#for brief moments my youth was returned to me and i was fifteen years old

[journey-to-the-attic]

bold of you to assume we (or atleast i) dont want to read paragraphs about ik's and belphie's dynamic 😈😈

if you feel like writing that, i'd absolutely love to read about it!!! ^^

RIGHT YES this took me a hot minute but let's go!!!!

so the main points that this is all built around:

belphie is someone who is absolutely shit at understanding himself

ik is someone who has a knack for understanding anyone she talks to for long enough

belphie's first resort is usually to leave things to someone else, but easily asserts the things he wants

ik will actively pursue you if she thinks she can help, despite usually feeling guilty about requesting anything

they both have very simple views of very complicated things

building from point 1: this is not entirely belphie's fault - i've talked about this before, so i'll just paste the pertinent bits here:

belphie, as the youngest brother, has been detrimentally coddled in regards to these things, and has NO fucking idea how to properly deal with loss the others haven't tried to talk to him about his grief for lilith, nor about their experiences during the celestial war; when they all had to support each other after the fall, they comforted him, but never ever discussed the pain of it all it's like the doctor refusing to talk about your actual symptoms because they're afraid of making you uncomfortable, and instead just soothingly going "it's okay, just take some ibuprofen and see me in the morning"

belphie underestimates himself and, at the start of the year, is convinced that there's no way forward - 1. he feels he's left it too late, 2. he feels he's the only one still hung up on lilith's death, which only makes him more bitter, and 3. he thinks that the hatred and grief is just who he is now

now take ik, who finds him in the attic and takes worryingly little convincing to help him - even more concerningly, she decides to go through with it even upon finding out he was lying about his identity. this is a direct contradiction to his conviction that humanity is selfish and cruel - more than that, the more ik visits and chats with him, the more he remembers why he'd been so fascinated by humans as an angel

except it also reminds him of how much lilith loved humanity. belphie doesn't think he's capable of letting go - he doesn't think he's allowed to, and to him befriending a human and moving on is the same as betraying his sister's memory. so he represses any feelings of good-will and continues to nurse his hatred

i think it's important to note that belphie's hang-ups have always been self-destructive before this, but the more he lets his own grief fester, the more it threatens to burst. his threat to lucifer about destroying humanity is an early indicator of this, and it culminates in a moment of extreme emotional distress where it finally all implodes

so ik - in the wrong place and the wrong time (in the literal sense) - finds him in the middle of a nightmare, wakes him up, and gets murdered for her troubles

belphie shuts down immediately after, because to him this is a point of no return. he's already convinced himself that nothing can be done for him, and this is the proof. except then everyone else forgets what's happened, and, panicking, he goes along with it - out of fear of losing his family if he comes clean.

so: point 2 - consider that a big thing with ik is that she just doesn't get why belphie acts the way he does after killing her. she's been able to get into the heads of his brothers before him, and even now can somewhat rationalise them forgetting, but she has no idea why belphie - who first killed her and then acted like he'd forgotten about it - would suddenly seem so wracked with guilt upon finding him in the dreamscape

belphie does not think he is strong enough to move on. ik, somehow, intrinsically, already knows this is not true. this is why she's so bewildered by belphie telling her lilith's story. he's convinced this is some kind of damning evidence, but ik doesn't get how this explains anything. and because she doesn't understand, she seeks answers.

now take point 3 and 4. belphie does not attempt to seek forgiveness - he just sits in the cell solomon locks him in. he doesn't try to get out, he doesn't attempt to repent, and he doesn't want to, because as far as he's concerned there's nothing to be done

ik, on the other hand, is going to put her home back together by force if necessary, so she goes to find him. multiple times, she climbs up the tower stairs to rescue him from a waking nightmare - the same thing that killed her - because her family is still his family, and she knows too well what it's like when you go without.

belphie has been sitting stagnant for millennia on end, and now ik has decided that she is going to KICK him along until he figures out that he can stand on his own two feet and keep going. and it works, because for some reason digging demons out of emotional pits of their own creation is ik's specialty

and now point 5: ik and belphie fall quite easily into a typical sibling dynamic of the "i'll make fun of you constantly, but if anyone messes with you they're dead" kind. they never really sit down to talk out all the residual Baggage of everything, because neither of them are the type to overthink these things

but EVEN THEN. they may be simple-minded but the complication of the everything that led up to this means there's little hidden meanings even in the normalcy of their behaviour, and neither of them ever register it

for belphie it's "i'll never understand you. thank you for understanding me. i don't know what to say, so i'll tease you for tripping on your laces instead. i'd throw someone down a gorge if they made you cry. let's go shopping. i think i'll spend the rest of my life wondering if i can ever close the wound i tore in your soul."

for ik it's "i'll never forget what you did to me. i see you in my nightmares sometimes. thanks for waiting for me after school. quit making a show out of helping me reach the top shelf. sometimes i'm glad you regret things so much. can you help me with this homework? i think we're alright."

and for both of them it's "i like hanging out with you. sleep well. i'm glad we're home."

in conclusion,

i am crazy about things i made up entirely. perhaps i am cringe but i am free

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Next Part

Chapter 1. 𝓥𝓮𝓷𝓲, 𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓲, 𝓪𝓿𝓪𝓭𝓲.

Dorian de Beauvoir was an old soul. Something people would often never notice. After all, with his youthful features, no one would think he was past his thirties. He was attractive and he knew it. Blonde with blue eyes, the duke was often approached by ladies and gentlemen. Most encounters didn't end well for these people. If only they knew. If only they knew what he really was. Because behind all this pleasant — and perfect, dare he say — exterior, hid a monster. Dorian was a vampire, a creature of the night lurking in the shadows, ever watchful for unsuspecting victims to sate his unholy hunger.

This, in fact, was exactly what he was doing this afternoon. While he had a chevalier ring, shielding him from the effects of the sun, his preference was to hunt under the veil of night or during overcast days, when more humans ventured into these forests under a less harsh daylight.

Among these sunlit wanderers was a young maiden. Dorian could hear her footsteps and the faint hum of a tune as she ventured into a woodland clearing. Her attire, a simple woolen dress with an apron, bore the marks of labor and grime. It didn't take long for him to discern her as a peasant girl, no older than fifteen. With a determined expression, she foraged for mushrooms, collecting them diligently in her wicker basket.

She didn't notice him, too focused on her task to pay mind to anyone else. She was young. He typically avoided feeding on children, and yet, he found himself unable to look away. Still, Dorian observed from a distance. He himself wasn't sure why. Perhaps it had been because of the gaping hole he felt in his chest. Loneliness. A curse many vampires were accustomed to.

Once she was done with her task, she sat on the grass. Closing her eyes and sighing, she seemed to be exhausted by the work. The sun had set not long ago and Dorian questioned whether she intended to return home at all.

His decision was made, he left his vantage point and approached her quietly. "The sun has set," he spoke, causing the young lady to jump with a start. "Do you not have a place to be?"

She appeared surprised. Vampires had this ability to creep up on mortals without them noticing. The girl stood up abruptly.

"I— Yes," the peasant confirmed before beginning to walk away quickly.

"Let me accompany you." He followed her and soon caught up to her. "A young girl such as yourself shouldn't walk alone at this hour of the day," he commented, justifying himself as he added a pleasant smile. 

"That won't be necessary," assured the girl, "my Lord," she added, noticing his expensive attire.

"I insist."

And that was that. He had spoken with conviction, showcasing how he wouldn't change his mind. She looked tense, but didn't dare to refuse.

"Do you live nearby ?" He asked after a long moment of silence. She nodded mutely.

His attempts at small tasks proved to be fruitless, but he didn't mind too much. Nevertheless, the journey proved brief, as they reached a small cottage at the forest's edge within a quarter of an hour. Dorian's reaction was immediate—a derisive sneer contorted his features as he regarded the humble dwelling with disdain.

This... thing wasn't even the size of his wardrobe. It was a humble structure, its thatched roof weathered by time and rough-hewn wooden walls bearing the scars of years. The simplicity of the cottage's design and construction was an eyesore to the noble, who was accustomed to the grandeur of opulent manors and palaces. The dichotomy was painfully apparent.

A light chuckle escaped Dorian's lips as he surveyed the unimpressive abode. "This place?" He inquired almost rhetorically, his tone unimpressed by the humble dwelling.

The girl's demeanor stiffened visibly, and her response came with a touch of defensiveness. "Yes, it's my home," she almost snapped, a trace of pride in her voice.

His smile wavered, an odd sensation settling in his chest. It seemed as though she didn't quite belong here, amidst such simplicity. He looked down at the little mortal. He felt as if she shouldn't be here.

The door cracked open, a woman that looked quite similar to the little girl came out. Her mother. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

"(Y/N)," called the woman with a relieved smile. She put a hand on her hips and pointed at the young girl. "You were supposed to come back before the sunset, young lady," she scolded her with maternal authority.

(Y/n) appeared sheepish. "Sorry, mom," she said, a bit embarrassed. "I ventured a bit farther than I usually do. On the bright side, I found more mushrooms."

The mother sighed good naturedly before turning to Dorian. She now looked uncomfortable. "I apologize for my daughter, my Lord," she hastily said, her hand moving protectively to grasp her daughter's arm. "I hope she didn't cause any trouble."

The man's indifferent face shifted into a charming smile. "I can assure you she didn't," he answered. "I simply found this young lady alone in the woods and suggested bringing her back home."

The peasant woman expressed her gratitude with a touch of hesitation before they exchanged pleasantries and bade each other farewell. Dorian continued on his path, returning to his hunt, but his thoughts lingered on the girl. He couldn't help but wonder if this chance encounter had left as indelible a mark on her as it had on him. 

[hansolmates]

shiver | 01 (m)

banner done by the wonderful @dnrequests​

summary; jungkook changed since he moved out of his small town church community and attended college. when he returns for a christmas mass, you suddenly crave a taste of his fun and carefree life. in exchange, jungkook craves a taste of you pairing; bad boy!jungkook x church girl!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers, brief childhood friends to enemies, fwb!au, catholic guilt, jungkook is a meanie who eventually turns into a soft tsundere, bicuriosity, sexual exploration, virgin!oc, eventual smut—in this installment: touching over the clothes, mc is hornee, *pulls out cards against humanity* “a gentle caress of the inner thigh”, panty kissin, mc is a big ol’ pushover and hopeful for jkk:(( w/c; 1.9k a/n; it’s here! aaaaaa!!! i’ve been really eally realllyyyyyy nervous to post this. even though this is just a drabble series  let me know how you feel about it! enjoy [shiver masterpost]

“Oh, you’re so dead.” 

Jeon Jungkook isn’t thaaaat buff, he's more of a skinny kind of muscular. You don’t understand the hype, why everyone croons over Jungkook’s strength and physique. However, how else could you explain Jungkook being able to climb the currently dilapidated fire escape to the top floor of the chapel. The ladder is rusted beyond repair and is definitely a fire hazard rather than a fire escape. Yet he barely breaks a sweat doing it, and he wipes the minor sheen off his brow with the back of his hand. There’s some soot and whatever nasty residue from the fire escape that gets on his face, a black streak marring his already annoying face. He’s currently wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic “hello.” It makes you sneer, your two consciousness (inappropriate and appropriate) warring against each other to determine whether you still find this man attractive or not. 

Convincing yourself that Jungkook is ugly is the worst quick-fix idea you’ve ever had. 

The words of your Aunties, the family friends in the church, echo in your ears. Jungkook’s bad. They’d say over and over. It would cause you to snort and giggle, unable to imagine what sort of things he’s done to warrant such a cliché label. Yet some of the girls your age, girls that have gone off to college agree with sultry looks and longing eyes that yes, Jungkook’s bad. So bad, it’s good. 

You haven’t a clue what he’s actually done to earn such a hushed title, his parents are lip-tight about his doings, unless it’s his achievements in the architecture graduate program. You hear things, though. Things that make you shamefully green with envy, envious of sin. 

As soon as he finds proper footing in the storage room, he goes to the closet, immediately finding his backup clothes. They’re plain white button-downs, awkward long shirts with no shape or definition to them. They belong to the church, and no one ever uses them because they’re stiff and itchy. Yet Jungkook wears them like it’s tailored, and you have to look away when he quickly knots the bottom half of the shirt, fashioning it into a tasteful double knot in order to cinch his lean waist.

“Pretty sure it was just you that saw me,” Jungkook says dismissively, “so it’s fine.” 

This bristles you the wrong way, and you put down the catering covers you were supposed to return to the storage room. You smooth out your Sunday dress, this shade of Boring Beige looking particularly pale in the morning sun. “How do you know I won’t tell?” you turn your nose up. 

“Because I know,” he doesn’t even look at you, focusing on rolling the sleeves of his shirt. You weaken when you see the black shadowing across his forearm. That’s new, then again you haven’t seen him since last Christmas.   

“Know what?” 

“That you have a crush on me,” Jungkook says into the air like it’s common knowledge, adjusting the leather jacket on top of his outfit so the white-startched collar pops on top, “I mean, it’s hard for anyone not to know. You’ve been into me since youth group, Bunny.”  

You hold your breath, counting to ten as you close the door behind you. A vision of you playing “Duck Duck Goose” as a five year old plays in your head, where you’d pick a bushy, big-eyed Jeon Jungkook each time, hopping over to him to pat his fluffy head so he’d chase you around. 

It’s old news, your puppy love for Jungkook. How could you not like him? He's clever and sweet with his mother and always told the best stories in youth group meetings.  Everyone thought your affections were so sweet, and while that attention weaned over time, your feelings have only increased the more self-aware you’ve become. 

With a mind as open and honest is yours, it’s hard to ignore how well Jungkook has grown. What has also grown is your curiosities since the two of you have moved onto university. Jungkook goes to the university uptown, a far drive which only forces him attend masses during the holidays. You attended the local community college, wrapping up a bachelors in some vague major that you’re not attached to. You’re currently looking around for some graduate schools, but unfortunately you’ve been so wrapped up doing duties for Pastor Nina that you haven’t been able to look around properly. 

Jungkook’s probably living a fun life, with the way he’s grown rough and loose, you resent him. 

When you turn back around, Jungkook’s right in front of you, trapping you between his body and the door.  

“Don’t be embarrassed, Bunny,” you furrow your brows, nearly growing cross-eyed when he leans in. “I think your crush is cute.” 

You’re not sure what he thinks of you. Sure, he considered everyone a friend when you two were in youth group, but that was youth group. Premeditated, parents forcing other children to do the same things with each other for years upon years in the hope they’ll practice together forever and ever. Jungkook did not want that, evident from the way he dipped his duties as soon as he got into university. 

You hate how easy he dips back into it though, calling you Bunny and making you feel like a little girl all over again. Bunny, because you’d hop around to him whenever he was in sight. Bunny, because Jungkook had been fondly compared to the wide-eyed, diamond-toothed creature. It was cute when you were five. Now, it’s just discomfiting. 

“Don’t call me that,” you bite, “and I don’t like you anymore.” 

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, and you flinch when Jungkook’s hand rests on the curve of your waist, fingers slotting themselves between the pleats of your skirt. “That’s why you’re not moving away when I’m about to put my hand under your skirt. Because you don’t like me.” 

You press yourself further into the door, your skin hot and vibrating. So warm, you feel like you could melt through the door and escape from Jungkook’s gaze. Sure, the young ladies in the congregation talk. Maybe you’ve heard a story or two about Jungkook being seedy, a result of being repressed after years and years of stiff routines and expectations thrust upon him. You could care less about Jungkook’s sexual appetite, until this appetite has reached you. 

“Mm, you’re pretty,” Jungkook’s eyes roam your form, the daisy white blouse doing nothing to barricade Jungkook’s sudden interest in you, “you’ve never been touched like this, have you?” 

“I’ve touched myself like this,” you hiss in defense, and it’s more out of anger than in pleasure. You don’t need a man to comfort you, but Jungkook’s eyes sparkle in mirth at the new information. 

“That’s really sexy,” Jungkook slips down, roams his fingers down to your ankles and plays with the silver buckles of your Mary Janes. You shiver when his hands trail up up up to your knees, the swell of your thighs, and catch right under the elastic seam that holds your secrets together, “but I’ll have you know, it’s different when you have someone hold your pleasure in their hands.” 

You’re in the storage room of your church, fifteen minutes before the Christmas mass, with Jeon Jungkook’s head between your legs. Your skirt is long, and Jungkook doesn’t bother to ride it up your waist. 

It feels more forbidden that way, Jungkook hiding under the fabric of your skirt to get to your honeyed center, sneaking his way in with rough hands and soft touches.

“J-Jungkook,” you whimper, pressing your full spine against the wooden door, “we shouldn’t. N-not like this.”

What is wrong with you? Is it sheer curiosity? Do you just want to know what it finally, finally feels like? You should be pushing him away. There’s red lights flashing back and forth in your brain like sirens. Yet, do you really want to turn away the attention you’ve been aching for years? 

You imagined your first time to be relatively special. The bare minimum, a bed, a talk, and a partner you’re mutually committed to. None of those things are met. Now you understand why all the young women in church whisper about sex like this. It’s a spur of the moment, it’s an unbridled pleasure you don’t want to stop, no matter how forbidden and sinful the act is.  

“How else then?” you feel his deep voice straight through your panties, his lips whispering between the pink cotton like he’s sinking liquid heat into your skin. “I can’t sink my fingers into your sweet cunt during the candle lighting. Or when we open presents with the family after. That would be inappropriate.” 

Your replies come out in breaths, puffs of air that conceal the moans you so badly want to let out as Jungkook pokes and rubs at you. He does nothing beyond the cotton fabric, only slides two fingers up and down your slit as he gathers the arousal between his digits. 

“So wet already, that’s so sexy,” he’s kissing your core, and you sigh fretfully at the pleasure that feels so close yet so far away. 

“P-please, Jungkook…” 

“Please what?” Jungkook teases, fingers slipping back and forth between the elastic of your underwear, “please stop? Please touch me? Please fuck me?” 

The church bell answers that, and Jungkook’s nose knocks right into your bud at the sudden intrusion. You yelp at the jarring stimulation, pulling him from under your skirts as the loud noise echoes in the room. Both of you wince at the pain, the moment interjected. 

“You first,” Jungkook casually opens the door for you, as if he didn’t have you ten seconds away from begging him to make you come. 

You don’t even look at him as you dash away, not bothering to take the elevator in favor of running off the heat. Two minutes before the procession. The church is packed to the brim, only the back seats left. Your family probably gave up on waiting for you up in the front. As you sit down in the corner, you’re momentarily distracted by the beauty of a decorated church on Christmas. Even though you’re part of the decorating committee and commanded most of the design, seeing the stained glass lit up with fairy lights and the poinsettia plants blooming burgundy on the altar, you’re impressed. 

“There’s a draft here, you must be cold.” Jungkook talks to you so politely, a perfect picture of a gentleman as he drapes his leather jacket over your lap. He speaks as if it’s a pleasant surprise, a childhood friend he hasn’t seen in nearly a year. 

You can’t tell him to move when people are watching and Jungkook is seconds from interrupting the procession, so you reluctantly scoot over so he can sit next to you. His scent overwhelms you even more now that you’ll have to sit next to him for a whole hour, lavender and vanilla overtaking your pew. 

The jacket is heavy and heady on your lap, and you force yourself to stare straight ahead. Jungkook cannot weaken you like this, not anymore. 

Thirty minutes later, his fingers are hovering at the start of the homily, caressing your thighs under the jacket with his big hands. A draft? Please. You clamp your thighs together, knocking your knees and hoping they’d lock together for the rest of the mass. Jungkook’s a master key, easily parting his way as if your muscles are pure jelly. You turn your head sharply, glaring at him with all the fire in the world. 

“Careful,” Jungkook mouths, eyes flickering to the symbol atop the podium, “he’s watching.” 

His fingers finally brush the damp blush cotton of your panties, and you shudder. 

[peachtree-dish]

A Te Che Sei Il Mío Grande Amore

Chapter 3: Senza che tu mi dica niente tutto si fa chiaro

Luglio 01, 1969

Luca’s birthday rolled around faster than anyone expected, the day arriving with clear skies and high temperatures. Luca awoke to his mother’s voice echoing through their home as she prepared breakfast. Stretching, the fifteen-year-old shook his nonna as gently as he could to wake her. She grumbled at his attempts and swatted at his claws.

“Nonna,” he sighed, shrugging with a smile and swimming into the kitchen to greet his parents. During his time in Porto Rosso, Luca enjoyed every moment he could swimming and spending as much time in the water since he couldn’t do as much in Genoa. He, along with Giulia and Signora Mia, had snuck to the shoreline in the early hours of the morning every few weeks or so just so Luca could refresh his scales and get the nutrients he needed. It was especially necessary when the temperature had become too cold and made him lethargic and ill. Luca shook his head softly, sending bubbles rippling above him in search of the surface. Signora Mia had been just as kind as Massimo, and just as headstrong in a lot of ways. He made a silent promise to call her with Giulia to make sure she was doing well, even if he were sure nothing could fell the infamous Mia Berni.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Daniella kissed Luca’s cheek and handed him a plate full of seaweed and fish flank on his way to the table. Returning the sentiment, the youth sat beside his father and informed his parents that grandma had decided to sleep in a little longer.

“Ugh, she does this every time. MA!” Daniella shouted in frustration, only to be startled by her own mother swimming around the corner.

