#my ir lecture

[tognaeg]

language is stored in the balls

[luvether]

SOAKED CONFESSIONS ✦ the hero who offers to be your personal bath attendant after a mission gone wrong, his gentle touches hinting something that you seem to misunderstand as camaraderie, so he has to show you what he truly feels about you.

phainon x gn!reader. sensual (?) and fluff content. bathing together and implicit mentions of nudity (sfw) physical touching, unspoken confessions. unlabeled relationship. phainon being really affectionate and bold. self-indulgent at its finest, I miss him. [2.0k wc]

“I was expecting to be scolded for this but a two hour lecture was something I did not quite anticipate from Tribbie upon our return.”

Bathed in the golden glow within the private changing rooms, your heavy sigh echoes at the vestiges of his, a tone that’s borderline chastising. “And who do you think is responsible for this farce?”

At your chastise, Phainon could do nothing but chuckle heartily.

“I’ve already said sorry numerous times as we rode back to Okhema.” He leans close to your face, head tilted. “Do you want another hundred apologies? I don’t mind reciting those at your behest—”

“Save it, Phainon.” You proceed to pinch his cheek as you brush past him “You? listening to me? If you’d done that a few hours ago instead of dallying and straying from our path, we wouldn’t have stumbled across those titankins. Kephale above, the goods and dromas were unharmed but we were delayed a few hours, got our clothes dirty and were punished the moment we arrived. I'm tired and I would prefer not to be at the end of your jokes right now.”

Silence spills in between the two of you, the gravity of your sobered words made Phainon realize you truly were upset at him this time around.

There was a part of you that felt guilty for shutting him down, it was an unintentional accident—but you truly were tired and had no energy left in you to go back and forth with him. Besides the growing silence, only the rustle of you discarding your mud-caked clothes could be heard. Maybe you’re too petulant for the events that have happened, looking down at your dirtied fabrics and struggling to untie the ribbon of your uniform that you are unaware of his footsteps closing in on you, his chin finds itself hooked on your shoulder and his arms come winding from behind—helping you untie the lace that was now the ire of your frustrations with perfect ease.

Maybe it truly was Phainon’s charms, his mannerisms or his innate ability to calm you like a balm—but when the lace finally falls loose on the marble floor, you draw out a thickened breath, though you don’t utter a thanks like how you’d usually be.

This concerns him, your lack of reaction.

“So you are truly mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad—“

“You sound like it.” stated Phainon, his fingers glide slowly, unbuttoning your own fabrics. “Mad and—look at you, you are flushed with fury.”

Your gloves fall to the ground next. “I’m simply peeved.”

“Peeved or mad, those are still the same things, no?” His tone dips in honeyed sincerity. “I’m sorry for what happened. I should’ve listened to you, like you said.”

“No, I—” your anger vanished at the taste of his tone. You finally turn to face him fully, brows in a furrow “I'm just exhausted after the long journey back. It was not my intention to take it out on you, I should be the one apologising for my lack of manners.”

A belly-full of silence comes after your apology. “Then, let me help you? It's the least I could do.”

“Help with what exactly?”

The oceans of Phainon’s eyes are muddled in quiet mirth, he brushes his thumb beneath your eyes, “Today, think of me as your personal bath servant. Any needs or wants—aches to remedy, any muscles to massage, I will tend to them all.”

You’ve stiffened at such a frank declaration. Does Phainon even realize what he’s talking about?

“I—“ you start but are left stumbling. “Are you certain, lord? Truly that’s not…”

The blues of his eyes crinkle, his hands wandering down your neck, crawling up your arms to remove the fastened bracers on your wrists. “I insist.” His gaze flickers up to your own. “Unless you don’t want to..”

You could do nothing but exhale, you cannot find it in you to decline such an offer—or ever dare decline the man before you without feeling like you’d just kicked a pup on the street.

“You should do it too.”

Phainon’s fingers freeze at your statement, he stiffens even more when your hands reach out to tug the belt that secured his spaulders. “Remove your uniform, you’re just as filthy as me and I wouldn’t want to be the only one to enjoy the baths at this hour.”

The atmosphere is quiet and gentle. Phainon’s blue eyes remain still as he watches you hook a finger on his choker, ridding the material as his throat, strong collar bones and tattoo is bared to you.

You were too busy trying to unclasp every piece of armor to notice how he swallowed thickly at your close proximity and tender fingers—how his twinkled blue eyes observe you from beneath dark lashes, a splotch of heat furnacing the apple of his cheeks.

Only until you hear a rumble of a chuckle do your eyes flicker up, and Phainon was seen smiling at you.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He laughs heartily. “It just amuses me how one can catch your undeniable attention. Truly it’s a miracle that someone like me can do that sometimes.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” His teasing had once again made your cheeks surflux with heat. When the last heavy armor slips from his body, you step away and turn.

“Get changed into the bathrobes and get the baskets of oils, I’ll check the temperature of our bath.”

At the short time Phainon wasn’t around, you tried to gather your bearings and tame the unwanted crave. You swallow down the fluttering of your heart, flex your fingers from its jitters during the fleeting moments of touching him—it’s a miserable sort of yearning, really. You try to remind yourself that he doesn’t feel the same as you did, but how can you recite those words when the Deliverer himself does not make it convincing for the two of you?

The golden salts of lukewarm water rippled at the company of both your bodies and almost immediately, as soon as the two of you soak into Phagousa’s blessings—Phainon’s hands inches at the silken fabrics of your bathrobe, tugging your attention to him.

For all the time knowing him, you weren’t really particular with his hands. But every moment you spend time with the alluring yet charming Chrysos heir, his hands—despite its roughened calluses—are as gentle as a psalm, deliberate even.

“Turn around.” He’d instruct you so and yet his raspy voice sounded so breathless, so tight with wanting anticipation. You’d follow through without so much as a breath. Phainon cupped a handful of water and let it soak through your roots, lithe fingers that've been honeyed with bath oils comb through your wet tendrils and you simply hum at the gesture.

He touches you like a golden cradle, firm yet tender as he explores for any knots on your sinews, pushing his fingers through your nude muscles to smoothen back the stress and exhaustion.

“You’re surprisingly good at this, keep going.” You’d muse after a few unsound minutes.

He’d respond with that endearing laugh of his. “I’m touched by your compliment. Have I been forgiven?”

To his question, you sober. “About that, I’ve been wondering for a while..”

Phainon awaits for you to complete your thought, patient fingers lifting up to stroke your hair.

“During our mission, it’s not like you to be so distracted.” You start softly. “Are you okay?”

When you feel his fingers pause, you know that your fruitless question held some sort of truth. Phainon completely retracts from you, the mild burn of his touch leaving with him and the water sloshes, ripple then still.

”Phainon?” You turn to face him and for a split second, you see a spill of shadow fall over his eyes.

“Phainon,” Your voice softens like wheat. “Hey.” You lift to palm his wet cheek, that brings him out of his stupor and his darkened eyes return back to its pale, warm color.

“Hm?”

You frown. “I asked if you are well, lord Phainon.”

His casual smile painted the soft textures of his expression. “What, are you concerned about my well-being?”

Silence follows his half-hearted claim, it's a type of silence that could only mean nothing but agreement to his question. It only proves his conjecture when he sees the look on your face.

Phainon held your cheeks so delicately, softly bumping his wet forehead with yours.

“What gave it away?” He asked, from how close he was, you could smell his faint scent of remnant wood and rum, like he’s been baked under the sunlight for hours.

You drink in a shaky inhale, dropping your gaze at the murky ripple of water beneath you—looking anywhere but him.

“You are terrible with facial expressions.”

You can feel his smile. “Mydeimos told me the same thing.”

“The troubles that you have, it’s about your past, isn’t it?”

“When has anyone not been troubled by their past?” Phainon answers you. “Hey, look at me please?”

You feel his hand leaving your cheek, he tips your chin up and you lock eyes. You dare try to dissect his expression, watching the way droplets fall from his long lashes, down the sharp contours of his face then hang on his chin before joining the bottomless water of your warm bath.

“I just had a nightmare about it and I take full responsibility for letting it get in the way of our mission, it caused us quite the mess and the punishment.”

“Oh, so this is why you offered to what, massage me?”

Phainon seems to wince at your indication. “Well, you’re not wrong but—”

You sigh. “Again, you don’t have to apologize to me for that or even go through all of this to make it up to me, Lord Phainon.”

You must’ve misunderstood something. Phainon’s brows furrow at your statement, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Wait a second, are you dismissing my efforts of…all of this simply because you think I felt sorry for what happened about the mission?”

“Is this…not why you volunteered to partake in all my needs? to act like some Marmoreal Palace chaperone?”

“Kephale, no!”

If there is one thing you try not to do, it is to jump to conjectures. With the way Phainon reacted vehemently at your claim, you cannot help but feel utterly flustered about it.

A chuckle slips down between his teeth, running his fingers through his wet bangs, the tones of his denuded muscles tauten. “Have you…not paid any attention? To me? Or even felt the way I’ve been touching you till now?”

He spoke as if it was obvious.

Though you had a guess, truly you did. Each longing cradle, each push of finger on your skin, each caress that lasts longer than your breaths— of course you’d notice something, you’d be a fool not to. Your skin crawled with the burn of him, but you thought you were being delusional.

How could you even begin to think that was what he meant?

You spin away from him quickly, you feel a splotch of heat biting the tip of your ears, then down your cheeks and neck. “I…well you weren’t being chaste about it, I’ll give you that.”

And now that you had your back to him, you are now particular to his presence that seem to singe the patterns of your vertebrae. The waters beneath you ripple softly as he moves closer, his naked chest pressing against your spine, his lips fluttering on the back of your neck, you can feel his breath of a confession smearing your skin.

“Then, do you wish for me to show you?” Phainon speaks so low, running his arms down the curves of your body as he presses another firm kiss on your neck. Then, he slowly turns you—backing you against the bath’s edge, you gaze up at his raw and beguiling eyes, the color of ocean waves untamed.

He cradles your cheeks catching your undeniable attention and allowing you to sink and drown in those eyes of his,

“I’ll show you just how serious I am, when it comes to you.”

[chahnniesroom]

cross my heart

pairing: bang chan & female reader, hwang hyunjin & female reader

summary: chan has quickly become one of your closest friends at university. too bad his girlfriend, hayoon, has him wrapped around her little finger and she's determined to make your life miserable. hyunjin is just enjoying watching the drama unfold.

word count: 4.0k

tags/warnings: angst!!! hurt and maybe some comfort?, infidelity (not between the reader or chan/hyunjin), arguing, the relationships with the reader are more like friendships than dating (please let me know if you think there should be more tags/warnings)

a/n: totally thought this was going to be a short fic (like less than 1k words) but it blossomed into something more. i wanted to try something different with this fic but not sure if i pulled it off lol please be kind if you comment! i also did not to bother with honourifics so... you can pretend that chan, hyunjin, and y/n are all the same age 😅

read it on ao3 | masterlist

It's almost funny how quickly you and Chan become friends. 

You hadn't really been looking forward to taking a technical writing class, but it's one of the requirements to get your degree and at least the lecture is large enough that you won't have to do any in-class participation. When the professor announces that one of the very first assignments is going to be completed in random pairs, you're instantly nervous. It’s only after meeting Chan, who is easygoing yet studious, that you feel better.

Although the group assignment only takes a couple weeks to finish, you find yourself hanging out more and more. Chan has a natural way of writing, he's intelligent and efficient with his wording without sacrificing clarity. While you can eventually write something that’s fairly clear and concise, it takes a lot of effort and a lot of time so you're grateful to be working with Chan who doesn't struggle with tight timelines like you do.

The two of you grow close together, especially once you realise that you have a similar sense of humour and taste in music. It doesn't take long before technical writing is your favourite class. Chan always saves you a seat beside him, even though he has quite a few friends that are also taking this course. You’re not used to it at first, but you grow comfortable with the way that he leans over to make quips about whatever the professor is saying or pointing out if someone in the lecture hall is falling asleep. You sometimes bring him snacks and in exchange he brings you a drink.

The more you learn about Chan, the more you're convinced that he's perfect.

Well, apart from one thing.

The worst thing about Chan is his girlfriend. Jung Hayoon absolutely hates you and, behind Chan's back, never fails to make sure you know it too. While the two of you have never shared any courses, she regularly meets Chan after class is over and you've been invited to join them and some other friends for a meal or to study so you've interacted with her more than you want to.

You’re not quite sure what you've done to earn Hayoon's ire, but you can only guess that it's your blossoming friendship with Chan as she’s never seemed to care about you before you met him. She takes every opportunity to make backhanded compliments, pointed comments about how much or what you're eating, or loudly exclaim when you have something stuck in your teeth. You try not to let it get to you, but you've always been a bit too sensitive.

You start declining offers to hang out with Chan and the rest of his friends after class, trying to ignore Chan's disappointment and Hayoon's smug smile every time that you make excuses.

Of course, she's sickly sweet around Chan, constantly hanging off his arm, batting her eyes at him, and trying to hold his attention. You can't really stand her obviously fake behaviour, but she makes Chan happy so you don't say anything negative about her when Chan's around.

You aren’t the type to keep up with school gossip, but even you know that Hayoon's track record is far from pristine. In fact, you were surprised to hear that someone as genuine and kind as Chan was in a relationship with someone like Hayoon.

—

The library isn't your favourite place to study, but partway through midterm season you're desperate for a change in scenery. You spend the better part of the day completing practice exams for the course you're the most worried about until you finally feel more confident. Satisfied with your progress and excited at the prospect of eating a proper meal rather than the snacks that have kept you going so far, you quickly pack up.

There aren't too many people in the library since it’s so close to the weekend, a lot of students have either finished all of their exams for the week or just given up studying. Maybe that's why your attention seems so drawn to the couple that you pass on the way to the door.

You don't mean to do anything other than quickly glance at them, but the familiarity of the girl catches your eye. The carefully styled hair and slim figure is a common combination to see at your university, but after weeks of trying to avoid her, there’s no mistaking Jung Hayoon.

And it's not Chan that she’s currently kissing.

