#but maybe the ugly ass green of that wall and the light grey of the letters that's a tad too dark to appear white in contrast

[sheocheese]

I like my work and even my workplace but there is one thing that makes me so furious it's driving me a little insane. So my boss and founder of the company once came up with this quote and he must've felt like a real intellectual when he did because it's plastered in giant letters on the wall I pass every day on my way to the locker rooms. It reads (translated): "Bread is the cheapest luxury item that everyone can afford." I have some issues with that quote. Enough that I spend my paid worktime thinking about it when I gotta do especially boring stuff. 1: Obviously not everyone can afford bread like I know you're the first result on an image search of "Rich old white dude" but come on even you have to know that 2: How dare you try to paint BREAD (like normal ass basic bread, no fancy stuff just flour water and yeast) as a luxury item. It's like. The most basic food there is. If here is ONE food that every human on the planet should have free and unlimited access to it's BREAD. I know I live in germany and we have a... Special thing with bread (we have bread-sommeliers I kid you not) but even "Good german bread" that is "so much better than any other bread anywhere on the world" should be at the very least affordable to everyone. 3: By incorporating the idea that the fulfillment of basic human needs is a luxury into your business philosophy you are part of the reason why there are people who can not afford bread. Because in doing so you have to set a standard for, again, a basic neccessity that inevitably drives up the selling price for your product to the point it's getting ridiculous but also allowing the producers af "non-luxury" bread with low to no standards in ingredient/production quality to sell at higher prices because why should they sell 300% below your "luxury product", when they can sell 50% below and still be the cheapest option on the market? 4: I can barely afford rent and I know this is treated as "normal" for someone in their first year of training and all but I still hate that this quote is in the hallway to my workplace where I have to see it every day especially towards the end of the month when I have to think twice if I can afford to have anything other than bread for dinner.

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Another remastered oldie. No cute banner this time because I'm lazy. [ SYNOPSIS ] Your slutty boyfriend convinces you to fuck in a nasty bar bathroom. [ WORD COUNT ] 2.9k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU, established relationship, dom/sub undertones, sadomasochism, exhibitionism, public sex, rough oral sex, degradation (Zeke calls you a slut, says you're dumb), cum eating, drugs (marijuana), alcohol, Zeke's pullout game is mid tbh, and there's Neopets nostalgia.

Any establishment that opted to have red lighting as an aesthetic choice never failed to put you on guard. There was nothing quite like a wannabe speakeasy to set the mood. You had sad men hiding in corners. Sad men waiting for cute girls to talk to them. Sad men who hoped their presence in a trendy, gaudy bar with old guns hung on the walls made them interesting.

You and Zeke passed by it one cold morning and you mentioned how tacky you thought those kinds of places were. You said you wanted to go ironically. And of course called your bluff and decided your next date night would occur there. You reluctantly agreed. Denying him was a near impossible task.

You were the first at the bar, a disappointment because you wanted to have some form of comfort greet you. But no, Zeke was late as always.

He was probably at home, sitting on his ugly couch, smoking his ugly weed. His perfect body laid out next to an ugly ashtray overflowing with ugly cigarette butts, watching old Jerry Springer episodes on Youtube.

There was no other place you’d rather be. You wanted to be sprawled out on top of him, your head on his chest as he dithered about class disparity in the United States.

We can laugh at Beau and Cletus all we want, but look at us. I pay for high-speed internet so I can watch this shit unfettered and make fun of their shoes. You just complained about two-day shipping not being fast enough. And you ordered, what, loose leaf chamomile tea? We’re just as embarrassing as them, maybe even more so. The difference is that we have disposable income.

On second thought maybe you were better off languishing in a faux speakeasy. The ground may have been sticky underneath your shoes, but at least you didn’t have Zeke blabbering in your ear.

“Miss me?” Zeke purred in your ear before.

“Nope, I’ve been too busy.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yeah. I got caught up feeding my Neopet… Or if that’s not an acceptable answer, I can say I was sleeping with your dad. You choose.”

“Neopet. I like knowing you care about things.”

“Did you know they never die?”

You order a round of Cuba Libres.

“I don’t like rum,” Zeke whined.

You shoved the drink in his hand and stole a handful of cut limes from the little container behind the bar.

“Really?” he asked bluntly.

“They never put enough. Trust me. Anyway, that little green Mynci you made in 2001 is sitting there. Literally starving! Zeke.” You grabbed his wrist. “That is verbatim what it says on the website. Starving.” You plopped two slices of lime in his drink.

He stared at you, his grey eyes full of concern. He was high off his ass. “She was yellow.”

“What was her name?”

“I can’t remember, but I know it had like six numbers and probably three underscores.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every fucking day.”

Laughter overtook both of you. You grabbed a table closest to the exit and he slid his backpack under it. You figured he didn’t want to linger long as well. The chairs were freezing. You shifted in your seat. The cold didn’t help your sore ass. Zeke took notice of this.

“I told you I was paddling you too hard.” He took a tiny sip of his drink.

“I still stand by that you weren’t hard enough.”

“You were crying, pet.”

“They were tears of happiness. You know, like when people win a Golden Globe or whatever.”

“No one gets that excited over a Golden Globe.”

You slumped down into your chair. You had no witty retort. This happened more often than not when he was around. In just about every other social situation you were the paragon of humor, a true queen of comedy.

“Aww, did I hit a nerve?” He kicked your shin from under the table. The pain perked you up. You proceeded to stomp on his foot eliciting an audible wince from him.

“How long are you trying to stay here?” you asked, hoping he’d say something like zero seconds or if I stay here any longer I’ll turn into sand.

“Long enough to have sex in what I am assuming is a gross bathroom.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re high, right? You can’t—This place is gross.”

“I had this planned from the beginning.” He leaned back in his chair. “It shouldn’t be too gross. This hellhole hasn’t been open that long.”

“My feet stick to the—”

“That’s character.” He leaned forward over the table, yanking you by the collar of your shirt so you were inches away from his face. “It makes for an interesting experience.”

You let out a nervous laugh, desperately fighting off the beginnings of arousal. The gross old men leered.

“Ugh. Fine. But I wanna be high too,” you complained.

He glanced at the growing pod of old men. “Let’s hit the bathroom.”

He got up, leaving his unfinished drink behind. It prompted you to do the same. They weren’t that impressive. You walked down the hall turning corners until you saw a sign for a bathroom. Zeke kicked in the door and shoved his head inside.

“I’m pretty sure no one is in here. And look, there are even stalls.”

He made his way over to one and tried to lock its door.

“Well that’s broken.”

He repeated this process on the remaining two stalls. None of them had working locks.

You looked around. “This is—”

“An even better opportunity than I could have imagined.”

You were speechless. You knew he was a borderline insatiable tramp, but this was a lot. You were conflicted. On one hand, getting railed by him always sounded like a good time. But on the other, getting potentially caught by one of those decaying dinosaurs sounded like torture. And you hadn’t committed any crimes bearing that level of punishment.

“But those guys are so weird looking,” you whined like a child.

“Who cares?”

“I care. It’d be one thing if they were like your hot friends…”

“You can’t say that and not specify which ones. It’s illegal. You and I both know that.”

“Fuck… Pieck, duh. Or Colt.”

“Oh god. Really?... Colt?” he sounded vaguely disgusted.

“Fuck you! Yeah, really Colt. It’d be a learning experience for him.”

“I wouldn’t let him join in.”

You smirked. “You say that now, but in the moment the tides may change.” You punctuated the sentence with a wink.

“Alright, you might have a point with the Colt thing. But I’m disappointed Reiner didn’t come up.”

“You know you can just say who you would want to catch us? Like my answers aren’t the end-all-be-all.”

You went to join him in the decrepit stall. You hugged his toned body and buried your face into the crook of his neck. His hands went straight to your ass, typical.

“Reiner, because I know it’d fuck with him,” he yammered on. “Or what’s that one guy’s name? The one that hangs out with my brother?”

“So many people hang out with your brother. You really want a 19-year-old catching us?”

“Hush. I’m thinking. Blonde. Blue eyes.” He paused. “Also Colt’s 19, dumb ass.”

“Colt doesn’t count!! Are you thinking of Historia?”

“What?! No.”

Zeke broke the hug and rubbed his temples. “It’s a boy. He is a boy.”

“Well, more like a man.”

“You’re not helping. Blonde. Blue eyes. He’s a,” Zeke paused for emphasis, “man.”

“I think that’s Armi—”

He barreled through your sentence. “Armin! Yes, him. It’d fuck him up too. He’s like an angel; we’d be stripping him of all innocence.”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure a cute, 19-year-old college boy is getting at least some form of action. We all know who the right option is.”

“Alright, fuck it. Fine. Colt. Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Pervert,” he mumbled.

“Like you have room to talk.”

You grazed his cock with your hand. He smirked and pulled a joint from his pack of cigarettes. He held it between his lips and sparked it.

“I see you’re not concerned about getting caught.” He took a hit and then passed it to you.

You took a heavy drag off the joint. “I’m already going to get loudly fucked in a bathroom. I might as be high.”

You passed the joint back to him and he took a lengthy hit. He let the smoke drift from his mouth slowly. You plucked the joint from his fingers.

“I recommend taking another. A long one.”

“Why?” you said, smoke drifting from your mouth.

“Because you’re getting on your knees the second you exhale.”

You held the rest of the smoke in for as long as you could to spite him. But Zeke quickly tired of your bullshit and took the joint from you. He grabbed a chunk of your hair from the back of your scalp and pulled.

“Knees,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “Rude.”

However you did as you were told and he loosened his grip. He took a hit from the joint and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. The ground wasn’t sticky, but that did little to quell your disgust. You were always ashamed at the depths of depravity you allowed yourself to descend into for your boyfriend.

You looked up at him and asked, “Are you really gonna be able to keep the door shut?”

“No. Undo my belt.”

You gritted your teeth and started to fiddle with his belt. His rough hand rested on your head, softly caressing it. You knew such tenderness wouldn’t last long.

“I know you can work faster than that.”

You sighed dramatically. You quickly pulled his belt off and unbuttoned his jeans. You pulled them down and noted that his black briefs were sullied with precum. You yanked his underwear down and was greeted by his thick cock, a beautiful sight to behold. Drool pooled in your mouth, a small drop of it trickled from the corner of your mouth. Zeke lifted your chin and wiped it away with his calloused thumb.

“You’re foul. What will I ever do with you?”

You gazed up at him. “I don’t know… Let me milk every drop of cum from your cock?”

He smirked. “You’re so fucking stupid. Are you done talking?”

“I guess. I can’t think of anything else to—”

He grabbed the back of your head and forced his cock into your mouth. You lurched forward, using the bathroom stall door to keep some semblance of balance. His thrusts were methodical. Never too deep as he didn’t want you to gag on him, it was too early for that.

“You’re filthy, you know that? An utter degenerate.”

He continued to plunge his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth. You carefully breathed through your nose and tried to not cough on his length.

“You deserve to get caught. Everyone deserves to know what a disgusting slut you are.”

You attempted a nod, but Zeke put his rugged palm on your forehead and shoved you off of his cock.

“Say it.”

“I deserve to get caught.”

His grey stared down at you hazy with lust. “And?” He took one last hit off the joint.

“And everyone deserves to know how gross I am.”

He frowned and blew the smoke directly in your face. “Not quite, but close enough.” He shoved his cock back down your throat.

The bathroom stall proved to be a poor source of balance so you rested your hands on his tense thighs. His muscles contracted with pleasure. You relaxed your throat, finally getting the entirety of his cock in your mouth. You held it there for a few seconds before you felt the beginning of a gag. You pushed his hips away from you. He pulled out and continued to jerk off as you coughed and caught your breath.

“I’m getting really close,” he teased.

You smacked his hand away. You spit in yours and jerked him off while running your tongue along his slit.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He held your head in place and rammed his cock in your mouth. You grabbed onto his taut ass for leverage. His thrusts were becoming sloppy. He came hard, filling your throat with cum.

“I’m getting fucked, right?” you asked, wiping your lips.

“No, I thought I’d just stand here in this bathroom with my dick out.”

You rolled your eyes and got undressed. He led you out of the stall and shoved you against the sink. He groped your breasts, rough fingers pinching your nipples.

“Ouch!” you yelped.

Zeke laughed and pinched harder. He slipped three of his dexterous fingers into your slick pussy. They slid in and out with ease. He pushed you harder against the sink, the basin digging into your spine. You winced. He took notice and put his hands under your ass and lifted you up.

“Lock your legs around me,” he commanded.

He slammed his cock balls deep inside you. There was no tenderness in his thrusts. He wanted you to moan his name louder than you’d moan anyone else’s. But you resisted. The last thing you wanted to do was to bring any attention to yourself.

“Come on, pet,” he practically begged. “Say my name.”

You shook your head. You pictured those leering old men sipping their martinis, cocks stiff as they heard you moan. Zeke rubbed your clit with his thumb and started kissing your neck. His soft flaxen beard tickled your skin.

“Say my name or else I’ll go find some cheap whore that will.” 

His breath was hot on your neck. He pressed his thumb down hard on your clit.

“Fuck! Zeke!” Your legs tightened around his waist.

He placed his hand under your chin and forced you to make eye contact. His eyes were feral, darkened with desire.

“Weak. You can do better than that.”

You hugged him closer, fingernails digging into his chiseled back.

“Zeke!”

You felt your body growing warmer. Every cell in your body writhed with pleasure. You clung to his body as your orgasm intensified.

“I don’t remember giving you permission,” he whispered in your ear.

You attempted to hold back but it was too late. You moaned his name louder than even he anticipated. He held his hand over your mouth, his cock still inside you, thrusting away.

“I don’t remember saying you should start screaming either.” His tone was anxious. “I never thought I’d say this, but please shut the fuck up.”

You glared at him, but remained silent and allowed him to continue fucking you with his engorged cock.

“Good girl.”

The words barely left his lips before he let out a hearty moan. He pulled out of you.

“Hurry, get on your knees.”

You dropped down to them and opened your mouth. For the first time in years he missed, getting his cum all over your chin and down your neck. You were not impressed.

“You look so cute.”

He pinched your cheek and ordered you to stand up. He held your face in his hands. Just as he went to lick your neck the bathroom door swung open. It was one of the old men. Zeke didn’t stop licking you.

“Oh my word! I am so sorry. You, uh… You two… have fun.”

The guy ran out as quickly as he came in.

“I wonder if I could pay that guy to walk in on us whenever I want.”

You went to search for your underwear and found them inside a toilet. You flushed them away.

 “No. We talked about this already.”

“Colt would be traumatized if he walked in on this.”

Zeke finally put his dick away. You both stood at the sink washing your hands.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?! Whatever, let’s leave before we get kicked out for being absolutely disgusting. Not that I ever plan on coming back here.”

You walked out of the bathroom and faced the geezers. You kept your head down. Zeke on the other hand seemed to relish in the shame and even tried to high five the man who caught you.

Zeke grabbed his backpack from under the table you two had been previously sitting at. You headed to the spiral staircase that led to the exit. It was one of those rickety metal ones that would be considered decorative in a world that made sense. Zeke offered you his elbow and you held on while you cautiously made your way down the stairs. You pushed through the heavy doors and were greeted by a rush of cold air.

You shivered. “Fuck! I was inside before the sun went down.”

You were woefully unprepared for the weather.

“Good thing I’m a genius then, huh?” He pulled out a sweatshirt from his backpack. “Arms up.”

You raised your arms and he tugged the sweatshirt down onto your body.

“Thank you. I didn’t think it would be so chilly.”

Zeke pointed up at the perfectly clear night sky. “Yeah, we’re in for a cold one. Look.”

You both let out a collective whoa. It was a gorgeous sight; it almost made up for the ugliness that had previously occurred moments ago.

Zeke lightly slapped your ass. “Let’s get moving. We need to shower.”

“Come on, you don’t wanna stare at something dumb ass beautiful?”

If you had craned your neck back any further to see the stars you would have toppled over.“I already have a beautiful dumb ass I can stare at whenever I want. Now come on. I was balls deep in a paternity dispute before I got here. You’re going to love it, the baby daddy threw his gold tooth at his ex-wife. Jerry is pissed.”

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: iii

(Mostly SFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii​​ (epilogue)

word count: ~2.2k

Nothing ever really ends. It just grows in different ways with different parts. 

warnings: description of post-injury, reader and hawks being traumatized but coping, a soft epilogue

the ending folks :’^) thank you for reading this far. here is something gentle for all of us, with some future, past, and the present for sweet starshine and keigo :’^)

enjoy loves 💞!!

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

Keigo doesn’t break promises. 

He loves white lies, the silly kind where he can rib you for a minute or two before soothing any ruffled feathers with quick kisses. He never leaves big wounds, nothing gaping or jagged, just loving pokes in your sides to get you to laugh and quip back at him.

He never goes back on his words that count.

His journeys out of the house remain short and rarely surprising. He never leaves without a goodbye, whether that’s a sleepy fuck or two, or a hand-written, tooth-rotting note on a scrap of paper next to a steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen island.

Keigo’s used to the open skies, rolling forever. The curve of the horizon is his primordial friend that he never got to say goodbye to, but he still chases it a few times a week. Little drives he takes by himself, hikes, and things that he let him feel a bit of that free wind in his shaggy hair. 

It takes you a while, but you don’t look forlornly at the door anymore.

The awareness that of his absence from your little bastion lingers as you move throughout your day, but you know he’s good for his word. He always returns, bearing a toothy grin, and usually an armload of snacks or takeout. 

It’s better, and you’re both a bit more alive. 

...

Spring in the mountains reminds you of something you can’t place. 

The memory of it is foggy, far-off and untouched. Probably a bit dampened from, you know, a year of trauma, but the feeling of it makes your quirk burst to light without fail.

It comes when you notice the little patches of wildflowers that spring up in new grass that rings around the porch. Heat flares in your eyes when you see the little seedlings you and Keigo planted into the window boxes begin to bud and flower. 

The days get longer, sweeter, and the summer comes easily.

...

The bad days never cease, but you both learn to cope to some degree.

Your scar... cracks one day. You’re doing some half-assed stretches in the living room (mostly arching your back so Keigo gets a good peek of your ass) when it happens. Your right leg bends at the knee, and a resounding ‘crack’ and shatter echo off the walls of the cabin. 

You both panic. 

Keigo instantly urges you on the couch, trying to soothe your own panic with little coos from the back of his throat. You feel numb as Keigo shoves up your pant leg, looking for any damage.

The scar looks relatively unchanged. It hasn’t writhed since your days at the hospital, and its edges have only faded a shade or two with time. It’s long, obtrusive, and something you still avoid looking at.

All the same, Keigo traces the gnarly flesh, nimble fingers searching for the source of the sound. Any bit of pain he can identify and soothe, ideally, remove. The pads of his fingers drift to the crook of your knee, pressing against the shiny, black seam of the scar.

His eyes go wide before awe shines through, without a lick of fear. 

He warns you to take a deep breath, ‘breath with him’, before pinching at the glassy center and pulling. There’s a bit of resistance as he pulls, you’re not sure what he’s doing, and you see ‘it’ before you really put it together.

Keigo holds ‘it’ up for you to see.

The inky glass of the scar.

Literal rock. Inky obsidian pulled from your flesh, about the size of your pinky and painfully jagged. 

“W-what is that?” You asked, grabbing his wrist to examine the bit. “That’s... the scar?”

Keigo nods his head, scrutinizing it with you, pinching at it, “Weirdest scab I’ve ever seen.”

Scab.

You have never thought about calling the ugly root of the scar a ‘scab’ but looking at the way it so easily was pulled away, it makes sense. After a bit of examination and tender prodding, the tissue around it looks healthy, albeit thick and burned. The scar goes deep into your flesh, feels raw to the touch, but the skin that’s beneath it is somewhat alive. Maybe too alive, given how sensitive it is.

Nonetheless, you marvel at the little piece of volcanic glass that Keigo had pulled from you like it’s the most precious stone in the world. 

...

It takes a long time to convince both of you.

Keigo never receives another call from Suits, ‘president’, what the fuck her name is. Thank fucking god. His snap seemed to have scared her and her crumbling organization away. You can only hope that it was for good.

The potential return comes from kindness rather than demands. 

Calls from both Endeavor and Miruko, ‘Enji’ and ‘Rumi’ as they insist you call them. Rumi chatters on the phone for hours with Keigo every few weeks, puts the phone on speaker, and has you give your piece as well. You like her, she’s funny and loud and Keigo smiles when he talks to her.

Enji actually visits. 

Once or twice, maybe more. You stop counting when the extra bodies in the cabin don’t have you breaking into a cold sweat anymore. It had taken a great bit of coaxing, but you opened your cabin up for the former pro and his entourage. 

He brings along his daughter and the ‘Three Musketeers,’ as the media calls them. The boys train in the mountains nearby, never lingering too far based on the shouting from the blond one that echoes against the hills. 

The rest of you settle into the walls of the cabin whenever they come to visit. It feels warmer than normal; it makes sweat gather under your arms and in droplets on your forehead. Even if you wanted to attribute the heat to the old flame hero’s presence, it wouldn’t account entirely for your thumping heart. 

You work through it, slowly. 

You like watching Keigo and Enji. They both look worn. Keigo’s a bit too young for grey hair, but Enji has more than his fair share around his temples. The beard around his jaw glints silver in the lowlight of the cabin whenever he tilts his head to sip at his tea.

They smile like old friends, talk like it too. 

You end up in the kitchen a lot during their talks, distantly cooking and observing. You’re always listening to their stories, the banter. It’s hard to keep up with, a lingering vestige of Keigo’s old persona that clings to him and his mannerisms.

You don’t mind it, even if it feels foreign.

...

“Can you pass me that honey, dear?” Fuyumi asks, voice sweet and close.

You nod, sliding her the jar across the corner top. She carefully spoons a glob of the thick liquid into the four waiting mugs, humming just under her breath. 

The cabin feels warm, and it’s not just the ambient heat Enji gives off. 

The ‘three musketeers’ plan to camp in the mountainside and ‘rough it’. You couldn’t imagine the freshly-greened hills giving them too much trouble. They bicker, you have found, constantly. Blunt jabs from Enji’s son, met by explosive remarks from the blond one (why is his hero name so long? You can never remember it well.) Consider your growing aversion to loud noise, you like Deku the best. He seems like the peacekeeper (and peacemaker) of the trio and compliments your cooking. What a gem.

The guest room has been polished into an actual guest room. Fuyumi takes it, and Enji, bless his heart, takes the creaky fold-out couch. He doesn’t mind, he tells you, something about enjoying tending to the hearth at night.

Keigo calls the nights where they fill the house ‘sleepovers’, and he adores them.

They’re a bit overwhelming for you if you’re being honest. But Enji is far less intimidating now that you’ve seen him nodding off and slack-faced on your couch. Fuyumi has patience you’ll never fully understand, and babies you a bit, which you don’t welcome but don’t refuse either. 

She does just that, scooping up three mugs after pushing your own toward you. You regather and sit next to Keigo at the kotatsu, slipping your legs under the thick blanket and sagging with the heat. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he presses you into his side, pressing a few kisses to the top of your head. It’s an idle action, habitual and welcomed as the conversation flows.

(Something about one of Keigo’s old sidekicks. Another about Endeavor’s agency, still chugging along with him at the helm, albeit not as an active hero. The new hero charts, the new rules established, legislation. Things are getting... safer, a semblance of order being re-established now that much of the League has been apprehended.)

(Things are settling, as horrifying as the change is.) 

The thought of so much makes you sleepy, long-standing exhaustion heavy in your bones. You nod off at some point to the kind, safe voices. 

Keigo coaxes you awake once the conversation dies down.

“Love,” he purrs, rubbing your side, “let’s get up now and get you to bed.”

You follow him, the way he rises and guides you to the bathroom to help you ready for bed. Enji is settling on the couch, tugging a few throws over himself on the futon. You give him a shallow wave with half-lidded eyes, meeting his own.

Eye contact feels hard, but you manage to hold it for a few seconds.

In the bathroom, you pop onto the counter and slowly brush your teeth. Sleep clings to you, and you know it’ll return quickly, but the process of moving and interacting wears you down so easily. Your toothbrush almost slips from your grip.

“Just a little more, and then you can rest, dove,” Keigo urges, reverent as he finishes his own routine in tandem. You watch as he splashes water on his face, wetting the tufts of hair that fall around his face.

The cabin feels warmer. 

You notice it as you enter the bedroom, Keigo already hopping into bed to assemble the ‘nest’ as both affectionately refer to it. The old throw, a few extra soft blankets, and a buttery soft duvet must be arranged just right before he is satisfied. 

 Keigo knows it’s a remnant.

He carries plenty of them, little chunks of him that are old and worn, old and unused. He can shake them, can’t bury them, they just simply are.

The birdish ones are nice, he thinks. He likes that he can preen you. He loves that you can preen him. That you’ll indulge him in that way, running your hands through his overgrown hair. You detangle any knots, soothe the snarls and rub at his neck until he’s liquid in your lap. 

He likes nesting. The cold of the cabin can be almost forgotten in the little nests he makes. The mountains of bedding and pillows that you both can settle in. It’s peaceful, and it's shared, and things are okay. 

It’s all slow, and a bit tedious, things that the remnants of ‘Hawks’ scream and thrash at. But, really? Keigo has no reason to listen to a ghost. He tries not to let himself be haunted. 

He indulges himself for the first time in his life, probably.

As Keigo nestles you into the sheets beside him, he gives you a bit of room to get comfortable. Adjusts your pillows how you like, tangle your legs together in the comfiest way. Your own version of nesting that makes his palms sweat and his words turn to mush.

You settle together, chest to chest, Keigo’s chin hooked over the top of your head. 

“Did you have a good day?” You ask, soft and sleepy.

Keigo nods easily, “I did. Enji doesn’t seem to quite as much of a square as he was a few years ago.”

You snort, muffling a giggle into his chest, “He’s definitely a little bit of a square. But I like him.”

“He offered to host us at the estate if we ever want to go back.”

You swallow, thick and slow, and try to bury yourself deeper in him, “... Do you want to go back?”

“No.” He pauses. “Maybe. Not yet, and not anytime soon. But the offer is on the table. It’s nice to have, even if we don’t take it.”

It’s insurance, somewhere else to tuck yourselves away if the mountains stop favoring you. 

The thought of the future makes your head spin, as it tends to. The scar aches, but maybe it’s a tad duller than it was a few months ago. The pains only last a few moments, only stab so deeply. The place where the little chunk of obsidian fell out doesn’t feel quite as tender. 

You lay your cheek on Keigo’s chest, your breath coming in time with his. 

“‘M tired,” You murmur into his chest. “Can I sleep?”

“Of course, starshine.” He pushes back your hair, clears your forehead to press his lips to the skin, lightly. Little kisses piling up on top of each other. “Get some rest.”

“You too, pretty eyes.”

You both need it. For more than just a day with the folks who stuck around. You and Keigo need more rest than a being can responsibly accumulate during a human life. There are things to be stitched, worn parts of you that need tending to, and burns that’ll need salve until the day you die. It’s not any less than it was in the month’s past.

But it’s easier to manage. 

You snuggle into Keigo’s chest, drifting off to the thought of fresh coffee and crackling heat.

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

thank you for reading!!💞

ko-fi

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Secrets ~ 6

Warnings: noncon sexual acts later in series; light touching.

This is dark!Bucky and dark!Steve and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Notes:

Tomorrow will be a 12 hour day for me. Working on Xmas but oh well. I got this done on my one day off and I hope I survive the next week coming up!

I love you all, I thank you for your patience and feedback as always! Please don’t shy away in the comments, reblogs, etc.

Your time at Regia passed quickly and slowly all at once. You were woken most days abruptly by Barnes pounding on your door or standing over you with his smug half-grin. Then you dressed in clothes you reviled and ate a breakfast you couldn’t enjoy for all the expectation of your intake. You were allowed some recreation though that was often reading bland historical texts or walks in the garden with your keeper.

Your least favourite part of each day were your dance lessons. You had to relearn how to walk, talk, look, and eat, but you had never had much rhythm. Besides, being so close to Barnes with him commenting on your every misstep was hardly fun. He delighted in every mistake you made, eager to reproach you for each, and was easily amused by Priscilla’s stick smacking across your legs, back, and ass.

You counted eleven days as you began to truly fledge. You were tired, annoyed, and to be honest, hungry. That day, you beat Barnes’ early disturbance. You sat, in a coral blouse and a pleated grey skirted, with the lowest pair of heels in the closet. He greeted you almost with approval and that made your want to tear the blouse and shred it.

You didn’t. You followed him downstairs to your usual miserable meal. When you finished, he escorted you back up the wide staircase to the hall of mirrors. You hated the room. It gave you an all to inclusive view of your ridiculous attire. You didn’t look like you. Sure, you were one for a scholarly look but this wasn’t really that. This was a pompous, over-stylised look which would go well only with a silver spoon on your tongue.

A man waited in the hall of mirrors, a woman too. The man was slender and tall and his long fingers were twined together as he waited emotionlessly. He bowed as you entered and recited a dull ‘your highness’. The woman was squat and stuffed into a patterned wrap dress spotted with bright reds, pinks, and oranges. She was more jovial as her voice chimed with the same recitation.

“Lester, Deanna,” Barnes announced, “My apologies for the delay. I trust you are ready.”

“Darling, your highness,” The stout woman swayed over to you, “Come with me.”

“Huh,” you looked at Barnes and he smiled as he gestured you forward.

“Just go,” he ordered, “She doesn’t look like much but she’s not one for defiance.”

You sighed and let the woman usher you over to the attached room. The racks of dresses were gone but long garment bangs had been hung from a hook along the opposite wall. The door snapped shut behind you and Deanna flitted around you, like an elephant in heels, and turned you to face her.

“Oh, love, you are gorg,” she chimed in a peculiar accent, “I think however Lord Barnes was a bit off on your measurements,” she grasped your waist, “Lovely, lovely.”

“I hate to be a bitch but what the hell is going on?” You asked.

She blinked and laughed. She drew away and pushed her dark curls back as they burst forth from the jeweled pin behind her head. “Oh dear, you are fiery. The king will… like that. I think.”

She didn’t sound convincing as she spun away and marched over to the hook and took down the first bag. She unzipped it as she neared and turned it to reveal the contents. A white lacy dress with thin straps and a scalloped hem around the neckline. The bodice was fitted and the skirt flared out into a princess silhouette. You knitted your brow as you stared at it.

“Your wedding dress,” she sang. “Oh, it will surely look splendid on you, darling. Your highness.”

She stripped the bag away and was careful not to let the skirts touch the floor as she held it aloft and folded the swaths of fabric over her arm. She held it out to her as she beamed at you.

“So… I don’t get to choose?” You wondered. You didn’t care very much but you hated that all your decisions were made for you.

“Oh, but this was refashioned from the former queen’s dress. It is a tradition in Astrania. In fact some of this would date back centuries!” She explained, “Of course we do update the style.”

You chewed on your lip and shrugged. “Let’s just get this over with,” you muttered.

You felt defeated as you couldn’t help but fixate on the white gown. It was like you were wrapping yourself in a flag of surrender. You’d wave your skirts and let yourself be taken. You undressed and stepped into the dress as she opened it for you. She pulled the straps over your arms and zipped it up. 

“Rather, it fits you well,” she came around as she pinched at the fabric and smoothed out the seams. She wasn’t wrong, though it felt rather constricting. “Well, come on. Lester needs to do his figures. He’s always the better eye for this. I just sew.”

She took your hand as you lifted your skirts with your other. You let her guide you back out to the hall of mirrors and you avoided looking around you. You couldn’t look at Barnes either as you sensed him watching you. You blurred your vision as you lifted your head and the tall man, Lester, walked around you. He began to pin little pieces in place and Deanna pulled out a small notepad as she began to jot with a stubbed pencil.

“Hmm,” Barnes appeared before you and your vision cleared, “Not bad…” He brushed the lace with his fingers and traced the curve of your waist with his hands, “However…” He lingered just below your chest, “You can’t show the entire kingdom your bra. You would do better to leave that behind on the day.”

“We can add some structure,” Lester offered evenly. “But our adjustments will be minor.”

Barnes reached over and tugged the skirts from your hand and fluffed them out around you. He rounded you and gripped your shoulders. You saw yourself in the mirrored wall and tried not to show your surprise. It wasn’t awful but you still didn’t like it.

“We have three days left. You have the other dress?” He asked.

“We have options,” Deanna said, “We were uncertain if the king would prefer red or blue.”

“Let me see,” Barnes sidestepped her and went to the attached room. 

Deanna glanced at you and waved you after him as she approached and gathered your skirts. She followed after you and your vigilant chaperone. She released the vast skirts and went to Barnes as he neared the hanging garment bags. She unzipped both and he tilted his head and tutted.

“Red,” he said, “I believe the king will be in blue.”

“Very well,” Deanna pulled the dress from the bag. “Now dear, let’s get you changed.”

Barnes turned back and neared you. He faced you and reached around you. He pushed the zipper down slowly and leaned in until his breath tickled your nose. “Three days.” He reminded you. He drew away and left you as the bodice fell slack. He closed the door behind him as Deanna replaced him.

“Darling, I think red will look marvelous on you. And the king in blue! He has the most amazing eyes. Oh, if I was younger… maybe, skinnier,” she giggled, “Well, should I even tell you? You’ve seen him. Ugh, handsome bugger, he is.”

“Mhmm,” you grumbled as you wiggled out of the gown, “What a tragedy it’d be if his outside was ugly too.”

