#like it’s ignorable if it’s only a brief thing

[yinyuedijun]

NIGHT FLOWER: part i

Your place in the world was one of a tool. This was true of every slave: you were all things to be used. Kakavasha understood this about you, and he understood this about himself. It was how he survived all those years ago, and it’s how he survives now. And so, when Aventurine goes into his first heat in years and decides to suffer it alone, you can only think of one way to get him to accept your help: You offer to let him use you.

written for @/lorelune's spring fever collab & @ficsforgaza

13.5k words of omegaverse, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst with an eventual happy ending. gn alpha reader + omega aventurine (they each have both amab and afab genitalia). explicit piv sex, reader bottoms, the sex is consensual but emotionally complicated and deeply sad. cw slavery, racism, gendered violence, including very brief and non-graphic (but direct) references to sexual abuse during slavery. the sa and slavery are not eroticized. dead dove do not eat, mdni.

thank you to @acerathia, @minnaci, @owlespresso for all your help with beta reading and to @kosmiccarma for brainstorming omega aventurine hcs!

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

Gaunt, pallid, weighed down by heavy chains. Irises that glowed like the auroras back in your world. Delicate features that made every passerby in the market stop to read the description on the placard. (Sigonian, it said, although you couldn’t read at the time. Avgin. Male. Omega. Sixteen years old. Sixty Tanba, no tax.) He had an all-consuming scent that was impossible to ignore—one that possessed you, made your heels dig into the dirt, every atom in your body resisting the impatient jerk of the chains at your wrist. Even through your muzzle, through the perpetual stench of carbon-steel and blood, you could smell it: honey and wildflowers. A fragrance that settled deep within you, flooded you with a warmth that felt like home.

Aventurine is not a spiritual person. He once told you this, his smile cold in the glow of an artificial moon. He'd been deeply religious as a child, but hasn’t since cared for fairy tales about fortune and fate, three-eyed goddesses or merciful rainfalls. Hasn't thought about anything like a destined love. He thinks the idea of a true mate is laughable, that no such bond could ever be forged between an omega and an alpha. That nothing so unconditional could ever exist.

You know differently, of course. You've known it from the moment you met him, from the second you laid eyes on him and thought, I need to help you, and I need to protect you, and I need you to be safe, and you’d never once heard the word ‘love’ in your life—slaves are never loved by their masters, after all, and you'd always been nothing but a slave—but every atom of your being knew that you loved him, that you'd always love him.

And when your master cradled your face that night and crooned that he owned you, that you'd always be his obedient, alpha pet—for the first time in your life, you knew that he was wrong.

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

These days, Aventurine does not smell like honey, and your jaw is not restrained.

Your muzzle was one of the first things that Aventurine threw away when he bought your freedom. According to the Amber Era system, it had been several months since the murder of your shared master. Ninety-five Star Calendar days after the Interastral Peace Corps had arrested Kakavasha. An entire rotation around the black hole at the centre of your wretched galaxy, all of which had been spent in the captivity of some new mistress. She picked you out because she liked your calming scent and the look of your face, but mostly she used you for the fighting pits just like your old master.

Aventurine had been sitting in the audience of your final match, then bought you out right after you won. “I’m in need of a fighter,” he’d said, smiling in his thick furs and jewels. He played the part of a slavemaster perfectly, his gloved hands wandering the span of your aching shoulders, touching the bloodied maw of your mask. “And I’d be willing to pay top credit for yours.”

She protested. You were her most prized possession, one of her greatest investments. Slaves from your planet were hard enough to come by—alphas capable of reproduction, nearly impossible. And you were so well-behaved, so poised, so endearing in a way that was rare for alphas. She was fond of you. Her omega slaves were fond of you too. They would be distraught if you left, and that would complicate her household affairs—and surely Aventurine, as a respectable owner of human capital like herself, could understand how inconvenient that would be?

Aventurine bared his teeth in a gracious smile. (You’d never seen Kakavasha make such an expression before—so disarming, so cunning, a crescent moon beneath snake eyes. He’d never smelt like this either, like an expensive cologne layered with bleach, and it left you feeling nauseous, wondering if he was ill.) He flirted his way into her good graces, made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, and then he brought you into the first-class ship on which he’d arrived. You were so stunned by its luxury—the handwoven carpets, the crushed velvet seats, the imported tea from several galaxies away and the custom-ordered outfit he had bought for you—that you nearly missed the tremble in his hands as he punched numbers into the remote control lock for your chains.

He had regained his composure by the time he pulled away your muzzle, though. He threw it carelessly to the ground—your titanium chains, too. Then kicked both away with his shined leather shoes.

“There,” Aventurine said, smiling cheerfully. “Much better, don’t you think?”

“Vasha—” you started, voice thick with wasted grief, and all you wanted to was reach for him, to double check that he was real, but he placed a finger to your lips and stopped you. You stiffened at the satin touch, but he seemed unbothered.

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

“‘Aventurine’. Like the gemstone. That’s my name now.”

“You—” Your voice caught in your throat. You realized that you’d been holding your breath. You always had the habit of holding your breath in the luxurious, private rooms of very rich men, because you never liked what happened in them. Forcing yourself to breathe, you asked, “You gave yourself a new name?”

“No. The IPC gave me a new name. They gave me a job, too.”

“A job?” you asked, voice faint. Now that you were breathing again, you were noticing once more just how bizarre he smelled. Sterile and expensive and completely foreign. “You’re free now?”

“Well, I’m a freedman, but I don’t know if I’d call myself free. I’m a bit… indebted to the IPC, let’s say. But that’s fine. I can’t complain. I mean—look around. This beats the fighting pits, doesn’t it?” He gestured lazily at your surroundings, and you nodded.

“It’s nice here,” you replied, feeling absurd but not knowing what else to say. Once Kakavasha got talking, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.

“You like it here? Good. This room’s yours. Mine is the next one over. You’ll live and work here, with me. I’ll make sure you’re paid well. Full benefits, vacation, salary, and overtime. The standard pay for your role is seventy-thousand credits per month, but I’ll see if I can get you more. HR is pretty strict about their hiring policies, but—”

“You’re hiring me?”

Aventurine went very still, his smile tightly controlled. His eyes remained fixed on you, but they seemed less snake-like, now. They looked more familiar. More afraid.

“I’m offering, yes,” he said neatly. “You’ll be part of my personal security detail. I don’t have the contract for you to review yet, unfortunately. I didn’t arrange one ahead of time because, well”—he laughed, as if this were polite conversation and he were making a joke about the weather—“I didn’t know if I’d find you alive. But things worked out in my favour. They always work out in my favour. I’ll make sure they’ll work out in your favour too, so long as you’re with me. So you’ll consider it, won’t you? Staying with—working for me, I mean.”

Your eyes went soft. Beneath the artificial fragrance, you finally caught a hint of his familiar scent—more wildflower than honey at that moment, the way it always is when he’s scared.

“Kakavasha—”

“Name your price,” he said loudly, “and I’ll match it.”

You sighed. “Vasha,” you said more gently, and his shoulders relaxed at the subvocal shift in your timbre, at the famed alpha Voice that necessitated your muzzle, “I don’t care about the money. Of course I’ll stay here. But—what happened? Why did you kill him yourself? Why didn't you let me do it? That was the plan. It was always supposed to be me.”

It was my job, you thought then, just as you had thought to yourself every night, curled up in your bed and trying to recall the scent of fresh honey, to keep you safe.

He shrugged and said, “It would have been too risky to involve you.”

“You were caught and sentenced to death. The risk was already too high.”

“But the stakes weren’t,” he replied simply, and before you could ask what he meant by that, he continued, “and it worked out, didn’t it? I work for the IPC. You work for me. We’re freedmen now. Whatever I've lost, it doesn't matter. Our gains far outweigh it.”

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

He smiled at you, charming and distracting. A crescent moon beneath snake eyes. “Nothing of value,” he reassured you, and even though you could feel the calm of an omega’s voice washing over you, even though it released all the tension in your body, all you could smell was cologne and wildflowers, and you knew that he was lying.

Vasha once told you, curled up and quiet on the basement floor, that he despised his eyes. They were supposed to be a sign of blessing from Gaiathra Triclops, but they'd never brought him anything but trouble. They were the first thing that the slavers always noticed about him, the feature that made him such an alluring commodity. Their aurora glow, their strange beauty, their promise of a rare opportunity: a chance at owning a specimen of an exotic, endangered species, possibly the last of its kind. These are all things that you've heard in the parlour of your master’s house as he entertained rich company, the crowd of them gawking at his human curios.

Avgin are said to make the most beautiful slaves, he'd often say. And Avgin omegas are said to be the most beautiful among them. What do you all think? They'd all hum, peering closely at Kakavasha’s features, and inevitably someone would joke, I think I'd like to borrow him sometime, and then they would all laugh while your pulse ticked up and you imagined tearing at their throats. Vasha would search for your gaze in these moments, giving you a long, pointed look: Don't do anything stupid.

He’d always been so blasé about it, the way people fixated on his Avgin blood. You'll never understand how. He didn't react to any of the comments, the groping, the innuendos. He was, however, distinctly unimpressed at the way that your master liked to play him up as a rare and expensive acquisition, as a sign of his own status. It's embarrassing to watch, Kakavasha had remarked. Everyone knows that Sigonian slaves are uncommon but cheap—people always think we’ll bring them more trouble than our worth. This was how Kakavasha had ended up in the market in the first place: because his last master had been robbed, and he'd been wrongly blamed for it.

The blame, to this day, has never stopped. People—powerful people, politicians, businessmen, socialites—look at Aventurine’s eyes and immediately reach for their pockets. You've seen it for yourself, these spineless despots and scammers feeling for their wallets. Sigonian, you know they're thinking. Liar, cheat, thief, whore, worthless, worthless, worthless. Your hands tighten around your blade each time, a loaded gun with a finger on the trigger.

Alphas are said to be violent by nature. Aventurine has often called you the one exception to this rule: the most docile, good-hearted alpha he's ever met. But this is a lie. You do have a predator instinct, and it comes out in full-force whenever you’re around these particular types of men. These types who notice Aventurine’s eyes and see a thief; these monsters who see his irises and imagine what it would be like to bed him. You’d kill them if you could. It would be so easy, especially now that you are an IPC dog. The Company is already such a violent force; what would be one more murder?

But Aventurine has never ordered you to punish anyone. (Don't do anything stupid, he always tells you with a glance, smiling through every humiliation.) Nor has he ever seemed bothered enough by these meetings to try concealing his heritage.

A fellow Asset Liquidation Specialist once asked why he didn't just hide his eye colour—it would likely be better for fostering relationships, negotiating deals—but Aventurine had shrugged it off. I'm a gambler working with the IPC, he'd said. Do you really think a pair of coloured contacts would make anyone trust me? He'd laughed, and his voice had carried a threatening edge, and his coworker had shifted visibly at it. Being an Avgin is the least threatening thing about me, wouldn't you say?

You think that Aventurine likes being seen as a threat. Sometimes you wonder if this is why he doesn't mind wearing his eyes so much, but abhors keeping his scent. He washes his clothes until they're free of his disarming sweetness and then masks himself with an unsettling blend of ambergris, jasmine, and wood. And he is on suppressants all the time—hasn’t had a single heat since the day he killed his master. Hasn't smelled like himself, either.

At the end of the day, it’s manageable being an Avgin in this business, he often comments, spraying half a bottle of masking cologne on himself, but you can't be an Avgin and an omega. Wouldn’t you agree?

You'd know better than me, you reply, noncommittally—and truthfully.

But you're an alpha, he observes. Don't you have an opinion?

You don't pay me to have opinions, you always remind him, stone-faced. You pay me to stand here and look scary. And Aventurine always laughs at this, and he always wires you money and calls it a bonus as he pesters you for an answer, and he always gets distracted and starts scrolling through all his shopping wishlists instead. I saw this thing the other day and thought of you. And this too. Would you like either of them? Would you like them both? I’m a very generous manager, you know. I'll buy you anything you like.

But even though he always gets distracted, Aventurine never forgets. Sooner or later, he inevitably circles back to these questions—these anxieties about his scent, about his eyes, about his blood. He never cares for anyone else’s opinions, but he's always been curious about yours. Even when he was Vasha, he wanted to know what you thought.

He’d been sixteen years old and delirious with heat the first time he asked you, face wrinkling with pain as he spilled his thoughts. It was so incoherent, so sad, you thought it must have been about a fever dream. Mama Fenge, he kept saying. Mama Fenge blessed me, She blessed me, I'm blessed, it rained when I was born—did you know that? My luck, I was lucky. The Katicans, they never caught me. They got everyone else, but not me. I was blessed by Her. I'm going to save my people. I will. I'll save my sister. My eyes are proof. My mistress liked them. Said they're beautiful. Worth sixty whole coppers. A blessing. He pulled you close, pressed his scalding face to your scent gland, and his whole body shuddered with relief. This was the first and only time he'd allowed you to hold him, and it was only out of desperation, out of his mind. Do you like them, alpha? Do you like my eyes? Why? Is it because they're beautiful? Because they're from Gaiathra?

“I like them because they're yours,” you'd replied, and Kakavasha had laughed deliriously.

This is when he told you he hated them: I'd close them forever, if I could.

When you were younger—dumber—you had a habit of squirrelling away every spare coin you came across. You collected them in a little purse that one of the omega slaves had sewn for you—a thank-you for always keeping the other alphas away from her—and you hid it underneath a loose floorboard. By the time that Kakavasha was arrested, you'd saved up twenty-nine Tanba. You’d wanted enough to buy Kakavasha’s freedom and then to set him up for a comfortable life.

It had been a stupid plan. An embarrassing one. If you ever confessed it to Aventurine, he'd laugh at you. Slaves can't buy other slaves, he'd say. Leave the schemes to me next time. You’re too good-hearted for it.

You’d already known that, of course. You knew that you didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him, but you wanted to. God, did you want to—you spent every waking moment thinking about it, every sleeping moment dreaming of it. It wasn't even that you desired him, though he was beautiful and fragrant and more delicate than anything that had ever touched you in your life, which was only your master’s hands and your muzzle and your chains. Aventurine would feel so soft in comparison, you’d always figured. It made your heart ache, thinking about getting to hold something so lovely.

But really—that desire came second. What came first was how mated omegas feel safe around their alphas, and you so desperately wanted him to be safe. Kakavasha had looked so frail, so grim, as your master took his chains and led him home from the market, and you could smell the fear coming off him in waves. And you could do nothing to stop it. You had nothing you could use to stop it—nothing other than your hands that could kill for him and your pheromones that could soothe him and your useless heart that wanted to collect sixty Tanba for him. That was all you had.

So you failed in the end. Of course you did. You didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him. You couldn't even do for him the one thing you could have done—which was to kill. And Kakavasha suffered for your incompetence. He had to dirty his hands with blood and gamble his way into wealth and then suddenly he was freeing you, not the other way around.

And now you are comfortable. You'll lead an easy life from now, Aventurine reassured you when he brought you onto his ship all those years ago, and he's kept that promise. What about you? you'd asked him then. Will you lead an easy life with me, if you're working for the IPC? And he had smiled and lied to you: Yes.

It had been a painfully obvious lie. If you were a smarter person, you'd have never believed it in the first place. Aventurine has no interest in leading an easy life, because an easy life would be less profitable, and less profit would mean less safety. And he is always, always worried about being unsafe. It is indiscernible to everyone but you—an alpha (his alpha, always his, even if he doesn't want you) who has watched over him for so long that you can detect every shift in his scent. No matter how much cologne he drowns himself in and no matter how strong his suppressants are, you know when he is afraid.

And here is the bitter truth, the ultimate proof of your shortcomings:

Aventurine is always afraid.

It is a beautiful day on Agnisahr, and you can tell that Aventurine is about to throw up from worry.

You're sitting in the middle of stunning wealth—Aventurine in his feathers and jewellery, you in your tailored jacket—in a lobby made from marble and pale sandstone, with a view of palm trees and rolling, scarlet sand dunes beyond the window. The waitstaff addresses him as Honoured Guest and they keep his crystal chalice filled constantly with water—one of the most expensive commodities on the planet. Aventurine has been drinking from it religiously, which is strange as he typically has the habit of forgetting to hydrate. A faint wildflower scent is drifting from his slender form. These are the only giveaway to his mood: he's otherwise as pokerfaced as ever, smiling calmly as he discusses his plans to sabotage the local government and acquire the planet for the IPC.

“This is a very dangerous mission,” you state flatly.

“All my missions are dangerous.” He takes a sip, one pinky up. “The IPC pays me well for a reason. As they say—”

“‘High risk, high reward.’ I know.” You try not to sound bitter, though you allow yourself to sound tired. “I still do not think the risk is worth the reward in this case.”

“I think over 5.6 million in credits is a great reward, actually. We could do a lot with that kind of money.”

You raise a brow. “What could an extra 5.6 million get you that you can't already buy?” It is—as Topaz would say—‘chump change’ in comparison to his current wealth, which sums to a number so vast that you can't wrap your head around it.

Aventurine pretends to miss the point. “Tons! We could buy a new spacecraft. Get another mansion. Or—we could take a vacation to Penacony. I hear it's quite nice there.” A playful smile. “I could get us a penthouse unit. With a featherbed.”

You frown. Sometimes Aventurine likes to flirt when you're being stubborn—not out of interest, but as a ploy to distract you. He’d developed the habit after he joined the IPC. It used to fluster you, but now it only makes you cross your arms.

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

“No, I won't. You always find a way to get rid of me when things are most dangerous.” You give him an accusatory stare. “You never let me do my job.”

He's too shameless to deny it. “And it's worked out fine, hasn't it? I haven't died so far.”

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

“I beg to differ. My luck is quite reliable.” He sets down his glass. Glances back outside. A microexpression, brows knotting for the briefest second as he studies the sky. “I'm not worried.”

“You're a shit liar.”

That gets him to look at you, letting a small frown pass over his face. “No, I'm actually a great liar. You're just too good at reading me. It's very inconvenient, you know.”

“I can't help it.” You lean toward him, making a show of it as you sniff. An orchid-like scent—faint but unmistakable—has seeped into artificial ambergris and wood. “It's hard to ignore.”

He hums. He isn't frowning anymore—but doesn't look happy, either. “I should change suppressants.” He taps the side of his empty glass, fidgeting. Aventurine never fidgets: it's an amateur giveaway. “These ones clearly don't work well enough.”

“That won't help. I know you too well.” Your eyes soften. He's looking outside again, the blues of his irises distant. “You're worried, Aventurine. More than usual. Let’s back out of this—let Jade handle it.”

“The mission isn't what's bothering me,” he says patiently. “I just don't like this planet.”

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

“No. Well—it is, but nothing I can't handle.” He leans back. “I just dislike the weather here.”

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

“Yes,” he says neatly, “it's too dry here. I'll break out.”

You open your mouth. Close it. It is possibly the most absurd thing you've ever heard, and certainly the worst lie that's ever come from him. For as long as you've known him, Aventurine has had flawless skin, marble-smooth, and ever since being freed, he’s never really cared much for looking handsome so much as looking rich. But he maintains his serious expression: all-in on the farce. “Did you know that outside the capital, this planet hasn't had any natural rain in a quarter of an Amber Era? And the stellar winds are terrible. I don't know how people live on a planet like this.” His eyes narrow at the cloudless sky. “The IPC is going to need to do a lot of terraforming if they want to make this into a merchant hub.”

“Aventurine.”

“It'll be a pain crossing the desert—the elements will ruin my clothes, you know,” he continues. “It won't be so bad while we're on the ships, but we’ve got to go outside from time to time. Can't make any friends otherwise.”

“Aventurine.”

“And there's nothing to do for fun when we’re not working.” He sighs dramatically. “I can't wait to get our 5.6 billion and leave for someplace else. I'm being serious about Penacony, by the way—”

“Aventurine.”

“—though not about the featherbed. I'll get you your own room, obviously. And I'll buy whatever dream experience you’d like. What kind would you want?”

Finally allowed a chance to speak, you say, “One where you retire.”

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe you decide you've made enough money.”

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

That makes him smile. It feels mocking. “Me? Settling down? With who?”

“Who knows. Someone who will treat you better than the IPC, I hope.”

“Anyone that nice would run in the other direction. But never mind me. This would be your dream experience. What happens to you in it?”

“I stop chasing after you and get to live out the rest of my days in peace,” you say dryly, and Aventurine blinks. “Please stop deflecting. The IPC gave you a suicide mission. We will both die if we stay here.”

He looks serious now. “I wouldn't let you die.”

“You can't know that.”

“Well, I do. And I've got decent chances at surviving too—at least one in ten.”

You feel like sighing—a deep, aggravated noise is heavy in your throat—but Aventurine doesn't enjoy it when you show anger around him. It's the one omega instinct that he can't ignore, you suppose: unease around an aggressive alpha. Voice tightly controlled, you say, “You’re going to bet your life on one in ten?”

  “Sure. My chances were worse on the last planet, and things worked out great. It'll be the same on Agnisahr.” Aventurine raises a hand, calls for the bill. The conversation is over. You lean back in your seat, watching sourly as he pays tens of thousands of credits just for water.

“You know, they say the royal family is backed by an Aeon,” you can't help but point out, once the waiter is gone. A last-ditch effort. Aventurine smiles at it, amused. Like you're a child.

“So what?” He glances outside, at the desolate landscape beyond the oasis—nothing but red sand, a blue, rainless sky, and two radiant suns shining above it all. “The protection of a god is nothing compared to the schemes of human beings. And gods abandon their people all the time, anyway.”

During your tenth day on Agnisahr, you realise that something is deeply wrong.

It takes you some time to understand what’s happening. At first you think that whatever political danger you’ve intuited is much worse than you thought, and that’s why Aventurine has been so pale, so discomforted, so exhausted. Then his scent starts changing—he switches clothes two, three times a day (because of all this heat during Agnisahran days, he tells his new business associates) and spritzes his nape with his cologne almost religiously—and you wonder if he is sick with something. If the food in this planet has something that disagrees with his Sigonian biology, or if he has picked up one of the local filoviruses, or if someone’s poisoned one of his meals because they’ve correctly identified him as a threat. Aventurine dismisses every single one of these theories when you bring it up, and—as if in denial—only attributes it to the weather. (I’ve never done well in deserts, he tells you, his eyes on his phone screen. I'm not used to them. It is above 300 Kelvin, and you do not see a single bead of sweat on his neck, and his cheeks are not even a little flushed.)