“You’re being dramatic, dear. I only do it when I think it will annoy you.” The elderly sea monster smiled toothily at her disgruntled daughter who muttered, “Which is every day,” and finished setting the table.

“So, how does it feel to be another year older, son?” Lorenzo floated a piece of fish to his mouth and chewed animatedly, his gaze never leaving Luca’s. Luca shrugged in response and picked at the seafood drifting across the coral table.

“Not any different than last year, honestly. I still feel like I’m fourteen, so nothing special.” He slurped the seaweed into his mouth, much to his mother’s chagrin, and instantly missed the taste of pasta.

“Fifteen is a pretty big deal, though, you’re becoming a young man and that means changes and more responsibility.”

“I hardly think now is the time to discuss any of that at the table.” Luca’s grandmother scoffed before he could reply.

“What, it’s just the basics; Longer tail and fins, not to mention attracting the pretty lady gills, eh?” Lorenzo nudged Luca in the side who nearly choked on his food and spluttered white bubbles over the table, his scales flushing darkly.

“Lorenzo!” Danielle cried, her claws slapping the table in mortification.

“What? We were around his age when we met. If I remember correctly, you thought I was quite the catch.” He batted his eyes at her, pursing his lips teasingly.

“I was young and silly; I didn’t know any better.” Try as she might, Daniella couldn’t stop the smile that threatened to break her scowl. She busied herself by shredding the fish flank and wrapping it in seaweed. Undeterred, Lorenzo lifted from his chair and leaned in closer, trying to further fluster his wife.

“Yeah, maybe, but you still accepted my courting pearl after the Spring Swim Festival.” Lorenzo pulled a reluctant Daniella out of her chair and began to lead her around the room in spins and pivots, grinning madly as she shrieked with laughter. Luca watched with a mixture of amusement and confusion, his discomfort fading as he pushed the idea of ‘lady gills’ far from his mind. When he peered at his grandma, she appeared nonplussed and continued munching on her food although a genuine smile lifted her aging scales.

“You were skinnier and more handsome then, of course, she fell for you.” Lorenzo pouted at his mother-in-law and led both he and Daniella back to the table.

“I simply grew into my man body,” He emphasized his point by sticking his gut out even farther and patted it proudly. The table burst into laughter and Luca quickly finished eating after, his stomach nearly as full as his heart.

After he finished, he turned to his mother and asked, “Is it ok if I go visit Alberto and Giulia for the afternoon?”

Daniella conceded with a content nod, “Just don’t forget about our dinner tonight at Massimo’s, we don’t want you kids to be late.” Luca agreed cheerfully and kissed each family member on the cheek before swimming out the entrance.

“Hey!” Luca turned mid swim to see Daniella at the entrance. “I love you.”

“I love you too, ma!” Grinning, Luca took off, the water gliding past him as he made his way to the surface and his friends. As he leaped through the blue waves, he imagined he was like the superhero from the newspaper comics that Giulia and Mia both read. Pointing both fists forwards, Luca broke the surface with a whoop, water streaming behind him like a cape.

When he arrived at the Marcovaldo residence, the only beings there to greet them were Machiavelli and a few of his kits, each of whom wanted his attention and brief affection. Finding some of his spare clothes in the drawers of Alberto and Giulia's shared room, Luca quickly left the house and wandered the streets, eager to find his friends. Judging from the sun, he knew the morning fishing trip had come to an end not too long before which should mean Giulia, and Alberto was out delivering. Walking through the town square, Luca waved to a few of the patrons he recognized, mentally wincing as he remembered his first attempts at greeting Porto Rosso’s patrons. If anyone had been the stupidi, it had been them.

Chuckling as he went up the city’s hill, Luca caught sight of two familiar heads of curls along with two faces he was not expecting. Tensing at the sight of Guido and Ciccio, Luca prepared himself for a fight and made to run the rest of the way before he heard laughter. Guido was laughing at something Alberto had said and lightly touched his shoulder. Somehow, the movement was worse than if he had punched Alberto instead. A dark and ugly feeling reared its head within Luca’s belly, causing his face to burn and his hands to clench. Clenching his teeth, the young sea monster marched up the cobblestone pathways, intent on not showing his discomfort.

“Ciao,” he muttered shortly, arriving beside Alberto, and instantly causing Guido to lift his hand from Alberto’s shoulder. Giulia nodded hello from her seat on the bike as Alberto wrapped an arm around Luca’s shoulder.

“Oh, hey Luca,” Alberto cheered even more so upon seeing Luca. “You remember Guido and Ciccio, vero? I helped their families in the off-season while you were away.” Luca looked at the two teens who stood abashedly in front of him and offered his hand after a moment of hesitation.

“It’s good to see you both again,” Not, he thought as he shook the brunette’s hand. Ciccio spoke up, his round features coloring.

“We realize we never officially apologized to you before you left, si? We’re really sorry about last summer, Luca.”

“Si, Ciccio, and I were very foolish and ignoranti, we hope you can forgive us, and we can start again.” Guido smiled warmly, his gaze sincere. Taking a deep breath, Luca felt his earlier feeling of… whatever it was, fading away. If Alberto and Giulia both felt they could trust these boys again, then he could follow their lead.

“Lo apprezzo. I know being around Ercole wasn’t the easiest either, it’s all water under the bridge now anyway.” He smiled genuinely this time, heartened when the two ex-henchmen immediately relaxed.

“Bah, no lie, I’m so happy to be rid of that jerk,” Guido nodded at Ciccio who nodded and twisted his hands anxiously.

“He ate so much of my family’s bread,” Ciccio whispered horrified, his gaze wide. Giulia shared a weirded-out expression with Alberto who only shook his head.

“I didn’t know your family baked,” Luca interceded, ignoring his friends’ lack of subtlety Snapping back to the present, Ciccio grinned widely showing his perfectly white teeth.

“Oh, si, Pasticcini al sale Marino is the pride and joy of Porto Rosso and my family. Our baked goods bring customers from miles around; you should see the line of people who want to buy my mother’s Sfogliatella.” He leaned in conspiratorially to whisper, “My siblings and I have been helping since we were little, so only we know the recipe.” He puffed his round chest out proudly, only to be poked by both Alberto and Guido.

“Knowing a recipe and following it correctly are two different things, Ciccio. Your batter was not very good the last time you tried to make Bombolini.” Guido teased and Alberto nodded knowingly.

“I still don’t know how you mixed up salt and sugar,” the older sea monster screwed his face in disgust, remembering how the supposedly sweet treats and mistakenly been made with copious amounts of salt. “Seriously, Ciccio, even the ocean’s not as salty as those things were.” Ciccio pouted good-naturedly as the group laughed.

“It’s still not as bad as the time Guido set the auto garage on fire,” the blond argued mildly to which said boy grimaced.

“I thought we agreed to never speak of that again; I thought my papa was going to skin me alive.”

The teens chatted a bit more and Luca began to warm up to the two boys who had hurt him so much the past year. Perhaps, he reasoned, they had been good all along and had simply needed the chance to prove themselves.

Bidding Guido and Ciccio farewell, Luca joined Alberto and Giulia as they made the rounds. Luca asked a question that had been on his mind since arriving in Porto Rosso.

“So, whatever happened to Ercole? I haven’t seen him since we’ve been in town.” Alberto placed the cash from his previous sale into the leather pouch of the cart before answering.

“Honestly, the guy kind of disappeared after the race. I think he was embarrassed enough to keep his head low for a while, but other than that, I’m not sure. Maybe he left?” Giulia thought for a moment, her gaze focused on the road ahead.

“Maybe, I don’t think he went away to university, but he could have. His family is really wealthy, so they could afford it no matter the grades he got.”

Luca kicked a pebble, his thoughts skipping back to that one word: university.

“What’s the point of grades anyway, doesn’t that, like, stress you out more?” Alberto mused.

“It certainly does for me,” Giulia huffed. She bid Buongiorno to a young mother who bought the last of their fish and both Luca and Alberto filled the empty space as they headed back down the hill.

“I think it’s mostly competition, to see who really wants to be an academico or no,” she contemplated. “Sometimes if you have really good grades, the universities will pay you to study in their schools. That happened to mama when she moved to Genoa.” Alberto winced slightly at the mention of Giulia’s mother, the story of her separation from Massimo fresh in his memory.

“I wonder if I was good enough, they’d do that for me?” Luca hummed, his eyes following the drains that spread across each building they passed.

“Well, duh, they’d be stupid not to; you’re better than good enough right now,” Alberto bumped his shoulder with a smile. Luca blushed and tossed his friend a grin.

“Hey, happy birthday by the way. It’s about time you got to my age,” the older boy winked and wrapped his arm around Luca again, causing Luca’s skin to hum with energy.

“Oh, yeah! Are you excited for tonight?” Giulia asked over her shoulder.

“Thanks, you guys, really,” Luca felt warmer with Alberto’s arm around him, and he was sure it had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. He wondered briefly if said boy could feel how hard his heart was pounding. “Should I be excited, I thought we were just having dinner?” Luca asked, brow furrowing in confusion. He twisted around to face Giulia as she pulled into the plaza and made her way towards the small coastal home. Alberto lifted his arm when Luca turned away, causing him to feel its loss.

Giulia glanced at him and grinned excitedly. “Papa saved some fireworks from the Festa Della Repubblica since we were in Genoa, and he wants to set them off for tonight.” Luca gasped and jumped in his seat.

“Santa mozzarella! Are you serious?!” He shared an animated glance with Alberto who smiled as he hopped off the cart.

“Of course! I mentioned to him how much you had enjoyed the fireworks during Vigilia di Capodanno last December. He decided that would be his gift to you this year.” Giulia locked the bike and carried their bag of earnings inside, the two boys following after her.

Inside they found Massimo at his stove, his presence filling up the majority of the room. He turned to greet them as they entered, placing a kiss upon Giulia’s curly head.

“Buon cumpleanno, Luca. May you live to see many more,” Massimo rumbled fondly, patting Luca on his checkered shoulder. Luca returned the sentiment and wrapped a short hug around the large man, his arms too small to wrap fully around him.

“Grazie, Massimo. For your wishes and for your surprise gift,” Luca pulled away while Massimo smiled happily, his eyes disappearing behind his bushy eyebrows.

“Giulia,” Massimo chided lightly, turning to his daughter who was counting out money, “I thought we agreed to keep it a secret until after dinner?” Giulia smiled apologetically.

“Scusa, papa, we were just too excited,” She and Alberto began counting the coins on the table while Massimo ushered Luca over to the stove.

“Come, Luca, you will help me prepare dinner,” Massimo handed him a bag of clams and ordered him to wash them thoroughly in the sink. Luca would be the first to admit he was not a cook, but Massimo was gentle in his orders and easily guided Luca in making a perfect pasta dinner.

Once the Paguro family arrived along with Ciccio and Guido, once again to Luca’s surprise, the night was filled with much laughter and filling food. The linguine pasta alle vongole was instantly a hit and paired nicely with the red wine Ciccio had brought on behalf of his family. To the teens’ disappointment, the adults were adamant that they were still too young for alcohol. At one moment, Lorenzo laughed so hard, he inhaled his pasta and sent part of it into his nose much to the delight of the children. After dinner, the group trouped outside with fireworks and dessert in hand. While Massimo and Lorenzo set up the fireworks near the edge of the waterline, Daniella, Giulia, and Ciccio helped serve gelato and watermelon.

With a happy sigh, Alberto nestled himself into the sand alongside Luca, happily chewing on the red-fleshed fruit. Luca’s eyelids were drooping as his body felt full and warm, accompanied by his own friend’s radiating heat. His gaze lingered as Alberto licked gelato from his lips, the cream dripping from the corner of his mouth. Forcing his eyes to look anywhere else, Luca shifted closer to Alberto. Instead, his gaze landed on his father asking animatedly about the fireworks in Massimo’s hand, the larger man looking both confused and entertained by Lorenzo’s energy.

“I know I already said it, but happy birthday,” Luca dragged his eyes back to the tanned boy next to him and smiled. He jumped slightly at the first explosion, watching in delight as the light of the fireworks made his friend’s skin glisten with multicolored hues.

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” He replied easily. Neither made comment as their arms brushed or as their hands splayed out behind them with barely any space between. Up above the merry group, bright color after bright color bloomed across a starlit sky, the stars twinkling their own delight.

[paperpocalypse]

interlude.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 43. Holding shopping bags that are too heavy for them.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,304 words

Warning: Swearing

You step out of the car, the bottoms of your loafers scraping against the asphalt, and gaze up at the plain brown building silhouetted against the darkening sky.

The sight hits you with a bout of homesickness. How long has it been since you’ve shopped at a grocery store, really – sometime before the Commission recruited you out of 1949? It must have been. After all, you hadn’t exactly had the time or place to buy food and cook something up. Most of the meals you’d eaten for the past twenty-eight years were from cafés or restaurants.

“[Y/n].” Five snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Oh. Right,” you murmur, walking with him to the entrance. You feel his eyes on you as you push the door open.

As soon as you enter, you soak in the smell of paper bags and fresh fruit. Lands alive. You suddenly remember grocery shopping with your grandmother when you were – well, just a little younger than your physical age right now. Oh, now those were the days. She would take you to the candy store afterwards if you didn’t knock any of the displays over while she shopped.

(Everything was an adventure back then. You’ve been trying to regain that sense of wonder.)

Five lays claim to an abandoned cart and heads straight to the tea and coffee aisle.

You shake yourself out of your nostalgia to catch up with him. “Glad to see your priorities are in order,” you tease, sidestepping another customer.

“They’re always in order.”

“Of course.”

You watch his determined expression, amused, as he examines the shelves of coffee cans and bags like they’re suspects in a lineup. The two of you get halfway through the aisle before coming across a particular brand you remember him liking; he reaches up to grab one can of their 100% Colombian and plunks it into the cart.

Just a few feet away, a man around your age chuckles. “Don’t drink it all at once,” he says when you and Five look over at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Five gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Try me,” he says.

You manage to hide your snort under the guise of clearing your throat. Shooting the stranger what hopefully looks like an apologetic smile, you quickly usher Five out of the coffee aisle before you get a lecture on manners.

“One day I’ll bust a gut and we’ll both get in trouble,” you mock-admonish, smacking him lightly on the arm as you push the cart towards the fresh produce section. “How are we supposed to lay low if you don’t act your age?”

He seems to hunch over further, still displeased by the previous interaction. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he mutters, “I’m fifty-eight years old. I am acting my age.”

The crossness of his posture causes you to sober up a bit. Ah. Knitting your brow, you stop in front of the apple stand, facing him fully.

From the moment that Five and you fell into 2019, it’s been apparent that the whole de-aging thing is hitting him a lot harder than it’s been hitting you. You know that part of it is because he’s the one who actually did the time travel; you know that in between your work to prevent the apocalypse, he’s been combing through his equations, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. You also know that the other part of it is a matter of pride. And you get it. Despite enjoying your recovered youth a little more than Five, you don’t like reliving the experience of being talked down to either. Every time Five gets patronized, you can practically feel his blood boil – age was the only thing of societal value that he had gained from the apocalypse, and now that he’s physically thirteen again, that advantage is gone.

“Five, I didn’t forget,” you reply easily, softly. “But we both know that’s not how either of us look. So we gotta adapt. Like always.”

Five shakes his head, chuckling dryly. “I’ve spent my whole damn life adapting to bullshit.”

“I know.”

He inhales slowly, then exhales through his nose as you put a hand on his back. After glancing at you, he looks away stiffly.

“Sorry for screwing it up.”

“Hey. We got here in one piece and I don’t have back problems anymore. I should be thanking you.” You grin at him, and he scoffs.

There we go.

Dropping your hand to brush your fingers against his, you turn around to inspect the apples. “Now,” you announce, “I know I always complain about inflation, but explain to me why the hell these things are a dollar fifteen per pound.”

You still have some cash that the Commission had given the two of you for meal expenses, and since Five and you have literally nothing else, you spend the next hour perusing all that the grocery store has to offer. It’s quite … normal, really, tossing this or that into the cart and chatting with Five about the kinds of meals you would eat when you were kids, and you like it very much. You haven’t felt this domestic in decades.

After paying for your things, Klaus’s requested chocolate pudding, and Five’s coffee (it was the only thing he had wanted from the store), you take your turn driving back to the Hargreeves mansion.

Five blinks out of the car as you cut the engine, opening the trunk and taking all of the bags before you even open the door to get out.

“We need to start our surveillance of Meritech early tomorrow morning,” he tells you once you join him. “Whoever the eye belongs to is going to walk in there sometime between then and doomsday.”

You nod, closing the trunk and locking the car. “Right.”

The taillights flash in the darkness as you press the button again, just to make sure, and Five waits until you’re satisfied before starting toward the back entrance. With all of the groceries.

How many times do you have to tell him that he doesn’t have to do everything himself? “Fives,” you croon, reaching over to tap his fist. (The answer is as many times as it takes.)

In return, you get a brief glance. Five slows down just a hair, wordlessly shifting the bags to his other hand, and takes your hand.

You can’t help but snort.

“What?” he snips defensively. The two of you stop in the middle of the alley.

“Five, I –” you smile at him, somewhat flustered and absolutely charmed, and gesture to the groceries – “I was going to take some of the bags so you didn’t have to carry all of them.”

He blinks, face blank.

“I see,” he says. You fail to hold in another chuckle, and at the sound of it, Five attempts to let go of your hand.

“No, no, no, no, no.” You tighten your hold, moving to take half of the groceries. “I have two hands.”

With that, you resume walking, both hands full and quite sure that you’ve never adored your partner more than at this moment. Who knew he could be such a romantic?

Said partner walks beside you, silent and avoiding your gaze. You nudge him to break the tension. “I never thought you could be so smooth, dear.”

“You’ve done it before,” he grumbles, and you can hear an undertone of – dare you say it? – embarrassment in his voice. His gaze darts down to the bags. “I assumed wrong.”

“Five. You can always assume that I want to hold your hand.”

Even though you’re being incredibly corny on purpose, Five doesn’t dole out any snark. The two of you enter the house, and when you turn on the lights, you notice, with infinite satisfaction, that his face is flushed.

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

fought on your side long before you were born

Fandom: Kamen Rider, Batman, Kamen Rider W Characters: Hongo Takeshi, Tachibana Tobei, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Hidari Shoutaro, Philip, Damian Wayne Song: "Father to Son," Queen (playlist here)

1977

Tachibana’s got a shop now, something he can use to support his family now that he isn’t traveling, and the first thing that greets Takeshi as he walks in is the thick smell of motor oil. There’s a bike in pieces at one end of the shop floor around which several young men are clustered, arguing cheerfully. Another young man is sitting in a corner near them, inexplicably playing acoustic guitar and responding briefly whenever he’s addressed. It’s new, but it feels like home, and Takeshi can feel his shoulders instinctively relaxing.

“Hongo!” Tachibana himself emerges from the shop office, beaming. “When’d you get back to Japan?”

“Just now, I came right here.”

“Damn right you did.” There’s some hugging and back-slapping and general affectionate ribbing, and then Tachibana says, “So what do you think? Nice place, right?”

“It’s wonderful. How’s your son?”

“Healthy as a horse, running me and Mari ragged.” Tachibana gestures to the huddle of young men at the other end of the room. “Plenty of help around here, though.”

Takeshi grins. “I can see that. Who’s the one with the guitar?”

“Oh, him? American kid. Funny story, really, I’m closing up one day when this young guy just materializes—no, not literally, he’s just real quiet—and asks, am I Tachibana Tobei? Only Dr. Jin in Madrid says I’m the best in the world and will I teach him about motorcycles! And he hands me a letter of introduction from Keisuke!” Tachibana sounds like he’s holding back laughter. “So he’s renting our spare room at the house and working here for a few months. Quick study, too. Shiro taught him guitar, he’s in town for a bit and they hit it off. Here, come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

They head over to the disassembled motorcycle, and the young men fall all over themselves to be introduced, which Takeshi bears with good cheer. They’re young, of course they’re enthusiasts.

The American boy is last, and Takeshi is shocked to realize that he is a boy, no more than eighteen or nineteen, a pale youth with blue eyes and a lonely look that reminds Takeshi of Shiro. No wonder they get along. He sets his guitar aside and bows, stiff and solemn, and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hongo. Mr. Tachibana talks about you a lot.”

“That I do! Hongo, this is Bruce Wayne, he’s the summer guest I was telling you about.”

“Good to meet you, Wayne. Your accent is excellent.” The boy’s got a firm handshake. “What brings you to Japan?”

“Study, sir,” but the boy’s tone says that’s not all of it. “I’m trying to learn all I can. Maybe I could ask you a few things later, if you don’t mind.”

Takeshi blinks. “Not sure what you’d want to ask, but I don’t see why not.”

--

He eats dinner at Tachibana’s house that evening, because of course Tachibana isn’t going to let him get away unfed his first night back in town. Mari greets him at the door, Joji in her arms, beaming.

He’s intially surprised to see that the American boy is there too, until he remembers, of course he is—Wayne’s renting the spare room. And he’s barely noticeable for most of the meal, silent, although he’s clearly listening to everything that’s said. After dinner he also helps Mari with the dishes, entirely unprompted, which Takeshi approves of, and then spends some time gently entertaining the toddler.

Later, Tachibana and Mari step away for a moment to get their son to bed, and Takeshi looks at the silent young man sitting in the corner and says, “So. Wayne.”

