#but it had to be done. only two fics on AO3 and they're both for the main ship

[sabraeal]

fruit of the bitter tree, Chapter 1 [King's Beast | Ou no Kemono, Taihaku/Rangtsu]

[Read on AO3]

Written for @obiyuki-beebs, who has been a long time sufferer of this B-ship with me. One of the newer OnK chapters came out right before I asked for her birthday request, while we were both still wallowing in the DREAD GRIP of this pairing, and I was all too happy to be the first person to write fic for these idiots.

The decision to take on a new aide is one Tenyou-sama does not make lightly. The pavilion of the fourth prince has always been leanly staffed— at least according to Taihaku, who grumbles each time he tallies up the two ajin guards and one civil servant that populate the sprawling palace— but with the increased responsibility of becoming third prince—

“You can’t possibly expect me to take this on alone,” Taihaku tells him, belatedly— if reverently— tacking on, “Your Highness.”

Rangetsu does not naturally speak out both sides of her mouth, not the way the other courtiers do— the way Taihaku can, his words still light despite the weight of the double meaning they carry. But she has learned to listen for them, for the lacuna between breaths, for the way eyes often shoulder the burden that voices cannot. And Taihaku’s is all too plain.

A prince might suffer so few servants, the twitch in his cheeks mutters as the vein in his temple shouts, but an emperor cannot.

Tenyou-sama receives both rebukes with the same abashed bemusement as he takes most of Taihaku’s scoldings, head just barely bowed and smile strained at the corners.

“Of course.” One hand curling open, his magnanimity as reflexive as his kindness. “You are right, as always.”

Caught halfway through forming his next argument, chest puffed large as a bellows, Taihaku practically deflates, hollowed out beneath the tense line of his shoulders. “Oh. Ah. Are you really—?” His teeth snap around the rest of the question, dispelling it with a clearing of his throat. “I mean, thank you, master. Your wisdom is unimpeachable.”

One side of Tenyou-sama’s mouth twitches, stretching toward a smirk. “In this matter, at least. I have full trust that you will pick out someone suitable.”

“Me?” Taihaku’s jaw falls slack, one hand raised to sweep back the fall of his fringe before he remembers himself. “You mean—? Wouldn’t you rather select…?”

This time Tenyou-sama allows himself the smirk, one elegant brow sweeping up the smooth expanse of his forehead. Rangetsu’s fingers itch to trace its path. “You’re not the only one with more work, you know.”

“Ah…” Confusion converts to consternation, a bright flush creeping up from the collar of Taihaku’s robe, painting up the tense column of his neck. “Right. Of course.”

Tenyou-sama may be beautiful in that way that blossoms flutter on the breeze, or snow gathers on stone, but it’s Taihaku the palace maids giggle over. There’s something pleasant about his mouth, she’d heard one say, after he asked her to change out the arrangements in the fourth prince’s pavilion. I like watching him speak.

Rangestu had tried to see it— she’d had plenty of opportunity when he’d found her next, since he’d launched right into an impassioned lecture on the number of feet the fourth prince’s guards should keep on the ground when at court. Through all the sneering and snorting and snide remarks, she hadn’t found much of it pleasant to say the least.

But there is something about the way his jaw works that attracts her attention now; the jump of the tendon, perhaps, as it sets, or how delicately his throat bobs when it swallows. Or perhaps it is merely the grit of his teeth, the smile that is more nerves than nicety as he says, “I won’t let you down.”

Like an ajin’s, she realizes. That’s what his smile is like. And when she angles her own up to him, chasing his heels as he stomps out the door, he scowls back.

“Don’t,” he warns, darkly, “even think about making more work for me.”

“I was just wondering,” she says, trotting past his shoulders. “If my brother still has that liquor the Kougai-sama gave him.”

*

“This is just like him!” Beside her and Sogetsu, it is easy to forget that Taihaku’s official title was guard rather than aide for the first stumbling years of her tenure. But there is strength in the arm that he drops, leaving the table trembling beneath its weight. “I tell him there’s a problem, and then he— he goes off and gives me the power to fix it! Because gods forbid he actually…”

His voice drops to a mumble, muffled by the hand he curls over his mouth. Even with her ajin ears, Rangetsu can’t make out more than one word in five. Not that she needs to— when he gets like this, Taihaku cares more about airing his complaints than having them heard— but she still leans in, close enough one of her splayed knees brushes against his, and asks, “You don’t want to pick out the new servant?”

“What?” His hand lifts, burying itself in his hair rather than corners of his jaw. It’s not often she sees his eyes like this— unobstructed, no spray of fringe to hide the impatience in them. Or, sometimes, something she’s almost sure is fondness. “Of course I do. If I left it to Tenyou-sama, he’d pick someone like you.”

She blinks, filling his cup when he holds it out. “Ajin?”

His mouth curls around the cup’s edge. “Hopeless.”

*

Ichii joins them when the sakura first begins to bloom.

There’s petals tumbling in the air when Taihaku kneels at the bottom of the pavilion steps, leaning forward to lay prostrate at Tenyou-sama’s feet. They catch in his hair, dainty pink dotting inky black, like still water at twilight.

Standing at his shoulder, Rangetsu is glad for her mask— she cannot be sure what the third prince’s chief aide might do if he saw her smile, but it would almost certainly involve copying the worst poetry in the palace’s collection until her strokes were as fine as his. Or at least, until he got sick of disappointment.

His kowtow is serviceable, its execution technically perfect if lacking in abject devotion; the ideal model for the boy beside him, who hurries to make a more meaningful one.

Seated at the top of the steps, robed in pristine white and flanked by two ajin guards, Tenyou-sama is ethereal, more spirit than man and every inch an imperial prince. “This is the one you picked?”

“It is, Tenyou-sama.” Taihaku sits back on his heels, the veil of his fringe settling over his serious eyes. “Ichii recently passed the civil servant exam at its highest levels. Even amongst this year’s impressive showing of applications, he stood out in both the written and physical portions of the exam.”

Across Tenyou-sama’s elegant shoulders, Sogetsu meets her eyes, and even masked as he is, his amusement is plain. As is Tenyou-sama’s, his mouth unable to resist a wry tilt as he hums, “Did he?”

Taihaku’s brow furrows, frowning at their amusement. “Yes, Your Highness. I hope he meets your expectations.”

“If he was chosen by you, then I have every confidence he will.” He shifts, one hand curling under his chin as he adds, “It’s only….”

“Yes?” Taihaku prompts, impatience scraping the reverence off the edge of his voice.

“Well…” Tenyou-sama shifts, his own cheeks blooming with a dainty flush. “I would never have expected you to pick an ajin.”

*

“Don’t get any stupid ideas!” Taihaku glares over the rim of his sake cup, cheeks flushed with more than just alcohol now that both the boy and Tenyou-sama have been put to bed. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the two of you.”

Sogetsu’s lounge only makes the arch of his brow all the more insolent. “Is that so? Here I was, half convinced you might like us.”

“I meant what I said.” He glances between the two of them, shoulders hiked right up to his ears. “He’s the best of a bumper crop.”

Impressive, at his age. The boy is young— young enough for one dark ear to droop as she took him to his quarters, so tired he didn’t noticed until she clasped it between her two fingers and rubbed at the muscle beneath. Rangetsu had no memory of how her own ears came to stand so proudly— there was little occasion for tenderness in the crèche— but during her short-lived retirement, she saw one of the old farm wives doing the same to the litter of pups their best bitch had whelped, urging them to standing. It was supposed to be a kindness, but—

But Ichii had smacked her hand away, eyes wide all the way around, and told her, “That won’t be necessary.” His voice had cracked at the end, still high when he tersely bid her goodnight.

“And no one else would have taken him,” Sogetsu adds. It’s not a question.

“No.” Each syllable elbows its way out of his mouth, begrudging. Tenyou-sama may have made it possible for ajin males to serve as more than fodder on the battlefield, but few humans would hire an animal to balance the books. “They wouldn’t have.”

Her brother hums, taking another delicate sip from his own cup. “Their loss.”

“Yeah.” Taihaku shoves a hand through his hair, unveiled eyes meeting hers for a moment before skittering away. “You could say that.”

*

“Do you like your room?” Rangetsu had been breathless when she’d showed it to Ichii the night before— private quarters, with a washstand filled fresh each morning and night. It’s the sort of luxury children in the crèche would only whisper of behind their hands, the kind they would only see if they were taken as royal guards or managed to make a name for themselves among the other flowers in the red light district. “I could hardly sleep my first night here.”

There are few civil servants who could keep pace with two ajin guards— especially ones as tall as her and her brother— but the boy manages it with only the scantest scarcity of breath, his chin tilted up pridefully between his deadly bookends. “I have no complaints, Rangetsu-dono.”

She stares down at him. Only a single night here and already he sounds like Taihaku. “Really?”

His nose wrinkles above his already rumpled mouth. “Yes.”

“I slept on the floor.” Sogetsu leans down, hanging over the boy’s shoulder with a conspiratorial smirk. “The bed was too soft. Took me nearly a month to sleep there the whole night.”

Ichii’s mouth rounds. “R-really?”

Sogetsu nods, straightening into his usual saunter. “There’s no shame in struggle here— not like there is out there. If you have trouble adjusting, you need only speak up.”

“My room is just down the hall,” Rangetsu blurts out, eager to have Ichii turn to her with the same wide, reverent eyes he gives her brother. “And Sogetsu’s is down in the other direction! Taihaku, too, he’s right next to me, so if—”

“I will make sure not to disturb you.” It’s a solemn promise, one he makes with head bowed and shoulders square— and exactly what she didn’t want.

“No!” He startles as she slings around him, taking her next stretch of steps backward to make sure their eyes meet as she says, “Please, do! If there is anything, I am happy to help-- no matter how small!”

Ichii’s mouth falls slack around an, “Oh.”

“Don’t look at me,” Sogetsu drawls when the boy casts his curious eyes on him. “I expect you to keep your problems to daylight hours. And amusing, too, if you mean to drag me into them.”

“Taihaku will handle most of your academic education, but Sogetsu and I will be handling your martial training,” she adds, falling back into step beside him. “But if you’re struggling with anything, tell me right away! Taihaku is a great teacher, but if you need him to go slower, I can tell him to—”

Ichii’s mouth pulls thin, a narrow perforation in his unblemished face. “Thanks you, Rangetsu-dono,” he says, not sounding grateful in the least. “But I won’t need any help.”

“Oh my,” Sogetsu snorts, as the boy outpaces them, his small back disappearing around a corner. “For having pretended to be an adolescent boy so long, my dear, you certainly don’t know how to handle them.”

*

Ichii does, of course, need help. The civil service exam may have prepared him for a life of clerical work in honor of the emperor, but there are different expectations for a prince’s aide. A rounded reading list, for one, with a working grasp of both classic shi and the newer fu poetry— a subject that Taihaku bemoans her progress on even now— as well as exemplary skill in the use of the short sword.

Oddly enough, it’s the last that Ichii struggles with.

“He is physically gifted,” Sogetsu hums, squinting over the training yard. “Even though it’s clear he’s never touched a sword save to pass that exam.”

Tenyou-sama shifts on the bench, one arm lazily folded over the pavilion’s rail, watching Taihaku and Ichii trade blows below. Or rather, they would be, if Taihaku didn’t easily side step each of the boy’s swings, delivering a corrective tap to his side. “As all ajin are. I’m sure with a few more months of training, he’ll outstrip Taihaku with ease.”

“Me too.” Sogetsu tilts his head back, grin sharp as his knives. “Looks like it will be up to my dear sister to make sure our newest addition meets his potential.”

“He’s over-committing.” It’s obvious in the way his shoulder reaches with every swing, in how long it takes him to recover his footing with each dodged blow. “Relying too much on strength when he’s fast too. Much more than Taihaku, if only��”

“My my.” Sogestu arches one of his brows, letting it disappear beneath the pale fall of his hair. “Maybe you should be the one down there.”

It’s not an idle suggestion, not one made from innocence and sincerity— no, as much as Rangetsu may love her brother, as much as she would be willing to lay down her entire life to see him alive and safe, she also has learned: Sogetsu never speaks a single syllable without some scheme behind it.

One which is all too clear when Tenyou-sama turns on his bench, glowing in the heat of the sun, and inquires, so innocent, “Oh, yes! Why aren’t you down there, Rangetsu?”

Sogetsu has earned more than the second of scowl she spares him before she replies, “Taihaku said I’d be in the way.”

“Underfoot,” Sogetsu supplies, so helpful. “I believe that was the word he used, sister dear.”

*

Rangestu only means to pass by Tenyou-sama’s office. Really, she does— it’s the most direct path between her chambers and the training yard, and after the kerfuffle in the kitchens today, she’s already late to her standing spar with Sogetsu. She doesn’t even pause when she passes the open doors, skirting around the curtains billowing in the first summer winds, until—

Until Tenyou-sama’s soft words drift through them, inquiring, “How is Ichii progressing?”

It’s hardly any of her business— Ichii’s made it quite clear that she last on his list of aides to beg favors from. Sogetsu might tease, might say, you read a room as well as you read any of the classic poets, but even she knows that she can’t elbow her way into his good graces by will alone.

And yet, she presses herself to the wall, ears perked to hear Taihaku’s buoyant, “Very well, Your Highness.”

Rangetsu frowns. He’d never spoken so glowingly of her accomplishments, as if just the thought of them put a skip in his step. As if they were something to be proud of, rather than grudgingly won.

Even Tenyou-sama seems surprised. “I hadn’t thought you would take so well to being an instructor again. Not after…”

Her.

“Ichii takes to everything like a duck to water,” Taihaku boasts, for once eager to praise. “Poetry, economics, imperial history— his calligraphy is already good enough to use in official correspondence.”

Unlike hers, which was hardly fit for the scrap paper she scrawled it on. Tenyou-sama said she had an endearing hand— a compliment she had taken pride in until Taihaku scoffed, that’s the sort of thing parents tell their child.

“And his martial skills,” Tenyou-sama presses, strangely unsure. “I suppose it might be time to let Rangetsu teach him the better points of—”

“No need, Your Highness.” Taihaku— Taihaku— laughs, deep in his throat, like a pleased parent fondly chiding their favorite child. “I’m happy to handle his training too.”

“Really?” At least Tenyou-sama seems as left-footed as she does. “I would have thought you would be eager to get back to your regular work.”

“And give up my best student?” He snorts. “Not likely.”

*

There’s something wrong with her, she thinks.

She makes it to her spar with Sogetsu, but her hands shake when she picks up a spear, her rolling stomach making the ground beneath her pitch and yaw like a ship’s deck. It fades as she advances toward her brother, chasing his his tail around the yard as if they were children still— he never did quite learn to fight the way he should, more fox than wolf even with a weapon in hand— but a simple kick from him sends her skittering across the clay, painting a bright red streak down the back of her uniform.

Sogestu, for his part, only watches her get to her feet, but his eyes narrow when she puts her back to him, pleading fatigue.

They narrow even further at dinner— taken together, at his insistence— when she only picks at her plate, unable to summon up her usual enthusiasm for the whole grilled fish placed in front of her. By the time Tenyou-sama dismisses them that night, it’s a wonder she can see anything more than a sliver of silver-blue, lingering on her as she stays behind, a soft hand already reaching for hers.

But there is no relief to be found in Tenyou-sama’s touch. No, when he strokes a hand down the bared skin of her arm, the tension beneath it snaps instead of sparks. She’s used to a pleasant hum that follows in the wake of his hands, like the air before a lightning strike, but instead she feels like an erhu strung too tight, the only music he can draw from her sharp and discordant.

He’s disappointed when she begs off his attentions, but spares her a welcome smile when she slips from his arms— and a less helpful kiss, leaving her nerves jangling as she slinks off to her rooms, strangely dissatisfied.

There’s nothing that eases it; not the briskness of the air nor her steps-- not even the palms she rubs down her arms, trying to urge her skin smooth. Something in her is laying at odd angles, and no matter how she sways and jumps, it won’t lay flat, won’t let her go back to the easy routine she’s settled into.

At least it doesn’t until she catches the spill of golden light from beneath Taihaku’s door. He’s up, still, probably poring over reports Tenyou-sama has long set aside. That’s the thing about the fourth prince’s foremost aide: he’s never once learned how to relax—

“Hah!”

Rangetsu jumps, skirting around his door like a skittish cat at a puddle. That had sounded like— like Taihaku. But it’s impossible; he doesn’t laugh at anything save her. And it’s not like that, all bright and bubbly, amused rather than tired—

“Is that your argument?” His tongue keeps tripping, his normally perfect syllables crowded by the laugh he’s barely holding at bay, and it’s strange how her heart pounds with each skipped consonant or strangled vowel. It’s Taihaku, it is, but unfamiliar, and though she knows she must go, she cannot make herself do anything but lean against the wall, drinking it in.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he insists, more evenly now. “Unless you want to get laughed out of the room before you can make your case.”

Her blood runs cold at the soft voice that squeaks out, “Of course, shifu…”

*

It's just...odd, that's all. Taihaku had always chased her out of his quarters after hours, telling her that he wasn’t her teacher again until morning. Later, she'd learned she could simple bring a bottle and her problems to his door, or sometimes simply sweep in, trapping him in questions before he could think to turn her out, but still--

It’s been hours, and they’re still in there, laughing over— over things. Poetry, probably. Literature, even. All the things Rangetsu could never get the hang of, but Ichii takes to as easy as breathing.

Ichii. Just thinking the name sets a spike through her breast. My best student.

Rangetsu lowers her chin, letting it dig into the flesh of her arm. It's silly, worrying about this. It's been ages since Taihaku called himself her tutor-- I've washed my hands of you, he tells her each time she shows him her attempts at calligraphy, stick to waving around that pole of yours-- no longer just his student, but friends as well. Just because Ichii is good at...at everything doesn't mean he doesn't like her too. It's just--

Well, only one of them is in his room right now, aren't they?

“Oh, my my my.” Sogetsu slips onto the railing next to her, eyebrows already lost behind the sweep of his hair. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

She frowns. “What is?”

“Why…” His teeth flash in the moonlight. “Not being the favorite anymore.”

[drivinmeinsane]

Witness in the Dark

※ Sierra Six x Claire's Older Sister!Reader ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※ { requested fic }

※ Summary: Don't we all just want to feel the companionable reassurance of another human being?

It only takes a single tragedy to tear your life to shreds and make it to where you're unable to sleep through the night. You tell yourself that you will never trust a bodyguard again, but things don't go according to plan when a man with a number for a name is assigned to the Fitzroy household while your uncle is away

※ Rating: T for suggestive themes and canon typical violence.

※ Content/Tags: Slow burn, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Night terrors, Pining, Unspecified age gap, Movie based - Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Obsessive behaviors from both parties, Descriptions of injuries, Mentions of parental death, Mentions of past kidnapping, Mentions of past torture, Implied death of minor character(s)

※ Word count: 12,637

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: I don't know what came over me. This really got uncontrollably out of hand and ended up being wildly self indulgent. Huge thanks for @danime25 for proofreading this. I owe you my life.

"Ladies!" Your sister's nurse calls as she walks into the room. "I want to introduce you to Six. He'll be looking after the house while Mister Donald is away."

You look up from your position next to Claire on her bed only to meet the eyes of the man following the nurse. They're startlingly blue. His face is impassive as he turns away and surveys the room. He carries himself with an easy grace that hints at the violence that his body could produce. He reeks of danger. You instantly don't appreciate his presence. You had fought with Uncle Fitz tooth and nail over hiring a bodyguard for the duration of his trip away from the home. This man’s presence here means you have clearly lost that argument.

"Only the two exits?" He questions, moving past the bed to stand at the ceiling to floor windows. 

"Yeah." Your tone is hard, biting. The nurse gives a small gasp at your rudeness and says your name disapprovingly.

The man, Six, turns away from the window to look at you with a raised eyebrow. You stare at each other silently, sizing the other up. There’s a flicker of some emotion that you might label as respect in his eyes before Claire, picking up on your hostility, throws her hat in the ring.

"We don't chew gum in this house." You've never loved your little sister's faux-snob act more than in this moment. She snaps a photo of him with her Polaroid, staged records forgotten. He doesn't look particularly pleased about it. It’s more exasperated acceptance than anger though.

He's silent for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry. I wasn't briefed." 

There’s a trace of a smile on his face. It’s irritating and you have to look away from him. You stare at a record sleeve like your life depends on it. He asks for the photo and picks it up. You see a flash of a tattoo on his hand as he plucks the Polaroid off of the bedspread. Poorly done and worn with age. He’s definitely one of Uncle Fitz’s prison recruits then. One of the most morally dubious options he could have saddled you with in his absence. Perfect.

He says his goodbyes to you and Claire before leaving the room. Your heart is beating irrationally rapidly and your mouth is dry. The man with a number for a name is stirring up nothing but bad memories. You know you won’t sleep well tonight. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

“What kind of name is Six anyway?” Claire asks first thing in the morning after she tosses herself into a chair at the kitchen table. The man in question gives her a long look. 

"007 was already taken so…" He says with a relaxed shrug, coffee mug in hand. He's leaning against the kitchen counter in the same suit as yesterday.

You choke back a laugh at the sight of your sister's expression. You accidentally meet Six's eyes over her head. There's warmth in them that douses your amusement immediately. You sober up and turn back to your breakfast. Softness in someone doing his line of work felt… wrong. He isn't trustworthy, you decide, no matter how kind he acts. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up with a start. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the dry powder of concrete lingers in your subconscious. It takes several heaving breaths to clear your airway and bring you back to the present. You shakily sit up. You press your palms into your eyes. You try to forget the sensation of a knife in your skin. You're here. You're safe . You're one of the last people your sister has. You're the stable one.

You get to your feet in the dark bedroom and open your door to step out into the hall. You trail unsteady fingertips down the plaster and paint as you make your way to the kitchen and living area. 

There's a barely audible scuffle and you peer through the gloom to see Six stalking you. You catch the barest glimpse of his face in a strip of moonlight. It's intent. Predatory. There's no hint of recognition, not while you move through the darkest parts of the room.

You feel cold. Your pulse starts to hammer in your veins. Your throat works uselessly. Words won't come out of your mouth. You forge along to the kitchen and fumble for the light. The kitchen is awash in a blinding glow right as you feel heat against your back. It immediately withdraws as the bodyguard removes himself from your personal space. You don't turn to face him while you get a glass from the cupboard and fill it with ice and water at the fridge's dispenser. You stare blankly at the burnished steel while you take sip after sip.

You refill your glass. You blink. You take a drink. You pretend like your mind isn't shattered. You pretend like the man your uncle hired hadn't been about to…

"Are you alright?" Six's voice cuts through the fog in your mind. It's like a lantern has been lit to guide you back into the waking world.

You find yourself then and turn to look at him. You study him. He looks slightly rumpled and tired. There's tension around his eyes and his mouth is set in an almost apologetic frown. 

"Just another nightmare. Sorry for disturbing you."

The frown deepens. "You didn't. I was caught by surprise, that's all."

"Fair warning, me out here like this is probably going to be a regular occurrence." You smile wanly. "I know you want us in bed, but I don't do the whole staying put thing so well most nights."

He just nods. He's accepted your words without protest. The frown fades away.

You gesture with your glass in the vague direction of your bedroom. "I'm going to go ahead and excuse myself. Goodnight, Six."

"Goodnight." 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Weeks go by. The household falls into a comfortable enough routine. Claire ribs him good-naturedly every chance she gets. He's always got a faint aura of amusement every time she takes a shot at him. You hadn't yet seen him get angry. Pretending to be annoyed? Yes, but never actually expressing any negative emotion beyond mild exasperation. Not yet, anyway. 