You only figure it out when he is too ill to get out of bed one morning and forbids all the IPC staff from coming near his hotel room. It sets off alarms immediately—Aventurine, no matter how sick, will work and see through meetings as long as he is mentally capable of it—and so you naturally ignore his orders and check on him, using the spare key to his sleeping quarters that you're given as a policy. And as soon as the door cracks open—as soon as you step inside only to be hit with a violent, cloying sweetness—you realise what’s happening and slam the door shut behind you.

“You’re in heat,” you blurt out, and Aventurine—a shivering, panting mess on the bed—groans in response.

“Why are you here?” He turns toward you, still lucid enough to glare at you through the tangled mess of his hair. His voice is weak, but no less self-possessed: “I was very clear—no company today.”

“I am your personal bodyguard,” you remind him mildly. Your voice is calm—both non-threatening and non-condescending. “Those orders don’t apply to me. If things feel suspicious, I look into it. And they felt very suspicious.” Your brow knits as you study his clothes. Mulberry silk clings to his form, soaked through with sweat. Thin, eucalyptus sheets are tangled up around him. There are only two pillows. No water bottles. No knotting toys.

Nothing.

“You didn't know you'd be in heat,” you realise. “What happened to your suppressants?”

“I don't know.” There’s a quiet, frustrated edge to his voice. Vulnerable too. It makes you think of when you were both still slaves, and Aventurine was confined to the basement of the manor—the one that all omega slaves were made to ride out their heats in. Either they would do it alone or were ordered to spend it with some alpha, usually either a friend of the master or an alpha slave he wished to reward. That's when they're most pliable, he'd tell his guests, or sometimes even you. They get so desperate they'll present themselves to anyone. Then amused laughter from the other party—How obscene!—as you looked away, blood hammering in your ears.

You had been your master’s favourite. His most obedient, most profitable pet—striking enough for his guests to admire, deadly enough for his audiences to bet on, docile enough for him to enjoy. Good enough for him to reward, and he often rewarded you with his most beautiful slave: his Avgin omega. Just don't mark him, he’d said, fastening the muzzle around your mouth. It'll ruin his market value. Who knows if someday he'd sell Kakavasha off to some alpha master who wished to claim him, he said. Though I don't think there's anyone in this star system who'd want a Sigonian for a mate, let alone a Sigonian slave. Then he’d paused, eyes scanning over you. As if contemplating. But maybe they'd try to get Avgin whelps out of him, he added, and you felt like throwing up.

You'd never mate him in those moments, your muzzle always prevented you from saying. You didn't even want to think about touching him, and he didn't want to think about it either. Even in the cruel grip of his heats, with nothing but the thin mat beneath him and his slave’s rags around him, Kakavasha hadn't wanted any kind of contact from you, rejecting any chance of solace. Don't, don't—not again, not again, he'd begged. Then as the nights marched on and his mind grew hazier, he’d start whimpering too: It hurts, alpha. It hurts. Help me. It hurts. Don't touch me. Not again. It hurts. It hurts. Stop it, please stop it.

It gutted you.

It went against every instinct, not to touch him. To let him lie there, in scorching, lonely pain, when all you wanted to do was to dispel it. It would be so easy to press yourself against him and let his skin cool against yours, do the one thing that your body was good at other than killing. But not again, not again, I can't anymore, I don't want it, I never wanted it, and all you could do was sit there, unmoving. Watch as the most delicate, precious thing you had in your life shatter.

And standing here now, watching Aventurine shatter before you once more—it is unbearable. He needs a nest, you keep thinking. He needs a nest and some water and some kind of touch, some kind of relief, but not again, not again, and you’re still a slave, still a worthless and stupid slave, and Kakavasha is still crying on a basement floor and you can't do anything for him.

“You need help, Aventurine,” you say, voice soft, and his whole body tenses. His scent dips, and the scent of florals overwhelms you.

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

“You do. You're sick.” You bite your lip. Your heart splits as you suggest it, but you say, “I can call a professional.”

“No,” he spits. The facade is gone. The poker face has cracked. The anger and the pain and the fear are all on full display, and his voice sharpens: “No strangers.”

No foreign scents, you realise he's demanding. A new scent would probably make him feel unsafe.

Then let me help you, you think of pleading, but not again, not again, and you're filled with so much shame at the thought that all you can do is look away.

“Then—can I do anything?” He goes still. “Not—not that, but something to make you more comfortable. I can build you a nest, at least—”

“No.” He takes a deep, shaking breath. “No nests. I don't need one—”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't,” he says. His voice is wavering now, on the verge of crumbling with fever and pain. “I've never—I’ve never needed a nest, I don't—I don't want to—” He presses his face into his pillow. “I need—I need to be alone, fuck—”

He doesn't mean to whine. The cry for distress is instinct, something that all omegas are programmed to do in heat. You’ve heard that they’ve evolved to make this noise as a way of appealing to nearby alphas for help, but you think this must be a lie as you never once saw your alpha master giving mercy to any of his omega slaves. Still, whether it is your biology or not—the noise that Aventurine makes has your heart aching so much you can't help but step forward. But he shakes his head and inches away, shuddering violently, and then his voice echoes again in that cold basement—not again, not again, and don't touch it anymore, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore, not again, and it's all you can do to back away until your spine is pressed against the door.

“I'm sorry, Vasha,” you say, strained. “I’m sorry. I'll leave you now.”

As the door shuts behind you, you catch a final glimpse him—face pressed into the pillows, shivering.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was crying.

When you were both slaves, Aventurine hated seeing you during his heats.

Kakavasha was normally calm around you. Most of the time, he was even friendly (he was friendly to everyone whom he thought could be useful), but he was different during his heats. Sometimes he was vicious; mostly he was withdrawn. Nearly always, he wanted to be left alone. In those moments, all he could register was your alpha scent and his memories of what other people had done to him during his heats. And while you'd have hated to leave him, despised the idea of him being offered to another alpha—even more than that, you hated violating this boundary of his. Hated that you were allowed to do whatever you wanted to him. Hated being the reason he felt so unsafe.

Hated being an alpha.

Now that you no longer have the orders of your slavemaster hanging over you, it is the least you can do to respect Aventurine’s wish of being left alone. He has every right to privacy, and you have every obligation to give it to him. But instead you have been standing here, outside his door, for a full system-hour.

Every time you try to leave, your body is wracked with anxiety. The thought of other people—other alphas—coming near him in this state makes you seethe, your hands flexing at your side. The predator instinct comes out, and the people around you notice it. Every person unlucky enough to walk down this hall scurries away under your glare, even the other IPC staff wandering about to look for Aventurine: Must be their mate on the other side, they remark to one another, and then they're gone.

It is a hard thing to hear. You are not his mate. You are not even a heat partner. If you were, then he wouldn't be in so much pain. Not now, and not back then.

Aventurine has never had easy heats. You keep replaying your memories of all his past ones, each one a wound in your heart: the aching sweetness of nectar and honey; his withering body as he clutched his abdomen and curled up; the tears and sweat staining the mat beneath him. And above all: the fear. The scent of it, the sight of it, the sound of it in his voice. Stronger today than any other day.

By instinct, you know that he cannot persist like this. That this time is somehow worse than all those other times, and that he will become seriously ill if left alone.

After nearly an hour and a half, you finally open the door, fearing the worst.

“Aventurine?” you say quietly, but there's no response, and your stomach drops as you see him.

His body is pale, listless. If it weren't for the fragrance washing over you or the sweat on his temple, you'd worry that he was dead.

Tentatively, you reach out. Rest a hand on his forehead, and it scorches you. He stirs at the touch, doesn't open his eyes—but the quiet sigh of relief is unmistakable. His fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach for you.

“Aventurine,” you say gently. “Aventurine, I'm going to take care of you. Is that alright?”

He doesn't respond. You grimace, pulling away to fetch things for him: several spare pillows from the closet, an extra blanket too. From his suitcase, you grab a few of his sweaters, all thick cotton and fleece. He’d had a sense that Agnisahr would be cold at night. Deserts always get cold after sundown, since sand doesn’t retain heat, he'd told you while he was packing. Or I think so, anyway. Don't know why. Must have read it somewhere. Then he’d given you a long, unreadable look before saying, Make sure to bring a jacket. The warmest one you have. The elements on a planet like Agnisahr can kill a person—even a person like you.

I’m sure I’ll be fine, you’d dismissed him. I can survive anything. Any kind of weather, any kind of illness, any kind of pain: these are all things your species is known for being able to endure, the trait that made you such a prized slave in your master’s eyes, such a useful agent at the IPC. You hadn’t given Aventurine’s warning any thought and hardly paid attention to what you’d thrown into your own suitcase.

It surprises you, then, that you find one of your sweaters in his luggage. Made from Sedanian cashmere and heat tech designed by the Intelligentsia Guild. Cloud-soft and warm to the touch. Aventurine had bought it for you before you were deployed to Jarilo-IV to collect intelligence for Topaz. Warmest thing in the known universe, he’d commented. One of a kind, too. Remember to wear it, alright? Don't let my money go to waste, now.

You stare at it, kneading the fleece between your fingers. You hadn’t mentioned wanting to bring this sweater. You’d lost it in your closet some months ago and forgot about it. Aventurine must have remembered and gone looking for it, because—why? You aren't sure. Probably because it’s warmer and softer than anything he owns, you guess. Of course he’d want to wear it.

You throw it into the pile of things you’ve collected for him.

You take it all to his bed, the mattress dipping as you sit next to Aventurine. One by one, you scent each item with your wrist, watching him carefully the whole time. You’re quiet as you lay them out around him, leaving him undisturbed as you build a nest. You order water and electrolyte drinks too, and you’re quick about going to the door when you hear room service knocking—with how feverish he is, he probably badly needs it.

Aventurine is awake when you come back. His breathing is still laboured, pained—but calm.

“I said I didn’t need a nest,” Aventurine says, though he doesn’t sound angry. You wonder if he’s too weak to be. His voice is faint, and his eyes are barely open—focused on the pile of blankets and clothing around him.

“You’re welcome.” You open a bottle of water, hold it out to him. “Drink.”

Aventurine pauses, stares at the offering like it's some kind of foreign object. But he accepts it eventually, sitting up and taking it from you. He winces with the movement, which he tries to hide. He ignores your frown as he drinks, and he doesn't stop until the bottle is empty.

“There are more,” you say, pointing at the several additional bottles on the nightstand. “And some food and some painkillers. I don't know how well they’ll work. This isn't a normal heat. If you're alright with it, I'll call a doctor and—”

“Everything smells like you,” he says quietly, and you stop.

“...yes. Unless they’re mated, nests usually feel most comforting to an omega when they smell like an alpha.” You swallow, looking away. “...you don't have a mate, and you didn't want a professional, so this was the only option I could think of. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says. He picks out one of the sweaters that have made its way into the nest, the Sedanian one. “I don't mind it.”

“Oh.” You let out a breath. “Then—can I call a doctor?”

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

“I’ve never needed a doctor before,” he says. He sounds unbothered, but he's fidgeting with the sweater now. “I don't need one now.”

A lie. He almost certainly needed a doctor in some of his prior heats, but you don't push the matter. “Maybe you don't need one,” you say instead, “but it would help.”

“I don't need help,” he says, and you look at him in disbelief. He catches your expression, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Not more than you've already done, I mean.”

“I’ve barely—”

“Contact Topaz. Tell her I'm incapacitated. Tell her…” He hums. “Tell her I have food poisoning. The personnel too. It's not time-sensitive, our business on Agnisahr, so it shouldn't matter if I need a few days off.”

“You really need—”

“Give my regrets to our Agnisahran friends. Deliver it in person. They see you as my right hand, so they’ll most appreciate it coming from you. Topaz can help you with the verbiage. And—try to socialise with them a little, won't you? I think that little omega princess of theirs likes you. Some of the courtesans too, and they have surprising influence.”

“I do not want to be around any omega other than you right now,” you say before you can stop yourself, and Aventurine stops, blinking. His expression is blank, if perhaps a little curious—but his scent shifts. You can't identify how. You add quickly, “I’m not leaving you alone when you’re this sick.”

“Ah. Right.” Aventurine looks away. His voice sounds strange, and his heat must be getting to him again, because it carries a hint of pain. “But you have to. The IPC’s goals take priority.”

You frown. “Your life is more important than the IPC,” you say, and he laughs. Loudly.

“What? This is just a heat. I’m not going to die.”

“You don’t know that without seeing a doctor.”

“I do. I’m willing to bet money that I won’t die.” He cuts you off before you can reply: yes, you're always willing to bet on your life. “And even if I do, that would still be less important than Agnisahr. Do you know how many resources are on this lifeless rock?” His mouth slants. “If we mess up here, I’m dead anyway.”

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

“Yes, you would—because they would kill you too.” Aventurine sighs. His eyes close, and his brow creases—a sign that whatever reprieve he was lucky enough to get is about to end. “Go do what I asked. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll… see a doctor if you do.”

You stand immediately. “Alright. I’ll be back to check on you.”

“I know.”

You stop at the door, giving him a long look. Seeing him like this—lying on a proper bed, cradled in a warm nest, with water and food and medicine nearby—you feel a little better. This is leagues beyond what he’d been afforded in his days as a slave, at the very least. Even if he isn’t free, at least he isn’t trapped.

But it still doesn’t feel good, having to step away. The last thing you want to do is talk to other people, pretend to have interest in other omegas. There are an astonishing number of them who are interested in you on this planet—that princess, and some baron’s son, and one of the prince’s favourite paramours—but you can’t bring yourself to care even for business purposes when Aventurine is like this. You can't act as if you are enjoying yourself when you know he is in pain.

You wonder about telling Topaz the truth. You wonder if she’d be worried enough about Aventurine to let you neglect this mission and cover for you instead, without letting Jade or Diamond or anyone else dangerous know. Not that you think that anyone at the Company particularly cares about Kakavasha—it’s only that he’s valuable. Aventurine of Stratagems is valuable. How many worlds have fallen because of him?

But he seemed unwilling to bet on his worth to them. Which is startling, given how often he's bet on it in the past.

“What’s so important about this planet,” you can’t help but ask, “that the IPC would rather you die than lose it?”

He’s silent for a long moment. His eyes are closed—hidden—but you can see his knuckles whiten as he clutches the Sedanian sweater.

“Copper,” he says. “They want it for the copper.”

When Kakavasha first suggested a friendship to you, it had felt like something in between a proposition and a threat:

Go ahead, he'd said. Use me as you wish. You can even stab me in the back if you want. Just be mindful of this: I don't make deals that don't pay off.

It might have been a strange way of making friends in any other circumstance, but in a house of slaves, it was a natural one. You had not been a clever person—still aren't—but you understood that your place in the world was one of a tool. This was the place of all slaves: you were all things to be used. Your body was a thing to be used. It was valuable for its strength, for its hardiness, for its threat in the arena and for its convenience in your master’s bed (or in a dark basement, or within a heat house, or inside whichever omega your mistress ordered you to calm down). It did not surprise you that Kakavasha wanted to use it as well. It did not surprise you that Kakavasha expected you to use him in return.

You never would have, of course. Kakavasha was not a thing to be used—he had always been a mate. Though you were happy to let him use you, because all you were was a tool anyway, so it was really all you could offer him: to be used.

None of this has changed for you. You don't think any of this has changed for Aventurine, either. With each new friendship he makes, he repeats those familiar words: Use me as you wish. And with each person who accepts, this is exactly what they do: they use him, and they use him, and they use him until suddenly they notice he's tricked them and they've got the losing hand.

You damned gambler, they always spit. You Sigonian wretch. All you know is how to manipulate people. Thief, liar, cheat, whore. Despite all these insults, Aventurine always smiles at them. Cry as they might, he’s won his bet and has their world in his palms.

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. This is all Aventurine knows; these are his great guiding principles in life. (He's told you this point blank, stacking up chips in his favourite gambling dens with a self-satisfied grin.) You often find yourself coming back to these conversations, particularly when you need to convince him of something.

And right now, you very badly need to convince him of something.

Aventurine is ignoring his doctor’s advice. His suppressants are unstable in extreme temperatures, he's been told. During travel on Agnisahr, they'd degraded, and now he’s experiencing his first heat in several years. Of course it's going to be painful, his doctor had said. I can prescribe you some medication to ease the symptoms, but really—nothing will work better than a heat partner. It doesn't need to be a mate. Any alpha will do.

The doctor had been an alpha. You had asked for a beta or omega, but alphas tend to dominate in Interastral Medical Schools, so they're in short supply. Aventurine had been still the whole time, face unreadable, but you could tell he wanted to throw up at the stench of an unfamiliar alpha. You had stepped between the two of them, not bothering to hide the animosity in your voice. We’ll take the medication, you had said, and the doctor had sniffed the air and nodded at you in approval.

Probably won't need it. An alpha like you could sort him out with just a few rounds, he told you, and both of you stayed quiet as he left.

You still aren't talking, or even looking at each other. Aventurine has lay down in his nest again, closing his eyes, while you stand as far away as physically possible—at the door where you'd just shown the doctor out. With the room shut off again, windows closed and door locked, Aventurine’s scent is starting to flood your senses once more. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him shivering.

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He swallows. “I'll be fine.”

He's afraid. You can tell he's afraid. And you can tell he’ll be more afraid if you take even a single step closer to him, so you nod and say, “I'll go pick up your medication, then,” and Aventurine doesn't stop you. You can see him curling up in his nest, face pressed into the cashmere sweater.

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

There is a rare sag to his shoulders when he calls you to the room, along with a taste of dread in the air. You haven't seen him so vulnerable in years. Aventurine is not an open person, so cunning and self-possessed in his wealth—but Kakavasha was more brittle, more powerless, flayed raw and open even though he didn't often get the whip. (It would ruin his value if he ever scarred—his looks were his greatest selling point, your master said.) He was especially defeated when forced to spend his heats with an alpha he didn't want. You wonder, a vice grip of pain around your heart, whether this entire situation is simply an extension of that. Whether he is calling you here against his will, this time compelled by his pain, rather than his master. Whether this luxury suite feels like that wretched basement to him.

He doesn't look at you when he talks, nor does he sit up. He remains curled in his nest, nearly clinging onto the blankets and clothes.

“That stupid medication,” he pants out, sharp even in his heat, “isn't working.”

“I can tell.” Your brow knots. He’s in so much pain, it is palpable. “I”—you hesitate, voice dropping. “Can I help you?”

He goes quiet. As both Aventurine and Kakavasha, he has always been disinclined to accept help from other people. There is no such thing as unconditional help in his mind—only leverage and weakness. He hates it when people have leverage over him, and he hates being weak. Both are things that can be exploited, and Aventurine always needs to be the one doing the exploiting. He always needs to be in control.

Even like this, the last threads of his sanity about to snap, with every circuit of his omega biology trying to drag him into insensible lust, he fights viciously to be in control.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. Control and being controlled. This is how he's always lived. This is how he's always survived.

This is the only way to let him maintain control when he is most afraid of losing it.

“I don't mind,” you say quietly, “if you use me.”

Even through the haze of heat, Aventurine’s eyes sharpen. “What?”

“I don't mind if you use me,” you repeat, voice neutral. Unfeeling. The proposal might sound cruel to someone else, but not you. After all—your place in the world is one of a tool, and this is what you've always done as an alpha and a slave: sleeping with people to take care of their needs, or sometimes just their desires. It did always make you feel strangely hollow, but you think it will feel just fine with Aventurine. All you've ever wanted to do is keep him safe, and surely, this will do that, but—

“I'll only help if you want. I don't want to force it.” You lower your eyes. “But if you do want it, I'll be careful with you. You can lead. I promise.”

“...I know.” Aventurine’s voice is weak, cracks with pain, but you can tell he's speaking with clarity. “I know you will be.”

You look up. “Then you'll let me help?”

Aventurine looks away—a sign that he cannot adopt his usual smile. He’s clutching that sweater again, pressed close to his chest.

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

“I just—I just want your wrist.” He looks away. “Your—your scent gland. Only that.”

“Okay.”

You get up, then falter. When it was your job to comfort your mistress’ omega slaves, you were told to enter their nests—no permission needed from them, no permission needed from you, because only her permission ever mattered for anything. The omegas were usually too delirious to care, often had even begged for it with the state of mind that they were in. But Aventurine is different. He's not like you, and he's not like them. He's never bent to any of his masters’ wills. And even if he did, you wouldn't want to have him bend to yours.

Instead of climbing into his nest, you ask, “Can I sit on the bed?” He doesn't answer. “Just the edge of it,” you add, and you hear him exhale.

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

“Thank you,” you say, and he gives you a confused look. But then you're reaching out with a hand, offering it, and he is quickly distracted.

Aventurine drops the sweater, grabs your hand almost immediately. He turns over your palms, fingers tracing your heartlines—as if testing you, as if mapping out territory. He runs his thumbs along the veins of your wrists, too, right over your scent gland, and you have to force yourself not to shudder at the feeling. You only stay still, letting him explore the contours of your hands, letting him acclimate to the feeling of your skin. He laces his fingers with your own, a latticework trap, and he finally drags his wrist along yours.

Both of you inhale sharply.

You can't react. You know it'll scare him if you do, but it's hard to keep still. The way his scent blossoms, the way it mingles with yours, the way it all washes over you—what you're doing can hardly be called touching, but you feel like you're going mad. Especially when he flushes like that, his vibrant eyes fluttering shut. Especially when the sweetness of honey overtakes your senses. Especially when you can smell the way his body is reacting, all that wetness and heat and slick dripping between his legs. You don't miss the way his thighs rub together, nor the hard outline of his cock straining against his pants.

Aventurine shudders. He brings your hand up to his face, rests his cheek in your palm. His skin is flushed and burning with fever, and it's no wonder that he's sighing with relief at your touch. You try not to stare at the way his mouth falls open. He looks at you for a moment, his gaze a hazy violet and blue—before he closes his eyes again and presses his lips into your wrist.

Fuck.

“Aventurine—” You have to stop, voice strangled, when you feel the full softness of his lips working against your skin. He’s panting now, laboured breaths sweeping over your veins. Then you feel his teeth catch, a gentle nip on your flesh, and when he groans into your racing pulse—deep, relieved, desperate, a noise that makes your gut flare with heat—you realise you can't do this.

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

“Aventurine,” you say, voice strained. Maybe we should stop, you want to say, but he cuts you off.

“I need”—a shaky breath—“I need more.”

You watch Aventurine carefully. His pupils are dilated, blue irises nearly eclipsed. His cheeks are rosy, and he can't stop panting. You can fully smell his arousal now, even through his silk clothes. He's desperate, needing to be filled.

