#so hes either fine with his new look now or his sight is so worse by now he has to wear them more often

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

WE HAVE

OFFICIAL

GLASSES PICS

[tsuvvy]

Oh Sister of Mine - Chapter 5

Poison Constriction

Cassandra explores her feelings of having a new little sibling while the others work to get information on where the seemingly invisible father might be. Instead, they find someone heavily involved in this situation and discover a disgusting truth.

Warning: Talk of a controlling serum being put into y/ns blood, mentions of bruising and blood, the poison serum has been an idea cultivating in my mind for awhile, pls just let it cook 😥

Word Count: 3.4k

“Miss Cassandra,” Said woman turned around, seeing Alfred with a tray of little sandwiches. No doubt for you. “While I have you here, Master Bruce asked to see you. He is paying the garden a visit, he asked that if I should see you I should invite you for him.”

“Oh..” Cassandra’s lips parted in a small surprise. Bruce wanted to see her? Why? “Okay, thank you Alfred.” She gave the man a soft thankful smile.

Alfred returned the smile with a gentle one of his own. But before he could walk away, Cassandra spoke up.

“He didn’t say why, did he?” She asked abruptly.

“I am afraid not,” His soft smile turned a bit apologetic.

“Alright, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Thank you again.” Alfred gave her a nod before walking away.

Cassandra stayed where she was for a moment, watching as Alfred walked down the hall with the tray still in hand. She might have needed a moment to build up the courage to go speak to Bruce, or maybe she needed to come up with what she would say to the man. Either way, her nerves were aflame before and while she made her way to the garden where Alfred said Bruce was.

She spotted him on a bench. He was calmly sitting still, almost mistakable for a statue.

Bruce looked at Cassandra, an uncharacteristic subtle smile reaching his lips at the sight of her. It was odd, even if it was common. Bruce saved that smile for only those he cared for deeply. His adoptive children and Alfred getting it most often. Though it was still rare, especially for someone like Jason who made it his own part time job annoying and angering the man. Dying and coming back to life sure didn’t change that habit, if anything it made it worse.

“Cass,” Bruce called out, pulling her out of her thoughts, “Sit.” He didn’t need to gesture to the empty spot next to him.

Cassandra listened. She moved to sit next to the man.

The two sat in silence for a while; silently watching over the flowers and listening to the soft wind and how it would shake the branches of the trees.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked abruptly. Cassandra looked at him, staying silent for a second.

“I’m okay..” Her voice was soft as she looked to the ground.

Bruce nodded slightly at her comment. “But that isn’t true, is it?” He looked down at her, his subtle smile gone now. It was never a luxury anyone close to him could ever witness for a very long time. You had to savor it for the small amount of time it was there.

Cassandra didn’t say anything to his comment. He already knew her lies were just that, lies.

“How are you feeling about everything?” He asked instead.

Cassandra thought about his question for a second. “I don’t really know how to feel.”

“Understandable.” Bruce responded.

The two sat in silence for a little while.

“Y/n,” She looked up at him, and he looked back, confusion written subtly on his stoic face, “Their name.” Cassandra clarified. She saw his eyes widen slightly, “Their name is Y/n.”

“When did they tell you this?” He asked.

“They got out of the room, they picked the lock when Damian wasn’t there,” She told him while turning back to look out at the flowers and delicately crafted and cut bushes. “They weren’t looking for a fight, pretty much all we did was.. Talk,” She shrugged her shoulders lightly, “They asked why I’d left David, and…” She paused.

Bruce gave her a second before pressing her to continue, “and?”

“And they.. I told them they were safe. They didn’t know what it meant. So I. I taught them what the word safe means. And they told me their name.

Bruce nodded his head lightly, turning to look at the flowers and bushes himself.

“That's a start, they’re starting to trust you and Damian a bit, however surprising it may be.” Bruce said. He lifted up a hand and gently placed it on Cassandra’s head. “You did good, Cassandra.”

Her eyes widened at the contact and the praise. In a sense, she was still a lot like you. No matter how long she’s been with Bruce and the Batfamily, she might not ever get truly used to being in a healthy environment. Not fully, anyway.

“Bruce…” Her voice was soft. He didn’t do anything to tell her he acknowledged his name slipping from her lips, but she knew he was listening. “I don’t..” She hesitated, “I don’t know how to be a big sister..”

Silence overtook the two, apart from the gentle wind rustling the nature around them.

“It’s not something you can just know, Cassandra.” He told her. Cassandra didn’t respond to that.

A silence once again overtook the two.

“There's this feeling in my gut, like a weed growing in it.” Cassandra abruptly spoke through the silence.

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked.

“What do you mean you haven’t seen him for a year!?” Jason yelled.

“Red Hood calm down!” Kate yelled at him.

The two were at Ace Chemicals in their vigilante suits. They hadn’t expected to find someone that has been involved with David in the past.

“I mean exactly that!” The guy yelled, a desperation in his voice as the Red Hood shook him by the collar of his shirt. After his statement, the vigilante dropped him and he fell to the ground.

The man rubbed his neck, trying to soothe the pain of how his shirt was so tightly held.

“Do you know what happened to him?” Kate, or Batwoman, asked him.

“No, he just straight up vanished,” the guy said.

Batwoman looked to Red Hood who had taken a few steps back.

“Mind if we look around?” Batwoman looked back at the man.

“N-No! Go ahead!” He quickly answered, almost fearful of what either vigilante might do to him if he said he did actually mind.

“Great,” Batwoman answered, “Glad you don’t.” She commented, an amused smirk on her face as she moved past him.

She started looking around; not that she had anywhere to specifically start.

And for the first about 14 minutes, nothing was found by either vigilante.

“This place has nothing,” Jason said, making sure to keep the man he was once interrogating in his view.

“It’s gotta have something,” Batwoman sighed, looking behind a few tubs of chemicals. She hadn’t met you yet. All she knew about you was pretty much the extent of what everyone else minus Cass knew.

Red Hood crossed his arms, huffing in annoyance as he looked at a few jars on some random desk. They looked poisonous. Probably gas too. One wiff would probably kill you.

“I’m gonna check further in,” Batwoman said, coming back out from behind the tubs of chemicals she had found nothing out of the ordinary behind. “Stay with him,” She told Red Hood.

“Yeah, alright,” He said.

Batwoman began walking into a back area of Ace Chemicals. There was a door into one room and then stairs leading upward to a few more rooms that were all next to each other.

She decided to go into the room on the bottom first.

Batwoman cautiously turned the rusty old knob, keeping her guard up. Ace Chemicals is known for criminal activity, I mean, it’s quite literally the birth place of Harley Quinn. It’s where Joker had pushed her into that vatt of chemicals all those years ago. You had to expect anything in this place.

“Ugh,” Batwoman cringed, bringing a hand to her nose, “Jeez, it smells like three month old eggs in here.”

She stepped into the room, keeping a hand over her nose as she began to look around.

There was really nothing to note in the room. It was obviously some type of hang out area no one had been in in probably years. A lounging couch that stank of rat poop and an assortment of other things that were just rotting under the cusions. Then there was a counter with a sink. One that had piles of dirty dishes in it. She had found a few rats licking off the plates; she didn’t bother them, but she did cringe. Then the fridge. She didn’t even want to open the thing. She could already tell that’s where the smell was coming from. And sure enough, inside the fridge was a variety of disgusting, old, moldy, and rotted food inside.

“Don’t think Kelsey is gonna want this muffin anymore,” Batwoman commented, looking at the container with a chocolate chip muffin inside and branded with the name Kelsey on the lid of the container. It was all moldy and gross.

“Blegh,” Batwoman gagged, closing the fridge with her foot.

She looked in the old wooden cabinets, behind and under the tables. Everywhere she looked, nothing but rats and their feces and disgusting bugs were found.

“Well that was a waste,” She grumbled as she walked out of that room, closing the door behind her. Now it was time to look in the two rooms upstairs.

Batwoman walked up the stairs, deciding to go to the first room. She read the plate next to the door that read, ‘lab room.’

“This should be fun,” She sighed, opening the door and cautiously peeking in and looking around. From first glance, there didn’t look to be anything in here of note. “This better not be a waste of time,” She grumbled as she stepped in.

“Alright, I brought a new kind of food this time.” Damian said as he entered the room.

You hadn't turned to look at him from where you sat kneeled on the floor, your head resting on your arms that rested on the window sill.

Damian didn't move, you knew he didn't. There weren't any footsteps coming farther into the room.

“What are you doing?” He asked, and you finally heard him start walking, and soon you heard something being placed on the nightstand.

“Out.” You said, finally turning to look at the boy and raising one of your hands to tap on the window. He was standing staring at you near your nightstand, his hands in his pockets.

“Outside?” He questioned as he finally started moving throughout the room closer to you.

You had turned back to look out the window once more once he was standing at your side.

Damian's gaze rested downward on you. You looked so calm staring out the windows. Though your blank face looked as if you were displeased, he knew you weren't. He was the same way with his own blank face.

“What that?” He was pulled out of his thoughts by your voice. He looked at what you were looking out the window at.

Your pointer finger which rested against the window pointed towards two creatures in the air, gracefully maneuvering through the gentle breeze.

“Birds,” Damian said bluntly. “They’re birds.”

You looked up at the boy, “Bi..” You paused, unsure of if you were going to say it correctly or not.

“Birds.” He said one more time. “They’re flying.”

“Bird.” You finally attempted.

“Mhm,” he nodded.

You looked out the window once more. Watching the birds fly through the air. “Want that.” You said.

“Want that?” Damian repeated in the form of a question.

You nodded, “Want that.” You pointed to the bird.

Damian wasn’t quite sure if you meant you wanted a bird or if you wanted what the birds had. Freedom.

“Bird is…” You paused, watching the bird in awe.

“Pretty?” Damian questioned after a few seconds of silence. You nodded.

“Yeah..” He agreed softly, looking away from you and out the window at the birds again. “They are.”

“Dami.” His eyes widened a bit and he looked down at you again. Dami? Dami..? You were looking up at him, your face a blank one like his.

“Yeah..?” He managed to ask.

You pointed to the free spot on the floor next to you. “Sit.” You told him. Not in a commanding way like most would hear from your tone. He knew you didn’t mean it like that.

He listened and sat down on the floor next to you.

For you to actually invite him to sit next to you, and so close, was honestly a big step. He noticed you’d opened up a bit quickly with him, but he assumed it was because of the age difference between the two of you. There wasn’t really a big one.

“Dad..” You said softly. He looked to you, waiting to see where you would go with this, “You hate him.” It was more of a statement than a question. You didn’t look at him. You had rested your chin back down on your arms that rested on the window sill.

Damian stayed quiet, keeping his gaze on you for a moment before letting it drop down to the surface of the window sill and then out the window. “Yeah.” He answered. Though he knew you already knew that. “I do.”

A quiet fell over the room. The two of you staring out the window.

“He scares me…” You admitted.

He looked at you. Your expression, still blank, had grown a bit more solemn. Like a little puppy that had just been yelled at or hit for just trying to get love or have a bit of fun. It broke him to see you like this. So young and yet already so broken and wounded.

“Ugh,” Batwoman groaned as she walked out of the room she had just been looking in. “Theres nothing in this disgusting dump..” She grumbled, looking down at all of the chemical pits and barrels that Ace Chemicals held. “I doubt there’s anything actually here all these chemicals haven’t hidden.” She sighed, now making her way down the stares and back the way she came.

“Oh, don’t give me that crap!” Red Hood exclaimed. Batwoman started walking a bit faster, hoping to get there before he would probably kill the guy the two found.

“Please, please,” The man cried desperately, “The guy is going to kill me!”

Batwoman was met with a familiar scene. Red Hood holding the man in the air the collar of his shirt. But this time, the man’s face was bloodied. Blood ran down from his nose, he had a busted lip that was bleeding, and an array of cuts on his face.

“Red Hood!” Batwoman yelled, “What the hell are you doing!?”

“Tell me!” Red Hood yelled, shaking the man within the air. Tears were bubbling in the guy’s eyes.

“He.. He’ll kill me!” The man repeated. Red Hood scoffed.

“And if you don’t tell me what the hell you know, I’ll kill you!” He told the man, his red helmet growing an eary and angry sense to it.

“Fine! Fine!” The man screamed, his legs flailing around in the air, “Please, I’ll tell you! Just put me down!”

“Red Hood put him down!” Batwoman demanded.

Jason dropped the man, letting him fall to floor with a thud.

“Well,” Red Hood demanded himself, looking down at the man on the floor, “Go on!”

The man winced at his commanding and angry tone, “The guy you’re looking for. Cain or whatever.” His voice was shaking in fear, and he was looking down at the floor in shame. Of himself, or maybe something else. “He came here a few months ago after his disappearance. Vanished for about 3 months, came to me. He had some..” He sounded unsure. “He was asking for some weird stuff,” he shrugged his shoulders lightly, “Said he needed it for some project, I didn’t ask what. But he did have this weird sense of pride to him. One he never usually had.”

“Can you get to the damn point!” Red Hood demanded.

“Hey,” Batwoman said sternly, “Let him speak.”

The man recieved a nod from Batwoman, telling him to go on. “Cain wanted some type of like.. Serum. Said it needed to enhance and quicken the development of metahuman abilities. Then he had a thought to make another serum that would make someone more…” The man paused and sighed loudly, “Hell, I’ll just say it. More easily manipulable.”

Batwoman and Red Hood stood silent for a moment. Batwoman’s lips parted as she took in the information, and her eyes widened behind her domino mask. The two vigilante’s exchanged a glance.

“Hey,” Batwoman started, looking towards the man.

“Y-Yeah?” He looked back, a bit nervous of what might happen to him.

“Do you have any samples or spares of that?” She asked.

The man sat for a second.

“Well!” Jason exclaimed, making the man jump.

“Yes! Yes, I do!” The man scrambled to his feet, walking to a station a little ways away behind some tubs of chemicals with the two vigilantes close behind him.

“Damnit..” The man muttered as he scrounged around in the desk, throwing papers and gadgets sloppily in his hunt for the serum. “Here!” He announced, pulling out a green liquid serum in a small tube. He handed it to Batwoman.

“Not a lot, huh.” She commented, swishing the liquid around in the enclosed tube.

“Sorry,” He apologized, his expression growing a bit solemn, “I tried to save at least a bit, but. The recipe was tricky.” He began to scrounge through the desk once more before pulling out a paper with sloppy handwriting on it. “The ingredients were hard and illegal to get, then the only perfected batch he took immediately. It was hard to even steal that tiny bit out of it.” He handed the paper to Batwoman as well. “That’s the recipe for it.”

“Alright.” She nodded, turning on her heel and beginning to walk away with Red Hood next to her.

Batwoman stopped however, turning to look at the man and Red Hood went ahead, “C’mon (nickname).” She said, gesturing her head for him to follow and speaking like it was the obvious that he come along.

“Huh..?” His brows furrowed.

“Hurry it up!” Batwoman called. “You have vital information about this stupid serum and we can’t have you getting caught by the wrong people.” The man was startled into pace. He began to catch up with the vigilantes, still confused and quite bewildered by what the hell is happening.

“Damn, this just keeps getting messier and messier..” TIm groaned, running a hand along his face and moving it up to run through his hair. He was tired, anyone could tell at a glance. “Alright, give it here.” He spoke, putting a hand out to take the serum from Batwoman. “Who’s the straggler?” He asked as he got up and walked towards a machine.

“Hm,” Batwoman turned to look over her shoulder at the man.

“Um.. My name is Sullivan Bishop.” He answered her unsaid question.

“He’s got connections with Cain. Helped him make the serum.” She said as she crossed her arms, watching Tim carefully pour the bit of serum into a compartment of the machine and clicking a few buttons. Soon, it started up and started analyzing the liquid.

“Do you know what he used the serum for?” Sullivan asked. Everyone was silent. Sullivan visibly curled in on himself in defeat. He was terrified. He was in the batcave, surely not going to be let out anytime soon. And he was so lost. He had no clue what was happening. He’d never wanted to get involved with Cain to begin with. He knew he was shady, knew that Cain would get him in trouble. But this? This serum that was testing positive for countless things on the Batcomputer. This serum that could be considered a poison.

This was beyond anything shady he’d heard or expected from Cain. Whatever he used this serum for was downright psychotic.

Tim stared up at the computer, honestly at a loss for words.

“What the hell did you use?” Tim’s voice was breathless. But the look he gave to Sullivan sent chills down the man’s spine. “Toluene, lead..” His voice trailed off. “No wonder the kid was so set in killing Cassandra. This serum makes it so she can’t think for herself.”

“What the hell..” Red Hood’s voice trailed off.

“We can only imagine how long this was being administered into her blood stream.” Tim finished.

“I..” Sullivan’s eyes bubbled with tears, his voice breaking. “I didn’t know.. I… I didn’t know what he would use it for. I… Please I. I didn’t know..” He was rambling.

“You didn’t know?” Jason questioned, his tone growing angry and threatening.

“N.. No. No I didn’t I promise!!” Sullivan’s waorks were jumblings up as they tumbled from his mouth in fear of what Red Hood might do.

“Red Hood!” Batwoman stopped him from walking toward the shaking man with a hand on his chest, “Take a walk.” She made eye contact with him through his helmet when she ordered him.

<- Chapter 4 Chapter 6 ->

@redh00dsbf @02006 @shikanosn @rainnyydaysworld @notsaelty

[remember-that-one-blog]

As We Go Along (Part 1)

You were offered up as a payment to a mob boss by your father and step-mother. He agreed. Now you're the fiance of the most feared man in New York.

I do not own these characters!

Warnings: Abuse not openly mentioned but is talked about.

This first part is more of a background and getting to know each other chapter. More to come!

You were a burden. At least that’s the way they made you feel. You were from your father’s first marriage. Your mother had died when you were young and your step-mother never had anything for you. She never loved you, but she loved your sister. The daughter she had with your father. You knew this but you never thought she would talk your father into doing this to you. Marrying you off to some mob boss so he could get himself out of debt that he got himself in. She came up with it and he took it to the boss’ right hand man. Two days letter you’re engaged. You didn’t care either way. You hadn’t met the man yet, but you had heard rumors. He  was cold-hearted and cruel. Nothing you weren’t used to. 

Your father told you that you were to meet him tomorrow at his home. 

“You will meet him tomorrow at noon. Here is the address. It should be easy enough to find.” 

“Yes, sir.” Your father nodded without another word. That let you know that you were on your own now. Not that you haven’t been since your mom died. You packed up what little you had. Everything you owned fit into one duffle bag. As you laid in your bed for the last time you looked back on your time here with your family. You decided nowhere could be worse than here. With that thought in mind you slipped into a dreamless sleep.

~

You stood outside your childhood home giving it one last glance. It was bittersweet leaving this place. This is where you had all the memories of your mother, but this place had also been your living hell. You turned away with all the good memories of your mother in the forefront of your mind. A small part of you felt she was leaving with you as well. 

You made your way to the bus stop. You looked at the address and read the bus schedule so you knew which bus you would need to take. It was hard, you had been getting around like this for years. You found when the bus you needed would be here you had hoped you left early enough just in case of any delays the buses may have. 

~

You timed it just right. You made it to the address with ten minutes to spare. Although, all you saw was a giant gate but no house. A loud beep caught made you jump. That’s when you saw the intercom.

“State your business.”

“I’m Alexander Pierce’s daughter. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Barnes.” You heard the gate buzz open. A tall, blonde man in a black suit appeared before you in a black SUV. He stepped out to greet you.

“Ms. Pierce, Mr. Barnes has been expecting you. My name is Steve. I can help you with your bags.” He looked around you confused. You felt your face go bright red.

“This is all I have.” You grabbed your duffle bag by the handle. You saw something flash in his eyes but you weren’t sure what. He nodded and held the front door open for you. 

“Here, I’ll put it in the back for you.” Steve took your duffle and sat it in the back seat. 

“Thank you.” He gave you his hand to help you as you climbed into the front seat. This was new for you. You had never been treated this well. Maybe they were expecting someone else. You couldn’t help as these thoughts ran through your mind. Steve could tell you didn’t want to talk so he left the two of you in a comfortable silence. 

It was a short drive to the house you were going to. It was more of a mansion. You felt your mouth drop at the sight. You heard Steve chuckle a bit. Your face went red again.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know. You’ll be fine. He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

“You know him pretty well then?”

“I do. Been friends since we were kids. I know him better than he knows himself most of the time.” You nodded as you took in this information. That gave you a little bit of hope, not that you really ever clinged to it. Steve stopped the vehicle as you reached the front door. He got out, grabbed your bag, and proceeded to help you down onto the ground. “Take a deep breath and follow me. You’ll be fine.”

You nodded as you followed Steve up the stairs. The front door itself was huge. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a place this big. Not that someone lived in any way. As you stepped inside you tried to take it all in. It was beautiful. Everything seemed to be decorated in light gray, white, and gold accents. While it was beautiful it didn’t have that homey feel that most homes do. Given what he does, that's not too surprising. There were tall windows everywhere. It made everything look even bigger. It was very modern. You were still reeling as you followed Steve further into the house. As you reached your destination you heard yelling that made you jump. Steve steadied you with a hand to your shoulder. 

“It’s okay. Give me a minute while I go talk to him.” You just nodded. Steve sat your bag down beside you and knocked three times on the door.

“Come in!” Steve cracked the door and stuck his head in,

“Buck, it’s Pierce’s daughter.”

“Send her in.” Steve stepped back out to usher you inside the room. Once you entered your eyes went straight to the man behind the desk. He was handsome. Dark hair and bright blue eyes. He was almost as tall as Steve and just as built as he was. He was in a dark gray three piece suit.

“Ms. Pierce, I’ve been expecting you. How did your driver find the place?” You felt yourself deflate. So he had been expecting your sister. You wanted to ask but couldn’t bring yourself to, afraid of the answer. 

“Uh, I didn’t - I mean, I brought myself. I don’t have a driver.” Bucky stopped what he was doing. You were looking down at the floor. He said your name just loud enough. Surprised you glanced up at him.

“You mean to tell me, your father sent you here alone?”

“Yes, sir. He did.” Bucky felt his skin crawl. At first glance he thought you were beautiful. Nothing would change that. As he looked closer though he could tell you weren’t taken care of. He could tell you had been given the bare minimum to survive. That was something that would not bode well with him.

“Why would he send you here alone?” You knew the true answer, but you were sure Bucky didn’t want to hear that.

“He had other business to attend to and I was capable of making it here myself.” Bucky didn’t like that answer.

“That’s not an acceptable reason.” That surprised you. “And doll, you can call me Bucky, everyone else does. ‘Sir’ is what everyone called my father.” His nickname for you caught you by surprise. You weren’t sure how to feel about it, but you didn’t hate it

“Of course, sir- I mean, Bucky.” Bucky straightened his tie and made his way to you.

“I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, I don’t have time to show you around or I would. Steve can show you around. I just have two rules.” You nodded to show you were listening. “Never go anywhere alone and never knock on or open this door if it’s closed. The only exception is if it is an emergency. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Steve, if you’ll show her around. I’ll meet you for dinner around seven, doll. I’ll take you out and we’ll get to know each other.” Before you could answer his phone rang. You followed Steve back out of the office and watched him pull the door closed. Steve must have sensed your hesitation.

“Just put on the best clothes you have, sweetheart.” You just nodded. You really didn’t have anything to go out in. You would see what you had though. You followed Steve around as he showed you where everything was. What you couldn’t wait to use was the kitchen. You loved to cook and bake. You didn’t get the chance to do it much at home, but maybe you could here. Finally, Steve showed you to your room. It was three times bigger than your old room was. You had what seemed to be a king sized bed, a little balcony that overlooked the backyard, an en suite bathroom and a closet that you could fit your entire old room in.

“Bucky thought you would want some space. He knows this wasn’t up to you.”

“I’ll have to tell him thank you.” Steve sat your duffle bag beside the bed. 

“I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be just down the hall if you need me.”

“Thank you, Steve.” He closed your door as he left. You looked around and laid down on the bed. It was so soft and cozy! You couldn’t believe it. You pinched yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. Maybe, just maybe, this would be okay. 

~

Steve listened for you but you seemed to be unpacking. He could hear you moving around. Once he was sure you were okay, he went to talk to Bucky. Steve saw the door cracked and eased his way inside. Bucky was on the phone but he wasn’t as heated as earlier. He saw Steve made his way to him and ended the call. Steve made his way over to a seat in front of Bucky’s desk.

“So, anything?”

“She’s not anything like her father. She seems to be the exact opposite. She’s quiet, reserved. She doesn’t own a lot, Buck. She came here with one duffle bag. One.” That made Bucky’s skin prickle. He knew Pierce was a harsh man but didn’t think he would be harsh with his daughter.

“So you don’t think this is a set up?”

“If it is, she doesn’t know about it. From what I can tell she wouldn’t do something like that. She’s too soft spoken to do or go along with something like that.”

“I picked up on that, too. I don’t think she was treated well there.” Steve shook his head. 

“I don’t think she was either. She seems to be genuine. Which is a surprise considering who her father is.” Bucky nodded. This was unusual, even for him. He normally wouldn’t agree to something like this, but he was looking to settle down as well. The last few women he dated only wanted him for money. He was hoping this might change that.

“Where did you plan on taking her tonight?”

“I’m not sure yet. Why?”

“I don’t think she has anything to wear to a nice restaurant. She seemed a bit panicked when you brought it up.”

“We’ll eat in tonight then. Would you care to go get it?”