You stumble away from them, but not before Hayoon looks up and spots you. Instead of panicking or stopping, she continues making out with the boy, maintaining eye contact with you. She even has the audacity to wink. You stare at her for a second, stunned, then bolt out of the building.

You're so flustered that you don't know what to do or where to go. You end up walking to the nearest bench and sitting down heavily in it.

You knew that you didn't like Hayoon, that she was two-faced and had likely cheated on past partners, but you hadn't expected to ever catch her in the act, especially while she was dating Chan. You couldn't fathom why anybody would want anything else when they had him and you had never been able to understand cheating in the first place.

You have to tell Chan, you decide. As much as you hate difficult conversations and it kills you to be the bringer of bad news, you know that you'd never be able to sleep at night if you tried to hide this from him. If you were in his position, you would prefer to know as soon as possible.

You call him as you start heading in the direction of his dorm.

“Hey,” Chan picks up after only a few rings. “Is everything okay? You don't usually call.”

“Uhm-” You have no clue what to say, you didn't think this through enough before dialling. “Where are you? I- Can I come talk to you?”

“Y/n? What's wrong?” Chan's instantly concerned.

“Nothing, I just- I really need to talk to someone right now,” you say quickly. “I'm fine, I mean.”

“Okay. I'm at home right now, but I can come meet you if you need? Where are you?”

“Don't worry about it, I'll head over, if that's okay.”

“Sure,” Chan says, sounding extremely worried. “Be safe, Y/n. I'll see you soon.”

After you hang up, you don't quite run to Chan's place, but you're out of breath and sweaty by the time you make it. You take a moment to compose yourself before requesting access into the building, but you know you still look frazzled. Chan buzzes you in immediately and he’s waiting in the hallway when you step out of the elevator. He guides you into his room, but only after checking you over and making sure that you're physically okay.

“Y/n, you're scaring me,” he says after leading both of you to sit down at his tiny kitchen table. “Tell me what's got you so worked up.”

“Do you know where Hayoon is today?” you ask, probably sounding insane. Chan pauses for a moment, brow furrowed before he responds.

“I know that she has an exam tomorrow, so I assume that she's studying. Why, what's up?”

“She didn't say where or who she was going to be with today?”

“No, but it's not like I'm tracking her all the time. She's her own person, she's not obligated to constantly update me.”

“I saw her at the library.”

“Okay,” Chan says slowly.

“She was with someone else, a guy.”

“Why are you telling me this, Y/n?” Chan asks, starting to sound annoyed. His tone catches you off guard.  “This is why you called me, why you ran over to my place? If you think I'm that controlling-”

“They were kissing,” you interrupt. “She’s cheating on you, Chan.”

“Who was the guy?”

“I- I didn't see him well, his back was towards me so I couldn't recognize him,” you falter.

“Did you take a picture? Was there anyone else around?”

“No- but, I-”

“So I'm just supposed to believe you,” he says flatly.

“What? Why would I make this up?”

“I know that, for some reason, you don’t like Hayoon.” Chan's usually friendly voice is cold and his face is stony. “I can live with that. I mean, of course it would be nice if you were at least civil to her. But at the end of the day, you don’t have to, she’s my girlfriend and not yours.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, “but how would lying about this benefit me at all?”

“She warned me about this, you know. She said you were jealous. Of her. Of us. That you would do something to try and break us up.” Chan laughs, but the sound is empty. “I always defended you, which she hated. I don't know how many times I told her that you weren't like that, that there was nothing going on between us.”

“Well I can assure you that I’m not jealous. That I’m not trying to break you two up.”

“I know that there’s… chemistry between us,” Chan acknowledges. “I don't have that many close female friends and I didn't before I started dating Hayoon either, but I know that I like your company and that you're easy to talk to. But that's all. It's fine if you're interested in me, you can’t help your feelings, but accusing my girlfriend of cheating? That’s sick, Y/n.”

“Are you kidding me? There is nothing going on between us.” you say incredulously. “Listen Chan, I’m saying this, I'm here as a friend. You think I'm lying? You think I want to hurt you?”

“I think that maybe Hayoon had a point when she said you wouldn't be satisfied with just being friends.”

“That's what you think of me?” you ask, feeling hurt. “Even if I was interested, I wouldn't do that. I respect you as a friend, I respect you as a person, and I respect your relationship whether I like your partner or not. But if that’s how you see me, I’m not sure that we were ever really friends. I would never try to sabotage you or anybody that's happily in a relationship.” Chan's face drops at your words.

“Y/n-” he starts to say, but you've had enough of this conversation.

“Look- I came here because I knew I would feel terrible and guilty if I didn't, but I can't convince you of something you don't want to believe.” You shake your head and walk towards the door.

Chan doesn't try to stop you as you leave.

 —

The next day you get to class 15 minutes before it’s supposed to start. You're exhausted, have your eyes swollen from crying when you got back home last night, and most of all, feel hurt. You had been a little worried about how Chan would react to what you had to tell him, but you never expected that he would dismiss you without a thought. It's hard to reconcile with the upbeat and kind seatmate that you're used to.

Instead of your usual seat near the middle of the classroom, you opt for one off to the side that’s often emptier, not wanting to have to talk to or even see Chan. You pull up an assignment that you’ve been procrastinating working on and manage to ignore the rest of your classmates as they filter into the lecture hall. It’s only when someone slides into the seat right next to you that you look up, surprised anybody would approach you when you’re clearly being unsociable and look awful.

“Hyunjin.” You’re too shocked to even say hello.

“That’s my name,” Hyunjin replies, looking unimpressed by your greeting as he pulls out his laptop. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Sorry, good morning. You don’t usually sit with me.” You can’t help but point out the obvious. 

In fact, Hyunjin usually doesn't sit with anyone. He's popular, it'd be hard not to be when you look as good as he does, but it's in a different way than Chan. While Chan seems to know practically everybody on campus, Hyunjin is almost untouchable.

While there are hoards of girls and guys that would love to have even a sliver of his attention, Hyunjin has a small circle of friends and is more interested in escaping the lecture hall to paint or dance than socialise. The only reason that you know him is because one of your closest childhood friends, Minho, is on the same dance crew as him and the three of you sometimes hang out. You wouldn't say that Hyunjin is more than an acquaintance though, he still intimidates you enough that you never would have tried to approach him first.

“And you don’t usually sit over here.” Hyunjin pretends to stretch and turns to look at your usual spot. “Avoiding someone?”

“Maybe.” You blush, embarrassed to be so easily seen through. “Is it that noticeable?”

“Nah, I just figured it was a matter of time before Hayoon got under your skin enough. I'm actually impressed you lasted this long, she really has it out for you.” While Hyunjin is surprisingly perceptive, you've also spent a fair bit of time ranting about Hayoon to Minho, and as a result, Hyunjin is kept up to speed on everything that Hayoon has done to antagonise you. You never realised that he actually paid enough attention to remember or that he agreed that Hayoon treated you like dirt.

“Actually, she’s not the one that I don’t want to talk to. Well, I never want to talk to her, but I’m not avoiding her.”

“No way,” Hyunjin crowds into your personal space, eyebrows raised dramatically. “Chan?”

You’ve had a pit in your stomach since last night’s argument and your mouth dries up at the thought of being so vulnerable, but something about the way that Hyunjin's eyes have widened to the size of dinner plates and his mouth has formed a little shocked ‘o’ is so disarming. 

“We had a disagreement last night,” you admit.

“Hayoon cheated?” he guesses.

Now it's your turn for your mouth to drop open in shock.

“Don't say it so loud,” you hiss. “How did you know?”

“Well, as much as I usually like to give people the benefit of the doubt, especially for something this serious…” Hyunjin grimaces slightly. “I’ve been kind of expecting it. Hasn't she done the same on her past three or four boyfriends?”

“Oof, that bad? I've heard some things, but never really knew for sure.”

“At least,” Hyunjin confirms. “Honestly, I'd be more shocked if she didn't cheat at this point. I'm guessing Chan didn't take it so well if you're upset with him.”

“He's loyal to a fault, literally!” you complain. “In his eyes, Hayoon can’t do anything wrong, he's able to explain away everything she does. He didn’t believe that it was her that I saw.”

“So what are you going to do?” Hyunjin asks curiously.

“Nothing,” you say sullenly. “As much as I'd like to shake some sense into him, he's an adult. He can make his own decisions and if he wants to live in denial, that's up to him.”

“You're a good friend.” Hyunjin reaches out tentatively and after an awkward second, pats your shoulder. “Not everyone would be brave enough to have that kind of difficult conversation. Chan may be stubborn right now, but he'll appreciate it later.”

“Well based on yesterday, I don't think I'm his friend at all,” you huff. “Anyway, if it's okay with you, I don't think that I will make it through the rest of the term if I have to sit over there.”

“Be my guest.” Hyunjin grins and the sight of it makes the lecture a bit easier to sit through.

—

You don’t talk to Chan for the rest of the term. While you stopped outright avoiding him, you’re pretty sure that he’s purposely steering clear of you. Instead, you continue to sit with Hyunjin and pretend that Chan doesn’t exist.

It feels silly that you miss him or that you can’t seem to get over how things ended between the two of you. You had only been friends for two months, you shouldn’t be so hurt every time he purposely turns away from you or when his eyes seem to slide over you like you’re not there.

Hyunjin basically becomes your part-time therapist. Most of the time, it’s enough that he keeps you distracted. He shares all the latest campus gossip with you, allows you to work while he paints, and invites you to hang out with Minho and the rest of their dance crew more than a few times. On the rare occasion when you’re feeling more fragile than usual, he would be willing to spend an evening at your place and listen to you wallow.

“It’s fair that you’re still upset,” he had comforted you once. You had run into Hayoon in the bathroom that afternoon and she had gloated about how nothing and nobody would be able to break her and Chan apart. It had made you feel sick to the stomach. “There was never any resolution. Chan didn’t believe you, doesn’t believe you, even though you went to him with good intentions and it’s reasonable that you would feel hurt or frustrated.”

“I feel so stupid,” you had sniffled. “It’s not even like it was a break up. We were just friends.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier, you’re still missing someone who used to be in your life. It’ll get easier next term when you don’t share a class, I promise.” Somehow, that actually had made you feel better.

“Thanks, Hyunjin,” you had said with a watery smile.

The two of you work out well together, not just because you enjoy each other’s presence, but also because there’s no expectations or pressure. Hyunjin has slowly started to share with you stories about his previous relationships, how he’s hesitant to start dating again after having his heart broken so many times. Even though there are rumours swirling about the two of you, you know that neither of you are ready for it yet and that’s partly why it's so easy to hang out with him.

Tonight, the two of you are just hanging out in his art studio. You're mindlessly scrolling on your phone, you’ve just finished the exam that you've been dreading the most and don't have the brain capacity to even think about school. You know that Hyunjin is doing the same, you can see it out of the corner of your eye, but he's trying to pretend that he's working since his painting is due the next day.

He drops all pretences when he gasps loudly at something that he sees on his phone.

“Y/n,” he says gravely.

“What?” you ask, only slightly curious. By now, you've gotten used to the fact that Hyunjin would react the same way to seeing a cute puppy video as he would finding out about some terrible news.

“A friend just texted me,” he says, still in shock.

“Okay? What did they say?”

Hyunjin looks up at you for a moment, down at his phone, then back up at you.

“ChanandHayoonbrokeup,” he says in a rush, before wincing, clearly afraid of what your reaction is going to be.

“What?” You can't believe your ears.

“Chan and Hayoon, apparently they broke up this afternoon. Someone heard them shouting at each other.”

You put down your pencil slowly, not sure what to think.

“Do you know why?”

“Someone said that they heard that yesterday, Heeyeon and Yikyung broke up because Yikyung cheated on her. I think it must be related,” Hyunjin says quietly.

“Oh.”

“I think there's pictures or a video out there, I haven't seen anything yet though,” Hyunjin continues on, starting to get excited while typing away on his phone. 

“Oh,” you say again, at a loss for actual words.

“Right before the holidays too, that's so-” Hyunjin cuts himself off when he looks up and sees you frozen in place. “Y/n, are you okay? Sorry, I'm sure it's a lot to process-”

“No, it's fine.” You force a smile. “I just- I think I have to go home now.”

“Y/n-”

“Really, it's okay. I just forgot that I have something to do. At home. Sorry.”

Hyunjin stares at you with eyes filled with something akin to pity, but doesn't say anything else. You try to ignore it as you hurriedly grab your things and leave.

—

A few days later you're packing up your bags in preparation to go home for the winter break when you hear a knock at your door. You weren't expecting anybody, but there's a few friends that you have that like to show up unannounced. 

You're not prepared to open the door and find Chan standing behind it.

He looks terrible. He's wearing a huge hoodie and his hair is tucked away behind a beanie, but nothing can hide the way that his eyes are swollen and his skin is lacking its usual colour. You can only guess that he hasn't been able to eat or sleep much judging from the gauntness of his face and dark circles.

“Chan,” you say carefully. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry,” he says with a hoarse voice. “I was wrong.”

“Ah, Hayoon.”

“You heard?” he asks, face crumpling a little at the mention of his ex.

“It's-” You pause for a moment, trying to figure out how to put it delicately. "Someone mentioned it to me.”

“You must hate me.” Chan laughs humourlessly. “I know that I do. I was such a fool for not trusting you. I just didn't want to believe that she would do that to me. Stupid, I know. I'm really sorry that I said all those things to you, that I avoided you as if that would change the truth.”

For months, you've been waiting, hoping that Chan would come back to you and apologise. But actually hearing it isn't as satisfying as you thought. In fact, you don't really feel anything at all.

“I want to make it up to you,” Chan says earnestly. “Are you free? We can go for a meal and catch up. I missed you.”

“Uhm,” you say, not quite sure how to respond. You don't want to say yes, but you're scared to lose this opportunity.

“Actually, she's busy,” Hyunjin says. He steps out from behind Chan and wraps an arm around your waist possessively, nudging you behind him in the process. “I think it would be best if you leave.”