But he also looks torn. His brows are knotted, and you can taste a faint hint of fear in the air now. His knuckles clutch at the sheets, almost white, and he stares at them. He can't look up. He can't look at you. His whole body is tense, like he wants to bolt—and if he weren't so weak, you think he might actually.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

He doesn't nod. He also doesn't shake his head. His arms clutch at his midsection as he winces. He doesn't look like Aventurine. He looks like Kakavasha. It makes your heart ache as you watch him give into his body’s demands, wearing the same expression he did on the day your master bought him.

“...don't use your Voice on me,” Aventurine—Kakavasha—says quietly.

It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking. “I won't.”

“And”—his eyes somehow grow even more evasive, hidden by his long lashes— “don’t touch my commodity code.”

His commodity code. His commodity code that is seared into his scent gland. His code that, if you kiss, will ease his agony instantly. His code that, if you bite—will chain him to you irreversibly.

“Of course I won't,” you say instantly.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

“And—” Aventurine looks away, jaw tight. His voice is quiet but wrought with tension: “—I don't like when people put things inside me.”

Something claws the walls of your heart.

“That's fine too,” you reply. “I don't mind doing it the other way.”

Aventurine’s sigh is nearly inaudible, but unmistakable. His scent shifts a little bit, the wildflower fragrance fading ever so slightly. But he doesn't come to you. He merely sits there—waiting. Expecting. Maybe dreading. Even in the senseless daze of heat, he’s too anxious to move.

You approach slowly. Though you're overwhelmed by the bouquet of his scent, though you feel a curl of heat in your belly in response to it—you are slow. Alphas are supposedly victims of insatiable lust whenever around an omega in heat, absolved of every action they take, but you are convinced this is a lie. You have never once wanted to handle Aventurine with such cruelty. You think that inflicting violence on him, more than anything else, would go against your biology. Every molecule in your body would reject putting him in such pain or inciting such fear. So you are careful when you approach him, slow as you inch up to him—but you do not think it helps.

Aventurine lies down, his face turned away from yours. His eyes squeeze shut, like he's expecting this to hurt. Uncertainty gnaws at your gut as you lean over him, draping your body over his—the only position you've ever taken an omega in, other than mounting them from behind.

(You do not want to mount Aventurine. You never have. It is an impersonal position, a position that omega biology supposedly would force him to enjoy, a position that alphas have likely dictated him to enjoy. You think there is nothing you would hate more. In your weakest, most selfish moments, in your worst ruts, when you’ve allowed yourself to fantasise about mating Kakavasha—you are always facing each other, and he is always looking at you with his eyes you've always loved, and it always feels intimate. Never impersonal. Never dictated. Never forced.)

Aventurine is so honeysweet beneath you. More fragrant than any omega you’ve ever been with. You glance at his commodity code, trying to ignore the scent of his branded skin, then lean down to press your face against the other side of his neck, where a faint scar mars the otherwise flawless slope of his nape. Like every other omega slave you've ever slept with, the scent gland there has been excised: a precautionary measure to reduce the risk of an unwanted mating bite.

(Not unwanted by them—the wants of a slave never matter—but unwanted by their owners. A mating bite would ruin the code seared into their neck, claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. It would hurt their resale value. Only owners are allowed to claim slaves in such a permanent way—and the wants of a slave have no relevance there, either.)

It's a funny thing, this surgical scar. Even with their gland missing, you've noticed that most omegas like having their neck scented by you anyway, probably from some vestigial instinct. You guess that Aventurine won't be any different, that maybe it will comfort him. But when your lips skim the scar left on him by his owner, his entire body stiffens beneath you. His fragrance cuts into your lungs, sharp.

You recoil, as if burned by the touch of him.

“Sorry,” Aventurine is quick to say. He tries to glance at you, but his diamond pupils quickly avoid you again. “Don’t worry about me. Just do whatever you need to do.”

“But you're scared,” you point out, and you see his brow twitch. “You’re scared when I touch you.”

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

When his eyes finally look at you—land on your lips—you understand.

A bite would claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. If you lost your mind—give into the insatiable lust of an alpha whenever around an omega in heat—you might bite him, and then you would own Aventurine.

And Aventurine would rather die than be owned by anyone again.

He doesn't need to finish his sentence. You already know what you need to do.

“It's okay,” you say gently, and his brow knots. “I have an idea.”

Aventurine is always afraid.

This is a fact that has haunted you since the day you met him. You've wondered about how to fix it—the bare minimum as his mate (always his, even if he doesn't want you)—and you’ve never quite pinned down how. Because when someone has spent their life in perpetual fear, how do you make them feel safe? When their life is constantly at risk, how do you ever make them feel calm?

You still aren't sure of the answer. But after seeing Kakavasha become Aventurine, you now have a good guess.

It is clear from his scent that Aventurine does not feel remotely safe right now. Not when you leave to fetch something from your own room, and not when you return. The anxiety thickens when he sees, in your hands, a very familiar muzzle.

Aventurine stares. He is not smiling, but he also does not reveal his discomfort on his face, even as beads of sweat line his temple. But his voice is too controlled, too calm, when he asks, “You kept the mask.”

You nod.

“I told you to throw it out,” he points out, “when I freed you.”

“I know. Sorry. I don't know why I kept it.” You remember how tightly you clutched it before the incinerator, thinking about how strange it would feel, discarding something that you'd worn everyday since you presented—but you don't tell him this. Instead, you say, “But it’s convenient.”

Before Aventurine can say anything, you toss him the remote.

“You’re afraid of my bite and my Voice, but you don't have to be with this,” you explain. Your tone is gentle, soothing. Probably disarming coming from an alpha, with how he is in heat. Perhaps that's why he’s studying the remote rather than chucking it away. “You'll be in full control if I wear this.”

Control. Mere seconds after you say it, you can smell his fragrance change again, mellowing. It's only a brief moment of calm that fades when you latch the mask onto your face, but he doesn't smell as nearly as stressed before.

Aventurine watches you carefully as the carbon steel swallows your maw, its old and familiar edges biting into you. For the first time in years, you cannot tell what he is thinking—truly poker-faced even to you.

“You aren't bothered by wearing that thing while we do this,” he says—asks?—and you shake your head. The muzzle was part of you for years. You were wearing it when you killed someone for the first time. You were wearing it when you went into rut for the first time. You were wearing it when your master had sex with you for the first time. It doesn't bother you that you’ll wear it when you have sex with Aventurine.

If you could speak, you would ask him, Why do you think it would bother me? But all you do is gesture for him to sit up. To switch places with you. You lie down—something you've never done with an omega—and wait for him to get on top.

Aventurine stares at you for a long, quiet moment. It's followed by a sigh of relief. Disarmed, he—for the first time in any heat you've witnessed—finally relaxes. His scent wafts over you as he climbs between your legs, and you can feel the heat radiating from his hands as he parts your thighs, almost scalding.

He doesn't bother getting you ready, too needy to think rationally, but he doesn't have to anyway. You've been wet ever since you felt his mouth touch your wrist, hard ever since you heard him groan into it. You're equally desperate to get some relief as you feel his cockhead sliding against your opening, leaking all over your entrance as his slick drips onto your thighs. His breath shakes as he enters you, and he can't hear it with how you're muzzled—but you groan just as deeply as him at the tight stretch.

You hear him swear when you clench around him, watch him lean over you. His arms shake as he supports himself, refusing to succumb to his heat even as he chases his relief. You seek out his gaze (just as in your dreams, facing each other, intimate), and his neon eyes catch on your eyes for a brief, breathtaking second—

—before he looks away.

There's a flash of—you don't know what, maybe pain? Or fear?—in his irises as he does. A twitch of the brow, a tell he'd normally rather die than let slip. You have the realisation, as Aventurine moves inside you, that even while you're muzzled, even while he has complete control over you—he still can't stand having sex with you. Probably because he can't stand being in heat in general, you tell yourself. Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore. He'd have this reaction to anyone.

Still—you didn't expect him to have this reaction to you.

Your hands twitch, possessed by an old instinct to cover your eyes. But you'd probably scare Aventurine if you moved your arms, so all you do is dig your fingers into the sheets and squeeze them shut. You tell yourself again and again that he'd hate having sex with anyone in these circumstances—not just you. And then you tell yourself, as a desperate, broken moan leaves his branded throat, that he would also come inside anyone in these circumstances, caught within the cruel grip of his heat.

Aventurine stills inside you as he finishes. He pants, sweat dripping down his temple as he shudders in his ecstasy, his spend hot and thick inside you. You can feel his fever break as he comes down from his high, the heat coming off his body easing into a manageable warmth.

Do you feel better, you try to say, but you can't move your mouth while your mask is on. So you wait patiently for Aventurine to come back to himself, watching him carefully as he pulls out and rolls onto the mattress beside you. He finally glances at you then. His eyes narrow once they land on you, confusion flicking through them. Then displeasure. He reaches for the remote.

To your surprise, he immediately punches in the code to unlock your muzzle. Aventurine has apparently remembered the numbers after all these years, as if the moment he freed you has been since seared into his memory.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing you say, and Aventurine gives you a confused look. He’s still panting, dazed, so you ask, “Can I check your temperature?” And when he nods, you confirm your suspicion: he's still much too warm.

There is an ache between your legs and a strange hollow in your gut (because you aren't very experienced with receiving, you think—your body likely just isn't used to the feeling of it), but you quickly forget them. All you can think of is Aventurine, and how he’s still unwell, and how you need to comfort him. The instinct is so strong that you don't even say anything as you get up, straightening out your clothes.

“Are you leaving?” Aventurine asks. His voice is neutral, completely unbothered, but the thought is so horrific to you that you turn back to him with wide eyes.

“Of course not. I'm going to get you water and medicine.” A beat. You stare at Aventurine’s eyes, then think about how he hid them from you during sex. The hollow feeling comes back, but it's mostly eclipsed by your anxiety at the next thought: “...do you want me to leave?”

“Do you want to?”

“I—” I'd rather die, you think. Being forced to leave him right now would feel like tearing out a piece of yourself. You don't know if there's an alpha in this world who could leave their mate in the middle of a heat. And even if he is unmarked, unattached to you—you still think of yourself as his mate. (His, always his, even if he doesn't want you.) “I would prefer not to. I am your heat partner. I'm supposed to take care of you.”

You hear a quiet breath. “Right. Of course. You're always so conscientious.” Aventurine nods, as if convincing himself of something. “Try not to take too long.”

“I’ll come back soon,” you promise, and the air sweetens. Encouraged, you add, voice gentle: “I’ll bring that medication, and then we can have sex as many times as you need after I come back. I'll make sure you're not in any pain anymore.” You pause, studying him. “Is there anything else you need to feel better?”

His fragrance changes once more, this time in a way you don't totally recognize. “No.” His voice sounds strange. His scent is still foreign, fluctuating, possibly hinting at some kind of pain. The heat must be getting to him again—and of course it wasn't enough, what you just did, what you can provide. He likely needs to be filled to get any kind of lasting relief, but you left him empty. “No, that's all I want.”

You nod, forcing yourself to look calm. Ignoring the emptiness in your gut. It didn't feel bad, but you hope it'll feel better next time you have sex. You think it will. Alphas are supposed to be filled with an insatiable lust near omegas in heat, after all. And even though you’ve never felt that before—never felt anything sleeping with all those omegas in your mistress’ house—you are sure you'll eventually feel it around Aventurine.

But the feeling never comes. Even though you can tell that his heat has returned by the time you're back—sweat beading his temples, laboured breaths at his lips, his bottoms now discarded, with full evidence of arousal between his legs—you don't feel much of anything as you reach for your mask again.

“Don't,” Aventurine says, before it can clasp around your face. You give him a curious look. He explains, “Don't. I don't want to have sex again. Not yet.”

You stare at him, shifting. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. Not knowing how he wants to use you. “What can I do?”

He gives you a long look. “Come here. I… I want your scent gland.”

It's a sensible request. If there's a way to seek relief without fucking someone—without fucking you, which he clearly hated doing—you're sure Aventurine would prefer it. So you climb into his nest, holding your wrist out for him, and—

“No.” His voice is quiet. “I want the one on your neck.”

“...oh.”

You stand there, not sure where to move. If he wants you in his nest again, or if he’d rather do this standing. You’re relieved when he demands, “Lie down.”

You expect him to get on top of you when you do. Assume that he wants complete control—but he instead lies down beside you. Presses his body into yours, and then his face into your neck. His nose and lips brush against your scent gland, a full-body shudder running through him, and—

—and now you know for a fact that it is a lie that alphas want nothing other than to fuck an omega when they're in heat. Because even like this, with his lips sweet on your neck, with the sheets soaked with his slick, with his spend leaking out of you—you do not want to have sex with Aventurine. You only want to hold him. You only want him to keep scenting you. You only want to scent him back.

You only want him to feel safe.

You breathe in deeply, lungs flooded by honey. You think of what it felt like to hold him in that cold basement, when he was delirious with fever and pain, and you think about how different his scent is now. How much sweeter it is. How much calmer he feels.

“Do you feel better?” you ask, and he doesn't respond, but you know the answer. His hands come up to dig into your shirt, and he presses into you like you're a sweater in his nest. Silence blankets over you both, calm and warm. His laboured breath starts to improve.

He does eventually speak.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he says, “what you smell like?”

You stare at him. Your master used to say that you smelled good, but he'd never elaborated, and you hadn't wanted him to. “No.”

Aventurine breathes in.

“You smell like—” A little sigh, shaking and feverish, leaves him. “You smell like rain.”

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

“Yes. Or not just rain, but”—he pauses, next words quiet—“more Iike after it rains. You smell like the desert after a rainfall.”

“Oh.” You don't know what to say to that. Feeling distinctly like it's a silly question, you ask, “Is that a good scent?”

“Some would think so. Especially to people from the desert. You probably smell like a blessing to them. Although…”

Aventurine goes quiet again. You stare at the chandelier above you, all crystal and white gold, and wait.

“Although?” you prompt.

“...although I wouldn't really know,” he says. “It’s just a hunch. I bet it's why so many omegas on this planet like you.”

You couldn't care less about those other omegas. All you care about is Aventurine. “And?” you say. “Do you like my scent?”

His reply never comes. He just breathes deeply again, seeking relief from your neck—not intimacy. Any alpha’s scent would work; that doctor told you so. Any alpha’s touch would work, too. There are no special feelings involved here. Your place in the world is one of a tool, and tools are never especially liked nor disliked. Their value exists only in how they can be used.

You don't know why you even bothered to ask the question.

But then something strange happens: Aventurine curls against you, pressing even further into you. His lashes flutter against your pulse again; it ticks up in response, beating fast against his lips.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I do like it.”

You swallow. “But I guess that's because you're in heat. Any alpha would smell good to you, wouldn’t they?”

“No.” His fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt. “No, I like it because it's yours.”

You know better than to read too much into his response. Aventurine had already said it earlier: No foreign scents. He's only tolerating this whole arrangement because you don't smell unfamiliar to him. Only able to use you because you are the least threatening option.

But the words break something in you—break the thing that made you unable to throw out that little pouch of copper coins that you were saving up for Kakavasha’s freedom, the part of you that made you wear that carbon-steel mask for him. It is this part of you that has your eyes squeezing shut and your arms wrapping around him. You know he’ll recoil, reject you, but just this once—you need to try.

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

He melts into you instead, inhaling deeply. Your scent gland tingles with the warmth of his breath, the feeling of his lips. He seems—comfortable.

You can't fathom why he’s staying in your arms. Perhaps he's simply desperate for some kind of relief from his heat, just like when you held him in the basement while he was delirious from pain. But Aventurine had spoken to you with clarity just now, and his skin doesn't feel scalding so much as warm, and his scent is so different than from that moment. So sweet and so gentle, without a trace of fear. It makes your heart squeeze. As much as you've always wanted Aventurine to feel safe, you'd never imagined that his scent would be so beautiful when he is.

It makes your heart ache. You've never held anything so lovely before, and you’ve never felt so warm before, and it all makes up for how badly it hurt to let Aventurine inside you. How hollow it made you feel to let him use you. How none of that matters as long as you can keep him safe like this, because you belong to Kakavasha. You'll always belong to Kakavasha, in a fate that was chosen for you on the day you met him.

You're his, always his—even if he’ll never want you.

end part i

thank you so much to lore for hosting a fantastic collab and to my sponsors who funded this fic and got it over the finish line! please go check out @ficsforgaza to find other amazing hsr writers you can sponsor in order to help fundraise! here is my own wip list, if you are interested in seeing more from me!

and thank you most of all to YOU! I appreciate you so much for reading this chapter. thank you so much for sticking it through.

additional end notes

[kurakisses]

⟡ ⠀in debris⠀⠀⊹⠀⠀ soshiro hoshina & you

gn, flower shop owner reader who deals with depression and anxiety. hurt/comfort, a bit of angst maybe. this is the prologue of my scaredy cat series.

the vice-captain of the third division was the soldier you trusted the most— much more than the captain, mina ashiro, or the first division.

it was all because you knew him from childhood, and you had brief conversations with him whenever you could. you considered him one of your closest friends and the one you could turn to in case of a kaiju emergency.

but at the time you had not managed to evacuate for the appropriate period of time to do so.

because of the most childish whim you had ever had, or because of the fear that something might happen to the little creature you cared for.

regardless of the reason- the shadow of the kaiju was reflected in the windows of your modest store

and your cat remained in your arms, protected under your body as you crouched behind the counter in search of the slightest protection.

you took a few long minutes looking for taro, your pet, as you didn't want to leave him behind while you were escaping from a kaiju

but that might cost you your life

and you were trembling thinking that the defense forces would not arrive in time.

"you dumb…! if i had only found you earlier…"

you scolded your cat, as if it could understand you

but there was evident fear in your trembling voice, and with your eyes firmly closed you expected the worst.

you put your life on someone else's shoulders selfishly, and because of it you were going to pay the consequences

however, a low thud made you raise your head from behind the counter- curious, shaking with fear at the imposing silence that now reigned in the area.

the figure of a certain soldier appeared amidst the rubble and dust, blades in his hands and the kaiju cut into pieces in front of him.

as he put away his weapons and turned to scan the place where you were sheltering, a smile filled with relief spread on your face.

"hoshina!"

you would deeply regret many things, perhaps your lack of appreciation for your own life, or your lack of common sense in most cases

but what you would never regret is trusting the vice-captain of the third division.

who likewise exclaimed your name in surprise, walking into the (almost) completely destroyed tent with a certain quickness.

"i told you to evacuate as soon as you can! you have to stop putting your life at risk like this!"

his index finger pointed at you accusingly and you pouted as you frowned

he was absolutely right, but you kept ignoring what he said.

as usual

"i couldn't leave taro behind!"

what you argued caused the man to look at you perplexed for seconds.

he let out a sigh in defeat, but held out his hand to you with the intention of helping you out of your little hiding place.

you took it, and taro meowed with a little bit of jealousy at the sight of soshiro, while he held on to the arm with which you were carrying him.

it wasn't the first time you went through a scenario similar to this, where your life was in imminent danger and the soldier's blades cut the evil that haunted you.

with his clenched jaw and crimson eyes he always gave you an angry glare as he watched pearly beads spilling from your eyes continuously, almost as if you were regretting your careless actions.

but this had become a bad habit of yours and soshiro still didn't understand why you did it.

he insisted that he wouldn't always be there to take care of you

no matter how much he wanted to

you understood that easily enough— it was clear that he was a busy man and that there would be bigger threats to deal with someday.

however, your life has always depended on a thread that you don't know how to take care of.

you were fully aware of your actions no matter how much you hid behind empty excuses, no matter how much you hid the growing knot in your throat and how often you were glum as you listened to him scolding you

you convinced yourself that you didn't need a shield

you convinced yourself that you didn't need someone else to watch over your health

but you found yourself looking for his touch, his warmth, his affection and appreciation— even if you felt you were not worthy enough for it

you were content with his harsh words as he confronted you for your poor actions

you were content to feel his hand close tightly as he felt yours, drawing you to him

you were content to hear him say sweet words when months went by without seeing each other

you were content to start hearing his voice like a humming sound inside a vault of thick, impenetrable silence every time he tried to talk sense into you

every time he tried to explain to you how your life was so precious

because you just didn't understand

but for him there were not enough words to describe how much he loved you.

[bekolxeram]

During this hiatus, other than rewatching S7 for cute moments that we missed and coming up with headconons and new fic ideas, may I suggest going back to actually read/watch/listen to interviews with the cast?

Certain more dedicated members of the fandom tend to overfixate on one single sentence or even word the cast uttered and ignore all context around it. Sure, some of them might came into it with an agenda (like many journalists did sadly) and confirmation bias took care of the rest of it, but at the same time, who has time to read pages of disjointed chat with actors improvising answers without full knowledge of the production side of the show?

I've seen people proving Eddie's queerness by this quote from Lou's interview with the Hollywood Reporter in April:

This alone has been interpreted all sorts of ways, from Ryan not accepting this storyline (which doesn't make him homophobic btw, he could've simply not seen Eddie's story going this way, or he thought he wasn't equipped to do this storyline justice), to Buck's LIs not agreeing to come back because of scheduling conflict, to the writers just thought it was more appropriate for Buck to be queer.

I'm not here to speculate anything, I'm just going to point out earlier in the same interview, Lou also said he always knew this storyline would be with Oliver:

I don't know what's going on here, Lou might have insider information, but it also could be him just speculating over Tommy and Eddie's quickly formed friendship. To my knowledge, Tim has never confirmed that Tommy's queer storyline would be with Eddie before it supposedly fell through. In fact, Tim did say once it felt like Buck's story:

And then there's Lou's supposed dislike of filming make out scenes:

I do agree with him that gratuitous scenes on TV are unnecessary. I can't even count how many times I'm watching TV with my family when a graphic sex scene comes on unprompted, and my family members and I have to try our best to pretend we don't see it. But he also said that he didn't like it only when it didn't add to the story. Like we saw in 7x06, Lou gladly rubbed his face into Oliver's because this is how Buck came out.

There's also the part most people skipped through when Lou talked about the 7x04 kiss:

Lou (and everyone involved in the storyline) doesn't want Tommy to seem predatory. I have no idea if it's a reference to a possible earlier version of the script with an Eddie bi awakening instead of a Buck one. What I'm getting is that Lou and Tim tried to avoid playing into the stereotype of gay men hanging around knowingly straight men just to get into their pants.

And boy was Lou right. If they went for a full make out scene, the fandom discourse would've been so different. Naysayers wouldn't have been latching onto bachelor party costume or daddy issue joke. It would've led to much more serious allegations.