“Not at all. You could go talk to her if you want. She’s good, Buck. You could use some good.” Bucky nodded. That was true he could. Steve got up to go get dinner while Bucky debated on going to find you.

~

You decided to go look around yourself taking your time. You couldn’t find Steve so you decided to go downstairs and see if you could find him there. You looked down the small hallway to see Bucky’s office door was cracked. You thought about going to ask him if you could look around yourself, but your thoughts were distracted by the kitchen. It was state-of-the-art. The mixers, the pans, the refrigerator. Everything was something out of one of your dreams. Your thoughts were interrupted by someone clearing their throat. You jumped, turning around to see Bucky standing behind you.

“There you are. I thought you would still be unpacking.”

“No, it didn’t take me long. Sorry, I was just curious to see what you had in here. It’s amazing.” You looked around, still blown away by his kitchen. 

“No need to apologize. Make yourself at home.” You gave him a small smile. You weren’t sure you knew how to do that. Bucky made his way over to one of the bar stools. He sat down while he eyed you from across the counter. He studied you as you studied him. He seemed to be a little more relaxed. His jacket was off and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Bucky noticed you changed into an oversized sweatshirt, some leggings and fuzzy socks. You seemed so cozy. “So, tell me about yourself, doll. What do you like to do?”

“There isn’t much to tell really. I help my family out when I can and bake if I get the chance.” Bucky nodded his head.

“What’s your favorite thing to bake?”

“Chocolate chip cookies, any kind of cookie really but definitely chocolate chip.”

“Would you wanna make some?” You felt your eyes get big. “No one uses the kitchen much. I usually either go out or order in and no one ever bakes.” You felt yourself getting excited.

“Yeah, I’d love to.” You gave Bucky a genuine smile. Those were very rare for you. Bucky gave you one back, his were probably as rare as yours were, maybe even moreso.

~

Many cookies later, you and Bucky asked small questions at first. You found out he loved sweets and would love to have a dog but is afraid he wouldn’t have the time for one. He found out you loved dogs, even more than you loved baking, and you had never left the state of New York.

“We’ll change that, doll. Don’t you worry.” You giggled at that.

“You know, you’re nothing like everyone makes you out to be.”

“I’m sure my reputation proceeds me. Let me guess, a cold hearted killer and womanizer? That’s what they say in the tabloids I see every now and then.”

“Pretty much, but I will say you are much kinder to me than what I’m used to.” You gave him a small smile. You saw something flash in his eyes that you couldn’t place. With that he decided to bring up the elephant in the room.

“There is something I do want to talk to you about, doll.” You took a pan of cookies out of the oven and sat the next pan in while the others cooled.

“Okay, what’s that?”

“The reason I agreed to your father’s proposal.” You turned around to face him. You had been curious about it but didn’t want to ask out right.

“Okay.”

“Did you want to ask me anything?”

“I did wonder why you agreed to it. I mean, I’m nothing special. Men usually come to my father about proposals for my sister, not me. Although I know this was his idea. I’m just surprised you agreed to it.” You had never been this open and honest with someone you just met. There was just something about Bucky. “I’m sorry, that was overstepping. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Not overstepping, doll. I surprised myself when I agreed to it. The thing is, I am ready to settle down, but not give up my title just yet. I am tired of women just wanting money or just wanting to say they were with me. Granted, I could have gone about it differently than this, but it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t want something.”

“My father was the one who wanted something though.”

“Yes, but not you. I’m just curious as to why you just went along with it.” You took a deep breath.

“You want an honest answer?”

“Of course, doll.” 

“I didn’t have a choice. My family also sees me as in the way. So, it got me out of their way.” Bucky’s heart broke for you. You could see it in his eyes. You felt your face turn bright red. You were going to be honest. Your family never hid their disdain for you around anyone, so you didn’t see the point in trying to hide it yourself. 

“That’s terrible, doll. I can assure you, you won’t be in the way here. If you ever feel like that you come to me, understand?”

“I understand.” The timer went off for the last batch of cookies just as Steve walked in the door with take out. Your stomach immediately rumbled at the smell of Chinese food. Steve walked in, sitting the food on the counter. 

“It smells like a bakery. Did you do all this?” Steve looked around at all the cookies you had baked. You felt your face turn red again. 

“She did, we’re gonna try them after we eat.”

“They smell amazing. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” 

“Wait, Steve! Here, take some with you. I made way too many as it is.” You hurriedly put a couple of batches in some containers you had found earlier. Steve looked to Bucky as you were packing up the cookies. Steve gave Bucky a small smile and a slight nod you didn’t pick up on. You handed Steve the bag before Bucky could silently reply to Steve. Steve gave you a big smile.

“Thanks, sweetheart. I can’t wait to try them.”

“Let me know what you think. I haven’t got my recipe just right yet.” 

“I’ll let you know. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” Steve left you all to your dinner. Bucky started getting the containers out. You decided to go ahead and put the cookies that were already cooled in a container. Bucky was still getting food out when you were finished. You hadn’t seen this much food in front of you in a long time. Not that you didn’t eat, you just didn’t eat much. Bucky watched your eyes get wide. 

“You okay, doll?”

“Yeah, that’s just a lot of food.” 

“Maybe, but then we can have leftovers tomorrow.” He said it so easily. You were a little taken back. “Doll, would you care to get these last few containers out so I can go change. Then we’ll eat.” You just nodded. You didn’t have it in you to reply. Bucky walked up the stairs to his room as you got the last few containers out. You were still in shock at all the food. And the fact that he got some for you too caught you off guard. You didn’t realize it but you felt tears in your eyes. Usually when your family ordered out you got what was left and if you were still hungry you made yourself something in the kitchen. You didn’t hear Bucky come up behind you.

“Everything okay, doll?” He noticed the tears in your eyes. You quickly wiped them away. You noticed he had changed into a white t-shirt and some gray sweatpants. You thought he looked even better like this than in his suit.

“Yeah, everything is fine. I was just getting the rest out.” You put the paper bag in the trash can you found earlier. Bucky sat down on the same bar stool from earlier. He started opening the containers. 

“Get whatever you like, doll. I got some of everything. I didn’t know what you would like.” You didn’t know what you would like either. You hadn’t had Chinese takeout before. Your family would get it sometimes but there was never any left for you. “What’s going on in your head?”

“Um, it’s just, uh-”

“Doll, you can talk to me. The side of me you see right now, no one else sees. This is for you and you alone. I want you to be able to talk to me. I know this isn’t conventional but I would like to be able to be open and honest with one another.” You wanted that too, but you weren’t sure how to do it. You never had anyone to confide in. Ever. This was all so new to you, so you decided to be open and honest about everything.

“I’m not used to this, Bucky. I’m not used to being doted on. I never get take-out. I don’t get luxurious bedrooms. I get told what to do and when to do it. I don’t know how to confide in someone. I don’t know how to make myself at home because I’ve never had that luxury. I always get the bare minimum. I’m the burden of my family and they let everyone know.” You hadn’t realized tears started to spill over by the end of what was always on your heart. You had never told anyone this. Bucky reached for your hand nearest him. When you didn’t pull away he clasped it in both of his. You could see Bucky’s eyes dim and then watch something light in them you had never seen before.

“You will never be in the way here. You are going to be my wife and with that is going to come a lot of things you’re not used to. I can see that now. If you are ever overwhelmed please do not hesitate to tell me. I want you to be able to tell me what you’re feeling. This is new to me, too. I want to be honest with you. Granted there are some things that I do that I would rather keep you away from and I will try my best to. Doll, here you will be taken care of and doted on. You won’t even remember what it was like at that house you lived in. We’ll learn as we go along.” You didn’t realize you needed to hear that. You squeezed Bucky’s hand as well as you could as he had started holding your more firmly than before. 

“We’ll learn as we go along.” He squeezed your hand back releasing it. 

“Great, now that we’ve talked about that. What do you want to try first?” You smiled as you pointed to some chicken that looked good. Bucky handed it to you and waited until you tried it before he grabbed something as well. 

And that’s how your first night went with your fiance. Trying Chinese take-out you had never had and learning how to make yourself at home. Maybe you could get used to this.

[pinkiemachine]

GOTHAM FILES: SEASON 5

JASON TODD IS ALIVE!!!

Ra’s Al Ghul has brought him back to life and intends to give him back to Bruce as a reconciliation gift. The only thing is, the Lazarus Pit can have… interesting effects on people, especially when bringing them back to life. In Jason’s case, he comes back with a serious case of brain fog, with some slightly psychotic tendencies. Ra’s can’t return Jason like this, so he spends the next few months rehabilitating the boy and training him with the League. He’ll be such a fine warrior, not only will Bruce be getting his protégé back, but he’ll be in better shape than when he died. Little by little, though, Jason is beginning to come back to his senses, his memories return, and he begins to question where he is and what he’s doing. This isn’t right… where’s Bruce? Where’s Alfred? Why isn’t he in Gotham anymore? In a panic, somewhat brought on by the side effects of the Pit, Jason escapes the League of Shadows and winds up totally alone, totally lost in West Asia, trying to get back home. The League of Shadows goes after him, and he has to outrun them any way he can, and after a long, harrowing adventure where he jumps all around Asia, South-East Asia, and Australia, he is finally on the fast track to getting back to the States and Gotham. He’s thrilled to be back home, but the first thing he sees when he looks at the news… is Batman… and a new Robin… saving the city. He heads to the Manor to see for himself and finds Tim Drake sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms. There’s still some Lazarus Madness in his head, so he doesn’t take this so well at first. It gets worse when he realises that Joker is still alive. Batman never avenged him. Cue the events of “Under the Red Hood” where Jason takes down a gang of thugs, takes the identity of their leader, “The Red Hood,” and starts tearing up Gotham, looking for Joker, while simultaneously poking Bruce at every available opportunity. And then, when the truth is finally revealed about who Red Hood is, Ra’s shows up and tries to be all, “Look! I brought Jason back for you! Surprise? Heheh… now come marry my daughter.” And Bruce is like…. “No.” Ra’s warns him, though, that if he doesn’t join him now, he’s going to be in for a few surprises soon. He still refuses. Ra’s slinks off back to the Shadows.

Anyway, the point is, Bruce is confronted by Jason regarding Joker. Jay doesn’t hold a grudge against Bruce for not being able to save him—it was Jason’s own fault that he wound up that situation in the first place—but what he is ticked about is the fact that Joker’s still alive, and, well, to a lesser extent that he’s been kinda replaced, but it’s mostly the Joker thing. But since Jason isn’t Robin anymore, he’s not playing by Batman’s rules. He’s going to do what Batman couldn’t, and be the hero Gotham really needs. He’s going to end the Joker once and for all. Bruce tries to stop him. Killing isn’t the answer. It’s a quick fix, but it’s no guarantee that another Joker won’t pop up tomorrow, and worse… Bruce isn’t prepared to lose what’s left of his humanity. He’s traveling a dark enough path as it is. He refuses to let himself fall further and become the very thing he hates. He doesn’t want that for Jason either. In the end though, due to Bruce and Jason fighting, Joker gets away (he does wind up getting hurt bad enough that he loses sight in one eye, though), and Bruce begs Jason to come home. He’s just so immensely relieved to see him alive! But Jason… he’s not the same kid he was when he went under. He’s not Bruce’s Robin anymore and he still plans on killing Joker. It’s time they parted ways. For good.

So, yeah, the falling out part is real sad… and everyone’s brooding over what happened, and Dick even tries to find and talk to Jason, but that doesn’t help. It looks like Jay’s not ever going to be part of the BatFam again… until this happens:

Jason is rightfully ticked at Bruce, but they can shelve that long conversation for a later date. Right now they’ve gotta MOVE if they want to get Tim home alive. Everyone gets called in, Nightwing, Batgirl, Spoiler, even Starfire shows up, as she and Dick have been dating for a while now. Joker’s come up with a real twisted scheme this time, one that really throws the crew for a loop as they try to figure it all out, and Joker nearly has enough time to psychologically torture Tim (giving the Batman: Beyond film flashbacks!) but before Tim can be all twisted up into mini-Joker, his team arrives and they save him just in the nick of time!

Jason is ultimately the one to grab him, and in a way he confronts his own trauma by sparing Tim from a similar fate. This is how they bond and become one of the closer pairs in the BatFam. Jason really kicked into “Protective Older Brother Mode.”

After that scare, Batman keeps Jason from killing Joker and he’s instead locked up tight in Arkham Asylum. Again. Hopefully this time he won’t break out… hopefully. Now Jason can really chew Bruce out, but the main thing this adventure did was force them all to work together again. And maybe Jason won’t really be too far away from now on. He’s still gonna have his own place and do his own thing, but… he still does care about Bruce… and he does think of Dick and Tim as brothers… and Alfred is the best. Jason will be around.

The season goes on for a bit longer, tackling a few other stories, etc, etc, and then it ends with Dick proposing to Starfire… and Ra’s kidnapping Bruce again, but this time, it’s not to force him to marry Talia… mostly. This time, he’s got something to tell Bruce. There’s someone he needs to meet. His son, Damian Wayne. Way back in season 1, Talia had stolen some… “DNA” from Bruce while he was captured, and they had used it, in conjunction with her own… “DNA” to create Damian. She and Ra’s had been raising him for the past ten years, training him to be the perfect weapon, the perfect leader, and the perfect heir to the throne of the League of Shadows. Now it was time for the next stage in his studies. Talia had taught him just about everything she knew. Now it was Bruce’s turn. Besides, the boy had wanted to meet his father. Ra’s declares that Damian will go live with Bruce for five years, and then return home.

…So, long story short, Bruce winds up back in Gotham on the heels of Dick’s engagement with the ten-year-old son he never knew he had.

These next few years are gonna be fun.

Part 6 👇

Part 4 👇

[reenthinks]

[2:06]

It had been one of your more stressful days. Work seemed to keep piling up with no end in sight. You grew increasingly frustrated with every new document on your desk, shoulders slumping more and more as the day went by. Finally, it was 5:00. Quickly tidying up your space as best you could, you made your way home.

Mingyu had an off that day. He slept in (he kissed you goodbye ofc). Woke up around 12:30; had a nice cup of tea with some butter toast. He spent the rest of his day doing little chores around the house. Dusting, mopping, vacuuming (he even went out and restocked on milk, butter and eggs). Now, he was sitting on the couch watching some TV, a freshly baked lasagna sitting on the countertop behind him.

He perks up, hearing the muffled sound of keys jingling outside, the dull click of the door unlocking and the muted thump of your bag landing on the floor. He watches as you trudge in, dropping the keys in the bowl. Your fatigue is evident in your posture.

“Hey, baby. Long day?”

You wordlessly walk to where he’s sitting on the sofa and plop down in his lap, your head tucked snugly in the crook of his neck.

“That bad, huh?” He mumbles, fingers finding their way to your shoulders to try to relieve some of the tension. You hum into his neck as he finds a particularly tense knot. “You hungry? I made your favorite.”

You sigh. “Can’t move.”

“Not a problem, sweetheart.”

Next thing you know, his hands are securing themselves under your thighs and he’s off the sofa, walking towards the island.

He sets you down on one of the stools and pulls out two plates and forks for the both of you. You watch drowsily as he plates some lasagna and pushes it towards you before getting some for himself. You buffer a little before reaching for the fork.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Very very slowly, you tell him about your day and all the deadlines you have to meet which you’re falling behind on and how the workload just keeps increasing with no end in sight. It just seemed to get so monotonous to the point you think you’d actually go insane. Mingyu was your breath of fresh air, but even he could only do so much. You needed a break. The bags under your eyes only got darker and your posture, worse. You were being overworked. Any more of that and it would become a serious health concern. Not that it wasn’t already. Mingyu never failed to remind you of it either, making sure you were taking all your necessary vitamins and eating healthy.

“Y/n, if you don’t ask your boss for a week off tomorrow, I will barge in there myself and do what I have to do to get you one.”

You smile at him. “Tomorrow‘s Saturday, baby.”

He flusters a little. “Whatever, on Monday, you know what I mean.”

He was adorable. You could watch him yap about health and food and exercise and proper rest forever. Leaning over, you lay a hand on the side of his face. He stutters his words a little before going silent, looking at you with those puppy eyes of his, the picture of innocence. You feel your heart swell up with this feeling of immeasurable love and affection. You don’t really know what to do with it. So, you do what you’ve always done in such a situation. You kiss him. Slow and sweet. A little aggressive but that was your M.O at this point.

“I love you.” You manage between kisses.

“I love you more.” Mingyu returns.

Pulling his lip between your teeth as you break apart, you smile at him. “I love you most.”

“I love you 3000.” He laughs, obnoxiously, as though he’s won a really important argument.

“Whatever, most is still most.” You argue back, already feeling some of the tension from earlier leave your body.”

He chuckles a little, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Okay, okay, whatever you say. Now, finish eating and then how about a shower?”

“Only if you join me.” You wink at him.

He gasps, a hand over his mouth. “Y/n! That is most inappropriate.”

“Fine then, I’ll just take it alone.”

“No, that’s not what I mea-“

“Nope, one time offer. You passed on it.” You tut.

He pulls out those puppy eyes of his. “One last chance.”

“Okay, fine. But no funny business, mister. I’m tired.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You laugh, taking a forkful of the lasagna. “This is amazing, by the way”

“Yeah? Good, I’m glad you like it.”

“You’re an amazing wife.” You shoot him a finger heart.

He chuckles. “Yeah, well you better watch and learn cuz that’ll be your title someday.”

[moonchildstyles]

s'entendre

élan part five: y/n's first night out since the gala couldn't be that bad. right?

wordcount: 14.4k+

—————

(Y/N) couldn't help the frown that landed on her face as she looked in the mirror. 

While her time in Paris had been the best she'd had in a really long while, it wasn't necessarily showing. At this point, she'd missed three of her facial appointments, her skin beginning to cry out from the lack of treatment. Her nails were barely hanging on, her acrylics grown out past the point of comfort. While her mental state was beginning to grow to a wholly positive place, the rest of her wasn't really catching up. 

To top it off, her makeup wasn't cooperating either. Maybe she should really get a glam squad like Harry thought—at least then she would have a chance at being on time for events with a fully formed face.

With Emma joining them in Paris for the weekend, Francesca had insisted they go out and visit the nightlife. Of course, the one night she knew there would no doubt be photos caught of her just from the way her friends were still very active on their social medias, would be when her makeup cooperates the least.

Letting out a rumbling groan, (Y/N) was that close to calling off the night as another smudge of mascara blobbed on the crease of her eye. 

Like always, Harry popped his head inside her bedroom, a pinch in his brows appearing as he took in the otherwise safe room. 

"What's the matter, hm?" he asked, stepping inside her room. His reflection was made in the mirror, a clear view of his eyes stitched on her as she gazed at him through the glass. 

It was a bit petulant, her reaction, with the way she puffed out her bottom lip with a pout. "My skin doesn't look good, and my makeup is only making it worse." Before she could even finish her statement, Harry was shaking his head, lips thinning as if he was bored with the fact she couldn't see facts right in front of her. "Harry, really," she argued against his silent protest, "My makeup looks so weird, right now." 

(Y/N) watched as he settled in behind her, his arms crossing over his chest. His eyes flittered over the mirror, ever-observant. 

"You're very funny sometimes, you know that?" 

That only strengthened the frown on her lips and pinch in her brow. "I'm not being funny right now." 

Dropping his gaze, his features facing the floor, Harry shook his head again. Down the slope of his nose, she swore she saw the edges of an easy smile. Looking up, only traces of amusement lingered on his lips. 

"That's what you think," he countered cryptically, "Let me know when you're ready." 

With that, Harry popped out of her room as quickly as he joined her. Sweeping her eyes away from the doors he exited through, returning to the mirror set in her vanity, she took in the planes of her face. 

Though she could still see texture and bumps, pores and blemishes, it didn't bother her so terribly for a moment. Even the sight of her outgrown nails with dull edges didn't pick at her nerves. 

If Harry didn't think she looked silly, even after he witnessed the glamour she preferred in New York, then maybe it wasn't so bad. 

Even if he didn't say he thought she looked pretty, he thought her complaints against her features were outlandish enough to laugh at. 

Suddenly, she didn't feel like agonizing over her skin anymore. She looked just fine, she decided. 

—————

"Tell me again how you're going to tell me if you're uncomfortable or want to leave." 

Outside the windows at her back, the underground of Paris whirled past, the train moving quickly under the treasures on the surface. The car was on the quiet side for the night, the hour still early before others drunk on champagne would be stumbling through. 

Looking up at Harry through the fan of her false lashes, she repeated the same thing he told her at least five times before leaving the penthouse: "If I can, I need to come and tell you right away. But, if I'm in a situation where I can't reach you, I'm going to look at you and nod three times." 

That slow blooming smile touched the corner of his mouth, sot lips curling as he gazed down at her. "Perfect," he praised her, adjusting his hands from where they were curled around the rail on either side of her, "Jus' remember that for me, please. You're going to have a really fun night, I jus' want you to be safe." 

"Okay," (Y/N) nodded pliantly, gaze dropping down to the slope of his neck, "I—um—I also don't want to drink a lot tonight." 

"Okay," Harry answered cautiously, voice trailing off. 

"I know that's not a rule or anything, but I just... I don't want to get too deep tonight or anything," she explained in a small voice. While she wanted to unwind and play with her friends, she wasn't interested in stumbling around or blabbing things to anyone willing to sit and listen. She hoped she wouldn't have to worry about any photographers, but that didn't mean some couldn't pop up and take pictures of her with glazed eyes to feed into the narrative being spun back in New York. 

Understanding, Harry nodded his head, the green of his eyes softening as he allowed his gaze to slide across her features. "Okay," he said, "We can do that. I'll keep an eye on you, but if y'change your mind, that's okay, too. Whatever is going to make you happy tonight." 

Overhead the feminine French voice blinked over the intercom, arrival times appearing on the small screen at the head of the car. Harry looked over his shoulder taking in the printed times. As much as she teased him, he really was making progress in understanding the language, enough so that he was readily taking on the details of the night and keeping track of her. 

Allowing her eyes to skip over the line of his profile. Dressed low-key as usual, dark colors to help him sink into the background, the softer tones of his skin were left to jump out. The brown shades of his hair made way for sun-dappled blonde strands to make their way through, highlighting the swirling curls. His eyes were bright and clear, framed by dark curling lashes. His skin was creamy and warm, a gentle tan from the summer sun being highlighted from the dotted freckles on his nose and the rosy flush on his cheeks. 

"Thank you," she blurted. 

"Hm?" Harry hummed, turning to face her once more, brows raised. 

(Y/N) felt her skin heat as she processed her action. She hadn't meant to say anything.

"Thank you," she repeated, "For doing all of this. Helping." 

"It's m'job," he answered simply. 

That was a fact (Y/N) couldn't forget, that thin veil between being a constant barrier. "I know, but," she swallowed, feeling a bit silly now knowing that he noticed that line just as much as she did, "It's just a nice feeling—like you care, and all." 

The contact he made with her gaze was easy and open, unwavering. "It's because I do care." 

Just then, as convenient as ever, their arrival was announced. The train slowed to a stop, passengers readying to exit the car. 

Letting go of the rail, Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "C'mon," he murmured, keeping her close as he guided them into the fray of the moving passengers. 

(Y/N) followed absently wherever he needed, her heels hitting the ground in quiet clicks. She wasn't sure what the squeeze in her lungs and stuttering in her chest meant, but feeling Harry at her side made it that much more prevalent.

—————

Looking ahead, (Y/N) spotted the line leading up to Francesca's club of choice for the night. Waiting patrons were roping around the sidewalk, chattering with cigarettes in hand, impatient at the wait time. Even from where they were, out on the sidewalk leading up to the bouncing building, pumping music could be heard. (She's ninety-eight percent sure it was a Dua Lipa song, but she couldn't hear it exactly). 

Harnessed in neon pink tubes was the name of the club: Rêve. 

At her side, Harry ignored the end of the line, taking her to the front just as Fran had instructed. 

A burly bouncer sized them up, already doubting them after they cut the wait. (Y/N) offered her tabloid bunny smile, Harry the structured pillar at her side. 

"Salut! Nous sommes ici pour rencontrer des amis sur un stand VIP, l'un d'entre eux ayant réservé pour la nuit," she chattered, keeping her eye contact with the bouncer. 

The bouncer didn't look entirely impressed as he listened. His gaze inched from hers to land on Harry. "Nom?" 

"Francesca Polair—nous sommes deux de ses invités." 

The bouncer's eyes tripped down her form, taking in her shimmery dress and lengths of skin on display. "Pièce d'identité?" 

While she reached for her small bag with her ID inside, the bouncer unclipped a small tablet that was hung from his belt. Handing over her passport, she watched as he squinted at the American identification. Nonetheless, her name inevitably matched that of what was on Fran's guest list. 

"Vous êtes prêt à entrer. Est-il avec toi?" He asked, eyeing up Harry at her side. 

"Oui, cela devrait également figurer sur la liste. Harry Styles." 

This time the bouncer didn't properly look at the tablet, instead, taking her word for it though he still shot Harry a suspicious look with the way he lingered at her side. 

Holding open the door, he nodding at (Y/N) to push past. "Les tribunes sont au fond, derrière la piste de danse."

"Merci," she murmured, stepping past him with Harry just a step behind.

Inside, the bass of the music that could be heard outside was that much louder, lyrics in French that were too loud for her to focus on enough to translate in her head. The space was dark, leaving only strobing beams of multicolored lights to throb through the club, the only stable beacons being that of the bars lining some of the walls. 