“Yes, Mr. Hongo?”

“You said you had something you wanted to ask me, and we’ve got a few minutes now. What can I help you with?”

Wayne remains quiet for a long moment, and then fixes those piercing eyes on Takeshi and says, “Mr. Tachibana says you’re the strongest person he knows. What does it mean to be strong?”

Not what Takeshi had been expecting. Granted, what he wasexpecting, he doesn’t know, but…not that. He thinks about it, frowning. “I’d say…kindness.”

Wayne’s forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”

“Look, Wayne, you can get as powerful as you want in life, but it’s only strength if you can use it to be kind. Otherwise it’s just tyranny.” Takeshi leans forward and holds out his hand, as if to shake. “Anyone, any fool on Earth can take their hand and make it into a fist. To reach out to someone when they need help, that’s strength.”

Slow nodding, and Wayne reaches out to him in return, clasps his hand for a brief moment, and says, “Thank you. That’s a valuable insight.”

Takeshi nods. “Ask Tachibana that question, too, and Shiro. It’s a good thing to ask. Tells you a lot about the person answering.” He considers it for a moment. “Of course, there will always be some people you won’t be able to help, we share this world with monsters. But you must always try to be kind. That’s strength.”

--

2017

Bruce checks his watch as he walks up to the restaurant, satisfied to be a precise fifteen minutes early, and then looks up and is surprised to realize that for once Dick’s beaten him there. Not only is he there, too, he’s talking to someone Bruce doesn’t recognize.

The stranger seems to be about Dick’s own age, a man in a black fedora and slightly old-fashioned dress clothes from a minor Japanese fashion label. His tone suggests an awkward tourist, but his stance says he’s a fighter, and the way he watches his surroundings indicates that he’s memorizing as many details as possible. He’s got a guidebook in one hand, and a notebook sticking out of his pocket, and he’s speaking Japanese, which is not one of Dick’s stronger languages. Bruce steps forward, thinking he might need to translate, but Dick replies to the other man in English, which is met with a thoughtful nod. So—they’re about the same level in each other’s languages. Better at hearing than speaking. Convenient for them.

“—so if you’re looking for something in his field, the natural history museum is great. If you want somewhere more romantic,though, the Thorndike is amazing, and there’s this restaurant right near it, I forget the name—oh, hey, Bruce! You’re here! What’s the name of that restaurant across the street from the Thorndike Museum?”

“San Sebastian Jatetxe.”

“That’s the one! Thank you!” Dick beams at him, then turns to his companion. “I’ll write it down for you.”

“<Thank you, I’d appreciate that.>”

“Of course! This is my foster father, by the way, Shoutaro-san.Bruce Wayne. Bruce, this is Shoutaro Hidari, he’s visting Gotham for a couple of weeks.” To Shoutaro again, “Bruce’s Japanese is much better than mine.”

Bruce nods. “<What brings you to Gotham, Mr. Hidari?>”

Shoutaro relaxes visibly at the question; it’s likely the only new voice he’s heard speaking his mother tongue in days. “<My partner is attending a conference here, so we decided we’d make it a vacation.>”

“<Aha. Curators and archivists?>”

“<How did you guess?>”

“<A friend of Dick’s and mine is also attending, she mentioned that international registrations are up significantly this year.>” Bruce pauses. “<If you’re looking for date spots, the Thorndike is excellent, as Dick said, but the Botanical Gardens are also very nice this time of year.>”

Shoutaro blushes warmly. “<Thank you very much for the recommendation.>”

--

He doesn’t think much more about Dick’s tourist friend until that night, when he and Damian are out on patrol. It’s a quiet night, so they’re stopping a mugging as gently as possible when the mugger—a repeat offender and sometime informant, Bruce makes a note to check in on him at home out of suit—says, “So, uh, Bats. Who’s the new guy?”

Bruce frowns. No one new should be operating here.“Which one?”

“You know, the bug guy. My buddy texted about him, said he was speaking some other language. Well, he said it was a bug ninja who spoke Japanese, but he watches a lotta anime and he gets real excited, so I ain’t sure he’s right.”

“A bug. What color?”

“Oh, it changes, it’s cool as hell.” He shows Bruce and Damian a picture on his phone. “He a friend’a yours?”

“Yes. He’s visiting.” Bruce peers at the photo and then hands his informant two hundred dollars. “Buy dinner and go home, Nathan. Tell your aunt I say hello.”

“Yo, sure thing. Thanks, Bats!”

They’ve only been searching a few minutes when their earpieces crackle and Babs says, “Roof of GPL Central Branch. Someone I don’t recognize, they just took out some Joker goons who were robbing a jewelry store at the corner of High and 26th. Dick’s on his way too.”

They touch down at one end of the Gotham Public Library’s roof as Dick’s landing at the other and survey their guest, who’s looking between the three of them with something that’s likely surprise, although given that their face is entirely concealed it’s not certain. The insectoid red eyes and sharp antennae on the helmet and the white scarf drifting in the air from the back of the right shoulder send a shock of recognition down Bruce’s spine. He considers speaking first, but then nods to Dick instead. For better or for worse, Dick is good at putting people at ease.

“Hi there.” Dick waves to the stranger, tone cheery but guarded. “We haven’t seen you around before, mind telling us what you’re doing in Gotham?”

The stranger cocks their head to the left for a moment before saying, haltingly, “We. Ah. We are…tourists? We did not mean to…um…” The left eye of the helmet flashes as they’re speaking. A beat, and then the righteye begins to flash, and they say, in an entirely different voice that’s noticeably accented but much more fluent, “I’ll handle this part if you don’t mind, partner. Good evening, we’re Kamen Rider W. Our apologies, we didn’t mean to intrude on your territory. Are we addressing the famed Batman and his companions?”

Bruce says, slowly, “That’s correct. You’re a Rider?”

“Oh, you’re familiar with the term! That’s wonderful. Yes, that’s correct. We’ve been in operation as such since late 2008, although of course primarily in Japan.”

“Tt.” Damian scowls. “<If you mostly work in Japan, what are you doing running around here?>”

The left eye on the helmet begins to flash again as W responds in the first voice, in Japanese now. “<It wasn’t exactly the plan, a man in clown makeup waved a gun at me and tried to take my wallet and once I’d knocked him out I noticed that there were about five more clowns breaking into a jewelry store down the street. I couldn’t just leave them to it.>”

Dick is also frowning now. “I—have we met before? I recognize your voice. The, uh, left-hand one.”

“<I don’t think so?>” says the left-hand voice, and then the right-hand one breaks in with, “Actually, based on his memory of your speech patterns, I believe you and my partner met earlier today, you recommended a couple of date locations and a Basque restaurant I’m eager to visit.”

Bruce can see Dick’s eyes going wide from halfway across the roof. He’s visibly biting back the urge to address their guest by name, which would be discourteous, to say the least, with everyone in costume, so Bruce cuts in with, “Is my understanding correct that we’re speaking to two people currently?”

“That’s correct!” says the right-hand voice, sounding delighted. “We two are a single Kamen Rider.”

Dick blinks. “Is this like a Firestorm thing? Are you fused?”

“Not unlike, but no. My physical body is currently unconscious in our hotel room, which is certainly much more comfortable than some of the other places in which I’ve passed out. Although as my partner wasoriginally going out to get us something to eat when he was accosted, I ambecoming concerned about my caloric intake.” And the left-hand voice says, “<Yeah, I was thinking I’d be able to get us something decent at the Seven-Eleven, but the ones here are different from the ones at home.>”

“I think,” Bruce says, “this conversation would be better continued elsewhere.”

--

Twenty minutes later they’re all out of suit and seated around a table at an all-night diner, and Shoutaro’s partner, introduced only as Philip, is inspecting the menu with interest. “This is intimidatingly lengthy, do you have recommendations?”

Dick grins. “Get one of the meat-lovers omelettes. And then if you still have room get some baklava, the owner’s mother makes it and it’s amazing.”

Bruce, meanwhile, is turning Shoutaro’s business card over in his hands. “<You’re a detective?>”

“<I am! Mostly lost pets and infidelity, but sometimes there’s an interesting case. Philip works with me, although he’s pretty busy with the museum nowadays.>”

“<I’ve heard of the Fuuto Museum, they hosted an intriguing exhibit on Mesopotamian artifacts last year.>”

“<You heard about Nitoh’s exhibit here? That’s amazing, I’ll have to let him know.>”

“<Please tell him I was very impressed with his thesis.>”

Damian’s been scowling silently into his milkshake, but suddenly he slaps the table and everyone jumps. “I knew I recognized that name!” Then, to Shoutaro, “<I read your novel.>”

“<I—you did? Really? It hasn’t had any translations, how did you hear about it?>”

“<My, uh.>” Damian shifts awkwardly. “<My mother gave it to me, I like detective stories. I enjoyed it. Although that copy was lost.>”

“<Oh, I’ll send you a new one if you like, I don’t imagine it’d be easy to get here.>”

The waitress comes by, and her eyebrows slowly rise as everyone orders, presumably at the quantity of food on request. When she’s left again, Philip turns to Bruce and says, brightly, “I also take it that you’re the sponsor Ms. Gordon mentioned, we had a very stimulating chat at the conference earlier today.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised to hear that you met her.”

“Coincidence and fate figure largely in our lives, Mr. Wayne.” Philip smiles like a cat; it’s oddly charming. “We’re superheroes, after all. Here,” to Damian, “Dick mentioned to me that you like animals, would you like to see a picture of my cat? He used to be a supervillain.”

After they consume a truly astonishing amount of diner food it’s time to part ways, and Bruce shakes hands with Shoutaro and Philip and says, “<It was good to meet you both.>”

Philip beams. “<Likewise, thank you, it’s been a pleasure. And I’m looking forward to seeing more of Gotham.>”

Shoutaro looks up at him for a moment. “<It’s been good talking to you, Mr. Wayne. You…remind me of someone I used to know.>”

“<I could say the same of the two of you.>” Bruce turns to go, but then turns back. “<I have one last question for both of you.>”

They nod, precisely in sync, and Philip says, “<Yes?>”

“<What does it mean to be strong?>”

Silence for a moment, Shoutaro and Philip glancing at each other while Dick and Damian wait in puzzled silence, and then Shoutaro says, “<Kindness,>” and Philip says, “<Love.>” Another shared glance before Shoutaro continues. “<Anyone can hurt someone else. Helping them, that’s strength.>”

Bruce nods. “<Somehow that’s what I knew you’d say.>”

[lord-tathamet]

Dinner Plans

A short story almost two years of age, that I once wrote for a university class. Found it again, dusted it off, polished it slightly, but let it retain that little bit of amateurish writing simply to marvel at how far I’ve come with my writing ever since. 

Enjoy. 

For the fifth time in the last two hours did the man with the moustache and sunglasses look up from his research and look at the face of the clock of the broken church. He scowled beneath the moustache, but forced himself to look at it regardless.

4:18 pm.

They were late, as per usual. He shook his head and focused back on his literature. He made the mental note to have a number of alarm clocks be send to each of them for next time. Flatteringly Photoshopped pictures of the Mexican coast reflected in his sunglasses while his eyes skimmed through the brochure's whimsical descriptions of the rich culture of its indigenous people and beautiful beaches.  He skipped through a couple of pages until he found what he was looking for. A decidedly too sharply fined and too pale fingernail stabbed into the page displaying the photograph of an ancient, grey pyramid.

The man sitting behind the shining aluminium table was tall, narrow and sharply dressed: a suit jacket with bloodstone cufflinks, black suit-pants, a clean white shirt only slightly wrinkled and  two buttons open. His legs ended in a pair of shiny, pointy shoes. His face was stern and angular, with pronounced cheekbones and a pointed chin. Bushy eyebrows sat above the pair of sunglasses that protected his eyes against the sun, and a long white moustache grew beneath the hooked nose which gave his appearance a certain roguish charm. A wavy mane of grey-white hair surrounded his face and hid the pointed tips of his ears, giving him certain qualities akin to an old lion. It was difficult to clearly guess his age, but anyone briefly passing by and glancing at him would take him for a very spry looking gentleman in his mid-fifties.

Leaning in on his read, the man with the white moustache made a few notes on a small block of paper. The pen he used was black, ornamented with silver filigree and absurdly expensive, as was the ink held within. Next to the note pad stood an untouched and by now cold cup of coffee, its content as pitch-black as a dark winter night and reflecting the bright afternoon sun above.  Disgusting in taste and disgustingly cheap in comparison, but he needed the table, and none of the waiters would bother him as long as he had at least one beverage in front of him, as maligned and untouched it was.

Cars rolled by exhuming grey fumes, the nearby fountain shot water into the air and people passed his table. Most of them in casual summer clothes, sundresses and cargo pants and shirts and some of them even with hats to gain some shade. For a moment, the man looked up from his notes and allowed himself a brief indulgence – the eyes behind the sunglasses darted from one healthy neck to another. A small, wolfish smile parted the pale lips and if there had been anyone to pay close attention, they would have gained a brief glance at his very pointed, very sharp and unusually long canines.

“Good afternoon, count.”

The man in the white moustache begrudgingly pulled his eyes away from his current mark – a lovely Turkish woman with streaming black hair that was climbing the stairs around the fountain just a shy dozen feet from his table, close enough for him to smell the sweet mixture of blood and perfume she exhumed – and he turned to the youth that had seated herself opposite of him, soundless and sudden as if she had appeared out of the thin air.

“And to you, countess. You are looking lively as always.”

She seemed young enough to be his granddaughter, though no one within their right mind would have thought to imagine a superficial familiarity between the two. A girl of fourteen years, with a healthy, rosy complexion and flowing, lush dark hair that curled at her shoulders, the sunshine twisting golden shimmers into its waves. Large doe-like eyes that projected innocence and hid a vicious intellect, a petite body that suggested fragility and cloaked the strength to bend iron bars as if they were straws. She was in white, of course she was, a pretty, knee-length dress and a white handbag in her lap and with her hands folded atop of it. The lid of her bag, the man with the moustache noted with a mild amusement, was riddled with numerous, colourful stickers and badges, and around her wrists hung several loops and bands of tiny gemstones like rainbow wreaths.

They were the only change about her since their last meeting.

“Thank you. My sincere apologies, there was an unfortunate delay with the train between Kassel and Hannover.” She shook her head. “More than five centuries since the invention of rail transport and still a simple thing like an open door may stall a train's journey for almost an entire fifteen minutes.”

She nodded at the travel brochure still open in front of him. “Are you already planning your next journey? I thought you would stay in Berlin a little while longer.”

“I am a traveller at heart, milady. Although my beloved home will always be in the heart of Europe, the other continents do possess their own charming allure,” he replied, setting the brochure and note block aside. “And besides, it has been a while since I have last visited the Americas. There must be much exciting game to be hunted there.”

“Always about excitement, is that the reason you wanted us all to meet here of all places?” The countess nudged her chin toward the broken church spire in the background, a disgusted sneer cracking her face. “And mirroring glass everywhere around us. One of these days, your thrill-seeking hunts might cost you your life.”

“How would the youth of your seeming generation say? No risk, no fun.” The count let his eyes wander around the square for a moment. “Where is Laura? The two of you were practically bound at the hip when we last met.”

The young-seeming woman stiffened in her seat. The snarl dissolved into a very neutral, very calm expression that seemed like it was carved from marble. “Laura is... no longer with us.”

A single eyebrow rose, but otherwise the count's face remained unmoved. “Hunters?

“No.” There was a subtle tremble of her lip, the count noted, before she continued: “She could no longer bear it, she told me, moments before she drove the knife through her own neck. She betrayed me, just like the others before her.”

“My condolences.”

She nodded, her face remaining neutral. “It has been over three decades since. I have moved on as best as I could.

“In fact,” she allowed herself a smile,” I happen to have a date just after we met up with our friends.”

“You still insist on fraternizing with your prey?” The count sneered. “Now that is a carelessness that will get you killed one day.”

“Because unlike you, I seek actual companionship?” Her eyes glinted like sharp icicles in the sun. “Because unlike you, I do not wish to to prolong myself in solitude and run afoul like some pack-less dog? Because I want to spend this blasted eternity with someone like myself?”

Blue flashed and briefly turned red. For a moment, the two stared at each other with an intensity not unlike of two big cats, every individual muscle tense and ready to pounce. Then as quickly as the moment came, it passed.

“I did not mean to insult you, milady. Forgive me. I only worry about others of our kind. We are already so very few remaining,” the count sighed.

“Do not kid yourself, count. You care for nobody but yourself,” the countess replied, but she too relaxed in her seat.

The next five minutes they spent in silence. The count returned to his brochure, only briefly looking up to take notes and to send another quick glance up at the clock tower. The young woman had produced a smartphone from her handbag and immersed herself in the screen, brief smiles lighting up her face in between her typing and the brief ping of sent messages.

“Empusa will be here in half an hour,” she said after little while and looked up from the screen. “She is picking up Lamia from the airport and helping her through customs right now.”

“What about Schreck?”

“The sun is still up, remember? He will meet us after dusk.”

“His mutation is as highly fascinating as it is impractical,” the count murmured. “Why didn't they update me about it?”

“We do possess a text chain, you know. I'm surprised you are not part of it, since you are always the one organizing our meetings.”

“I refuse to touch one of those damnable Apps ever since Lestat sent around pictures of his own rectum to everyone.”

“Suit yourself. Why the Americas?”

The count tapped his finger on the table. “The Mexica people of pre-Columbian America possessed fascinating religious rites related to blood sacrifice to honour their gods...I wonder if there might be others of our kind still in their old territory.”

The countess fiddled with her smartphone. “Sometimes, I admit, I envy your ability to travel without restraint. I tried everything, yet I still must return to my family's tomb ever so often.”

“Have you considered moving your tomb in its entirety, stone by stone? There are still many old woods and mountain valleys unmolested by human hand. I am sure the hags you usually travel with would be most grateful for the exercise.”

“I have tried, once, when Laura was still with me.” A twinge of sorrow crept across her face. “I wanted to go far, far away from home and take her with me. But then, my body began to wither, my senses to decay the longer I prolonged returning to my tomb for a night. Laura, too, could not go long without a place to return to. Horse-carriages can only get you so far. And when we tried to move a single stone, what little strength I had left in that moment was about to leave me.”

The count hummed. Then his own phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, swiped across the screen, read the message in silence. A wolfish grin split his face.  

“Then you'll be happy to know that I plan on putting an end to these laws that seem to bind us.”

“What to you mean?” The countess leaned forward, an eyebrow arched.

“I planned on surprising all of you when Schreck, Lamia and the others would be gathered with us, but I might just as well reveal it all now,” the count smiled and leaned back, hands tapered together. There was a red gleam to his eyes, behind the sunglasses. “In my studies of the Americas, I came across a new initiate to our little circle – one that shares many of my own tastes and wishes to help others of his kin. Among such, is breaking the accursed bindings placed upon us.”

He extended a pointing finger. “He is currently sitting on the other end of the Breitscheidplatz. The tall man, olive skinned, with the gold rings in his ears.”

The countess followed his direction, narrowed her blue eyes to a glint. “What is his name?”

“The old Mayan people called him Camazotz. And he might very well be one of the first of our kind to walk this earth.”

On the other end of the square, the tall, olive-skinned man with golden rings in both his ears turned his head and nodded at them. His eyes gleamed in a blood-red, and for just a moment, both of the undead nobles could catch a glimpse of his shadow flickering across the wall behind him.

For just a split-second, they saw the shadow of a bat the size of a small house, stretching its wings and enveloping the street within its grasp.

[purplebenjy]

Pre-Cursor || Castaway AU

Benjy hates this  ship, but it certainly beats where he’s coming from. Benjy grew up the second oldest in a family of four brothers-five if you counted him, which many didn’t. His father, as wealthy as he is lecherous, had multiple affairs throughout his life, but only one was unfortunate enough to result in a bastard. Some nonsense about honor had landed him in his father’s manor, but that nonsense only stretched so far. While his half brothers spent their youth growing up in the lap of luxury, Benjy spent his pushed to the side, tucked carefully behind closed doors, only trotted out only when absolutely needed. The servants were told he was a distant nephew, the family was told he was an orphan, the child of old friends. In truth, Benjy was an open secret. His features were unmistakably his father’s, which only resulted in exceedingly extreme cruelty from the woman he was made to call Mother. Even Ezra, his brother only a year younger and undoubtedly the closest thing Benjy had to a friend, soon grew to treat Benjy differently. He ate meals with the rest of the family, but, once the children were dismissed, Benjy went left down the hallway towards the smaller rooms while each of his brothers turned right, going to progressively larger and grander chambers. Still, he didn’t want for much in terms of material things. Just in terms of attention, or love or feeling wanted. 

There were other reasons for his exclusion, he knew that too. Benjy wasn’t an idiot. Far from it actually-he was the best out of all of his brothers at writing, at understanding words on a page, at drawing, the harpsichord. At, as his father liked to helpfully remind him whenever he got the chance, all of the subjects that were only “good for women.” He was smaller than any of them, both in height and size, even thought he was twenty, he resembled a boy of about fourteen or fifteen, with the strength and prowess to match. While his brothers, even the young ones, wooed women at balls and socials, Benjy hung towards the wall, enjoying the way the dancers moved together and trying his hardest not to make it obvious his interest was not in the women. 