Normally you hate it when other people talk for you, but right now you're grateful that Hyunjin appeared. You're not even sure why he's here, although you mentioned that this was your last day on campus, the two of you didn't have plans to hang out.

“Oh.” Chan falters. “Are you two… together?”

“And if we are?” Hyunjin asks challengingly. You've never seen him this defensive before. “Frankly, it's none of your business. I'm tired of listening to your half-hearted apologies that are months too late and I'm pretty sure that Y/n isn't interested in them either.”

“Y/n?” Chan pleads.

“Hyunjin's right, I think that you should go,” you say from where you're still hidden behind Hyunjin. You're glad that you don't have to look him in the eyes. “I can't- I'm heading home today. I have to pack before my train leaves this afternoon.”

“Right,” Chan says thickly. “Sorry. I- I'm sorry, Y/n.”

You lean into Hyunjin's back for support, squeezing your eyes shut as you hear Chan's footsteps trail away. You don't open them for a long time, even when you feel Hyunjin turn around and wrap his arms around you. Instead, you just focus on the steady thump of Hyunjin's heartbeat and try to remember how to breathe.

read it on ao3 | masterlist

[merakiui]

Helloooo! I’d like to order a flower bouquet + strawberry ice cream from the misc. menu as well as some lemon squares + custard donuts from the midnight menu for Scaramouche <3

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, friends with benefits, forced pregnancy/baby-trapping (no pronouns; reader has a pussy), modern college au note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

You’re writing a paper.

Sitting at your desk, scrolling through clothes online, you wonder if your meager paycheck will cover the shipping costs. This is all research. Research that is very necessary in the paper-drafting process, of course! You click on an outfit just as Scaramouche looks up from his phone.

Correction. You’re trying to write a paper.

“Great progress. I can really see the thought you put into this.”

“I’m envisioning it as we speak.”

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem to be getting you anywhere.” He sets his phone down and leans closer. “Last I checked you’re not writing about clothes.”

“Last I checked,” you say, mocking him, “I didn’t ask for commentary. Don’t you have anything better to do?” 

A smug smile sharpens on his face. “I can think of a few things.”

Groaning, you shove him away. “No way. Not today.”

“Why not? It didn’t seem to bother you that last time when we did it before your lecture. You were so out of it you didn’t want me to leave you alone. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Not my fault I was tired! Don’t tell me you’ve never said and done stupid things when you’re running on three hours of sleep.”

“Not once,” he declares, looking quite proud. As if it’s some grand achievement. Does he want an award? “And even if I was, I wouldn’t be reduced to sugary, sappy putty.”

“I called you ‘sweetheart’ once by mistake. Get over it.”

Scaramouche rests his elbow on the desk, his cheek in his hand. “I don’t think I want to.”

Shutting your laptop, you turn in your chair to face him. “And I don’t think I want to fuck you today.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, you’re gonna do all the work?”

“That’s the plan. Be grateful I’m so good to you,” he teases, leaning closer and closer until—

You block your lips before he can capture them. “I really can’t today. Paper aside, I don’t have any protection and I’m not on birth control right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be inside.” He sits back in his chair, exuding casual confidence. “Unless you want to risk it.”

You try to put enough ice in your glare, but it melts quickly. You really shouldn’t. It’s not a safe day. You really, really shouldn’t…

Scaramouche raises a brow, waiting for your reply.

Despite everything, you’re wheedled into it anyway. You’re not even sure what you want. Is it yes or no? It’s been months since you fell into this arrangement with him—the campus’s infamous lone wolf who goes out of his way to make himself unapproachable. Or, according to your friends, he’s more of a lonely stray cat in need of a friend. Scaramouche had scoffed when you told him that.

Your friends are idiots, he said with a scowl. It only made him look even more like a grumpy cat in need of companionship. Not that you’d ever tell him that. It would only serve to stoke the flames of his ire.

But right now, looking up at him while he ruts into you, sweat sticking in all the right places, his hair falling over his eyes, you’re inclined to agree with that observation. There’s a depth to his gaze that draws you in, a sad glimmer hiding behind the ardor. There’s never been any attachment outside of the bedroom. You’re not even sure if he considers you a friend.

Still, you wonder…

“Scara, do you—” You cut yourself off with a startled gasp, your nails curling into his shoulders. He’s holding you down by your hips, fucking into you like the world’s about to end. “S-Slow down. Wait, I—aah—oh!”

He sucks in a staggered breath through grit teeth, his jaw set firmly. “You’re never going to leave me.”

Your brain stalls out, and suddenly you’re not sure how to respond. He doesn’t lessen the brutal pace at which he thrusts, so you’re forced to piece together a half-coherent answer amidst your groans.

“N-Not anytime soon—mmh… Why? What’s up?”

Scaramouche lifts his head from your neck. A strange smile turns the corners of his lips up. “It’s not a question. I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

You blink back at him, lust-drunk and dazed. The horror edges in, slow and steady like invasive rot. It isn’t until he’s pinning your legs up by your ears to force you into another position that the implication finally catches up to you. You claw at his back with weak strokes, babbling futile protests against his mouth. In response, his cock throbs inside of you, pressed so deep in this position you fear the repercussions. He kisses you with much the same force, insistent on driving you into the mattress—on pinning you here until you finally submit. Until the last of your resolve withers away, stamped out and replaced with something agreeable.

“Even if you wanted to,” he says around a shaky laugh, seeming positively deranged, “you couldn’t.”

You think you should be worried, but you’re so stunned with this development that your brain can’t keep up. Embarrassingly, you cum with a strangled sort of cry, your pussy clenching tight. He hisses through his teeth, fucks you through the high of your orgasm, and then falls with you, his own climax fast like a flash.

You’re panting in the aftermath. What just happened?

Scaramouche keeps you plugged with his cock for as long as he possibly can before he’s sliding out, flaccid and spent. For now, you suspect, for there will certainly be more later if your wits aren’t about you by then.

“Pill,” you mumble, voice hoarse from crying. You shake him, hoping he’ll climb off of you and get to it. “Scaraaa…”

Oddly, for someone who never shows any vulnerability, he clings. “We’ve got time. I’ll get it. Don’t worry.”

You don’t believe him. Not when his hand strays to your stomach. His palm brushes over the area once. He sighs, wholly satisfied.

“We’ve got time…”

Nine months of it, in fact. But that goes unspoken. If not today, there’s always tomorrow. You know he won’t rest until then. Neither will you. Your heart is too big, too soft, for that lonely stray cat, and part of you wonders if he knows that.

[ddejavvu]

oml mei plsplsplspls can we have mean!dad's best friend!logan if you're able to write for that stuff???? it would actually make my day tysmmm :)))

The cold night air bites unforgivingly at your bare skin, but nothing hurts worse than the way you're suddenly scruffed at the neck from behind. A large, strong hand curls into the back of your shirt and begins dragging you off, and you don't even have the chance to muster a scream before you realize who it is.

"Logan! Logan, thank you," You gush, squirming in his hold, intent on hugging him for his good deed, but you don't get two fingers on him before he scoffs, redirecting you with the hand still on the back of your neck and pushing you towards his car once more.

"Off." He grunts, sounding wholly unimpressed, and your stomach drops to your feet where they scrabble hurriedly across the sidewalk below.

"Thank you for picking me up," You continue, though feebler now, to tread lightly on what seems to be a bad time for him, "I really appreciate it, and- and I know it's late, and you probably have better things to do, and-"

"In. Get in." He nearly throws you up against the passenger side door, "And keep quiet."

You're expecting a lecture when Logan shuts his door behind him, but he pulls away from the curb and you settle into the most uncomfortable silence you've ever experienced. It's thick and it's suffocating, beading sweat at your collar and hands. You clear your throat and Logan stares hard at you through the rear-view mirror, a silent indication that you are so dead.

"I appreciate you coming to get me." You finally break the silence in a calm, even, collected tone.

"Quiet." He reminds you, but you hadn't really been concerned with following orders in the first place, which is why you'd landed yourself at a frat party.

"I'm fine 'now you came and got me." You grumble, voice taking a nosedive into insolence.

"Of course I came and got you!" You've made a crack in the dam now, and irritation comes pouring out, chipping away at its barrier, "I told you I would. But I thought I remembered also telling you that I'd kill you on the ride home! What were you thinking? Those parties aren't worth your time, and neither are the men there."

"You say that like there isn't a constant stream of women in and out of your bedroom," You scoff, settling back in your seat with as much disdain as you can muster.

"That's exactly why I'm saying it! Men like me aren't good enough for you." His voice isn't soft now, but it's softer, gently prodding at the heart of the issue, but not enough to break its shell, "That's why you've gotta learn to stay away from us. We're a lot more trouble than we're worth."

"Why can't I experiment with trouble?" You grumble, rhetorically but Logan answers all the same.

He laughs gruffly, ire successfully diffused, "We'll see, kid. For now, go home and sleep. We'll have to discuss experimenting tomorrow."

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I have a question about Jpn v Eng fandom differences? I've always been really disturbed and hurt by how the Eng fandom treats Jamil's ob situation compared to the other boys as somehow less forgiving or understandable since Kalim is so beloved. But I've been told this might be because the Eng servers greatly tone down the slavery/master situation as less "indentured" and more "employed but miserable". How does the Jpn fanbase generally feel about Jamil?

Yes, there were significant changes made to the Scarabia duo in the Twst localization and I believe it is these changes that resulted in the English-only fandom misunderstanding Jamil's reasons for overblotting + treating Jamil's OB as "less serious" than the others. I believe it has very little to do with Kalim's popularity, as I don’t recall him being very popular in EN and especially when compared to the other dorm leaders.

So firstly, what you heard about EN changing the master/servant relationship to an employer/employee relationship is somewhat correct. In JP, they consistently use "servant", "aide", or "personal attendant" to refer to Jamil and his family members' status. In EN, they sometimes use words like "helper" or "employee" or “aide” instead of "servant". Jamil’s parents are referred to as part of the Asims’ servants, but the term “servant” is scarcely used to refer to Jamil’s own relationship with Kalim. This by itself already somewhat lessens the power gap between the two, as using words like "helper"/"employee"/“aide” just give the impression that Jamil is simply disgruntled and could leave to find employment elsewhere whenever he likes. In reality, this is not the case--but it is not properly conveyed in EN.

The bigger factor at play here, I fear, comes from the edited lines of dialogue explaining the consequences for Jamil breaking from the Asims' control. In JP, he states that his entire family would suffer if he dared to defy the Asims. He provides an explicit example of being put out on the streets if he acts in selfishness. These lines are scrubbed and replaced with, "How could I betray our history like that? It would be beyond the pale. Not to mention the lecture I would get from my parents. I'm sorry, but it just wouldn't be right."

So... in EN, Jamil's worst worry is that his parents will be mad at him, versus in JP, where Jamil confesses his entire family will be without ANYTHING if he steps of line. JP gives the impression that the Vipers are almost being held hostage to force Jamil's obedience and servility. I think you can see why this would result in some different perceptions based on which version you play. To be fair to EN though, Jamil does get the line, "There would be consequences for my entire family if [Kalim] were exposed to any danger." However, said "consequences" are left vague and never elaborated on.

This has been an endless source of ire for Scarabia (and especially Jamil) fans 😔 It hurts them to see their favorite boys and their nuanced relationship fudged this badly. It hurts them to see others not grasping the full extent of how powerless and hopeless Jamil is in his circumstances. It hurts them to see people comparing Jamil’s trauma to others’ trauma and deeming it unworthy of empathy. It’s so ironic that a huge part of Jamil’s frustration stems from him having no one who understands him, yet the localization has made it so that English-only players aren’t understanding him as intended.

To your question; Jamil is actually a reasonably popular character in the JP fandom. He's not top 5, but I believe he's usually in the top 10. I think a lot of it comes from finding his story complex (as they're getting the original version), but also because a LOT of Japanese people--or those who come from collectivist cultures--find his struggles relatable. Filial piety is very strong in many eastern cultures, and Asians generally feel an immense pressure to be loyal to their families or to take actions that would benefit the group, even if it makes the individual miserable... all for the sake of preserving the group's harmony. This concept is less prominent in the west, so this, paired with the changed dialogue lines, may have resulted in Jamil's story not quite landing with western audiences.

[achillesmonochrome]

Idk pal, it sounds like you are blaming Democrats for not telling you things in a way you deemed "honest" enough to realize how bad Trump was going to be.

Which, btw, I don't blame you if you didn't want to blindly believe them, I believe the best way to form an opinion is to look directly at what the people in question were saying (in this case what the candidates are saying.)

I don't know if you did it or not, so far the post and the tags don't give me that impression. It is giving me the impression that you were unconvinced with whatever the democrats were saying online, and stayed on your position of not supporting that without looking into what would happen if Trump won.

This is presumptuous of me, but this sounds like you feel guilty, and you want to put those feelings into blaming the Democrats for not calling Joe a lesser evil.

Look, I feel everyone is kind of grieving right now, I can't call this situation anything else other than grieving because people are dealing with the grief of the people that are suffering right now, and all the people who will suffer in the future.

It is not my place to say how you deal with this, but my advice? Be honest with yourself; don't try to look on the internet for somebody to tell you that you did nothing wrong, this is not a place for absolution. Whatever it is that you are feeling right now, strangers on the internet will not be the answer to deal with those feelings.

If I am right, I think you may need to forgive yourself for not seeing the full picture. Sadly, I am convinced it is always the hardest to forgive oneself; I can't tell you how to do that. Just to take it one day at the time, and do your best to go past whatever wrongdoings you feel you had in all of this.

And if I am wrong, and you want to blame everyone else...then I will probably block you soon enough; because I already need to deal with enough American nonsense as it is.

Because I am not American, but I need to deal with enough American nonsense to have two different communities suffer at the hands of the Orange Turd. So yes, I am quite mad myself.

But regardless, my feelings aren't your problem. I feel you have enough work dealing with yours.

Good Luck.

Is it possible I’m just trying to avoid admitting that you had a point? Yes. At least I can admit that. My issue was never that you CLAIMED to see Genocide Joe as the lesser evil, though, it’s that you made excuses for him. That you clearly DIDN’T see him as the lesser evil, or indeed an evil at all. You fucking hypocrite.