I'm happy it all worked out in universe as well. As we've seen from the past 7 seasons, Buck has no problem getting sexual partners. In the past he tried having physical relationships with women in hopes that it would lead to an emotional one, he also tried intentionally holding off intimacy just because he thought it would get in the way of boding with someone on a humanly level. This is the first time someone picked up Buck's (unintentional?) flirting, decided to break the ambiguity (landing it like a good pilot), gave him a brief peck to test the water, and then left to give Buck time to process his feelings.

Not only was it okay for Buck, it left him wanting more.

And lastly there's the allegedly "Tommy is just Buck's gay mentor to test thing out with" thing:

But earlier in the interview, it was established that Lou said it as a respond to why the other shippers should still embrace Buck and Tommy's relationship. He didn't actually know what would happen in the future:

[streaminn]

There’s something about the fact that personal boundaries exist to separate people from those who’d impede on one’s personal bubble, and yet for Wednesday Addams, because her boundaries are always clear, other’s feel bold enough to constantly cross them. Boring boys continue to ignore her clear intentions to be alone; trying new pathetic pickup lines that range from pedestrian to unintelligible. Fellow students interrupt her silent studies in the library to spark up a mundane conversation that go nowhere. Even some of the teachers try to rope the goth into some inane extra curricular with the promise of fun, even though she’s already participating in the required activities that she actually wants to do (fencing and bee keeping is enough). While Wednesday isn’t exactly yearning for the whole school to fear her (at least not too much) a healthy amount would be nice if it meant she’d have some peace and quiet without another person breaking the silence.

There’s an obvious exception though, personified in her bubbly roommate. Enid Sinclair has mastered the ability to somehow weave her way through Wednesday’s boundaries so effortlessly that it’s like a dance. The wolf so clearly wanted to wrap the raven in her arms since the moment they met, and yet she respected Wednesday’s wishes, only crossing the line after the two of them helped save the school. The goth even hugged back, and though she’ll never admit it, she wished the hug lasted longer. This isn’t even touching upon all the countless times that Wednesday has convieniently forgotten her aversion to touch when it comes her roommate. To be fair, Enid wouldn’t linger for long, and it was usually either Wednesday’s arms or shoulders, but the raven has harmed people for less, so there’s no denying that the wolf was special (though denial is a fickle thing anyways, especially according to a certain vampire).

Unfortunately, Wednesday was currently in a situation that didn’t involve her “only exception” as she found herself at the receiving end of a new student’s attempts at flirtation.

“Look, all I’m saying is that my ability to heal rivals everyone here,” says boring lizard boy whose name Wednesday didn’t even bother to hear. “I can even regrow limbs!”

Wednesday doesn’t even waste her energy rolling her brown eyes at this nobody, instead opting to just ask, “Why don’t you regrow them somewhere else, preferably far away from me.”

“Oh come on Addams, I know you’re into weird shit. You’re telling me you don’t have a single morbid thought about my abilities? ‘Cause let’s just say the healing helps with certain endurance based activities.”

“I hold no thoughts of you, for if I did, I’d risk lowering my IQ. Now leave.”

“Damn, can’t the savior of Nevermore throw this dog a bone? Not even a smile?”

His slimy fingers began to reach for one of the goth’s braids, but he soon found two of his fingers caught between a pair of scissors.

“Do not touch me, less we learn the extent of your abilities.”

The boy threw up his hands with a dopey grin. “Whatever you say Addams.”

Fed up with the social interaction, Wednesday began to make her way back to her shared dorm. Enid should be there, probably already painting Thing’s nails. Regrettably, this brief moment of thinking distracted Wednesday long enough to not notice the sleazy reptile once again reaching towards her. This time, he grabs her wrist, specifically the one holding the scissors.

It’s short lived however, because right as the raven was about to give this boy a sneak peak of Hell itself, she feels something splash against her face, followed by the shrieks of the idiot who dared touch her. Wednesday lifts her arm to see his freshly amputated hand still attached to her wrist. She touches her face and finds that some of his blood has indeed gotten on her. She finally looks to the source of the violence, finding her angry roommate with blood still dripping from her multicolored claws. The sight causes something to stir in Wednesday, not unlike the way she felt after hugging her bloody roommate for the first time.

“Don’t ever touch her,” growls Enid. “Don’t even look at her, or your eyes will be next.”

The lizard boy nods his head as if his life depended on it, before sheepishly asking, “Can I at least have my hand back?”

“Oh for sure!” With a smile on her face, Enid removed the hand from Wednesday’s wrist, and with a casual strength that only a werewolf could muster, threw it across school grounds so far it couldn’t be seen from where they were standing. “Go get it. Come on Wednesday, it’s almost your writing time.”

With a level of irony for the currently handless boy, Enid grabs Wednesday’s hand as she drags her away from the scene. All he can do is bleed and watch them disappear into the school.

As they walk the halls, Enid talks a mile a minute, with her actions now dawning on her. “I really just cut his hand off. Like, SLASH, off! It was like instinct, I wasn’t even thinking. I just saw him touch you, and I know you don’t like to be touched.”

“Enid.”

“Like I know you can fight your own battles, but part of being best friends is that you don’t have to do it alone anymore!”

“Enid.”

“I’m probably going to get into trouble aren’t I? I mean, he heals right? It’ll grow back, everything is fine. Plus, it was kind of self defense, or is it not ‘cause I was coming to your defense?”

“Enid.”

“Sorry, yes Wednesday?”

“While I agree that I could’ve handled it myself, your actions are appreciated, especially due to how vividly violent it was.”

The validation causes Enid to blush. “Aww, thanks Wednesday, anything for you.” The blonde smiles a big toothy grin, to which the goth replies with a small smile only meant for Enid. The two continue to their dorm, with a peculiar sight for anyone that dared to look in their direction: they were still holding hands.

Enid, realizing that her favorite sweater is covered in blood: awh man!! Now it's never going to wash out

Wednesday, already tugging her towards their dorm: I can help with that

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Hi 👋🏻 I’m currently very sick rn and I need cuddles and love from either Clark Kent or Simon Riley, you pick. And could it just be fluffy and sorta angsty with a ps!reader who is just super mopey and mad about being sick and others things. You can pick most of the background for this!!

Btw love 💗 all of your writing 💛🦡🙃

.⋆｡Sick Days and Comfy PJs｡⋆.

Clark Kent x plus size reader

Sick days require your boyfriend to become your live-in nurse, but who are you to complain.

Warnings: sick!reader, fluff, little smidge of angst but not really, general sick warnings, brief nudity WC: 840

A/N: I hope you feel better soon! I’m so glad you find joy in my writing and I hope you get some out of this one 💚

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

“I’m dying.”

“No you’re not.”

“I feel like I’m dying.” There was a sigh.

“You just have the flu sweets.” 

“I swear it’s the plague.” The bed groaned and the weight of another person settled on top of it but you didn’t move to look at them. A large hand cupped your head over the thick blanket draped on top of you.

“Can you let me take your temperature again?”

You grumbled back. “No. Too cold.” 

There was another sigh and then the blanket was moved aside, sending a wave of cold air into your little cave of sickness. You groaned in annoyance as you attempted to escape the disruption but before you could, your boyfriend’s thick arm wound around your hips and pulled you up. 

“That’s just the fever talking.” His voice was much clearer now as he held you to his chest while he rummaged around the mountain of things on your nightstand. Your head was pounding with a migraine that was only compounded by your clogged sinuses. 

“Clark.” You whined, squeezing your eyes shut against the harsh light bleeding in from the hallway. 

His palm spread out across your back, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your shoulder blade as he finally found the thermometer. “Just a couple minutes sweets and then you can go back to sleep.” The cold metal tip prodded your lips for a second before you begrudgingly opened your mouth. “That’s a good girl.” He cooed and pressed a kiss to your sweaty forehead.

“I hate you.”

He chuckled softly, the vibrations of it rumbling through his chest. “I know sweets.”

“Dumb alien genes.” Clark sighed again.

“I can get sick sweets, just not with anything here on Earth.” You cracked your eyelids open to glare at him again, letting him get a good look at your bloodshot eyes and dark bags from three days of fitful sleep. “Fine. I’m sorry I can’t get sick. How can I make it up to you?”

“Grill me a cheese.” The thermometer beeped and Clark gently pried it from your lips. You gave out a rattling cough. “And lemme wear your pjs.”

He tsked and wiped off the end with a tissue. “Still too high. Alright, how about a nice hot shower and I can throw my clothes and your blanket in the dryer so they’re nice and warm by the time you get out.”

“And a grilled cheese?” He gave you a look.

“I’ll heat up some of that soup mama made. A grilled cheese might be too heavy for your tummy.” You stuck out your bottom lip at him. Clark tugged you up higher on his chest, letting your soft legs wrap around his waist as you rested your head in the crook of his neck. His hands fell to your ass and unable to help himself, he gave the plump cheeks a gentle squeeze.

“But you’re the one that got me sick.” He had taken you out on a little fly around Metropolis four days ago, ignoring your warning that it was too cold for you to be whipping around the clouds with him.

“That’s not- ok fine, I’ll make you a grilled cheese.” You beamed up at him. “But only if you don’t complain about a stomach ache afterwards.” He rose to his feet as gently as he could, keeping you from being jostled too much.

You sighed and clung onto your boyfriend, feeling utterly sorry for yourself. “Don’t like being sick. Hurts so much.”

“I know sweetheart.” Clark kept you wrapped up safely in his arms as he turned on the hot water.

“You won’t leave me?” Steam soon filled the small bathroom, making it a little more bearable when he gently stripped you of the old pyjamas you had on. Clark paused.

His brows furrowed and he looked up at you from where he knelt on the tiled floor, one socked foot in his hand. “I’d never leave you. Where-where’s this coming from sweets?”

You shook your head and roughly wiped away the tears of aggravation. “It’s dumb.”

Clark pulled off your sock and threw it into the laundry basket in the corner before standing up to his full height. “It’s not dumb if it’s making you this upset.” He cupped your full cheek. Your hands curled into his t-shirt and you nodded.

“I’m sorry I’m so annoying, making you take care of me.” 

“Hey. I take care of you because I love you, you aren’t annoying or a burden. You’re mine and that means I take all of you. Ok?” You nodded and he rewarded you with a soft peck to your chapped lips. “Good. Now that we’ve cleared that up. Finish your shower and I’ll get everything ready for you.”

With a gentle pat to your ass, you were bathed in hot water, easing the pressure behind your eyes. “Love you sweets. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”

And as the bathroom door shut, you smiled. Sick days with Clark weren’t bad at all.

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[turtletaubwrites]

Numbers Game ~ Part 26

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 7279

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Extras: Author's Vision of the Party Attire ~ Reader ~ The Boys

Summary: Buggy and Shanks have one more talk before the show, and their memories haunt them both as the big finale stuns the crowd.

Author's Note: !!! EXTRA SPOILER WARNING !!! I'm so sorry! I'm not usually a manga reader, and haven't started to tackle One Piece yet, so I didn't realize that I've been working off of a manga spoiler that I got spoiled on last year while doing Buggy research. It's a very brief flashback from chapter 1082 that reveals the end the argument that Buggy and Shanks had after Roger's execution that we see just a glimpse of back when Shanks met with Whitebeard after Enies Lobby. I've written my own version of that flashback in the first scene. That's not the main thing that caused the rift between them in my story, so you are free to skip over it if you like, and there is plenty more Shuggy content for you in this chapter. I feel like this detail can be inferred from the anime event that I already warn for at the end of the Wano arc, but if you'd like to avoid that specific scene, please skip the first section! It's bracketed with these symbols: ~~~⏰🤡🔴⏰~~~

Alternate POV Symbols:

🌲 ~ Flashbacks from Reader's Past | 🐊 ~ Crocodile | 🗡 ~ Mihawk | 🤡 ~ Buggy | 🔴 ~ Shanks | ⏰ ~ Flashbacks for listed POV | ⚫ ~ Scenes depicting Dark Content listed in Author's Notes

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic contains spoilers for the end of the Wano arc

Rating/Warnings: Author May Choose to Exclude some Warnings to Avoid Spoilers for Certain Chapters, Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Use of Y/N, Dark Content, Blood & Violence, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Dissociation, Grief, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Guilt, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Death of a Minor Character, Flirting, Arguments, Blowjobs, Relationship Drama, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

~~~⏰🔴🤡⏰~~~

Rain. 

What a strange feeling. 

How long has it been raining?

Has his blood been washed away already?

Buggy paced back and forth through the alley, waiting for his friend, his rival, to show up. Roger’s declaration had sent chaos through the city. Loguetown’s guards were circling, trying desperately to catch every witness before the new age could begin.

Nothing can stop Roger’s dream. Not even death.

Buggy choked on his almost optimistic thought. He couldn’t understand this new reality.

He needed to see Shanks.

~~~

Shanks couldn’t think in words, his tears too heavy for even the rain to wash away. 

Roger. 

The weight of grief and pressure would have paralyzed him, if not for his instincts to survive. The red haired boy flew through the town, his body running from the death of a man that meant family, searching for a blue haired boy that meant home.

~~~

“Shanks, you dumbass,” Buggy scolded, eyes scanning over his friend’s pale face. “What took you so long? It’s not safe–”

“I’m here,” he whispered, pulling Buggy in for a hug. Buggy shook him off to grab him by the shoulders, ignoring the rain that still poured over them both.

“Well, let’s hurry up,” the clown tried to sound positive, trying to push through the pain of losing the man that raised him. He needed to cheer Shanks up, to see his friend shining again. “You made Roger a promise, remember? You’re gonna get a ship, and we’ll go find the One Piece on our own. So let’s go!”

I can’t do it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Shanks grimaced, trying to stay steady. Trying not to fall apart. “I don’t feel like trying to get there now. But I’ll still be a pirate.”

Buggy stared. He couldn’t be hearing this. Not from Shanks.

I thought he was gonna be the next king. That’s what Roger wanted, wasn't it? Shanks wouldn’t say this. 

The boy in the straw hat couldn’t take the look on his friend's face. 

I can’t, Buggy. Please, just… 

“Come with me, Buggy!”

Everything cracked. Every vision of the future that Buggy had decided he wanted. Every shining image of Shanks that made him believe, made him trust. 

You’re not who I thought you were, Shanks. 

“I’m not gonna work under you, idiot!! You– you COWARD!!”

Shanks broke, yet again. He couldn’t take it. Couldn’t lose everything all at once. He couldn’t speak while Buggy used an old accident against him, leaving him with shame and loneliness that he didn’t know what to do with.

I believed in you, Shanks.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that you lost my treasure map? And I can’t swim because of you! It’s your fault I can’t…” Buggy croaked out, covering his true pain with the only thing he could think of that would get him away from this liar. This false idol. This person that he’d poured all of his own dreams into. “Well, I haven’t forgiven you, Shanks! So until the next time we meet…”

The rain fell harder, as though nature were trying to drown out this moment before it could ruin their lives. 

But it was too late.

“We’re enemies!!”

~~~⏰🔴🤡⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🤡🔴🤡~~~

Fuck. Just breathe. 

Buggy paced in his dressing room after he finished the intro, his hands floating around him so his fingers could walk and tap along his whole body. It wasn’t enough to calm him down. 

I can do this. I won’t fuck it up. They won’t take her again.

That worry was still present, although it was shrinking a bit more each day.

Nope. Can’t think about that.

There wasn’t enough time to unpack why his “executives” were less scary now. They could still hurt them. They could still take her from him.

Showtimeshowtimeshowtime.

Buggy blew a few raspberries while he shook his arms out, about to run through some more vocal warmups when someone knocked on the door.

“Bugs, I’m sorry, but I need to tell you something. Now.”

~~~

“What the fuck, Sha—“

The red haired pirate pushed his way in, losing every word he’d struggled to come up with while he snuck back here again. 

“Get out, dumbass,” Buggy ordered, almost grateful to have someone to yell at. Or he would have been grateful if this new, pathetic version of Shanks wasn’t hurting his brain. 

“It’s about Y/N,” Shanks pleaded. He’d never seen Buggy’s face change the way it did at those words, at the urgency in them.

“Tell me,” Buggy growled, not sure what to do with the tension that had just shot through him. He couldn’t think yet. 

“Her uncle crashed the party. I’m— hold on,” Shanks groaned when Buggy tried to shove past him. The red haired pirate pressed his back against the door, struggling to calm his old friend down. “Crocodile is seating him with me, okay? I told you I’ll look out for her out there. I won’t let you down. I just wanted you to know what’s going on.”

“How is she,” Buggy demanded. His breathing was ragged when he finally stopped trying to tear his way through the other man to get to the door. “Is she okay, did he… Is she okay?”

The urge to run out and find her was overwhelming, but he forced himself to listen.

“She’s still with Crocodile and Mihawk. I didn’t before, but… I think she’s safe with them, Buggy. At least for tonight.”

The clown gaped at him, mind still churning from all of those promises to take her away from danger. 

Shanks felt himself losing his hold, losing his hope for the future he wanted, and it fucking stung. 

She’s more important. I can’t use her for my own goals. Not again. 

Y/N’s sick laughter, and her rage filled demands echoed within him.

“I’m gonna sit with him, Bugs. I'll do everything I can to protect her. I promise.”

“… He doesn’t know you’re our friend, right? Just a guest?”

“I’m just an honored guest,” Shanks laughed, that bitter taste still fresh on his tongue. 

“Don’t let him know,” Buggy ordered, grabbing Shanks by the chin as he glared into his eyes from inches away, “just in case. It’d be good to have someone with an in that he doesn’t think we’re connected to, at least not closely.” 

“Got it, so I—“

“Do that fucking thing you do,” Buggy continued as he started to pace, his fingers snapping, then tapping again. 

Shanks started to question, but the clown talked over him until all he could do was listen. 

“Do that smile everyone loves. Not this weird one,” he scoffed as he gestured toward Shanks’ face. “Do the cheesy one that makes everyone wanna lick your fucking sandals.”

“Excuse me,” Shanks laughed, forgetting. Buggy made him forget it all again, for just a moment.

“I said stop being this miserable, idiot person, and go flirt with that asshole until you get something we can use against him! You could charm a fucking sea beast, Shanks, I know you can—“

Shanks had enough restraint to keep from smearing Buggy’s makeup with a kiss, but he bellowed with laughter as he pulled his friend into a hug. 

“I won’t let you down,” he promised, “I won’t let her down. I’m here for you, Bugs.”

Always.

~~~🔴🤡🔴🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🔴🤡⏰~~~

“Buggy?”

No.

“Gods, Buggy! What’s it been, four, five years now? You look great!”

Buggy wished he could have looked away, wished he could have pretended he was someone else. 

But no one in the world looked like him. 

Shanks gave him no time to process, no space. He just sat beside him at the bar, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before looking back while he called out. 

“Guys, this is Buggy! My friend that I’ve—“

“We know, captain,” chuckled a man with warm brown skin, and dark blonde dreads. Buggy had turned to find the source of the voice, spotting a small, eclectic group at a large booth with him.  

“Fuck, it’s good to see you,” Shanks beamed, his cheeks already starting to hurt. It had been so long. He couldn’t believe Buggy was right here beside him. He held his breath as he pulled his old friend into a darkened, corner booth.

Buggy could breathe a bit easier once they were out of everyone’s line of sight, shaking his head slightly at how out of character that was for him. 

“Shanks…”

“Buggy!”

The red haired pirate scooted close before wrapping his arms around the quiet clown, letting out soft, gasping laughs. He giggled more when Buggy disconnected his hand so he could grab his mug to take a large swig. 

“I missed you, old friend,” Shanks pulled back, his wide eyes darting too fast while he tried to take in every detail. “I love your hair.”

Buggy shivered when Shanks tugged on his blue hair, grown so much longer since they last saw each other. 

Memories of that painful day hit his mind, and he jolted when Shanks touched his hand.

“Sorry, Bugs, I’m just so happy to see you.”

“You’ve got a crew already,” Buggy noted, embarrassment kicking in at how far behind he was, yet again.

“It’s not a lot, but we’re growing,” the red haired pirate grinned toward his small crew that was becoming his new family. His new world. 

And here was his old world, frowning into his mug. 

“We’re staying here tonight, but I can show you my ship tomorrow if you…”

“Sounds good,” Buggy coughed, downing the rest of his bitter drink. He couldn’t afford the sweeter things he liked, but he wanted to seem more impressive anyway. 

“Have you been in this town long,” Shanks asked, gaining control of his excitement enough to notice Buggy’s mood, so he tried to shift his tone. “I bet you know the best lookout spots already. What about the market? You have a con or two going yet?”

“Of course I do,” Buggy grumbled, stealing Shanks’ mug for a sip. His face went hot when his friend’s hand rested on his wrist instead of taking the drink back. Old, strange feelings started flooding through him, and he didn’t know what to do with it all.

“I’ll follow you, then,” Shanks teased, nudging Buggy out of the booth.

~~~

Sunset in this shitty town wasn’t too bad when you had a good roof, a decent bottle of booze, and an old friend that reminded you of better days. 

The young pirates laughed, drank, and shared stories, finally having their own to share instead of their versions of the same tale.

Stars filled the sky, like a million tiny spotlights reaching out just to shine on them. 

Buggy let out a soft gasp, his body tingling when Shanks moved beside him, pulling him down until they laid on their backs with their shoulders and arms pressed against each other. 

And the backs of their hands. Their fingers every time they moved.

Right. This feels right.

What am I doing? I should leave. 

“You know, I think about you, Buggy,” Shanks confessed, tilting his head to gaze at the real star beside him. “I’ve thought about you so many times.”

Fingers flexed, warm and cool skin, barely connecting. Knuckles touched, rubbing together, so very lightly.

Buggy clenched his eyes shut, trying to remember why he thought he shouldn’t be here with Shanks. What was the point? 

He’d been alone for so long.

His breath went strange. The tingling feeling grew. Dizziness hit.

Why are his fingers touching mine like this? Why are my fingers reaching back? 

Shanks felt compelled, his body aching for Buggy’s touch in a way they’d never shared before. He’d known that he missed his friend, but he didn’t realize how desperately until now. Seeing him again made him high, made him reach out. 

Made him hold Buggy’s hand under the stars. 

“I missed you too, Shanks.”

~~~

“Fuck off, Shanks.”

“Okay, okay,” he soothed, holding out his hands to block Buggy’s path when he tried to shove past him, and out of the captain’s cabin. “Why not just stay for a little while then? You don’t need to be a crew member to sail with us to the next island, right? It’ll save you some berry.”

Those soft, brown eyes seemed to be poisonous. The longer Buggy spent falling into them, the weaker he became. 