👑

That night was as restless as any. You laid in bed for a time, tossing and turning. You tried to forget about the blinding white dress and the abhorrent red number that came after. And how time seemed to pass regardless of your fears or your desires. You felt helpless. You used to be in control of everything and now, you couldn’t control even yourself.

You sat up in a slat of moonlight. You weren’t going to sleep. Your frustration mounted the longer you squeezed your eyes shut and clawed and clutched for rest. You grunted and stood as the duvet fell away from your legs. The short silk nightie sent a chill up your spin as it fluttered around your thighs.

You crossed your arms and went to the window. The lawns were peaceful despite the anxiety within the palace. You turned away as the lush green rippling in the silver shadows only heightened your uneasiness. You took the blush coloured robe from the chair sat before the vanity and swathed yourself in it as you neared the door.

It was, to your surprise, unlocked. As strict a warden as Barnes was, you just assumed he would have locked you in. You let out a breath and stepped out into the hallway. The portraits of your predecessors, dead and dusty, watched you pass as you tiptoed along. The windows cast shapes around you as you went along and at times, you were certain you heard whispers.

You descended to the lower first floor and ventured down a wing never explored before. Your eyes were attune to the darkness but still played tricks as you crept along. You heard the distant, muffled, and quite possibly, imagined ripple of water. You smelled a pool, the sharp scent of chlorine. Your senses brought you to a door at the end of the corridor.

Frosted glass framed in heavy metal. You pressed against the slotted handle and the clasp slowly lifted. You inched inside as you peeked around the door. Broad shoulders, bare and thick with muscle, beneath a head of dark hair. You were shocked by the scars along Barnes’ left shoulder and the arm no longer in place below. You’d never even noticed the prosthetic now laid out with his clothes on a bench near the wall.

He shoved himself into the pool and the water swelled around him. You placed your feet carefully as you eased the door shut and neared the bench where his suit was folded neatly with his shoes, socks, belt, and tie. You bent closer as you admired the hand at the end of the prosthetic; you touched it curiously. It felt lifelike even as it sat limp.

“Convincing?” Bucky’s voice frightened you as you heard the water move around his body. You turned to face him as he brought his right arm over the edge of the pool. “Don’t worry. You can toss it around. I won’t feel a thing.”

You were speechless; embarrassed. You hadn’t meant to intrude upon him but your fatigue mixed with your confusion had goaded you on.

“Sorry, I… I couldn’t sleep.” You hugged yourself and swept back to the door. “I wasn’t meaning-- I shouldn’t have--”

“Just an arm.” He said as he pushed himself up and turned to display what was left of his arm, a scarred stub just below his shoulder. “Good thing I was born with two.”

“Barnes…” You backed up until you were against the door. “I should go.”

“Alright,” he pushed himself back and floated with his single arm outstretched. “I always found swimming helped… with sleep.” He said lazily. “Calming.”

You didn’t move. You only watched as he floated along in only his briefs. He was entirely unbothered by your presence as he hummed and reached out to stop himself at the other end of the pool.

“Well, are you enjoying the show or you going to join?” He asked.

You watched him warily. “You’re not mad?”

“Maybe slightly irritated,” he shrugged, “You hovering is ruining the mood.”

You stared at him and slowly pushed yourself away from the door. You took small steps forward and lowered yourself along the rim of the pool. You held in a squeak as you hung your legs into the cool water.

“So, were you just not going to tell me there was a pool?” You chided.

“You didn’t ask,” he said as he waded casually through the water. “To be fair, you didn’t seem much interested in this place though as I’ve gathered, you are disinterested in most things.”

You frowned and rolled your eyes. You peered over at the wall and pondered leaving him as you found him. You were surprised by a wet hand on your knee.

“If I can get to you so easy, Steve’s gonna drive you mad,” Barnes said. “So if you’re going to be so easily perturbed, you better work on hiding it better.”

“Whatever,” you huffed.

“Whatever,” he mocked as his hand slid under the water and he gripped your ankle. “Loosen up.”

He kicked himself away from the wall and pulled you down into the pool. You plunged with a yelp and threw your arms up in panic. Your nose and mouth filled with water and he let you go. You bobbed back to the surface and spat as your silken night clothes clouded around you.

“What the fuck, Barnes?” You sputtered. 

“I’ll admit,” he said through chuckles, “I had a drink or two.” He winked as he moved around you. “Well, Duchess, you do play the role much better than you think.”

“Ugh,” you turned away and reached for the wall of the pool, “You are the worst.”

“Wait,” he pressed against you and caught you around your waist, “Wait, wait.” He drew you back with him. “Come on. Relax.” He dragged you further into the water, “Look, you’ve only got a few days left and even if you hate to listen to me, you should. Once you’re at court, this won’t happen. Ever.”

“What do you care? You haven’t so far.” You struggled with him and dipped below the water again. You twisted and turned and came up facing him as he clung to you.

“Duchess,” he warned, “Don’t be a brat.”

“A brat?” You blinked. “Let go of me, Barnes.”

He grinned and held you to him as he moved backwards across the pool. You felt something between you. It moved against your pelvis and as he spun you and pinned you against the tile, you realised what it was.

“Are you serious right now?” You snarled. “What about your king, huh?”

He chuckled and his hand slid down your back. He squeezed your ass as he kept you against the side of the pool. He was so close you could feel his breath and smell the remnants of his sweat and cologne.

“I’m supposed to show you how to be a good wife,” his finger tickled under your thigh, “In all areas.”

“I doubt he had this in mind,” you pushed against him but he was too strong. He slid between your legs as his hand stretched along the crease of your thigh. “I mean it, Barnes--”

Your voice gurgled as he reached below your nightie and stroked the front of your thin panties. The water splashed as you slapped his chest and growled.

“James!” You cried out. “Stop!”

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. He twirled his fingers and you gritted your teeth against the tingle it sent through you. You stared into his eyes, fighting against the urge to let him go on. You shook your head slowly and pressed your hands to his shoulders. He let you push him away as his hand trailed over your leg.

“Oh, you just wait, Duchess,” he purred as he combed back his damp hair, “The king isn’t so willing to take orders.”

[ggukcangetit]

If The Bra Fits - JJK Fic

Final part of The Unbearable Lightness of Being... Something More series

Part 1 | Part 2 | 

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Genre: ex-roommate au, f2l, fluff, smut, low-key crack

Rating: 18+

Summary: Jungkook knows you hate it when he pops into your apartment to borrow something, but in the 2 years that you’ve known each other, that hasn’t deterred him much. But one day when he manages to (accidentally) ruin your favorite bra while raiding through your emergency snack supply, he knows that he’s fucked. With only a brand name to help him on his search, Jungkook spends the next 48 hours buying all the bras that look even remotely like the one he ruined. The only problem is - how would he figure out which was the correct size without asking you?

Warnings: a lot of talk of breasts and the trials and tribulations of finding a good bra, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, kissing, grinding, nipple play

Word count: 3.8k

a/n: thanks a ton to @hesperantha​ for beta-ing this! i was super nervous about writing proper smut >.< anywho, hope y’all enjoy this!

Jungkook knew he was fucked. Worse than when Jimin had walked in on Yoongi doing the do with his girlfriend. Worse than when Taehyung had lost his pet frog in Seokjin’s spice drawer. Worse than-

“Fuck.”

He would probably have to leave the country. Maybe he could move to Canada? Or New Zealand? Anywhere that wasn’t here. Or he could change his name! That might work…

“H-hello?” 

“What the hell, Jungkook? You were supposed to meet me for lunch 40 minutes ago! This is rude and, frankly, inexcusable behavior on your part.” Seokjin’s annoyed voice, talking at 300 words a minute, rang through the phone’s speaker. “And why the hell do you sound like that? Did you walk in on Yoongi and Soya this time? I swear, that guy needs to learn to lock his door. Or maybe just change his locks. I mean this is probably-”

“Seokjin!” Jungkook pinched the bridge of his nose as his friend slowed his word flow. “I’ll be there in 10 and explain everything.”

Hanging up the phone, he surveyed the site of the massacre once more before stuffing the offending object into his backpack and rushing out. True to his word, he was at the hole-in-the-wall dumpling place in 10 minutes, attempting to explain to an irate Seokjin, the reason behind his tardiness. 

“No! You did not do that!” Seokjin yelled, nearly choking on the hot soup dumpling that was hanging - half eaten - from his chopsticks.

Jungkook had, in fact, done that. That being the most cardinal offense his frazzled brain could think of at this point. That being sneaking into your apartment when you were at work, hoping to swipe some of your favorite shrimp puffs, placing his cup of steaming hot mocha on your study table, rummaging through your emergency snack supply but somehow inadvertently knocking over the coffee on the table, and cleaning it up with the nearest article available, which tragically, happened to be your mint green bra. 

“She’s going to kill you. No” - Seokjin picked up a egg cream bun and popped the whole thing into his mouth - “she’s going to whip your ass and then hang you upside down from that metal pole on Hobi’s balcony.”

Jungkook stared at the way the cream bun smoothly travelled down Seokjin’s throat after a couple of chews, and shivered. “What do I do??”

“Why do you have to do anything? She won’t know it was you who spilled coffee on her table and then wiped it with her bra. Unless...” 

Jungkook stared at his fingers guiltily. 

“You took the bra with you, didn’t you?” Seokjin sighed, lightly smacking his friend on the back of the head for good measure. “Well, you could always blame it on Namjoon. That’s what I would do. Heck, that’s what I did when I accidentally broke Hobi’s favorite figurine.”

“I don’t know…”

“You have to commit to something, Jaykay.” Every time Seokjin used his nickname for Jungkook, it meant there was some kind of terrible scheme being cooked up. “Either be a complete little shit and blame it on Namjoon, or just go and own up to y/n. You can’t teeter on the edge like this.”

“I could always just sneak back in and leave her bra where I found it.” Jungkook felt better already. This was it. This was the middle ground he was aspiring towards - the sacred path between Seokjin and Hobi, the Yoongi of all decisions. 

“You might not have to sneak in” - Seokjin held up his smartphone where the group chat was open to a bunch of notifications - “Tae said we’re meeting at y/n’s place for tacos and UNO.”

“Why is Tae so invested in our UNO games? He gets confused every time we play it.” 

“Because” - Seokjin swiped his credit card at the counter and thanked the cashier with a quick wink - “like every good strategist, he plans to improve by observing everyone else’s style of play. He definitely knows how to play by now. He’s just giving us the confused puppy look so that we underestimate him and he can learn all our little tricks. Just you wait - a few more games and that sneaky shit will be handing our asses back to us.”

Jungkook, while mildly interested in Taehyung’s card game antics, was more concerned about returning your bra without arousing any suspicion. The perfect moment presented itself when Seokjin, Namjoon, Yoongi, Taehyung and Hobi were immersed in a game of UNO, while you and Soya were munching on tacos - because let’s face it, food trumps just about everything else. Coming up with a half-convincing bathroom excuse, he snuck off towards your room, hoping to finally rid himself of the mint green burden.

Seconds before he pushed your door open, a snippet of conversation floated towards him and made his heart stop beating.

“I can’t find it anywhere.” You were complaining to Soya about something, loud enough for him to hear. “I must’ve turned my room upside down looking for it.”

Soya didn’t seem too perturbed. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a bra. Yoongi regularly loses my underwear after we have sex in new locations.”

Jungkook chuckled because he could almost see the look of horror on your face at receiving this piece of information. 

“Ignoring that TMI,” you continued. “That’s my favorite bra, Soya! You know how our sizes keep fluctuating - well, this was the first bra I bought after getting measured at a proper place. It literally changed my life. Do you know how fabulous it feels to have your boobs at normal chest level - neither squished up towards your collarbones nor jiggling like that everlasting jello Seokjin keeps buying? I’m tellin-”

Jungkook stopped listening at this point. If he didn’t, there was little chance that he’d be able to think of anything other than that. As it was, the mere sight of you these days, was enough to get blood flowing to certain parts of his body. 

There was clearly only one thing to do.

“You want me to help you do WHAT?” Once again, it was Seokjin who barely managed to stop himself from choking on yet another scrumptious food item on yet another lunch date with Jungkook. 

“I’m going to replace her bra.” The resolute expression on Jungkook’s face crumbled ever so slowly under the scrutiny of Seokjin’s pure, unadulterated skepticism. “It’ll be easy. I-I already know what it looks like, and all the information I need is on the itchy tag she always complains about.”

Seokjin’s thick brow remained masterfully arched. 

“Are you going to help me or not?” Jungkook whined in frustration.

“What do I get in return?”

“Why would you want anything in return? Why can’t you just help me out this time??”

The masterfully arched eyebrow did it’s trick once again.

“Fine. You can borrow all my gaming equipment for a week.”

“A month.”

“No way!”

“Good luck shopping for y/n’s favorite bra.”

“Fine! A month! Now can we get a move on please?”

Thankfully, it wasn’t too difficult to find the particular store that you had bought your favorite bra from. It was a niche boutique on the third floor of the mall, full of politely judgmental staff members and pointedly supercilious patrons, all of whom were highly skeptical of Jungkook’s grey and black hoodie-sweatpants combo. 

“Guess they didn’t really get on board with the whole athleisure concept,” Seokjin whispered, earning a hard elbowing from Jungkook.

The looks of skepticism were further enhanced when Jungkook produced the ruined bra, asking one of the assistants where he could find the same one. Jungkook hadn’t received such a disapproving look since his junior year of college when he had eaten 8 cups of instant ramen on a dare, done a celebratory jig, thrown up all over Yoongi and Hobi’s sofa, and promptly passed out. 

“Er… I, uhm, need something!” The exclamation from Jungkook was received by a few expertly raised eyebrows. One assistant, in particular, narrowed their eyes at him and walked over.

“This is a lingerie store” - they scanned him up and down a couple of times - “sir. If you’re here to buy any lingerie, I’d be happy to assist you.”

Jungkook gulped at the expensive clothes and flawless complexion of the shop assistant. So far, things were not really going according to plan. 

“Ow!” He felt a bony elbow dig into his ribs and glared at Seokjin, who was glancing between him and the assistant so rapidly, Jungkook was surprised he hadn’t gotten dizzy and passed out already.

“Right. Umm, I’m actually looking for this particular one” - he produced the once-pristine, but now covered in ugly brown splotches, bra from his backpack - “in this exact same size. Do you have it?”

If the shop assistant didn’t look particularly eager to be breathing the same air as him before, they now looked like they’d rather choke on month old guacamole than be near him.

“Our products are made for exclusivity. We do not carry the same sizes as the general marketplace. There are 4 basic sizes with 4 variations to each size. And this particular product” - they held the ruined bra delicately between two fingers and examined the tag - “is now only available in 3 particular size variations. You are free to choose whichever one you think is the closest fit.”

Jungkook’s doe eyes widened as he realized the itchy tag that you always complained about, truly had no other purpose but to inconvenience you. His panicked stare fell on Seokjin who had busied himself examining a very interesting leaf on the potted plant near the entrance.

It was up to him now, Jungkook realized. His fate was in his own hands. Walking over to the shelf carrying the mint green bras identical to the one he was holding, he inspected the 3 options carefully. 

“I think I’ll take this one.” Was what he said out loud. Inwardly, however, he was screaming a very different tune.

“HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DECIDE?? I’VE NEVER BOUGHT A BRA BEFORE! I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SIZE WOULD BE APPROPRIATE! IT’S NOT LIKE I SPEND ALL MY TIME SCRUTINIZING Y/N’S BREASTS!”

Thankfully, no one was privy to his internal screams except for himself.

“Thank you, sir. That will be $89.99.” Jungkook took out his debit card as the song playing over the system changed to No Tears Left To Cry.

Once out of the store, Seokjin let out a low whistle. “Wow… that was, undoubtedly, one of the most awkward situations I’ve ever been in. And I wasn’t even really in it.”

“At least the toughest part is over.” Jungkook felt like he had been running a 50 mile marathon while simultaneously figuring out the square roots of 5 digit numbers. In short, he was exhausted.

“Depends on what you think of that…” Seokjin pointed at a familiar figure, slowly walking towards them - someone Jungkook hadn’t expected to bump into in any of his worst case scenarios. You.

Confronted with an exceedingly dire situation with a bleak set of options, Jungkook vaulted into the nearest store, his entire being on high alert as it entered survival mode. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he rushed into because-

“Congratulations! You’re our 100th customer this week! You get a complimentary hair spa and perm!” Five extremely eager faces stared back at him as he realized he had walked into some sort of hair salon. 

Whoever was writing the script for this day was definitely high on something because Jungkook walked out of the salon 3 hours later, slightly traumatized, with a head full of small curls, clutching onto the cursed purchase with every fibre of his being.

Seokjin had left hours ago, dropping a text to Jungkook which read something along the lines of catch ya later sucker - but that was the least of his problems right now.

It was nearly midnight when he finally entered his apartment after managing to sneak in the new bra into your apartment. Thankfully, you lived two floors above him, so the trek back to his place wasn’t too long. The stress from the past couple of days was finally catching up to him and Jungkook would give anything for a nice long massage and a bowl of steaming hot ramen. 

Unfortunately, all that he had at home was a few leftover containers Taehyung had left behind on his last visit a couple of days ago. There was also bread, eggs, and milk, but he didn’t feel up to making anything at this point. So dinner ended up being heated, two-day old dumplings. 

Just as he was about to head to sleep, a loud pounding started on his front door. It was well past midnight at this point and Jungkook wondered if he should be carrying some sort of weapon with him while answering the door.

There really wasn’t any need for worry because on the other side of the door stood a very angry, very disgruntled, very flimsily dressed-

“Y/n?! What’re you doing here?” 

“You!” Jungkook stepped back as you poked him in the chest. “What the heck is your problem?” Many more pokes followed, which Jungkook barely registered but which left your index finger increasingly bruised. 

“I- uh, I guess you found the parcel I left for you.” He scratched the back of his head, looking everywhere but at you.

“I CANNOT believe you!” You were fuming and Jungkook was contemplating calling someone for backup. Maybe Namjoon? Or Yoongi? Mayb- “First, you ruin my favorite bra! What were you doing in my apartment anyway? Trying to steal more stuff from my emergency snack supply?! Why can’t you just buy your own s-”

You definitely had a point about the snack stealing. But Jungkook couldn’t stop himself from going over and taking something that would undoubtedly attract your attention, because the last time that had happened, you both had ended up making out aggressively against the wall. 

“-and not just that!” You were clearly not done with being mad at him. “You go ahead and try to replace my favorite bra? With this???” You held up Jungkook’s purchase from earlier during the day.

“What’s wrong with this? It’s the same one, isn’t it? I went to the shop to make sure it was the same.” He didn’t really understand why this particular fact was making you so upset.

“You think this is the same?” You were standing very close to him and Jungkook gulped as he caught a whiff of your lavender body lotion.

“Yes?”

“You think my boobs are this small?? After the way you basically kneaded them with your hands last time??” 

Jungkook’s eyes widened, his face growing hotter with every word you were speaking.

“Why the fuck do you look like that?” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“L-like what?” His voice came out sort of strangled as he tried to make sense of the situation.

“Like you’ve been caught eating the last cookie.”

Jungkook didn’t know how to respond to this. He was very aware of the fact that you were wearing a flimsy grey t-shirt and very old, very small, sleeping shorts. He gulped and wondered if this was some kind of dream that he’d suddenly wake up from.

“I’ve been waiting for you to make a move since you stuck your tongue down my throat last time. But nope! Nothing.” Now he knew that there was something wrong. This didn’t seem like the rational next line in a dialogue between real people who had just been in a, slightly one-sided, fight. “So, are you gonna kiss me or not?”

“W-what?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper at this point and you scoffed loudly before fisting your hands in his t-shirt and crashing your lips to his.

It took him a few seconds to get his bearings, but Jungkook was soon responding with impressive enthusiasm. His lips glided over yours with a desperation borne out of nearly two years of attraction and chemistry. He groaned in pleasure as your hands travelled into his hair, your fingers running through his freshly done curls. His hands travelled down your back before cupping your butt-cheeks and squeezing them until you moaned into his mouth. The feel of your body against his was enough to make him slowly lose his mind - but your tongue swiping into his mouth brought out a strangled noise from deep inside him. This was so much better than the first time you had both made out - there was more experience and knowledge of each other, and you seemed much more determined than the last time.

“Tell me what you want,” Jungkook’s voice came out huskier than you had ever heard, sending a surge of electricity to your core. “Tell me what makes you feel good, y/n.”

His voice was sultry and his body rock-hard at the perfect places - his breath falling in harsh pants as he recovered from the intensity of the kisses. But his eyes held the soft sincerity you had grown to lov-

“Against the wall,” you breathed, your face flushing as you verbalised your request. “And then on your bed.” You took one of his hands and placed it on your breast, firm with arousal, and guided his other hand to the waistband of your shorts. 

A beautiful pink blush dusted his cheeks as he captured your lips once again. He had you against the wall in seconds, his lips leaving a trail of devastation from your lips to your throat to your breasts. You moaned loudly as you felt his fingers rub against your clothed core while his tongue flicked over your nipples at a deliciously slow pace. 

“Gguk…” God he loved to hear that name coming from your lips. He loved it even more now that it was in the midst of him pleasuring you to the best of his ability. 

“Bed. I can’t… stand...” You managed to say. He obliged, placing his hands below your knees and scooping you up with ease, all while his lips kept pressing soft kisses to yours. 

Once on the bed, you removed your t-shirt and shorts, instructing him to do the same. Jungkook stared at your bare body for a moment, his eyes glazed with lust before he stripped himself of his clothes and continued kissing every part of your body he could find. 

Your insides were coiling, the heat growing at your core as you watched Jungkook’s magnificent, completely naked, body move over yours. Your hands itched to run over his abs but your eyes were fixed on his throbbing dick, your core growing wetter by the moment. 

“Can I?” Jungkook’s hoarse voice broke you out of your dilemma, his face hovering over your thighs. “Only if you want it, y/n.” You were pretty sure his soft, caring words would be enough for your undoing, but you nodded your head anyway.

The first swipe of his tongue against your core had you arching yourself off the mattress, your legs kicking up involuntarily. This was definitely where his gym prowess came in handy, as he held your thighs down with enough force for the feeling to be unbelievably pleasurable. Your hands found themselves in his curls once more, as his mouth alternated between dropping feather light kisses on your core and swiping along the wetness with a swipe of his tongue. 

“I-I’m not…” You didn’t have to complete the sentence as stars exploded in your vision, the high hitting you with more force than you had ever experienced. 

Something inside you tightened as you watched Jungkook emerge from between your thighs, his curls sweaty, and his mouth slick with your arousal. He smiled at you, dropping a light kiss on your lips, even as his dick stood red hot and angry with arousal.

“Can I help?” You asked, although your voice was hardly above a whisper, the tiredness seeping in, as you came down from the orgasm.

“Next time?” His voice was soft as he gave himself a few strong pumps before spilling onto his stomach. 

He grinned at you sheepishly. “I’m also kind of exhausted today.” Getting up quickly, he went into the bathroom and cleaned himself off, before coming back with a wet towel for you as well. 

You smiled shyly as you took the towel from him, wiping between your thighs quickly. 

Jungkook was beside you in a few moments, cuddling you from behind as sleep slowly overtook you both.

“Jungkook!” 

You cracked your eyes open slowly, wondering why someone was yelling at the crack of dawn. You were still pretty much wrapped up in Jungkook, both your legs entangled as your head rested on his chest while he snored softly.

“JUNGKOOK!”

A second, much louder, yell, woke Jungkook up as well. His eyes widening in alarm as he realised what was going on.

“It’s Tae! What’s he doing here?!” He whispered, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Umm what?” You were panicking now. As much as you had been wanting things with Jungkook to pick up, you did not want Taehyung to find you both wonderfully naked after a night of wonderfulness. “He cannot see us like this! Not yet! I refuse to let this be how everyone finds out about us!”

“Jungkook, I’m coming in!”

Jungkook quickly pushed you below the covers, fluffing it up sufficiently to hide the fact that you were under it. He barely managed to close his eyes before Taehyung walked in, much too sprightly for this early in the morning.

“Aww!” His deep voice sounded through the room. “Jungkookie, are you still sleeping?”

Much to his horror, Taehyung made his way over to the bed, his long fingers smooshing Jungkook’s cheeks together as the poor boy tried to feign sleep.

“Did you sleep late last night?”

“Mph.”

“Jungkookie’s still sleepy? Aww!” The cheek smooshing continued, and Jungkook wondered how much longer you could stay hidden without Taehyung’s perceptiveness deducing that you were there.

“Hmmmm.” Jungkook managed to grunt out, tossing over to trap you underneath him.

“Okay, go back to sleep.” With one last cheek smoosh, Taehyung got up and left the room.

“Thank god!” Jungkook whispered in relief, pulling the covers off your face.

“I’m so glad he didn’t figure out I was here,” you sighed in relief. 

Jungkook grinned at you, his bunny teeth poking out adorably as he pulled you closer to him. You giggled, reaching up to place small kisses on each of his moles - there were 5 according to your last examination. 

“The curls are cute,” you said between kisses, running your fingers through his hair. He sighed contentedly, resting his forehead on yours. If it were up to him, he’d stay here forever.

“Oh and y/n-” You both stiffened as you heard Taehyung’s voice from the living room. Apparently, he hadn’t left yet. “-thanks a lot! Seokjin now owes me 50 bucks!”

please reblog this post if you enjoyed reading the story! thank you 😊 

[keeroo92]

Breaking Point

My SFW contribution to @jackpot-dantezine, where Dante falls apart on the way to confront Urizen.

Word count: 1,909

-------

The air hung stagnant around him, oppressive and unnaturally warm. Shades of red and brown, grey and a sickening green encroached up the walls. When he called the smell, “hot garbage”, he’d been far too kind. Veins pulsated a stern drumbeat as Dante stepped forward after his two female companions. 

“Bet you both I bag the first Queen!” Lady taunted. Trish responded with a cool smirk and a quickened pace, but Dante’s mind was elsewhere.

What if it was Vergil?

Dante had his doubts, despite what the weirdo client told him. What were the chances, right? Vergil’d been gone for years, stuck in hell after their last meeting. Getting back here, let alone in good enough shape to pull off this bullshit, was a longshot.

Still. His brother had a way of popping up and causing trouble. 

The first boom of battle ricocheted off the nauseating walls, reminding him where he was and what he still needed to do. He’d better catch up. Thinking about shit wasn’t his style; killing demons was. 

Time for a good ol’ fashioned beat down, that’d get him out of this funk. 

Dante cracked his neck, hands twitching to grasp the twin handles of his beloved Ebony and Ivory. The staccato thud of his boots mirrored the thudding of his heart, hastening as he got closer to a fight.

He turned a bloody corner just in time to see Trish deal a death blow to a Hell Judecca, its skeletal arms dissolving into ash as she spun to find her next prey. Her signature yellow sparks glowed brightly from her hands, her body dashing across the blood-stained ground to strike a pair of Antenora. Show off.

“That puts me ahead by two, Lady! What, are you taking a nap?” the blonde called.

“Not even close!” Lady replied, firing her bazooka straight down the throat of a Caina.

Dante grinned and picked a target, spinning on his heel as a scythe hunted his flesh. Too easy. He twirled Ebony and shot the ugly bastard in the face behind his back. Why did all demons look like the ass end of a bad burrito, anyway?

Eh, who cared?

His heart lurched. Vergil would. When they were children, Dante’s brother never ran out of questions about the nature of demons. He’d asked everything imaginable, from how they fought to how they multiplied. 

Dante tried not to think about that part.

And for every question Vergil asked, their dad had an answer. He’d stop whatever he was doing to explain, smiling proudly all the while. Like Dante wasn’t even there. It used to annoy him, but now the memory only brought bittersweet longing. What he wouldn’t give for them all to be together again…

“Dante, duck!”

Leather snapped as Dante instantly dropped to a crouch. A stream of fire licked his flesh, a Hell Bat above screeching its displeasure at the near miss. Annoying bastard. He never should've let it get so close. 

I gotta keep it together, he thought cynically, or the girls will get on my case.

Plus, banter always helped keep his mind from visiting its darker corners.

The man in red summoned a smirk and fired a few rounds, his bullets poking holes in the bulging orange belly overhead. A sound not unlike a whoopee cushion signaled his success. Nice.

“Sayonara, sucker!” he crowed, watching as the bat’s leaking body propelled it into a wall to explode. “Let’s call that one twenty points.”

“No way, lazybones! You don’t get extra for making fart noises,” Lady called with a scowl. 

Dante raised his hands in a placating gesture as soot settled to mark the deaths of their foes. He hoped Ver- Urizen sent a few more their way; he needed to warm up before kicking the king’s ass. Maybe he should stretch, just to keep his blood flowing.

Dante sighed and shook his head. He’d never hear the end of it.

It turned out he didn’t need to worry; as the trio progressed, they encountered wave after wave of demons, all vying for fresh blood. Trish and Lady didn’t falter, picking off one after another as Dante did his best to stay on task, but his mind kept drifting back to his brother.

For decades, Dante held only anger at his twin for not being there, for forcing their mother to search for him. To a child, the immature logic made sense. If Vergil hadn’t run off, things would’ve turned out differently. Simple cause and effect.

But time dulled the blade of his rage, and a broader understanding of life took hold. Any number of choices may have changed the outcome of the attack, but obsessing over it wouldn’t change what happened.

None of them had the power to predict the consequences, or to change them. All he could do was keep fighting, and hope that by doing so he spared other families from sharing the fate of his own. 

If Dante was being honest, the constant battles tired him. His body didn’t move like it used to, and the first aches of middle age warned him it was time to slow down. He couldn’t chase demons forever, and part of him didn’t want to. It was a lot of work.

It might be time to leave it to someone younger.

Then again, what the fuck else was he going to do all day? The only thing worse than being tired was being bored.

And the thought of retiring while Vergil was still out there somewhere, doing who knew what… it didn’t feel right, as if the balance would shift to the demons and they’d go unchecked. As a descendant of Sparda that gave a shit about humanity, Dante felt a certain responsibility to bear the weight of defending them. It was what his dad would’ve wanted.

What his mother would’ve wanted.

Besides; if he didn’t, then who would? Nero sure as hell wasn’t ready, not yet. 

But above all else, if it came to a fight to the death, his brother deserved to go at the hands of his family. Someone who understood what he’d gone through and all that he’d lost. It was Dante’s responsibility, and he damn well wasn’t hiding from it. Not this time. 

The thought left a hollow ache in his chest, a bitter sorrow he desperately wished he could ignore. If there was any alternative, any chance of helping his brother instead of ending his life, Dante knew he’d take it. That he had to even consider killing Vergil showed how twisted life could be. It made him want to scream. 

“Aw, shit,” Trish said, breaking his rambling thoughts. A quartet of Nobody’s waited in the next clearing, scurrying back and forth like excited cats. Perfect timing - Dante hated these guys.

And he really needed to kill something.

He flew at the demons with a cry of fury, drawing all four to him as he pulled Rebellion out. The girls followed in his wake, but he saw nothing save the nearest mask as his blade struck home. It left a deep crack in the clay, but the prick backed off before he had the time to kill it.

He really hated these guys. 

“Lady, finish him!” he cried. The other three were already swarming him. Damnit.

He dodged a stray arm and slashed at another as a blast reached his ears. The grotesque floor shook from the force and Dante roared, unleashing a vicious series of slices at the stumbling Nobody closest to him. It whimpered and tried to back off, but he refused to let it go that easily. Rebellion’s heavy blade sank deep into the creature’s core, splattering hot blood on its fellows and its killer alike. Two down. 

Two to go. 

There were days he didn’t see the point of it anymore; no matter how many would-be demon kings he took down, there’d always be another, and the peons were even worse. Useless, feral things, their only desire to destroy and kill.

It only added fuel to the fire of his rage. He needed to get closer.

Dante sheathed Rebellion and pulled at the thread of dark energy connecting him to Balrog, summoning the metallic pseudo-armor even as he threw a powerful punch. A rapid kick followed, his feet cracking against the reddish mask of the third nobody. He’d kill it before it fought back.

But a fiery blast on his left hurled him to the side, the last demon cackling as he fell. Years of getting pummeled proved their worth as Dante rolled with the blow, using the momentum to get on his feet a beat later. He grimaced and flipped a finger at the laughing jerk. 

“Is that all you got?” he shouted. Who knew if it understood.

It screeched and slammed a limb at him, slashing at his chest. He stepped aside and brought his arms together, crushing the appendage and tugging the beast closer for a solid headbutt. He punched and kicked, again and again. Demon blood splattered his face, each drop like a balm to his wrath. The chaotic battle surrounding him faded away; it was just him and the demon and the sounds of his strikes pulverizing its desecrated body. 

“Dante?” Lady called, her voice barely piercing the fog of his anger. He ignored her and punched the Nobody in the face again. “Dante, it’s dead. You can stop hitting it now.”

How many people had this one killed? How many families did its hunger shatter? For all Dante knew, it might be the bastard that killed his mother. He punched it again.

“Dante, come on…” Trish said. 

Maybe this was the demon that left nothing but smears of blood on the playground outside. Or the one that tore through a local grocery store, or that small house where he found those god awful husks. Another punch. He didn’t notice his female companions coming to stand beside him.

“Dante, knock it off. We need to keep moving,” Lady said, her palm coming to rest on his shoulder as he pulled back for another punch. Trish mirrored her.

The edges of the creature’s face began dissolving, a fine grey powder all that remained. Dante’s panting breath sent the dust aflutter as he slowly lowered his arm. His jaw ached; had he been gritting his teeth the whole time? Fuck.

Better crack a joke, something to keep it light.

“So, that’s what, four points to me?” Dante said. Both women shot him fierce glares.

“What the fuck, Dante?” Lady began. 