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Sylus x MC: No Way Out

Literally just realized I never cross-posted my first fic, lol. Sorry for the repeat if you follow me on AO3, I promise I've got a grassland romance fic coming soon.

Summary: A rewrite of my absolute favorite Sylus card. I really enjoy just how hurt his VA made him sound, and I wanted to reflect that in this.

Contains: AFAB MC, hurt/comfort, kinds enemies to lovers (ish??), Sylus in Pain, blood and injury, like a lot of talk about blood, an MC who swears constantly (she's earned it ok), SFW

AO3

-*-*-*-

I'm going to fucking strangle him, she thinks.

She's standing there, in a public park, on a gorgeous day. It should be the perfect sort of afternoon to relax after a hunting shift, and that had been exactly her plan. But Sylus, sitting relaxed and carefree in front of the fountain, has apparently seen fit to obliterate any chance of that. She's still breathless from sprinting to the coordinates her hunter's watch had specified. Sure, it was a relatively short run, but it was enough to have her adrenaline running high and her mind racing in preparation for dealing with a wanderer. She can feel a prickling sensation under her skin as she pants for air; a sensation which is not helped by the prickling of embarrassment as a middle-aged passerby gives her a judgemental look and makes a point of walking a wider distance from her than is strictly necessary.

She throws him a glare that tells him to mind his own damn business before turning the glare back to the true source of her ire.

He's wearing sunglasses, making him even harder to read than usual, but the slight smirk on his face is all too familiar.

No, he's too damn tall for strangling. Bastard hot man. Maybe I'll drown him in that damn fountain. That could work, she muses.

Despite the warmth of the day, Sylus's jacket is still hung around his shoulders, making his silhouette even sharper, more striking. The fountain spreading out behind him gives the whole picture a strangely artistic look, a statuesque man before a sculpture of angels and cranes, a slight mist hanging in the air as the water crashes back into the pool behind him. And somehow, that makes the whole situation even more irritating.

"Did you send a request to be rescued?"

She tries to make her voice cold, icy even. Unfortunately, the effect is slightly undercut by her puffing from the recent exertion.

His one shoulder rises and falls in a careless gesture, expression inscrutable. "I encountered a wanderer, and needed some help."

The words come out in a way that strikes her as odd; almost choked, perhaps?

Even in sarcasm he can barely lower himself to ask for help. What an ass.

"Well," She makes a show of looking around, spreading her arms wide, "Where's the wanderer?"

"I made it run away."

Her eye twitches. She can't start swearing here, in the middle of a public park. She doesn't need to go through that particular bit of remedial training with her superiors again. So instead she forces a slow breath out through her nose and asks, "How did you know I'd be the one to show up?"

Sylus lifts his phone, and her own smiling face looks back at her behind a pair of rainbow, heart-shaped sunglasses. Underneath the picture is a geotag.

Didn't I disable geotags last week...? I thought for sure I did so that Zayne wouldn't see that I got takeout at 1 a.m. again. Shit, does that mean he knows? Ugh, i don't want that nutrition lecture again-

"Let's flip a coin," Sylus's voice halts her train of thought. He tosses a coin from who-knows-where up into the air and catches it with the same hand. "The outcome will determine many people's fates tonight."

What the hell is he talking about? Is he going to blow up a building or something? Ugh, no, he wouldn't have called me if that's what he was up to. I don't need this right now. I'd like to enjoy my afternoon without a hail of bullets, thanks.

She rolls her eyes, opening the watch's interface, scrolling through to cancel the assistance flare, marking it as resolved. There's the tiny splish of a coin landing in the fountain.

He's damn lucky no one else responded. Or maybe I'm unlucky. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, probably.

"I'm busy with work, Sylus, stop messing around. Today, you-"

She's not sure when he stood up, but suddenly his strong arm is around her neck, pulling her close to him. Her heart, much to her irritation, skips a beat. Just like it always does when he's close, damn the man. And he's certainly close now. Close enough to feel the heat of him, to catch the smell of metal polish, oiled leather, and…

...blood?

What the hell...?

Her eyes dart across the dark material of his shirt, underneath the cover of his jacket. She's grown familiar with the streaks of dark red that swirl across the fabric, since it seems to be one of his favorites. And the large, dark splotch that she spies spreading across his sleeve and side is definitely not part of the usual pattern. And the streams of blood leaking from two punctures on his arm are certainly not typical.

"Sylus, you're bleeding!?" She stammers out in shock, trying to process the strange turn in the situation. The last time she'd see blood on his shirt she'd been...

Well. She'd been the one who had opened that wound, hadn't she? A shot to the heart, point-blank range-

No. Focus on the problem at hand.

"What happened-"

Just as the words start to fall out of her mouth, a single long digit is pressed against her lips, startling her into silence.

"Shh," He drops his finger from her lips. It's somehow both a relief and a disappointment, though she refuses to think about why she would be disappointed by the lack of contact. "Let's go. If we don't, we'll be stuck here."

She isn't sure what he means by that. But she reasons that it's probably not wise to argue with a bleeding man. Not that he gives her time to; his arm is already tucking her to his side and guiding her to walk with him away from the park and all its potential onlookers.

As a hunter, she's seen a lot of injured people. Civilians and other hunters alike. For civilians, the reactions vary wildly. Some cry, some scream, some are in the complete silence of shock. Hunters, on the other hand, tend to have more predictable reactions. Barking out succinct updates on their status and position to their partners, maybe requests for backup teams. In the worst cases, calling for assistance to retreat.

Sylus isn't like either of those. This doesn't surprise her, of course. Sylus isn't like anyone in any way she can think of. She barely even counts him as human most of the time. The current situation seems to support this, as well. Looking at him now, as they duck into an alley across from the park, she would never guess anything was amiss, except maybe for the lack of movement from his left shoulder, slightly stiffening his gait. His head is held high, his steps are sure, and he carries himself with the same usual air of arrogant nonchalance.

At least, he does at first.

The minutes roll by as he guides her through a labyrinth of narrow side streets, so quiet the sound of their steps on the cobblestones echo off the walls, and dark even at the height of midday. Side streets like these would normally have her at least a bit on guard, but the man at her side is an entirely different class of threat than whatever petty criminal she'd find here. At least, he would be, under usual circumstances. But with the passing of time, she notices his bearing begins to change, albeit minutely. His steps drag just slightly more against the rough path. His posture sags, just a fraction of an inch, but enough that she can tell. There's a slight labor to his breathing that she's never heard from him before.

And damn her, it's fucking terrifying.

This is a man that she's seen tear another person asunder. A man she's seen stop bullets in midair. A man she's seen take a gunshot to the chest, and then look her in the eye with a cold smile. A man who stood with her in a building as it went up in a blaze around the pair of them. And now, in this strange, wrong moment, he is a man struggling to walk down a street and stand tall.

Idiot, use your head, she chastises herself, you know how to help someone who is wounded. The fact that it's the leader of fucking Onychinus, and maybe the most terrifying person you know, is beside the point right now. For right now, he's a person who is hurt. And you're all he's got.

She curves around him, pressing her shoulder to his side for support, her hand settling just above the stiff leather of his belt. She shifts herself closer, trying to help distribute some of the weight onto herself. Given the height difference, it isn't terribly effective; but she does feel a decent amount of pressure settle across her shoulders, as well as feeling a slight lean to his spine against her arm. And a twitch of a muscle in his side relaxing slightly under her palm. The strength of his arm, even loose as it is across the back of her neck. A surprisingly tight grip of his fingers on her waist. And warmth, radiating from his core. Trapped against her, where their sides meet. Bleeding through her vest, her shirt. An uncomfortable, restless warmth, spreading through her body; collecting in her cheeks, her chest, her stomach.

"You really like helping others."

The slight rumble of his voice, a bit hoarse from effort, startles her. He seems almost surprised, though she can’t imagine why. Helping others is her entire career, after all.

Right. Wounded crime boss. Focus.

"Well," she starts, affecting an irritated tone to cover her distraction, "if I didn't take you with me, you wouldn't have let me go."

"How are you so sure?"

The amusement in his comment is almost lost under the strain. He's getting worse, she realizes. She should've been putting pressure on the wound ages ago. But how to do it while still supporting him with her left arm? She tries crossing her right arm over his front, but again his height proves problematic.

Dammit.

"Lean down a little." She commands. The deep, throaty chuckle it earns her would tempt her to swat him, were it not for how breathless it sounds. To her surprise, he replies without further comment, allowing her hand to make contact with the wound. It’s hot, wet and tacky under her palm with a mix of old and new blood. Underneath the layer of blood and cloth, she can feel a deceptively small hole. A puncture, then. And a deep one, if the amount of blood is any indication. Even the relatively light touch makes Sylus inhale sharply. She feels the muscles across his torso tense, though he doesn’t recoil.

What the fuck? How did a wanderer do this?

A small growl of frustration escapes her as she realizes there's no way to apply an appropriate amount of pressure from the current angle. "Lean down a little more."

He looks down at her, a single gray eyebrow arched. "When hunters accept a rescue mission, do they always tend to the wounded?" Despite the light tone of the question, she notices some of his consonants are starting to drag.

You'd have a lot easier time catching your breath if you stopped fucking talking.

She’s startled by the strength of her own irritation, the thought jumping unbidden into her mind. Ugh. Calm down. I guess if he’s still asking questions, he’s not about to pass out or something. I don’t know how I’d carry him if he did…

"No, we just escort them to the hospital." She puts some pressure to his back, reminding him to lean. To her surprise, he responds without resistance. "We only care for them when they're troublesome, like you."

That barb earns her a slight smirk. She doesn't expect it to be such a reassuring sight. Usually it makes her want to punch him.

They manage to start walking again. It's quite awkward, he's bent almost double and she's moving sort of sideways.

"So what happened exactly?" She asks, then notes with frustration, "You're still bleeding."

Why hasn't he healed himself? I've done worse to him than this. Hell, half the wanderers we've fought have.

"It's nothing. The sun's too bright," he says, like that explains anything at all.

She glances up. The sun is, indeed, glaringly bright today. Not a cloud in the sky, either. She's rarely seen him in Linkon himself, but on those rare occasions, she supposes they have all happened at night. Or maybe he’s just being facetious, she can never completely tell with him.

"Oh good," she teases, "I discovered another one of your weaknesses."

She could swear he intentionally leans more weight on her at that, and she swallows a grunt.

Two turns later, she finds herself looking at a, frankly, aggressively average-looking motel. Maybe a bit smaller than average, but certainly not what she'd pictured their destination to be. She hesitates slightly, checking to see if there's another turn to take. But Sylus continues ahead, seeming to know where he's headed, and she goes along with him. Fortunately, there seems to be a lack of visitors at the moment, there’s a single car pulled up next to the motel, and no one outside. Nevertheless, her eyes don't stop scanning their surroundings for potential dangers, even as they come up to the door underneath a neon sign reading OFF CE, the ‘I’ occasionally blinking to life.

They enter the office, and she vaguely realizes what an odd picture the two of them must make as they enter. Sylus is half bent-over her, now obviously bleeding and breathing heavily. She's wrapped around him, in her hunter's uniform, with his blood covering her hand and beginning to dye her sleeve.

An inconspicuous sight, they are not.

Fortunately, the only person in the small office room is a pre-teen boy, who is deeply engrossed in a mobile game. She's pretty sure she recognizes the sound effects to be from Light and Dark Raiders: Dragon Team Descent.

She briefly wonders what level he is, before Sylus raps sharply on the desk with his free hand.

"I want room 503."

The boy starts, guiltily putting his phone into his pants pocket. As he does, she notes the abandoned textbook and scratch paper on the desk beside Sylus's hand. Her nose wrinkles slightly of its own accord.

Algebra. No wonder he was playing on his phone.

The boy blinks at the two of them, and for a moment, she thinks she'll have to explain that they're not criminals (well, she isn't), or victims of a mugging, or something. But, to her surprise, the kid asks no questions. Just pulls out a key card from a drawer, and a first-aid kit from a side table, putting them both on the desk before immediately returning to his game. She wonders how often this happens, that Sylus shows up here bloodied and half-conscious. Surely it can't be that often? But then, why does she care in the first place? This is Sylus. The man who kidnapped her, regularly kills those who upset or betray him, and rules over the N109 zone like a tiger over jackals.

"Thanks." The slight mirth in his voice surprises her, and she just notices the slight traces of a warm smile leaving his face as she turns her gaze to him. The contrast between her most recent though and his soft expression is jarring. Whatever the situation is here, Sylus clearly knows this child and vice-versa. The thought that this child, who is playing games, doing schoolwork, and occasionally checking in the odd customer, is wrapped up in the chaos and lawlessness of the N109 zone settles uneasily in her stomach.

But, before she has much time to think about it, Sylus is moving forward again, and she's bound to go along with him. The odd pair walk down a narrow, carpeted hallway, toward the elevator doors at the end. Her arm is beginning to ache from holding pressure in this position, but she does her best to hold steady as Sylus uses his free hand to push the button, still holding the kit and card. She tries to think of something, anything to say, as they step into the elevator together. But she can’t stop listening to the short breaths he takes, and trying to calculate the amount of time he’s spent bleeding. When did she begin to worry over this man like a mother hen? He was the last person alive who she would consider needing any sort of care from another person.

And yet, he does. So she will give it. Because no one else will, right now.

Her sleeve is now soaked, and as they exit the elevator, she can’t help but note the trail of dark red droplets staining the carpet in their wake.

Sylus slides the key card through the reader, and despite the worries about his current state, she can’t help leaning forward to get a glimpse of where the leader of Onychinus makes space to lick his wounds on occasion. However, perhaps to her slight disappointment, it’s as seemingly average as the rest of the motel. Although, once inside the room, she does note that there’s an extra half-room sized space that houses a kitchenette and some cupboards. Sylus gives a slight shrug of his uninjured shoulder, and she realizes that she is still holding onto him as she studies the new space. Her hands leap from him as though burnt.