He sends the both of you to bed every night after Claire's nurse takes her leave. You inevitably get up in the middle of the night after another vivid nightmare. Six is always either watching the camera footage or doing his rounds. He's stopped being surprised by your presence after the night he hunted you. You linger in the kitchen doorway night after night, watching him keep vigil. He's got a soft face, you've decided. There's tension there, likely from worry and lack of sleep, but not cruelty. You've begun to wonder if he has the capability for it. You know he must. Uncle Fitz has kept you in the dark about a lot of the work he does, but you know a kind man wouldn’t have been a candidate for whatever program your uncle runs. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You're woken up a few nights later by the sound of hands scrabbling on your door. Your eyes snap open and you remain frozen for a second before you hear Claire's muffled voice. You're immediately out of bed so fast you stumble and twist your ankle painfully. You fling the door open and next thing you know, your little sister falls wheezing into your arms. "Something's… Something's wrong." She gasps out.

She can't breathe and is clutching at her chest with weak hands. Horror races down your back and you're pulling her into your arms in a clumsy embrace, desperately trying to keep her upright.

"Six!" The name is torn from you in a shout. You never thought you would be screaming for a man you'd told yourself you couldn't trust.

He's there in an instant. He puts a steadying hand on your back before he gently pulls Claire away and lifts her up into his arms. She wheezes again and both you and Six freeze.

"I'm okay." she whispers. She looks so small and breakable in the bodyguard's thick arms. Like a bird plucked from the sky, held the mercy of a giant's hands.

"Can you get the keys for the car and unlock it?" His voice washes over you. Its steadiness anchors you to reality. You manage a "Yeah." and take off through the house to the garage, making a pit-stop to snag the keys from their bowl. Your ankle is throbbing. Six is close behind, his brisk stride and long legs keeping time with your hurried scrambling. You mash the unlock button on the fob and throw yourself into the backseat. Claire is gently deposited in after you. Her head is resting on your lap. You comb through her brown hair with shaky hands. 

"Mount St. Mary's." You tell Six the moment he's halfway into the driver's seat. "They're the ones who put her pacemaker in."

He grunts in response, backing out of the garage. You don't remember when you handed him the keys or when the garage door was opened. You don't think about anything other than your little sister. You can't lose her too. You've already lost so much of your family and of yourself. The ride passes in a blur. You're only fleetingly aware of the passing lights. Your heart is hammering in your chest like it's beating for Claire and you both. You whisper pleas and promises to her, stroking her forehead with shaking hands.

You're pulled out of your trance by Six yanking the passenger door open, and you help guide your sister into his capable arms. The medical team whisks Claire into the back immediately the moment he has her on the stretcher. You're left in a stiff, vinyl chair in the waiting room. Bodies haven't been in it long enough to soften the material. You're filling out intake paperwork on your sister's behalf. Six stands next to you, hands clasped in front of himself. You glance over, checking his watch every few seconds, your leg bouncing in place. Nervousness and fear wash over you in all-consuming waves. 

He catches your glance as your eyes dart over yet again.

"You holding up alright?'' His questions surprise you. He rarely is the one to initiate conversations. His gaze is steady, grounding, blue eyes watching you intently.

"Not really." You admit, inhaling and exhaling jaggedly. He nods. There's tension around his eyes. Is he worried too? You have to look away from his face and instead talk to his watch. "She's my sister. I need to keep her safe. I can't lose her too."

You hear him make a noise in response. You watch the seconds tick by one by one on his watch. The two of you are silent for approximately thirty-seven of them before Six breaks the moment by undoing the metal clasp. He pulls the watch away from his skin, revealing a bar of ink across the underside of his surprisingly delicate wrist before he's handing it to you.

"Here."

You stare at the dangling watch blankly before looking up at his face. "What?"

"Keep it safe for me for a while." His tone leaves no room for argument. You reach out with hesitant fingers and take it from his grasp. The steel is warm in your hand. You swallow thickly and drape the watch over your wrist, waiting for the sickening feeling of having your hands bound to hit you. It doesn't. You clumsily latch the buckle. It's sized perfectly for the man diligently standing at your side, no possibility of tightening it without it being resized altogether. It hangs off your wrist like a loose bracelet and you realize then just how big Six is. 

He hides his mass well. His muscles are concealed discretely enough underneath blazers and tailored trousers. He simply doesn't take up space in whatever room he's in, always the expert at being unremarkable, unobtrusive, and not worth remembering. But this… this is a dead giveaway. You cast a sideways glance at his hands and, for a dizzying moment, you wonder how your hand would look pressed palm to palm with one of his.

"Miss Fitzroy. Your sister is cleared for visitors now if you would like to see her." A nurse's voice cuts into your illogical musings.

You stand up so abruptly that the chair you were just sitting on screeches agonizingly loud on the polished vinyl flooring before it thuds into the wall. The nurse flinches slightly, but Six is steady at your side. He falls into step behind you as you follow the man through the winding hallways to Claire.

The doctor stops you at the door, arm barring you for a moment before letting it drop. "She's stabilized. Tell your uncle there was a programming glitch. We were able to repair it. Non-invasive." She pauses for a moment, giving the man hovering behind you a hard look before continuing. "The remote system flagged it ten minutes before he pulled up."

"You're able to monitor from that distance?" You interrupt. 

"We can keep track of her pacemaker from just about anywhere. You may see her. She can be released later tonight after we have her under observation for a while longer.” The doctor catches your pinched expression and adds. “Just to be safe.”

You nod, gaze bypassing her to focus on Claire. She’s been watching the exchange and, at your attention, she pulls a weak smile under her oxygen mask while raising a pale hand to flash the rocker sign. The doctor finally steps aside but not before blocking Six as he makes to follow you into the room. “Only family allowed.”

You look at her incredulously and open your mouth to protest before Six cuts you off. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.” His tone is bland, unemotional. He arranges himself to stand with his back to the inside of the open door. He’s obnoxiously in the way of anyone that would need to come or go. He spends the passing minutes as they bleed into hours standing there like a steadfast sentinel. Back straight, hand clasped over his right wrist, left wrist startlingly bare, head lowered in waiting supplication; he’s the very image of patient servitude.

You sit at your sister's side in your own vigil. The three of you wait in tired silence until a nurse finally announces Claire is free to be discharged. 

She fusses as she's helped into a wheelchair. You and Six stand aside, letting the staff fight the battle. They win, but as soon as everyone spills out of the automatic doors, she's pulling herself out of the mobility aid. She gently slaps away yours and Six's reaching hands when the two of you try to steady her. "Don't you dare."

"But-" you start to protest before you're immediately shut down. "I can walk to the car. I'm not that much of an invalid."

Six doesn't even try to say anything, just forges ahead through the parking lot like nothing happened. He's learned by now that there's no arguing with your little sister. The traitor. You and Claire make it to the vehicle after him and you move to slide into the back seat with her but she pulls a face.

"You're smothering meeeee." she exaggeratedly whines. You give her a flat look. "Smothered." she insists. She dramatically points at the front of the car and raises insistent eyebrows.

You end up buckling yourself into the front passenger seat with an exasperated sigh. You look over at Six. The tension has bled away from his face. He looks more relaxed, relieved even. He notices your stare and the two of you make eye contact. You roll your eyes pointedly at your sister’s antics. Six maintains a serious expression until it cracks and you’re rewarded with the bodyguard's smile.

Six's arm brushes ever so slightly against yours when he puts the vehicle into reverse and then into drive. The feeling of his warmth lingers like a brand on your skin. His watch hangs heavily around your wrist. You fight the urge to gently touch the gleaming metal and instead interlink your own fingers together hard enough to hurt.  

You spend the car ride sagged against the leather of the passenger seat, desperately trying to focus on the passing scenery and not the man seated next to you. Not his kindness, not the way he had kept you grounded. You tell yourself he was just doing his job. Any bodyguard would have been tender and careful with your sister…  and with you. You try to not read into what Six offering his watch to you for "safe keeping" might possibly mean.

Soon you're back at the house, waiting in the garage with your little sister while the hired man does a sweep of the building to make sure no one has breached the perimeter while it lay vacant. Claire is tucked against your side. She's bleary eyed with exhaustion. 

"Clear." Six's voice cuts into the silence of the garage.

You tow Claire along with you and sit her down at the table. She slumps with her cheek resting in her hand. You busy yourself with getting a bowl of ice cream set in front of her.

She gulps it down in huge mouthfuls. Six sits to your right at the head of the table while she eats. His eyes are focused on the screen of his laptop. You're sitting across from your sister, half curled up in the dining chair. The adrenaline has long since left your body, leaving you feeling heavy with exhaustion.

"You feeling better?" Six directs at Claire.

"Just another Thursday." She says with a shrug. "Uncle Donald and my sister say this is the best medicine. Ice cream. I tend to agree."

"They're smart people."

"Only family I got." 

Six’s response is instant, like he’ll choke on the words if he doesn’t get them out of his mouth fast enough. “Fitz’s the closest thing to family I’ve had in a long while.”

"Maybe that kind of makes us family." 

You catch the way that he smiles. He ducks his head to hide it, but you see the hopeless spread of it across his face. There’s something so tender and vulnerable in his eyes that you get stung by a pang in your chest. Your heart aches for the people sitting at the table with you. Claire for carrying the loss of your parents and Six for whose closest hint of a familial tie is his boss. You get pulled out of your spiraling thoughts by Claire yawning. 

"You should go to bed." His voice is soft.

You haul yourself to your feet, exhausting hanging on you like a blanket. You whisk Claire’s empty bowl away and gently touch her shoulder. “C’mon, you heard the man.” 

She grumbles a little and stands up with you. You’re about to guide her to her bedroom but she pauses and turns. “‘Night, Robot.”

“Goodnight, Claire.” He sounds exasperated with an undercurrent of amusement.

He doesn’t look away from the screen as you and your younger sister retire for the night. You fall into bed, wrung out from the hospital trip. It’s not until you’re firmly under the covers and settled into bed that you realize you’re still wearing Six’s watch. You stare at it, warring with yourself on if you should scrape yourself off of the mattress to go give it to the bodyguard keeping vigil at the table or to just set it aside to give to him in the morning. You do neither of those things. You fall asleep watching the silver metal reflect the moonlight peering through the shivering curtains. You do not dream of your past captors and their leering smiles that night. Instead, you dream of a comforting hand on your wrist, the gentle hum of a deep voice. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

The three of you settle back into routine following Claire’s hospital visit, but things have shifted slightly following that night. You gave Six his watch back the following morning before your sister got out of bed and before her nurse arrived for the day. He took it from your hesitantly offered hand. His thick fingers gently brushed your palm as he lifted the piece from it. Your wrist has felt desolate, too light ever since you took it off. You try to ignore it all, try to regain the distance you had before. You don’t succeed. Something about Uncle Fitz’s hired man keeps eroding the walls built from mistrust and agony. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You snap awake, soaked through with rapidly cooling sweat. You’re certain you didn’t scream out. Your throat isn’t sore, but your face is wet, moisture clinging to your lashes. You must have been silently sobbing through your nightmare. You uncurl yourself from your tensed position and drag yourself out of bed. You walk through the darkened hallway to the kitchen. You make sure to roughly trail your hand along the wall and clear your throat. It won’t do anyone any favors to startle Six. 

You get your glass of water and make your way into the main sprawl of rooms. The bodyguard is sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, as he is most nights. You pull out a chair and sit down with your glass. You look at it hollowly, trying to ignore the lingering terror from your nightmares. You can't but notice Six’s eyes flickering over to you now and again. There’s a concerned crease between his eyebrows.

“Rough night?”

“The usual. As Claire says, it’s just another Thursday.” Your voice comes out more bitter than you intend. You tighten your grip on your cup until it feels like it might shatter in your hand. You force yourself to loosen your clenched fingers. 

The man seated at the table with you gives an acknowledging hum, sedately chewing his gum. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to force any explanations out of you. You relax a little in your seat. Having another human being awake and nearby is a comfort. You rest your cheek on your hand and observe him. He looks tired. The light coming from the screen serves only to highlight the weariness weighing down his face and stooping his usually rigid shoulders. Looking at him like this reminds you of the night you watched this man and your sister interact after he drove you both home from Mount St. Mary’s. 

“She’s happier with you around, you know.”

There's such a long silence following your unprompted comment that you don't think he'll respond but he finally does. "She's a good kid."

"Yeah. Yeah she is." You don’t think you could have clung to life in the wake of the incident without her there to be strong for. Most weeks, she was the only reason you bothered to try to function.

You drain the rest of your glass and stand up. The ice clinks. You dump it in the sink and put the cup in the top rack of the dishwasher. You felt wrung out enough to attempt sleep again. You pause in the doorway and look back at the man at the table. "Six."

He looks up, eyebrow raised. His lips are slightly parted. 

"'Night."

"Goodnight." You can’t decipher his tone.

Your nightmares don’t return that night. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

About a month later, you’re screaming and thrashing in your bed. You’re choking under your captor’s hands, the sensation of soaked cloth over your face. You feel the pressure of those cruel fingers on your throat, over your mouth. Water moistening every ragged inhale. You can’t breathe.

Six’s response is all but instantaneous from the moment he hears your first scream. He pushes your door open, one hand on the knob and the other wrapped around his drawn gun. He’s sweeping his eyes across the dark room, There’s no attacker to find, there’s only you writhing on your bed, plagued by your own mind. He holsters his weapon and goes to your side. He tries calling your name, but there’s no acknowledgement, only your panicked wheezing. He puts one knee on the mattress for stability and grabs your upper arms. He tries to shake you awake. That gets a reaction. You start fighting him. Your hands claw and hit at him. He ignores it and repeats your name, asking you to wake up with an edge of desperation to his voice. He’s wildly unprepared for this. A physical enemy he can handle, but this…

You come out of it, going limp in his hold. Your chest is heaving. You blink away the lingering horrors of your dream and look up at him, horrified. For a split second your panic flares anew until you focus on his face. You remind yourself that you know this man, that you trust him with your sister’s life. He releases his grip on you and leans to turn on your bedside lamp. You wince against the explosion of light before bolting upright to reach towards his face. He’s scratched and you wonder if he’s going to be sporting a black eye. He lets your fingertips rest on his cheek for a heartbeat, something unreadable in his eyes before he’s withdrawing his knee from the mattress and standing at the side of your bed. He’s the picture of composure.

“I’m so sorry.” Guilt is suffocating you almost as much as the man in your nightmare. 

"You don't need to apologize. I should. I wasn't briefed about how to handle it." He sounds genuinely sorry, a touch of distress bleeding into his tone. It twists the knife of guilt deeper. You feel your eyes start to well. 

"No, no it's not your fault.. I don't want to be like this, I'm sorry." The tears spill over. You turn your face away and scrub your hands over your cheeks.

He hesitates and sits down on the bed next to you. There's a yawning span of distance between the two of you. There's not a hint of anger or frustration coming from him, not even pity. just.... sorrow. Understanding.

"Fitz briefed me on your history." It's blunt. matter of fact.

"Then you know about the...." You hesitate. 

"Yeah.” He answers before continuing. “Does he know how bad it gets?"

"No… I never told him all the details. I didn't want to burden him. He's got enough to worry about." You shrink into yourself. Your eyes focused on the items cluttering your nightstand.

"Your wellbeing isn't a burden." There it is. There’s a taste of the anger you’d been waiting for in his tone. You squeeze your eyes shut.

"I'm the stable one, Six. I can't let everyone down again ." You laugh a little, self-deprecating. You press your palms against your eyes. Baring down until stars explode behind your closed eyelids. 

He hums, and you feel the shift of the mattress as he stands up. You think he’s leaving, disgusted with you and your emotions, but the heat of his presence doesn’t go away. The warmth of him bleeds through your sleep clothes. You can feel him looking down at you. You nearly jump out of your skin when he nudges your arm. You look up at him, startled. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Come on.” He says, offering his hand to you. You take it. He easily guides you up onto shaky legs.

He has you follow him down the hallway and to the dining table. A path as familiar as an old friend by now. He motions for you to sit at the table, and you mutely follow his direction. You hear him move around in the kitchen. He returns with a bowl of ice cream and a full glass of water. He sits both in front of you.

"I have it on expert authority that this should help. All the smartest people I know support it." He's so serious sounding. You look at him flatly. He holds his grave expression for a beat before he winks. You crack a teary smile and lay into the ice cream like it personally insulted you.

He settles into a chair across from you while you eat. He occasionally glances over at the open laptop’s screen to check the security footage, but his main focus is on you. You feel a little self conscious under his gaze. You scour your mind for something to say, anything to lessen the intensity he’s directing towards you.

"Do you ever sleep? Like… go to bed sleep?" The question comes out of nowhere. a flash of surprise crosses his face. You'd seen him cross his arms in his chair and tip his head back. Caught him leaning  against the wall, hands in his pockets, hip cocked for stability. But the thought of him actually dressing down into pajamas and tucking himself under the blankets  seems.... implausible. too soft for this man who is alert and buttoned up into his crisp slacks and fitted shirts no matter the hour of the day. You half supposed he showered in the damn things.

"Not as often as I should. I don't sleep easy either." The honesty surprises you. 

"Why?" It's probing but you're too exhausted and raw to care.

"Too many memories. My line of work isn't exactly conducive to pleasant dreams." You wonder if he would have been willing to be so open this entire time or if something changed between the two of you. When would it have changed? Were the moments you found significant also important to him? Was he starting to crave your company in the inexplicable way as you’ve begun to crave his?

You almost apologize to him for prying, but you stop yourself. You nod instead. You understand how it is to have a beast pacing the maze of your sleeping mind, pulling out the threads of your worst memories like entrails for you to witness over and over again. 

"I still think about it… About them." You admit. Your eyes skitter across the table like a frightened mouse, focusing on Six's watch face before darting away. You can’t tell the time from this distance. There is a pressure welling up in your throat. Something is clawing its way out into the open.

“Talk to me.” His request is firm, paving the way for your words. He takes his watch off, a mirror of the other night. It slips free of his arm in the same way, inky black revealed on the underside of his wrist, tendons shifting, the movements delicate. He sets the watch on the table in front of you. The metal links clatter on the polished wood surface. You glance up at his face, shadowed in the dim light. “For safekeeping.” He remarks.

You reach out and lift it from the worn surface, running your fingers over the band. The weight is soothing in your grasp. The seconds tick by and it feels as though your heart is trying to race them. You finally open your mouth and release your burden.

“Claire had her birthday party that day. It was the last good day we had with our parents. It was hard to keep the security straight since there were so many people in the house. I didn’t think anything was wrong when two men came up to me and introduced them as part of the security detail. I still didn’t think it was weird when they asked me to come with them. How could I have been so stupid ?” Your breath catches, anger palpable in your voice. Six twitches like he might reach out, but he stills and you continue.

“They got me out of the house. I wasn’t strong enough to fight them off when they put me in the back of the SUV. They… they kept me for days asking questions I didn’t know the answers to. They didn’t like that I didn’t know anything. They tried to be more persuasive… so I started making up things. I just wanted them to stop but they wouldn’t. The wrong answer or the right answer, it didn’t matter. They offered me in exchange for a ransom and eventually they pulled me out of the basement. My parents were there to do the handoff. The guys wouldn’t let anyone else do it. We made it about three miles down the highway before they caught up with us and shot out the front tires. I don’t think they expected anyone to live after we went through the guardrail, so they just.. drove off. Left. I don’t know how long I was in the car staring at my parents. Claire was too young to understand that I ruined her life. I’ve been waiting for her to realize what I did. She hasn’t yet but she will.”

“How did you ruin it?” Quiet, disbelieving.

“I got our parents killed. I shouldn’t have gone with those men. I should’ve known better.” You hear a noise like a wounded animal. A creature left for roadkill, great heaving breaths rattling in that damaged chest. It’s you, you realize dully, you’re the animal. There’s a large hand enveloping your wrist. It’s Six and he’s holding onto you. 

“How could you know?” He asks. You shake your head, a sob escapes you. You feel shame. Grief. Six’s hand squeezes almost tight enough to hurt. It grounds you, you can’t escape into your own mind. Not with that insistent pressure to stay . You feel the metal of his watch biting into the skin of your palm. It’s a good kind of ache.

“It wasn’t your fault. You trusted people you were meant to trust. Who could blame you for that?” he insists. His eyes are too soft, too kind.

“Uncle Fitz.” It slips out, involuntary. You would bite your own tongue off if it could take back the betrayal. You don’t dare to look at the man seated across from you. You had all but swung a bat at the person who he said was the closest thing he had to family. 

His hand withdraws from your arm, and for a moment you’re certain that he’s going to walk off and leave you sitting here by yourself. He doesn’t, he surprises you once again. He simply leans further over the table, capturing your hands with his before plucking his watch from your ironclad grasp. He lays it over your much smaller wrist. He handles you with so much gentleness it almost hurts. He secures the clasp and simply… holds your hands. He says your name and you look up 

“Your family loves you.” He states simply. He says it like it’s an indisputable fact. Like it’s something as true and honest as the rotation of the Earth. You nod mutely. You can’t argue, not when he says it with so much assurance. He gives your hands a final, comforting squeeze and stands up. He gathers up your dishes, bowl, spoon, and glass. The bodyguard makes a soothing gesture to stay seated when you make a motion to rise and help him. You listen to the domestic sounds of him running the sink and loading your used dishes into the dishwasher. Your eyes start to drift shut. There’s a weight off your lungs, your burden has been dispersed, even just for a little while.

There’s a soft touch to your shoulder. It’s Six and he wants you back in bed. You get to your feet and let him escort you to your bedroom door. You feel oddly nervous, fidgeting with your fingers and avoiding meeting the hired man’s eyes. It feels like the awkward end of a weird date where everyone was too uncomfortably honest.. No matter how delusional that sounds even to yourself.

“Goodnight.” he’s the one who breaks the silence first. You feel relieved. 

“‘Night, Six.” is your response as you put your hand on the doorknob and slip into the room, away from his unreadable gaze. When you fall asleep for the second time that night, you dream of steady hands marked with prison tattoos.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The morning dawns without preamble. It feels like you have barely laid your head on the pillow. You check the time on the watch hanging loosely around your wrist. Less than four hours have passed since your night terror and subsequent comforting via the household bodyguard. Your morning routine feels more laborious than usual. Every movement feels like crawling through tilled soil. 

You’re dressed for the day and walking into the kitchen when you hear your little sister badgering Six. 

“What happened to you, Robot?” she asks.

You pop your head around the corner to take a look at the man she’s addressing. You stop cold. It’s a mess. He’s a mess. The skin around his left eye is puffy and bruised. There's clear nail marks on his cheeks and down to his neck. Any exposed skin had taken the brunt of your panic. You can even see some redness through his facial hair. You feel sick, betrayed again by your body. Your own hands had tried to tear him apart. 

"Well..." he starts and shrugs his jacket off. He folds it and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs.

He's about to go on his outdoor rounds, which you and Claire have secretly dubbed ‘enrichment time’, and continue wearing a trail into the yard. If he’s feeling particularly comfortable, he might sneak a nap in one of the lawn chairs now that the sun is up. Provided that he’s sure the two of you are secure and can survive without him awake for an hour or so. 

"Your sister beat me in a fight. I'll have to hand in my championship belt." It's relaxed and easy. He gives you a conspiratorial wink when Claire rolls her eyes with a scoff.

You match his earnest tone with your own. "You should have seen it, I was about to get the folding chair and everything."

“Ooh-kay, I’ll just assume it was a weird sex thing,” she comments, turning back to her breakfast. “Looks like you already won his watch though. Congrats.” 

Silence follows. Claire smugly scrapes her spoon around in her bowl, capturing every last shred of cereal. There’s a self-satisfied smile on her face. Neither of you protest. Either you let it go and hope she loses interest in the bit, or you launch into a defense that will only get her to double down. No matter what, you’ll be the losers. 

Six pushes a heavy exhale through his nose and walks out of the room. You follow him right out the back door and onto the deck. The two of you stand there for a moment in companionable silence. It’s beautiful out here. The sun is a sedate creature in the sky. She's lazily casting her rays over the yard. The water in the pool is sparkling in it, lapping playfully at the concrete walls. Six’s shoulders are still tense in your field of view. He looks as though he’s holding himself up through sheer force of will.

“I’m sorry again about last night.” You say to his back.

