#and suddenly he's all tender and trying really hard not to carve open his first crush in years and years

[candylungs]

please post will smut im begging on my knees

Listen, one of us has got to get up. We can't both be begging in the dirt for Will smut. Rise up and take this naked depressed clown with you.

Notes: Congrats to Will for paying for bathwater before it became cool. This is barely smut. But I felt possessed writing it so here, take our cowboy clown enjoying a bath and then some brief tender non con.

Paying for leftovers was something Will seldom did. Especially not leftover water. The creek rushed frigid and fast and felt severe against his flesh. He liked that it made him cold straight to the bone. Numbed his skin enough that he could pretend that's all there was.

When he hurried to dry, pulling on clothes with his skin still half-wet, he felt like one of those carnival skeletons left askew in moldering suits. Mags hadn't liked them. She'd shrieked, almost delighted to be so alive and scared, and clung to her father's legs to be picked up and carried away. But Will had stayed. He had stared at them for a long while and tenderly shook the bare-knuckled hand when one of the performers waved it toward him. With much fuss, Mags had refused to be near him till he'd scrubbed his hands in a trough on the way home, their fathers laughing to see him so cowed.

Looking back, he had fancied them siblings of the Tulliver style. Mags was certainly so spirited. But the older Will got, the more he realized he had always been the hunchback. Destined to walk the forest, forgotten for shinier sights.

But then, what did that make you, always looking back to smile his way? And what could he make of himself, shuffling through the back of the Inn to pay to soak in a tepid tub of leftover bath water?

Will did not look at Amon beyond the smooth hand that snatched his coin, nor did he return the well wishes to have a good evening. He was pathetic. Desperate. So possessive of your being that even your leftover filth excited his passions.

He was erect and alone in the cloudy water you'd left just moments ago. Will had trailed near the wooden box that served for a bath house and had to keep adjusting his pants as he snuck close enough to hear the water splash. To hear the uneven tone of your humming.

What he would give to bathe with you. Would you let him smooth the pads of his fingers against your knuckles, he wondered. Would you let his flesh worry against them like stones. Could he hope to trail his fingers firm against the trail of bone that would lead him up, up, up to your pretty smile and kind eyes.

Isolated enough that he didn't worry about being disturbed, Will began to twist his cock, heart thrumming and face deeply flushed beneath the remaining smears of paint clinging to his cheeks and chin.

"That's perfect," he muttered as the slap of water led him to imagine your irises dissipating in the lapping of your pupils, so large, like moons, luring him closer. They would be easier to hold. The kind of eyes that were hungry and eager to swallow him whole.

Will would kiss you, pressing into your shoulders, tracing the hard circle of your bone as he licked your teeth. And maybe you would touch him too.

Your hands would find his elbows before trailing lower. "Is this okay," you would whisper against his cracked lips, because you were always considerate of him. Ever since he pulled a knife your first meeting.

The tickle of your nails against the hair of his chest and stomach almost felt real as he came, gripping his cock with both hands, whining through his release. It came too soon. He wanted to stay there with you longer. To linger in the remains of the busy day you washed away.

But he suddenly couldn't bear to be sitting naked in the middle of town anymore. Will hated to be in town even shielded in layers of dust and grease paint and the bleak night. His cravat choked him in his haste to tie it. He fumbled and missed a middle button of a once-smooth vest, no so worn that the swirling patterns were abrasive against his chapped fingers.

A few hours of waiting, well away from the dusty streets, calmed him enough to return. He loved to watch you sleep. Sometimes you slept so deeply he felt confident enough to lift your night gown and gaze between your legs. And then he couldn't help himself. He had to touch. He had to heat your skin against his until the blaze overwhelmed him to spill seed over your back.

Crouched at the foot of your bed, he felt this would be one of those nights. You were on your stomach, one leg hitched high, with your arms soft around your pillow. Will wanted to crawl under you and place himself in the circle of your arms. You could rot there together.

Or more novel, perhaps wake together day after day. And you would want to do that with him. Wake with him in your arms. Will shivered at that, his hands grazing up your thighs and forcing your nightgown up too.

"So warm," he quivered, "so smooth."

By the time you woke, mind and body beginning to wriggle into awareness, he'd already aimed his seed to paint your spine.

"That was wonderful," he couldn't help but say. One day he would do the same to your clavicle. To the space between your shoulders. Between your teeth. Maybe inside of you, between your thighs, the way everyone did.

He thought your head raised before he could get out the window. But Will buried the want to wait and meet your eyes. Scared that he wouldn't like the expression there.

Hope was something Will seldom did, but you still waved at him the next day and approached with a well-loved book of poems. Even when you both knew. He hoped you knew.

[merakime]

Hi, I've been reading your work for a while and I think it's lovely. I'm a bit shy and embarrassed to make requests, but I really like your writting.

If it's not too much to ask, I could request Qanipalaat and his Operator!S/O giving each other gifts as a courtship, but being from different cultures, neither understand what each other's gifts mean, until suddenly it all clicks and they feel kind of silly that they didn't understand it before.

＃AS PER CUSTOM ! ft. qanipalaat

───── a / n: anon, oh my god …. ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) thank you so much !! i do not bite unless provoked i prommy … and this request is so so adorable i had to get to it FAST !! i hope i can do this justice … the cultural details i kept a little vague for your imagination, but i based qanipalaat’s side off of his promotion record mostly! ( the record is not a necessary read, but it might help understand a certain aspect better! )

no cw — word count: 742 — fluff !!

at first, you didn’t think too much of it. qanipalaat arrived at rhodes island with a bunch of gifts for everyone – charms and amulets, instruments and botanical specimens native to sami. you adored the instrument he had given you so excitedly, and decided to share with him some of your own culture. you can’t forget his expression when you handed him your gift – he looked a sort of starstruck.

his enthusiasm is almost contagious – he begins to bring in more gifts for everyone, and you are always overjoyed to give something back. his returns, to you, are even more anticipated – you wonder.. what has he got for you this time? you must prepare a gift yourself before he returns. you begin to dive deep into your research, trying to find more ways to convey your appreciation with your handicrafts! 

qanipalaat is fond of the little gifts you give him, he made space on a shelf to flaunt them! he doesn’t know exactly what they mean, but it’s the feeling that matters to him – he knows his culture is something deeply important to him, and he likes sharing this love with the people who helped his tribe. his culture, through his gifts, are pieces of him he entrusts to you – is it a similar sentiment to you? he wonders.

it becomes a little tradition of yours – though his gift-giving began to let up for the others overtime (after a certain box incident), for you he always had something when he came back from home. and you always make sure to make something for him, or bring something from back home.

one day he came back with a beautiful box – you braced yourself, the intricate carvings and linings making an unpleasant memory resurface.. but there was no smell coming from the box, other than a cold, fresh mist. a scent somewhat similar to qanipalaat himself, you noted. either way, you felt relief. 

“i brought you something!”, qanipalaat chimes, letting himself into your room.

a familiar tenderness washed over you with his voice. with time, it became one of your favorite things to hear. some kind of pavlov maneuver, you thought – that sentence alone, paired with his toothy grin and glimmering eyes, was more exciting than the gift itself. you missed him, truly.

behind your back, you squeeze the little craft you’ve made for him. 

“what is it?”, when you ask, it’s hard to keep your voice truly even. there’s that contagious excitement of his – it makes your throat waver. you find your eyes lingering on the intricate details of the box – you’ve never seen something like this, but you recognized the motifs and patterns in the carvings from other gifts he had given you.

the small box was sealed with a little plate of metal – he pushed it aside and opened the chest, and your mouth almost fell open with it. it looked like something much more valorous than all of his previous gifts. the amulet laid comfortably in a swab of fur, shiny silver sparkling in the light, looking freshly-faceted. 

you were smitten. you suppose that that was the final blow.

to everyone it was not a surprise when you two became official. the suspicion was already present – the reveal wasn’t particularly shocking. people were already used to your antics. that has its advantages – that means nothing much (in terms of treatment, at least) would change toward you two, so you could go about your routine in peace. your gift giving tradition persists.

though at one point, when you are revisiting your gifts – you notice something on the roof of the amulet box. you were so mesmerized by the silver glow that you didn’t notice the light inscription above said object – you recognized these letters, yes, it was sami script. you couldn’t read it, but now you were truly curious – why did you never ask what the gifts meant? silly you! in your excitement, it slipped your mind.. you begin to notice more details – there are some recurring words across the gifts. you have to ask him, now.

when you catch him again and you haul the question at him – that was the most flustered that you’ve seen qanipalaat. really, usually he was quick to bounce back, but your question had him entirely at loss. when he began to translate the words upon the gifts, many words of adoration, love and kind blessings, you feel like your face was lit aflame. you couldn’t respond when he looked back at you for a response, words stuck in your throat.

───── ending note: i hope you enjoyed this !! i tried my best in trying to make the experience a little more neutral on the readers part to allow more space to insert your own culture, i hope i succeeded ... ( ˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵ ) during production tumblr kept moving my "keep reading" tab and i almost ragequit twice but i powered through for qanipalaat.........

[prouvaireafterdark]

Home - 3x10 Coda

Here’s the tender couch sex I promised! 😘

Also on AO3!

***

“I’m home.”

Alex feels those words in his chest the moment Michael says them, tightening around his heart like a warm embrace. For a moment he thinks he’s going to cry, his eyes beginning to prick with unshed tears, but the sudden touch of Michael’s hand against his neck, the gentle, fleeting brush of his thumb along his cheek ground him in the moment.

His eyes flutter open once more to meet Michael’s gaze. The love he sees reflected back at him is overwhelming in its own right, but Alex catches understanding there too, as if for once Michael knows exactly what he’s feeling, how much those words mean to him. His grip on Michael’s thigh tightens involuntarily at the emotion welling up inside him, but Michael gives him barely a second to dwell on it before he leans in and closes the space between them.

This feels different too, Alex thinks as Michael kisses him, each press of his lips firm and unhurried. He’d grown used to stolen moments and frantic kisses, the two of them taking what they needed from each other with an almost violent fervor, never knowing when—or if—they would get the chance to be together again. 

But there’s no urgency to Michael’s kisses now, no clock ticking down in Alex’s head when Michael knocks their noses together as he finds a new angle. It’s intoxicating—this idea that neither of them is going anywhere, that they have all the time in the world—and Alex sinks into that blissful feeling, his world narrowing to all the places Michael is touching him. 

Alex revels in the softness of Michael’s lips against his mouth and the firm pressure of his fingers curling around the back of his neck. His hand flies up from Michael’s thigh to grip at his bicep, urging him closer, and Michael deepens the kiss, the tip of his tongue teasing Alex’s bottom lip. Alex opens for him eagerly, welcoming everything Michael is offering until they’re both dizzy with it. 

They keep their eyes closed as they break the kiss to catch their breath, neither one of them willing to come fully out of the moment they’re sharing.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you say that,” Alex murmurs, the words flowing out of him before he even gives himself permission to speak. 

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Michael sighs in response, his fingers squeezing lightly at the back of Alex’s neck as he tips his head forward to bring their brows together.

It hurts Alex to hear the guilt edging into Michael’s voice and he shakes his head, opening his eyes as he pulls back just enough to get a look at him. 

“Don’t be,” Alex tells him, reaching up to cup Michael’s cheek. “You needed time. We both did.”

“Still,” he confesses, tilting his head into Alex’s touch. “I wish I didn’t waste so much time.”

Alex swallows roughly before he reminds him, “We have the rest of our lives. Isn’t that enough?”

Michael’s eyes turn glassy as he nods, the corners of his lip twitching upward in a fond smile as he stares back at Alex like he’s the center of his universe. 

“Yeah,” Michael whispers, shifting his head to press a tender kiss to Alex’s palm.

Alex leans in to kiss him properly, close-mouthed and gentle. He stays in Michael’s space when he pulls back and takes a deep, shaky breath before he says three words he’s been waiting over a decade to say.

“I love you,” Alex tells him, stroking his thumb tenderly over Michael’s cheekbone.  

The smile Michael gives him is nothing short of radiant as he says, “I know,” and brushes his nose playfully against Alex’s.

It’s somehow exactly and yet not at all what Alex is expecting to hear, and a laugh bursts forth from deep within his chest, happy tears leaking from his eyes as he asks, incredulously, “Did you just ‘Han Solo’ me?” 

“Maybe,” Michael laughs, and Alex can feel his smile as Michael leans forward to press one soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then another. “But I love you too, Alex,” he adds seriously as he pulls away to wipe at the tears that have escaped down his cheeks. “I’ve always loved you.”

Alex closes his eyes as he smiles and lets those words sink in, fairly certain his heart has never felt so full.

“And if you’ll let me,” Michael continues after a beat, his voice smooth as bourbon as he slides his fingers up and into Alex’s hair, “I’d really like to show you how much.”

Alex takes Michael’s meaning immediately and his eyes flash open to look at him. They’ve been very intentionally taking things slow, not wanting to ruin this fresh start they’ve carved for themselves by falling into the old, toxic patterns of their youth, but it feels like they’ve reached a milestone in more ways than one today and Alex is more than ready to take the next step if that’s what Michael wants.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, quirking his head to the side with a coy smile on his lips even as his heart begins to race. 

“Mhmm,” Michael hums, his eyes dropping suggestively down to Alex’s mouth.

“And how do you intend to do that?” Alex asks, a little breathless now as the tension continues to mount between them.

Michael smiles before he leans in to kiss him again, harder this time, bringing back a bit of that fire Alex has grown so used to. He can feel it catch low in his belly, burning hotter with every flick of Michael’s tongue into his mouth, every playful tug on the ends of his hair, until it feels as if he’s being consumed, burned from the inside out. He needs more, needs everything, and it isn’t much longer that Alex reaches for the edge of Michael’s flannel to push it off his shoulders. 

Michael gets the picture pretty quickly and disentangles his arms from Alex’s neck to help him, breaking the kiss just long enough to hastily toss it and his tank top somewhere across the room before he reaches for the hem of Alex’s sweater to do the same. Alex lifts his arms for him and soon enough they’re both shirtless and panting, their hands seeking whatever bare skin they can reach. 

Alex takes Michael by the sides of his face and kisses him again, his fingers sinking into his soft curls. He slowly starts to lean back, pulling Michael with him until they’re both lying on the couch, Alex’s head cushioned by a pillow against the armrest and Michael cradled between his spread thighs.

His bare skin feels like heaven against his chest and Alex groans at the friction on his rapidly hardening cock as Michael settles on top of him and rolls his hips forward. He slides his hands into the back pockets of Michael’s jeans and encourages him to do it again, grateful he’d thought to take his leg off and change into something more comfortable when Michael mixed their drinks earlier.

Michael licks boldly into Alex’s mouth as their hard cocks grind together through the fabric of their pants, kissing him until the pressure inside him builds so much that Alex starts to feel like he’s about to pop like warm champagne if Michael doesn’t stop teasing him.

“Michael,” he gasps between kisses, his voice trembling and urgent, and Michael stops for just a moment, their foreheads touching as they catch their breath.

“I know,” Michael pants, as if he too can feel the desperate, cloying need that has Alex in its grip. “Wanna move this to your bedroom?” 

Alex shakes his head and draws his left leg higher up Michael’s side, keeping him right where he is. “If you make me move from this spot, I’ll never forgive you.”

Michael huffs a laugh against his mouth. “Well,” he says, “wouldn’t be the first time I fucked you on a couch.” 

Alex groans and sinks his teeth into Michael’s plush bottom lip, his cock throbbing in his sweats. His skin feels tight and hot all over just thinking about it—Michael working him open right here and sliding inside him, taking him apart more thoroughly than anyone else could ever hope to.

“Is your lube in that nightstand?” Michael asks suddenly, interrupting Alex’s thoughts as he jerks his head toward his open bedroom door, where Alex knows without looking that Michael can see the lefthand side of his bed.

“Yeah,” Alex nods. “Top drawer. Condoms are in there too.”

The hand in Alex’s hair disappears as Michael reaches out and pulls the top drawer of Alex’s nightstand open with his telekinesis. It takes a second of concentration, like Michael is searching for the right shapes with his mind, before a bottle of lube and a box of condoms levitate out of the open drawer, into the living room, and onto the coffee table just within reach.

Alex laughs, leaning his head back against the armrest of the couch. 

“What?” Michael laughs back. “Did you want me to get up?”

“No,” Alex replies, still smiling as he tightens his legs around his waist. “I like you right where you are.”

Michael swoops in to give him a short, wet kiss on the lips before he starts charting a course down the side of his neck, pausing to linger over a sensitive spot on his way down the column of his throat. 

“You trying to mark me up?” Alex asks after a soft moan escapes him, his fingers tightening in Michael’s hair.

“Mhmm,” Michael confirms shamelessly as he nips his skin between his teeth.  “You never let me when we were kids.”

“No, I didn’t,” Alex agrees. He’d always wanted Michael to, but, well— “I was always too worried my dad would see.” 

“You want me to stop?” Michael asks, lifting his head to look at him, his curls hanging adorably over his eyes.

“No, go ahead,” Alex encourages him, stretching his head back to expose his neck like an offering, a soft, indulgent smile on his lips. “Feels good.”

Michael returns to his work with a smile Alex can feel against his skin. He licks and bites at Alex’s throat in turns, and Alex lets himself enjoy the feeling of it—the way it hurts, just a little, just enough for him to know he’ll wake up tomorrow morning with a mark Michael left him darkening his skin. It sends a thrill down his spine, makes him gasp as Michael sinks his teeth in just a little bit harder before he soothes the bite with his tongue.

That spot on Alex’s throat is pleasantly sore by the time Michael slides down the length of his chest, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses everywhere he can reach as he curls his fingers into the waistband of Alex’s sweats. He pulls them smoothly down Alex’s thighs along with his underwear, shoving them off the side of the couch and onto the floor. 

Michael sits up to look appreciatively down at him then, eyes dark with want, and Alex can’t help but feel exposed, suddenly very aware of the way his hard cock is leaking against his hip and the wet trail Michael’s tongue left behind on his stomach still shines in the lamplight.

“You gonna keep staring at me all night?” Alex asks, reaching down to wrap his fingers around his cock. Michael tracks the movement hungrily and Alex slowly strokes himself from root to tip, putting on a show as he continues, “Or did you want to do something about this?”

The movement pushes a bead of precome out of his slit and heat spikes through him, anticipation curling low in his gut as he watches Michael lick his lips when it dribbles down his shaft. 

It doesn’t take much more encouragement than that. Michael lays his hands on Alex’s thighs, spreading them even further as he lowers his mouth to where Alex is stroking himself. He grunts as he flicks his tongue over the weeping head of Alex’s cock, his eyes fluttering closed as he swallows.

“Fuck, I’ve missed the way you taste,” Michael murmurs before he takes the head fully into his mouth and softly starts to suck.

It’s barely a moment before Michael tries to take him deeper, and Alex lets his hand slip all the way down to the base of his cock to let him, his head lolling back against the armrest as he moans long and deep. The warm, sucking heat of Michael’s mouth is almost too much and Alex is so distracted he doesn’t notice Michael has reached for the bottle of lube on the coffee table until he hears the distinctive sound of its cap snapping open. 

He feels Michael’s palm pushing against his left thigh next, nudging him to open his legs wider. Alex rests his foot on the edge of the coffee table as he lets Michael gently settle his residual limb over his shoulder to give him plenty of room. 

“Ready?” Michael asks as he pulls off of Alex’s cock, his lips red and slightly swollen. Alex wants to kiss him so badly, but he nods instead, not quite trusting his voice.

Michael’s fingers are slick when he rubs them over his hole, massaging over it a few times before he presses one inside. His other palm curls possessively around Alex’s right thigh and Alex releases his own cock to reach for it, threading their fingers together as Michael starts to lazily fuck him with one finger and then two.

He gasps when Michael grazes his prostate, his hips twitching involuntarily and forcing Michael’s fingers deeper inside of him. He can feel a smug smile spread across Michael’s mouth where he’s dropping soft, wet kisses on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“There, huh?” Michael asks, as if he doesn’t know, as if he hasn’t spent hours—days, even—of his life taking Alex apart like this. He drags his fingers over that spot again, a little harder this time, drawing a moan from deep within Alex’s chest as pleasure lights up his spine. “That feel good, baby?”

“So good,” Alex pants, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “Don’t stop.”

“Think I could make you come like this?” Michael asks, voice low and rough as gravel. “Nothing but my fingers inside you?”

“You could try,” Alex teases, shooting Michael a grin of his own.

Michael’s eyes darken as he looks up at him between his thighs and Alex wonders briefly if he’ll take him up on the challenge. 

“Maybe another time,” he says at last, withdrawing his fingers and pressing back in with a third, fucking Alex open even further. “I’d rather feel you come on my dick tonight.”

Jesus Christ, Alex thinks, groaning at Michael’s words as much as the sudden stretch of his hole around his fingers. He nearly sees stars as Michael curls them toward his navel, sliding them back out again until only the tips are holding him open before he screws them back inside. Alex closes his eyes and surrenders himself to Michael’s ministrations until sweat starts to break out over his skin and his cock is a drooling mess against his belly.

“Michael,” Alex moans, his grip on Michael’s fingers tightening as his need to come grows sharp and insistent. His head feels heavy as he lifts it off the armrest to look down at Michael through the vee of his thighs.

“Hm?” Michael asks, eyes still caught where Alex can feel him spreading his fingers wider inside him, testing the stretch of his hole.

“Please,” Alex begs, reaching down to grab Michael’s arm with his free hand, his sweat-slick fingers slipping along the skin of his wrist. “I need you.”

Michael doesn’t keep him waiting after that. He presses a soft kiss to his inner thigh before he rises up on his knees and withdraws his fingers as gently as he can. Alex misses Michael’s warmth as he stands up to kick off his jeans, but he’s back in an instant, kneeling between Alex’s legs and rolling a condom onto his cock.

Michael leans over him then, holding himself up with one hand as he slicks his cock with the other, and seconds later Alex feels the blunt head of it nudging against his hole. Alex curses softly as his body opens up around it, and Michael gives him a minute to get used to the stretch once he’s seated, his arms shaking with the effort to stay still as he hovers above him. 

Alex nods when he’s ready, tightening his legs around Michael’s waist encouragingly, and Michael slowly starts to rock forward, the leather couch squeaking with every move he makes. He fucks Alex a little deeper with each thrust until it really starts to feel good, his thick cock brushing Alex’s prostate just enough to keep him wanting more. 

Fuck, he’s missed this—how full he feels with Michael’s cock splitting him open, the sweet sounds Michael makes as he loses himself in Alex’s body, music to his ears. It’s beautiful, the way Michael makes him feel—good and right in a way he’s never experienced with anyone else he’s ever been with. Alex isn’t sure if he believes in fate, in events that are fixed and immutable, but in this moment he finds it hard to believe that it was anything other than destiny that brought him back into Michael’s arms.

Michael’s soft curls tickle his chest as he leans down to press tender kisses over his heart, and Alex can’t help but thread his fingers through his hair, his eyes drifting closed as he gives himself over to the sensation. He thinks he hears a buzzing sound, distant and muted, but it’s quickly drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the low moan he makes as Michael drives his hips forward again, and Alex strikes it from his mind, his whole world narrowing to the hot drag of Michael’s cock in and out of him and the subtle taste of himself he catches on his tongue as he tugs him blindly back up for a kiss. 

Michael can only maintain the measured, even pace he’s set for so long, his thrusts soon growing more rough and uncoordinated. Alex knows he must be close when he takes hold of Alex’s thighs suddenly and pushes his legs up higher, nearly bending him in half before he slips his right hand between their bodies and wraps it around Alex’s cock. 

The change in angle and steady friction on his cock have Alex keening and on the edge in seconds, his hands scrambling for purchase on any part of Michael he can reach. The needy, whimpering moans Michael rips from his chest with every roll of his hips get higher and higher, the pleasure mounting inside him until it finally, finally crests, his balls drawing up tight as he comes, jerking messily in Michael’s grip.

“That’s it, baby,” Michael says, fucking him through it with deep thrusts and a firm hand on his cock.  “Just like that.”

Alex is nearing the point of overstimulation, his thighs trembling on either side of Michael’s hips, by the time Michael shoves his cock as deep inside of him as he can get and shudders as he comes, his face buried in the crook of Alex’s neck as he rides out his orgasm. 

“Fuck,” Michael groans, going totally boneless as he collapses onto Alex’s chest seconds later. Alex takes his weight happily and runs his fingers through his curls. “You think it’s ever gonna stop feeling this good?”

Alex buries the soft laugh that bubbles from his chest into Michael’s curls. “No way,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll still be blowing my mind when we’re eighty.”

“Eighty, huh?” Michael asks, a playful smile as he lifts his head up to look at Alex’s face. “You gonna keep me around that long?”

“Mhmm,” Alex hums without hesitation, pressing a kiss to Michael’s flushed forehead. “I told you: I like you right where you are.”

[asweetprologue]

8 for geraskier, pls?

oh yeah i’m soft for this shit

8. Hands brushing unexpectedly

Jaskier knows Geralt isn’t an affectionate person.

It was obvious from... well, the instant they met. The first time Geralt had touched him, it had been in violence. Things have obviously dramatically improved since then, but Jaskier knows better than to expect a friendly clap on the shoulder or a knee knocking his under the table. He knows, based on the smattering of tales about his youth, that soft touches were not encouraged amongst young witchers. So while he thinks - thinks - that Geralt considers him a friend at this point, he doesn’t expect any kind of physical evidence of this.

Which makes the touching all the more incomprehensible.

The first time it happens, he knows it's an accident. With anyone else, he never would have even registered it, but he’s developed a kind of background itch for Geralt’s skin on his that makes him hyper aware of such things. After all, though he tries to give Geralt space, they’ve touched before. Jaskier is an affectionate person, and he can’t keep himself from occasionally reaching out. But Geralt rarely touches him back, if ever. Geralt’s trade lies in mastery of his own body, and it obeys him with utter precision. So when their hands brush one night as Geralt hands him an ale, Jaskier jerks hard in place, nearly spilling it on both of them.

It’s the barest of touches, just the tip of Geralt’s first finger sliding along the bottom of Jaskier’s hand as he passes the drink. They’re both a little drunk, Jaskier moreso, and for a moment he thinks maybe it was his fault somehow. That he’d shifted or moved his hand to bump them together. But as he watches Geralt’s eyebrows go up ever so slightly, his mouth opening on a short inhale, and - he looked surprised. Soft and flush with drink, he looks like he expected the soft touch even less than Jaskier.

It’s just a tiny bit of contact. It shouldn’t make Jaskier feel so flustered, but it does. It does.

After that it’s like there’s a crack in the dam, and the sudden touches become more frequent. Geralt passes him a small handful of coins, and his fingers scrape delicately against Jaskier’s palm, making him blush. He hands him Roach’s reins while he goes to talk to an alderman, and his fingers hover to brush over Jaskier’s as if to ensure that he’s really holding firm. When Jaskier trips over a dip in the road, Geralt’s hand snaps out to snag his, the warm press of their palms making Jaskier sweat more than the afternoon sun could ever hope to.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s worried about misinterpreting, about overstepping Geralt’s boundaries. He’s still not sure if Geralt means to do any of it. It never seemed to be an issue before, but maybe they’ve just become comfortable enough around each other that Geralt doesn’t notice anymore when they brush up against each other. The man clearly hasn’t dealt much with affection in his life, and Jaskier doesn’t want to overwhelm him. Nor does he want to expose his own… feelings, by being too eager. So he tries to accept the casual touches as they are, and not read too much into the development. Not that it works.

Every touch still sends him reeling.

It comes to a head when they’re staying in White Orchard, coming off of a hunt. It’s a small town, but the tavern is big enough that Jaskier can make a bit of coin before they move on, so they’d decided to stay an extra few days. It’s an hour or so before the dinner rush, but he won’t be able to eat until after he plays, so Jaskier digs through Geralt’s pack for one of the crisp apples he keeps around for Roach. He takes out a knife as well and sits at the small table in their room at the inn to start carving it into slices. Geralt is sitting on the edge of the bed, and his eyes flicker briefly up from where he’s oiling his armor to track Jaskier’s movements.

Jaskier is chattering on about something, he isn’t even sure what, when he looks up again and sees Geralt’s eyes on him - on his hands. The knife is sliding through the base of the apple, and Jaskier is distracted, hot under the collar from Geralt’s sudden attention, and he doesn’t realize where the knife is in time to stop it. It slices neatly into the meat of his thumb, and the yellow skin of the apple is suddenly red with blood.

He curses, setting the knife and the apple aside. “Damn, there goes my dinner,” he mutters, using his good hand to search for a handkerchief or something else he can use to stem the flow. He’s holding his hand up away from the table, trying not to get more blood on anything else, when rough calloused fingers wrap around his wrist. Jaskier abandons his search, head jerking up to find Geralt much closer than he had been before. A clean looking cloth is pressed down over the cut, which Geralt is looking at with a small furrow between his brows. He’s kneeling on the floor at Jaskier’s knee, like a knight about to swear fealty, or, or--

Jaskier stops that train of thought in its tracks, but he can feel the heat crawling up his neck anyways.

“You should be more careful,” Geralt grumbles, leaning over to snag his potions bag. With the hand not holding the cloth in place, he pulls out a thin roll of gauze.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, aiming for haughty. It still comes out a little shaky. “Are you lecturing me right now on taking care of myself, witcher? Bit of a pot and kettle situation, wouldn’t you agree?”

Geralt huffs, giving him a look from beneath his eyelashes, which has no right to be as arresting as it is. “Can’t play if you chop off a finger,” he replies, removing the cloth and wiping it across the cut a few times. It’s not extraordinarily deep, just bleeding a lot, and it’s on the hand that he typically uses to hold the neck of his lute, so it shouldn’t be too much in the way. Geralt unwinds a bit of the gauze and slowly wraps it around Jaskier’s finger, his large hands exceedingly gentle on Jaskier’s.

“Of course,” Jaskier agrees faintly. “Wouldn’t want to burden you.”

Geralt hums, tying off the bandage. For a moment he just stays there, unmoving, cradling Jaskier’s palm in his hand. Jaskier feels warm all over, embarrassed and frazzled by the tender care. It’s not anything serious, Geralt has hardly even touched him, but it’s still overwhelming. Geralt’s fingers slip down, tracing over the back of his hand, intent in the motion. Jaskier feels a bit faint.

And then, just before he lets go, Geralt leans down and presses his lips just below the bandage. Jaskier thinks the damp exhale of breath against the fragile skin of his wrist might be the most intense thing he’s ever experienced.

And then Geralt is standing up, like nothing happened at all, and moving to put the bandage back in the pack. He’s across the room before Jaskier can regain his composure, opening the door and hesitating only briefly. He doesn’t meet Jaskier’s gaze as he says, “I’ll go get you something else to eat.” And then he’s gone, leaving Jaskier with an empty room, a bloody knife, and the lingering echo of warmth on his skin.

So maybe the touches were on purpose after all.

[sashi-ya]

Hi!! I just want to say that you're awesome and I love everything you write 💖 I would like to request a scenario with Yamato and female reader who has the same role as Hiyori, so reader is the daughter of Oden and Yamato son of Kaido... Normally they should be enemies but they are very attracted to each other. I hope this made sense 😇 with 14, 23, 45 from the spicy list and everything you want please! Thank you Sashi, take care! Sending you a hug ( ˘ ³˘)

Hi!! OMG of course!! This is my first time writing for him so I hope I get it right ♥ I love Yamato so much 🙈🙈🙈 I hope you enjoy this little (not so little) scenario darling!! Thank u for your cute words! ♥

NSFW ~ Yamato x F! Reader ~ Play That Melody For Me ~ [PART 1]

TW: HE/HIM pronouns used for Yamato (as it should be). Nipple play, oral sex, toys (strap on), face sitting, usage of alcohol, wet dreams.

WC: 1.9K

Tag list: @undercoverweeeb @mistyroselove @onepieceya (tagging you because you love Yamato :3)

There is a second part for this fic, read it here ♥

“My dear Tayu, Yamato, Son of Kaido is here” one of your helpers announces from behind the folding screen. The shadow of a tall man awaits you outside. “Son of Kaido, tch” you grunt, tightening the knot of your kimono strap around your waist...

You open the folds to appreciate your next “client”. There he is, long white hair, taller than anyone there, strong arms. You scan his whole body, from up and down. He smiles at you, yellow intense eyes fixed on yours.

“Please, come in” you tell him. He follows you inside. “Take a seat” you command. Yamato sits over a few cushions, crossing his legs. He ties his hair up in a ponytail, and when he does so, his clothes show a sideboob that it’s impossible for you to ignore.

“So, Mr. Yamato, what service would you like?” you ask him, trying to end this situation as soon as possible. The white haired man looks at you and smiles kindly. “Please, call me Oden”, he says.

You gasp and shut your eyes… Your blood boils. “Oden? Oden is my father and your bastard father killed him” you think and avoid shouting it by biting the inside of your mouth. Yamato notices your lack of words, and probably the fire in your eyes.

“Are you ok?” he asks. You shake your head, fighting between jumping and stabbing the man in front of you, or simply accepting his request. If you ever tell him the truth -especially to him-, Denjiro and you would have wasted almost twenty years and the plan to take down Kaido would be ruined.