“Fine, but just until the next island,” Buggy grumbled, gasping when Shanks tackled him in a hug. They breathed each other in, the air vibrating around them by the time they separated. Their hands seemed drawn together like magnets. Shanks trailed his fingers down Buggy’s arms, wrists, hands, holding for just a moment.

“I’m not sleeping in one of those crappy bunks. You really need to get a better ship soon, this one–”

“Sleep with me,” Shanks blurted, his face not going nearly as red as his friend’s. “I mean sleep in here with me, my bed’s pretty big. It’ll be just like old times!”

He skirted around the clown, plopping onto the edge of the mediocre bed before patting the mattress beside him. 

Buggy gaped, not sure why every new conversation with Shanks made him feel like he was falling off the edge of the world.

“I don’t…”

“It’s alright,” Shanks breathed, his heart racing faster than he knew it could. “I can sleep in a cot if you want.”

I’ve never wanted anyone like this. He’s right here, so close to my bed. I need to touch him, need to feel him. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Buggy scolded, plopping down beside his red haired friend. “I won’t have your crew coming after me for making their captain…”

Shanks laid his hand on Buggy’s thigh, and a high pitched ringing seemed to take all the sounds from the world. 

“Buggy, I– mmn,” Shanks moaned at the firm press of lips against his. Buggy grabbed his face, and the taste of grease paint was deliciously bitter as their first kiss deepened. His clown crawled over him, straddling his lap while Shanks lost himself. 

What am I doing…

Buggy stopped listening to his doubts, stopped caring. Shanks’ warmth, the hungry sounds he was making, and his strong hands gripping his back, his thighs, pulling him even closer, took over every thought, every sensation. He’d never felt anything like this. Couldn’t believe he was doing this.

He couldn’t believe his beautiful friend was letting him. 

“You’re perfect, Bugs,” Shanks hummed, kissing down his friend's throat. “You feel so good.”

The clown made a frustrated noise, kissing that mouth again before it could say anything else. 

“Shut up,” he whispered against smiling lips.

“No,” Shanks declared as he stood, making Buggy yelp when he flipped them around, tossing them both onto the bed. Buggy’s blue hair shined around him like a halo while his teeth scraped over his messy, lower lip. Shanks had caged him in, but kept that aching part of his body from connecting yet, though he wasn’t sure how long he could stand it. 

“I won’t shut up ‘til you believe it,” Shanks teased, leaning down for a soft kiss. “You’re amazing, Buggy! You’re beautiful, and funny, and soo fucking sexy.”

“Sexy,” he whispered, gasping underneath the red haired pirate. It was too much. Too good. 

“Can I prove it to you,” Shanks rasped, low and dangerous while he lost his strength to hold back.

“Go ahead and try, but I don’t– fuck…”

Shanks had grabbed Buggy’s hand, throwing his head back when he wrapped those gloved fingers around his own throbbing cock. He guided Buggy’s hand as he stroked up and down his length through his pants before finding the clown just as painfully needy as he was. 

“Gods, Buggy... You want me too, don’t you, baby?”

Buggy’s body answered for him, his back arching at those tempting words. He couldn’t stop shaking from that incredible touch, but nothing could pry his hand loose, Shanks’ cock twitching in his palm through that thin fabric.

“Shanks, please.”

“Please, what,” Shanks half teased, half begged. “Tell me what you want, and I just might give it to you.”

Buggy almost sobbed when Shanks moved their hands away, blocking his weak attempts to reach for him again. 

“I know you hate listening to me,” Shanks purred, his body pulsing at Buggy’s little sounds when he whispered those words into his ear. He pulled back enough to meet those crystal eyes, almost forgetting his goal. Almost.

“But I wanna make you feel good, Buggy,” he promised. “I want you to—“

“Just do it already,” Buggy groaned as he pulled Shanks onto him, and they both let out desperate noises when their bodies connected. The red haired pirate rolled away, shaking his head while he scolded him.

“Don’t be impatient, Bugs. I wanna take my time with— hey, you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Buggy choked out. He clenched his eyes shut, wanting to jump through the little, round window into the fucking ocean. “I’m fine, sorry.”

“Bugs,” Shanks whispered, wanting to reach out, but not sure if he should. “I’m sorry, we can take things slow, okay? I’m just excited you’re here with me.”

“Ugh,” the clown groaned while he rolled over, his frustrated noise continuing as he breathed it into a pillow. 

“Can I get you anything,” Shanks offered, sitting cross legged while he stared down at that pretty hair. He held his own fingers in his lap to resist trailing them through all of that lovely blue. His friend made an incomprehensible sound that brought the hint of a smile to his lips. “Sorry, I didn’t catch tha—“

“Just kill me,” Buggy grumbled, tilting to squint at Shanks with one eye, hoping that he’d disappeared. 

There he was. Perfect. Saying such wonderful things. The way he’d touched him...

It was too much. Too good to be true. 

Buggy had tried to find someone. Most of the time people wouldn’t take him seriously, but there were some that didn’t mind him being a clown. 

Until they asked him to take off his nose. 

Even those that were open to kissing, to touching such a freak, couldn’t hold it in. There was always a moment. An awkward giggle. A brief look of disgust when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. He should have just gone through with it, just accepted that was how it would always be. 

No one wanted to touch him.

Buggy rolled onto his back to find Shanks waiting, a tiny smile on those lips that were smeared with his paint. The sight tore a bittersweet laugh from the clown’s throat.

“I don’t want your pity,” he confessed and demanded, struggling to keep his voice steady. “You don’t need to touch me. I’m sorry I kissed you.”

“What are you talking about?”

After all these years, those soft brown eyes had looked at him like that. Just the thought of those eyes turning sour hurt more than all of the others that had. He pushed himself up, moving toward the door, needing to escape before that moment could arrive.

“Buggy!”

Their hearts seemed to clash against each other with heavy, frantic beats when Shanks wrapped himself around his friend’s back.

Please, don’t leave again.

“There’s no pity,” he implored, his breath warming the back of Buggy’s neck through all that lovely hair. “I’m glad you kissed me, Bugs. I’d really like it if you did it again, but only if you want to.”

The clown lost all momentum, his painful doubts and fears struggling to stay front of mind with Shanks all around him.

“Just tell me what you need. I’m here for you, Bugs. Always.”

“Shut up, you sap,” Buggy rasped, grabbing onto the hands that gripped his chest. He melted at the hum of relief Shanks let out, and at the breath that moved to the side of his neck, touching his skin.

“Just tell me if you wanna stop.”

“I don’t wanna stop. Just— gods.”

The clown’s gasping moan brought a low growl from Shanks’ throat when he kissed and sucked his neck, pressing his swollen cock against Buggy’s ass. He freed one of his hands to travel down, reaching down, until he dipped his fingers into those teal pants. 

“Can’t believe you were about to walk out that door,” he teased, licking and nibbling at Buggy’s ear. “Not when you’re this fucking hard for me. Mm, you’re shaking, Bugs. Want me to—“

“Shut up,” Buggy laughed this time, pulling away from that wicked hold.

Just right now. It’s okay if it’s only for right now. We can be…

“Oh, fuuck,” Shanks moaned, his own legs shaking as he stared down. Buggy had gone to his knees, turning to face him before tugging at his pants. It didn’t take long before Buggy wrapped gloved fingers around his shaft, frowning at his own accessories while he paused his task.

Shanks held in a laugh at that adorable face, grabbing one of the clown’s hands to kiss those gloved fingers. 

“You don’t need to hide from me, Bugs,” he promised, smiling as he bit down on the fabric. He laughed through his teeth now at Buggy’s new expression while he tore the glove free. 

A soft, little smirk touched Buggy’s lips before he copied his friend, growling when he pulled the other glove off with his teeth.

“You know, I can… I want… Fuck, that feels so good, Buggy. Just like that.”

Part of Buggy was still waiting for the look on Shanks’ face to twist, but all it did was go desperate, a sight he hadn’t known he needed to see. His perfect friend, falling to pieces for him. His taste, his voice, his thick, veiny cock that Buggy was learning how to breathe around. Every word of praise that fell from his friend's lips felt like a standing ovation, and the fingers that twisted into his hair made his eyes roll back in his head. 

Shanks was shocked that he was still on his feet with the way his friend's eyes burned into him like that. 

He’s so beautiful. So fucking good.

The way Buggy had wasted no time in taking him down his throat sent so much pleasure through him, as though his clown was just as desperate for him as he was. 

Buggy’s hands shifted, one stroking along his base, the other massaging his balls until Shanks’ head fell back, almost whimpering.

“You’re so fucking— sooo good, Bugs. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come, baby. I want— wanna make you feel good too…”

Buggy let out a choked laugh, muffled through that throbbing cock, but he couldn’t help it. He had a moment of fear that Shanks would be disgusted, but the needy look on his friend's face pushed him through. 

“Buggy,” Shanks laughed, then moaned at the sight of Buggy’s cock floating up in front of his face, achingly hard, and dripping with precum. 

“Such a good boy for me. Come on, Buggy. Fuck my throat ‘til we both come,” Shanks ordered, fisting that pretty, blue hair, and giving his friend a wicked smirk. “Think you can— mmnf”

Holy shit. This is real. This is Shanks.

Buggy’s here. He’s mine.

Nothing else existed. 

These two long lost friends created their own perfect world made up of their strangled moans, their tingling bodies, and the overwhelming pleasure they drank from each other. 

There was something powerful, almost too real, in the way they looked at each other while they came, until that blissful heat pouring down their throats sent both sets of eyes rolling back. 

The way they looked at each other afterwards stunned them both into silence. Time stood still, until Shanks couldn’t stand anymore. 

He joined Buggy on his knees, awe showing in that crooked smile of his while he brought his hands up to cradle Buggy’s face. 

“I missed you, Bugs,” Shanks breathed against his friend’s lips.

“Of course you did.”

~~~⏰🔴🤡⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🤡🔴🤡~~~

“Get off of me, shithead,” Buggy growled while he pushed Shanks away, frustrated with how much he wanted to let him take over his world again. “Go figure out how to get rid of that asshole. Thinks he can just come in here, and… Why is he here?”

“I don’t know yet.” 

The red haired man’s momentary relief from guilt was withering away, as though his body could feel where the next few words would take them. 

“Well, he’s a fucking moron if he thinks he can just walk in here and take her. Like the fucking Cross Guild is just gonna let someone take our girl? Our— What?”

Y/N’s voice filled Shanks’ mind, her empty eyes branded onto his guilty heart. 

‘I can’t go with you. Please make him happy.’

That’s what she said. She’s gonna leave. Y/N’s gonna leave because I pushed her away. I tore them apart. 

“Why the fuck are you making that face?”

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

Shanks froze. The right thing to do would be to tell, wouldn’t it? He’d hurt her, and he needed to fix it. He had to make sure Buggy didn’t lose his star.

But she’d begged him not to tell. After what he did, the thought of going against his promise made him choke. 

Fuck.

“Shanks?“

“Y/N hasn’t seemed okay since I’ve…” Shanks tried. The near violence in those crystal eyes made him want to beg, to take any punishment, anything to get rid of this fucking guilt. 

“What are you saying?”

“I know you know her better than I do,” he continued softly. Weakly. “But I think she’s hurting. I think what we— what I’ve been doing has made her feel…”

He watched helplessly as Buggy’s face changed, his muscles twitching while flashes of anger, horror, and guilt fought for control. 

“Are you saying she’s gonna leave with him,” the clown whispered, desperate to snatch the words back from the air, as if they alone would make it true. 

Yet the memory of Y/N’s tears dragged the clown too deep, drowning him in fear and shame.

“Are you saying my star's gonna leave because I hurt her,” Buggy breathed, every memory of Shanks touching him in front of her turning to acid now. 

Y/N had kept smiling for him.

Until Mihawk had taken her away. 

I didn’t care. I just kept thinking about Shanks. I used her for him. I ignored her, even when we…

He felt sick.

“I treated her like she was just a joke!”

“Buggy, I—“

Shanks had expected violence, almost craved it, when Buggy grabbed his cloak. Instead, his tortured friend pulled him close, gloved hands trembling against him.

“Help me!"

“Of course,” Shanks promised, hating his greedy urge to kiss that look of pain off of the clown’s face. “I’ll fix this. I’ll make sure she—“

“I can’t lose her,” Buggy murmured, releasing the red haired pirate from his grasp. “Please—“

“I swear. I will do everything in my power to fix what I… I’m so sorry, Buggy.”

The clown stepped back, aching to scream, to rage against the man in front of him, but his own fear and guilt held him back. He needed Shanks. He tried not to think about how much. 

I need Y/N. I need my star.

“It wasn’t just you,” Buggy admitted, opening the dressing room door for his old friend. His old world.

He’s not my only world anymore.

“I’ll fix this,” Shanks breathed, squeezing Buggy’s hand. There were so many more words he wanted to say, but they were running out of time. Selfish words that he had always meant to say, but he knew he didn’t deserve them now. 

Energy flooded his veins as he left Buggy backstage again, this time with his vow holding him steady.

I’ll fix this.

~~~

Please don’t go, star. I’ll do anything. 

Buggy panicked, every moment of pain on her face replaying in his mind like his own perfect torture. 

“I’m a fucking IDIOT! Such a piece of shit! I knew it! I knew I was hurting her, and now she’s gonna…”

Buggy didn’t wait for his feet to catch up while he flew toward the vanity. He dumped out the drawers, tossing everything behind him. All of the colorful contents were scattered across the plush carpet, glitter and greasepaint like fresh wounds left to fester and scar. 

“I can’t let you leave. You’re everything, star. Just talk to me, baby. I’ll listen. You’re not a joke to me, never a joke.”

Buggy tore his dressing room apart, vowing to keep tears from touching her beautiful eyes ever again. 

~~~🔴🤡🔴🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🤡🤡🤡⏰~~~

Buggy was whistling and skipping back to the docks, carrying a smug smile, and very full pockets. The citizens of this island were friendly to street performers, and he’d spent the day being showered with berry and praise instead of scouting for good pickpocketing spots.

Although he had snagged a rather nice watch during one of his sleight of hand tricks. 

He’d even heard stories about another performer that had just left town to head up the coast, and he was hoping they could stay here long enough for him to go see for himself. 

Buggy had always wanted to see a lion tamer’s act up close.

The tavern was fancier than their usual spots, and Buggy had to stop himself from floating when he spotted it down the road. He didn’t want to spook the friendly locals. 

I’ve got enough berry for some good drinks tonight.

The memory of Shanks grimacing at the taste of all the sweet cocktails he’d forced him to try had Buggy chewing on the inside of his lip, fighting a cheesy smile when he stepped into the pleasantly dim tavern. The booths had high, decorated partitions between them, each lit with their own small lanterns. Most of the crew had been taking up the tables in the middle during their stay, but the place was nearly empty besides a couple of residents. 

Buggy caught a glimpse of a sandled foot poking out from one of the booths, and couldn’t resist the urge to sneak up on his red haired friend. 

Not friend. Boyfriend.

Still not used to that word, Buggy moved closer, silent as he could be. 

“Captain, we need to talk about the clown.”

“Buggy’s good, Benn! There’s nothing to talk about.”

The clown froze for a moment before ducking into the booth behind the captain and his first mate. 

It felt wrong. He knew it was wrong, but his heart was stuck in his throat, anxiety rippling under his skin. He clenched his fists, listening.

“You’re not kids anymore. It’s been two years.”

“I know how aging works, old man,” Shanks teased, taking a large swig of his drink, the mug sounding too light when he set it down. 

“You’re a captain, Shanks,” Benn sighed, the pressure in his voice turning Buggy’s stomach. “You need to command respect. Buggy isn’t a member of the crew. He argues with you in front of everyone, even enemies—“

“We’re just playing arou—“ 

“You’re not children,” Benn scolded, his voice going soft quickly after that harsh tone. “A captain needs to be taken seriously. He has to show you respect, Shanks. You need to stop pretending that he’s not a member of the crew just to protect your boyfriend’s feelings.”

Nausea tore through Buggy, humiliation flooding in along with every memory he had with Shanks’ crew. 

They all think I’m pathetic. Just a joke. Just Shanks’— 

“Okay, Benn. I hear you, alright,” Shanks conceded, releasing a heavy breath. Buggy felt a gentle thud against the thin wall between them, as though Shanks had tilted his head back to rest against the wood. 

“I’ll talk to him about it. I just don’t wanna force him,” Shanks paused, and Buggy’s heart paused along with him. “I know it seems silly to pretend for so long, but I want him to be happy.”

“It’s alright, Captain,” Benn soothed, huffing a laugh. “I guess it’s hard not to act silly around a silly clown.”

Buggy was going to be sick. 

“Hey now, Buggy’s not just a silly clown,” Shanks chuckled, his voice piercing right through Buggy’s unpierceable heart. “He’s my silly clown.”

~~~⏰���🤡🤡⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🔴🤡⏰~~~

Just a joke. I’m always just a fucking joke.

Buggy didn’t know what he was packing. He didn’t seem to be packing at all, since everything in their cabin carried stupid memories.

Not our cabin. It’s the captain’s cabin. Just the Captain, and his silly clown. 

“Fuck!”

The clown berated himself silently, hating the thought of the crew hearing his pathetic cries, and judging him even more. He swallowed the lump in his throat while he tried to focus on packing, but he got too focused, letting out a yelp when the door opened, and his least favorite red head stepped in with worry on his face.

“Hey, Bugs,” Shanks started, icy fear pouring through his veins at the sight of that half full bag of clothes on the bed. “What’s going on, baby?”

“Baby,” Buggy seethed, unable to hold it in. “Don’t you mean, ‘your silly clown?’ That’s what everyone thinks I am, right?”

Shanks felt his stomach drop, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff. Buggy hadn’t looked this angry since…

“Buggy, please,” he reached out, his boyfriend’s body floating away too fast for him to touch. “It was just a joke.”

Fuck. Why did I say that?

“Just a joke, just like me, huh,” Buggy laughed, sharp and wrong. “Buggy’s just a clown, so silly, so useless! All I’m good for is being YOURS, and I can’t even do that right!”

“No, Bugs,” Shanks begged, his body glued to the spot while he tried to wake up. “It’s nothing, okay? You know Benn, he can be so serious. Don’t let it—“

“Don’t tell me what to do,” the clown spat, stuffing more random items into his bag. “I’m not a member of your crew. I wasn’t pretending about that. What else were you pretending, baby? Was everything a fucking joke to you?”

“Fuck, no! Buggy, please stop,” Shanks pleaded with stinging eyes as he tried to pull the bag away, floating hands dragging it to the corner of the ceiling. “It’s not a big deal, okay? I promise, it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care what anyone else thinks!”

Buggy felt too many things at once. His body ached to collapse to the floor, to weep, to apologize for being such a stupid piece of shit. He wanted to beg Shanks to forgive him, to let him stay forever.

He wanted to scream, and rage, and tear this whole fucking ship down. To make everyone that thought he was a joke burn, to show them how fucking silly he could be.

Anything to kill the suffocating humiliation that crushed him more with every memory, every moment he stayed on this ugly boat. 

Since he couldn’t do any of those things, Buggy kept packing, trying to close the bag while he ignored the worthless tears ruining his makeup. 

Soft brown eyes trapped him then. Shanks finally caught him by the shoulders, his face blotchy with panic while he begged.

“Bugs, please! Baby, just listen.”

“I will,” Buggy threatened, pulling the rest of his body back together while he shook off Shanks’ hold. “Seems like captains only listen to their first mates, so I’m gonna go find mine.”

“Please, don’t leave me again.”

The clown shouldered past the red haired pirate, but his gloved hand hesitated on the doorknob. He almost stopped. He almost stayed. 

Until it all slammed into him again. 

“You think I’m a fucking joke—“

“Buggy, I never—“

“Don’t underestimate me, Red Hair. Next time we meet, we’re enemies.”

Buggy didn’t turn back, didn’t wait, didn’t think. He just left that boat, setting off to find his first mate. 

He fought every memory, every thought, every burning ache in his chest while he floated along, his feet running behind him in the sand. 

All he could think about was his future. 

Fuck all of them! It’s my time to shine.

Shanks watched his clown leave again. He wanted to scream his name, to run after him, but he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t feel anything but the weight of unsaid words.

None of those other words matter, Buggy. Why didn’t you listen to me?

Why did you leave over a few stupid words? You have to know…

As that blue hair finally floated out of sight, fear won out over everything else at the thought of Buggy all alone out there, yet it planted a disgusting hope inside his heart. 

Shanks let himself look at that twisted hope for just a moment before shoving it down, along with as much of this pain as he could manage.

You’ll come back. I’m here for you, Bugs. Always. You’ll be back. 

I’ll protect you from this cruel world.

~~~⏰🔴🤡⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🤡🔴🤡~~~

Buggy was glowing on that stage, and Shanks had to bring himself back. Remember his mission. 

It’ll be my fault if she leaves, and has to suffer out there all alone. I should have been careful. I should have listened. 

If I’d listened back then, Buggy would have stayed with me. He wouldn’t have gone off all alone, and ended up with these monsters. It’s my fault he’s…

Buggy couldn’t let Y/N leave. Little pieces of her were shining behind her eyes again tonight, spurring him on. He needed to listen to her, to make sure she knew he loved her. 

Guilt and worry tried to take over, but the spotlight always healed all wounds. Even the fears he had about his “executives” seemed like nothing now, and their strange, small smiles felt almost soothing whenever they caught eyes. 

“Care to lend me a hand with the party favors, Mr. President?”

Buggy didn’t look at Shanks when he dropped the papers on his table, grinning at Cedrick Sylvad instead. The red haired emperor snatched up one of the mock posters to have something to think about besides his own guilt, only to be reminded of the ugliness that was happening here. 

Distaste and disgust were followed quickly by shame. He’d known what his lovers were up to. 

I’m being a hypocrite again, aren’t I?

Buggy felt on fire on stage with Crocodile, the feeling of playing the crowd like this had him high, even with everything else going on. Yet he still had to fight to keep his eyes away from that red haired pirate, pretending his old friend was just a guest, even though he was dying to see the look on Shanks' face while he performed. It had always been one of his favorite sights. 

For a split second after Crocodile called for the real party favor, Buggy worried about what Y/N would think, but he shook it off with ease.

My girl’s so smart. She knows who I am, and she loves me anyway. I’ll show her I love her too.

The bound and gagged marine was dripping blood onto the stage. Shanks couldn’t stop himself from glancing back toward his golden eyed lover, still seated at the head table. “The Marine Hunter” scowled down at the stage over his glass of wine, and Shanks looked away quickly before Cedrick could catch him looking toward his niece.

They're gonna execute an unarmed man. This is wrong. I can’t let Buggy…

He hated every piece of himself that felt like he was right. 

Red Haired Shanks’ beliefs had crashed down around him, and his mind was scrambling to build things back up, to figure out what he truly valued, and what had only fed his ego. 

How many marines have I killed? Can I really judge them? Am I just trying to feel superior? 

Even if it’s wrong, I’m the one that hurt Buggy. He wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t pushed him away. 

Or maybe this cursed island has turned me into a monster too...

Questions, justifications, and doubts stormed within him, leaving nothing but acceptance, since he didn’t have enough time for this existential crisis.

Nothing else matters. I can’t let Buggy lose her.

“Guess it's time for the finale,” Crocodile smirked, holding his hook to the marine’s throat.

Shanks looked away from the unarmed man, selfishly choosing to enjoy the sight of his beautiful clown for as long as he could. 