“Please don’t be. Things happen.” He says with a sigh. You falter. He sounds as exhausted as you feel.  You don't want to push the issue. 

He gestures for you to sit in one of the deck chairs by the pool. You don’t, instead choosing to trail him as he does his rounds. He’s lit by the sun. You’re in his shadow. His hair looks like a field of golden wheat. You almost want to run your hands though it in order to feel the softness for yourself. You instead soothe the urge by toying with the band of his watch still loosely encircling your wrist. He looks back at you every once in a while, eyes dazzlingly blue in the bright sunlight. You had never noticed the angles of his face before, the curves of his nose with its distinctive bump, the set of his cheekbones, how his facial hair is darker than the hair on his head. You hate that you're noticing these details now. After the events of last night, any tentative bond feels tainted.

The morning grows warmer as you drift behind him like a ghost. Eventually he rolls his sleeves up to reveal his forearms. You start to understand why people in bygone eras got so flustered at the sight of a lady's ankle. His wrists are bodice ripping enough, you suppose, but the space from his fingertips to the crook of his elbow? That is home to so much previously unseen skin. Had he been rolling up his sleeves every morning? If you had simply looked out one of the windows, would you have seen the sight that you’re witnessing now?  Would you have seen the distinct veins trailing up the insides of his muscular arms? What about the tattoos whose mere existence beg to have a finger trace along his skin? You avert your eyes, not wanting him to notice you staring. You tell yourself that it’s just the novelty of it all, that the surprise at seeing him less buttoned up will wear off.

With the rounds done, the two of you are back at your starting point. The bodyguard settles onto one of the deck chairs. He lets out a borderline obscene groan as he lets his body relax against the wood. His eyes flutter closed. He shifts slightly, another noise escapes his throat as he does. You make your way to the chair next to him on shaky legs, and drop into it. He doesn’t stir. You debate on standing up, you don’t, the thought of leaving his side makes you anxious. You make yourself comfortable in your seat. 

Through the open window, you can hear Claire’s record player. You hear the notes of Feel the Warm. She’s playing Mark Lindsay again. You let it wash over you. The sunlight is dappled across this part of the patio. You cast a glance over at your companion. His arms are crossed and he looks dead to the world. Your own eyelids are drooping, He’s the last thing you see before you drift off.

You wake up gradually, it’s an easy kind of waking. No wild jerk of consciousness, just the soft trickle of awareness. You’ve managed to curl on your side in the deck chair. You squirm upright and feel cloth slide down into your lap. It’s the hired man’s jacket. He must have gone back inside to get it. You touch it with hesitant fingers and look up, scanning for him. He’s currently out of sight, but you do see Claire in the hammock chair across the way. She’s engrossed in her phone and frantically tapping at the screen. You check the time on the watch in your possession before you catch a glimpse of Six coming up the patio steps from the lower yard. He’s got a sandwich in one hand and his own phone in the other. He’s intent on the device. He glances up and accidentally meets your eyes. He jumps slightly as if startled you’re awake. He recovers and gives you a nod.

“‘Morning.” His mouth is full. You know Claire will give him the tongue lashing of a lifetime if she notices.

"It's after twelve." You playfully retort, watching unimpressed as he fights to swallow the bread in his mouth. He’s really struggling for a second before he gets it down, his throat working roughly. You get to your feet, carefully folding his jacket over your arm. You approach him with it. 

"Good afternoon then." He says quietly. You swear you catch the ghost of a smile on his face as he looks at you. 

“Thanks for the blanket.” You say, offering it to him. He takes it with his unoccupied hand before shrugging it on, doing a quick change of hands with his lunch. 

You move to take off the watch and return that as well, but he stops you with a disapproving noise. “You’re keeping that safe for me, remember?”

You pause for a moment, mind racing wildly with the effort to make sense of his words. To find meaning in them. Your hand falls away from the metal and you surrender with a mute nod. If he wanted you to keep it for him for a while longer, who were you to protest? It’s a strange kind of comfort to have it. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Things come to another disastrous head some weeks later. It happens after the nurse sees Claire tucked into bed before heading home for the evening. It happens after you give your sister your own goodnight wishes. You had gently brushed her hair from her face and gave her a kiss on the forehead even if she scrunches her face in mock disgust each time you do. There’s no telling which moment between the two of you will be the last. You hadn’t had the luxury of knowing that your mom’s wet pleas for help would be the last gift from her in that twisted hunk of metal. You wanted your little sister to have a happy memory of you if a goodnight ever turned into a goodbye. Less nightmares that way.

You had stood up from your seat on the edge of the bed, made sure to smooth her blanket out. “Sweet dreams, Claire.” you said before you extinguished the slow glow cast by the lamp on her nightstand. 

“‘Night,” she had said to you before yelling. “‘Night, Robot!” in the direction of the door. 

You heard a weary sounding response from the ‘robot’ in question. Six was hovering in the hallway, patiently waiting to escort you to your bedroom door. He’s been diligent in performing the action every single night without fail since your impromptu wrestling session with him. He also hasn’t let you return his watch to him yet. You closed the bedroom door behind you, stepped into the hall and nearly brushed against the tall man. He moved back only enough to give you the barest clearance to get past him so he could trail after you for the scant few steps to your own door. It seems lately that he’s been standing closer to you. It also seems like his eyes have been lingering more on your face than the surveillance feeds at night when you emerge from your room, wide eyed and shaken from whatever terror that had gripped you. Your exchanged goodnights haven’t been anything out of the ordinary though, even if his voice was lower… more intimate than it used to be.

The bubble officially bursts for you when you abruptly jerk awake. You assume it was a nightmare you can’t remember, though you don’t feel any of the usual symptoms. There’s no tremors or wild breathing. You’re just… awake. You think about laying in bed and trying to drift off, but there’s a sense of unease you can’t shake. You make up your mind and shuffle over to the door. Like any other night, you turn the knob and walk out into the hall.

Like a snare snatching a rabbit, rough hands seize you. Your mouth is covered, fingers digging in harshly. And with a sudden drop of your stomach, you register the sensation of a gun pressing into your side. The metal’s coldness burrows though the thin layer of your sleep shirt. You’re frozen in shock, mind racing. Where's Six? Where's the bodyguard uncle Fitz had hired? He was supposed to protect you and your sister. Keep you safe. Why wasn't he doing his job? Why was this man in the house? 

Tears start running down your face without your permission. Your sobs are broken off against the inside of your mouth. They can’t escape the crushing pressure. A scream you can’t release is building in your throat. What if this man did something to Claire?

The gun digs in deeper, grinding against your ribs. He drags you down the hall and into the living room. It’s dark and you flinch as you feel something sharp dig into one of your feet. You whimper. The floor is littered with broken glass. The sound of it shattering must have been what woke you up. 

“Shut up.” the man holding you hisses, giving you a tooth rattling shake while he leans over your shoulder to see where he’s steering you. His breath is sour. “Where is he?”  He must mean Six. 

The bodyguard must still be able to present a problem if this man is asking about him. You’re not completely alone in this. It’s enough to sharpen your mind. To direct your focus. Your eyes are straining to make out anything in the darkness. It’s a mess of shapes that are so familiar in the daylight, but they look like strangers in the darkness. You manage to recognize the coffee table before the attacker does and you pull your leg out of the way. He slams into it and stumbles. He curses loudly through the pain of hitting his shin on the corner. You see your opportunity and savagely bite the hand covering your mouth. The saltiness of blood washes over your tongue but you bury your teeth in deeper. The tendons and nerves give way beneath your teeth. You go until you hit bone and hang on. Even if you don’t make out of this alive, you’re going to make damn sure this fucker doesn’t get to keep full use of his fingers.

He’s groaning, blinded by the shock of pain. You dare to release your hold on him in order to slam the back of your head into his face as hard as you can, throwing yourself into a backwards jump to do so. He lets out a wounded noise and clutches his face. He’s completely let go of you to do so. The gun is on the floor now, dropped in the surprise of your retaliation. You skate awkwardly on the glass as you make a run for it. The floor feels wet under your feet as you sprint for the hall. You’re leaving a trail of bloody footprints in your wake. The scream you’ve felt building weakly escapes. It’s a too quiet utterance of Six’s name. You can’t find the ability to yell as loud as you need to. You’re nearly sightless from a lack of light and terrified tears. You’re battering against the walls and furniture like a moth around a lightbulb. You make it halfway down the hall to Claire’s bedroom when you feel it. A brush of the assailant’s hand against your back. He shouts when he misses you, and you jitter to the side, making contact with the wall right as he slams into the floor. You put your back to it and look down, eyes wide enough in terror to make out the shapes of two struggling men. 

Six is on top of the man who had grabbed you. His silhouette is identifiable even in the murky dark. Relief turns your legs into jelly. He’s come for you after all. You allow yourself to go limp and slide down the wall, curling up on the floor. You squeeze your eyes closed so you don’t have to put a visual to the violence you’re hearing. It’s wet, crunchy. Eventually you only hear the heaving breathing of one man. You don’t know how long you sit there shaking. 

You’re coaxed into opening your eyes by Six’s voice saying your name. Your bedroom door is ajar and the light is on, illuminating the hallway enough to comfortably see, but not enough to where you can’t pretend the dark smears and streaks are shadows. The attacker isn’t in the hall any more. Six is kneeling in front of you. He’s got a cut on his cheek but otherwise looks unharmed.

“Are you with me?” It’s said with aching concern.

"Yeah… Yeah I'm here." You’re all too aware of your stinging feet, the ache of your muscles, the pain in the back of your head. 

Relief floods his face at your words. He reaches out but stops himself before making contact with you. You notice that his knuckles are split open and already bruising. His hand hovers in the space between your bodies, trembling slightly like he can’t bear to touch you but withdrawing is equally torturous. You rock onto your knees and shove yourself into his arms instead. They’re instantly around you. He holds you to himself. It’s all you can do to cling to him in kind. If you could nestle alongside the lungs in his chest, you would make a home in his rib cage. 

"You did well. I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep him from you. His pals kept me busy." His voice is full of bitter frustration. 

You shake your head and speak against his collarbone. “Is Claire okay?”

"She slept right through it. She's still asleep. I just checked on her." He soothes, running a hand up and down your back.

“Good…” you respond, unspeakably thankful. You could cry.

“Do I have your permission to pick you and take you to your bed? I don’t want you walking with your feet like this.” 

“Yeah, but I’m too heavy?” You’re surprised and uncertain. Sure, he had slammed around a grown man like a rag doll, but what if….

“Believe me, you’re not.” He sounds almost amused.

He eases you up onto your knees and over his lap. He encourages you to put your arms over his shoulders. It’s startlingly intimate. You can easily see the fine lines around his eyes at this distance. His breath is warm and against your face, smelling faintly of the watermelon gum he chews. You have just a second to try and process it before he’s gaining a foothold. He stabilizes you with one thick arm under your thighs and his hand on your back. You reflexively gasp and clench the back of his jacket in your hands. Each of his steps is steady. There’s no sign of strain even as he navigates your bedroom doorway. He carefully lowers you to the edge of your mattress and withdraws his arm. Your thighs release their death grip against his hips and you settle into place, feet off the ground. You avoid looking at his face, you know yours feels like it’s on fire. 

You notice that he had already moved your trashcan to your bedside and collected the first aid kit and a roll of paper towels. He must have known you’d cooperate with him. He drags your desk chair over and takes a seat. He pats his thigh encouragingly, and you place your heel right above his knee. He steadies you with a firm hand around your ankle. He removes the shards of glass. He doesn't let you jerk away, not with the grip he has on you, even when the tweezers catch on a particularly deep piece. He works in silence and you eventually allow yourself to lay flat on the bed while he does his task. You don't ask what happened to the man in the hallway. You don't ask how Six got detained in the first place. He doesn’t volunteer the information. The time passes and you’re halfway asleep by the time he’s tying off the wrap securing the bandages on your other foot and carefully easing your leg back down from its elevated position on his thigh. 

"Please stay." You ask the ceiling. You feel more than see Six freeze in response to your question.

“I shouldn’t.” He sounds conflicted. You prop yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at him.

“Do you not want to?”

“It’s not that. It’s anything but that.”

You bite your lip and decide to throw all your cards on the table. “I sleep better when I'm around you. You keep the nightmares away.”

He looks surprised, devastated even. His demeanor couldn’t have been any different than if you had asked him to bare his neck and slit his own throat. Resigned, but he would still pick up the knife for you.

"Give me a minute," is his response. 

He gathers up the supplies and turns off the light on his way out of the room, plunging you into the familiar dark of your room. You're not sure what exactly he does while he’s away, but he comes back sans jacket and with his sleeves rolled up. He carries the acidic tang of cleaning chemicals. He settles back into your chair after tossing the laptop on the desk. The two of you watch each other for a moment 

"Are you okay?"

"Emotionally? I've been better. Physically? I'm fine. Just a few scratches and a bruised ego. " He's soft. You nod, reassured.  

You keep your eyes on his face. It’s lit by the soft glow of the screen. It’s become an unhealthy habit, observing this man. You drift off to sleep facing in his direction. He's there when you wake up. He's clearly gotten up at some point to shower, but he did come back to resume his sentence at your side. You greet each other and he excuses himself back to the common areas of the home.

───※ ·❆· ※───

It becomes a thing, you spending time in his presence outside of what follows your nightmares. Something changed in you after the attack. It has culminated in a strong desire to be near him, to be within the frame of his reassuring gaze. Most of the time but not always, you go with him on his surveillance rounds. You walk with him through the yard. It always feels a little like you’re two society members having a chaperoned walk, but it’s soothing. Routine. You’ve also begun sitting with him in the hours before bed. At the table or on the couch while he watches the TV. The two of you simply exist together. 

You rarely return to your room most nights, choosing instead to make your bed in the living room. If you lay just right on the couch, you can spot the bodyguard keeping watch throughout the night. His presence in the room eases your mind enough to allow you to peacefully sleep. You wish that he hasn’t become so essential. You don’t want to think about what your uncle’s return will mean.

He accepts your new routine without question. You notice that he always has the throw pillow moved from the armchair to the couch on the nights you don’t tell him you’re going to bed. There’s no blanket in the living room, but you usually wake up with his jacket of the day draped over you in lieu of one. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

One night, you and Claire manage to bully him into a game of monopoly after the nurse leaves. You’ve been made the banker because Six doesn’t trust your sister and she doesn’t trust him enough either. 

“You just landed on my boardwalk. That’s fourteen hundred bucks.” Claire announces.

Six takes his hand off the game piece and gives her a look . “I thought you owned the brown properties, not the blue ones.” 

She picks up the deeds for Boardwalk and Park Place and waves them pointedly in his direction. “Nope, fourteen hundred. Fork it over.”

Six lets out a genuinely flustered growl. You have to smother your laugh. He counts out the remainder of his money and tosses it in front of your sister. He’s woefully short and out of assets. You and Claire had run him ragged the course of the game until she managed to bankrupt you with some suspiciously underhand tactics. Looks like she got to Six as well. 

“I’m out.” He says, resigned. 

Claire stretches her arms over her head and lets out a satisfied sigh. She then slumps back into her chair in smug victory as the bodyguard extracts himself from his seat at the table to do his nightly check of the doors and windows. She leans over and taps the watch on your wrist. 

“He hasn’t won this back yet?”

“Oh… uh. No.” Your answer sounds flustered, even to you. 

Your little sister raises her eyebrows. There’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes and she opens her mouth to say something before pausing. She instead gets up and gives you a squeeze around the shoulders. You return it with a one armed hug. “‘Night, sis.” 

“‘Night. I’ll see you in the morning.” You return affectionately, letting her go. 

“‘Night, Robot!” She cheerily shouts. There’s a responding grumble from the direction of the garage. Claire flashes you a grin and a thumbs up. 

She’s in her room by the time Six finishes his checks. You’re in the middle of putting up the game when you feel the weight of his eyes on you. It’s just the two of you alone.  He sits back down at the table to help you with it. He’s like a fire against your left side. You’re surprised he didn’t sit in his usual spot at the head of the table.

He lets out a yawn that he can’t suppress. He’s more undone tonight than you’ve seen him yet. He’s wearing a t-shirt tucked into slacks today. No blazer. His hair is tousled, not smoothed into place with product like usual. You think he looks more approachable like this. Your hands touch when you both go to scrape the same pile of deeds off the table. You both freeze. You hear your heart pounding in your ears and with it muffling every other sound, you trail your fingers over the top of his. He shudders when you brush over his knuckles and skim over the dots tattooed into the meat of his thumb. He doesn’t move, staying perfectly still for your exploration. You reach the horse on his forearm and you think his breath hitches in response. You linger on the horse, using your pointer finger to trace its outline. You follow the swoop of its tail, down the outstretched hind leg. 

A soft groan from the man you’re touching makes you remember yourself. You withdraw your hand like you’ve been burnt. He twitches and jerks his own hand towards you like he’s about to reach out and stop you, but he doesn’t. You can still feel the sensation of his skin under your fingertips even as you glue your eyes to the remaining monopoly money and sort it into the tray with unsteady hands. You finish putting up the game in silence. You sleep in your own bed that night. He escorted you to your room. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up weeping the next night. You lay on the couch staring at the living room ceiling while tears involuntarily run down the sides of your face. The imprint of spider webbing glass still swirling around in your mind. You must have made some kind of noise, because Six is making his way across the room. 

You sit up and take a swipe at your face. “I’m sorry.”

"You have to let it out somehow. May I?” He asks, gesturing to the space next at your side. You nod and scoot over to give him slightly more space.

He puts the ever present laptop with its surveillance feed on the coffee table before sitting down. You feel your cushion dip. Against your better judgment, you lean against him. He’s solid. He relaxes underneath the pressure of your body. You instantly feel better. You watch the cameras with him for a while, sighing along with him as the local monkeys throw the lid off the trashcan at the curb in search of a meal. You’ll have to clean up after them after the sun rises. It’s one of the downsides to living in Hong Kong. 

You stay leaning against him for a while, but a stiffness in your neck gets you to change position. Moving slowly so he’s fully aware of your movements, you carefully lay down. He’s taken the place of your improvised throw pillow cushion. Your head is resting on his thigh. He puts his hand on your upper arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He leaves it resting there, heavy and warm. 

You wake up a few hours later. The sun is cascading through the living room, throwing rainbow hues on the floor thanks to the decorative glassware. You’re comfortable, too comfortable you realize. Your eyes widen in horrified surprise. You’re still using the bodyguard as a pillow. He's shifted slightly through the night, more slumped and relaxed. He's slid down further, and your face is firmly pressed against his hip now instead of his thigh. You know that you’re going to have the imprint of one of his belt loops on your cheek. His arm is loosely draped over you with his hand tucked underneath your side, a bastardized attempt at spooning. You crane your neck to catch a glimpse of his face. He’s sound asleep. 

You try to sit up without disturbing him, but his arm tightens around you and applies pressure. You’re locked into place. Your mind races. If the nurse or, worse, Claire comes into the room and sees you and Six like this… You have to get up. You put a hand on his thigh and use it as a support to push yourself up. He’s instantly awake from the overt movement. He lifts his arm off your body and lets you sit up. You turn to say something, but find him already staring. His blue eyes are focused on you, they’re sleepy and confused but quickly sharpen to alertness. He looks vaguely distressed. All you can do is offer him a smile and squeeze his leg. You stand up and he follows. Your day goes as usual.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Your nights are largely the same, except that Six seems more distant. He doesn't linger as closely or as comfortably as he did before. Your interactions with the man are more professional. It’s as though weeks, months , of getting to know each other have been erased and you’re back at the beginning. Strangers again. It hurts. You miss him like hell even though he’s right there. Your sleep is worse. It’s almost as bad as in the weeks following the incident that started them in the first place, but they’re different. Amongst the disjointed scenes, there’s a broad shouldered man with dirty blond hair walking away from you in your nightmares now. You scream for him but no sound ever escapes you, just noiseless air. You never see his face. 

You finally have enough when he escorts you to your room one night. You haven’t slept on the couch for over a week, and he’s taken that as his cue to resume seeing you to your bedroom door. You turn to face him as always in the doorway. Instead of saying goodnight like you do every night, you confront him. It even catches you by surprise.

"You're avoiding me.” He doesn’t deny it and you think that hurts more than the newfound distance itself. 

“Why?” You ask only to get more silence. He won’t look at you. 

”What did I do wrong?” Your voice trembles and you hate it. You fumble to take off his watch, to return that final tie between the two of you. He reflexively clamps down on your wrist before you can undo the clasp, pinning your hand to your own wrist. He releases his near crushing grip almost immediately, but the ghost of it lingers. Point taken. You let your arms fall to your side in a clear display of frustration, willing him to talk.

“It wasn’t you. I  overstepped. Your uncle hired me to do a job and I've stepped beyond my purview. " The confession is rough. Torn out of him. The corner of his mouth pulls down in a grimace.

You stare at him blankly. "What?"

"I allowed myself to be too close with you. I apologize. I was unprofessional." He explains, but he won't quite meet your eyes. He hasn't for a while. Not since the morning following the night you fell asleep on him.

"You were... unprofessional?” You question, absolutely lost.

"Yes. I let my feelings about you affect me and my work.. I’ve become… compromised." It's matter of fact. It’s said like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you.

You reach out and grab his jacket lapels. He looks at you like a beaten dog might, as though you might strike him. He makes no motion to pull himself from your grasp. You swallow hard and let out a breath.

"What about my feelings for you?" You ask. His breath catches and he shakes his head, disbelieving. 

“It would be better if you didn’t feel anything for me.” There’s heartbreak in his blue eyes even as he looks at you like there’s nothing else in the world he would rather be seeing. 

“Better for who?” Your mouth is unbearably dry as you ask the question.

“You. I’ll only jeopardize you.”

”Six…” 

You pull him down and you press your mouth against his. He's rigid and unmoving for a moment before he's kissing you like a dying man who has just been offered immortality. His hands come to rest on your back. He grips your clothing like it’s a lifeline keeping him from going under. You gently nip at his bottom lip and he gasps against your mouth, a broken little noise. He tastes like watermelon gum.

 You pull away. “Jeopardize me then.

That forces a quietly helpless laugh from him. "Now that was unprofessional." His voice is hoarse.

"I had to give you a proper example." 

"Good job. I feel exampled.”

" Good ." You say and kiss him again. He's ready for it this time. He keeps it slow. His hands gently trace your body. He's slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth against your side. You step back, walking him into your room. His breathing is ragged and he's gripping you with a desperation you can’t put your mind around. You stand there, intertwined in each other. His facial hair is rough against your skin but the burn feels good. Your hands make their way around his neck and you gently card your fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He makes a wounded sounding noise in response before he pulls away. His hand is cradling the side of your face to keep you in place while his eyes roam across your face. It's as though he’smemorizing you, imprinting the fine details of this moment into his mind. As though he’s preparing to say goodbye. He trails his fingers gently down your jaw before he lets his hand drop.

"Will you stay? Can we sleep?" You ask before he can make up a way to excuse himself.

There’s a dizzying moment of silence before his face softens. “Okay. Yeah.”

The two of you are left to navigate the awkwardness of getting ready for bed. You spin your finger around in a circle and Six immediately gets the idea. He puts his back to you while you change into your sleepwear as quickly as you can. You turn around after giving him the verbal ‘all good’ in time to see him pull off his jacket and toss it onto the desk chair he had occupied when you first realized how addicted you were becoming to him. He pulls his belt off, coils it around his hand before setting it aside. You watch him unbutton his dress shirt. His fingers work deftly to slip the buttons through the holes. He shrugs the shirt off and lays it over the jacket. He’s in his undershirt and slacks. He bends down to untie his shoes and sets them aside. He straightens up and there’s nervousness on his face. You’ve never seen him nervous before. Worried? Yes, but not nervous. 

You slide into the bed and fold down the other side of the blanket for him. You gesture for him to come lay down beside you. He approaches warily and settles in stiffly at your side. His head is on the pillow, hands overlapping on his stomach. He looks like a body in a coffin. You gently touch his hands. He jolts.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, letting your hand rest on top of his.

