. 

Tim’s favorite drinks and food. 

Gatorade and crackers. 

Two things that were rarely found in Wayne Manor. You always tried to give healthy balanced meals to your kids. Especially to Tim, who had the opposite of a balanced diet when he came into your lives (the fact he often had to take care of himself as his parents were too busy meant he often chose his own food...and of course he’d rather have ice cream than broccolis). 

But the fact that you were now giving him Gatorade and crackers meant...Meant that Dick was right. When they were sick, you would do anything to make them comfortable. 

Coincidentally though, Gatorade and saltines helped out, when one was sick. 

On that first time he became sick after starting to live with you, Tim found that it was ok, to relax sometimes. That he didn’t have to waste his life away 24/7 for others, and that he could enjoy some down time. 

It only happened when he was sick, to your great dismal. You constantly tried to convince him to take a break (just like you did with Bruce...but although it worked with your husband, especially as he got older, Tim was just very stubborn, and wanted to help too damn much). You even had to trick him into it often. 

So although you hated seeing your kids in any kind of pain, you were almost glad when Tim got sick. Because it meant he would really take care of himself. Or rather, letting you take care of him. 

That first time he got sick, he ended up leaving his bed...only to go cuddle up in yours and Bruce’s, and enjoy some down time. And learn that, it was ok, to take care of himself. 

Hell. You’d hammer this fact in his head if you had to. 

Gatorade and crackers, while watching movies in yours and Bruce’s big bed, was why Tim thought that in the end, being sick wasn’t too bad. 

Extra points if you two were in the bed with him, snuggled up all nice, safe and warm. 

CASSANDRA

Cassandra didn’t like TV, when she was sick. Instead, she liked you reading her stories better. And you’d read to her all day, if need be. Switching from time to time with your husband. 

She had trouble sleeping, even when sick and weak. Listening to your voices telling her all those wonderful stories was soothing beyond measure. 

The first time she fell sick while at Wayne Manor though, her first reflex was to go hide. Because when she used to be sick with the man who called himself her “father”, with David Cain (that scum), he used to get so mad at her. 

As if it was her fault, she became sick. 

So she’d run away. Curl into a ball. Wait for it to pass. And then face him, healthy again. It was easier to confront him when she was ok...So she’d rather run away and face the consequences, rather than stay around him while sick. 

And so, her first instinct was to go hide. 

She went to the attic, and did what she used to do. 

Curled up in a ball, in front of the round window. And wait. Alone. 

It’s Bruce, who found her. He was casually checking the GPS he put on his children. They still thought they got rid of it, the sweet kids...but as if he’d only implant one. He knew it wasn’t really ethical, but after what happened to Jason, he wasn’t willing to take any chances. 

During the day, he would check a few times, and usually during boring office meeting, to see where they were. That day, he saw Cass in the Manor’s attic, and didn’t think much of it. Cass was a curious one, who took it upon herself to explore everything in the house. 

But when he came home, and she was still there, his guts told him something was wrong...He rushed to the attic, and found her. 

And his heart stopped, when he saw her laid on the floor, curled up into a ball, and softly moaning because she had a bad fever. 

She wasn’t asleep, even in this state she fought sleep, afraid to have nightmares (and while having a fever, she couldn’t just wake up to escape them...). 

Bruce carried her out of the attic, holding her tight in his arms, his heart bleeding as he realized why she isolated herself while she needed help. 

People often misjudged Bruce on that matter. Saw him as a cold harsh man. But oh; oh if it was touching his children or you...He would feel so much. Too much, even. He just loved you all to death. 

When he brought her downstairs, and you saw her, you immediately entered “mom mode” and fussed over her, getting everything you needed to make her comfortable...but as it turned out, all she wanted was to feel yours and Bruce’s presence. 

To hear your voice, and feel you were there. 

And so without thinking, you picked up a book and started to read it to her. And you could feel her relax, let her guard down. A rare occasion she would truly let herself be chill. 

The first time Cass got sick while living under your roof, her first instinct was to hide and lick her wounds all by herself. It was to lie on the floor and hope it would pass fast. It was-

The second time she felt under the weather, she immediately went to you. It was early in the morning. And it’s only thanks to Bruce’s amazing reflexes that Cass didn’t throw up all over you two, as he pulled you away from her just in time...To then take care of changing the sheets, while you held your daughter’s hair as she threw up in the master’s bathroom’s toilet. 