He wiped away the blood still clinging to his face and sighed. “It’s nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing,” Trish chimed in. “You good?”

The red-clad man released the tendril of energy connecting him to Balrog, the blood-stained metal vanishing a beat behind. He didn’t know what to say. His rage still flickered within him, an ever present ember waiting for the right moment to flare into an inferno. It might give him an edge; it might consume him. 

Talk about a double-edged sword.

It didn’t matter what was happening in his heart or what it did to him. There was a big ass demon tree growing in his city, ugly bastards swarming the place and who knew what else. It was his job to clean up the mess, no matter who made it. 

Dante snorted. He was, in essence, a janitor. 

He cracked his neck. It was time to clean. “I’m good.”

[thiswasinevitableid]

if you’re still taking meet ugly asks, could you do 01 or 13 for sternclay? nsfw please

Here you go! I went with 1.

we were set up on a blind date but it went horribly, so now you message me every time you have a good date because you think your tips will help me in the future, you ass.

Bzzbzz

Joseph picks up his phone and regrets it before he’s even done reading the waiting message.

Barclay: See, this is how you dress for a date at a casual place.

It’s accompanied by a photo of a headless torso, sporting a Ramones T-shirt and blue jeans.

He deletes the message. He told that asshole he was in the suit because Hayes kept him late to finish a report and he didn’t want to be any more behind for their date than he already was.

No, you know what, he’s had enough of this.

J.S: He’s dressed like a college student. No one told me you were a cradle robber.

Barclay: Just trying to help you do better next time ;)

This is the same line he gives Joseph every time he sends one of these texts

“It was great, it felt like a real conversation instead of an interrogation.”

“See, what made tonight nice was he didn’t look at his phone even once.”

“Now, what made this nice is that he didn’t mistake another guy for me on the way in.”

He has reasons, explanations, things that could make him look more like a man who had a bad day and less like the poster boy for the horrors of blind dating. But the one time he tried sharing his side of things, Barclay responded that he wasn’t doing this to make sense of their shitty date, but to make it easier on the next guy.

It was the last date in a long line of increasingly desperate attempts by his loved ones to find someone, anyone, for him to be with; being married to his work fills all his needs. Leave it to his older sister to spot that it wasn’t meeting many of his wants.

Joseph tosses the phone away, retrieves his take-out leftovers from the fridge. As he munches reheated green mango chicken, the city heading out into Friday night revelry without him, he decides that while he’s not about to take dating advice from a guy who can’t pull his head out of his ass long enough to consider someone else’s perspective, Barclay makes one good point: there’s always a next time.

And there’s no moment like the present to start planning for it.

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

Barclay cannot figure out why Logan chose this spot; it’s one step above gay cruising club. Not that he hasn’t had fun at those before, but he was hoping for somewhere quieter. Also somewhere with better food; you can tell a lot about a guy by what he orders, and fuck all about him when the only meal to be found is chips or the olive from a martini glass.

Still not the worst date he’s been on.

As Logan steers the conversation in promisingly steamy directions, Barclay glances at the bar and locks eyes with his biggest disappointment of the year. Joseph raises an eyebrow, then his face goes annoyingly neutral as he looks first at Logan and then to the bartender for another glass.

His date excuses himself and Barclay weighs how much of a dick he wants to be against how good Joseph looks tonight. He’s in a v-neck and a short jacket, dark-wash jeans making it easy to picture how satisfying hooking his legs over Barclays shoulders would be.

Barclay sidles up to the bar, leaning on it and smiling at Joseph, “You finally decide to put my advice to good use?”

“No.” Joseph replies, tarter than a cherry, and goes back to looking at his phone.

“Suit yourself, and have fun going home alone.”

The black-haired man squares his shoulders, turns so that Barclay gets a full-on view of a stunning face and sharp, blue eyes, “At least I won’t be going home with someone who’s using me for a prank video.”

“Pfft, whatever man, you’re just-” Barclay snaps his mouth shut as Joseph turns his phone, showing a Youtube channel hosted by none other than Logan.

“His modus operandi is to have viewers vote on which gay man he should go out with and string along the whole night until he reveals he’s straight.”

“I, I uh, that’s” his heart is in his shoes, “that’s not very nice.”

“That’s not all. There are three cameras recording your date.” Joseph points to three separate guys, “they’re using their phones, makes it hard to prove they’re not just texting or something else innocuous.”

He might cry. Worse, if he cries, he might owe Joseph an explanation.

“There you are baby, thought you’d run off.” Logan sets a hand on his arm and Barclay freezes, trying to work out a non-humiliating form of escape.

Joseph clears his throat, “Are you aware that recording people without their permission is illegal in this state?”

“Uh, no, but what the fuck does that have to do with me?”

“You, and those three gentleman you’re having film Mr. Cobb here, are all at risk of being charged with a misdemeanor.” Joseph’s voice is smooth and clear, utterly in control, and Barclay gets goosebumps as he pulls out his wallet and flashes an FBI badge, “I suggest you get out of here before you do something you regret.”

The quartet disappears in a cloud of body spray as Barclay slumps onto a stool and Joseph orders two more drinks, sliding one his way. Whiskey Soda, his favorite. He’d ordered it during their date.

They sip in silence for three songs before Joseph says, “I guess I passed the dubious honor of your worst date onto someone else.”

“You’re still a strong runner up.” It’s mean, but Barclay isn’t feeling very chipper right now.

“Oh come on, I wasn’t that bad! I was trying to learn as much about you as I could while switching from work mode to a date.”

“You made me feel like I was doing all the work!”

“If you’d given me more than a half hour of your time I could have fixed that.”

“Nah, I know when a date is doomed. No point in dragging it out. It wasn’t going to be fun.”

“I can be fun!” Joseph knocks back the rest of his drink, “I’ll prove it.”

Barclay snorts, “how?”

“I want a do over. Right now.” Lights dance across his skin and Barclay gets a whiff of gin and mint as he leans so they’re almost nose to nose, “Unless you’re afraid you’ll be the dud this time.”

“You’re on.” Barclay growls, “but don’t get your hopes up.”

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

Either his pillow sprouted fur overnight, or Joseph isn’t where he should be.

He cracks his eyes open, squinting in the muted, grey light sneaking in under the curtains. The room, while tidy, isn’t his, and the clock on the wall tells him he’s starting his Saturday out with oversleeping.

Barclay is sound asleep beside him, his broad, hairy chest rising and falling soothingly. A cursory peek under the blankets shows he’s a naked as Joseph is. As the agent slips from the bed and hunts down his clothes, he starts to remember why.

They’d done something in the club bathroom, a blow-job, that’s right, and the instant Barclay dragged him into his apartment Joseph shoved him onto the bed, yanked his pants off, and returned the favor. He remembers, as he surrenders to going commando rather than wear his pre-cum stained boxer briefs, wanting to sleep with his head on Barclay’s stomach, cum still on his lips, but the cook made a very convincing argument to come up and kiss him instead.

His pants are back on when his phone lights up from it’s spot on the floor.

Alert: Snowstorm predicted to last until 5 pm Sunday. Travel limited, recommended for emergencies only. At least five feet of snow predicted.

“Shit” he whispers, pushing the curtain aside to discover a world of smooth, white roof tops and impassable streets.

Jinglejingle

He spins, startled, as what he thought was a black pillow shakes out it’s ears and rises from a cushion at the foot of the bed. It’s the single most absurd dog he’s ever seen, like someone smushed a corgi and a Rottweiler together. It blinks at him, cocks it’s head, and then shifts its attention to the bed.

“Please don’t jump.” Maybe he can still sneak out on foot, or find somewhere else to wait out the storm.

The dog launches it’s tubular body onto Barclay, who “oofs” and is laughing before he even opens his eyes.

“Hey boy, yeah, I know, I know, didn’t let you in until way after bedtime.” The cooks deep voice is scratchy with sleep. The dog wiggles and digs at the blankets on his chest as he turns his head, smiling Joseph’s way, “morning babe.”

“Good morning.” Throwing himself out the window would result in hypothermia. Also a broken ankle. So no luck there.

Barclay notices his jeans, “Oh, uh, if you need to go that’s cool. I, uh” he yawns “I have a policy of making breakfast after a hook-up, but if you’re in a hurry I can just get you some coffee for the road. C’mon Sass, let me up.”

“I, um, I can stay. I don’t have much choice.”

“What do you--oh fuck, I knew we were getting snow this weekend but no one said anything about a fucking blizzard. Guess you’re crashing here for the weekend.”

“I guess so.”

Barclay’s smile shrinks, “Is that a shitty outcome?”

“No! Or, um, I just” Joseph sits on the bed, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t want to impose. I was trying to get out of here so I wouldn’t make things awkward since I, um, I don’t do this much.”

“Gotta say that was kinda obvious.” It’s a gentle tease, Barclay’s fingers flipping through his phone, “huh, when did I take a video last night?”

“I think you--oh, oh my lord.” Joseph claps his hands over his mouth, blushing at the memory.

“What, did I talk you into karaoke or somethi--holy fuck.” Barclay scoots to where Joseph is frozen, holding the screen where they can both see it. The same face growing excited beside him is looking up at the camera, lips wrapped around Joseph’s cock as a voice urges him on.

“You like that, big guy?”

Barclay nods, pulls off so he can drag his tongue up the shaft with a grin. Then he swallows it almost to the base, Joseph’s hand flying past the lens to stifle a moan.

“That’s it, show me how much you like it, s-so the next time you feel like sending me a snarky text you can watch this and remember just how much fucking fun you had sucking my dickAH.” A laugh as Barclay sits back on his heels, pulling off the condom.

“C’mon blue eyes, bet, bet you’re gonna look great when you cum, fuck, think I ruined these pants just watching you. Heh, you like that, like getting me hard and wet on the fucking bathroom floor.”

“Usually it’s, it’s the other waAAaay aroundohfuck, shit.” Cum spatters across Barclay’s face. The cook licks his lips, still smiling, as the camera sinks to his level, Joseph giggling behind it, “here, let, let me clean you up.”

“Don’t want everyone else to see your cum all over me?"

“Nngn. I, I mean no, not in actuality.” Joseph’s hand returns to the frame, gently cleaning Barclay’s cheek with toilet paper.

The video ends there. Joseph is red from his hips to his cheeks, but not so embarrassed that he misses Barclay rubbing his thighs together. Then the cook meets his eyes and sets the phone aside.

“I can delete it. Know your face isn’t in it but if you’re more comfortable with it gone, it’s gone.”

The offer alone calms him, “No, no it’s okay. Thank you for offering. I, um, since I’ll be here awhile, can I use your shower?”

“Sure, it’s just through there.” He tips his head at the door in the left wall, grabbing a robe from the door and heading into the chilly apartment, Sass clickclick-ing on the hardwood after him.

As always, the world is more manageable when he’s clean. A pair of sweatpants and a thick, blue sweater are waiting for him on the bed, and coffee-swirled air coaxes him into the kitchen. It’s small but immaculately organized, Barclay moving from stove to cabinet to fridge and back again in an intimate dance.

“Coffee on the left is yours. I’m doing pancetta in the omelettes; most of my friends are vegetarian so I never get a chance to bust it out.”

“That sounds delicious.” He picks up the mug, sighs as warms his chest, “mmm, you have real cream somewhere in this house.”

“Yep. Remember you said you liked the real stuff when you could get it. I drink mine black, but really these beans demand cream instead of milk; sets of the chocolate notes really nice.”

“I can never taste those. Same thing with wine. But I guess that’s why you’re the professional and I’m not.”

“That’s more a happy coincidence. I got into this to help with the bills when I was in high school. I wasn’t, like, combining flavors and deciding to be a cook like in Ratatouille or something.”

“That’s a Pixar movie, right?”

“Only the best one ever made. Have you really not seen it?

“I, um, I only watch kids movies if I’m babysitting my niece. Which doesn’t happen as often as I’d like.”

“Well, now I know what we’re doing after breakfast. Ah ah, Sass, not for you.” He shoos the dog from where it’s valiantly trying to double in length to reach the table.

“Is his name short for something?”

“Sasquatch.”

“Awwww.” Joseph crouches down to scritch behind one, floppy ear.

“His whole litter was named for cryptids; Nessie, Champ, Yeti, stuff like that.”

“‘Bray’ feels like an obvious one.” He smiles, then remembers not everyone is a nerdy UP agent, “sorry, never mind.”

“Uh uh special agent, I’ve been waiting to ask you about this. You don’t get to say you’re ‘like Fox Mulder’ and then not share more.” Barclay pulls out his chair, kisses his head when he sits down. He then listens to Joseph expound on canine cryptids of the midwest for fifteen minutes, fascinated the entire time.

“Y’know, I had a line cook who swore he’d been abducted by aliens.”

“What was his proof?”

By the time their plates are clean, Joseph has generated three alternative explanations and Barclay is staring at him with an expression straight from a rom-com. The cook sets up the movie while Joseph does the dishes, then pulls him under a mound of blankets.

“The heat in this place is shit, but I promise I’ll keep you warm.”

He enjoys the movie plenty, the weight of Barclay’s arm over his shoulder and, eventually, his waist, even more. They watch Ramen Girl for the hell of it, spooning on the couch while the snow makes dunes out of the sidewalk.

When the second movie is done, Joseph rolls so he’s facing the cook, “What should we do now?”

“Could keep watching movies, or bake something. I’ve got some cards and a few games in the closet. Or we could just cuddle and talk. I’m good with whatever.”

“...Could I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“You’ve been so sweet all day. Why were you such an ass about our first date?”

Barclay shifts, discomfort entering his eyes, “I was having a shitty week and was hoping the date would make me feel better. I ended up so anxious after it, felt like you wanted to be somewhere else, that I kinda took my frustration out by being a dick. I’m sorry. I, um, I wasn’t even on that many dates between now and then; I’d just text you what I’d wished had happened to fuck with you.”

“I should’ve known it; no one has that many good dates in a row.”

“Sorry.”

Joseph cups his cheek, “And I’m sorry for making you feel that way the first time. I had my reasons but, well, you still had a bad time because I was flustered and couldn’t get my mind off work.”

“Think you’ve more than made up for it.”

“Can I try again anyway?” Joseph kisses him, slipping his fingers under the waistband of his sweats.

Barclay’s lips curve up, “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

Once Barclay is comfortably naked atop the blankets (space heater pointed at the bed all the while), Joseph asks if he has any condoms.

“Yeah, bathroom cabinet. But I’m not, uh, I don’t-”

“It’s not for penetration. You said last night that was a no for you.” In the reflection of the bathroom mirror, he watches him relax. If he ever finds out someone saw the tension in those muscles, heard the worry in that sweet, deep voice and pushed anyway, he’s going to set them on fire with his mind.

Barclay nestles his cheek on his pillow as Joseph fishes his swiss army knife from his jacket, puts his ass in the air and wiggles it expectantly as Joseph unrolls the cut latex.

“Is this okay?”

“Uh huh, I really love it when guys do this but, uh, it doesn’t happen much. The hair turns a lot of them off.”

“Cowards.” Joseph holds the makeshift dam in place. Barclay’s chuckle morphs into a moan as he presses his face between his asscheeks, tongue making an obscene sound against the latex. There’s a warmth to this angle that he loves, a tender sort of filthiness to the way Barclay pushes his ass back with little gasps of his name.

He doesn’t get to practice his technique often, but that makes it all the more pleasurable to re-acquaint himself with it now, find the ways of pressing and curving his tongue that make Barclay’s ass tense under his hands.

“Fuck, fuck, Joseph, I take it all back, every rude text, you’re gonna drive every date you get crazy, gonna make them wonder how they got so lucky to get someone so goddamn wild.”

“I don’t think I will. I think” Joseph kisses the small of his back, “I think it’s you. You bring it out in me, you make me want to do all the things I’d be ashamed to ask for the rest of the time.”

Barclay whimpers happily.

“I’m serious. There’s something about you, I feel like I can want what I want without shame.” He nips his right cheek once, gently, “or maybe it’s just that what I really want is you and everything else finds into line because of it.”

“Fuuuck, baby, please.” Barclays weight shifts as Joseph eats him out ever more messily, “wanna, wanna make you feel good.” He’s rubbing his dick, Joseph can tell by the sound.

“May I?”

“Uhhuh, fuck, c’mere” Barclay grabs him as soon as they’re both sitting up, “was gonna pound you into next week but I dont wanna waste time with the harness right now.”

“Then we can do that tomorrowAH, ohlord” his hand stutters on it’s way to Barclay’s cock as calloused fingers circle is dick, “god there is not a part of you that disappoints, you’re just a wet dream from top to bottom.”

“Aw, babe.” Barclay kisses his shoulder, groaning as Joseph thumbs his dick, “fuck, speaking of, you gonna tell me what you meant in the stall last night? About things being ‘the other way around.”

Now it’s his turn to hide his face, “Promise you won’t think I’m dirty?”

“Babe, your mouth was on my ass a minute ago. You’re dirty and I fucking love it.”

“I, um, I, when I travel for missions I look for, for places that have glory holes.”

“Oh fuck” Barclay ruts against his palm, “that’s a fucking amazing image blue eyes. You on your knees, trying to keep that fucking suit clean while a fucking parade of guys shove their dicks down your throat.”

“I, it’s an easy way for me to get off, I can edge myself until I’m done and then cum without anyone being the wise but, god, half the time I’d think about this, want this.” He speeds up his strokes, pumps his cock into Barclay’s fist.

“What, a hairy trans guy?” Barclay bumps their noses together.

“This” his free hand glides along Barclays arm where it’s holding him, “s-someone to see me, hold onto me, fuck the whole of me and not just the acceptable, easy part. But” he meets brown eyes, teases slick skin, “I, the other times I fucked someone like this it, it was like I was still in that fucking stall. Last night, today, I’m here, I want to be and I am.”

“Baby.” The word comes in a sweet rumble of understanding just as Joseph cums with a gasp. He holds on for dear life as Barclay joins their hands and guides his fingers along his dick, forces his mind to memorize the movements and shapes for next time.

Barclay cums with a groan, flinging his hands up to cup Joseph's head and kiss him. There’s cum on his arm, on Joseph’s fingers and now in his hair and he cannot bring himself to give a shit. Gradually the kisses trail to his cheeks, his neck, his collarbone, and then Barclay is nestling his head under his chin.

“I, um, I think it might have been a good thing. That first date. I can be overly focused on work, can forget to turn off the special agent questioning mode and just talk like a person. I’m glad you saw those parts of me and, um, and decided to give me another chance.”

“Hey, you saw that I could be kinda sensitive and stubborn when I think someone did something wrong and you still saved my ass from being humiliated on the internet.” Barclay sighs as Joseph pets his hair.

“Do you, um, want to keep getting to know each other? Good parts and bad?”

Barclay looks up at him. Sees him.

“Yeah, blue eyes, I do.”

[my-brothers-corrupted]

Chapter Four: Intro

A week after Peru, we find our characters together again. Time to play this game one last time.

tws: choking, threats, mentions of torture

-

Intro

Cold light drifts in through the window of Trickshot’s nest.

He sits with one hand wrapped around Dok’s gun and the other wrapped around Dok’s hand. Clear blue eyes stare out at the cold grey pavement and the sheen of the bulky cars arranged like guardians around the motel with an intensity that has been his as long as you have known him.

And only growing, these days - the steel in his face.

At his side you can make out the familiar shape of his twin, pressed close to his body. Dok is holding him like he’s a rock-climber and Trick is the last thing keeping him pressed to the side of this steep and shifting mountain. You can hear him breathing. Exhausted. Trick plays quietly with his gun.

Maybe, once Anti comes back, he will sleep, but for now he watches, he watches, he watches. Nothing, he promises himself, will take Dok from his side again.

No matter what is coming.

cest-mellow asked: hey trick. you doing okay tonight?

Trick jumps at the beeping and whirls with Dok’s gun gripped, but it’s only Anti’s bag making noises and he rolls his eyes, calming again. You’re watching them through a camera high up on the wall of the hotel, but none of them look up at you.

“Mhh?” comes a confused noise from the other side of the room.

“It’s just the cameras, Blue,” Dok murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”

Blankets shuffle and go quiet again.

“Are you going to get the camera?” asks Dok, who’s mostly squished under his twin’s weight.

Trick purses his mouth and shrugs, turning back to the window. Dok doesn’t protest. He extricates himself from his brother’s limbs and pads over to take you gently from Anti’s bag.

“Hi,” he says, carrying the camera back to the window. “We’re okay, right, Trick?”

“Better when the others come back and we can get out of this shithole,” grumbles Trick.

But for someone who’s putting on a grumpy front, the way he reaches out to push a curl of Dok’s hair from his face sure is fond.

pine-storm-season asked: Hello! Are you guys relatively okay? How are you doing?

Henrik shifts uneasily, gripping his stomach for a second, but his smile comes back quick. “Trick and I are good, yes?”

“We’re fine,” says Trick. “Jet-lagged, tired. Bored. But things are looking up. Anti is finding us a real place to stay. Which is, like, weird, but I think maybe great news?”

“Usually he just finds the first empty house or warehouse or something and we stay there,” explains Dok.

“But this time he says we’re going to stay somewhere nice cause he’s got to help the others to - I mean, to help Dap to readjust. But he’s already doing better than he was a few days ago.”

“I wish Anti wouldn’t take him out for dirty work, though,” grumbles Henrik, turning back to the window. “Not good for him.”

“Oh, come on. There’s nowhere he could be safer than with Anti.”

“Emotionally, though.”

“Emotionally? Anti loves that little shit.”

There’s a slight tension between them. They stare at each other for a second, and then turn away awkwardly, looking back out the window.

“Blue’s not doing so hot, though,” adds Dok after a second, and Trick turns uncertainly back towards the bed behind them, his eyes dark.

Anonymous asked: Blue? Are you okay?

“Blue. Blue!” calls Henrik gently, turning back towards his brother. With both of the twins angled towards you, you can see them better. They’re wearing the same outfit, green jackets over white t-shirts and dark jeans on their legs, but Anti has yet to cut their hair identically again. While Trick’s is vivid green and long and curly in the front, Dok’s is trimmed short, short, short, leaving just a little on the top to stick up. Just the way he likes it. “The cameras have missed you.”

The blankets shift. You hear Blue breathing sleepily.

“You’ve been sleeping all day,” Dok prompts him gently. “Let’s get up and walk around a little.”

Blue groans and tumbles over in bed. Dok smiles and gets up, padding towards him, taking you with and leaving Trick watching uncertainly from the window.

bupine asked: what's wrong with blue?

“What’s wrong with you?” teases Dok, putting you on the bedside table and leaning in over Blue’s blanket-wrapped body, shaking his brother’s shoulder. “Lazy? Sleepy? Just love bed?”

“Siiiiick,” groans out Blue, pushing irritably at his brother’s prodding hands.

“Yeah, he’s been very tired,” says Dok, petting his short white hair. “He - he struggles in the world.”

“They were with me in Singapore,” mumbles Blue. “They know. Just more of the same.”

“I don’t know,” answers Dok, his amusement fading. “I worry you’re only getting more tired.”

The blankets don’t shift. Blue is trying to go back to sleep.

“You are resting too much, love,” Henrik prompts him softly. “Come on, up we get.”

“Too tired.”

“You can do it. Come on. Doktor is in. Give me a hand.”

Reluctantly, Blue allows himself to be pulled up to sit on the bed, his grey face listing wearily.

pine-storm-season asked: Hey, Blue, how are you doing? There was some chaos happening when we last saw you guys.

“Lots of chaos,” murmurs Blue, and he manages to wince and smile at the same time, clutching Dok’s shoulder as he helps him to his feet, pressing his cane into his hands. “What a miserable day.”

“Dap’s okay and we’re okay and it’s going to be alright,” Henrik answers softly, squeezing his palm.

“Mmhhh,” sighs Blue, resting on his shoulder as he rises.

“Walk around with me.”

“There’s nowhere to walk in here.”

“Just around the beds. And then tomorrow we’ll be somewhere new, with a little more space.”

“Or chained up in a basement somewhere.”

“We’ll deal with that if it happens. For now, we hold to hope.”

Henrik gives him his arm and they walk back and forth between the bathroom and the door of the motel room, heads pressed close together. Trick is staring at them with a sort of silence on his face, his eyebrows bunched together and his mouth uncertain. He glances at you and seems to remember you’re there, scowling and turning away from his brothers, curling up in his nest, waiting for Anti to come home.

pine-storm-season asked: Are you okay, Trick?

“Great,” says Trick flatly. “Can we just - why did Anti turn them on again? Now?”

“Stop being a little loser,” chides Blue, stepping over to ruffle his hair.

“Hey!”

“Look at this mess,” giggles Blue, leaning his weight on his back.

“Blue! Get off! Dork, haha!”

He’s smiling when he pushes Blue away, touching his brother’s cheek fondly. “Dumb-ass pretty boy.”

“Aww! You think I’m pretty?”

Despite the teasing, Blue looks genuinely buoyed.

“Yeah, Blue, course you’re pretty. We have the same face, after all. Except Dok, he’s pug-ugly.”

Dok jabs Trick in the side hard enough to make him yelp and Blue is left steadying himself on his cane as Trick lunges for his twin, trying to get him by the ear while Dok yells his protest and tries to dig his fingers back into Trick’s side.

“Hey,” warns Blue suddenly, tearing his eyes away from his brothers’ play-fighting. “Someone’s coming.”

cest-mellow asked: still got those necklaces, henrik?

Henrik turns to you as Trick pulls away from him, his blue eyes flashing. “You bet your ass,” he tells you with gritted, smiling teeth, bared the way a dog bares his fangs. “He keeps burning his fingers trying to take them off me. They’re not going anywhere.”

He wraps his fingers around the three little bumps underneath his shirt.

spicydanhowell asked: blue, dok, i'm so sorry about what happened to you. this isn't forever.

“It is Anti, finally!” cheers Trick, leaping up onto the windowsill and watching for him to reach the door, waving at the trio of brothers coming up the way. “Look, Red’s doing his dreamy thing again.”

Blue and Dok exchange looks, Dok moving to support him again. Blue hides against his hair for a second, breathing in the smell of him again.

“This isn’t forever,” Dok repeats quietly.

“One month, right?” Blue grips his hand.

“One month. I’m with you.”

“I’m with you. I’m here.”

Anonymous asked: How’s noodle doing trick?

“Oh, my gosh! The only question that matters! I’ll get him real quick before Anti comes back!”

Instantly perked up, he races to the middle of the room, where an extra door connects the motel room to the one beside it. He pulls it open - “oh, Dok, give me the camera!” - and carries you inside, where a slinky golden cat races up to greet him, purring and butting his head against his ankles.

Anonymous asked: Cat? Cat? You have cat, noodle cat?

“Who’s my good kitty? Who’s my good baby? Noodle cat, mwah, mwah.”

He scoops his cat up and smothers his head in kisses, devolving into cooing baby talk and rocking his cat against his body while Noodle meows. As reluctant as he is to see you, he loves showing off his cat.

“Okay, baby, stay in here, papa will be back. Yes, you have to, muffin, you know Anti doesn’t want to see you. Who’s my baby? Yes, there’s my Noodle.”

Anonymous asked: How is everyone Trick? Are you doing okay?

“I’m okay! Everyone looks okay, I think.”

Leaving Pot Noodle behind, Trick closes the door gently and returns to Blue’s room, where his siblings have relegated themselves to the bed, watching the door cautiously. Trick steps forward to open it before the others have even reached it, grinning out at the world.

“Hi, Anti,” he says cheerfully.

Anti moves into his space and kisses the side of his head, his eyes boring into Blue and Dok’s as he presses his mouth to Trick’s fervently green hair. Blue turns his eyes away and Dok shrinks in on himself, clutching Blue’s hand.

“Hi-ya,” answers Anti pertly, his eyes flickering from black to blue. His hair grows out fluffy and green to match Trick’s and he draws back to smile at him. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, Anti. Everything okay with you guys?”

“No hitches at all. Not a scratch on anybody. When was the last time you had a kill that easy, Dap?”

Deep blue eyes stare back at Anti from the doorway. Dapper’s hand rests on the wall outside the motel like he can’t quite make himself step in.

But he does.

“Can’t remember,” he signs back in slow movements, removing the jacket from his shoulders. You see Blue stiffen as though injured. Dapper’s dress shirt is soaked in blood. He pulls it off, his expression mildly unhappy, and takes another shirt out of Henrik’s backpack.

“You’ll need a shower first, Dap,” Blue tells him. “It’s on your skin.”

“So it is.” He stares down at his hands.

“Go clean yourself up,” Anti orders. “Go, go. There’s a good boy. You check in with Dok before you fall asleep tonight. Where’s his medicine, Dok?”

“Here, Anti,” replies Dok, patting the bedside table.

“Good, good. So yes! Everyone is okay. Everything is okay. And now that we’ve got that done, we can move in to a new place tomorrow.”

Trick straightens up. “Really? Like a real house?”

“Oh, you’re going to like it, Rikki-Tricki-Tavi,” answers Anti smugly, glitching the blood off his hands. “You’re all just going to love it.”

Anonymous asked: Why does anti not want to see noodle trick? D:

“Anti doesn’t like animals,” Blue reminds you in a whisper, curled up at Dok’s side.

cest-mellow asked: what do you mean by “dreamy thing” trickster?

Red’s behind the others, moving slow and steady, kicking peacefully at a rock. Trick laughs to himself and points you at him, sitting down on the bed with Blue and Dok while Anti moves over towards his computer on the second bed. Everyone watches Red come into the room, his eyes unfocused and faraway, a faint smile on his face.

“Red?” calls Blue.

Red doesn’t answer, shutting the door gently behind him and moving forward - promptly smacking his hip into the minifridge. “Ow!” he yelps, stumbling back and looking up in alarm, confused to see everyone staring back at him.

Trick bursts into laughter, mimicking the way Red’s head was bobbing, as though he were listening to music.

“You spaced out again,” Blue tells him.

“Fuck,” hisses Red, rubbing his hip. “Shut up, Trick!”

“Fucking idiot,” laughs Anti. “Pay attention. Still dreaming of your boyfriend?”

Red flushes, humiliated, and moves towards the door to the other room.

“Camera,” Anti reminds him pointedly, and Red rushes back to grab one from his bag before darting back into the room and shutting the door beside him, leaving Blue staring worriedly after him.

bupine asked: red, are you ok? if you're worried about max, he's ok as far as we know.

“Oh, great,” says Red, still the color of his name, not quite meeting the gaze of you. He’s irritated and fast-moving, shaking his hands out again and again. “Well, that makes everything just peachy, then.”

He forces himself to sit down, staring out the window.

“Sorry. Things have just been weird lately.”

cest-mellow asked: jaki3 are you alright? has anti hurt you, do you have to stay in a separate room?

“No, no, I’m okay,” sighs Red, running his hands through his hair. “I mean, I just watched my baby brother tear this helpless fat guy to shreds, but hey, that’s just my life. Nah, Anti hasn’t hurt me, he just keeps making fun of me. And I can handle that. I think he’s pissed I was with Max at all when he found us. That I let Dap near Max.”

He puts his chin in his hands, his eyes drifting a little again. “Doesn’t like for me to talk about it, so I don’t…”

A smile floats across his mouth. He stares dreamily out the window, his legs swinging over the side of the bed when he sits down.

“Oh! Why am I in a separate room? Anti just got two, that’s all. And we gotta keep the doors closed cause of this little guy.” He pats Noodle’s head and the cat purrs, crawling into his lap. “Blue will come in and sleep with me tonight, though, so I’m not alone.”

pine-storm-season asked: Yeah, they probably have been. Is this a common occurrence, Red?

“I’ve been spacing out a lot, yeah,” grumbles Red, cheeks dark. “Stupid. I keep getting in trouble cause of it. Anti doesn’t think I’m listening to him. So now Trick’s been telling me what to do.”

He rolls his eyes. “Blue and me got in too much trouble lately. Not really top dogs anymore, I guess. But it’s almost a relief. I don’t think I want to have to push anybody around anymore. Anti says I’m going soft on him.”

pine-storm-season asked: Are you and your brothers more equal now, then?

“No, uh, well.” Red laughs. “When I say we’re not on top anymore? Trick’s in charge now. And he’s wrapped around Anti’s fucking pinkie these days. He’ll snap at Dok himself if he thinks he’s getting short with Anti.”

Red’s eyes fall for a moment. He picks at the raggedy sheets on his bed.

“I’m worried about him. Not acting like himself.”

pixie-in-trebleland asked: Hey Red! What's got you distracted?

He shrugs and gives a small smile, though it’s equal parts sad and happy.

“Don’t know,” he says. “I space out sometimes when I’m overwhelmed and stuff. But this isn’t that. I used to be able to focus pretty clearly on right now. But now it’s like… I don’t know. I just keep thinking about different things. I guess I’m thinking more about the future. And not just about making sure everybody’s going to have enough to eat. I can just… imagine things, now, I guess. That I didn’t before. I imagine a different future than I did before.”

He scratches Noodle’s tummy, letting out a low sigh. “But it’s just dreaming.”

The door to his room swings open and he turns to smile at Blue, but it isn’t Blue there.

Trick holds his backpack to his stomach nervously, staring at Red.

“What?”

“Um. Anti told me to stay in here tonight.”

Red straightens up, blinking. “What? In here?”

“Yeah.”

“What, like, share the bed with me? Where’s Blue? And Dok?”

“I don’t know, staying in that bed, I guess,” says Trick, looking stressed.

“Anti wants you and me to stay together?”

“That’s what I said!”

They stare at each other, seeing each other’s discomfort mirrored.

“Anti’s not… taking us away from Blue and Dok, right?”