“I haven’t slept in the same bed as someone since I was a child,” he admits.

“Oh… and that was…?”

“Over twenty-five years ago.”

You allow yourself a moment to grieve for this man before you pull away to shut off the bedside lamp.. You roll onto your back and flop your arms to the side. “Come here then. I’ve used you as a pillow. It’s time for me to return the favor.”

You feel the mattress shift under his weight and he hesitates, hovering over you with arms braced on either side of your body. It’s intimate, having him over you in this way. It’s enough to make you want to kiss him again.You hear him draw breath to raise some kind of concern so you just wrap your arms around him and pull him down on top of you. The weight of him pins you into the mattress. It’s comforting. He’s heavy and warm, akin to a weighted blanket. Granted, a weighted blanket wouldn’t have a muscular thigh wedged between your legs or be breathing against your neck in a way that makes you want to shiver. You fight to ignore your body’s response to him and work on easing the tension that’s holding him rigid against you. 

He gradually relaxes as you trace your hands over his back. You feel more than hear him groan when you pass over a particularly sensitive spot. The rumble feels almost like a purr against your chest. You narrow in on that location, working your fingers into the tight muscle. He allows himself to go limp on top of you, no longer stiffly trying to spare you the brunt of his mass. You run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as a reward for letting himself relax. It earns you a low moan and an involuntary shift of his hips. You’ll have to keep that reaction in mind for later. 

Six’s breathing soon evens out. Years of exhaustion and sleep deprivation have him rapidly sinking into the oblivion of sleep when offered such a precious comfort. You fall asleep with your hand still in his hair. You have the most peaceful rest of your adult life. There’s no night terrors, no pain, no fear, no longing, you just sleep .

The bodyguard is still asleep on top of you when you wake. His breath is whistling slightly through his nose. Not quite a snore, but it’s a sound that gets a fond smile out of you. You wish you could wake up like this every morning. Just this once has given you an insatiable longing for more. You bite the inside of your cheek at the thought of the future. Uncle Fitz is due to return from his trip soon, which means the dismissal of Six from the Fitzroy home to complete whatever assignment is next on his task board. You don’t figure him for the abandoning type though. That way of thinking about him doesn’t fit in with the loyalty and thoughtfulness you’ve seen him exercise in his time spent with you and your sister. You’re sure that he’ll find a way to stay in contact after this job ends. 

You gently smooth down his hair. He shifts and buries his face against the hollow of your throat more firmly. You pause, hoping you didn’t wake him, but then you hear a sleep roughened voice say, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[graves4girls]

what day is it 👀

☆ 18+ FΛSHION | miguel o'hara

✮ wc. 2.2k ⚠︎ warning(s): 18+, masturbation, kinda meangirl!reader but not really (?), little bit of degradation (m receiving), fem!reader IT'S OCTOBER FUCKING THIRD !! mean girls day bitches wasn't planning on writing this but i have been meaning to write a meangirl!reader x miguel for awhile, (inspo taken from @nymphomatique mig fics btw they're so perf) and what better day to do it than today ?? ⟡ be sure to check out my work on ao3 → gravesforgirls !!

You'd dragged him to the mall, insisting you were in desperate need of new clothes–which you both knew was a complete lie. 

Your heels click against the shiny tiled floor of the mall as you pull him along to yet another store, hugging his arm as he grumbles under his breath. If he weren't built like a greek god, you'd might have felt bad making him carry all your bags, but what were boyfriends for if not to spoil you and treat you like a princess? 

"Babe, we've been walking around for two hours already. What more could you possibly need to get?"

He frowns down at you as you pull him toward a rack chock-full of pink, skimming through the clothes as you click your tongue.

"Stop whining. I'll tell you when I'm done. What about this?"

You pull a satin mini skirt from the rack, holding it out to him as he sighs, eyeing the tiny article with a slight pout, shrugging.

"It's cute."

You slip the hanger under your arm to sift through more shades of pink, popping a hip out as you flip through each article. You can feel his eyes on you, running along your figure as he towers behind you, guarding you from any prying eyes. 

You wander to another tall rack, manicured fingers feeling the soft material of each dress as he follows you.

"That one's pretty."

You stop on the baby blue sundress, picking it off the rack and analyzing the piece, giving him a look.

"You know I don't wear loose shit. The color's cute, though."

You shove it back in its spot and continue flipping through the dresses, pulling another down and smiling as you turn to him.

"This one is super cute. And it's only thirty dollars." 

His eyes run over the short, baby pink halter dress, quirking an eyebrow. "Only?"

You roll your eyes and swivel on your heel, hooking the hanger on your hand. "C'mon. I wanna look at the shoes."

He drops his shoulders as he stays hot on your heels, nearly knocking over a display with your bags as he squeezes between the narrow aisles. You nearly squeal at the shiny heels propped on a pedestal, immediately reaching for them and admiring them in your hands, and he can swear your eyes are sparkling when you spin around to beam at him.

"I've been waiting months for them to release these! I have to get a pair."

You bend down to grab your size, grinning at him as you take a step closer.

"See? If we had left earlier, I wouldn't have even known they had these." You hook a finger over the collar of his shirt to pull him down, pressing a short kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I wanna go try everything on. C'mon." You hook your arm around his, pulling him to the fitting rooms.

"Miguel?" You emerge from the stall to find him slouched back on the little bench, scrolling through his phone. "Miguel, look!"

You set your hands on your hips as you shift your weight, tapping his leg with the toe of your high heel, and he slowly looks up from the screen to smile at you, reaching a hand out to feel the shiny fabric of the mini skirt. 

"Pretty. It's kinda short though, no? You can't really do anything but stand in it." He mutters as you spin, big hand splaying over your hip as his eyes lift to look up at you. 

You shrug, brushing his hand away.

"That's fashion, babe." He hums, and you soften for a moment, running a hand through his soft curls. "One more thing to try on, then we can go. Promise." You drop a kiss to the top of his head, turning and skipping back into the dressing room before he can pull you down for a proper kiss.

You nestle your hand in his hair as you step in front of him, tilting his head up to pull his attention from his phone, and he loses his words in his throat for a moment as he takes you in. His eyes run over the way the tight garment hugs your curves, ogling at the way your breasts nearly spill out of the plunging neckline, gliding down to the short hem that gently squishes against your thighs

"You like it?" You grin down at him, the answer so glaringly obvious.

He nods dumbly, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he slowly lifts his gaze, so desperately wanting to devour you right then and there. 

"Estás preciosa. Give me a spin."

He leans back as you slowly twirl around, expressing his admiration with a quiet whistle as you roll your eyes, stepping closer to push a hand against his chest.

"You're such a dog. Behave." You let your hand caress his jaw, holding his chin as his eyes continue to wander.

"Can't help that I have the hottest girlfriend in the world. Dame un beso, muñeca."

You press your hand over his mouth as you nudge his head back, playful smile tugging at your lips as you shake your head. "Not now.  If you're good, maybe you'll get one later."

He's pouting when you pull your hand away, sighing as you let go of him to retreat back into the dressing room.

He looks tired, and you do feel a bit bad as he hoists the bags into the back seat of the car with a long sigh, closing your door as he rounds the car. You reach a hand over his shoulder when he plops in the driver seat, acrylic nails massaging his scalp as you lean over the console, pressing a glossy kiss to his cheek.

"How about a nice warm shower when we get home? You look tense." Your other hand comes up to massage his big shoulder, tilting your head as he looks at you.

"Sounds perfect." His eyes run over your face for a second, catching on your pretty, plump lips. "Do I get my kiss now?"

You chuckle quietly as he stares at you, pretty brown eyes silently pleading. You take pity on him, lifting a hand to lay against his cheek as you kiss him, and he melts into you almost instantly, humming against your soft lips. His teeth tug at your bottom lip when you try to pull back, giggling at his sudden feverish nature as his big hand grabs at your waist, fingertips warm against the sliver of skin that peeks out from between the hem of your top and skirt. Your hand falls from his cheek to press your palm against his strong chest, your other hand slipping around his neck to press him closer. 

His cheeks are flushed when you finally pry yourself from his bruising kiss, eyes glazed over and lips swollen as his heavy eyelids lower seductively. God, was he perfect.

"What's that look for, hm?" 

The hand on his chest slowly glides down his abdomen, rubbing over his stomach as he bites his bottom lip.

"Nothin'. Just admiring you."

You purse your lips, tilting your head as your hand falls to cup him through his jeans, pulling a low groan from his throat as his eyebrows pinch together.

"Is that so?" Your fingers gently fondle him through the thick fabric, pressing your palm against him as he sighs. "You're a bad liar, y'know. Don't think I didn't notice this when we were leaving. You liked the dress that much, huh?"

He can't pull together a coherent sentence when your delicate fingers are rubbing at him, the barrier between you frustratingly exciting as his hips jerk forward, head falling back against the headrest. You watch his breath quicken as his chest rises and falls, legs spreading to give you more room to touch him. You lean over the console to press a trail of kisses down the side of his neck, lip gloss staining his tan skin as your fingertips carefully unbuckle his belt, popping the button of his jeans and pushing the zipper open. You stall your actions when he thrusts up into your touch, instead sliding your hand under his shirt to feel along his abs, toned and warm under your fingertips. 

"Control yourself. Stop acting like a fucking mutt."

His head slowly turns to look at you, cheeks hot and flushed as he pouts. "I'll be good, baby. I promise. Por favor…" His hand wraps around your bicep, wanting more than anything for you to just stuff your hand down his pants already.

You let him steal a quick kiss before pushing him back, patting his cheek. "God, you're such a little bitch. What would your friends say if they saw you like this? All whiny and begging for me to touch you." 

He groans when your hand slips into his briefs, pushing the elastic down and watching the way his cock bounces up against his stomach, already dribbling and begging for attention as it twitches. You run a light fingertip up the underside of his shaft, reveling in the little sighs and grunts that escape him as he strains himself to keep still, gnawing at his bottom lip. He snakes a hand under your arm to grab at your knee, squeezing your thigh when you run a finger over his slit, thumbing at the sensitive head. 

"C'mere."

You lean your elbow on the console to kiss him, and he moans into your mouth when your fingers wrap around him, giving a slow, weak tug as he sucks on your bottom lip. Your free hand blindly searches for the big palm settled on your thigh, pulling it up to grab at your chest instead. He eagerly palms at the swell for a while until he gets bored of the lack of skin in his hands, tugging the neckline of your cropped cami down to set your bare chest on full display, big hand groping at you as he mutters something unintelligible against your lips. He pinches a nipple between his rough fingertips, grinning when a soft sigh escapes your lungs, dropping his head to litter your collarbone in wet kisses. Your fingers comb through his tousled brown curls, arching into his hot touch when he closes his mouth around your nipple, sucking at the sensitive bud with another low groan. 

Your hand lazily glides up and down his thick shaft, occasionally dropping lower to roll his balls in your palm, giving a gentle squeeze whenever he gets too excited and jerks his hips up into your fist. He's a mumbly, hot mess below you, muttering mindless praise into your skin as he mouths at your tits, big hand clutching at your waist when your wrist twists faster. You watch the way your hand quickly jerks up and down his big cock, the pretty flushed head shiny with smeared pre-cum as it throbs in your hold, thighs twitching whenever your fingers swirl around the tip. 

"Keep going, baby. Wanna come. Please, mamí, please."

He's whining, stuffing his face in your neck as he pleads. You swipe a thumb over his sensitive slit, fingers massaging the back of his neck.

"You're gonna come already? I've barely even touched you, and you're already about to bust. You are so pathetic." You hum quietly, letting him bite at your soft skin. "Go ahead. Fuck my hand like a fuckin' slut. Show me how desperate you are."

He doesn't need to be told twice, hips greedily chasing your fist as it nearly pulls off of him, slumped back against the seat as he heedlessly bucks up, hips hovering over the seat. He pants into the stuffy air, big hand clawing at your sweater as he cries out another moan.

"Thank you, baby. You're so good to me. Fuck, I love you so much. Thank you–"

You roll your eyes at his blabbering, shutting him up with another heated kiss, craning his neck back as he whimpers against you. The car rocks with every rough jolt of his hips, no doubt catching unwanted attention from other shoppers in the lot. Thank God he has tinted windows. 

His hand digs into your hair to keep your lips on his as his thighs tense, hips erratically jerking up into your fist as he huffs into your mouth. He pulses in your hand, angrily flushed as he desperately searches for relief, abs tightening and chest heaving as he teeters on the edge. 

With one more aggressive jerk of his hips he's coming, spurting white ribbons across his shirt and down the side of his shaft, spilling over your fingers as you slow your hand to a stop. He sighs and grunts as he slouches against his seat, hips dropping with a deep breath as he slowly pulls his head back, eyeing the mess in his lap before bringing his gaze up to find you licking your fingers clean, and he swears he almost gets hard again from just the sight of you lapping at the mess, tits still peeking out of your shirt as you raise an eyebrow.

"Stop staring and clean yourself up. I have shit to do."

[syneilesis]

[fic] Pampertime

Pampertime

Love and Deepspace | Xavier (Shen Xinghui) x Main-Character!Reader | Explicit | 6.7k words | ao3 link

Butler Rule No. 1: From the moment you accept the role, be prepared to obey your lady’s every command. The bunny butler outfit makes a grand return. In bed.

Content tags: Established Relationship, PWP, Roleplay, Bunny Butler Xavier, Dom/sub elements, Sub!Xavier, Strip Tease, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Cunnilingus, Face-Sitting, Cowgirl Position, Riding, PIV sex, Creampie

A/N: My contribution to the bunny butler Xavier train. Only gave a cursory edit once, so any mistakes still my fault. I'm just glad I'm done, whatever. Divider by @/saradika

One bright and sunny afternoon, Xavier texts you: Emergency can U come up here to help me?

You're in the middle of cleaning your living room, after weeks of neglecting your household responsibilities due to the sudden influx of Wanderers in the neighboring city. The Hunters Association had been scrambling to send out their hunters due to the sudden invasion of Wanderers that resembled bafflingly like corgis—which was both a blessing and a curse, if one were to be asked. Blessing because, well, they were a breed that incited cute aggression and fluffiness, and civilian evacuation had resulted in minimal problems, if one ignores the influx of people into doglike Wanderers. A curse, because—well, they did look like corgis—fluffy like a bread with a cute butt, the kind that you would expect to see in the plushie line sold at Twinkle Toys Store. They're irresistible to drag your hand across their soft coat. A not-inconsiderable number of hunters realized the error of their ways in overlooking the fact that these floof of creatures were still Wanderers, and as a consequence, Linkon hospitals suddenly found themselves busier for a week or two.

Regardless, the corgi Wanderers were easy to take care of, once you saw past their clever ruse. The difficulty lay in the numbers. Like a relentless tsunami flooding the city, they undulate in droves, shaking their butts and bouncing around and generally making an oxymoronically cute menace of themselves.

As one of the hunters dispatched to the area, you valiantly resisted the siren cute-call and eliminated as many as you could. It took you and your team more than a week, and it would have been shorter than that, had Xavier been in the fray. But he had been sent in another region the week before, and was unable to join you in your fluff-filled resistance.

But now it seems that he's back and is in need of your assistance. Flashback to that time when his oven exploded due to his attempt at baking tarts, and you drop everything you're doing and fly outside, towards the elevator, fueled by fear and sheer panic.

When you burst into his apartment, using the spare key he left you, you cry out, “Xavier! Sitrep!”

A cursory survey of the area indicate neither fire nor flood, and his apartment seems undamaged. Fear subsiding, you finally take stock of the situation.

Perhaps it's not a kitchen emergency after all? There’s no smell of something burning, thank heavens for that. You do not want to apologize to his neighbors in his place again.

You call once more, “Xavier?”

“In here.”

His voice is coming from the bedroom, and that makes you waver. Why is he still in his bedroom? Maybe he's stuck in bed? Did he sleep for three days and wake up in an unusual position and in need of assistance to set back his limbs again? Weirder and weirder thoughts spiral in your head, and your lack of response prompts him to speak once more.

“You can go in, if that's what stops you.”

“Why can't you just go out?”

“I ... can't.”

The hesitation captures your attention. Xavier is probably entangled in the bed. You may as well help him.

“All right, I'm coming in then.”

When you open the door, you're expecting some sort of layers and layers of blankets, a sea of them, not just on the bed but also on the floor and other furniture. Xavier might be underneath in any of those blankets, and it's your duty to locate him and fish him out. You're ready to swim against these blankets, fight your way into it. Do your utmost duty as a combat partner.

Except.

Except it's not a sea of blankets that welcome you once you enter the room. It's—different.

So different.

So utterly different that you drop your phone. It clatters muffled against the carpeted floor, where it slightly nudges a gift-wrapped box. And that gift-wrapped box sits next to another gift-wrapped box, and another. And another. Until you lift your widening gaze to see that Xavier's bedroom is littered with a lot of them. And Xavier—

He's on the bed, all right. But he's—

He grins lightly, leaning back from his sprawled position. The pillows behind him sink under his weight.

“Kjalfjdsj?” you say, eloquently.

“I'm glad you came ...” A pregnant pause, before he drops the bomb. “My lady.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Xavier is sprawled on the bed, bunny ears on his head, waistcoat and tie, and—you just know, you can feel it in your bones—bunny tail on behind. It's exactly what he wore when you had your couple's photos back then. The fact that he's wearing it and, judging by the sudden change of interior design of his room, that he's replicated the decoration of the studio—actually, you don't know what you can glean from those points, because you're too busy picking up the remains of your brain matter to form a coherent thought.

He drops another bomb: “Why are you just standing there, my lady?” he says, and going by the quirk of his lips he knows the effect he has on you. Compared with the first time it happened, the shy reluctance is no longer present. “This bunny butler is ready to serve, just say the word.”

Your brain melts.

“Wha—I mean—um, guh—” You studiously reacquaint yourself with the concept of words. “I just—what is going on?”

Xavier blinks, and the bunny ears on top of his head twitch as if they are truly connected to his head. Your fingers twitch themselves in response, that urge to touch and feel them again.

“I just thought,” he begins, slowly at first as if testing the waters, “that you need to relax and get pampered after that difficult mission you've just had.”

The words percolate in your mind and you scrabble for an appropriate reply to that. To be fair to the man, Xavier is sweet thinking of your well-being like that. Or maybe he's guilty that he wasn't there to help during that corgipocalypse of a week. Regardless of his intent, you have to ask:

“You thought I need to relax and your solution is to dress up as a bunny butler?”

He has the gall to think about it at length. “Yes, my lady.”

You don't miss the way he spreads his legs a little wider at that.

And really—you're only human, with wants and needs and desires. It just so happens that the common denominator of those three aspects point to the ridiculous man before you, in that ridiculous bunny butler getup that you secretly love and hope to see again. Which—yeah, it's definitely the perfect solution.

Stomping your hesitation and pride, you stride towards the bed, and Xavier, watching your every step, reclines further, giving you space for you to place your knee on the soft mattress, between his legs.

The bedfoam dips, and he shifts to avoid sinking down the indent your knee makes. Your other knee follows, and you move towards him until the heat of his inner thighs touch the outer sides of yours.

At the proximity between the two of you, Xavier tips forward, and in spite of your positions he doesn't need to tilt his head much upward to meet your deliberating gaze. An anticipatory sharpness falls on his expression and, oh, you realize, he must've wanted this too.

Which is all that you need to fall into this completely.

And it's a transformation: a reshifting of limbs and the straightening of spine, something like a lock unlatching.

“Mr. Bunny Butler,” you begin, low and relishing and shy of being predatory, “bow your head.”

Xavier's nostrils flare at that. After a couple of seconds he complies, and seeing the sliver of his exposed nape opens something within you.

Against your shoulder the bunny ears snag, their length not allowing to fall along Xavier's pose. You bring one hand up to trace an invisible line across an ear, the fur short and soft. Xavier's quiet beneath you, but you can feel him stiffening at your every move. Braced a little behind his sides, his hands clench tightly.

“Can you feel it?” you ask, pinching the colored tip of the ear, pushing it back to observe its make. It's well-made, and you wonder if this one costs more than you'd expect.

Xavier shakes his head. You want to hear him, however, so you tap the back of his head in warning. He exhales loudly; breathes out, “No ...” and then tacking on: “Master.”

Your eyes narrow in pleasure, the flesh of your cheeks bunching from how wide your smile is. “That's my good bunny,” you praise him, caressing the curve of his head. He shivers—whether from the praise or the touch or both, you don't know.

To see him like this—a formidable hunter with centuries of experience, the force of stars pulsing underneath his skin, ready to rupture at his command—head bent low before you, hands closed in restrained fists, the lines of his body intersecting into a show of surrender. Yielding. It heats the core of your belly and your blood, and you can't help but bite your lip as you savor the image.

Leaning back and sitting on your calves, you catch Xavier's downcast stare. His brows furrowed as if concentrating, and when he notices you trained on him, his eyes do something that reminds you of the existence of the concept of puppy dog eyes.

Every time he does that, you think, you want to gobble him up.

Closing in on his face, you raise your left hand and cradle his jaw, tipping it up, gazes never leaving each other. Then you draw nearer, and nearer, until your lips almost brush against his. The sharp sound of his inhale is deafening in this lack of distance. Your eyes never leave his, but his drop down, nearly crossing, as he's distracted by your lips. His breaths are hot on your skin, and finally you aim at the corner of his mouth, and open your own to say:

“Don't move.”

And then you descend, trailing butterfly kisses along the edge of his lips, his cheek, his temple. Xavier goes spine-rigid at the first contact, forgetting to breathe for a second, before slowly exhaling, as if trying to hold himself together. His brows knit again and his eyes flutter closed, the line of his lips sloping downward.

He's controlling himself. And that delights you so much that you shift to kiss his earlobe and tug it once, then whispering directly to his ear, “That's my obedient bunny. Keep this up and I'll reward you.”

You stop to wait, and when nothing happens, you tug his jaw and take a bite at the shell of his ear—he gasps—and continue:

“What do you say?”

Xavier's shoulders lurch. He breathes once, twice, before answering.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Good boy.”

The first reward: a kiss on the lips. A quick, initial press before you pry him open with tongue, and he welcomes you eagerly from the way he surges to meet you. The hand on his face holds him back, but his own hands fly to your hips and plant themselves there.

You slap them away, he resists. You break the kiss, and he makes a disappointed sound, chasing you, and then realizes what he's done.

“I'm sorry—my lady,” he stumbles, putting his hands back in their previous position. He looks so properly chastised, you love it.

Outwardly, you sigh in disappointment, and he whips his head up, stricken. “After I said that you're obedient, you do this. What shall we do, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

“What—” He swallows. “What do you want me to do, my lady?”

In all the times you've tried to fluster him, Xavier doesn't really redden. At best his skin produces a soft sheen of pink across his cheeks that linger over his ears. Never tomato-red though.

But now, his face glows bright pink that gradiates to a noticeable crimson, ending at the tips of his ears. This is good development, you decide, something that you want more of. So you push further.

“Are you truly sorry, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

He nods meekly.

“Then”—a finger pokes at the center of his forehead and pushes, his head docilely tilting back, exposing his slender, beautiful neck—“don't move this time.”

You slip two fingers under his tie and pull it loose. The unobstructed slide of the silken fabric echoes around the room, punctuated by the hitch of his breath. The bunny ears jerk. To his credit, he's still as a statue, and the giddiness that you've been feeling for a while now mounts to a dull yet insistent ache that pools between your legs.

Then you unbutton his collar, which reveals more of that pretty neck. An alarmed sound forms in his throat, and you call his name in warning. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows whatever he's about to say.

And that Adam's apple becomes your next target: your mouth molds around it, sucking, and Xavier gives a full-body shudder. A groan bursts out of him. He's trembling, his hands—leather-gloved and creaking at the strain of his fists—his thighs, his shoulders. You can see how he wants to turn his head, to retreat from your hot mouth, but thinks himself the better of it.

You place your left hand under his head and kiss him under the angle of his left jaw.