It wasn’t natural, the way Benjy couldn’t help himself when he saw beautiful men. It was vile, horrible, and yet, he couldn’t make himself stop. He’d even tried to pray, but, once he was down on his knees, the words did not come to him. They never did. Praying seemed pointless when Benjy had known his fate since he was thirteen. 

His mother who wasn’t his mother at all had a cousin with a bunch of single daughters-of course, that side of the family had moved to Australia shortly after Benjy had been born, and the cousin was now a wealthy shipping industry tycoon and eager to marry off the least fashionable daughter to someone with a somewhat notable pedigree-and that’s where Benjy came in. Australia was always some sort of vague threat, something lurking on his horizon, and now, here he was, aboard a charted ship towards the continent he was not expected to return from. His soon to be father in law had secured Benjy a seat-the only passenger seat, really-on one of his ships that was due to return from England. His departure had been brief and only tear filled on Benjy’s side-and that was only when he was alone in his cabin. 

It said something-not anything nice-that the hired hands on the ship were kinder to him than most of his family, but still, Benjy could tell he was largely in the way aboard the vessel. All the men had jobs to do and all Benjy did all day was wander the decks, sketch, and try to take up as little space as he could.

It was too late for one of these such wanderings, but here he was. They’d been at sea for almost two weeks, and Benjy had finally gotten used to walking around and didn’t fall over nearly as much. Nearly being the key word-the ship had hit some rough waves and Benjy had tumbled rather ungracefully through a hole in the main deck that he knew led to where the crew slept. The crash he’d made had been rather loud, but then again, so were most things on the ship. He laid pathetically for a moment at the bottom of the ladder, sore but certain nothing was broken other than his ego, half hoping someone would hear simply because it would mean someone would touch him, but no one came. Benjy lets out a sigh and sits up carefully, dusting off the shoulder’s on his green velvet coat. He moves to climb up the ladder when he hears....giggling?

Benjy freezes as something hot surges through his stomach. Embarrassment at first, because he naturally assumes they’re laughing at him, but once Benjy realizes he’s very alone in this hallway (save for some coils of rope), the heat turns into curiosity with a little bit of something else. It’s that something else, and maybe that evilness that he can’t quash inside him, that leads Benjy down the hall towards the sound. It’s dark in the hallway, but there are lit lanterns flickering with just enough light that Benjy is able to make his way towards what can only be the crew’s cabins without making much noise. 

The door is open, but its dark enough that when Benjy freezes again in the shadows, neither of the men inside seem to notice him-though of course they seem a little too pre-occupied to notice anything. 

“Shall I blow the candle out?” A voice asks, deep in a way Benjy has never heard before. The voice’s owner moves into the light of the candle and Benjy recognizes him immediately-Amos, one of the only sailors who took the time to talk to him. From their brief interactions Benjy knew he had grown up poor somewhere in London and that his Indian parents had given him a “nice English name” in hopes that he could make it somewhere. His beauty was matched only by the kindness in his smile, and Benjy would be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined a similar sort of tryst with the man who was currently pulling his loose white shirt over his head.

“Leave it.” Another voice says, sharper and somehow even more lustful as a pair of strong tanned arms snake around Amos’s bare middle. Benjy has to stop himself from gasping as the other sailor comes into view, kissing the back of Amos’s neck. He was the tall one, with beautiful blonde curls Benjy always found himself staring at. Benjy didn’t even know his name and the other man made no moves to offer anything other than a polite “hello, sir.” and a nod whenever they crossed paths. His scowl was a constant whenever Benjy saw him, but now his mouth makes giggles as Amos hands him a previously unseen amber bottle. 

“I rarely get to see you when I fuck you, it’ll be such a nice treat for me.”

Amos laughs as all the breath in Benjy’s body leaves him.

“Presumptuous of you, Cassiel.”

“Is it?” Cassiel replies, handing Amos back the bottle and crossing around to the front of him to kiss him deeply on the mouth. Benjy tastes blood as he bites down hard on his bottom lip, his heartbeat is thudding in places he’d never felt come to life before. He knows he should leave, that what they’re doing is wrong and Benjy watching makes him wronger still, but his feet might as well be nailed into the boards beneath them. 

“Is it so wrong that I want to see what you look like when you make those lovely little sounds for me?”

“Dammit...” Amos’s sentence breaks off into a gasp as Cassiel slowly kisses down the front of his chest, falling to his knees in a way that makes the act look far more appealing than any prayer Benjy has ever uttered. 

“Are you going to answer my question, love?”

“You’ll be the ruin of me.”

Benjy watches as Cassiel smirks and without further fanfare, pulls down Amos’s trousers. In his profile view, he can’t quite see what’s happening, it’s only when Amos’s hands bury themselves in Cassiel’s blonde curls and a different sort of noise starts to emit from the room does Benjy put two and two together.

He was kissing him....down there. Was that a thing one could do? Surely it was, for it was happening in front of Benjy’s very eyes. It is suddenly too much, too private, too achingly unfamiliar. Benjy finds his feet and his senses, and scurries back down the hallway, his breath hard and his own trousers suddenly too tight. Benjy places two shaking hands on the highest rung he can reach, and, just as he’s about to pull himself back up towards the safety of his familiar and boring cabin, the boat lurches violently. The last thing Benjy remembers before the word goes black is the rung of the ladder breaking under his fingers.

[nadiaportia]

Prompt 1 - Hometown: “Never Over”

For @arcana-echoes​

Summary: A partisan on the run returns to their roots and with it the guilt over their family’s fate.

Word count: ~2000

Warnings for mentions of arson, death and war.

Considering it’s a tad depressing, I feel like “enjoy” is the wrong word but you know what I mean. And yay for this being the first thing I write for The Arcana in months and feel comfortable with posting! I went with a more flashback-esque approach than I originally intended to and hope it somewhat works out.

They reached Valanguer in the late afternoon, the sun already being more than midway on her journey to the horizon.

A group of people were lounging in the shadows of a large strawberry tree, the one just outside of the village. They saw them approach, but didn’t get up from their comfortable seats. A woman wore the sandy uniform of the Queen’s Men, but that didn’t necessarily have to mean something. It was most likely stolen from a dead corpse and paraded around like a trophy. Some Queen’s Men didn’t stand behind Jacinta’s words or those of her butchers. Ultimately that mattered little to Deirdra, to most of the people who have lost someone at the Loyalists’ hands, but in the moment that might’ve helped them not getting caught and sent to prison.

“There’s a hole in the jacket, right in the sternum.” Eugeni said to Pau, but loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

“Trash’s already been taken out, then.” Renée murmured grimly and kicked a rock out of her path. 

“Told ya, I didn’t see one single llagosta the entire day I was scouting here. They don’t come back to places which they already ransacked. Folks here got lucky though, their village looks better than the one a few days away from here. That place was burned to the ground, nothing but scorched earth.”

Deirdra swallowed and tensed up. They didn’t slow their step though, they knew what they had agreed to. They could’ve chosen to go with Arnau and Lluïsa and seek refuge in the forest but when Rut had come back with the news of the village being free of Loyalists, they knew that this is where they had to be - at least one more time, before death came either at the hand of a firing squad, a bayonet, a wound that wouldn’t close up with the help of magic or get infected regardless how much it was taken care of. Living in a dreamworld where home still looked like home wasn’t what Deirdra wanted.

Something passed by their legs and rubbed itself against them. 

Enkidu was looking up at them, his beady eyes so dark and yet warm that Deidra felt themself taw a bit. They bent over and picked the marten up, gently stroking his fur and holding him close to their chest.

Renée was the only one who approved them, perhaps the only one who felt at comfort doing so but Deirdra felt the others’ worried gazes on their back. Some of them had been in the same position, but regardless of that they all felt with them.

She didn’t say anything but just gently took Deidra`s wrist, caressing it with her thumb. A silent consolation, as reassuring as saying You’re not alone out loud.

The fields where the farmers would grow wheat had been left untouched, or maybe they had already recovered. It has been two years. Everything could’ve happened. Papá had said nothing of burning fields in the letters he, like many incarcerated sympathizers, smuggled out of the prisons where they sat in. It might’ve happened after they took him away. Maybe a villager would know more.

Deirdra had thought of the possibility of someone recognizing them. The marks on their face could be a giveaway, they and Jaume had been the only ones in Valanguer who had them. Maybe the villagers would assume they were from one of the cities, and they might not even recognize them, they had a growth spurt and perhaps the dark blue hair dye was enough to throw anyone off. 

Truth be told, Deirdra was wishing to not be confronted. It might be unbearable and make the experience more real. They had come back to look at the city, not to have someone discover that a lost child came back from the dead.

 Windows were opened cautiously when the group entered the village, and Rut was right; most houses still stood. 

Those that didn’t stood out even more.

Two old men were playing a card game on a shaggy table in front of a house, they looked up curiously when Deirdra and the others passed by them. 

An old woman peered out a door and immediately closed it with a bang as soon as she saw their dark green uniforms. 

Deirdra thought for a moment about potentially being ratted out by Loyalist supporters and forced themself to calm down. Unless the old woman had younger relatives, she wouldn’t be running out to meet the Queen’s Men. They had been gone for some time, or at least that’s what they hoped.

A young man came around a corner with quick paces. His dark curls clung to his forehead and a scar split his lower lip. His nose looked like it had been broken a couple of times, and his brown eyes were steely - but not exactly unwelcoming.

“Greetings, soldiers, Welcome to Valanguer. Are you passing through or looking for a place to rest?”

Llorenç was the son of the mayor, a few years older than Deirdra. Papá would’ve said whether or not he had been a good student, Mamá would’ve talked about everything he had been up to as a free time. 

Pau took up word, as the unofficial leader of the group due to being the most experienced and oldest.

“Greetings. Depends on whether your village is safe or not. My comrades and I would love some rest but if it’s not meant to be, then we will search for our luck in the next village.”

There was no ‘next village’. Rut had told them all so just a few minutes ago.

Llorenç knew that too.

“Would a night be enough? I assume you’re on your way to the capital.”

“Yep.”

“We should talk inside my home, please follow me.”

As Llorenç led them down the street and to the mayor’s house, he introduced himself. He has been acting mayor since last year.

“Last winter some Queen’s Men from the capital came down here. Looking for insurgents and sympathizers. They took the mayor to prison for supposedly providing them with aid and food.”

His mother. Deirdra didn’t give their condolences, they didn’t tear their eyes from the ground. They thought looking at what the war had done to home would be hard to bear but not as hard as it was in reality. It was easier to bow your head and see the dirt that was the same everywhere. And yet they saw the fountain, a ruin of what it had been before where the children used to play when the summers were particularly hot.

The mayor’s house was small, smaller than Renée’s home had been back in the capital, and not all fifteen could fit in the room that served as the mayor’s office. Pau motioned for Rut and, after a brief moment of hesitance, Deirdra to come along with him. They passed Enkidu to Renée who gently stroked his head and followed Pau inside while the others remained outside.

Llorenç’s eyes hung on them for a moment, but there was no flash of recognition in them. He poured himself and his visitors fermented arboç juice.

“I personally have no love for the Queen’s Men. Filthy pillaging murderers, all of them, but the ones who do it because their lives in the city were too boring… those bastards are the scourge upon this land.” He sighed. “But not all people in here think like I do, even in villages like these there are some sympathizers for the Loyalist cause -- even if that “cause” is just killing rebellious youths.” 

Deirdra felt a knot in their stomach. The arboç juice tasted bitter despite its sweetness. Jaume had been such a rebellious youth, and how had his story ended? With a hole in the back of his skull, the most cowardly way to kill someone.

“You leave at sunrise. The Queen’s Men torched the school building that same winter and we don’t have the resources to rebuild it, but it should provide enough shelter for the night.

A shiver crawled down Deirdra’s neck and spine and instead of listening in on what the mayor had to say, they focussed on the flavor of the arboç. They had never particularly liked it but now it was a welcome memory of days long gone that would never return.

They left Llorenç’s home by the time the sun was already kissing the horizon. The sunset was beautiful to behold, the colorful hues overlapping perfectly and fading from orange to red to pink to purple to dark blue. If one looked up, the ruins of Valanguer weren’t visible anymore. 

Deirdra walked the streets with their companions, both giving them a worried look but not daring to approach the issue. 

“It looks better than some other places we’ve been to.” Rut finally said slowly and earned a sharp look from Pau.

“Don’t wander off too far and-”

“Look out, just in case. Don’t be up to any bullshit. I know.”

The both gave each other a look but let them be. Without another word Deirdra turned around and left them behind. 

Valanguer was small, so it didn’t take a lot to reach their destination, but given how often Deidra stopped to look at the houses, they had to admit to themselves they were stalling quite mercilessly. 

Some houses were deserted, the broken windows and kicked-in doors poorly repaired. Those that weren’t reminded them of turtle shells, a refuge where its inhabitants could lock themselves in until danger had passed. The Queen’s Men probably passed by a lot more often than they had at first thought -- maybe they had just left, or were already on their way. Valanguer was a two day trip away from a small town that was known to be full of Loyalist sympathizers, it was a surprise the surrounding lands weren’t infested with llagostes. 

They had left nothing of where the Margalit-Araya used to live. In a village that was burnt to the ground, one blackened ruin didn’t stand out a lot, but here, where mercy had prevailed (until now that was), it stuck out like a sore thumb. There must’ve been nothing left to salvage, and Deirdra felt actual pain at the thought of what had all been lost in the flames. They stood in front of the ruins of their childhood home for a long time, refusing to turn away in an act of self-imposed torture. 

Maybe if they hadn’t left on a whim that night and stayed instead they would’ve been able to take both Papá and Mamá away from here, even if it would’ve ultimately been against their wishes because leaving Valanguer, their home, left leaving behind their lives and leaving behind Jaume, and especially the latter was something neither would have wanted in their sentimentality. And where had they all ended up? Either dead, in prison or on the run, from both those responsible for their -- everyone’s, because they were hardly the only ones -- misery and their own guilt.

Footsteps made them twitch and just from the sound of it, they knew who it was.

“The others said I should leave you alone but I don’t think that’s the right thing to do.”

Renée’s hand rubbed their back and Deirdra felt her put her head against her shoulder. 

“This isn’t how I wanted you to see my home.” Their throat felt dry, like sandpaper, but also surprisingly steady. Deirdra was glad to not feel the need to cry.

“I’m so sorry.” Renée’s lips gently touched their temple and her hand, rough and with calluses, took a hold of Deirdra’s. “When this is over--” She paused, unsure of what to say.

Deirdra turned to look at her and allowed Renée to caress their face, wrap her arms around their neck and pull them close in a hug.

When this is over. They all talked a lot about how things would be when this would be over. Everything destroyed would be repaired, Queen Jacinta chased out of the country and back to her Calpacian liege lords, tail between her legs like any good vassal, and the Orioli would be truly free.

But for Deirdra it wouldn’t be over. And they had the feeling that it would never truly be.

[aesthetic4ngel]

Letters.

Yuta Nakamoto x Reader !

2.7k Words !!

Primarily Fluff with hints of Angst! (swearing and very brief hint towards sex)

Summary — You & Yuta met when you were children. However after a long time you two finally reunite rather suddenly and realise that there’s a possibility you two could work out after all.

A/N: Hey angels! I’d appreciate if you’d let me know what you think of this one-shot! It’s my first ( properly written & uploaded ) fic! Not to mention, I’m curious yet anxious to know how well this is perceived! 🖤 also let me know if you would like a spicy part 2!

This was loosely inspired by an 80’s movie!

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ .⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⋆ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⋆ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀. ⠀ ⋆ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

Osaka prefecture, Japan, somewhere your family absolutely loved visiting every year for their summer vacation, the city was filled to the brim with; modern architecture mixed with traditional Japanese buildings, hearty cultural cuisine, nightlife. Osaka had it all. However, the beaches were amazingly unforgettable, the white sand and how it complimented the crystal clear ocean was something that would always remain in the memory of your household.

Speaking of your household, your parents were very fortunate to be very successful business folk, both managing a business that they had bought many years ago, the duo also owned shares in many other popular companies globally and to put it bluntly? Your family were mega rich. Your parents had it all, from expensive cars, to a big mansion. To be painfully honest, they didn’t expect to have a child and it was a shock when your mother had found out she was pregnant. In fact, they didn't really want to have any children at all, your parents were the workaholic type, constantly focusing on company and shares matters and whatnot, that's all that was important in their little business savvy minds.

So, that ultimately meant that your parents didn't really pay much attention to you, unless it was absolutely necessary, for example when you had wandered off in a store, curiosity getting the best of you, their voices calling your name pretending like they cared — you know, situations like that. There was one thing you were appreciative of and that happened to be the holidays to Osaka, it provided fresh air for you, both literally and mentally. Your favourite part was the beach, a youth like you would find yourself being too engulfed in making sand castles to ever notice the world around her, it was your escape from your life. . . Getting lost in your imagination, your innocent eight year old mind naively worrying about how your castle should look, like this was something important but finally you could bask in the glory of this calming moment of peace. Until. . .

"KONICHIWA!"

You let out a gasp, clearly startled, "You scared me!. . . What do you want? I'm trying to build this!" huffing, you turned to face the person whom had disrupted your attempts at sculpting the perfect sandcastle, folding your arms out of annoyance but your expression immediately softened when you realised who the voice belonged to, it was a boy.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I-I just wondered if you want to play?" He stood there with a frown, his high pitched voice becoming quiet when the realisation hit him that he shouldn't have approached you and spoken so abruptly like that.

"Well, would you like to help me build this?" You looked up at him with a smile, easily forgiving. Taking his hand, you gently pulled him down so he was sitting beside your frame, the two of you exchanged a toothy smile, before beginning to work on finishing your already halfway completed sand castle.

You found yourself and your new friend talking and giggling for what felt like hours, whilst working hard on completing the build, it was obvious that the two of you shared a lot of things in common; such as what you watch on television, likes and dislikes, upon many other things. It felt amazing to finally have someone to talk to.

"Soooooo, what's it like where you live?" You had always been curious about the Japanese culture and how everyone lived and frankly, you wanted to know everything there was to know, just so you could brag about it to your snobby friends back at the lavish private school you attended.

"It's okay, I mean, my house isn't that big but it's still home," the boy replied with a weak smile, which made you frown and look away, for the first time you actually felt guilty for ever asking such a personal question, that didn’t sound as intruding in your mind. Nevertheless you panicked a little, anxious that he was offended so you tried your best to make a smooth recovery with the conversation.

"You'll always have me y'know! I know I live far away and I'm going back home tomorrow but just know that I'll always be here for you," finally smiling, you nudged the boy playfully with your elbow to cheer him up, truthfully, you hated how you had to go back home tomorrow, back to school, back to being ignored, having nobody, it hurt — you didn’t want to leave this boy who actually enjoyed spending time with you.

"How will we talk if we'll never actually see one another?" He spoke up, raising his eyebrow in confusion, thinking for a moment before suddenly standing up, his eyes lighting up at his genius idea, "I know! Why don't we write to one another? Then we can always talk!"

"That's a great idea! I—" you were suddenly cut off by a voice that could be heard in the distance, "musuko! It's time to go home!" The voice was aged and you only assumed it belonged to the boys mother. Your attention was shifted due to his frantic search of his pockets, trying to find something that he could write on, eventually he pulled out a piece of scrunched up paper and a pencil. ( who knows why he had a pencil and some paper in his swimming shorts ) He scribbled some words and numbers down before swiftly handing it to you.

"Wait! Before you go, what's your name?" Your small self called out, comprehending that after all of the talking and enjoying each other’s company, you never learnt what the boys name was, yet you had told him your name, I guess both of you got caught up on more exciting topics.

"Yuta! Yuta Nakamoto!" He shouted in response, jogging up to his parents' shabby car before turning back to face you, "Don't forget me!" He shouted again, his tone sincere — smiling and waving goodbye before getting into the car, and just like that, he was gone.

With a weak smile, you straightened out the dishevelled note, your smile gradually growing wider upon reading what was written down, it was Yuta's address, you clutched the note and held it to your chest letting out a relieved sigh, before hastily running back to the holiday home your family owned that resides next to the beach.

~"Don't forget me!"~

It had been weeks since your return from Osaka and there you sat, at your perfect and polished white desk where homework would normally be sprawled out all over the table, your head down getting on with work, but this time? You were there for a different reason and that reason was to write to the boy you met in Osaka, Yuta Nakamoto. You smiled, looking down at the note which had his address scribbled on it, getting lost in your own thoughts momentarily. However, instead of procrastinating for any longer, you finally began to write the anticipated letter, crossing your fingers, hoping that Yuta and you would remain in contact.

Present Day. . .

Fortunately for you, that wish you had crossed your fingers for? Hoping and praying for? It was granted. Yuta immediately wrote back and this continued back and fourth. Suddenly, you felt like luck was on your side, everything was going just how you planned and finally, finally, you had that friend you had been waiting for all of your life, as cheesy as it sounded.

All throughout your childhood you confided in Yuta, he may not have been there physically to support you but he certainly felt like he was there spiritually — just how you trusted Yuta with your thoughts, so too did he with yourself. The Japanese boy had informed you about how he had picked up the hobby of football, how he hoped to carry that on and make a career out of it some day. As much as you wanted to support him, you had this odd feeling that despite his passion for sport, he wouldn’t pursue it. As for you? Well, you didn’t really have a choice in the matter in regard to your future or your occupation, it was all mapped out thanks to your overbearing parents, you had to become a successful business woman. . . You acted like that was a terrible idea through the span of your teenage years but the older you became, the more you realised that your parents only wanted what was best for you, for you to be successful like them and you were appreciative for that, because it finally felt like they cared for you, loved you.