~~~🔴🤡🔴🤡~~~

~~~~~~

Pride warmed your chest when you saw the way your little smile affected the villain on the stage. Crocodile was about to kill someone in front of you, and it should have felt horrible, terrifying. You weren’t reveling in it, so that was something, but your lack of reaction proved that you were either a monster, or you were crazy.

Probably both.

You managed to turn your sick laugh into a polite cough, although Mihawk still turned to you with something almost like fear in those deadly eyes. Shaking your head, you held your breath at the sound of vultures hissing for their next meal.

“Let’s hear what he has to say for himself!”

“Think he’ll apologize for being such a nuisance?”

“Ooh, I’ve always wanted to hear someone’s last words!”

“Why not,” Crocodile shrugged, using his hook to tear the gag from the marine’s mouth.

Buggy stepped closer to the wheel to squeeze the man’s cheeks, blood and drool dripping down from snarling lips. 

“Time for your fifteen minutes of fame,” Buggy announced, leaving his hands to hold the struggling man’s face toward the crowd while he stepped away to show him off. He smirked at the leeches, winking while he gave a mock whisper. “If he lasts that long, anyway.”

The disgust you felt for the guests' bloodlust didn’t carry over to you or your lovers. You loved watching Buggy play them so well. 

Even if the unlucky man had to die.

“Captain Tront, Mr. Extra Special Party Favor! Got any last words for us,” Buggy called out, nodding toward the band for a drum roll to start while the marine spit more blood onto the floor. 

“You think you’ll get away with this,” he choked out, eyeing the esteemed guests. “You’re risking all your wealth, your reputations, on these freaks?”

Buggy and Crocodile chuckled, and the laughter spread through the hall as the vultures watched the desperate man fall apart. 

“You’ll regret this! You’ll all regret throwing yourselves in with these pirate scum! The Cross Guild, and their overpriced whore–”

Little gasps and screams filled the air, just like when the performers had shown off their dangerous acts. Some nervous laughter bubbled up, until applause built, quiet at first, but soon there were leeches on their feet, cheering for your deadly lovers. 

Captain Tront’s lifeless body slumped in his restraints, bright red blood spilling like a fresh coat of paint for the wheel. Buggy had gotten the man first, his floating hands snapping the marine’s neck just before Crocodile’s hook tore out his throat. 

You’d known that they were going to kill this man, but this was different. 

They had killed this man for you. 

Crocodile nodded toward you, and you realized that you weren’t at all surprised by his swift violence.  

Yet, your sweet, lovely clown had snapped that man’s neck in an instant, just for insulting you. That sweet, lovely clown should have been lost in the applause, the spotlight, the praise, but he didn’t seem to notice any of it.

Buggy beamed at you as though you were his standing ovation, his spotlight, his thunderous applause. This wicked, dangerous clown that just murdered a man was smiling at you while the blood was still warm and spreading across the stage.

You smiled back.

~~~~~~

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

Author's Note: Writing this one was extra special to me. I hope that I did Shuggy justice, and that you enjoyed this chapter! I'm including a little Shuggy flashback age timeline below:

Shuggy Flashback Timeline: (Shanks and Buggy are adorably the same age) - Roger's Execution ~ (age 15) - First time meeting after the execution, and Buggy starts sailing with the Red Hair Pirates ~ (age 19) - Flashback smut from Chapter 23 ~ (between 19-21) - Breakup, and Buggy leaving the Red Hair Pirates to start his own crew ~ (age 21) - Present Day ~ (age 39)

Tag List: @shewrites02 | @caniseethefourthsword | @hey-august | @chaoticqueen33 | @destinationmars | @novakitten0901 | @h0n3y-l3m0n05 | @dorky-birdie | @szired | @pinejayy | @laws-wife-things | @jadeddangel | @gingernut1314 | @urlocaltwink | @blue-rae18 | @bontensbabygirl | @bbnbhm | @0-sparkling-lace-0 | @ihearthazuki | @mikisspeak | @djloveyou3000 | @mercymccann | @horse-and-writer97

Part 26

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

[fruittt-punchhh]

Pop My Cherry!

pt. 2 pt. 3

Synopsis: your dad’s best friend is none other than Toji Fushiguro, and you can’t help but wonder what he could do with his hands.

Characters: Toji Fushiguro x reader. Choso Kamo is mentioned, not a major part of the story.

Content: Minors Do Not Interact! afab! reader, fem! reader, dad’s best friend! Toji, suggestiveness, cursing, inexperienced (ish) reader, reader is a virgin but has done things ya know, reader smokes weed, alcohol usage, pet/affectionate names, no smut yet 🫶

Word Count: 2.2k-ish

Notes: friends!!! This is my first ever smut! Pls be nice🫶 if you have any suggestions, comments, advice, PLEASE feel free to let me know!! I hope you enjoy hehe. (filthy smut if you’re down for that in pt. 2 trust) excuse any typos, proofread a bunch but I’m also human. 💖

It had been a terribly long week already, and it was only Thursday. You were on spring break from university, and you had spent most of the week catching up on overdue assignments.

You were staying with your father, as well as your brother, and your father’s best friend. He had a condo at the beach that wasn’t too far from your university, so it worked out well.

You had just finished your final essay for philosophy 200, closing your laptop with a snap! as you rub your eyes. It was nearing 3:30 a.m. but you still felt so much residual stress from the paper. You had a joint ready and waiting for you, and a hit or two couldn’t hurt, right? Enough so you could relax, maybe grab a snack, and hit the hay. You open your bedroom window, creeping out onto the balcony to let your worries fade away.

————————————————————————

You throw your leg over the window sill, trying to keep your balance. You lowkey had the munchies so you head to the kitchen before you retire for the night. Until you are met with a surprise.

Your father’s friend (you think his last name was Fushiguro?) has been gone all week for “work”. You noticed him coming in at odd hours of the night, looking worse for wear.

“What are you starin’ at, doll?” Toji says as he looks for a shirt in the laundry room.

You feel your cheeks turn red as you try to quickly avert your eyes. You wore nothing but a large t-shirt as you crept into the kitchen, hoping you wouldn’t wake your father.

You thought you heard Toji come in maybe an hour earlier, but you couldn’t know for sure. Here he stood, fresh out of the shower with nothing but a small towel wrapped around his waist. His dark hair was dripping down his back and he still looked as if he was radiating heat from the shower he just took (or was that you?) It was all of a sudden much too warm in the kitchen for your liking.

“S-sorry, I was just grabbing a snack. I’ll be quick,” you stammer. You had only ever seen Toji a few times, and you didn’t remember him to be this… attractive? You didn’t know if that was even the right word. In this moment, you felt attracted to him, sure. But you also felt small and helpless. As if he could pierce through you with his gaze alone. You truly didn’t mean to stare, but you also didn’t expect anyone else to be in the kitchen at 4 a.m., either.

He interrupts you with a smirk, “What’s the rush? It’s y/n, right? Grab me a beer out of the fridge while you’re at it, girl”

If you thought your cheeks couldn’t be any redder, you were wrong. You felt the crimson blush cover your ears as you turned around to look for a beer in the fridge. There was a (beer brand here) in the back on the bottom shelf. You tried to bend at your knees as to be discreet, but you could have sworn you heard Toji clearing his throat as you did so.

Toji slipped on a pair of black boxer briefs as you grabbed him a beer like the sweet girl you are. He felt as if the wind was knocked out of him when he saw you bend down, searching the fridge for his drink. Call him crazy, but he could’ve sworn you weren’t wearing any panties. He quickly ran the towel through his hair, trying to ignore the rush of blood he felt surging to his dick.

You grabbed the beer, as well as an apple for yourself. You walked over to Toji, and he took the beer from you with a ‘thanks’. He popped off the cap with his molars and took a big swig. You watched as the beer dripped down his chin and over his adam’s apple. You also noticed the scar covering his pretty lips.

Your eyes wandered as he finished his beer surprisingly quickly. He would usually come home covered in a mixture of dirt, sweat, and sometimes blood. Apparently, underneath the dirt and grime was a body that was sculpted by the gods. Everything about him was so big. His huge tits pecs and his ripped abdomen. His biceps were bigger than your head and his hands, oh god, his hands. They were riddled with callouses and he had short, bitten nails. His fingers were so thick and you started to imagine what it would be like to feel them on your body.

Your temperature rose as the lewd thoughts entered your mind. This is your father’s best friend! Although he was a a few years younger than your dad, he was still much too old for you. Not only that, but you were still (unfortunately) a virgin. And not for a lack of trying! You were double majoring in psychology and philosophy, so most of your limited leisure time was spent smoking to relax, or hanging out with your small group of friends on the weekends. Sure, you had masturbated plenty of times, and you’ve given the occasional blowjob. But you’ve never quite found the right person at the right time to go all the way with. You never cared much about the label ‘virgin’ until now, feeling like you might have been missing out.

Now, you were standing in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning thinking about what this man could do to you with just his fingers. The thought alone had you squeezing your thighs together, trying to give yourself any relief from the problem you’ve created.

“You know it’s rude to stare, right y/n? Especially after I asked you a question, doll”

Yet again, he’s caught you off guard. I mean seriously, how old were you? You felt like a teenage boy who had just seen his first pair of tits. You need to pull yourself together so you can get out of here as soon as possible. You didn’t know how long you would be able to hold it together without making it quite obvious that internally, you were aching.

“Shit, I’m sorry! I was lost in a train of thought, I-I guess. What was the question?” Hopefully he doesn’t catch on to your half-lie.

Toji pulls a black compression tee over his torso, giving you a moment to collect yourself finally. He throws the beer in the trash and steps into the light of the kitchen alongside you.

He flashes a toothy smile at you, “You should watch that language. Pretty girls don’t go around saying things like that. And I asked you what the hell you were doing up so late.”

Pretty girls? Did you hear him correctly? He could just be saying things to get you to squirm, and if that was his goal, it was working all too well. You hope his smile was out of politeness, but you knew enough about Toji from your father to know that this man did not have a polite bone in his body. It seemed almost as if he was teasing you?

“S-Sorry about the language, I’m just tired. I’ve been working on my philosophy paper for the last few hours and I just wanted a snack before I went to bed,” you admitted truthfully.

Toji rolled his eyes, smirking at your statement, “God, that sounds so fucking boring. I’m surprised you finished it, I woulda given up hours ago.”

You smiled at his honesty. You knew that your paper topic ‘the perception of personal space’ and your other assignments on morals and judgement were not everyone’s cup of tea. “It’s actually quite interesting, it’s about the concept of how one perceives personal space, but I definitely wanted to call it quits a few times. I’m just glad I can sleep in tomorrow.” You admit with a grin. Despite his blasé attitude, a part of you thought he might actually be listening (at least a little bit).

All he heard was bla bla bla. It seems interesting enough, if you have absolutely nothing else going on in your life. How could you even write two sentences on personal space, let alone an essay? “If it’s that fucking interesting, then why are you in here looking like a walking corpse? Have you seen those bags under your eyes? You need the sleep more than I do, hun.”

Well damn. You didn’t think it was that bad, especially not enough for some old man to point out. You had been staying up most nights trying to catch up on your work, and you could sleep in anyways. But each morning you found yourself awake at 7 a.m. on the dot, still cursed by the rigidity of your usual school routine.

“I’ve just been behind, so I’m trying to catch up while I have the free time.”

Toji peers at you and scratches his head, “Why the fuck are you doing school work on spring break, anyway? Aren’t ya’ supposed to be at the beach getting wasted with your girlfriends?”

While you admit that would be fun, there was just no time for it this year. You were in the last semester of your senior year, and you were graduating with top honors. You had to keep up the good work so you could hopefully be accepted into graduate school in the fall.

“I mean it’d be fun sure, but smoking is more my thing anyways. I like relaxing after all my work is done, so I’d rather stay here and get caught up while I can, ya’know?”

How cute. Look at you trying to be a good little student. It would almost be admirable if it didn’t make his stomach churn at how sickly sweet it was.

“That’s good, doll. Keep it up and you’ll be making big bucks just like me, yeah? What are you wanting to go to school for anyways, to be a fuckin’ therapist or some shit?”

Everyone thought you wanted to be a therapist, but truth be told, that profession couldn’t be more off your radar. You had enough problems of your own to deal with, and you certainly didn’t need to hear other people’s on top of that.

“I’m not going to school to be a therapist actually; I really want to be a professor one day. What do you do for work anyways? You always look like you just came home from war or some-“

He cuts you off before you can land a joke at his expense. Toji’s profession wasn’t the best topic for conversation, given that his line of work was very hush-hush.

“You’re cute. Next question.”

Cute?? At this point you felt like he was toying with you. But you did have another question for him.

“How come I can’t say ‘shit’ but you can say whatever you want? I’m grown, aren’t I?”

Toji shifted towards you. You stood in the door frame between the kitchen and the hallway, your apple untouched. You were too busy thinking of what to say next to the large, burly man that was suddenly peering over you. He came to the doorframe, throwing one hand on top of it. At this point, he was towering over you. His shadow cascading over you as you felt yourself shrink into the background. Toji glared at you with his velvet green eyes and a smug grin was plastered across his face. You felt his hand grasp your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Your neck was strained as you attempted to make eye contact with the taller man.

“Can’t you hear woman? I said pretty girls don’t go around saying shit like that. Do I look like a pretty girl to you?” He says as he inches closer to your face. You could smell the beer wafting from his mouth. But the smell was quickly overrun by the rest of him. He smelled like pine, cheap liquor, and…cinnamon? Suddenly, the grip on your chin tightens. His hands are so large, he’s even starting to squish your cheeks, making you look like an absolute fool underneath him.

“I asked you a question, princess.”

The name throws you off guard, but for some reason, you’re not upset.

“S-sorry, no y-you don’t look like a pretty girl. Of course not, m-my bad.”

“That’s what I thought, y/n.”

Toji spits as he releases his grasp on you, standing straight and stretching his arms as he lets out a yawn. He smelled the weed all over you and could tell how flustered you got from your little interaction. He grabs the apple from your hand, taking a huge bite which in turn means you only have about half an apple left. He hands you back your snack, pats your head then saunters over to the couch, plopping down with a grunt. He grabs the remote and turns it to some wrestling show he always watched.

You look at him, confused. You weren’t even staring this time. You were simply dumbfounded at the interaction you two just had. Surely that can’t be it, right? He’s just going to watch tv after he had you literally in the palm of his hand? (and he ate half of my fucking apple)

You move to turn the lights off, and you put your apple in the trash. Your appetite for food was long gone. You quietly walk out of the kitchen into the dim hallway. Toji calls your name, startling you.

“Sleep tight, doll.”

pt. 2

[ohwaitimthewriter]

The Memory Keeper

Chapter 4: Mend.

Pairing: Noa x human!reader

Warnings: None?

Summarize (please I'm so bad at writing these!): A woman, allowed to live as long as the virus keeps running through her body, living on autopilot for 260 years, is going to see her life takes a new turn, finding hope in something that might come to put an end to her wandering.

Words: 3.6k+

A/N: So... My brain did a thing and I just went with it!

Enjoy your reading 😊

The Memory Keeper masterlist.

Broken.

It was a simple word. Just a series of sounds combined together. Nothing more and nothing less than the strange association of letters that came to form a particular meaning.

It had been a long time since you'd experienced the devastating impact of a simple word.

Broken.

There was a distant echo to the word.

The frame was broken.

This frame that had been with you for so many years that today your brain no longer knew how to depict the passage of time. It was nothing more than a shadow. A shadow that seemed to stretch on indefinitely, so far away from you that you wondered whether it had a beginning or an end. All that remained was a sensation of emptiness. An emptiness that deepened at the back of your skull, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness of a lost soul. Or rather, was it an ocean? An abyss so deep and vast that the mere idea of plunging into it made you dizzy. It was like walking on the precipice of a canyon, and the fear of heights gripped your stomach every time you dared a brief glance towards that bottomless void.

Every time you looked back, you felt as if you were sinking deeper into the abyss known as time.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

"(Name)!"

You ignored the throaty young voice trying to get your attention. It was the first time in 5 years that you'd found yourself back in the middle of the rubble of an abandoned city, and you'd spotted a building in the distance that looked promising for what you were looking for.

In 5 years, the city had changed drastically. Vegetation had begun to cover the walls of houses and plants of all kinds had invaded any building, standing or not, that crossed your path.

You had to be careful. The asphalt that had once been a heavily trafficked road was cracked all over, creating crevasses that were sometimes invisible because of the flora that had embedded in them.

"(Name) wait! It's dangerous!"

The young ape was doing his best to keep up with you, but you were way ahead of him. So much ahead that he kept losing sight of you as you navigated between the ruins of a recently extinguished human civilization. He congratulated himself on being able to follow your scent, because soon, despite his best efforts, you had disappeared into the meanders of partially collapsed buildings.

You moved deeper into the center of the city and finally came upon the destroyed front of the building you intended to investigate.

You remembered that, at the time, this building was nothing other than a shopping mall and what you were looking for could only be found inside such a structure. This was the third one you'd visited, and if the other two hadn't been a success, you were still holding out hope that this one would be.

You looked around, looking for a clue among the branches and leaves that had covered the walls of the stores that met your expectations. The window fronts were broken and the glass cracked under your weight with every step you took as you ventured further inside the mall.

The hurried footsteps of the ape travelling with you suddenly echoed through the building, and you watched him move from quadruped to biped in a fraction of a second, his eyes wide with curiosity and wariness at this place he had never set foot in before.

There was plenty to admire. The building still stood feverishly on its foundations, and no fewer than 5 floors rose above your heads. The once luminous signs were shaky, sometimes suspended by a single live wire or fallen over, the neon lights forming the letters of the store names broken and detached from their bases. Numerous plants climbed the walls and twisted around stair railings and poles and one tree, a poplar if you remembered the name correctly, had even taken root in the center of the hall.

"What… is that?" The young ape asked, slowly moving closer to you as if to protect himself from the immensity of a place evoking a past that only you had known perfectly.

You were focused on pulling out the stems of a wisteria that had woven itself around a large panel showing the floor plan of the building. As you seemed to be ignoring him, he leaned over the plan, taking advantage of your proximity to gently bump your arm with his slightly bent hand.

The slight pressure he applied to attract your attention had the desired effect, and you ended up meeting his green eyes. A look that kept reminding you of his father.

"A shopping mall." You answered him before focusing again on reading the plan.

He huffed as if in agreement, even though he had no idea what a shopping mall was. He got down on all fours again, deciding it was best to leave you to your business, but he didn't have the heart to venture too far from you either.

It was a world he didn't know very well.

Sure, he'd had all the stories told by Maurice, Rocket and sometimes, when you were willing, by you. But the stories were… stories. It was maybe the first time you'd allowed him to go with you beyond the woods. Maybe because you felt it was time for him to get to know the outside world? Or maybe because he'd grown big enough and strong enough to manage on his own in an unfamiliar environment?

When he watched you, he couldn't help noticing that he wasn't yet as tall as you when he stood on his own two legs. Another year? Less? Before he finally reached your height? He'd learned that his father was a few centimetres taller than you, and from that day on, it had almost become a personal goal for him: to become as big and as imposing as his father, a strong, powerful and reliable ape who could be trusted in all circumstances.

No one had ever forced this goal on him, and no one had ever expected him to be exactly like his father. He'd put this idea into his head all by himself, because he wanted only one thing: to be worthy of his father.

For now, he might still be too young to carry on the legacy, but this was his challenge: to prove that he could embody his father's values with pride.

He suddenly snapped out of his thoughts as you started walking again, beckoning him to follow, and he wasted no time in following in your footsteps, as if he'd become your shadow.

" This way. Come on!"

You took the stairs and, eager to show himself braver than he felt at the moment, Cornelius decided to take the lead, carefully checking that the steps on which you would put your feet would hold your weight. Reaching the second-to-last step, he considered the staircase safe and jumped straight onto the landing, looking back to watch your progress. As you drew closer to the last step, he held out his hand to offer you his assistance, which you might consider useless given the ease with which you were moving, but he offered it anyway out of pure sympathy.

You smiled kindly and accepted, not unexpectedly, slipping your hand into his.

It was a habit. When Cornelius was younger, he'd developed the habit of dragging you with him wherever he went, holding you firmly by the hand. At first, you always had your back bent, having to adapt your posture to his small stature, and even more so when he impatiently ran on all fours to drag you to whatever he absolutely had to show you. Then, as he grew older, you managed to regain an upright posture, and despite the maturity he was gradually gaining right up to the present day, he would always take your hand to guide you to a place he wanted to show you.

He was proud to be able to hold your hand, just as he was proud to have Maurice and Rocket with him to teach him to become an adult ape, a future leader. You who had known his father, as Maurice and Rocket knew him. Being able to hold your hand was like being able to hold his father's hand. A form of continuity that he nurtured.

He asked you for directions in sign language, and after giving them to him, he guided you, keeping the lead.

Cornelius was still young. You could see it in the way he moved. His body was still trying to find a balance between the young ape he was and the adult he was about to become. His shoulders weren't as broad as his father's, and the muscles in his back still lacked strength, but that would soon change. Seeing him take the initiative to guide you through an unfamiliar place made you feel proud of what he was becoming. You knew him well, the unknown had never been his forte, but witnessing him defy the fear that once would have made him hide behind your legs, you could only be proud of him.

The store you were looking for suddenly appeared in front of your eyes and you stopped abruptly, causing a twinge in your shoulder as Cornelius continued forward. You gritted your teeth and the hissing breath you produced stopped Cornelius dead in his tracks.

"There it is!"

You withdrew your hand from his and began to rummage around the room. Cornelius followed your every move, not really knowing what you were so eagerly looking for. He simply felt that you knew exactly what you wanted.