“Ah—”

With your free hand, you trace down the outline of his neck to shoulder. His breath catches, he jolts away, his eyes shoot you a betrayed look.

“My lady—”

You plant another kiss in the dip of his collarbone. “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?” you ask against his moist skin.

He releases a shuttered exhale. Behind you, his legs move in a way that comes across as avoidant, as if he's hiding something from you. You glance down and realize the reason for his discomfort.

Saliva pools in your mouth.

But you swallow the surging desire ignited by the image of his arousal. It isn't time yet; you want to draw this out as long as you can.

Head still tipped back, Xavier doesn't see your discovery of his want, his eyes half-mast and his focus directed on reining himself in. If you remove yourself from the scene and study him from head to toe, you'd find Xavier the perfect picture of temptation, restrained, controlled on the surface but a collapsing star underneath, gravity pulling you to him and there's no way to escape.

Not that you'd like to escape in the first place.

You repeat your question, this time against his Adam's apple: “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?”

“My la—” He chokes. Tries again. “Whatever my lady wants.”

Ah. Such a good bunny.

Your hands drift down to the next closed button. His tie is loosened enough that you can remove it in one hard tug. And isn't that a nice thought: one strong pull and he's dragged along by the force, his lips inevitably landing on your lips, a welcome collision.

But you don't follow that path; instead, your hands drop lower, to the last button of his waistcoat. The sides of your hands brush against the seam of his pants, dangerously close to his already obvious bulge, and it dawns on Xavier that you're already aware of his worldly response, if the widening of his eyes is an indication. He whips his head to shoot you a meaningful look, as if begging you to ignore his lapse of control—as if that is an unwelcome development.

Sometimes, you think, Xavier wants to show you a side of him that only exudes assurance, a sharp blade and sturdy shield that envelop you in sidereal protection. Be it from outside forces and his own—and even yours. Physical dangers, most especially, but curiously enough: information. Knowledge. The matters of the past. The matters of the heart. The both of you may have confessed that day, the words of your promises embedded in your heart like an oath under the stars, but there are times when a shadow passes through Xavier's expression, and he seems so far away. Light-years away.

But right now, that thought isn't at the forefront of your mind: it is the way the redness climbs up his neck, his face, his cheeks, painting him a beautiful hue that reminds you of a recently blossomed rose. He truly is gorgeous this way.

One of his hands encloses around yours, stopping your ministrations. Minute tremors hum under his callused palm.

“I'm—” A quick breath. “I'm supposed to serve you, my lady.”

Ah. Truly such a good bunny.

You capitulate, hands retreating from the button of his pants, but not before caressing his trembling hand and squeezing it once. An indulgent smile unfurls in the line of your lips, and you make a snap decision.

The second reward: freedom. Xavier has expressed his desire to serve, to please, and you'll give him the freedom to choose how to enact it—

Under a specific instruction, of course.

“Yes, of course,” you say, tapping his warm cheek fondly with your index finger. “Serve me, then, Mr. Bunny Butler. Strip for me. Slowly.”

He catches that finger quickly with his mouth, bites it lightly, like it's a warning—or a promise. You let him nibble and lick your finger for a couple of seconds, the wetness sending electricity down your spine, and you can't stop the shiver that echoes throughout your body. Xavier narrows his eyes in satisfaction at your response, hints of a smirk around his lips, and that's insubordination if you saw one. So you snatch your finger away from him, and punish him by dragging your wet finger along the column of his neck.

He jumps at the sensation.

“Strip, Xavier,” you repeat firmly. “Make sure it's a good show.”

It just proves how dedicated he is at this roleplay: by this point he should have already ended this little act and would have taken over, but he's holding your critical gaze as his hands settle over the topmost button of his vest.

“I'll try, my lady.” His voice drops to a low, husky murmur, one that summons pinpricks down your nape and the back of your shoulders, crawling in a slow, deliberate tease.

He does try, indeed. He moves back, affording you space to see his torso without having to change your position. One hand to brace his weight, the other deftly maneuvering each button at a comfortable pace. For every button opened, he takes a deep breath, gives you a confident smile, albeit awkward at the edges. But the rhythm of it lulls you, and you find yourself playing with his bunny ears again—a right decision, because he makes a surprised sound, which morphs into a moan.

The returned proximity grants you the ghostly brushes of his knuckles against your clothed stomach when he opens another button. Because of this, the way your stomach contracts every time he brushes you becomes known to him, and Xavier huffs a laugh, and proceeds to be more purposeful with it.

You tug at his bunny ear, hard. “Mr. Bunny Butler,” you warn.

His shrugs his vest off as his reply.

Now, only left with shirt and tie, Xavier stares down at them, thinking about what to do next. You help him by pushing yourself flush against him, making sure that your thigh grazes his cock. He judders, shoving his face on the crook of your neck and groaning. Idly, you continue playing with the furred ears.

“My lady, my lady,” he mutters, and you feel him sighing, “don't tease me.”

You hum. “Then put more effort in your show.”

He peeks up at you under those pretty yet underhanded lashes of his, and you spy hints of a smirk in that mouth.

But before you can question him about it, a hand grabs yours and guides it to his tie, wraps it around the silk fabric, and pulls. Slowly, carefully. From this angle more skin is revealed under your wandering gaze—the tease of a nipple, flashing beneath that white shirt—and you gulp at the flutter in your belly.

Once the necktie is completely off him, he takes it from your hand and, indeed like a show, re-ties it around his neck, a ribboned gift. At this point you're ready to combust—and he's not even naked.

“Do you like it, my lady?”

“Yes,” you rasp, suddenly off-kilter, “very much.”

“Then ...” He resumes undressing, the buttons of his shirt easily extricated, his movements economical, and bit by bit his bare torso opens before your anticipatory eyes.

He stops at the tucked-in part of the shirt. Glances at you, bites his lip, and goes back to pull the front off so the shirt opens just below his shoulders, presenting you such a gorgeous view.

Xavier sinks into the propped-up pillows—and you unconsciously follow—and smiles. “All yours, Master.”

He knows—that little shit—the allure of incomplete nakedness. The gap, the gape, the patches of exposed skin surrounded by fabric. Xavier's using it to his utmost advantage.

By now you could have clawed his clothes away from his body, but somehow, this tastes more delicious, the promise of a tease, the prolonged heat-pulse that thrums in your core, and you're pretty sure, if Xavier's shallow breaths are an indication, that he's into this too.

Well. May as well take advantage of this luxurious present.

One hand descends on the side of his neck, and you see him tamp down the surprised jolt. This hand, light in its touch, ghostly, virtual, traces the edges of the necktie. You can hear Xavier's bated breath, waiting for your next step.

Then down, down, down to his collarbone, the dip of it, your index finger making laps twice, end to end.

Then further: his chest. And this time, it's not only your hand that wants to participate. You brace yourself on his shoulder and bend down to kiss the center of his chest. Xavier lets out a sound, and inhales sharply.

Next: his left nipple, with an additional teasing nip. His hips buck from the sensation.

You stay where you are, lifting your gaze to ascertain his expression. His head is turned away, hiding his face, a hand covering half of it. But it's useless for him to hide, because his ear is in your direct line of vision, and it's a glaring red.

This propels you to indulge more: the hand on his shoulder slides down to pay his other nipple attention. His legs shift, restless. The sounds of his gasps and moans occupy the room. You feast on him, laying your tongue flat on him and dragging it wetly until you hear him stutter your name.

“M-My lady—I—”

You surge forward, and the force topples the stack of pillows behind him. In the midst of this, you reposition your legs so that you're finally straddling Xavier, your skirt bunching up just below your waist, and—teasingly—grind against his straining cock.

He jerks, grabbing at your hips, attempting at more friction, but you remind him who's in charge, and he eventually relents, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

“Sorry about that, my lady. I'm—I'm good now.”

“That's my good bunny.” Then you continue exploring his body with your tongue.

He tastes faintly of sweat but also the scent-taste of his body wash. He's showered just before calling you up. And for some reason, that does you: you rise to kiss him again, and your free hand sneaks itself under him—and grabs his bunny tail.

Xavier yelps, scarlet, shocked at the action, gaping at you and your smug face.

You squeeze the fluffy ball of a tail in response.

“M-My lady...!” he blurts.

“Shame that I didn't get to play with this last time,” you muse, feeling up the soft thing. It twitches under your curious touch. Delighted, you shift around Xavier's torso to lift his hips and study and poke at the tail repeatedly, entranced at the bounce and fuzziness of it. “A wasted opportunity, don't you think so?”

When you check Xavier's reaction, you have to hold back your laugh. He's clearly uncomfortable, but the discomfort is brought upon by embarrassment, as evidenced by his squirming and the persistence of his blush.

Words have left him, so he just averts your leery gaze, bury his face into the nearest pillow, and groans.

Taking pity on him, you release his tail—but not without giving it one last flick; he jolts—and slide your hands around the waistband of his pants. You're fumbling for the button and then the zipper when two gloved hands hinder your actions.

Xavier's face is rearranged into an indulgent yet mischievous smile. “My lady can enjoy me as long as you like. There's no need to hurry.”

But that's the thing, isn't it? You have already enjoyed him so much and enough that at one point things are bound to snap. He as your focal point of your want, the desire that thrums alongside your veins, almost like blood.

“But Mr. Bunny Butler,” you start, adopting a light, airy voice and tilting your head up at him, “there are a lot of things to enjoy from you. I'm not sure if one evening would do.”

Before Xavier can even get a word edgewise, you tear his pants open and yank his boxers down, freeing his cock.

“My la—”

His cock is a firm, solid weight on your hand, and Xavier bucks at the first contact, a halfway gasp ripping out of him. You watch his reactions as you stroke him slowly—painfully slowly, tantalizingly slowly—as your other hand crawl up his waist, flat palm spanning his side.

You know, intellectually and objectively, that Xavier is pretty. Gunmetal-grey hair that shimmers under the starry night sky. His smooth, unlined skin that you're harboring unholy envy for, soft under your curious fingers, almost pristine, untouched all his life. The column of his neck, strong bones underneath the layer of skin and muscle, the prominence of his Adam's apple. The outline of his body—even and proportioned, balanced like a finely crafted sword. And most of all: his eyes, the most expressive part of all of him. The color of an unperturbed sky, always clear and never lost. A steady glister in the darkness.

Right now, though, he's different altogether. Almost otherworldly in the way he's unraveling under your clever fingers. A shift of pressure and he's biting down the meat of his hand in a poor attempt to muffle his groans. A fleeting trail across the slit of his cock and his eyes flutter shut, his hips jumping off the mattress. He thrashes in chase of the pressure and pleasure you're providing him in crumbs, your need to see him lose that frustrating control of his. You keep stroking him and watching him blossom before you, petal by petal, limb by limb, nerve by nerve.

“My lady—” He's panting, running out of breath, his voice gaining that frenzied quality. It's music to your ears. “Master—Master, haa—”

He's coming, you can feel it. You can see it through his quickening breaths, the flush of his skin all over his body, the white-knuckled fist of his hands, the throb of his cock.

“My lady, I'm co—”

You release him, and the slow transformation of his face is such a fascinating phenomenon. From the crunch of pleasure, then crumpling into confusion. He raises his head to see you leaning back, hands away from him, his hazy eyes taking in what's happening—or its lack of. Then they widen, his mouth dropping open to release a sound of distress, round and full and cracking.

“Why did you ...”

You tug at the ends of the ribbon-necktie. He clicks his mouth shut.

“You said I can enjoy you as long as I like. There's no need to hurry.”

His gaze finally clears, and he gulps, nodding. Near your hips, Xavier's cock leaks.

“Then ...” You lay on top of him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, your belly pressing against his pulsing cock (he freezes at this, and then continues to freeze), and place your arms on the sides of his head so your hands can reach the bunny ears. They still react delightfully under your roaming touch. “I'm going to enjoy these a little more. Don't move too much, okay?”

The room becomes pinched with quiet, and while you're intent on the furry ears atop Xavier's head, you can sense in your periphery his eyes on you. He's careful not to jostle you, the air he breathes catching on your skin, and you feel his arms snaking around your waist, settling on the small of your back.

“You really like the costume that much, huh.”

You hum in acknowledgment, rubbing the area where accessory meets scalp. You scratch it with your light fingernails, and Xavier sighs at the feeling.

When you leave the ears, you turn your attention to Xavier's expression next. He's still observing you, his flush now pale but enduringly distinct across his cheeks, and that entices you to meet his lips in a slow, patient kiss.

“It's nice, seeing you go through such effort to make me happy,” you answer him after you separate, punctuating the statement with a pleased, narrow-eyed smile.

A thought takes over Xavier, with the way his brows knit. Moments pass, you regard him, until he finally opens his mouth to articulate whatever has occupied him.

“My lady,” he begins, hesitant at first, but each word gains confidence, “there's something I want to do for you.”

“Speak.”

“I want you to”—and here his stare morphs into that puppy dog eyes again—“sit on my face. Please.”

You're stunned. The room continues to be quiet, and you're stunned. Xavier doesn't add anything after that; just waiting for your response. He's probably not sensing how you've finally shut down. You, felled by nine words, the last one an imperative period that brooked no refusal.

When he calls you, his face and his voice are tinted with uncertainty.

“Stars, Xavier.” You scramble up to reposition yourselves in accordance to his request. During this transitory moment, Xavier removes his gloves with his teeth. Now bare, both his hands come up to hold your thighs from behind, adjusting their spread and angle. You want to whine self-consciously, but glimpsing Xavier's eager expression as you move towards his head, you stamp that part in your mind. “Okay down there?”

He doesn't reply—instead he just goes for it.

Your hands shoot for the headboard, a surprised cry shocked out of you. Is this Xavier's way of revenge for denying his orgasm earlier? The way he confronts you is not unlike a battle, with his single-minded focus on his goal and his preciseness. He parts your folds with his tongue, pays attention to your clit first: sucks it lightly before dialing it up. You convulse, your hips digging down, and he moans, the vibration thrumming your flesh.

“Xavier,” you sob, “Xavier. Xavier.”

He laps around your clit like a thirsty man, hands kneading your thighs. He must've been thinking about this for a while now, with how methodical he's going by it, strategized to push you into becoming a complete and utter wreck. He kisses your clit then mouths it, moves his tongue in lateral glides that have you thrashing on your position. You grind against him, and he welcomes it wholeheartedly, and behind you his hips thrust helplessly in air, his stubbornly hard cock drooling with pre-come.

One hand nudges you forward and you follow, until his tongue enters inside you—you gasp and shiver at the slick intrusion—drinks you with such loudness that you wouldn't be surprised if his neighbors overhear what the two of you have been doing.

He knows how to prolong the barrage of pleasure, that heat and swell around your core, your undulating hips, sustained until you buckle and collapse from the force of it, your orgasm torrential like a storm.

When Xavier emerges between your legs, his face shines from your slick and his saliva. A fond smile slips out of you, and a finger traces the length of his lips; then your entire hand, cupping the side of his face, a tender caress. A smile of his own appears and he nuzzles your hand, kisses the center of your palm, eyes closed and sated.

“Good boy,” you praise, and he sighs happily. “So good for me. Have to reward you, don't I?”

The third reward: release. You move back to pull his pants and boxers off him completely, and Xavier just watches you with anticipation, breaths in quick bursts.

“You know the drill: don't move.” You underline this order with a tease of his cock, a line-trail from the tip to the base and then a quick squeeze of his balls.

When you align yourself above him and begin to sink down, Xavier goes rigid-stiff, daring not to breathe, careful not to move. You pause from your progress, and send him a worried look.

“Xavier?”

“I—I'm—” He bites his lip, exhales through his nose. “I'm okay, I just. I'm just trying not to react too much.”

“Why?”

He casts you a helpless gaze. “Because, my lady, I'm afraid that my control would slip, and I would have my selfish way with you.”

You falter at that. To be honest that's not such a bad idea at all, but Xavier knows that this is for you and your needs, and what you need right now—and what you want, if one were to ask—is him under you, at your mercy. Just as he is right now.

So you move lower, feeling the head of his cock open you up, slowly. And you can hear the hitching breaths unwittingly made by him, his eyes shut and his whole expression folded inward, as if he couldn't handle the pleasure descending over him.

A groan tumbles out of his lips, low at first, quick and fleeting, but as you inch lower and lower, the feel of his cock molding you inside, the wanton sounds he makes lengthens, gets louder, until he parts those glistening lips and vocalizes his satisfaction.

“My lady—you feel so—”

“Good, I hope.”

He doesn't wait until you bottom out; he bucks his hips to sheathe himself inside you completely in one smooth motion. You cry out from his action, his cock pulsing against your walls, and the feeling of him pulls you in further bliss that your eyes flutter closed and your back arches as the pleasure spreads throughout your body.

“The best, my lady.”

He gasps when you clench around him, your wetness dripping between your joined bodies.

You really think the best position Xavier has ever been is here right now: underneath you, helpless to your demands, seized by pleasure that you're giving him and taking from him. The way his face doesn't know what to do in the undulating waves of pressure as you begin to move above him, your hips lifting and then slamming back down; the film of sweat coating his skin all over, moistening the sheets beneath the two of you. The severe grip of his hands, bunching up the blankets in their deathly clutch. His rapid heartbeat under your palm as you support your weight by bracing yourself on his chest. His moans, his filthy, filthy moans—his moans that you will remember until your dying day because they are so far out of his cultivated normalcy—open-mouthed, slack-jawed moans that come from the core of his abdomen, surging upwards, frantic, crazed, melodiously and sublimely wanton.

“Look at you, Xavier,” you pant, and one of Xavier's legs kicks out. “Look at my bunny butler.”

“Master—Master—”

“What do you want, darling?” you ask, shakily tracing the side of his face. When your fingers near his mouth he turns his head to place a kiss at your fingertips, then drags his tongue out to lick at their length. Your index and middle fingers press flat at his tongue, and he groans around them. His puffs of breath beat in time with the movement of your hips.

One hand crawls towards your thigh, haltingly slides upwards, up to the junction of your hips, where it disappears under the spill of your skirt. Then it reaches behind to squeeze at the meat of your ass, and you gasp, stuttering your pace.

You take out your fingers so he can answer you, but Xavier grabs your wrist with his other hand and brings it back to his lips, trails kisses on each finger, murmurs nonsensical things against your saliva-coated skin until, louder, he tells you—

“Everything you can give me, my lovely Master.”

And, oh, isn't that a wonderful thing to hear? That readiness of his—be it in battle or in bed, he rolls with everything you throw at him, as though there's nothing that can taint you in his eyes, no betrayal to feel forsaken by. As though all that he's done, all that he's doing, is in service to you.

And it's because of this that you use the same hand to cup at his jaw and jerk it in your direction, bowing down to kiss him, bite his lower lip, thrust your tongue inside, lick the roof of his mouth, suck his own tongue—devour him fully and utterly.

He meets your intent with his own, just as intense, just as parched and hungry as you are for him. Every exhale is accompanied by a soft sigh, and you swallow his every sound—that lovely and soothing voice that lingers in your mind and haunts the edges of your dreams. His reaction just drives you to speed up your pace.

He's trembling all over, and tries to shift the angle from which you're riding him. Doing so affords his cock to hit something inside you, lighting up your body, starburst behind your eyelids, and you jolt, a whimper tearing out of your throat that Xavier drinks greedily. His hand on your ass traverses to your clit and plays with it, intensifying the blast of sensations on your lower body.

Obstructed by your mouth, Xavier tries: “My lady, I think—I'm close.”

“Me too, I'm—don't hold back—”

He doesn't. And he doubles his efforts in relentlessly stroking your clit and pounding up inside you, and the pleasure crests and crests and crests until you pulse and clench and come, sobbing at the white-hot crash flooding your nerves, collapsing on top of Xavier, mouths still connected.

And he doesn't stop. This time both his hands bracket your hips; grinds you down as he pushes deeper and deeper inside you. You're oversensitive but you don't stop him, just clinging to him and whimpering, and he begins to assail your ear, his panting tangible and hot against your skin.

“My lady, my lady,” he chants, voice shattering like glass. “My lady—Master—”

His orgasm feels like an echo of your own release, his spend filling inside you. Xavier gives a few more thrusts before slowing down and stopping. A self-satisfied sigh ripples over his relaxed body, and his hands climb to your back, guide you to pillow your head on his chest, embracing you as you melt on top of him.

Minutes pass, and his breathing evens; you expected him to fall asleep after, but when you look up his eyes are emphatically open.

“Aren't you sleeping?”

He glances down at you. Quirks a smile. “No, not yet.”

“Oh ...”

“We're not finished, my lady.”

“Huh?”

“You've had your fill, Master.” He smirks. Then flips you over, reversing your positions so he's now on top of you. He starts unbuttoning your shirt. “Now let me have mine.”