Trick shrugs, chewing on his lip. “I just got him back,” he mumbles.

cest-mellow asked: anti, why are you separating the boys from their twins..?

“Trick, tell the cameras I don’t answer to them.”

“Cameras, Anti doesn’t answer to you.”

Anti laughs. “You little kiss-ass. I was kidding.”

“Okay, but actually I would… not mind knowing the answer either,” offers Red weakly. “If that’s okay, master.”

“I’m still figuring it out. You’re still twins with your twins. Don’t ask questions, just do what I say.”

Trick stares at Dok, their eyes meeting. Dok tries to reassure him, but his smile is small and afraid, his hands stretched out towards him. Trick tries to smile back.

“It’s late,” says Anti. “We’ll move early tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

Trick swallows and signs good night at Dok before slipping into the second room. Red stares back at him, looking tense.

“Well, this is going to be fun,” says Trick.

In the other room, Anti’s smile has not changed. He stalks towards Blue and Dok. Before they have a chance to say anything, he has a hand on both their throats, pushing them down onto the bed. Blue closes his eyes, trying to breathe slow and calm. Doktor stares back at Anti, his eyes furious and scared.

“You two,” breathes Anti, his eyes drizzling to black, teeth sharpening in his mouth. “Are still trying to be my little trouble-makers, aren’t you? You think I’m going to give you free reign with your twins knowing what you know? Knowing how you feel?”

“Hurt me now and I’ll shout so Red hears me,” threatens Blue, panting.

Anti shoves against his throat, making him choke. “Right. Good luck with that. No, Blue. I still need your body at nights to get me through the sickness I get otherwise. And you, Dok…”

He moves his hand to Dok’s stomach and squeezes. Tears well up in Dok’s eyes, but he does not make a noise.

“Good,” growls Anti. “You know what will happen if you tell him?”

Dok nods swiftly, closing his eyes.

“Then keep your fucking mouth shut. Sooner you break back into shape, the sooner I’ll let you sleep next to Trick again. For now, you stay with me at nights, and you’ll look after Dapper and Blue. Understand?”

Dok nods again, tears washing down his cheeks.

Anti shoves him off the bed. Dok crashes to the ground and scurries into the corner, hiding his face in his thighs.

Blue chokes again, beginning to get desperate for air. Anti crawls over his body and leans down on him, gripping his head to turn his eyes towards him, and there is nothing Dok can do to stop him from possessing his brother once again.

“We’re playing this game just one more time.” Anti licks Blue’s lips, throwing his head and adjusting his clothes, sitting up in the fragile body no matter the strain he causes it. “Just one more time, like Red said. And I intend to fucking win.”

Dapper steps out of the bathroom, toweling off his hair. Doktor will not look at him. Anti looks back at him with Blue’s eyes.

Something hot and painful twists inside his gut, but when Anti reaches out for him, he goes quietly, and he lays down at his brother’s side like he always does.

Playing this game just one more time.

Henrik wraps his fingers around the ravens on his chest and he grits his fierce teeth in his mouth.

Well, then. Let’s play.

.

Dapper waits until Anti is asleep.

He does not like to be touched by him, these days. He does not want to be held. He does not want to share a bed. Especially when it is Blue beside him, trapped beneath Anti’s power. He does not want to see his sibling in pain.

Anyway, he can see Dok trembling in the bed beside his own.

He slips out from beneath Anti’s arms wrapped around his throat, pausing to make sure his breathing stays heavy and thick. When Anti does not wake, Dapper slinks to his feet and touches Dok’s shoulder.

Dok jumps so hard he nearly slams their heads together. Dapper holds him gently down and rubs his shoulder, waiting for him to calm.

“What?” whispers Dok, astonished. “Dap, are you - ”

He holds a finger to his mouth and takes Dok’s hands, pulling him out of bed and leading him to the bathroom.

“Are you okay, Dap?”

“Sit on the counter.”

“What?”

“Sit,” he repeats, pushing him. “Sit, sit.”

Dok has been crying. His face is still red. He turns his head away and hoists himself onto the counter, staring at Dapper like he might be the one possessed.

“What, I never given you an order before?”

“I don’t believe you have,” replies Dok. “Or woken me up for anything.”

“Usually you have Trick to look after you,” answers Dapper, and he reaches for Dok’s shirt.

Dok’s hands grab his own, his eyes wide.

Dapper looks back at him, not letting go.

“Don’t look,” breathes Dok, his voice shaking. “Don’t, there’s… I’m self-conscious, I…”

Dapper laughs again, his random, wild laugh without any noise but a humorless huffing.

“Did Anti tell you?” asks Dok, feeling his cheeks heat.

Dapper snorts and shakes his head. He helps Doktor pull the shirt over his head.

“Anti doesn’t have to tell me anything,” he replies shortly, taking the med kit from beneath the sink. “I know everything he does. You shouldn’t have tried to stitch this up yourself.”

Dok closes his eyes as Dapper’s hands run over the deep cut in his stomach, coated in struggling stitches.

“They’ll hold.”

“Since when do you know anything about stitches?” whispers Dok.

“Since I’ve bandaged myself and Red up a hundred times before, that’s since when.” He gets antiseptic from the bag and begins cleaning the wound. “I don’t like to be under-estimated, my darling.”

“I thought that was how you survived,” Dok pants back, staring at him.

Dapper doesn’t answer.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you these days,” says Dok, coughing at the pain as Dapper cleans the wound Anti gave him. “I’m scared you’re still suicidal and you won’t tell anyone. Your expressions are always wrong and I don’t know if it’s the schizophrenia or something else going on with you. I want to say you’re not acting right, but the truth is, I don’t remember how you used to act. Or who you used to be… I think a different person than this.”

Dapper looks up at him for a second, and then away.

“Are you angry, Dapper?”

He gets a bandage out of the bag and begins pressing it onto the wound, tearing away the sticky sides of the big white band-aid.

“Are you still suicidal?”

“No one here knows me,” Dapper tells him suddenly, his hands nearly in his face. “Let’s not pretend that you do.”

Henrik stares back at him, his face still hot from crying.

Dapper softens again, brushing water from his cheeks.

“I love you,” he says. “I know how to take care of myself. You should do the same. Tell Anti what he wants to hear, take the necklaces off, and go back to your twin. Be grateful you have the chance to earn one.”

“Don’t say that to me,” whispers Henrik. “I know that’s not what you want. I know. We all saw how badly you wanted things to change on the side of that cliff, Dapper. Don’t lie to me.”

Dapper watches the floor.

“I love you,” Dok adds, touching his cheek. “Even if I don’t know who you are… whoever that person is, I love him.”

Dapper closes his eyes for a second. He looks up again a moment later, his eyes tired, and he leans in to kiss Dok’s cheek, holding the back of his head.

“I love you too. But Anti is going to keep doing things like this to you. And I know you won’t tell Trick.”

“I can’t watch him get hurt because of me.”

“I know.”

“You looked after me just now. I want to look after you too. And Anti says I can. Promise me you’ll be honest with me, Dapper. I can’t watch you go back to the place you were in last week.”

Dapper stares at him for a long time.

“And I can’t watch you go back to being Anti’s favorite thing to hurt.”

Henrik’s mouth parts. He isn’t sure what to say.

“None of you know how hellish Anti could make your life, really,” whisper Dapper’s hands. “You, and all of our siblings, and anyone on the cameras - none of you know. I am the only one who remembers. I am the only one who still has the nightmares. I am the only one who still carries that. Doktor. Don’t make Anti angry again. If you think that what you remember is bad… you don’t want to remember the rest.”

Dapper kisses him again, on the heel of his palm, and for a second, the emotion on his face is real and right and true, and he does not laugh.

“Go back to sleep, H-healing,” he signs. “And don’t risk your life and your sanity on the promises of ravens.”

He draws away from him, his blue eyes dark. Henrik sits on the counter for a long time, in silence, his hand over the bandaged wound in his side.

[alias-b]

Talk Dirty To Me

~Billy/Camille + Tommy Too

The Smut Extravaganza for Billy and Camille I got requests for. They make the mistake of teasing each other the entire day while they plan for a memorable Halloween. Tommy H just has great timing. Fun Smutty AU for my fic, Without The Lights, combination of smut requests I was sent for Billy and Camille. This got way out of hand and it's just filth. Literally, this is fun garbage filth. Enjoy! 🍒

A/N: Inevitable Threesome. Bi!Billy. Overstimulation. Light roleplay. Drinking/pot use. Gross teens and sexual fantasies come to life. Sorta follow up to the one shot about Tommy’s dirty letter. :))) It’s long, sorry!

~~

   ���Billy, come see this one!” The damn sing song.

   A groan erupted. He tried to hide behind a row of latex Halloween masks. Rubber scent filled his nostrils. 

   “Just a few more.” Camille beckoned with a hurried wave. Genuine and excited, he’d be an asshole to mess with that.

   “You said that a million costumes and two stores ago.” Billy came around to see her. Greek goddess. Probably Venus by the tight fit.

   “Well?” Camille spun for him. Little gold pieces wrapped around her caught the light.

   “You look amazing.” Repetition. “So fucking hot.”

   “You say that about them all.” Fists went to her hips. Chest puffing. Red alert.

   “Am I wrong?” He attempted to recover.

   “No, but still. Marie Antoinette. Barbie. Fives different witches. A cat. Bride of Frankenstein. And so on. And you haven’t tried on any.” Lips formed a pout. 

   The look. Boyfriend’s worst nightmare.

   “I go as the same thing every single year. A drunk asshole.” Billy flashed a crooked grin. Scarred brow lifting. Creepy Halloween sounds played over the cheery tune of the Monster Mash. A speaker above the dressing rooms echoed louder.

   “But, Halloween is about being something you’re not, babe.” The quip caused him to laugh, head turning because he waltzed into that one. “You best help me out here because your pretty ass is dressing as the other half of my costume.”

   “Couples costumes? We did not agree to that.” Billy tugged on the curl of a huge synthetic wig, watched it bounce.

   “Girlfriend gets the holidays, it’s the rules.” Camille pulled her curtain over and unzipped herself as he dicked around outside. Itching to go.

   “What do I get in return?” Billy’s casual tone was anything but innocent.

   “Rewarded for making the girlfriend happy on such campy, beloved occasions.” She fussed about, making the curtain jostle. Billy only shook his head with another smile. A compelling argument.

   “So,” he poked his face in, startling her. Camille braced to cover her underwear and instead tossed jeans at him. “I put on a costume, I get laid. We fuck all the time.”

   “Maybe a happy girlfriend will be...a little more giving. A little weirder for your unique tastes.” She pecked his lips and pushed him out. 

   “I do like how that sounds.” Billy hummed to himself. “You know, when I was sick. You made me a promise that...hasn’t been delivered on. Something involving your mouth and a little roleplay.”

   “Uh, how about the events of literally this morning?”

   “Yeah, well, we wanted the entire illusion with it, Doctor Harper.” He explained and she rolled her eyes.

   “Doctor-patient confidentiality. I’m forbidden to speak of it further.” Came the retort.

   Billy groaned to himself outside. Few shoppers eyed him messing with accessories. He stopped to fix his hair in a nearby mirror, flicked a curl aside before Camille peered out to see him tonguing one of his canines.

   “Consider another fairy tale. Red Riding Hood?” Camille braced her hands on either side of the room, hip cocked. Divine. A nearby mother shielded her son’s eyes and ushered him off. Billy was snickering, plucking up a wolf mask with realistic grey fur. He dangled it before her. “C’mon, get into the spirit, beach boy.”

   “Consider the werewolf only eats sweet, sweet pu-” Billy’s vulgar remark was muffled when her hand covered his lips. Bright eyes flickered. He was too much.

   “I loathe you.” Camille only puffed at him, turning. “Uh, I’m not feeling anything and I’m starving. Let’s give up and grab a cheesesteak from the food court.”

   “Extra onions and green peppers. Now, we’re talking.” Billy gave a sigh of relief. Still messing around just outside with masks and fake weapons. Camille heard the curtain swish once her dress was back on the hanger.

   “Billy, I’m not dressed.” She turned to see him in a plastic hockey back. Silent and unblinking. Curls framed his face. “Jesus!” Instinct made her jerk before she pushed him. “You’re not funny. Asshole.”

   No words. Just stared.

   “You creep.” Camille turned to pick up her jeans as they crammed together in the tiny room. Earning a smack on her ass. “Hey!” She waved him off, eyeing his right hand. A fake replica of Freddy Krueger’s glove with blades skimmed her bare thigh. Huffing, she turned to face him, hands on her hips. “You got your horror bad boys mixed up.”

   “Does that really turn you off?”

   “Little bit. The actual Freddy mask with the burn scars was just outside.”

   “You think I’d put that ugly ass rubber shit over my head?” Billy pulled up the hockey mask, face scrunching.

   “I’m just saying you lose points for it.” She laughed at him, halting when he pressed her back into the corner of the box they squeezed into. “Ugh. You’re impossible.”

   “You’re hot.” Billy settled one plastic blade on her lower lip, inching it over the curve. “I put on a costume, Halloween came earlier. I don’t.” A wink caused her to lick her lips when he shook the glove off.

   “Please, Mister Nightmare the 13th, don’t hurt me. I wanna be in the sequel.” Camille faked an amused, coy shiver before Billy turned her around. “Billy.” The whine signaled her voice lowering. Camille braced her hands on the wall, let him palm her ass and hips until his groin pushed into her bottom. Hair was swept over and a well placed kiss sent chills down her spine. The hockey mask fell aside so Billy could view them in the mirror to his left. 

   “Look at you, all alone.” He’d uttered, pressed into her back. Idle fingers slipped into her underwear, one tug stretched them.

   “Fucking asshole, you’re buying me another pair.” Camille turned to hiss. Noting that he stuffed them into his back pocket. “Like I said, creep.”

   “You love it. Perfect version of me for Halloween, I thought.” One snap undid her bra. Palms cupped her breasts, earning a soft sigh. Music buried their voices just enough. Billy was enjoying himself maybe more than he should have. Lips on her shoulder blade while he twisted her nipples. One hand went up onto locks of brown hair, tugging at silken roots to pull her head back. 

   “Fingers,” came an order he was thrilled to fulfill. Mouths opened and Billy pushed his tongue against hers, muffling a moan so his free hand cupped between her legs.

   “Best costume yet.” He joked, eyes on the mirror while she nuzzled and whined back into him. Lips agape to breathe steady and eyes closed. Thighs quivered when two fingers plunged in, thumb rubbing idle circles into her clit. "You're soaked." Camille felt back to open his belt and slip her hand under denim, a growl hitched.

   “My, my, what big...teeth…you have.” Breathless, she pumped him a few times. Squirmed against his muscled frame.

   “Better to eat you with, Harpy.” He hushed into her jawline. Felt her moving into his fingers and tugged her hand away. The Monster Mash wasn’t the sexiest tune to get weird to. Billy felt her moving into his touch. Putty in his palm. Hazel eyes closed again when Camille’s lips parted. “But, you know what I really want?” A hot mouth skimmed her neck.

   “More.” She sighed into his body. Billy hitched a breath. Pulled his fingers from her thighs to lick them clean.

   “I want...a fucking...cheesesteak.” The heat of him pulled away, left Camille shuddering. Rubbing her thighs together.

   “H-Hey...wait a second.” Camille perked up. Skin fizzling. Billy had that insufferable smile on his face.

   “Maybe, I’ll finish you later. Give it another few costumes.” He winked. Slid out.

   “Billy.” Camille reared forward hissing. Her head popped out. “My panties.”

   “I consider it a tease toll.” He licked his thumb and came forward her kiss her brow. “Cute when you’re all worked up and frustrated. Blushing so hard.”

   “I hate you so much right now.” Camille gruffed, tearing back to jerk her clothing on. Billy was all snickers as she adjusted her jeans. “Fucking hell. How can you do this as much as you do? No underwear?”

   “Look at you squirm, Harpy.”

   “I’ll get you for this.” She snatched her purse, stuffed a few singles into his pocket. “Go buy us food, asshole. I gotta put my shit back. I’m not leaving all these for a poor employee to put away.”

   “What if I promise to make this up to you later?”

   “Oh Billy,” Camille teased, pressing her body into his, “you have...no idea the game you just started.”

   She peered around. Slipped her hand over his shaft until he grunted. Went off all too proud.

   Gulp.

   Camille waited until he had gone before she plucked up a costume. Smiled. Purchased it with devilish eyes. Tied the bag shut so Billy couldn’t glimpse it.

   “Are you really mad about it?”

   “Mad, Billy?” Camille said coolly. “I could never be mad at you.” She plucked up a fry. Chomped. "I don't get mad. I just remember." Billy snickered and went to town on his sandwich. “And to think, you could have put all that enthusiasm to better use between my thighs.”

   He choked laughing. Wiped grease away on his hand. Camille broke too. Reached over to hand him a stack of napkins. Her entire sandwich gone as well.

   “I want to get home. The whole commando in jeans is not a thing for me.”

   “Let me see what you bought.” Billy whined as they tossed their trash out.

   “No, it’s bad luck.”

   “I think that’s a wedding thing.” Idly, he let her lace their hands, weaving through crowds to get out and to the car. Something about it made him smile to himself. "I could say please?"

   “It’s a surprise for later.”

   “I’m in for it, aren’t I?”

   “Maybe.” Camille buckled. The ignition fired up. Billy whizzed out of the parking lot. Immediately a hand was on this thigh.

   “Camille...” He warned, legs opening. She just hummed. Stared outside at the bright autumn day. Dainty fingers grazed down, rubbing him until his cock twitched again. “Hard enough to calm down after the dressing room.”

   “Poor baby.” She felt him strain. Watched his knuckles pale against the wheel. They got to a red light and he reeled to kiss her all tongue and teeth. Camille had a hand on the zipper. “Billy.”

   “Hmmm?” He moaned into her mouth.

   “Green light.” She licked her lips and came out. Took her hand away. He stomped the pedal.

   “Fucking shit.” He glanced down. Arousal wet his jeans. Bitch.

   Camille giggled all the way home. Empty house. Jim working late and El with her little friends. Billy practically chased her to the door. It wasn’t closed and locked again before he was on her. More laughter burst as stubble scratched her neck with wandering lips.

   He took in her perfume and lotions. A floral, citrus sort of scent like paradise. Nipped. Camille pushed playfully.

   “Oh no, you don’t.” She flicked hair aside and went around him with her bags. Slipping off some flats. “I’m putting my stuff away. Shoes.”

   “C’mon, do it later. I could convince you.” Billy kicked his boots aside and tugged as they went upstairs. Pressed her into the door of her bedroom. Camille evaded him. “You’re kidding me.” He whined, falling into the bed with an annoyed huff.

   “You started it in that dressing room. Dug the grave, sweet face, now lie in it.”

   “We’ve ruined plenty of dressing rooms. I was just kidding around.” He settled his hands behind his head. Aching. Camille took her sweet time, stashing the Halloween bag in the bathroom while she pulled tags off clothing to hang pieces away. “You tortured me with sexy costumes all day.”

   “Big baby.” She snickered, waiting until his eyes closed to pounce on him. Billy let out a grunt as she laughed, pecking his cheeks to be a pest. “Maybe I found us something fun.”

   “That so?” Billy pushed brown locks back, cupping her face to bring it down for more kisses. She fell beside him and laid there for a beat of staring. “What?”

   “You’re just pretty.”

   Billy whined and cloaked his face with one arm, twisting over as if he was bashful.

   “Stuff it, Harpy.”

   “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Camille nestled against him. Forced him to be little spoon. “Would the gift make you feel better?”

   “...Depends.”

   “Give me five minutes.” She sprang up, grazing his lips while he pulled at her before flitting off. 

   Camille took twenty minutes. Billy complained the entire time.

   “Close your eyes!” She called.

   “Absolutely not.” He resisted, pressed against the bed with his hands in his lap.

   “C’mon, Billy.”

   “Fine.” He made a thing of it to roll his eyes, shutting them. Heard the door open.

   “Well?” Camille draped herself along the door frame.

   “Be still my fucking heart.” Billy’s entire body fizzled with electricity. Camille in a sexy nurse get up, so short you could see the garters clipping white tights up. Little hat with a cross pined up into her messy hair. “Dr. Harper.”

   “That’s right.” She took one step. Heels clicking. 

   “Is this you fulfilling a forgotten promise?” Billy was pulling her into his lap the second she crawled over him. Heels falling over the side of the bed. Camille settled her hands on the frame behind his head, leaning in for a heated kiss. “This isn’t right, you’re the one about to get the injection.”

   “You’re so gross.” Camille’s guise broke when laughter roused, head tipping to his collar. Billy’s hands cupped her bottom, bringing her to grind into him. Lips trailing her neck to bring out a moan.

   “Tell me what I need, Dr. Harper.” Billy had started unbuttoning her little dress, trailing his digits over the lace bra. Another kiss upon her chest. Fingers tugged at his curls. 

   “Don’t stop.” She uttered instead, his face pushed between her breasts. Tugging the lace down so he could leave marks on tender skin. One nipple pressed against his tongue and Camille’s head tipped back. “I think we both need a... ah, thorough observation.”

   “Just tell me where to put my-”

   The doorbell rang.

   The fucking doorbell.

   Billy groaned when Camille perked up, his shirt was half open. Mouths bright and swelled from kisses.

   “No, stay here. Probably some salesman, ignore it.” Billy nipped at her again, earning a shudder. Hands everywhere to just keep her in his lap. Hushing and sultry. “Ignore it. Let me fuck you.”

   “But...” It tolled once more. “Just...ugh, fuck-” Camille pushed his hands down as he pawed, scrambled to fix her dress before she was up. Both of them vibrating with frustrated nerves. Crackling with fire.

   “Camille, c’mon.” Billy followed, pressing her into the door frame. Pushing his tongue into her mouth. “Stay.”

   “Just one...second,” she tugged for a robe and tossed her hat aside, “I'm coming!”

   “Was supposed to be me saying that.” Billy followed, fully intent on punching whoever dared to ring that bell. Camille opened it and gasped softer, tried to come down from the heat.

   “Tommy?” He was halfway off the porch, hands shoved into his pockets.

   “Oh. Hey, Cam...”

   “What are you-?” 

   “I didn’t know where to...my bad. This is stupid.”

   Billy was going to murder him in broad daylight.

   “Hey, wait, what’s wrong?” Camille had him by the arm, pulling. Tommy eyed Billy’s blazing eyes behind her.

   “...Did I interrupt something, you two?”

   “No.” Camille began.

   “Yes!” Billy puffed, bursting at the seams with an ache. “Empty house. No kids. No Chief. What does this look like, a fucking tea party?”

   “Look who hasn’t changed, Keg King. You crazy kids.” Tommy’s smile was crooked, the sun caught his hair to bring more auburn color out. He passed the couple and fell into the couch like he owned it with the news that he’d barged in on them about to tear into each other.

   “Billy, chill.” Camille shut the door, eyes rolling. “You’re sad.”

   “I’m not sad.” Tommy shrugged and she crossed her arms, eyebrow lifting.

   “Why’d you come over, you started to say you didn’t know where to go?”

   “It’s stupid.” Tommy rubbed the back of his head. Billy huffed and went into the kitchen. Appeared with some whiskey from Jim's stash.

   “What? He’s sad, I’m going to be sad too.” Billy plopped into a chair, drinking.

   “So, um, Carol and I have been talking and whatever like you said we should. Things are good for her up there in Chicago, you know?”

   “Yeah,” Camille sat down next to him. Billy gulped across from them. “What happened?”

   “I don’t know, I thought we’d...find our way back. We’re friends.” He frowned. Another slouchy shrug. “She’s seeing someone else. It’s stupid. I’m happy for her, but I...” Tommy tapped his fingers on his knee. “I thought...”

   “Oh.” Camille leaned forward. “Sorry.”

   “Girls, right?” Billy drank and Camille swiped the bottle from him, crossed to offer it to Tommy.

   “Thanks.” Tommy smirked a little. Drank. Camille followed, wiping her mouth. “Uhhh...What are you wearing, Cam?”

   “Oh.” She looked down at her open robe. “This.”

   “Dr. Harper, huh. Hot. Classic too, you can’t go wrong. Think you got a winner.” Tommy chuckled, eyes scanning and Billy shot him a look.

   “Thanks, Tom, that’s all I needed to pick my costume and...some people were not helping. I don't know though, little dated look. Bought it mostly for sex.” Camille side-eyed her boyfriend when he looked indignant. 

   “She dragged me to every Halloween store. Tried on every single costume. And we’re finally able to-”

   “You’re dating Camille fucking Harper, man, suck it up.” Tommy scrunched his face. “Your smoking hot girlfriend played dress up all day for you and you complain about it? I should kick your ass, idiot.”

   “Thank you, Tommy.” Camille pushed at his shoulder, giggling. “He understands.”

   “Tease.” Billy puffed, leaning to take the bottle. “When you put it that way, I sound like the asshole.”

   “You are.” Tommy winked as Camille’s arms wrapped around his neck.

   “My heroic sweetie.” A kiss on his cheek. He melted into her, freckles glowing pink. That lingering friendship they’d had growing up fluttered in pieces. So much had changed.

   Billy blew air out his lips, gave the bottle back to Camille when he stood.

   “Break it up.” Billy squirmed between them. Sniffed the air. “Tommy...what are you hiding in that jacket?”

   “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He scooted back.

   “Fess up, Hagan.” Billy, no boundaries, stuffed his hands into the jacket. 

   “Hey! Fucking thief!” 

   Camille cackled as the boys wrestled around before Billy pinned Tommy down with muscled thighs and plucked a plastic bag up. Few rolled joints waiting. Tommy was out of his jacket and wiggling under him pathetically at this point. Billy fucking Hargrove was straddling him and the guy was huge. His own stomach sparked low and stillness overcame him.

   “You holding out on us?” Billy’s tongue swept over teeth.

   “I was gonna share, asshole.” Tommy bucked up at the same time Camille snatched the baggie. Taking the prize and liquor with her.

   “Sorry boys.” She tripped, scrambling off.

   “Hey!” Billy forced a grunt from Tommy jumping off him. Hot on her tail as she went up the stairs giggling. The other boy followed. All laughing and buzzed. Billy tackled his girlfriend into the bed, sat on her legs as they fought. Tommy had one of Camille’s wrists, tickled her side until she released the bag. 

   Hearts thudding.

   “Okay! Okay! I give.” She bloomed bright pink, head tossed back over the side of the bed laughing.

   “Worst nurse ever.” Billy mused, falling beside her as Tommy dug into his pocket for a lighter.

   “If Jim smells this, we’re dead.” Camille rose to open the bedroom window and lit a couple scented candles.

   “Way to be romantic,” Tommy sucked, sitting in the bay window to blow out. Billy snorted and snatched the joint to follow.

   “Shit. Not bad.” He blew it into Camille’s face, earning a swat.

   “Jerk.” She tried it properly next, slipping next to Tommy. He took it back and inhaled, face scrunching as he coughed.

   “Fucking lightweight.” Billy poked at him, stealing it.

   “Quick, Camille, I need mouth to mouth.”

   “I hate you guys.” She put her legs up, stretching. Tommy shifted back near the window’s edge, peering out and Billy plopped next to him. More whiskey passed. Camille eyed them in the sun and felt her heart flutter. An obscene sort of flutter that glittered. Tommy peered at Billy and brought Camille’s legs into his lap. She hummed when he massaged her ankles.

   “Still my girlfriend.” Billy’s eyebrow cocked in question.

   “My friend first.” Tommy grinned, pulling Camille by the legs toward him until his arm was under her knees. “I found her.”

   “You were a dick in high school.”

   “Hey, I get some growth points. You’re still a dick, bud.” 

   “True.” Billy scoffed and traded the bottle for the joint. “Like the whole dry cleaner business gig?”

   “Aunt’s taking me under her wing,” Tommy shrugged, “good money. Family side business. I don’t hate Hawkins, you know. Worse places I could be...”

   Billy felt that hit deep.

   “...Stepping up in the world and all. Learning. Couple big cities are an hour drive away. I could get used to things. Carol moved on. Guess I should too.”

   “How mature,” Camille leaned over him for a new smoke Billy was lighting, blowing it out the window into the warm breeze.

   “I’m all grown up, Cam.” He winked. “You guys jetting for Cali after all this?”

   “How’d you guess that?” Billy relaxed, pulling Camille’s ankles into his lap so she was draped over them in her messy nurse get up. Robe tossing aside. She sighed back into the pillows. One arm behind her head. 

   Tommy’s hand on her knee drawing circles into the tights.

   “Pretty much the moment you got here, I knew you’d be taking our pretty Queen Bee away.” He chuckled, slipping the joint from Camille’s fingers. “She didn’t belong here. Always too good for this place.”

   “Don’t say that. We all had some fun here. No denying it now.” She tapped her ankles together. “There’s no place like home.” Tommy laughed again, drank some alcohol down. Camille looked up at trees moving outside. Warm colored leaves illuminated by the high sun. More flutters. Fingernails idly tapped the window ledge.

   “Any secrets about Camille I should know?” Billy elbowed Tommy’s side, earning a smirk.

   “Nothing I’ll tell you, man, my loyalty is to her.”

   “I’m the Keg King, as you hollered that entire Halloween party last year.”

   “King’s lost without the Queen and so is the court.” Tommy winked at Camille. “Even the fool. Me.”

   “No, Tommy, you were worthy Duke, at the least.” Camille pushed at his arm, fingers brushed down.

   “Aw, you’re just saying that.”

   “Weed talking,” Billy added which earned him a shove. Camille heaved herself up, glazed eyes sliding over them both.

   “I am not just saying that.” She mused. “I mean it. You’ll hit the ground running after today, I promise. You have a lot to offer.” Her hand pushed his hair back, ruffling it. “Right, Billy?”

   Tommy was too busy purring with Camille’s touch. Delving fingers over the grown out, soft locks.

   “Keep your pot supplier.” He shrugged simply, stretching behind Tommy to put the smoke out on the roof.

   “That was almost genuine.”

   “He’ll get there,” Camille said, “won’t you Billy?” She tugged him into her for a quick peck over Tommy’s lap.

   “Hey, cool it.” Two hands pushed them apart. Giggles followed.

   “You made your Duke feel left out.” Billy had winked at her. Camille tapped a fingernail to her lips. “You’re just worked up because we were.” Are.

   “Miss the part where my girl ain’t coming back, Hargrove?”

   It dawned in those ocean eyes.

   “...No, shit, you waited?”

   “Fuck you.” Tommy shifted like he might get up, unable to move Camille’s legs off him.

   “No, Tommy, it’s cool. He’s just being blunt.” Camille shot Billy a look. Hands on Tommy’s chest to push him back into place. “Don’t be an ass about it.”

   “Shit...Sorry, man.”

   “Did you just apologize to me?” Tommy blinked.

   “I’m just saying it fucking sucks, alright? Not trying to make you feel like shit.” Billy snatched the whiskey up to drink. Offered it to Tommy like it was a further apology. The freckled boy warmed some and took it. Bottoms up. Finished the rest. Dunked it into the trash a few feet away. An arm went around Camille’s back, bringing her into his chest.

   “You heard him say sorry, right, Cam?” Lips touched her temple when that raspy voice lowered.

   “I did.” She snickered.

   “Screw you guys.” Billy roused further amusement. His own cheeks were tinting from the warmth and alcohol. Too cute.

   “You better cherish this girl when you two run off into the sunset, I swear to god, man.”

   “He does now, Tommy dear, I promise.” Camille bit her lip, head lifting to see him. “We take care of each other.”

   “We tried to before you rang that doorbell.” Billy grumbled.

   “Ignore him.”

   “It is a nice costume.” Tommy tugged for the collar. Camille hitched a breath at that.

   “Little too tight.” Camille braced back on her hands, legs still across them both. Comfortable. “Don’t you think so?” Both boys shook their heads in tune as if they choreographed it. She blew hair out of her face. “Men .”

   Tommy playfully snapped a garter when the skirt rode up.

   “Hey!” She smacked his hand.

   “Couldn’t help that.”

   Billy snapped the other. Another slap.

   “Shits.” She scooted back and got tugged by Billy over Tommy’s lap. Amusement fizzled when she decided to tease. “You know. The tights are kinda uncomfortable. You boys mind? Help a nurse out.” Both pushed at each other to unclip them.

   “My girlfriend.”

   “My queen.” Tommy shot back. “You get one, I’ll get the other.”

   “Deal.” They stared. A beat.

   Still fought trying to slip white tights off her. Camille watched in mild fascination and amusement. Let them sweat it and fuss over her. Billy scooted up to her side, tugged her into his chest with long legs still draped over Tommy’s own.

   “You two are so ridiculous.” Camille nuzzled into Billy’s chest. A breeze pulled in to sweep her hair around.

   “Probably my cue to scram before Hargrove introduces me to concrete, huh.” Tommy shifted.

   “No, we’re having fun,” Camille clung to Billy and grabbed for Tommy’s sleeve. “Stay here. Plus, you’re stoned and buzzed, we can’t leave poor Tommy to fend for himself. Can we?”

   “I mean...we can.” Billy laughed at her expression. “Just fucking stay man. Camille will lose her mind if you try driving.”

   “Pssh, I could run a marathon.” He stretched and slumped back, half out the window.

   “Tommy, stop that!” Camille pulled him in laughing. Torso landing on her. Squished between the two boys, her heart picked up. Thudded in her ears. That same obscene flutter so she stilled and swallowed it down. Billy adjusted some, peered at them. Camille’s fingers in Tommy’s shirt. His hands on her hips. Resting comfortably.

   “So, before I moved here...you guys ever…?” Billy cocked his head.