And then, a sigh of joy escaped your mouth and Cornelius came over to crouch right beside you, nuzzling his shoulder against yours for some sort of comfort, he leaned forward slightly to observe what you were holding in your hands.

A strange square object surrounded by a piece of wood, slightly cracked on one corner. While you still held the object in your hands, he traced the outline of the wood to stop at the cracked corner.

"Broken?" he asked.

And you smiled at him, and shrugged.

"We can mend it." You answered, placing the wooden frame in your bag.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

You were gone.

Not only had you left the house, Noa had heard you call your horse, and after a few minutes, the pounding of hooves leaving your clearing left him shaken. Raka gave him a quizzical look, but found himself without an answer.

He didn't understand. Had he said or done something wrong? Was it so bad that you decided to leave on horseback at nightfall?

His eyes fell on the blanket. It hid the object of all troubles. He was unsure.

If you'd put that blanket over it, you certainly didn't want him to look.

But on the other hand…

You were gone.

As if to give himself some form of courage, he let out a heavy sigh through his nose, determined to understand what was so precious about this object.

He gently pushed back the blanket. The broken pieces of wood clung to the fabric and fell back onto the transparent plate as they hung slightly in the air, gravity doing its work.

The tinkling drew Raka's attention, and he came closer to peer at Noa tracing the outline of a square shape with his fingers.

Noa picked up an angular piece of wood and noted that the corner was cracked too, then his eyes fell on the transparent plate. He pressed his hand against it, a cool sensation emanating from the object, which also formed a square. Its corners were sharp, and he concluded that the wood was used to protect against cuts.

And then, beneath the transparent plate, there was an image. The half-light didn't bother him and he could make out the silhouette of a… he suddenly grabbed the image from under the plate and pulled it up to his eyes.

An ape.

Noa quickly stepped up to Raka, handing him the image. A strange sensation bubbled in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't decide whether it was simply curiosity or excitement at his discovery.

Noa rushed through his signs, alternating the words "why", "how" and "who" as he addressed Raka. The latter was trying to remain calm in the face of Noa's restlessness, and decided to take the picture and turn his back on him, to protect himself from Noa's insistent gaze.

It hadn't taken Noa long to realize that this ape, whoever he was and wherever he was today, was the reason you'd felt such emotion. However, even if he had understood this, new questions piled up in his head and you became more and more mysterious.

"I've never seen such a thing." Raka stated after pondering the question. "Perhaps, the image of a book?" He asked then. "No." Noa suddenly replied, ignoring the wave of pride he'd felt at having found something Raka didn't know about. He resumed in sign language. "Echo was sad. I could see it. In her eyes."

Raka didn't seem convinced and Noa frowned, almost annoyed by the questioning Raka carried in a simple look at him. He pointed at the image, this time using his voice to make himself heard.

"Important." He began. "More than petals."

He paused, studying the image carefully. The ape looked… strong. Even through a simple piece of paper, Noa recognized that this ape was a powerful leader, like his father.

His father. A thought flashed through Noa's mind and he felt as if he'd forgotten why he'd come this far. A feeling of guilt scratched at the back of his mind, accusing him of taking too long to fulfill the promise he'd made to his father, in front of his gravestone. Noa had to close his eyes for a moment to focus again on the here and now.

"The image of a book." Raka persisted. "Books are too old for her to know."

If Raka was right, the emotion you'd expressed no longer made any sense, and Noa wasn't ready to admit that maybe you really didn't make any sense and were just like every echo he'd ever come across.

" You know them. Why not her, too?" Noa signed.

Raka seemed to ponder the issue for a moment before handing the image back to Noa.

"Human complicated. Tough to know what she knows, or doesn't know." Raka said.

Noa sighed, almost defeated. He was right about that, but he couldn't get his mind off the idea that this object was very important to you and knowing it was broken had triggered an emotion in you, and he had, for some reason that was completely obscure to him, an urge to hold on to that emotion. It might be the only way for him to get what he wanted: to get out of here with your horse.

Raka wanted to wait for you to speak. Noa was done waiting. He looked again at the broken object and wood around him. Maybe if he could fix it, you'd listen to him.

➰➰➰➰➰➰

It had taken you all night and most of the morning.

It had to cease. Those two apes had to leave your house and go back to wherever they came from, so you'd never again have to feel the things they'd awakened by their mere presence.

So you headed south. Beyond the river.

You'd gone south because the only way to see them go was for them to get a horse. You had once again strayed from the endless activities of the lists on your wall. But it had to stop. You were convinced of that. Once they were gone, you could go on with your activities. Once they were gone, you'd find again the ease with which you'd let yourself be carried along by time, and you'd no longer be on the verge of falling off the precipice every evening, in front of Caesar's own eyes.

You had returned just as the sun was reaching its highest point in the sky. A rope perfectly tight around the pommel of your saddle and a mare tied to the end of that rope who had stopped struggling to get back to her herd.

She was wild, but the proximity of your horse comforted her, and as you offered her apples to encourage her forward, she eventually gave in enough to follow you obediently without pulling back.

Once you'd reached your clearing, you untied the rope and tied it around your horse's neck, confident that the mare would stick around. She stayed away from you though, not wanting to be touched yet, and you knew it would take some time. However, you could congratulate yourself on the experience you had gained in the art of making a horse docile before you could train it. A few days, at most, and you could teach her to bear a saddle and bridle without biting. A few more days and she'd be ready to carry a human… an ape, on her back.

After removing your horse's saddle, you let him graze and showed the mare around.

Seeing her following your horse with no fuss made you feel as if you'd finally untied a knot too heavy to bear.

Yes, everything was going to be all right.

You sighed with relief and set off to find the two apes you'd left inside your house the day before.

Ignoring the aching and heavy feeling in your eyes, you pushed open your front door to find only an empty room. The previously loaned blankets lay neatly on your table.

The blankets.

Like a light bulb that's just switched on, your eyes darted to the fireplace and then to the blanket left on the floor, pushed to one side, the frame it previously covered vanished.

Your heart leapt into your ribcage to remind you of its existence, and a feeling of sheer panic rushed through your chest.

No, no, no.

They couldn't have done this. They couldn't have taken it away from you.

You rushed outside and before you could set foot on the threshold of your home, a large hand held you firmly in place before you made hard contact with its owner's massive torso.

Your eyes fluttered up to his green ones, and Noa caught his first glimpse of fear in the depths of your irises. He watched you while you no longer seemed to know where you were because of the sudden encounter, and when he saw in your eyes that you were coming back to your senses, he let his hand fall back along his body.

One step back.

You needed to find a space… less shared with his own, and you decided to take another step backwards.

Words tried to form on the tip of your tongue, urging you to ask him what he'd done with your frame, but these words quickly fell into the void of silence as Noa slowly handed you your frame, which he held delicately in his second hand.

You found yourself lacking the words that had rushed to you as your brain tried to put the pieces of the puzzle back together again.

You blinked once.

Then twice.

Then three times.

But no, you weren't dreaming, the broken frame you'd left under your blanket had come back to you in one piece.

Noa felt you were suddenly… overwhelmed. Your usually lifeless gaze seemed to find its way back to life, with a wave of emotion that you were obviously having trouble sorting out in your mind.

So he had seen sadness and fear, and now he saw a tide of relief rising in your eyes until it formed the first drops in the corner of them. But you were like… frozen. You looked at the square object in his hand as if suddenly you had no right to touch it, even though it belonged to you.

And then you looked at him, almost encouraging him to say something before you crumbled.

"Fixed." Noa almost whispered, letting his husky voice trail off as softly as possible, as if he didn't want to break anything inside of you, and he carried on, using his free hand to show himself, almost proud of what he'd just accomplished, silently telling you " me, I fixed it".

You couldn't help but look at him, letting him probe everything that came to your mind, as if to silently thank him for saving you from forgetting. Tears forming beads of rain on the edge of your eyelids, you signed back, revealing your relative knowledge of sign language in the process.

"Thank you."

A tear rolled down your cheek, and the overwhelming emotion you offered Noa gave him enough courage to ask you one of the questions running through his mind.

"The image… who is it?"

Noa felt as if an eternity had just passed in silence as you pondered revealing his name. Did you have to tell him his name?

You gently slid your fingers around the frame, which had regained a youthful shape, and Noa almost felt like holding it back to force you to tell him who this ape was, but he didn't need to, your voice rising in a faint note.

"His name was…" You started, swallowing hard in anticipation of the emotion that awaited you around the corner. "His name was Caesar."

And this was surely the first time, after years and years, that you'd uttered his name to introduce him to someone else.

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[estellan0vella]

Little Miss Jailbird Older Brother Sukuna AU HFBU

You sit in the cold, hard chair of the police station, arms crossed defiantly over your chest. The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh glow, making the sterile white walls seem even more unwelcoming. You're fuming, trying to ignore the glares from the officers and the few other people in the holding area. This is not how you imagined your evening going.

It had all started so innocently. A trip to the convenience store for some late-night snacks ended up with you punching a creep who thought it was okay to grab you. You didn't even hesitate; your fist flew and connected with his face before you could think. Unfortunately, the police didn't find your self-defence as justified as you did.

"Miss, you need to calm down," an officer tells you for the tenth time, his tone a mix of irritation and condescension. You glare at him, ready to argue again.

"You don't understand, I need my medication," you insist, raising your voice at the officer for what feels like the hundredth time.

"Look, miss, you'll get your chance to explain everything," the officer replies, his tone dripping with condescension. "Just sit tight."

"I can't just sit tight! I have epilepsy! I need my meds!" you retort, feeling your patience wearing thin.

"You had your phone call," the officer says, trying to placate you. "Just sit tight."

You can't help but smirk at the thought of Sukuna storming in here. You know he's going to find this whole situation amusing. The man has a twisted sense of humour, and you're sure he'll milk this for all it's worth.

Your phone call to him had been brief and to the point. "Kuna, I need you to come get me. I'm at the police station."

His reaction was instant. "What the fuck did you do?"

"I punched a guy who grabbed me."

You could almost hear the grin in his voice. "Atta girl. I'll be there soon."

You lean back in your chair, trying to appear nonchalant. The officer is giving you a wary look as if you might spring up and start another fight at any moment. You're tempted to roll your eyes at him.

Finally, the door to the holding area opens, and there he is. Ryomen Sukuna, your boyfriend and protector. He's as imposing as ever, his presence filling the room. His crimson eyes sweep over the scene, landing on you, and his lips curl into that familiar smirk.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, striding over to you. "If it isn't little miss jailbird."

You can't help but laugh, despite the situation. "Kuna, don't start."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Too late for that, baby." 

"Kuna," you sigh, both in relief and exasperation. "Can you please tell them I need my medication?"

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, still clearly entertained by the whole situation. "You punched a guy, babe. I think you can handle a little waiting."

"He grabbed me!" you protest, but Sukuna's smirk only widens.

"And you clocked him good. I'm proud of you," he replies, glancing at the officer. "But she does need her medication. She has epilepsy."

The officer doesn't look amused. "Sir, we need to go over a few things first."

"Sure, sure," Sukuna waves him off, his attention back on you. "You okay?"

"I have a headache," You murmur.

He nods, his demeanour turning serious for a moment. "How long is this going to take? I'd rather not have my girl seizing on your watch. The lawsuit heading your way wouldn't be very nice"

The officer clears his throat, looking between the two of you. "We have to go through the paperwork. She's being charged with assault."

Sukuna raises an eyebrow. "Assault? She was defending herself."

"The man she hit is pressing charges," the officer replies, looking bored with the whole ordeal.

"Of course he is," Sukuna mutters, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

You're led to a small office where Sukuna takes a seat beside you. He's lounging casually as if he's done this a hundred times before. You have to admire his calm. Your own nerves are still frayed, and you're tapping your foot impatiently.

"Name?" the officer asks, starting to fill out a form.

"Ryomen Sukuna," he answers smoothly.

"And you're her legal guardian?"

Sukuna snorts. "No, I'm her boyfriend. Her legal guardian, huh? Sounds kinky."

You stifle a laugh, knowing this isn't the time or place for his humour. The officer gives him a stern look but continues with the questions. After what feels like an eternity, the paperwork is done, and you're finally allowed to leave.

As you step out into the cool night air, you breathe a sigh of relief. Sukuna wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "Come on, little miss jailbird, let's get you home."

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?" you ask, leaning into him.

"Not a chance," he replies with a grin. "But first, let's get your meds inside you"

You nod, grateful for his concern despite his teasing. The ride home is quiet, the tension slowly ebbing away. You lean your head against the window, watching the city lights blur past. Sukuna's hand rests on your thigh, a comforting presence.

When you finally get home, Yuji is waiting for you. His eyes widen when he sees you. "(Y/N/N)! What happened?"

You give him a tired smile. "Just a little misunderstanding, Yuji. Nothing to worry about."

Sukuna ruffles his younger brother's hair. "Y/N/N here decided to play street fighter."

Yuji looks between the two of you, confused. "Did you punch someone?"

You nod, trying not to laugh at his expression. "Yeah, something like that."

"Wow," he says, clearly impressed. "You're so cool, (Y/N/N)."

Sukuna chuckles, shaking his head. "Yeah, she's a real badass. Now, go to bed, kid. It's late."

Yuji pouts but doesn't argue, heading off to his room. You and Sukuna head to the bedroom, and you finally take your medication. Sukuna watches you, his expression softer now.

"Feeling better?" he asks, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nod, leaning into his touch. "Yeah. Thanks for coming to get me."

"Anytime, babe," he murmurs, pulling you into a hug. "Next time, try not to get arrested though, okay?"

You laugh, wrapping your arms around him. "I'll do my best."

He kisses the top of your head, holding you close. "Good. Now, let's get some sleep. You've had a long night."

As you curl up in bed beside him, you feel safe and loved, despite the chaos of the evening. Sukuna's steady presence is a comfort, and you know that no matter what happens, he'll always be there for you. Even if it means bailing you out of jail.

The next morning, the sun filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. You wake up to find Sukuna already awake, his eyes on you. He smirks when he sees you stirring.

"Morning, little miss jailbird," he teases.

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. "Kuna, please. Not first thing in the morning."

He laughs, pulling you close. "Okay, okay. I'll give you a break. For now."

You smile against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your cheek. "Thank you."

He strokes your hair, his touch gentle. "You know, I'm proud of you for standing up for yourself. But next time, just call me. I'll handle it."

"I can handle myself," you protest, looking up at him.

He grins, that mischievous glint in his eyes. "I know you can. But I like being your hero."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "Fine. Next time, I'll call you."

"Good girl," he says, kissing your forehead. "Now, how about we make some breakfast?"

As you get out of bed and head to the kitchen, you feel a sense of normalcy returning. The events of the previous night already seem like a distant memory, and you're ready to move on. With Sukuna by your side, you know you can handle anything.

Even if it means dealing with his relentless teasing.

[roomsofangel]

CHAPTER TWO

synopsis you spent your entire childhood and teenage years being what your mother wanted you to be — and so when you finally strike a deal and made a bet with the woman, you are determined to prove her wrong and that your passion for art could be turned into a living if you just tried hard enough.

however, things might have just gotten harder when you cross paths with the lead vocalist of an uprising rock band who seems to be nothing but a charming thorn in your side

wc 4.3k (oopsie)

warnings mentions of alcohol consumption, y/n really just wanting to throw hands with hongjoong

reblogs & comments are very appreciated and also help out a lot! thank you for reading and giving my work a chance ♥️

you tossed and turned in your bed, unable to shake the memories of the previous night from your mind. despite your best efforts to push the thoughts away, you couldn’t shake away his stupid face from your brain that managed to latch itself there — it all replayed like a broken record, stuck on a single track you wished you could skip. the way his eyes rolled back in his stupid head, the nonchalant way he smoked his cigarette, and the raw emotion in his voice as he poured out his heart on the stage – it all haunted you. you pulled your pillow over your face, giving in to the frustration as you let out a scream into it, your grip on the pillow tightening as if it could soothe your troubled thoughts.

your mind refused to let go, replaying every moment over and over again like a repetitive loop. the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through you, lingered in your thoughts, seeping into your consciousness like a stubborn stain.

in a hurry to find some relief from your restless thoughts, you quickly threw off your blankets and slipped into your slippers. hastily grabbing your house keys, you draped your teddy bear jacket over your shoulders before stepping out into the night. the idea of a late-night snack or a cup of warm tea from your favorite 24-hour corner store seemed like the perfect antidote to your troubled mind. as you stepped outside, the cool night air hit your face, providing a brief distraction from the storm of thoughts swirling in your head.

as you walked towards the 24-hour store, you couldn't help but shiver from the cold despite wearing your warm jacket. you mentally cursed yourself for wearing loose chococat pajama shorts, feeling the chill against your bare legs. huffing, you continued walking, the cool air nipping at your skin and causing you to shiver again. you tried to ignore the cold and focus on the destination that laid ahead, the warm lights of the store growing brighter in the distance.

you finally stepped into the parking lot, taking note of the few cars scattered around – you assumed a couple belonged to employees. without wasting any time, you made a beeline towards the tea section, your mind set on finding some comfort in a warm cup. the store was quiet this late at night, the only sounds being the soft hum of the refrigerator and your footsteps padding along the tile floor.

when you extended your hand towards a packet of chamomile tea, you suddenly felt another hand overlapping yours. the touch felt cold, as if the other person had also been outside in the cold night air. your eyes widened slightly in surprise as you looked up to see who the other hand belonged to.

no, fuck no.

in front of you, standing in the flesh, was kim hongjoong. you felt a mix of surprise and unease as you recognized his face from the night before and the morning hours before that, the very same face that had been lingering in your thoughts not too long ago.

“are you just going to stare?”

you snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of his voice. his tone held a sharp edge, and you were quickly reminded of why you had wanted to strangle him during your previous encounters. you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the feelings of irritation and unease that came with being in his presence.

"well, i wasn't expecting to see you here," you retorted, your own voice slightly tinged with annoyance.

he raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the annoyance in your voice. "ah, so you speak," he retorted in a sardonic tone, taking a step closer to you.

you scowled, not appreciating his attempt at humor. "what are you even doing here?" you asked, crossing your arms defensively.

he shrugged, reaching out to grab a packet of chamomile tea from the shelf, the very same packet that you had your hand on just a moment ago. "getting tea" he replied, a smirk playing on his lips.

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his nonchalant response. "at this hour? It’s practically the middle of the night," you pointed out, resenting the fact that he had reached for the tea you wanted to grab.

he chuckled, holding up the packet of chamomile tea in his hand, his smirk growing wider. "and yet, here we both are, up and buying tea in the middle of the night," he replied, his voice laced with a hint of mockery.

you opened your mouth to respond but shut it quickly, realizing that he had a point. there was no use in arguing when both of you were there for the same reason. a moment of silence passed between the two of you, the hum of the store's lights filling the air.

he broke the silence first, a smirk still plastered on his face. "so, let me guess," he said, leaning against the shelf next to you, "couldn’t sleep?"

you felt a pang of irritation at his sarcastic tone, but you couldn’t deny the fact that he was right. you let out a small huff, trying to maintain your composure.

“and what makes you think that i couldn’t sleep?" you retorted, your voice laced with a hint of defensiveness.

he chuckled, his smirk turning into a full-blown smile. "call it an educated guess," he replied nonchalantly. "you look like you haven't slept a wink."

and you couldn’t help but glare, “and what is that supposed to mean?”

he chuckled again, enjoying the way you responded to his comments. "it means exactly what it sounds like. you look exhausted," he replied, his tone still nonchalant.

you felt another pang of annoyance at his observation. “oh, so now you’re a expert on how tired i look?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

he shrugged, still holding onto the packet of chamomile tea. "maybe not an expert, but it’s pretty obvious," he said, gesturing towards your face. "dark circles under your eyes, tired expression. it’s not hard to tell."

your irritation grew at his casual attitude. "gee, thanks for the observation, captain obvious," you retorted, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

he hummed, seemingly unbothered by your attitude. "just stating the facts," he replied, a smirk playing on his lips once more.

you huffed, crossing your arms defensively. "well, maybe the reason i can’t sleep is because someone has been stuck in my head all night," you muttered, half to yourself, half to him.

his smirk widened at your comment, clearly pleased by the fact that he had been on your mind. "oh? so i’ve been living rent-free in your head all night, huh?" he teased, leaning a bit closer to you.

you felt a strong wave of embarrassment at being called out on your thoughts, but you tried to hide it behind your irritation. "more like a stubborn parasite," you retorted, shifting slightly away from him.

as soon as the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. you had inadvertently admitted that it was him who had been occupying your thoughts all night. you mentally cursed yourself for not taking the opportunity to deny it.

he chuckled at your reaction, “a parasite, huh?" he repeated, his smirk growing wider. "i’ll have you know that i take great pride in my ability to worm my way into people’s minds."

you scowled, refusing to admit aloud that he had a point. "well, consider yourself an unwanted guest in my mind then," you retorted, crossing your arms defensively.

his smirk turned into a full-blown smile. "unwanted, but not forgettable, right?" he said, his tone teasing.

"you know, you’re quite entertaining when you’re mad," he taunted, his expression still smug.

you huffed, "i’m glad my anger amuses you," you replied sarcastically. "maybe i should just punch you to give you a better show."

he feigned a look of mock concern, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. "woah, woah, let’s not resort to violence now. i’m much too pretty to have my face ruined," he humored, his smirk never wavering.

you rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to give in to the temptation to smack him. "spare me the modesty. you know damn well you’d still be pretty even if i did ruin your face," you retorted.

he chuckled, “ah, so you think i’m pretty, huh?" he echoed your words, his tone filled with playful sarcasm.

you felt embarrassed at having your words turned back on you, but you refused to back down. "pretty annoying, yes. pretty much the bane of my existence, absolutely," you retorted, the sarcasm still evident in your voice.

despite your inner monologue telling you to just walk away, you found yourself unable to do so. there was something about his smug, insufferable attitude that kept you engaged in the conversation. you glanced back at the chamomile tea in his hand, contemplating whether to just grab it from him and make a swift exit, or continue the banter.

however, you also realized that the longer this interaction went on, the more appealing the thought of alcohol became, rather than the tea you originally intended to buy.

he seemed to notice your inner turmoil, his smirk growing wider as he spoke. "ah, i can practically hear the gears turning in your head," he teased, holding the packet of chamomile tea out in front of you. "can’t decide if you want to strangle me or kiss me?"

his words took you by surprise, your cheeks flushing involuntarily at the unexpected imagery he had just put into your mind. "what— no!" you protested, trying to hide your embarrassment. "i was not contemplating strangling or kissing you, you arrogant prick."