[thursdayinspace]

fic master post

I think I have enough fic at this point to make a master post, collecting them all in one place. Organized chronologically for now, there isn't quite enough to make categories. :)

wild side - G, 1,205 words (AO3 link)

“Hey, Scully?” “Yeah?” “What is the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” Or: sometimes being stuck in the middle of nowhere on a dark and stormy night with your work partner of five-plus years is the best possible version of events.

in conclusion - T, 3,370 words (AO3 link)

It's the middle of the night in a freezing cold motel room and they both haven't slept. The best time and place to figure out how relationships work -- theirs in particular.

time and space - M, 2,604 words (AO3 link)

Sometimes he wonders if it would be easier if she'd be gone from his life completely. Then he reminds himself: if she moved to the ends of the earth he would still want to follow her. And when she calls, he always answers the phone. Set during the revival era. They always find their way back to each other.

five ways to says "I love you" (plus one including words) - T, 4,501 words (AO3 link)

Just because something is unspoken, it isn't always unsaid. You just have to know what to look for.

sanctuary - T, 1,550 words (AO3 link)

In a world full of lies and fear and darkness, they have each other to be the light and shelter that they need. That's something to hold onto. They watch each other sleep and consider everything that means.

mend into pieces - Explicit, 1,641 words (AO3 link)

There is nowhere she would rather be than here, with him, making the biggest mistake of her life and enjoying every second of it. Every mistake made with him is greater than every win, every success, every moment of perfect joy she has ever experienced. She’ll break herself for him as he does for her. -- Set in early season 2, right after Scully's return.

travel in style - G, 1,401 words (AO3 link)

“I can’t believe there wasn’t a single room available anywhere,” Scully says, snuggling deeper under the jacket she’s using as a blanket, already sounding half asleep as she tilts the driver’s seat back into a reclined position. “Three motels and not one single bed to be found.” Mulder shifts in the passenger seat – which she had insisted he should take because of the leg room – and desperately tries to get comfortable. “That has literally never happened before,” he agrees, sliding the seat back as far as it will go. It’s still too cramped. “God, Scully, how can you ever sleep in the car? You always make it look so easy.”

from this morning forward - Explicit, 7,233 words (AO3 link)

Moving back in happens slowly. It's not a decision, it's not a plan. They've each battled their own demons, and now that the wounds are starting to heal, she's so tired of pretending that she doesn't miss him every day. After all, through the good times and the bad, it's always been the two of them, together. -- Set during the revival era.

it's the day the world didn't end - Explicit, 1,544 words (AO3 link)

The clock ticks over to the day the world doesn’t end and he kisses her. She kisses him back. It’s not a new year’s kiss, it’s a kiss more than six years in the making. -- Millennium fic.

got you covered - T, 2,419 words (AO3 link)

“Is it a bit cold in here?” He wraps his arms around himself, looking at her in her thick cardigan next to him on the couch. “The heating’s broken,” she says. “I’m sorry, I should have called you before you came over.”

words behind the meaning - G, 3,175 words (AO3 link)

He tells her he owes her everything and she owes him nothing. She knows that's not true, but she doesn't get to tell him. Life has other plans. But she knows. And once life lets her, she will tell him. -- Post-Fight the Future: they don't kiss in that hallway, but they get there eventually.

tuesday - M, 894 words (AO3 link)

They get married on a Tuesday. It just feels like the time is right. They've waited long enough; it doesn't matter that they're only just beginning to realize that.

yesterday's future - Explicit, 3,189 words (AO3 link)

They deserve to be happy. It's not too much to ask. It's something worth fighting for, something to hold onto; the light at the end of the tunnel. That is the one thing they promise each other above all else: a future where they don't have to run anymore.

spectacular - Explicit, 2,238 words (AO3 link)

They make rules, and they make them for good reasons. No kissing at work. Definitely no sex during work hours. And they would absolutely, definitely, under no circumstances ever break their own rules. (with wonderful art here)

ellipsis - Explicit, 3,758 words (AO3 link)

He's a free man again – it’s what they’d barely dared to dream. Now, she barely dares to ask him what he wants to do with his freedom. He doesn’t know.

beyond a doubt - T, 1,164 words (AO3 link)

Maybe their second meeting will be better than their first. He’s here even though the world has fallen apart. And she’s afraid. What will she do, what can she do if it’s not really him? If they have succeeded at last, destroyed him and left only an empty, Mulder-shaped hull in an awful prison suit. or: the kiss from The Truth, told in 1,000 words.

the ginger invasion - G, 723 words (AO3 link)

Mulder is sick. He never gets sick, and it's awful. It's terrible. Scully will be wondering why he isn't at work. He should call her. He just about manages to lift his head and there she is, Scully, in his bedroom doorway.

starstruck - G, 671 words (AO3 link)

"So, I guess she's sticking around, then?" Frohike asks, and Mulder looks up from . . . whatever it is Byers just put on the screen in front of him and nods. "Seems that way. At least for now." -- Mulder has a crush. The gunmen know it.

how many stars - G, 472 words (AO3 link)

"What are you thinking?" she asks, and he turns his head to the side, looks at her. "The universe," he says.

had you big time - G, 540 words (AO3 link)

"I've thought about our weekend away," he whispers against her lips, before he kisses her again. "I've had the perfect idea."

tasting raindrops - G, 385 words (AO3 link)

She laughs with him and can't look away, raindrops clinging to his lashes, water dripping from his nose -- not kissing him in this moment would defy every law of the universe.

what time do you call this? - G, 495 words (AO3 link)

He stirs as she carefully lowers herself onto the mattress and she pauses, not wanting to wake him. It's way after midnight and it's enough if one of them will be entirely sleep-deprived the next day.

distractions - G, 1,181 words (AO3 link)

He wants to ask if she’s okay, but he knows the answer to that. And she’s told him more than once that she doesn’t want to talk about it. She says she has no memory of what they did to her. Sometimes he’s not sure he believes her.

heaven and hell - T, 996 words (AO3 link)

Hell doesn’t burn. There is no pit of fire. Heaven isn’t a green garden under a cloudless sky. Everything is made of moments, and they don't happen on schedule. But often, they happen with his hand in hers.

coffee and pancakes - T, 1,881 words (AO3 link)

It’s amazing, he thinks, how quickly you can get used to things just because they feel right. It’s been no more than a few weeks since they unpacked the last of her boxes; there hadn’t been many to begin with. She had left a lot of stuff behind when she’d moved out and barely acquired new things during the time she’d been away. Everything is back where it belongs now. or: Scully has moved back in and Mulder is realizing that a home is not just four walls and a door.

no longer dreaming - Explicit, 2,626 words (AO3 link)

She refuses to do anything while he still has his arm in a sling. And while his body is straining towards her with every cell, deep down he’s grateful. All these years they’ve waited. He doesn’t want to rush this now. -- Post-millennium, they finally let themselves have what they've both wanted for so long.

home furnishings - Explicit, 5,008 words (AO3 link)

It starts with a sprained ankle and frustration about a broken chair. He knows it’s not IKEA’s fault. He and Scully have gone through a number of chairs over the years. But he thinks a billion-dollar multinational company will survive the scorn of one grumpy customer. (or: Mulder writes reviews. Mulder also loves Scully.)

[usmsgutterson]

Nothing Feels As Good As Going Home - S.R

Okay!! My ao3 did see this one first (I had edited it late last night and honestly?? I was too lazy to post it on both platforms because I edited it on ao3 and was too lazy to copy, paste, and then write an authors note lmao) and I'm pretty unsure about this as a whole because I'm only eight seasons in and I haven't written for Spencer before, but I'm conquering my fears tonight.

Despite my bio (which will be changed at least fifteen minutes after this has been posted--I have two accounts and I want to do some maintenance for this one because it needs a little TLC I fear) my requests are currently open!! They're wide open to Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner, even though I'd also likely be willing to write for another criminal minds character if you asked.

Fic type - this one is tooth rotting fluff because I couldn't resist

Warnings - spencer might be a tad ooc because this is the first time I've written for him. This is also set either in or around season eight as, when I wrote this, I was about halfway through that season and I'm currently close to 2/3rds of the way done with it. Cats are also in this one, if you aren't a cat person.

Spencer used to hate going home. He felt like he’d never really know what would be going on the minute he opened the front door and stepped inside, and after his father left, that fear intensified bit by bit.  

After his father left, he never knew what it would mean, going home, so he stalled. He’d go to a local park and sit on a bench and read a few books in an hour, maybe two, in order to escape the fear he felt at the idea of going home when he had no idea what would be going on in that house, whether his mother was okay that day or not.  

When he went to college and was living in the dorms, he hated going back because it meant more isolation. More loneliness, more of the same, really. Only his books to keep him company and just about nobody else, unless Ethan called, which he usually did two or three times a week. Ethans calls were one of the only things that really helped him when he wasn’t looking after his mother whenever he was on break, typically around the winter and during the summer.  

After having his mother institutionalised, he feared going home because it meant that she wasn’t there, and the guilt that came with having her taken into a facility when it wasn’t something she wanted weighed down on him very heavily.  

In those last two years pre-FBI, he hated going home because it meant more of the same. More loneliness, more of the same nature documentaries he'd seen a thousand times before if he wasn't putting on the news, and more books that he’d already read several times before haunting him from wherever it was that they sat on his bookshelves, which had been scattered throughout most rooms in his apartment.  

But he joined the FBI at twenty-one and managed to meet you somewhere along that year, found out that you’d just started working with the Marshals and had lived only twenty five minutes out from Arlington, which put you about fifteen from Quantico as a whole, and he started hating going home a lot less after you guys had been together for four months.  

After four months of dates and getting to know each other, getting home usually meant going on another date or Spencer finally getting the opportunity to call you and stay on the phone for longer than fifteen minutes.  

Spencer is very careful about your relationship, though—very secretive, though he doesn’t really mean to be, to avoid teasing from Derek and, four or so years down the line, Emily and JJ, though even Rossi joined in on occasion.

It’s not until he’s on the jet, Alex sitting to his left, JJ across him and Derek diagonally so, that he has to spill the beans.  

He gets a text from you and it’s the way that he smiles that gives it away.  

Hey, Spence! I cleaned up the house a little bit and went to grab your favourite coffee beans from the bodega we both like. Also: meet Megatron. Her name deceives.  

Attached is a photo of a kitten that can’t be more than four or five weeks old, dark brown everywhere except for her paws and chin, which are white.  

“Who’s the lucky one, boy genius?” Derek asks.  

“Huh?” Spencer looks up, eyes widened slightly. “It’s nobody.”  

JJs head tilts. “You wouldn’t smile like that for a nobody,” she says. “Who is it?”  

“Is it the one with the dark blue Prius--” Alex starts before she pauses, realizing where she's fumbled. That gets Rossi and Hotch interested, both of whom come to sit in the seats across from the four.  

Alex is the only one on the team who knows about you apart from Penelope, which is pure happenstance—his car had broken down once when both she and Spencer had worked a late night, and so you’d offered to pick him up from work so that the two of you could go back to the house you shared and indulge in a shark documentary and some pizza.  

“It is,” Spencer nods. “Their name is Y/N.”  

“How long have you had a Y/N?” Derek asks.  

“Since I was twenty-one,” Spencer admits. “About a decade now.”  

“You kept a romantic partner hidden for a decade ?” Derek asks. “How? Does--”  

“Penelope knows about them because they’re in the group she goes to on Tuesdays,” Spencer says. “The one for knitting and crocheting—Y/N does the latter, mostly, but they did knit the cardigan I was wearing last week.”  

“And how did Penelope figure out about the thing you two have had going on?”  

“It’s more than a thing , Derek,” Alex says. “If it’s been going for a decade, it’s more than a thing.”  

“We’d gotten done with a case early, and Penelope had left pretty much as soon as we were on the jet so that she could make it to the aforementioned group. I asked them where they were and picked them up with their favourite tea as a surprise. Penelope saw me there, watched us hug, and just about lost her mind. Have I satisfied your thirst for knowledge yet?”  

He turns to Alex briefly, nods a bit to answer her earlier remark. “I just proposed last weekend, so you’re right. It’s more than just a thing I would say.”  

Derek and JJs eyes widen until their shock is clearly conveyed, and Spencer laughs.  

“You have a fiancee, and you just—didn't think to fucking tell anybody?” Derek laughs. “Were you ever going to tell us?”  

“I was—we've been busy with work, and it didn’t occur to me.”  

“Okay,” JJ nods like she believes it, and that’s good enough for Spencer because he’s telling the truth anyway. “What was the text about?”  

Spencer shrugs, paraphrases.  

“They wrote me to tell me they’d cleaned up the house and picked up a stray, I think,” Spencer answers. “I mean, the stray part wasn't explicitly stated but—the kitten doesn’t look more than four weeks old, so the assumption was immediate, but they know I can’t say no to cats. They’ve been hoping that they’d find a stray while I was on a case since we first moved into a condo together. We bought our house six months ago now, and they’ve joked, every single time before I’ve left for a case, that it’s the perfect time.”  

“What’d they name it?” Rossi asks. “Assuming they didn’t ask for your input. I wouldn’t--I’d have a kitten named Einstein who could never live up to that.”  

Spencer can’t help the loving laugh that bubbles up from his throat as his fingers absently locate the chain around his neck, with an engagement ring of his own weighing the chain down just slightly so that the ring sits comfortably at the middle of his collarbone.  

“They named her Megatron,” he says nonchalantly. “Smallest cat I’ve ever seen, and still, she’s got big shoes to fill. Massive ones, actually.”  

That is enough to get Hotch to crack a smile. For a second, Spencer feels like he’s winning even though a game isn’t even being played.  

“Okay, so—how did you do it?” JJ asks. “I mean—ten years and a recent engagement? With only two people on our team discovering through that entire time? How?”  

“Penelope figured it out three years in,” Spencer answers. “Alex only figured it out recently, which is kind of surprising because I’ve never exactly hidden their existence. I just haven't talked about them because nobody has ever really asked but—I don’t know, either. We kept it low key because we both work law enforcement and it was just easier that way for the first little while, and then we both decided we liked the quiet so we kept things that way.”  

“They work in law enforcement?” Derek asks, his eyes narrowing. “Are they FBI?”  

“They’re a Deputy US Marshal, actually,” Spencer corrects. “They work in the Virginia office, which is 45 minutes outside of Quantico, up in Arlington. It’s why I have a twenty five minute commute—we both like our jobs a lot, and twenty-five minutes for me one way is only eighteen minutes for them the other, but I like driving so I don’t mind. They’re in talks for a promotion right now, and they were meant to hear about it today but so far their texts haven’t indicated anything about that.”  

It’s the most Spencer has told anyone except his mother about you since you’d gotten together, and while you both normally like to keep things quiet, bragging about you to the people he routinely trusts with his life is a very nice feeling.  

“US Marshal?” JJ asks. “They pretty commonly hire ex-military,” she says.  

“They’ve never been anywhere near the military,” Spencer laughs. “They did a two year degree at a community college, went to Glynco for training, and were employed by the US Marshals by twenty-one, around the same time I joined the FBI. We met each other at a coffee shop when they were off of work and their local one was closed, so our meeting was kismet.”  

Spencers phone buzzes again, and he ignores it that time. 

Alex grins at him, while Derek tuts and JJs eyes go to his phone as it buzzes once, then twice more, the fourth buzz coming four and a half seconds after the first, second, and third.  

“Check it,” she urges. “The jet is going to land in fifteen minutes, Spencer, so if it’s good news, you might as well.”  

SPENCER!! 

I have really really REALLY good news 

Please tell me your jet is landing soon or the very minute it’s landed call me please because you work twenty five minutes away and that means I can call and order from Antonios and by the time you’re home, you’ll only have to wait five minutes for pizza.  

Also, Megatrons full name is Megatron Ichabod Reid. Just so you know. I love you so much you stupid smart handsome tall man.  

Spencer doesn’t even try to fight his laugh as he reads.

“Good news?” Derek asks.  

“I think they got promoted, but I won’t know for sure til I’m home,” Spencer answers. “Also--Megatrons full name is apparently Megatron Ichabod Reid—their texts read like they’re hyper.”  

“I’d be pretty hyper if I got news of a promotion,” Rossi says. “Let us know if they did, though, kid. I’m hosting a dinner to celebrate your engagement regardless, but if they got promoted, it’s another thing to celebrate on the roster, and all the more of an excuse to meet the person you’ve kept hidden from the likes of us for a decade.”  

“You guys ordering Antonios?” Alex asks. “You mentioned getting Antonios for dinner the day after I saw you two together. I’m assuming it’s their favourite pizza spot—you don’t really seem like the pizza type. More like a pasta guy.”  

“We both love it,” Spencer answers. “There’s no pizza like Antonios—not where we live, anyway. It’s the middle ground between Quantico and Arlington, so there’s not a whole lot to do unless you drive either way.”  

“Antonios makes a good pizza,” Rossi nods.  

“Their pasta is better,” Hotch interjects. Spencer shakes his head, tries to go back to the book that’s sitting on the table in front of him but fails miserably, waits for the fifteen minutes til the jet lands to be done whilst the rest of the team talks amongst themselves.  

The second the jet lands, as he’s walking out of it, he dials your number and you pick up on the first ring.  

“Spencer Walter Reid, light of my life and giver of astoundingly lovely forehead kisses, please tell me you’ve landed,”  

Spencer laughs. “Just did,” he says. “The team knows about us now, by the way—I smiled when you texted and that lead to Derek questioning me, so there’s that. Also, if the good news is what I think it is, Rossi wants to hold a celebration dinner as an excuse to meet you. He fronted it with our engagement first, but I think he’s just shocked we’ve kept each other under wraps that long.”  

“You like Megatrons name?” You ask, giggling a bit, seemingly in spite of yourself. “I’m sorry, Spence—I'm hyper as hell, bouncing off the walls type. I’m going to open a bottle of wine, see if it calms me down a little. Get home as fast as you can, though! I miss your handsome face!”  

“Just gotta finish a file or two and then I’ll be home,” he says. “If you order the pizza now, I’ll only be like, five minutes late—the pizza won’t be scalding, like it usually is because of their ridiculously well-working warmer bags.”  

“I love you, Spence,” you say, tone turning a little serious. “Get home safe, please.”  

“I will,” Spencer nods. “You okay?”  

“Hyper but yearning,” you laugh. “I just miss you, ‘s all.”  

“I miss you too,” he says. “I’ll be home in forty minutes, tops. I promise.”  

The phone call ends, and he doesn’t miss the knowing smiles that are on Derek and Rossis faces. JJ is looking at him mildly confused as the tone of the conversation changed near it’s end, but he doesn’t want to explain, and so he chooses not to say anything.  

He goes back into the office, completes what remains of the files he has to work on, and after he submits the paperwork in to Hotch, he just about speed walks out of the office, toward the elevators.  

Derek is leaving at the same time as he is. “Goin’ home to Megatron and the singular person who’s managed to keep up with you for the past decade?” He asks teasingly as the doors close.    

“Yeah,” Spencer laughs. “I know you guys will tease me about it til the end of my time here, but—yeah. I get to go home to a stray cat the love of my life probably found in the parking lot of a Joanns, and the love of my life themself.”  

“I’m all done with my teasing, for now,” Derek says. “I’m just a little confused—why'd you keep them from us for this long?”  

“I don’t know,” Spencer admits. “When we’d first started dating, they’d just started out with the Marshals and they were scared having a partner in the FBI would get them special treatment, and then, when the stuff with Tobias Hankel happened and I got into Dialudid, I was scared that I’d make an enemy and then they’d find out about Y/N and use them to hurt me, and it just—we’re the quiet type, so we had reasons til we stopped needing them. I was going to tell you guys before we got engaged, but stuff has just kept happening so quickly in these past couple of years, and it’s kept slipping my mind.”  

Derek shrugs, but smiles understandingly. “I get it,” he says. “Lookin’ forward to that dinner Rossi is planning, though. I can’t wait to meet the singular person who probably would let you talk their ear off because they find you handsome or like your voice or something else that’s really sweet. You have a good night, Spence.”  

The elevator dings and the doors open, and the two leave separately. Spencer drives a little above the speed limit in the interest of getting home, which isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d do but is doing that night because it’s been a week since you’d last seen each other and he misses you like mad.  

When he inserts his key into the lock, unlocks the door and steps inside, he’s not filled with dread or fear or anxiety or loneliness or anything like that—instead, it feels like exactly what it’s supposed to.  

As he steps out of his shoes, hangs his bag on the coat rack and hears the sound of your laugh, he registers just how much the place he calls home feels like the word used to describe it.  

As he greets you with a hug and a few kisses to the forehead, it feels so much like home that it almost causes an ache in his chest. As you tell him about your promotion from Deputy to Chief Deputy and he hears Megatron the cat meow for the first time, happiness swells within him. Home, for the first time in his life, truly feels like a home. A place where he can unwind and be with those he truly loves, a place in which happiness is practically never-ending.  

Going home has never felt so good as going home to you, and Spencer is unsure anything will ever beat it.  

[starchaserdreams]

My fics on AO3

Alright, so I deleted my AO3 account a few months ago (thinking I was done with this) and orphaned all of my works. Well, now I deeply regret that. But I have collected as many of them as I could find here for anyone who's interested.

Jegulus/Starchaser

Temptation Eyes (Now Complete!) - My Jegulus Regency AU. Completed, being posted one chapter twice a week. James enters the London season hoping to find a wife. What he finds instead is Regulus Black, and he never looks back. But as implied by the era, it won't be easy for them. Background wolfstar, shown as a different approach to a queer relationship in the regency era.

Get Regulus Out - 82k, Rated M, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Working Through Trauma, No War/Riddle AU, background Wolfstar, background Marylily. James tries to convince Regulus to leave Grimmauld Place as Sirius once did, and save himself from his parents.

How to Spot Signs of Jealousy - 4k, fake/pretend relationship, mutual pining, miscommunication. After Regulus gets fed up with people asking him out because of his family name, he and Barty agree to fake date. For some reason, James Potter seems livid...and Regulus can only guess that it's because he's homophobic. That's got to be it, right?

But Where's Regulus - 1k. James on laughing gas after getting his wisdom teeth taken out and talking about how much he likes Regulus

Waking Up Slowly - 2k. James wakes up in bed with Regulus in the Gryffindor dorm, something Sirius might not take kindly to.

I've Read Your Book - 1k. Two one shots based on the same premise: Writer!James didn't even know Regulus knew about his book, let alone had read it, but Regulus comes up to him and says "I've read your book" aka the most exciting words of all time to start a conversation for a writer.

Little Ball of Fire - 1k. Regulus gets into an argument with Snape. Regulus begins threatening him, so James picks Regulus up and carries/drags him out of the room before anyone gets hurt.

Prongsfoot/Bambibelle

What's in a Name - 5k, Soulmates AU, secret crush. In a world where soulmates exist and can identify each other by the feeling they get when they say each other's names, it's pretty easy to identify who your soulmate is. But for Sirius and James who only call each other by their nicknames, it takes a while to finally know.

The Bachelorette - 15k, mutual pining, Bachelorette AU. Sirius and James are both cast as contestants on the Bachelorette. Although their stated goal was to woo Lily and capture her heart, they don’t quite manage it. They fall for each other instead.

A Real Marriage Under Wizarding Law - 6k, mutual pining, fake/pretend relationship, drunken shenanigans. Sirius and James get a quickie drunken marriage in Knockturn Alley. When they wake up in the morning, they decide not to get it annulled so that they can save Sirius from an arranged marriage.

The Only Transfer Students to Ever Come to Hogwarts - 9k, arranged marriage, hijinx, angst with a happy ending. Sirius is upset to learn that not only does he have to transfer to a new school, but his parents have set up an arranged marriage for him. James assures him that's impossible, but Sirius knows his parents don't make empty threats. (Written for Prongsfoot Bingo)

The Smell of Water - 4k, Amortentia, idiots in love. Sirius and James argue about what they're smelling without realizing that there's Amortentia in the room. When Sirius realizes, he becomes a whole mess about it. (Written for Prongsfoot Bingo)

Wolfstar

Wolfstar Microfics Theme: Love - 8k, a collection of 22 microfics themed around love

6x James Found Out, and 1x Harry Did - 10k. Six ways James could have learned about Sirius and Remus' secret relationship, and one way Harry could have learned about it. *This is specifically ATYD fanfiction, and it's set in that universe.

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

DC

The Bachelor: Robin Edition by Vamillepudding

Gotham loses its Robin and Bruce Wayne loses a son. Tim finds one of these too tragic to bear. In his quest to make sure Bruce Wayne lives to see the next year, he strikes upon the perfect solution: another son.

-

His best bet is, naturally, Crime Alley.

By 8 pm that day, Drake Manor is filled with ten black-haired, blue-eyed boys sitting around the large dining table, looking around the room suspiciously.

Well. Eleven. But Tim doesn’t think he counts.

ATLA

Dish Duty by Princeliest

All Zuko had been trying to do was wash some dishes. Or: The one where Zuko and Katara both mean well, but still can't find their footing around each other in time to prevent explosive shouting, broken dishes, an impromptu arrest, and Team Avatar's third- nay, fourth jailbreak. Fifth? They've lost count at this point, but at least they're not willing to lose Zuko... now, if only he realized that.

Merlin

all oak and iron bound by numinousnumbat

Some of those born with magic are repelled by iron. Merlin wished he knew how much iron there was in Camelot before he started his new life there.

HTTYD

Abandon Hope Who Enters Here (everyone who enters here) by JaggedEmeraldsOfGold

Eret had spoken about the mindless cruelty of Drago’s base and soldiers, but there’s nothing like seeing it in front of her to make it really, really sink in. She’d wanted to empathize, but she doesn’t think she really understood.

She does now.

Astrid leans her head back until it hits the wall behind her, and blinks up at the ceiling.

It’s going to be a long three days.

Or: Instead of facing the Monstrous Nightmare in the Kill Ring, Hiccup packs up and leaves Berk on Toothless, defeating the Red Death on his own as he goes. Six years later, Hiccup has royally fucked up– Hiccup has severely underestimated Drago, and now Hiccup is cramped, tired, hungry, without his prosthetic, and he really, really, really misses Toothless.

Imagine his surprise (read: complete and utter dread) when he wakes up one day to see absolutely none other than Astrid Hofferson, Snotlout Jorgenson, Fishlegs Ingerman, and Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston sitting in the cell across from him.

against the wind by underpassgraffiti

When Hiccup and Snotlout get stranded, they have to work together to stay alive.

Easier said than done.

To End a War by GhostStone

Stoick may not listen to Hiccup, but there is one person he does listen to on occasion. And that one person just happens to be someone who will listen to Hiccup.

An AU where the night before he is meant to kill the dragon, Hiccup realized how awful his plan is and goes to Gobber for help.

the soul of a dragon by castelia

Soulmarks amongst humans are easily identifiable: they are words tattooed on skin, words to be spoken during the first moment where two people truly connect. No one believes dragons have soulmarks, let alone that a dragon and a human can share a soul bond.

Until Hiccup.