And then Bruce went downstairs to take a “barf-bowl”, the one actually, that her mom used to take for him...ah. He always used that one for all the kids. Call it nostalgia. 

The second time Cass got sick while under your care, she didn’t hide. She wasn’t dreading it, even as she got even sicker than the first time. No. 

No because now, she knew she’d always find you so you could take care of her. Ah, and Dick, Jason and Tim gave her many tricks to fake being sick and have you all for herself...

DUKE

Duke was older than any of your kids were when he started to live at the Manor. He was already in his teens. He wasn't a tiny bean like the rest of them, when he came in your family...

And yet. Yet the first time he fell sick, you babied the hell out of him. 

So what if he was sixteen ? Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have all the care a child should have when he wasn’t feeling well. 

And so you were ready to take care of him, when Alfred came to you this morning to tell you “Master Duke” wasn’t feeling well. 

However, when you got to his room and indeed saw he was feverish, he refused to talk to you and just wanted to be alone. 

And then it hits you. 

Duke was sixteen. 

He wasn’t a lost little eight years old boy who had just lost his parents, or never even had parents. He wasn’t a child in dear need of love and cuddles.  

He was sixteen. 

And he wanted HIS mom. 

What happened to his parents was too fresh. 

And they weren’t dead...In a way, seeing them lose their mind with no chance of ever getting better was worst. 

Duke was sixteen. 

And there, sick, all he wanted was to have his mom’s care again.

Yes. Duke’s case was different than all your other children. Because his parents were still there. Because he was older. Because everything was so fresh, at the moment. 

In time, in the coming years, he would come to feel just like his siblings did. But right there, just mere few weeks after he moved to the manor, and mere few days after Bruce helped him find his parents...

Duke was homesick. 

He missed his dad. But he missed his mom even more. Probably for the same reason that your kids loved to have you around so much, when they were sick...

There was no doubt in your mind that Duke’s mom was amazing at taking care of him when he felt ill. She probably had her own tricks, to make him feel better. Tricks that you did not know...And so you asked. 

You simply asked. 

Because you wanted to make him feel better. You wanted to be there for him, even if right now, he didn’t want you around. 

If he truly wanted to be left alone, you’d leave some medicine and leave him be. But your guts were telling you he was just sad, and the sad was translated into him pretending he wanted to be alone. 

Your guts were right. 

Duke wanted his mom. Yes. But he also didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, right now...He just didn’t want to hurt your feelings. He knew how motherly you could be.  He didn’t want to project his mother on you. He-

“What do you need ?”

You asked, and the answer came to his mind instantly. He spoke before even realizing he was doing it : 

“My mom used to make a perfect drink of warm water, honey, ginger and lemon.”  

And as you tried to recreate his mom’s drink, never quite getting the measurements right (you could see on his face it wasn’t like his mother’s), Duke slowly felt better. 

Because...Because yes. He missed his mom. And the way she took care of him. Especially on sick days. But...It wasn't everywhere that one could find someone who cared so much, that they were willing to spend their entire day trying to get a drink right, right ? 

And when Bruce came home, and asked him if he was “alright champ ?”, Duke realized one thing... 

Yes. He wanted his parents. Yes, he missed them like hell. Yes, his sick days would never be the same...

But he wasn’t alone. As Bruce joined in trying to make the perfect drink of “warm water, honey, ginger and lemon”, Duke came to the realization that his situation wasn’t as desperate as he thought, this morning, when he woke up feeling under the weather, and without his mom to take care of him. 

Because you were still there. And were planning on staying there for a very long time. Of course, you could never replace his mom. Just like you never replaced Dick’s, or Damian’s...You just, became another mom to them. 

And Duke...That first day of being sick in Wayne Manor ? He felt like he was finally willing to let you become his second mom. To let Bruce become a father figure. To have this found family, in this tough times...

Sick days were never the same than when he was a little kid and still had his parents around. 

Duke was sixteen. Growing up wasn’t easy, especially after what he went through. And sick days would never be the same...But it didn’t mean they wouldn’t be nice, as he slowly let you and Bruce, and his newfound siblings, take care of him. 