Rather than face his infuriating smugness at her distraction, she busies herself with opening a side drawer with her clean hand, slightly hoping there will be an object of interest to redirect her thoughts. Unfortunately, it’s completely empty. It seems silly to be disappointed, considering the current situation, but she had half-expected to find a secret arsenal hidden in the room. It certainly wouldn’t surprise her given Sylus’s usual business. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anything for her to ‘borrow’ from her charge.

“Is this your safe house in Linkon?” She wonders aloud, heading over to the sink to clean the blood from her hand before it has a chance to completely dry. She rolls up her soaked sleeve (the shirt is definitely ruined, she’ll have to get a replacement), trying to prevent it from continuing to drip. She really doesn't want the poor kid at the front desk, or whoever the cleaning person is, to have to clean up more blood than is strictly necessary. The cool water sluicing over her hands and washing away the stickiness is calming, grounding in this unreal situation.

Deep breaths, that's what Jenna said at that training. Although that was about not telling rude onlookers to go fuck themselves in the ass… I think that still applies to this situation? The purpose is still to calm down.

“Can I get some help?” Despite the breathlessness, his tone stays airy, perhaps slightly irritated.

She turns from the sink, towards the sound of his voice. He's sitting on the floor of the shower, having apparently already dropped the jacket from his shoulders and discarded the sunglasses. The sleeve and abdomen of his shirt are soaked through, dark and heavy on his frame. The puncture- no, punctures, there's another she hadn't noticed, and a graze across his ribs -are clearly visible, the fabric frayed and partially plastered into the wounds. A small stream of blood is already starting to reach past the open first-aid box on the tile and slither lazily towards the drain. He pulls at his shirt collar on the injured side, unable to manage the buttons on his own.

She could never, before this very moment, have imagined Onychinus's Sylus ever looking like this. Like a wounded, wild animal; stubbornly refusing to die, but unable to continue on under its own power alone. And yet, still assessing her with those crimson eyes, seeing if she will balk or break or abandon; wash her hands of the whole thing and let him fend for himself. Perhaps daring her to do so.

But that isn’t who she is.

She turns off the faucet and walks over to him, muttering, “At least have the decency to say ‘please’ next time you ask.” Another jibe, meant to pull out their usual banter.

Instead, he exhales a ‘sorry’, as though he was holding his breath.

She doesn't expect the pang of disappointment or the accompanying anxiety that comes with the apology where a teasing quip should be. This is, quite simply, not the Sylus she is used to dealing with.

When did I start becoming used to him?

Probably somewhere in between Sylus threatening to take her hand off to get rid of the energy linkage, and Sylus easing her nerves over text the night before a banquet, or maybe Sylus helping her pick out a pair of sunglasses, or sending his stupid bird to check on her all the time.

In between dozens of small moments, it seems

She kneels down, squeezing into the uncomfortably small space between his outstretched leg and the shower wall, and begins undoing the buttons. It's easy to imagine, with his panting breaths as she uncovers more and more of the toned body underneath his shirt, what this might be like in another situation. Far too easy.

No, no no no no. Do not imagine that right now. Professionalism. I'm a model of professionalism. I am not going to imagine fucking the shot-up sexy man.

The sound he makes when she brushes the skin over his sternum makes her resolve considerably weaker.

“Does it hurt?”

His slight grimace and narrowed eyes, at least, help dismiss any untoward thoughts of hers. “Your hands are cold.”

“I just washed them. Bear with it.”

She gingerly begins to tug at his left sleeve with one hand, her other maneuvering the collar of the shirt so that removing it takes as little movement from him as possible. Fortunately, his shirt (and her sleeve) seem to have soaked up a decent amount of the blood, so it isn’t terribly difficult to examine. She’s never seen wanderer marks like this. But she has seen Sylus with a nearly identical wound before, just slightly left of his sternum instead of on his arm.

A flare of anger rises in her chest. The fucking bastard lied. And, worse, she took him at his fucking word .

Idiot. This is still Sylus. Of course he lies, it’s his whole deal. He’s a black market arms dealer, murderer, and smuggler.

“A gunshot wound?” She seethes, even as she leans around to look for an exit wound. Two gunshot wounds, really, both in his upper arm. Three if she counts the graze streaking across his ribs, which has opened up slightly after removing the shirt. And no exit wounds. She hopes they haven’t hit the bone.

Of course the bullets are still in him. It’s probably the only reason he didn’t fucking bleed out.

She sits back to glare at him, trying to ignore that his face is even paler than usual. For his part, Sylus unflinchingly meets her gaze, which is even more infuriating. He could at least have the decency to try and fake an ashamed expression, rather than having this… curious impassivity. “Wanderers don’t shoot guns. Is this an old grudge or a new one?”

He gives a small, humorless huff. Which is, decidedly, not an answer.

“You always cause trouble,” she growls, refusing to back down from his stare, “but you’re never honest about it.”

He doesn’t bat an eye at her fury. He’s eerily calm, actually, even lacking his usual air of arrogance as he keeps his gaze.

“If you’d like to keep your involvement with the N109 zone to a minimum, then you shouldn’t care too much.”

There’s no condescension in his words. It’s a straightforwardness that is foreign to her interactions with Sylus before now. She’d think it was sincerity, were it not for the recent lie.

She gives a sharp snort, “But I thought you liked my ‘excessive’ concern.”

A strange, small smile pulls at the corner of his lips at that, along with a small hum that she can’t quite interpret the meaning of. It disarms her once more, leaves her reeling, the angry wind taken out of her sails. She wishes, not for the first time, that she could read desires like he can, just to be able to piece out all the thoughts he doesn’t say.

He finally breaks the staring contest between them, reaching over to retrieve a pair of tweezers from the first aid box.

“Turn around.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t need to see this.” He mutters, still wearing that strange not-quite-a-smile, “I’d rather not give you nightmares about me.”

That would be a first for him, she’s never gotten the idea that he much cared if he was fit for her nightmares or not. But he’s fixed her with that same oddly pretensionless look. So what can she do but heed him?

She turns her head to the side, and tries not to flinch at the quiet, pained noises he makes. Even worse is the slight squelching noises of the damaged flesh, which is nauseating to hear (though she’d never admit it). She’s had numerous injuries over the years, from wanderers, accidents, and her own lack of grace; but she finds herself currently grateful she’s never had to try and dig bullets out of herself.

“Is there local anesthetic in the first aid box? I can administer it for you.”

“No need,” he grunts, as something metallic clinks to the tile, rolling before coming to rest against her foot. A 9mm hollowpoint bullet, the top blooming out like a bloody flower. A few more moments and pained noises, and its twin joins it. She takes this as her cue to be able to turn around.

The sight twists her heart with worry once more.

Sylus is leaning back against the tiled wall of the shower, face ghostly in color, chin tipped up slightly. Though he’s still conscious, his eyes are unfocused, and lacking their usual vividness. His mouth is hanging open as he forces himself through steady breaths. His injured arm is limp at his side, with fresh blood streaming from the wounds down his arm and dripping steadily onto the tile.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She mutters to herself through her teeth. Enough is enough. He called for her help, and he’s damn well going to get it.

She steps carefully around him, trying to find space for herself in the close quarters. It’s certainly not an easy feat, with him being nearly as broad in the shoulders as the wall he’s leaning against. She finally manages to squeeze herself in by squatting down in front of him, her knees between his. She’s pleasantly surprised to find hemostatic gauze in the first aid kit, though she supposes she shouldn’t be; the kit is probably specifically put together for Sylus’s needs.

He grunts as she packs the wounds. Though she’s doing her best to be gentle, there’s only so much she can do at this stage. She knows it isn’t a permanent fix, but it should be enough to get him back to the N109 zone, and whatever passes for his version of safety. She does manage to staunch the bleeding as well, and that is a relief in and of itself right now. She takes out the alcohol wipes and begins cleaning the area surrounding the graze.

“You’re skilled.” His words are slurred slightly. If she’s being honest, she’s impressed he can still manage coherent speech. Maybe, now that he’s out of the sun, his healing is returning to normal speed. She hopes so. “I thought you were the type who usually comes out unscathed.”

She gives an affirmative hum as she concentrates on cleaning the area. Then adds, “but, because you keep messing around, all of my time lately has been spent on you.”

She waits for a response, but there is none. So she continues, “I don’t often get to take on very difficult missions.” In her periphery, she can see his face tip slightly towards her, watching. “My marksmanship skills are getting rusty.”

“I see, you’re not exactly pleased.” He says quietly. Almost regretfully, though perhaps that is just her imagination. His head lolls back to center as he continues in a more airy tone, “I’ll find a few dangerous wanderers for you to use as training dummies later.”

She rolls her eyes as she discards the wipe, and reaches for the bandages. She's about to ask Sylus to lean forward, so she can pass the bandage more easily around his ribcage, but he beats her to the punch; closing the small distance between them to rest his forehead heavily on her shoulder.

“Give me a few minutes,” he murmurs.

And God, she tries to do that, she does try. But she isn't properly balanced for his weight, and it isn't more than a few moments before she falls backward, flat on her ass. Sylus doesn't seem to be fazed. He simply shifts to a kneeling position, head remaining in place. She can feel his heavy breaths, puffing through her shirt, just below her collarbone.

“Does it hurt?” She murmurs. He gives a grunt in response.

Her mind wanders as she begins winding the bandage around his chest as gently as she can. She hates this. Hates how seeing a force of nature brought low fills her veins with an icy dread. Hates seeing him pale and shaky and damn vulnerable. She knows he can stop bullets. She knows he can tear a man’s very atoms apart on a whim. Hell, he can look a giant fucking bird wanderer in the eye as it drops giant stone feathers on him without a second thought. It’s unnatural, to see such a power reduced to the same level of humanity as everyone else.

But in the next breath, she realizes that she likes this. Not the hurt, or the exhaustion, of course. She isn't a sadist, even if she sometimes thinks he is. But so often he seems more like a weapon than a person. Something to be pointed in the direction of what you want obliterated, and released like a bullet from a gun; cold, unyielding, unfeeling. But, maybe, not all of the time. She's heard concern in his voice in the heat of a fight. Playfulness radiating out of a simple text. Gentleness, in the grip of his hand as he leads you through a dance. And now, right now, he's a person in pain, vulnerable and reaching out for help.

The two sides of a coin, the Leader of Onychinus and Sylus. Equal and opposite and baffling. They can't both exist on the same side together, and yet, a coin can't only have one face.

“Your tender loving care is going to last the whole night, huh,” He drawls against her shoulder.

And assholiness. Definitely assholiness, she thinks as she moves to wrapping his arm.

“Why don’t you just instantly recover and head back to the N109 zone to wreak havoc, then?” She retorts, though it’s missing her usual venom. It’s too good to hear him starting to banter again. This doesn’t stop her though, from cutting his responding chuckle a bit short with a rougher yank on the bandage. “You’re either the source of trouble or in trouble,” She pauses a moment, before a genuine question bubbles out of her mouth.

“Aren’t you tired of living like this?”

“It’s almost like you’re telling me to join you, and become a member of the hunter’s association.” There’s a slight mocking edge to his voice, and she briefly wonders if punching him in the gunshot wound will make him pass out. It almost seems worth it. But instead, she finds herself giving into the impulse to match his tone.

“Do I make hunting look easy? We’re required to memorize the hunter’s code, and take assessments during the holidays.” She finishes tying the bandage with a tug, lacing her words with teasing doubt, “Could you handle that?”

There’s only silence in response. She wishes she could see his face, get some idea of what he’s thinking. But his forehead remains on her shoulder. She becomes aware, once again, of his breath; less heavy now, and steadier, but no less warm. And now that she’s unoccupied with tending to him, she becomes terribly aware of all the other sensations. Soft hair brushing against her ear and cheek, the nudge of his nose against her collarbone, the smell of sweat and blood and something underneath that she can’t place.

A strange, visceral impulse to wrap her arms around him makes her muscles twitch.

Where the fuck did that come from? I’m not going to do that, absolutely not, I’m just helping him. He’s probably had to do this alone dozens of times and-

Her thoughts begin to swirl, out of her control.

And it should not feel like a knife to her heart (a sword to his) to think about that. To think of Sylus wounded, maybe unconscious on the floor from blood loss (so much blood) until his evol kicks in to restart the healing. Breath choked and mouth leaking red (you must press on)-

How many times, Leader of Onychinus? How many hails of bullets, stabbings, poisonings, beatings… How many more, Sylus?

She swallows down the rising lump in her throat, bottles and corks the swirling thoughts for later. But she still finds herself asking,

“Be honest with me. Why are you doing all of this? Do you not care about your own safety?”

She feels the shift in his face, feels what could be a sigh across the base of her throat. “There are shadows even in the places where the sun doesn’t shine. And it just so happens,” his voice shifts slightly, into something odd, self-mockery, maybe, “I’m a person who likes to live in the dark.”

Likes to, or must? She wonders. Before today, hell even before thirty minutes ago, she wouldn’t have considered Sylus to be a man without a choice in… well, anything. Now… now she isn’t so sure.

“If you’re curious about my world,” his whisper at her ear sends chills racing down her spine, “you’ll have to step beyond the border between light and shadow. You must be the one to make that decision.”

There’s something thick in the air, something tense. A breath being held. She looses a halfhearted laugh to try and assuage some of it.

“You act as though you’re giving me a choice.”

He draws back then, and she expects him to resume leaning against the wall. Instead, he remains within a breath of her face, crimson eyes filling most of her view. They’re focused precisely now, practically electrified intensity. It’s like staring at a paused lightning strike, and she needs to look away, break the contact.

A warm thumb touches her chin, a finger curling underneath it, and they drag her gaze back to his. There’s the curl of his smirk, ever-so-slightly narrowing his coreless eye.

“Of course,” his voice is breathy now, and gentle , in a way she’s never heard it before, “I did give you a choice. And it’s precisely because you’ve never chosen something that surprised me.”

She vaguely realizes her lungs are burning. Ah. She’s forgotten to breathe. The slight gasp of an inhale she takes seems loud, too loud in this tiny, silent space. And it carries the scent of him into her lungs, warming her chest. The thumb pressing just below her lower lip is a burning contact point, begging her to take it into her mouth. To lave her tongue over it slowly.