Concentrations of people were found on the dance floor and the bars, leaving walkways in between to travel through. Staff and bottleservice workers traipsed through, fluorescent drinks with herbs perched on the rims were stationed on trays next to full bottles of sparkling liquor and beers that probably had no business being as expensive as they were. 

The VIP section was a straight shot down to the back, easy to spot given the second bouncer manning the entrance and the stream of bottle service staff making their way there. Harry reminded her of his presence with a hand hovering on the small of her back, over the glittering fabric of her dress. 

"Alright?" he asked, dipping down close to her ear in order for her to hear. 

"Mhm," she hummed, nodding her head with stray baby hairs tickling the borders of her face, "We just need to get back there to Fran and Emma." 

Harry followed her line of sight towards the booths lining the back. In that way he always did, a reflex that had to have come from years in his line of work, he took inventory of the path to the back, noting the bodies in the way and the easiest route back. 

"Okay," he murmured, looking determined when he positioned himself in front of her with his fingers looping around her wrist. 

He took the lead then, ensuring her path was clear as she stepped behind him. She couldn't hear if he was speaking over the sound of the music, but she wondered if he was muttering something to those around them that had them parting, no one able to even brush against her as she slipped through the crowd. She could feel eyes landing on her back as she stepped through, but no one stopped her, no one raised a camera at the spectacle. 

Before they could even reach the bouncer, a pitched scream that careened over the pumping music had (Y/N)'s eyes snapping up the raised level that the booths were situated on. Glowing like a mermaid with big waves in her hair and slinky blue dress adorning her body was Francesca, bright smile that much whiter under the lights as she spotted her best friend. The almost empty drink in her hand was perfect evidence of just how she was able to pitch her voice so high. 

"(Y/N)!" she bubbled, racing out of her chosen booth on Bambi legs, "You're here! I missed you so much—come here, come here!" 

She all but pushed the bouncer aside as she met them at the entrance to the section, the top of the small trio of stairs being where she stopped. The bouncer didn't stop them as Harry pulled her into the safety of the VIP area. Francesca barely glanced at her bodyguard before she had (Y/N) wrapped up in a hug, her glass precariously teetering on her shoulder. 

"Emma brought Stavros so she's been all over him," Francesca whined, "I was scared you were going to leave me with her." 

"I told you I was on my way," (Y/N) giggled, peeking through the fluff that was Fran's hair to spy Harry standing off to the side in wait of her. She shot him a look, widened eyes with a quiet smile as if to let him in on the inside joke that was her friend's drunken blubbers. 

"I know, but I forgot. It doesn't matter, though, everything's okay now," Francesca rushed out, pulling away from the hug to pull (Y/N) towards the chosen booth for the night. Suddenly, she seemed to finally notice Harry was there as well, despite the fact that he had been the one leading her into the section in the first place. "Harry! Hi," she bubbled, waving at him with her drink in hand. 

"Hi, Francesca," he said, giving her a nod in greeting before his eyes met (Y/N)'s. It was his turn to give her a small look, their own moment of amusement over her. 

"Are you partying with us tonight?" she asked, eyes bright at the idea of Harry joining in on the fun. 

Harry shook his head, features schooled away from that quiet look he shared with (Y/N). "Not tonight—'m on duty." 

"That's a bummer," Fran pouted. Turning towards (Y/N), she seemingly forgot what had her bummed in the first place, instead replacing her sullen pout with a mischievous smile. "But, are you ready for a drink? We have a couple bottles at the table if you want to do shots!"

Before (Y/N) had a chance to properly answer, Fran led them to the secluded booth off to the corner of the roped off section. There, Emma and Stavros were canoodling away in the padded corner just as Francesca had complained, Emma with her hand sitting on the bare section of chest her boyfriend had on display with his barely buttoned shirt. He looked a little too satisfied with her attention, the way he was sinking into the leather booth and spreading his legs as if inviting Emma further. (Y/N) couldn't blame Fran for panicking at the idea of being left alone with the lovebirds for the night. As happy as they were for lovestruck Emma, the public intimacy was a bit much. 

True to her word, on the round table in the middle of the half-moon booth were two bottles of expensive liquor. Tiny shot glasses were standing in a stack by the bottles, a pair already having been used. 

Just as Francesca moved to pour (Y/N) one of her own small glasses, she was stopped with a hand on her arm. "I don't want to do too much tonight, Fran," she told her in her ear, hoping she could hear her over the music, "I have pilates in the morning, then I was going to hunt for a new nail studio." 

"Oh!" Fran chirped, the remains of her drink sloshing in her glass, "Why didn't you say so? We'll just get you a vodka soda then, so you stay hydrated." 

Before (Y/N) could even laugh at her friend's well-intentioned solution, Francesca was already flagging down one of the bottle service workers to place another order. (Y/N) didn't try to stop her, more than willing of this to be her drink of choice for the night instead of a round of shots. 

Emma, suddenly breaking out of her love bubble, noticed (Y/N) for the first time despite having been standing by their table for a handful of minutes now. "(Y/N)!" she cheered, eyes glazed and lips puffy, "Look, Stavros, (Y/N)'s here!" 

"Hi Emma," (Y/N) greeted, reaching across the table to give her a short hug, "Hi Stavros." 

"(Y/N)?" Stavros repeated back to Emma, a confused pinch between his brows. 

"You met her at the Gala, remember?" she answered, attempting to jog his memory, "She was in the pink dress with the little bag." 

"Oh, yes!" Stavros perked up, looking to (Y/N) with recognition in his eyes, "The crying girl, yes?" 

Underneath her skin, (Y/N)'s blood simmered with embarrassment. With Harry being the only person she'd been around since leaving New York, and Francesca being well aware of how unnecessary that night was to bring up, no one had brought up the Gala and the contents of the night to her face. She knew that was what many people in attendance were going to remember her for, but she didn't think it would be so blatantly broadcasted to her face. 

Emma shifted her gaze to (Y/N), most likely knowing through Francesca that the Gala was a topic that was off limits for the time being. The silence between the trio lasted a beat too long for (Y/N)'s comfort. She swallowed down that prickling embarrassment, instead giving a smile.

"That was me," she laughed it off, "Hopefully I'll stay out of trouble tonight." 

That seemed to be enough to quell the lovebirds' nerves, allowing Emma to smile and laugh along while Stavros gave a peal of laughter that was too enthused for (Y/N) to believe he actually understood what she said. Nonetheless, the awkward beat had been extinguished and now only lived in (Y/N)'s head for the time being. At least no one else was listening, Francesca too busy with her ordering and Harry just a few too many feet away to catch specific conversations. 

"How have you been, (Y/N)? I've barely been able to talk to you since you left," Emma started up, leaning forward to give (Y/N) all of her attention. 

Though she was sure it was a way to fill in the gaps of the conversation and pave over the bump Stavros left in the night, (Y/N) was grateful for the change in subject, recounting her time in the city. Francesca eventually settled in beside her in the booth, giving her own commentary on the things (Y/N) had already shared with her over dinner. Harry was stationed a few feet away, allowing her some space and privacy for the night though she could still feel his eyes landing on her every now and then as she gesticulated through the story of their day of sightseeing.

Soon enough, drinks arrived at the table along with a wish for their group to have a fun night. Her vodka soda bubbled in hand, the first sips holding the aroma of the rosemary sprig that was lanced through the cubes of ice. Francesca and Emma on the other hand downed a pair of shots while Stavros cheered on his girlfriend. 

By the time the burn had left Francesca's throat and she unclenched her eyes, (Y/N) had only made it through a couple of short pulls of her light drink. Francesca looked at her with bright eyes, the strobes from the dance floor tinting them a vibrant blue.

"Let's go dance, c'mon!" she bubbled, already standing on her wobbling legs before she finished speaking. 

Peeking around her, she found the dance floor crowded but nowhere near packed in the way some of the spots in New York could get at this hour. The music was good enough, and she didn't plan on wasting her first night out with friends over a throw away comment from Emma's boyfriend and the fear that she might embarrass herself again. 

Allowing Francesca to sweep her away, Emma and Stavros unsurprisingly staying back for a moment, (Y/N) found Harry's eyes for a moment. He looked at her with that solid eye contact he never wavered on when it came to her. A slight pinch lingered between his brows.

She shot him a small smile and a single nod.

She was going to have a good night. Harry didn't need to worry.

—————

"I love this song!" 

(Y/N) let out an easy, boisterous laugh at Francesca's bubbling comment, throwing her head back with her eyes closed. Did she even know this song? Given the fact Fran's French was nowhere near as refined as (Y/N)'s, there was a high chance she didn't understand a single syllable pumping through the speakers. Nonetheless, (Y/N) kept dancing along with her friend, hands twisting high above her head with her hips swaying.

More than one drink had passed through her hands, a couple passed the limit she set for herself at the start of the night. She would be fine, though, she was sure. She was barely even tipsy, she thought. The Cosmo in her hand was slick against her palm, having replaced the vodka soda she started with.

Across from her Francesca was having the time of her life with Emma and Stavros rounding out their group. Harry was somewhere in the distance, keeping an eye on her. More than once, he checked in from across the room, even sending for another drink for her when he heard her complaining of needing another. He treaded around her carefully, ensuring he didn't infringe on her night while doing his job to the best of his ability. 

At the top of the night, she noticed a few eyes on her, some whispering with those wandering eyes landing on her a few too many times. Though she would love to assume they were only speaking of her dress or sharing comments about the state of her dancing, her years in the light pushed her to speculate these were people who recognized her. As more drinks started flowing, her inhibition for the night waning, she let it go when she caught glimpses of phone cameras trained in her direction, a few people even daring to make their way closer to her on the dance floor. 

Harry kept a careful eye on the situation, watching her movements and keeping track of those around her. (Y/N) was sure a few of the times he stepped in to grab her another drink or check in on her, it was nothing short of a tactic to separate her from the others on the floor, reminding them that she wasn't a gazelle to be preyed on. 

Suddenly, a pair of hands slid around her waist. She jumped in her skin for a moment, her heated skin erupting in goosebumps. Though her dancing lagged for just a moment, she honestly didn't really care about the touch. With her eyes closed, and head trained towards the sky, she halfway figured it was Emma who was dancing with her, having abandoned her boyfriend to cuddle up for a moment. 

Until she heard Emma's tittering laugh from a space away. In front of her. 

Blinking her eyes open, (Y/N) took stock of those around her. Emma was stretching up to her tiptoes as she sealed her lips to Stavros', her hands locked in his hair, only pulling away when he whispered something to her that made her laugh. Francesca was off to the side of her, making moony eyes at an unfamiliar man in front of her, there chattering silent under the thrumming music. On her waist was the hand of someone she didn't know. 

Stumbling in her spot, she tried to whirl around in an attempt to see who exactly it was that was behind her. The hand on her waist tightened, steadying her as he leaned down with his mouth by her ear. 

"Sorry, chérie," an accented voice said over her shoulder, "I didn't mean to scare you." 

Unable to help the peal of laughter that fell from her lips, (Y/N) realized something just then. 

She was drunk.

In a different moment, with a different drink in her hand (probably water), she wouldn't have been quite so welcoming to having someone touch her and use a pet name so casually. 

Instead, she didn't really mind. She could only laugh and hang onto his hand, keeping herself steady as she tipped her head backwards to see him. 

"It's okay," she slurred, "I just wasn't expecting that." Blue eyes stared back at her, topped by black brows. He smelled like smoke and vodka Red Bulls. "Who are you?" 

The man laughed at her blunt question, the sound mixing with the music. "I am Marc," he told her, eyes shifting over her head to where Francesca was standing, "And that's my friend, Alain. We thought you and your friend were beautiful, so we wanted to introduce ourselves." 

"Oh, okay," she sounded, matching his line of sight a little too quickly with her hair fluttered around her face. Much more stable on her feet again, she spun on her heels, facing her mystery man—Marc—properly. "Nice to meet you," she bubbled, taking an absent sip from her drink, "I'm (Y/N)." 

Dipping down, Marc pressed a swift kiss to the soft of her cheek. "Nice to meet you, (Y/N). I've been having to work up the courage to come talk to you since I first came in here." 

While in the back of her muddled mind, (Y/N) knew well that he was feeding her nothing but lines, she wasn't sure if she cared. There had been enough times she had been seduced by a French accent and enough wine to know that this was just one of those things. French men were much more romantic in her experiences, their lines matching the intimacy they were seeking from her. 

Was it such a bad thing to revel in the niceties, though? The last time someone had openly flirted with her now ranked in the top five worst nights of her life, so it felt a little more than nice to have someone piling compliments and cushioned flirting. Was it such a bad thing to indulge herself? To soak in a second of outside validation?

Though the standard wasn't that high, at least he wasn't grabbing her face and demeaning her. 

Letting her hesitations go, drifting to the back of her mind with the help of the alcohol train running off the tracks, she leaned towards him with a giggling smile. "Well, I'm happy you did," she beamed, her eyes hooded. 

Taking another pull of her drink, her straw hit the bottom with only ice clinking against the glass. She almost wanted to whine at the sight. She had been hoping for more. 

"Do you want me to get you another?" Marc asked, nodding towards her drink when she looked up at him. 

"Um, hold on," she told him, already craning her neck to look around him in hopes of spotting someone else.

(Y/N) scanned the blur of bodies for Harry. It didn't take long to see the only sober person in the crowd, his gaze sharp and commanding through the strobing lights. He stood off the dance floor with his arms across his chest. Raising his brows, he matched her gaze. Canting her head, she raised her glass over her head as if that was enough of an explanation. 

Harry gave her a small nod before she was looking back at her new friend. 

"One of my friends has been getting me drinks tonight, actually. So, thanks, but I've got it." A hiccup punctuated her words. 

Marc looked over his shoulder, surely spotting Harry who was making his way through the crowd to her. "You said he's your friend?" 

"Uh-huh," (Y/N) sounded, wanting to see Harry herself but instead opting to sway to the sound of the music. He'd be here soon enough. "He's technically my bodyguard, but he's my friend.

"Bodyguard?" Marc repeated, looking back towards (Y/N).

Even though her vodka-soaked thought process, she noted the way he didn't seem too put off by the fact she had any kind of security detail. Maybe, that was that French disposition—the inability to care that much—but that wasn't something she was able to think about for very long. 

"Uh-huh," she answered nonetheless, a hiccup making her pause, "It's a long story. I'm from New York, and there's been a lot of stuff going on, so, yeah, he's my bodyguard." 

Speak of the devil, Harry popped in then, having elbowed his way through to stand at (Y/N)'s side. He didn't pay Marc a single moment of attention, looking only to her with his secure gaze. 

"Y'want another, or water?"

While she couldn't deny she was reveling under Marc's attention, it was also very clear to herself how much she preferred Harry's eyes on her opposed to her new companion. There were sparks of relief upon seeing him within touching distance again, knowing that he was right there. If there was anything she needed, he was there now to remedy her situation. She knew he was taking note of everything, uncaring of whether or not her makeup was intact, assuring that she was safe and taken care of. 

But, Marc actually called her pretty. He won for the night, (Y/N) decided.

"I think I want another, but then I want water," she shouted over the music, giving Harry her glass for him to discard at the bar. 

Raising a dark brow, Harry gave her that amused look. "That's what y'said last time." 

She laughed easily at his prodding, her grin stretching wide over her lips and head dropping backwards. "I know," she sang, "But I mean it this time." 

"Whatever you say," he teased, "But I'll get you another. Jus' stay right here and wait for me." 

"Merci," she crooned to him, suddenly remembering Marc's presence when he squeezed at her waist. 

Before (Y/N) could offer for Harry to grab Marc a drink while he was at the bar as well, Harry was already off. He made a quick detour, checking on her friends then sinking into the thick of the crowd once more. 

She hadn't even known she was watching the space he disappeared into until Marc snaked his hand up the line of her spine, palm flat against her back as he pushed her into him. (Y/N) turned her attention to him, mouth in a small gape as he matched her gaze head-on. His eyes were a lot icier than she remembered. 

"Do you maybe want to go sit down for a second somewhere?" he asked, dipping down to press his cheek against hers with his lips by her ear, "It's hard to hear you out here." 

"In a second," she answered, hiccuping against his chest, "I need to wait for him." 

"You have a booth for the night, though, right? Up in the VIP section?" he pressed, seemingly not catching her caveat in sneaking away. 

"I-I do, but Harry—my drink." 

"I'm sure he'll be able to find you up there, don't worry," Marc insisted, herding (Y/N) off the dance floor and towards the sectioned off dais. 

Though her footing wasn't the most stable at the moment, (Y/N) still attempted to dig her heels in and stay put. Harry told her to stay here. She had promised him she would keep his job easy while in Paris, and she knew that sneaking off wasn't something that would abide by that promise. 

Out of nowhere, Francesca's hand clasped around her shoulder. In her other hand was Marc's friend's arm, her eyes hooded and glazed. 

"Let's go up to the booth," she drawled, words a little slurred. 

"Are you sure?" (Y/N) asked, the slightly more sober of the duo, "Harry is supposed to come back over here; he told me to wait." 

Francesca shook her head with her fluff of styled hair. "He'll"—hic—"He'll be able to find you. It's okay." 

It wouldn't be so bad if Francesca and Emma were up there with her. Harry wasn't stupid either, the next place he would look after the dance floor would have to be the booth, right? it would be okay. 

Giving a nod to Fran, (Y/N) allowed her to lead their small group towards the VIP area, Marc and his friend happily intermingling with the group and Emma and Stavros bringing up the rear. 

Despite her hesitancy, she did feel a bit better by the time she scaled the small set of stairs. She was nowhere near sober and the music wasn't much quieter than down on the floor, but at least here she wasn't stuffed between bodies. She could open her eyes and see stretches of the floor, her body touching non-humid air again. 

She was happy to see the booth once more, grateful to take a seat and get the pressure off her feet and the heels she had strapped around her ankles. Though Marc didn't slide in beside her like she expected. Instead, stood at the head of the table and lent down to speak to her. 

"I have a couple of other friends I brought tonight. Do you mind if I go get them? I'm their ride so I don't want them to worry," he told her, looking innocently with icy blue eyes. 

"Friends?" (Y/N) asked, unsure if it was the alcohol or the outlandish request that wasn't computing. 

"Yeah, just a few. They're down there," Marc recited, casting a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll be right back, okay?" 

With that, he was heading back down the entrance of the VIP area, leaving (Y/N) and the girls behind. 

Fran, little black straw in her mouth with water finally having been poured in her glass, lent across the booth, gently touching (Y/N)'s shoulder. When she turned, she caught the woozy smile on Francesca's face. 

"Your guy is really cute," she said, her words dissolving into laughter. 

"Yeah," (Y/N) answered absently, "But, did yours tell you that they're bringing friends over here?" 

"Yeah," Fran simply repeated, taking another long sip of her water. 

While it didn't particularly soothe her that Francesca didn't seem to care about the new uninvited guests, she figured there wasn't much else she could glean about her thoughts while in her drunken state. Instead, she let Francesca insert herself into Emma and Stavros' conversation, while (Y/N) searched for Harry. Soon enough, she spotted him approaching the dais, pink drink in hand and water in the other. There was a particularly stern set in his jaw, clearly disappointed. 

Coming to the booth, he ducked down to place the duo of drinks in front of her, the water closer to the foreground. He looked at her through the fan of his lashes, lips a stern line as he lent across to talk to her. 

"I thought y'were going to wait for me down there," he told her, lips by her ear. 

"Um, yeah," she responded, dropping her gaze to the cranberry juice heavy Cosmopolitan she ordered, "That guy—my friend—, he said he wanted to talk to me here so it was a little bit quieter. But, now he's getting some friends he said he didn't want to leave behind." 

(Y/N) didn't have to see Harry to know he was particularly unimpressed with this new information. "He said he's bringing friends? To come and sit up here with you?" 

"Yeah," she told him, voice small with a nod of her head. 

The more she said it out loud, the less and less of a good idea it sounded to her ears. 

"Okay," he sighed, pulling away to match her eye contact head-on, "'M going to be right there, then." Behind him, he pointed at the glass railing that reinforced the boundaries of the VIP section, a good place for him to take up post and keep an eye on her. "Make sure y'stay with Emma and Francesca, okay? Don't let them get separated from you. Remember what we talked about that I need you to do if you're uncomfortable." 

Swallowing, (Y/N) nodded her head, looking at him with wide eyes. Though the scene around him blurred a little too much, vodka-tinted vision, she made sure she locked eyes with him. "Okay. I remember." 

That seemed to quell him enough, though that set in his jaw never loosened. "Good. I'll be right there, just grab me if y'need me." 

With Harry blending into his post, his eyes unwavering on her form, (Y/N) attempted to settle herself with sips of her water. Soon enough, a larger group of people infiltrated the VIP section, their access to get through having been the fact two of the members had been previously seen with (Y/N) and Francesca. 

The group of friends looked a lot different than what (Y/N) had expected. Two more men had joined the fray, along with three women. The entire friend group being that of seven people, adding into the group of four that were (Y/N) and her friends. 

"Thanks for letting me bring them up here," Marc said, sly smile on his lips when he slipped into the booth beside (Y/N), "They really wanted to meet you guys." 

"Y-Yeah, of course," she stuttered out, though Marc clearly stopped listening before she even started. 

His eyes wandered to one of the women he brought up, watching as she flagged down a bottle service worker. (Y/N) could hear her rattling off orders in French, pointing back at Francesca and (Y/N) settled into the booth. While she was busy, the others had descended upon the liquor already on the table, draining the bottles.

"What's wrong?" Marc asked, voice a tad too sweet. As if he didn't have a single idea of what she could be bothered by. 

"There's just a lot of people," (Y/N) answered, clutching her glass of water tight. If she had the attention to spare, she would have looked towards Francesca for assistance, to see if she was the only one thrown off. But there was too much happening, and she couldn't even see Harry through the new mass forming in their booth. 

Marc waved her off carelessly, "Don't worry about them. Just have fun, chérie. The night is still young." 

Around her, she saw the maelstrom that had begun. Drinks were flowing, Francesca happily distracted with Alain, Emma and Stavros in their bubble, and a few of the new additions to the table pairing off with affectionate hands. There was only one woman left—the one that had initially flagged down the bottle service worker—who was carefully watching Marc at (Y/N)'s side. 

Everyone was having fun, she figured. The two bottles they had on their table had been drained with Francesca a moment away from catching her man for the night in a kiss. Even the woman with eyes on Marc was swaying to the music, empty shot glasses in front of her. 

(Y/N) did want to have fun. 

"C'mon, dance with me," Marc persuaded, standing up with his hand held out for her to take. 

After a beat of hesitation, (Y/N) took his offered hand and joined him, paying enough attention to the music above to let everything go just a hair. With Marc egging her on, a hand landing on her waist, she swayed along to the beat, hanging more fun the less she thought. 

It wasn't until she took a sip of her water that Marc interrupted her. 

"No, have fun, chérie," he pressed, taking the water out of her hand and reaching for the abandoned Cosmopolitan. 

"I don't know," (Y/N) started, intending to reject the drink until it was shoved into her hand. 

"Don't be boring, chérie," Marc chided, as if he were close enough to her to tease, "Don't let it go to waste, at least." 

While it wasn't solid logic considering (Y/N) was the one paying for her drink, it was enough of a persuasion to work on her muddled brain. She pliantly fit the thin black straw between her lips, allowing herself to drift into the moment. It wasn't so bad, she decided. The extra people weren't so bad in their sanctioned area. It didn't even bother her that much when three more bottles were delivered to the table, sparklers and all with a procession of excited staff fueling the fire. 

"I told them it was alright to order some bottles for the table," Marc sounded over the music, looping an arm around her shoulders to press her to his chest, "I can pay you back though if you want, I just kind of figured it would be okay since you're from New York and all." 

Looking to the table, she saw as the rest of his friends swarmed the table, Alain even abandoning Francesca to join in the rounds of shots. (Y/N)'s name wasn't even officially on the table, but they'd still managed to put things on her tab. 

Floundering over her response, (Y/N) could feel her mouth gape before closing once more. In this moment, more than anything she wished she hadn't drank so much. This wouldn't be much of a struggle if she could manage to focus or not dredge through miles of muddy tracks in her head. It was easier to let things go at the moment instead of allowing the bubbling blow up that would have transpired earlier in the night. 

"Um—Just, don't order too much," (Y/N) conditioned, her brows coming together in a loose pinch. 

"It'll be alright," he assured her, that arm around her shoulders tightening to get her eyes back on him, "C'mon let's finish our drinks." 

Marc's free hand came up to urge her drink up to her mouth. (Y/N) hesitated for a moment, contemplating for a split second. While it was annoying, the extra bottles ordered in her name at the table, but it wasn't so bad. The night was going fine enough, and Marc was nice. She didn't want to ruin anything or make any kind of scene in the middle of the club. Harry's eyes were no doubt trained on her. 

Even with her father countries away at the moment, she was sure he'd find a way to punish her accordingly if Harry had to report anything unpleasant back. 

Pliantly, (Y/N) pulled the thin black straw between her lips, taking down her Cosmopolitan.

—————

Unsure of how she got here, (Y/N) couldn't help but to stare wide eyed at Marc and his—surprisingly enough—girlfriend dancing on the table. 

At least she assumed that was his girlfriend, with the way his tongue was down her throat and hand was on her ass. 

Honestly, she couldn't be that surprised, considering this woman was the same one that had been staring possessively the whole time Marc was interacting with her. But, how they ended up on the table, dancing to some French song she was not sober enough to understand, (Y/N) did not know. 