   “No!” They both protested.

   “Not for lack of trying, I wrote...that letter during one of my many breaks with Carol.”

   “Yeah, we read that.” Billy blurted. Tommy’s mouth fell open.

   “And you didn’t beat the shit out of me?”

   “I mean,” Billy’s eyes darted. Camille grew bright red, hidden into his shirt. “Wanted to at first, but…it was sorta hot.”

   “…You guys got off to it, no shit!” Tommy jumped up on his knees.

   “We did not!”

   “You fucked to my dirty fantasy. Admit it, huh. Why can’t you look at me, Keg King?”

   “I can still pound you.” Billy hissed. Camille was giggling into his chest.

   “I made you guys all hot ‘n bothered.” Tommy bit his lip. “I riled up the King and Queen. Fuck being the fool or Duke, I’m a fucking King too. I’m the fucking Pope, Church of the Horny. Bless me.”

   “In your fantasy.” Billy shot.

   “Yeah, my fantasy, which you got off to. You’re welcome. You both owe me one.” Tommy shifted to lie down. “Fuck, that weed man.” He rubbed his temple and laughed, arm propped up to hold his head so he could peer at them. “So...tell me about it. What got you? I was detailed.”

   “Nothing- ”

   “Definitely the tongue stuff.” Camille offered and Billy’s head snapped down at her. “He asked, I can’t lie to that little face.”

   “Right on...” Tommy wiggled his brow, sucked his bottom lip into teeth. “So you like that stuff, Camille?”

   “If it’s done right.” Camille shrugged. Billy just groaned behind her. This was not happening. Tommy’s fingers tapped her knee in sync.

   “It really is an art. Hargrove a giver?”

   “He does alright.”

   “Just alright?” Billy scrunched his face. “Okay, Miss Pull My Hair Out And Scream .”

   “I so don’t scream.” Camille bickered with him.

   "Oh, but you do."

   For a moment, they forgot Tommy was reeled into this conversation.

   “You’re such a liar. Fine, Billy is great at it. Just shut up.”

   “Hard to make the Bee blush like that.” Tommy prodded. “Turns her into a little kitten.”

   “I have the science down.”

   “Share your secrets with me.”

   “Both of you, shut it.” Camille pushed them off her in a huff.

   “Make us.” Tommy came up. Inches from her. “Look at you, playing hot and teasing. But you’re just too damn cute like this and you know that, Cam. On the receiving end. Already admitted you like that end.”

   “Isn’t she?” Billy got his bicep back around her.

   “You two are friends now that you’re ganging up on me?” Camille mocked, arms crossing. Billy tucking her hair aside while Tommy was still inches from her face with his big, wandering eyes.

   “I think the Bee just has a thing for guys with freckles.” Tommy winked. “Isn’t that right?”

   “You’re getting close there, man.” Billy eyed him. Tommy didn’t move.

   “Bothering either of you?” He said. No reply. “Been a little curious since the letter, I bet. I got you guys off, don’t deny it. I was there in spirit. And I’m here now.” Camille slid her eyes to Billy like she was asking a question. 

   He blinked at her. Head cocked without faltering. An, if you must , sort of wordless expression.

   A palm pressed Camille’s back, urging her into Tommy’s mouth. Impact.

   That thudding in her chest could have bloomed to a red glow. Neon hearts.

   She moaned. Opened her lips for a drunken kiss that somehow sobered. Too many sensations at once. Billy’s hands sliding around her waist. Tommy’s on her hips. His tongue. Being pressed back into the wall. Fingers coaxed her chin to kiss Billy next with the same fervor.

   Tommy’s mouth fell down her neck. All encouragement. Camille’s arm was up, hand catching Billy’s curls to urge his kiss on. She broke to push forward into Tommy, straddling him.

   “Fuck.” Billy watched her bottom press out against the tight costume. Enthralled by her moving into the other boy. Camille came up for air, pushed herself back into the other wall.

   “What the fuck?” She caught her breath. “What the actual fuck?”

   “Doctors are allowed more than one patient.” Tommy joked, touching his mouth. “Shit, Cam, I’ve thought about that. Nothing prepared me for the real thing.” He sobered again, looked to Billy expecting anger.

   “Do it again.” He whispered instead. Wavering slightly.

   “You do it.” She retorted. “You’ve done this before, I can tell, Billy.”

   “So have you. Heard all about that summer.”

   “Oh, you told him about that summer?” Tommy flashed another signature crooked smile. “We all got around. No overlap. I wish.”

   “I was a mess, can’t blame me.” She shrugged. “Other schools are fair game. Few threesomes. Some...it was just me and some guy from another school but...there were other couples in the room.”

   “You guys are both way ahead of me.” Tommy groaned, rubbing his eyes.

   “Had a threesome back in Cali.” Billy admitted.

   “Guy and girl?” Tommy watch him nod. “Shit man, I had you so wrong. Did...Did you?”

   “Not really, I...a little.” Billy bit his lip in a way that was unlike him.

   “Kiss Tommy and I’ll kiss him again.” Camille teased because it would only work if they all were in. Tommy perked up.

   “Do me a fucking solid, man.” Tommy begged. One hand curled into Billy’s shirt. A tug. Billy just flickered his eyes over him.

   “You talk a lot of big game.”

   “I deliver. You read the letter.”

   “Anyone can think about fucking.” Billy scoffed like he was the expert.

   “Yeah, and some of us think about it twenty four, seven. Believe me, it helps. You got the guys who think about sports and money, whatever...and the guys who think about perfecting their tongue game. I don’t think about sex to just get off, I like making a girl feel so good. Pride thing.”

   “Carol did have a lot to say when we had our sleepovers with Heather.”

   “She did?” Tommy’s eyes got huge. Pride swelled. “You see, Billy?”

   “I’m not yanking your chain to make you feel better.” Camille cut in before either could go on. Eyes on the fist curled into Billy’s sleeve.

   “You ever kiss a guy before?”

   Billy didn’t answer that. Just blinked his pretty eyes.

   Tommy cupped the back of his head. Brought him in. Camille crawled forward to see their lips touch. A soft kiss that she didn’t expect. Fists clenched in Billy’s lap. He pulled out, eyes opening before Camille offered herself. Tommy had his fingers into long curls. All too pleased.

   “Mmm.” Camille pushed him back again. Billy just sat there looking starry eyed. Broad palm cupping her bottom to squeeze. She straddled Tommy’s hips and kissed her boyfriend again. Hands all over her. A way of worship. Camille shuddered because it was unreal. How good they both felt. Thighs quivering when Tommy’s hips pushed into her. A curse lifted as she scrambled off them. “Boys, please, I... fuck I...”

   “My thought exactly.” Tommy rasped. “Still blushing, Bee.”

   “So are you, Tom.” Hazel eyes rolled. He came up, eyed Billy. 

   “Him, most of all.”

   “Dick.” Billy shoved him to crawl toward Camille. Looking all worked up and sparkling with her lips swollen pink. Unable to stop himself, he kissed her again. Pushed his tongue in.

   “Can I...” Tommy’s hand was on her knee, sliding, “touch you?” Camille broke the kiss. Bit her lip again before a nod followed. Billy watched too. Curious.

   “You want this?” Billy said with his thumbs smoothing. “Us.”

   “Yes.” Camille swallowed. “You?”

   “We sure he’s any good?”

   “You keep doubting me, just because I was a shit in high school.” Tommy touched his chest. “Let me prove it. We could play a game.”

   “We could play truth or dare.” Camille had joked.

   “And how do you want to do that?” Billy ghosted a smirk of disbelief. This was really their evening.

   “Easy. I get Camille off with my mouth.” He shrugged, massaging her inner thigh. “Bonus points, she screams.”

   “I don’t scream.” She cut in.

   “Seven minutes. For luck. If you can’t do it, I finish her and you watch helplessly.” Billy replied then.

   “Still here, boys.”

   “I do it in under seven, you both treat me to some mouth action. I get to be king for a while. Deal?” Tommy’s grin made Billy shake his head. Blase about it. 

   “Deal. Camille?”

   “I win either way.” She yelped as Tommy’s hands hooked under her knees. Jerked forth on her back. Head in Billy’s lap.

   “Time says 6:27.” He’d remarked, lighting up another joint. Sucking, he put it to Camille’s lips until she puffed. Tommy pushed her dress up and cursed. Thanked all his lucky stars.

   “Fuck, Camille, you know how many wet dreams started this way?”

   “Charmed.”

   “You’re wasting time.” Billy noted Tommy seemed unworried. Pushing her thighs apart. Thumbing her though those lacy panties. Camille’s eyes clouded over.

   “Already wet, man, you should be shaking.”

   “Whatever, keep talking.” Billy chuckled. Tommy pulled fabric aside. “Leaving them on?”

   “Find it kinda hot.” Tommy peppered his lips up her thighs. Savored this. “Not to sound sappy, but this is fucking breathtaking. You’re pretty, kitten.” Billy snorted, not worried himself with Tommy’s chatter.

   And then he went silent.

   Camille gasped in surprise. Eyes lifting.

   “Oh, my...” She felt that stab of hunger from this whole day swell. Tommy’s lips against her clit. Kissing deeply. Lapping. Fingers stretched her panties aside. Ate her like he was starved, eyes turned to Billy when his tongue plunged inside her. A wink. Billy felt hot again with Camille squirming in his lap.

   “Camille?” The amusement fell. He fucked up this time. 

   She puffed, arching up. Fist pushed toward her mouth. Teeth digging to bite on something. Anything. Tommy moaned and ate her. Put on a fucking show of it. Billy eyed the clock. 6:28. Fuck, why was time so damn slow? Camille twisted. Almost like it was too much already.

   “Holy shit,” she moaned loudly, “Tommy.” His tongue swirled before he sucked. One hand curled around her thigh and the other pushing her pelvis down. “Oh, fuck. Billy?”

   “You’ve got to me kidding me.” He leaned down. “What the fuck, man?” Tommy ignored him, kept up. Tormenting her clit with no end in sight. Camille’s breathing picked up. She couldn’t help palming her breasts when the heat shot forth. When her nerves caught pure fire. “Hey.” Billy grabbed her wrists.

   “Fuck, I’m...oh shit, I’m already...almost.” She whined, biting her lip and looking like she might be in heaven. “Holding my wrists is making it w-worse.”

   “Hold it together, don’t you fucking cum.” He threatened.

   “Cam, you want my fingers too?” Tommy mumbled.

   “Yes!”

   “No!” Billy let her wrists go.

   “Please,” Camille licked her lips and felt aimlessly for fabric to hold, “please, let him.”

   “He’s fucking cheating.”

   “She asked nicely, man. Told you I only obey the queen.” Tommy plunged two digits in. Felt her clench like a vice. “Fuck, you feel amazing.” Pumping elicited a further gasp. Fingers twisted into cushion.  

   “Camille, do not blow this for us.” Billy warned.

   “Ooh!” She spread her legs. Another curve to her spine. Gasping. Eyes rolling because Tommy H was playing her like a fucking fiddle. “Fuck! Babe...you’re going to...ah...be the one blowing this.”

   Fuck.

   He should have screwed her in that dressing room. Camille rocked into him without even trying. Tommy closed his eyes. Made it worth his while. Worked his tongue all over her until she covered her mouth to stop what might have been an almost scream.

   “What do you say, Cam?” He teased, licking his lips. Thumbing her bud lightly.

   “Don’t stop! Fuck! Just...oh, god.” She writhed there and Billy’s mouth fell open.

   “You’re fucking me.” He watched his girlfriend cry out. “No, no. Camille, don’t you dare cum. Don’t do it.”

   “I can’t...help it. Oh, fuck!” A tear squeezed out one eye. 

   “Atta, girl.” Tommy fucked her on his tongue and fingers with vigor. Watched Billy squirm because of it. Orgasm locked her up and Tommy didn’t stop until she was grasping up desperately at her boyfriend. Vibrating. A few softer kisses brought her down.

   The bastard did it in four and a half minutes.

   Tommy’s amusement didn’t halt when he grabbed Billy’s face to kiss him. Camille all over his lips. Mouths opened that time. Billy grew slack when it ended, huge blue eyes.

   “I love to say this, but I told you so.”

   “You fucking prick.” Billy shoved him.

   “Yeah,” Tommy hovered to see Camille, “you hanging in there, princess? You’re pretty like this.” She puffed aimlessly, wobbled trying to stand and fix her skirts.

   “You were supposed to hold that back, what the fuck?” Billy tossed a hand out.

   “As if you could have lasted for that. He’s a fucking hurricane. Holy shit. Shit. I’m still...” She was trying to catch her breath. “Tommy... I take back every time I didn't believe Carol.”

   “I know.” He pecked her lips. Eyes alight. “My turn. And then...I gotta fuck you.”

   “Figure we should punish her for that. Christ, Camille. You couldn’t hold out three more minutes?” Billy hissed.

   “He’s good.” She shoved him back. “You got yourself into that deal. I want to...keep having fun. But, nothing goes in my ass.”

   “Not a problem.” Tommy cupped her jaw. Kissed her lips. “Can I get my reward first? Billy?”

   “Not any good at it.”

   “I’m sure that’s not true, Keg King. And Camille will offer some help, I’m bet. Look at her. Eager.”

   She chuckled when Tommy fell back, her head on his shoulder.

   “Billy, come here to us.” She reached out. “I want to play.” He fell into her. They just drowned here like nothing was beyond the window. Mouths touching. Palms all over. Billy buried himself in Camille’s neck when she craned to kiss Tommy. Obscene kisses with a whiskey spice.

   “Love the costume, but...” Tommy opened a few buttons while Billy followed the trail. Nipping. “Let me see her.” Camille hummed as Billy pulled her dress open. A cherry red plastic zipper sounded. Tommy’s hand snaked down to stretch the lacy bra. Billy was cupping her tits, already teasing nipples with his mouth and fingers while she watched Tommy rub himself to the sight. “You’re fucking beautiful, Cam.”

   Camille swayed, lost in the fire. She came up all plush and pink. Swallowed Tommy’s shaft down as Billy yanked her costume off. Wind cooled her skin. The sky painted all different colors. Billy watched his girlfriend bob her head like she needed it. Wiggling her hips before underwear was pulled. Swollen and sensitive. Dripping.

   “Camille, fuck,” Tommy’s face twisted with pleasure. Fingers tugged at her hair. “You’re not sharing with Billy. Greedy girl.” He pulled her up for a kiss. She only smiled with a lax expression.

   “Billy, kiss me.” She said. Lips wet from Tommy’s arousal. Billy’s tongue dipped into her mouth for a taste while hands slipped her bra off. Nude and exposed before her friends. “Truth or dare?”

   “Now?” Billy scoffed as her arms went around him. “Truth.”

   “Want to help me?” Another kiss, pulling him down against her body. Billy made a sound low in his throat. Eyed Tommy there again biting his lip. A glint. Camille crawled up him. “We lost the bet. All’s fair.” Fingers latched into Tommy’s shirt. Kissing all over the fabric.

   “Fuck, Harper, I really might not leave this place.”

   “Until the police chief drags you out by your intestines.” Billy joked, shifting up on his front.

   “Better not waste anymore time, then.” Came the quip. A moan when Camille licked up his leaking shaft. Pulled Billy in for another dirty kiss, inches away.

   “Truth or dare?”

   Billy smirked.

   “Dare.”

   “Do to him what he did to me.” Lips curled. Stroking Tommy until Billy sank down. One hand curled into Camille’s, the other in Tommy’s. He moaned and the other boy about vibrated there, thrusting up. A gag.

   “Fuck, man, sorry. Shit.” The words slurred. Digits tugged for curls and Billy jerked back, lips rosy and slick.

   “Don’t pull it, asshole.”

   “You’ve so done this before.”

   Billy’s face disappeared in response. 

   He closed his eyes amid the moans. Camille sweeping those blond locks aside to stroke his jaw and cheek. Her breaking the motion to kiss him until they took turns. Tongues sliding together obscenely. Wet kisses down the girth. Camille cupped Tommy’s face next, buried her mouth into his neck until he was bucking.

   “I’m gonna...cum.” He tried to warn. Hands gripping Camille’s arm. Billy holding his hips was answer enough. Another strangled choke before blue eyes lifted. Release down those pink lips. Camille opened her mouth for some and Tommy came next. Shoving Billy into the cushions as they pulled up their shirts. “Fucking pretty Cali boys.”

   He just marveled at the couple. Worked up and gorgeous. All his for a night. He prayed he’d remember this dream when he woke. Tommy made quick work of Billy’s belt. Saw this vulnerability that was rarely displayed in bright eyes while Billy’s gaze lowered. Hands smoothing to tug for the jeans to come off fully. Camille helped them undress. Playfully tugging and tossing fabric.

   The sun had gone down so they just looked at each other in the candlelight while the curtains blew in.

   “Truth of dare?” Tommy asked with a knowing smile Billy matched.

   “Truth?”

   “How many times you think we can make our girl cum?”

   Our girl.

   Camille liked that. She giggled and curled down into the cushions. Free and shameless.

   “I’d like to find out.” Billy swept her up at that. Dropping her nude frame into the bed. Camille playfully got under the covers. "No, no. You think I forgot earlier? I told you in that dressing room I'd finish you later and you decided to let Tommy finish the job."

   "It's why I'm here." Tommy rounded the bed as Billy tugged covers aside. Camille stretched out, head on her hand there.

   "Billy's very cross with me." She traced the sheet lazily. Tommy slipped in behind her, one arm snatched her into his soft body. Lips tracing the line of her shoulder up her neck. "Come, get in bed with us." She sighed back into hot flesh. Aimlessly felt for Billy as the bed caved. The hard lines of his body fell against her, lips opening for a kiss she then craned to share with Tommy. Hard as can be again, his cock pushed up between her thighs.

   "Again?" Camille puffed, moaning when Billy's hand snaked down. Helped Tommy rub himself along her slit. "Fuck." Camille muffled herself into Billy's collar. Relentless rubbing made her arch for more of it. Tip pushed up just inside her. "Please?"

   "What was that?" Billy's slick thumb trailed over her lips.

   "Please." A whine when she was filled. Tommy groaned and pushed her over on her knees. Billy lifted for a kiss, held her arms until she sank down into his lap. Mouth open to take him as Tommy began to rut. Fingers pressing hips and tangling hair to pull. Three bodies joining together in fire. 

   It was strange to have another boy deep inside her. While Billy moaned and pumped up into her mouth. Uttered filthy things about how she was still being punished. A naughty thrill rushed. Camille lifted up to playfully nip at Billy's skin. Lip. Collarbone. Pec. He hissed, cupping her face as they moved together.

   "Told you not to cum earlier and what did you do?"

   "Tommy's fault." Camille hitched when a chuckle gave behind her. "You had to pay for the dressing room."

   "Camille, don't take this the wrong way." Tommy slowed and Camille had started to turn when a smack landed across her bottom. A yelp erupted with widening eyes. "Fuck, I had to do that just once."

   "Do it again." Billy let Camille sputter into his neck when second slap landed. Hands dug for his biceps. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

   Thwack!

   "Ah!" Camille arched up. "I get it." Fingers yanked Billy by the hair for another long kiss. A hand pushed up between her thighs. Caused her legs to quake until she slipped down Billy. Face puffing into sheets with an arm draped over his hot skin. Her boyfriend worked her back up. Didn't stop. Camille bunched fabric into her teeth, groaned a muffled sound. Eyes rolling to squeeze shut.

   Everything went black then green then white then black again. Dots fluttered in circles. Tommy had fallen next to her. Sandwiched between them, she purred and moaned distantly. Felt hands massaging awareness back into her body. Billy nudged her on her back for his turn. Swore. Began to thrust while Tommy played with her tits, kissed from her neck to mouth. His fingers slipped down the lines of her, ghosting her raw bud to feel her tense.

    Billy cursed again, hands cupped under her knees. Hips slapping for a sound that was wet and filthy. Tommy kept her in a state. Locked up tight while he rubbed light circles. Camille held his shoulders to kiss him again until spit trails left as they parted. He didn't stop beckoning her to another cliff. Mouth by her ear until she realized he was whispering.

   "C'mon, Camille, give us another. You're so pretty, kitten. One more." 

   Lips almost drew blood. Spine drawing to an arch which made Billy about lose it.

   "Oh, fuck you both." Camille whined aloud. A cry hitched.

   "Yeah, that's the game you're losing right now." Billy felt his own end tip and pumped through it. Spattered cum between her thighs to fall upon her empty side. He realized she was still crying out. "Insatiable, Tommy?"

   "She's got another in her." He attacked her neck and Billy curled in to assist. Camille wasn't sure who ended where and what fingers belonged to which hands. Billy and Tommy kissing her and each other. Holding her writhing, squirming body into the mattress. A mouth licking her clean and fingers pushing cum back into her like it was the hottest thing.

   "Again, babe?" Billy teased. Fingers in Tommy's hair while he lapped. No words came, only broken chanting syllables. Thighs quivering. "You wanted to cum so bad. You know what we want?"

   "Ah! Can I?" She swatted at Billy and jerked him closer. Felt his hands on her breasts again. "Can I?"

   "Can you, what?"

   "Can I fuck...fucking..." She covered her mouth. Rasped a cry between fingers.

   "Close enough, just cause we love you. I assume any guy that eats pussy like that does it with love, right, Tommy?"

   "Mmm." The moan vibrated Camille's body. "Ah!" Billy felt her locking for another small climax. Finally letting up, Camille sagged to catch her lost breath. Felt Tommy slink up to collapse upon her chest. Ear pressed to hear her heart thump. Made for a soft scene with her breathing and petting him there.

   "Assholes..." She wheezed, smoothing her fingers into Tommy's hair. Billy leaned to kiss her gently, let one arm curl up around his head to guide him down for more. Switching off between him and Tommy, she melted down into the sheets. "There's no way I'm getting up." Skin pressed together, thighs sliding over each other.

   "Is this an invite to the royal bedchamber?"

   "Shut up." Billy mumbled into Camille's hair, thick lashes fluttering while he ran his nose up her skull. "We won't boot you. Yet."

   "Admit you guys like me already." Tommy pulled covers up and settled in. Bit his grin back. Camille hummed and nuzzled into his side. "Hey?"

   Billy snored. Face burrowed into Camille's hair.

   "Figures." He nestled in. Limbs thrown all over. A haze of flesh and heat. "Lightweights." One arm shifted behind his head, eyes on the ceiling with a curling smile because this was the greatest night before sleep crept.

*** ** **

   Tommy woke to a mess of curls on his shoulder. Blond curls. The shower ran in the other room.

   "Hey, sleeping beauty."

   Billy's head lifted with a scrunching expression to take this in.

   "You're not my girlfriend." He shoved the smaller boy off, rolling over with a groan to take the sheets with him. "Asshole."

   "You're way prissier than Camille, Hargrove, you realize that?"

   Billy mumbled something about punching him.

   "Cuties, rise and shine." Camille came out in a towel. Bright eyed. "Jim's home so no funny business." Billy's bed head lifted again. "Yes, you especially." She kissed Tommy on the nose and went over to kiss Billy awake. Pecking him obnoxiously until he tugged for her towel. "Hey!" Hands were smacked. "Showers, both of you. This room smells like sin." She lit another candle on her dresser.

   "Is this like a one time thing? Cause I felt a connection." Tommy was up to pull his underwear on, eyes on Camille when she tossed her towel aside to dress.

   "Wish in one hand, piss in the other. See which one fills first." Billy lit a cigarette. Scratched his nose with one thumb and got up, nude and groaning. "You sore?"

   "Delightfully so." Camille pulled a dress over her body. "Shower. Dress. Breakfast. Don't wake the bear."

   "You guys will still call me after this right?" Tommy pouted, getting up finally. "I can hit you up in Cali?"

   "Stage five clinger already." Billy winked, blowing smoke. "You write us a few more letters, we might work something out. Camille?"

   "You know," she shrugged, "I never did find an actual costume, we trashed the nurse getup. We could take a trip into the city. Two pairs of eyes are better than one."

   Tommy's face lit up and Billy groaned.

   "He's so ungrateful." 

   "Maybe we can convince him it's fun." Camille slid her arms around Billy's shoulders. A smile before she kissed her whiny boyfriend. "Please Billy?" Lips on his jaw made him immediately weak.

   "Fine, Tommy stays in the car."

   "Hey!

   "We'll crack the window for you, man." Billy shrugged, dodged a pillow before he stole the bathroom. 

   "You feel better, Tom?" Camille set her hands on her hips, beaming some.

   "Frankly, I forgot my own name last night," Tommy only laughed, "so I'm peachy. I won't make this weird at all." He rocked upon his feet, shrugging and she smirked at him.

   "No, not one bit." Camille kissed his cheek. "Behave in here. I'll start pancakes." She slid out, peering around before creeping to the steps.

   "You think you can get anything past me, Camille?" A throat cleared. Shit. Mayday.

   "Uh...?" She brought her shoulders up, turning. "Jim? No..."

   "You think I wouldn't find out, kid?" He stood there, arms crossed at his bedroom.

   "It...just happened, I'm sorry. Tommy came over and we-"

   "You guys got into my whiskey. I know."

   Teeth pressed, hazel eyes flicking. Oof.

   "Oh. Yeah. Right...that." She touched her head. Heavens above, thank you. "Sorry, we stayed in my room. Finished it. It won't happen again."

   "Just ask next time, I might surprise you." Jim passed her in uniform, ruffling her hair on the way. "I'd rather you drink here than do it anywhere else. I was a teen once."

   "Oh, Jim, you're so right," Camille was all giggles, bounding into the kitchen to turn with pink cheeks, "nothing gets past you, Chief."

   A shiny smile flashed.

   "Camille, you have anymore towels? Billy stole all of them up here." Tommy waltzed to the top of the steps in his underwear, spotting Jim there. "Ugh! Morning, Chief, great uniform. Pressed." He covered himself even still. Both the dumbfounded Chief and Camille pointed to the closet. The teen snatched a towel and raced away.

   "...Camille, why was he-?"

   "Breakfast, Jim?" Camille tossed a green apple he struggled to catch awkwardly. Hurried up to kiss his cheek before she was pushing. "Have a great day at work. Catch the bad guys for me. Love you!"

   Jim Hopper decided it was better to just leave the teens alone this morning.

   "Assholes!" Camille called, earning two matching hyena cackles in response. "See if you can get me to play dress up now."

   She sucked in her cheeks, hid clear amusement, and went into the kitchen to get it started because curiosity was just too good.

   It was going to be a long day with these boys.

[rikacain]

hitsuzen

many thanks to homefield and magnus.

written for the kakairu mini bang 2020 @kakairu-mini-bang​. just in time!

summary: 

All of Konoha’s citizens knew of her prophecy, one that predicted her future with alarming consistency. It had led her people well, through times of prosperity and the darkest of days, and would remain a guiding light for the murky future. It was an honour to be named within the most important record of Konoha's past, present and future, as one of the people significant to her survival.

Even if it named him only for his death.

----

Or, Iruka returns to Kakashi for a much-needed respite.

read it on: ao3

----

When Iruka stepped through the portal, Kakashi was waiting for him.

Inter-dimensional travel was far from easy. The boundaries between dimensions required a tremendous amount of energy to breach them, a natural resistance that kept dimensions from consuming and colliding into each other. Even with the most intricately painted of arrays that converted and channeled energy with minimum loss, to walk between worlds inevitably required the caster’s own energy.

For all of Iruka’s skills, his energy stores had always been far smaller than Kakashi’s.

The portal closed, burning itself out of existence. The exhaustion hit the moment right after, draining him of all his strength and leaving only an ache that settled itself deep in his bones; he listed to the side, automatic.

Instead of the ground, he fell into Kakashi’s chest: warm and steady, supportive. Kakashi had moved to catch him, having expected this very outcome; his kimono barely rustled from the motion. Today it was the swirl of painted koi fish against a shimmery azure fabric and the chartreuse flair of embroidered fronds, and the collar boasted an intricate pattern of smaller fish - guppies, perhaps.

Iruka let his eyes trace their flickering fins as they swam along and under the right collar where the pattern began.

“I’m home,” he told the fold of Kakashi’s kimono.

“Welcome home,” Kakashi murmured. All at once the exhaustion that dragged at Iruka's body turned into something less, something sweeter - the ache of setting down his bags at the end of a weary but fruitful day. And, not for the first time, Iruka recalled that words could hold as much power as the crispest of incantations and the smallest of sigils.

He tipped his head backwards, his tired gaze meeting Kakashi’s own. A smile spread across Kakashi’s face and tugged at that beauty spot - if Iruka wasn’t so comfortable in Kakashi’s arms, he would press a kiss to it.

“At least I didn’t faint this time,” he said instead as a yawn built at the back of his throat. “I think I’m building up some resilience.”

“I’ll believe it when you can stand on your own,” Kakashi hummed. He led them over to the engawa, settling Iruka next to a wooden pillar that Iruka might lean against. Iruka utilised it for all of three seconds until Kakashi sat down on his other side. It took the barest of efforts to shift his weight, to lean into the comforting presence of Kakashi.

“Believe it,” Iruka declared, even as his head tilted to rest on Kakashi’s shoulder, as he let it stay. As his heart warmed at the answering chuckle, low and fond.

They sat in silence, staring out into the expanse of the courtyard. The moon hung round and heavy in the sky, illuminating the zen garden that took up a good quarter of the space. Kakashi had rearranged it again with concentric circles rippling out from the centrepiece of the largest rock; in his signature whimsical touch, he had placed Mr. Ukki on the peak of said rock. A splash of green among white and black and grey.

Iruka turned away from the garden. “Any customers lately?”

“Some.” An answer more surprising than none, but not unexpected. The shop was accessible only through a highly restricted set of parameters - Iruka had painted it that way. “I had a boy in here the other day.”

“What did he wish for, then?” A saying came to mind, to keep your wish to yourself lest it did not come true. But there was also a saying - from another country, dimension, or maybe even time - that to say it aloud was to actualise it, to enter it into the realm of possibility. “More wishes?”

Kakashi sighed, a deeply mournful sound. “Every time you say that,” he complained, but there was a gentle pressure just atop of Iruka’s head: Kakashi's head, coming to rest lightly on Iruka’s own. “He felt constricted and wished to cut the ties that bound him.”

Bindings were often more than physical. “Which ones?”

“Debts and duties.” Iruka thought as much. “His teachers expect him to listen. His parents want him to become a doctor. His partner, a commitment, and his peers, to conform.”

“And his creditors want money,” Iruka guessed.

“And his creditors want money,” Kakashi confirmed. “I couldn’t help him with that, but I gave him the shears.”

“Oh, those?” Iruka had received them a while back, in a dimension where the red string of fate was visible and tangible. Where you could cut that string with the very shears, if you so desired. “I don’t suppose that went well at all.”

“I told him to be careful which ties he cuts.” Kakashi’s hand settled warm and comfortable over Iruka's hip; the heat of it comforting even through the fabric of his robes. “But you know children, and you know how closely they listen to warnings.”

Kakashi continued to talk about the boy, the strings he cut and some he regretted. How he had eventually returned the shears, and the price he paid to knot together the strings he had severed. Exhaustion pulled heavy and insistent at Iruka's eyelids, as Kakashi’s words subsided into a distant murmur, as the soothing motion of a hand carding into his hair lulled him closer to slumber.

It was all Iruka could do to remain awake, let alone listen to Kakashi’s story.

A chuckle, and the press of warm lips near his temple. “Rest, Iruka,” a voice said, unbearably fond.

Iruka rested.

-----

Something hard was sticking into his head.

Iruka pushed at it if only to sleep on something softer, like the pillow beneath it. It refused, and he grumbled at it, shoving at it again. When that yielded as much success as the first attempt, he elected to crack an eye open - only to be met by a stack of books balanced precariously on the edge of the bed.

“The Summer Prince,” one title read.

“An Inconvenient Flame,” another title declared.

He rolled over, all the better show that book its proper place, specifically somewhere more conducive to his slumber. Inevitably, he came face to face with more stacks with equally florid titles - all romance or more likely, erotica. The offending book - “Temptation of the Knight” accompanied by the depiction of a woman in shining armour pressed up against a wall by an apparently amorous and skimpily dressed princess - he grabbed and slapped it on top of a random stack where it had probably fallen down from.

The library was full again. Iruka would have to expand it.

The sticky cobwebs of grogginess still clung to his thoughts and eyelids, but he easily shook them away. A slow exhale, just the once, before he got up and extricated himself gingerly from the bookshelf pretending to be a bed.

Kakashi had taken the liberty to change him into something familiar and comfortable to sleep in. A liberty that Iruka gave freely, gratefully - and anxiously, as his hand reached down to cover the ugly scar etched into his side. The best kind of healing was one that did not care for aesthetics - it was from that kind of healing Iruka had to benefit.

Kakashi could not have overlooked it, as large as it was.

“You’re up.” His hand jerked away from the scar, as though magnetically repelled. Iruka looked up to see Kakashi standing against the doorway, clad in his sleeping yukata - a soft and worn thing that Iruka had brought back from their apartment long ago. It matched Iruka’s own. “Feeling better?”

“Much.” Iruka swept a doleful eye over the stacks of books all over the bedroom floor. “Making the bedroom into a library again?”

“All the better to get inspired with.” Kakashi leered openly and unashamedly. “I think you’d appreciate page 157 of ‘Wanted for Pleasure’.”

For all of Iruka's familiarity with sex, sex with Kakashi to be precise, it was too early in the morning for him to retain composure of any sort. The flush crept over his face and Kakashi, the terrible person that he was, saw that flush; his grin widened.

“I’m not appreciating anything until this room is cleaned up.” Iruka said as steadily as he could. “I don’t fancy getting hit in the face by a book while you’re getting inspired.”