Your family resumed the yearly vacations to Osaka, so that fortunately meant both Yuta and yourself could meet again, it was like the two of you practically grew up together and with every passing year, Yuta was growing into a handsome young man and you couldn’t help but develop this small crush on him at fifteen years old, it was cringeworthy yet cute looking back on it.

You honestly assumed this crush would have subsided but boy were you wrong, with every letter that arrived to your manor, with every word your eyes read, your heart would skip a beat and just as quickly as you became friends; you fell in love with Yuta just as fast. The next trip to Osaka was on your sixteenth birthday and it was a blur, all you remember is Yuta whispering a quick “close your eyes,” and the next thing you knew were his lips were on your own, they molded together perfectly with yours. Then his hands; how his hands curiously wandered your body, how yours did the same in return. It was blissful but it was short lived.

“I passed.”

“You passed what?”

“I passed the audition.”

“O-Oh, you never told me about an audition.”

“I wasn’t going to... y/n, we can’t meet again after this, that kiss last year? It was a mistake, I don’t like you in that way, when you go home, don’t write to me again, don’t call or text, because I won’t answer.”

That last conversation played repeatedly like a broken record within your mind, you still could not begin to fathom why Yuta had turned, it was almost as if a switch flipped, the way he left you standing there on the beach, sobbing alone, after that you definitely did not send him another stupid letter. Yet here you were present day; a fully grown adult, sitting in your parents holiday home in Osaka, all alone, dwelling on the past like usual. Then it occurred to you how you used to escape your thoughts all those years ago, by relaxing on the beach.

“I’m sorry, this area is blocked Miss.” the security guard held out his hand, blocking you from proceeding, making your face twist into confusion, ‘since when did they start closing the beach?’ You thought.

The guard was quick to pick up on your internal question, after all, it was written all over your face, “this beach is closed because a member of NCT 127 wants to be here without fans bothering him.”

“Who?” This heightened your confusion, who were NCT 127? You had no idea at all, it had been a while since you visited Japan so you weren’t up to date with the newest celebrities and pop culture or anything for that matter.

“Miss, I cannot give you access-” the security man trailed off, ranting — you stopped listening, instead preoccupied with this man you noticed in the distance beyond the barriers. His hair bleached blonde, dark and shaven along the sides, his presence ( although far away ) was familiar and you had no idea why; you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

You hadn’t even noticed when the mysterious man had approached you and the guard, the “drama” taking place outside of the barriers clearly catching his attention. Immediately Yuta knew it was you, he could tell a mile off, as soon as he heard your voice he froze, feeling his heart skip a beat and he knew he had to investigate further.

“Let her in. I know her.” It was rather blunt but that’s all Yuta managed to communicate, he was shocked, it had been so long but regardless, he wanted to keep a cold and distant exterior, he wanted to seem tough for some reason, maybe he was used to doing so when having to deal with clingy fans.

For a moment you were panicking, trying to piece together how you knew this man who was famous but as soon as you heard the guard mumble a quick “whatever you say, Nakamoto,” waving you in. That’s when it hit you like a ton of bricks, this was Yuta, this man with his eyebrow shaved, eyebrow piercing, clearly a celebrity, was Yuta.

Rage filled you quickly, especially when he flashed a smirk in your direction, you couldn’t believe that after all of this time, after practically abandoning you, he was acting so nice, like nothing ever happened! Then again, you couldn’t help but stare, he was so handsome, not to mention, extremely hot too, this look he was sporting, definitely suited him.

So when the two of you finally reached the beach, you did what was appropriate — slap him. Your actions made Yuta let out a small groan in response, his hand coming up to his cheek.

“What the fuck was that for? You should be grateful! Without me coming to the rescue you wouldn’t have been allowed on the beach!”

“How dare you! After all these years, you had left me crying and begging for you to come back! Now here you are saying I should be grateful? As if Yuta!” There was no hesitation to get all up in his face, you were feeling so many emotions at once in that moment, it was overwhelming to say the least, you genuinely believed that you would never see him again, yet here you were, standing on the exact same beach where the two of you had first met as children.

“I left you to protect you y/n!”

“Protect me?! Don’t even try and lie! You said you didn’t even like me! Then you left me! and look who gets all of the luck now, Yuta Nakamoto who’s famous! Oh and who’s a major asshole too!”

Within no time, this turned into a screaming match between you both, many times you had gone to slap Yuta again and every single time his hands caught your wrists, gripping both of them tightly, just so you couldn’t wriggle out of his grip.

But what happened next? You didn’t expect that at all. . . It was an all too familiar feeling. Your eyes widened in shock, your hands wanted to push him away but you couldn’t, having Yuta’s lips meet yours once more made your eyes flutter closed, just like that you were weak at the knees for this man again, although you hated to admit it. Yuta slowly loosened his grip, gradually moving his hands elsewhere, deciding on wrapping them around your waist but your hands made their way around his neck, eventually slithering down to rest upon his chest, the kiss turning into a makeout all because of Yuta’s tongue forcefully pushing its way past your lips, he was so eager to explore what he had been missing. Before things could get too heated, you pulled away, panting, regaining your breath.

“Just because you kissed me, doesn’t mean I forgive you.” It was your turn to smirk now, you enjoyed how hot and bothered Yuta was, your fingers toying with the buttons on his shirt, teasing him.

“Seriously y/n, I’m sorry, I was an idiot, I wanted to protect you from everything, I didn’t want you receiving hate from my company or any fans, I want to start again because I do love you and as cringy as it sounds, I’ve always loved you. . . So please, will you give me a second chance?” Yuta pleaded, biting his lip, preparing himself for the worst possible outcome, you could easily leave him, exactly how he left you but you weren’t like that, you were in love with Yuta.

“Of course I’ll give you a second chance you idiot!” You giggled, tilting your chin to plant a small peck on his lips before smirking once again.

“Now why don’t we continue what you started back at my vacation home, big boy?”

[sariasprincy-writes]

Hollow Point 36

One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three // Twenty-Four // Twenty-Five // Twenty-Six // Twenty-Seven // Twenty-Eight // Twenty-Nine // Thirty // Thirty-One // Thirty-Two // Thirty-Three // Thirty-Four // Thirty-Five // Thirty-Six (here) 

Chapter Thirty-Six At the End of All Things

The first time Sakura awoke, everything was hazy. Like she was in a thick fog, her head filled with clouds. There were voices just beyond and a beeping nearby that seemed to reverberate through her skull. Bright lights shined in her eyes, but she couldn’t find the strength to shield her vision from it. Then she faded out again.

The next time Sakura opened her eyes, her surroundings were much clearer. She was still groggy, her dreams and reality dancing on the same line until she didn’t know what was real and what was her imagination. It took her a few minutes to get her bearings, but when she finally blinked into focus, she instantly recognized the hospital room.

Like a knee-jerk reaction, adrenaline filled Sakura’s veins as she recalled brief flashes of the port. But one glance down at her hands and she saw they were free of handcuffs. She hadn’t been caught by the CIA.

What did catch her notice was she was no longer wearing a Kevlar vest. Instead, she had been changed into a standard hospital gown. There was a sheet tucked around her middle to keep her legs warm and an IV inserted into her arm. It was connected to a bag with a clear liquid inside, likely just fluids. And perhaps pain killers, she realized after a sharp ache lanced through her shoulder when she tried to move her arm.

Pulling back the collar of her gown, Sakura found the left side of her upper body was wrapped in bandages. Post-surgery. At least someone had removed the bullet. Though, she would need to get out of the hospital soon before the police were called and she was questioned. If they hadn’t been called already.

That’s when Sakura realized she was alone. Where was Kakashi?

Through the clear, sliding doors, she could see the nurses’ station down the hall. There were two nurses there now, but they were busy with paperwork. She watched them until the television on the wall behind the desk caught her attention. It was playing the morning news.

From her distance, she couldn’t read the captions, but the channel was showing a helicopter view of the warehouse in Newark. It was still dark, just before dawn, the shipping yard lit up by a handful of overhead spotlights as red and blue police lights flashed. The video was at least a few hours old. Just outside the hospital window, the sun was already peeking above the horizon.

In that moment, Sakura remembered Itachi. Her heartrate and blood pressure spiked as she recalled the blood that had been gathering around him while she had been forced to watch on, unable to help. She worried what had become of him, where he was now.

Pushing herself up in bed, Sakura searched the room for her personal items, specifically her phone. She could call Kakashi or Shikamaru. It would be the fastest way to learn if there had been any casualties in the CIA’s raid.

However, before Sakura could move to get out of bed, the door to her room slid open. Automatically she glanced towards the sound, only to freeze as she recognized the person in the doorway.

Tsunade.

Her adopted mother was exactly how Sakura remembered her. She had long, blonde hair she had pulled back away from her face with the exception of a few strands that had escaped to frame her intelligent, hazel eyes. Tsunade was approaching sixty now, but her youthful face didn’t look a day over fifty. She exuded authority and professionalism in her white doctor’s coat, and in that instant, Sakura suddenly knew exactly where she was. Tsunade’s hospital.

Her adopted mother didn’t immediately speak as she stepped into the room flanked by two younger doctors, likely interns, but her expression was stern and clear: Sakura was to say nothing.

“I see you are finally awake,” Tsunade said, her voice calm and professional. As if they were complete strangers. “Are you in any pain, Ms….?”

“Johnson,” Sakura replied after a small hesitation. “Sarah Johnson.” The most vague American name she could think of in that moment.

Tsunade glanced at one of her interns, ensuring the young male doctor wrote the name down in her file before she returned her attention to Sakura. “How’s your pain now?”

“Manageable,” Sakura replied on autopilot. She was still stunned to see her adopted mother before her so suddenly after these last few years of radio silence. Sakura couldn’t tear her eyes away.

As if Tsunade was simply her surgeon, she stepped forward and began going through a normal examination of Sakura’s injury, post-surgery. “You had some nasty shrapnel to your shoulder, but I was able to successfully remove all of it. The man who brought you in said you were hit by debris from a car accident across the street. Unfortunate place and time.”

Sakura wondered what the actual chances of that happening were. It was probably the first thing Kakashi had thought of when the ER nurses had asked what happened. Sakura knew Tsunade knew it was a lie too. Her adopted mother was smart enough to know a fragmented bullet when she saw one, but she was lying to keep Sakura’s cover. Both their covers. It was a lie to keep the police at bay.

“Do you know where he is now?” Sakura asked.

“I believe getting coffee. He should return shortly,” Tsunade answered, examining the line in her IV for kinks. “The damage to your shoulder was fortunately minimal, but it will take several weeks to heal and some months of physical therapy to regain full use.”

Tsunade turned away from her then, continuing her examination as she spoke to the interns, asking them questions and teaching them as she went along. All the while, Sakura kept her gaze on her, as if afraid if she even so much as blinked too long, Tsunade would vanish right before her eyes.

After a few minutes that seemed to stretch on for hours, the interns finally left. The room lapsed into silence as Tsunade scribbled notes down into her chart.

Eventually, Tsunade closed Sakura’s chart. She capped her pen and slipped it into the front pocket of her coat before she finally met Sakura’s gaze. “I’ve kept your gunshot wound quiet, but someone will recognize the injury soon. You need to leave before the police are called.”

Sakura barely heard her. “Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in over three years.”

“You had your mission,” Tsunade replied, her hazel eyes unaffected. “The rest was for you to finish.”

“And you didn’t think I might need support to do that?” Sakura asked, her confusion evident. “I’ve been calling you. For months now. Why didn’t you answer?”

“I taught you everything. I trained you to the best of my abilities. There was nothing more I could have done.”

Sakura let out a laugh that was more incredulous and exasperated than humorous. “You could have been there.”

“You were always meant to complete your mission alone.”

“Yes, but-”

“Enough, Sakura,” Tsunade interrupted. “We’re finished here.”

Her cold tone startled Sakura. She gave pause as Tsunade simply stared at her as if Sakura was nothing more than a boring piece of art. Slowly, one-by-one, the pieces began clicking into place. Cold dread filled Sakura as it dawned on her that she had put herself, Kakashi, Ino, Itachi in danger for a woman who saw her as nothing but a means to an end.

“You told Hashirama that you wanted a daughter, but he didn’t give me to you because you couldn’t have children,” Sakura said, her voice accusatory but calm compared to the raging storm building within her. “You wanted someone to train. Someone to take care of Hashirama because you couldn’t do it yourself. Not without getting caught.”

Tsunade’s face might as well have been carved from stone. “You did as directed. You completed your orders. You are released.”

Those words were like a slap across the face, but Sakura wasn’t given the chance to reply when the door to the room slid open again. It was Kakashi. He looked relieved to see her alert and conscious before he sensed the tension emanating from her. Concern briefly flickered behind his eyes before his gaze shifted to Tsunade.

She barely acknowledged him. Merely stepped towards the bed to mute the alarms on Sakura’s monitor before she slipped the IV out of her arm. “Don’t allow the nurses to see you when you leave,” Tsunade told her.

Then she was gone. Out the door and out of Sakura’s life. Perhaps forever.

Sakura could only sit there, her mouth slack and her eyes unfocused as she tried to process what had just happened. How everything she had believed her entire life could have shredded right before her eyes. It felt surreal, like a dream she couldn’t escape from.

White, hot anger flooded her heart and filled her veins like lightning. Betrayal stung like acid in her chest. She wanted to punch something, shoot something. Her fingers itched to wrap around the grip of a gun. She wanted to burn New York City to the ground.

Then, like a bubble, all that rage popped until she was left with nothing but a sinking sadness that buried deeper and deeper into her soul. It wrapped around her like a blanket, tumbling so deep she didn’t know if the feeling would ever leave her.

All those memories of her childhood burned bright in her mind’s eye. The smile on Tsunade’s face when she had brought Sakura home for the first time, her words of encouragement when Sakura failed and the pride in Tsunade’s eyes when she had succeeded. Grief sunk into Sakura’s chest like a heavy stone as she realized it had all been a lie. Tsunade had groomed Sakura to love and adore her until Sakura would do anything for the woman who had rescued her.

Sakura was certain she would have sat there in that hospital room, stuck in that single moment for the rest of her life, had the faint echo of footsteps not broken through her thoughts. She blinked back to herself as Kakashi stopped beside her bed. He looked like he wanted to reach out, but thought better of it.

“You okay?” he asked.

Sakura opened her mouth but not even a breath escaped. She didn’t know if he meant physically or mentally, but it didn’t matter. They needed to leave.

“We should get out of here,” Sakura said instead, suddenly itching to be out from this cramped, suffocating room.

A ghost of a frown crossed his mouth, but then it was gone as he slipped the backpack off his shoulder she hadn’t realized he had been carrying until now. Inside were a change of her clothes. He steadied her as she slipped into her jeans and shirt, the latter task he had to help her with after she realized she couldn’t lift her arm more than a few inches without a great deal of pain. He hung her jacket over her shoulders, leaving her sleeves empty before he collected the rest of her things.

Then together, they slipped out of the hospital unnoticed.

xx

The pair drove in silence for some time. The hospital was over twenty miles out of New York City. Sakura didn’t ask why Kakashi had taken her specifically to Tsunade. Had Sakura gone anywhere else the police would have been called, she would have been questioned and it would have led to a series of headaches that were best avoided from the beginning.

In the quiet, her mind rolled like heavy, thunder clouds. She replayed her conversation over with Tsunade, that piping hot rage sitting in her stomach like boiling water. Only to give way as her last moments with Itachi filled her memory. The hurt and betrayal and heartbreak in his eyes. She wondered if he had felt like she did now. Learning he had been used, he had been played.

Her stomach twisted sharply. The question of his fate hung heavy on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t find the courage to ask, afraid of the answer. Instead, she asked another burning question.

“What happened? After I was shot.”

Kakashi didn’t glance at her as he took the juncture to the next highway. “The CIA successfully took down Akatsuki. Everyone not killed was rounded up and arrested. Your plan to take out the major members of Akatsuki was a significant part in allowing the CIA to success. None of them showed with their men. Tobirama, Tenten and whoever else you called got them all. Everyone is dead but Kisame. He escaped to Egypt.”

Sakura hummed at that. “Call Temari. I want eyes on him.”

“You think he’ll retaliate against you for trying to kill him?”

“Not on American soil, but yes.”

Kakashi hummed his agreement. Then after a brief silence, he asked, “What about here? The Underground is in chaos. Now would be the perfect time to claim it.”

She fell quiet as she considered that. With Akatsuki in shambles and Hashirama dead, the Underground had a lot of availability now. It would be the perfect opportunity for her to take over the Eastern Coast. Which she was going to do. Just not in the way Kakashi was expecting.

“Tell Tobirama to take control of Hashirama’s assets. Tenten can have whatever territory is left over.”

Kakashi shot her a look of surprise. “Why would you do that?” When she replied with a meaningful glance, it dawned on him. “Because then they both owe you favors. You can control the Eastern Coast without having to manage it yourself.”

Sakura hummed her agreement.

“Then what will you do?” he asked.

Sakura thought about her next statement carefully. She thought about Tsunade’s parting words, feeling that painful betrayal again. “I want you to spread the word that Tsunade is dead.”

Kakashi glanced at her sharply until the tires bumped over the lane dividers on the highway. He jerked the wheel to straighten their course. “What? After all this, you’re giving everything up?”

She shook her head. “No, just her,” she said. Her voice was soft but she wasn’t able to completely keep the bitterness out of her voice. “From now on, I will be known as Sakura. I won’t give Tsunade the credit any longer.”

He peered in her direction again but said nothing as they continued their drive. The pain in Sakura’s shoulder was beginning to worsen as the drugs faded, but it paled in comparison to the ache in her chest, until she could no longer stand not knowing.

“Where’s Itachi?” she asked quietly.

A heavy silence passed before Kakashi answered, “He was taken to a hospital under the CIA’s protection. I spoke to my contacts there. He’s alive,” he said, causing hope to bloom in her chest. It died on his next words. “But he’s in a coma. He took a bullet to the stomach. They don’t know how well he’ll recover yet or if he’ll even…”

“Or if he’ll even wake up,” Sakura finished, feeling that hole in her heart slowly rip open little-by-little.

Kakashi peered at her, but she didn’t dare look at him. She couldn’t stand his pity at the moment. “I’m sorry, Sakura.”

“Don’t be,” she murmured. “This is my fault. I did this.”

They didn’t speak the rest of the way to Sakura’s apartment. Simply sat in silence as Kakashi steered them across the bridge and back into New York. Before them, the impressive skyline towered on the horizon, but Sakura didn’t see. She was numb to the world around her. Exhausted, both physically and mentally.

It was only once her door opened that Sakura realized they were parked in her underground garage. Kakashi helped her out of her seat before he adjusted her jacket around her shoulders to hide the bulky bandages, lest anyone should pass them.

Blindly, Sakura allowed Kakashi to lead her through the building until they reached her apartment. Kakashi unlocked the door and closed it behind them as Sakura kicked off her shoes. She said nothing as she made a beeline for her bed, letting her jacket drop somewhere on the floor before she slipped under the covers.

Kakashi was at her side a minute later with a spare bottle of prescription pain meds she kept in her medicine cabinet. She popped two in her mouth and greedily sucked down the bottle of water he handed her before she curled up on her uninjured side, her back to him. He simply pulled the covers around her.

“Can I get you anything else?” Kakashi murmured.

Sakura thought of Itachi, but the image of him lying in some government hospital unconscious and hooked up to life support stole her voice. Swallowing, she shook her head. “No.”

She vaguely heard him set something on her nightstand. A moment later, she realized it was her cell phone. “Call me if you need me.”

She said nothing in reply. Merely stared at the wall on the other side of her bed as she listened to Kakashi’s footsteps cross the room before the deadbolt slid back into place.

Sakura didn’t know how long she laid there. The meds took the worst of the bite out of her injury and exhaustion weighed on her like a physical weight, but her mind refused to rest. Her thoughts kept replaying the events at the warehouse. She wondered how she could have changed things, what she could have done differently, but the look on Itachi’s face wouldn’t leave her. It was burned into her mind.

What had she done?

Curling further into herself, Sakura opened her mouth to let out a heavy sigh. What escaped instead was a shuddering breath. And before she could stop it, a wave of emotion washed through her, picking her up and sweeping her out the sea before the currents pulled her under. Her anguish spilled out of her until it clogged her throat and made it near impossible to breathe, filling every corner of her empty apartment.

Or so she thought.

For from the living room, Kakashi said silently on the couch. He listened to each sob that echoed from the bedroom, until the sun was high and exhaustion finally overcame them both. It would be nearly sunrise before they would wake again.

xx

Three weeks later…

Sakura blew the steam off her coffee mug. She waited until it was cool enough not to burn her tongue before she finally took a sip and deemed the flavor to her liking.

Inside the coffeehouse, businessmen and women were hurrying in and out. The little shop was tucked between a large bank and a high rise of offices, making it a popular stop for those on their way into a meeting. A woman stopped beside Sakura and dumped in an unhealthy amount of cream and sugar before she quickly left, apparently running late for something.

With her shoulder still recovering, Sakura had to do most things one-handed. She set her to-go cup down on the counter before she snapped the lid over the top. Before leaving, she checked her phone.