Yes. To have this found family in this tough times was quite a joy. 

DAMIAN

To the surprise of many, Damian actually didn’t resist too much being taken care of when he first got sick under your roof. 

Damian actually loved being sick, because it meant snuggles time with you, safe and warm under a blanket on the couch, watching his favorite movies. It meant your soothing fingers running in his hair, making him feel peaceful and relaxed. 

It also meant that he’d have you all for himself. 

With five siblings (with a sixth one on the way), it wasn’t always the easiest thing ever, to get his mom only for himself. Yes. He loved to be sick, and babied by you. 

The first time he got a bad fever, a few months after he arrived at the Manor, he dreaded falling ill because...

Well. Because he was raised in the League of Assassins. And being sick, no matter how much, was not considered reason enough to not train. To not do what his grandfather told him to do. 

He used to work through the sickness. Even if he felt like passing out (and he did, a few times, which earned him hours from his sleeping time taken away...). 

So Damian hated being sick. 

Until. Until he became ill for the first time when living with you. 

By that time, you and Bruce had learned how to manage a sick child. And although Bruce still felt physically ill too whenever his children were, he managed nowadays to be somewhat ok and take care of them without wincing. 

It happened not long after Damian started to call you “mom”. He fell asleep while you guys were watching a movie and...it’s what instantly told you something was wrong. 

No matter how bad a movie would be, Damian would NEVER fall asleep in the middle of it. 

Ah, and sure enough, as you checked his temperature you realized he had a bad fever. And so you carried him to his room, tucking him into bed. 

He woke up as you were doing that, and looked at you, utterly surprised. What was going on ? 

“Get some rest buddy, you’ll feel better soon.” 

You said, smiling. And at first, Damian didn’t understand. He had been so conditioned in ignoring his own well being, that he didn't realize something was wrong with him. But then, you laid a hand on his forehead, and said : 

“Ah it doesn’t seem like it’s such a big sickness, I’ll go get you some medicinal tea and...What do you want to eat ? If you’re hungry ? Maybe you’re not, sometimes when I’m sick I just don’t wanna eat anything.”

Sick ? Was he...Sick ? Yes. He was. But it was so mild, that he didn’t even think he needed to rest. Or...Didn’t he ? He was just so used to still work even when sick. 

“What-What about school ?” 

He asked, and he was surprised his voice sounded so weak and tired. Was he always feeling like that when sick ? Yes. But...Something was different. 

And then it hit him. 

“I think it’s ok if you skip a few days’ buddy.”

The difference was that, when he was sick while amongst the League of Assassins, he was always terrified that his grandfather got tired of him and send him hitmen (it happened a lot before, while he was sleeping for example, and it always happened to test him, test if he was ready, and willing to kill and ask questions after). That he didn’t find him useful enough. 

While here, with you, he felt safe. He felt loved. He felt warm. 

And so his body wasn’t in a “fight or flight” state. He was just...sick. As any normal kid would be. 

When with the Al’Ghul, he somehow managed to convince himself to keep going, to work through the pain. And oh, it’s wonders, what the brain can do when you really want to. 

But here. Here he didn’t have to act tough. To keep walking or he’d end up dead. Here. Here he was safe. And loved. 

So he felt the sickness, the fever. He felt it’s true effect. 

“What do sick people eat ?” 

He asked, and at first you didn’t think much of it. You started to tell him Dick loved chicken noodle soup while Tim preferred saltines. Cass would never eat much, neither would Jason, but they’d always say yes to some flat sodas. 

He seemed unsure of what he wanted, so you asked him a simple question : 

“What do you usually eat, when you’re sick ?” 

It was such an innocent question. But it made him almost cry. 

Usually ? 

Usually...

“Well...”

He hesitates, and you sense there’s more to things than you originally thought. Finally, after looking at your encouraging smile, he says : 

“When I was sick before, I still had to train. And then they’d tell me I’m weak.” 

In one sentence, you understand everything. And you could punch yourself for ever thinking that he got taken care of when sick. And then the next second, you hold him tight in your arms, and once again, Damian is surprised. 

But pleased. He had been touched starve most of his life, this was nice. 

“My poor baby...”