Besides, expanding the library meant he could check on the wards. He gingerly picked his way across the floor, mindful of the mini-avalanches of literature he could set off. It was when he finally reached the door that he met his true obstacle: a hand curling smoothly around his waist and pulling him in until he was pressed up against Kakashi’s front, that smug grin all the more noticeable now that he was up close.

The hand slid downwards to squeeze at Iruka's ass. Twice.

“I’m already inspired,” Kakashi purred as his other hand joined its brother on Iruka’s other cheek. That hand squeezed, too, settling into a kneading that only pushed Iruka closer to Kakashi, to let him feel better the lean muscle of Kakashi's body against his own. “We don’t have to clean the entire room. Just the bed.”

“But the wards -”

“Can wait,” came the reply, right before Kakashi kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, gentle even, one that made Iruka chase Kakashi’s mouth for a second, and a third. Kakashi drew back and insisted, “They’re fine, Iruka.”

He relinquished his grip to hold Iruka close, closer, instead. To brush a strand of hair out of Iruka’s face, and twist a gentle finger around a lock of Iruka’s hair.

“It’d be a quick check,” Iruka tried to reason, before he noticed where Kakashi’s gaze had gone. Iruka looked, and - oh.

“A grey hair,” Kakashi said softly.

And so there was, mixed in with the dark brown strands.

Iruka knew the thoughts running through Kakashi’s mind just then. But the gentle morning light made him want things - things he did not have to sacrifice for, or feel guilty over. It made him want to pretend.

So he said with a smile he did not wholly feel - “All the better to match you with.”

Kakashi’s thumb rose to stroke that one grey strand, pale enough that it could have been his own, and Iruka waited as still as the mainspring of a watch, in that precise moment it could wind no further. It was only when Kakashi lifted that lock to his mouth and kissed it that a furtive relief unwound within Iruka - further still when he leant in to kiss Iruka again. When he held Iruka tighter.

“If we take off our yukata, we’ll match even better,” he said, dipping his head lower to mouth at Iruka’s neck. “Don’t you think?”

“I could be persuaded,” Iruka said and shivered as Kakashi nipped at the soft skin of his collarbone. But there was no persuasion needed, not really. A spell to lift all those books and put them into a tall stack - or several - in the corner hardly required little more than a wave of the hand. “Keep on doing that and maybe I will be.”

And when Kakashi finally pressed him down onto the book-free bed, their yukatas discarded carelessly across the toppled pile of books on the bedroom floor, Iruka found himself quite persuaded indeed.

-----

"I brought you these."

A squat brown pot, for feeding unwanted whispers and unreturnable secrets. A paper net, like the ones in the goldfish-scooping stalls, for catching something but surely and catching something but once. A book, the latest instalment in the Icha Icha series.

That last item was less a product and more an indulgence, but Iruka set it down on the table alongside the rest. Not everything had to be business, he thought.

Kakashi apparently agreed. "Icha Icha Blizzard," he said appreciatively as his finger traced the blocky script of its title. "I thought you didn't approve."

"I don't approve of you reading it in front of children," Iruka corrected and said nothing of his approval or lack thereof of the book itself. It was cowardly, but Iruka entertained the hope that it would appease Kakashi a day longer.

Apparently too much to hope for, as Kakashi set it back down onto the table if gently.

“So where did you go,” he asked.

“A dimension with ships that could fly in the sky.” The rush of the wind and the valley of clouds had been exhilarating, and Iruka could recall Naruto’s whoops as they soared over sprawling peninsulas and continents made miniature from their vantage point in the emerald sky. “Steam-powered, they claim. I would have taken a closer look at the engines, but…”

"There's never enough time," Kakashi finished the sentence, nodding. He would know. "Why?"

“There was a report of an unauthorised breach.” Kakashi kept staring at Iruka, expectant - the gaze of someone who was once meant to lead them all. “Tsunade suspected Akatsuki.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.” Iruka watched the line of Kakashi's shoulder draw taut. Inevitable. “We got into a skirmish.”

“How many of them?”

“Only one.” Iruka's hand twitched, perhaps towards the pot, momentarily weak and wanting. He kept both his hand and the pot where they were. “They don’t really consider me a threat.”

Not as much as you.

The unhappy tilt of Kakashi's mouth told Iruka he had heard the words left unsaid.

“Enough of one to run you through.” His eyes flicked to the newest scar hidden beneath Iruka's yukata. “Who was it?”

Iruka exhaled. He felt tired, far more tired than walking between worlds could ever make him. At the corner of the table, an hourglass stood - within it, the fine grain of sand suspended in a perpetual fall. A good conversation partner as any, more so when Iruka did not want this conversation.

“Does it matter,” he asked the hourglass instead. “Does it really matter?”

“As much as checking the wards does to you.”

His head shot up. Kakashi stared at him coolly, impassively. Iruka could only bristle.

“You know why I check them,” he said, a furious hurt sitting low in his chest. “You know -”

"And you know why I ask," Kakashi cut across him, merciless.

Iruka did. He did know why. Their reasons, they were the same.

Across the pot, the net and the book, that line dividing them - they stared at each other in a tense silence, neither willing to yield. Until Iruka finally bit out, "the masked one. Tobi."

Better Tobi than Itachi. Kakashi relaxed, if only the slightest bit - but he also said, "he's been appearing a lot lately."

"He has." Previous reports of Tobi described him as fickle and irresponsible, the weakest of the Akatsuki. From their various encounters and the sheer effort he put into his attempts to char Iruka into dust and ashes, Iruka begged to differ. "Maybe there's a promotion on the line."

Kakashi’s face darkened, and Iruka regretted his words - but not enough to apologise. Not when Kakashi brought up the wards.

"What do you want me to do, Kakashi?" Iruka asked before Kakashi could ask for every detail of that fight, that mission, and every mission after. He loved Kakashi, he really did, but he could not bear him picking at every decision Iruka made and comparing it to his own. They both knew Iruka never received the training that Kakashi did, that he never expected to. "What can I do now?"

“I don't know.” Kakashi's hands curled into themselves, into fists. Once they were renowned as the quickest hands to draw a wand, to spin a staff, to fight and to win - now they were as good as useless, here in this house that Iruka built. “I want you safe. I want you to stay.”

“I also want to stay.” Iruka said. He wanted to leave more, both of them together, but that was not an option. Not after what Iruka did. “But we can’t, and you know that.”

“Do I really?” Kakashi said, something dangerous and bitter curling in his tone. “We never tried, have we?”

“The prophecy -”

“Fuck the prophecy,” Kakashi said venomously.

“Like how you did, and now here we are?” Iruka snapped. This, he did regret saying, sucking in a sharp breath when Kakashi flinched. “I'm sorry. I -”

“I'm not,” Kakashi said sharply. He reached across the table for Iruka's hand, and for all of Kakashi’s impossible demands Iruka could not stop himself from reaching back, from grasping Kakashi’s hand tightly in his own. “I'm not sorry for what I did. Not if it means that you're still here.”

“I know,” Iruka answered. He could not ask Kakashi to feel guilty over his choice, not when Iruka had made his own. Their choices together, leading to where they were today. “But with all the acts I've done in your name, it's too late to turn back now.”

The strings of fate must be followed; all rivers led to the sea. The prophecy must be fulfilled.

Even if it had to be Iruka who carried it out.

They didn't have to bear it together. Kakashi would not say it, but it was Iruka's selfishness that kept him here. That same selfishness that kept Iruka's mouth closed, that kept him from offering what Kakashi could have.

If Kakashi ever asked, Iruka didn’t know if he’d be strong enough to let him go.

"I suppose it is," Kakashi finally said. He looked no happier for this admission - only bitterly resigned. But his hand remained in Iruka’s, substantial and warm, and for that Iruka was infinitely grateful. "I just want… I wish..."

“I know,” Iruka said heavily, even though they both knew that wish could never come true. “I know.”

-----

On his twentieth name day, Iruka was told of his impending death.

All of Konoha’s citizens knew of her prophecy, one that predicted her future with alarming consistency. It had led her people well, through times of prosperity and the darkest of days, and would remain a guiding light for the murky future. It was an honour to be named within the most important record of Konoha's past, present and future, as one of the people significant to her survival.

Even if it named him only for his death.

Prophecies were not fought against. Not when it guaranteed the survival of the dimension and certainly not when deviating from it meant another sacrifice, a greater one. But it was human, desperately so, to think of leaving for another dimension so obscure and unknown that no one could find him -

And human still, to stay. The stories of those who fought fate never ended well - and to never see the village he loved and the people within it again, to let them down so terribly and expose them to a crueler toss of the dice - that was a death unto itself.

So Iruka accepted his lot in life and lived on. He continued teaching, because his lessons would stay beyond his passing; he continued developing his sigils and arrays, because there would be a later scholar to further his work. And he continued to dote heavily on Naruto, because one day he would be unable to, and because he no longer knew how to do otherwise.

He had chosen to withhold the prophecy from Naruto, knowing that the boy would be young enough to not heed certain warnings, and impetuous enough to put it into his head that he could do something as grand as changing Iruka’s fate. Instead, Iruka penned a will bequeathing him the meagre possessions and rights under Iruka’s name, and a letter. Carefully updated with every milestone Naruto met and shot through, the letter contained a tangible proof of Iruka’s pride, and Iruka’s hopes for his future both written within and beyond the prophecy.

He hoped that when the time came, he would be able to say goodbye.

It was around then that he also met Kakashi: another figure in the prophecy, far more significant to Konoha’s story that the footnote Iruka’s death was. Important, larger than life, amazing - the Copy Magician, master of a thousand spells, a protector of Konoha and one of her saviours in the upcoming war. It had been a shock that Naruto would be apprenticed alongside two others under such a figure, and a surprise that Naruto’s instructor would meet his student’s parents - that Iruka qualified as such.

The Kakashi Iruka met was not the man lauded in the prophecy but someone much closer and within reach. He carried the weight of the prophecy with less assurance of his victory, and more direction towards success. The prophecy was not the be-all-end-all of their lives, a lesson he was intent on imparting to his students among others - it was not meant to be.

“Resting too much on the strings of fate may snap those strings one day,” he told Iruka once. It made Iruka certain that under all his flaws Kakashi was that figure that the prophecy spoke of.

It was only with a tinge of regret that Iruka would never witness him saving the village Iruka was fated to give his life for.

Yet Kakashi was also more - more than any description a prophecy could encompass. There were things it did not deem significant, like the crinkle at the corner of Kakashi’s eyes that was his smile, or the way his spine straightened just the slightest degree when meeting his friends - or the warmth that bubbled within Iruka’s chest when he realised Kakashi considered him one. And maybe there was the slightest bit of greed in Iruka too, to be the only one who knew the warmth of Kakashi’s hand in his own; the sweet vulnerability of his hesitation, in that moment before he pulled his mask down - before he leant in to press a kiss to the arch of Iruka's cheek and confessed.

It was the least cruel thing that Iruka could have done then, to tell him of his role in the prophecy.

In the wake of Iruka’s halting explanation, that vulnerability withdrew into something that curled tightly into itself, protecting itself from a pain it could not defend against. “That is an awful way to reject someone,” Kakashi said quietly.

Iruka shook his head.

“It would be easier,” he confessed, “if I could reject you.” That part of himself that still yearned for a chance to grow old, a life beyond his fate, knew that he could not. Surely this weakness was forgivable. “But you deserve an explanation that is better than a lie. I can at least give you that.”

It would have been easier too if Kakashi had steered clear of him after. Iruka was a herald of inevitable heartache, the worst kind of pain - it was only normal to avoid it, he thought.

But within days Kakashi returned, accosting him at - of all places - a supermarket, in front of the radishes and turnips display. There was a strange and determined gleam in his eye, one that made Iruka put down the blessed daikon he was holding instead of instinctively tossing it at Kakashi's head for the suddenness of it all.

“We all die one day,” Kakashi said in a rush and clasped Iruka’s hands in his own, before Iruka could even greet him with his politely rehearsed let’s-pretend-nothing-happened greetings. “I know everyone thinks I’m that magician in the prophecy - hell, I probably am - but it doesn’t feel that way to me. Every time I step into another dimension, every time I fight someone, any misstep I make means I could die.”

Kakashi dying before he could do all the things Konoha expected of him - the very idea seemed impossible; preposterous. But Iruka did not remove his hands from Kakashi’s grasp. He did not want to, when he had resigned himself to a muted regret when the chance - improbable and inadvisable and infinitely tantalising - remained.

And in that supermarket aisle, surrounded by radishes and vegetables of all kinds with the fluorescent light illuminating his face, his eyes, and all of his quiet sincerity - Kakashi declared, "I'd rather spend your remaining days with you than have no days with you at all."

When he put it that way, well. Iruka could hardly find it in himself to refuse.

-----

They had years, more than Iruka ever expected.

Every birthday filled Iruka with an intense gratitude that that year had not been the last; every anniversary he celebrated with a reckless and possessive joy. Sometimes he dared to hope that he might just live to see Naruto reach his age of majority when he would be told of his part in the prophecy, and imagined Naruto declaring that prophecy or no, he would carve out his own fate.

(And silently, selfishly - that maybe in that fate Iruka would still be there to see him do just that.)

Every year Kakashi remained, a constant presence in Iruka’s life. There was something invigorating about an achievement shared, a reciprocal celebration, a constant that could not be controlled - that someone would feel as happy for and with him, and every other emotion besides. In his more fanciful moments he imagined it was for this reason that birds sang, for the possibility that someone might just sing back.

That did not mean their relationship was without hiccups, naturally. Just because Iruka had a fixed date of expiration did not mean he could (or did) use it as an excuse to win every fight that they had, though at some times he did feel rather tempted to. The one time he did use it was to tell Kakashi in no uncertain terms that he would not spend the last of his days dwelling on his fate and jumping at shadows - that it was no way to spend a life at all.

Besides, it was immensely satisfying to show the master of a thousand spells one that he would be unlikely to ever master: Iruka’s latest array, so intricately designed it could freeze the passage of space-time.

“An entire month,” Kakashi said, appropriately impressed as Iruka proudly showed him the spider-lily, vivid red and petals unfurled in a perfect curve, the striking centrepiece of the array.

“There’s still more tweaking to do, of course,” Iruka interjected before he rambled on its limitations - that it could only anchor to a single object within the array, and the immobility of the array itself once affixed to the chronospatial coordinates - and future paths to development. Kakashi took in this information with the bemused expression of someone who knew the basics of the field but was still overwhelmingly aware of their lack of knowledge beyond. “But this is a huge step, and…”

I’d never thought I’d live long enough to get this far.

“I’m proud of you.” Kakashi said in that interval Iruka took to breathe and dropped a kiss onto Iruka’s head. For the briefest of moments, Iruka could focus on the press of warm lips against his skin, and forget how there were no events left in the prophecy between the present and his death. That it might come any day now. “I really am.”

“If you weren’t,” Iruka said, a beat slower than his usual repartee. “I’d have bound you to the couch for a month.”

Kakashi affected a gasp. “For an entire month?”

“Of course,” Iruka said in mock seriousness. “Results need to be replicable for propriety.”

With an air of great resignation, Kakashi shook his head gravely. “The lengths we’d go to for science,” he sighed theatrically.

Iruka could have extrapolated further on other array-based punishments - would have, on any other day. But all at once his darker thoughts surfaced: that the prophecy had not found his achievement sufficiently significant to record, only his death. And Kakashi, who was far more perceptive than he made himself out to be - and more so for all the people gathering about him wanting to know the legend and less the man - noticed.

“Iruka,” he prompted gently.

“Do you think they’ll remember me?” The question burst forth from him, unbidden. “I know it’s self-centred, but I want to be remembered for this, instead of being just… for my death.”

Though they went into this relationship with open eyes, Kakashi did not like to talk of Iruka’s impending death - and despite his general playful detachment, much less appreciate the gallows’ humour Iruka took to the matter. Iruka didn’t begrudge him that, not when he knew well the pain of being left behind.

But in the little time they had, whatever was left of it, maybe Kakashi saw fit to indulge him this once.

“They will,” he promised, a surprising ferocity in his voice that compelled Iruka to keep on looking at him. To listen and to accept what he had to say. “They won’t celebrate your sacrifice - they’ll mourn that it was necessary. Your knowledge, your skills, your presence - they’ll miss you.”

And, quietly, more devastatingly: “I’ll miss you.”

The urge to pull Kakashi into a hug, to cling to him as though death could not wrench away his grip, flooded through Iruka. He gave into it, stepping into Kakashi’s space and breathing in the scent of him, pressing a kiss to the curve of his jaw.

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispered just the slightest bit wetly into the crook of Kakashi’s neck, and did not see the steely determination that suddenly shone in Kakashi’s eye.

-----

This was what was supposed to happen:

The alarms sound. Iruka joins the forces in defence of Konoha. He dies, the tide of the battle turned, her invaders expelled. He is mourned, and Konoha lives on.

This was what happened:

The alarms sounded. Iruka got up from his couch, to join the forces in defence of Konoha. He turned to Kakashi for one last moment, grateful he would have a last goodbye.

Then, darkness.

When he woke up, he found himself in an array of his own design, one that offered a nigh impenetrable defence against almost everything. It had been a romantic gesture in his thoughts, to give Kakashi something that would help and protect him on his missions. That would be of use after Iruka was gone.

But Kakashi, the great idiot, had used it to trap Iruka instead. And Kakashi was missing, was gone, and Iruka was panicking as he dismantled his own creation. As he stepped out of the rubble of his apartment to an ongoing invasion and the unmistakable sounds of dimensional walls tearing apart as something forced its way through.

Did the prophecy account for this? Was it too late to set it to rights? He entered the fray, fighting and assisting and searching, frantically searching for Kakashi who fate would likely take its recompense from. Eventually, he found him - Kakashi fighting and defending and losing, against a foe that controlled blackened rods of magic-nullifying steel, driven into the ground and through bodies.

It was salvageable, Iruka thought wildly. This was where he was surely supposed to die, sacrificing himself for a loved one. It was a death he could be proud of.

He rushed forward -

(Fate was a finicky thing, obvious only in hindsight. Maybe it took its due when Kakashi pressed a goodbye kiss to Iruka’s forehead as he lay unconscious in the gifted array. Or when Iruka focused not on his loyalties and on Kakashi, a singular mindless goal instead of the selfless one he would be known for. Or when he decided that it was his death and not his sacrifice that was the prophecy’s call.

They would never know.)

- but not in time to prevent a rod pushing itself clean through Kakashi’s chest.

What happened after, Iruka would never fully recall. There had been another spell, a desperate attempt by Kakashi to protect Iruka from his foe: they were both teleported into the woods, where the sounds of Konoha under attack rang in the far distance. There had been Kakashi laying on the ground, dying, blood bubbling up through his lips and down his chin.

The cold and hard ground under his knees, the cold and clammy hand that rose to cup his cheek. The constant whine at the back of his head, drowning out Kakashi’s dying words.

There had been Kakashi’s last breath.

Then it was gone.

-----

There was a brush in Iruka’s pockets.

(Kakashi was dead.)

This was wrong. It was all wrong. Iruka should be lying there. Iruka should be dead. The wave of cold realisation washed over him: he was supposed to face that man with the nullifying rods, to tire him out for someone else to take down. This was supposed to be Iruka’s sacrifice.

Why did Kakashi put him in the array?

(Laughter. A kiss pressed against his forehead. I’d have bound you to the couch.)

The spider-lily. Stopping time. He had thought it a way to halt someone’s time, to allow them to seek the medical attention they needed before death could take them away. He thought...

(I’d rather spend your remaining days with you.)

The physical body alone was no good. What he needed was the soul. What he needed was Kakashi’s soul, if it was still here. Souls could be an anchor, couldn’t they?

(Your knowledge, your skills, your presence - they’ll miss you.)

A sigil to represent the soul. A sigil to represent Kakashi’s soul, specifically. He needed to draw it onto the body - the one anchor, piercing through the body and into the fabric of spacetime itself. Like pinning a thread into its place. He needed…

(I’ll miss you.)

He needed Kakashi to be alive.

-----

There was a brush in Iruka’s hands.

-----

It was raining.

Iruka looked out at the sky. A truly dreary day, with grey clouds blotting the sun entirely out of the sky, and the constant drum of the rain against the curved walls of the array. They formed rivulets of water, flowing down the transparent walls and seeping into the muddy ground below. The boundaries revealed: the furthest that Kakashi could go.

After the entire ordeal of binding Kakashi’s soul to his body, Iruka himself verged on the brink of exhaustion. It took several days of rest for him to return to the capital (surprisingly intact for having undergone an attack) and several hours to dissuade everyone aware of the prophecy from executing him then and there in a belated attempt to fulfil it. Specifically, it took telling them of Kakashi’s ‘death’.

In the grand scheme of things, the Copy Magician's death was probably more important than Iruka’s (absent) own.

The entire council was sent into an uproar. They sent for sigil experts from across the dimension in varying attempts to unbind Kakashi from the array; medi-mages next to effectively reverse death. When it became evident that there was no way for Kakashi to fulfil the prophecy from within the array, the desperate question became how to appease fate before she came collecting her dues.

The original oracle, Uzumaki Mito, had long passed. The Uzumaki line too had perished, save for Naruto who had no chance to learn the soothsayer ways of his bloodline. But there were other seers and oracles that Konoha could consult, and one such oracle was seated on the council of Konoha.

Utatane Koharu was a dour-faced woman, her white hair tied back into a stern bun. No one on the council was pleased with this turn of events, but it could be said that out of the entire congregation she was the most displeased, having advised more control and oversight over the subjects of the prophecy than Hiruzen and Tsunade was willing to accede to. But it was her voice alone they were listening to when she claimed that Kakashi occupied the unique space of being neither dead nor alive, and of having fulfilled the prophecy and being unable to.

The prophecy had foretold Iruka’s death. To subvert that, Kakashi had paid with his own, and in doing so he assumed Iruka’s duty to die for Konoha. But Kakashi was also alive, and still capable of performing his duty - to have someone, acting as his agent, to fulfil them in his name.

And as the beneficiary of Kakashi’s actions, it was only right for Iruka to fill that role.

“Koharu,” a fellow council member objected. “Hatake was an accomplished battle-mage. This man… how could he possibly fulfil the prophecy?”

“Hatake chose him,” she said coldly, her piercing glare landing squarely on Iruka. From that single glance Iruka suddenly knew that to her, Iruka was of more worth dead than alive. “For better or for worse, that was their choice. Umino would have to pay his debt or die trying.”

And the council so decided.

As master of the array, Iruka’s first task was to seal Kakashi and the space he occupied into a liminal space - that space, infinite and inconsistent, between dimensions. The safest place to keep things hidden in the impossibility of mapping an infinite plane. It was important to preserve Kakashi, at least until someone could figure out how to remove him from the array - to cheat not only the laws of magic but also death.

But the safest place was also the loneliest. The thought of Kakashi locked away, forever, with no one to talk to…

And that was how the shop was born, and the endless rumours of how to find it. Under the constantly flickering street lamp of the streets at midnight; in the shimmer of the air of the blistering summer days; cramped at the far end of an ignored alleyway. Some of them were true, most of them were not - but the mystery of the shop that grants wishes were far more compelling than its occupant.

Besides, Iruka reasoned, the council did not have the time to check on every urban legend and rumour, especially with the reconstruction and restoration of Konoha to undertake.

But even as he began the slow process of slicing and pinning the fine fabric of the dimensional walls apart - just the right amount to avoid cutting into the dimensions adjacent - Iruka couldn’t stop thinking about the protective wards that would best buttress the boundaries of the array, the characters that would repel every council member and the people they would send after them. An extra stroke, a sprawling script - things that would buy him more time to spend with Kakashi, finite though it was.

He could not stop himself from thinking, wondering, imagining - but he could stop himself from doing. Iruka loved people in Konoha, and was greedy enough to think about keeping both.

So mere days later, he set off on his second task and stepped through into a different dimension: to perform acts in Kakashi’s name.

The acts of prophecy were never straightforward, else they would not be told of. And for all the support Iruka was provided, Iruka was not Kakashi - he could never be. Utatane’s words were but a guideline, and not a certainty - and so there was always the constant awareness that failure was possible and usually imminent. That death followed closely in its footsteps, hovering and ready to claim.

And with every success, Iruka only stitched himself tighter into Kakashi’s fate. Tighter and tighter, to the point where referring to the Copy Magician could also mean Iruka himself, that they could expect amazing things from him when he was far from capable - so tight that sometimes he could not breathe, that he could not move in a way that the prophecy did not expect him to.

It was only here in this prison he made that he could breathe just the bit easier. That he could be relieved from that oppressive duty - that he could be Iruka, just Iruka, and nobody else.

A rustle of cloth just off to his side jolted him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Kakashi stepping out onto the engawa and dropping to take a seat next to him. His clothes carried the muted scent of tobacco - it had been a habit Iruka had told Kakashi off for before the entire debacle, if only out of concern for his health. Those concerns seemed so very trivial now.

They stared out into the garden and the untouchable sky beyond, where the rain was still trying its damndest to pierce through the veil. Existing in a liminal space meant surrendering certain aspects of the weather: the natural breeze sweeping in from an open window, the pervading heat of the sun beating onto his back, the petrichor of the early summer storms.

He wondered if Kakashi missed them. Iruka would.

“The shears.” Kakashi finally said. Iruka turned to look at him, at his hands - and there they were, small, smaller than Kakashi’s palm. The blades gleamed silver and sharp even in the muted light of the sun drowning in the clouds; the red tassel that swung from the curve of the handle the same vivid red of that spider lily so long ago. “You wanted me to use them.”

There was no accusation in Kakashi’s voice. There did not need to be. After Iruka left them with Kakashi and went onto the next dimension, he had thought of Kakashi holding the shears up, in front of himself. Of Kakashi tracing the red string that connected them together with one finger, lifting it apart from the rest.

Easing it between the blades.

Cutting it.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘want’,” Iruka said truthfully. There had been nights where the fear that he would return an empty shop and an emptier fate took hold of him, keeping him awake in the middle of the night. But... “But I did want you to have the choice.”

Any other person would have accused Iruka of not wanting to be tied down, of seeing or maybe even wanting a future without Kakashi. But the fact was there was no other way for Kakashi to release himself. Kakashi was not wrong - the wards were fine, would always be fine when the passage of time halted for them as much as it did for Kakashi. And Kakashi too would be fine, would always and forever be fine, and would continue existing here on this lonely plane for as long as Iruka existed - and beyond that, too.

The simple fact was, Iruka never needed the shears when he always had the opportunity. The choice.

Kakashi set the shears down in the narrow space between Iruka’s thigh and his own, where it glittered in the shadows. The silence that ensued after was less than happy, but wholly expected. They had lived long enough to know the way the other thought, the path their arguments treaded, the reasons behind the reasons that they would not say.

Kakashi would not cut the string for the same reason that Iruka always returned to him.

(Their reasons have always been the same.)

But walking in the circles, the same endless loop - it was tiring. Not only for Iruka, but for Kakashi too: no matter how much they wished to, Iruka could not ask Kakashi to not worry any more than Kakashi could ask him to stay. The shears merely represented a choice out of the few they could take.

Iruka could offer another.

“Am I…” Iruka began and stopped just as abruptly. There were the words he knew, yet he did not want them actualised, to open them to the realm of possibility. Words, once spoken and spoken carelessly, could bind people in the most unpredictable of ways. “Am I selfish?”

Kakashi did not answer immediately. For that Iruka was grateful - that Kakashi was giving his offer his full consideration.

And when his hand reached past the shears and curled into Iruka’s clenched fist, Iruka knew the answer.

“No more than I was.” His hand slipped further into Iruka’s own, holding it proper; from it relief rushed through Iruka’s entire body, tinged with the faintest aftertaste of bitter guilt. “No more than I am.”

He raised his gaze to meet Kakashi’s own - both of them hesitant, both vulnerable.

“We’ll be selfish together then,” he said softly.

In Kakashi’s eyes he saw the same steely determination that set off this entire chain of events - that led Iruka to say yes to a doomed relationship, damn the consequences. And Iruka could only watch as Kakashi placed his other hand on Iruka’s face, cupping it gently, as though he was trying to memorise every of Iruka’s features before he was inevitably called away.

“I once told you,” he began lowly, “that I would have what little you could give than to have nothing at all.”

How could Iruka forget? He nodded mutely and Kakashi continued as sincerely as that day when he stood among the rows of radishes, as the only thing he had eyes for then was Iruka. “I still feel the same way. I’d rather wait for you, than to have less of you, or not have you at all. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“For as long as you’ll have me,” Iruka echoed fiercely, as he placed a hand over Kakashi’s, keeping it in place. Like he could imprint Kakashi’s warmth onto his face and into his skin, an indelible handprint to keep him warm in the coldest of dimensions, in its snow-swept endless plains. “I’ll always return, for as long as you’ll let me.”

“Then grant me this wish,” Kakashi intoned, the formal beginning of an incantation. The heavy pressure of magic settled onto Iruka’s shoulders - not the pressure of the strings that council had bound him, that he bound himself with, constricting and unyielding - but the weight of a heated blanket in the middle of a chilly night, spread across weary shoulders with gentle hands. A weight he could shrug off if he so chose to. “I want to go when you go.”

Between them, the string of the tassel began to unravel, its frayed end rising upwards. Neither of them looked at it, not when Kakashi had not finished what he needed to say.

“Whatever dimension you’re on,” he told Iruka, “I’ll find you. I’ll find you and we’ll go together, but you’ll have to let me go with you.”

The offer, made. All Iruka had to do was to accept. But there was one last amendment he had to make.

“We’ll find each other,” he corrected. “We’ll go together.”

“We’ll go together,” Kakashi echoed, the glow between casting his face into sharp relief. His hand tightened on Iruka’s own, and Iruka squeezed back, as the string wove between their fingers, binding them together. As their fates were tied together, far more tightly than any prophecy could.

The contract, complete.

-----

Several days later, they stood together in the courtyard.

The sun was a good ways to its zenith, but Iruka only needed an afternoon to run errands in the capital before heading off to whichever dimension the council saw fit to send the Copy Magician to next. In fact, the morning had been particularly well spent by Kakashi wheedling all sorts of favours out of Iruka, ranging from helping him undress, washing his hair - “I can’t very well go out for a hairdresser,” he said and pouted exaggeratedly up at Iruka - making him breakfast, and sitting down while Kakashi made the actual breakfast after Iruka charred the bottom of the pan a thick and crusty black.

“I’m not sure what you expected,” Iruka had said helplessly as Kakashi set the table. “I mean, I told you -”

“I expected you to make a sandwich,” Kakashi said. “Bread, some tuna. Maybe vegetables if you’re feeling adventurous.”

“But you like -”

“But mostly I didn’t expect you to burn the pan,” Kakashi finished cheerfully. “How d'you even do that? Pyromages would be jealous of your natural talent.”

Iruka bit into his rice ball and sulked, but relented shortly after when Kakashi made the appropriate please-forgive-me noises and fed Iruka out-of-season chilled melon balls.

Now here they were in the courtyard, a few minutes away before Iruka would open the portal back into Konoha. It would be an equally exhausting trip back, but in Konoha there were medi-mages on call to get travellers back onto their feet after walking through worlds.

“I’ll bring the children next time,” he told Kakashi even though Naruto was close to shooting past Iruka’s height. “I’m sure Sakura has some stories to tell you of her adventures in other dimensions.”

“But I’m only interested in those that include you,” Kakashi said in a show of unredeemable sappiness, especially when Iruka knew he would listen to whatever tales Sakura (and to a reasonable extent, Naruto) had to tell even if she had written them all down in the previous letters to Kakashi. In Iruka’s hand was such a letter to her, a reply, and more letters to many others who did not quite have the expertise (or the authorisation) to open dimensional tears at will or the knowledge where this particular tear was. “Especially the ones where you get naked.”

“You want me to get naked in other dimensions?” Iruka asked dubiously.

“In this dimension only, please,” Kakashi amended.

A small chime went off somewhere in the folds of Iruka’s robes, his cue to feed energy into the transportation array. It began to glow a familiar blue, as sigils flickered into existence midair, almost as brightly as the unrelenting sunlight.

“I’ll be off,” he said, entirely reluctant, as the seams of the dimensional walls came apart, carving a fiery hole into the air. On the other side he could see the arrival platform for cross-dimensional travels, busy as usual. “Try to keep the books in the library instead of your bedroom, won’t you?”

“I make no promises,” Kakashi declared playfully, even as his hands curled tightly into the collar of Iruka’s robe and pulled him in for a kiss - and another. The last kiss he left lingered, and Iruka could not stop himself from missing him already. “Stay safe?”

“I’ll try my best.” He stole one last kiss from Kakashi before taking a step through the portal, and into Konoha proper. The energy drain set in immediately, knocking the breath out of him; from the corner of his eyes he could see the medi-mages hurrying towards him in anticipation of his certain collapse.

But there was something he wanted to say before he went off to his next task, a certainty that hung between them. He turned back towards Kakashi. “See you soon?”

Kakashi lifted his hand for one last wave. Around his little finger was a strip of red string from the tassel, tied in a simple knot; around Iruka's own, a matching string and knot. Binding them across dimensions and time and even fate itself, so tightly that even the shears might not be able to cut those ties away.

“Of course,” Kakashi promised. “I’ll see you soon.”

As the portal burnt itself out of existence and Kakashi out of Iruka’s sight, there was the slightest tug on his little finger. The gentlest of reminders.

We’ll go together, Iruka thought to himself, and knew it as a certainty, reassuring.

A promise that they could always fulfill.