Around the table, the rest of that friend group had grown just as rowdy. The floor was sticky with spilled drinks, the waitstaff offering dirty looks from the amount of times one of the couples had attempted to smoke, and the neighboring tables were beginning to lose patience with their chaos. 

Francesca was definitely out of her head for the night, every sip of alcohol definitely hitting her system heavily. While she may have had qualms with the etiquette of their unwanted guests if she were sober, she definitely didn't with the way she was willing to ignore as much in favor of dancing and playing with Emma when she wasn't busy with Stavros. Emma's boyfriend, being the most sober of the group, was less than impressed, whispering something into Emma's ear that (Y/N) hoped was a game plan to get out of here. 

Searching through the mass that had been created around the table, (Y/N) tried to spot Harry. She wanted to get out of here. There was no reasoning with the way these people were behaving, and she wanted to get out of here before she was pushed too far. 

Suddenly, a strong hand landed on her shoulder. Turning on her heel, she startled at the touch. 

Harry stood behind her, his jaw set and brows in a furrow. Dipping his head down, he told her, "We need to leave." 

Even with her head swimming, (Y/N) jerkily nodded her head. "I don't want to be here anymore," she answered, "Th-They're being crazy." 

"Yeah." His answer was simple and stern, flicking his gaze up to the couple dancing on the table. His eyes blazed at the sight of Marc, definitely having played with (Y/N) through the night to get up to this section. "C'mon," he prompted, using his hand on her shoulder to help guide her through the booth before meeting him on the other side. 

Despite her drunken legs, she dug her heels in. "But, Fran and Emma." 

"I'll call them a car, we jus' need to leave before this gets any more out of hand. Tell them we're leaving." 

Nodding, Harry let go of her before she tried to swim across to catch Francesca. Even when she grabbed her hand, Fran kept dancing, on a different planet that kept her eyes plugged and head drowning. 

"Francesca!" (Y/N) shouted, trying to be heard over the music. 

"(Y/N)!" she answered, barely glancing at her with a flip of her hair before she was dancing on an odd rhythm. 

Attempting to catch her attention once more, (Y/N) was stopped as Marc leaned down, his lips swollen and eyes glazed.

"You're not leaving, right?" he yelled over the music, his words watery and slurred, "You're supposed to stay and party with us, New York!" 

(Y/N) stammered over an answer. "I—um—" 

"We've seen those pictures of you, we know you like to have a good time! You can't leave yet!" 

Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, part of her chest felt a little too tight. Of course, they knew who she was. Of course, they'd seen photos of her. 

"I'm sorry, I don't feel good," she responded, uncaring if he could hear her over the music anymore. 

Something shifted in Marc, then. His features morphed almost before her eyes, his eyes darkening and brows tightening. "How are we supposed to pay for all of this, if you aren't here?!" 

"I'm sorry, but I'm not staying here," she affirmed, shaking her head, "I'm grabbing my friends and—" 

"Wow," he spat, cutting her off, "You really are a bitch—just like everyone says," 

Stepping up behind her, Harry placed a stern hand on Marc's chest, pushing him out of (Y/N)'s space. 

"Back off, unless y'would prefer to have a problem," he started, his rough voice heavy over the music. Marc teetered off balance, the woman at his side having to steady him as he looked at Harry with offended eyes. 

"Who a—" 

"We're leaving," Harry cemented, ignoring whatever Marc was going to try to say, "You are going to find a way to pay for all of this, or you'll be hearing from me again. You're not going to be taking advantage of her." 

There was no room left for Marc to argue before Harry wrangled up the girls, Stavros helping to guide both Fran and Emma out of the booth. 

"C'mere," Harry said, offering (Y/N) his hand to help her climb over the back of the booth. 

She happily took his hand, carefully stepping over the faux-leather with Harry grabbing her waist to help her over the structure. Tottering on her heels for just a moment, Harry didn't linger for very long before he was rushing her out of the VIP section. She could feel dirty looks on her back from the staff, but she didn't care at the moment. 

Instead, she clung to Harry as they caught up to Francesca and Emma, Stavros heading their line on his much steadier feet. The closer they ventured to the exit, the more and more drunk she felt. The more removed she became from the pumping music and the other alcohol-soaked bodies, the more the real world was not suited to her current state. 

"Careful," Harry murmured in her ear, righting her from a stumble she hadn't realized she made. Slipping an arm around her waist, he curled his hand around her hip.

"Sorry, sorry," she answered, fixing her gaze on her feet in hopes of staying cautious like he asked. Absently, she grabbed his hand on her hip, laying her palm against the top of hand with her fingers curling in-between the gaps of his.

Harry pulsed his hand, both her hip and fingers cradled in his hold. 

Stavros pushed the exit door open for everyone to follow, the first light of the outside world glimmering into the otherwise dark club. Even with the alcohol muddling her thoughts, (Y/N) still caught the way Francesca stumbled back when she stepped out, her hands blindly reaching up to cover her eyes. 

(Y/N)'s steps slowed, bright flashes pinging out on the sidewalk. Those people—the ones who stole their table and tacked (Y/N)'s name on the end of their bill—they wouldn't have posted about her, would they? While she might not be as hugely followed out here compared to New York, there were definitely international publications that enjoyed snapping her photo and selling it off. 

Heading up the rear, Harry continued to pull her towards the exit, even when (Y/N) saw another round of flashbulbs go off when Emma made her appearance out on the concrete. Shouted questions in French could be heard, bubbling just over the sound of the music. 

"Stay with me," Harry murmured to her, "There should be some cars waiting, jus' stay steady, (Y/N)." 

She wanted to listen, she really did. But, the shuttering cameras and bright blinking bulbs was enough to get her hesitating just enough that she couldn't keep up. She didn't want to be seen like this, not after the way this night had turned out. 

As attentive as Harry was, always observant, he was on a mission and that didn't include (Y/N) dragging while he tried to get her to a safe place. 

As he tugged her over the threshold of the door, Stavros still holding it open, she stumbled against Harry's pulling, her heel catching just right. Flashes twinkled in her face, cameras blinking as photographs were taken of her stumbling outside, clinging to Harry with her breath caught in her throat. The toe of her pump dragged over the concrete, her lost balance weighing her down until Harry righted her, steadying his grip around her waist with his free hand reaching for her hip.

"Y'alright?" he murmured to her, suddenly breathless as he helped her back onto her feet. 

"I'm okay," she told her, voice a peep under the bright attention. 

Pressing questions were spewed in her direction, many asking who Harry was, why she was in Paris, and how drunk she was. (Y/N) ignored them all, focusing on following Harry who now led the group towards the waiting cars. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice low for her ears only, "I didn't mean to trip you." 

(Y/N) shook her head. "It's okay," she assured him, eyes on her feet to calculate her steps, "I just want to go home." 

"We will." Harry's simple answer was just that before he quickened his pace, allowing (Y/N) to keep up as they pushed through the throng of photographers waiting outside the club. 

With Stavros heading up the back of their procession, many of the paparazzi were unable to follow any of the girls without getting through him first. As kind as he was, she could tell he used that Greek glare to his advantage, acting as if he couldn't believe they were following him while being an oblivious block in the road. 

That extra distraction allowed Harry to lead the group somewhere safe, around the side of a building a little too narrow for anyone else to follow. Two black sedans were parked against the curb. 

Without hesitation, Harry adjusted his grip on (Y/N), practically hugging her to his chest. She curled into him, fitting her forehead against the column of his throat with her arms a bundle between them. Harry cradled her with his arms around her waist, keeping her safe with him after the chaos that erupted. 

She could hear him speaking over her head to Emma and Stavros, ensuring they were going to take care of Francesca and that he had taken care of the fees of their reserved vehicle. She wanted to participate, tell Emma she was sorry for the night's turn and assure Stavros that every night (Y/N) was involved in didn't dissolve into a scrambled mess, but instead she kept herself warm against Harry's chest and let him do the talking for them. She would call Emma later she decided—maybe text her if her hangover didn't allow phone calls in the morning. 

"That one's yours," Harry directed, (Y/N) noticing his words only when he unlinked an arm around her to point, "It was nice to meet you. Get home safe." 

Stavros answered back in broken English while Emma was busy herding Francesca along with them. Muttered discussion could be heard with the driver of their vehicle before car doors were opens and slammed shut. The sound reverberated for a moment, before silence settled. 

"Our turn?" (Y/N) asked, pulling away to look up at Harry holding her. 

His lips were thin, eyes downturned as he gazed at her. "C'mon," he responded, loosening his hold in exchange for leading her towards the single waiting sedan

He took charge, speaking to the driver through the rolled down window, even if his French was less than stellar. Once all the details and verifications are figured out, Harry helped her in the backseat, pushing her in first before leaning in and helping her buckle up. While (Y/N) had anticipated that cushion of space to be between them as usual, he surprised her by sliding in right at her side, a long arm laying across the top of the seat behind her head.

Peeking through the rearview mirror, (Y/N) caught the driver eyeing she and Harry, her brown eyes fluttering with recognition. (Y/N) curled into herself then, dropping her gaze to her hands in her lap while Harry's dropped to the cuff of her shoulder. In French, he reiterated the address of the penthouse when their driver didn't immediately pull away from the curb. 

Once the road was under their tires, the sound of the gear shifting and setting them off away from the club, (Y/N) felt herself begin to relax. Even if their driver knew who she was, it was a less daunting experience than waiting outside of a paparazzi litter club while waitstaff inside were no doubt spinning rumors about her low class and patrons were spitting over the fact they had to foot the bill they ran up. 

Casting her memory back to the front of the night was enough to exhaust her into slumping against Harry's shoulder. 

"I want water," she blurted out, nestling into the divot between his shoulder and chest. 

Harry pulsed his arm around her frame, keeping her warm against his chest. "I'll get y'some water as soon as we're back, yeah?" 

"I want to take my makeup off, though," she mused, a pinch appearing between her brows though her eyes fluttered closed. 

"We'll take your makeup off when we get back, yeah? First thing." 

"I want food, too." 

A breathy laugh disturbed where she was cuddled into him. "I'll get y'something to eat when we get back, yeah?" 

Mulling it over for a lingering second, (Y/N) agreed with a nod of her head. "Yeah," she parroted, pleased enough with his operation. 

The gentle motion of the turns and slow stops the car made was enough to settle (Y/N) into a light trance, her head filling with sleep-puffed clouds. She forced herself to stay awake, hoping the elapsed time was as long as it felt. 

"I didn't get to say bye to the girls," (Y/N) said, hoping to keep herself awake enough for Harry to get her water, food, and her makeup off like he promised.

"I told them you'd call, or you can text them later," he explained, shifting over the leather of the seat.

"You don't think they're mad, right?" she pressed, voice quieter, "That I ruined everything with those guys?" 

A pause of silence sat as the third passenger for a moment, heavy before Harry spoke. "Of course, they're not. 'S not your fault any of that happened—you're jus' too nice sometimes, that's all." 

"No one's ever said that about me before." (Y/N) couldn't help the short smile that tickled the corners of her mouth. 

"What do you mean?" 

"That I'm too nice," she beamed, snuggling closer to Harry, "Usually it's the opposite." 

Perfect timing came in the form of their cab stopping outside of the building, easy French words coming from the driver as she turned to talk to Harry. (Y/N) could vaguely hear him thanking her and sending payment off through his phone, before he was sliding across the leather with her in tow. 

"Careful," he crooned, offering a hand as she followed in teetering steps.

(Y/N) laced their fingers together without a second thought. Harry solidified the hold in a pulse of his fingers around hers. 

She was a step behind him with a blinking flutter of her lashes, forcing her eyes to adjust to the world once more after being shuttered for the duration of the drive. The warm lighting of the building helped her find her footing in the real world, no longer neon like the club or fluorescent like the flashbulbs of cameras. Harry kept a steady grip on her hand, taking her to the leisurely paced elevator. 

Staying stuck to his side, huddled into a single corner of the whole cubicle, soft music filled the space between them while (Y/N) recounted the night. While she definitely was not sober, stepping away from the high paced environments allowed her mind to iron out some of the details she didn't think twice about earlier. 

"I don't like when people talk to me like that," she murmured, the number on the carousel just blinking past two. 

"What do you mean?" The warmth of his gaze landed on the side of her face, his hand heavy in hers.

"That guy," she started, her breathing stuttering through the beginning of a hiccup she swallowed down, "The one at the club. He was mad that I wasn't going to be there to pay for what he and his friends ordered. I think he knew who I was even though he pretended he didn't. He called me a bitch." A beat passed. "I think that girl was his girlfriend, too—the one on the table with him." 

Harry stood quietly at her side, the ever-sturdy pillar. He listened, observed. Took everything in, as he always did. 

That silence stuck with them as the elevator chimed as they reached their floor. The doors parted for Harry to usher her through, taking her to the door before unlocking the knob and helping her forward. It wasn't until they were alone, in their private space, that he spoke again.

"I did hear him say those things," he murmured, his voice tight. 

"It was mean, wasn't it?" she asked, kicking her shoes off by the front door, her toes aching after holding her weight for the night. 

"It is," he affirmed, waiting for her to grow steady on her feet before he started towards the kitchen. True to his promise, he started with a glass of water for her, setting it on the counter before he was raiding the cabinets for a snack. He didn't look at her when he spoke again, keeping his attention forward. "You know none of that is true, though, right?" 

"Hm?" (Y/N) hummed, sipping her water with her eyes trained on his back. 

Returning with leftover gougères from the day before (Harry had become really fond of bisqué now that she showed him it didn't matter the season, soup was always a good choice), he set the cheese-baked pastries as her side before he leveled her gaze. 

"No matter what he said,'' Harry started, his words slow and deliberate, "You're not a bitch,"—he all but choked around the word—"It's not up to you to pay for him and his idiot friends. He was trying to take advantage of you." 

"I know," she swallowed, the words hitting a soft part of her muddled brain, "B-But now there's another person that thinks I'm bad." 

"I don't think that, though," he said after a beat, his voice considerably softer, matching the moss of his eyes, "Fran and Emma don't think so—neither does Sully. We all know who y'actually are, and I think that counts for something." 

Standing quietly, bare feet against the tile of the kitchen, (Y/N) allowed his words to swim in her brain. She soaked them in as much as she could, the weight of them heavy. 

"You really don't think so?" she pressed, dropping her gaze to the collar of his fitted shirt, "Even after... everything, and all the stuff my father told you?" 

Harry shook his head, a loose curl splaying across his forehead. "What your father says, means nothing to me. Everything I've seen, is y'trying your best. You're put in hard situations, and then expected to know how to handle them on your first try, all while everyone watches. It's not fair." 

Overloaded, (Y/N) tried to cling to every word he was saying. She dearly hoped she would remember this in the morning, or at least the feeling of it all. The feeling of that light hope in her chest, brighter than that of whatever French bisqué she made or fanciful purchase could inspire. 

Harry understood her. 

"That's exactly how it feels sometimes," she confided in him, blindly reaching out in hopes of catching the hem of his shirt before he did her one better and bundled both of her hands in his own. "I love Fran, I do," she told him, letting his gaze with her own soft eyes, "But, she doesn't understand me like that—like you do." 

"I wish more people understood you," Harry murmured, his words quiet enough (Y/N) wasn't sure if she heard him right. 

"You're like my best friend, now," (Y/N) responded, hoping he could catch her sincerity even if she was a little plastered. 

Those searching eyes traipsed around the planes of her face, skipping along every contour and highlight. She wished she knew what was going on in his head, what thought he had when he catalogued her like a fine gown. 

"C'mon," he beckoned her, unlacing one hand from hers only to grab the plate of gougères, "Let's eat, then we'll get ready for bed." 

(Y/N) pliantly followed, the Eiffel Tower glimmering through the windows of her balcony.

—————

Slipping out of her bedroom, (Y/N) cast her eyes around in hopes of finding Harry lounging about. 

Last night was a whirlwind that ended with her snuggled in her bed, makeup off and hair braided back but still in her dress. She woke with a half eaten gougère on her bedside table, alongside a glass of water and a small bottle of aspirin. While parts of the night were muddied, many things were still clear—including the way Harry handled her and helped take care of her friends. 

That also meant she remembered the small string of photographers that had waited outside the club, cameras flashing as she stumbled over her own feet. 

Against her better judgement, she couldn't help but to check her phone after blinking the sleep out of her eyes, wanting to see what exactly—if anything—was being written by her. 

The photos were the first things she saw, many of them favoring headlines featuring a specific shot of her clinging to Harry as she almost fell, the hem of her dress riding up and Harry's grip strong around her waist. The nature of their relationship was once again called into question, as if his hold was anything but protective. Some even captioned the photos of him whispering to her, apologizing for tripping her, as him whispering sweet nothings into her hair. 

Honestly, many of the articles were on the tame side, the headlines being nothing more than clickbait. The worst they spoke on was her "leg-baring dress", while much more of the pieces were spent speculating about Harry once more and recounting the 132 Gala news. 

She'd definitely seen worse about herself. While none of this was the preferred outcome, it was one she could get through. Hopefully, with the time zones, her father wouldn't see the news just yet. 

After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she left her phone on her bed while venturing outside the suite. Instead of finding Harry like she hoped, she was instead left with a view of an empty apartment, a single glass of her purple smoothie left on the counter.

A smile bloomed on her fatigued cheeks when she noticed the dirtied blender in the sink, scraps of fruit having been tossed in the trash with a freshly wiped down countertop. Harry had to have made this one. 

Maybe that was why it tasted that much sweeter when she took the first sip. Even without the matcha and collagen she usually requested, she felt much more awake. 

Straw tucked between her lips as she sipped her smoothie, (Y/N) debated tracking down Harry to his bedroom, wishing so badly she could see him again in the right-frame of mind. 

Those reassurances he uttered to her the night before were sitting in her head, perfect like a present waiting for her to wake up to. Perhaps that's what had made the sensationalized stories about her much more palatable. What did it matter what they and anonymous blogs said when Harry reiterated how many people in her life knew her and cared for her. 

Turning back towards the living room, she spotted him through the crystal windows on the balcony doors, coffee in hand as he made a home in the lounger. She tried not to overthink it all as she crossed the room, gently knocking on the door before pushing it open. 

"Morning," she murmured, stepping out onto the balcony with him.

Harry's posture straightened, his sleepy eyes gazing up at her through the shadow of his lashes. "Morning. How are you feeling?" 

Taking a long sip of the smoothie, she hoped he caught the way almost a third of it was gone already. "Definitely been better. So much for not drinking, right?" she joked, taking a seat beside him in her own lounger. 

"Y'weren't too bad," he answered, his own amusement leaking through his words. "Y'don't feel sick or anything?" 

Turning her gaze towards the city, she watched the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower, remembering what it looked like with all the twinkle light just hours before. 

"No, I'm alright. Thank you for getting me food and medicine and everything." 

"Of course," he answered simply, taking a sip of his own coffee. 

From the corner of his eye, his gaze lingered on the smoothie in her hand. The ghost of a dimple touched his cheek. 

For the first time in a while, especially after everything she had read being posted about them—about him—, she didn't feel the need to explain or apologize. 

Harry knew her. He knew her enough to know the difference between tabloid features and facts. Even knowing what would undoubtedly be said about him if he were pictured so closely with her—whether it be because of his job or the fact she felt she could call him a friend—he didn't shy away from holding her tight and making her feel safe in the midst of everything. 

Instead of offering any kind words, (Y/N) scooted her chair that much closer to his, eyes on the Tower. 

—————

"(Y/N), how many times do we have to talk about this?" 

Without missing a beat, (Y/N) kept cleaning up the kitchen after having made lunch for she and Harry, her father's voice nothing more than dull background noise as she left the call on speaker. The mute feature was being utilized as he raged at her, not a second thought in her head being spared over his grilling. 

It was a waste of time, she decided. That was the kind of mood she was in today, and that was the kind of daughter he would be getting. Though, to notice at all, would mean that he would have to actually pay attention and let her speak instead of spilling off rhetorical questions before hitting her with insults once. 

It'd been a full day since the articles had been posted about her, more and more photos resurfacing of her stumbling outside and being led away with Harry, while blogs were posting grainy photos from the inside of the club before things went downhill. She knew a phone call like this was coming. 

The only new addition to this particular berating, was the silent audience that was sitting on the couch. 

Harry, leaning against the arm of the couch, had his arms crossed, one hand at his side in a heavy fist with the other cupping his chin, elbow bent to rest on his other wrist. His gaze was unfocused, a piece of flooring holding his attention while he listened to whatever it was that her father was serving up for the day. 

From the way his features pinched and this fist as his side progressively tightened into a white-knuckled grip, she could only imagine the kind of things her father was sharing. He didn't even know there was an audience there to listen in, let alone that it was Harry. No filter was being applied as he spoke. 

Wringing out her washcloth in the sink, (Y/N) tuned in just enough to hear a question that had her hands stuttering.

"Is Harry not enough for you?" her father asked, disappointment dripping from his tone, "Do I need to find someone else to look after you? Do you need a whole team to keep you in line?" 

She rushed to pick up her phone, taking the call off speaker and mute as she pressed it to her ear. 

"No, no," she interrupted him, uncaring of the snap that would be given back for cutting him off, "Harry's doing a good job, just... You know how I am." 

Turning her back to Harry as she spoke, she attempted to find some kind of privacy as if she weren't the only one speaking in the room. He could hear every word—every plea she was about to make to ensure he kept his job with her. 

While she took it as a positive that her father wasn't suggesting to replace Harry, she definitely didn't want anyone else added to the mix. Harry is more than enough for her. 

On the other end, her father scoffed. "Don't I," he mused, (Y/N) able to imagine the rolling of his eyes through the phone. "I don't know what to do, (Y/N)," he started, heaving a sigh, "I've reached out to publicists and handlers, and anyone in the industry to help. No one wants to touch your reputation. It's preceded you at this point, no one wants to work with a brat. I don't have many options left." 

Grateful for the fact her back was facing Harry, she felt a warmth hit under her skin. It was a humiliating thought—knowing that others all around her had spoken so lowly that even publicists that deemed any publicity as good publicity wouldn't touch her. 

"I know," she conceded, swallowing around her dry throat, "But, I don't think any more security is a good idea. It would look bad, don't you think?" 

She was grasping at straws a bit, hoping to dig into the image he held so dear. The one thing he cared about when it came to her. 

A beat passed before he spoke once more, his voice distant and musing. "Now, you're thinking. I think I might have another idea, then."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I think I have an idea," her father perked on the other side, "Let me make a few calls and then I'll get back in touch." 

"Okay, u—"

"In the meantime, (Y/N)," he cut her off, "I'm going to make it especially clear—again—that you need to have your head on straight. You're not making anything easy on anyone when you act like this—myself and Harry included. Stop being selfish and think before you act." 

His tone was definite. Everything he said was nothing more than a slightly different variation of everything he'd already told her. She needed to try harder not to make everything her fault. 

"I know," she answered, a detached response that had been drilled into her, "I'm working on it." 

"Good. Talk to you later." 

With that, before she had a chance to utter her own goodbye, her father hung up. Dead air filled the kitchen as she pulled her phone from her ear, slipping the device into her back pocket. 

"What was that?" Harry asked, not waiting for her to face him before firing off. 

Taking in a deep breath, (Y/N) turned to look at him, fiddling awkwardly in the middle of the small kitchen. "He said he wanted to get you more help—like, more security—, but I was able to get him off that idea. Now, he says he has another idea, but he won't tell me about it until he calls later. He said he had to talk to a few people first." 

Unimpressed, Harry hummed in response. His gaze finally focused when it landed on her face, his pupils exacting and calculating. "Does he always talk to you like that?" 

That wasn't what she expected of this inquisition. She suddenly felt uncomfortable under his eyes. 

"Sometimes," she answered, trying to keep her features a blank slate, "Only when I mess up, though. It's not a big deal, I never listen anyway." 

His gaze was unflinching, unwavering. "Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure," she said automatically, no longer wanting to speak of her father or his words. "Anyway, I feel like he's just going to open a foundation in my name or something—that's his big idea. He does it every once in a while, just to make us all look charitable." 

Harry traipsed his eyes over her form, taking in every detail of her body language and every minute frame of an expression. She felt exposed the longer he watched her. 

Eventually—finally, finally—he released her, standing from his station on the arm of the couch with a sigh. "Whatever he comes up with, I'll be there, yeah? We'll work it out together." 

Even Francesca, her best friend and closest person, hadn't been able to promise what Harry was giving her. She knew he really would be there with her, every step she took now coming with a pair. 

(Y/N) allowed a gentle smile to bloom on her features, watching as he softened some. 

"Yeah."

—————

Unable to help herself, still curious to the fact this person had found her Paris address, (Y/N) opened the flap to the newest letter that had been dropped in her mailbox. 

The admirer's newest perspective came in high quality photos from the club. There were photos of her dancing with Marc—though his face was marred with markings she was too scared to investigate further. There were photos of her sipping drinks with Francesca and Emma before the night devolved, Harry noticeably cropped from the shots though (Y/N) knew he wouldn't have been that far away. Similar markings to what had marred Marc's face reappeared, this time sketching around her face in rudimentary hearts and shapes. Those made her feel the most queasy. 