There was a new message from Tenten. She was still on time to getting her shipments dropped off. Tobirama would be back in town tonight to update Sakura on the other shipments leaving Cairo. His plane was to land a few hours after sundown.

Satisfied, Sakura pocketed her phone again before she grabbed her coffee and made for the exit. A man in a nice business suit held the door for her, smiling something a little too friendly as he looked her purposely. Sakura was hardly fazed. She merely returned the smile before she slipped by without a word.

On the sidewalk, she paused to look for Kakashi’s car as she took a sip of her coffee. She didn’t know where Kakashi had gone in the morning rush, but she waited patiently. Ever since he had picked her up from the hospital, he had hardly left her side. He would be there soon.

Lowering her coffee cup, Sakura gazed about the downtown streets lazily. After a few minutes with no sight of Kakashi, she made to shuffle her coffee into her still-healing arm to pull out her phone when something caught her eye.

No, not something. Someone.

It was Shisui. He was standing across the busy street, leaning against the side of a sleek, black Lexus. She recognized it as Itachi’s. But it wasn’t the car that caught her notice. It was Shisui himself. He looked terrible. Absolutely haggard with dark circles under his eyes and his skin a little too pale, even for a New Yorker. He looked like he hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten in weeks.

And like a candle blowing out in the wind, the warmth left Sakura’s body. She knew what had happened.

They had pulled the plug on Itachi.

She couldn’t explain how she knew it from that single look from Shisui, but she was absolutely certain. Itachi was gone.

As if someone had pressed pause on the television, everything stilled. The people around them, the cars on the city streets. The entire world stopped and held its breath.

Then Shisui turned away and slipped into Itachi’s Lexus. Without a single word, he simply drove away, leaving Sakura alone on the busy sidewalk, the coffee in her cup tasting like mud and ash. The grey city seemed to become even dimmer, like all color had drained out of the world.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Sakura pushed herself to focus on her work, getting shipments ordered, organized and delivered. Her day was over before she realized it and she was forced to face her new reality.

She sent Kakashi away. He had been confused but he didn’t deny her request, and for the first time since she had been shot, Sakura was alone.

She sat in the kitchen chair she had pulled up to the window and sipped on tequila as she tried her best not to think about the shirt in the back of her closet – the one that smelled like Itachi – until suddenly, she realized she was drunk. Apparently, chain-drinking did that.

The urge to give in, to wrap herself up in the last bit of clothing that reminded her of his gentle kisses and tender touch, nearly overwhelmed her, and likely would have if her phone hadn’t abruptly pinged.

It was from Tobirama. He had landed.

Suddenly, Sakura had a far worse idea.

Less than an hour later, a taxi dropped Sakura off in Queens in front of a large house with tall, iron gates. The guard had let her in on-sight, allowing the driver to pull up the well-lit, circular drive to stop before the great mansion.

As Sakura stepped out of the cab, she admired the home. Tobirama had made a few modifications, including more lights that accentuated the stone work. It looked much classier than when Hashirama had lived there.

At the door, a butler greeted her and accepted her jacket. He made himself scarce when Tobirama appeared at the banister and descended the stairs. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he had changed into a grey sweater and a nice pair of cotton, white pants after his flight. Something comfortable but classy lest someone dropped in late. Someone like her.

“Sakura,” Tobirama greeted. His tone was welcoming but obviously curious. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. Is everything alright?”

She had tried to fill the gaping hole in her chest with tequila, but she smiled nonetheless, hoping she appeared more sober than she felt. “Yes. I hope I’m not intruding.”

His confusion lingered, but he gestured for her to follow him anyway. He led her to the very den she had sat with Hashirama before. Only now it felt different. Less intimidating and more focused. Like an actual office should be.

Inside, a maid was dusting a tall painting of a beautiful forest with horses grazing in the middle. As soon as the worker saw them enter, she quickly stepped off her stool and excused herself, taking the folding steps with her.

Sakura didn’t pay her much mind. Instead she gazed at the painting as she briefly wondered what its significance was. It certainly hadn’t been there while Hashirama lived there, but the thought was fleeting. She turned away when she heard Tobirama pull out two crystal glasses before he poured a couple of fingers in each.

Only after they made themselves comfortable on the lush, leather couch across the room did he finally ask, “Are you really so keen to know how my trip to Egypt went?”

Frankly, Sakura couldn’t care less about Cairo at the moment, but for pretenses, she inclined her head.

They sipped their whiskey as Tobirama updated her. He informed her of Temari’s success in seamlessly taking over Akatsuki’s old territory and contacts, and Tobirama’s latest attempt to track down Madara’s whereabouts. Of course, it had led to another dead end like it had for the last several weeks.

“I know the bastard was there,” Tobirama told her, a small frown on his lips. “But he slipped out before I could track him down.”

“Do you suspect where he went?” she asked.

“Hong Kong.”

Sakura hummed in reply as she sipped more of her drink. The whiskey settled warmly in her stomach, but it did nothing to ease the cold in her chest.

“Once I get my shipments squared away here, I can go there and follow his trail-”

“No,” she shook her head, much to Tobirama’s surprise. “Let him stay there.”

His brows furrowed. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Madara has contacts there that neither of us have. If we go after him, he’ll have us killed on-sight,” she told him, briefly studying the amber liquid in her glass. “There’s one thing I’m certain of and it’s that Madara wants both of us dead; for what we did to Akatsuki and for what we did to Izuna. Let him come to us when he finally decides he can’t live in a world with us in it. For now, he can rot in his hole.”

She finished her statement by swallowing the rest of her drink in one large gulp. Then she stood to place the glass on the desk, out of the way.

“And in the meantime, what do we do?” Tobirama asked.

Sakura turned back around to face him upon his question. She didn’t reply as she eyed him, taking in his relaxed form as he lounged on the leather sofa. The hand grasping his whiskey rested on the arm of the couch while the other rested beside his thigh.

In this setting, he was more handsome than she could ever remember him being. Money looked good on him. And so did she, she decided.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” Sakura replied. Her hand skimmed up the front of her blouse until she found the top button. Then she popped it open.

Tobirama’s glass stilled halfway to his mouth as she approached him. Automatically his gaze was drawn to her cleavage as it was slowly exposed to his viewing. He swallowed thickly before he made a point of meeting her gaze.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice carefully controlled.

Sakura shot him a look as if he had asked the dumbest question in the world before she dropped her shirt to the floor and slipped into his lap. Even with only her lacy, wine-colored bra keeping her decent, his eyes never left hers. He stubbornly kept his hands by his sides.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Sakura countered smoothly.

Something akin to a scowl crossed his face. “I thought we had agreed this was a bad idea.”

Her hands settled on the firm muscles of his chest as her gaze briefly flickered down to his mouth before meeting his gaze once more. When she spoke, her voice had turned soft to something almost vulnerable. “Don’t you ever wish we could go back to the way we started? Before everything got so complicated.”

An unusually serious expression crossed Tobirama’s face. His gaze searched hers, as if wondering where they would be now if things between them hadn’t ended so abruptly. She didn’t know what he saw in her eyes – if he saw anything at all – but then he was downing the rest of his whiskey. He set the glass aside before he twisted a hand into her hair and forced her mouth to meet his.

There was nothing gentle about the way Tobirama held her. He secured an arm around her waist before he picked her up and laid her against the soft leather of the couch, careful of her still-healing shoulder. As soon as she was settled, he was on her again, his knee pressing into the space between her legs as he bit a path down her throat. A sharp gasp escaped her when he found a sensitive spot, but the noise was quickly muffled as he crushed his mouth against hers again.

His kiss felt like drowning. Like she was being pulled beneath the current, her head inches or perhaps miles below the surface. She didn’t know if it eased or just numbed the pain in her chest, but she had the fleeting thought that if it could distract her from her grief if only for a few minutes, then she would take everything she could.

Just as the world had taken everything from her.

tbc…

[seasonofthegeek]

It’s About Time

This drabble is a ko-fi request from the outstanding @astrangetypeofchemistry featuring Marinette and Nino with the fanfic mash-up tropes: time travel and accidental virgin. :D

___

Nino blinked and he was suddenly watching Ms. Bustier as she explained an upcoming group project. Either he was having a very realistic dream of his past self or something had gone very, very wrong. He glanced to the side and Adrien’s smile shifted from pleasant to concerned. 

“You didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?”

“Huh?”

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m...not sure.” He stared at his best friend who was at least a decade and a half younger than he’d been when Nino saw him at dinner only a few hours ago. He turned enough to look back at Marinette in the hopes that she knew what was happening but seeing his wife as her fifteen year old self was too jarring to comprehend in the moment. He turned back and stared down at his desk, ignoring Adrien’s worried glances.

This wasn’t right. This was the past. He shouldn’t be here, not like this. 

Alix. This was her fault. He was going to kill her.

He glared back at her but she was just as young as everyone else in the class and seemed completely oblivious to his staring.

“Okay, so maybe not,” he muttered.

He looked down at his wrist and the Turtle Miraculous was missing from the grouping of bracelets he hadn’t worn in years. He swallowed hard. The scars he’d grown accustomed to seeing on his hands were no longer there and the pink glittery nail polish his daughter had sloppily applied before bed was missing from his middle and ring finger. He wasn’t just seeing the past, he was his past self. 

He thrust his hand into the air. “I need a hall pass please!”

There were chuckles from around the room but Ms. Bustier nodded, though he could see the confusion flit through her eyes. Younger Nino would’ve never interrupted her like that but he was too freaked out to play pretend at the moment. He grabbed the pass and escaped the classroom as quickly as he could.

___

In another time...

Nino groaned at the incessant beeping of an alarm. It couldn’t be time for school already; he was too tired. He felt like he’d only just fallen asleep. He reached out to where his his phone should’ve been on his nightstand and his knuckles bumped something that clattered to the floor with the wail of an electronic siren. Nino bolted upright, heart pounding, and saw a toy firetruck laying upside down on the floor in front of the nightstand, lights flashing.

Had Chris snuck that into his bedroom at some point? He didn’t remember seeing it before he went to sleep.

“I thought you were kidding about making me wake up this early too,” a voice mumbled from the other side of him. “I don’t wanna go to the gym. ‘m a sleepy bug.”

As if in a horror movie, Nino felt like he was turning in slow motion towards the voice. In the dim morning light coming in through the curtained windows, he could make out a mop of dark hair and the rest of the person was hidden under a pile of blankets. He jolted away and fell out of the bed. He yelped as he landed on the firetruck and the sirens started all over again. A plastic pony and a toy cat tumbled from the nightstand as it shook from his fall and landed in Nino’s lap. The alarm on his phone finally snoozed and he struggled to catch his breath.

“What in the world?!” The blankets rustled and a familiar face was looking down at him with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

Nino felt what little air he’d gotten back in his lungs rush out again when he recognized who was on the bed, though she didn’t look quite right somehow. “Marinette?!” His voice cracked and he scrambled backwards, belatedly realizing he was only wearing a pair of boxer briefs. He tried to cover himself awkwardly as she reached over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. 

“What just happened? You’re going to wake up Violet.” She rubbed her eyes and Nino took in the shorter hair. The mussed ends were tipped in red just above her shoulders. When had she changed it and why was she in his bed?! 

She stretched and Nino felt his face heat up when he realized she was wearing a very small, very thin tank top and little else. This is not how these dreams usually went. That thought reminded him that he’d had a certain type of dream about Marinette, many dreams in fact, and it made his skin flush hot and he tried to look anywhere but her and ignore the way his body was reacting. The familiar feeling of guilt edged in to dampen his teenage hormones and he latched onto it as he tried to find his bearings.

“What...you can’t...why are you here?” He looked around the room wildly and didn’t see anything recognizable. “Where am I?”

Marinette eyed him worriedly before turning her head towards the closed bedroom door. “Wayzz, Tikki, I think we need you!”

“Wayzz? How do you know about Wayzz?” Nino looked down at his wrist to see the Miraculous in place where he wore it whenever Ladybug called on him. He’d never gotten to take it home though. Nothing made sense in this dream. He stood up shakily and spotted a robe draped over an armchair in the corner. He grabbed it and pulled it on, realizing belatedly it must belong to this Marinette who wasn’t quite the Marinette he knew. The pink ruffles tickled his neck and he pushed them away and felt a scruffy beard along his jaw. What the hell was going on?

The kwamis appeared through the door and Wayzz immediately circled Nino.  “Oh, this isn’t right at all,” he murmured. 

“Little dude, you have to help me. I don’t know how I got here but this isn’t me,” Nino pleaded. He cast a sideways glance at Marinette and felt his skin run hot all over again at the thought that they’d been in bed together with very little on.

Wayzz frowned. “There’s something surrounding him that...hmm, perhaps? But no, that would be unwise; however, not impossible. Nino, how old do you think you are?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Oh.” Marinette’s eyes went round with surprise. “Oh! No wonder he’s so freaked out. I’m going to kill Alix.” She pulled the blankets up around her shoulders self-consciously. “I thought she was joking about being able to do this!”

Tikki fluttered over to Nino but quickly went back to Marinette when he flinched. “Oh no, is Fluff up to her tricks again?”

“When we were at dinner last night, Nino and I were joking about wishing we knew how we felt back when we were younger since we wasted so much time not being together. She said she could fix that with one little portal and we all laughed but...” Marinette scrunched her face. “This doesn’t make sense though. Why send younger Nino here? Does that mean...” She trailed off as realization set in. “Oh no...”

____

In the past...

Now that he’d had time to freak out, Nino was feeling better. He couldn’t be stuck here. His Marinette wouldn’t let that happen. He just needed to get somewhere that might help with everything.

He decided to skip going back to class and went to the park so he could still watch when everyone left school. He needed to catch Marinette and talk to her. Maybe they could go to Master Fu and figure out how to get him sent back to his time. He wasn’t enjoying being fifteen again, though it was nice not to have a constantly aching lower back. 

Maybe he shouldn’t tell younger Marinette at all. It would probably freak her out. He couldn’t believe they’d just been talking about this at dinner with everyone. It seemed too much of a coincidence and he would definitely be having words with Alix and Fluff when he returned to his proper self. They were punks, the both of them.

He started off towards Fu’s and was surprised to hear Marinette calling his name. He turned back to her and the smile he’d forced into place became genuine as he watched her stumble over her own feet trying to catch up to him. She managed to find her balance before she fell and made it to him with a self-deprecating laugh. 

“You didn’t happen to see that, did you?”

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten how cute she was when they were this age, but things had been so different between them then. She’d seemed off-limits, even after he and Alya parted on amicable terms. Alya... 

He strained to try to remember if they were still together right now. They might be. He’d need to be careful. He didn’t want to risk changing anything for the worse if he could help it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he winked. “Graceful as always.”

Marinette blushed and ducked her head with another laugh. “Sure, sure. Are you okay? You didn’t come back to class. Adrien was really worried.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” He adjusted his hat on reflex and had forgotten about the nervous gesture of his youth. “I just need to go see someone about a problem I’m having.”

“I don’t want to keep you then. I’m actually on my way to see someone too.”

“Master Fu?” Nino regretted the words as soon as they came out when he saw Marinette’s reaction. “He’s who I’m going to see too,” he winced. 

“Are you getting a massage or something?” Her voice had risen an octave and there was a strained edge to her smile.

“Not exactly. I, uh...” He looked around to make sure they were relatively alone. So much for not changing anything. “I think something happened with the Miraculous because I’m not supposed to be here. I’m Nino from the future.” He looked down at his bright blue shirt. “Well, at least in my head I am, my body, not so much.”

Marinette took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve chosen me to be Carapace at this point, haven’t you? I’m not exactly sure when I am but I know it has to be close. This feels about right.”

She blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I am.”

“Who else is from the future? Alya?”

Nino shook his head and did a quick glance around again. “I haven’t talked to her, but I think it’s just me.”

“You were just talking to her before class started.”

Nino frowned. “I think whatever happened was during the lecture. I was suddenly just in my younger body and in the class.”

“This is so weird.” She covered her face and groaned and then dropped her hands. “Okay, let’s go see what Master Fu has to say.” She set off in the right direction and Nino quickly fell into step beside her.

“So you believe me?”

“I’m finding it hard to, but you wouldn’t joke about something like this. I’ve seen some really weird stuff at this point and I don’t think I should question it too much. And the Nino I know definitely doesn’t know I’m the one who gave him a Miraculous.”

“Someday you’ll even let me keep it,” Nino grinned.

“Really?”

“Mmhmm, but I probably shouldn’t say too much else. I don’t know what could change.”

They made it to Fu’s building and started up the steps when Marinette made a thoughtful noise. “Do you think you’re in your past or a past dimension? Those could exist, right? I started looking into it with all the time-hopping stuff with Bunnix. You do know about Bunnix, don’t you?”

“I’m pretty sure Alix has something to do with why I’m here actually,” Nino scowled. “As for that though, I’m not sure. This feels like my life was. Wouldn’t another dimension be different?”

“Not necessarily but it wouldn’t be exactly the same, I guess.” She perked up. “Of course, now it isn’t your past if you don’t remember this happening to you, right?.”

“I didn’t think about that. That’s...worrisome.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

They stopped in front of Fu’s door and Nino was suddenly reluctant to go inside. “I have a really great life,” he said. “I wouldn’t want anything to change that. I married an amazing woman and we have a beautiful daughter and we’re still heroes. It’s kind of great.”

Marinette clasped her hands together with a happy squeak. “You and Alya get married and have a baby?!”

“What? No.” He caught her shocked expression and grimaced. “I mean...I shouldn’t have said anything, I guess. I just don’t want any of that to go away.”

He turned away from her and knocked on the door but could still feel the weight of her gaze on his back.

___

In the future...

“Are you going to keep staring at me like that? Do I really look that different?” Marinette tugged on the ends of her hair. “I mean, this is new, but to be fair, it’s new here too. Kagami talked me into it when she was getting hers bleached. Do you like it?”

Nino wrapped both hands around the warm mug of coffee she’d given him as if it were a security blanket. “It’s, uh, it’s really pretty.”

She flashed him a bright smile. “Thanks. Are you hungry? I can make something for breakfast while we try to figure this out.”

“I’m not sure I could keep anything down at this point,” he admitted.

“That’s fair.” She faced him and hugged herself. She’d thrown on a large hoodie and Nino couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or relieved. “I’m really sorry this is happening to you. Just know that you’re safe here with me, I promise.”

Nino felt a better than he had since he’d woken up in the strange place. “I know, Marinette. Thanks.”

“Daddy! Daddy!” There was a commotion of banging and the sounds of claws tapping against the hardwood floor and a small girl with wild hair accompanied by a large gray dog rushed into the kitchen. The girl jumped up and Nino caught her out of reflex from his younger brother doing the same thing so many times.

“We’re going to the park today!” she announced and smashed his cheeks with her tiny hands. “And the zoo too!” The dog bounced around them happily.

“Sweetheart, we may have to wait to do that. Daddy isn’t feeling well today.” Marinette sent Nino an apologetic look as she gathered the little girl from his arms. 

Nino stared at the small child with dark hair and big golden eyes. She stuck her bottom lip out and it took on a slight tremor. 

“How about you and Daisy go turn on some cartoons and I’ll bring you waffles?” Marinette suggested brightly. “Then we can talk about the park and the zoo.”

The little girl considered it, looking between her parents and her dog, and then her pouting lip was replaced with a smile. “With chocolate chips,” she instructed and then turned on her heel and patted her dog’s head. The dog faithfully followed after her, tail wagging.

“Sorry. I thought we’d have a little more time before she woke up.” Marinette moved around the kitchen, getting the things she needed to make waffles.

Nino stared after the girl and then looked back at Marinette dumbly. “Is she...”

“Yours?” There was an amused glint in her eyes. “Did you see her? It doesn’t even look like I had anything to do with her and I’m the one who had to carry her for nine months. Unfair if you ask me.” She faltered when she saw his expression. “Goodness, sorry again. It’s...we joke about it a good bit. I wasn’t thinking.”

He nodded and looked down at his hand. There was a titanium wedding band on his ring finger, along with sparkly pink nail polish haphazardly painted on two of the fingernails. “We’re married,” he said slowly.

“Yes.” Marinette kept her back to him as she worked.

“And that’s our daughter.”

“Violet,” she offered.

“Violet.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

She did turn back to him then and a delicate eyebrow rose as a smug smirk played along her lips. “How?” she echoed. “Did you want a play by play of the night it happened?”

Nino knew he was dark red from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes as he sputtered in response. His virgin mind was all too happy to immediately come up with possibilities. “That’s not...I didn’t mean...I’m with Alya!”

“Right.” She took in a deep breath. “Look, don’t worry about it. For all we know, you’re a Nino from a different dimension. You and Alya could have a really beautiful future together. I just want to get my Nino back and I’m trying not to freak out about it.”

An awkward silence settled over them, punctuated by the sounds of Marinette preparing breakfast. 

“What’s he like...or I’m like?” Nino scrunched his nose. “I’m not sure what I’m trying to ask really.”

“My Nino is my best friend.” Marinette poured a handful of chocolate chips into the batter she’d just started. “We’ve been friends since we were young and apparently both had feelings for each other on and off and then, I don’t know, one day it just clicked for us.”

“Did he date Alya too?”

She pursed her lips. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“He did and they had a really great relationship. We’re all still close. She married a web guru so they pretty much rule the world together. They’re ridiculously in love.”