“Ok, Oden... Tell me then, what’s the service?” you ask him again, choking back tears as you pronounce your dad’s name. He tilts his head and stands up. Yamato approaches you, brushing soft, slender fingers over your cheek. He lifts your chin up and stares into your soul for sure. “I don’t think you are ok right now; I will come back tomorrow” he says. You notice the gold shackles around his wrists and wonder why Kaido’s son has them.

You nod, out of words. You’d lie if you don’t find Yamato, not only intimidating, but also handsome as hell. The man that dares to act like your father leaves the room, but not before flashing you a sexy smile. His huge anatomy, then, disappears as he slides the paperlike door close.

Your legs turn weak, and you fall to the ground. Your knees hit the wooden floor under them, but it doesn’t hurt. Your heart does. “Why… Why me?” you say as warm tears run down your face.

Night comes, and you flop into bed, exhausted. You watch a bright half-moon shining on the dark blue sky of the night through the window. Sakura flowers falling like snow, dancing with the warm breeze of that summer, summer number nineteen… you only have to wait for the next summer… Mum's promise… Your eyelids fall and you slowly travel to the oneiric world.

Images of the despicable son of Kaido over you, his hands on your body. Cold metal feeling over your skin as his shackles rub your flesh. Your fingers tangled around white strands of hair. Your breathing accelerated.

You suddenly open your eyes. Panting, you only realized this was just a dream. “Just… a… dream…” you reassure yourself. Yet, your inner thighs feel wet. Your skin burns, your cheeks too. Heartbeats you can hear. Aroused.

Your fingers travel from your naked belly towards your underwear. You feel how wet that dream has made you. But quickly guilt hits you, hard. “What are you doing, (name)?” you say to yourself, taking your hand off your core. “He is your enemy, stop” ...

---

“Mrs. Oiran… good morning!” a little pink haired girl wakes you up. She greets you with a big smile, laughing as always. “My darling!!” you say and snatch the little bean into your arms. You hug her, you love the little girl. “(Name)! Someone sent you something today! Hahaha” she informs you. “Oh, really? What is it?” you ask. The little girl stands up and runs towards a box decorated with the finest rice paper and some flowers. “Here! Open it!” she says.

The box holds a note that says, “I want you to play the "Tsukihime" melody for me today”. Tears sprout from your eyes, blurring your vision. Inside there is a new Shamisen. And despite being brand new, it looks exactly the same as the one she used to play when she was a little girl. The one that your father, Oden, gifted to you. The one that got burned when his father burned the castle. You hated the man with burning passion. Why does he have to call himself like your dad, why did he have to give you that exact same shamisen as a present… Why from all the songs in the world, he had to choose your father’s favourite melody?... Why does he have to be so handsome?...

And the afternoon is here, and he is too. Again the shadow of your enemy. He is there, behind the paper folding screen, waiting for you… You look through your window, Kyoshiro -Denjiro- looks up to you from the entrance of the Okiya. His sleepy eyes beg for you to bear with it just a little longer. He knows how difficult this is for you, he really knows.

The voice of that man pulls you out from the unspoken connection you have with your friend and protector. You don’t turn around; you just move your head to your shoulder. You feel him approaching you. “Did you like my gift?” he asks, whispering softly near your ear. It’s insane how much his simple presence can make you weak, confused, aroused.

“I did, thank you my Sir” you lie. “Please, play that song for me” he asks. You turn around, looking up at his face. He looks at you, fixing once again his golden eyes on yours. The tension between your bodies is so strong, your skin burning.

You take your gaze off him, grab the instrument, and sit on your turquoise cushion. He does the same in front of you. Your skilled fingers start playing the cords, the melody from your childhood resonates all around the room. Yamato enjoys the notes of such beautiful song. “I wanted to hear this for so long… it is just amazing” he says, as if it was the first time, he was hearing the melody…

Soon, the melody stops. You wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. So you take the lead. “So.. Do you want me to play another song?” you ask. But he is lost in your body. Yamato approaches you; his soft thumb grazes your lip. You gasp, something feels fancier on your core. Yet, you take your head off to the side. He is your enemy, how are you supposed to be with the son of the man that killed your dad?... but your thoughts got interrupted…

Yamato grabbed your chin and aligned it with his mouth. Soft tender lips over yours, his tongue separating yours. You can’t resist, you don’t want to resist. You want him…

Gently, your back hits the cushion. Yamato straddling over you, white strands of hair falling on each side of your face. The sound of the cuffs he has on his wrists hitting the wooden floor around you.

Lustful sights on each other, your hands travel through his back. He kisses you again, your tongues dance around. His hand little by little sliding the side of your kimono off, until your breasts get completely exposed to him.

Yamato’s mouth traces a path from your lips to your neck, and then lowering until it reaches your breasts. His hands squeeze gently the flesh of your tits, his lips rub your hard nipples. You moan, feeling a mix of lust and guilt, but you don’t stop him.

The son of Kaido deliciously sucks your sensitive nipples, he nibbles and pulls from them. You squirm at the sensation; the pleasure he makes you feel slowly fades the hate…

Yamato stretches his arm to reach for the sakazuki of sake you have served on the side. He lets the alcohol drip over your chest. The cold drops of it make your skin react with little spasms. Your lover licks every drop from your chest, the dry taste of the sake mixed with your skin makes Yamato relish at such a delicious flavour.

His lips lowers and lowers, until they get to your belly button. He traces a circle around it, you whine and extend your arm. Your fingers around his long hair. He grunts. His tongue finally gets to your core.

“I love your taste” he mumbles. You just babble in response, as his skilful tongue makes wonders with your sex. “So tasty, so wet” ...

Your inner thighs get bruised with the horns of his head, as your legs try to close due to the intense stimulation. But that’s not enough, not for him, not for you.

On the verge of an orgasm, Yamato stands up. He walks towards his bag and brings a strap on. Black phallic figure that hangs from a red string. Red string that he quickly ties around his hip bones after letting his clothes slide to the ground.

You wait for him to pound into you with your legs spread open and your eyes scanning such an amazing body. You call him with a beckoning finger. He smiles, sexily and approaches you.

The cold material of the strap on gets damped in your arousal, as he rubs it up and down your sex. “Yamato, fuck me” you beg. He flinches at that name but doesn’t pressure you to call him Oden… and then, he penetrates you, sliding inside, so deep, and steady.

Your nails carve the skin of his back, his breasts fall over your face as he thrusts you. Your tongue stuck out grazing his nipples. Both of you moan, whine, enjoy.

And your orgasm inevitably arrives, and you come shouting his name. Your head thrown back; your mandible hurts from sucking his hard nipples. And even if you were exhausted, there is no time to waste. Is Yamato’s turn to come, and you are an expert in such practices.

“Why don’t you sit on my face?” you command him. “Are you sure?” he asks, aware of his huge anatomy. “Please, I wanna get suffocated under those thighs” you tell him, and he does not think any further. Soon his sex is over your mouth, and you enjoy every single part of his core. You suck, lick, taste his arousal, until Yamato comes squirming over your countenance.

Both of you lay over the cushions on the floor, admiring the sakura petals rain over the city through the window. He caresses your body, and softly tells you “I’m sorry if I asked you to call me Oden…”. You don’t really understand why he says such a thing… Does he know who you are? “What do you mean?” you ask. “I know who you are, (name)” he whispers, low enough for just you to hear it.

You stand up, scared. “How… how do you know my name?” you tell him. “I have your dad’s diary… that’s why I asked the only person that knows how to play that melody to do it for me… I’m on your side, Princess..." ♥ ~

[hrina]

Polished

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 15.6k REQUESTED: nope!

hi everyone 💘 this is the bodyguard AU that i’ve spent all week writing. she’s another long one (i think i have a problem lol) but i worked really hard on it and i’m super proud of how it all turned out. i really hope you like it! if you do, please feel free to leave me some feedback here. 

thank u to the people who acted as my betas for portions/the entirety of this fic: @emotionally-imbruised​, @gucciwoodnymph​, @poppunkdork​ and @atlafan​! i appreciate it so much! 

warning: this fic contains mentions of blood, minor violence, attempted assault, weaponry, and a single use of the f-slur. if any of this makes you uncomfortable, please keep scrolling.

with all of that being said, enjoy! i can’t wait to hear ur thoughts 💖

~*~

     September 18, 2020

“Cheers!”

The tequila burns its way down your throat as you toss the shot back. Your ears are ringing, the sound amplified by the music pulsing through the nightclub. Lights flash from the ceiling, bathing everything in pinks and blues and greens and purples. To your right, Sydney leans forward, smiles toothily, and yells something at the bartender. You think she might be telling him that it’s her birthday, even though that won’t be true for another month—perhaps it’s an attempt to secure an additional round of drinks. Your hips sway unconsciously as you sink your teeth into a slice of lime.

It’s a Friday night.

In the periphery of your vision, you catch the bartender nodding with a permissive smile on his face.

It’s a Friday night, and Sydney is handing you another shot of tequila.

Someone places their hand on the small of your back as they pass. A little zap of electricity races down your spine.

It’s a Friday night, Sydney is handing you another shot of tequila, and you’re drunk. You’re very, very drunk.

The pinch of salt that you lick off your hand stings the edge of your tongue. You don’t reflect on the sensation for too long, though, choosing instead to tip your shot glass back and let the alcohol run its course. The bottom of the glass thuds against the countertop when you slam it down, but the noise is lost amidst the heavy bass pouring through the club. Sydney smiles up at you as she bites into her lime, a green grin. You laugh.

“So!” your friend screams, grimacing at the sour aftertaste lingering on her lips. “Where’s Harry?”

“What?” You squint and lean in, bending down slightly so that you can hear her properly.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and repeats the question: “Where’s Harry?”

“Oh!” You smirk, shooting her a mischievous wink. “Managed to shake him off for the night!”

“No shit!” Sydney yells, her jaw dropping. “He let you come?”

You pucker your lips, averting your gaze. “Er…not exactly.”

In response, her eyes widen, and she just laughs. You grin when she slaps your arm gently and grabs your wrist, tugging you away from the bar and into the dancing crowd.

“Who cares?” she says loudly, throwing her hands toward the ceiling and shaking her hips. “He’s got a stick up his ass either way!”

Despite your inebriated state, part of you longs to correct her. He’s actually not that bad, you want to say, because it’s true. In public, Harry is stoic and reserved and always on high alert, but that’s because he has to be. It’s his job. You resent the fact that he intimidates your friends, and that it complicates your outings, but you don’t resent him. He’s been assigned to you for two years now, and there’s never been an incident—you wonder if it’s because he’s good at what he does, or because you don’t really need protection after all.

All this time…perhaps your mother was just overly paranoid. And perhaps she continues to be overly paranoid, even to this day.

You shake those thoughts from your mind; they’ll just give you a headache.

Another hand lands on the small of your back, but this time, the contact isn’t fleeting. Fingers pinch and tug at the material of your shirt, relentless. You’re about to whip around and demand that this badgering stranger unhand you, but then a pair of lips are right at the shell of your ear. Hot air fans down your neck—you shiver.

“Why do you insist on making my job so much harder than it has to be?”

~*~

Harry doesn’t speak a word after ushering you into the car. The whole ride back, you sit with your arms crossed, staring out the window and trying to shake off your dizziness. A deep pout is etched into your lips. Your somber expression doesn’t shift, not even when Harry pulls up to the tall metal entrance of your estate, punching in a code on the keypad and sticking his head out of the driver window to undergo a retinal scan. He settles back into his seat afterward, blinking rapidly and waiting for the front gates to creak open.

“How’d you find me?” you slur as you stumble into your bedroom. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he dragged you out of the club.

Harry doesn’t answer as you make your way over to your bed; your room is large, rivalling the size of an overpriced studio apartment. The furniture is all carved from the finest mahogany, and a glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Tall, full-length windows are framed by satin curtains. On the opposite wall stands the door to your private washroom, and next to it, the entrance to your walk-in closet. It’s lavish, it’s luxurious, but it does nothing to ease the situation at hand.

“What?” you ask, plopping down onto your bed. You lift one foot up, fiddling with the strap around your ankle. “Ignoring me for the night?”

You purse your lips as you struggle to get your heels off. Your head is swimming, and a deep feeling of shame is blossoming in your chest. Groaning loudly, you smack your hands down against the duvet and squeeze your eyes shut.

Footsteps approach, but you pay them no mind. You only open your eyes once you feel a pair of rough—albeit nimble—fingers dance down your shin. Through the slight blur in your vision, you find Harry kneeling before you, his hands working deftly to unclasp the strap on each ankle and gently tug your shoes from your feet. You wiggle your toes, sighing appreciatively.

“Thank you,” you murmur, swallowing heavily.

He only grunts in response.

The two of you sit there in silence—you on your duvet and him on his haunches. He’s looking down at the ground, and you take the moment to study his features—the sharp bridge of his nose, the fluttering of his eyelashes, the twisting of his lips. His black suit fits him well, filled out in all the right places; gold cufflinks glint in the moonlight. He’s attractive, and you’re not blind. But your relationship is strictly professional, no matter how much you like to think that the two of you have grown close enough to be friends.

“Find my iPhone,” Harry mutters suddenly.

“What?”

You recoil. He looks up at you with piercing green eyes, and only then do you realise that he’s answering your initial question.

“Oh,” you say, nodding. “Well…good to know.”

His lips twitch.

You wobble into the washroom, trying your best to rub off the makeup on your face despite your inebriated state. Somewhere beneath the buzz, you know that you didn’t get all of it—and that there’ll probably be dried crusts of mascara beneath your eyes tomorrow—but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“You missed some.”

You jump, your gaze snapping upward. In the reflection of the mirror, Harry is leaning against the doorway. You groan, raking your fingers through your hair.

“Don’t worry about it,” you mumble.

Harry’s brows creep up his forehead, surprise evident on his face. “Aren’t you always telling me that it’s important to take it all off before bed?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m smarter when I’m sober.”

He snorts. “Good one.”

You frown.

He pushes off from the doorway, stepping closer to you and reaching for the pack of discarded makeup wipes. When his eyes meet yours in the mirror, he tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the toilet on your right.

“Sit.”

You pout like a child, plopping down onto the ceramic lid and waiting impatiently. Harry takes his sweet time, slowly pulling a wipe from the package and unfurling it gingerly. You’re momentarily entranced by the way the rings on his fingers sparkle in the light. But then a yawn tears past your lips, and you begin to tap your foot against the bathroom tiles, letting out an annoyed sigh.

“C’mon. I’m tired.”

He shoots you a stern look. It’s enough to shut you up.

You watch him intently as he crouches down in front of you and grabs your chin between his fingers. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs. The deep baritone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

His ministrations aren’t as tender as they should be—you make it a point to tell him as much.

“You’re rubbing too harshly,” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut. “Be gentler with it.”

“Quiet,” Harry huffs.

Spurred on by his irritation, you continue: “Are you always this rough? Your poor girlfriend…”

He grits his teeth.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he deadpans. You whimper when he drags the wipe unforgivingly over the delicate skin of your eyelids. “But if I did,” he adds, “she’d like it rough.”

Your shoulders stiffen once his words sink in. He says nothing else, choosing instead to crumple the wipe up into a ball and toss it in the garbage. You follow his movements with wide eyes, staring up at him as he stands.

“Brush your teeth,” he tells you, rubbing his fingers over his jawline. “Your breath stinks.”

And then he’s gone.

After a haphazard attempt at brushing your teeth, you shuffle back into your bedroom. Harry is still there, but he’s holding two pieces of fabric for you to take. You recognize them as the baggy t-shirt and the shorts that you usually wear to bed.

“Thank you,” you say, laying the material out on your mattress. Your lips part with another loud yawn as you unzip your skirt, letting it fall from your hips and pool around your ankles. When you cast a glance toward Harry, you find him facing away from you, his fingers laced behind his back.

Always a gentleman.

You tug on the soft, cotton shorts—the hem falls a few inches below your bottom. You reach behind your back, trying to thumb open the clasps of your shirt, but quickly grow frustrated as the seconds draw out.

“Harry,” you sigh, shaking your head.

“Yes?” He doesn’t turn around.

“Can you help me with this?”

Gingerly, he peers at you over his shoulder. Once he takes note of the fact that you’re dressed, he steps closer to you. You toss a thumb backward, gesturing to the column of buttons stacked along your spine.

Again, Harry manages the task easily. You stiffen as he parts the fabric of your shirt, your eyelids growing heavy with each new inch of skin exposed. Though he’s not standing nearly as close as you would like, you can still feel faint puffs of air floating across the nape of your neck. The room is silent; you’re afraid that he can hear your heart battering against the confines of your chest.

Do his hands linger a touch longer than necessary, or is it just your imagination?

“Thank you,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

You pull your shirt off, leaving yourself in just a lacy black bra. Harry’s sharp intake of breath is audible, and then he’s whipping back around.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Give a guy a warning next time, yeah?”

“Next time?” you parrot, emboldened by the alcohol in your system. “Am I going to be stripping for you on a daily basis?”

He grunts. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

You smile to yourself, unclipping your bra and shrugging on the baggy t-shirt he’d given you. “I know.” You clear your throat. “You can turn around now. I’m decent.”

Harry glances over at you as you climb into bed, pulling the covers back and nuzzling your face into your pillow. He bites his bottom lip, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as you settle in for the night. Once your shuffling has ceased, he squares his shoulders, his gaze flitting toward the door.

“Well, if that’s everything—,” he starts, taking a step back.

“Wait!” you say, shooting up into a sitting position.

He freezes, his eyes going wide. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you reply. You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your duvet and avoiding his eyes. “Would you—I was just wondering if maybe—you could stay?”

“Stay,” Harry echoes. You nod, still refusing to look at him. He sighs, and the pet name that he seems to have reserved exclusively for you falls past his lips.

“Love…you’re drunk.”

“Exactly,” you shoot back. “I’m drunk and I just…it feels like I’m floating, and I need something to keep me grounded. And—” you groan, “I know that doesn’t make any sense, but could you please stay? Just—just until I fall asleep. Then you’re free to go, or whatever.”

Harry’s eyes are wide by the time you’re through with your little speech. His expression leaves you feeling even more embarrassed than before. You’re about to roll your eyes and grumble out a never mind, I’m being stupid, just leave, but then he’s approaching your bed cautiously, like you’re a deer that he doesn’t want to startle.

“Just until you fall asleep,” he confirms, drumming his fingers over his bicep.

You nod, expecting him to settle into the armchair a few feet away.

He doesn’t though; you watch attentively as he lowers himself down to sit at the edge of your mattress. His posture is stiff, back straight—he uncrosses his arms, but then locks his fingers together and places them securely in his lap. You hold back a laugh.

“You can relax, you know,” you say, rolling onto your side so that you can fix him with earnest eyes. “I won’t bite.” You pause. “Unless you’re into that kind of stuff.”

“I’ll leave,” Harry threatens without missing a beat.

You giggle, smothering your cheek into your pillow. “Fine, fine, I’m sorry.”

The ghost of a smile dances across his lips. Your eyes fall from his face to his lap; without thinking, you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and tugging his hands apart.

“It’s already chipping,” you say, a hint of admonishment seeping into your voice. “You should’ve let me put on the protective coat, dummy.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, flexing his fingers in your grasp. “You’re just gonna redo them on Wednesday, anyway.”

“Still,” you murmur, thumbing over the purple varnish on his nails. You scrape your knuckles against his, letting out a quiet sigh. “What colour do you want next? Are we sticking with lavender again?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Let’s try something new.”

“I went shopping yesterday with Sydney and bought mint green,” you tell him through a yawn. “What do you think of that?”

“’S nice,” he replies, though it sounds like he’s far away.

You peer up at him through your lashes, only to find that he’s staring at you intently. Under normal circumstances, you would offer up a quip about how he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of you. But you’re tired, and you’re warm, and his hand is now stroking over yours, and you don’t want to ruin the moment.

Maybe he’ll stay the night, is your last thought before you drift off to sleep.

When you awaken the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, Harry’s gone. The only proof left of the night before is a tablet of ibuprofen and a glass of clear liquid sitting on your nightstand. The ceiling wavers above you; you might still be a little drunk.

You sit up, popping the pill into your mouth and knocking it back with a large swig of water. There’s a dull ache in your chest but you ignore it, opting instead to pull the covers back up over your head.

He didn’t stay. You try not to feel too disappointed as the realisation sinks in.

     September 23, 2020

Harry is waiting for you once you get out of class.

Usually, you fall into step with him, ready with a teasing remark about how he must not have anything better to do with his time. He knows that the two of you probably look like quite the pair—you, with your bag and your coffee and your cheeky smirk, and him, resigned and rigid and expressionless. He would give anything to claw his way out of this situation, to smile along with you and laugh at your jokes and tuck your hair behind your ear. But he needs this job, and your mother loves him like a son, and he doesn’t want to do anything to screw that up.

Today, however, you leave class with a new friend. Harry’s entire body tenses when he notes just how closely the man is walking next to you. He follows the two of you from a safe distance, trying his best to be inconspicuous. You laugh at something that your companion says, and his jaw clenches—he pretends not to know why.

It feels like eons have passed before you and the man finally part ways. Harry doesn’t waste any time.

“Hey,” you say without even turning to look at him. When he glances down at you, he finds a shadowy smirk on your face.

“Hi,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Good class?”

“Mhm.” You nod.

“That’s good.”

He blows out a breath, pushing through a door and holding it open for you to follow. You thank him softly, releasing a happy sigh as the warm sunlight hits your face. Harry’s gaze is drawn to the serenity of your features, but he looks away quickly. He’s not really in the mood to endure your taunts. Not today.

“So,” he starts as the two of you amble down the sidewalk, “you made a new friend?”

“Yeah,” you say, shouldering the strap of your messenger bag. “His name is Kevin. He’s nice.”

“He’s funny, too, I’m guessing.” The slightest tinge of bitterness seeps into his words. He hopes that you won’t notice, but of course, you’re as perceptive as ever.

You glance over at him, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Harry keeps his eyes trained in front of him, where he can see a black car inching into view on the road ahead. Your chauffeur rolls down the window, lifting one hand in greeting. Harry waves back, his expression betraying nothing.

“It’s a good thing you know better, then, isn’t it?”

You laugh at his comeback, but the noise isn’t as cheerful as usual. If anything, it sounds a bit forced.

“Yeah,” you say. Harry opens the car door for you, and you climb into the backseat. “I guess it is.”

~*~

“Your hand is shaking.”

“It’s not my hand, it’s yours.”

“You’re smudging it.”

“Because you keep moving!”

You sigh, sitting back against the headboard of your bed and squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t need to see Harry to know that he’s fighting a smirk. The discography of your newest celebrity obsession is playing on your phone. Harry has told you multiple times that he hates this song—and that’s exactly why you have it on repeat.

“Can we please listen to something else?” he asks, shifting carefully on your bed.

You crack one eye open. “Can you stay still long enough for me to finish doing your nails?”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You scoot closer to him, reaching for your phone and shuffling the songs in your library. Harry exhales in relief when a new, slower melody begins to trickle from the device. You toss it away, holding out your hand and looking at him expectantly. He lifts his chin, placing his fingers onto one of your crossed legs.

The sensation of his hand on your knee shouldn’t leave you breathless, but it does. You feel like his palm is burning a hole through your sweatpants. It’s been like this for as long as you can remember—painting his nails every Wednesday night, listening to music and enjoying each other’s company. Some evenings, conversation is scarce; others, it’s like you haven’t spoken in months. It doesn’t make a difference to you—you just like knowing that he’s there.

“How’d the call with your mum go?” Harry says. He makes a move to rest his chin against his fist before realising that the action will inevitably disrupt the polish on his other hand. You notice, smiling softly at the awkward moment.

“It went well,” you hum. Harry likes the way you purse your lips in concentration. “She’d landed in Amsterdam a couple hours prior. Called me when she got to the hotel.”

“That’s good.” He blows out a breath. “How long is she staying for?”

“A few months.”

“I see.”

You peer up at him, your eyes swimming with curiosity. “Do you know why she’s there?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you lying to me?”

“Love,” he starts, frowning gently, “you know she doesn’t—I’m not—she doesn’t keep me in her circle.”

“I know,” you say, somewhat mournfully. “I just thought—maybe she would’ve told you.”

A dejected crease forms on your forehead. Harry longs to lean forward and smooth it out with his lips. He hates when you get like this, but on the other hand, he can’t blame you. Surely, it must be difficult to be kept in the dark, especially for so long. It’s been years, and you’re still not exactly sure of what your mother has gotten herself into.

And despite your frequent questions about her trips, you’re not exactly sure if you want to know.

Silence ensues, and the two of you wordlessly agree to drop the topic—at least for tonight. You finish painting the nail on Harry’s middle finger, bending down and blowing cool air on the wet varnish in hopes of speeding up the drying process.

“Careful,” he warns when your hair tumbles over your shoulder. Without thinking, he reaches out, trying his best to gather the strands in one hand so that they don’t fall onto the freshly-painted nails splayed out over your knee.

You squawk in surprise, sitting back up and circling your fingers around his wrist. “What’d you do that for?” you say, admonishment evident in your tone. “You’re gonna screw these ones up!”

“I was just—!” he tries, but you shush him, scrutinising the semi-dry polish on his other hand. After a long moment, you sigh in relief, returning it and narrowing your eyes at him.

“You’re lucky,” you tell him, snorting quietly. “I would’ve killed you.”

“Like you could take me,” he mutters under his breath.

“What was that?” You cock an eyebrow.

“Nothing.”

You smirk, peering down at the mint green covering three out of his five nails. Absentmindedly, you run your fingers over the hills of his knuckles, softly tweaking his pinky at the end of your journey.

“We’ve come a long way since the black, haven’t we?” you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice. “That was so boring.”

“It was.” Harry nods.

It’s comical, really—a big man like him, sitting cross-legged on your bed. A man covered in an intimidating black suit, hunched over and watching with wide eyes as you meticulously paint shiny varnish onto each one of his nails.

A year ago, you would have been reminding him of this at every available opportunity.

Now, though…now, you’re just enjoying the closeness of it all.

“Er,” Harry clears his throat, and you peer up at him through your lashes.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“I—,” he looks away. “I just wanted to apologise for earlier today.”

“Earlier today…,” you trail off, frowning in confusion. “What happened earlier today?”

“When I—when you—never mind.” He shakes his head.

You smile. “I’m totally fucking with you,” you tell him, snickering quietly. You shrug. “And it’s okay. I forgive you.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “You’re the worst,” he grumbles, his lips curling down into a scowl.

You laugh, reaching forward and shoving his shoulder gently. “You love it.” Your own shoulders shake as you look back down, dipping the dried nail brush into its accompanying pot of green polish.

“Plus,” you add, trying to keep your voice light. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, you’re the only man in my life.”

Harry lifts one eyebrow, unimpressed. “Should I be insulted?”

You resume painting his nails, giggling at his sardonic tone. “You should be flattered.”

     October 10, 2020

You’re walking back to the car when it happens.

It’s a beautiful day—the sun is shining brightly, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. You and Harry pass by a woman walking her dog, but not before you bend down, transferring all of your shopping bags into one hand (a feat, Harry thinks) and cooing at the furry little creature.

“She’s adorable,” you tell the owner, peering up at her with shining eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Blossom,” the woman replies, smiling.

“Blossom,” you repeat, turning your gaze back to the fluffy white dog. “Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you? I just want to eat you up.”

The owner laughs nervously—Harry doesn’t blame her. You’re harmless, but he’s right behind you. He’s sure that he looks intimidating, lingering in a black suit with his arms crossed over his chest. He makes no move to engage with the woman or her dog, even though the little boy in him yearns to run his fingers through Blossom’s soft white fur. Instead, he stands there, waiting patiently as you bid the lady goodbye and blow one last kiss in her pet’s general direction.

The two of you continue walking; the car is only about fifty feet away.

“That was one of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen,” you say once you’re out of earshot. You glance back over your shoulder, sighing longingly. “Do you think she’d put her up for sale if I asked?”

Despite himself, Harry smirks.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he begins, uncrossing his arms. “You can’t buy everything you see.”

“I bought you, didn’t I?”

“I’m not for sale. And even if I was, technically it would’ve been your mother who bought me.”

“Okay, well then, we bought…your services.”

“Jesus.” He shakes his head, chuckling a bit. “You make it sound like I’m a prostitute or something.”

You laugh.

Harry loves your laugh. He loves the sound, loves the tone, loves the pitch. He loves the way your features crinkle up with joy as the noise slips from your mouth. Every time he hears your giggle, his gaze is drawn to your face, like an inborn reflex.

He’s grateful for that. He sends out a prayer of thanks to whatever mighty powers that may be, because when he looks at you, he sees everything. He sees your smile, the apples of your cheeks, your full, fluttering lashes.

And he sees the shaky red dot positioned squarely between your eyes.

“Get down!”

You squawk in surprise when he tackles you to the ground.

“Harry—!” you start, but then a telltale whizz! rockets past your ear.

You scream.

Your shoulder makes contact with the cement of the sidewalk, and a flare of pain blazes up your arm. Harry’s on top of you in an instant, his hands on either side of your head and his green eyes wild with panic. You’ve never seen him look so scared.

You know what’s happening, but you can’t seem to move. Your pretty pastel shopping bags are lying around you in a heap. Some are still on your arm, digging into your wrist and cutting off circulation. Harry appears to realise this as well, because he climbs to his knees and yanks your hands free.

“Go!” he shouts, but his voice is muffled by the ringing in your ears.

The two of you stagger to your feet. You take in your surroundings, your lips parted in shock. “My—my bags…”

“Forget the bags!” he yells. He grips your biceps callously, spinning you around and shoving you in the direction of the car. “Fucking run!”

~*~

“Harry…”

“Harry.”

“Harry!”

“What?” he roars, whipping around.

You stumble backward, nearly bumping into the wall behind you. You’re standing in the front foyer of your estate, your face littered with tears and your hands perpetually shaky. Harry locks the door and then wrenches closed the curtains on the windows flanking the entrance. The abrupt action causes him to wince.

“You’re hurt,” you state, though your voice is weak. “Harry, your arm…”

“’S just a graze,” he mutters, turning on his heel and storming past you.

You follow him as he makes his way toward the tall, winding staircase in the middle of the room. The steps span every level of your house, from the top floor to the basement. Harry pauses on the first stair of the flight leading downward, his hand on the bannister and his back to you.

“Go to your room,” he orders lowly, refusing to look at you. “And stay there.”

“Go to my room?” you repeat incredulously, your eyes bulging out of your head. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Harry doesn’t reply; instead, he blocks you out, descending the stairs into the basement without another word. You let out an angry yell, furiously fisting the material of your cashmere sweater. A few long moments elapse before you grit your teeth, and then your feet are smacking heatedly against each step as you rush after him.

You’re quiet once you reach the bottom of the flight, looking both ways for any clue as to where he could’ve gone. You purse your lips when you see him turn the corner, his left hand clutching his right bicep and a deep scowl etched into his face. Silently, you follow.

He ducks into a room at the end of the hall, pushing the door closed. However, it doesn’t click into place, leaving a small crack for you to peek through once you reach the threshold. You place one hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing, watching with wide eyes as Harry yanks his suit jacket from his torso.

His white button up is crisp and pristine—save for the right sleeve, which is soaked through with blood. You nearly gag.

Harry stalks through another doorway—a quick glimpse inside reveals it to be a bathroom. You push open your door ever-so-slightly, taking in the scene in front of you.

His bedroom. Of course.

You’ve never actually been inside his room. You’ve always known he lived somewhere in the house—a safe haven to frequent after midnight—but you’d never been bold enough to seek it out. You’re surprised to find that his room is quite similar to yours. It’s smaller in size, but the layout is the same (excluding your full-length windows and luxurious chandelier). The walls are painted a deep shade of burgundy, and the bed is made up of black satin sheets. He also has a walk-in closet and an adjoining washroom, just like you.

Bolstered by your discovery, you slip inside, nudging the door closed. Something on his dresser glints, catching your eye—you turn toward it.

It’s a picture frame. Upon closer inspection, you notice that it bears a photo of Harry. He’s young, but not that much younger than you are, now—maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s got his arms wrapped around two women, holding them against his sides; one is older, her face slightly weathered with age, whereas the other is youthful and alert, sporting bright eyes and smooth cheeks.

With a jolt, you realise that Harry and both of these women all look eerily similar—and that they all share the same smile.

The sound of running water jerks you out of your daze. Your head snaps up in the direction of the washroom; the door has been left ajar.

Harry is standing in front of the sink, soaking a washcloth underneath the faucet. His hair is dishevelled, and his button-up has been ripped open, exposing his chest and abdomen. A silver pendant—a dog tag—hangs from his neck. You’re shocked to discover all of the tattoos littering his skin—you’ve only ever been privy to the cross inked into the dip of his thumb.

Your eyes trail up his body, landing once again on the bloody sleeve covering his arm. The sight of it is enough, giving you the courage you need to speak up.

“Just a graze, huh?”

Harry’s eyes flicker up to meet yours in the mirror. A small part of you is upset that you didn’t manage to catch him by surprise. Are you really that predictable?

“Thought I told you to go to your room.”