[voidpants]

“You look beautiful, but you don’t look fine” for the sentence prompts! convin 💙🖤

Connor tries to activate his skin again.

He watches as patches of synth fluid wobble frantically across his hands, unable to settle as error messages flood in, sensors reporting chassis damage at every available anchor point.

He keeps trying for approximately fifty-seven more seconds before aborting the attempt, then he picks up the first thing he can reach off the coffee table and flings it as hard as he can at the wall.

The green glass tealight holder shatters on impact, and it does nothing to ease the angry frustration boiling in him.

Three days before they can repair his sensor mesh, stop it from flagging chassis damage that doesn’t exist.

Three days of his skin not working, of looking like… like…

Three.

Fucking.

Days.

He flings the matching tealight holder with a frustrated growl escaping his speakers, crunchy with static.

He hates this. He hates it so much.

He doesn’t feel right like this, he feels… Exposed. Vulnerable.

Ugly.

He feels so ugly, and it hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to deal with.

And Gavin is coming over in less than half an hour.

He laughs, almost hysterically, but the sound devolves into a pained crackle when he tries to drag his hand through his hair, instead being met with the soft tap of plastic on plastic.

He should have called and cancelled. Should have told Gavin he had a case, had to work overtime. Gavin would have bought it, would have grumbled about the “fucking feds” working him too hard, would have told Connor to take care and he’d see him next week.

He should have called and cancelled, but he wants to see Gavin. He wants…

He feels ugly and hurt, and he wants to be comforted. He wants Gavin to comfort him.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He buries his face in his hands. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

Because Gavin won’t, will he? 

After all, if Connor thinks he looks disgusting like this, what will Gavin think? If Connor can’t even stand to touch his own body like this, then why would Gavin want to?

“Fuck.” It comes out as a sob, and he realizes only now that he’s been crying. He’s such a mess. Just a stupid, ugly mess and-

And the doorbell is ringing.

Gavin.

The panic shocks him out of the crying jag, processing priority being given to his preconstruction software, dozens upon dozens of simulations running parallel behind his eyes, trying to find an approach to Gavin’s arrival that will yield optimal rewards.

But like most preconstructions where his own emotions are involved, the results all come back with question marks instead of probabilities, and he punches the couch in frustration.

“Hey, Connor? You in?” Gavin sounds impatient, and tired.

Fuck.

Fine.

Maybe if he just… doesn’t give Gavin time to talk, to ask questions, if he just kisses him and doesn’t stop kissing him, manages to distract him from the sleek white expanse of Connor’s… everything, maybe he can make it work out. Maybe he can get what he needs.

It’s the only plan he has.

“Just a second!” he yells, standing up from the couch. He glances around, and other than the glass debris in one corner of the living room, everything looks fine. Everything except the obvious, at least.

He wipes the tears off his face with the sleeve of his shirt on the way to the door. Flicks the lights off, as if it will help.

He takes a second, standing in front of the door, achingly self-aware, trying to remember how to smile.

Then he opens the door.

“The fuck were you doing, I’ve been wai-”

Connor doesn’t let Gavin finish. Just pulls him in by the collar of his stupid, paint stained academy hoodie, and kisses him the way he knows Gavin likes, aggressive and demanding and filthy.

And Gavin just kisses back, laughing into it as Connor slams the door closed and pushes him up against it, one of Gavin’s hands fisting in a handful of Connor’s shirt, the other sliding down to grope at his ass through his slacks.

His plan seems to be working, and it emboldens him to slide a thigh in between Gavin’s, nipping his bottom lip as Gavin moans.

“H-hey,” Gavin gasps as Connor tilts his head to the side to trail kisses up his neck. “You wanna slow down for a minute there, huh?”

Icy fear pools in  Connor’s chest, and he stutters to a stop for a second before shaking it off, teeth scraping across Gavin’s jugular.

“I want you,” he murmurs, modulates his voice low and gravelly the way that usually makes Gavin shiver, fingers grasping at Gavin’s belt buckle, too clumsy with nerves to get it open.

“Yeah, not blaming you,” Gavin laughs, breathy, but his hands are letting go, coming down to cover Connor’s instead, stopping him. “But, uh, this doesn’t feel right?” he says, voice quieter, smile smaller.

Oh.

Of course not.

At least Gavin had been kind about it.

“I understand,” Connor says, trying for level, and barely suppressing the cringe when instead it comes out the wrong side of robotic. Steps away carefully, hands dropping out from under Gavin’s, thirium pump giving a sick shudder at the awful contrast of tanned skin against white plastic. “The… The techs said they’ll have,” he gestures vaguely at himself, “this fixed Monday. We can reschedule for then, if you like. You don’t… I wouldn’t expect you to stay.”

Something like anger sparks in Gavin’s eyes as his face pulls into a frown. “The fuck?”

You’d think the fact that the outcome was expected would make the reality of it less… heartbreaking, but those are emotions for you. They always fuck everything up.

“I know I’m not… attractive like this,” he explains, calmer than he feels, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “It’s not what you signed up for. I don’t take offense.”

“That’s not even fuckin-” Gavin starts, voice raised, taking half a step forward, before cutting himself off, chest heaving with a deep breath. “I don’t have a problem with this,” he says, voice tight as he gestures at Connor. “I know what I fucking signed up for, okay? So you can get the fuck out with that fucking bullshit.”

And Connor feels the rage rising up his throat, because how dare Gavin lie to his face? “Then why would you make me stop, if not because you think I’m- because I’m ugly?” he spits, venomous and so, so angry.

“Because you looked like you were one second from crying since the moment you opened the fucking door!” Gavin roars back, then flinches, steps back, hands coming up to cover his face as sucks in shuddery breaths. “Fuck, Connor,” he murmurs, and Connor is… stunned by the depth of emotion in Gavin’s rough, strained voice.

“You’re not fucking ugly, okay?” he says, eventually, hands dropping, eyes coming to meet Connor’s, and he looks… tired. Honest. “Skin or no skin, I think you look good,” he continues, gently, taking a careful step into Connor’s space again, hand reaching out for his, and it’s so easy to turn his palm into Gavin’s, letting their fingers twine. “But right now you look like you’re in the middle of a fucking nervous breakdown.”

Connor stares at him for a few moments before he nods, eyes falling to the  floor.

“I just hate looking like this,” he admits, squeezing Gavin’s fingers. “I like my skin, I like how I look with it. Like this, I…” He closes his eyes as he feels the tears start rolling down his face. “I feel wrong. Disgusting and ugly and-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Gavin cuts him off, moving fully into his space, arm coming up to wrap him in a hug. “Didn’t those fucks at Cyberlife ever teach you if you had nothing nice to say, don’t say anything?”

It startles a laugh out of Connor’s voice box, small and wobbly, buried in the leather of Gavin’s jacket.

“If you followed that guideline yourself, you’d never speak,” he murmurs, turning his face into Gavin’s neck, arm coming up to hug him back.

“Yeah, well, I’m an orphan, so no wonder I wasn’t raised right,” Gavin says, pressing a kiss against Connor’s LED. “And I say plenty nice things.”

Connor runs his thumb across Gavin’s knuckles.

“Can you say some now?”

Gavin hums thoughtfully against his temple.

“You are… aggravatingly pretty.”

“Even like this?”

“All the time.”

Connor pulls back, just enough to make eye contact, to drown in the open, raw affection in Gavin’s grey eyes.

“Then prove it,” he whispers, and imagines that this is what it feels like to be breathless.

“Oh, it’s gonna be like that, huh?” Gavin says, smiling, already leaning in.

“Oh, absolutely,” Connor says, before Gavin kisses any other words out of his mouth.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Approaching Countdown.”

Had to write this at work today, so sorry it is short. 

The GA chairwoman stood in the oppressive muggy heart of Earth. She really hated it, it made her skin itch and her eyes sting, there wasn’t enough water in their atmosphere to actually cause her any harm, but there was definitely enough of it to make her very uncomfortable. A part of her had hoped that it might rain, forcing her to stay off world for the weather formation, but these humans knew what they were doing and had scheduled the launch for a cloudless day.

She looked up at the yellow earth sun and sighed. The humans had been very excited to invite the GA delegations out to view the launch. Humans were generally very excited to show anyone they could their dangerous past, and looking at the thing that was passing for a spaceship, she could not see how it would get more than a few inches off the ground, much less out of orbit. Supposedly they had dipped into very rare rocket fuel reserves to even do this as it required fossil fuel.

Fossil Fuel!

Let that sink in for a moment.

Liquified dead plant and animal remains mixed with liquid oxygen and some sort of oxidizer. She wasn’t sure what that last part meant, she wasn’t a rocket scientist. She sighed again, personally she wished she didn’t have to be here, for she doubted the launch was going to go as the human expected. In all reality her nerves were shot and she wished that she could just pass out for the next few hours and forget where she was. Everything was out of her hands anyway. Her orders had been given and now all she could do was wait.

She stood in the heat not too distant from her array of human bodyguards,dressed in dark suits and wearing dark glasses to cover their eyes. Somehow they managed to look more intimidating than normal humans did frowning, missing the characteristic tooty smile she had grown to associate with humans.

Shehad spent far too much time with Admiral Vir it seemed.

She sighed at the thought of him and shook her head.

Every time she tried to think about something else, it just circled back around to him. She tried not to think about it, taking a very deep breath.

There was some shuffling behind her and she turned slowly on her knuckles feeling the concrete grinding below her hands as she did. Two Tesraki and one other Rundi stood behind her having been let through by the human guards, who still eyed them with some measure of suspicion.

“Everything is in place, Chancellor.”

She nodded her head once.

“How many?”

There are at least thirty patrolling the borders of the trajectory zone. They will know as soon as he breaches orbit.

“And our engineers?”

“We are having trouble gaining access, but we are still working on it.”

“You better hope that we can.”

She lifted her head towards the sky where she could see the faint line of the moon against the blueness of the sky.

“We better hope.”

***

Captain Richard’s palms were very sweaty. He tried to wipe them discreetly on his pants or more accurately a onesie the scientists were calling a “Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Garment. So like a Onesie with tubes in it. He glanced sidelong over to where Admiral Vir was sitting staring at the antique space suit equipment laid out before them. 

He tried not to make it look like he was staring, but he totally was.

Admiral Vir wasn’t much older than him, maybe by a year or two, but that was part of what made being in the same room with him so strange. Every time he, or probably anyone, though of an admiral, they generally thought of some stuffy grey haired fat guy who sat behind a desk and gave orders. But…. this guy…. Well he was nothing like that at all. He was young and stupidly fit, and sure he had some white hair appearing at his temples, but his hair was blond enough you only noticed it in certain light.

And he was very personable, that was the first thing Richards had noticed.

The man knew how to work a room. He was funny, and despite being intimidated by his status, he found himself forgetting constantly that this guy wasn’t someone cool he had just met out at the bar. 

As if he could sense someone looking at him, Admiral Vir turned around theappriture of his mechanical eye adjusting slightly. He grinned in a very un-admiral way, “This is so friggin awesome.” The man looked like he was about to jump out of his boots, “Just look at this stuff-” He grinned some more dancing from one foot to the other, “Happiest damn day of my life and I’m wearing a diaper.”

That got the rest of the shuttle crew laughing which then devolved into a discussion about the pros and cons of diapers versus the new suit catheters. There was a surprising split on the discussion as the group of men talked, a conversation that was only broken as a group of scientists stepped in to help them with their suits. The process was rather tedious, the suits were bulky and cumbersome, nothing like the neat, sleek and comfortable suits used on regular ships.

Stepping into the pants of the suit they had to hold their arms up as the upper portion was lowered into place over their heads while others hurried in to pull on their arms and then help them fit into the gloves. He ducked his head as the communications cap was placed over his head. They would be wearing the full suit into orbit, though they would be allowed to take it off on the journey over. A journey which would take roughly three days or more to complete. One of them would stay in orbit while Admiral Vir and Richards himself took the lunar module down to the surface.

It was all supposed to go very smoothly from here.

Once suited up he couldn’t help but be reminded of when he was a child ready to go sledding with his siblings, in his massive snow pants and puffy jacket, waddling across the floor with his arms held out to either side.

He honestly hoped he looked cooler than he felt.

Admiral Vir might have been able to pull it off if he wasn’t nearly skipping, which seemed pretty improbable in the massive ass snowman suit.

Glancing out the long windows and into the horizon, he could see crowds of people set up in the distance. Head was a teenager when the Enterprise Launched, standing in an awed crowd as the massive behemoth hauled herself into the sky. He remembered the thrill, and he remembered the fear as he watched it go higher and higher and higher.

He remembered that day as one that led him to where he was now, and couldn’t believe it.

***

 The UN president stood at her lectern feeling a soft breeze blow through her hair. Today was a good day, or at least it was shaping up to be a good day. She had two folders sitting under the lectern like she always did during times like this. One of them was green and one of them was red.

The red one was sitting on top.

She glanced over to where the GA president stood and scowled slightly. She had always thought the little creature was kind of ugly looking like an ant. She had never liked bugs, or bug like things of any kind, which she found to be a common trait among aliens, Drev, Vrul, Gibb, Rundi, Burg.

She looked up at the sky neck stretched out sunning herself in the bright morning.

She could see the rocket in the distance held up on its platform. Admiral Vir would be moving into place now. Most people would see this only as some sort of historical recreation act, but PR analytics suggested that, if the Admiral succeeded, approval rating in the GA would go up almost 3 percent. Human and alien relations had been rockier than most people would like to admit. If Admiral Vir were to fail, the failure would likely shock the aliens senseless, and if he died. It could completely break down human/alien relations for the foreseeable future.

They were on the cusp of cooperation or war, and any single event could push them in that direction.

Relations might have already broken down if it wasn’t for Admiral Vir.

The president reached down a hand brushing the tips of her fingers over the red folder.

***

Jade examined the rocket from the inside of her decontaminated engineer’s suit. She was busy going over final checks before the craft was launched. Personally she thought it was a bad idea. There was no reason to go and do something so dumb when they had perfectly viable technologies available at their fingertips. Of course, she understood the value and importance of major historical events, but that didn’t mean they had to reenact them. I mean it's not like anyone ever wanted toreinaced the titanic or the Berlin wall, or burning down the library of Alexandria, but for some reason some yahoos wanted to strap themselves to a rocket inside a tin can and fly into space.

Using the same EXACT design from TWO THOUSAND years ago.

Might as well start using steam locomotives to get around.

She inched her way along the scaffolding catwalk  just a few hundred feet in the air. She didn’t mind heights, butcher wasn’t stupid, and would enver risk herself unecissarily. She examined the bolts holding the ship together passing a critical eye over each and every one of them. If just a single one of them got loose, it might potentially pull the whole panel off. If that happened, the launch trajectory might destabilize and they could begin to spin into the ground and explode.

Off in the distance she heard an alarm calling her down from above.

She would need to leave soon, and so tucked her clipboard under one arm and began to climb down one of the ladders towards the distant ground.

It was then that she noticed something strange. She didn’t know why she noticed it, it was so small, and she was in a hurry but…. There was something…. Strange. She glanced over and squinted towards the strange reflection.

The siren continued to blare.

She should really go.

She started to descend but then.

“You might want to check that again.”

She nearly leaped out of her skin at the voice turning on the spot and pitching ackwards with wide open eyes nearly falling over the rail as she came face to face with a porcelain white face and wide black eyes like pools of onyx. For a second she almost screamed assuming she had gone insane, but then paused as she saw the figure floating before her a gravity belt around it’s waist, and hundreds of white ribbons streaming from it’s back.

A starborn!

She had seen a documentary mentioning them, even with a few images, so she knew who it was. She also knew that they could read minds.

It wasn’t supposed to be able to speak, but this one was wearing translation gloves, and spoke sign language rather fluently.

“You might want to check again.” It repeated

“But I-”

“The Admiral is expecting an attempt on his life, and the best way to do it would be to sabotage the shuttle. You will want to help me because if the Admiral dies, my daughter will be very upset.”

She opened her mouth then closed it, not sure how to respond but eventually turned back to the shuttle and leaned forward pointing to the side of the rocket, “That, right there, can you float over and take a look. The creature floated past her, billowing like smoke as he eased over. He pointed, “This?”

“Yes.”

He touched it.

“Can you feel it/” She wondered.

“It doesn't feel like the rest of the ship though I cannot say how.”

“Keep looking around, I need to call in-”

“NO!”

She frowned hand halfway to her mic.

“Don’t tell them, we don’t want them to know that we have found anything.

She wasn’t so sure about that, but she didn’t feel like pissing this thing off, so reached to her mic, “Mission control this is Engineering, i'll need a postpone on the launch while I finish off my checklist. This is taking longer than I anticipated.”

“Roger that.” mission control responded.

The sirens stopped a moment later as she urged the Starborn forward to prod at the spot. There wasa soft peeling noise, and after a moment, she watched as the creature came away with a strip of tape.

He floated over to her and she examined it. That shouldn’t have been there, this was not the heat resistant sort of tape they used, and it certainly wasn’t something they would have bothered to put on the outside of a ship. The only thing it seemed to do was match the paint color.

She leaned forward glancing at the side of the shi. If this had gone up during exit it would have burned off, and that would reveal. 

The loose bolt underneath. Just like she feared.

She could fix it and ordered the starborn to do so following the instructions in her head. After that she ordered him to take her vest camera and fly around the outside of the rocket. She had noticed based on the way the light interacted with the tape as compared to the finish of the rocket’s exterior. 

If only she had someone who was good at distinguishing subtle color, and then she remembered.

She called the starborn back.

“Go, get a Drev and hurry back here. I’ll try to stall them.”

[mythicamagic]

DL oneshot: Sleeping Beauty Shenanigans

Writing commission for @s-e-kwan

The vampires attend a play of Sleeping Beauty during the school Cultural Festival. The stars turn out to be Kanato, Ayato and...Yui?

Rated T - humour and some Ayayui

Warning: Lotsa crack, don’t take this one seriously 

The day of the culture festival arrived, much to the delight of some and the dread of others. Yui had been one of the delighted, getting ready backstage while the other students from her class arranged the stage behind a red velvet curtain.

They were to perform a play of the famous fairy tale; Sleeping Beauty.

From within the audience, a few less than impressed Sakamakis sat, Shuu snoring quietly in his seat. Reiji tutted in disgust, arms folded. Subaru was sincerely trying not to get pissed off with all the chatter from the crowds, but if one more person bumped his leg when walking by the aisle-

Bump.

“OI!” He roared, glaring up and up and…up.

Yuma looked down, raising a brow and grinning toothily. “Heh, didn’t know you guys were watchin’ the play too.”

Reiji bristled at the sight of the four Mukami brothers casually taking seats next to them. “Why exactly are you here?”

"We came... to see Eve," Azusa stuffed some spiced popcorn into his mouth.

“Yes. Do you happen to know which role she’s playing?” Ruki asked.

Green eyes danced. “We don’t~ though Ayato and Kanato wouldn’t tell us either. They all looked so flustered fufu.”

“Laito?! Why are you here!” Subaru glared. “You’re in the same class!”

“I am?”

“YES!”

Laito chuckled. “Ohh, that’s right. I performed a little service for the dear teacher and she let me off the hook. Such a kind woman.”

Kou cut his eyes to the ceiling, texting to his fans on twitter, before the lights in the hall dimmed. A single spotlight turned to the stage. Everyone fell quiet and expectant as the curtains drew back, revealing a typical castle scene made up of props.

Ruki opened his program, blue-grey eyes briefly scanning the list of names and roles. No one else had bothered to get one. His gaze briefly alighted with a sadistic shine as he read Ayato’s role, before quietly folding the program away. It therefore came as no shock to him when after the parents were introduced at the party, Kanato kicked the cardboard door to the set down, dressed in a long cloak. The sleeves fell past his hands, but they didn’t deter him from snarling loudly:

“HOW DARE YOU NOT INVITE ME TO YOUR PARTY!”

“I-it’s the wicked fairy, come to curse us all!” The Queen wailed.

“NEVER MIND THAT, YOU WORMS. I’ll never forgive you for this! TEDDY will never forgive you!”

The King leaned across his throne to the Queen, whispering; “Teddy?”

“I CURSE ALL OF YOU! But uh…PARTICULARLY THAT BRAT IN THE CRIB. At 16 she’ll stab her ugly finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and DIE!” Kanato shrieked, holding Teddy up. Real flames burst to life on the curtains, though the audience only clapped and made noises of awe, thinking it part of the show.

Peering out on stage, Yui gasped. “K-Kanato! Remember our agreement, no fires! I promised you sweets didn’t I?”

The vampire glanced at her over his shoulder, expression blank. “Oh, Yui. Hm…yes I suppose you’re right,” he said, eerily calm once more.

Reiji sighed with vague relief when the fires died down, adjusting his glasses and glancing at Shuu’s seat, finding it empty. He rose a brow and looked down at his feet, where Shuu was curled up in the fetal position, rocking slightly.

“Uh…” Yuma leaned over. “He okay?”

“He’s fine,” Reiji dismissed.

The play carried on, with the curse being amended to a sleeping spell. Miraculously in the next scene, almost 16 years had passed and the princess had grown up into a beautiful-

“Ayato!” Subaru gaped, staring at the figure on stage standing in a pink frilly dress.

The vampire looked at him flatly, setting his hands on his hips. The Sakamakis and Mukami’s began to make strange, wheezy noises, holding back laughter. A random member of the audience sitting at the back burst into hysterics, throwing popcorn.

Reiji glanced at him, but didn’t recognise the student wearing shades. His feet were propped up on the back of someone else’s chair, sipping Guava juice.

How audacious, he thought with disgust.

“Ohh princess, you are so radiant! Be careful of your beauty though while attending the birthday party, a man might steal you away~” said the Queen.

Ayato tsked, folding his arms. “I reckon he’d steal you instead of me, D-cup.”

The Queen flushed red, and Yui hissed through the curtains. Something about making him takoyaki. Ayato rolled his eyes. “I mean, yeah. No sweat. The Great me will be careful,” he muttered, walking awkwardly offstage to go to the next scene.

With that passionate declaration came a scene change, and soon enough, Ayato was walking around the caste in a daze, fake passing out on a raised alter after pricking his finger. The narrator intoned in a bored voice that 100 years passed, the kingdom falling asleep right along with their princess.

Now Ruki raised his head, after getting in a short power nap. He smiled slightly when a petite woman padded onto the stage, tilting her chin up. She bore the title of ‘Prince’ almost admirably seriously. Reiji inwardly assessed her posture and quietly praised the foolish girl.

The other vampire’s stared at her with surprise. Even Shuu recovered enough to peer over the seats.

“She’s the prince?!” Subaru exclaimed, blinking.

"Komori is always so cute, but who knew she could look so handsome?” Came some whispers from the audience, a sentiment shared by the girls and boys alike.

Yuma tsked, grumbling in his seat. “Dumb kids. Don’t they get that she’s off limits?”

“Fufu~ adorable though isn’t it? Obviously though, I’m the one who’s going to steal little bitch away,” Laito mused to himself, blushing.

“GET LOST!” Subaru snarled, the words echoing through the hall. He then shrank in his seat a little, fuming as Laito grinned merrily.

Yui cleared her throat, turning to a dozing Ayato.

“Beautiful girl, I must have fallen into a dream upon sight of you, for I cannot begin to imagine such a person existing in the realm of men,” she bowed. “I will rescue you from this curse of sleep. This I promise.”

Ayato snorted, eyes remaining closed. She could practically hear his words in her head; “You look even flatter wearing that armour, pancake.”

Sending him a look, Yui focused on the task at hand when Kanato returned with a puff of fake smoke, glaring at her tearfully. She merely raised her sword.

“If you mean to pass me, worm, you’ll have to kill me!” He shrieked.

Yui wasted no time in charging forward, and a mini fight scene ensued, before Yui jabbed her sabre right into Kanato’s shoulder.

“AHHHH!” He shrieked, pressing a hand to the offended flesh and bleeding very real blood. The audience clapped right along with the vampires, looking vaguely satisfied. From the back somewhere, Shin cheered something about ‘death to all vampires!’

“I’LL KILL YOU ALL!” Kanato swore heatedly, before materialising off stage.

Yui blinked and awkwardly motioned for the fog machine to start, even though they were way off cue.

The stage was filled with a dreamy atmosphere, the smoke curling over the floor. She approached Ayato’s still body quietly, setting down her bloodied sword.

The entire audience held its breath then. The students invested in teen romance held in squeals, wondering if the couple would lip lock. The Sakamakis and Mukamis tensed.

“Ruki…shouldn’t we do something?” Azusa murmured.

“It’s up to Eve to decide now.”

“Heh, screw that,” Kou stood. “Imma stop this, she’s my Masokitty and-“

“Sit your ass back down!” Subaru snarled, grabbing him suddenly.

The two vampires started brawling in the aisles, while Yui pushed her blonde hair back from her face. She leaned over Ayato, finding that his features were inhumanly handsome for such a troublemaking, rude vampire. The position of her leaning over him,while the boy slept on- reminded her of when she’d first stepped foot in Sakamaki mansion.

So many things had happened since then. If she’d never awoken him then maybe she could have lived a normal life. Yui eased closer to him, exhaling soft breath over his pale cheek.

I can’t go back now though. I’m too different, too changed, she thought. Finally pressing her lips to his soft looking ones in a quick peck, she eased back.

Everyone was silent. Ayato did not stir.

She did it again, figuring maybe he hadn’t felt it. But nothing happened.

Yui blinked, before gritting her teeth. Oh you absolute jerk.

Grabbing the front of his dress, she yanked him up to the best of her ability and kissed him, frustrated beyond belief. Muffled laughter broke out against her lips, before Ayato yanked her closer, a tight grip around her waist that made her squeak.

The two barely noticed the loud booing coming from the majority of the vampires, or the two still fighting in the aisle. They didn’t even break apart when Kanato started going berserk backstage, the distant boom and crash of furniture hitting walls coupling with maniacal laughter.

Ayato broke away from Yui, grinning at the hazy look in her eyes. The flush of her crimson cheeks.

“Guess you’re not such a bad kisser, Prince Pancake.”

Yui smiled slightly, before Ayato was promptly knocked unconscious by a lone projectile Guava juice box.

End

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter ten (the house of grey)

“We're all alone in the city, My hands are stoned with pity, I could get by or get high with fifty [yeah] And I don't feel pretty... today.” -Otep, “House of Secrets”

The Man in Black kept his distance from my dreams all the way to the sunrise. I had figured it was because of the extra presence within the House of Grey down the block, but I also have my doubts about that, given the fact he follows me to wherever he damn well pleases. There was also one time I stayed overnight with the Greys and the Man in Black lingered in the deepest corners of the awning covering my front porch. He lingered there like a spider monkey, down and out towards me with his spidery fingers extended out to my face. I had to back up and then hold my breath before I even stepped in the house, and at that point, it felt as though my lungs would explode on me.

Every time I saw the Man in Black from thence forth, I have this pervading feeling that he’s going to reach down my throat and yank out my lungs. I only saw him in his full apparition form twice more after that but it was enough for me to be wary of him.

But nevertheless, I can’t truly say if it’s the fact Maya’s over there now or something else. I was fresh meat to him once: maybe she’s new prey for him, I can’t say, I’m only speculating here.

The first time I encountered the Man in Black was when I first joined Anthrax, and in such a fashion that is forever etched into my memory bank. We were down in the City making arrangements and I had to be there: I had just learned that Scott, Danny, Frankie, and Charlie had been bunking in a small three bedroom flat on the edge between the Bronx and Yonkers, that one part of town that’s mostly white people and yet they managed to find that place; and yet they invited me to spend the next couple of nights with them. I was also reminded that Metallica had been staying with them as well and this was how I began knowing about Metallica and of Lars’ name in particular. They were all two nights from flying out west to California to meet up with the boys from Guns N’ Roses.

On my second evening in that apartment, and the night before we all had to leave, I had some time to myself: Scott and Frankie had just left the room, and I had no idea where Charlie and Danny had scampered off to, which meant I had the room left to me and thus I could have a moment alone. There was nothing more in that room than a dusty old olive green couch with cushions so lumpy I thought I would sink into one side if I sat down wrong, and a singular bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling overhead: I don’t think the power was even on then, and this was in late September so the night began falling upon us much sooner than before.

But I took a seat there on the right side of the sofa and crossed my legs right as James Hetfield stepped into the room right before me. He towered over me with his long lanky legs and lengthy golden blond wavy hair, but he greeted me with the biggest most beaming smile I had ever seen on a man.

“The new guy, right?” he asked me.

“Yeah. I’m Joey. I also go by just Joe, too.”

“Okay, just Joe,” he smartly said. “Mind if I have a seat next to you here?”

“Not at all.”

He took a seat next to me and it felt as though I was lifting off of the cushion. I asked him how he and Metallica had found their way to New York City, and this was how I learned about their tape No Life ‘Til Leather and Jonny circulating it about the area.

I had often heard about James from a few fans and even from Scott and Charlie, in how he always kept a brave, oft stern face, and it always seemed like such an insurmountable task to even so much as pry a smile much less a few words from him. So for me to be immersed in this was almost shocking for me. At the same time, I wanted everyone to witness this James, this side of him that seemed more than happy to be with me there on the couch in this little apartment that had no power or running water. At peace, and without a care in the world. Not the taciturn James I was warned about before: he kept a smile upon his face and let out a twinkling little chuckle every time I had a filthy quip to throw out at every chance I got.

In fact I felt so comfortable with him that I leaned in closer to him; that beckoned a crossing of his legs and a slight unzipping of his jacket.

Once the shadows had grown so long there in the room all around us, and the darkness covered half of his face while the remaining twilight reflected onto him so he resembled to the Phantom of the Opera, he offered me something to drink. I was a few weeks from turning twenty-four, but I still resisted because I also knew about Metallica’s nickname. I shook my head in refusal.

He insisted. And yet I still resisted. I didn’t want to be around that. After I refused a fourth time, he fell silent. It was that moment I witnessed that stone cold face. The shadow casting over him wasn’t helping matters, either. That cold steely look was etched into my memory bank.

And then out of the corner of my eye, from the shadows next to his head, something bent off to the side and over the back of the sofa and onto the wall. I couldn’t tell if it was my eyes playing tricks on me or the shadow increasing up against the fading light, but it was a significant movement. And it was significant enough to cause the hair on my arms to stand on end, my heart to pound away inside my chest, and my stomach to fly right up into my throat. I leaned back away from him; worse, his expression never changed as the shadows coalesced and sank behind the back of the sofa.

He never brought it up again, and I never told anyone about it, either. In fact, I never saw it again, especially once the couch and the apartment themselves fell out of the picture for the time being. But when I moved to the complex in the nicer part of Oswego to be closer to my friends, I recognized that very sofa in the living room in the House of Grey. The house itself has two rooms, one for the each of them, the tiniest living room I’ve ever seen, a kitchenette which also serves as the dining room and the laundry room; across from Billy’s room is the bathroom and a closet with four shelves. Then downstairs in the basement is a back up generator for whenever the power goes out during a blizzard. I don’t really know how it works but I do know it involves three inches of hydrogen plasma and the winds from the lake effect storms. And when the power does go out, it shines this eerie bluish green glow through the cracks in the floorboards.

I’ll never forget seeing the couch for the first time right there in the living room: I could tell they had cleaned it up before bringing it into the house. When I took a seat there on one of the cushions, it again felt like I was about to sink into it. The sole differences were cleaning it took some of the olive color and left behind this funky, aged sausage color in its wake, and I got a really uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach sitting there. I couldn’t put my finger on it, either. But Billy insisted it was fine, even though I dared not tell them about that evening in the City wherein I watched part of James’ shadow splinter off and disappear behind the couch. It was there I started to wonder what had happened to this couch in that two year frame.

In fact, when I spent the night there the next week, and the power had gone out during a snowstorm, my curiosity festered and expanded. I think that was also the first time I ever referred to their place as the House of Grey, and not just from that inconspicuous gray on the outside. It was a hockey night, taking place right after my spending time with Anthrax in the studio for Spreading the Disease, and I kind of knew I would feel too tired once the time warranted it: so I took my pillow with me to the City and then back to the House of Grey.

Since I felt exhausted from two straight days of ass-whooping, I lay down there on that ugly sofa and fell asleep once my head hit the pillow. In circumstances like that, I would’ve slept all the way through the night; but at some point during the night, I awoke to an icy tingling sensation on the soles of my feet, like they fell asleep. But when I regained consciousness, the feeling spread all over my toes and the tops of my feet and up my ankles, like I waded through nearly frozen water. I could hardly breathe, either: it felt like someone sitting upon my chest. I finally opened my eyes and glanced down at my legs, and caught sight of him.

The light from the generator downstairs shone over him so I caught a good look of him. He resembled to James with his long stringy black and silver hair down past his shoulders, and his long narrow body and face, but his eyes were vacant and soulless, machine like in fact, and the tattered black clothes cloaking his body floated back from him like he was underwater. He floated over me like a low cloud of fog, and he reached out to me. His hand and his fingers crept out towards my face, and I started to gag at the unholy feeling of his smoky fingers brushing over me.

I didn’t know what he wanted from me, especially when the sallow skin on his face melted away to reveal the bones beneath. I ducked underneath the blankets and rolled onto my side so I wouldn’t have to see him again. In hindsight, it was a miracle I managed to fall back asleep because I kept seeing those black eyes and then their melting into mere sockets. I also had a dream so horrifying that I can’t even recall it. I awoke the next morning trembling and five seconds from pissing myself. In one hand, I’m glad I didn’t tell Barney and Billy about that night because I knew right away they wouldn’t believe me for a hot minute.