Insanity. This must be insanity.

A deep, throaty chuckle barely registers over the static in her mind. “Maybe someday.”

Someday what?

But he leans back, settling against the tile with a smug look on his face, and the electricity dissipates. She is left dazed, confused, and flustered, wildly trying to find some sort of grip on what just happened.

“You’re going to lose your balance like that, sweetie.”

“I… what-” a sense of dread settles low in her stomach. Then, mortification, as she realizes she was leaning closer, chasing the strange electricity that had evaporated as quickly as it had come.

I should’ve fucking punched him.

She grinds her teeth together to avoid aiming one at him now.

"Well, apparently you're beginning to feel well enough to be your usual infuriating self," She leans back to stand up, deeply grateful to not be sitting on the hard tile anymore. "So, you likely don't need my help anymore, and you can make your way back to the N109 zone."

His smile is devilish. "So quick to leave your charge behind. Unfortunately, i doubt I'm in any shape to get back to my ride with the sun still out. And the gauze will need to come out in a little while anyway, so i can heal them faster."

"And?"

"And, since you've done such an excellent job with the bandages, I can't exactly manage that myself. So, I'll be needing your further assistance. Unless, that is, you mean to leave me to me own devices."

Absolute motherfucker.

She quickly starts assessing her options, there has to be some sort of out.

"I could just leave. Luke and Kieran can help you when you get back."

He gives a little nod, "You could."

The "but you won't" hangs unsaid in the air between them. Her better nature has backed her into a corner, and they both know it.

An irritated sigh escapes through her teeth as she holds out her hand to him, "Come on, I don't want all my hard work going to waste because you pass out from the change in altitude, and you crack your head open or something."

"So very selfless, miss hunter," he grins as he takes her hand. She yanks him upright, though it takes considerable effort. He reaches out to brace his good arm on the shower wall to keep from swaying off balance, the remaining half of his sodden, ruined shirt slipping to dangle from his shoulder.

"Altitude sickness?"

He gives a small laugh as he steadies himself. She remains close by, honestly a bit worried he will end up in a heap on the floor. And God, what would she do then? He'd be too damn long and heavy to move effectively.

Better safe than unconscious.

She tucks herself back against his now-bare side, and quickly realizes that maybe, just maybe, putting the side of her face directly against him like this was a mistake. She can feel the muscle of him firm against the curve of her jaw, and his deep chuckle against her ear as it rumbles through his chest nearly makes her breath stop. Again.

"And eager to help, too. A model example of a hunter."

"I liked you better when you were bleeding out." She grumbles, vaguely aware of him shaking the last bit of his shirt off.

If I dont kill him or kiss him before sunset it will be a fucking miracle.

[jacksgreysays]

(Not sure if I can qualify for another prompt after the last wonderful prompt fill but here goes:

The Academy was perfectly fine with Shikamaru’s imaginary friend Shikako, until she managed to ____.

Oh dona, there are so many things that can fill in that blank. SO MANY THINGS. And, I’ll be honest, a lot of what comes to my mind range from funny to alarming. But the on that I think is the most encompassing—without being too boring—is simply “get caught.” Because that opens up so many opportunities for what else she could have been doing before she got caught in such a way that also builds a dynamic between those who are in on it (ie, the Rookie Nine, maybe even the full Konoha Twelve since Team Gai IS only just one year older) and those who aren’t (presumably the teachers of the Academy) However, in order to narrow this fic down into something writable, I should figure what Shikako is doing before she gets caught… and, maybe this is just me, but I kinda like the idea of… now maybe this is too specific… but basically, Shikamaru’s imaginary friend Shikako, aka his literal sentient eldritch horror twin sister that lives in his shadow, just straight up eating Danzo. Just. How do you get rid of something? Eat it. Because, like… okay. My brain goes something like this:

“Hm,” says Shikamaru as they hide in the treetops from Iruka-sensei.

Normally, Shikamaru is content with being out of the classroom that, outside from telling them the plan needed to ditch and stay hidden, he stays pretty quiet either cloud watching or napping.

Chouji, in his spot next to Shikamaru and equally satisfied with just being outside, is the only one to hear him. “What is it?” He asks.

That gets Kiba and Naruto to perk up, starting to get bored after their flawless escape with minimal conflict.

“Shikako says she’s hungry.”

Good friend that he is, Chouji offers some of his chips. A tendril of Shikamaru’s shadow shakily takes one, wobbling even under that weight, but Shikako is also a good friend so she eats it.

Well. She tries, anyway. Shikamaru’s shadow curls around it, mimicking a chewing motion, but it remains unchanged.

After a moment, Shikamaru reports, “Shikako says thank you, but she might need to eat something else specifically?”

Naruto, ever curious asks, “What does a shadow even eat?”

Shikamaru shrugs. “She says she’ll know it when we find it.”

Kiba, and an Akamaru squirming with eagerness, declares, “Akamaru and I are the best and finding stuff. We’ll get it in no time.”

—

Iruka-sensei finds them before they find the ambiguous “it.”

To be fair, they were searching through the refrigerator in the teacher’s lounge, and their self assigned mission had carried them through to lunch time. So really it was their own fault.

Didn’t stop Naruto, Kiba, and Akamaru from yelling and howling up a storm as Iruka-sensei grabbed the two boys by the collars of their shirts. Mizuki-sensei at least just gestured his two charges forward, trusting that Shikamaru and Chouji would cooperate since they had been caught fair and square. And plus, it was lunch time.

Distracted as they were, none of the boys noticed Shikamaru’s shadow stretch itself to connect to Mizuki-sensei’s.

Without that context, none of them made the connection when, not even a minute later, Mizuki-sensei stumbled, nearly falling, before catching himself in an uncertain stance.

“You okay?” Iruka-sensei asked, caregiving nature winning over his desire to continue lecturing the boys.

Mizuki-sensei waved him off with a strained laugh, “Ha, I just felt a little tired—midday slump, probably.”

Kiba and Naruto, sensing weakness, re-aim their efforts from complaining to making fun of Mizuki-sensei’s age. It draws his ire, never mind that he tries to seem cooler than Iruka-sensei, but he musters a woozy, half-hearted defense at best.

Shikamaru glances at his shadow, darker and deeper than it was before.

Shikako isn’t as hungry anymore.

—

A/N: And then something something Ino and Sakura spot the boys questing for Shikako’s food and they also believe in/like Shikako anyway so they try to help out, Shino gets pulled in because they end up on Aburame territory and he’s holding his smiling baby sister and his untouchable vibes are way lowered, at some point they’re like… maybe Hinata can use her cool eyes to FIND what Shikako needs (and she’s stalking Naruto anyway so we might as well actively include her) and then Sasuke kind of feels left out ALTHOUGH… I may have a separate thing for how Sasuke gets pulled in. Anyway the kids try to figure out what she’s doing—she doesn’t eat chakra, she eats life energy, but only out of people that she wants to kill anyway and the amount she eats from them is maybe based on how much she wants to kill them? (she really does almost eat Kabuto to death the first time they encounter him lol)—and they’re like… well… we also don’t like the people Shikako doesn’t like anyway? Here’s where plot maybe comes in and maybe where Sasuke gets pulled in but basically if this is pre-Uchiha Massacre then there could be a day when Itachi goes to pick up the little Uchiha members from the Academy and Shikako is just like ??? DO I want to kill and eat him??? because he hasn’t done anything (YET) so it’s just like… the rest of the kids investigating into Sasuke to investigate into Itachi which then somehow Scooby Doo style gets them to Danzo and MAYBE he’s being a creeper and visiting the Academy to recruit future ROOT agents or MAYBE the Academy building is near the Hokage’s Tower (I think???) or Shisui and Itachi are BOTH picking up the various Uchiha Academy students and Danzo tries to use the opportunity to intimidate/threaten them both “subtly” and Shikako’s just like !!!!! FEAST MODE!!!! And fully just eldritch style swallows him whole in front of some Academy teachers :) And it’s not like Shikamaru can get in trouble because he’s BEEN telling the truth about his imaginary friend Shikako the whole time. And as far as they know it LOOKS like a Nara clan technique so they’re like… well… uh… maybe we should tell the Jounin Commander about this. And Shikaku’s just like… uh… Kasuga… what the fuck… And Kasuga turns to Sembei-obaasan and also asks what the fuck… And Sembei-obaasan has to search deep deep into the Nara oral tradition for what the fuck is going on And Shikako is just in Shikamaru’s shadow, totally pleased with herself. I’m not hungry anymore :)

[reconstructwriter]

tell me everything you can about the jaster/feemor fic 👀

Oh, I was hoping someone would ask me about this one *rubs hands gleefully*

So my vague thoughts about the Mandalorian mission landed on: what if instead of Qui Gon and Obi Wan someone went undercover among the New Mandalorians? But why would the Jedi Council do that instead? Oh…what if Jaster survived Korda 6 – then it’s not a simpler choice between terrorist group or other. And wOuLd’Nt It Be FuNnY if Jaster had a terrible crush on a ‘New Mandalorian’ bodyguard 😉

I have long had the headcanon that Mace is a night owl, not an morning lark. Jedi Council meetings Do Not support this.

Mace nursed his third cup of caff as dawn’s rays crept into the Council chambers specifically to lay siege upon his eyeballs. Whichever old Jedi said dawn was wiser than dusk ought’ve kept that thought to themselves. Truly, he loved being a Jedi – except this part. Dawn was too sleep-addled to be wise. He had, upon being ‘promoted’ to the Council, advocated for crack of noon meetings instead.

Which had failed seven to five. Yoda and Dooku were traitors.

“Petitioned for Republic aid, Mandalore has,” Yoda said. Just as Mace took a sip, the old troll. Used to dramatic announcements while drinking, Mace didn’t inhale his caff. Shaak Ti, their newest member, had yet to manage their grandmaster’s particular proclivity and choked on her tea. As well she should. The words ‘Mandalore’ and ‘Petition for Republic aid’ had never, in all the galaxy’s history, been in the same sentence unless another planet or people and the word ‘against’ were involved. Tera Sinube and Jocasta Nu cleared out their ears, certain they hadn’t heard correctly. To counter the disbelief that reverberated like an opera singer‘s, Yoda projected the petition for all Council members to see.

Which, yes, that was Mandalore. The planet name. On a petition for Jedi assistance. Mace had fallen asleep in a Council Meeting again. “Somewhere the Sith Hells are building an ice-skating rink,” Oppo remarked.

One of those weird shared dreams.

Tera Sinube snickered, then frowned. “Duke Kryze?” the old Crechemaster tapped his cane in thought. “I was unaware Mandalore has united under a single leader.”

“It certainly hasn’t,” Jocasta Nu straightened, a lecture at the ready. Mace would dream of many things but not one of Jocasta’s lectures. “A terrorist leader claims to be the ruler as well.” The worst ones always did. “By way of the Darksaber,” she added with an edge. Few were the successful robberies of the archives. Mace pitied the terrorist Mandalore-claimer. “And,” her voice dripped with disgust. “Jaster Mereel.”

Mace had no idea what Jaster Mereel had done to earn greater ire than a thief of an archive artifact but Dooku, closer to her, was up on the latest gossip. “Pestering you with more requests?” he smirked.

“Three leaders at least then, yet only one asks,” Yoda commented.

And there lay the complication. “Do we have the right to interfere then?” Shaak Ti asked the needed question. “Mandalore has not joined the Republic nor agreed to its laws and if we become the sort of people who burst into everyone’s home to lay down our chosen law – where will we stop.”

“As a student of history, we wouldn’t,” Jocasta said.

“Contentious, Mandalorians and Jedi have been,” Yoda spoke with hard-earned experience. “Harm not the unarmed, our code says. Accept the surrender of all, our oaths demand. Yet never unarmed the Mandalorians are. Surrender, dishonorable is seen.”

Add in intermittent conquests and bouts of Jedi-hunting and you had the seed of every Jedi-Mandalorian conflict in their shared history, Mace thought. “A shatterpoint looms over this mission, I sense that well enough. Should we break it? Mandalore’s fate will be decided on this mission, whether we take it or not. And if we do take it, who would we begin to send?” The experts of Mandalor were few and far between and many would be obviously unwise to send there.

“That sounds like a political travesty,” Dooku said, “Requiring a skilled negotiator. I would recommend my own Padawan. Qui Gon Jinn has made Master.”

“I disagree,” Yaddle spoke up at last.

A flicker of gobsmacked rippled through the Force before Dooku’s face and presence settled to forbidding impassivity. This did nothing to deter someone who had leapt straight from Padawan to Master centuries ago. “Shaak Ti is right, and Grandmaster Yoda speaks wisdom,” Yaddle paused, an unspoken ‘for once’ lingered teasingly. “Three rulers at least and no simple choice, previous Jedi-Mandalorian conflicts aside even the best diplomat would struggle not to add further conflict to such a mess. We can act but should not act openly.”

“You suggest the Shadows,” Councilor Piell stated the obvious. “One of your undercover agents.”

Yaddle gave Yarael the same look Mace often gave Depa for her teatime conversation topics but made no answer.

“Well, the poor soul will at least avoid Jaster’s obsession – if they keep their cover,” Jocasta said.

“There is one minor problem. About going undercover,” Tera Sinube brought up a picture. “Death Watch would be difficult but nothing your Shadows couldn’t handle. Jaster Mereel’s supercommandoes will be easy enough to infiltrate, however may I present a general indication of Sundari’s population.”

The picture was nothing that wouldn’t be snagged off a public site. A random section of the city, clearly during rush hour traffic with all the people milling about everywhere – people who were all human, all blond-haired, all pale-eyed.

“All of them?”

“Do we have any Jedi who fit?” Jocasta asked. Mace nodded in agreement. He dimly remembered one Padawan who would fit but that would be an even worse idea than Dooku’s.

Yaddle pursed her lips, “I may know of one.”

[cyb-by-lang]

Cascade (part 13)

Wherein the kids go to the hospital and Kei's brain deletes the inevitable public safety lectures right out of long-term storage.