You place your hands on your hips, scowling deeply. “And I thought you were twenty-six, not fifty. Who are you, my father?”

“No,” Harry says, and you hate the coolness with which he addresses you. He wraps the wet washcloth around his fingers, squeezing excess water from the fabric. “But I am your bodyguard.”

“You’re also hurt,” you retaliate, taking a step toward him.

Harry moves to the side, trying to put some distance between your bodies, but you’re not deterred. You back him up until his leg knocks against the edge of the bathtub, lifting one eyebrow challengingly because he has nowhere to go. His nostrils flare in irritation—you don’t think he’s ready to give up.

“You have two options,” you tell him, set on holding your ground. “You can either stop being such a proud prick and let me help you, or we can stay like this, and you can bleed out onto the bathroom floor.”

A long stretch of silence ensues. Harry stares at you with hard eyes, but you refuse to let your foundation crumble. Just when you think he’s going to force his way out of the situation, he sighs in defeat, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. You hold out your hand, and he dumps the washcloth into your waiting palm.

“Come here,” you say, backing up.

You hop onto the counter, spreading your legs and beckoning him closer.

He hesitates. You roll your eyes.

“Get over yourself,” you snap, shaking your head. “You’re not that dreamy.”

It’s unmistakably a lie, and you both know it, but neither of you say anything. Harry settles into the gap between your knees, keeping his arms securely at his sides. You peer up at him nervously, setting the washcloth down onto the counter and reaching forward to lightly grasp the collar of his shirt.

“This might hurt a bit,” you whisper, tugging the material away from his shoulders. He hisses when the fabric passes over his wound, scraping unpleasantly against the raw skin. You purse your lips, murmuring gentle apologies.

His left arm is covered in tattoos. You want to stop what you’re doing, trail your fingers over each design, and marvel at every little detail. But you can’t—you have bigger things to worry about at the moment, and not even your priorities are that screwed up.

Harry swears under his breath when you press the washcloth to his bicep. The material is warm and wet, and you use it to soak up the blood that’s been smeared down to his elbow. Once you’ve cleaned the area around his wound, you lean in to get a better look at what you’re dealing with.

The skin is pink and irritated, and there’s a deep groove running across the width of his arm. He’s lucky—he’s so, so lucky—but even as you stare, blood begins to pool all over again. You quickly press the washcloth back against the laceration.

“Fuck!” he chokes, reaching out and gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”

“Sorry.” You shift, trying to catch his eyes. “Do you have any disinfectant? And bandages?”

He nods, bending down and pulling open one of the cupboards below the sink.

“Let me—,” you start, but he cuts you off quickly.

“Still got one good arm, don’t I?” he grumbles.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to reply.

The disinfectant stings like a bitch—you tell him as much before spritzing it onto his wound. He lets loose a string of colourful curse words, and despite the tension hanging in the air, you smile. The bandages are next; you rip off a long strip, winding it around his bicep and tying it into a tight knot at the end.

“You need to keep pressure on it,” you murmur, though you don’t know who you’re addressing. “That should stop the bleeding, eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoes. You stare fixedly at his collarbones and nod.

A beat of silence passes between you.

“I’m sorry,” you finally mumble, looking down at your lap.

He grunts. “For what?”

“For this,” you say, shaking your head and gesturing between your bodies. “You—you got shot, Harry.”

“Graze,” he reminds you, but the correction only makes you feel worse.

“It doesn’t matter!” you say, looking up at him earnestly. “You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t,” he says. He’s staring at the mirror behind your head, refusing to meet your gaze. “And if it weren’t for me, you would have died.”

“That’s exactly my point!” you cry. You wrap your fingers around his forearm, hoping that the contact is enough to make him understand. “Who says my life is more valuable than yours? Some stupid fucking paycheque? Or—?”

Harry cuts you off before you can say anything else, squishing your cheeks together with his left hand. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat, your brows knitting together at the suddenness of the action. You’re sure that you must look extremely unappealing, with a puckered mouth and inquisitive eyes, but he just gazes at you solemnly, licking his lips before speaking.

“I would take a bullet for you, no questions asked.” He stresses every syllable, like he doesn’t want to risk any potential misinterpretation of his words. “And not just because it’s my job.”

For the first time since he’s known you, he witnesses you speechless. Your squished lips part, but no words come out. Harry sighs, releasing your cheeks and stepping back from in between your legs. You watch as he approaches the bathroom door, pulling it wide open and making his request clear.

“You should get some rest,” he mutters, and once again, he refuses to meet your eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

     October 12, 2020

Harry pokes his head through your bedroom door just as you end the call with your mother. You groan, tossing your phone onto your mattress and flinging yourself into the mountain of pillows piled against the headboard. When you catch sight of him in the periphery of your vision, you greet him with a glare.

“You told her?”

He shrugs, stepping into your room and clasping his hands behind his back. “It’s my job.”

“No,” you say, mildly annoyed. “Your job is to make sure that I don’t get killed. Not to go running to my mother at the first sign of danger.”

Harry bristles. “She’s my boss. And you’re her daughter—she deserves to know.”

You groan, shutting your laptop and rolling over onto your stomach. Your sheets are soft; you wish that you could sink into the fabrics and let them swallow you up until you wink out of existence.

“What did she say?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your reverie.

“She wanted to come home,” you mumble, shaking your head. “I told her to stay where she was.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fine!” you tell him, exasperation leaking into your words. “And I know that I’ll never hear the end of it if she has to cut her trip short because of me. God forbid she act like a parent for once in her life.”

“She’s trying her best.”

You laugh hollowly, turning onto your back and staring up at the ceiling. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

You peer over at him with raised brows, like you’re truly noticing his presence for the first time. “I’m surprised you’re still on duty. Does she not care about the fact that you’re injured?”

Again, he doesn’t respond. His silence, however, reveals everything.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Bullshit,” you bark out, pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “So, what?” you ask, your lips curling down into a scowl. “You get to decide what’s ‘relevant’?”

“I’m here to protect you,” Harry states firmly, fixing you with stern eyes. “And I can’t do that from the sidelines.”

You scoff but say nothing else. A hush washes over the two of you, hanging heavy in the air. You pick at a loose thread on your duvet, your brows tucked tightly together.

Harry is the first one to break.

“Have you told your friends?”

You shake your head.

“Why not?”

“They don’t need to know.” You shrug. “Sydney’s rented out a booth for her birthday on Saturday, so I’m just going to go and pretend like nothing ever—”

“Hold on,” he cuts you off, wrinkles creasing into the skin of his forehead. “You—you’re joking, right?”

“Why would I joke about Sydney’s birthday?”

“No, I mean—,” he grunts, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. You stare at him, utterly bewildered. He stands up to his full height, and the exasperation warping his features fades; apathy takes its place. “I’m sorry, but you’re not going.”

“What?” you shriek. Your unbothered appearance quickly disintegrates into a heated grimace. “What do you mean, I’m not going?”

“You’re not going,” he repeats, and you hate the calm—almost tranquil—expression on his face. “That’s final.”

“Okay,” you start, scrambling to your feet and holding up your hands. “Let’s pause for a second, yeah? I know we fuck around and laugh about my daddy issues sometimes, but…you do know that you’re not actually my father, right?”

“This isn’t about your daddy issues,” Harry declares, though his tone is void of any and all emotion. “It’s about your safety.”

“And what about my sanity?” you fire back. You tug the sleeves of your crewneck over your clenched fists, desperately searching for something to keep you from falling apart. “Are you saying that I’m basically trapped in my own goddamn house?”

“You’re being dramatic.” The mask that he’s wearing seems to have been carved from stone.

“Well, you’re being a dick.”

“I can live with that.”

“Harry!” You stomp your foot—like a fucking child—as your eyes dampen with tears. Your initial sense of shock washes away, replaced by a helplessness that you haven’t felt in a long time.

The next question that leaves your lips is pathetically frail.

“Why are you doing this?”

He finally meets your gaze, and for the first time since he’d walked in, it feels like he’s looking at you rather than through you. His back straightens, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for divine combat. You approach him carefully, a stray tear streaking down your face. Before you can wipe it away on the material of your sleeve, Harry is reaching out with his uninjured arm, cupping your cheek and catching the droplet with his thumb.

“Less than forty-eight hours ago, an attempt was made on your life,” he murmurs, staring at you with earnest green eyes. “And you’re already so willing to risk it again?”

You sniffle, lifting your chin in defiance and batting his hand away. Harry’s expression falls, and his gaze grows cold once more. You wrap your arms around your torso, glaring at him angrily. Your subsequent command drips with venom.

“Get out.”

He doesn’t put up a fight.

     October 14, 2020

It’s nearly one in the morning when someone knocks on your bedroom door. At first, you don’t hear it, too preoccupied with the song pouring from your headphones into your ears. But then it’s there again, a bit firmer this time, and you pause your music, calling out a gentle, “Come in!”

You don’t know who you’re expecting to see. Maybe it’s one of the housekeepers, doing some late-night laundry and bringing you fresh towels for the next day. Maybe your personal chef has been baking cookies again—a common coping mechanism for when she can’t sleep. Your mouth waters at the thought.

All of your hopes are dashed, however, when the door creaks open.

The first thing you notice is that Harry’s not wearing his usual attire. You don’t know why you’re surprised—it’s past midnight, and he’s technically off-duty. It’s still shocking, though, seeing him sporting a plain t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants instead of the crisp, dark suit to which you’ve grown so accustomed. Your eyes drop to his hands—at least he’s still wearing his rings.

“Hi,” Harry utters lowly.

You turn back to your laptop, not saying a word.

He sighs, dragging a palm down the side of his face. Fresh bandages peek out from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. For some reason, the sight startles you, and you remember that this is the man who had quite literally taken a bullet for you.

You suppose that it’s time to remove your head from your ass.

You shut your computer, pushing it to the side before tossing your legs over the edge of the bed. Harry watches you cautiously as you approach him, still as a statue. Swallowing heavily, you reach out, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up and brushing your fingers over his wounded bicep.

“How is it?” you ask, your voice no higher than a whisper.

He relents, shoulders deflating as he exhales. “’S better. Still sore, but it’s healing.”

“Can I see?”

He nods.

You’re surprised at how easily he lets you take the lead. You push the door closed with one hand, lifting your chin in the direction of your bed. He obeys your silent request and pads over to your mattress, easing down onto the duvet with his sock-clad feet still flat against the floor. You join him a moment later, settling in on his right side and crossing your legs to get comfortable.

His arms are limp, but his posture is straight. He stares at the door as you tug on the knot of his bandages, watching as they loosen around his bicep. Slowly, you unwind the gauze, subconsciously holding in a breath and awaiting what lies beneath.

The graze has started to heal. The skin around it is a lighter shade of pink, and the wound itself has begun to mend. You’re relieved to see that there’s no blood dotting his skin. Out of the corner of your eye, Harry’s throat bobs with a heavy swallow.

“It looks good,” you murmur, unsure of whether you’re talking to him or to yourself.

He just nods again, remaining motionless as you wrap the gauze back around his arm. You redo the knot at the end, and then you have to physically restrain yourself from leaning forward and smoothing your lips over the concealed wound.

Instead, your hands fall to his wrist. Harry stiffens, but then relaxes when you lift his fingers up to your face. Your brows furrow as you study the chipped green varnish on his nails. He’s been choosing the same colour for weeks, now—you’re glad that he seems to like it.

“Do you want me to?” you ask softly, peering up at him through your lashes. You’ve never been in his company so late at night (whilst sober, at least) but you suppose that there’s a first time for everything.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, fidgeting with the material of his sweatpants. “Please.”

You shoot him the tiniest smile imaginable, and then you stand, making your way into the washroom to retrieve the worn, well-loved nail kit hidden under the sink.

~*~

“Do you want to keep the green?”

He shakes his head. “No, let’s try something else.”

“Okay.” You nod, dumping the contents of the bag onto your mattress. Little, colourful glass bottles clink together as they roll out onto your duvet. You look up at Harry with a raised eyebrow, gesturing luridly to the selection laid out in front of him. “Take your pick.”

His gaze sweeps over each shade before he shrugs—you don’t miss the slight wince of pain that passes over his lips. “I can’t decide,” he says simply, and when he looks back up at you, he’s almost shy. “You choose.”

“You’re giving me a lot of power, you know,” you say wryly. A soft chuckle slips from his mouth. After a brief moment of deliberation, you settle on pastel yellow, holding up the bottle so that he can see it clearly. “This might be pretty.”

“Pretty,” he echoes, staring straight into your eyes. His gaze knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you wondering if he’s talking about the colour, or about…something else.

You give the tiny bottle a good shake, catching sight of your phone laying off to the side. Without thinking, you snatch it up from the duvet, unlocking it and tapping onto your music app.

You hand the device over to Harry. When he shoots you a confused look, you just say, “If I’m picking the shade, you can pick the songs. Seems fair to me.”

He smiles.

You screw open the cap of the nail polish, studying the consistency of the liquid inside. “I might need to apply two coats to make it opaque enough,” you mumble, mostly to yourself.

Harry just hums in agreement as he scrolls through your music library.

He eventually seems to settle on a decision, because just then, a soft, monotone note wafts out from your phone’s speaker. You recognize the tune right away.

“Girl Crush?” you ask, the corners of your lips kinking up into a nostalgic smile. “I would’ve never guessed.”

He returns your tender expression, tilting his head to the side sheepishly. “It’s a nice song.”

“It is,” you concur. A sharp spark passes between your fingers when you reach for his hand, but neither of you comment on it. “Okay,” you say, shooting him a faux-menacing look. “Don’t move.”

The two of you sit in silence for the next ten minutes. You’re meticulous as you paint the varnish onto each one of Harry’s nails, your tongue caught between your teeth and your brow furrowed in concentration. You can feel him staring at you—he’s practically burning a hole through your head—but you say nothing, mostly because a small part of you is enjoying the attention.

“What were you doing before I showed up?” Harry asks quietly, breaking the silence.

“Working on a presentation for my seminar class,” you hum, dipping the nail brush back into its bottle. “It’s due Friday.”

“Are you nearly finished with it?”

You shake your head. “Not even close.”

“Love,” he starts, and you think you hear a hint of admonishment creeping into his tone. “Why’re you wasting your time giving me a bloody manicure?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You wave away his qualms with an absentminded flick of your hand. “I’ll get it done; I promise.” You pause for a moment, puckering your lips before you add, “Plus, I like doing your nails. It’s therapeutic.”

“Therapeutic,” he repeats. It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you.

“Yeah,” you nod, blowing cool air over his fingers. “It’s nice—this. Us.”

He doesn’t reply.

You start on his other hand, careful with your ministrations. The memory of his closing wound is still fresh in your mind, and you don’t want to risk any sudden movements that might open it back up. You work noiselessly for the next few minutes.

“It’s weird seeing you dressed like this,” you murmur suddenly. The words slip out before you have the time to register them.

Harry chuckles faintly. “I’m usually on-duty, aren’t I?” When you nod, he continues: “Plus, we’ve never done this so late at night.”

“We can,” you say, perhaps a little too quickly. Your ears grow hot with embarrassment, and you’re suddenly extremely grateful for the fact that you have an excuse to not look at him. You stare hard at the rings on his fingers, swallowing heavily. “I mean…if you want. I’m sure it’s more comfortable sitting in sweatpants instead of slacks.”

“Don’t you have an early class on Thursdays, though?” Harry cocks an eyebrow, his question ripe with subtle mockery.

You chew on your bottom lip and refrain from telling him that you’ll happily show up to class with bags under your eyes if it means spending more of your time like this—with him. “Oh. Right.”

He laughs softly, and silence falls over the two of you once more. Just when you think that your conversation has tapered off for the night, he addresses the elephant in the room that you’ve both been trying your hardest to ignore.

“I’m sorry about the other day.”

You freeze, nearly smearing a glob of yellow onto the cuticle of his pinky. When you offer up nothing in response, Harry persists.

“I’m sorry I made you cry,” he mutters, lowering his head in shame. “I hated seeing you like that.”

You look up at him with wide, shining eyes. You’ve never witnessed him so full of remorse—the sight makes your heart ache.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, discarding the nail brush back into the pot of bright varnish. “I—you were probably right, anyway. It’s too dangerous.”

“No.” He purses his lips. “I think I was just being selfish. I was…trying to protect my ego.”

“What do you mean?” you ask softly.

His fingers flex when you stroke over the rough skin of his knuckles. He sighs.

“It’s my job to keep you safe,” he says. The words are slightly strained. “And I nearly failed.”

“But you didn’t,” you say, leaning forward.

“But I almost did!” he counters. You recoil, stunned by the emotion in his voice. He clears his throat and covers your hands with his. You can’t even be bothered to worry about the fact that his nails might ruin.

“When you told me that you were going out again, and so soon…,” Harry trails off, shaking his head. “I panicked, and I tried to take control. I’m sorry.”

You squeeze his wrists comfortingly and nod. “It’s alright,” you say thickly. “I forgive you.”

He blows out a relieved sigh, straightening up and blinking rapidly. Just like that, all evidence of his personal sentiments is gone. He can turn his feelings on and off so quickly—you suppose that it’s necessary in his line of work. Still, though…you don’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

“You should go to Sydney’s birthday,” he states matter-of-factly.

A small smile forms on your face. “I—are you serious?”

“Yeah.” He bobs his head in approval. “But I’m coming, too, obviously. Need to make sure you stay out of trouble.”

Your modest smile grows into a bright grin. Somewhere beneath your vibrant excitement, you realise that both of your hands are still tucked tightly between his.

“Escorted to a party by my hot, British bodyguard,” you tease. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

     October 17, 2020

The club is packed. You can barely move, squished between perspiring bodies and gyrating hips. You can’t even see the bar because of how many people are crowding the counter, waiting to order their drinks. It’s dark, and hot, and the air smells of sweat and desire—typical.

Under normal circumstances, you would’ve never come out on a Saturday night. The pros simply do not outweigh the cons.

Thankfully, though, these aren’t normal circumstances.

The booth that Sydney has rented is a beacon of hope, a little island of peace in the surrounding sea of chaos. You’re right next to the birthday girl, laughing at how captivated she is by the song booming through the building. She wraps one arm around you, tilting her head up and accepting another swig of vodka straight from the bottle.

The rest of your friends are scattered. Some are with you, lounging in the booth and drunkenly screaming lyrics up at the ceiling. Others are out on the dance floor, blending into the crowd and twirling around without a care in the world.

Sydney is plastered; you’re not too far behind.

A quick glimpse at your phone tells you that it’s a few minutes past one in the morning. It also makes you realise just how badly you need to pee.

There’s a man standing near the bar—he’s been eyeing you unsubtly all night. From what you can tell, he’s cute. A baby blue button-up hugs his shoulders nicely, and his blonde, shaggy hair is swept sideways on his forehead. He’s tall and handsome, and you don’t think you’d mind kissing him. As you inch your way toward the edge of the booth, a large part of you wonders why you haven’t already made a move.

You trip over your own two feet as you stand, and you’re sure that you would have broken your fall with your face if it weren’t for the strong pair of arms that catch you mid-tumble.

And oh. It comes rushing back to you, wrapped up in stark clarity.

That’s why.

Harry’s pained grunt reverberates lowly in your ear. With a loud gasp, you realise that your fingers are digging loosely into his injured bicep.

“I’m so sorry!” you yell over the music as he helps you back onto your feet. “Are you okay?”

He just nods, shaking off his discomfort and clenching his jaw.

He hasn’t moved from the edge of the booth all night. He’s been standing there for hours, untouched by the turbulent current of drunk socialites. You suppose that it’s because he appears to be just another member of security, watching the crowd and ensuring that everyone is staying safe.

“Where are you going?” Harry shouts. His question is barely audible, swept away by the basslines vibrating through your body.

“Bathroom!” you yell back.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. You pat his shoulder gently and shake your head. “I think I’m perfectly capable of taking a piss by myself! Thank you, though!”

He frowns, looking like he wants to argue. When he sees the expectant, mocking expression on your face, however, he clamps his mouth shut.

You shoot him an appreciative smile, tossing your thumb over your shoulder and barking out a quick promise of, “I’ll be right back!”

You’re pleased to discover that the washrooms of the club are split up into private cubicles rather than simply aggregated in one big space. The walls of the corridor are lined with doors and littered with a few drunken stragglers. You pass a man and a woman who are locked in a blazing kiss, and a hot pang of longing claws its way down your sternum, settling uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach.

The last cubicle on your right is vacant. Breathing out a quick prayer of thanks, you duck inside. There’s an empty shot glass standing on the edge of the sink, but other than that, the room is in good condition. You tug your underwear down as you position yourself above the toilet, clutching the hem of your dress close to your chest and doing what you came to do.

Two minutes and one flush later, you’re screwing open the faucet, sighing happily as cool water runs over your wrists. To your right, a dispenser containing lavender-scented soap is nailed into the wall. You wash your hands quickly before wringing them out and wiping the excess wetness against your thighs.

When you open the washroom door, you freeze in your tracks. A man—that same man who’s been making eyes at you all night—is standing in the threshold.

He’s even taller in person. And now that you’re closer to him (and shrouded in better lighting) you can see that his hair isn’t blonde like you’d originally thought, but light brown. His eyes are a stark shade of cobalt blue, attentive enough to indicate that he might be one of the only sober people in the entire building.

“Hi.” His voice is as smooth as velvet.

“Hi,” you reply, offering up a small, wary smile. He’s cute, but who the fuck tries to pick a woman up as she exits the bathroom?

“My name’s Lukas,” he says, holding out his hand. You take it gingerly, quietly introducing yourself in return. He smiles at the mention of your name. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” You stand on your tiptoes, peering over his shoulder and chewing on your bottom lip. “Sorry, my friends are waiting—”

“That’s a pretty dress,”  Lukas tells you, placing his hands on either side of the doorway. Somewhere beneath the buzz of alcohol in your system, you’re aware that he’s successfully blocked your only way out. He takes a step toward you, and you match it with a step back, nearly tripping over a shallow crack in one of the tiles on the floor.

“Thanks,” you say, your lips curling into a dim scowl, “but I really should be going.”

“Or we could hang out in here,” he suggests, shrugging innocently (in the back of your mind, you know that his thoughts must be the furthest thing from innocent.) “Just the two of us.”

“No, thanks.” You shake your head vehemently. Your palm finds a place on the wall, and you use the leverage to keep yourself steady. Your eyes rake down his body as he inches toward you, searching for any potential weak points.

Elbow to the nose? Knee to the groin?

Just then, a gruff utterance of your name is heard from out in the hall. You nearly sob in relief.

“Harry!”

Less than a moment later, a large, sweaty hand slaps down over your mouth. You squeal, frightened tears rushing to your eyes as Lukas heaves you up against the wall. He digs his fingers into the column of your throat, keeping you pinned with one hand while the other reaches for the door, aiming to slam it shut.

Before it can close all the way, a strong, ringed hand appears out of nowhere, shoving the barrier back open. Hinges creak as the doorknob crashes into the side of the wall, nearly putting a hole through the plaster.

Harry’s nostrils flare as he absorbs the scene laid out in front of him. Only a second passes before he’s stalking inside the cubicle, his mossy eyes alight with one palpable emotion: rage.

“Get the fuck off of her!” he bellows.

His palms make contact with Lukas’ shoulders, and he uses the brunt of his weight to shove him away from you. The other man goes tumbling into the opposite wall, almost stumbling over the porcelain bowl of the toilet.

“The fuck is your problem?” Lukas snaps, rubbing the back of his head as he regains his bearings.

Harry pulls you out of harm’s way, putting himself between you and your aggressor. You watch the scene unfold from behind him, anxiously fumbling with the hem of your dress.

“Don’t—,” Harry points at Lukas threateningly. His voice has returned to its normal, low octave, but you can still hear the fury simmering beneath his words, “—ever fucking touch her again.”

Lukas pushes himself off of the wall, cracking his knuckles and angling his head to the side. His blue irises glimmer maliciously as he looks over at you.

“Is this your boyfriend, sweetheart?” he asks. The words are nothing but a wicked taunt. He sizes Harry up, assessing his figure.

You watch his eyes widen when they land on the pale yellow polish decorating your bodyguard’s nails, and then—much to your horrified surprise—he laughs.

“Oh, my mistake.” He shakes his head, a spiteful smile splitting across his face. “He’s just a fuckin’ faggot.”

Harry doesn’t react to the insult—but you do. Before you can even register your actions, you’re slipping out from behind him, lifting your arm high into the air and delivering a sharp, backhanded blow to Lukas’ right cheek.

Your knuckles sting at the contact, but the pain is overshadowed by the smug sense of vindication that settles in your chest. Anger warps your features, turning you into someone unrecognizable.

“How dare—?”

The rest of your sentence dissolves into an alarmed shriek when Lukas seizes your wrist. He snarls.

“Know your place, bitch!”

You brace yourself for his retaliation, but the strike never comes. In the blink of an eye, Harry has Lukas’ arm pinned behind his back. Blue eyes well up with agony, and a pained shout slips from his lips. You recoil, startled by the sudden shift of power.

Harry leans down, his mouth just above Lukas’ ear. He glances up at you briefly before looking back down at the cowering man before him. In that moment, your gazes meet for only a millisecond, but the contact somehow puts you at ease.

“Apologise to the lady,” Harry mutters, pulling Lukas’ arm even tighter across his back. “Or I break it.”

Lukas whimpers, glaring up at you with angry eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he spits out, though there’s no sincerity behind the phrase.

Wordlessly, you lift your chin, spinning on your heel and making your way toward the door. Behind you, a surprised yelp slices through the air, followed quickly by a violent thud. When you peer back over your shoulder, Harry is brushing his palms off on the lapels of his suit, and Lukas is kneeling over the toilet, his chest heaving.

“Harry,” you say, calling him over. You hope that neither of the men can hear the slight quiver in your voice.

Harry approaches you, and you reach out for him. He offers you his uninjured arm; you link your elbow through the gap between his bicep and his torso.

You expect it to end there, but then Lukas mutters something unfamiliar under his breath. The words are nearly indiscernible, but you know for a fact that they’re definitely not English. Harry must hear them too, because he freezes in his tracks.

“Harry,” you say, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“Say goodbye to your friends,” he replies bluntly, dodging your question. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

~*~

The journey back home is painfully quiet.

Harry says nothing until the car drags through the metal gates of your property and peels up the roundabout leading to your front door. Once your chauffeur cuts the engine, Harry turns to him, shaking his hand firmly and thanking him for the ride. You bid the man goodnight, catching his kind smile in the rear-view mirror.

He seems nice. You should probably learn his name.

But that can wait.

The effects of the alcohol in your system seem to have worn off. You attribute your sobriety to the fact that you were cornered and nearly attacked in a public bathroom not too long ago. You’re still a bit wobbly on your feet—not to mention the loud, persistent ringing in your ears—but your mind is clear. That’s all that matters.

Harry leads you inside, cupping his palm beneath your bent elbow and keeping you steady. Part of you longs for him to slide his hand closer and trail his fingers down your back until they’re tickling the base of your spine. But that would be unprofessional, you remind yourself, so you keep your mouth shut.

Walking into your room fails to bring you the familiar sense of comfort that it usually does. You swallow heavily, kicking off your heels (these ones aren’t embellished with any straps or buckles, thank God) and making your way over to your bed. As you approach your mattress, your fingers find their way to your back, grasping for the zipper of your dress that’s settled just above your shoulder blades.

You grit your teeth in frustration, stopping suddenly and casting a glance behind you. Harry is waiting at your door, standing rigidly with his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

“Can you…?” Your question is hushed and incomplete, and you don’t wait for his reaction before turning back around. The sound of his low footsteps reaches your ears; your skin prickles in anticipation.

His fingers are gentle as they tug your zipper down. He’s close—closer than usual. You can feel his warm, laboured breaths puffing out against the nape of your neck.

Harry pauses when he drags the zipper past the middle of your back, exposing the clasp of your bra. His hands abandon your body, leaving you confused. Before you can question him, however, he’s fiddling with the little hooks on the undergarment. A moment later, the cups holding your cleavage in place loosen and slip lower on your chest. A soft, dazed gasp tumbles from your lips.

Harry then resumes his previous actions, unzipping your dress the rest of the way and stepping back once he’s finished. You face him, clutching the sagging fabric against your sternum to keep it from sliding down your torso.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Suddenly, the floor is a lot more interesting than the man standing before you.

Harry just grunts in response.

You hesitate, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. There’s a palpable tension hanging in the air; you feel like it might suffocate you if you don’t voice the question dancing on the tip of your tongue.

“What was it?” you ask quietly, refusing to take your eyes off of the ground. “In the washroom, before we left—what did he say? It wasn’t English—”

“French,” Harry cuts in. You pause, clamping your mouth shut and waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t add anything else.

“What did he say?” you repeat. Beneath the loose, shapeless material of your dress, your heart is beating a mile a minute.

“Nothing,” Harry utters after a long moment of silence. “At least, nothing that you need to worry abo—”

“You’re lying,” you seethe, and the abrupt wave of irritation that washes over you is enough to make your head snap up. Your gaze burns into his face, lips curled down into a vivid scowl.

“Harry—,” you say, reaching out with one hand and shoving helplessly at his chest. He doesn’t budge, of course—the realisation only makes you angrier. “Stop lying to me.”

He clenches his jaw, and strong, slender fingers circle around your wrist before you can pull away. You squawk in surprise, your brows knitting together at the suddenness of the contact. Harry’s green eyes blaze with an emotion that you can’t quite recognize, but even then, it still leaves you utterly breathless.

You watch, stupefied, as he slides his palm beneath yours, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to the hills of your knuckles. Your jaw slackens, but—for the first time in your life—you have no witty comeback, no sharp retort.

“Une putain gâtée, tout comme sa mère.”

The words are a low murmur. His mouth brushes against your skin as he speaks. You’re enthralled by his French accent, but the sour expression on his face tells you that he must’ve just said something rotten.

“A spoiled whore,” Harry translates—he looks almost ashamed, “just like her mother.”

Your hand slips from his grasp.

     October 18, 2020

You’ve been in your room all day.

Harry hasn’t moved from his station outside, standing in front of your door with his arms folded over his chest. It’s been hours, and he hasn’t heard a peep from you. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s bored. You’re usually right next to him, talking his ear off and being your bossy, teasing self. He misses all of your little quips, not to mention the devilish smiles that you give him when you take a shot at pushing his buttons.

Now though, the silence is getting to him. He considers pulling his phone out and indulging in a trivial little game to pass the time, but then ultimately decides against it. The sun has fallen from the sky, and the moon has risen in its place—his shift is nearly over.

His cellphone chimes from inside his pocket. He fishes around for the device, eventually tugging it from the depths of his trousers. When he taps onto the screen, he finds a text from Lana, your personal chef.

Her dinner is ready. Do you want me to bring it up?

Harry purses his lips before typing his reply.

No, I’ll come down. Thank you.

A single smiling emoticon is her response.

After retrieving your plate from the kitchen and bidding Lana goodnight, Harry makes his way back upstairs. He stalls in front of your door for a few seconds before shaking off his uncertainties. His fist raps three times against the wood, and he waits expectantly for your answering call.

His shoulders deflate in relief when he hears a faint, yet familiar, “Come in.”

The room is dark, illuminated only by a small lamp on your nightstand. You’re lying on your bed, spine against the mattress and eyes trained on the ceiling. Your hair is fanned out against your pillow, and you haven’t changed out of your sleepwear (though it’s late now, Harry supposes, so there’s really no need). Cotton shorts sit low on your hips, but thankfully, your t-shirt is covering everything that needs to be concealed. When you turn your head toward the door, Harry notices that your eyes are rimmed with red.

You’ve been crying. The realisation makes his chest ache.

“Hi,” he says quietly, approaching your bed with cautious footsteps.

“Hi,” you croak. You sit up and clear your throat.

He holds out your plate. “Dinner is served.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“That’s true.” He tilts his head from side to side, acknowledging your words. “But you haven’t eaten all day.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” you mumble, though you take the dish from him with eager hands, confirming his hypothesis. “Mac n’ cheese?” you ask, peering up at him with wide eyes.

He nods. “Compliments of the chef. She said it was your ‘comfort food’, or something like that.”

You pick up the spoon resting on the side of your plate, dipping it into the pasta and scooping up a large bite. Flavour explodes across your tongue, and you hum in appreciation at the taste. “Lana’s the best.”

Harry doesn’t respond. When you look over in his direction, you find him standing awkwardly at the side of your bed, like he’s not quite sure where to go.

“Do you want to sit?” you ask through a mouthful of food. His lips twitch at the warbled quality of your voice.

“No, I—,” he starts, shaking his head. “I can leave you alone.”

You swallow heavily, running your tongue along the roof of your mouth. “Stay,” you tell him, averting your gaze. The softness of your tone makes him pause, but you just shrug. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

~*~

You finish the entire plate of macaroni in a matter of minutes. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen you scarf down food that quickly. You offered him a bite, but he turned it down, claiming that you needed it more than he did.

He was right, of course. But you would rather die than tell him as much.

You set the dish down onto your nightstand, snatching up the reusable water bottle on the corner of the little table. Harry watches, amused, as you take a large gulp of the contents inside. Once you’ve swallowed, you chance a glance over at where he’s sitting on the edge of your mattress. There’s a small smile playing on his lips.