On the backside of some of the photos, it seemed this person felt they had inside information, claiming to know she hadn't wanted to dance with Marc. They apparently knew she hadn't wanted to go out at all, that she was much too private for this kind of scene and someone had to be forcing her to do this for some reason. It hadn't been her fault that she had stiffed the table (a fact that was far from the truth, seeing as how no one from the club had contacted her or Francesca. Something had to have been worked out). It hadn't been her fault that she left with Harry the way she did, curled into his arms and clinging to him like a vine. She would have never touched him if it was up to her own accord—at least that's what the admirer claimed. 

Everything was written in short, messy sentences, barely legible as if written with the author's non-dominant hand. The rest of the story lay in the typed letter she knew was tucked inside the envelope, the musings of someone determined to fit her into the box of their liking. 

Her palms felt sweaty as she looked at a photo of her face, the lens having zoomed in to catch the pucker of her lips around the cocktail straw, eyes glazed in alcohol. 

How someone had snuck a camera in and Harry hadn't noticed—or at least mentioned it to her—she didn't know. And a part of her didn't want to. 

It was easier to ignore this whole thing, she decided. Bundling the pictures back into the envelope, (Y/N) rushed to place it in her room, the bottom drawer of her vanity gaining a new addition. 

—————

Staring at her phone, (Y/N) couldn't feel anything but dumbfounded as she reread her father's messages.

Dad

         I have a friend from the country club that is interested in taking you out on a date. He's planning on flying out to Paris by the end of the week, and I expect you to go out to dinner with him, to show him and the world why a man like him would be willing to go out with you. 

        He's a successful philanthropist with a good reputation. I think he's the perfect person for you to get to know, and learn how to behave with. It will be good for you to be seen with him. 

          Be on your best behavior.

This was not at all what she could have ever imagined his big plan would be. More than a little far off from the suspected charity Gala that would be thrown in her name. 

She'd been set up before with the sons of investors and introduced to men he thought would help further him in his dealings. All of those instances had been made in the name of his business—made for his best interests. Never had he set her up with the intention of strengthening her reputation or showcasing her for nothing other than publicity. 

Though, from the way her father spoke, she doubted the other man knew it had anything to do with her reputation. As far as he knew, he was being set up with a friend's darling daughter for a romantic evening in Paris. 

The thought had (Y/N) cringing. 

She was supposed to go on a date? To convince people she wasn't a bitch?

(Y/N) was angry. Uncomfortable. Upset. Anything that was the opposite of happy was pulsing through her veins. What was her father thinking?

Did Harry know anything about this?

Heavy in her middle, (Y/N) wanted to rush to Harry's side, ask him if he knew anything about these plans. If he did, she wanted to assure him that she had no feelings tied to this man or this date—that he was nothing to her mind. She wanted to tell him she didn't want to go on this date, that she was being forced to see another person despite having purely opposite feelings. 

She wasn't sure why exactly she felt it was so important to make that much clear, but it was enough to get her off of her bed and out to the living room. 

Sitting on the couch, was Harry with a book in his hand, the cover showcasing the name of a famous French designer. He bookmarked his place with a finger as he looked up at her, taking in her shower-softened form and silky pajamas on her form. 

"Going to bed?" he asked, the gauzy curtains having been dropped around the windows to the balconies. 

Suddenly, she felt a bit silly having bustled out of her room the way she did. What did it matter if Harry thought she wanted to go on a date with this man? Why would he care about who she dated? All he needed to know was where she was going and if he would be needed for security.

"In a minute, but—um—" she started, fiddling with her phone in her hands. 

Shifting on the cushion he'd taken up, he narrowed his gaze with a pinch to his brows. Properly marking his spot, he left his novel to be placed at his side, the full of his attention placed on his client. 

"Is everything alright? Did something happen?" His gaze skipped over her form, examining for any bit of her that needed his help. 

"I'm okay," she assured, shifting on her feet, "It's just..." Harry waited patiently-impatient, unwavering eye contact. "My dad texted me," she blurted. 

"Yeah?" he pressed, his elbows setting on his knees as he leant towards her, "What did he say?" 

Swallowing, she tried to shrug in nonchalance. "You know how he said he had an idea after those pictures of us at the club?" she questioned, listening for Harry's hum of acknowledgment before continuing, "I guess his side was to set me up with someone he knows from the country club. For a date. This weekend." 

Forcing the words through her throat, she watched and waited for Harry's reaction. Though he was much better than she ever would be as keeping a poker face, everything internalized. 

"Yeah?" was his only response. 

"He said this guy has a really good reputation, with charities and all. He's hoping that being seen with him will help make me look better—PR and all." She struggled around the next bit of information, unwilling to say it out loud as if it would make it real. "I think he really wants me to date him, though—this friend. I don't think he knows my father's setting it up the way he is.

Contemplative and deliberate like always, Harry waited before pressing, "Do you know this man? Or would this be the first time you meet him—for this date?"

"I-I'm not sure who it is, but if I knew him already I think my father would have said so. I think this weekend would be the first time." She was more than embarrassed the more he asked. What kind of child had to be set up on playdates so they learned how to behave?

"This isn't the same man that made you uncomfortable before, then?" Harry's voice suddenly held an edge, recalling Barron at the 132 Gala. 

"No, not him." 

"Okay," he mused, the gears in his brain almost visibly grinding away as he thought through every and any scenario. "Do y'want me to be there with you?" 

The edge of her phone case became the most interesting thing in the room then, her fingers picking at the molding. She swallowed, remembering that trapped, angry feeling she had when she read his messages the first time. 

"I don't want to go at all," she started, fitting her bottom lip between her teeth. "I don't know, maybe we could go out this week, and I'll make a scene or something? It could make him mad enough that he calls the whole thing off, and we won't have to deal with it at all." 

"No, we're not doing that," Harry immediately intervened, frustration lacing through his tone, "'S not worth him getting upset with you over." 

"I know," she told him, a defeated slope to her shoulders, "But, I don't want to go. Especially not with him—whoever he is. I-I'd rather stay with you." 

The air softened around them as the words hung between them. Peeking through the fan of her lashes, she caught the easy stare he gave her. 

"It's going to be alright, (Y/N)," he assured her, his frustration having melted into something soft and pliable, "I'm going to be there with you." 

"I'm sorry," she reflexively shared, her tongue working before her brain.

"What for?" 

For going on a date with someone that isn't you. 

"I don't know," she answered, "For taking up your weekend with something stupid, I guess."

"And what else would I have done instead?" Harry countered, his tone anything but biting, "Y'act like I'm not here jus' for you." 

While she knew he didn't mean it the way it sounded, there was a small hand in her heart that clutched at the idea. 

"Don't worry about it for now, yeah? Jus' sleep on it, and we'll take again in the morning. If there's anything else we can do, we'll figure it out then. Okay?"

He was always so in control, the voice of reason she lacked in these moments. 

"Okay. Thank you." 

"I've got you," Harry answered simply, reaching for his book once more. "Goodnight, (Y/N)." 

Sparing one last glance at her bodyguard huddled on the sofa of her Parisian apartment, fashion book in hand, (Y/N) inched towards her bedroom feeling a touch lighter.

"Goodnight, Harry."

—————

s'entendre is a French word for the feeling of understanding someone; to get someone

only a few more parts! thank you sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and if you have any ideas or whatever please send them in!

[jasmineoolongtea]

Hi!!! How are you? I really like your blog and I saw you're taking requests rn? I have a little request, with either Gojo, Yuuta or Megumi, whoever you'd like to write it for/whoever fits better.

Basically, I just had a really big exam recently and the results came out and I didn't make it. It's hurt me a lot but I'm trying to be okay, I hadn't got a lot of time to study for it honestly, so I was like 50/50 confident but it still hurts seeing my efforts go to waste. And my parents are trying to be understanding, they really are, but it's not the kind of understanding I need right now. They're like, "Oh darling it's okay, you did your best even though we were confident you'd crack it easily," when all I need is to be held and told it's fine and that I'm worth more than just an exam. So I was thinking something where the reader gets off a call with her parents and is crying quietly in the bedroom because their attempts to make her feel better only made her feel worse and then the character (whoever you choose!) notices and it's just cute cuddles and reassurances?

a/n: hiii, i'm doing alright!! i'm so sorry to hear that and i've gone through the same things before. it does suck when that happens and it's gonna suck for a while but remember at the end of the day, it's just one exam and this one exam won't determine everything, plus i'm sure you'll bounce back even stronger in the future!! instead of just doing one i'll do all three of them and i hope that you feel better soon anon + sending a virtual hug your way ε(´｡•᎑•`)っ 💕

gojo satoru knows eavesdropping is bad, more so when it's deliberate. but in his defence, he only had good intentions when he approached your room with a mountain of treats and gifts practically ready to burst out of his arms the minute he saw your face.

well, at least that was the initial plan. that is, until he heard an unfamiliar and frankly terrifying sound originating from behind your door.

maybe he should have had more tact when opening your door, possibly even knocking beforehand as a way of announcing his presence to you, but in that moment, thoughts like those were the least of satoru's worries when he met your tear-streaked face peering up at him from your curled up position on your bed.

a loud thud echoes within the walls of your room, various objects suddenly falling from his grip as he makes his way towards you. you don't look at him though, curling further inwards into yourself as if in an attempt to hide your swollen eyes and flushed face away from him. you can't hear it, but satoru's heart cracks slightly at the mere sight of you like this.

"hey, sweets." his voice is soft, possibly the softest you've ever heard him speak. you're still turned away from his, your sobs dying down as you attempt to trap them in your throat. the bed frame creaks slightly with the new addition of his weight.

it doesn't take a genius to tell that you're clearly not in the mood for talking or jokes or any of the typical antics that he would pull out of his arsenal to see that smile of yours that he loves so much. it also doesn't take a genius to see that things like your phone aren't doing much to alleviate your pain since you keep glancing anxiously at it every 2 or more seconds.

he takes it upon himself to flip your phone screen upside down and place it inside your bedside cabinet, out of sight, and this earns him a shaky sigh of relief from you. the grip you have on your knees relaxes ever so slightly more but he knows that this isn't going to solve everything.

you don't react any further, it's as if you're frozen in your position, lost in whatever dark recesses of your mind you're trapped in. featherlike touches dance across your skin before being replaced by a much more solid, palpable feeling of his arms wrapping around your figure and suddenly there's a glimpse of light peaking through all of the gloominess.

the moment you register that it's satoru that's pulling you into him, you can't help but just let yourself go and sink into his steady grip as you bury your face into the expanses of his chest. finally just succumbing to the sheer exhaustion of just trying to hold everything in, you start sobbing unabashedly, letting all of the emotion pour out of you with satoru being more than ready to be the one to soak it up all for you.

a gentle hand caresses your back with drawn-out strokes as you allow yourself to be comforted by the steady beat of his heart, a reminder of his presence right next to you. "it'll be alright." he murmurs quietly, his words of comfort only audible to you, the only audience he cares about right now. you feel a soft kiss being placed on your forehead as his lips linger there for a moment longer.

satoru might not know why you're feeling so down but at least he knows that he can be the person to make whatever burden you're dealing with just a little bit lighter and sometimes, that's enough for the both of you.

there's a lot that fushiguro megumi is known for being good at such as studying, handling pets and wild animals, being quiet and brooding (according to everyone else except himself).

there's also a handful of things that megumi is known for being bad at such as conversations, getting his hair to stay down and comforting people in most scenarios.

maybe it's just him but he always finds himself tongue-tied at the worst times and is secretly so busy with being worried over the idea of him putting his foot in his mouth and saying the wrong thing that might make things worse to the point where he just chooses to say nothing, not realising that this also doesn't help the situation.

so when he stumbles into your room, after hearing the tail end of your conversation with your parents over your phone that only resulted in you breaking out into tears and is now faced with a deeply upset you, safe to say that he's very unsure on what he should do.

carefully, he makes his way into the room and sits on the opposite end of the bed from you. as he gets closer towards you, you feebly attempt to wipe off the tears streaming down your face in an attempt to downplay how you're feeling, lest you worry him.

that should be the least of your worries, he thinks silently to himself.

the room is largely silent, both of you avoiding looking directly at the other, that is until megumi suddenly speaks up. "...do you wanna talk?" he asks, his voice slightly hesitant. the same old fears of potentially saying the wrong things, especially in such a delicate situation like this, are swirling around in his mind again and he can't help but listen to them.

you shake your head, glumly. he so wishes that he could take away your pain and sadness in an instant, even if he were the one to bear it instead if it meant that you would stop hurting, but unfortunately, the world doesn't work like that.

"okay." he pauses for a moment, as if pondering on what next he should say or do, in this case. he reaches out his hand and gently grasps your wrist, pulling you towards him and into his chest. like waves caught up in a current, you let yourself sink into his grip and fall into his comforting embrace.

for some reason, when all you can feel is the warmth of his body radiating off of him and onto you with the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, you can feel most of the sadness that previously flooded all of your senses start to melt away, like ice thawing when the sun comes out. you wrap your arms around him and in return, he rubs tender circles upon your back.

you whisper a "thank you" under your breath and he nuzzles his face against the crook of your neck.

megumi may be bad at talking or using his words to express what he's feeling or even to communicate with others, however, when it comes down to it, it seems that he doesn't need to rely on words to be there for the ones who truly matter to him.

some people might think that okkotsu yuuta is being dramatic when he says that one of his worst fears is seeing you sad but to him, this fear and worry of his is very much a real one and it breaks his heart when he notices your once joyful expression has now morphed into something much more melancholic.

he's on his way to your room after seeing how downcast your mood was today, compared to your typically more cheery demeanour when he suddenly stops in his tracks after he picks up on another female voice coming from your room.

your mum's voice rings out from over the crackly speaker of your phone. "oh sweetie, i'm sure that was just a silly mistake and it'll-"

you cut her off bluntly, "i'm sorry, mum. i just think i need some alone time right now." and with that, you quickly hang up your phone in dejection, throwing it slightly off to the side as a deep sigh escapes your lips.

yuuta clears his throat awkwardly from his place in the doorway and you're suddenly now aware of his newfound presence in your bedroom. his tone is clearly apologetic as he speaks, "i'm sorry. i didn't mean to overhear your conversation, i was just on my way to check up on you after noticing how down you were today."

"i-it's fine, yuu." you reassure him, well as best as you can in your current state as you hastily try to hide any traces of your crying from him. "i'm just not really in much of the mood to talk right now." you don't dare to say more, afraid of the sobs that you've been choking down up to this point might break out.

he nods solemnly to himself.

"then do you mind if i come in?" he asks tentatively and you shakily nod back in response. he walks into your room and takes a seat next to you on the bed, though leaving a slight space in between you two as if he knows that sudden proximity to someone else, especially when you're in a state like this, might just be too much for you.

he raises his hand, stopping at a short distance away from your face and tilts his head at you, as if asking for permission. slightly confused you nod, thinking that he's going to cup your cheek or something, but instead, he brings his finger to your cheek and starts wiping away the tear streaks running down your face. his touch is so gentle, and the care and love he has for you is so evident through how delicately he's taking the time to caress your face as well at the same time.

you can't help but feel your lip wobble slightly with how tender he's being with you. the corner of your eyes start to burn a little bit as you attempt to hold your tears back though you feel your resolve wavering ever so slightly with each brush of his fingertips.

yuuta slowly moves his other arms around you and pulls you towards him into his embrace. you take that as him allowing you to latch on to him and so you do as you burrow your face into his shoulder, sinking into the comfort of his touch. he hums softly under his breath as he whispers words of gentle reassurance. it feels like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders as quiet sobs escape from you.

he pays them no mind though, only seeking to soothe you with his touch and reassuring affirmations. you squeeze his hand twice as a silent 'thank you' and he presses a fleeting kiss against yours in return.

to yuuta, this is nothing worthy of a thanks from you as this is merely a drop in the ocean if it means that your heart is just a little less heavy.

[silence-burns]

The Death of Me //part 2

Fandom: Aquaman

Summary: (very small spoilers for the movie) Finding Orm on your doorstep was not something you expected. Having him move in was even worse. But the effect he still had on every part of your life would be the death of you.

Even though you learned early on the world was an unjust and cruel place, it still managed to surprise you occasionally. The last bits of hope clung to your cloudy mind, snatched away from you once you pried your eyes open to see your nightmare incarnate sitting by the kitchen table.

The fever knocked you out for a few blissful hours; earlier events fading into a half-remembered dream. But there was no denying the truth once you noticed the suspiciously clean counters and sudden lack of accumulated trash laying around. And, worst of all, your new roommate.

Or caregiver. Or pain in the ass. Or man that made your heart twitch in a way signaling either a crush or a heart attack. Who cared about semantics?

Orm Marius, former Ocean Master and currently just some guy, sat in the middle of the kitchen, making his way through a book. The seaside house was home to many books, although you doubted the original owner ever had the time to browse through them.

A small mercy had been granted to you and Orm didn't notice you had woken up. You couldn't help but observe him. Even though he was no stranger to you, and quite recently you'd helped break him out of prison and even somehow saved the world together, you still felt mesmerized by the way he moved and looked.

Even now, the dying evening light entering through the window painted the room in deep shadows, and softened the planes of Orm's face. He had positioned himself close to the window to read in the dimming light. It allowed you to see the softened curve of his shoulders and the way he tilted his head, studying the book just as carefully as you studied him.

“Glad to see you're doing better,” Orm said, without moving.

You jumped a little, making your injuries flare up in a wave of pain. A startled whine escaped your lips when your body reminded you how sore it actually was.

Orm put the book down and stepped over to the couch. Before you managed to say anything, he pressed his hand to your forehead. Whatever words rose in your throat, scattered.

“You're still burning,” Orm muttered with concern and furrowed brows. “Are you sure your medicine is working?”

“...it just needs some time.”

Your voice came out weaker than you expected. You felt fuzzy, and the room around you was definitely moving a little.

Orm was not convinced, and disappeared from your line of sight for a while.

Your fever was probably on the rise again, which was to be expected. For the past few days you'd been in and out of it, drowning in sweat and fighting off the urge to scratch underneath your bandages.

You kicked off the thin blanket, hoping Orm wouldn't touch you again. You were dreadfully aware of how wet Orm's hand must've come off and of the old sweat stench surrounding you. In your defense, you didn't expect any visitors, so for the past few days you focused on passively surviving rather than dragging your corpse to the shower once a day.

You heard Orm's steps before he entered your vision. “Man, just leave me alone. I'm seriously fine on my own—”

A wet towel slapped onto your face, splashing cold water around. What a simple, yet effective way of both shutting you up and providing relief. You'd be impressed if it didn't piss you off so much.

You dragged it off your eyes and came face to face with Orm, suddenly crouching way too close to your liking. He looked at you intensely and then raised an eyebrow.

“If you want me gone, then you should be perfectly capable of throwing me out. You didn't have any trouble last time we sparred.”

“That would be so rude of me. It would crush your ego.”

“As if you ever bothered being polite.”

“I am the nicest person that has ever graced this Earth.”

“You look like a corpse on its way to the afterlife. Unless your state improves, I'm not leaving. The only choice you have is finally dying or getting better and kicking me out. And since I'd rather see the outcome of option number two, I think we have to start with these bandages.”

“They’re in place.”

“The wounds need to be cleaned and dressed again. I can smell that from back here.”

With a hiss through clenched teeth, you dragged yourself into a sitting position, as far away from Orm as was possible on the couch.

“...look who's impolite now.”

Orm moved closer to you with a darkened expression. It made you shiver and put one bare foot on his chest in the only defense you could muster. He wrapped his fingers around your ankle, but didn't move any closer.

“It's not about politeness or pride,” he explained slowly, not taking his eyes off you. “I want you to feel better, regardless of what it takes.”

The way your cheeks heated had very little to do with the fever. In a kinder world, Orm wouldn't have noticed it.

But in this one, he was too observant to miss something like that. His lips curled in the faintest of smiles just as his hand moved further up your leg, slowly dragging his fingers over your scorching skin. Your heart was in your throat and wanted out.

You slapped the wet towel onto his arm and freed your leg.

“Such profound words for someone so annoying.”

“Whatever gets you moving. These wounds really do need cleaning, and I will not back down from that one.”

“I can do it myself.”

“If you could, you would've done it days ago—when it was actually due. That's enough waiting, take them off.”

You thought back to how far your injuries went under your shirt. It provided you with a surprisingly effective burst of motivation to heave yourself off the couch and onto semi-steady legs.

You wobbled off in the general direction of the bathroom, wishing for your torment to finally end.

“Please do avoid any further injuries,” Orm called after you, watching your unsteady search for clean clothes and a towel. There was painful stiffness to your joints, but you were extremely motivated to overcome it.

“I promise to graciously call for your aid right before I break my neck on these marvelous tiles.”

There was not much dignity left in you, but you did your best to protect it by switching the bathroom lock rather than slamming the door.

You could've sworn you heard Orm chuckle.

[lilacxquartz]

Those Late Summer Nights I Chapter 10

Satoru Gojo × Fem!Reader × Suguru Geto

This is a dark/yandere fic that features upsetting themes and it is canon divergent. Updated every Wednesday.

ABOUT: You moved to Tokyo over the summer to take a teaching job. As you get settled in, you find yourself entangled in a toxic dynamic.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: You were starting to feel a little overwhelmed with how much attention you had to divide between so many people and then in the midst of it all, something went terribly wrong.

TRIGGER WARNING: Extremely dubious consent/sexual content/coercion/foreplay

< Previous Chapter • Next Chapter >

10. Just “Friends”

Back home at last, you chose to lay in bed until around four in the afternoon as you muddied your own mind with conflicting thoughts—trying to, hoping—to make sense of everything that had happened so far.

You weren’t quite looking forward to socialising with someone new, but you figured that if they were Shoko approved, then it was likely absolutely fine, so come the correct hour, you unstuck yourself from bed and entered a better state of mind.

Shoko introduced you to an equally nervous looking woman around her age standing right behind her. She was quite pretty, you thought as you looked at her; long dark hair and a scar over her face, kind eyes overlooking her features.

“This is Utahime,” Shoko said as she introduced you to her, “and Utahime, this is [name].”

You both awkwardly said that it’s nice to meet each other as you got settled on the sofa, Utahime brought out a couple of beers from a plastic bag as Shoko opted for a glass of wine instead.

“Any preference?” Utahime asked you, trying to be polite.

“Beer would be nice,” you accepted, not quite feeling the mood for heavier alcohol so soon.

She nodded accordingly in response as she cracked open two cans, seeming quite happy to share.

The conversation for the most part was carried initially by Shoko as you both carefully crossed the barrier in getting to know each other while you resisted the urge to spill too much of your trauma too soon, avoiding a repeat of the last time you spoke to new people.

When full comfort had been achieved, a mutual annoyance for Satoru emerged after a while of talking. Nothing too accusatory, but Utahime’s history with him seemed to paint him as a leading cause of her own stress while Shoko joked that he caused her smoking habit.

You didn’t really have a strong opinion on him just yet, but it was interesting to get to know him through the opinion of others. You wondered it with even Suguru before, thinking about the side he allowed you to get to know—thinking if Satoru was doing something similar to you.

Utahime and Shoko clinked their glasses and cans alike, announcing cheers for a peaceful evening and new company, because Shoko was right—you both did get along.

This newly formed comfort however was relatively short lived as soon as Satoru entered through the door, the celebration seeming to have been some type of summoning ritual for him instead.

“Hang on a sec,” Shoko said as she suddenly sat up, “how’d you get a key?”

She didn’t like that Satoru could just enter her apartment, choosing to come and go as he pleased. Her home was a sacred sanctuary for her own approved company and if he wanted to visit, he’d have to ask the same way as everyone else.

Utahime stared in mild disbelief, now wondering if she had managed to somehow hex herself as she stared bitterly off into her drink.

“Aww, don’t act that way~” Satoru purred as he continued to stroll inside, his hand arrogantly extending to reach out for someone to take hold of it, “we just need an extra person to get our usual table, otherwise they’ll just sit us at the smaller, worse table again.”

“Tough shit. I’m not abandoning Utahime to go be a table filler,” Shoko replied as she rolled her eyes, her hand playfully slapping his own away from her sight.

“I’m not going either,” Utahime replied.

“I-I can go otherwise?” you offered, presenting yourself as a sacrifice. You didn’t actually mind as it felt awkward enough already to third wheel between Shoko and her friend, since you could give them both a chance to catch up as you reconnected with the two people you already were familiar with.

“Don’t stoop to their level,” Shoko said, catching onto your wrist as you stood up, “let them suffer.”

“Ah, but she offered~” Satoru sang, tugging you away to the front door.

“I-It was nice to meet you, Utahime!” you called out as you quickly found yourself dragged outside into the stairwell, barely having time to grab onto your bag and shoes.

Suguru stood outside as he waited, his back leaning against the wall with a knee bent to balance himself.

Satoru walked down first as you followed, Suguru closing in from behind as he watched you go downstairs. In truth, this was his plan all along because he knew that Shoko would be occupied with Utahime and when Satoru showed up at his own place wanting to hang out, he knew that his friend was still burdened with clan responsibilities so he could still end his night with you—if he could help it.

He still felt some conflicting feelings about you getting closer to Satoru, which was exactly why he chose to hang out with him tonight in tow, wanting to keep tabs as to what you were up to at all times to make sure that nothing else blossomed beyond that kiss.

He did seem to understand though, that you didn’t think that the kiss itself was genuine so in his mind, what he was doing was closer to prevention; ensuring that Satoru didn’t try to talk you into doing anything else.

(While Suguru himself talked you into other things.)

You continued to walk in between the two of them to the bar, fully unaware at what festered away in the back of their minds. Suguru’s hand brushed on and off around your hips, guiding you a certain direction as you passed through thicker crowds. Satoru on the other hand occasionally would pull the two of you in as he walked and talked, sensing that you didn’t pull back as much anymore.