“I’m so sorry.” And despite the difficulty, Tenya leaned down to try and bow as deeply as he could. 

Gekkō hauled him back upright by the collar of his costume. While Tenya blinked away the headrush, Gekkō set him firmly on his feet despite their height difference, and then her finger tapped against the tip of Tenya’s nose. “Apologize once you’re in the hospital. Bowing is for people who weren’t stabbed.” 

“Then you shouldn’t be so cavalier with your injuries either,” Tenya protested. “Or weren’t you struck by that monster?” 

Gekkō paused, frowned, then took the time to dig around in her pockets for a handkerchief. Despite the blood, it appeared she was either not in serious pain or else simply didn’t care to treat herself as delicately as she might treat her friends. Even slightly cleaning up made her look less ghastly, though the resemblance to a murderous tanuki remained. 

It didn’t really get rid of the slightly acrid smell of burnt hair and cloth. 

“Let’s get Native,” Todoroki said, instead of letting them continue to argue. “Midoriya, you have Iida?” 

“Yeah. And Gekkō-san, you’re okay?” 

“I can walk.” 

“Then that’s enough,” Midoriya said, steeling his expression. “Let’s move.”

And this was when the adults—pro heroes—finally showed up. 

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

There was a lot of yelling after the pro heroes—led by one tiny old man named Gran Torino—arrived to the moderately disordered alleyway. Sure, Todoroki’s ice prison for the villain was the main evidence for the whole fight happening. But given the cuts and stab wounds sported in various depths and degrees by everyone except him, there wasn’t a lot of room for skating out from under the drama without a lecture. 

Or five.

In order: 

Gran Torino read Midoriya the riot act for ditching the train they’d been riding during the attack and rushing into battle.

Two pros yelled at Midoriya and Kei for obviously not evacuating when ordered. 

Endeavor tracked down Todoroki to glower at him. It warped the strength of his ire to see that a) his son had indeed captured the Hero Killer and b) he hadn’t. Some weird mix of pride by proxy and just injured pride, and Todoroki clearly hated the first thing more than the second. 

Then Manual finally tracked them down at the hospital and lectured Iida for running off and Kei for doubling down. Gran Torino sat in on it. 

And then, finally, the fucking chief of police showed up, explained that everyone here would be in deep shit if the full story of what happened got out to the press, then said he was letting them off. They had to sign NDAs—as much as those bound anybody under the age of eighteen—and then publicly credited the entire “catch the Hero Killer” thing to Endeavor to neaten the rest of the paperwork. 

Todoroki, displaying a temper Kei didn’t know he had, actually argued with the guy. Kei didn’t remember his exact points now, but noted that Todoroki had a temper for future reference. 

“Gekkō-san,” Midoriya ventured once the adults had finally left them alone, “that thing with your eyes…?” 

Oh, and Kei was stuck in the hospital with them. 

Yet another reason to be annoyed at the evening. Her shoulder wound wasn’t bad even before Isobu took care of it, but there was a leftover scrape from when she’d cut off his chakra. Luckily, activating Stain’s Quirk required hardly any blood, so everyone was convinced she’d just taken a shallow injury in the first place and just bled a lot. Sure, maybe the hospital wanted to see if Kei had anemia, but she’d flatly canceled everything but the tetanus shot. 

She’d live. 

(Sensei had already worked out a deal with Nezu to get her blood samples replaced on the sly.)

“If I overuse my Quirk, there’s a backlash,” Kei told him. Her tone should have served as a warning. “It happens.” 

No way in hell was she explaining Isobu’s presence to these kids. Or the unfortunate, coincidental overlap of Isobu’s and Kei’s personal traumas and warring instincts causing blood vessels in her eyes to stop playing nice. It was dramatic and mostly harmless and made Kei want to reach through reality to throttle a certain mangaka. If Stain’s Quirk hadn’t kept people immobile, there was a very real chance Kei’s body would’ve followed through on Isobu’s impulses and crushed his skull barehanded. 

But it did, and they didn’t, and everyone asked different questions.

“But you controlled way more water during the USJ incident,” Midoriya pointed out, justifiably. “Does creating water cause more strain on your Quirk? Or, well, you signed up to work with Manual, so I guess I assumed that you’d be able to make a reservoir for him to use if there was an emergency.”

Looking across two classmates toward Midoriya, Kei favored him with her most deadpan expression. “Kurogiri threw us into a lake.” 

“Oh.” One of Midoriya’s scarred hands came up to cover his mouth as he thought. “Does that mean your Quirk’s influence and control scales logarithmically with the amount of water in your environment? If it does, maybe your next internship should be with Selkie, like Tsuyu-san. Being out on the coast would give you a lot more power to work with.” 

“I guess.” Kei barely remembered what a logarithm was. If Cementoss’s lectures leaned that way, Kei had completely spaced out during class. 

“But about the glow?” 

“It makes more sense if you realize she’s related to Aizawa-sensei,” said Todoroki. The utter bastard. 

Kei stared directly at her two-toned classmate. Then mimed strangling him with both hands.

[midnight-bay-if]

Hey!!🤗🤗

So, what would ROs do if suddenly someone arrived and started yelling at them, saying stupid things or something like that. But when they are about to do something, Mc steps in and defends the ROs.

(Heeyy!!)

S: S is typically the problem solver, and more often than not, they're stepping in to defend Taj after a "impolite" comment or a blunt remark. So, when a particularly belligerent person turns on them, they're equipped with a sharp comment they hope will be enough to put the situation to bed.

But then, you jump in. You place yourself in the firing line, and S is in awe. With no fear, you're shouting back at the stranger. Still, their instinct doesn't go away, and S readies themselves to pull you away.

"You're braver than most, MC, but please do not put yourself in harm's way on my behalf. I can suffer a million cutting words to keep you safe."

Rain: Rain has extensive experience keeping the peace, but rarely is a person's temper directed at them. Rain's training kicks in as they desperately try to placate the individual, but when their ire doesn't wane, they begin to panic. Then, you're there, standing between them and the person, making yourself look as big as possible as you fervently defend their honour.

Rain could kiss you. "You're a warrior, MC, and I'm awed by your strength."

Taj: Taj is used to being the hot head. They've suffered enough of S's lectures because of it. So, when someone gets in their face, they're getting right back in theirs. So, it takes them by surprise when you step between them and their current nuisance. But don't expect to be in the fight alone for long. Suddenly, they're riffing off your energy as you work together to put down the person's stupidity.

You work surprisingly well together when your goals are aligned.

Once you've successfully demoralised the individual in question, there's an awkward moment of silence. Until... "Erm... you didn't have to do that, but... thanks, I guess."

You can't help but tease them. "Wow, I'm impressed, Taj. You finally learned basic manners."

"Fuck you. I'm never saying it again." Then, together, you laugh.

N: N learned to dismiss the thoughts and opinions of angry people a long time ago. How many times have they pointedly ignored an angry tirade? In their youth, if someone gave them a long list of things they absolutely shouldn't be doing, you better believe they would do every single one of them.

So, the person screaming in their face might as well be a chihuahua; N has faced their parent's anger undaunted after all. This... this is nothing. Yet, suddenly, it becomes much more interesting when you jump into their fray, attempting to defend their honour. They can't believe it. They don't deserve it. Still, they want to remember it.

"You're a vision, my dear. A demon with a knight in shining armour. What has the world come to, hm? It's so sugary it makes me want to do something naughty."

Umbra: Umbra is stubborn; there's no denying it. Try to get past them at your own peril because there's no way they're going to let the MC stand between them and danger. That's Umbra's job. You're much too precious, much too important, far more important than them. They would never forgive themselves if something happened to you for the sake of them.

"Please, MC, I'm nobody. Their words can't hurt me. Their disdain doesn't touch me. I can take the brunt of it all. Baring your bruises for you is what keeps me alive."

[thethirdtriplet]

Tim is a little shit.

But no one knows this.

The reason no one knows is cause he covers his tracks well, or really, no one suspects he does half the shit that he does.

When he was with Bruce-you’re-here-as-Robin-not-my-son-don’t-mess-up-Wayne, there wasn’t much he could do around him that didn’t earn him a lecture, or worse a look of disappointment.

But then he realised, why not do it behind his back? Why not hide his tracks before Bruce gets suspicious of anything?

That’s where his cleverness came into play.

The Rouges don’t agree on much that often, seeing as everyone has their own themes and ideologies going on, what they can agree on is that the third robin is not only the smartest, but also the worst.

The first one was all unnecessary acrobatic moves, quips and bad jokes that made you want to gouge your eyes out, the rouges were only ever after the bat himself, so they sent their goons to handle him.

While the second one, much like his predecessor, had his fair share of quips, he sure knew how to pack a punch, still not their problem to deal with.

The third one however…

He was out to get them.

The pattern remained the same, the rogues would stir up some trouble, expect the Bat to arrive with the little bird, fight him while the goons deal with the Robin, either escape or end up back at Arkham.

No matter where they ended up there was no escaping his wrath.

Such as, the time Riddler in his safe house was preparing for what would be a “shocking” riddle, when the lights ironically went out, he couldn’t get the power to start in time for his plans when the bat found him, there in the dark.

Or, the time the IRS showed up at Penguins club about paying taxes, apparently they were called by someone “anonymous” claiming that there seems to be something wrong with the calculations and whatnot.

Then, there’s the infestation of parasites, bugs and other animals that ate all of Ivy’s greenery in a matter of seconds, you’d think they’d never eaten before.

Next, it was the orbeez in the sewers, while that in itself was strange, what was stranger was that most, if not all of them were in the sewer pipes that led to where Killer Crock usually resided.

On and on, the torment continued, up until the bat was suddenly replaced with a new one. There was a subtle difference, you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking, really looking. The most noticeable difference, for literally anyone with a pair of eyes, was that the third robin was finally, finally replaced.

They thought they were finally rid of him when a newer one showed up, with a katana in hand (?).

But then came Red Robin…

[fickleminder]

first time for everything

DWBD AU. A series of firsts during Kirana's time in the Devildom.

It's been a while since I wrote about my F!OC in this AU. Masterlist here.

The first time Lucifer called Kirana into his office, it was to lecture her on her poor grades.

"But I've never even heard about any of this before—"

"That's no excuse. You are an ambassador of the human realm, a representative of the exchange program, and you will perform or else." Lucifer glared at her threateningly.

Kirana snapped her mouth shut and nodded meekly. She kept her head down until the demon finally dismissed her, and scurried away without another word.

The first time Mammon rummaged through Kirana's room, he stole her monthly allowance from under her bed.

Mammon didn't seem to understand the meaning of a locked door, so Kirana figured it was only a matter of time before her belongings fell victim to his greed. Reporting the issue to Lucifer only earned her Mammon's ire, and she knew her room was no longer safe.

Good thing she just opened a bank account to dump all her cash in. She owed Dracius a coffee the next time they worked the same shift at the royal library.

The first time Leviathan interacted with Kirana was to leave a comment on her Devilgram account.

The post was harmless enough, featuring a screenshot of her spirit collection in Mononoke Land. An event had just concluded, and Kirana was proud of her final haul despite not finishing the quests. She had grades to keep up, after all.

Seeing a notification on her D.D.D. about a new Devilgram comment, she opened the app and her face fell as she read it.

L3V1: LOL why bother playing if you're not gonna hit 100% completion? Get lost, normie!

The first time Satan cooked for Kirana, he almost set her tongue on fire.

"Sorry, I must have misheard you. I thought you liked spicy foods." Satan's smirk was anything but apologetic, and Kirana immediately knew he had done this on purpose. There wasn't a single dish on the table that wasn't loaded with spices.

No amount of water quelled the burning in her mouth; in fact, it only made the sensation worse. Kirana quickly excused herself and ran out of the dining room, leaving behind a napkin dotted with splotches of red.

The first time Beelzebub gave Kirana feedback on her cooking, it wasn't constructive in the slightest.

"It's not enough," Beel repeated for what seemed like the fifth time now. Kirana wasn't even surprised anymore; she only sighed and returned to the kitchen to prepare another round of food.

None of the other brothers bothered to lift a finger to help her, and by the time Beel was finally (finally!) sated, the only things left were her empty plate and a table full of dirty dishes.

The first time Belphegor cursed Kirana with nightmares, she knew she was never going to cook for him or his brothers again.

Belphie's smirk fell when Kirana came back lugging not baskets of fresh groceries, but a pile of takeout boxes. "What's all this?"

"Dinner." She gave him a firm look, a stark contrast from her usual downcast gaze. "That's what you wanted, right?"

She would need to pick up more shifts to avoid going completely broke, but it was worth not having to cook for those ungrateful, entitled brothers anymore.

The first time Asmodeus called Kirana by her name, it wasn't actually Asmo at all.

Kirana smiled sadly and stepped out of Asmo's warm hug, leaving him inside the magic circle. It was nice while it lasted. "These are the fakes, Lord Diavolo."

Things happened quickly after that. The clones were banished, the real brothers were released from their own magic circles, and Barbatos asked how she knew.

"They called me Kirana." She shrugged and turned away from seven guilty faces. "If we're done here, I have somewhere else to be. Please excuse me."

The first time Rache danced with Kirana was in the kitchen of Purgatory Hall.

The song blaring from the speakers of Rache's D.D.D. was in a foreign language, but it definitely wasn't demonic. Rache laughed at the look of surprise on Kirana's face. "I just discovered this the other day! How come you never told me humans had such interesting music?"

Before Kirana could even reply, the demoness started dancing to the beat, no doubt having memorized the choreography already.

"Come on, dance with me!" Rache held out her hand.

The dirty dishes in the sink were left forgotten as Kirana did her best to imitate Rache's moves, giggling when they both almost slipped on the tiles. She didn't know how Rache found out about K-pop, but in that moment it was the best damn thing ever invented.

The first time Igfuur successfully cursed an object, it was a gift for Kirana.

Igfuur never really liked curses. It was no fun to be afflicted with one, and they took too much effort to cast since they required a lot of intent to make their victims suffer. Personally, Igfuur would rather just leave justice up to karma.