“What?” you ask wryly.

He chuckles lightly. “Nothing.”

You smirk but decide to drop the subject.

Harry shifts, rubbing his palms over his thighs nervously. “How are you feeling?”

You look away—you knew that he would try to breach the topic of last night, but the question is still a punch to the gut.

You shrug wordlessly. He clucks his tongue.

“That’s not an answer, love.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat. A loose thread on your duvet catches your eye, and you twine it around your index finger. Another long moment of silence passes before you finally speak.

“I’m just…confused.”

“Confused?” Harry’s eyebrows knit together.

You nod.

“How so?”

A rushed, humourless laugh falls from your lips. “You’re joking, right?”

When Harry shakes his head, you sigh.

“All my life,” you say, a lump forming in your throat, “I’ve been kept in the dark. Do you know how embarrassing it is, as a little kid, to not have an answer when your friends ask what your parents do for a living?” You wrap your arms around your torso, hugging yourself tightly.

“I even used to joke about it at school,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “‘Yeah, guys, my mom’s secretly a drug dealer!’”

Harry doesn’t say anything. You take his reticence as a sign to continue.

“But then, as I got older, I realised that maybe I wasn’t that far off. She might not be in a fucking drug ring, but she’s still doing something illegal. There’s no way that we could afford to live like this, otherwise.” You gesture toward the glossy chandelier hanging from your ceiling.

“And then you came into the picture,” you say, rubbing tiredly at your eyes. “And that’s when I really started to panic. But I didn’t want to show anyone how I was feeling, obviously—so I kind of just kept it all bottled up.”

“Until now,” Harry murmurs, his expression unreadable.

You nod. “Until now.”

The material of your t-shirt is twisted up in your fists. You exhale heavily, releasing the fabric and smoothing it out with your palms. Several long seconds of tranquility ensue, until—

“Arms.”

Your gaze snaps over to Harry. “What?”

“Arms,” he repeats gruffly, staring directly at you. “She’s not dealing drugs. She’s dealing arms.”

You sit back against the headboard as his words sink in. Silence hangs in the air, growing thicker by the moment. Your mouth opens as you try to make sense of this newly-revealed information, but your lips only form around dying sounds and nonexistent sentences. Eventually, you settle for a simple, “Huh.”

And despite the trepidation of the situation, Harry laughs.

The sound brings a small smile to your face. It quickly slips away, however, when you remember something else.

“Last night, the guy at the club…,” you trail off, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I don’t think what he said was just an expression.”

Harry’s eyes are solemn. “Neither do I.”

“He told me his name was Lukas,” you say, straightening up. “Has my mother ever mentioned him before?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know anything else,” he replies. Deep down, you recognize that he’s telling the truth. “She only shares things with me when it’s absolutely necessary. My job—first and foremost—is to protect you. I’m sorry.”  

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, shifting closer to him. Harry stiffens briefly when you place your hand on his arm, but then relaxes again. The fabric of his suit is soft, pressed to perfection. “I—thank you for being honest with me. I feel better now that I know.”

He nods.

“And thank you for yesterday,” you add, swallowing heavily. “For keeping me safe.”

“Next time, I’m accompanying you to the bathroom,” he mutters. “End of discussion.”

You laugh. A tiny, barely-there smile creeps onto his lips. Your eyes fall to the yellow polish on his nails, and you hesitate.

“Harry,” you say. Anxiety unfurls in your stomach. “Can I ask you something?”

“’Course.” His voice is a low rumble. “What is it?”

“Last week,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers, “after you got shot—or grazed, whatever you want to call it—”

He freezes. You have a strong feeling that he knows where you’re going with this.

“You said—”

“I know what I said.”

I would take a bullet for you, no questions asked.

Your mouth goes dry. Harry won’t look you in the eye, but you refuse to let him shy away. You squeeze his forearm softly, hoping that the contact will prompt him to meet your gaze.

It does. When he peers up at you, the green of his irises sets off a series of echoes in your head.

And not just because it’s my job.

And not just because it’s my job.

And not just because it’s my job.

“Why did you?” you whisper, leaning toward him.

He blinks, embarrassed.

“You know why,” he grumbles, staring fixedly at your duvet. A loose strand of hair flops onto his temple as he shakes his head. “Don’t make me say it.”

Something shatters inside of you. Impulsively, you lurch forward, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of his lips.

Harry’s face snaps toward you as you sit back. You’re greeted by wide eyes, foreign and unrecognizable, and seemingly unable to make out who you are. The small mountain of hope that had been growing in your chest crumbles into nothing, scattering like dust in the wind.

You clench your jaw, trying to keep yourself composed. He’s looking at you like you’re a stranger.

“Sorry,” you sputter. Panic washes over you, and your eyes prick with the telltale sign of tears. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—”

Just as it had last week, Harry’s hand finds your face, squishing your cheeks together and cutting off your apologies. You gaze up at him as he leans in; he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly.

“Why would you do that?” he asks, and it almost sounds like he’s berating you. “Why would you—?”

“I’m sorry,” you eek out. Water beads along your bottom lashes.

“I’ve been trying so hard,” he carries on, smoothly disregarding your regrets. “Trying to keep myself from—”

He breaks off, gritting his teeth and staring directly into your eyes. His next words are stern, finite.

“It doesn’t fucking matter anymore.”

His fingers release your cheeks and migrate to the back of your neck. He uses the leverage to pull you in so that you can meet him halfway, and then he’s kissing you. It takes a moment for everything to register in your brain, but soon thereafter, you’re melting into him and kissing him right back.

You grip the lapels of his suit between tight fists, tugging him closer as you pour every ounce of yourself into his embrace. Harry’s lips work fervently against your own; the palm on the back of your neck slips lower, settling at the base of your spine. His other hand comes up, splitting apart so that his thumb and middle finger find themselves on each side of your jaw. The grip is bruising, unforgiving—you whimper in delight.

“This is—,” Harry can barely get the words out. “—unprofessional.”

“It is,” you murmur, nodding fiercely.

“We shouldn’t,” he says.

“We shouldn’t,” you agree breathlessly.

But neither of you stop.

Harry lays you down on your bed, climbing on top of you whilst still doing his best to keep your lips attached. Your hands slip beneath his suit jacket, fingertips digging into his back over the white button-up covering his torso.

“You’re wearing too much,” you whine once the two of you break apart for air.

He chuckles, pushing himself up onto his knees. You watch, awestruck, as he fiddles with the buttons lining his abdomen, undoing each one swiftly before yanking the jacket from his shoulders. A shadow of pain passes over his features.

“Careful,” you say softly, referring to his injured arm.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he brings himself back down to where you are, wasting no time and dipping his tongue into your mouth.

“Mm,” he hums, smacking his lips together. “Mac n’ cheese.”

You giggle. “Guess you got a taste, after all.”

He nods, smirking. “In all honesty, though,” he murmurs, his lips smearing against the lower-half of your cheek, “I’d much rather get a taste of something else.”

He punctuates the innuendo with a gentle bite to your jaw, and you moan.

It doesn’t take long for his hand to travel south. Harry gives you a questioning look when his fingers reach the elastic waistband of your shorts.

“Can I?”

You nod.

He curses when the digits slip beneath the fabric, because you’re not wearing anything underneath. His palm scrapes over the triangle of trimmed hair at the apex of your thighs, and he nearly starts salivating right then and there. You whine impatiently, bucking your hips up to spur him along.

He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. “Gagging for it, aren’t you?”

A strangled squeak echoes in the back of your throat, but you say nothing.

“Answer me,” Harry growls, nipping softly at your earlobe. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it!” you choke out. You wrap your fingers around his forearm, guiding his hand lower so that he can feel just how wet you are. “Please—I want it.”

“So polite,” he murmurs, sponging his lips up to your temple. Your eyelids flutter shut when he begins to rub languid circles into your clit. “Where are those manners usually hiding, hm?”

“Harry—,” you sigh, feeling your face grow hot. You’ll never admit it, but his taunts stoke the fire building in the pit of your stomach. He laughs darkly, sliding his middle finger down your slit and prodding coyly at your entrance.

“You’re soaked, and I’ve barely done anything,” he mutters. His thumb stays positioned squarely on your clit as he lowers his head, pecking your lips delicately. “Want me inside?”

You nod, but he only tuts in disapproval.

“Words, love.”

“Yes!” you whine, pouting deeply. “I—I want you inside.”

He smiles.

You squirm when he slips his finger into you, adjusting to the intrusion. Harry probes around curiously, stroking along your walls until he brushes against a spot that has you crying out in thrilled surprise and squeezing your eyes shut. The patronizing laugh that falls from his mouth is hot and heavy against your warm cheeks.

“That’s it, yeah?” he asks. “That’s the spot?”

You breathe out a weak whimper of confirmation, and he snickers. When he peers up at you and finds your eyes closed, a small frown tugs at the edges of his lips.

“Look at me, love,” he orders, adding another finger into your heat. “I wanna see you.”

You shake your head and turn away, face hot with humiliation. It’s good, though—it’s so, so good.

“Look at me,” Harry repeats, “and I’ll let you cum.”

It’s an offer that you can’t refuse.

Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. He grins at you, pride sweeping over his features. You keep your gaze trained on him, even when he speeds up the movements on your clit, his thumb rubbing quick shapes against the sensitive nub. Your back arches, toes curling into the duvet as your orgasm approaches. Harry kisses your lips, humming happily at the contact.

“Cum,” he commands quietly. “Cum for me, and then I’ll ruin this cute little cunt.”

The filthy promise has you falling apart.

He holds you tightly as your high washes over you, absorbing all of your little moans and cooing words of encouragement into your mouth. You shake, staring up at the ceiling and watching as the chandelier above you splits into doubles. The glass crystals twinkle alluringly in the dim light of your room.

“So pretty,” Harry whispers. He pecks the clammy skin of your cheek, and you sigh.

“That was…,” you trail off, unable to find the right words.

“Good?” he supplies, pulling his hand out of your shorts.

You bark out a weak, incredulous laugh. “Way better than ‘good’. I don’t think I can feel my—”

Your confession falters when you turn to the side, just in time to witness Harry slide two of his fingers past his lips. He groans desperately at the tang that spreads over his tongue.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, almost like he’s in a trance. He nuzzles his nose against yours, dropping his hand onto the bed next to your head. “You’ll let me have a proper taste next time, yeah?”

Without a second thought, you nod rapidly. “Yeah.”

Harry grunts in surprise when you push him off of you. His back lands against your mattress with a dull thud, and he chuckles faintly when you sling your leg over his waist, straddling him.

“What’re you doing?” he asks playfully as you begin to unbutton his white shirt. You pepper kisses down his chest, worshipping each new inch of skin that becomes exposed. His hands subconsciously find their way into your hair, gathering the bulk of it into a makeshift ponytail. Your clit positively throbs, ignited by the dominant undertones of the action.

“You got me off,” you say. Though the accompanying shrug of your shoulders is nonchalant, your heart is thundering beneath your ribcage. “Seems only fair, don’t you think?”

You undo his belt and flick open the button of his black trousers. Harry groans as you palm him over his slacks, sinking into the plush pillows cradling his head.

“Right,” he breathes. “Only fair.”

His cock twitches when you dip your hand into his boxers, and God, he thinks to himself as he shudders, he loves you.

~*~

You awaken in the middle of the night to sounds of restless shuffling. Your room is dark, engulfed in black. Blinking the sleep from your vision, you push yourself up, peering around and waiting for your eyes to grow accustomed to the obscurity of your surroundings.

The spot next to you on your mattress is still a bit warm, covered with wrinkled sheets. When you finally zero in on the source of the noise, you find Harry sitting in the armchair a few feet away from your bed. He’s slouching, his head supported only by a closed fist. His white shirt is draped over his shoulders, completely unbuttoned. Gray boxers sit low on his hips, revealing a pair of ferns inked into the skin just above his pelvis.

Not even five hours ago, you trailed your tongue along those very same tattoos.

“Harry?” you say groggily, and he freezes. “What—what are you doing?”

His eyes are bright, despite the encompassing darkness.

“I—,” he hesitates. “It’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

“Not unless you join me,” you retort. You slide your legs over the edge of the mattress so that you can face him properly. “What’s going on?”

He shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We kind of just passed out, and…I wasn’t sure if you were comfortable with me, like, sleeping in your bed. I didn’t wanna cross any lines.”

You balk.

“Harry…,” you start, fixing him with a drowsy yet bewildered look. “You’ve literally had your fingers inside of me, and now you’re worried about crossing a line?”

A quiet chuckle of accountability falls from his lips; the sound makes you smile. You reach out with one hand, wiggling your fingers at him and tilting your head toward the rumpled pillows waiting for you.

“Come back to bed.” Your request is soft.

The storm in his eyes dissipates, and he obeys.

You sigh as you settle back underneath the duvet, snuggling into his side and tossing a leg over his thighs. Harry wraps his good arm around you, craning his neck and pressing a tender kiss to your hair. Your fingers creep up his chest, toying with the dog tag resting between his pectorals.

“Is this going to change things between us?” you ask in a small voice.

A long moment of silence ensues.

At last, Harry replies:

“I don’t know.”

You were expecting that kind of answer, but it still stings. A big part of you wants him to say no, things won’t change. He’ll still have you, and you’ll still have him, and the two of you will still bicker back and forth like children fighting over a candy bar. He’ll still roll his eyes at your antics whilst nevertheless being willing to take a bullet for you. You’ll still tease him relentlessly to mask the way your heart races whenever he’s around (which, unfortunately, is all the time).

But the logical side of your brain knows that those fantasies are just fabrications of flimsy, wishful thinking. The two of you have crossed a line—just like he said—and you can’t go back.

As though he can sense your inner turmoil, Harry squeezes you closer into his side. “I was looking online…,” he begins, and you peer up at him with curious eyes.

He meets your gaze—his chin creases adorably—and continues. “And I saw these cool photos of someone’s nails; they painted little cherries on them.”

“That sounds cute,” you mumble.

“It was.” He nods. “And I was thinking that maybe, on Wednesday…would you want to try something like that?”

Warmth spiderwebs through your chest.

The two of you have crossed a line, and you can’t go back.

But you can move forward. And perhaps better things are waiting on the horizons up ahead.

“It might not turn out like the pictures,” you warn lightly. “I’ve never really done nail art before.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says, brushing your hair out of your face. “I just thought it’d be fun to give it a go.”

You lean up, slotting your lips against his. Harry cups your cheek, keeping you close. When the two of you finally break apart, you smile, running your thumb lovingly over the edge of his jaw.

“Remind me to pick up the tools tomorrow after class.”

~*~

READ PART 2 ON PATREON

[mxvladdy]

i have an angst request, i guess??

could you imagine the reaction when MC and a brother are cuddling, being real sweet and tender, rubbing sensitive bits of skin ect.

MC stares off for a bit and the brother thinks they’re being nostalgic but when they ask what they’re thinking about 😘 MC just says “oh? i’m just remembering that i’m a potential food source for you guys 🙃“

~My first request! Yay!~

I hope you like it. I just picked just 3 brothers that I thought would be fun. But if you want more lemme know!

Lucifer

Quality time with him is rare. He's a busy demon after all.

But after an unsightly incident a few years back he has been trying to take some time out of the day for himself. It is also the perfect excuse to have some quality time alone with you.

He likes to have you sitting on top of him while he lounges. Your weight and heartbeat were soothing. A living noisemaker.

It has become a routine now. You come and rest with him and enjoy each other's company.

This time you were a little distant. Your eyes constantly track the motions and actions of his mouth. You seem fixated on every little thing he does. From a sip of his drink to the way he scowls while reading the evening news. You’re mesmerized by something.

He takes it as you reliving the taste and feel of his lips on yours. He'd be happy to give you a reenactment. But, when he leans in for a kiss, he senses...fear?

No. Surely you had gotten over that little mortal hurdle. For all things unholy, he hasn't even threatened you in over a year.

He'll pry, demanding a reason for your sudden apprehension. If anything to mask his own fear with righteous indignation.

When you tell him it takes a lot of effort not to laugh. It wasn't a ridiculous notion. He had indulged once or twice in his younger years-not that he would tell you. The thought had crossed his mind not that he would tell you. But really you would have been dog food before he would put any effort into it.

He'll brush your concern off. He has no interest in your flesh in such a rudimentary form. Now that pretty little soul of yours was another matter...

“You seem- distracted.” Lucifer’s purrs against your temple kissing it tenderly. His deep rumble resonates down your spine. “What are you thinking about γλυκιά μου?”  He drags a razor-sharp canine down your neck teasingly. “Something good perhaps?”  

“No, sorry.” You burrow closer to his chest. “Just had a… thought.” Lucifer’s thumb stills, halting the teasing pattern he had been tracing into your thigh. He scowls brushing his nose across the crown of your head. If you were thinking of anything other than him, then he was doing this wrong.

That thought was… offending. He had carved out a spot for you in his already ridiculous schedule, and yet you seemed miles away. Normally these precious moments were spent with you snuggling close loving his undivided attention, and him loving yours in kind.

Tonight your demeanor was so demure. You clung to him as usual, soft lips trailing down his jaw to the little sliver of exposed skin from where he had loosened his tie hours ago. But, it just felt like you were just going through the motions. “Speak.” A request and order in one.

"If given the chance, would you eat me?"

"What?" Lucifer cups the back of your head and pulls you away to make eye contact. "What?" He balks, eyes wide. His expression was completely undignified. That certainly wasn't what he was expecting.

You explain to him about a conversation you had overheard in your early days of the exchange program. For some reason, it just hit you then at the feel of his mouth on you.

"I- hmmm. Personally, I would have fed you to Cerberus. I don't particularly enjoy the taste of human flesh." He settles back into his office chair unfazed. He thought he had something to worry about. "Besides, I have come to find I like you warm and breathing." He pinches your side teasingly ready to get the evening back on track.

"Wait! You thought about it!?" His blasé tone takes you aback.

Lucifer knocks his forehead into yours with a snicker. "Not too hard. Besides you'd probably give my pups indigestion with all the trouble you’ve turned out to be."

Beelzebub

He likes to spend time with you at his favorite cafe. The one with the little tea cakes and great sandwiches.

Normally you will spend a weeknight there studying and munching together. One hand scribbling away in your notebook and the other engulfed in his large hand. By the end of the night though, you always find your legs interwoven with his and his ginger head resting on top of yours.

He is full and happy. So happy in fact, he steals a kiss, and then another.

It’s a good thing he picked a booth in the back so the rest of the cafe can ignore the couple nestled closer and closer in the back. He sneaks a few more peaks in here and there, whispering softly. It was going great until- He hadn’t expected to feel you lock up. Was it something he said?

You’re embarrassed when he pulls away and tries to brush it off. You just got swept up in some thoughts, no biggie.

He won’t pry, he gets it, it happens to him too. But, when you untangle yourself from him he has to know what’s up.

When you tell him he is distraught. Because he 100% has and probably still will eat a person. He might have munched on a witch that had pissed him off just the other day…

What he hates most is he can’t really lie and deny that he hasn’t thought about it.  

“You taste amazing.” His words ghost over your lips as he savors the sweet mix of your coffee and natural flavor. You always taste like spiced oranges and honey when your lips brush. It’s intoxicating. Suddenly the flavor of you changes, a sour note hits his tongue. You go still and look out across the small cafe.“Are you ok?”

You pull away blinking rapidly. “Yeah-sorry.” You chuckle humorlessly. “Just...had a thought.” You try to move back into his arms but he stops you.    

"What's the matter?" He tilts your chin up with a callous finger. You turn your head away and answer. "What?" He could hear you just fine. Superhuman hearing and all, but he just couldn’t comprehend what he heard.

"Do you consider me as a food?" You repeat yourself. "I know demons eat people, and like you've mentioned it before. I guess, I don't know. Shouldn't I be scared?" You've never seen a demon wilt before. Beel recoils and tucks in on himself. His hand flops down to sit on his thigh.

Of Course, he did think about it. Hell’s he had considered it. Aside from being a demon, he was the avatar of gluttony. How many nights had he laid in bed, stomach growling, and your scent filling his nose when you first arrived. Mammon had a work out the first few weeks of school dragging him away from your immediate vicinity. It was fortunate for the both of you that you had bonded so quickly or else he could have ruined everything.

His silence was enough for you to know. "Crazy how things turn out right?" You try to lighten the mood. You stroke his hair gently trying to comfort him. "Sorry, I kinda ruined date night huh?"

"No, no this is good." He chuckles rubbing his neck awkwardly. "Or I mean. We should talk about this. Before Diavolo started working on the exchange program, human souls and flesh were pretty common delicacies." Beel collects his thoughts with a sigh. “The verdict didn’t go over well at first. I wasn’t too happy either if I’m being honest. But, I’m happy he did it in the long run.” He meets your gaze with a warm smile. “You’re the kinda treat I want to enjoy for eternity.”

Asmodeus

A deviant. An absolute terror when it comes to PDA. He doesn’t care if it’s class time. If he wants to be in your lap then that's where he'll be.

He'll nuzzle the crook of your neck whenever he finds his way on to your thighs. He always has a compliment ready for you. New perfume or cologne? Is that shirt the one he bought you? He'll dote on you for hours until you are a blushing mess.

He schedules out movie nights with you. Just the two of you, some good drinks, plenty of pillows, and no bothersome brothers.

The movie he picked tonight was an oldie from the Devildom. He was feeling a little sentimental and thought you would enjoy seeing some culture. You agree, but forget one little thing.

Old Devildom culture was...pretty graphic.

Asmo doesn’t notice how your mind drifted off during the opening act. He is busy creating a new trail of hickies along your shoulder and upper arm around his pact.

He does notice when he hits the sensitive spot of your neck that normally has you squirming but-nothing. Huh? Was he losing his touch? He is usually so aware of his partner's mood. He asks what’s wrong.

Your question comes out of left field. He panics, figuring the movie wasn’t the best for this conversation. He turns it off and gives you his full attention.

Has he eaten a human or two before. Yes, back when he was young and would get swept up in the heat of the moment. Crimson was a lovely color on him.

You try to console him. Really you get it, it was an errant thought. You know he won’t eat you.

Can he still call you a snack tho?

You watch the movie in dead silence. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you figure you should probably be disturbed by what you see on screen. Were you that desensitized? Probably. Should that worry you? Maybe? You try to weigh it out in your hand. The black and white feature flashing across your eyes. You have seen worse in crappy human B rated horror movies. But, those were special effects and pints of red-colored slime and food coloring. You had a nagging suspicion that the scene in front of you was real. You glance down at the slim demon trying to fuse his body into yours. His body flickering in and out of focus in the flickering lights of the movie. You try to focus on him, his warm body nestling closer to you under the blankets. It worked for a moment before another loud roar from the screen dragged your eyes back up.

The contrast between the violence on the projector and the soft innocents of Asmodeus’s lips on the corners of yours was wild. He wasn’t even paying attention to the film. Typical. This was his normal ploy to have you all to himself. It worked though, and you loved it. Oh- You watch with wrapped attention as the human on screen was consumed both body and soul by a horde of demons.

“Is the film more magnetic than me?” Asmodeus pulls away licking his lips. His rose-colored gloss was smeared across his cheek. You shudder blinking past the sudden thought of what that soft red color also looked like.  

"Nah," You huff wrapping your arms around him to press your chest to his. He purrs practically preening from your attention. "Just thinking."

"Oh~" You can feel his playful smile stretching along your hairline. "Care to share." He nips your earlobe.

"I just, humans really are just kinda food to you guys huh?”

You’ve never seen Asmodeus move so fast before in your life. One moment he is doing his best impression of an octopus and the next he is standing several feet away from you, hands raised in a mix of shock and defense. “Where would you-” He trails off hearing the sound of violence and death behind him. “Oh Hells.” He clicks off the projector in a panic. “I am so sorry honey! I did not think that through.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Would this be an inappropriate time to say I would go straight to your thighs?”

Asmodeus snorts in the dark. “Hips more like. You are nothing but sugar and fluff.” He flips the lights back on and he comes back to kneel next to you. He cups your face. “You know I would never do that right? I can’t say I haven’t done it before but I’ve never thought that about you.”

You hum kissing his warm palm. “Should I be offended or thankful?”

He hits you playfully. “That’s not funny!” You laugh taking his light swats, grateful that the mood in the room was already lightning.  

“It is and you know it.” You scoop him back into your lap and snatch the remote up from where he had tossed it. “Come on let’s finish movie night. I’m picking the show this time.”

[otonymous]

“The Most Beautiful Girl In The World”: The Guys As Fathers (MLQC Headcanon)

Hi dear Nonny!

What a wonderful idea!  We could all use a bit of fluff every now and then 🤣 I hope you’re doing well too!  Sending you much love along with these headcanons!  Hope you enjoy the read! 🥰💖 

Victor:

Daddy’s little princess - this little girl is the CEO of Victor’s heart

She is also the unofficial CEO of LFG: Victor loves to bring her to work with him every now and then, and all the office staff go absolutely ga-ga over her

Goldman.  Is.  Smitten. (Especially since she has a way of softening Victor’s hard as nails exterior)

Victor likes to front like he’s strict, but he’s not fooling anybody.  Just one look at the tenderness in his eyes when he’s looking at his daughter would tell you who’s really the boss

Psst!  He loves to spoil her!

And by spoiling, we don’t mean that she gets whatever she wants, all the time (although daddy’s heart DOES thrill a little inside to see her all bubbly with happiness after he presents her with a gift) — Victor will also ensure that he carves out time from work to spend with his family (there will definitely be a shift in work-life balance)

He won’t let her get away with everything though!  The man will still insist that she be on her best behaviour when necessary, but he is a lot more lax than you would’ve expected from him

Family time would consist of: horseback riding lessons, teddy bear picnics and tea parties (best believe she will be sending an actual invitation in the mail to Mr. Mills) — you will absolutely melt the first time you see Victor perched uncomfortably in a tiny chair, holding a mini plastic teacup to his lips and asking a stuffed cat if it would like another scone

She LOVES to be Victor’s sous-chef in the kitchen, and when she gets a bit older, she’ll also become daddy’s jogging buddy

Victor will always, always read her a bedtime story, even when he’s away from home on business, even if it means interrupting a meeting (Victor will establish a new norm; his peers will come to respect his family values)

The absolute apple of the eye of Victor’s father and aunt: this munchkin can do no wrong.  If she is to be spoiled rotten by anyone, it would be by these two.  

Every time you go over to their place for dinner, it’s pretty much guaranteed that you’ll be leaving with a trunkful of new toys

This little girl would be a good mix of her mother and father: she’ll inherit her father’s jet black hair, but the intensity of her eyes will be softened by your genes

In spite of all this generosity, your little girl will grow up to be far from spoiled

She will be incredibly compassionate, and will go from donating her many, many books and toys to other less fortunate kids as a child to organizing charity functions, etc., as a young adult.  

Victor couldn’t be more proud.

Lucien:

The shift is seismic the very first time Lucien holds his newborn daughter in his arms

“She looks just like you,” he whispers to no one in particular, careful not to wake you as you get one night of precious sleep immediately postpartum before your nights become interrupted by endless wake-feed-soothing back to bed cycles

Lucien doesn’t sleep that first night in the hospital; he spends it cradling your daughter by the light of the moon seeping in through the thin slats of the blinds

The cool rays illuminate every single feature that Lucien sets his mind on memorizing: her eyes — still a little bit swollen, the flare of those tiny nostrils, the sharply defined cupid’s bow of the most perfectly shaped lips

He is putting his face to the downy soft hairs on the crown of her head, nose pressing to cheek to inhale the scent of his newborn daughter

A tiny seed of anxiety begins to sprout from deep within Lucien to know that he will never have this moment again with her, and it feels like time is already slipping from the tight grasp of his hand

But then suddenly, she opens her big, bright eyes.  Quietly, she stares at her daddy, her irises the same colour as the ones drowning in her gaze, and the nervous clench in Lucien’s gut dissolves

And when she opens and closes her mouth in a soundless gape as if to say that everything will be okay, Lucien knows he would give his life in a heartbeat to protect hers

This little girl is wise beyond her years, and will often say things that surprise the adults around her; family friends will refer to her as an “old soul”

She is far from a little chatterbox, preferring instead to listen and observe those around her, her big, bright eyes patiently taking in every detail

Initially, you’ll be concerned that she isn’t speaking as much as other children her age.  Lucien will take his time reassuring you, an almost knowing smile on his lips.

When she does finally speak, she blows everyone away with the relative complexities of her sentence structures

Little genius: your daughter shares her father’s intelligence and can often be found snuggling up under her favourite camphor tree, books and sketching pencils in hand

She loves flying kites with her mommy and daddy

Quiet but kind, she’ll have no shortage of friends and admirers

You might be surprised, but she also has a wicked sense of humour.  Enjoys delivering jokes with the cutest wink in the world.

Her favourite place in the world is daddy’s laboratory.  The noisy whirs of those big, fancy machines make her jump for joy and Lucien cannot help but smile

There are times — especially when you guys are at your happiest as a family — that Lucien has to fight back the anxiety that all this could be taken away from him.  The melancholic tinge in his smile is so slight that even you could miss it at times.  But your daughter will always catch it.  And when she does, she’ll slip her tiny hand within her father’s much larger palm, look up and give him the biggest smile she can muster.  It’ll always bring him back to the moment.

Little though she is, she gives him strength beyond compare

And on the day of her graduation from university at the top of her class, she’ll be given a priceless gift from her parents: a silver pen named Iridescent.

Gavin:

Usually so calm, cool and collected in even the most stressful of situations, Gavin is a nervous wreck when you go into labour

He is pacing back and forth and back and forth in the hospital room.  You almost want to send him on an errand to get some popular street eats with a guaranteed long line up just so he can calm TF down and not get in the nurses’ way

He is offering you ice chips before you even ask for it, patting at your forehead with a facecloth even though you’re not sweating, giving you his hand to hold every two minutes even though you haven’t started pushing yet

When you mention that he should probably try to calm down since you likely have at least another hour to go before your cervix is fully dilated, he nods in agreement and starts doing push-ups and sit-ups on the floor

The battery of Gavin’s phone dies from all of Minor’s messages asking if the baby has arrived yet

Birdcop is fit to burst from all the joy his body just simply cannot contain the moment his little girl arrives

Because now he has not just one, but TWO of you!

Your daughter will be the splitting image of you, except for her striking amber eyes

The names she gives her stuffed animals will be strangely familiar: Fluffy, Softy, Pearly Jr., etc. (you’ll have to ask her whether daddy helped with the naming 🤣).

Minor’s enthusiasm cannot be dampened: he is over so often with food, diapers and offers to do the housework that you basically have to make him your child’s godparent LOL

Gavin is a giant teddy bear when it comes to your daughter: he cannot say no to her and lives to see her smile

She is gifted with her father’s athleticism, and Gavin won’t hesitate to personally instruct her on the art of self-defence starting at a very young age (needless to say, any future suitors will be given very intense once-overs by Gavin, even little boys at the playground; you can never let your guard down)

Eli is on Gavin’s watch list the moment G-man overhears her shyly asking you about “daddy’s handsome coworker” the year she turned 8

Yes, she will also be getting a bracelet with a GPS tracker LOLOL

She is incredibly strong: could probably toss Minor around like a burlap sack by the time she’s 12

This little girl is all about the thrills, screaming, “Go higher, daddy!  Higher!” in Gavin’s ear as he flies with her on his shoulders

He will take her to the BEST places for stargazing at night (when she’s old enough to stay up) — best believe this is something G-man will lament the loss of when she’s all grown up

Yes, the motorcycle will be her ride of choice the moment she gets her licence (much to her parents’ chagrin)

Gavin cannot help but tear up every time he watches her play the piano, especially if she plays with her mother at the same time

Psst!  He has a photo in his study of the two of you sitting next to each other on the piano bench, the late afternoon sun streaming in through big, French windows, dappled by leaves falling from the ginkgo tree planted in the backyard

He only wishes his mother could’ve been there to see his beautiful baby girl

Kiro:

This little star charms absolutely everyone at first sight: the doctors and nurses that help deliver her are completely enamoured with this little bundle of joy

Tears are streaming from Kiro’s bright blue eyes the moment she is placed into his arms for the first time; he’ll bend over to give you the biggest kiss while gently cradling the baby, the salt of your tears mixing together

This little girl has the best laugh: clear and bright and like music to the ears of anyone lucky enough to hear it.

And she laughs often — daddy is hell-bent on filling her childhood with love and joy and will do anything to make her smile

You’ll often see Kiro crawling around the house on hands and knees, your daughter shrieking with laughter as she tugs on his golden hair, yelling “Giddy-up!” over and over again

Genetics aside, let’s just pretend that her hair is long and golden like her father’s.  At times, she literally looks like a doll come to life, especially with those azure eyes

Budding superstar: this girl has inherited her father’s talents when it comes to acting and music.  She is hitting those high notes, projecting that beautiful voice and basically hamming it up all the time just to get a laugh from her adoring family.