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, today we have a rec list of bottom Louis fics where Louis or Harry are bakers. If you enjoy our rec lists, please be sure to like and reblog this post to help spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Christmas Lights In Paris | Mature | 4,671 words

Harry vividly remembered the day he was foolish enough to be blinded by pointless rage. It had been on Louis' birthday, a year ago, and Harry had bought tickets to Paris for both him and Lou. He had expected Louis to come with him to Paris for 3 years, without really talking about the plan to his lover. Everything went down hill when Louis refused. "You think your bakery is far more important than I am?" Were the exact words he had spewed and stormed off.

2) Don’t Say Yes, Run Away Now | Not Rated | 5,076 words

Louis is getting married and Harry made a promise. Plus, he has a plan. Kind of.

3) Too Nervous To Be Lovers | Mature | 6,445 words

Louis doesn't want to spend quarantine with Harry, his straight roommate, who doesn't even acknowledge his existence.

4) I Built This Bed For Two (I Built This Bed For Me and You) | Explicit | 8,942 words

Harry and Louis broke up after uni and haven't seen each other since—until they're roped into doing a Buzzfeed video together. Featuring awkward cuddling and a reunion that just needed a kick in the arse, gleefully provided by Niall.

5) Feel My Love | Explicit | 10,479 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Louis always gets things done on time, he just takes a detour along the way. The detour? Having sex with Harry. Harry never brings it up. Until he does.

6) Were We Ever This Young? | Explicit | 17,297 words

Hogwarts AU in which Harry and Louis both return to give talks to seventh years about the 'real world' with slightly varying results. Inspired by the Chilton scene between Rory and Paris in the new Gilmore Girls.

7) Heart of Sugar, Sweet Temptation of Mine | Explicit | 25,600 words

The process of courting is seriously outdated nowadays, it's not common anymore; people don’t want to go through the hassle of a proper courtship, dating is easier. Louis though, he was raised in a very traditional family, every member, down to his parents, had a courting and a mating ceremony. He grew up hearing stories about how wonderful it is, how much deeper the connection gets between a courting pair can get, and he's wanted that for himself since he was a pup, always dreaming of his alpha showing up and sweeping him off of his feet. His dreams seem to be coming true when he moves into a new building, closer to where he works, and the older alpha living in the flat in front of his own, initiates the courtship process. Everything he's ever wanted is within reach. Or is it?

8) Confections Of The Heart | Explicit | 25,877 words

Harry chuckles, smiling when Louis’ breath hitches as he reaches up to brush his thumb over Louis’ cheek. “Louis, would you like to go on a date with me?” He still worries that the date won’t go well, that Harry will get bored of him or decide it’s too complicated dating an omega with a pup, but he nods anyway, “Yes.” It feels worth it when Harry’s lips widen into a grin and the dimple that Louis finds quite charming craters into his cheek. Who knows, maybe it won’t be as awkward as you think, Louis thinks to himself and follows Harry to where Oliver is watching a chef with a loud laugh show the pup how to sculpt with chocolate. Maybe this time it’ll work out.

9) At Your Fingertips | Explicit | 27,399 words

He finds himself wrapped up in sheets in bed on Thursday night, staring at the familiar name on a new story that was posted the night before. His fingers twitch, ready to hit play and surrender to his impulses, saving the regret and turmoil for later. And still he hesitates, internally praying that he’ll somehow gain the strength to exit out within the next few moments before he inevitably loses his patience and hits the button. Three… Two… One. Play.

10) Tis the Season for...Love? | Mature | 27,920 words

Louis might just be what Harry's needed all along.

11) Short And Sweet | Explicit | 29,658 words

Louis is a shy university student in a world scarce of male omegas. He's always dreamt of having an alpha despite his sheltered upbringing, fantasizing about being loved and cared for. He's immediately smitten by the mysterious alpha with curly hair, broad shoulders, and the addictive coffee scent.

12) Welcome Home | Explicit | 49,417 words

Louis Tomlinson had to put a stop to his football career for a couple of months and he decided to go back home to rest his mind for a little bit only to find out a really weird coffee shop owner started to visit his mother on a regular basis with just as peculiar but lovely kid named Maxine.

13) Taken Over By The Feeling | Mature | 53,654 words

After almost a year of increasingly troubling behavior, Louis agrees to let his sister live with him. It's a last resort before more drastic measures are taken by their mom. Harry Styles runs Given A Chance, a program for troubled and disadvantaged teens out of the bakery he owns. He offers the kids in his program what he believes they need to start on a different and better path for their lives. Louis learns all too quickly that Harry's goodwill does not extend to him. Only because he happens to remind Harry of an ex he'd rather forget. It's not the smoothest of beginnings, but in the end Louis' own issues might be the real problem.

14) Beachwood Cafe | Mature | 63,562 words

The AU where Louis works in a cute little beachside cafe after running away from his problems and Harry is the tall handsome stranger who makes him question everything.

15) Wild Thing | Mature | 65,950 words

Harry doesn’t think love is for him, until Louis shows him just how wild love is.

16) Alpha's Sweet Omega | Not Rated | 66,133 words

Every soulmark differs from Alpha to Beta to Omega. It’s like a puzzle piece that connects you to your soulmate. Some legends from the ancient times say that when you have an aching soulmark, you’re close in finding your mate, and you’ll know that it is your mate when the scent transcends and entices you. And the pain in the mark will subside when you touch your mate. But what if you are already bounded to someone who is not your Alpha? Does social status matter? Will an Alpha fight for his rightful place and win the love of his Omega? The story of love and facing the odds. Making the impossible possible. The things you will do for Love...

17) Pinkies Never Lie | Explicit | 83,615 words

AU in which Louis hates his job and loves Harry, Harry just wants a distraction, everyone else wants them to get their shit together, and Louis learns the hard way that new beginnings are only possible when something ends.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[starry-bi-sky]

ive been hesitating to ask this bc youve been on a roll with the clone^2au (which i am frothing over) but could i poke you for some childhood friend au? bc GOD i wanna see how danny reacts to reuniting w jason or how the rest of the batfam react to learning jason never told danny of his resurrection or wondering if dannys gonna put jokers dead body on a display/offering to jasons grave. i havent been normal about this since i first read it and was wondering. thank you for your writing.

RAAAAHHHH DON'T BE HESITANT I AM JUST AS FERAL OVER MY CHILDHOOD FRIENDS AU AS I AM WITH CLONE^2 I AM DELIGHTED BY THIS. Like.,,,, i literally love them,,, so much. I can't listen to The Crane Wives without thinking of them.

(which is my fault - the ao3 fic of them has literally only crane wives lyrics for each chapter title and summary (posted AND the ones not written) so of course im gonna associate with them.)

(if you wanna listen to some of their songs while thinking of cfau here are my recommendations: "Once & for All", "Here I Am", "Hollow Moon" is a Danny AND Jason song to me, this would be my go-to song for an animatic of CFAU if i had the skills for it. "Tongues and Teeth", "Curses" and "take me to war" is a heavy cfau danny song to me, and of course, "the moon will sing")

Like they're BEST friends dude, they're two sides of the same coin and when they were kids they would do this thing where their 'fingers crossed'/'double-crossed' was them hooking their index fingers in the fingers crossed gesture.

and i'm actually currently rewriting my original post into a more fic-like format, and when I'm done I'll post it on here under the cfau tag - with the original post still in tact. But its,,, gonna be so long dude,,,, the original behemoth was just over 9000 words,,, and I've written 3k words already of the new one and we haven't even reached Jason and Danny reuniting at the gala yet,,, i need to get back to that,,,

and then to answer your questions!! god im almost hesitant to answer because i dont wanna spoil the little fic i had planned for it but also like,, its not like im gonna spoil everything, right? and answering the questions isnt the same as writing the scene down so!!

i love danny and jason's reuniting, like i've thought about it SO much and I've thought about it happening after Danny kills the Joker. I know the reveal could have been before that, and it could have been equally just as dramatic but like??? Thematically, doing it after danny kills the joker is SO good. To me at least.

Because like?? Jason's been in somewhat denial about danny's plan to kill the joker for months. ever since danny told him that he wanted to at the gala. And from Jason's pov its not even technically a plan. He sees his best friend for the first time after five years and his best friend still isn't over his death. He hasn't stepped foot in Gotham since his funeral and now suddenly he's here.

And he's still so full of grief over his death that he tells a masked vigilante that he's going to kill the guy that did it, who lives in said masked vigilante's city. And danny's got that look in his eyes that Jason knows so well that means he's being serious. And yet he still doesn't know if he should believe him or not.

And then he does. Danny kills him. And Jason can't fucking believe it. And when he goes and sees Danny, Danny's hands are still covered in blood. And that reunion? God like a fucking firework show. Danny's so fucking angry, and pissed, and hurt, and so goddamn overjoyed that he's alive and here that he sends them both to the ground, and if he doesn't calm down he's gonna take out the power in a five block radius.

there's just so, so much yelling on Danny's end. And then so much crying, first from Danny and then them both. because god, you're alive. you're here. i've missed you so much. i'm never letting you out of my sights again.

and Joker's death! God I don't want to actually say too much about that, but the way I have it set up thematically makes me actually not want danny to take any part of the joker with him as an offering. and he may actually forego that particular ghost etiquette and offer something else as an offering to Jason in substitute to not bringing him the Joker's heart/head/ritualistic body part.

Because you know what the last thing a man whose been spending the last two decades of his life building himself up to be larger than life would want? A death that's unremarkable. :) and that's all i'll put on the matter for now.

and the batfam!! they technically already know that jason hasn't told danny he was resurrected, and plenty of them have mixed feelings on them. largely bruce and dick i think, considering they saw firsthand how close jason and danny were when they were kids.

Dick was honestly surprised at first when he found out that Jason hadn't told Danny he was alive - and on one hand he understands the reasoning for it, and on the other hand he isn't sure if it was such a good idea. Especially after he sees Danny again after he arrives back in Gotham and sees just how badly Jason's death was still affecting him. But it's not like he's going to try and convince Jason to tell him - he can make his own choices, even if Dick has questions about them.

Bruce has much the same thoughts as Dick, so there's not really much to add here other than he might bring it up once or twice to Jason like, vaguely. And then immediately drops it when Jason shuts him down. He might actually somewhat...?? prefer that Jason hasn't told Danny because that raises a lot of questions and could jeopardize their identities. However, again, Jason can make his own choices and there's not much Bruce can do about it other than disapprove from afar.

Tim who knew of Danny from stalking the Wayne family shares similars sentiments of being surprised that Jason didn't tell Danny, but again, yeah, understands the thought process to some extent. Doesn't bring it up ever.

Everyone else who hadn't seen firsthand how close Danny and Jason are don't really have much opinion on it -- Jason didn't tell his best friend he was alive, great, he also didn't tell them either so it's not like its that much of a surprise. It would've been more of a surprise to them if Jason had told Danny before he told Bruce and co. Damian may make a comment or two about Jason not telling Danny, but its not about how he can't believe he didn't tell him or anything like it.

[vee-lociraptor]

@james-spooky had to get out my laptop for this one /pos. im so sorry if you notice the pattern where several of these are indeed written by my mutuals. my mutuals are really good writers i cannot help this. i will not be tagging any of them because im about to be so cringe on main about their work. under the cut because i accidentally rambled

SupposedToBeWriting on ao3 (organchordsandlightning on tumblr) is really good!! she has a very good characterization of both john and arthur (from what i know she usually portrays them platonically) and she describes things beautifully :) i hear really good things about her writing in general but in particular i have bookmarked - A Light in the Dark (set in s1, coma arthur) - alike and together (spoilers for part 29, very much love this one) - The Alleyway Monster (set vaguely part 6) - A Body Divided (crossover with the monstrous agonies podcast, which i do not know, but very silly and i enjoy it)

WordsINeedToGetOut on ao3 (gayghostrights on tumblr) also has great depictions of arthur and john and writes them more as like. not romantic not platonic not qpr but a secret fourth thing. very fun to read. they have some good sfw fic but if nsfw isnt your thing (and it very much is. not mine) mind their tags. - i specifically follow their "a family found and made" series it's. so nice. it's post canon but an au of sorts so there's not really spoilers - what does and does not fit (post-part 43 john doe poem im Very Normal about (i met him because i was being feral about it)) - again. please mind his tags.

dearcaspian on ao3 (lighthouseshepard on tumblr) is an absolutely phenomenal writer and i am not biased about this at all. please trust. in all seriousness his prose reads like poetry it's so nice to get to read it every time. i know waltz already recommended it but take it as peer review because no sweeter innocence is mind altering. i read all like 28,000 words of it at the time in one go at two in the morning kind of mind altering. (visibly shaking) it's. really good - other than that they write really good separate bodies jarthur fic that makes me feral - i dont even have specific recommendations all of it makes me sick. go forth. some of it is on his tumblr go get it. - i LIED a kind of quiet holy makes me more sick than a lot of the rest of it. call me touch starved if you want but i will say that on main

safe_ship_habored on ao3 (izel-scribbles on tumblr) only has a few works and mostly writes dollins at this point but they're really good! i think they've posted some exclusively on tumblr? can't think of anything specific right now but ik i've read the most toothaching john and arthur fluff /pos from them

i don't want to talk about this one. lea's going to see it. im going to do it anyway because it is my favorite malevolent fic and i feel you should know about it. there is a fic and it's on tumblr and it's called when the land was godless and free. it is by percymawce-arts and ananxiousgenz on tumblr. i am insane about it. it is a cowboy au and it is somewhat suggestive (moaning making out sort of thing) but the prose is so so good. the characterization and the way they translate malev characters into a western cowboy setting is phenomenal. it has catholic guilt in it. it has yearning. it's romantic jarthur and if it's not your thing i get it but percy and lea both really cooked on this one. i know i've posted about it on tumblr before. i am so aware that one of the authors is my mutual now lea don't look.

i am rambling so hard right now i have more. im not even done. im so sorry - styrofoamdoor (ao3 and tumblr) has a noel character study on their ao3 account and it's so good and i am thinking about it always. it's set post-episode 40. - ETA, never change by green_tea_and_honey SO silly and goofy and yet. also serious somehow. au where arthur has a phone and john messes around with it - come, wayward souls is also by green_tea_and_honey and i havent read it yet but it IS an over the garden wall crossover and i love that show so much - kiss me better is the only work i've read by SeerOfTime but i hear really good things about their malevolent fic so i will definitely be checking them out in the future

[half-bakedboy]

please write established (maybe married) buddie on a call and oblivious buck getting hit on, jealous eddie "excuse me, he is married. to me"

loooove your fics

read on ao3

Eddie's barely paying attention to the patients he and Hen are caring for. They're both fine, really, and were sitting on the sidewalk when the 118 got there so Hen and Eddie went to work while Buck and Chimney dealt with the fire. He's too busy watching Buck fight each car flame with expert efficiency. He's laughing with Chimney, head thrown back as they spray the chemicals with the precision of two firefighters who had a bond like brothers-in-law.

It's times like these where Eddie remembers exactly why he fell in love with Buck. He finds joy in any situation, good or bad, whether it directly impacts him or not. Even the two patients seem amused by his carefree joy, and who is Eddie to blame them? Buck won him over that way.

"Since I'm all checked out, can I go take a closer look at the damage?" his patient asks. She's only got a small laceration on her arm, presumably from a piece of shattered glass, but is otherwise unscathed. She's fine to walk, but he's a little confused about what she thinks might be left.

"Yeah, sure. Buck!" he shouts. Buck turns around immediately, the smile widening on his lips. "She--"

"Beverly," his patient interrupts with her own shout.

"Beverly wants to take a look. You good?"

Buck nods his head and puts the fire extinguisher down onto the pavement. Eddie should notice the way Beverly practically rushes over, somewhere between a skip and a saunter, but he's hyper-aware of how close the end of their shift is.

He's got Abuela cooking dinner at home and three off-days in a row to spend with Buck, their first since they got married a few months ago.

(Eddie wanted to take a honeymoon but Buck wanted to take a page out of Bobby and Athena's book and wait a little while. Eddie had to nix the cruise idea almost immediately, even though he can't believe Buck even asked.)

He just wants to clean up, restock the ambulance for the next crew, then spend the next three days with his family.

But of course, nothing is ever easy for Eddie. Not with a husband like Buck.

"Ugh, this is just my luck. My boyfriend broke up with me yesterday and my friend was just trying to cheer me up with a drive." Eddie can practically hear a pout of her lips and makes eye contact with Hen who rolls her eyes playfully in return. "I can't believe I'm single and carless, now."

"I'm sorry, that really sucks," Buck says. He sounds so authentic, Eddie's heart clenches.

"You might be able to help me with one of those problems," she shamelessly says.

Buck, the beautiful man he is, barely notices the flirtation. "We have a phone in the ambulance you can use to call someone to pick you up!" He's like a puppy in his response, and Beverly deflates instead of praising him like he clearly deserves.

"I can find a way home." She pauses like she's trying to think of how to get him back on track. Eddie snorts because he's been trying to figure out how to do that for almost a decade now. "So, do you live around here? There's a lot of really cool restaurants I can recommend for when you're done with your shift."

Eddie has to give her credit for some really solid attempts.

"Our station is actually on the other side of town and I live in the opposite direction, but I'll keep that in mind if I ever find my way out here!"

Beverly sighs and glances at her friend for assistance, who is next to no help since she's still in shock, like Beverly really should be.

"So, you're at station 118 then?" he hears Beverly ask. Her voice is so obviously flirtatious that Buck has to have noticed.

"Uh, y-yeah. 118, that's us," Buck mutters, tone laced with nerves.

Eddie glances over at the stutter and sees Beverly much closer than even Eddie would be to him on a call. His eyes narrow but he stays put. Buck can take care of himself.

"I bet you can lift that much, too, huh?" Beverly makes a dire mistake, and that's to reach out toward Buck. "I'm only 115, so it'd be pretty easy for you to... you know, lift me, right?"

Hen mutters, "Uh oh." It's loud enough for her patient to ask what's going on, but Eddie doesn't wait for her answer. He does hear Chimney's practically diabolical laughter, and Buck's awkward throat clear.

"I just weighed in at 190 and most nights he lifts me with ease, isn't that right, Buck?"

Eddie almost wishes he'd been recording. Beverly's mouth drops comedically open before her hand slaps it back up, Chimney and Hen break into maniacal laughter that seems to break the other patient from her shock, and Buck blushes a deep red that disappears under his turnout and as far down as Eddie's sure Beverly was trying to get.

Just because he can, Eddie adds, “Though, I’m sure after we take our honeymoon, you’ll gain a lot of muscle during our… workouts.” 

“Jesus–” Buck breathes out. “It was great to meet you, Beverly. You said something about having a way to get home?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got a ride…” She turns to Eddie, a delightful smirk on her face. “Though, it’s not nearly as pretty as yours.” 

Buck’s a mess as Eddie bursts out in laughter, and he’s positive his team’s about to file a complaint to HR, but something about being able to stake his claim over Buck so openly now makes him giddy inside. 

Yeah, it's times just like these where Eddie remembers exactly why he fell in love with Buck. 

[akisunlovesnalu]

Take a bite of my Heart Tonight

A fairy tail AU that's been rotting in my notes for the last 4 years. I was thinking of posting it on AO3 seeing as the first arc is 95% done and I'm interested in finishing this story.... But I'm also an expert at dropping fics whenever I lose inspiration... So should i really post it?

Anyway, enjoy and tell me what you think! (I might just post in on AO3 anyways ;))

Summary: Natsu learns just how rude a Violinist can get when you barge into her practice room. And after Lucy Heartfillia unintentionally transfers into his school, she learns that, much like an elephant, Natsu Dragneel never forgets. Because of him, they both are forced to spend the rest of their day in detention. Accompanied by a temperamental Erza and an innocent Gray. But when they stumble upon mysterious artifacts sought by a vengeful ghost, they're thrust into a supernatural battle that binds their fates together. TLDR; Lucy, Natsu, Gray, and Erza start a food fight, become ghost hunters, get thrown into detention, and discuss the complexities of Romeo and Juliet. I’ll let you decide what order it all happens in.  A Ghost Busters Au (of sorts)

Intro:

The sun was high in the sky, encouraging what seemed like every single individual in town to wander the warm streets of Magnolia. Children ran around the town square, most playing with the fountain conveniently placed in the middle of it while teens conversed with each other, seated on benches or in chairs right outside of the only decent ice cream place in town. Parents gloated to each other, barely keeping an eye on their dogs which yipped and hopped around loudly. Old folks sat on tables, some lightly conversing with their partners while others sat stiff, glaring at each other between an intense game of chess. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits, happy to be outside doing something that they enjoy.

And then there was Natsu.

The young 16 year old boy groaned loudly, attempting and failing at running away from a scarlet haired woman who had been carelessly dragging him around by his shirt collar for the last 5 minutes.

“Erza~” The boy whined, waving his arms around him in childish frustration. His sharp canine like teeth stood out as he refused to quiet down his disruptive cries. Erza let go of his collar, turning to face him with a glare that was sure to scare even Satan off of his throne down in hell. She raised a fist, bopping him on his head decorated with soft pink hair.

“Shut your whining!” She demanded but eventually softened her glare as he pouted, rubbing the now sore spot on his head. “I know this sort of thing isn’t something you’d usually enjoy…” She sighed, gazing up at the building in front of them.

It was huge, large enough to be considered a school but much too extravagant to be considered ‘public’. The first floor seemed to have replaced all of its walls with glass windows, each one providing the view of an expensive walkway littered with obviously rich students. The brick of the exterior had been displayed as a bland gray color in order to put more contrast on the ginormous pink sign stuck to the top of the building which read: “Love and Lucky performing arts studio”

The red-head looked away from the studio and gave Natsu another pitying look. “I just wanted someone to explore new horizons with. Please bear with me, just this once.” The boy gave a disinterested grunt knowing that if he said anything else, his throbbing head would be the last thing he had to worry about. Erza smiled, satisfied with his answer and dragged him through the automatic glass doors.

The interior wasn’t much different from the outside if your mind were as simple as Natsu's. The only two words that came to mind while looking around the building were ‘Snobby’ and ‘Rich.’ The pink haired man was quick to hate the place, having already dealt with his fair share of financially superior boys. Not to say that he hadn't made sure to give each kid more bruises to count then all of their money combined. 

Erza led them to an elevator after having a boring conversation with the desk lady about the beauty of art. From there they found their way to the second floor where the two were scheduled to watch the showing of Romeo and Juliet. 

Natsu already felt tears well up in his eyes as he read the start and finishing times on the play bill. His friend had already promised to treat him to a meal after the show was over if he behaved. But it seemed she had forgotten to specify exactly how long he would be waiting. The play would last almost a full 3 hours.

This was going to take forever.

Thinking that he might as well enjoy his freedom while it lasts, the boy gave Erza the good ol’ bathroom excuse and rushed out of the large stuffy auditorium before any more questions could be asked. He decided to wander around, peeking his head into rooms that he believed were empty and living up to the title of school prankster.

After putting water on everyone’s seats in a room called ‘Improv theater’ Nastu decided that it was probably time to head back. He had seen at least three students wander past the otherwise empty hallway and decided that he’d rather not take his chances at the school for snobby art kids.

He had only turned a corner before he heard it. The soft sound of music wafting past his ears like a haunting melody. And peeking his head into that room met him with a sight that he was sure would stay embedded into his mind for years.

A girl no younger than him stood on a platform with a violin cradled under her chin and snuggly in her arms. She expertly stroked each string up and down, tapping her feet to an even pace. Her beautiful blond hair had been put up into a neat ponytail, not one strand hung out of place. Her eyes were closed so she was completely unaware of the boy creeping further into the room, following the sound of her music in a daze. Neither was the boy himself apparently because as his limbs moved on their own, his eyes stayed fixed on her face, more specifically her eye where a small tear slipped past her eyelids and onto the floor. 

Before any more tears had the chance to fall, Natsu had oh so gracefully hit his leg against the arm of a chair, letting out a silent curse as it throbbed in pain. Great. Now he had two bruises to worry about. 

The violin stopped, and the girl opened her eyes, darting them around in a panic. They settled on his very stiff figure and he saw her relax slightly, setting the violin down on the chair beside her. Neither of them spoke for a tense few seconds, him silently studying her, and her searching for any source of recognition.