But this time it was personal. Igfuur had but one goal: to make his sick friend feel better and leave her with something that could not be easily stolen. Kirana was not fooling any of them with the so-called 'ghost' in her room.

Several gloves later, the stuffed flame salamander was good to go. Kirana would be able to hold it with no issue, but the toy would burn anyone else who touched it.

Take that, Lord Mam— uh, 'ghost'!

The first time Vorgo cooked human world food was when Kirana was feeling homesick.

"I hope you don't mind, but I had to substitute a few ingredients," Vorgo explained apologetically, setting the steaming bowl of soup on the table. "The markets here don't really stock much from the human world."

"That's fine. Thank you for the meal."

"No, thank you for being my reliable taste tester!" The demon winked at her as she tried a spoonful. "So what do you think?"

"...Tastes just like chicken." Kirana's eyes were slightly watery, but there was no mistaking the warmth of gratitude in her eyes.

"That's great to hear! I actually had to use—" Vorgo cut themself off abruptly, thinking better of it. "Never mind, let's not spoil the moment. I hope you're hungry, because this is just the appetizer!"

The first time Talon carried Kirana was after a long day at RAD.

"Get on."

Kirana paused when Talon knelt down in front of her and faced away. "Uhh, what are you doing?"

"Giving you a lift, obviously. You're practically dead on your feet."

The offer was tempting, but... "You don't have to do that! I can manage—"

Talon rolled her eyes and smiled. "I get a workout, and you get a free ride. It's a win-win situation, so what's the problem?"

Well, when she put it that way. "Are you calling me heavy?" Kirana teased as she climbed on, sighing in relief as weight was lifted off of her aching feet.

"You're never too heavy for me, doll." The demoness stood up with ease. "Now just relax and let me do all the work, okay?"

The first time Belyth asked Kirana for help, it was for a school project.

"The course material is outdated. I ought to file a complaint." Belyth grumbled, taking her seat next to Kirana. "Good thing we're in the same class again. You're the only one I trust to provide accurate information."

"Just because I'm human doesn't mean I'm an expert on human culture. There's a lot of diversity among us, you know." Kirana pointed out. "In fact, I'd say Solomon knows way more than I do, especially given how long he's been around."

"If I want his help, I'll ask for it." That was a blatant lie and they both knew it. "It's not everyday our roles are reversed so don't get used to this."

"Whatever you say. Okay, so feet binding was a thing in ancient China..."

The first time Erkid gave Kirana flowers was when she was hospitalized.

Sprawling with white, pink and yellow lilies, the bouquet was so haphazardly arranged that Kirana suspected Erkid had put it together himself. Nevertheless, it was a sweet gesture and she thanked him as he stuffed it into an empty vase next to her bed.

"I hope you get better soon! And don't worry, we'll make sure those bullies don't get away with hurting you!" He promised. "Also I didn't find out until today but did you know different flowers came with different meanings? You can even make a bouquet that says 'fuck you'!"

The demon was rambling again. It was an endearing habit, but Kirana knew Erkid was worried and needed a distraction. "Tell me more," she said, leaning back and making herself comfortable.

The first time Dracius kissed Kirana, it was after making a pact with her.

"Are you sure about this?" Kirana looked absolutely bewildered. "I don’t want to give up my soul or anything, and I don't think you should be signing away your life like that."

"You make it sound as though I won’t have any free will left." Dracius cracked a small smile. "Besides, I trust you."

"But..."

"And I don't expect anything in return," he added quietly. "I may not be as strong as Talon, or as smart as Belyth, but I promise to have your back no matter what."

One look into Dracius' eyes and Kirana knew he meant every word. It made her wonder if he still harbored guilt over not being able to protect her all those weeks ago, but it seemed like he really wanted this. "Okay, I trust you too."

Dracius took her hand and swore an oath. Something warm branded itself onto Kirana's right arm, and she knew the pact had been forged.

Before she could promise him never to abuse his power, the demon lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her knuckles in a reverent kiss. Kirana froze at the implication, but Dracius only smiled before releasing her.

(Somewhere around the corner, hidden just out of sight, Satan gritted his teeth and scowled. A bouquet of red lilies dropped to the ground as he stomped away silently.)

[bnsni]

quick angsty little drabble

mouse-verse

YOU don't like how they stare at Prowl.

Like he's fire, that every touch his pede lands, broils a warmth too strong, it flourishes into a malevolent ire.

"He's unstable, mouse." Ratchet said, not sparing you a look as he scribbles away on his datapad. He termed it so simply, so casually, it was as though he's lecturing you on the basics of Cybertronian anatomy, all over again.

"He's not unstable. He's different."

You're roosted by his desk, fists clamping, unclamping, easing up the temper pressurized in your chest.

"Look." He swivels around to face you, arms crossed. "I know you like standing up for the guy. You're the closest person he's got. I get it. I understand. But please, next time when a pede's about to connect to someone's skull — don't, don't try to go in for the save, alright?"

"I wasn't protecting him." You can't help but bite back.

He kneads his face. "Then what were you trying to do kid, if you're not desperate for a one-way trip to Primus with a broken skull. "

"Making a point. Stating my case. That those bots who punch him as they please get nothing out of that."

Ratchet regards you for a moment. His optics were gentle and firm as a silent understanding passes over his face. He wants to say something but can't.

"It's nothing big. in a few week's time, he'll be the same again."

"But he's not the same. He's never the same, Ratchet."

Why does everyone think he won't be affected?

He's got his back to you, kneeling on the ground, helm in his servos. You stood at the doorway, sympathy pulling your features taut as you observe the way his doorwings fall to the side. A broken bird. No wings to fly.

He seemed so alone in his habsuite. So small. He could curl up into a ball, if he could. Lights, close to darkness. Space, empty. The middle is Prowl. Just Prowl and only Prowl.

"Control." Was all he said. Almost like a breath of a whisper. "I've got no control. Not even with my subordinates. Not even with myself. Nobody believes me."

His helm lifts up until it falls back, optics to the ceiling. His digits are curled out like he's trying to grasp something that's not there.

"I do." You said.

"You don't."

"I do."

Surprised pulled his features when you're close, fingers a gentle mould around his cheek. . He's not surprised by your touch or by your close proximity — he's used to them

No, what he's surprised is how contorted your expression was, how his spark twists much as how despair twists your face.

Prowl maintains the rigidity of his expression. His servos falls to his lap though and finds himself leaning a little into your touch.

In a fit of boldness, you lean up and pressed your forehead against his. Electricity crackles at the touch and colors burst into your vision.

At first it was sickly black. A storm, broiling in the depths of his mind. Tendrils curl out and nip in an attempt to deter you away. But you won't be. When you eased in your own thoughts of verdant foliage, rustic charms of sceneries and anything that's warm —he loosens visibly and let's his helm fall into your shoulder.

"You're good to keep around." He murmers, drawling against your uniform before becoming still in your hold.

You hug him tight. The thick lump on your throat is hidden by your smile.

"Yeah..."

It was better not to tell him how charred his mind was.

[shewolfofvilnius]

Uu, #32 please :3 (a kiss while someone watches)

In the Name of Love

Gale x Lia (kiss), Timeline: Game and fics epilogue approx 1496 DR.

The Conference of Enchanters had stretched on for nearly seven weeks. Lectures on the efficacy of ice magic. A debate between Archdruid Francesca of the Emerald Grove and Senior Cleric Serellia of the Church of Eilistraee near Amn focused on the ethics of wild shape in battle - and of different animal forms therein - had stretched into the early morning. Gale Dekarios, now of Baldur's Gate, had led a well-attended demonstration on the power of holograms - only to reveal the lecturer himself was a hologram at the end of the demonstration as the real Gale appeared from the back of the room.

The other First Enchanter Dekarios of Baldur's Gate, meanwhile, had felt the proverbial fish out of water.

The wizards had held automatic ire for the inate talents of sorcery. The druids preferred to be among those who drew from the primal forces of earth rather than Mystra's weave. The few warlocks that had even earned invitations - mostly as +1's - had simply been jealous.

But that hadn't been nearly as bad as the clerics or the other sorcerers. Nearly every good-aligned cleric refused to have anything to do with her. Rumours had circulated. "She was touched by Shar", they'd say in hushed tones when they thought she wasn't listening. The sorcerers were nearly as bad. "The meddling of a goddess AND she didn't cast her first true spell until her twenties. Then her friend the Grand Duke just goes and names her First Enchanter alongside that wizard - and it's clear who wields the spellbook in that family."

Lia Dekarios had been a mage nearly three years now, and while she'd come to feel appreciated and respected when in Baldur's Gate - and shockingly, in her two visits to Elturel - had felt nothing but an icy response in all other quarters.

Throw in some casual anti-tiefling prejudice, occasional bursts of sexism, and those who assumed that everything Lia had earned that hadn't been at Shar's handiwork had been at her sister-in-law's doing - the mythic Tavaria of Baldur's Gate, the heroine that hadn't been seen in nearly three years and wife of the equally reclusive Rolan.

Explaining that situation would turn the three magi at the conference not married to her who didn't hate her firmly against her.

Still, all eyes would be on Lia this day for precisely one reason. A sorceress that can heal? Even the most hateful voice in the room is going to want to see that?

Gale had caught wind of the chilly fate his wife was receiving, and had planned harsh words the next day. He'd been selected for the closing remarks, and hoped to ensure he never would be again. ===

"Every single person in this room has been treating my beloved, my dearest, the woman who is my wife with nothing but scorn and derision and prejudice since the moment we arrived. You all ought to be deeply ashamed.

A sorceress, able to cast level eight healing magic, who didn't gain her powers until her mid 20s? Why, the queue to speak with her ought to be kilometres long. She is THE First Enchanter of Baldur's Gate. I'm the lead instructor of it's School of Magic, but she is the one who deals with the bulk of the difficult work. She is the one who deals with impossibly difficult heads of leadership. Who runs both a library AND a shoppe of magical sundries on top of all of that. She is the one who was a VICTIM of Shar, not a pupil. And she is the love of my life, and I cannot - no, I will not - watch as dozens of supposedly highly regarded magi treat her in this manner.

I speak to you now not just as Gale Dekarios, Senior Instructor of the School of Magic of Baldur's Gate - but as Gale, former Chosen of Mystra. The Weave runs through all; empowers all. My wife is a stellar example that no matter your background or past, no matter your origin, that anyone with talent or study or dedication or just zeal for life may grow to stand amongst the mightiest giants.

So long as my darling is not welcomed by you, then I shall take that as a statement that I am not welcomed by you as well."

Before anyone could respond, Gale removed a sealed letter from his robe. "This scroll is signed and sealed by the Blackstaff herself. I shall read it to you now."

Gale continued on, forcefully. The scroll had contained, amongst it's magics, a spell that held the attendees in place and rendered all present silent. As he continued on, it was also revealed to contain another spell.

That spell would, with the exception of Gale, Lia, and Archdruid Francesca, render all present at the convention as marked by the Blackstaff. Any attempt to enter the boundaries of Waterdeep would result in their immediate expulsion...and immolation.

Panic set in across the still immobile room. Several of the magi resided in Waterdeep - two were former coworkers of Gale's at that. Worse still for them, the next convention was scheduled to be...in Waterdeep.

Gale noted the final paragraph of the letter. The only way to release the seal upon their hearts was through a sincere and contrite apology to First Enchanter Lia Dekarios. To complicate matters, however, the Blackstaff had also included a spell of teleportation that would send the Dekarios couple - and one of their choosing, obviously the Archdruid - back to Baldur's Gate as soon as the letter's last words were spoken - and those listening would not be released until they were.

====

Lia and Gale knew that the caravans of mages from the Conference would arrive within a tenday. If their hearts were sincere, if they'd had time to reflect on their actions, Lia would be beyond grateful to forgive them and to start anew. Prejudice was an easy trap to fall into - hells, she herself had once called for the death of a gith woman, Kithrak Lae'zel, who was now her sister-in-law.

If their hearts were pure.

In the meantime, the shop was flourishing. The Flaming Fist and Grand Duke Ravengard had been alerted to the forthcoming arrivals and potential for conflict, and were planning staffing accordingly. That just left but one small matter.

"You owe me an apology too, Gale."

"Beg pardon, my radiant heart?"

"I didn't ask you to write the Blackstaff? I didn't ask the two of you to curse hundreds of mages. Gods, I know you meant well, truly, but this could eventually blow back in a way that hurts me, or hurts others like me."

"Lia, truly, if I in any way made you uncomfortable or feel put out or responded inappropriately, then I certainly apologise for acting against your wishes. But I shall not apologise, not even if the Blackstaff herself bars me from my home of origin, for standing up for the honour and integrity of my wife and standing against prejudice.

Besides, my darling, now that we're home again, with Jaheira and Silfy and Mirkon having watched over that precious child that makes my heart beat it's every beat, our precious daughter...the day may come when someone looks down upon her for having the wrong parents. For being a sorceress. For being a tiefling. Or if she is not a mage, that those who know us might find fault. No matter who our child becomes, I shall stand beside her always.

When I saw your most beautiful eyes, my dearest beloved Lia, I also saw her eyes. Our child. If those bigots and gossips and fiends wish to practice cruelty, then may they be in a position where their cruelty harms themselves and not another."

"Honestly, Gale...if our little Tara has half your determination and honour...or if she has even the tiniest bit of her namesake...our girl's going to do great things in this world. Gods, I still can't believe we have a kid sometimes, you know?"

"I mean, I'm not entirely positive you're surprised given you were there, my darling, but..."

Lia laughed playfully towards her husband. "You know what I mean, you snooty wizard."

"Mischevious sorceress."

"You know it."

As their darling daughter, the tiefling girl of nearly two years, came toddling into the room, she got to witness her mum and dad kissing, embracing in love. Of each other. Of her. Of their shared goal in making a brighter future for her, even if Gale's means hadn't been Lia's first choice.

With parents like hers, willing to do whatever it took to make a brighter world for their child, named after someone they had both loved so deeply (Gale for years, Lia once they'd met), little Tara could accomplish anything