“Oh.” He absently scratched at the nail polish. “What about Adrien?”

Marinette smiled then. “Adrien’s a stay-at-home dad to five kids and he’s trying to convince his husband that they can adopt more.”

Nino matched her smile. “So he’s happy too then?”

“Very.”

“That’s good to know.”

There was a pause and Marinette set the mixing bowl on the counter to give him her full attention. “You know you shouldn’t tell anyone about all this when you get back, right? It could really mess up people’s lives. I’m hoping that somehow you won’t remember it but I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”

“It’s kinda just making my head hurt right now.”

“That’s understandable.” She returned to her task and gave him her back so she could start working at the stove. “We can talk about whatever you want if it makes you feel better though. It’s still pretty early but I’ve sent texts to everyone so hopefully we can all put our minds to it and figure things out.”

Marinette jumped when two strong arms wound around her middle. “Aww, babe, you called the calvary for me.”

She pulled away enough to study him. “Are you you?”

Nino laughed. “I’m guessing younger me had a very interesting trip then?”

“Oh!” Marinette turned so she could fully pull him into a hug. “I was so nervous something bad was going on. What happened?” She only released him enough so that she could look up at him and Nino fondly moved some of her hair behind her ear.

“I have no idea. I went to bed with you and then suddenly I’m sitting in Ms. Bustier’s classroom in mid-conversation with Adrien when he had that floppy hair and wore those awful orange shoes.”

“What in the world?”

“Not sure, but I’ll be asking our local time-hopping rabbit first.”

“Mmm. So how’d you get back?”

Nino gently pulled himself from her grasp and grabbed a handful of chocolate chips. “I honestly don’t know. I’d convinced younger you that I was from the future and we’d just gotten to Fu’s and then I was sitting here watching you make waffles.” He popped the chips in his mouth with a hum. “I’m starving.”

“You talked to me?! Why’d you do that? Things could be all different now!”

“I don’t feel different. Do you feel different? Oh man, how did younger me survive after waking up beside you?”

Marinette frowned. “Well, I--”

“Dadddddddddy!” Violet called as she entered the kitchen. “Daisy and I were talking and if you’re sick, we can just stay here today. That’s okay.”

Nino raised his eyebrows and Marinette gave him a helpless shrug. He moved forward so he could scoop his little girl up as she giggled. “Well, lucky for you, Miss Vi, I’m feeling all better now and I can’t think of anything more fun than going to the park today.”

“And the zoo!” Violet added with a laugh.

“And the zoo!” Nino agreed. “Why don’t you go get ready while Mommy finishes making breakfast?”

Violet let out a triumphant whoop of joy and ran down the hall as soon as her father set her back down. 

Marinette hugged herself. “What do you think our past selves are doing now? Doesn’t this kind of mess things up?”

Nino closed the distance between them and kissed the top of her head. “I don’t know. I think this might’ve done them a favor. And as for us, I might love you even more than before.”

“But you don’t feel any different?” she fretted.

“Not even a little. Do you?”

She considered that. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Then let’s go get ready and have a nice day at the park with our daughter and just accept that our past selves are fine because we’re fine.”

“You know I’m going to be worried about this for weeks,” she warned him.

He laughed and pulled her into a kiss. “Yes, dear, I’m very familiar with you,” he teased.

Buy me a cherry coke?

[coffee-and-cookies-mochi]

different

Different

 (one last attempt, one last plea.

or, the meeting once more in yunmeng but…in a different ending, entirely.)

 +eng trans of wangxian’s conversations are from exr translations ; all credits are to the translator.

 lyrics (in italics) are from ‘different’ by winner.

(also posted on my ao3)

 ***

 i’m just different

i can't be a nice guy

you might be hurt because of me

but please don't leave me

 even if i'm a bad guy

 ***

  If Lan WangJi had to be honest, he had no idea what to expect, or what he should do, even.

He had no idea why he is Yunmeng, or of what he seeks here.

(You do, his traitorous mind reminds him. It was of your own volition why you are here.)

Despite the agony and freezing, clawing jealousy he feels in his heart as the ghastly ladies touch Wei Ying in ways he hadn’t even imagined, Lan WangJi still tries to say what he truly wants to say.

“Wei Ying, it is still best if you come back to Gusu with me.”

It is frustrating, however, that the words sound all wrong and garbled. The words are not the ones he truly wants to convey—of what his heart truly cries for ever since he’d seen Wei Ying in a different light.

‘Allow me to protect you. To help you. To get rid of the darkness creeping in your heart and in your soul. This isn’t you, Wei Ying, this isn’t helping you—!’

And it gets worse, after that. Words that were so careless and ridiculous and hurtful, like piercing jabs of a sword—as if Wei Ying is brandishing his own words as how he would wield SuiBian, but Lan WangJi, for all his helplessness, can only receive the jabs.

This is getting nowhere, but Lan WangJi is desperate.

“What can I say?+” Wei Ying spits, and Lan WangJi fights back a flinch. “Even though I don’t think that I’ll regret it, I don’t like it when people take guesses at how I’m going to be in the future, either. +”

For a brief second, Lan WangJi sees the sixteen-year-old Wei Ying in the class, explaining how resentful energies can be harnessed as a tool. For a brief second , Lan WangJi sees the insistent Wei Ying back then in XuanWu Cave, planning how to annihilate the tortoise and struggling to survive.

For a brief second, Lan WangJi sees the odd sparkle in his seemingly dead gray eyes—a sparkle he’d once thought that dimmed when Wei Ying was cloaked with resentful energies.

“I am the one who was out of line+,” Lan WangJi manages to say (mumble) helplessly, desperation and agony starting to crack him on the inside.

Am I the one who does not still see, Wei Ying?

Or is it you who refuses to let anyone see?

Or is it—?

For a brief second he sees that Wei Ying again, convincing him of impossibilities and stupidities and all sorts of things Lan WangJi had once considered ridiculous, yet Wei Ying always proved that he can, that he will, that he will shine anyway.

Is not his very presence now—albeit freezing but definitely alive—the very proof that he still glows in the brightness Lan WangJi has associated him with, despite walking on the dark, lonely path?

Is not Wei Ying’s existence now, after all the horrors brought upon by the Sunshot Campaign, a proof that he is still the Wei Ying he knew?

Before Wei Ying can say anything, Lan WangJi quickly says, “Please forgive me. It…it seems I…I have doubted you. I am sorry.”

Wei Ying pauses, shock momentarily evaporating the frost in his eyes. Even the ghosts with him seem to be stunned.

Lan WangJi takes this as an opportunity to let Wei Ying see that he cares, that he does not guess on what Wei Ying will be in the future. That he is unlike all the Sect Leaders and the rest of the avenging cultivators who only wanted his abilities to win the war, only to be scorned and discarded and shunned later on.

That Wei Ying can trust him, even a little.

(I truly must have gone mad, Lan WangJi thinks dryly.)

“I simply wish that you will be well, Wei Ying,” Lan WangJi continues, desperately holding on to the brittle chance that Wei Ying will listen.  “But if…if my offer of help has offended you, I ask for your forgiveness.”

Bravely (Distraughtly) Lan WangJi meets Wei Ying’s eyes squarely, wishing (and begging) that he will see, truly see—can he not see? Can he not see how real this is, how sincere, how much he loved—?

“I truly am sorry,” is all Lan WangJi manages to whisper, when all he wants to scream is how much he loved the man before him.

Wei Ying is silent, shock still obvious on his face. However, Lan WangJi can see apprehension and curiosity, as if suddenly wondering why Lan WangJi is worried for him. Why he apologized, why he said those words out loud.

Wei Ying has always been an open book, letting his emotions show and echo freely everywhere he went. Wei Ying’s emotions resonate through his laughter and his smiles and the ever-present twinkle in his eyes.

Even if his joyous laughter chilled down to hollow, dark ones, even if his bright smiles morphed into diabolical grins—Wei Ying still wears his emotions on his sleeve, embroidered on a mask of arrogance and boredom.

Something that irked the younger Lan WangJi before, something that caught Lan WangJi’s attention for too long…something that Lan WangJi wished he himself possessed now.

Can Wei Ying see now? See the words Lan WangJi cannot say? Hear the emotions he cannot articulate—?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and Lan WangJi does not sense the usual chill in his voice. It is almost similar to his voice from back then, when they are fifteen and still stuck on the Library Pavilion. “Lan Zhan.”

Lan WangJi does not say anything; he simply waits for Wei Ying to gather his thoughts and speak.

It is a moment—a long, strained moment—before Wei Ying waves his hand.

“Leave.”

For a second, Lan WangJi thinks the word is meant for him—until the ghosts disappear.

Wei Ying sighs heavily, putting down his wine cup as he stares at Lan WangJi. “If I may ask, Lan Zhan,” he starts, “why are you so…so—insistent with this? Why are you always asking me to give up my demonic cultivation, or return to Gusu, for that matter? Are you so repulsed by me because of this? Or is this you being…”

Wei Ying trails off, biting his lip. Although his words sting, Lan WangJi knows that Wei Ying is struggling with his own words as well, doing his best to word his phrases right.

“Never repulsed,” Lan WangJi answers. “Like what I said, I only want to see you well.”

Not like this.

A short, shallow laugh escapes Wei Ying’s lips. “You’re concerned about me.”

It is neither a question, nor an accusation. But concerned will not be Lan WangJi’s choice of word, if he has to be honest.

“Yes.”

“To the point you’re actually asking me to go back to Cloud Recesses? Do you think I’m not aware of what your clan thinks about demonic cultivators like me?”

To this, Lan WangJi cannot answer directly. Instead he says, “But I will not force you upon it, if you do not want to. I…I do not wish to impose such a thing on you.”

(For would it not be similar to what Father did to Mother?)

Wei Ying merely stares at him, his gray eyes unreadable. For a short moment, Lan WangJi cannot help thinking this…frustration he feels right now might be the same one Wei Ying had always felt whenever he coaxed Lan WangJi to talk or even look at him.

Oh, how the tables have turned now.

“Back then, Lan Zhan, you seemed like you’d drag me there to Cloud Recesses should you get the chance,” Wei Ying mutters, dry amusement in his voice.

“Not anymore.”

A raised eyebrow. “Really?”

This is just so exasperating—to try to speak and express, yet his life and who he is prevent Lan WangJi from doing so.

But he tries. He tries so hard anyway; if there is anything Lan WangJi he’d learned from being with Wei Ying, it is to let his walls down a little more just so the other will understand.

“It…you are not one meant to be restrained,” Lan WangJi sighs. “But to remain as someone free.”

Like a soaring bird to the sky, like the rabbits back in his clearing, like the sixteen-year-old youth carefully making his way back to the Cloud Recesses with jars of alcohol in his hands.

Wei Ying chuckles—and it is not a happy sound. “Am I really free?”  he whispers quietly, as if the question is meant for him.

You are, Lan WangJi wants to say, …and you are not.

“But for you to come this far…” Wei Ying trails off, and he looks away. Lan WangJi’s chest tightens at the sight of pain crossing his face.

He wants to reach out and smooth the frown off Wei Ying’s face, yet he stops himself.

(Does he have the right to do so?)

However, the tumultuous feelings inside his chest harshly rock Lan WangJi’s soul, a weak boat against strong waves. They threaten to overwhelm him from the inside, cloud his judgment until he ends up doing something that he will (probably not) regret. His heart constricts further and further until his head slowly starts to spin—

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying’s slightly shaking voice wakes Lan WangJi up from his stupor. “Be honest with me.”

Lan WangJi’s heart pounds with fear and expectation as he waits for Wei Ying to speak. At the same time the desperate part of him softly cries out, ‘When will I not be honest with you?’

Stormy gray eyes meet molten gold orbs. “Why?”

Wei Ying’s whispered question breaks a dam in Lan WangJi’s memories: the night he first met Wei Ying on the rooftops in Cloud Recesses; that day Wei Ying pestered Lan WangJi to look at him; that moment Wei Ying saved him from the Xuanwu of Slaughter; the fleeting instance Wei Ying asked him to sing him a song; the painful memory of Wei Ying dismissing him amidst corpses and vengeful energies—

Why, indeed?

Why is Lan WangJi doing all these; why is he chasing a man who haunts and is haunted; why is he running towards someone, like a desperate man clinging to a heart that cannot be his—?

“I…I like you, Wei Ying.” Lan WangJi’s mouth answers the question Wei Ying uttered and Lan WangJi echoed repeatedly in his mind.

Wei Ying gasps, his face totally blank with stun. “What?”

Lan WangJi pauses. Briefly. He finally realizes what he’d done, what he’d said—

—but it’s too late to run now, is it not

“I like you, Wei Ying,” he repeats, voice firm and eyes never leaving the other man.

“You—you—you what—!” Wei Ying sputters, and Lan WangJi almost laughs at the sight had it been not for the obvious…distress in his face.

And then—Wei Ying bursts out laughing. Loud laughter echoes all over the pavilion, a shocked, hollow, pained laughter that hurts and stings what remains of Lan WangJi’s heart.

This is not the laughter Lan WangJi is used of hearing, not the laughter he hears in his daydreams. This is not the laughter that brightened the Library Pavilion and tingled his heart; this is the laughter that darkens this pavilion even further and breaks his heart.

“Gods, Lan Zhan, no—gods, no,” Wei Ying gasps out, wiping his tears. “Please tell me you’re lying, Second Master Lan.”

“I am not.” Does Wei Ying not see?

“…What.”

“I am not lying, Wei Ying.” Do you not see?

“Please tell me you are, Lan Zhan.” Why does Wei Ying sound like he’s…pleading?

“And if I will not?”

Wei Ying then looks at him, and Lan WangJi stills in shock at the agony in his eyes.

Have I done something wrong—?

“Lan Zhan, please,” Wei Ying whispers, a warning and a prayer. “Tell me you lie. Or jest. Whatever. Take everything back you’ve said.”

“…Why?” Why should I take back the truth of what I told you?

A broken laughter fills the pavilion, anguished and pleading. “Please, Lan Zhan. Just this once. Tell me you lie.”

Lan WangJi doesn’t know which hurts more—his own heartbreak or the obvious torment in Wei Ying’s face.

“I do not lie, Wei Ying,” Lan WangJi says. The words are insistent, words that Lan WangJi will never regret of saying.

Wei Ying groans and buries his face in his hands, fingers pulling at his hair. Lan WangJi is beyond perplexed—what is happening? What is going on, why is Wei Ying hurt at his confession, does he not want to hear them at all—

  —is this where everything ends and burns into nothingness—?

  “Wei Ying?” Lan WangJi softly calls, deliberately reaching out, aching to comfort the other man. But Wei Ying is too far away, hidden in the cloaks of grief.

It is then Wei Ying lowers his hands, the flash of the expression on his face startling Lan WangJi, then Wei Ying shoves the table aside, grabs Lan WangJi’s robes’ lapels and pulls his face to his.

The kiss is hard and harsh, reflecting the tempests in their own hearts; the kiss is raw and desperate, as if seeking for unvoiced answers for muted questions. Wei Ying’s lips are chapped and hungry as they move against Lan WangJi’s; Lan WangJi’s fingers are laced through Wei Ying’s ebony hair as he responds just as fiercely.

Lan WangJi doesn’t know when it started or when it ended, but he feels Wei Ying’s heavy pants against his face and Wei Ying’s forehead against his. Lan WangJi’s body shivers at the intimate proximity, at the seemingly deceiving reality that Wei Ying is in his arms, catching his breaths.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying chokes out, and Lan WangJi’s wounds sting once more. “Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying,” is all Lan WangJi can murmur, when all he wants is to scream out how he loved Wei Ying so much, how he burned, how willing he is to let himself burn for Wei Ying.

“…Don’t love a broken man, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, and Lan WangJi can hear tears in Wei Ying’s voice. “Don’t love him, Lan Zhan.”

Lan WangJi opens his eyes, and he staggers at the actual tears flowing down Wei Ying’s cheeks, his head down. Never had he seen him this vulnerable, so open and aching and bleeding; Lan WangJi had been too used to a happy, carefree Wei Ying and to a cold, distant Wei Ying.

“Please don’t,” Wei Ying grabs fistfuls of Lan WangJi’s robes, his body shuddering with emotions he’d repressed for so long. “Please don’t love him, Lan Zhan.”

Please don’t say you love me, Lan Zhan.

Lan WangJi holds him tighter in his arms, lips on top of Wei Ying’s head. How can he not love a broken man, when he deserved all the love and warmth the world can offer?

How can he not love the broken man in his arms, who brought sunshine and colors in his world and gave it a sense of being?

How can he not love Wei Ying?

“I will love,” Lan Zhan murmurs gently, his hand smoothing Wei Ying’s unruly hair. “I have long loved him, Wei Ying. And I will always love him even if he tells me not to.”

Wei Ying falters and sinks deeper into his body, his body still shaking. “He will break your heart, HanGuang-Jun,” he mumbles against Lan WangJi’s chest.

“My heart is his to break.”

Everything that I am is his—everything that I am is yours, Wei Ying.

“Oh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying cries softly. “Why?”

Lan Wangji does not answer this time; he simply cradles Wei Ying tenderly in his arms, peppering small kisses on top of his head.

One part of Lan WangJi silently asks—implores—Wei Ying of what he feels for him, if Wei Ying can be his.

Yet the rest is content of having Wei Ying close, warm and alive. Yet the rest does not ask for more; Lan WangJi will wait until Wei Ying answers, if Wei Ying will return his feelings.

But if he does not—

Wei Ying raises his head, red-rimmed eyes staring straight at Lan WangJi’s. His hand gingerly cups Lan WangJi’s cheek, and Lan WangJi leans into the touch.

“I should make you go away, Lan Zhan,” he says very softly. “I should ask you to leave and never return.

“…but I can’t,” Wei Ying smiles weakly, and Lan WangJi softens. “I don’t want you to leave, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“I want to stay with you, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“…what should I do?” Lan WangJi is helpless at Wei Ying’s raw vulnerability in front of him. “All that I am now is a broken man, Lan Zhan. What can I offer you? You—you—you deserve someone more, someone of your righteous standing—”

“No one else,” Lan WangJi cuts him off. “Only Wei Ying.”

No one else but Wei Ying.

Wei Ying sinks back to Lan WangJi’s embrace, and the latter revels how Wei Ying fits so perfectly in his arms, how he fills in the gaps and cracks in Lan WangJi’s psyche.

If only this can last forever—no, for a long, long stretch of eternity…

Wei Ying’s smile is small yet gentle, fingers soft against Lan WangJi’s cheek as he raises his head once more. “Lan Zhan…still, I cannot go back to Gusu with you.”

“I know.” Even if it hurts.

“…I cannot stay with you for now.”

“I know.”

Wei Ying reaches back to pull his red ribbon free from his hair and wraps it around Lan WangJi’s wrist. “Keep this with you, anyway,” he says. “To remind you of me.”

Don’t forget me, Lan Zhan.

In return, Lan WangJi unties his forehead ribbon and binds it around Wei Ying’s wrist. “This is now yours,” he says simply.

Wei Ying gapes in surprise, eyes wide and incredulous. “But, Lan Zhan, isn’t this ribbon important to your sect? The last time I pulled it off you, you got so angry at me…”

Lan WangJi shakes his head. “The forehead ribbon is meant for self-restraint…and only the person the wearer loves and cherishes can touch it as he pleases, other than the wearer’s close relatives and family.”

Wei Ying’s silver eyes shimmer with emotions Lan WangJi can and cannot name. His face is bright, although some semblance of sorrow lingers on his expression.

Wei Ying lifts his face and kisses Lan WangJi once more, slow and tender this time. Lan WangJi can hear and feel all the emotions encased within, feel the said emotions envelop Lan Wangji like an embrace.

And Lan WangJi lets his own feelings reach Wei Ying, lets his love flow like an endless river towards Wei Ying.

And Lan WangJi holds on to the whispered words against his lips until he had to eventually leave Yunmeng, until his world crashed and burned in Nightless City when Wei Ying drowned in madness and bathed in red.

 “I love you, too.”

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from @xxinvisiblexx and anon. Enjoy, everyone! ♥

Words: 2091 Warnings: fluff, slight concussion

It was the morning of your big day. The day your loving father had been planning for since you had been born. Your wedding. Your marriage to an ugly and old aristocrat who was known for treating his wives like whores. According to your father, it was the only purpose of your existence. To help him improve his status, to introduce him to the fine world of the rich. You, however, had a different idea of what direction your life would take. So you had planned, for weeks on end and calculating all possibilities and chances.

It was the morning of your big day. And you had long fled your father's home and hidden in a popular hotel for overseas travellers. You knew the owner—and he had offered you a single room for a price that you could actually afford. Then, tomorrow morning, you would board the first ship to England. You had always wanted to see this country... the opportunity was perfect. To start a new life, far away from married life and cruel grooms.

“Excuse me... I am looking for a young woman.”

Your blood froze. You knew that voice. Looking up anxiously, you dared a look. It was him. Your forced fiancé. Out of all places, why would he look for you here? Quickly, you looked away again. He was speaking to a young couple two tables next to yours. It was a little coffee shop attached to the hotel you were in. With your heart beating in your mouth, you hoped he would not recognise you.