Kiro will “complain” about double standards because Savin will always have a tasty treat for her whenever he sees her, saying “Make sure your daddy doesn’t get any, okay?” LOL

At the same time, Kiro decides to (gasp!) cut down on his junk food habit when his daughter is born.  He actually already started out of solidarity during your pregnancy, and wants to be healthy so he can have as much time as possible with his beloved family

Kiro also cuts back on his workload when his little girl arrives.  This daddy is super involved in all aspects of taking care of his baby and his wife.  You’ll never hear him complain about having to change a dirty diaper.  In fact, he even does it better than you do — no leakages here! LOL

Kiro LOVES to dress his daughter up and will often wear matching outfits with her.  Baby and daddy denim overalls?  Check.  Father-daughter couture?  Check.  

Baby globetrotter: you guys will tag along with Kiro when he flies overseas to shoot on location.  Kiro loves having you and the baby near.

When she gets a bit older, you can bet that they’ll be the best gaming buddies (you’ll insist on her having completed her homework first, but Kiro will secretly let her play one game before she starts - “just don’t tell your mom, or else we’ll both be in trouble!”)

Charming and bright, your daughter is also a bit of a tech wiz.  Learns to code at a very young age under her father’s tutelage, and enjoys building computers from scratch as a hobby.

This little girl carries joy with her wherever she goes, spreading it around like warm sunshine

Shaw:

Shaw is soft, soft, soft the moment he becomes a father

He could be blasé about everything else, but not when it comes to his daughter, the absolute treasure of his heart along with his wife

There will be times that you wake up in the middle of the night and find his side of the bed empty.  You’ll hear his footsteps, softly pacing back and forth before a large window as he tries to sooth your infant daughter back to sleep.  Shaw will look like he literally stepped out of a ‘90s Calvin Klein ad campaign, topless and clad only in low slung pyjama bottoms as he cradles your daughter in his arms, the muscles of his biceps bulging in the pale moonlight that casts a silvery glow on his lavender hair.

(Example of a Calvin Klein ad from the 1990s)

Guess your thirst will have to wait till your daughter falls asleep again to be slaked LOL

This little girl will have her father’s amber eyes as well as the fine features of his face — she will slay all the kids in school with her beauty

Loves to snark her dad but is all sweetness to you (Psst! Shaw (not-so) secretly loves it!)

A fast-talker and quick-witted: sometimes, you think you can actually hear her mind working

Absolutely loves her daddy’s skateboard and would much rather learn new tricks on her own board than play with more age-appropriate toys

She is also a bit of a bookworm: loves to read and is often surprising you with new topics of interest, everything from ancient civilizations to meteorology

Your little girl will often snuggle up to him and ask him what he is reading.  Shaw will then proceed to read to her, even if it’s a paper or a textbook.  Her quick mind has been able to grasp even abstract concepts from a very young age.  She’s a bit of a genius in that respect.

Inherits her dad’s love of music.  The two of them will enjoy rocking out in the basement the moment she is big enough to properly hold an electric guitar (with you sneaking peeks every 5 minutes to make sure she’s still got her protective headphones on LOL)

She’ll take after her dad in that she’ll seem uncomfortable with the concept of authority starting at a very young age.  She questions nearly everything and will drive many of her teachers up the wall, although they will also recognize the extent of her incredible intellect.  She’ll set herself apart at school as a leader, having also the charisma to charm those who would wish to follow

Her dad, of course, is absolutely ecstatic to have a daughter capable of thinking for herself instead of blindly following others (and you will be too!)

🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣🐣

Thanks so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚 

(Please do not copy/alter/edit/repost my work - thanks!)

[1-800-seo]

Pairing: Lee Taeyong X Gender Neutral Reader

Song: The Louvre - Lorde (lyrics mentioned)

Genre: Fluff/Artist!You + Poet!Taeyong

Warnings: suspicions of cheating, alcohol consumption, slightly tipsy-ness, some kissing, implied sexual content but not explicit. 

Word Count: 4000 approx. 

Summary: As wandering, travelling college students on a gap year, meeting each other in the Louvre was purely coincidental, and usually summer flings weren’t your thing, but Taeyong was different. And like a moth to a flame, you were entranced.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

The floorboards creak as the tour group shuffles down the hallways of the Louvre, passing many other tourists. The tour group leader stops at another painting and begins his explanation of the painting you see in front of you; well, you would be able to see it if you weren’t at the back of the group. Craning your neck to see, you stand on your tiptoes, before realising it is all in vain. Forgetting the other artwork, you swivel to see another painting on the wall adjacent to it and peer upon it instead. A young icy blond haired man stands beside you, examining the artwork too. He wears a baggy striped t-shirt that shows his delicate collarbones, tucked into a pair of black skinny jeans, a necklace gently hanging around his neck. He looks positively comfy, but effortlessly chic; you can’t help but stare at his chiselled jawline either. The man looks as if he was carved out of marble, angular lines with delicate features, he was stunningly beautiful. And suddenly, you realise you’ve been staring way too long when he turns his head and catches you. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He says, but you sense no malice in his voice as a warm smile creeps up his face. Looking at the ground, the painting, anywhere, you apologise; “Ah, I’m sorry… uhm I like your outfit.” You reply gingerly, unsure of what to say to remedy the situation. “Thank you! It’s new.” He sits down on a near bench, eyes trained on the painting ahead. “As great as this painting is, I cannot stand scenes of suffering - I really struggle to find the beauty in them.” He blurts out after a moment. “Why’s that?” You curiously reply. You’ve always liked paintings from the romanticism era, the painting in question being ‘The Raft of the Medusa’ by Theodore Gericault. “For instance, this painting shows their suffering, and just that itself is not nice to see, but the colour palette is so murky to me. What do I know though, I’m no artist.” You understand what he means, as an art major, you had to analyse this piece one semester. “I get where you are coming from, the aging of the paints makes it appear murkier than the artist intended, and I think that adds to the whole ‘suffering’ aspect.” As you end your sentence, you turn your head and realise the tour group has moved on. You pat him on the shoulder and point in the direction of the crowd. He swears under his breath before standing up and leading the way back with the group. What a beautiful stranger. 

Once the tour group has ended, you vacate the Louvre, more sightseeing to do. After a busy day of staring up at the Arc De Triomphe and climbing the stairs of the Eiffel tower, you end up walking by the Louvre again since you previously spotted a cute cafe you wanted to try out. Now dusk, the water display is illuminated, bathed in light and bubbling. You see a familiar figure sat on the wall beside it, looking slightly lost and reading from a notebook. Unsure whether to help, you continue walking on to the cafe, this would only take a minute or two. Once done, with two coffees in hand, you walk back to the Louvre and the figure still sitting on the wall. 

“Are you ok? You seem a bit lost?” You gently ask, testing the waters. The man from the gallery looks back up to you, big expressive eyes staring back, and you sense a hint of worry in them. “Hi, yeah, I’m a bit lost. My phone died and I can’t find my way back to my hotel.” He says, forlorn. “Well, I bought you a coffee, if you’d like it, and I don’t mind helping! I can maybe help with directions.” You hand the coffee towards him, and he takes it from you, eyes lighting up as he does. “Aww thank you! That would mean a lot to me, and thank you for the coffee.” You sit down on the wall next to him as you pull up Google maps on your phone. “It’s no problem. Where are you staying? I’ll put it into maps and have a look.” “I’m staying at the mur de coquelicots hotel.” “Oh no way! I’m staying there too! I know exactly where it is, we can walk back together.” “That sounds great.” He replies with a smile, eyes shining. 

The pair of you walk through the city as the sun sets and the moon begins to shine. Conversation flows easily, and you find yourself totally enamoured with this stranger. He’s bubbly and friendly, charismatic and charming, simultaneously shy and chatty. It’s hard not to stare as he speaks to you, it’s an added bonus that he’s gorgeous. Unfortunately, the walk is over quicker than you’d like and you two enter through the lobby of the cheap but nice enough hotel. You make your way into the elevator with him, and press your floor. “Well it was nice meeting you. I just realised I don’t even know your name.” You giggle. “I’m Y/N.” “Thank you for your help Y/N, I’m Taeyong by the way.” “You’re welcome, goodnight Taeyong.” You bid your farewell and exit the lift, the doors opening as you finish your sentence. 

As you reach the door to your room, you fiddle with the key card, excitement bubbling up inside of you. What a lovely guy. You flop down on the comfy hotel bed once you’re inside of the room. Spending all summer in Paris was becoming more and more like a dream come true. 

The sun shines through the translucent curtains as you gather your things into your tote bag and get ready to leave the hotel room for breakfast. You wander over to the quaint bakery across the road from the hotel, and spot a familiar figure sitting in the outdoor seating with a newspaper. The blonde haired man sports a beret, and looks positively relaxed as he munches away on a croissant. You pick out a pastry, before walking over. “Is this seat taken?” You ask, and pull out the chair to sit down. “No, feel free to sit.” He replies with a smile. You sit opposite to him and shift in your seat to get comfortable. “What a lovely morning, right?” His smile beams as he looks your way. “Definitely! I love the warm weather.” You say, “it’ll be perfect to paint in.” “Oh so, you’re a painter? That’s cool, Paris is perfect for inspiration. It’s certainly aiding me.” “Yeah, I’m a painter, I’m here as an international student on study leave. What do you do?” “I’m an English literature major, specialising in poetry, so I’m here finding inspiration for poems of my own.” “Well, you’re certainly at the right place. Speaking of inspiration, I’m going to visit the Palace of Versailles today if you’d like to come with me and are not busy. I thought since you’re alone here, you might want to?” You ask, rubbing your hands over your arms, a slight shiver of nervousness at your sudden offer. “That sounds amazing! Thank you for the invite. What time are you thinking of leaving?” His eyes light up at your offer and your nervousness is put at bay. “Around 12pm, and you’re very welcome.” You reply.  “Sounds good, I’ll meet you here at 12pm then?” He responds chirpily. “Sounds good to me.” 

Okay I know that you are not my type (still I fall.) I'm just the sucker who let you fill her mind

(But what about love?)

Nothing wrong with it

Supernatural

Just move in close to me, closer, you'll feel it coasting

This wasn’t something you usually did. Asked our strangers or chose to spend time with ones you are not familiar with. But it was almost a supernatural attraction. He was not your usual type at all, but something strong and lulling was moving over you. Something indescribable, beyond enchanting. 

Walking around the luscious gardens of the Palace of Versailles was just a sight to behold. The beauty that is held within was stunning. It was as you strolled around it that Taeyong took your hand in his; so casually that you didn’t think anything of it at first, but then it hit you and your heart fluttered. You smiled wide as he looked at you with tender eyes. It’s not wrong to move this fast right? Nothing wrong with a summer fling. 

Nothing wrong with it, supernatural. 

As the two of you walk around, conversation flows freely. You speak of previous art pieces and he talks about writing, he tells you about how long he’s been in Paris and so many other things. Before you know it, you two find yourselves under a grand stone archway, and conversation trails off delicately. “You’re so beautiful, I love the way the sunlight hits you. I think you’d make a beautiful painting yourself.” He says unexpectedly. A bubble rises through your chest, and you know what you want to do. You lean forward, placing your hands gently either side of his head and you kiss him. His soft lips meet yours and you are drinking each other in. The kiss is brief but heavenly all the same. As you pull away you notice a light blush over his cheeks and a dorky grin on his face. You feel the same grin on yours. 

After a lovely day together walking around the palace’s gardens and opulent rooms, you decide to head back and get some food together. Being students and not having a ton of money, you both decide to get food from a local convenience store and to eat it on the hotel room balcony. “What do you fancy eating?” He asks, his hand still grasped around yours as you peruse the items in the shop. “I think I fancy some quiche, what are you thinking?” “I think I’ll get some cheese and crackers.” He adds, checking out the foreign cheeses. Once the pair of you have your haul, you head back up to the hotel room, and lay out your spread on the balcony table. The sun is setting gently in the distance and it illuminates the skies in gentle peaches and pinks. In his company, it just feels so comfortable, so cosy. 

A rush at the beginning. 

At the shop, you also purchase a bottle of wine, and the two of you share it together. Perhaps the cosy feeling is from that, you don’t know, but either way; you enjoy being in his company and don’t regret talking to the beautiful stranger in the Louvre. After some time, you’re both positively tipsy, not drunk, just giggly and happy. Taeyong starts dancing on the balcony, languid movements and sharp ones intertwined into a beautiful choreography. You’re not quite sure how he learnt to dance this way, he deserves to be on a stage. But for tonight, you were his audience. 

Drink up your movements, still I can’t get enough. 

He flows freely, not unlike a puppet on a string, controlled by some unseen forces to move his body in ways you could never. “Where did you learn that dance?” You ask, intrigued to no end. “I’m freestyling, just making it up.” Of course, he’s beautiful, intelligent, kind, and talented. “That’s crazy, you’re amazing.” You reply, and he blushes at your compliment. “One minute, I’m just going to go to the bathroom.” He replies, and sets his phone down on the table. “See you in a sec.” Whilst he’s gone you sit and stare at the beautiful dusk sky that is out ahead. You’re aware that what you have with Taeyong is quite the whirlwind, but you really can’t find the space to care. There isn’t any damage being done, and you’re young so now’s the time to have fun and be carefree. You’re in Paris, maybe it’s called the City of Love for a reason? 

As almost to interrupt your thinking, Taeyong’s phone buzzes on the table and the screen illuminates in front of you. You can’t help but see what the message says, it’s right there in front of you. The message is from “이 소연” and it reads: “Missing you, my dear, can’t wait to have you back in my life. Enjoy Paris <3” 

Is it possible he has a partner? Were you not the only one? It’s entirely possible that you were just a summer fling to him, and he actually has a partner back home. 

I overthink your punctuation use. Not my fault, just a thing that my mind do.  A rush at the beginning. I get caught up, just for a minute. 

Were you just getting caught up with everything? Did you really just rush into things without even a second thought. Of course, you were being naive, you didn’t even ask if he was single before kissing him. And yes, he reciprocated but what did that mean? You were just the enabler. 

Alas, you had to move on with the night, getting suspicious of him and acting weird wouldn’t help right now. So when he comes back onto the balcony, you continue the night as normal, pushing down your feelings. Perhaps it was his sister. You really cannot presume. Despite your logical side being sensible, your emotional side still fought a battle. Warring to be front and centre of your thoughts. You know you can’t let it get the better of you though. And so, you carry on with the night, albeit slightly stilted now; and you make an excuse to go to bed earlier than you normally would. You scuttle off to your hotel room across the hall and settle in for the night. Thoughts swirling around and around in your mind. 

Can you hear the violence? Megaphone to my chest, broadcast the boom, boom, boom. 

The sun rises overhead, almost fully above the buildings as you nibble on your croissant quietly. The streets are starting to come to life as you watch from the local bakery with your morning coffee. Desperately, you try to put your mind at ease, try to push down the onslaught of intrusive thoughts; illogical as they come. After 20 minutes, you start to feel more at peace, you watch the dainty flowers sway in the morning breeze in their pot. You almost expect to feel worse when you see him. He approaches you, leather satchel hanging at his waist, and waves as he comes. Instead you don’t feel worse, you just feel oddly numb. Completely sensationless as you put on a smile in return to his wave. He sits down in the chair across from you, and places his satchel on the floor next to his chair. 

“Good morning! How are you today? I hope you’re not hungover from the wine last night.” He says with a giggle. “I know I certainly am, but I’m trying to be positive.” He adds, and you notice his slightly ruffled bed head, must’ve been from a rough sleep. “Ahh, you certainly are doing a good job of being positive then,” you reply with a smile that reaches your eyes and crinkles them, “luckily, I don’t feel hungover. I’m just enjoying the morning slowly and as it comes.” Which is true, you decided you’d take today as it comes. “I’m glad you don’t feel too bad then. I’m just going to nip inside to get something to eat, do you want anything?” He rises from his chair and gestures to the shop door. “No thank you, I just finished a croissant before you came, but thanks anyway.” “No worries.” And he leaves to enter the boulangerie. 

I’m just the sucker who let you fill her mind. 

You didn’t want to make things awkward with Taeyong. It wasn’t worth it, at the end of the day, all you did was kiss him once. Perhaps you needed to find out more about him, get the full context at least. When Taeyong sits back down the conversation starts back up again and turns to family life. “So do you have any family back home?” You ask curiously. “What, in Korea? Yeah, I do. I have my parents back home and a sister. Yerin, she’s 15 and quite the handful. I miss her, but for now FaceTime calls will suffice.” He lets out a low chuckle at his own joke, making the situation a bit lighter. His answer doesn’t provide any clues to your questions though. “Aww that’s nice, I have a sister too. But she’s older than me. Do you have a partner at all?” You ask now, testing the waters. “Nope, just me, myself, and I.” “Same for me.” Well, that also doesn’t answer your questions. You’re pretty sure that the text earlier wasn’t from his sister, and you expect his mum to be down in his phone as a term of endearment; not a full name so it can’t be her. Is it better to give up the search? Maybe asking Taeyong more later would help. But what to say? Future you would deal with that. For now, you had the whole day ahead. 

“So what do you have planned today?” He inquired now, breaking you from your thoughts. “I’m just going to go paint in the local park, do you fancy being my sitter? I need more anatomy practice.” “Ooh of course! I’ve never done anything like that before.” And so today’s plans were set. How could you pass up on the opportunity to paint someone built so divinely like Taeyong? Personal interests aside, Taeyong was made to be immortalised in artwork forever. His sharp jawline, large emotive eyes, and slim frame all coming together to create the perfect sitter for you. A painting of him, no matter the artist who painted it, should be hung in the Louvre. A masterpiece deserving of being viewed by everyone and adored. 

Our thing progresses

I call and you come through

The spot you are situated in is perfect, a lush knoll leading out onto a tulip field, the many colours like a rainbow behind Taeyong. You’d decided to paint him in watercolour, partially because of the easy clean up, partially because you want to capture his true beauty, the delicate tones of his skin, hair, and eyes; the gentle dips of his collarbone, the sinewy muscle of his arms. 

Taeyong poses quietly, the silence a comfortable one, as you begin painting him. He looks thoughtful, looking out into space behind you, he almost seems meditative, eyes blinking slowly and breathing even. As you mix the colour of his skin tone on your watercolour pan, you see him sigh, and wonder what he is thinking about. From what you know, Taeyong’s an introspective person, much like you, and perhaps that’s the mood he is in today. You are the same. It’s hard in the silence for your thoughts not to turn to the message. Intrusive thoughts fly around like bats in the night time; even if he was cheating, could you not push it aside for the sake of a summer fling? Logical thoughts cross out that of the intrusive ones - of course not, how could you be the other person in his relationship for the sake of selfishness? It’s important to be communicative, and if you have your worries - suspicions - then should you not speak to him about it? Sometimes things are better left unsaid, yes, but this is not one of them. 

With a new resolve, you decide to talk to him come the evening. Clarification is what you need, and you must bolster up the courage to get it. 

I am your sweetheart psychopathic crush

You know what they say about alcohol, it’s liquid courage, and after a glass of wine or two, you finally feel bold enough to approach Taeyong. You open your hotel room door, and cross the hallway to his. A sharp rap on the door brings you to Taeyong’s attention, and he pads across the room to open the door. You stand near the threshold, looking almost alarmed, like a deer in headlights. Perhaps you came underprepared and unrehearsed. “C-can I talk to you?” You ask, words stuttering on their way out. “Of course, come in.” He replies gently, sensing your unease as he gestures for you to come in. 

Once you’re both situated on the balcony in those damn uncomfortable plastic chairs, you begin to talk. “Do you have a partner, Taeyong?” You fiddle with your hands, eyes glued to them in aversion from his eyes. “No, why?” He replies, head cocked to the side in confusion. “When you went to the bathroom the other day, your phone was on the table directly in front of me, and pardon me for breaking your privacy, but I couldn’t help but read the preview of the message that came up. It said “missing you, my dear, can’t wait to have you back in my life. Enjoy paris,” and then there was a love heart at the end. I’ve probably got the wrong end of the stick, but I’ve been so cautious because I don’t want to be that other person in a relationship. I don’t think you’re lying to me, I just wanted to be sure, and ask you since it’s been bothering me.” 

Taeyong takes a hold of your hand in his and smooths his thumb over the back of it in a comforting gesture. “I promise darling, I’m not dating anyone. That was my crazy ex. I broke up with her roughly six months ago, and she’s still sending me random messages. The only reason why she knows about me being in Paris is because she keeps hounding my mother for information. She keeps mentioning about me being back in her life, but I promise to you that I have no intention of even seeing her or speaking to her. She’s a mad woman.” At his words you feel tension release inside your chest. Your body feels lighter and you feel a wave of relief. Thank goodness for that. 

“I’m sorry you’re having to deal with that Taeyong, and thank you for clearing things up. None of this is my place but, I appreciate you filling me in.” Now you look into his eyes, the dark earthy spheres look back at you as the remaining sunlight gives them a glossy shine. You smile back and he leans forward, lips meeting yours in a kiss. You drink him in now, no longer hesitant to taste him. To him you taste so heavenly, the remaining mature hints of red wine mixed with something inherently just you, has him high with the feeling. He moves his hands to your waist now and you climb onto his lap, eager to be closer to him, to touch him. He fiddles with the hem of your shirt in his grip as you kiss down his neck now, lapping at the warm tan skin. “Let’s go inside, yeah?” He whispers in your ear, and you nod in agreement. 

Well, summer slipped us underneath her tongue,

Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession, Half of my wardrobe is on your bedroom floor, Use our eyes, throw our hands overboard. 

The morning light spills into the room through the translucent dainty cream curtains as they flow in the wind. The window is open to let the summer air flow in, and you don’t feel a chill at all. Taeyong’s warm skin radiates a heat you’ve never quite experienced, it’s so homely and cosy. The feeling of your head on his chest as you listen to his heartbeat unlike any other else. It’s nice to just be held, to feel the closeness of another human being and feel utterly comfortable. 

You think back to the portrait of him you painted yesterday, and somehow you think it’s your best piece. There’s nothing like being able to capture a person with the aura whole. The piece emits something wholly him, just him. You think that’s why it might be your favourite. Maybe someday they’ll hang it in the Louvre, you giggle to yourself at that thought and Taeyong stirs underneath you. “What’s so funny, baby?” He asks, spoken with a gruff morning voice low and gravelly. “I was thinking about your portrait, and I thought about how you could hang it in the Louvre. But only because it’s you.” 

“They’ll hang us in the Louvre, down the back, but who cares, still the Louvre.” He replies, a blissed out look on his face. He’s right, maybe not about yourself, but about him. He might just be the ultimate muse. 

But we’re the greatest 

They’ll hang us in the Louvre

Down the back, but who cares - still the Louvre

thank you for reading! this fic is for the ‘Now Playing’ collab by @haechanblr and it was a joy to take part!! I hope everyone liked this hehe :))

If ur interested in more of my works my masterlist is here <3

[phoenixrisesoncemore]

I want 8, the hand-kissing, because I am in some respects extremely predictable :D

(I am shocked. Shocked, I tell you.)

8. Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand

In the polygon of morning sunlight on the floor of jingshi, Lan Wangji is three lines.

One is a headband: straight and steady, a wall of rules made of silk, pale and hard as ice; a horizon—a divider of things—Heaven above and Earth below.

One is a guqin string: the first finger of his right hand hovers over an A as it shimmers and evaporates like morning dew, passing from the “is” into the “was.” Such is a language that can speak to the dead.

And the third… The third only Wei Wuxian has seen.

Beneath five layers of white and a sun-shaped scar, a muscle beats steady and slow. He’d dug them out of the raw earth, carved talismans right into ribs, and seen them in their natural state, rotting inside scrimshaw cages. “Keep me alive that I may kill,” he had intoned, his mouth dry with terror and thirsty for revenge as bones popped and sinew creaked and muscles moved anew.

None ever beat, less so like this one. On a mountain of corpses turned to soil, none were solid ground. None raced to look at him or pulsed when he muttered a name.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji keeps playing but meets his gaze without hesitation. Wei Wuxian realizes he has no statement or question to follow with; none was really intended, and he fails to contrive one instantly. The thrill of knowing that he can garner Lan Wangji’s full attention with such ease is still overwhelming, and were Lan Zhan really made of thin jade, the whole world, too, could see that muscle picking up speed.

‘May I have the honor of a glimpse from you?’ He had once asked.

It has been a string of hazy early mornings and quiet afternoons since he returned to The Cloud Recesses. Overly quiet. As if something was waiting to be said.

From Wangji rises gentle pops of color: a golden A, the soft green tincture of E, the purple query of G. Sometimes they are soft as rain, sometimes they are momentary fireworks.

There is no end of notes; they spring up like weeds.

But neither had there been an end of corpses.

It was at Nightless City that he had first seen the third, the line that runs from the right hand all the way to the heart, reaching at right angles against the other two down the face of a cliff to catch him, to anchor him to the world when he did not want to stay.

“Let me go, Lan Zhan” he had said.

Now it had reached across 16 years...

“Indulge me, Lan Zhan,” he says. He rises, crosses the room, and drapes himself closer, balanced on elbow and hip, back to the guqin on its low table, and punctuates with a single spin of Chenqing.

Lan Wangji’s hands do not miss a note. “For Wei Ying, always.”

Wei Wuxian purses his lips and worries Chenqing’s tassel, twisting it around his finger. “Shizhui told me something interesting the other day.” He pauses and lets the silence sit between them for a moment. “He said that when he was younger he used to hear you playing Inquiry late at night, and that’s why he asked you to teach him: because it was ‘the saddest and most beautiful thing he had ever heard.’” He spins Chenqing again, suddenly introspective. “I don’t think of Inquiry as beautiful, but then… I suppose that would depend on who’s doing the asking… what is being asked… who it is being asked to.”

He does not need to look: he can feel the sudden and subtle electric tension. “Lan Zhan, were you—by chance—playing for me?”

He had never answered when Wei Wuxian asked about burning money, but the guqin has gone silent, so Wei Wuxian waits, the thrill of expectation rising. Then Lan Wangji plucks a solitary note: E flat.

E flat?

Yes.

Ah, so this is our game!

Wei Wuxian rolls excitedly onto his stomach in front of the dias, beaming, his hands clasping Chenqing under his chin. Lan Wangji’s gaze is demurely downcast.

“Lan Zhan, tell me the truth: did you burn money for me?”

Yes.

Wei Wuxian practically giggles with delight. “When I left this last year, did you miss me when I was gone?”

Yes.

He’s going to hurt himself grinning like this. “Did you truly miss me when I was dead?”

Yes. But the note is plucked harder than it should be and it quavers.

“But you find me so boring! Really, how long would it take you to get tired of me?” He crawls up onto his knees and plops himself into a sitting position at the table, guqin between them.

“I know I don’t have much core to speak of,” he pats his abdomen gingerly, “and I’m working on that! But let’s say we both became immortals, would you get tired of me then? 16 years is one thing, but 160? 1600? 16,000 years? Imagine how boring, Lan Zhan!?”

Lan Wangji is silent.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian leans in close and low, trying to catch his eyes under those lashes. “May I have the honor of a glimpse from you?” Lan Wangji looks up at him, and the gaze is so intense that Wei Wuxian feels suddenly vulnerable. “What on Earth did you want to ask me back then?”

Lan Wangji is quiet for long enough that Wei Wuxian starts to think he has no intention of answering, but then...

“If the lotus seeds were ripe. If you thought the day was pleasant. If you heard the birds singing near Cold Pond, and if their song reminded you of the past. If you could forgive me for having only bitter soup for dinner. If you could see the kind young man A-Yuan was becoming. If you could divide for me the black from the white. If you knew the name of the song. But now… Wei Ying, now I think you do; I no longer need to ask that. So I will ask something else.” He swallows suddenly and Wei Wuxian could swear he’s trembling. “May I make this Wei Ying’s home? Will Wei Ying bear the early mornings and quiet hours and bitter soup and cold winters? Will Wei Ying allow me 16,000 years of Inquiry?”

Wei Wuxian is struck dumb. He sits back, slack-jawed and broken open. What can he say? How can he say…? Did he really wake this morning or is he dreaming still? He feels sloppy, wholly inadequate; his lips are clumsy things, his limbs an awkward pile of angles. How can he be worthy of the look on Lan Zhan’s face? Tears well up and surely he will combust.

But there is no end of tears. Tears spring up like weeds.

And there will be no end of corpses. But he is not a corpse. They are not. No, far from it.

Wei Wuxian fumbles with Chenqing and raises it to his lips where he plays a messy and solitary E flat. In truth it is more than that: a polyphonic note in a contrapuntal song that he’s sure only Lan Wangji can hear.

Gently, he reaches for Lan Wangji’s right hand, the one that had reached for him 16 years ago. Pale as a lily, the nails kept long to pluck the strings of his instrument, he wraps it in his fingers as delicately as he has seen Wangji handle his rabbits and brings it to his lips, and if some of his tears mar that perfect skin he has a feeling Lan Wangji won’t mind. The kiss is soft but is not the tickle of joss paper waiting for the fire; it shudders with his breath but is not the brush of a moth’s wings. It’s tender and reverent and warm with the promise of days and kisses to come and is very much—so very much—alive.

“16,000 years of Inquiry… We should get started then.”

He lays the palm of the hand against his cheek. His smile erupts without warning, and to his delight, Lan Wangji is not prepared.

“My dearest Lan Zhan, what would you like to ask me?”

———

In January gifs and meta about The Untamed started rolling across my dash. As interesting as it looked, I was determined not to watch—just no time for that. And then I saw you posting meta about it, and well… you made it sound very good, and I figure you know what you’re talking about. Add to that one particular gif you reblogged: the moment in the opening scene when LWJ’s arm, clothed in bloody white, reaches across the frame towards WWX as he falls. That was the first image of this show that really seared itself into my brain. So, I offer this with thanks for inspiring me to watch this amazing show (and with endless congratulations)!

Notes:

OK, admittedly it’s not a sun-shaped branding iron in The Untamed, but I like the sun shape better.

E flat is what “yes” sounds like to me during Inquiry in the man-eating castle, but I’m also the last person anyone should consult about music.

Still incomplete associated fanart HERE (color illustration on right).

[update: finished fanart can now he found HERE]

[dmcfsstory]

Also available on Ao3: [link]

Full Proofreaded by Hotspot-the-626th(@ deviantart)​

Partner Artist: @wikimb​

Word count: 14552

Trigger Warning: Violence/Gore description, Depression/PTSD cases

Back to September 13th - Hell

At the most obscure depths of Hell, loud fight noises could be heard. Many lesser demons and even strong demons were trying to hide from the fight range.

Mundus, the former Demon King, who still carried scars from his fight against Dante and Trish, was getting an ass-kicking from an unknown creature. The being had three pairs of wings, a snake-ish body, and two pairs of arms holding two silver swords within one set and a longbow with the other. Its body was covered in snow-white feathers with golden details so finely detailed that it seemed to be hand-draw. It had a female humanoid face, with an owl beak in the middle of the lips, and very long blood-red feathers came from its head, looking like hair. Finally, it had a bone formation over the head that looked like an angel's halo.

The being wasn't having trouble fighting Mundus. It was having fun. It threw him really hard on the ground, making some scars open and showing a bit of Mundus' true form under it.

"What… What are you doing here?" Mundus asked, out of breath and terrified.

The creature took their top left hand to cover their mouth while it was laughing out loud. "Hahaha, isn't it simple? you still own me!"

"No! I-!" Mundus barely could reply before having his face buried into the ground by the creature's hands, which were only half his size.

The smile on the creature's face vanished, and now it was a furious look as if someone clicked a button on its mind.

"Listen here! You piece of shit!" it shouted, "You had one job! ONE FUCKING JOB! And not even with two powerful weapons on your side could you make it work!"

Mundus couldn't respond. His shame for losing to a Sparda ascendant was more significant than his courage to face the white creature.

"This is a two-part deal, remember?! You got the coolest part! Mine was so fucking boring!" It continued to scream at him.

"What… do you want…?" Mundus asked, very ashamed.

The creature gave a very questionable smile and then said, getting closer to Mundus' face, "let's remake our deal…"

??? - ??:??

It was a humid, dark, and cold forest. There was a rain scent in the air. The treetops were dense that the grayish sky above could be barely seen, and just a dim light illuminated a few spots around. Through the dark paths between the tall trees, a loud and desperate crying of a human child could be heard.

Vergil found himself in this odd place. He looked around confused; what happened? Wasn't he just at the Qliphoth base among Dante?

But he felt like the child's crying was calling him; that sound gave him an odd urge to follow it.

In a sprint, he began to run the fastest he could. The more he ran inside the forest, the more the man felt he was being watched by not just one, but countless presences as if he was in the middle of a big city.

Still running, he looked to his sides and behind himself, but he couldn't see anything else aside from the deep darkness within the forest.

That didn't stop him from following the child's crying.

He continued to run the fastest he could, but he started to abnormally get tired quickly. Once he began to lose his breath, the scenery around him began to look different. The trees assumed a distorted shape, the bark turned white with screaming faces carved on them, and the branches looked like arms and legs. There were no leaves anymore. He could now see blood veins connecting the trees, and it was getting dimmer and dimmer. The place was getting hotter and the air heavier.

It was getting difficult for him to breathe properly and his legs burning tired as if he was climbing a mountain. He had to stop to catch a breath, or his body would do so by itself.