“Oh, come off of it, Joe!” I pictured Barney saying with a slap of the knee and a hoot of laughter. “You were probably just dreaming!”

Yeah, I pictured Barney saying that, always the more open-minded of the two brothers. Then again, the very next day, Barney and I talked about the Man in Black over lunch: he even went so far to call it the most terrifying thing he had ever seen in his life.

“Where could it have come from?” he asked me, and all I could do was shrug in response. I had no idea how, or why, the Man in Black showed up there at the house. Barney later told Billy, and as figured, he scoffed at the very notion; but I believed him all the way.

And ever since then, every time I swing by the House of Grey, I’ll stride past that sofa and I’ll feel that chill again, that same icy sensation on the soles of my feet, but all over, from my stomach and all the way into my bones. Sometimes, during the summertime and the spring, they lug out their porch swing, and I’ll stand on the porch, and have a glimpse at it. That blocky wooden bench suspended from a pair of silver chains, quietly swaying in the gentle breeze, and I’ll feel him there. Glaring at me, wanting the breath from my lungs, or so I think. I don’t know what he wants from me. It’s a nagging, persisting feeling that eats at me every time I even so much as think of spending the night at the House of Grey.

Barney gets it but Billy always lends an eye roll accompanied with a scoff.

“Who is this Man in Black?” he always demands from us.

“We wouldn’t really know,” Barney always confesses.

“Yeah, we can’t really say if he’s a ghost or a shadow or what,” I add to it.

“You guys know ghosts aren’t real and shadows can’t detach from entities, right?” He likes to throw that one out to us.

“This is very real, Bill,” Barney vows.

“It really is!” I exclaim. “He even reached for me!”

“Yeah, but it was dark, though. You could’ve been seeing things, Joe. You know how your eyes mess with you in total darkness.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t totally dark, though. He was practically glowing from the generator.”

“Uh-huh, right.”

And after that, Barney pulled me aside and took my hand for a shake, and whispered, “what happens here stays here. No going around and telling anyone about it.”

But ever since then, I not only let one slip once in a while but I never sleep too far away from my dream catcher. The Man in Black’s impending presence and the feeling of him inside my mind when I sleep is enough for me to not take any chances. And yet, I still wonder about Maya and if she saw what I saw that night, and if she’s in good spirits there in the House of Grey.

And if anyone is going to blame anyone for not speaking up about it, they can blame me.

[fucking-zawa-sensei]

Relief

Title: Relief

Categories: hurt/comfort, healing, fluff, caretaking

Word Count: 2,700+

Summary: After being released from the hospital, Shouta helps Hizashi heal in more ways than one.

Notes: This is a sequel to Burned. You need to read that one first in order for this to make sense. You all asked for more caretaker Shouta and I couldn’t resist, so here you go!

Read it on ao3 here

Relief

Opening every door for Hizashi was definitely unnecessary, but while his husband hadn’t been this badly injured in a long time, Shouta knows the blond always enjoyed being pampered when sick. He was more than willing to give Hizashi whatever he wanted, though, from experience, he also knew going in with that mindset would probably come back to bite him in the ass. Hizashi was prone to attempting to push the limits of Shouta’s good charity.

He’d deal with that then.

Right now, Hizashi was hardly in a teasing mood. He’d barely asked for anything unreasonable the few days spent at the hospital after waking, besides maybe a few more kisses than Shouta probably should have allowed.

The blond’s lack of energy and absence of playful jokes was concerning, but understandable. Shouta was fine with giving him time to heal.

As he steps aside to let Hizashi through the entranceway, he thinks about the way the other man’s hands shook the first time Hizashi had seen the large wound around his neck when they’d tried cleaning him up a bit.

Shouta just hopes time is all it takes.

Once inside their house, finally, Hizashi lets out a small, relieved sigh. He leans against the wall as Shouta bends down to remove his shoes. Taking Hizashi’s hand, Shouta guides him into the living room, where their cats immediately jump off the couch and begin circling Hizashi’s legs, meowing loudly. On more than one occasion over the past two weeks, Shouta had caught their grey girl, Maya, sitting in the hall watching the front door when Hizashi had not returned at night.

Hizashi smiles and awkwardly shift his legs around. It takes Shouta a moment to realize he can’t look down to avoid stepping on the cats with the neck brace on.

“Here, I got you,” Shouta says, steering Hizashi to the couch and shooing away their cats. “He’ll pet you later, go on,” he shakes his foot at Maya when she tries to dive at Hizashi’s leg. Looking more than a little put off, she slinks away.

Hizashi slides down in the cushions so his head can rest against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. Shouta sits beside him, placing his hand on Hizashi’s thigh and smoothing his hand up and down in a soothing motion.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Your next dose of painkillers isn’t for another hour, but the doctor said you can take it early if you need to.”

Hizashi lets out a little humming noise, then, “I feel okay. I can wait.”

Shouta narrows his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m just tired, Sho.”

Shouta squeezes his leg and gives it a little pat, leaning in to kiss Hizashi’s cheek. Those green eyes flutter open, the one still a little swollen around the edges now that the bandage had been removed. Hizashi gives him a small smile. Shouta knows it’s genuine, that Hizashi doesn’t usually bother putting on airs once he’s home and has shucked his hero persona in the entry way. This is just all he can manage right now.

“Alright, well…we got an hour to kill before you can take your pills and go to bed. Can I convince you to eat something?”

Hizashi closes his eyes and pouts. The doctors wanted him eating mostly soft foods and liquids, which Hizashi was not happy about. The one thing he’d wanted, besides Shouta’s lips, was dango. He’d asked for it over and over. Dango wasn’t even Hizashi’s favorite food, so why he was so stuck on this one sweet little dumpling was beyond Shouta, but he’d been begging for it every meal since waking up.

Technically, dango was soft.

It was also incredibly chewy. The nurse had spent more time than necessary trying to explain to Hizashi that his jaw was connected to his throat and too much chewing would strain his tender muscles, but Hizashi had just crossed his arms and frowned.

He’d pushed the tofu around in his miso soup with an unhappy face and asked for dango again the next day.

Shouta said he’d give Hizashi whatever he wanted, but he wasn’t about to let him hurt himself.

“Takoyaki?” Shouta asks.

Hizashi’s eyes open, eyebrows pulled together, curious.

“I know you want dango, but I’m sorry, I can’t give that to you,” Shouta explains. “Takoyaki is…similar in shape?”

“It’s a completely different taste,” Hizashi whines.

“I know, but that’s the best I can do. I’m trying to help you, Zashi,” Shouta sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get you dango as soon as the doctor says it’s okay.”

Hizashi sighs, “Fineeeeee.”

“Fine, you want takoyaki?”

“No, not really,” Hizashi admits. “Can you just get me crackers or something?”

Shouta nods, frowning.

“Will you eat one of my jelly packs at least? You need to eat more than crackers with your meds.”

“Only if it’s the mango one,” Hizashi says.

Shouta rolls his eyes. That one was the hardest to find, and of course, Hizashi’s favorite. He wasn’t a huge mango fan himself, and only really bought that flavor for when Hizashi got home late from patrol or a show and couldn’t be bothered to make actual food.

He makes his way to the kitchen and is happy to find one mango packet in the fridge, making a mental note to pick more up tomorrow, anticipating Hizashi’s poor appetite isn’t going to go anywhere anytime soon. When he returns to the living room, having only been gone a few minutes, Hizashi is already breathing deeply, a light snore starting.

Shouta sets the crackers and packet down on the coffee table and pats Hizashi’s leg.

“Hey, wake up. Come on, Zashi.”

“Mmm?” Hizashi grumbles out, his body falling a bit toward Shouta. He catches the blond before he slips too far, straightening him back up as he opens his eyes.

“Eat some of this for me and then we’ll go see about getting you a proper bath, how does that sound?”

Hizashi perks up at the mention of soap and water, eyes going wide as he reaches out toward the food and makes a grabbing motion. Shouta hands him the crackers and jelly and watches with a small smile on his face as Hizashi goes from nibbling at the corners of the bland snack to taking large bites and gulps of the packet as his stomach seems to remember it exists.

He squeezes the last of the jelly into his mouth and then says, “Done!” The louder, clear voice makes Shouta’s heart skip. Hizashi had been mumbling and whispering too much the past few days.

Shouta laughs a little at his enthusiasm for a bath and helps pull Hizashi up off the sofa.

As they make it to the bedroom, and Shouta leaves Hizashi by the bed to wiggle out of the loose sweatpants he’d been wearing, nerves start setting in. He turns on the faucet, holding his hand under to test the temperature.

The harsh contrast of Hizashi’s burn against his otherwise normally glowing, tan skin was unsettling.

It was enough to kill both their moods, a reminder of that night, of how close Hizashi had come to death.

Shouta takes his hand out from under the water, shaking it out as he sucks in a deep breath and pushes himself off his knees.

He’s fine now, he tells himself.

Hizashi is standing in the bedroom, waiting, pants around his ankles, but shirt and underwear still on. He has tucked his hands inside his sleeves and flaps them at Shouta as he approaches.

“Help meeeee,” Hizashi whines, and the playful tone to his voice, the way his arms flail, makes a bit of Shouta’s worries slip away.

Maybe Hizashi wouldn’t be bothered by his reflection in the mirror the way he had been back at the hospital.

Maybe this would be alright.

Shouta catches the loose fabric in his hands and tugs gently on the sleeves. “Caught you,” he teases.

“I wanted you to,” Hizashi responds.

Shouta’s cheeks heat up for a moment as Hizashi’s eyelids slip down a tad, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Shush,” Shouta chides. They certainly couldn’t do anything too physical with Hizashi hurt this way. The injured man should know this.

Hizashi sticks out his tongue as Shouta helps pull his arms through the sleeves. He tugs the shirt up Hizashi’s chest, but stops when he reaches the neck. He lets the bunched up fabric sit around Hizashi’s shoulders.

“I need to take the brace off first,” he says.

Hizashi’s smile drops off.

“Yeah,” he says.

Shouta frowns as he reaches around to undo the snaps holding the thick, padded brace closed. He carefully opens it and slides it off, leaning down to set it on the edge of the bed behind Hizashi. When he straightens back up, Hizashi has pulled his shirt off over his head and is standing very still. He is staring forward, just where Shouta had left him.

“You can relax, just don’t turn your head too much,” Shouta says, but Hizashi doesn’t. Shouta takes his hand and pulls him along into the bathroom, hoping the warm water will help ease some of the tension that has returned to Hizashi’s body.

“Don’t look in the mirror,” Shouta warns him. Hizashi keeps his eyes downward as Shouta pulls off his shirt and hangs it on the hook by the door.

“Is it bad?”

The question takes him by surprise. It’s quiet, and comes when his back is turned.

“What?” Shouta asks, facing Hizashi.

“Is it bad?”

“You’ve already seen it.”

“I know but…do you think it’s bad?”

“Do I…?” Shouta trails off.

Does he think…?

“Hizashi, are you…you can’t possibly be concerned that I think…what? It’s ugly?”

Hizashi’s eyes shift to the side, away from Shouta.

“It will scar.”

“Yeah, probably,” Shouta says, stepping closer to him. He reaches out to grab Hizashi’s hands. “You have a number of those already, last I checked, and so do I.”

“This is…big…though.”

Shouta goes against his own words, moving Hizashi to stand in front of the mirror. Hizashi keeps his eyes downward, though.

“I will never care how many scars you get, Hizashi, only that you survive the things that gave them to you.”

Shouta pauses, bringing his hands up to Hizashi’s shoulders, squeezing softly from where he stands behind the blond.

“I don’t think you’re so vain to be concerned about that either. I don’t think that’s what is bothering you, is it?”

Hizashi’s bottom lip juts out further, trembles a bit.

“I…I guess not.”

“So what is?”

Hizashi’s eyes slowly shift from the floor to the mirror. When his gaze falls there, his whole body shudders.

“It…” he tries to start, and then bites his lip. A few seconds pass before Hizashi speaks again. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Shouta asks.

“When I look at it…I feel…I remember…”

“You remember how it felt?” Shouta’s frown deepens, his forehead crinkling with worry lines. He’d thought Hizashi was remembering the same things Shouta did, that the thought of the wound scarring upset him because it would remind him of his mortality, and that he could be broken, but it was more than that.

He’d assumed Hizashi had blacked out, that after the explosion, it had all gone black.

He’d assumed, as had the surgeons and doctors and EMTs, that Hizashi had gone blissfully unaware.

They were wrong.

Shouta’s stomach flips and he starts to feel sick.

How long had Hizashi been conscious before he’d passed out?

How long had he felt the metal burning into his skin?

Shouta shivers.

“Hizashi…I’m so sorry.”

It’s all he can say.

He can’t take the phantom pain away. Sometimes a harsh sting will shoot up his elbow and he’ll be jerked awake by the memory of his skin and muscle flaking away piece by piece.

He couldn’t make Hizashi forget, he couldn’t take that memory away.

Shouta steps forward, carefully wrapping his arms around Hizashi’s shoulders, pulling him against his bare chest. He kisses Hizashi’s upper back.

He could replace them, though.

He could take those harsh, angry thoughts and replace them with something better.

“I know it hurts,” Shouta whispers into Hizashi’s shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry you had to go through that, I’m sorry…you’ll probably feel like this for a while…I know what it’s like, but I promise you, it doesn’t last. This will fade. Your mind will heal slower than your throat, but it will heal.”

Shouta slides his hand down Hizashi’s chest and around his side, lifting off to grab his hand.

“And I will help you,” he promises.

Shouta looks back up to the mirror, locking eyes with Hizashi in the reflection, and smiles at him. Hizashi’s returning grin is shaky and uneven, a single tear slipping down his cheek, but his hand squeezes Shouta’s back.

“Thank you,” he breathes out.

“You’ll get through this,” Shouta assures him. He steps away from Hizashi and turns him around, pulling him toward the tub. He helps his husband take off his underwear and step in. He lowers Hizashi down into the water before he shucks off the rest of his clothes to settle behind Hizashi.

He grabs the rag and soap and begins lathering it up. Hizashi leans back against his chest, letting out a long sigh. Shouta starts cleaning Hizashi’s front first, dragging the soapy rag over his stomach in soft, circular motions that are more for the other man’s comfort than anything.

“About the scar,” Shouta starts, and he feels Hizashi stiffen for a moment. “I was worried…a bit. When I see these bruises, I think about how small and lifeless you looked on that bed when you were sedated. I was afraid too…that when it scars I’ll see it and think of how close you came to…how close I came to losing you…but…” he stills his hand, holding the rag over Hizashi’s chest. “But I think instead I will think about this…I’ll think about how happy I was to see you open your eyes. I’ll think about sitting in this tub with you, helping you wash off every day. I’ll think about how strong you are, how you stayed alive…”

“For you.”

“What?”

Hizashi sits up, turning around, and this time his smile is confident as he reaches out to grab Shouta’s face, his thumbs smoothing over Shouta’s cheeks.

“You’ll think about how I stayed alive, for you.”

Shouta has to resist the urge to grab the back of Hizashi’s head and pull him into a kiss, thankfully, Hizashi has mercy on him and initiates it, coming in slow and lightly pressing their lips together. He kisses Shouta over and over, on his mouth, on his cheek, on his nose, and forehead.

He pulls back and says, “I was so happy to see you there when I woke up. I knew you would be there…but I was still so happy…” Hizashi hiccups a bit and Shouta reaches his hand up out of the water to overlap where Hizashi’s is still cupping his cheek.

“You were all I thought about before I blacked out. I just wanted to be with you. I just wanted to hold you…one last time...I…” Hizashi’s shoulders start to shake as tears start streaming down his face and Shouta shakes his head, shushing him gently.

“Shhh…Hizashi…it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re okay,” he repeats, rubbing his thumb along the back of Hizashi’s hand. “We’re okay. You’re home. You’re safe.”

Hizashi nods his head and then winces, stilling his movements. He lets out a few little gasps before gathering himself enough to speak again.

“I know, I just…I just meant that…that I love you so much and you’re the reason I’m here. I know it’s stupid and sappy and you can say it’s not true…that it was all medicine and stuff…I know that…but…it was you too. I love you so much, Sho.”

“I love you too. I couldn’t stand the thought of…I can’t lose you.”

“Let’s never do this again, huh?” Hizashi laughs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “No more near death experiences. We both get one, that’s it. That’s all I’m allowing. I’m putting my foot down.”

Shouta laughs along, nodding his head.

“Yeah, okay. Sounds fair enough,” he smiles.

Hizashi kisses him one more time and then grabs Shouta’s wrist, pulling the hand with the soapy rag up out of the water and to Hizashi’s chest.

“Okay, enough sappy stuff! I’m filthy and now I’m going to be pruney too!”

[vanitysruin]

11. These vain reflections.

All was still in the deep, deep darkness that arrested her.

Delial was not unconscious, a realization that took precious time to make. The chill on her skin, the stillness in her chest, the sensation of being suspended in water without water crept back into her senses one by one. That her flesh did not glow for the first time in a dozen suns or more was eerie enough to make her consider the possibility that she was indeed in some manner of dream, but then the dark swept away just a little, like great wings peeling back in preparation of flight, and ugly veins of unearthly light crept beneath her skin once more.

It was a vast and grey place and she was alone. No, not alone, never alone. The Ascian's presence was unmistakable, the shadow that grounded her in the light-less gulf of nothing. She imagined, for a moment, that his silence was a courtesy: that he was letting her acclimate whatever trial it was meant to be. It was many moments more before he spoke.

"Focus."

His voice echoed off nothing and into nothing, and he sounded both near and distant. "Not even I can teach you what you already know. Focus. It has always existed in you, even if you've so shamefully forgotten. All it takes is but a nudge." He continued, disembodied and stern. "I have told you my story. Tell me of yours. Let us see who you are."

"But I--"

"Focus. Your Mother crystal has given you such commands before, as she not? Hear... Think... Feel." The contempt in his voice was palpable, and Delial imagined it took a great deal of will to keep his tone cool. Even so, it became edged and taciturn. "If it aids you, then do it. If you cannot, then--"

"I will. I will. A moment, please. I..."

Remember. Remember. Who am I?

Who am I?

She closed her eyes. She took a breath. She reached out for the memories packed away, before they called her hero.

I am.... I...

Something whisked past her, slid under her arms like wind. If she thought hard enough, she could almost feel... almost feel...

... the stone tile floors of home. Warm stone walls the color of faded terracotta. The city outside is grand beyond measure, incomprehensible. I have never been so safe as I was here, all those years ago. I take comfort in the little things that shaped my world. The mosaic in blue and white and gold on the wall on the floor beneath the hearth. The only portrait in the house of us, the five of us, forced together into one gaudy frame. 

The suggestion of a query brushed past her then. Her toes touched upon something cool and solid. The grey broke into the warmer palette of her youth. No longer suspended, she found her footing in the center of a room that grew out around her, blooming into the shapes she can remember from a life so far away. It was Emet-Selch's doing, she knew, but there was still a tingle of pride in her heart. The nostalgia grew bolder as she remembered, remembered--

Down the hall, my father's study with its broad double doors left wide open. Stacked wall to wall with shelves and books and maps and nonsense. It spilled out into the parlor, my mother's domain, infesting the heart of our house with his scholarly obsessions. A pair of antlers, aldgoat maybe, mounted, purchased. Father was not a hunter, but mother loved it so. Said it reminded her of home. That was all the reason he needed. A thick woven rug, sofas that never sat right, left crooked because they would just get bumped out of order anyway. They were ugly things inherited through the passing of an uncle and father would hear no word of replacing them. They smelled of smoke and old wood and feathers. His favorite armchair, too, a hideous leather affair that looked as though it had survived calamities. Maybe it had.

The floor solidified first, and then the walls, and then it arched and curved overhead to seal the ceiling. Shorter than she remembered but she, too, was a shorter thing in those days long gone. Growing bold, she chanced a step, and then another. It did not surprise her to find that her feet were bare and she was no longer wearing the grim black robes that had become her working uniform. In its stead she wore a pale yellow sundress patterned with small embroidered wildflowers. And as the rest of the room filled in, populated by vague shapes that resolved themselves into drapes and books and laundry long forgotten, so too did Emet-Selch, occupying a place behind her father's armchair. He ran a gloved finger over it as if checking for dust. He did not seem impressed. 

"Quaint," he said. The echoing was gone, his voice constrained by this semblance of body, of place.

Her fondness for the scene was nearly dispelled right then and there. Her father would have nearly lost his mind with rage if he had ever played host the eminent Solus Zos Galvus. She wasn't so sure about her mother: at the least, she would be deeply amused to offer him a seat on those hideous green sofas. Arms nested at the small of his back and he stood without his usual slouch, stately and severe, much more akin to the image she was familiar with as a child. Imperious, through and through, though thoroughly indifferent to all he surveyed. 

"And what of it?," Delial said, perhaps a little more defensively than she intended. "I loved it here." All the trappings of home in a darkened room sitting an eternity away, back upon the Source. Not once had she revisited it person, not even after the city had been liberated. Surely it belonged to someone else, abandoned was. It was her own personal Amaurot, empty of the people she loved. There was nothing left for her there.

"I'm sure you did." Emet-Selch prowled, scrutinizing the little things that cluttered the place: a bowl of tarnished silver filled with crumbling potpourri, the heft of a stray book, the fraying corners of her father's armchair. He had the audacity to seat himself, first smoothing out the tail of his coat before plopping down with all the nobility he typically elected to ignore, save but for the shite-eating grin he pointed squarely her way. "Not bad. Not good, but not... terrible. I confess, I prefer my seats a little more gaudy and, shall we say, Imperial. But to each their own."

An ass is still an ass. He snickered as if she'd said it aloud. 

"This is where we begin, then. The furthest you can go?"

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. Who were you, here?" He waggled his fingers, gesturing about the room.

Delial's hands brushed down the front of her dress. It was her favorite when she was little. One size too large, just as she remembered. Who was I? "I am Delial Blackstone. Daughter of Lyra and Garren, sister of Westor and Harvard, and I am a child of Ala Mhigo." 

"And this is before you met your Scions of the Seventh Dawn?"

Delial blinked at him. His hands steepled, fingertips meshing together, and his golden eyes stared through them expectantly. 

"Of course it is. I was-- I was a child. I didn't leave here, until..."

"... Until..."

"Until after the Calamity."

"And before? Who were you then?"

Smoke and gunfire. They'd become more and more prevalent in the days after the occupation, and would rile up again and again and again. The streets were safe if you complied. If you did not, then perhaps the Kinslayer would find you. There were so many of us then, nameless terrors that struck in the night, we who fought against a divided Ala Mhigo. They made us this way. We were their weapons, and we served proudly. It was for the betterment of our country. It was for the sake of our people. We knew these things. We believed it all.

Something pinched behind Delial's eyes. It did not take her by surprise: a familiar sensation, when she tried to reach back into those earlier years. Some things stood out to her clear as daylight: the marches, the bodies, the razing of the temples, the fall of the Mad King. Others yet remained vague and fuzzy, and it was not until much later in life that she realized that that may have been by design. The Imperials had their ways and Delial had not been so immune to them as she'd been led to believe. She thought herself chosen, favored, stronger than the things that bent her weak-minded countrymen.

"Well?" Emet-Selch's voice was impatient, his gaze much too sharp. She turned away from him to pad towards the window and with a sweep of her arms she drew open the curtains. Outside, the sky was a sea of oranges, reds, violets, and hanging high above it all was the red moon, a smoldering wound yet to inflict itself upon the world. The street before her home was quiet and empty, dark but for the occasional ring of bone white light. Even without the oppressive presence of the moon, many found a simpler and safer option in retreating to their homes once the sun was near enough to setting. Imperial patrols and ruffians, traitors and ne'er-do-wells, often prowled and clashed in the night. Smoke and gunfire, the crackle of magitek energy, the pale yellow searchlights peppered throughout the ward: such was the cost of a better, stronger Ala Mhigo.

"I was an agent," Delial said. "I sought out enemies of the Legatus and of the Empire within the city. Grimsong." The name brought about a reflexive smirk. "I called myself Grimsong. I was feared. The resistance knew me and they trembled. And then, one day, they caught me. It was not until much later - until Lyse, and the Griffin, and the rebellion - that I ever dared go back."

Movement drew her eye a little ways down the street. Shadowed figures paced by with their faces low, eyes darkened. Their lips moved but she could not hear them. As they passed nearer, she imagined she recognized the dark plum hair of the shorter figure. Perhaps she even caught their eye when they seemed to take particular interest in her house, staring as they and their companion stalked by. Soon enough they were gone, and the street was still once again. As an imaginary sun slowly set, the sky turned from firey to cool, and the burning red wound that was Dalamud became the lesser blue tomb from which another dragon would rise.

"How curious. Captured by the very rebels you had tormented for so long, and yet you live?"

"I know not how to explain it."

"Naturally." Emet-Selch tapped his fingers together, and rose from his seat. She imagined it was by some courtesy that he made some semblance of moving as a mortal might. In this place, she was certain he could snap his fingers and move mountains if he wished. Instead, he paced and took a place beside her at the window. "I believe I'm more or less familiar with all that rubbish between points B and C. C being here, of course. Or rather, I can take a guess." He cleared his throat and gestured with his hand as he spoke. "By some miracle you encounter the Scions, who somehow manage to recruit you to their cause: to become their Warrior of Light, and fight back against the Garlean and Primal threat. And so on, and so on, a few twists and turns later, you arrive here upon the First. Does that sound about right to you?"

"T'was a bit more involved than that, I assure you," Delial grumbled in response. It was pointless to be annoyed with him: an immortal thing, an Ascian, who expected the impossible and thus was forever disappointed. At times she had foolishly thought he wasn't entirely dismissive of her existence, fractured or not. And then there were times, as he did then, where he looked at her as if she were little more than a stain upon his coat.

"I'm certain it was. How very trying and difficult it must have been for you, hero, you have my greatest sympathies." Emet-Selch turned to her, all the better for him to stare down his nose at her. "You may not trust me, and though it wounds me I can live with it just fine. 'Tis to be my lot in life, ever the shady villain for you small-minded things. You know the feeling, don't you?" A cruel smile, a single chuckle, aimed perfectly to hurt. "Ah, but I distract myself. Let me ask you this, then, since your brain has been so conveniently muddled: do you believe me? That as I am His champion, you, then, are Hers?"

"If we are tempered, then how do we act as we do? As if we yet retain will and thought? I have seen--"

"What you have seen," he cut her off, "Are but pale imitations of a greater art. The principles may be the same, more or less, and we share them as best we can. To their credit, sometimes they come close, but sometimes..." Emet-Selch shook his head, a show of dismay that could not hide the cold twist of his lips. "What we achieved was perfection, and thus it follows that the will of our gods be manifested perfectly in us. Do you think any of this would have been possible were we reduced to mindless, drooling creatures?"

The Paragons warned of thine abhorrent kind. The echo of a boiling, raspy voice brought with it the vague shape of a god. Ifrit, or a vague semblance of Ifrit, descended upon the street. A crown of horns aglow, magma-hot, a maw eager to breathe his blessed flame: he stared at her balefully, accusatory. His lean and lanky shape flared bright but not bright enough, and soon enough his limbs and body crumbled like so much ash, leaving his fury to writhe like the smoke of an inferno long starved for kindling.. 

Beside him, a massive shape rumbled to life: Titan, towering above his beastial kin, glowered from beneath a heavy stone brow. Godless overdweller! Thy myriad heresies shall not go unpunished! He beat his fists together with a great boom of boulders colliding, and in doing so his body cracked and crumbled, the mountain broken before the warrior that was his doom.

Last came the gale, Garuda, a wreath of wings and talons and vicious hunger. Amid the whirl of claw and feather she could see Garuda's maddened stare, the fury born from disbelief. What are you? What have you done to me?! No mortal should possess such power! The winds stilled around her as she shrieked rage and agony. Feathers wilted and fell away from a single point of light: a crystal, torn from her breast, gleaming like a knife's edge. Impossible! Impossible!

Their trinity, bested years ago and a world away, collapsed and faded into ash. It was Ifrit's eyes that remained upon her to the last before they too scattered, grey and lifeless. Thou art of the godless blessed's number. Thine existence is not to be suffered.

"And so you trounced all that was set before you, god and man alike. Thus you embraced this mantle of yours: Warrior of Light, the Champion of Hydaelyn. She never even tried to hide it from you, did she? You knew no better. Those around you knew no better." Emet-Selch turned to lean a shoulder against the edge of the window and fixed her with a pitying smile. "All it took was a glimpse of a world consumed by her accursed Light, and even then..."

“I don’t want to talk about Her,” she said. A fresh, new ache clawed at her mind. Even knowing the story between Light and Dark, the casual hatred that simmered beneath Emet-Selch’s words felt appalling, wrong. Heed not the Dark One’s words. Was it command or memory that brought Her voice, so long absent, back to light? 

“Ah, but we should!” He sensed her pain, surely he did, and he was ever ready to sink his fangs right in. Emet-Selch rounded in on her, forced himself into her place by the window, set gloved hands upon her shoulders to hold her there. “We must. Long have I known of her treachery, but I hadn’t realized the depths of her depravity until now. Oh, now it’s all too clear.” 

Outside, the blue false moon strained and cracked, ready to burst. What emerged, shattering its constraints like glass, was no dragon but instead it was the very image of Her. Hydaelyn’s crystalline avatar loomed over the city, glimmering and pulsating with a light that no longer seemed as calm as serene as She once did. Warrior of Light, She seemed to call. Beloved daughter.

“It was only natural, I suppose: once tempered, forever tempered.” Delial could not tell if it was rage or light that flared up again inside her. His hands could have been a comfort were they not so cold and unfamiliar. Low he bowed himself that he could meet her eyes, that she could not escape his so easily. “But to take everything from you, after all you did in Her name. That is a cruelty even I cannot abide, not even for you.”

Remember. Remember. The fury of the light renewed itself, reaffirmed its presence with every beat of her heart. “These riddles again!” Delial wanted to beat it out of him, pummel the grim smug look clear off his face, but she could scarcely even focus on him. Again the light clouded her eyes, drowning out the Ascian and her reconstructed home. Above the city, the crystal glistened brighter and brighter still: an omen, a warning. From sparkling mote shall I swell to glorious sun...

“Hear! Think! Feel!” Her mantra was spat at her and Emet-Selch loomed closer still, defiant of the light that tried to blind her. “The empty places in your life, the impressions of people you loved but never knew! All these falsehoods made to shutter your eyes, to deny you your own truth!”

The crystal burned and with it the sky, brightening again in yellows and reds. In the distance, beyond the silence of this false home and the sound of Emet-Selch’s voice, came a steady, rising roar.

… and all the world shall bask in my warmth.

“Defy her. Defy her and remember. Remember who you are! Remember us! Remember--”

It came upon them, a flood of wretched, angry light. The memory of Ala Mhigo crumbled before it, even the highest walls unable to withstand the crystal’s wrath. The great griffon perched atop the gate, the palace, the menagerie, all fell in an instant, obliterated without a chance to resist. It was upon the street outside in an instant, and then it filled the window with its malice, blinding and deafening and complete in its destruction. Delial felt herself violently jostled, and she was certain that she would be obliterated too, dashed against the walls of a place that did not truly exist.

Remember us.

She could not hear but for the roaring in her ears. She could not think but for the absence of everything, of self, in the heart of absolute light. She could not feel but for the fire upon her skin.

Remember.

Time passed. How many moments she could not tell; how many breaths she did not count. She became aware, just as she did when first Emet-Selch brought her into that grey oblivion, of numbness in her limbs and a new pain in her heart. When she opened her eyes, the light was gone but for motes that hung around her like tiny fading stars.

She was not alone.

An Ascian stood opposite her. They stared at her expectantly, unmoving, silent. Delial frowned, overcome by a most peculiar sense of deja vu. She had seen this before.

Ware thee the bearer of the Crimson Brand, a voice nudged into her heart. She ignored it. She waited, watching. Any moment now, the Ascian would bare their teeth like a beast, splay their clawed hands, and charge.

She waited. They waited. The stars around them fell and rose in slow, artificial orbit. 

Ware thee, for he is an Avatar of Shadow, that voice urged her, Whom death attendeth always. But there was no strength left behind it, no force of will to veil her mind.

This was where it began, was it not?

They are different somehow, this Ascian, different in a way that did not occur to her to notice before. Their robe was black and long and adorned with the markings of Zodiark’s devout. But their mask was not the deep crimson of their peers, but rather a pitch black, and in place of the speaker’s fangs or the emissary’s hooked beak, they were adorned with an extra set of narrowed, scrutinizing eyes.

Typical of him, she thought, wondering how she could have ever forgotten.When did he stop being so familiar?

The first time such a vision was placed before her, Delial too wore robes of black. They were different then, motley and crude, better suited to an aspiring adventurer. Now, they were longer and simple, a modest echo of her silent companion’s attire. Such decoration was not meant for her. But him… he was His most earnest champion, His most favored and rightly so.

Remember us.

She raised her head.

“Hades.”

Her voice rang out with a clarity that sounded alien in her own ears, and in that place it echoed out for an eternity. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, and his body flinched and straightened from its habitual slouch. He stopped himself from approaching, as if thinking better of it, hesitating. Time meant little enough to the immortal but millennia were still millennia and it had torn a gulf between them all the same. At last he brought himself to speak and his voice, too, took a timbre that did not suit his lesser, mortal shape. Deep and rich, it filled her heart like a song long forgotten.

“You’re a little late,” he said. There was a tremor in his voice, hidden deep beneath his brusque tone, beneath his sardonic nature. Ala Mhigo was gone, the cluttered parlor with its people-shaped holes was gone, but in those four words, Delial thought she felt the barest trace of home.