He didn’t even complain you called him a baby, and let you hug him. And then...Then you spend time with him, trying to find the perfect ritual to make him feel better while he was sick. 

You had such rituals with everyone. Formed on the day they first got sick. Damian needed his own thing too...

Thus was created the “couch nest”. 

It involved covering the living room’s couch with at LEAST one quilt, then Damian would bring the pillows (and maybe some stuffs animals, or even real ones...Titus often sneaked in) from his bed, and you would tuck him in with one or two more quilts. 

He would then spend the rest of the time watching TV and movies with you. Or with his siblings. Or his dad. 

And it was so comforting, to be wrapped up like that. Almost like laying in a hug. It made him feel like he was perpetually held by you. 

Damian used to hate being sick. Because he hated being weak. 

But this changed. Just like he changed. Thanks to his family. Thanks to you. 

Now, just like Tim, he almost loved, being sick...

************

“This sort of reminds me of that time Dick got his first fever...”

You were thinking about all those terrible, yet sweet days, of your children being sick, as you walked up the stairs to your house, a hand tightly weaved around your husband’s. 

Bruce was holding a sleeping Thomas in one of his arm (the boy was so small he could even fit in one of his hand, really), and felt relaxed. Here. With his son, and his wife, the love of his life. And with the knowledge than when you’d push the door to your house open you’d-

“Father ! Mom ! How is he !?” 

Both you and Bruce quickly put a finger on your lips, and Damian throws his hands on his mouth, regretting his scream. But he was just so worried. 

He couldn’t come with you to the doctor’s office as he had school (plus you were pretty sure he would’ve been 100 times worst than Bruce, trying to stop Leslie by any means necessary), and had been thinking about his little brother’s first shot all day. 

Damian, just like his dad, wasn’t very fond of shots. He hated that his brother (wether the youngest one, or one of the older one, really) had to go through this. 

It was always silly to you, how both Bruce and Damian, who’ve been through much worst than small little shots, hated those so much...Silly, and very cute. 

Damian was looking critically at his brother, checking him silently for any signs of distress, for any “mistakes” Doctor Thompkins would’ve done, and seemed satisfied that the boy was fast asleep in his dad’s arm.

And Bruce...Bruce was smiling. 

He felt so relaxed. And happy.

When you pushed that door, it opened on Damian rushing to the two of you, worried about his little brother. But it also opened on Alfred, who baked some comforting food, and brewed some tea for you, knowing how hard on you this sort of things could be (and yet how you insisted to take your kids to the doctor yourself, and not let Alfred do it, because you wanted to be there for them). 

It opened on Cass smiling, and ruffling Damian’s hair as to reassure him. 

It opened on Tim, who took a small break from his college study to come down and spend some times with his siblings, ready to relax in front of a movie (it was family movie night !). 

It opened on Duke, who’s hands were full of DVDs, and who was excited to try to convince y’all to watch “Ninja and Pirates 6″, or something of the like. 

It opened on Jason, who was smiling in such a way that no one would ever know all the things he went through. And it made Bruce feel all nice and warm inside...even as the little shit mimicked him having to take a shot. Squirming and looking as if he was about to faint. And ah, he hated to admit it, but his boy was impersonating him really well. 

And it opened on Dick. His first kid. The one that, one day when getting sick, was who made Bruce realize what it truly meant to be a dad. The one who knew the best how much he hated  seeing any of his children sick, or getting shots. 

On Dick, who was laughing really hard at Jason’s impersonation, and giving him feedbacks about what to improve to make it even better. 

The door opened on his family. 

And as the ruckus surrounding him woke Thomas, as Damian yelled at Jason and Dick for being so loud, and as Bruce’s eyes fell on you, while you looked at your little tribe with love in your eyes...

Bruce felt relaxed. And so, so, oh so happy. 

________________________________________________

This is yet another one of those stories I’ve been posting a lot lately, that do not take me very long to write and in which I don’t put that much effort, but that I really enjoy writing nonetheless ^^. And I hope you enjoyed reading it :), I’m nervous actually this isn’t up to your standards hahaha...Yes, hope you still liked it. Don’t hesitate to leave a little feedback etc etc ^^. Thanks in advance ! 

See you soon with something much longer and on which I spend a lot of time working ;).