“you sure about that? your cheeks are a bit rosy, sweetheart."

you cursed silently. damn him for noticing your flushed cheeks. "it’s just the cold," you retorted weakly, mentally willing your face to stop betraying you.

by this point, your initial plan of just getting a packet of tea and going back home had completely derailed in your mind. the banter with hongjoong had turned your thoughts to alcohol, causing you to consider buying a couple of fireballs and some chips instead. you weren’t sure if it was your exhaustion playing a role or if your nerves were just being frayed by his insufferable presence. either way, you were certain that you needed something stronger than chamomile tea to get through this situation.

noticing your distracted expression, hongjoong chuckled to himself. "what’s on your mind, sweetheart? you seem a little preoccupied there."

you snapped out of your thoughts, realizing that he had caught you in your mental dilemma. “it’s nothing," you replied, feigning nonchalance. "just thinking about what else i need to get beside the tea."

he raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "and what exactly do you need besides tea?" he asked, leaning in closer to you again.

you could practically feel the heat radiating from his body despite the freezing temperatures as he leaned closer, and you took an involuntary step back, your brain scrambling for a clever comeback.

the last thing you needed was for him to know you were contemplating buying alcohol solely because of his presence, or worse, that you were enjoying the banter.

you decided to play it cool, hoping that he wouldn’t see through your lie. "just some snacks," you replied, trying to sound casual. "you know, the usual late-night cravings."

you quickly snatched the packet of tea from his hand, not giving him a chance to respond. "and i’ll be needing this, thanks," you said, not waiting for a response before hurrying off to grab two fireballs and some chips from the snack aisle.

you made your way to the cashier, avoiding any further interaction with hongjoong, wanting to put as much distance between you as possible.

once you had paid for your items, you grabbed the bag of chips and fireballs and headed towards the exit of the store, wanting to escape hongjoong’s presence as quickly as possible. however, he seemed to have other plans.

"leaving so soon?" he called out, his voicd carrying across the store. "you hardly spent any time with me."

you froze in your tracks, cursing silently under your breath. you were hoping to make a quick exit without any further interaction with him, but it seemed like he was determined to prolong the encounter.

turning around to face him, you tried to maintain a neutral expression on your face. "i got what i came for," you replied, holding up the bag of chips and fireballs as if to prove a point.

he sauntered up to you, a smirk playing on his lips. "and here i thought we were just starting to have fun," he teased, stopping a few feet away from you.

you rolled your eyes at his comment, resisting the urge to strangle him. "your idea of fun is giving me a headache," you retorted, attempting to maintain a sarcastic tone.

before hongjoong could respond, your phone suddenly buzzed in your pocket, saving you from having to listen to whatever smartass comment he had ready in his arsenal. you thanked your lucky stars for whoever it was who decided to text you at such an ungodly hour. you quickly fished it out of your pocket, checking the message, silently grateful for the interruption.

yeosangie: the neighbor’s cat got in my yard again.

you couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, grateful for yeosang’s timing but also the fact that this was a common occurrence ever since he got his new neighbors. they had a cat that loved yeosang’s garden, which wouldn’t be a huge deal if the cat didn’t use the doggy door to get in with dirty paws making yeosang freak out more than his dog that became friends with the cat instead

you quickly typed out a response, feeling a sense of relief that this was a welcome distraction from the annoying presence of hongjoong standing next to you.

you: tell the cat i said hi :p

you sent the message and looked up, realizing that hongjoong was still standing there, watching you intently with a raised eyebrow.

he seemed to be observing your reaction to the text on your phone with curiosity, waiting for you to notice that he was still standing there. once you looked up and made eye contact with him, he broke the silence.

"boyfriend?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone.

you couldn’t help but scoff at his question. "hardly," you retorted, rolling your eyes. "just a friend."

he raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your response. "just a friend, huh? texting you in the middle of the night?"

"yes, just a friend," you repeated, your annoyance creeping into your voice. "he’s having a late night cat conundrum."

hongjoong chuckled at your response, clearly enjoying the situation. "the cat conundrum, huh? sounds like quite the predicament."

yeosangie: you’re no help!

"yeah, yeah," you replied, slightly annoyed by his amused expression. "his new neighbors have a cat that has a habit of sneaking into his yard and messing up his garden."

he chuckled again, clearly entertained by the situation. "ah, so he has a kitty problem, huh? that’s actually adorable."

you gave him a withering glare at his description of yeosang's predicament as 'adorable'. "i guess if you find muddy paw prints and dead mice on your stoop cute, then sure," you retorted, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

he raised his hands in mock surrender at your comment. "my apologies. not cute, then. a living nightmare, perhaps?" he amused, his smirk growing wider.

you couldn’t help but scoff at his sarcastic retort. "you could say that," you replied, shaking your head slightly. "yeosang's not exactly thrilled about it, especially since he's a bit of a neat freak."

he chuckled, clearly finding the situation amusing. "a neat freak with a dirty feline intruder? now that's a sitcom waiting to happen."

why were you still talking to him? you wanted to rip your hair out, “yeah so i should head out now,” you quickly responded as a departure and began to hurry down the roads that lead to your apartment

as you quickened your pace, trying to escape his presence, you heard him call out to you from behind.

"nice jacket!"

you mentally cursed at the sound of his voice, turning around to flip him off before continuing on your way.

he called out again, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "love the middle finger, too, sweetheart!"

you could practically feel him smirking from behind.

with the next morning rolling around, you stirred awake on your couch, your head throbbing from the after-effects of the fireball and the lack of actual sleep on a proper bed, you couldn't help but wonder what the hell had gotten into you.

your planned tea night had turned into a sketching extravaganza followed by a fireball-induced nap on your couch. you groaned, rubbing your temples as you sat up, trying to coax the headache away.

last night's encounter with hongjoong played back in your mind, making you scowl slightly.

why had you entertained hongjoong’s playful banter? why did you even give him the time of day? the thought of his smug expression and carefree attitude make your head ache even more, and you let out a frustrated sigh.

part of you wished you could just chalk it up to exhaustion or the influence of the fireball you'd drank, but deep down, you knew there was more to it than just that. there was something about that stupid rockstar that had gotten under your skin, and it bothered you more than you cared to admit.

you groaned again, standing up from the couch and heading towards the kitchen to grab some painkillers for your headache. maybe some caffeine would help clear your mind.

you winced as you turned on the kettle, the sound of the boiling water exacerbating your headache. you rummaged through your cabinets, searching for some painkillers to help alleviate the throbbing pain. finally, you found a small bottle of ibuprofen and popped two pills into your mouth, washing them down with a glass of water.

as you waited for the kettle to finish boiling, you sat down at the kitchen table, staring off into space. your thoughts wandered back to hongjoong, his smirk and carefree attitude playing like a broken record in your mind. it was infuriating how easily he had gotten under your skin, and it made you want to tear your hair out.

the sound of the kettle boiling brought you back to reality, and you got up to make yourself a cup of coffee. while you stirred in some sugar and a hint of milk, you tried to clear your thoughts, focusing on the task at hand.

you took a sip of your coffee, the warm liquid grounding you in the present moment. you knew you had another art class in the afternoon, and you needed to focus on that.

in your annoyance, you cursed yourself internally for letting hongjoong get to you. how could someone you had only seen twice and had a single full interaction with have this much of an effect on you?

you shook your head once more, as if physically trying to shake off the unwelcome distractions. you had a class to attend and goals to focus on, and that's exactly what you were going to do.

you reached for your phone, taking another sip of your coffee as you unlocked the screen to check a notification.

yeosangie: how did hongjoong know about my garden cat :(

you couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at yeosang's text, his mention of hongjoong bringing the rockstar's face to the forefront of your mind again. you wanted to groan while typing out your response, fingers flying over the screen.

you: he knows about the cat??

you knew full well that you were the reason hongjoong knew about the cat, but yeosang didn't need to know that. you sent the message and waited for his response, silently hoping that he wouldn't ask any follow-up questions about how hongjoong knew.

yeosang's response came quickly, and your heart rate spiked for a moment, fearing he would ask more questions about hongjoong's knowledge of the cat situation.

but to your relief, his reply was a simple rolling eyes emoji. you let out a small sigh, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. you weren't quite prepared to deal with any questions about how hongjoong knew, not when you barely understood why you even let yourself get that far in conversation with him.

you forced yourself to snap out of your thoughts, focusing on the task at hand. you couldn't let yourself dwell on the hongjoong-related distractions any longer.

you finished the last of your coffee and pushed yourself away from the kitchen table. the clock was ticking and you had an art class to attend. with determined strides, you made your way to your bedroom to change into fresh clothes for the afternoon.

the change of clothes helped shift your focus back to the task at hand, the act of getting dressed grounding you in the present moment. as you checked yourself in the mirror, ensuring that you looked presentable, the sound of your phone buzzing startled you.

you snatched your phone from the bedside table, hoping it was just a benign message and not one bringing back the hongjoong-related thoughts you were fighting to suppress.

yeosangie: hey can i come over after your class?

you breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of yeosang's name on the screen. it was just a simple request for a visit after your art class

before responding, you quickly checked the time, realizing that you had to hurry to make it to your art class.

you: yeah i’ll even get chicken :3

yeosangie: know me so well

as you read his last reply, you tucked your phone into your bag and rushed out of your apartment, locking the door behind you. the cool air outside helped clear your mind, and you focused on making it to the art class on time.

the walk to class felt like both an eternity and a blur, your mind flipping back and forth between thoughts of hongjoong and your upcoming class. you pushed through, determined to give your best in class and put all thoughts of the rockstar out of your head for the moment. you still had a point to prove, a deadline to meet and a mother to prove wrong.

as you pushed open the door to the art classroom, you were greeted by the familiar sight of easels, paint splatters, and a couple of your fellow students chattering amongst themselves. you took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of paint and creativity envelop you as you made your way to your workspace.

you settled into your seat and began preparing your materials, the routine motions helping to calm your racing mind. your canvas stood before you, blank and waiting for your vision to come alive.

“wooyoung wanted me to see if you were coming to halazia’s gig tomorrow night,”

you glanced up at yeosang, who was sprawled out on your couch, munching on the chicken you’d picked up for his visit. at the mention of the gig, you felt a pang of something akin to anxiety.

"ah," you replied vaguely, turning your attention back to the sketchbook in your lap. "i’ll see."

you continued to sketch in your sketchbook, avoiding eye contact with yeosang, as you mentally grappled with the thought of potentially seeing hongjoong again. the thought sent a mix of annoyance and a strange flutter in your stomach, a feeling you couldn’t quite place.

you remembered how yeosang had described hongjoong as closed off, which contradicted the charismatic and flirty demeanor you had witnessed firsthand.

as you continued to sketch without looking up, yeosang’s voice interrupted your thoughts once again. “i already know your answer.” he mumbled through a mouthful of chicken, “you will make up some excuse and stay home.”

you paused your sketching, a hint of irritation creeping in. yeosang knew you all too well, and it frustrated you that he could predict your answer so easily.

"i’m just not sure i feel like going," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant as you forced yourself to sketch again, even though your mind was elsewhere.

"right," yeosang rolled his eyes, knowing that you were trying to play it cool. he had known you for far too long to fall for your facade. he reached for another piece of chicken, the topic of conversation still not quite dropped. "you'll do anything not to run into hongjoong again after finding out he was the morning asshole, won’t you?"

your grip on your pencil tightened at the mention of hongjoong's name again. you didn’t like how obvious you were, but you couldn’t help it. the thought of potentially seeing him again made your stomach flip-flop in a way you didn’t want to think about.

you replied with a hint of annoyance, hoping to brush off his remark. "it’s not that. i just don’t feel like going."

yeosang chuckled at your response, seeing right through your feeble attempt at hiding your aversion towards running into hongjoong. he knew you better than anyone, and your subtle reactions told him all he needed to know.

"sure,” he smirked. “you keep telling yourself that."

wanting to drop and change the subject, you huffed, “fine, i’ll go,”

yeosang’s smirk widened at your surrender, clearly pleased that he had gotten his way. but he couldn't help but tease you a bit more. “so you’ll come along?” he inquired, his eyes glinting with amusement.

you grumbled in response, feeling a mix of resignation and irritation at yourself for giving in to yeosang’s request. “yeah, i guess,” you responded, your voice lacking enthusiasm. “i’ll go.”

how on earth are you going to get through this?

prev . . masterlist . . next

[to-a-merrier-world]

writing pet peeve: when character A and character B are very far away from each other and SHOULD be in very different time zones (like, a 10 hr difference), but the author never accounts for that, so you’re reading abt a guy in russia eating dinner over video chat with a guy in chicago, who is eating dinner at the same time cause it’s somehow 6pm in both places☠️

[silverwhittlingknife]

hi Silver! o/ because that fanart made me wonder - would you happen to know when/where Dick's stuffed elephant plush Zitka turns up in the comics?

GREETINGS CAM <3333 THAT ART WAS SO CUTE

Yeah, I think your instincts are right - it's a truly adorable bit of transformative fandom, but I'm 95% percent sure it's not comics canon. Barbara has canon plushies, but I don't think anyone else does.

I got kinda invested in the investigation (it's hard to prove a negative!) and I ended up typing out an entire History of Elinore/Zitka, so, uh, if you're curious, meet me below the cut for:

Where does Elinore / Zitka - the animal - appear in comics?

Did Dick ever have a stuffed elephant toy in comics?

Where does Elinore / Zitka appear in comics?

We're gonna go in chronological order!

Dick's circus elephant friend was first created for practical reasons: in Batman 436, Marv Wolfman does a big expanded flashback to Dick's circus backstory as a way to subtly show us Tim before officially introducing him (so that we can have a technically-solvable mystery-of-Tim's-identity in LPoD). In this comic, there's an elephant named Elinore who loves Dick:

Aww. Such a cute elephant!

Batman 436 comes out in August 1989. New Titans 60 comes out a few months later, in November, and guess what? When Dick visits the circus, he is suddenly surprised by an unexpected blast from the past! It turns out that even though it's been years, Elinore still remembers him!

Here's the part where Elinore remembers Dick:

SUCH a cute elephant. I love her.

(Guess who else still remembers Dick even though it was so long ago. Guess which other character is about to be an unexpected blast from the past. Guess which character Elinore is directly paralleling guess guess guess sorry everything is about Dick and Tim in my mind but I can focus I swear)

Four years later, in 1993, Batman: The Animated Series retells Dick's origin story. They like and keep Wolfman's elephant, but they change her name to Zitka:

Wolfman doesn't return to the elephant beyond those two appearances, and a few years down the line, New Titans gets cancelled and Wolfman's not writing Dick anymore anyway. So the animal gets abandoned for a while, until Devin Grayson, a fan of both Wolfman and B:tAS, revives the Wolfman-era Titans team in JLA/Titans and then the ongoing series Titans 1999.

Grayson then brings back the elephant in a flashback to Dick's past in Titans 16 (Jun 2000), where she imports the B:tAS name. Sometimes I'm skeptical of TV-to-comics imports, but honestly, I endorse this one. You lose the alliteration, which is a shame, but IMO Zitka is a better elephant name than Elinore.

Here's Dick with the newly-christened Zitka in Titans 16:

Grayson also briefly references the elephant in Gotham Knights 20 and - in a final angsty callback - in Nightwing 88 (Feb 2004), where Zitka tries futilely to comfort Dick in the midst of his trauma conga line:

... And... honestly, I think that's it for comic appearances? The two Wolfman comics plus the three Grayson comics.

Both Wolfman and Grayson are writing multiple titles - Batman, New Titans, Titans, Gotham Knights, and Nightwing between the two of them, spanning a big chunk of Dick's post-Crisis canon - and both writers use the elephant for heartwarming moments of nostalgia, which means if you're doing a post-Crisis readthrough for Dick, Elinore/Zitka feels memorable. But I don't think she actually shows up that much.

For post-2011, I am not as well-informed - throwing this out to the dash? anyone know? - but I feel like Zitka the heartwarming symbol of Dick's heartwarming circus past is, uh, thematically very at odds with the Court of Owls evil!circus vibes, so my instinct is that this story element was almost certainly dropped in the reboot.

Did Dick ever have a stuffed elephant toy in comics?

In WFA, yes; in main comics continuity, no. Technically, I have not read every comic ever published, so I could be wrong!! But I don't think so.

Below, find my rambling reasoning on the tonal vibes of pre-Crisis, post-Crisis, and post-2011, and why this particular story element doesn't seem right to me for the first two.

Pre-Crisis (...okay, mostly the Silver Age): stuffed animal, yes or no?

tl;dr no, requires too much background knowledge on the part of the reader, plus the elephant wasn't a thing until later

Elinore doesn't get created until post-Crisis, but also just generally, pre-Crisis callbacks are more along the lines of this reference in Batman 129 (published in 1960), where, wow, Batman and Robin are hunting jewel thieves - and it turns out Robin recognized this strongman! BUT HOW?!

The comic goes on to recap Dick's entire origin story in flashback, on the assumption that you may not know it.

(BTW, if you'd like to know more about Haly's Circus throughout the years, nightwingology has a great post here summarizing a lot of fun plotlines and characters!)

Basically: Silver Age comics are very self-consciously episodic and kid-friendly; they're not generally gonna do overly-elaborate callbacks because they don't know what comics their kid readers may have randomly picked up or remember.

By the time of post-Crisis, comic books were being written for an adult audience buying from the direct market, i.e. readers who are collecting whole runs & don't need or want Dick's origin story to be recapped to us in full every time it's referenced. That's why in post-Crisis, we get stuff like "hey, neat, this particular soda brand is getting mentioned in several different books!!" or "in order to understand this story arc, buy SIXTEEN DIFFERENT COMICS in FIVE DIFFERENT RUNS and read them ALL ACCORDING TO A NUMBERED ORDER and also you better be following the individual plotlines and recognize these five minor characters who we don't bother to introduce!! Good luck!!" But the elaborate post-Crisis plotlines - and subtler worldbuilding like a stuffed animal callback to Dick's backstory - don't make a lot of story sense UNLESS you're imagining your readers as completionist adult fans.

So IMO a stuffed animal wouldn't be a pre-Crisis thing unless it was The Episodic Story Of the Week, and I don't think a stuffed animal is action-adventure-y enough for the fast-paced storytelling of the Silver Age. (Unless it, like, came to life and tried to eat you or something.)

Post-Crisis: stuffed animals, yes or no?

tl;dr: no, Dick's a manly tough guy, he's not gonna have a stuffed animal, that'd be lame, like something Tim might do

Part of the edgy grimdark adult vibes in 80s/90s comics is that some characters who used to be kinda silly & goofy & lighthearted - like Batman and Robin - get reimagined as Serious and Angsty and Edgy in a Tough Cool Manly Brooding Way. This massively affects characterization for Bruce, Dick, and Bruce and Dick's relationship.

(I obviously love this change & love the tense Bruce-and-Dick interactions, but plenty of fans of the earlier fluffy comics really disliked the edgy retcons of Miller / Wolfman / Starlin / et al.)

The upshot is that post-Crisis is a period when you could have a recurring reference like a stuffed elephant, but you wouldn't have a stuffed elephant, not for Dick. I think a toy like that would be too cutesy / childish / effeminate to give a male character in post-Crisis, unless you were poking fun at him.

Now, you could probably let Tim have a stuffed animal, because Tim is sometimes cool but also sometimes a tryhard loser who is faking being cool and not entirely pulling it off (see e.g. the Robin comic where he practices tough-guy faces in the mirror, or the Teen Titans comic where Conner discovers his cringy Enya CD, or when he's fanboying over Connor and it's awkward, etc etc.). A stuffed animal would be deeply embarrassing, and you'd have to be careful to compensate by having Tim do something cool afterward - but Tim's character concept allows for "he's kind of a loser sometimes."

But Dick isn't!! In post-Crisis, Dick's a tough / impressive / "cool guy" character, the kind of guy anyone would want to be, even in the flashbacks where he's Robin, and even in the stories where he's more lighthearted than angsty. It'd be kinda lame for Dick to have a stuffed elephant, so he wouldn't. I feel like Dick would be more likely to poke fun at it if someone had one, like when he's making fun of Wally for liking the Hardy Boys. Dick could have a Batman action figure, at most, and if he had one he would have it ironically.

Basically: in post-Crisis, a male character hugging a stuffed elephant feels more likely to be a punchline to me, not something poignant. (Even with Tim, Tim could have an embarrassing stuffed animal, but he couldn't hug it when sad - that's too far. Maybe Booster Gold might do this. Probably he wouldn't, but spiritually, he would. Sorry Booster ilu! <3)

Instead, Dick instinctively deals with his inner turmoil like the TORTURED ACTION HERO he is: by punching things and brooding and yelling and joining the mob and sleeping on rooftops and going on obsessive secret missions and acquiring Angsty Stubble!! Just like Batman!

(Technically I don't know if Bruce ever joined the mob but you know he would.)

Anyway as you know this is my favorite continuity and I am poking fun affectionately, but uh, yeah sdfsfdsfs. No stuffed animals.

Post-2011 / Infinite Frontier / Wayne Family Adventures: stuffed animals, yes or no?

tl;dr it's in WFA! Probably not anywhere else, but it could be.

Post-2011 stuff tends to be cutesier overall, most of all in the current Infinite Frontier era. So I don't feel like this would be tonally out-of-line with IF comics. Taylor tends to go for more meme-y references rather than fanfic references, though.

So the obvious best fit is WFA, which is aiming for a rough approximation of Silver Age family-friendly vibes - wholesome, episodic plots, Teaching Good Moral Lessons For The Youth, etc. - plus lots of Easter eggs for fanfic readers and some comic references.

And look, here we are:

Aww.

Whew - that's everything I could find!

Anyway as you can probably tell, I LOVE the elephant, so this was a very entertaining rabbit hole to go down, thank you <3

[husbandida]

No one

Absolutely no one

Me and my broken brain: What if I made a Nevermore Trimberly Au?

[twowink]

please consider: hospital trio (the crossover that only exists in my brain and my google docs drafts)

[grimmjowjaegerjaquez]

Remembering the brief period in my life when i was obsessed with ashido, the only filler character with rights bc kubo originally planned to include him in the manga but had to cut him for time

[mumblesplash]

did u think Eret (dsmp) was herobrine bcus their character is related to herobrine

oh for real??? i honestly don’t know much of the lore outside what’s obvious from watching sad-ist’s animatics and i knew even less when i first heard about herobrine, i just thought he was some guy named bryan who was friends with ninja who, to be clear, i also assumed was a dsmp guy. i do not know how i arrived at any of these conclusions