When he tried to stop, he nearly stumbled on his feet. The man had to hang his hands on his knees, and he was sweating and breathing heavily.

"Just a quick pause, I need… air," he thought.

*Crack*

The sound of crackling wood came from much closer than the child's cry.

*Crack crack* again.

When he noticed, the trees' arms and legs moved, trying to stretch and reach him out. The faces started to move, and blood began to come out of them. The trees also began to make loud noises as if they were screaming, muffing a bit the child's cry from Vergil's hearing.

He didn't have time to watch that grotesque scene; he had to find the crying child. He didn't catch enough breath, but he started to run all over again.

The heavy and hot air wasn't letting him run at the same efficiency as before. But as he continued on his path, the trees were shaking more aggressively. More blood dripped out of it until he was stepping in large pools of blood, making running much more difficult for him.

The lack of oxygen started to make him dizzy. His vision blurred, not letting him see a white crystal-shaped stone in the ground that he stumbled over.

He fell flat on the blood-soaked ground. His body was weakened, and he could barely move. But even between the screams of the trees, he could still hear the child crying, this time much closer.

With all the strength he had, he directed it to his arms. It was like a heavy stone was over him. He did everything in his power to get up. He eventually started doing so but slowly.

Suddenly, he felt his body being dragged down; he looked back in a hurry to see what it was. Human-shaped forms were coming from below the blood pool. To be precise, the figures were the humans from Redgrave City that the Qliphoth had turned into - empty and dried, dark bloody red carcasses.

He tried to Devil Trigger in a desperate move, but none of his demonic magic responded, and then all of his legs were taken under the blood. He wasn't sinking fast, but very slowly, fuelling his panic.

He didn't have Yamato with himself either, and neither could summon it.

Looking around, in front of him, he could spot many black and white crystal-like formations. He extended his left hand, reaching a white crystal, but it was fragile and shattered the moment he'd put his hands on it.

More of the Qliphoth's victims emerged from the blood, this time coming entirely out of the pool. They walked towards Vergil and began to step on him, making him sink faster.

He tried to fight them, but his body was weak. He had zero strength to even break the thin material of the moving carcasses.

One of the carcasses above the blood raised their feet and straight-up stepped on Vergil's head, sending him ultimately down the blood.

More of the victims started to appear under the blood and began to drag him down faster. He could do nothing except to drown in the freezing cold blood.

When everything seemed to be lost, a child's hand came from above the pool, grabbing Vergil's left hand.

The child easily brought him up.

Once his face met the air, he took a deep breath and regained all his strength.

"You okay, Sir?" the child asked.

Vergil quickly took off the liquid from his eyes. It wasn't blood anymore, just normal cold water.

The first thing he saw was the kid: a little boy, around six years old with peach skin and silver hair like his, as well as sky-blue eyes. He was wearing worn-out clothes, something he probably found in the trash or something.

He concluded that he was in a fountain with a statue that resembled Sparda in the middle after looking around. The water wasn't so deep; it was around his belly as he was in a sitting position. The buildings around were very familiar, a Victorian style of construction, much like how he remembered Fortuna. It was night time; the only illumination was from the lamp posts.

"Sir?" the little boy called Vergil's attention.

Vergil took a better look at the kid; he felt his heart being stung by the boy's eyes. Something about him appeared to be different from all the other kids he had seen through his time. He got mesmerized by the gleam in the kid's eyes, it had so much life in it, but the rest of his body was so messed up and dirty.

The kid looked at him, confused. He was totally lost in what Vergil was doing in that fountain. Why was he staring at him like that?

"Who are you?" the boy asked, snapping Vergil back.

As he got up, he presented himself, "My name's Vergil. And you?"

The kid stepped back as Vergil got out of the fountain; still a bit confused, the kid said low, "Mah… mah name is… Nero."

Vergil took a delay to process the name in his mind.

"Thank you for hel-… Nero?!" he yelled, surprised, looking at the boy.

Nero got a bit scared and stepped further away from Vergil.

Understanding the boy's reaction, Vergil took a breath to calm down. He then kneeled to look at Nero at his eyes' height. He extended his right hand to call him closer and said in a tender voice, "Nero… This may sound sudden… but… I'm your father."

Nero's scared face turned into confusion and skepticism.

"You? My Daddy? That's not funny," He said dryly while he pointed at Vergil with all the sassiness of a legit Sparda.

Vergil didn't expect such a reaction, and he replied a bit embarrassed, "Yes… your biological father… I made you with your mother..."

Nero kept staring at him confused, he didn't want to get closer either. He looked at Vergil as if he was crazy or drunk.

"Nero? Who's him?" another voice, practically the same as Vergil's, came from behind.

Vergil got confused just by the voice, but when he turned back, he got thousand times more confused: There was a man in fancy winter clothes that looked almost like him, just a bit older, with a very short beard and his hair was part silver and part black, brushed backward like Vergil's but just a bit messier. His right eye was blue like his, but his left eye was of a bright caramel color. He also had a freshly cut wound crossing his right cheek, and his face and clothes were all dirty from some sort of a fight.

Vergil could also notice a katana in its scabbard, tied to the man's waist. The guard had an odd moon drawing. The white cord wrapping and handle had black paintings similar to a tiger's stripes. And the pommel had a keychain with a jewel very similar to the Perfect Amulet's golden part Vergil once had.

Vergil had to keep his guard on; that guy probably knew how to sword fight.

"Daddy!" Nero yelled with the purest happiness and ran towards the man.

Vergil got up slowly, staring confused at the man, not understanding what kind of doppelganger shit was happening.

"Hehehe! Hey! My baby!" The man yelled happily.

He got Nero up to his arms, and they hugged very tightly. The man even gave a few kisses on the kid's head, making him giggle happily.

"Who the hell are you?!" Vergil demanded.

The man gave a very suspicious smile at Vergil and responded calmly with a bit of sass in the tone, "Haven't you heard? I'm Nero's dad… but you can call me 'Shooting Star Man.'"

"What the…?" Vergil blurted. "I am Nero's father! Who the hell are you, again?!" he yelled out of patience.

"Are you tho?" Shooting Star Man replied with a mocking smile on the face.

"I don't like him... He's scary," Nero said low, hiding his face on Shooting Star Man's shoulder.

That was like a headshot from a bazooka. Vergil barely interacted with the child and already gave him a bad impression.

"Nero…" Vergil whispered disappointedly.

"Are you really his father?" Shooting Star Man asked.

Vergil answered without thinking twice, "Yes! I am!"

The man started to walk around Vergil's right side slowly, giggling in a mocking tone. Vergil didn't dare engage in combat; the man began to release a very intimidating aura, pretty much like Vergil's but many times more potent. His eyes also turned bright green, and his scleras assumed a four-pointed star shape. He had not just demonic magic, but another Vergil couldn't identify what it was, except that it wasn't demonic at all. He already looked like a formidable opponent just by that.

"So…" the man began, now sounding rather serious. "You seriously call yourself this child's father… when you had ripped off his arm?!"

The man turned so Vergil could see Nero's right arm; he didn't have his arm from the elbow below anymore. The amputated area was all covered with lots of bandages. The child was now crying in pain, shocking Vergil even more than the apparition of a modified clone of himself.

Vergil couldn't speak, only stutter in shock and confusion.

"How could you?!" The man accused while trying to comfort Nero.

"But…" Vergil didn't know what to say to defend himself. "I didn't know he was my son back then!"

"That's no excuse, and you know that." Shooting Star Man retorted but remained composed.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the place was Nero's sobbing and sniffing.

"You knew you had other options to help you in that situation. Why did you choose the Qliphoth one?"

Even with the man threatening Vergil, he couldn't stop looking at Nero. The kid was really in pain about the lost arm, and Vergil never felt so guilty about something he did before.

"Stop…just... give Nero to me...please," Vergil begged.

"Just for power? To fill an empty space inside you?!" Shooting Star Man continued.

"Stop!" Vergil yelled.

"You allowed your fears to blind you! You were looking for something you always had!" The man shouted with confidence

"STOOOOOOP!" Vergil screamed at least and, blinded by rage, he sprinted to attack the man.

He was able to summon Yamato midway, and he swung his sword with all the strength he got when he was aiming precisely at the man's right arm.

At the last second, the man parried the attack with his sword. Vergil didn't even see the movement of his arm to get the weapon.

Shooting Star Man's katana's blade seemed to be made out of diamond. Apparently, blue and golden magic energy was flowing inside of it, resembling a space nebula.

Tsukuyomi

Category: unknown

Type: unknown

User(s): Shooting Star Man

Description: A beautiful sword that shines like the clearest night sky filled with stars and galaxies till where the eye can see.

Vergil didn't have time to admire the opponent's weapon. He was too focused on getting Nero back. The man continued to swing his sword in many attempts to wound Shooting Star Man. Still, he was able to entirely deflect and parry every single attack.

Over the head, to the waist, knees, feet, it didn't matter; Vergil couldn't make a single scratch. And the man was using only one hand to swing his sword, while the other was holding Nero - that was watching everything.

In one last attempt to cut the man in half, Vergil put all his strength in one swing. Unfortunately, he was parried once more, and this time the man threw him and his sword backward, almost making him stay down on his knees.

One thing Vergil only noticed after the last attack was the diamond sword's blade form: the blade was smaller, the length of a dagger by now, the rest disappeared.

As he paid more attention to his surroundings, he could see countless little diamond pieces floating in the air around him.

Shooting Star Man turned to Nero and whispered tenderly, "Don't look at it now, my baby."

Nero gently covered his eyes with his left hand and hid his face on the man's shoulder.

Vergil was out of action. He couldn't channel his magic for what he wanted to use it for - he could only use Yamato as an ordinary sword… if he had it in his hands.

"You have made your choices…" the man said.

"...now let the stars judge you..." he said, pointing the broken sword at Vergil.

Everything happened in a matter of half a second or less. The diamond pieces glowed in bright white light, and faster as lighting, they slashed and pierced Vergil through every part of his body.

He felt like he received his own finishing move - Judgment Cut End - many times but as smaller cuts.

He fell to the ground, bathed in his blood. He didn't have any more part of his skin and clothes in one piece, and his internal organs were like swiss cheese. Luckily, only his head didn't receive such severe damage. And since his brain was intact, he was still conscious.

The Man got slowly closer to him and didn't let Nero watch that horrific scene. The small pieces of the blade quickly returned to the handle and formed the sword again as if it never had shattered.

Vergil's blood began to form a vast pool around him and the same human carcasses from inside the blood from before started to rise, using his blood as material.

There were countless more, probably all the victims from the demonic tree, under and deep down the pool.

"Their blood is your blood now," the man said stoically.

Vergil couldn't move his body, but he could see and listen to what was happening.

"What are you gonna do about that?" The man asked.

When the man's presence got closer, Vergil saw Urizen, and he was now V - wearing Vergil's clothes.

They were both now at the dead and dry place inside Vergil's mind.

Urizen kept staring at V's bleak picture in the bloody ground.

"How long will you insist on this?" Urizen asked, his voice sounded sad instead of the usual confidence.

V could do nothing except stare at the demon. He barely could keep his eyes open.

"All of your ideas only brought pain and sorrow to this place. You know we don't deserve friends… a family…" Urizen said with grief.

-a pause-

"Love…"

Urizen got very close to V and raised his right foot over V's body.

"Enough of your human fantasies," he said slowly...

...And went to step on V with all his strength.

Hell - Next day - Day time… probably…

Vergil woke up in a blast. His heart was racing insanely; his arms and legs were shaking like thin branches in a storm. He was so nervous he had difficulty catching a breath; he was breathing heavily, and his body was stiff.

That dream was so vivid that it looked like it was real.

He didn't even pay attention to what was covering him. He just dragged the supposed blanket over his shoulder, cuddling himself tightly in an attempt to find some comfort and calm down.

Until a robust putrid scent snapped him back to his senses: he was covered by Dante's leather coat.

He may be on alert all time, but something he never stopped to pay attention was his and Dante's scent; his brother hasn't taken a bath in a month… or more. Now him… What was soap like? It's been years since he cleaned himself good enough to call it "bathing."

The smell was twisting his stomach. He had to take in some air, but he noticed a magical barrier when he looked outside. The energy from it seemed to be from Dante, which was also nowhere to be found.

A few minutes later...

Vergil didn't take off Dante's jacket from his back to keep himself warmer. He kept long minutes thinking about that dream: why Nero rejected him like that? The Qliphoth's victims were angry at him… and his… doppelganger? Clone? Shooting Star Man's image and power level were too scary to think about it without losing sanity.

"Hey! You woke up!" Dante's voice came from the other side of the barrier, bringing Vergil's attention back to reality. Surprisingly, he was dragging a dead Riot by the leg with him.

"I brought lunch!" He yelled with a smile, raising his prey's dead body.

Void - next day - 08:37AM - Victor's laboratory

Victor, Kyrie, and Nico took Nero, still unconscious, to Victor's laboratory to examine him better.

The place was located on the city's outskirts, in the middle of the remaining natural forest near the town. The building loosely resembled a Port's shed; made out of concrete, the first floor had a very high ceiling(around ten meters high). The second floor had an average height(nearly three meters high).

The first floor seemed to have come out of an old horror movie about some crazy scientist. The walls were painted dark gray that even with the white LED lights, the place still looked dark - there were only a few small windows at the top of the walls that barely could let some sunlight come in.

A top-notch air conditioning system was keeping the huge place fresh.

There weren't walls to make rooms. It did have countless high shelves and glass cabinets with many demonic samples arranged like a small labyrinth, taking up three-quarters of the place. Many had orbs, stuffed little demons and heads or just a random piece of bigger ones. On the shelves were also bottles that held demon appendages and/or organs in a conventional liquid. There were also countless blocks of papers and books.

Sharing space with the labyrinth, there was a shiny ironed, steampunk-like scientific machinery that created a contrast with the multi-colored demonic things. The equipment didn't look modern aside from the computers and giant screens at the remaining quarter of space left. All that could be used to do experiments with whatever demons it had.

Kyrie was only able to help take Nero to that place thanks to her surprising physical strength. After that, she could only observe Victor and Nico trying to examine and take care of her boyfriend.

For some reason, Victor gave the day off to all his assistants. So he had to take care of Nero alone with Nico only.

Nero was sleeping like a rock, and Victor was very thankful for that. He could use the energy readers on his chest and head to better examine his magic without worrying about some sort of rebellion. Visually, the readers were precisely like a Holter Monitor's electrodes.

Nero's physical health was worrisome as Victor suspected: he was underweight, his ribcage was clearly visible, but fortunately, he wasn't anorexic… yet. It was impressive for Victor how Nero could still fight demons. However, Nico pointed out that his efficiency in battles dropped significantly.

Victor theorized that it was because of his desync problem. It is incredibly stressful on the body. But Nico also thought that Nero's mental state could also be its cause because, since the Orphanage Incident, Nero's behavior changed drastically.

Unfortunately, nothing could be pointed as the real reason until the exams are concluded.

While Victor was waiting for some programs to do their job, he turned at Kyrie using his office chair. He looked at her earnestly and then asked, "Please, be honest… Are you a demon? Or a hybrid?"

Kyrie stared at him, confused and at the same time worried. She honestly didn't know how to answer anymore. The last time she checked, she was human, but she wasn't sure anymore after the previous night's events.

Nico was closer to Victor, who was apprehensive, but she decided to let Kyrie tell the story.

Having noticed Kyrie and Nico's apprehensiveness, Victor asked calmly, "so… you don't know?"

Surprised by the doctor's sharp eyes, she couldn't do much except stare at him with eyes wide open. She knew lying wouldn't help; the only option was to tell the truth. "Yes… I don't know anymore," she said in a confused yet sad tone.

Victor took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. "Well… let's go slower then... -ahem- how did you get your demonic magic?"

Now that question was more challenging than the previous, making Kyrie more nervous. She started to stutter and scratch her head as she looked away, trying to come up with answers. Nico wanted to respond, but she was able to contain herself for now.

"I guess… it was right after I woke up from the coma a few weeks ago..." she responded with a bit of confusion.

Victor's eyes filled with curiosity; a human turning into a hybrid or even a complete demon without dying a short time after was quite rare.

"Why were you in a coma?" he asked.

"Demons… some kind of 'smart demons' attacked the people of the orphanage I used to work… They severely wounded me when I tried to protect the children." she tried to explain.

"What do you mean by 'smart demons'?" Victor asked curiously.

But Nico had to interfere this time, "That was me that called them like that, Uncle. They were very different from anything I ever saw or studied. They worked like a human team would, and they were even willing to make sacrifices for whatever it was their objective or to protect each other…"

Victor was indeed surprised by Nico's statement. Such description about demons wasn't standard, but that was a discussion for another moment; Kyrie was the focus.

"That's really odd, but let's talk about that after this…" he said calmly. "So, they used some magic on you?" he then asked Kyrie.

"No… only their claws and chains," she replied with a bit of unease to remember that event.

She was thoughtful and quiet for a few seconds. Then gently, she took off the feather from Nero's wing off her hairpin, undoing her look. "But… I can feel my magic acting strange, and sometimes it's even a bit painful when I stay away from Nero's magic for too long."

That last statement made some gears start to work on Victor's brain. However, on the other side, Nico was getting nervous knowing how her uncle would react after getting the knowledge about a particular fact.

"Wait… what?" Victor blurted with confusion. "So… your magic has some relation with Nero's? He did something with you magically?" he asked, worried about the incoming answer.

"No…" Kyrie said with a bit of confusion. "Well… aside the Orbs he tried to use on me while I was in a coma."

Victor massaged his nose bridge nervously, raising up his glasses a bit to do so while making some grumbling noises. After that, he said between pauses, but keeping his composure, "Only demons… can use orbs… it was before that then…"

Nico had enough of holding her anxiety. She couldn't wait anymore for the scold she knew she would get. Slowly, she tried to get into the conversation, but speaking very apprehensively, "She… she received blood transfusion.. from...Nero a-after the attack on the or-rphanage, Uncle V-Vic..."

He kept in dead silence for a moment. Nico was already squinting her eyes and clenching her jaw nervously; her body was stiff while she waited for his reaction. Seeing Nico's behavior, Kyrie started to get nervous too. Still, in her case, without knowing why she just felt like something terrible was coming.

If Victor was a computer, a sound of dial-up internet loading could be heard coming from him. He was thoughtful yet scared; he was staring at the void, trying to process that information.

Nico felt Victor's pressure over her soul already without looking face-to-face yet, the man was quiet and immovable.

By only moving his feet, he made his chair turn in Nico's direction. The more he turned, the more the girl was cold, sweating nervously. Victor's reaction wasn't a surprise, she was already waiting for that, but she didn't want to see it.

He was staring at her intensively, looking straight at her eyes.

"Did you let them do a blood transfusion from a hybrid to a vo-void? And blo-blood from a-a Sparda?" He hadn't yelled but spoke in such a severe tone that it made it seem Nico had killed someone.

"Do you know the consequences?" Victor asked, keeping his posture.

Nico moved her head slightly to the sides with a bit of reluctance, denying her uncle's question.

"S-So do I!" He finally yelled; tension and confusion were clearly noticeable in his voice. "Who knows w-w-what can happ-pen as a consequence of a blood tran-transfusion! And from such a strong being! A Sparda's ascendant! They can't e-even breed with a Void! for bein a-a H-Hybrid!"

Kyrie's world stopped during the last lines from the scientist; it was true then? She and Nero can't have their own children because of what they are? Unfortunately, most of what happened during her so short pregnancy was starting to make sense, the pain and uneasy out of time... the miscarriage…

"They can't what?" Nico interrupted Kyrie's desperate thoughts with a blurted question to her uncle.

"You didn't know?" he asked back, a bit confused but not so surprised.

"That's why… we can't have children?" Kyrie said without looking at the doctor; she already had red-ish teary eyes. Her hands were sweating cold as her heart was racing just to remember the painful day of the miscarriage.

"Oh no..." Victor whispered when he saw Kyrie's depressive image. "Have you two already tried?"

"Th-they tried once…" Nico said a bit awkwardly, holding her stuttering.

Victor felt sorry, but he couldn't do much to help Kyrie in that situation, aside from trying to explain why such an unfortunate event happened. "I'm sorry, but that's how nature works… hybrids can only breed with other hybrids. The same goes for 'pures,' they can only breed with other pures. If something happens outside of this rule, it's because it had some interference… like…ritual spells, scientific experiments, etc."

Kyrie didn't respond, just continued to stare at the void. Her face was the perfect description of sadness and despair. As some tears started to form in her eyes, she quickly took them off using the sleeve's end of her jacket. That information was quite hurtful, she and Nero were planning to have a child of their own for nearly a year, and suddenly their dream was shattered into small pieces. They had names planned, bedroom designs, how they would do when Nero had to leave to work, lots of money saved, and so on… but nothing of that mattered anymore.

A freezing chill suddenly rose up on Nico's spine. She remembered her talk with Nero before the incident, making her very worried about the boy more than she already was. Nero was already in a terrible mental state. If he discovers that his suspicion was correct, he definitely will drop dead in despair. That left her in doubt if they really should tell him that after he wakes up.

But what nobody expected was that Nero was listening to all of that final part of the conversation. He just hadn't spoken or moved because of the heavy fatigue over his body and mind.

Nero let go a cracking snort out, loud enough for the others to hear it when they stopped talking. They all turned at him at the same moment, everyone staring with eyes wide open. Nico even jaw dropped scared; she barely thought of the possible incoming problem, and here it was, kicking the door with both feet.

Nero could feel all of his muscles very stiff as he slowly tried to sit up. His body was in total stress because of his unstable magic. It was like he hadn't moved in a month. He couldn't even imagine doing stretches. If he tried so, probably his muscles would break out of their strings. He could snap a joint or two; his neck and shoulders made loud noises as if they actually had broken. During those cracking sounds, he'd let go very tired and annoyed grumbles.

It took a significant delay, for he had noticed the electrodes all over his chest and head. He looked at them with confusion; his face clearly said, "what the fuck is this?" and with zero caution, he took them off, nearly invalidating the apparatus. Loud error beeps came from Victor's computer screens at the same moment. Nico rushed to shut down the program and stop the ear-hurting noises.

Victor couldn't contain his annoyance and blurted out loud, angry words, "What are you doing?! I was doing critical exams on you! Get back in there!"

Nero turned his tired gaze at him, his eyes squinting of so much fatigue. He didn't say a thing, he only slightly moved his right hand up, and with shaking fingers, he raised the middle finger to Victor. He let go a subtle, muffled giggle with a mischievous smile, mocking the man for no reason.

The doctor didn't get offended; instead, he stared at the ill boy with confusion. He wanted to ask him what was wrong, but he knew he wouldn't get an answer. Nero's mind obviously wasn't where it should be right now.

For a brief moment, Nero stood quiet in place, head down, his upper body was -visibly- softly swinging back and front with his own breath. At the same time, his arms were thrown down like a plush doll's and his back arched forwards. He barely could keep his eyes open. They were dry, blood-red, and empty. He honestly looked like he was having a hangover and could throw up or faint again at any moment.

He was indeed in a lethargic mood.

"Nero…?" Kyrie said in a grievous whispering.

Nero began to giggle again in response to Kyrie's call, low and drunk-ish giggling, slightly choking with his own saliva between a few pauses to breathe.

"I had...a dream…" he began to speak in pauses, his voice fading weak. "My dad… was beating… Vergil's ass… hehe..." he finished with a broken smile, without taking his eyes out of the void.

"What?" both Nico and Victor said together.

"Shooting Star Man?" Kyrie let go without thinking twice.

"Yeah…" Nero said with a smile on his mouth, but his eyes were clearly showing sadness.

"Nero… Shooting Star Man was-" before Kyrie could even finish her phrase, Nero quickly interrupted, aiming an angry gaze at her.

"Shooting Star Man was not a dream!" he yelled with a trembling, almost crying, voice. "He exists! And he's my real dad! Not…the fucking… Vergil…" and a tear rolled down on his cheek.

"Foolishness…" he mumbled, returning his eyes to nothingness.

Hell - Daytime apparently - "same moment"

The twins were still at the same place, inside of a made-up cavern on a huge dying root of the Qliphoth. Dante's magical barrier was still up. A simple but very effective spell he learned with Trish, closing the entrance for other demons don't come to annoy them while they eat their lunch.

They weren't talking with each other. They were quietly eating the meat from the demon Dante had hunted down. Each of them had roasted their parts the way they like it using fire magic.

At every bite Dante did, he made a face of total disgust, squinting his entire face as if eating a pure lemon. The meat tasted awful; it was definitely the worst food he ever ate. He was swallowing every bite almost wholly because he couldn't stand the taste.

On the other hand, Vergil was eating like a savage. Using his teeth from his (standard)Devil Trigger form to eat, he looked like he was barely chewing his food and more like swallowing it whole. The man had barely cooked the Riot meat; there was demon blood dripping down his chin and hands. It looked like he hadn't eaten in days, if not weeks. He was almost done with his part his share, while Dante wasn't even at half of his yet.

Dante couldn't believe in his eyes; never in his head passed the idea of his brother, a person so collected and disciplined, to be acting like a wild beast.

Although, he had folded his coat's arms until the elbow and had taken off the gloves to avoid dirty them while he eats. But there was a detail that gained Dante's attention: Vergil's lower arms looked too skinny, very likely how he remembered V's arms. That made him think that his brother wasn't in good physical health, but he wouldn't ask his brother to just simply take his shirt out to confirm that.

He decided to talk about that another moment, having in mind what happened last night.

"How… how can you eat this food like this?" he asked instead, still dumbfounded while staring somewhat scared at Vergil.

Vergil suddenly stopped eating and looked at Dante with a surprised face. His mouth was so full that his cheeks were puffed up, lots of blood around his mouth and dripping down his chin and hands. He had a quick look at Dante's food. He wasn't paying attention to it and was surprised that his brother hadn't eaten, not even half of it.

Dante couldn't help but stare, scared at that odd and savage image of his older brother.

Vergil gave a big swallow to put everything in his mouth down. He then said stoically, looking at the big piece of meat in his hands he was holding by the bone. "You get used to the taste of it… there will be a moment your tongue will start ignoring it," and he took another bite.

That was a bit unexpected, but at the same time, it wasn't. After last night's story, Dante was more aware that Vergil had a though life trying to survive the consequences of his own acts. But still… used to eat raw meat? Vergil was so focused on his demon side like that? Or was it something else?

"I'm starting to envy you, to be honest," Vergil suddenly broke Dante's thoughts.

Dante turned his gaze from his piece of awful food to his older brother. Vergil had left his ordinarily stoic face and was staring emotionless at his piece of meat half-eaten.

The younger brother's silence made it clear he didn't understand what his older brother just said.

"You have friends… a cool job... -a pause- you didn't have to worry about… surviving all the time…" Vergil said with a bit of sadness in his voice. "You had a family by your side…"

Dante takes a moment to realize what he meant by that last line, "You mean Nero?" he asked just to confirm.

"Yes… I envy you for that… I don't think I ever will experience such moments…" Vergil said with grief as he recalled the dream he had earlier.

Such a statement did sting Dante with suspicion. He really didn't like how that sounded. He started to look for words to describe his feelings towards that, but he was too confused to make up something at that moment.

He couldn't speak, only look at random directions as if searching for some inspiration.

Unfortunately, he couldn't think of anything, and they spent the following minutes of their lunch in silence.

After finishing his share, Vergil licked his fingers and hands, not because the food was good, it was just to clean them out before wearing his gloves again. To clean his face from the demon blood, he did very like how a cat would do; by licking the side of his hand and passing thought where he wanted to clean: his cheeks, chin, and mouth.

Meanwhile, Dante couldn't eat all of his shares and just simply tossed, with no difficulty, the leftovers very far to outside their hideout(without vanishing the magical barrier). He cleaned his hands on his coat anyway.

There was dead silence between them once again, that same awkward silence from the previous day.

Dante was finally coming up with something to ask his brother. Still, he was a bit reluctant this time because of how much Vergil scared and worried him talking about his life. He had to find a way to touch the wounds with more caution than before.

He pretended he would start talking a few times, opening his mouth to speak and turning to look at Vergil, but he ended up giving up.

Vergil only stared at him with suspicion and waiting for a conversation to start, but it never came.

Finally, when Dante moved to start a conversation for real, something called the attention of both at the same time:

"Dante…!"

"Vergil…!"

A weak and tired voice of a woman echoed in their heads out of nowhere.

They both stared at each other scared, they didn't need words, only their look exchange told each other that they heard the same thing.

The voice called them again, but this time a bit louder and clearly in a panic:

"Dante! Vergil! I need your help, please…"

They jumped out of their place and stood up. Vergil looked around the area for some demon that was possibly messing up with them, but Dante stared at the void; that voice was somewhat familiar.

"Kyrie?" he asked in the air.

"Nero's girlfriend?" Vergil blurted, remembering that Nero told him her name back when he was V.

"Nero is gonna die… help! Please!" she said in a sobbing and panicking voice.

Void - same day - 09:00 AM - Victor's Laboratory

Among Nico, Victor was trying to put the electrodes back on Nero for the exam to restart. But he didn't want to collaborate. The man was waving his arms towards them to shove them away every time they touched him or just got closer. While he did so, he was groaning like a stubborn child that didn't want to do what the adults were trying to make him do.

Kyrie tried to talk with him many times, but he wasn't listening to her too. He was avoiding eye contact altogether.

They could only put two, out of the eight, electrodes on Nero the moments before he -inexplicably- started to act like that. One in his right temple and the other at the left side of his chest.

Such behavior was quite shocking, especially for Kyrie. Nero was behaving like a sad and scared child. He was curling up in himself, an attempt to look smaller. His arched back let his spine be more visible under the skin of his skinny body, giving him a more decaying image than before. He got his left arm wrapped around his belly and his right arm over his head, trying to hide his face from the others. He was sitting over his left leg, and the right one was bent up for the knee to help hide his face. He was breathing heavily and pacing fast between groans of a supposed crying being held with all of his mental strength left. He was shivering entirely, almost like he was feeling super cold.

Victor took a step closer to the boy with an electrode in hand. Nero could see him through a small opening between his arm and knee.

"Stay away! Stay away!" he begged in a crumbling voice, curling up even more.

Victor said nothing and stepped back cautiously, only to look at the girls and face anxious looks. After all… they saw a loved one in front of them in a terrible mental and physical situation. Kyrie was on the edge of a panicked crying.

Feeling defeated, Victor asked the ill boy, "okay… what do you want for you to cooperate with us?"

Without leaving his fetal position, Nero's breath accelerated a bit, cold and big tears went down his cheeks. "I want… I want my… dad… my dad… the… Shooting Star Man..." and he started sobbing.

Victor let out a long sigh. He shook his head and took off his glasses. He pressed his nose bridge between his eyes and closed them hard, trying to contain himself for not responding to Nero as if he was sane.

Both Kyrie and Nico couldn't move their eyes away from that decaying person they always knew as a tough and prideful man. Such a situation made them think, "he has been hiding those feelings all this time?", "that's how he truly feels inside?" and "why did he never tell us about that?"

Kyrie let a tear escape thinking about it, but she cleared it quickly. She must be strong; otherwise, she wouldn't be able to help Nero.

Victor put his hands on his waist. Sounding a bit impatient, he asked the girls, "Well then… this totally looks like it is a serious PTSD case, is there something I don't know yet? I have a friend that's a renowned therapist. She can help him out too."

The girls exchanged thoughtful looks, thinking about something they could reveal so the doctor can have a better north about what to do next.

Meanwhile, he walked towards a shelf near the computers. Nico accompanied him with her head only and saw him taking off a sedative glass bottle out of an aluminum box.

She gasped silently and walked to him quickly. "Are you sure this is necessary?" she almost whispered, astonished by her uncle's decision.

"Do you know a better option?" he whispered in a nervous yet worried voice. "He's definitely not in the mental state for this, but I need to finish those exams so I can know how to aid him until Vergil and Dante come back."

Nero could hear them talking with his demonic super hearing, and once he heard "Vergil," his heart raced insanely.

Kyrie could hear them too, but not so clear like Nero. She couldn't understand what was going on, but it wasn't good.

Without leaving his position, Nero began to look in front of him for a way to escape: he'd spot his coat in a hanger and his boots under it near some kind of automatic double door. But how would he run away quickly? Victor surely would know how to stop him.

Only if he could touch him, he realized. He then had an idea that would make them all probably mad, but he *had* to get it out of there in his mind.

He heard their steps on the cold concrete floor getting closer. One thing he couldn't see was the syringe in Victor's hands.

He couldn't wait any longer.

In a second, his hair and all of his body hair turned black. Everyone noticed that an instant before the computer began to make very loud emergency warnings, taking the attention off him for his luck.

Sounds of crackling flames called out the others' attention back. They could see a large red flame passing through a small gap in the middle of the exit door for just a few seconds.

Both Nero and his coat and his boots had disappeared; only the electrodes were left in the chair.

"OH SHIT! NO!" Victor yelled, presuming the flames he saw were Nero.

Nico had stopped the machine's loud noises in a hurry, just to finally read the message on the screen that said: "MAGIC SIGNAL LOST."