In reality, you were slightly buzzed from the maybe two cans of beer you had. They were tall cans and you didn’t quite care to push either of them away, leading them both to have the same type of curiosity invade their minds; could they go even further?

You settled off into the booth you got to know them both at on the night it had all began, sitting opposite with an empty spot beside you instead. Suguru ordered a bottle of sake for a change, pouring the three of you a glass each.

The topics of discussion were trivial for now, at least the ones that you could keep up with anyway. Things like your opinions on Utahime and the discussion of what Satoru was up to for the most part of the day occupied the conversation.

Then at some point during it all, Satoru got a phone call that he couldn’t avoid, zoning off into the distance as he talked himself through it.

“Just my luck,” Satoru sighed as he ended the call, “I’ll be seeing you both tomorrow.”

His tone sounded a little resigned but he tried to smile through the annoyance he harboured, refusing to sour the mood. He didn’t want to be constantly away, especially not during what was supposed to be his time off—but he wasn’t in a position to refuse his responsibilities either.

“Think they’ll bother you this much when work starts up again?” Suguru asked him.

“Probably not, no,” Satoru replied, “I’m probably being pestered so much because they know I have time to spare.”

“Must be difficult being so important,” Suguru teased him.

“You know me, the strongest and the most important,” he continued to joke even if his demeanour did continue to dampen.

When he left, the staff asked you both to downsize to a smaller table anyway to make room for the other customers as the establishment quickly filled out with more and more customers. Suguru didn’t really mind this development as he continued to top you up more, slowly drinking his own glass as you continued to finish off one glass after another, finding yourself a little bit too tipsy to think properly.

It was then that he moved just a little bit closer, playing the current situation into his hands with successful ease this time.

“You know, my place isn’t too far from here,” he spoke deliberately, allowing dangerous words playing off of his tongue in a tempting melody, “Shoko’s probably still busy with Utahime, probably best not to disturb ‘em,” he leaned a little forward as he spoke, “feel like relaxing at mine for a bit?”

You hesitated initially, wondering if by accepting that you were accepting something that you shouldn’t be. You didn’t want to lead him any more than you already had, either.

“I have my own room at Shoko’s you know, I can just wait it out there,” you replied, trying to establish a boundary right away.

“Yeah but, you wouldn’t want to impose right? Besides, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, [name],” he continued to say, coaxing you into his reach, “it would be just for a little while, we’d both sober up and I’ll even walk you back.”

“I mean…” you continued on as you started to slightly panic, your gut instinct telling you to pull away.

“I do this all the time with Shoko and Satoru,” Suguru continued to lie, knowing fully well that he doesn’t really allow anyone into his home, “I just think you need to relax a bit, that’s all.”

“B-but, doesn’t it seem weird if I go back with you while I’m this drunk?” you asked.

“Why would it be weird?” he asked, his voice hushed, as if he didn’t want to be heard by others.

“B-because, like, I don’t know-“

Suguru interrupted you as you spoke, trying his best to remain patient while he had you all alone, “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. We don’t do anything bad, we’ll just watch a movie or something to wait it out.”

“B-but-“

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked you, seeming a little colder.

“I-I mean, I guess I do…” you considered it again, foolishly trusting him to not do anything just because he said that he wouldn’t, the alcohol clouding your judgement.

“Just to unwind, yeah?” he repeated himself, luring you in. “It’s not like I’m asking you to spend the night, right?”

“R-Right.”

Still, some type of danger lurked. You were agreeable right now, drunk and easily swayed. Some type of looming threat filled his all too promising tone, seeming almost deceitful.

Your own gut instinct was telling you to reject him a second time, a third time if you really had to do so—but you didn’t do a single thing.

Instead, in the peak of your inebriated judgement you chose to trust him because he was your friend and because he promised you something so simple and yet so major.

He wouldn’t hurt you.

At least not like that.

(Would he?)

***

The walk back with Suguru felt strangely quiet but it was relatively a short journey just as he had promised you. He kept your body steady as he walked you back to his home, keeping you from tripping over your own feet.

To some extent, he wondered if he should actually be taking it this far with you given that you couldn’t even walk straight—but he wouldn’t be forceful, he’d only go as far as you’d let him.

His place was probably the most central out of all of the places you had been so far, not counting Satoru’s place as you hadn’t yet been there.

Suguru continued to carefully handle you as he sat you down on his bed, his movements feeling all a little too personal and calculated. His hand drifted back to your thighs to test the waters of your own lacking sobriety as his other hand swooped in to meet around your waist.

“So, [name], I’m sorry but I gotta ask you something,” he spoke up after a short moment of silence, doing his best to continue to keep his tone as kind as possible, not wanting to scare you in any way, shape or form.

“Huh?” you replied, suddenly catching onto the idea that he might have wanted something from you, only just now registering that his hands were on you, too.

You were still trying to keep as soberly passing as you could be, but the strange mood and the new environment felt disorienting, even if you had already been in here before.

“You haven’t been with anyone, right?” he asked you as his eyes locked onto yours, the question he asked you seemed important to him for some reason. “You’ve not slept with anyone?”

Usually, he didn’t even care about this sort of thing—but something about you being being one was making him go crazy, in an almost possessive kind of way.

It felt wrong for him to admit it, but he felt entitled to you—not just for a quick fuck either, but something permanent.

He wanted you.

“Yes, but don’t laugh-“

“—I’m not asking to make fun of you.”

“Then why?”

He sighed as he looked back at you, wondering if it was best to just let you fall asleep or to take you back to your apartment and forget that this conversation almost ever happened.

But something told him to hold onto you, wanting to see just how far it could all go.

“I have a dilemma with you, that’s all it is,” he admitted, scooting a little towards you so that he sat closer. It was difficult for him to get the right words out as he had to find a reasonable way to explain that he didn’t want others to get close to you, to make you understand exactly what type of madness was going rampant through his head.

It was difficult to form something coherent that didn’t sound like he wanted to use you, because that wasn’t his intention at all.

“A dilemma?” you asked, your words slurring against your tongue.

“Don’t get with anyone else,” he asked you, the hold he had on your thigh seeming to tighten as he talked, his other hand pulling you closer as he dared tempt something he might regret, “it makes me unwell just thinking about it, I don’t even know why.”

Your words initially got caught in your throat as you failed to produce a response—even currently drunk, you understood what he was trying to imply.

And yet, not a single word could come out.

“Don’t hate me for saying it, but,” he sighed again, not letting you move let alone get away, “I want for you to allow me to…”

“No,” you finally choked out, not letting him finish off his sentence that he barely got to begin with. You understood what he wanted to ask you and you weren’t ready, even when this drunk, you knew that much.

Suguru stared at you as he took that rejection somehow in continued stride, fully well having anticipated that exact answer. He never once expected you to directly accept his offer, knowing that it would be insane for you to do so.

Instead, his plan was to actually ease you into it; to build up a gradual acceptance on your side, to get you close to him before anyone else could.

Dating was too slow—he wanted to get to you sooner, before you could catch onto what’s going on, before you could simply just leave.

It was wrong for him to do so, he knew it, but his own desire was overwhelming his sense of reason and he had to do it, or else he’d actually do something he regretted.

So to him, this was a more diluted path.

“Look, I’m the only one who really gets you, right? I’m the only one who can look out for you properly,” he continued to say, “and I’m the only one who would stick around with you after, [name], because let me make one thing abundantly clear—this world is cruel.”

You continued to zone out as he spewed out words he thought you were genuinely considering when the reality was that you were trying to keep yourself from passing out in his company.

You knew exactly where he was going with this, you weren’t that unaware and oblivious, his intentions were apparent from the very moment he put his hands on you in the car but you weren’t still entirely sure how he went from ignoring your texts from days on end, to wanting to get in bed with you.

Something must have happened last night, otherwise why else did he know to ask you certain things?

“I’m just saying, [name],” he said as he pinched your chin, making you face him directly, “Satoru got a taste, but he didn’t appreciate you, did he?”

“I-I mean n-no, but-“

“—did he make you feel anything?”

“He never meant to.”

“But don’t you want to feel something, anyway?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Because, I want you to feel things.”

He didn’t give you a whole lot to work with, nor any time to think for yourself as this conversation continued back and forth. His body continued to otherwise slowly towards you the same way, regardless of what you said, his lips seeking yours out as you moved back in retaliated discomfort.

Suguru continued to play the part of someone who appeared reasonable, nodding and pulling back to respect your decision. He was going to get to you either way, so your rejection didn’t hurt him because as long as he got with you before Satoru did, then he will have won.

He reconsidered his options as an almost unhinged expression manifested on his face, tightening his hold on your body as he surrendered to a flow of worrying ideas.

You internally panicked as this all unfolded, doing your best to perhaps foolishly hold onto his friendship while also pushing back on his advances, entering a point in your own psyche where you had no idea what you truly wanted either.

Certain words stuck, like Satoru stealing your first kiss and the fact that you felt nothing from it. Shoko got the title of your first real friend and Suguru sported the title of your first date, even if it was platonic. To circle back to Satoru, he had the honour of being the first guy you introduced to your parents; so no wonder it all seemed so confusing if he even liked you at all.

Your friends were out here taking away all of your firsts that were meant to be special moments shared with someone you could trust, instead being snatched away by this strange new group of people at every whim.

The lack of it all being genuine except for the friendship was starting to eat away at you, realising that such rapid progression was beginning to hurt you in a way you didn’t truly understand.

But… you were still left unsure.

Was he making such a big deal out of this because he actually cared—or did he simply want to play you, to get into your pants?

As you continued to hold off on his advances, he finally let you go of you to find your own way, intending to just vent to you instead. You’d listen to him whether you wanted to or not, so he took advantage of that opportunity as it happened.

“I’m just feeling some kind of way, [name],” he said, surrendering a chunk of his feelings.

He continued to stare at you, feeling a little guilty as he continued to do so—this damn feeling just wasn’t going away.

“I think I like you and I don’t want to share, that’s all.”

“I-I can kind of get it, I think,” you finally said after a while, giving him an opening of sorts if only by complete accident, “but,” you were to still quick to stifle, “I don’t want to do anything I might regret and that includes with you, too.”

He nodded as you spoke, completely understanding the exact sort of direction to take with you now much to your unassuming dismay; you were simply shy in his eyes, inexperienced and not quite used to this sort of thing and he could work with that—to make you his before anyone else could even have such a chance.

He wanted to stick around, to give into those strange and confusing feelings that have otherwise been eating him alive for the last couple of weeks.

“So, how about we start off slow?” Suguru suggested, moving into closing off the gap with you once again, “I don’t want you to regret a single thing with me.”

“I-I still don’t really know-“ you considered, not quite saying no directly. He wasn’t backing off even if he did drop the subject concerning your virginity, being pushy in a whole other sort of way.

“Don’t you like me too?” Sugur asked you, trying to find something that might not have been there.

“I-I do, but you know, as a frie-“

He cut you off again, not letting you finish that sentence, “Don’t say it. We’ve got something going on that’s better than just being friends.”

“W-we do?” you slurred a little.

“Can’t you feel it too?” he asked, leaning closer again.

“I mean, I don’t know, this is all too sudden for me and I don’t even know you that well,” you admitted, trying not to give into the pressure, you didn’t want to be something temporary or casual to someone you were trying to just be friends with.

“Then get to know me,” he whispered, “nobody else will appreciate you like I do.”

By then, you felt the booze hit your body a bit harder too now that it has had time to simmer; suddenly you couldn’t quite sit still, let alone agree or disagree.

He leaned into your lips without any protest on your end, despite your lacking consent to continue onwards; the smell of stale cigarettes exhaled into your mouth as he finally connected this kiss. His tongue pushing itself into your mouth, wrestling it with your own—your own muscle reluctantly following suit, despite not really knowing exactly what to do.

Your vision blurred as you barely kept up; you never did express consent nor give him the green light to continue, but every time you considered speaking up, your words would either slur or they never made it out of your mouth to begin with.

“Relax, you can keep your mouth still if it’s easier for you,” he said as he pulled back, his dark eyes intently focusing on you, “I’ll lead the way.”

Once again, he didn’t give you an opportunity to reply as he quickly resumed his pursuit of you; his mouth reconnecting with yours as his breath so hot and heavy rippled waves down your chin—his tongue flickering against the tip of your own as it fought back involuntarily, trying to move it away.

You felt as his hand then crept towards your own, grabbing onto the back of it as he slowly guided you into his trousers; straight past the waistband and slipping into an even deeper layer so that you could feel his, his—oh—were you feeling his—?

You froze as you now had a burning compulsion to pull away but your head pushed up against his face as his free hand held your skull in place—fingers weaving between interlocked strands of your hair, bringing you forward and tugging at your lips with his teeth, keeping you tethered to him.

Using the hand that held your own hostage, he moved you in so that your hand filled out with the length of his meat; your fingers wrapping around it as he then moved your hand up and down in a particular motion, encouraging you to keep up.

Maybe this was more than just taking it slow—but fuck, he was so turned on.

“Can you keep that going for me?” he asked, his voice sounding dangerously playful as he clearly was enjoying this moment.

You couldn’t vocally protest in the meantime nor shake or nod as he kept you subdued in a specific sort of state, so you kept it up either way because you were too overwhelmed to break away.

Not that he would allow for you to do so either way.

This was too good for him—he felt too good, so fucking good and he hadn’t even gone all the way yet. He wouldn’t yet. He knew now that he should savour this, to build it up.

He pulled further back from the kiss as your saliva trailed over your chin, webbing between his own—curious to see exactly how you were doing, realising that you might be struggling to keep up as someone with virtually zero experience with this sort of thing, while also wanting to get you used to this sort of state.

You continued to get into it and kept up to his requested pace along his shaft as he finally moved the hand that otherwise kept you glued to him to slip in between your legs, finally getting just a little further. He moved in smoothly, his hands brushing up the skirt and pushing past your underwear—his fingertips finally exploring the slick wetness you kept so well hidden.

To his amusement, he could see just how turned you actually were based on how soaked you were as well as the blush that formed on your face, even if your expression was a little unreadable.

In reality, you were equal parts confused and rosy red from the liquor settling in your system, keeping up but just barely.

You knew that this was wrong, that he never even asked you if this was okay to do, but you’ve also been so confused in this past couple of weeks.

You didn’t know what you were feeling.

“You’re doing so well, [name],” Suguru continued to purr into your ear, “wanna let me help you feel good too?”

“U-um,” you managed to reply, although still not using proper words.

“Trust me, I just want you to enjoy yourself,” he tried to reassure.

There it was; that confusing feeling again. You felt cornered as you considered accepting his quickly approaching advances, even given the position you were locked into. His hand rested near you, delicately parting you using his fingers—his touch was pleasant and warm and he wasn’t hurting you at all, but it still felt so terribly fucking wrong.

So, when he continued to once again move in despite not getting a verbal confirmation, he wrongfully read into your lacking say in the matter as a green light, thinking that because you weren’t screaming no or for him to stop despite your body language gesturing at something different was simply because you were shy.

Oh no, he didn’t even think to consider that you were simply too drunk to comprehend a single thing to begin with.

His fingers continued to slide into your heat, pushing over the opening and searching for something else in particular; your clit from what it felt like, focusing his efforts on there as his fingertips started to trace circles right around it.

Suguru enjoyed watching your reactions, his dark eyes finding light in your expressions and reactions—your own thighs quivering from his touch, trembling as you approached your limit.

He of course wanted to push you even further, wanting nothing more than to see you be needy and to moan his name; to beg him to let him fuck you, but he couldn’t be too greedy, at least not yet.

He’d slowly break you in, convinced that there was something about the chemistry that you both shared; feeling certain that there was absolutely something there, even if you couldn’t quite see it just yet.

So as he continued to gently swirl around your budded flesh and as your breathing quickly grew shallow; cheeks bruising cherry red, your insides coiling from his pressing touch—he too, got sent over the edge just from the sight of you alone.

At the same time though, that invading thought relented, daring him to go just a little further despite you not being ready; wanting nothing more than to taste your neck, to nip on your skin and petal behind lovebites, to push himself deep inside of you and feel just how soaked you were—but, but… he had to refrain, to hold himself back, at least for now, remembering that he didn’t want for you to regret him, so he finally pulled back from you.

His breath shuddered as you finished up on him, his face tightening as he clenched his jaw, eyelids fluttering as he started to finish, remembering to complete the same for you.

You squeezed your legs tight as you enveloped his hand, a rising need to finally seek out release; his circling motions finally coaxing out rolling pleasure as waves of warmth coursed through your body, a reaction that caused you to almost whimper breathlessly.

He pulled you closer as you finished, practically leaning into a hug against your body; his face rubbing against your own as he feverishly kissed you, his hand guiding yours as he finally got closer and closer to—but not yet, closer—to—

“Go a bit faster he breathed into your mouth, demanding release, “be a good girl for me—please, fuck.”

You listened to him as you accelerated the tempo against his dick; feeling a little more at ease from his continued flow of praise and encouragement until you felt his cock twitch, his breath hitch and finally empty himself at the mercy of your hand. Hot white ropes shooting without aim, causing a mess for you both.

He breathed in deep to recollect himself, still leaning against you before finally peeling himself away from you, allowing you to take back your hand and to find your ground again.

Guilt however then started to surface as he saw just how drunk you still were, leading him to finally seek out his own senses as he paused in his own tracks, leading you carefully to the bathroom before getting you cleaned up before returning back into bed with him.

There wasn’t a single chance in hell that you were going back home, even if he were to walk you all the way back and tucked you into bed himself.

He didn’t want a single person to be near you currently, not even Shoko and he trusted her.

So as you fell asleep beside him, your side occupying the usually vacant space against his chest, he felt a new sort of emotion plant itself and bloom, knowing that you were both in trouble if he continued to keep this up, just like that realisation many weeks ago.

Knowing fully well that he still wasn’t going to stop.

Not at all.

[killedpink]

[22:17]

thinking about minho is never healthy

🏷 contains: dom minho x sub reader, makeup application, fingering, heavy hand kink (have you seen that man's hands?), dacryphilia, oral sex, so so so domestic, hair pulling, slight marking, small minuscule spit kink, snow day, deepthroating/throatfucking, possessive minho if u look closely, cum consumption, slight praise

the grip the snow had on the land was tightening, the earth slowly being obscured by a freezing, white blanket of snow. it made everyone stop. work, school, all of it was paused as the roads grew too dangerous to travel on. this included you and minho, safely tucked away at home with every heater on max, candles lit, windows blacked out. at first, it felt like a well-deserved break from your busy lives, giving you both all the time you needed to sleep in, or binge watch whatever tv show you just couldn't find the time to finish, or even try out that new dish you both have been putting off. but, after a few hours in, you had exhausted every one of your plans, burnt through every show and every recipe in your cookbook. you felt defeated, truly. your back to the couch, facing the ceiling with your eyes closed, it all felt so bleak. and to make things worse, minho was out of sight, pattering around upstairs for some unknown minho reason.

"get up, lazy." minho nudged your arm that was dangling off the side of the couch with his socked foot, causing you to jerk it into your lap and spring up. you intended to tease him for bothering you, but once you saw him, your words fell into nothingness. "is that my makeup..?" your brows scrunched in confusion, a delighted twinkle in your eyes. minho rolled his eyes, "wow, your eyesight is working! move up." doing as he said, you turned your body to face the tv and sit like a normal person, giving minho the room he needed to sit down and more. "are you finally letting me put makeup on you?" his face turned blank at this. "no." he turned away from you, plucking a black nail polish from the bag he brought with him. "i'm letting you paint my nails." minho bargained, thrusting the bottle into your lap.

it wasn't exactly what you hoped for, but at least it was something. you shrugged, "is this the colour you want?" you shook the bottle to mix the solution into itself. minho's eyes followed the bottle, "yeah, it's the nicest one you have." you gasped, "how rude!" you cradled your heart in faux offence. "neon green wasn't to your liking?" you teased. minho resisted his smile, yet he simply couldn't fight it off, his pink lips curving into a grin and his front teeth showing slightly, not unlike a rabbit's teeth. "that was such a bad joke. we need to socialise you fast." it was your turn to roll your eyes, before twisting the cap, snatching minho's hand and bringing the brush to his fingernail. "don't get it on my hands." he warned. you scoffed, "do i look like an amateur to you? no? then keep your mouth shut." minho's jaw dropped. "as soon as i'm free im gonna throw you out in the cold." he threatened. you giggled quietly, "remind me who's in control of your nails again?"

the banter went back and forth for a while, all in good faith. "is it dry now?" minho asked, taking good care not to smudge his nails and therefore tarnish your hard work. "i think so. it looks fine." you said into your mug of hot chocolate, taking a slow sip. "ah, me too!" minho perked up. "i really think you can do this yourself. you're just lazy." you muttered as you held minho's mug to his lips, taking good care not to pour too much into his mouth. "but you still do it for me," minho swooned, once you brought the mug back onto the coffee table. "so, how does it look?" he held both his hands up to face you, showing off his nails. "you actually look really good," you took one of his hands to inspect it, his veins not going unappreciated by your attentive eyes. your gawking didn't go unnoticed by minho, either. "wanna see what else i brought?"

minho took out your favourite lipstick and mascara from behind him, holding one in each hand. "do you trust me?" he spoke seriously, his face saying otherwise however. your eyes widened, "you're so nice to me today!" your hands held his wrists, planting a grateful kiss on his cheek. his ears swelled red in response, his smile so wide it reached his sweet chestnut eyes, which were always beautifully inquisitive. "well, i do love you." minho's voice was small, whispering it into your hair, believing the quieter the more intimate it was. it was snowing harder, now, the force of the frozen rain slamming on your windows ungracefully.

snuggling into his warm, mellow middle made you grow tired, even if you weren't actually sleepy. tearing yourself away from his black hoodie that radiated a comfortably high heat, you tilted your head up slightly to face him. "make me pretty, minho," you spoke dramatically, looking up at minho through your lashes. "you're already pretty." he kissed your forehead, unscrewing the applicator from the mascara. "look up for me, baby," doing as you were told, minho got to work on your bottom lashes, becoming more pronounced as he swiped the brush onto your eyelashes, taking good care not to accidentally hit your eye. "how's it looking?" you asked, barely being able to see what was going on as your vision was focused on the ceiling, showing off only your sclera to minho. "sh, you'll distract me and i'll blind you. the ambulance would take forever to get here in all this snow, too." how imaginative.

"i'm done. take a look, you don't look so ugly now." to be fair, he didn't do a bad job. he didn't let your lashes stick together, separating them individually to give off a dollish effect, your eyes now looking bigger and your dark, long top lashes kissing your brow bone as they curled up, giving you an innocent, doe-eyed look. setting the mirror onto the table, you turned to face minho, "you actually did a good job, minho," he beamed at this, "i've watched you too many times." he muttered, plucking your lipstick from the table. "is that next?" you asked, interested in his plan. he uncapped it, and kept eye contact with you while he applied it to his own lips. confused, you watched him carefully, without exchanging words.

he took your face in both of his freshly panted hands, and pressed his lips against yours. he was firm, but so passionate that it trickled into you, kissing him back excitedly. although they were the same lips, minho never kissed you the same way twice with them, each kiss unique and each kiss as addictive as the former. he broke the kiss, eyes inspecting your lips meticulously. you realised what minho was trying to do — stain your lips with the lipstick he was wearing. he pecked your lips a few times, essentially slamming his lips onto yours. once they were saturated to his liking, minho rubbed off what little product was left on him using a makeup wipe, rubbing it back and forth on his lips to clean them. "that was strangely possessive," you noted, amused. cupping your chin, minho looked you in the eyes as he shook his head, "it looks better that way. trust me."

"hm, whatever you say." you muttered before leaning into minho, meeting his lips with your own, your hands cupping his cheeks. the pink, soft swell of his lips are, of course, pressed hot to your own. the space between you was nonexistent, your legs straddling minho's lap as he leaned against the edge of the couch, his hands on your waist creeping up under your shirt. your underwear grew uncomfortable around your body, rolling your hips onto the curve of his muscular thigh, moaning into the kiss as you caught your clit on his clothed thigh. minho parted his lips, his tongue peeking out of his mouth to prod at your tongue, sucking the muscle into his hot mouth, letting it go and flattening his tongue, affectionately licking yours.

using your shirt, he scrunched the material in his hands and tugged it away from him, urging you to pull back. "strip for me." he ordered, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. you knew better than to argue with minho, and besides that; you wanted him, too. your shirt was gone in a matter of seconds, your sweatpants a little more time-consuming, but it didn't take much effort to get rid of them, too. all the while, minho watched you, not even needing his concentration to rip off his hoodie, ruffling his dark brown hair in the process, falling to both sides of his face as if he had curtain bangs, just barely touching the lobes of his pierced ears.

using the back of his hand, he stroked your soft, fleshy thigh, leaving soft kisses along your jaw; his hand pulling down your underwear — sinking his teeth into your neck. not enough to break your skin, but harsh enough that it'll have a bruise blooming before he gets to fuck you properly. he kisses your throat like he's trying to pierce it, making you dizzy from the brief lack of oxygen. your back is embraced by the couch seats, minho leaning above you, in between your bare legs. his veiny hands stroked your sides, following the curve of your waist, cupping your breasts and leaving a long lick straight down the middle, following the natural valley between them. his knee pressed against the pocket of fat above your cunt, stopping you from squirming. minho's hair brushed against your collarbones, tickling your skin as he feverishly nipped your skin, venturing down by your pubic bone.