“Who the heck are you?” He blurted out, cursing himself for his lack of filter. It wasn’t often he’d think this but Natsu seriously wished he had taken his rivals advice more seriously. The dark brown pupils of her eyes narrowed as he coughed, awkwardly shuffling his feet from side to side.

“I could ask you the same thing.” She snapped back, throwing her hands on her hips and walking down the small set of stairs to the right of her. 

The boy narrowed his eyes, taking in the practiced movement of her walk. He had forgotten for a moment but this performing arts studio was full of snobby upper class kids. Why the hell would she be any different?

“I got lost.” He growled out meeting her glare with his own.

“Mind getting lost somewhere else?”

“Gladly.” He hissed, turning heel and marching towards the exit. He was almost out of the door before he stopped, angling his head to her slightly and muttering just loud enough for her to hear. “It’s too bad you’re a snob… ya didn't sound half bad.”

The blond blushed and stuttered out a small thanks as the strange pink haired boy finally left the auditorium. As Natsu begrudgingly walked back to the showing of Romeo and Juliet, and the girl packed up her violin and walked to the limousine waiting out front, a barely noticeable star twinkled up in the sky, hidden by the sun's bright inferno of glittering rays.

That night the star stayed lit, attracting the attention of curious onlookers. Some people stared long and hard, pointing up in the sky and dancing around with exclamations of how pretty it was while others only glanced at it, nodding their heads before continuing on with their night. But one man had neither reaction.

One man with burly gray hair and a fair share of wrinkles scattered around his face gawked at the star through binoculars. Sitting on top of the town's very own Kardia Cathedral, this man observed the star with nothing but shock mirrored in his expression. There was so much he wanted to say, so many thoughts running around his head, but only one had the pleasure of leaving his dry lips. 

“...Oh shit.”

_____________

Update post:

I’ve posted the story on ao3 and the first arc is already finished!

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Contingency Plan

hiiii idk if you're taking requests so feel free to ignore this, but i think it would be interesting to see a fic where logan and janus both have contingencies for each of the sides when they're in a bit of a negative spiral, and they find out thomas has been feeling less self-confident lately, so they try to help roman, but he avoids them bc he feels like he doesn't deserve it. – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-deprecating, roman not thinking he deserves to be taken care of (yes you do sir get back here)

Pairings: roloceit

Word Count: 3216

”So, you haven’t seen him either?”

Logan’s sigh manages to work its way through the cracks in the closet door. Roman shifts as quietly as he can, pressing his hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet. “No, I haven’t.”

“Splendid.”

Roman closes his eyes and leans against the wall. He just had to wait for them to move on, then he can run.

“Well, there are only so many places he can be.” Janus’s cloak ruffles. “I’ll take upstairs, you take downstairs?”

“That makes sense to me.”

Two sets of footsteps move in opposite directions. There comes the creak of the stairs and Janus’s voice calls out as he moves down the hallway.

“Roman? Roman, where are you?”

Roman holds his breath for another moment, until the creak fades and the voice has turned a corner, before he slips through the closet door and hurries as quietly as he can toward his room. If he can just get to his room, he can lock the door and keep them from coming in—

“There you are.”

He whips his head around. Janus is right there. How the hell did he get back so fast? Whatever—no time to think about it, Roman runs.

“Wha—hey!”

He dodges away from the hands reaching after him and vaults over the pile of laundry left in the middle of the hall. Muffled curses from behind him and he makes it to the stairs—

Nope, because Logan heard that and now he’s coming up and Roman swerves at the last minute, knocking into the corner of the wall. His shoulder protests. he ignores it. He spares a quick glance behind him—since when is Logan so good at keeping up with him? He looks forward again and swerves around another corner—he may not be able to outrun Logan in a straightaway but he can make the hallways twist and turn enough to give him precious seconds.

He hears Logan stumble and slow and feels a pang of regret for hurting him, however unintentional. It’s drowned out by the relief when the footsteps fade into nothingness. He makes the corridor shift to his room but catches a glimpse of Janus’s cloak and doubles back.

Alright. To the Imagination it is.

His lungs begin to ache as he keeps running. His legs protest. The throbbing bruise on his shoulder hasn’t dulled yet. He pushes them to the back of his mind. Almost there, almost there.

The golden door gleams out of the corner of his eye and he pushes just a little further—

—and skids to a halt when he sees Logan standing right outside.

“How—“

“There were only so many places you could be going,” Logan says, not even sounding out of breath, how— “now, are we finished with this?”

Nope. Not if Roman has anything to say about it. He turns and goes to flee again and runs smack into Janus’s chest. Six arms wind tightly around him.

“Gotcha.”

Logan sighs behind him and starts walking toward them, away from the door. Janus is still holding him too tightly, but if he can make them think he’s done…

With an exhaustion that is not altogether dishonest, he makes himself sag into Janus’s hold. Janus chuckles, letting him.

“You gave yourself quite the workout, didn’t you?” A hand moves to card through his hair, but the others keep a tight hold of him. “Are you all tuckered out now?”

Roman doesn’t say anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Logan come to stand at his shoulder, taking a notebook out and a pen from his pocket. Janus leans over to look at it and his grip loosens just slightly—

“Hey!”

But Roman’s gone, slipping through his hold and barreling through the door.

In the next instant, he’s falling. Tumbling down a rocky cliffside. He tucks his head and makes himself into a ball of limbs. Down and down he falls until he sprawls at the bottom in a thick bush.

Panting, he pulls himself free, wincing at the cuts and scrapes that make themselves known all over his aching body. He manages to look back up at the cliff, the tiniest hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. With how far he’s fallen, there’s no way they’d think to look for him down here, not if they try to come through the door. Still, though, it’d probably be best not to stay here too long.

He drags himself toward the forest. Darkness has already begun to weave its way through the branches, dripping from the leaves like heavy rain to pool into thick rivulets across the murky ground. Once or twice he stumbles over a hidden root as he makes his way through the trees. It’s difficult to hear anything over his own panting breaths, but he knows how he must look. A shuffling body, trailing scraps of red as it limps through the forest covered in white.

He is no stranger to stories, after all.

Up ahead, a break in the trees turns into a small clearing. The last of the dying light touches the bare grass, giving it the look of almost hallowed ground. Roman drags himself to a stop in the center, looking around at the fussy tree line. A bird calls out overhead. Far away, he hears the low burble of a river.

Something prickles across the back of his neck. He turns around.

”Hello, old friend.”

The wolf, massive enough as he is to block out the sky, simply exhales in greeting. His eyes gleam with the forgotten light as his head leans down. Roman lifts a hand to pat his nose but the wolf doesn’t let him make contact, instead sniffing at the scratches on his hand and arm. He looks at Roman.

“I fell. I was running.”

The wolf huffs again, before nudging Roman with his nose. He turns and starts to walk off into the forest. Roman follows. They walk for an eternity and no time at all before they arrive at what must be the wolf’s den. He comes to a stop just before it, letting Roman lean against his side and twist a hand into his thick fur.

“You want me to go it?”

The wolf nods, encouraging him to take a step forward. Roman falters, muscles instinctively moving to flee again, and the wolf lets out a single low growl. Not a threat, but a fact that there is nowhere in this forest Roman could go that he would not be found instantly. It’s not even a reprimand, and yet Roman finds himself curling reflexively into the wolf’s side, pressing his scratched and scuffed cheek into the dense fur. The wolf rumbles again and turns its head to breathe warm air over Roman’s hands. When Roman turns his head to look, the wolf raises its nose to point at something in the distance. He turns to follow it and sees the cliff far away in the distance.

The wolf waits patiently.

Roman looks back at the den and takes a step forward. The brief pause, however, has let his body catch up to how drained it is, and he nearly falls flat on his face. He would have too, had the wolf not kept his nose there to prop him up. Another growl—go slow—and bit by bit, he coaxes Roman into the den. There are no comforts here to speak of, but it is out of the wind and a patch of moss is soft as the wolf deposits Roman carefully atop it. He winces at the sting and pull of his body and the wolf blows warm air across him again.

“Thank you.”

The wolf snuffles against his chest. The soft pressure combined with the warmth of it makes Roman’s eyelids heavy. The wolf does it again, pressing his nose against Roman’s stomach, and he closes his eyes. Distantly, he registers the sounds of the wolf lying down. But he is tired, too tired, and the den slips away into the wolf’s dark fur and huffing breaths.

He’s just…so…tired…

…and his tired brain feels a hand carding gently through his hair.

With a nightly effort, he manages to open one eye, blinking in surprise at the fuzzy figures moving over him. There’s light again, a softer light, and the hand in his hair won’t stop threatening to send him back to sleep.

“—oman? Roman, are you awake, sweetie?”

Roman blinks. Janus’s smiling face swims into view, the hand in his hair moving to stroke delicately across his cheek.

“There he is,” Janus murmurs, “you gave us quite the fright, sweetie.”

“Wha…how…?”

“What do you remember?”

“Running. I went into the Imagination.” He frowns. “There…there was a cliff. I fell.”

Janus winces. “That would explain all the bumps and bruises. You poor thing.”

“Then I went into the woods…and found the wolf.”

“Ah, yes, I meant to ask about that. He can and found us too, you know. Is he one of yours?”

“Both. Sometimes he’s with me, sometimes with Re.”

“Mm. Well, he’s very nice, albeit terrifying.” Roman just hums. “Well, he can and found Logan and I. We were…as you might be able to imagine, thrilled at the prospect of following a giant wolf into a dark forest, and when we saw you…”

“There was a moment where we thought the worst,” comes Logan’s voice. He materializes out of the soft light—bathroom, Roman’s tired brain supplies, that’s the bathroom light. He takes a seat on the bed. “But he helped us get you back here and now, well, here we are.”

Right. Here they are.

Logan takes Roman’s hand in both of his, drawing it to sit in his lap. He runs his fingers over the unmarked skin.

“We didn’t mean to scare you,” he says softly, soft enough that it makes Roman’s tired brain want to cry, “I understand now that we might have…made you feel as though we were cornering you for some malicious reason, but I assure you: we aren’t mad, you’re not in trouble, we just want to help.”

Roman doesn’t say anything. Janus looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, before he hisses low in his throat. Logan hums in confusion. Janus raises an eyebrow, prompting Roman to answer. Shame bubbles up thickly in his throat and he looks away.

“I don’t believe Roman ever doubted our motivations were to help,” he hears Janus say, “but whether or not he was deserving of such efforts.”

The hands holding Roman’s twitch. “Oh, little one…”

“See, this is why I told you that we needed to bait the trap before we sprung it.”

“I’m not entertaining you describing our contingency plans as ‘traps,’ Janus. I asked you and not Remus for a reason.”

“Wait,” Roman mumbles, “contingency plans?”

They look back down at him. Logan smiles. “Yes, Roman, contingency plans. Because sometimes you push yourself too hard and we need to help you recover from it, but you can be quite stubborn about it.”

“Don’t you deny it,” Janus says as Roman pouts, “you know it’s true.”

“And we’ve accounted for it. So,” Logan says, tugging his hand, “let’s get you feeling better, shall we?”

”Wait, wait,” Roman mumbles, even as Janus helps hims it up, “wha—what’re we doing? What’s happening?”

“We’re going to take care of you,” Logan says, “starting with a bath. Actually…do you think you can manage to stay on your feet for a few minutes? If we can get the worst of the dirt off you in the shower?”

”Shame on you,” Janus says softly as they help Roman into the dimly-lit bathroom, “look at him, Logan, it would be a crime to ask him to remain upright for any longer than he absolutely has to.”

Logan chuckles. “I suppose you’re right. Let me take him—would you check the bath?”

Janus presses a gentle kiss to Roman’s shoulder and lets him be. Logan helps him prop himself against the counter, resting his hands on the tattered hem of Roman’s prince costume.

“Can I help you take this off?”

Roman nods and the two of them fumble—well, Roman fumbles, Logan moves with the same careful precision he does everything with—to get the shredded shirt off. He expects Logan to ask for pants next, but instead, Logan takes a soft cloth and gets it damp, wiping the dirt and mud from his bare arms, neck, and chest.

“I can put something on the scrapes after you’re out of the bath,” he says softly as he works, brow furrowed in concentration. “Does anything hurt very badly?”

Roman shakes his head. “Just bruised.”

”We’ll see about getting an ice pack if you want it.”

“Is he about ready?”

“Just about.” Logan drapes the cloth over the edge of the sink and settles his hands on Roman’s waist. “Do you think you can do the rest by yourself, or do you want help?”

“I can do it.”

Logan nods and steps away, going to join Janus by the tub. Roman struggles out of his pants and shoes, abandoning them next to his tattered shirt. He hesitates when it comes to his boxers, before he takes a towel from a nearby pile and wraps it around his waist.

“Okay.”

“Go ahead and get in, sweet,” Janus says, “we won’t look.”

“Can—uh—“

”Here.” He keeps his eyes averted but holds his arm out for Roman to grab. “Easy does it, now…”

A truly mortifying noise leaves Roman’s throat as he sinks into the warm water. There must be some sort of oils or something in here because it smells like he’s sinking into…god, lavender bushes with lemon trees overhead or something else his tired brain can’t quite picture. He hears soft chuckles and another hand cups his face, stroking his cheek.

“You can close your eyes if you want, sweetie. We’ll wake you up if something happens.”

“Don’t make it sound like a doomsday device, Janus.”

“Oh, ‘Doomsday Device?’ What is this, a bad action movie?”

Roman lets himself drift away to the sounds of their murmured conversation. The bubbles—right, there were bubbles in the bath, how had he not noticed that until now?—smell good too, bursting every so often as hands moved to wash his hair. Every so often, he’s coaxed to lift his head, or tilt it back, or do something guided by the gentle hands. He mumbles something about floating and being sleepy and someone kisses his cheek.

“Come on, then,” they coax—he’s pretty sure it’s Logan— “let’s get you out of there.”

The shock of the warm air instead of water rouses him a little. Logan—he was right—dries him off with a fluffy towel and wraps him in a pair of soft red pajamas. Janus comes up with another towel and dries his hair, ruffling it until it sticks up in all directions. He smiles at Roman’s bedraggled expression and chucks him lightly under the chin.

“Off to the bed with you, sweetie, Logan has snacks.”

“Snacks?” His stomach growls and Janus laughs.

“Yes, little prince. You’ve not been eating recently—don’t look so surprised, you think no one’s noticed you skipping meals? Go on, I’ll finish up here.”

He manages to get through to his room. They turned his pretty lights on. Logan’s waiting for him on the bed. There’s a tray on the bed. There are snacks on the tray. Logan’s standing up, holding his arms out. He walks into Logan’s arms and lets himself get sat on the bed with a roll of bread pushed into his hands.

“Eat,” Logan encourages, “it’s okay.”

Roman takes a bite of the bread. Life is too short not to eat good bread.

“I wish you didn’t have to fall down a cliff and be helped by a wolf for you to let us take care of you,” Logan says softly, giving him another snack when he finishes the bread, “but I understand that this is a work in progress.”

“You’re the ones with contingency plans,” Roman mumbles around his next bite. Logan chuckles.

“Yes, well, we know how prepared we have to be when it comes to taking care of you.”

“Though we will be recruiting the wolf next time,” Janus adds as he comes out of the bathroom.

“Yes, or at least attempting to.”

Roman finishes the second snack, taking the third from Logan. He looks at it for a moment. Janus’s hand settles on his elbow and he looks up to see the wordless are you alright?

“Was this the plan? Get me to rest and eat?”

‘The first part of it.” Logan reaches next to him where the first aid kit sits. “We’ve amended it to include treating any injuries you may have sustained.”

“Oh.”

“And then tomorrow—“

“Wait, tomorrow?”

Janus laughs. “You didn’t think this would just be a one-day thing, did you? We know better than to assume you’ll be right as rain after one evening of us spoiling you.”

“Tomorrow,” Logan continues, a matching smile on his face as he draws one of Roman’s arms into his lap, “we have nature documentaries to watch, you have an afternoon in the Imagination with Remus, and Patton and Virgil have cookies to make.”

No small part of Roman perks up at the thought of homemade chocolate-chip cookies. Even the slight sting as Logan starts treating the open scrapes isn’t enough to make it go away.

“You can work on some of your personal projects if you want to,” Janus adds, raising a finger when Roman looks at him in surprise, “but only the ones you are doing because you want to, so that’s your crafts or the poetry thing you’re doing with Logan.”

“I would be amenable to that.”

“And if it’s making you feel worse, then you stop. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Patton will feel it and you will be smothered.”

Roman gestures bleakly around at whatever the hell this has become and Janus rolls his eyes.

“You know this is a far lesser fate than what Patton will subject you to.”

Roman shudders. This is true.

”Alright, enough with the doom and gloom, you two.” Logan pats Roman’s arm and switches to the other one. “You’ll have plenty of time to do that when you’re reacting to the nature documentaries tomorrow. And pretending they’re soap operas of the wild.”

“That cuttlefish should’ve given the other male a chance and you know it.”

Roman giggles as the two of them start playfully bickering again. His eyes drift to the window that looks into the Imagination, and he thinks he sees the wolf in the moonlight. It gives him a nod and walks off into the woods.

He has a feeling the Imagination has been part of the contingency plan the whole time.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

[undertale-fic-librarby]

Do you have any Dreamswap fics?

I haven’t really seen any on ao3.

Howdy, thanks for asking! Here are some fics that might fit what you're looking for!

Metanoia's Game by Chaotic_Entropy, CoffeenPaper2 (Mature, Incomplete)

When an inconspicuous Saint Bernard wanders into an unfamiliar place, with equally unfamiliar faces, events start to unfold. The lives that the people have begun to build are torn apart by the claws of a coyote, forcing the people and gods to work together in order to make a new life while trying to avoid giving away what they don't want to.

Broken Dream(DreamSwap) by CassandraD (Mature, Incomplete)

Ink lived in a fairly diligent family. His upbringing, manners, everything betrayed in him a drop of aristocracy, inherent in his parents. Although on the street, and even more so with strangers, these manners seemed to disappear. From an early age, addicted to swearing, fights and rudeness, his parents turned all their attention to him. Now, beatings have become part of his usual routine, and he himself has become secretive and accurate...

Metanoia || An Fgod and Dreamswap Crossover by CoffeenPaper2 (Teen And Up, Incomplete)

Met·a·noi·a [ˌmedəˈnoiə] NOUN change in one's way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion -- Disclaimer: This story will contain blood, possible gore, fighting, panic attacks and general not being well.

It's A Beautiful Day by Firehedgehog (General Audiences, Complete)

It was a beautiful day, a Friday, and two writers with too much time and way too much energy plunked down Error and Blue into a new Multiverse. Dreamswap, to be precise. As one would expect, both are rather confused, and Error is annoyed, understandably so. Let's see how it goes from here. Feel free to leave comments and effect the story- because the fourth wall was made for breaking... or at least Hope seems to think so! This is a crackfic, but a well written crackfic, if I do say so myself. This is not Errorberry in any romantic way. Platonic only, guys! Original storyline by Snowstorm174 and Firehedgehog. Fully revamped for publishing by Snowstorm174.

Dum Spiro Spero || DISCONTINUED by CoffeenPaper2 (Mature, Complete)

Error is done. They've tried to keep the multiverse afloat, they've dedicated their life ad well-being to keeping everyone alive. And now, they're done. They're sick and tired of everything. They're leaving, they're breaking the rules that Fate had set in place and drilled into their skull relentlessly. It's time they take control of their life and rewrite their destiny. This story will contain the following: Suicide, self-harm, blood (minor), language, pain attacks, mentions of execution.

Here's a few more fics that are similar to what you're asking for!

[scimitar-and-longsword]

20 Questions For Fic Writers

Tagged by @cactusdragon517 almost a month ago lol, I'm slow to get these done.

How many works do you have on ao3? 21

What's your total ao3 word count? 202,835

What fandoms do you write for? Currently? Call of Duty and I'm still hanging around the TOG fandom. But I've hardly posted anything in years lol. Someday when my toddler is a little older I'll get back into posting more.

Top five fics by kudos:

Share Your Address - Fencer!Joe/TA!Nicky College AU - Insta-love. So much texting. Everybody wants to punch Keane.

It Feels Like Flying - Joe/Pilot!Nicky AU - This is porn. Enjoy.

Brothers Fight - Joe & Booker working through their issues post movie.

Everything I Did to Get to You - Sequel to Share Your Address (my top fic by Kudos) - AU - A few years later Joe and Nicky spend the holidays with friends and family.

Collapsing Walls - Book of Nile!!!!! - Established Booker/Nile - Booker and Nile get caught in a building while trying to assist during an earthquake.

Do you respond to comments? Yes!! I try to respond to all comments for at least a few days after I post something.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I don't write a lot of angsty ENDINGS. I'll Never Love Another (Prince!Joe/Knight!Nicky) has a fuck ton of angst in it, and I know some people thought the ending was bitter sweet bordering on sad.... but idk (spoilers?) no one died and they're together sooooo that's a happy ending in my book lol.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Gees, idk lol Share Your Address?? It's so sweet you'll get cavities.

Do you get hate on fics? I never have. *knock on wood*

Do you write smut? Hardly ever. I mean I HAVE, and actually the most recent thing I posted was like straight up porn lol. But mostly if there is sex it is only hinted at/fade to black. Or buried in a 60k fic so you have to work for it!

Craziest crossover: Probably Book of Nile + Princess Bride (it's a WIP that I haven't touched in like 3 years *sweats nervously* I swear I will finish all my WIPs EVENTUALLY)

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I know of???

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes!! A one shot I did was translated onto a Japanese website that I forget the name of lol. I've also had a podfic made of one of my one shots if that counts.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Ashley and I tried at one point lol it was a modern AU DinLuke fic.... it kind of fizzled out eventually. @ashleyrguillory we should look at that again someday lol

All time favorite ship? Obligatory "Just one??!!" ok but idk Charlie/Claire (LOST), Korra/Asami (Legend of Korra) and Derek/Stiles (Teen Wolf) are the most important to me??? I read the most fic for Ghost/Soap, [redacted controversial ship that you could not pay me to reveal #1], and [redacted controversial ship that you could not pay me to reveal #2] lol

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I refuse to give up on any of my WIPS!!! I have 4, and all of them are planned/outlined to the end... I even have multiple completed chapters for two of them. I'm not a quitter... I do take my time though lol

What are your writing strengths? Oh gees... idk someone else who has read my stuff needs to tell me this... I think I've gotten a lot of comments complimenting me on keeping characters true to canon?? idk guys! someone else answer this!

What are your writing weaknesses? I really struggle with action and sex scenes. Where are they? I, the person writing this fic, certainly don't know. (come to think of it this might be part of the reason that I don't write a lot of smut)

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? Whatever floats the author's boat.

But I personally have done it a few ways. My favorite to both write and read is just to write what they say and then identify what language is being used if the POV character can understand the language. something like: "Oh no," he shouted in Italian.

OR if the POV character doesn't understand the language I would write something like: Nicky shouted something in what Joe thought was Italian. OR Nicky said something in a language Joe couldn't quite place.

First fandom you wrote in? Supernatural lol

Favorite fic you've written? One????? You're getting 2!

I'll Never Love Another - Prince!Joe/Knight!Nicky AU - SO MUCH LETTER WRITING - This was my Big Bang in 2021, and I love the FUCK out of it. It's my favorite fic I've ever written and I reread it kind of often because of how much I enjoy it lol

Impelled by the Persuasion of Love - Canon verse Joe/Nicky and Andy/Quynh - Takes place in France during the 100 years war. I have an obsession with courtly love/chivalry and figured I should shove it onto our favorite immortals <3 - I wrote this for a TOG zine that came out in early 2021

=== Truly, IDK if I've got 20 people to tag but I'll give it a go!!

@innerslumber, @alloutofgoddesses, @ashleyrguillory, @stevethehairington, @sindirimba, @disregardandfelicity and anybody else who wants to do this, consider this your tag!!!