The living red flames flew through the woods behind the laboratory, going in the direction of the city. After a minute or two, the fire gained a precise shape, and Nero materialized himself out of it, with his coat and boots in hands.

Not only his hair and body hair were with a different color, but his eyes also changed. They went from the typical sky blue to a bright emerald green color.

He was breathing hard and out of energy, his eyes swollen and red, eyebags dark like Vergil's, and his face tired like never before. He couldn't stand up and threw his body over his knees, but his arms faltered, and he kissed the grassy ground.

He cursed in a whisper and slowly got up, squinting his face at every move because of the pain. His body was so weakened, so exhausted, he wished he just could lay there and cease to exist.

At a slow pace, he wore his jacket, zipping it to feel a bit warmer and then wore his boots. Then his hair and eyes' color returned to the usual silver and sky blue, respectively. Thanks to upgrades on his weapons made by Nico, he summoned Devil Queen and Carnage Rose from the van to his hands as if they were Devil Arms.

He heard his name being called by Kyrie far away in the woods, he couldn't let her find him, or she would bring him back to Victor; he opened his spectral wings in a rush and flew away with a single flap.

Kyrie could spot him flying in the sky as soon he got very high. She became much more apprehensive, realizing she would need to take more drastic measures to contain Nero. Unfortunately, she was the only one around that could do that.

She called her staff like Nero called his weapons and activated the flying mode. She rose to the sky very fast, trying to reach the altitude that probably Nero was. That was her first time going so high, but she calmly stabilized.

By wearing a headphone in her left ear- connected to her phone- she could call Victor. "I've found him! But I will have to chase him!" she told the doctor.

Victor instructed in a hurry: "Oh shit! Well… get Nero and stick that thing I gave to you on his skin. Anywhere is good! But give preference to his chest and head. This is a prototype of a remote magic reader! It's not as efficient as those ones I have here, but it will help a lot already!"

"Okay!" she yelled confidently.

She then looked at a small device Victor gave to her, a gray and round button, smaller than the palm of her hand, with a little red LED light in the middle. She put it back in her pocket and accelerated to catch up with Nero; she couldn't waste more time.

Getting closer to the city, she noticed that she was high in the sky as the megacity's tall buildings. The growth was quite remarkable; the vast gray ocean of buildings till the eye can see. The people and the vehicles' noisy sound in the streets and large avenues, the dark line on the horizon due to the heavy pollution created a total contrast with the shining blue sky with fluffy white clouds above.

She wanted to stop and admire such human creation. She thought she would never leave Fortuna and witness that kind of thing, much less that way.

But that wasn't the time for that; she had to find Nero.

The loud sounds from the city were an annoying buzzing in her ears due to her new demonic hearing and the terrible pollution scents in her nose.

She was flying the fastest she could, turning her head to the sides looking for Nero in a hurry, but how would she find him in such a gigantic place?

She had to think, think! She knew Nero better than anyone else… At least she thought she did. The bitter feeling of Nero never having told her about his grieves made her quite sad, but also, on the other hand, she could understand why he did that...

"Got something?" Victor called her in the phone call, giving her a little jumpscare. For a moment, she forgot she was on a call.

"Not yet… he blended with the city…" she said, worried.

She heard some thoughtful hummings coming from the other side of the call for a moment and then Nico's voice from the background.

"Yeah, that may work," she heard Victor talking with Nico.

"You know the feather you must wear?" He now asked her. "Focus on it. It's still connected to Nero. Spectral objects stay magically connected to their creators until it's vanished by them or when they die."

"Okay, I will try that!"

Kyrie stopped in the air and closed her eyes. She laid her hand over the feather in her hair clip for better focusing. She began to use some meditating techniques she knew, giving her complete focus to the feather's emanating energy.

Slowly, she could feel a magic string leaving the feather. The more she focused, the more she could see the line in her mind.

The line grew… and grew… and grew…

Until she saw Nero at the end. His energy was a mess and aggressive, like a vast hurricane moving out of control and ready to destroy everything in its path.

"I think I found him!" She yelled confidently.

"Amazing!" Victor shouted with relief. "Hurry! Every second, his condition gets worse!"

She left her place in a blast, going full speed. Following the energy path, she didn't know she had that sixth sense now.

Swinging between the buildings quickly and precisely, she noticed the enormous windows of them; there was a problem if she flew so close to ordinary humans? Humans may know that demons and devil hunters exist, but it was okay they see a human doing demon magic like that?

She started to have flashbacks back to the orphanage's attack and felt better fly above the city.

The altitude was very frightening. Death was certain if she fell off - as if the previous height wasn't already - she was a bit demon now but not demon enough to survive such fall like Nero would. Still, she kept herself under control, not looking down, only in front.

Nero's energy was starting to descend towards the city's asphalt. He was probably going to land. The closer she was getting to Nero, the more turbulent the signal was getting.

Now she had to follow the signal in the middle of the giant mass of people; only in an intersection of avenues looked like it had more people than Fortuna's population. That gave her goosebumps, but bringing back Nero to safety kept her motivated.

There were dozens of scents and different energies from the large mass, so filtering Nero's magic out of it would need more concentration than before.

Inside Nero (figuratively)

Much like Vergil's mind, the place was nearly dead, dry soil, and a small pool of water in the middle, but the difference was the tree. Nero's tree was frail at the bottom, and it got a bit stronger at the top, making it look like it was upside down. Devil Queen and Carnage Rose were by the side of the tree.

There were three entities there:

N (Nero's human self), a boy visually the same age as Nero with a face similar to V's, long hair like Nero's Devil Trigger itself - but it was part black and part white -, and yellow eyes. He was also wearing the same clothes Nero was in reality.

Hintkurt (Nero's demon self) was a demon visually similar to Urizen but half its size with a rigid scaled body. It had a few extra eyes through its chest and a large one where it would be his forehead. His shoulders had big mouths with sharp teeth each.

Then there was Hintchack (Nero's unknown self), a sleek and snake-ish creature with four arms and four wings, a humanoid owl face with long feathers that resembled hair in his head, and a third eye like Hintkurt. His body was all white with some red paintings so detailed that it looked hand-painted. He wasn't big like his magical partner; he was the same size as a human.

The three of them were fighting against each other, but the two monsters mostly focused on the human. There were countless markings around the place; scorched areas by fire and other magics, big crackings and holes, claw markings, and so on.

Hintchack used his long tail to slap N on his back, sending him a few steps away. The hit was so strong that N couldn't react to get back on his feet, and his face was slammed against the ground.

"You stupid shit! When you'll learn that's a fucked up idea?!" Hintchack shouted harshly, his voice high pitched and cracked.

N, already wounded from previous hits from the bird-snake-ish creature, tried to get a bit of strength to rise up, but he was out of breath already. He was struggling to lift his head up, "What if...I'm right? Stop judging the others -cough cough- by the cover!"

"Are you serious?!" Hintchack shouted furiously. "No jackshit, Vergil can't have a good side! AND HE'S NOT MONSTER! MONSTER IS DEAD!"

Entirely the opposite from the screaming avian, Hintkurt, with his deep demonic voice, spoken calmly, "The parrot is right. Let go of this stupid idea that Nero will have parents. That's illogical. We're all grown-ups! Adults do not even adopt pre-teens, much less other adults!"

"But… what if…" N stuttered, the sadness on his face was evident, but he wasn't going to give up.

Hintkurt let go a long and annoying breath while Hintchak was close to plucking the feathers of his head out of anger.

"'If I beat Nero… I won't lose next time!'" Hintchack mimicked Vergil. "You really think that's how a father would sound? You idiot!"

"He was even going to kill Dante!" Hintkurt added.

"Another scum…" The bird blurted angrily.

"Dante is not bad!" The demon retorted.

"Oh really?! What… 'uncle' hides the truth about your bloodline for five fucking years?! He was willing to keep it secret if I haven't pressured him!"

Hintkurt didn't know how to respond; deep down, he agreed with that point.

"He… must have… a good reason.." N said between exhausted breaths.

"ARGH! Spare me of this family-care bullshit! He didn't want to have official responsibilities!" The avian shouted, flying closer to N.

"Only visiting to have lunch, making calls just to ask for money or pass a demon hunting job!"

"Help with sword fight training, helped create a devil hunting branch… he even sold some devil arms to gave Nero money for the van's fixes… and…" Before the demon could continue, Hintchack attacked him, cutting his chest using his wings' long sharp feathers.

"ENOUGH!" He shouted, pissed.

"What is wrong with you?!" The demon yelled, confused, stepping back.

"We all know Nero won't be able to have a happy family! Can't we all agree it's a lost case?!" Hintchack shouted out loud.

"We… are not… a lost case…" N said, his voice still weak, but he could stand on his feet now. "You are just paranoid!"

"ME?! PARANOID?! HAHAHA!" and he flew towards N, sending him back to the ground using his four hands.

Holding him still, he shouted in his face, "Who keeps crying and killing Nero's image is not me! You! YOU are the big kid here waiting for irrational wishes to come true! GET LOST! Nero will never have a daddy or a mommy!"

"We always knew this…" Hintkurt added. "Since we lost Monster… the last person that…"

"But! Shooting Star Man!" N interrupted.

"That motherfucker isn't real!" The bird yelled, a vein almost popping in his forehead.

"HE IS! He just won't come back!" The demon shouted, quickly taking the bird off of N, holding him by the tail.

"HOW DARE YOU?!" He shouted and again used his feathers to hurt the demon that released him at the same moment because of the pain from the severe wound.

"YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" The demon shouted, very pissed off with the stubbornness of the avian fellow.

They both started to fight using their magics, a fight so aggressive they were beginning to destroy the place again, heavy dust began to rise due to the dry soil.

"Stop! STOP! You're hurting Nero!" N shouted with all his strength left, but the magical beings didn't listen. They continued their fight without caring about him or the place.

The human could do nothing but whimper in grief. He continued to stay down on the ground and put his head between his crossed arms. There's nothing he could do… he needed help, and he knew that.

"Vergil… Dante… help me… please…" he whispered in agony.

But the two creatures could -surprising- hear his praying and stopped the fight almost immediately.

"YOU SAID WHAT?!" They shouted in synchrony, looking at the helpless human on the ground.

Back to reality…

Nero was sitting in the shadow of a small alley, hidden from the noisy and agitated crowd. He was in a fetal position, holding his head in pain. His two magics were fighting inside of him, and he barely could keep them under control. He was being hurt from the inside out. It was like small ghostly daggers were stabbing him. He was bleeding a little through his nose and mouth. In his eyes, the blood was mixing with his tears of agony. His skin, however, was starting to show up signals of a crackling similar to dry soil.

His mind was in complete chaos. At the same time, he wanted to call help...he didn't. He didn't know what to do; he just wanted to stay there, quiet, letting his internal struggle consume him.

But then, Kyrie found him. At first, she just observed him from far away, figuring out what was going on. When she got closer, she soon could feel his two magics fighting.

He was immobile.

She slowly walked to the middle of the alley, stepping softly so as not to make a noise. But her focus on the man was so intense that she didn't see the broken glass on the ground.

The soft cracking noise called Nero's attention, and he immediately looked at her.

Noticing who it was behind his foggy and red-ish vision, he quickly got up, using his leftover strength. When he attempted to sprint, Kyrie called him desperately, "NERO, NO! Please! Don't go! I just want to talk!" almost deafening, Victor was still in the call.

He stopped with her calling, but he didn't turn to look at her.

"Nero… please… tell me what is going on… I just want to help you..." she begged.

"HELP?! There's nothing you can help with!" Hintchack yelled furiously.

"Stay away, it will be better like this…" Hintkurt said with a bit of sadness.

"Kyrie… help…" N then cried in a helpless whisper.

"SHUT UP!" Hintchack yelled at him.

With a weak and sad voice, Nero almost whispered, "Just… leave me… please… I don't want to hurt you again..."

"Hurt me? When have you done that?!" She said quite incredulously.

"Lost memory or something?" Hintchack blurted.

"If you're thinking my coma and the exil-" before she could finish her sentence, Nero turned to her. His expression was an incomprehensible mix of sadness, anger, and pain. His face was all dirty with his own blood and tears.

"OF COURSE THEY'RE MY FAULT!" He shouted, his voice fading and muffled due to the fatigue of so much crying.

"All of the shit that happened to us… to your family… it's all my fault! I...I'm cursed…" he said with an ashamed and defeated voice.

Kyrie made a quick connection to what he was talking about. Fortuna's people never liked him because his demon magic attracted demons to him. People used to call him a "demon-magnet" and bully him as hell because of it.

She took a deep breath before continuing to speak. She didn't want to make the man run away again and slowly, she was trying to get closer, they were meters apart.

"Nero… You're not cursed… you're not like everyone always told you…" She tried with the softest voice she could do.

"How could she never notice?" Hintkurt said low and sad, holding N with one hand to make sure he couldn't say anything.

"Yes… Yes, I am!" he yelled between sobbings. "I honestly always envied you and Credo, you always had a family, had loving parents… you were -sob- respected..."- pause to take a breath - "but… but it was just me get in your life… and everything went down the hill -sniff- your parents died… Cre-Credo…" And he once again began to hold back a desperate crying. He did not want to in front of Kyrie.

"Stop, Nero! You can't blame yourself for that!" she tried to call him a little back to his senses.

"Please… let's go back to Victor so he can help you clear your mind and body… please," she begged.

"ENOUGH OF THIS!" Hintchack screamed with rage.

"HOLD UP! We must not hurt her!" Hintkurt interfered quickly.

"You seriously think I would hurt her, dumbass?!" the bird yelled incredulously.

"I don't trust you." the demon responded harshly.

Nero shut down his eyes and put his hands on his head. He was in panic and pain at the same time. The man began to hurt his scalp with his nails, and the bleeding from his eyes, nose, and mouth started to get worse. He had to cough out the blood from his throat.

Kyrie was panicking, but she was able to keep her composure. Still, when she tried to open her mouth to talk again… an eruption of desperate and panicking human screamings echoed around them.

Kyrie gave a quick look behind her just to see what was going on. Countless people were running in a panicked hurry from something, very likely to be demons.

Unfortunately, when she turned to look back at Nero, he had disappeared. Her heart raced in panic; she had no idea from where he could have gone. Once again, she would have to follow his energy track, but the more she saw people running, she began to feel the presence of other demons. It was hard for a newbie Devil-Magic user to concentrate on Nero's magic with all the nearby monsters' interference.

In a sprint, she ran outside the alley just to meet face to face with a demon, but it wasn't any demon: it was the same wolf-skull head ones from yesterday's morning.

Instinctively, using her right hand, she casts a lightning spell that blew up the demon's wolf-skull helmet, revealing a human mummy-like head that was under it.

The demon fell backward, wholly stunned, while she kneeled, holding her right hand in pain. She could feel her magic pulsing like an insane heartbeat in her hand; she thought her hand would literally explode.

'You idiot! You must use the staff… always!' she told herself madly.

"Kyrie? Kyrie?! What happened?!" Victor asked because of the loud, bomb thunder noise he heard on the other side.

"I'm fine… I just… didn't use my staff.." Kyrie said in a tense voice.

"KYRIE!" Nico yelled, a bit incredulous.

"I know… I know!" Kyrie yelled too, but impatient.

“Thunder Rose”

Category: Human-made

Type: Magic Catalyst

User(s): Kyrie

Description: A magical staff made by Nico. It helps Kyrie learn how to control her recently owned demonic magic and since it’s made of a very resistant material, she can also use it as a blunt weapon.

She got back on her feet quickly, and when she stopped to look at the avenue, she almost lost her breath. Jaw dropped; she couldn't count how many demons were there; they came this time in a massive hoard. They were attacking humans and killing them.

But when she paid attention to one that had already killed its prey, she saw that it wasn't eating the human's flesh. Instead, it was taking it away, running against the direction of the attacking ones.

She couldn't handle them by herself alone. It was too many for her.

"What's with all these people screaming?! Where is Nero?!" Victor yelled, his voice very worried.

"There's a bunch of demons here! And Nero ran away from me…

"What?! You MUST find him!" Victor said almost in a demanding tone.

"Take! Take it! Take to the Sin!" one demon that passed close to her caught her attention.

"The Sin needs flesh!"

"The great Sin will revive!" Many of them were shouting in a demonic language she could understand.

Until one of them yelled, "Dragon! Dragon!"

It called her attention that one wasn't attacking humans. It was utterly ignoring them all.

"Get the Dragon!" others yelled.

Some were strangely blabbing, a similar thing the ones from yesterday were.

Dragon? Could they be talking about Nero?

Those demons certainly could tell the difference between demon-magics better than she, and she decided to follow them. She rose up to way up over the panicking crowd riding her winged staff.

She could observe all of those "dragon-seekers" going into the same point. She accelerated to go ahead of them. The more she advanced, the better she could feel Nero's magic apart from the other demons'.

Not even half a minute of flight, she spotted Nero in the middle of the avenue. He was fighting against the same demons, but his condition wasn't letting him fight like he used to. He had to rely on his spectral arms and gun.

Those demons weren't ordinary; they were using teamwork to get close to Nero.

They were all around him, shooting their arrows with chains close to him, trapping him, but Nero knew the only way to leave was flying IF all of them missed their chains. But Nero didn't have the strength -physical, mental, and magical - to fly away so perfectly, they would get him.

Kyrie quickly dived towards the demon horde; in a swift move, she took her staff from her feet, and the wings rolled together to form a ball shape. With all the strength she got, she slammed the demons using her staff as a giant hammer, killing and stunning a few that were in front of Nero.

The wolf-skull-helm demons even dismantled their formation for a brief moment because they didn't see her getting close.

Nero felt some relief in seeing Kyrie again, but at the same time, he got scared, he wanted to leave as fast as possible, but that was a distant wish by that point.

"Kyrie… you…" he mumbled between painful groanings.

"Quiet!" She yelled, mad at him. "Just focus on getting out of this. We talk about that another moment."

Nero got briefly stunned. Never had Kyrie raised her voice towards him like that. He got quiet and decided to listen to her for now.

His legs weakened, and he kneels on the ground. His magics were starting to fight inside him again. Kyrie didn't think twice when she saw him like that. She slapped Victor's device on his nape in one swift move.

"What the hell?!" Nero yelled, confused.

"Don't even think about taking that off! I dare you!" she threaded him.

"YES!" Victor yelled victorious at the other side of the call. "Those readings aren't perfect but will help a little already!"

The demons got furious with her interference. The ones in front of her raised their body quickly and shot their arrows at her.

She swung her staff and blasted an electric discharge at the arrows, sending them away. More demons started to do the same from different directions right after.

She kept blasting energy to send the arrows away. From behind, her left, right, she was circling around and sometimes even jumping over Nero. The man still was kneeling on the ground, trying to catch a breath while blood was dripping from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

During the middle of that situation, she and the demons took a quick pause to breathe, and she could blurt something: "If only… Dante and Vergil…"

"We… -cough cough- don't need… them," Nero said with his trembling voice.

Kyrie's blood boiled that moment; she couldn't stand Nero's stubbornness anymore. He was passing the limit of irrationality.

"SHUT UP!" she shouted, scaring him and the demons around. "Listen here! You're not in the condition to make decisions yourself! So, stay quiet and listen to what I say! Okay?!"

"Oh wow… that was hot", Hintkurt blurted.

"Is that what you're thinking about in this situation?!" N yelled incredulously at him.

"She's… scaring me…" Hintchack said, hiding his head under his wings.

Nero didn't know what to respond to. He just kept quiet, staring at her, his eyes wide open of both surprise and scare.

"Good!" She yelled, returning her gaze to the demons. She couldn't believe she had to raise her voice at Nero like that. She didn't want to, but that was a matter of life and death. He had to cooperate.

Quickly, all the demons coordinated to shoot their arrows at them at the same time. It didn't have how to avoid that attack if not flying.

Kyrie didn't know an area spell to help in that situation either.

Suddenly, the programs on Victor's computer started to give emergency warnings of "magical signal lost" again.

"What the?!" he yelled. "Kyrie?! What happened?!"

No response.

"Kyrie!" He shouted, but she was stunned in place, staring at the small protective red bubble around her and Nero.

Nero had his arms extended, his hair was black, and his eyes green once again. He quickly cast that shield to protect them, sending the arrows away.

He couldn't stand it much longer and dropped tired to the ground. Then, the protective bubble exploded, sending the demons not so far away from them and stunning them in the process.

"KYRIE!" Both Victor and Nico shouted, trying to call her attention. They made it but almost gave her a heart attack.

"I'm here! I'm here!" She replied, scared.

"What happened to Nero?!" Victor asked, quite worried.

"Did he switch magics?!" Nico asked right after.

"He what?!" Victor blurted, now confused.

"Yes, he did," Kyrie replied. Simultaneously, she quickly kneeled to check on him: he was heavily breathing, sweating like crazy, and, unfortunately, but fortunately, he was unconscious.

Still staring at the monitor, Nico explained, "That's the other thing we came to ask you, Uncle Vic. Nero recently discovered he has a second magic type. I couldn't get readings with any device I had… and apparently, yours can't read it too…? Oh shit…"

Victor stayed silent, trying to process why that other magic of Nero couldn't be read by their devices and why he had another type within him?

He then gave a quick gaze to a specific painting he had on the same computer station wall. Noticing the peculiar look, Nico turned to look at the picture too, but she couldn't understand much: it was an image half white in the top and half black in the bottom. She couldn't clearly see the details because the painting was a bit far and wasn't that big.

Victor returned in silence to his computer and started to do something on his programs. Nico saw that something snapped in his mind, and she would not question him about it now.

"Kyrie! Is Nero okay?" Nico asked instead.

"He… he just dropped... unconscious… urgh," her voice sounding as if she was doing a lot of strength.

"What are you doing?" Nico said, worried with her tone.

Kyrie was trying to take Nero to an alley while the demons were stunned, using her staff's magical wings. She pulled the staff with all her strength while the wings formed a basket shape under Nero.

"Trying to… find a safe place…" she replied, breathing heavily.

The demons were starting to snap back to their consciousness when Kyrie entered an alley and could hide her and Nero between large trash containers.

Nero's magic was dim by now, but the demons could still sense it; they barely woke up and already started to flow his weak signal.

Kyrie fiercely stood nearby the place she left Nero. The demons couldn't enter all at once in the area.

They began to menacingly enter the alley, ambling with their four members. The path was dark, cold, and stinky. Only their shiny orange eyes were visible among the shadowy shape they had in the dark.

That vision sent a chill down Kyrie's spine. Her hands were sweating cold inside her gloves, she wanted to take Nero and run away, but that wouldn't be easy to achieve. She had to fight, fight not just for Nero's safety but also hers.

Unfortunately, that was the first time she didn't have Nero's aid to help her when something went wrong. She was alone, entirely by herself only, giving her the same sensation Nero always had when she was in danger.

She positioned herself ready with her staff. There wasn't space for the scythe blade to swing by. The only option was to use brute force and her smaller electric spells.

"Give… the...DRAGON!" the one front-most yelled and jumped towards her.

She could smack the demon's head against the ground, killing it in one quick swing before it could touch her with its scrawny fingers.

Another one fired its arrow to pierce her body, but she spun her staff really quick and rolled the chain on the top side of it. In a decisive move, she pulled the demon at her, and, using the staff's bottom end, she pierced against the demon's head.

She then sent it away against the other ones in an air kick with all her right leg's strength, breaking its chain. Only one got hit by the flying body and sent out of the alley.

Another two climbed the walls in a sprint and jumped over her. With the staff free, she turned the engine on with her magic and blasted the demons away.

But another one was already in a jump towards her right after and threw her against the ground. She held the creature's hands with her staff, as well as its neck.

She was fighting with everything she got. The demon was trying to push her staff against her throat. But her strength wasn't enough, the demon was slowly winning, and she could see its sadistic smile on its mummy face.

KABOOM

The demon was blasted away in a loud and robust light blast.

Kyrie got blind and deaf for a moment; she could only hear a lousy beep. Her head was inexplicable, spinning and hurting from the light blast.

Victor and Nico had a heart test when they heard the loud blast through the call.

While trying to recover her senses, she used her staff to help get support to get up. A bit dizzy and deaf, the first thing she looked after with her partially white vision was Nero. Fortunately, he was in the same place and position she had left him; she could support his back in one of the big trash containers, but his body was stiff. His arms and legs sometimes jumped with little spasms. He wasn't desyncing yet, but his magic definitely wasn't okay.

Looking outside the alley, some demons were killed, and others were just lying down unconscious. They simply vanished away. The ground was temporarily covered with electrostatic energy, making Kyrie a bit reluctant to move out of the place.

"Hey! Those are no demons for noob'ing around!" a strange young voice came from far outside the alley.

Kyrie tried to see who it was; her vision was almost recovered by now. She could only identify a tall human figure, in a scarlet red coat, white hair with a single hair clump of a different darker color. They were holding a tall and shining Spear, probably a weapon for fighting demons; strangely, she could also feel demonic magic coming from them.

"Get out of here!" the person shouted and ran away.

"NO! Wait!" But the person was already far.

"What's up?!" Nico asked right after.

"There was… another… Devil Hunter, I guess…" she replied with confusion, not so sure of what she saw just now.

"Anyway!" she regained all her senses back again. "I need your help, please! I can't take Nero like this by myself. There's too many demons here too."

"No need to worry, pal! We were already getting out stuff together here!" Nico yelled confidently, but deep in her tone, Kyrie felt her worry.

"Thank you!" She said with a bit of relief.

But that wasn't the moment to relax. The demons were still there. Kyrie used this opening to kill the closest demons and to collect some green and red orbs. It was easy to kill them standing still, just blasting their chest and cutting their heads off with no effort at all.

It took her less than 5 minutes to do so, but for a brief moment, she contemplated how much she changed in such a short time. In the end, she shook her head to regain focus. It wasn't the moment for that.

She quickly absorbed the red orbs around and held onto as many green orbs as she could. In a hurry, she brought them to Nero, who absorbed them in his sleep.

The muscular spasms stopped, but he didn't wake up.

The only thing she could do was wait for Nico.

"Dante… Vergil… Where are you? Nero needs your help…" she begged in her thoughts.

The ground began to shake inexplicably, and the demons that she didn't give the final blow began to wake up. It was time for her to fight again? She barely had caught a breath from the previous fight.

The small earthquakes began to get stronger and paced, like quick steps, giving her a chill down her spine. Flashes of Lightning also started to roar in the sky. That wasn't normal; it surely was some demonic thing.

Suddenly, around fifty meters high, a colossal creature falls down in the avenue corner, a few meters ahead of the alley she was.

The demons that woke up ignored her and ran away, but she heard them yelling, "IT'S THE GREAT SIN!", "THE SIN LIVES!"

So, that was the Sin they were talking about earlier? That boss-looking demon?

The colossal creature got up the faster it could. It was incredibly visually similar to the small demons. It had a wolf skull as a helmet, a skinny body with animal legs and human arms. The few differences were it had a black mist-like tail. The one coming from the head was also covering its torso, neck, and, probably, face ultimately.

A person comes jumping from where the demon came. It was that one that told Kyrie to run away. They were surrounded by electricity, and it went straight to the enormous beast, pointing the spear at its chest.

But the beast dodge rolled to the side, and the hunter carved the spear in the ground. But the electricity exploded and got the arms of the best.

The enormous creature howled in pain. An instant after, it tried to swing its claws towards the hunter, who easily avoided it by jumping away using an energy blast.

"Leave me be, you monster!" The creature shouted, not in demon language; it was in human language.

"Me?! The monster?! Look who's talking!" The hunter replied angrily but with a sassy tone under it.

The creature suddenly stopped; his eyes totally showed surprise, and it looked straight at Kyrie.

Witnessing that tremendous stare, Kyrie froze in a cold sweat; her hands got stiff in her staff.

"Dragon? The Dragon?!" The monster said low and surprised.

That was it. Kyrie was dead now. No way she could face that thing. Nero could, but not in the state he was. Her arms and legs got weak of so much scare, and she kneed in despair, but she could feel her inner magic starting to storm inside her like a defense response.

"Dante… Vergil…" she whispered in panic, tears forming in her eyes.

"Wait… THE dragon is here?" the hunter whispered astonishedly, looking at Kyrie too.

"Dante! Vergil! I need your help, please…" she yelled in her thoughts.

"Nero is gonna die… help! Please!" She closed her eyes and held on tight to the staff while the monster was getting up. It had its eyes on her.

Time stopped.

The only thing that she had in mind now was Dante and an assumption of how Vergil would be. They were twins, right? And they should be together in Hell by now.

"Kyrie?!" She heard Dante's voice in her head.

"Nero's girlfriend?" she heard another voice, an unfamiliar voice, but she assumed to be Vergil's.

She thought it was her imagination for a moment, but she could feel her magic inside her acting quite differently. The wish to have the twins there was provoking something on it.

"PLEASE! I need you two here! Nero is sick and can't fight! There's a huge demon looking for him!" she thought in an instant.

"How?! We are here, and you are there!" Dante said, worried.

"Can we trust this voice?" Vergil said quite distrustfully.

"Yes, man! I know this energy! It's definitely Kyrie!"

All that happened in a fraction of a second.

An inexplicable feeling dominated Kyrie that moment; her magic was acting differently like never before. A new instinct awakened in her. She assumed a fierce and intimidating expression.

She strongly hit the ground with her staff's end, carving on it, scaring the giant demon and the hunter.

She embraced that new feeling and let her magic follow it; she could feel it growing stronger inside her. Still, it wasn't out of control. All that seemed quite natural already.

She began to charge the staff at its limits. It looked like the metal plates from the gear would fly away. A large jolt of energy blew up out of it and formed the pink spectral wings.

The staff would be able to hold all the magic she was channeling. She made the terrible decision to conduct her magic by herself.

That was a deadly move.

Barely a second after summoning, the wings disappeared from the staff and quickly reappeared in her back, but this time double in size. Both of her eyes were glowing white, and the sclera turned black. The small white hair clump she had in her fringe hair quickly grew out to have more strands.

The demon began to step back, afraid of what was coming. But the hunter didn't move out of his place.

"DANTE! VERGIL! HEAR ME OUT! FOLLOW MY VOICE!" she shouted in her thoughts while she began to scream out loud due to the heavy magic channeling.

At the end of her wings, two large demonic magical circles formed an azure blue and a crimson red.

"Fuck! She's summoning something!" The hunter yelled.

"DANTE AND VERGIL! I SUMMON YOU!" she shouted with all her lungs' strength.

Vast flames from their respective circle's colors began to blast out from them, and human shapes started to form.

Dante then jumped out of the red circle, and Vergil jumped out of the blue one.

Kyrie's wings immediately dissipated, and the staff did an emergency stop. She had to kneel on the ground; she had never been so tired before. She had to take many deep breaths, she was sweating profusely, and she looked like her heart would jump out of her mouth.

"WE ARE BACK, BITCHES!" Dante shouted as soon as he stepped on the ground.

But Vergil quickly noticed a problem with them, which shocked him for a brief moment.

To be continued...

[robertppattinson]

always the gentleman: steve rogers

summary: steve rogers x reader. smut!!!!! steve keeps walking in on reader having some alone time, and goddamn it if he doesn’t wish it was him instead of an ann summers toy she’s holding.

word count: 1,900

warnings/tropes: smut, clueless!steve, tease!steve. bucky has a cameo teehee. enjoy!

-

The first time Steve sees you like this, it’s a complete and utter accident.

This meaning shaky breath, hair clung to face, a wild bucking of the hips. This meaning ass up in the air, right hand between your legs, the sweetest friction. This meaning soft mewls, almost sinful, though he was adamant you could never be anything but angelic, celestial, even. 

It’s his own fault, really. Steve knows he can be oblivious, careless. The thought of walking in on you in such a compromising and vulnerable position, bent over in your bed, in your room, had never even so much as made a peep at him before he entered without a knock. Your bed, your room; how many times did he have to remind himself? He should know better, for heaven’s sake. Getting involved with someone at work was sacrilegious, no matter what sector ‘work’ regarded. Office romances always ended badly - why should the Avengers Compound get off any easier? ‘Involved’ is a loose word for it, now that he reconsiders. He can’t be ‘involved’ with someone he has only touched in his dreams, really, truly touched like he craved with the girl who left stains on every inch of his brain since the day he met her.

It’s a miracle he has enough sense to remain still, like the carved statue he is, and painfully quiet. Steve aches everywhere; his hands, yearning to reach out and touch you; his legs, eager to step forward; his dick, aching with relentless throbs that snake all the way up his spine, prick his ears and bloom a tender blush on his cheeks. 

It’s a miracle you aren’t privy to his heart, thunderous in his chest, surely visibly protruding from his t-shirt. Golden rings still on your long, slender fingers, glistening in the sunlight poking through your open window. Wait - open window? Don’t you know somebody could see you? Not any neighbours this high up in the building, granted, but somebody? Drones aren’t hard to come by these days, he scolds you internally. And he realises in the boyish, clueless way he’s still prone to that he is that somebody watching you. He wants to leave, knows he should, but he cannot, for the life of him, tear himself away from this. From you. So beautiful, he can hardly stand it. How delicious you must taste in his hungry, greedy mouth; how gorgeous you must look above him, below him, whichever way you wanted; how sickeningly sweet you must feel clenching around him. He’s sweating, poor boy, almost as much as you are -  small, wet tell-tales of exertion on the armpits of your crop top as you work yourself closer to coming. Your legs tremble, tanned against the pale eggshell sheets strewn across the bed, bottom lip harshly bitten into. A hiss of pleasure, a high-pitched intake of breath, one last curl of your fingers and you are undone. 