 -

Sir Thomas Sharpe frowned. Apparently, so it seemed, it was fairly common for Americans to simply speak to strangers. It was risky for him and Lucille to come back here, after everything that had happened with Edith. He had thought he loved her... and she had proven to him that he did not love Lucille either—at least not in the way she longed for him to. Now, Edith was gone but his blue eyes were wide open. He wanted a wife. He wanted a woman who adored and loved him... without having to poison her. Lucille had not accepted it, not really. But the last thing she wanted was to lose Thomas.

“A young woman?” He repeated incredulously.

The stranger nodded. “My... fiancé.” You shivered when he gave him a detailed description of you. The man he was speaking to... he was English. You could tell by his accent. And then... making your heart skip a beat... he glanced in your direction, matching what he had just heard with what he saw. Your eyes met—your body felt like it had been ignited.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, sir. I have seen no such woman.”

You breathed out, relieved. As soon as your so-called fiancé had gone, you stood, frantically, to hurry back to your room which you did not intend to leave again until your departure to England tomorrow.

It was then you suddenly heard the smooth voice of the stranger speaking directly to you.

“Excuse me... I could not help but introduce myself. Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet. My sister Lucille and I live in Allerdale Hall in the north of England.”

Oh. A man of royal blood then. You swallowed thickly. Was it safe to trust him and tell him your name?

“I'm... pleased to meet you, Sir Thomas. My name is (Y/N). Thank you. For what you did…”

"You are welcome. He... does not seem like a decent person, if I may be honest with you."

“No, he... my father wants me to marry him. Today... today we were supposed to be wed. I... escaped. I am boarding a ship to England tomorrow.”

Again, Thomas frowned. You were beautiful, you were strong... and you were in need of his help. If he was going to do things differently from now on, he might as well do the right thing to try and make up for the sins he had committed over the last few years.

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you know where you will be staying?” He asked concerned.

“Oh, no... not yet. I stole a bit of money from my father to afford this hotel for a few days... but... I... I will try and find some work as soon as I arrive.”

“Why don't you come with me and my sister? We can always use an extra pair of hands. I'm afraid I am unable to pay you but I could offer you a room in our manor.”

Your eyes widened. Could it be? Luck? Hope? A decent man? For the first time in your life?

“I... that... that would be... I couldn't thank you enough.” You stuttered.

Thomas smiled and nodded. “Meet us tomorrow at seven o’clock, at the pier. I am sure you will like England, (Y/N).”

 -

“Thomas!” He had had some concerns at first. A young woman—petite compared to the workers he usually hired—could you really be of help? If anything, he was intrigued by you. Your audacity to flee and start your own life, your will to live independently and your cheerful nature whenever you were around him… You were a woman he could imagine marrying one day. Lucille did not particularly like you, of course. She was jealous, worried that he would grow to love you and abandon her; and she had been furious when he had told her about the offer he had made you.

By now, at least she had come to accept you. To her, you were a willing helper, one of Thomas’ lackeys if you will to help him build his clay-mining machine. And even Thomas himself was surprised. If it wasn’t for your hair, the youthful sparkling in your eyes and your cleavage which you only managed to hide in winter when it was cold, he would in fact mistake you for a hard-working and independent man. But he did not. What he saw was a beautiful, strong and intelligent woman he slowly began to feel more affection for than he intended to.

You would not want to marry him. You had fled and settled down in England to run from marriage… he was not going to force you into another now. Besides… you might take it the wrong way if he asked. Would you think he would throw you out of the house if you refused? Would he send you away? Lucille was thoroughly capable of such things. Thomas, however, was not.

Smiling gently, he put down the hammer and turned, joining you at the back of the machine. You had made progress—your ideas had both surprised and impressed him and most importantly… they had helped. No longer was there any need to seduce innocent women to steal all of their money.

It was just… he wanted you. His longing gaze rested on you day in and out, glued not only on your body but also your smile. You were different. Different from Edith and different from everyone else he had ever met. You were his equal in ways other women had never been, not even Lucille. You had enchanted him, jinxed him even.

And little did he know you reciprocated his feelings. You had brushed it off at first. Thomas was your hero. He had given you shelter, an occupation and a new home. He was there whenever you needed a shoulder to cry on and most importantly, he cared. But just because he was the first man who treated you this kindly… that did not mean you had the right to fall in love with him… right?

You had noticed the looks he gave you, of course, felt his hot glances on your body. Electricity rippled through you whenever you accidentally touched while working on his machine and the tension you felt clinging onto your limbs like the claws of a dozen angry kittens set your body on fire.

You were standing on top of one of the shovels, attempting to loosen whatever had caused it to get stuck again—it was a problem you were currently facing regularly.

“Can you check if the cogs around the engine all work? I can’t seem to find anything here.”

“That I will.” Thomas smiled, hesitating for just a brief moment before doing what you had asked. One of his other workers joined him, shifting and trying the gears until he accidentally started the engine. Now it always took a while for it to start running smoothly which in return disabled switching it off again instantly.

It was only then Thomas realised you were still standing on top of one of the metal shovels.

“(Y/N), get down there, quick! Be—“ He did not get to finish his sentence. You let out a high-pitched scream when you fell because of the sudden movement of the machine, your head colliding with the cold and hard metal. You never noticed how you blacked out and landed in the powdery snow beneath you almost lifelessly, not how Thomas shouted your name again so loudly he even alarmed Lucille who came hurrying outside. Panting, he rushed to your side and knelt down, examining your head carefully. No blood. That was a good sign. A slight concussion, perhaps… they would have to call a doctor immediately.

“Lucille!” He began desperately when he spotted her approaching curiously. “Send for a doctor.”

“It will take him hours to reach Allerdale Hale.”

“Just do it!” Thomas swallowed thickly. He never raised his voice against his sister. But you were hurt… and partially, it was his fault.

With parted lips, he picked you up from the frozen ground and carried you inside, ordering his workers to take a break in the meantime. The one who had turned on the machine he would deal with later.

Inside the house, he carried you all the way up to his room and laid you down on his soft and cosy bed, draping the blanket over you to keep you from shivering and hoping to God that your unconsciousness would only last for a few minutes

He was shaking when he sat down on the bed, reaching for your hand and warming it in his palms after wetting a towel in the bathroom and putting it on your forehead to ease some of the oncoming headache you would most likely experience soon. Your hands were almost rougher than his and at the very same time… so soft he longed to cover it with gentle kisses.

About fifteen minutes passed until you finally came about again, moaning quietly. You squinted, nausea and a terribly annoying pain in the back of your head overwhelming your senses in an instant.

“(Y/N)…” Your eyes flew open slowly, meeting Thomas’ worried gaze, your hand comfortably warm in his. “How are you feeling?”

“Like… my head hit your monstrosity of a machine.” You chirped.

Thomas smiled. “Should I get you a glass of water?”

You nodded, waiting patiently until he could bring the cool liquid to your lips and help you drink a few sips.

“Lucille called a doctor. He will come check on you in a few hours’ time.” He paused, looking down guiltily.  “I’m sorry… this should not have happened.”

“Thomas…” It’s okay, you meant to say—but it was hard to focus and move your lips to form proper sentences.

“You should rest a little more. You are not to leave this bed for at least three days, I will make sure of that. Don’t worry about the machine for now. Your well-being is much more important than the clay.”

Gathering your strength, you tightened your grip in his hands, squeezing him gently. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For caring for me.”

“I will always care for you, (Y/N).”

You smiled weakly, already half asleep and almost as if you were still dreaming. “That sounds like I promised you my hand in marriage.”

Thomas chuckled lightly. “That I would love for you to do, darling.” He admitted quietly.

“You… would?”

“Yes.” Returning your smile, he leaned forward to press a tender kiss on your forehead after removing the towel again to refresh it for you. His lips parted, both in surprise and joy when your last mumbled words right before you drifted off to sleep again reached his ears.

“I would… love that, too.”

It certainly was one way to get engaged. Now all he had to do was buy you a ring to slip on your finger as soon as you woke again.

 -

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente

[cherryeol04]

A Very Merry Christmas

Word count: 1.2K Summary: After 5 years, the group comes back together for a sweet reunion.

JR’s POV As the leader, I wanted to make sure that we were always together. I told them that if for some reason, we were ever separated, that we would have a specific meeting place. The small cafe that we shared our first meal together as a new complete group, Nu'est M. We agreed to meet there on Christmas Eve, a special time of year for everyone around the world. It's been five years since I've last seen them all. Minhyun, Aron, Baekho, Ren and Jason. They had all been so precious to me, my family and my best friends. I wish I never lost them, but some things just can't be helped. Every year on Christmas Eve I sit at the small table, staring at the large Christmas tree that the owners of the cafe put up every year. And every year they never show. I'm hoping that this year, they'll come.

There was a soft blanket of snow that covered the ground. It was beautiful and peaceful and seemed to make all my worries disappear for a few minutes. As the clock struck ten, my fears came back. Things just weren’t the same any more. I’ve been missing my family for so long. We were once a popular idol group, but only after a few years of performing, we went our separate ways. Things in the group changed, priorities were organized and in the end, Nu’est just couldn’t be sustained. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about them. I still hear from Jason occasionally, but those times are few and far between anymore. Anytime I asked him if he was going to the meeting spot on Christmas, I never received an answer. And this year is no different. Honestly, I don’t know why I continue to come. A part of me knows that they won’t ever show up. I guess it’s just the leader in me, always going in hopes that maybe the group will come together once more.  Sometimes I hate my hopeful wishes, they never come true. After nearly two hours and three drinks later, I decided to just leave. If they haven’t shown up now, they won’t show up at all, just like every other year. Glancing to the large clock standing tall in the nearby shopping district, I took in the time. Only fifteen minutes before it's Christmas. Fifteen minutes before another year passes for me and I’m left alone. Sighing, I grabbed my bag and started to leave. But there was just something that stopped me. A feeling that washes over me that’s just so unexplainable. I’ve never felt it before, but it’s so strong I stop in my tracks and turn to face the tree once more. It was so beautiful that no matter how many times I take in its beauty, I’m always left in awe. As my eyes traveled down the tree, they landed on a body standing in front of it, admiring it too. I must be seeing things; it couldn’t be who I think it is. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to clear away this figment, but he was still there. My mouth fell open and I took a step towards him. “Jason?” The male turned and looked at me, a grin spreading over his face. It had been five years, but it was like he hadn’t aged all. Still so beautiful and youthful looking. “Jonghyun.” He called happily. I tried my best to not run over, to just walk and look cool. But I knew in the end I looked like an idiot as I gave a half skip and pulled the older male into a warm hug. “It’s been a long time.” “Yeah.” I whispered, sighing happily. Pulling back, I stared at him and nodded. “A really long time. What are you doing here?” I asked. “Well, you texted me didn’t you?” Jason asked and chuckled. “Well yeah, but I text you every year and you haven’t come before.” I reminded him. “Well I wasn’t in South Korea at the time.” He explained. “I just happened to be in town when I got your text and decided I would surprise you this year.” “Well, it’s certainly a surprise.” I said and hugged him again. His arms wrapped around me as he returned the hug. I was starting to feel a lot better and all my worries in life were starting to float away. “Jason-hyung? JR-hyung?” We pulled away and I turned, staring at the two males standing only a few feet away. There was no way I couldn’t recognize them. Like Jason, it looked like they hadn’t aged either. “Minhyun, Aron-hyung.” I greeted him. “Wow, I didn’t think you would be here this year.” Minhyun said and blushed. “It’s been so long.” I nodded, shifting in my spot. I was itching to hug them too, but they seemed a bit reserved at the moment. “Sorry we haven’t come sooner, life has been crazy.” Aron said with a smirk. “Don’t we know it?” Jason asked and nodded, looking at the three of us. “It’s good to see you guys.” Minhyun said. “It’s good to see you guys too. You look…the same.” I told him and he laughed. “You do too.” I don’t want to believe what he said, I’m sure I looked older and most likely not as handsome as before. But the longer I stood there, talking with them, I felt like my old self. Now if only Baekho and Ren made an appearance, things would be perfect. “Oh my god!” That shout had me grinning. Minhyun and Aron were tackled by the overly hyper maknae that suddenly appeared. And after a few brief hugs, the male was hugging me and Jason too. “I can’t believe you guys are here.” Ren said and pulled back. “Wow, you guys look the same.” He said and frowned. “No, you’re older, but aged finely, like fine wine.” “Fine wine?” I asked. “It’s his new hobby.” Baekho said from his spot from behind Minhyun and Aron, surprising the two. “He takes it a bit too far sometimes.” “Are you calling me an alcoholic?” Ren asked and frowned. “Why did I marry you again?”  He asked, smirking. “Because I do everything you demand of me.” “Correct answer.” Ren said with a nod. He turned and stared at me and Jason again, before looking back at the other three. “Well come guys, group hug.” He said. Little Ren has grown up so much. So much so that he’s being the leader now and bringing us together. Slowly we all moved together and embraced and that feeling of completion washed over me. I haven’t felt it since Jason had been added to our group. It was a warm, comforting feeling, one I never want to go away again. Above us, the clock struck midnight and I grinned. “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas!” the other cheered happily. After five years, we were finally back together, even if for just one night. I know that in the future, we’ll be seeing more of each other, and though our days as Nu’est and Nu’est M are over, we’ll always have each other until the end of time. It’s turning out to be a very merry Christmas this year.

[somewhatcoherentrambles]

Lost His Marbles

Even though he was 67 years old and an accomplished professional, he carried marbles in his pockets and only wrote in crayon.

Scratch that- if the document was really important he used pen. During our break at 3:00 pm on the dot he would quietly play with the marbles by himself, sometimes mumbling something I couldn’t hear. He only wore a suit when he absolutely needed to and if you looked over he’d break into a goofy smile. I mostly tried to avoid him at all costs, but it was hard to since I was an intern. At lunch, he ate weird things, like PB&J’s or pizza rolls. I wondered how someone like him worked his way up the firm.

The accounting firm was small and family-owned, with just a few locations. I’m for sure working my way up in years time. Lord knows how dense my competition is. They couldn’t even get black coffee without somehow messing it up. It was this particular day, as I watched him sit at his desk contently, that I prayed I wouldn’t ever have to work on a project with him; I knew better than to open myself up to karma.

I got a bad feeling in my stomach as we went through the daily briefing. Being an intern usually meant getting the scut work, like filing. Something told me I was in for a change today. The head of my department began describing an upcoming project for us and apparently, we’d be helping prepare local tax returns. I don’t know how we land big jobs as such a small company, but I’ve learned to accept it. This internship is coming to an end soon so it was obvious they were assigning the project to help decide which intern would get the job offer. Senior department members would be partnered with interns and lower department members to fill out the files and create a presentation.

Like a high school teacher dooming some apathetic teens to a group project, my superior read of the list of partners. My hopes for someone competent were dashed as I heard my name: “Jonathan Keys,” and then the name I had been dreading: “Claude Bairn.”

He spotted me down the row and gave me a half wave. I knew then and there I’d have to take over most of the project if I had any chance of winning the job. Half of the time it looked like all the old man could do was make copies of things. I reluctantly approached his desk after the meeting ended. Today he was wearing a blue button-up shirt that was slightly too tight with an uneven collar. His khaki pants had a stain or two on them but he didn’t seem too bothered.

I got straight to the point and told him I’d handle all the math and filing, he just had to put all my work into a presentation. I prayed that at the bare minimum he’d be able to make a powerpoint.

“Wait, Jonathan?” He called out as I walked away.

I turned and nodded.

“You don’t want this promotion as much as you think you do.”

“What?”

But Claude didn’t respond, just went back to playing with his marbles and eating his pop tart.

Delusional I thought.

The rest of the assignment, fortunately, went on without a hitch. I did all the work and Claude stuck it into text boxes and bar graphs. Sometimes he’d furrow his brow or tilt his head in a way that made me suspect he didn’t truly know what we were doing or what it all meant. We usually worked in silent derision, but I began to grow curious.

“What got you into accounting?” I asked.

“I was sort of forced into it.”

He darted his eyes and didn’t say any more on the subject.

Three days later we all had to sit outside the conference room and wait to go in. It struck me as odd that the company thought this was the best way of determining who would get the promotion. It must be one of those “alternative” and “modern” workplace practices.

After fifteen minutes of waiting and preparing, we were called inside.

“Mr. Keys, Mr. Bairn.” Greeted the Chief Financial Officer, Mr. Keres.

The higher-ups sat like a judge's table, each with notebooks and faces of stone-cold indifference. It was a rather short presentation, I started out with the bank reconciliations then moved into the general ledger entries. Claude stood to the side, silent, hunching his shoulders and rocking faintly side to side. They all stared at me with wide eyes, watching my every move.

At the end of the presentation, the panel turned and looked at each other, seemingly communicating in a secret language only they could understand. Mr. Keres opened the floor for up questions.

“Is that your natural hair color?” A man on the panel asked.

I looked to Claude then back up to the man.

“Yes?”

The panel just shook their heads in agreement and continued to scribble down notes.

“Do you have a history of hereditary diseases in your family?”

“Not that I know of,” I said.

Maybe these questions had something to do with the company provided health insurance, which would mean the job is as good as mine. I smiled at the thought.

“Excellent job, excellent job indeed.” Said Mr. Keres after a moment of silence.

“Mr. Bairn you are dismissed,” He said, “Mr. Keys if you wouldn’t mind I’d like to discuss something with you.”

“Of course.”

We walked out of the room while the rest of the panel spoke in hushed murmurs.

“If you would just come right this way…” Mr. Keres said, leading me down the hallway.

“Jonathan wait!” Claude called.

Mr. Keres nostrils were flaring and his eyes were wide but an uncomfortably big smile still sat on his wrinkled face.

“Claude, what is the meaning of this?”

“Jonathan don’t go! You don’t want this! It’s a sham and this place is just a tar baby, a tar baby I tell you!”

I saw Mr. Keres hurriedly gesture for two men to escort Claude away, as his crazy pleas got louder.

“Their evil! Evil, evil, evil! Mommy said to stay away from the bad men, stay away…”

I watched in shock, as Claude’s lips trembled and he was forcefully taken to another room. Blinking, I turned to Mr. Keres, hoping for some sort of explanation. His eyes were entirely fixed on the room Claude had been dragged into.

“It’s a shame,” Mr. Keres said shaking his head, “You see Mr. Bairn is the grandfather to our other financial advisor James Portman.”

It made so much more sense why Claude was apart of the company in the first place.

“His episodes that have only gotten worse with age.” Mr. Keres continued.

“It’s a shame indeed,” I said.

“Well,” Mr. Keres said, clasping his hands, “Shall we proceed?”

Part of me hoped he would be awarding me the promotion then and there. He lead me to the elevator and pressed the second floor. I hadn’t been there, nor did I know what was located there. When the doors opened we faced stark white walls and a hallway that has riddled with thin glass doors.

“You see Jonathan I like to think that we’re more than an accounting firm,” He said as we turned right.

I nodded, unsure of where he was going with this.

“Accounting is more of a side quest. We do important work here. Groundbreaking, life-altering type of work.”

He unlocked a door at the end of the hallway and lead me inside. It was all white as well, with two chairs and a table with all sorts of science equipment. I looked at him skeptically.

“We are trying to help humanity. Do you know what the common man’s greatest plight is Jonathan? What irrefutable struggle has incarcerated all of humanity?”

“No, sir,” I said with hesitance. Maybe Claude wasn’t the only one with a few screws loose.

He chuckled and walked to the cabinet on the other side of the room.

“Water?” Mr. Keres offered. I took it. He sat in the chair at the center of the room and gestured for me to sit.

“It is our mortality,” He stated, “Futile as it may seem we spend our short existence doing nothing but distracting ourselves from the inevitable closing of the curtain.”

Part of me felt like leaving and not turning back, but for some reason I didn’t. I should’ve.

“But someone like you and me, we can see that math, that science holds the answers.”

“Scientists at Harvard University,” He transitioned, “Discovered a protein called GDF11. When it was injected into older mice, their bone and muscle strength changed to resemble their youthful selves.”

He stood up.

“Now. Imagine if this same science were applied to humans.”

“You could...live forever,” I said, wondering what any of this had to do with me or accounting.

“I see something in you, Jonathan. An ambition, the type of ambition we want here.”

I rubbed my hands together, hoping he was granting me the promotion.

“The question is, do you want to change the world? Do you want to do more than accounting?”

“Yes?...”

He chuckled once more.

“Good. We have completed one human trial and hope to do more-”

“Here? At an accounting firm?”

“Why yes. Now the only problem is we had to take the GDF11 protein out of younger mice for it to work.”

“So you need a young candidate for the next human trial?”

“See? I knew you and I thought on the same wavelength.”

“Oh no Mr. Keres I c-couldn’t possibly, I-I would never-”

“This is the future Jonathan. An end to the infinite torment that haunts our lives. You would, would make history! Help liberate the human race!”

My eyes widened as I started to make my way towards the door.

“Don’t bother trying to leave. The drink I gave you should start to take effect.” Mr. Keres said.

He walked over to me as I leaned on the wall.

“It’s a shame. I was hoping you’d cooperate more.” He sneered. “You know the last human trial didn’t go so well. Our first candidate was much too young, following the loss of the protein he aged rapidly. Maybe you’ll do better.”

I was sitting on the floor up against the wall now. I tried yelling for help but no sound could force its way out of my burning lungs. I looked up at him, desperate to keep my eyes open, to no avail.

“After you pass out we’ll start. Congratulations Jonathan.”