"i see the way you look at my hands, baby." minho spoke slowly, his voice hypnotically low. one of his hands brushed against your sex, his fingers tracing your slit at a feather-light pressure, just barely touching you. he chuckled when your hips involuntarily bucked, chasing his touch. "please, minho. please, just touch me," you whispered, face buried into the crook of your arm, unable to look at him when you were so flustered. "oh, don't worry. i will.." he kissed the side of your thigh, "eventually." he added, feeling his smirk against your inner thigh was dizzyingly torturous. both of his arms were now between your head, elbows digging into the surface below, his knee once again pressed firmly against your cunt. minho moved your arm from your face, his grip firm. "open your mouth, darling." his index finger tapped your lips, which parted without argument, your eyes watching him curiously. his index and middle fingers slotted into your mouth, stroking your soft tongue. you could just about feel the veins lying under his skin, curling and uncurling his fingers, your tongue brushing against his smooth, black nails. your spit pooled in your mouth, having to swallow excessively to ensure it didn't spill out the sides of your mouth. minho's fingers burned inside of your hot mouth, his cooler fingers quickly warming up as you suckled obediently onto his fingers.

minho pulled them out, a string of your spit connecting to your mouth, before snapping from the stretch and falling onto your bottom lip. your breath hitched once you saw minho put his fingers in his own mouth, his pink lips wrapping around the base of his fingers, cheeks hollowing as he sucked them clean of your spit, letting them fall out of his mouth. "minho, can i suck you off? please? wanna make you feel good," your voice was tremulously light. minho grinned proudly at you, "my pretty girl. how kind of you." he kissed your lips, "tell you what. i'll fuck your throat for five minutes, hm?" you nodded desperately, eager to please him. minho lifted himself off of you, no longer caging you in, allowing you to move onto the floor where you sat with your thighs pressed together a little too tightly — the outside of your calves holding your weight as they relaxed on the floor.

he was still in his boxers, the last piece of clothing to be removed from his body. you leaned your cheek against his knee, admiring him dutifully. he looked so good in black it was a shame to remove them, the elastic clinging to his hips, showing off his v-line, and the unmissably huge tent due to the bulge of his cock, which always made you drool. you helped minho shrug them off, throwing them behind the couch to join wherever the rest of your clothes went. you exposed the flat of your tongue to latch onto the underside of his heavy cock. ever so eager to taste more of him, your tongue licked from the middle of his cock to the tip, pulling him almost entirely out of your warm mouth, flicking the tip of your tongue onto the slit of his head, spreading your spit onto his cock, and in exchange tasting the precum that you quickly collected into your mouth, moaning at the taste. your lips were a puffy, glossy ring around his cock, sliding him further into your wet mouth, his head rolling on your tongue as you bobbed on his cock vigorously.

minho's hands threaded into your hair, using the handfuls of your soft hair as a handle, tugging at the roots so harshly it stung, his fists balled up tightly as he guided your head along the length of his cock, giving a quiet moan in encouragement. your eyes wandered to his muscular body, each muscle growing more defined as he tensed and trembled from your actions. he was hard in your mouth, pushing more of his cock into your mouth, until your nose bumped against his pelvis, his cock buried to the hilt inside of you, his head pressed so snugly inside the channel of your throat, brushing against your larynx, bruising the back of your throat and leaving a noticeable bulge in your neck where his cock was settled under, stuffing your mouth with the better half of nearly an entire foot of his cock. you didn't realise your eyes were swelling with tears until they quickly started trickling down your face, taking some of your mascara with it, smearing your under-eyes with a sheen of ebony black, your face resembling spilled ink, unintentionally sobbing on minho's filling cock.

you were grateful when minho tore your mouth away from his pubic bone, leaving an arch of lipstick from where your top lip had unintentionally kissed his pubic bone from being so full of his cock. the head of minho's cock pressed into the flesh of your cheek, swelling from the outside consequently, a rounded lump prodding from your cheek. minho's eyelids fluttered closed, dark umber eyes shielded by his eyelids as his lashes kissed the swells of his cheeks. you felt his cock twitching in your mouth, which you gratefully rewarded with a swallow, your throat tensing around him as you did so. minho's abs twitched with a sharp gasp, his thighs simultaneously trembling around your head. you looked up at him through stuck-together, wet lashes, staring at him intently. his hands lifted your mouth from his cock, "that's enough," his voice was throaty, heavy and husky as he spoke, evidently shaken up by your efforts.

"ah, i got some lipstick on you," you noted, seeing your lips stamped his pelvis, his inner thighs and the base of his cock in your lipstick. "leave it there," minho beamed, his bronze skin slightly shining in the light from an excited sheen of sweat. a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead and the sides of his face, saturating them in colour as a consequence. "you're always so pretty when i fuck you." minho was affectionate now, stroking your ruffled up hair lovingly, tucking the strands away from your face. he didn't even touch your tear-streaked cheeks, or your smeared lipstick, or your half-opaque mascara stained face, opting to admire it proudly instead of meddle with what was already perfection in his eyes.

you climbed back onto the couch, settling into your previous position of having minho between your legs, your sex now exponentially more wet than last time. you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to fully relax when you felt minho kiss your sex, littering you with his affection, his black-painted thumb pressing against your clit, rolling around the pearl in tight, lazy circles. you sighed contentedly, your hips slightly rocking in place against him. minho's fingers dipped down into your slit, gathering up your slick and slid into you with ease, after leaving a quick kiss just above your entrance that made you quiver in delight, anticipating his next move. your eyes raked over his forearm, veins travelling up his arm and bicep, catching the light and shadows simultaneously. your hand wrapped around his wrist, tracing over his smooth skin and feeling his veins underneath the pad of your thumb.

minho leaned into you, kissing your neck and the dip of your collarbones encouragingly. "you're doing so well for me, darling," he whispered into your skin, his hot breath on your skin resembling what you imagined paradise to feel like. your free hand travelled to his hair, twirling a lock in-between your fingers and letting it go, entangling your fingers in his hair like he did to yours earlier; although you were much, much kinder to him. then minho fully invested himself, pushing the blunt parts of his fingers into the good part inside of you, curling and stroking your walls attentively, his thumb quickly stroking your puffy clit, his fingers curving and circling. your eyes widened in realisation, your chest rising and falling quicker as you took a breath in, sharply.

he was spelling his name inside of you.

your walls tensed and quivered around his long, skilled fingers, your eyes screwing shut as his fingers brushed against your cervix. "you like that? does it feel good, baby?" minho muttered, cooing over your whines — you nodded, otherwise speechless. he dipped his head down to your cunt, his pink lips latching and suckling on your clit, the front of his tongue licking up and down your slit rhythmically, cleaning you of your slick, your legs trembling and your hips buckling under him, your back arching. gasping for breath, your hands tugged at minho's hair to entice him off of your sex, his fingers painted in a thick white coating of your cum, drooling out of your hole no matter how much minho tried fucking it back into you, instead using the flat of his tongue to lick you clean. his fingers followed soon after that, his pink, plump lips wrapping around his fingers and skilfully suckling them clean, minho's mouth now full of your orgasm. he manoeuvred himself to be inches away from your flushed face, his thumb tapping against your lipstick-stained lips again. your brows momentarily knitted in confusion, before opening your mouth wide for him. he cupped your chin with one hand, fingers splayed over your neck. minho let a rope of your cum mixed with his spit fall from his lips, falling onto your waiting tongue. he swallowed what was left in his mouth, his head lolling onto the base of his neck, throat on display as he gracefully swallowed your cum, his adam's apple bobbing as his throat opened and closed. "swallow it for me," he used the back of his hand to stroke your cheek delicately, as if you'd break if he added too much pressure onto your skin. you tipped your chin up into the air, letting minho watch as your throat tensed and released as you did as you were told and swallowed what he gave you.

a smile bloomed on minho's pink, swollen lips, the shadow on his sharp cupid's bow becoming more defined as he grinned. "you're so good for me, my love." he muttered proudly, brushing the hair from your face to tenderly press a kiss to your forehead, hands falling to his sides. you leaned into his touch, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. "rest up, we'll go for round two soon enough."

[alottiegoingon]

love letters part II

shauna shipman x fem!reader

summary: the one where reader finds the truth about shauna's feelings.

warnings: r dates jeff, jealousy, homoerotic friendship, shauna is reader's best friend, no crash, shauna doesn't know how to talk about her feelings, angsty first, short but with a happy ending cause i dont wanna get murdered, not proofread

this is the second part of a fic i wrote weeks ago that can be found here

you came to the conclusion that refraining yourself from speaking to shauna for a few days couldn't be so difficult. there were plenty of other people to talk in wiskayok high after all.

of course, these people weren't shauna. they didn't wear flannels or either would bring your favorite ice cream flavor after school to feast on while watching a dumb movie or to use it as a background for your incessant conversation.

you would be just fine. you had jeff, your boyfriend.

"you are doing much better without her, babe." jeff was impatiently waiting for you to grab your books from your locker to put his hands on you, as if you were a important prize to show others. you thought it was cute the first time it happened, when he was so anxious to have his dirty hands on your waist to show his new possession. now it just pissed you off.

"look. i know she was your friend," jeff stops walking, not satisfied with your silence and feeling even worse about you not agreeing with him. "but that chick was hella weird. we have classes together and to this day, i don't even know the sound of her voice." he seems to finds his own way of talking about your best friend amusing as he snorts to himself.

he's too entertained to notice you looking at him dead in the eyes. yes, shauna was quiet and she didn't talk much but because she was observant. loud and clear, shana had called you desperate for attention two days ago. if anyone had the right to talk shit about her, this someone was you.

"come on, don't be so serious. it was a joke!" jeff hurriedly defends himself as you storm off, the sound of the locker door slamming reverberating in the corridor. "are you still coming to the party tonight?" his voice draws attention from other students passing through the hallway.

your dilemma on how to ignore shauna was quickly resolved, though not exactly in the way you anticipated. escaping from jeff's presence, the world around you seemed to halt as you caught sight of Shauna walking in the opposite direction. clad in her signature flannels, her dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her doe eyes were even more prominent.

meanwhile, as the world around you seemed to freeze in time, you thought about waving or greeting her with a faint smile. despite the exchange of heated words between you two, fueled by anger, you knew deep down none of it was genuine. none of that was real. she was still your best friend.

the time was up and you had to do something but she was faster and chose for the both of you. shauna did nothing. she ignored you. abruptly breaking the eye contact as fast as she could as if you were some kind of deathly disease.

things didn’t get any better after that.

you met her again when leaving the bathroom after lunch. getting out of the stall, you were petrified to see her right in front of you washing her hands. you knew she had seen you through the mirror thanks to the way she quickly looked away and never bothered to face the mirror again.

it took you a minute to realize that she wasn’t worried or upset. she was her casual self, calm and composed while you were overthinking every step of her. washing your hands by her side, you try to initiate at least a small interaction, facing her with the corner of your eyes, but she didn’t seem to notice.

you see her drying her hands and getting ready to leave the bathroom, so you quickly wipe your wet hands on your pants to follow her.

“hi, shauna, can we-“ you mutter quietly as you reach for her wrist, but she’s quicker, and in an instant, she darts out, leaving the door to close in your face.

off to a good start.

[💌]

it wasn’t until when you saw yourself wearing more pink clothes than usual because jeff wanted you to look like the stereotypical feminine standard, or reading less because you spent too much time lost in your imagination, that you found out that shauna was right.

you had changed. and worse, for a guy.

you would never put your favorite book aside just because your boyfriend told you so or find new movies to like because the ones you liked were too “manly���.

you couldn't escape the vision of shauna laughing and jeering in your mind. she had tried to warn you, but your defensive response only made things worse, and the worry of ruining your friendship with her kept you up at night

[💌]

“no, babe, hear me out.” jeff has his arm around you hanging over your shoulder and mouth full of french fries with eyes glued on tv, barely making any sense out of his words. “you gotta get rid of it. it’s pointless to keep this, shauna doesn’t care anymore.”

you thought you liked jeff for many reasons. he was good with his words, even though the letters stopped coming, he was decent at football, treated you well, even if not paying attention to everything you said, and your parents liked him. but you didn’t like him for his empathy.

jeff had given you a ride after school and bought food for you. now, sitting in the couch, he was doing an awful job at pretending to listen to you talk about how badly you missed your best friend. you mentioned that shauna was the one who gave you an adorable stuffed bear for your birthday three years ago, the one you were always holding onto lately, when you were obsessed with watching nature documentaries.

“i can’t get rid of it, jeff. it’s cruel.” you roll your eyes, irritated at his idea of solving problems.

“it’s just a plushie for babies. i can give you a new one.”

disregarding the sound of your boyfriend's voice, now more irritating than ever, you dash from the couch with the stuffed bear in hands. finally emerging from his TV daze, he gazes up at you, his brows knit in confusion.

“you’re not liking the movie?” jeff asks, oblivious of the thing that was actually making you go crazy. you couldn’t care any less about the movie when shauna was mad.

“i’m going to shauna’s. i need to tell her that i’m sorry.”

“what? now? i just got here.” jeff eyes widen and you notice how he looks like he’s panicking over your words.

“great. so you know the way out, right?”

[💌]

when you knocked on the door, shauna's mom greeted you with a big smile and let you in. no questions asked. this made you think that shauna hadn't spoken to her parents yet and you didn't expect her to, anyway. she rarely shared her feelings with anyone who wasn't constantly reassuring her.

what truly caught you off guard was her absence. you'd understand if it were a friday night, but on a school day? what if she'd made new friends? found a new best friend? a boyfriend or girlfriend? it didn't matter to you. shauna wasn't yours to control. you weren't upset in the slightest. even if the physical pain in your chest, as if your heart was being crushed, was undeniably there.

you knew the way to the attic. her bedroom looked just as it always did. the large 'reality bites' poster still dominated the wall, a messy pile of books lay on her bed, and clothes were draped over the small armchair near her bed. the only noticeable difference was the stack of new notebooks on her shelf.

as you headed towards her bed to wait for her, you tripped over a cardboard box that clearly wasn't there before; you knew her room inside out. cursing under your breath, you dragged the box closer to the bed and sat down to see what was inside.

inside the box were numerous papers and envelopes. you plunged your hand into the mess and picked one out, curiosity piqued. your brow furrowed as you recognized the content from past letters you had received. you grabbed another, and then another. each was handwritten by shauna, with a space left blank for a signature.

jeff's signature.

panic sets in. your heart skips a beat. soon, shauna's bed was covered in a sea of letters that you've desperately read. everything clicked into place. jeff's name didn't match the rest of the handwriting because he wasn't the author. your best friend was.

"what are you doing?" shauna's familiar voice echoed in the room, pulling your gaze to her figure at the door. she didn't have the same unbothered demeanor as she did at school; now, she appeared frightened. her attempt at a low, threatening tone faltered, and all you could see was a scared looking kid in her eyes.

"what is this?" you countered, holding a piece of paper between your fingers as you rose from her bed. extending it toward shauna, you expected her to defend herself, but she remained unfazed. she didn't even need to look; she knew exactly what it was.

"It's nothing," she said sharply, swiping the letter from your fingers without bothering to look at it. "this is private. since when do you think it's okay to snoop through my belongings without asking?"

"since when it's okay for you to lie to me?" silence. she doesn't say a word.

"you acted so weirdly when i told you about jeff and i thought you were just jealous but you already knew about them cause you wrote all of this!"

"no, i..." her voice dwindled, grappling for words. you observed her eyes soften and become watery, yet somehow, there was still a lingering anger buried in there.

"what? you thought it would be fun to mock me? i thought we were friends!"

"we are! it's complicated you don't understand!"

"and whose fault is that?" your voice, previously charged with annoyance, gradually regains its usual composure as memories of the last heated argument flood back. you had come here to mend things, but how exactly were you supposed to do that now?

"jeff asked me to help him. he didn't know how to talk to you and we had a class in common and-"

"oh my god, shauna!" you groaned, hands instinctively rising to cover your eyes briefly in frustration. "and you just decided everything for me? like i was some type of character in your journal that you could decide its faith?"

"I had to! do you know how incredibly annoying it is to think about you every single day?" it was her turn to raise her voice now. her expression was a tumult of emotions—anger, sadness, desperation, fear. her face flushed with emotion, nostrils flared and cheeks tinged red. "maybe if you had a boyfriend, everything would stop!" she yelled, finally releasing her pent-up feelings.

her words brought you to a halt. there was nothing left to say. your expression of disappointment turned into an empty canvas, nothing but a void where words failed to form, and, for shauna, this was worse than seeing you sad. she couldn't read you.

"what do you mean?"

"you still don't get it, do you?" shauna's sigh was heavy as she approached, flinging the letter onto the bed. "why do you think i wrote all that? i couldn't stand the idea of jeff's disgusting hands all over you, but it was the only way i could make this horrible feeling to stop!" her voice cracked, a mix of whining and huskiness, tears trailing down her cheeks. it was hard to discern whether it was anger, sadness, or perhaps even relief.

"shauna..." your voice came out in a soft murmur, barely audible. "do you-"

"have feelings for you?" she cut in, taking a deep, shaky breath amidst her tears. "do you usually write love letters for your friends if you don't have feelings for them?"

with her words preempting any possible questions, a bunch of thoughts raced through your mind in the span of a single heartbeat. shauna had feelings for you and she wasn't the only one. the ache of separation even during just a week without talking, the tender and way too friendly gestures like legs entwined while watching movies, how she truly adored you, evident in the small details like bringing you your favorite ice cream even if she hated it, were insignificant to some but meant everything to you.

despite all odds and against shauna's every expectation, you seize her by the collar of her flannel shirt, drawing her closer until your foreheads touch. "don't you ever make me kiss jeff again just so you can hide your feelings and avoid me," you whisper, your gaze shifting between her dark eyes and rosy lips.

setting aside her initial shock, shauna's hands, shaky and unsure, eventually settle on your waist, holding you close as if afraid you might slip away. "it's a deal. was it that bad?" she giggles through tears and the quite silly and adorable view makes you smile.

with one hand firmly gripping her shirt to keep her close, you use the other to gently reach up to her face, wiping a tear from her cheek with your thumb. "you really have no idea," you chuckle softly before closing the gap between you entirely and pressing your lips against hers.

[gojoidyll]

Wriothesley x New Inmate ! Reader

Warnings | fluff, grammatical errors, wrio being down bad for reader, etc.

Note | reason for reader being sent to the fortress as a new inmate is up to your imagination <3

"I don't have any work today? Nice!"

For the past few months of being at the Fortress, you found that it was a simple and easy life. Especially since you barely had to work! Now, you weren't sure if it was because you were a new inmate or something, but, honestly, you didn't care by this point since you got to laze around and do nothing for most of the day.

Honestly, it was the perfect life for you. Way easier than what you had to deal with on a daily basis back on the surface.

You felt ... at peace. Sure you were surrounded with people who committed more worse crimes than you, but at least none of them held any sort of hostility towards you. They welcomed you here just fine. And, along with a welcome from the inmates when you first arrived also came a welcome from the Duke.

In your eyes, he was an absolute dream. He had a quick wit and a body that looked good good to be true, and his face was easy on the eyes too. In other words, having a sight like him around the Fortress definitely put the icing on the cake.

Though, despite your attraction to the man you never did have the courage to actually say or do anything about it. Not that you minded. You have a particularly long sentence and, hell, even when your time here is over you might decide to stay awhile and see what new life awaited you here.

"Huh?"

Another female innate who sleeps on the bed next to yours looked over and noticed the little gift in your hands. She couldn't help but to grin, "ooo, a gift? Who's it from?"

You scratched the back of your head, "honestly, I have no idea."

The other inmate shrugged, "well, it isn't uncommon to receive gifts from the surface."

"Isn't that considered contraband or whatever that word is?"

"Oh trust me, all mail is looked through before its sent to us prisoners, so that gift is perfectly fine if it found its way into your hands. Now, if you'll excuse me, I got an early shift. See ya, y/n."

"Yeah, see ya..."

You didn't bother to watch her leave ad you looked down at the gift in your hands. Settling back into your bed, you took a seat. Your hands shakingly unwrapping the gift while also being careful not to tear the paper.

This better not be a gift from my sister... that bitch totally left me for dead.

That was another thing about the crime you committed, your sister was in on it but ditched you when you got caught. So if she sent a gift, then you know that you'll definitely blow a fuse.

Opening the small box, however, you knew it wasn't from your sister.

It was a necklace with a rainbow rose glass pendant on it.

If there was one thing you knew, it was that your sister wasn't as kind.

So, could this be a secret admirer's doing? It couldn't be someone from the Fortress, right? None of the inmates you knew had the means of getting their hands on something like this.

Maybe it was someone from the surface? Ahh..., but you were never close to anyone up there, and you were sure you never caught anyone's eye either.

Questions on who it could be swirled around your head for the remainder of the day, but, of course, despite those questions it didn't stop you from wearing such a lovely gift. A gift that didn't go unnoticed by Wriothesley whi just so happened to catch you wearing it at lunch.

And just as he had thought, it looked very pretty on you.

"You're so weird."

"Thank you, Sigewinne."

"That wasn't a compliment... I just don't see why you won't go up to them and tell them how you feel."

"For one thing, Sigewinne, we're not exactly close enough for that. Besides, the only few words I said to them were the casual greetings I give to all prisoners when they come to the Fortress."

Sigewinne huffed, "well, just promise you won't be a secret admirer for long, ok? Cause they are very good looking and I wouldn't be surprised if someone else managed to wisk them off their feet before you do."

Wriothesley rolled his eyes as he turned to head back to his office before glancing at your smiling face one more time as you chatted away with your newly made friends.

Cute.

requested | @mitsumina12345

[heliads]

hii! i've been reading a lot of your four fics and i simply need more so here's my requestt, four x dauntless!reader and when she's going into the fear simulation she got scared of the needle so he calm her down. any pronoun is fine and if you don't wanna write it it's also fine lol, so no pressure. tysm i adore you!

y/n is so me for being scared of the needle

masterlist

Most people are scared of what is about to come. This is unusual– not that people would ever feel fear, just that they would show it. This is Dauntless, after all, the place kids born without inhibitions go for cheap thrills and a superiority complex. No one here likes to give off any indication of terror if they could avoid it.

This is different, though. This isn’t another day of Phase One initiation where you’re jumping over the sides of buildings or throwing a few punches. Those are tests, you know how to pass those. The fear landscape, however? Now that’s something no one has any clue how to handle.

The mystery surrounding it all just makes the whole experience worse. Even the few initiates amongst your numbers who’ve managed to win over some older Dauntless can’t glean a single piece of information from their already established compatriots about what you’re going to encounter in the simulations. It’s all in your head, literally. There are no limits to the nightmares your own brain can dream up.

Thus the first afternoon of Phase Two of Dauntless initiation finds a hallway lined with apprehensive trainees all waiting for their turn in the simulation. A couple of rooms are being used for fear landscapes at the moment, so there’s a slow trickle of traumatized initiates coming out of shadowy doors every few minutes or so. Some trainees take longer than others. Some are in there so long you half doubt if they’ll ever come out. All emerge looking like they’ve just had their heart ripped out of their chests.

The screams don’t make the waiting any easier, either. Every now and then, a shrill cry of terror will issue out from one of the locked doors, a clear hallmark of the mental warfare going on inside. In the beginning, everyone would jump the second they heard a muffled yell down the corridor, but hours have passed and fraught tempers have grown weary. Now all you do is sigh to yourselves whenever another victim screams, wondering how much longer you’ll have to put up with all of this before it’s your turn instead.

Waiting is only just that, though, waiting for some grander goal, and at some point, your time of waiting is done. A scared looking boy exits the door on the left, clutching his hands as if searching for wounds that aren’t there, and then your name is called instead. It takes a moment to get up, your body lagging half a second behind your brain, and then you’re out of your chair and down the hall before you even know what’s happening.

There isn’t much time to think between hearing your name and closing the door behind you. You look up and realize the room looks quite similar to the place you did your simulation prior to the Choosing Ceremony. At least there are no new threats. The only change from before is that, instead of some wary looking woman with sleeves pulled low over tattoos, you’re greeted with the sight of one of the initiation leaders. Four.

You can’t help feeling a slight rush of relief. Of anyone here delivering your test, you’d much rather have Four than, say, Eric Coulter. Four is just as intimidating, of course, but Eric’s got this way of making you uneasy. He’s too cruel. At least Four can be counted on to be fair.

Four gestures towards the chair in the center of the room. “Take a seat. Are you ready for this?”

You arch a brow as you settle yourself into an uncomfortable reclined position on the seat. “Was there a chance you’d let me out if I said no?”

Four might chuckle, either that or he was struck by an urgent need to cough. “No, there wasn’t.”

He disappears somewhere behind the range of your peripheral vision and emerges a few moments later holding a needle. It looks highly unpleasant, the metal gleaming in the dim light of the simulation room as if proof of how much this is going to hurt. This is Dauntless, however; this is not a place where you can afford to wince or shrink away from anything lest you see your rankings drop in a second.

You force yourself to stay calm, training your eyes on a bright red light on some machinery across the room instead of the needle puncturing your skin. The moment seems to last forever, and just as you’re certain that the simulation didn’t take, you blink and you’re no longer in Dauntless. In fact, you’re in the middle of nowhere, a broken down city where the wind whistling through shell-shocked skyscrapers sounds more like the howling of people than any tune of quickly moving air.