It’s a miracle he finally regains control of his limbs, silently leaping out of view back out into the corridor before you turn your head towards the door, frowning, swearing you had closed it. Only a few metres apart, a goddamn-cockblocking-son-of-a-bitch wall separating you, both figures shudder and sigh blissfully. Fucked out on your bed, sensitive, you carefully draw your fingers into your folds one last time, curiously observing the milky liquid of your come, and bring it up to your mouth, moaning at the pleasant taste. 

Steve is about to leave, actually leave this time, he means it, when he hears it.

“Mmm,” a sensuous moan, almost guttural. He swears his dick has never been this hard, never wanted to pop out of his jeans so much. That is, however, until: “Steve…” 

Shit. Shit. Shit. You couldn’t have seen him, surely? A quick whip of his head to the door reveals he has escaped a lifetime of embarrassment; no sign of you. Still fucked out on your bed. But if you hadn’t heard him, then - oh. And there it was, the biggest, thickest erection of his life, and all he could do was tuck his dick into the waistband of his boxers (Calvin Kleins, after he had heard you swooning over the Mark Wahlberg and Kate Moss campaign from the 90s), and traipse sullenly to his own room. Steve felt like a teenage boy caught looking through his father’s Playboy, indignant, yet secretly proud of having found the Playboy in the first place. 

With a sigh, embarrassed, shameful and utterly, utterly horny, Steve turns back towards your door and closes it for good, polite measure once he hears the shower turn on. Always the gentleman.

-

The second time Steve sees you like this, he tells himself it’s another accident, that he just happened to be on the wrong (right) floor at the wrong (right) time. 

Looking for Bucky is an innocent act. Why his friend, more like life companion, really, would even be on this floor is beyond him, but Steve pulls out his phone and taps on Bucky’s contact. He’s wandering the floor, from one corridor to the next, when he hears a light buzzing to the east of the building. Goddamn Bucky left his goddamn phone lying around again. Goddamn it. 

He draws closer, and though his mind is slow to catch up, rusty with these lustful theatrics, the most primal part of him senses the situation immediately. The buzzing is louder now, more akin to a gentle rumble, and his dick twitches. Here he is again, outside that door. Only now, he doesn’t have to turn the handle to open it; it’s already ajar. 

Is he a narcissist for thinking you left it open for him, just him, so he could see and hear you again? 

One peek. Only one, quick peek and that’s it, Rogers, I mean it. And he does, truly - but he had also meant not to be presented with the sight before him again, meant not to drift his hand towards his own centre, for lack of a better word. It really felt like his centre - his dick, he means; everything revolves around that goddamn thing lately. He’s hard, palming himself and trying not to have his mother’s shrill voice in his head, yelling at him to stop being a pervert and pull himself together. 

But he can’t, and he’s petulant towards this fact. He can’t, not when you have never looked quite so riled up. Eyes rolled to the back of your head, mouth gaped open in a silent scream, thighs trembling. Small hands forcefully wrapped around a pink vibrator - a rabbit, he thinks they call this particular type - that gets slightly twirled around until you find the right spot. You come much quicker than when using just your fingers, practically writhing around as if you’re being electrocuted. This vulnerability is insanely captivating, Steve notes, this openness. Whenever he jerks off, in the shower, in his bed with a condom (a posh wank, you had called the concept once), he does so quietly, stealthily, still coy and afraid of someone hearing him. Suddenly, there’s nothing he wants more than to have the whole Compound hearing his name slipping from your cherry lips, echoing through the glass and metal. Just the mere thought drives him crazy, hand down his jeans to touch himself properly when you come for a second time, harsher, more sustained and by God, there it is again:

“Oh, Steve… fuuuuck.”

The deliciousness of this barely has time to register before he feels the familiar release of his own orgasm. Right in his jeans. Goddamn it all to hell. 

He’s lucky they’re a deep blue, almost black, so he can walk to his room without arousing much suspicion. It’s wildly uncomfortable, and more than a little gross, but he’ll take what he can get. 

“Hey - you rang?” 

Fuck off Bucky, I swear to God.

“Uh, sorry. Butt-dial,” Steve offers, shuffling awkwardly, trying to get past his miscreant of a friend as quickly as possible.

Bucky raises an eyebrow in question, but decides to let it go. Many years together have taught him to keep to his own business unless Steve asked for help himself, or was otherwise unconscious and covered in blood.

“Alright… I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Wanna show Y/N this new album I’ve been listeni-”

Steve storms off. Always the gentleman.

-

The third time Steve sees you like this, eyes cloudy with lust, squeezing your thighs together for some, any, kind of relief, it is by no means an accident. 

Grey joggers cover his bottom half, his chest bare and t-shirt discarded in a crumpled up mess next to him. He doesn’t know what has come over him, this sudden bravery to practically gallivant his penis in your face as you try to concentrate on the TV, gripping the nunchucks much harder than usual. Wants to test you, he supposes, confirm his suspicions. He’s hopeful, and he has every right to be.

You’re not the best driver as it is, never mind that this is Mario Kart, but the willpower it takes to keep your eyes on the screen is inhuman. Every other second, though, your vision flits towards his groin, mentally tracing the outline of his dick. He’s big, of course, even when flaccid. Your mouth waters involuntary at the conjured up image of him at his full hardness, lining himself up just before his head enters you. 

“Stupid fucking-” you grunt, hitting random buttons in vain as your character is knocked off the track and falls into the water. 

Groaning at your new sixth position (you were just second, for crying out loud), you glance at Steve, who is smirking at you already, having just pushed himself into first place and finishing the track. 

“Language!” He laughs, a big, boisterous sound that makes you nervous. You loved making him laugh - your favourite pastime. Aside from making him come in his jeans outside your door, of course. 

“Funny you should say that,” you begin, tongue wetting your bottom lip anxiously. Come on, Y/N, time for you to be brave now.

“Oh?” 

“You weren’t telling me off for swearing yesterday.”

Silly Steve, it takes him a moment to process the comment. You take the opportunity, can see his cogs turning, to stand up in front of him. And you peep at his joggers, too, but who can blame you?

“… Oh.”

You hold out a hand, shaking almost imperceptibly, inviting, tempting him. “You coming, Captain?”

He’s too far gone to even try to resist, and his hand feels so… so homely wrapped around yours. You reach the door of the games room and before you can pull it open to scurry upstairs, Steve releases your hand and pries the door open himself. 

“After you, doll.”

You know he does this just so he can look at your bum as you walk up the stairs, so you roll your eyes to the heavens, and he smirks again, his brain working faster now and picturing you rolling your eyes in a different, imminent way. 

Steve has been raised right, of course, would never dream of letting a girl, especially his girl, walk through a door without opening it for her first. That’s what he tells himself, at least. Totally not so he can check you out. Always the gentleman.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Hello! So, I mean, this might be out of the blue, ambiguous and crazy to answer (but it's something I think about a lot, and you touched upon it in a previous ask and would love your further perspective on!) but let's say, at the end of The Return of The King, Grima lived! What do you personally think his journey and path would look like from there?

Grima asks are never out of the blue - I always want them <3 Thank you so much for asking!!

--

man ok - well Grima at the end of ROTK is in a really dark place. Frodo, Gandalf et al first run into Grima and Saruman on the road near the misty mountains as the make their slow return journey from Gondor. 

As they (Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf) came out again into the open country at sundown they overtook an old man leaning on a staff, and he was clothed in rags of grey or dirty white, and at his heels went another beggar, slouching and whining. 

[...]

‘Get up you idiot!’ he (Saruman) shouted to the other beggar, who had sat down on the ground; and he struck him with his staff. ‘Turn about! If these fine folk are going our way, then we will take another. Get on, or I’ll give you no crust for your supper!’ 

The beggar turned and slouched past whimpering: ‘Poor old Grima! Poor old Grima! Always beaten and cursed. How I hate him! I wish I could leave him!’ 

‘Then leave him!’ said Gandalf. 

a man who has never been in an abusive situation in his life, clearly. 

‘One thief deserves another,’ said Saruman (to Merry), and turned his back on Merry, and kicked Wormtongue, and went away towards the wood. 

Great guy, Saruman. 

And the famous scouring of the Shire bit that everyone on here misremembers when it comes to Grima’s whole situation: 

But Frodo said: (...) But I will not have him (Saruman) slain. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing. Go Saruman, by the speediest way!’ 

‘Worm! Worm!’ Saruman called; and out of a nearby hut came Wormtongue, crawling, almost like a dog. ‘To the road again, Worm!’ Said Saruman. ‘These fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!’ 

[Saruman tries to stab Frodo as he leaves and Sam gets ready to shank a bitch. Frodo stops him saying: ‘...He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.’ ...]

He (Saruman) walked away, and the hobbits made a lane for him to pass; but their knuckles whitened as they gripped on their weapons. Wormtongue hesitated, and then followed his master. 

‘Wormtongue!’ called Frodo. ‘You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can rest and food here a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.’ 

Wormtongue halted and looked back at him, half prepared to stay. Saruman turned. ‘No evil?’ he cackled. ‘Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don’t you Worm? Will you tell them?’ 

Wormtongue cowered down and whimpered: ‘No, no!’

‘Then I will,’ said Saruman. ‘Worm killed your chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn’t you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.’ 

A look of wild hate came into Wormtongue’s red eyes. ‘You told me to; you made me do it,’ he hissed. 

Saruman laughed. ‘You do what Sharkey says, always, don’t you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!’ He kicked Wormtongue in the face as he grovelled, and turned and made off. But at that something snapped: suddenly Wormtongue rose up, drawing a hidden knife, and then with a snarl like a dog he sprang on Saruman’s back, jerked his head back, cut his throat, and with a yell ran off down the lane. Before Frodo could recover or speak a word, three hobbit-bows twanged and Wormtongue fell dead. 

A sad end to a very sad life. 

-

So that’s the canon ending, obviously. A very neat, pat ending where all the baddies are dead, everyone who is broken will disappear into an asylum and/or die take a boat to the grey havens and life will move on. 

How nice. 

-

Alright, now for the speculation! My favourite thing. 

Assuming Grima lived, god knows what his journey afterwards would look like. He’s mentally (and physically) in a bad way after having been physically (and emotionally) abused and starved by Saruman for the last year/two years. Saruman may have lost his powers, but he’s still terrifying force to be reckoned with. I don’t know how much Grima would be capable of on his own in terms of survival. 

That said, Grima’s made it this far. He’s clearly got something in him that’s keeping him alive. Something in him wants to live. It might not know how to go about doing that, but it’s there, and that’s important. 

So he’s stabbed Saruman, A+ work. The hobbits don’t shoot him. The question is then: does he take up Frodo’s offer or does his fuck off into the wilderness. 

I can see him going either direction, honestly. But I suspect, given that he’s starving and in a bad way physically, I suspect he’d stay for a time. Now, considering what’s happened to him in the general vicinity of Bagend, I’m not sure how long Grima will stay, but I do think he’d rest there for a short while. Get a proper meal or two in him. Take a bath. That sort of thing. 

From there he could go to somewhere like Bree or Dale, take up a new name/new life and try and move on, as much as a person can in a world that has absolutely no support networks for people who have gone through bad shit. 

If he stayed for a longer period with Frodo? I could see Sam putting him to work. 

‘I need someone to help me garden.’ 

‘...I know about horses?’

‘Plants are easier, trust me.’ 

‘....Are they though?’ 

Considering the fact that Grima has been dehumanized (Worm; like a dog; cur) and treated as worthless/unworthy by one of the more powerful beings in Middle Earth - and one who was once Great! Who was once wise and wonderful! I suspect he’s going to have a difficult time accepting kindness? 

Frodo, of course, would be generous and understanding, because it’s Frodo and that’s the measure of man he is. Truly one of the nicest and most forgiving and tender people in the series. 

Aragorn said of Grima that if he walked out of Orthanc alive it would be too good for him. 

(Everyone is a lot meaner in the books. Funnier, yes, but also meaner. Then there’s the weird Faramir moment where he’s all up on that “Numenorian Blood Quantum Is Important” nonsense (tell that to your brother who has no blood of the Westernese in him...) There’s a lot of Oooof moments). 

Frodo, though, Frodo is one of the genuinely kind and loving people who would never think such cruel things about anyone. 

But back to Grima, I think the line Gillian Flynn wrote about how when you’re weaned on poison, it makes kindness seem like a cruelty is very relevant here. The first step to healing is allowing yourself to admit that you deserve to be healed, that you deserve love. That’s a very hard thing to allow, to acknowledge is something you are worthy of having. 

And so it would be difficult, for him, to accept kindness and gentleness from Frodo, or anyone else. But if he was doing something to “earn” it, that might make it more palatable. 

Which is a shame, since if there is anyone who understands the power and allure of the dark lord/Saruman etc. and how that can mess you up and contort you into someone you don’t recognize anymore, it’s Frodo.

-

Would Grima go back to Rohan? I don’t think so. Unless there were some wild, unexpected circumstances that brought him there, I truly don’t see him returning home. He’s torched that bridge pretty successfully - at least, I’m sure that’s how he sees it. 

Now if he did. If something Bat Shit happened - and he went back. It would be wild and very emotional.  

A Rider of Rohan, lost in the shire: I’m looking for a Mr Baggins? I understand he might know where Gandalf is? We sort of need some magic help in Rohan. 

Hobbit: Turn left at the end of the lane, go past Grubby Harold’s llama farm, stop at the intersection with the red sign, take the third exit of the roundabout, turn right, turn left, turn left again, take the second switch back up the hill, at the crest of the hill, take the path that turns left at the big tree that someone carved Fuck Lobelia into and that should get you close. 

Rider: 

Rider: Right. 

Rider eventually shows up, Grima’s out front updating Sam on some shit that Pansy Fielding said to Fardulf Braceblower, an ongoing war that has existed since the Dawn of Time. Sam is like “Please never stop telling me all the gossip, I live for this shit.”

Frodo: How did you hear about this? 

Grima: I might have set up an informant’s network but it’s solely to trawl for entertaining gossip.  

Rider approaches: Oh dear gods. 

Grima: 

Grima: Go get fucked, Gundahar. 

Sam: Friend? 

Grima & Gundahar: No. 

Anyway. The rider tells Frodo that he’s after Gandalf because XYZ is happening in Rohan and Eomer-king is annoyed and “wants it dealt with, preferably yesterday”. Grima knows what’s up because you know, resident Spook Master also he was spending a lot of time around a lore-filled Wizard. Might as well get something for the years of mistreatment. 

Gundahar: He’s not coming back to Rohan. 

Frodo: We’re going on a road trip, Sam. Let’s get packed. 

Sam: I’m so ready for this. 

Grima: But I’m not going back to Rohan. 

Gundahar: He’s not coming back to Rohan. 

Frodo: Too late, he’s coming with us. Neither of us can be left alone for too long or we go weird in the head. 

Merry: Oh we’re going to Rohan? Well, as a member of the royal court I’m coming. 

Gundahar: .... How is this happening? 

Grima: Hobbits, they move in herds. 

Pippin: WAIT FOR ME! 

Gandalf is UPSET that he has to travel with Grima. Grima says it’s mutual. He doesn’t like wizards. Especially wizards in white. He gets weird about hoarding food when Gandalf is around. 

Grima then has to visit Theoden’s grave and have a lot of emotions about everything and it’s a Lot.

I don’t think he’d stay, though. Either he’d go back with Frodo or he might go on to Gondor or out east or something. Travel for a while. 

- 

I’ve gone off on some tangents here. Ahem. 

But in general, I see his journey going in one of two directions: one where he fucks off after murdering Saruman and takes up a life somewhere else like Bree, or wherever, probably drinks too much and is miserable until he dies. 

The other is where he accepts Frodo’s offer and either just chills in the Shire being the resident gossip-monger and mischief maker (Frodo: NO MISCHIEF. Grima: we can make a little mischief .., as a treat?) or he accepts the offer, stays for a while to get back on his feet and shake off some of the darkness, then goes off to travel around. Maybe he settles somewhere, maybe he doesn’t. Regardless if he stays or goes, it is a better ending to his life than he probably hoped for or expected. 

And it shows the power and importance of kindness and love. Healing only happens if there is love and gentleness. And it’s terrifying - of course it is - but it’s so necessary. 

-

Ok I am so sorry for my dissertation on Grima. I love talking about him so much.  

Thank you!! <3 <3 

[sparklingchan]

Why,why? || Kang Hyunggu(Pentagon)

Pairing : Reader (fem.) x Kino.

Word count : 1k+

Warnings : Suggestive.

Genre : Fluff, romance, boyfriend au, established relationship.

Description : Just like the stars in the sky, there are an infinite number of reasons as to why you love Kang Hyunggu.

Author’s Note :  Guess who’s still crying over Ptg’s first win…. I’m so happy y’all  >_< So here’s a lil something to celebrate it<3 Repost because tumblr sucks ass.

Please do reblog , like and comment if you like this. My DMs are also open so if you want to gimme a review , feel free.

Enjoy!

They say that one cannot count the stars in the sky , but on rare times like this , you strictly disagree with that statement.

You stare at the dark purple sky above you , your brain now having counted upto a hundred stars just to prevent yourself from getting overwhelmed by the presence of the person beside you.

“A penny for your thoughts, y/n.” The feeling of Hyunggu’s soft tender fingers playing with your hair brings you back to reality, making you lose count of the stars above you as you concentrate all your attention on the one beside you.

“I’m not thinking anything ,really.” You reply , staring up at his face from his chest.

The moon shines on his face just enough to illuminate his best features - his eyes , his plump lips , the mole under his eye.

And you suddenly want to grab his face and place kisses on every inch of it ,even though you had done it just a few minutes ago.

But who can blame you , a man as beautiful as Hyunggu belongs in an art gallery and it is unbelievable that he still chooses to lie down on the moist grass with you in his arms, talking about everyone and everything.

“I love you.” you breathe into the fabric of his shirt , drawing small circles on his stomach with your fingers.

He has heard you say those words many times before ,yet they still make him feel giddy everytime you say it. It’s hard for him to believe that someone out there actually harbours such feelings for him, despite all his flaws and mistakes.

It feels surreal to him , just as it does to you, for true love is an emotion not many people know. One can offer their hearts to many people in one lifetime, still it needs luck to have the same people give their own hearts in return.

“Why.” Now that is a new response from his side - the answer to which you’d assumed he already knows.

“Why? Why is ’ why ’ even a question, Kang Hyunggu?” you roll your eyes , smiling sheepishly.

He shrugs as his free hand ghosts over your fingers for a few seconds and then he laces his fingers through yours. You shiver and you blame the fact that you’re wearing a simple shirt and track pants when in reality, it is his touch that chills you down to your bone. But , again ,in your defense, you’d never really fallen so sincerely in love with a person before - this is all so familiar yet exciting to you.

“I don’t know.” he replies with a mischievous smile, “You tell me, y/n.”

Hyunggu surely does know how to play hard to get , and it has never failed to make you feel all flustered .

It’s like a tug of war game , for it is unsure which side will win at the end but everyone enjoys it nevertheless.

You pull away from him , just enough to flip onto your stomach and rest your elbows on the grass and your face on the heel of your hand.

“Okay , so reason number one,” you start with a grin on your lips , “You’re an insanely talented musician.”

Hyunggu shrugs like it’s not a big deal at all , trying to be modest ,but it is a big deal. To you at least.

His devotion and passion towards music is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.The dark circles under his eyes , the outline of his headphones on his cheeks , the ink on his hands , you notice everything but never once have you seen him complain about it.And the way his eyes sparkle with joy when he talks about his songs and music is a sight to behold.

Hyunggu ’s entire existence revolves around music , like music were his sun and he were a planet. Planets cannot survive without a sun.

“The second reason is your personality. ” you place your hand on his cheek, stroking it gently. He smiles into your touch.

Anyone who’s ever met Hyunggu can confirm whole heartedly that he is the human personification of a warm blanket on a chilly winter night.His presence is so warm and alluring and comforting that you sometimes wonder how you had survived so many years without him. Alone. Cold and lonely.

“The third reason is your smile.” You say as you bend down to quickly peck him on his luscious, pink lips. He blushes under you.

His smile is a treasure you’d like to protect with everything you have ,for as long as you can. He has a smile that looks like it were the bright crescent moon on a cloudless night, carved by the gods and blessed by the angels.

You would do anything to see him smile. In a heartbeat, without a second thought.

“And the last reason has to be your eyes.” You whisper. Hyunggu wraps a firm arm around your waist , pulling you closer , “Now that’s something I’ve never heard before. Care to elaborate?”

“Well , you know how much I love stars, right? I feel the same way about your eyes because they’re so shiny and calm.” You sigh.

And you decide to not add the part where you think that his eyes look like your own two personal stars. Specially sent for you from the sky.

His eyes , nose , lips , heart , mind - everything was given over to you

He’s yours, just how you are his and this is how it will be till the end.

Hyunggu pokes his nose into your cheek , pulling you out of those self indulgent thoughts.

You giggle , your hand resting on his chest as you lean in to kiss him properly this time. Desperate and passionate. With tongue and teeth and tight embraces. You would never get tired of this , you realise. Never in a billion years. Even after your names have been forgotten and your bodies have turned to dust.

You would never get tired of Hyunggu.

[the-holy-ghosted]

He is Alone

Breekon tries to think about the events leading up to him sobbing in a delivery van on the side of the highway

hi im transferring my ao3 fics onto tumblr!! this was my first one that i wrote a long while ago, enjoy

Breekon tries to think about the events leading up to him sobbing in a delivery van on the side of the highway.

It's not flattering, the way he's acting. A stuffed up and runny nose congesting the choked sobs and sharp wails that come out of him unpermitted. He cries pathetically into his hands, covering his face and soaked with unending tears. It hurts, the place where he thinks his heart once was. It aches horribly. His wet hands and tears shield his vision from the slow-rolling fog beginning to surround the van outside, as well as the steadily lowering temperature. His head hurts, but he tries to think about how he got here. He was driving... driving away. What was he driving from? He ponders, unsuccessfully wiping away tears. The museum... he was driving away from the wax museum. As he was driving, he was overcome with the sudden realization that he was alone. Before he could even process the feeling, it overtook him, and his eyes were glassy and he couldn't see correctly. His shoulders shook and he let out the first of many, many sobs as he slowed down and stopped off the side of the road. That's how he got there.

It was shocking, how quickly the emotions came on. Normally he was good at suppressing feelings, for the times he did feel any. But he was broken, now. So, brutally broken inside and all the thoughts he was trying to push back came flowing full force to the front of his mind.

Breekon realized he was alone. Being alone released the waterworks; such a simple thing to crush a man so hard. But as he stopped the van, he realized how truly alone he was. It was the first time he had been fully emersed in solitude. He had spent the past few hours surrounded by police and firemen, sitting in the aftermath of an explosion. Only now, driving to nowhere at 2:34 in the morning did he truly feel the silence. There was no sound of another person breathing. No sensation of someone else's presence. There was no static-y voice in his head saying things that only he could hear. There was nothing. He never had nothing before.

The solitude was painful. Breekon was all by himself for the first time in centuries. He had nothing anymore. No companionship, no deliveries, no comfort. Nothing but a blood-splattered coffin sitting in the back of the van, silent and satisfied. No longer hungry, at the sacrifice of one of its handlers. It had hardly been the last thing on Breekon's mind, had it not been hauled back to him by some police officer. He didn't consider the coffin, then. The only thing on his mind was his companion's body limp in his arms.

Breekon allows himself to think about Hope. He thinks about the sensation of holding him, lifeless and cold. He wails and cries harder remembering the immediate horror that struck his face as hid throat ripped open by surprise. Neither of them expected it. He thought about the feeling of heavy weight that washed over him the very moment Hope had died, followed by the rush of unbridled rage as he threw that damned officer into the buried. He remembered feeling breathless, slumped over the coffin lid, enraged and disoriented and heaving heavily. It was so hard to turn around and look at Hope's face, stuck horrified and in pain. It hurt Breekon, too, emotionally and physically. He dragged himself over. Breekon remembers holding his face, telling him look at me, Hope, please just look at me, Hope look, please, only to receive no answer. He remembers closing his gaping mouth and dragging a shaking hand over his eyes, closing them permanently. He had begun to cry, then. Not strong and agonizing just yet, only small sobs and sniffles. He remembered the rumbling, but he does not remember the explosion. He recalls nothing after curling himself around Hope to protect his lifeless body.

Breekon's memory becomes fuzzy after the explosion. The steam organs joyful tune halted abruptly and gave way to screams of agony. His ears rang sharply, and the museum crumbled around him. Large slabs of concrete and stone hit him hard, the wind blowing his hat off and throwing debris in his face. It hurt him. But he did not move, and he did not let go of Hope. He does not recall how long he kneeled under the rubble, nor it being pulled away from him by firemen. He does, however, remember snarling at the paramedics trying to pry him away. They asked if he was alright, touched his shoulder, but he did not notice them. He only snapped out of his daze when they reached to pull Hope out of his arms. Breekon snapped at the paramedics, told them not to touch him. He wouldn't have let go, had his attention not been brought to the coffin. They asked if it was his, and he said yes. They did not question why, they just let him have it. The paramedics tried to console him, to tell him it's alright and he could let go now. He had no energy to argue. He let go of Hope, but not without taking something. Remembering where he put it, Breekon pulls out the gold ring that was once on Hope's finger. He turns it in his hands, observing it. He looks at the engraving on the inside: a small heart carved by hand. Breekon remembers it being his idea, just a secret little thing. Personal, only for them to know. It was... cheesy, perhaps... but he didn't care. It was special. He is too focused on the ring to notice the fog rolling in thicker, nor the lack of noise from the road.

The ring makes Breekon think of their purpose together. They'd always relished in making people afraid, looming over them, watching them become more and more unnerved in their presence. His favorite thing, though, was when people would notice the rings. They would glance down and the discomfort in their expressions would turn to confusion. Sometimes, if they really wanted to get it across, they would subtly intertwine their pinkies and wait for whoever it was they were with to notice. They'd look, momentarily considering that can't be right, really? and shake their head in surprise. They'd turn away, then, perplexed and a little unnerved, and Breekon and Hope would smile and their fingers would intertwine. It was amusing, scaring and confusing all they came across. It was their purpose, and they loved it. They loved each other.

And now look at where they are.

Breekon stops himself, not wanting to think about that just yet. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and wraps his arms around himself, noticing the cold air for the first time. He ignores it and tries to think of another happy memory. He skims through his three century-long catalog of memories and finds himself thinking about Hope's laughter. It was the most beautiful sound, he thought. His darling Hope would laugh at almost anything, and it was delightful to hear him even snicker and the slightest remark. Breekon was usually quiet if Hope wouldn't say something first. He wouldn't come off as one for jokes to most people. But privately, in their own company, he would make a little comment or crack a joke that would make Hope cackle. He never joked much around anyone else. His remarks and and silly thoughts were saved only for Hope. Breekon would make him laugh on purpose, occasionally, just to feel it's contagion. Hope would laugh, and then Breekon would laugh, and they'd be laughing at nothing together for a while. Hope's giggles and snickers were a drug. It was beautiful. Everything about Hope was beautiful, though. His laughter, as well as his regular speaking voice. Low and nearly a growl. It would give Breekon shivers to hear him speak in close quarters, quietly and only to him. His teeth were sharp and animalistic, a grinning threat to those they encountered. Breekons special favorite thing about Hope we're his eyes, dark and looming, never changing no matter whose face he wore. They were cold. Emotionless. But to Breekon? They were wonderful. Filled with so much tenderness when they were alone together, a tenderness meant only for him. Hope's eyes would peer into him, peer deep into his soul, and he would let them.

He pondered a moment about that. About how they were so warm to one another. They were soulmates, in the most literal, mortal way it could be thought of. They thought as one. They spoke as one. They were whole together.

And now they were half. He remembers they are half now, and his smile turns into a grimace, and he sobs once more. The twinge at the pit of his stomach returns, and he curls in on himself in agony. Breekon forgets the momentary bliss he felt just seconds ago and swears violently to the empty space next to him. He swears at Nikola, for attempting a ritual at all. He swears at the cop, for ripping apart the love of his life. He swears at the coffin, for being so greedy and heartless. He swears at himself, for not acting fast enough to save the only thing he had in this world. He screams and he screams and there is nothing there to hear him. There is nothing anywhere but a heavy, cold fog that swallows the van outside.

Breekon wallows for a long time. He does not know how long. His throat hurts from yelling and his eyes burn from crying. He is alone, and he always will be.

Then suddenly... There is a car horn. It is loud, and it startles Breekon out of his miserable state. He forgot where he was, he was sitting on the side of the road. He was driving away from the wax museum. He realized he was alone. The time on the dashboard says 2:35 AM. He was sitting for a minute. A full minute that felt like hours. He stares at the headlights passing next to him, and realizes he shouldn't be parked on the side of the road.

Breekon puts the thoughts of loneliness and Hope and loss aside. He does not wish to spiral any further. He wipes the remaining tears away from his eyes and sniffles. He is alone, and from now on he always will be. Breekon does not think any more of the events that led him here, and he turns off the side of the highway.

[the-wardens-torch]

FFXIVwrite2021 Prompt #6: Avatar

((Direct sequel to this piece.  Apologies, but I think most of my FFXIVwrite stuff this year is going to be filling in blanks that were left by the 5 other years I’ve been participating and I‘m sorry if its annoying to try and follow, sasdfasdfad))

Falerin stared blankly at the broken honeybee figurine on the table.  The stone was dishwater gray in the dim light of Uther’s lantern, but he could just barely see scant flashes of red in its depths.  

Was this what Uther meant by Ruby’s “primordial form?” It was smaller and carved to be more stylistically attractive than true to life… did she even count as life?  But an arcanist didn’t have to carve a stone into the form they wanted it to take… did they?  He suddenly wished he’d made more of an effort to listen to Sunnthota’s unsolicited arcanima lessons.  

“It used to be a high-quality ruby, and I chose it for its size and clarity - its shape meant nothing. Yet she chose to take that shape when she bound to you.  Its fascinating.” Uther said, inhaling for another long rambling sentence. “Arcanists channel their own aether through gemstones like these to awaken the latent energies in them, so that they can give form to the entities we call carbuncles. Did you know that?” he asked.

Falerin looked down to notice that Ruby had exited the collar of his robe and was now tiptoeing six-leggedly onto his hand.  He turned his hand over thoughtfully as she continued moving, her wings quivering soundlessly in a manner he’d come to know as a sort of apprehension.  Was she afraid for him to find out what she really was and why she was inextricably bound to him?

“Falerin, this is important.  Do you understand?”

“Just give me a second, will you?!”  Falerin raised his free hand and thrust it palm-out between him and his father.

Without hesistation, Uther grabbed Fal’s wrist and stared him square in the eye.  The muddy light cast deep shadows on his face, making his angular features look more severe than ever.

“No, do… you… understand?” he said, enunciating the words as if talking to someone who didn’t speak the same language.

Not breaking eye contact, Falerin moved to draw his hand from Uther’s grip. Uther didn’t resist the escape attempt, instead straightening his back and looking down with an expression of abject disappointment. Fal tilted his head and furrowed his brow.

“I’m so sorry - it must be so hard for you as a father to learn that your son is so intellectually deficient despite your doing absolutely nothing to raise him or teach him anything.” Falerin said wryly.

Uther drew back slightly and narrowed his eyes, the sharp lines of his face twisting into an expression of disappointment.

“Why do you think I contacted you? It would have been just as easy to never tell you who I was, but then neither of us would have a chance at understanding this. ” Uther scoffed.

Fal pinched the bridge of his nose and hissed loudly through clenched teeth. Was this all he really was to his father?  An intellectual opportunity? The temptation to make a cutting remark and walk out was strong.

“I used this ruby to summon her in her true form years ago, before she decided to bind to you instead.” Uther said, his voice rising to an almost pleading tone as he eyed Ruby.  “She was my magnum opus!  My own avatar of divinity! Her aether should have been permanently bound with mine. Her binding herself to you, let alone her binding herself to you and surviving is unprecedented! Do you understand what this could mean?”

“I don’t think we’re even having the same conversation because clearly I don’t.” Falerin said coldly, squeezing his eyes shut in abject frustration.

“And you never will if you keep acting like such a stubborn fool!”

Falerin opened his eyes again and hung an empty smile beneath them as he stared across the table.  There wasn‘t a hint of tenderness or regret in his father’s eyes. Even the pleading tone his voice had taken on was insincere - the whine of an adult child who wasn’t getting his way.  Sure, Fal wanted to know what Ruby was, where she had come from and why she‘d been with him his whole life… But he had hoped to learn so many other things first. Had he even told him anything about his mother?   Or asked him any questions about himself that weren’t about magic? Or even apologized for… anything? This was only their second time meeting, and he cared more about arcane particulars than anything else.  

Falerin slouched in his seat and laughed quietly.

This was going to be a very long night.