This is your fear landscape, then. It takes you a few minutes to struggle through that fear, and then you’re successively hit by a few you expected and some you didn’t, too. Hopefully, you’re making good progress, but there is no way to tell for sure. In fact, it’s hard to even remember that you’re in a simulation at all. The programming is too strong, too good at eliciting a fear response from your brain.

You defeat what you thought might be your last fear and find yourself in the simulation room again. Four is still standing over you, needle in hand.

“That didn’t take,” he said, “you’re going to have to go through again.”

He holds out the needle, which seems much sharper than before. This time, blood wells up when he injects you, and every second seems to stretch into hours. There is no light to stare at this time, and your eyes keep finding the needle again and again, no matter how hard you try otherwise. Your fingers clench into fists so long that you can feel your nails slice through your palms. Forcing your breathing to slow and steady, you inhale, exhale, inhale until you look up and Four is nowhere to be seen. The truth about being in a simulation comes crashing back to you, and you realize you must have finally woken up. 

Four walks back to you, brow furrowed. You wince at his expression, taking that to mean that you must not have done too well. It had felt like you weren’t struggling with your fears all that much, but maybe you were wrong.

“How did I do?” You ask tentatively.

Four shakes his head dismissively. “Fine, fine. Solidly above the average, it’ll keep your ranking where it is if not improve it. I just want to ask about your last fear.”

You feel the sudden need to look away. “I faced it, right? No problems there.”

“Yeah, you faced it,” he frowns, “but it made no sense. Are you scared of the fear landscape? Of me?”

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or run from the room. Both feel like solid options at the moment. “No, neither. I’m, uh–” You pause, trying and failing to muster up the energy to finish the sentence, then give up at last and spill your secret. “I’m afraid of needles.”

Four blinks at you in surprise, then laughs for real this time. He does his best to cover it up, of course, but he’s still unable to fight a grin.

You glare pointedly at him. “Thanks for the support. No need to make me feel like any more of an idiot.”

The corners of Four’s lips still stubbornly refuse to tamp themselves down into his typical stony expression. “Sorry, I swear. It’s just– needles? Really? This is Dauntless. You’ve done so many simulations. You’ll probably get tattoos. Needles are everywhere, and you came here?”

You give him a look. “There are other things to Dauntless than just needles, Four. I thought you would know that having, you know, lived here? Go make fun of some other guy’s simulation, mine is perfectly fine.”

“Well, you’re definitely not scared of me,” Four observes, “Still, it’s funny. Anyway, you’re right, I shouldn’t laugh. You’re free to go.”

Despite his solemn expression, his eyes are still twinkling with barely disguised mirth. You fight the urge to roll your eyes and let yourself out. Four’s voice rings out behind you, calling the name of the next victim of the fear landscape.

You don’t think you had that bad of a time of it, though. Sure, the simulation itself wasn’t the best of experiences, but what happened afterwards made all of the terror of it fade away somehow, slipping back into distant memory already. When you think about the fear landscape, you don’t recall the horrors of being inside your worst nightmares, just the way Four tilts his head back when he laughs, how easy it was for his cold demeanor to warm when he smiled at you.

Perhaps that is not why you view the second trial of the fear landscapes with as much dread as anyone else. Your friends are all huddled together with haunted expressions at the mere thought of returning, but you’re actually doing alright. Your spirits are only improved when Four calls your name again instead of Eric, and then you’re back in the simulation room and he’s smiling again.

It’s much easier for Four to revert back to that same state of good spirits. He hardly bothers with an initial glower at the beginning, already looking pleased to see you. It makes you wonder why 

Four holds up the simulation needle with a teasing expression on his face and you give him a sour look. “Don’t even,” you begin, and he holds up his free hand in mock surrender.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he assures you.

This time, Four pauses when he goes to inject you. He takes a seat on the side of the reclined chair, studying your expression for any sign of hesitation.

“Look at me,” he tells you, “not the needle, me. I know you’re going to be fine.”

Something about the way he says it, so confident in your abilities despite only having seen you go through the fear landscape once, erases the last of the worries from your brow. You settle back into the chair, and you swear that this time, the simulation doesn’t take nearly as long to kick up. The needle has hardly pierced your skin before you’re gone from this world and into the one devised by your mind. The last sight you see is Four leaning over you, and that’s the one greeting you when you wake up, too.

The simulations aren’t so bad after that. Part of that is because it’s hard to feel as scared when you know you have Four there on the other side, a calm presence believing in you every time. The two of you start talking more and more during your simulation time slots, and as you progress through the fear landscapes faster, your conversations grow in turn. 

One time, the numbers of initiates were swapped around a little as trainees dropped out and you had to do your fear landscape with Eric proctoring instead. You still got through it just fine, but the experience wasn’t nearly as enjoyable. You were with Four the next time, though. There were rumors that Four had complained and switched the order back to the way it was, but no one knows why. You have a theory, but you don’t dare bring it up to anyone else.

Soon enough, you’ve reached the end of Phase Two of training. After that, graduation from initiation is upon you, and you find yourself walking out of your final simulation with a glowing score. Your ranking is great, high enough that you should have no problem finding the job you want. It’s certainly the best outcome you could have hoped for, but somehow you still find yourself a little bittersweet that certain things will come to an end.

Four finds you later that night, standing at a railing looking over the bustling view of the Dauntless complex below. Everyone is active in some way, throwing parties to welcome in the new initiates or hurrying to tamp down their normal lives before everything is thrown into commotion by a new round of Dauntless jumping into the thick of things.

“You’re not celebrating?” He asks by way of greeting.

You lift a shoulder. “I will. I want to take a moment before all that, though. Just to reflect on it all. Initiation was hard.”

“Didn’t seem that way for you,” Four muses, “you were good the whole way through.”

“Even despite the simulations being my literal greatest fear?” You laugh.

Four smiles, but it’s quieter, more serious. “Even then. This was all you, Y/N. I was there, but it was you.”

You exhale slowly, look back over the city that might be yours more than you ever thought possible. “And now that it’s over? Will you still be there?”

You don’t dare to so much as glance at him lest you see yourself disappointed, but out of the corner of your eye, you can detect movement, Four turning to survey Dauntless as well. “I will be,” he decides at last, “I think I will.”

divergent tag list: @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace, @gods-fools-heroes, @23victoria, @manyfandomsfanvergent, @ilovexavierthrope, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed

[tkachukz]

I will take care of you -Matthew Tkachuk

-this is my first fic, be nice :) -english is not my first language, if I have something written wrong I'm sorry (and let me know so I can fix it and learn)

-words: 1.0 K

summary:  When you find out your boyfriend played the game 4 with a fractured sternum.

Millions of thoughts swirled through your clouded mind as you drove fast to Matthew's house.

The guilt haunted you. You are unable to attend either of the two games in Florida, due to work, that required you to travel to New York for the entire week. 

The television, however, was on for Game 3, and you saw Matt get knocked down in rough hit, feeling your heart sink when he was slow to get up, and even more when he was out for several minutes. Seeing him back on the ice at the end of the game - and still scoring a goal - brought a little peace. He wouldn't play injured right?

In the post-match call - which always happened when you was away - he looked tired, said that maybe he had a bad shoulder, but that he was fine.

The days were silent until game 4, and as much as you wanted to call he every second, you imagine he needed some time to focus better. You knew how important all that was to him.

In Game 4, you could tell from the first shift that he was hurt. Anyone could see. He would try to get away when a fight broke out, dodge hits, and skate for less time than usual. Despite this, the effort he put in was evident, but unfortunately, the Panthers lost that game.

He took a while to answer your call that night and your instincts already knew something was wrong. When the camera finally turned on, you felt your heart sink at the sight of Matthew's exhausted face on the screen. He dodged a bit, saying his shoulder must be dislocated or something. He repeated a million times that he was fine and that you didn't have to worry, and considering his tired face, you gave up and let him rest.

He didn't play Game 5, and calls for him filled his inbox in seconds. Only something very serious would take Matthew out of the game and you knew it. Hochey was his life, and his desire to help and impress not only his team and fans, but also his family - most notably his father. 

He called you at the end of the night, after the defeat.He was devastated, sadness shining in his blue eyes. Matt made the excuse that his shoulder had gotten worse, and even though you knew it was supposed to be more than that, you managed not to push him that night, you knew that would be the last thing he needed. 

In the rest of the call, you did everything to try to comfort him, and his eyes lit up thinking that in a few days you to would meet in Florida.

You were on the plane when the list of injured players came out. You knew Matthew's name would be there, but his injury took your breath away.

You walked into the house not bothering to close the door behind you, your heart almost bursting out of your mouth.

“Did you play with a fractured sternum?????”

Matthew's eyes bugged out. 

He was in the kitchen, standing drinking water, while Brady was eating cereal.

“I can explain” your boyfriend said in a wary voice.

You approached slowly, feeling your eyes sting. You placed your hands on his cheeks, still feeling the thick stubble. 

“I get so worried” your eyes conveyed all your emotions and you felt on the verge of tears.Matthew reached down slowly, wrapping his strongs arms around you in a soft embrace. 

You snuggled into him, keeping your arms light, afraid of hurting him. “You can hug me, I'm fine” he seemed to read your mind. 

“I read all about fractured sternum on the plane, are you in pain even to breathe?” your voice came out shaky.

 “It's not so bad now that you're here,” he said with a small smile, inhaling the scent of your hair as your arms caressed his back.

“I'm sorry for not being here last week. I'm so sorry about the end Matt. You deserved so much. I'm so proud of you” he adjusts to hear the words, feeling so close to the Stanley and still losing was an open wound, and you knew it would take time to heal.

“I'm glad you're here now. I'm going to need a lot of petting,” he said with a pout, pulling back a little to look at you, running a finger down your cheek to wipe away a dripping tear, “and I need help shaving, I don't trust Brady with anything sharp.”

"Hey!" Brady complained, still finishing his cereal.

“That reminds me” you walk away from Matt approaching the younger brother, depositing a cracking slap on his arm. 

"Hey! This hurt!” the big hockey player massaged his arm.

“How did you let him play injured Braeden Tkachuk!?!?” 

"He plays hurt and I'm the one who gets beat up???" 

"But of course! We are a team! You are responsible for taking care of him when I am away!!”

"That's right Brady, you should take care of me" Matthew teases him.

“You're lucky you're hurt, otherwise I'd punch you” he replies gruffly.

You let out a sigh, the dynamic of this family always entertained you.

“Come on, love, I'll take care of you” You approached Matthew, placing a delicate kiss on his jaw, and he returned one on the top of your head.

“Can you shave my beard?”

"Yes my love“

“Can I have a mustache?”

"No."

[sickficideas]

if time is a healer || atsushi sickfic w/ dazai

ao3! 6.8k + trade for @thankshermin <3 - please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! sicktember 2024, day 12: "you're not fine, you're throwing up/coughing up a lung"

Dazai wasn't expecting to see Akutagawa drenched in sea water, too.

“Decided to go for a swim?”

Akutagawa has never thought that Dazai's jokes were very funny, and recently, he's started to ignore them entirely. He doesn't even roll his eyes, he just stares, waiting for him to acknowledge the unconscious form that he's protectively knelt in front of.

The breeze at the Port always feels nice. Dazai often forgets to take advantage of the nice parts of Yokohama. He always ends up down here when he actually needs to do something. Right now, he doesn't actually have any time to sit around and take any sights - Atsushi is unconscious and soaking wet in front of Akutagawa, who is visibly confused by Dazai's lack of urgency.

“He passed out after he coughed out the water. And he's been unresponsive since,” Akutagawa tells him. This must have happened after he first called Dazai about twenty minutes ago. All Dazai knows is that a confrontation with their enemy landed them in the water, and Akutagawa requested Dazai come get Atsushi, who was underwater for much longer than what was safe. The unconscious bit is new. “I'm sure there's water in his lungs.”

“Hm. And you jumped after him?” Dazai observes, arms crossed over his chest as he looks over Atsushi. He's not too terribly off. His color looks okay and his expression is relaxed, at least right now, but he'll certainly take him to Yosano to get looked at.

“I'm fine. Take your subordinate home,” Akutagawa huffs as he stands up, a little unsteady on his feet.

Akutagawa's clothes and hair are still visibly damp. He's not entirely sure he can take his word for it. He's never demonstrated great swimming skills either, and he would definitely do much worse in Atsushi's situation than Atsushi himself.

Dazai kneels down and lays the back of his hand on Atsushi's cheek. His eyes twitch and flutter open, glazed over and not even remotely with him. He's warm. Dazai isn't sure, but he almost thinks he may have been running a fever before this happened.

“Did he hit his head?” Dazai asks. This reaction doesn't quite match what he already knows about the situation. He shouldn't be this out.

“I don't know,” Akutagawa mumbles. He sounds nervous. “There was too much going on in the last few minutes.”

“I'm sure I taught you better than to get overwhelmed,” Dazai says, nonchalant, taking note of the tiny bit of subconscious guilt in Akutagawa's tone.

“Don't talk to me like that,” Akutagawa growls, turning his body away, towards the ocean before he coughs a few times into his hand. Dazai cringes at the way his chest rattles with each cough. He knows he generally doesn't do well breathing in the air down here at the port, between the sea air and the various port-related fumes, but rescuing another drowning person certainly didn't help. “I'm leaving. Don't let him die, I need his life to end by my hands.”

“Right, right,” Dazai says, scoping Atsushi up into his arms. Atsushi whines curling up against Dazai's chest like he's shaking some warmth. “Take care of yourself.”

Akutagawa scoffs, only briefly turning to get a look at Atsushi's unconscious form one last time before walking off, fairly quickly disappearing from Dazai's view.

“I don't need you to ruin your lungs too, so hang in there for me, Atsushi,” Dazai tells him gently, heading off to the edge of the park, where Kunikida is waiting for him to take Atsushi back to the Agency. It's not a long walk at all, but they had no idea of Atsushi's conditions and decided not to waste any time.

As Dazai approaches Kunikida's illegally parked car, half on the park's outer sidewalk, Kunikida rounds the car and opens the passenger door for Dazai to lay Atsushi on. He thinks he's going to make a comment on Atsushi's saltwater-soaked clothes getting into his cloth seats, but there's deep concern written all over his face.

“Shit,” Kunikida says, teeth grit as Dazai carefully lays him down. “He doesn't look good.”

Atsushi whines when Dazai lays the buckle across his lap. Hopefully he's not injured, but anything physical would be taken care of soon enough by his ability.

“He'll be alright. Let's just get him back,” Dazai says as he shuts the door and climbs in the backseat.

Kunikida gets them there within minutes with a shoddy parking job, telling Dazai just how worried about his coworker he is. They waste no time getting Atsushi out of the car and through the building's front doors, Kunikida going ahead to open the elevator doors.

“You with me, Atsushi?” Dazai asks him, concerned with how he's still half-unconscious, and Atsushi gives him no indication that he can hear him. He's just huffing out hot and uncomfortable breaths.

“Dammit,” Kunikida mumbles, opening the Agency's office door and then subsequently the infirmary door, where Yosano eagerly waits with her hands crossed over her chest, concerned eyes scanning over Atsushi as soon as he's in her line of sight.

“Let me get some things together for him,” Yosano says, heels clicking as she makes her way over to a cabinet. Kunikida signals Dazai over to a cot he's prepared for Atsushi, covered in a few towels.

“Go fix your parking job,” Dazai tells Kunikida after gently laying Atsushi on the cot, brushing some of his damp hair from his face.

“I can't believe the ex-Mafia is telling me to adjust my parking,” Kunikida huffs, taking his keys from his pocket. He bites his lip, looking over Atsushi, clearly hesitant to leave him.

“I'm a law-abiding citizen, mister detective,” Dazai teases, before meeting Kunikida's concerned gaze. “I'll take care of him.”

“I know you will,” Kunikida says, slowly making his way toward the infirmary door, “let me know if either of you need anything.”

“Thank you, mom,” Yosano says from where she's shifting some things around on a tray near her desk.

“Not you too,” Kunikida groans, “one Dazai is enough.”

Yosano giggles as Kunikida leaves, and she makes her way over to Atsushi's cot. She lays a tray over on the stand beside her chair, effortlessly preparing her stethoscope to examine Atsushi. Dazai doesn't need to be told, he unbuttons Atsushi's damp shirt and sits him up the best he can. Yosano gives a silent thank you before she presses the ice-cold stethoscope to Atsushi's chest, and sliding it under his shirt to listen through his back, too.

“Has he coughed up any water?” Yosano says, clicking her tongue, evidently not happy about what she's hearing.

“That's what I was told,” Dazai answers as she pulls her stethoscope away and swings it back over her neck. Dazai slowly lowers Atsushi back down. Atsushi groans quietly, a pained noise, his eyes screwing shut in tandem.

“I'll need to ultrasound his lungs. I can't remember where I put the damn thing,” Yosano says with a sigh, “it doesn't sound like he's cleared it. I'm worried about -”

“Pulmonary edema,” Dazai says just as she does, agreeing before she can even finish the thought.

“Right,” she says, “good guess.”

“Not my first rodeo, doctor,” Dazai teases. He's suffered from the same thing more than once, and she's well aware of that.

“Next time, I'll give you my license,” Yosamo teases back as she stands up, “I have some gowns we can dress him in, I really don't want him to be in those soaked clothes with the fever I suspect he's running.”

Dazai thought the same thing. He lays the back of his hand against Atsushi's cheek, still as warm as before. He remembers oral thermometers being in the drawer beside the bed. He takes one out and takes Atsushi's jaw to gently part his lips and slide the thermometer under his tongue. He whines quietly, weakly coughing before Dazai slides it back out for the reading.

“One hundred even,” Dazai says as Yosano makes it back.

“He must've already been running a temperature,” Yosano says. She lays the gowns at the edge of the bed, and Dazai starts to peel off his shirt, tie, dropping it off to the side of the cot, much more wet than he was expecting. Atsushi is vocally against all of this even half-concious, whining and whimpering, but quiets down a little as Yosano dabs at his damp skin with a fresh towel before covering him with a gown, and quickly, he's fully undressed and wearing her clinic's gowns.

Atsushi seems a little more awake now with the movement, eyes fluttering but now, evidently focused on worsening nausea. He grunts and wraps an arm around his stomach, barely managing to prop himself up before he gags and chokes up a watery mixture of salt water and bile. Dazai lays a hand between his shoulder blades and rubs circles as Atsushi coughs and sputters, only throwing up a mouthful or so more of what's in his stomach before his arms give out on him and he collapses back onto the bed.

“Looks like you swallowed quite a bit of water, huh,” Dazai says, brushing over the hair that's stuck to his face from the sweat. He's too delirious to answer, he just groans and lays a hand back over his stomach. Dazai decides to carefully lift him and move him to the neighboring cot, being that the other is now soaked with vomit and salt water-dampened towels.

Atsushi's eyes fall just again with no energy to do much else, his eyes twitching from discomfort. Dazai rubs his arm with a sigh.

“It's good that he's getting it up,” Yosano says, “but this confirms my concerns about his lungs.”

“Go find your ultrasound machine. I'll get the rest of his vitals,” Dazai tells her. She looks surprised that he's offering, but shrugs and heads off to her supply closet.

Dazai takes a sheet of note paper from the drawer and writes down Atsushi's temperature, taking note of the frequency of his respirations, rolling over the blood pressure monitor and wrapping it around Atsushi's too-warm upper arm to get a reading. All slightly concerning measurements, but nothing that would currently land him in a hospital. He takes a stethoscope off of the hook to read his heart rate too. Atsushi whines at the cold touch as Dazai slides it under his gown.

Steady. A little fast, but within normal range. He writes it down.

He jumps a little at the sound of what sounds like several books and miscellaneous other objects falling in Yosano’s office. He thinks Atsushi’s okay by himself for long enough for him to at least make sure Yosano hasn’t buried herself.

He peers into her office where she frustratingly gathers a stack of medical journal collections and sets them on the shelf with a huff. There’s several others strewn across the already-overcrowded floor. Yosano has never had incredible organization skills, but it seems to work out for her, at least.

He feels a shiver run down his spine, remembering a similar state of chaos from Mori’s medical office, before he became the Port Mafia’s boss.

“Use that height of yours to get that down for me, before the whole cabinet falls,” she groans, gesturing to the ultrasound machine tucked into a high shelf, evidently previously surrounded by books. He puts the pieces together and gathers she must have tried to get on her adjacent desk to reach it.

Unfortunately for her, Dazai very easily slides the equipment out of the shelf and sets it down on her desk. She shoots him a very annoyed, definitely jealous look before she opens it, slides open a drawer on her desk to look for a password, he’s guessing.

“Seems like you should invest in a ladder,” he teases, and she just huffs again.

“I don’t need two Kunikidas, thank you,” she groans, typing in the password to open the software. Dazai hears a pained whimper from the infirmary room, and he’s quick to head back to the cot, not wanting Atsushi alone for too long when he’s so out of it.

Atsushi whines and twists his body without much strength behind his movement, clearly uncomfortable but not conscious enough to do much about it - Dazai sees saliva drip from the corner of his mouth. He must still be nauseous, but he has a feeling Yosano won’t be able to provide him any medication for that, since they’ll want him to cough up any water in his system. The nausea will help him do that.

Dazai sits on the stool beside him and pushes his hair out of his face, which has plastered to his forehead and stuck up in all sorts of directions from the dampness.

“Dazai…?” Atsushi mumbles, his voice wobbly, eyes having so much trouble focusing on the figure in front of him. It’s becoming painfully clear that he has a head injury, his fever isn't nearly high enough right now to be causing this kind of confusion. He thinks his healing abilities will take care of that soon enough, but they’ve learned in the last that it takes him much, much longer for him to heal from anything illness-related.

“You alright there, Atsushi?” Dazai asks, observing how he’s become much more visibly nauseous, and before Dazai can move fast enough to get the trash bin under his chin, Atsushi has already propped himself up and gagged unproductively over the floor. Nothing more than the clear saliva pooling in his mouth comes up.

Dazai takes the opportunity to pick up the trash bin from behind him and hold it up to Atsushi, whose arm wobbles under the pressure of holding his head over the edge of the bed. He breathes heavy, the bag rustling with the movement.

“Throw up if you need to, alright? Coughing’s good too,” Dazai tells him, sneaking his free hand onto Atsushi’s shoulder to give him some comfort. Atsushi has a lot of anxiety around being sick, and vomiting especially - Dazai’s hoping that he’s a little too out of it to realize how sick he’s feeling, but he’s holding onto some of it, subconsciously. Dazai watches his eyes screw shut even tighter. “Don’t hold it in, Atsushi. You’ll make it worse.”

Dazai rubs his shoulder with a little sigh, thinking for a second it’s going to be a lot harder to get him to stop fighting the nausea than he realized, but just a few seconds after the thought crossed his mind, he hears the water hit the bag rather forcefully, followed by a round of several wet coughs that bring up quite a bit of saltwater as well.

Atsushi’s breaths start to pick up pace before he gags again, just spitting up a thin stream of water that time. He doesn’t have much control over the coughs and gags that follow, but it seems like he’s brought up all he can for right now.

“That’s good. You did good,” he tells him gently, gently guiding him to lay back against the pillows as Dazai lowers the trash bin. Atsushi groans quietly, wrapping his arms around his middle. He’s sure that Atsushi is still wildly uncomfortable.

“Did he throw up?” Yosano asks, sliding the ultrasound machine over on the opposite side of the cot on a wheeled cart.

Dazai nods. “He coughed up quite a bit of water too.”

Yosano begins the process of the ultrasound. She slides up Atsushi’s gown, which he resists to some degree, but Dazai lays a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. He’s pretty out of the loop on what’s going on, sure, but they did to do this.

The lubricant gel she has to use for the probe makes Atsushi shiver rather violently. Dazai watches the hairs on his arms stand. He imagines he’s more sensitive to the cold gel than normal because of this fever he’s running. 

She finds out exactly what she needs too - there’s already inflammation in his lungs, which makes it very possible that he’s developing pneumonia. But with Atsushi, it’s impossible to tell what his ability will assist him in healing, and what he’s on his own for - so unfortunately for him, all they can really do is wait and find out.

Dazai opts to stay with Atsushi, realizing this may be a several-hour long ordeal, and he’s not sure he wants to task Yosano with dealing with this by herself, with the mountain of other things she has to do - but, really, he just doesn’t want Atsushi unattended while he’s like this.

The hours pass, slowly, quietly and without much incident. Dazai sneaks out briefly to take a book from his locker that he’s been meaning to read, but never finds himself with time to actually crack it open. Atsushi’s fast asleep for a while, and Yosano stays tucked away in her office as Atsushi sleeps to get her work done.

It’s just about an hour before the Agency closes when Yosano comes by to check Atsushi over herself, this time. She sits on a stool on the other side of the cot, pressing her stethoscope up to his chest. She pauses for a second, still listening, but reaches over to hand Dazai the thermometer, silently asking him to check Atsushi’s temperature.

He miscalculates how far it is, and just gently grasps the space right in front of her hand before he realizes that she’s holding it a bit further back than he can tell, and he slides it from her hand.

Dazai’s been blind in his right eye for several years now, but the depth perception is something he’ll never really get over, no matter how long it’s been, and especially when he’s caught off guard like this. Yosano gives him a suspicious look as she lifts her head, and she’s making Dazai nervous enough that he’s just staring back at her with an awkward smile, still holding the thermometer.

“Sorry, sorry. Terrible depth perception,” Dazai says with a nervous laugh, but he realizes too late that he's already said too much. He started to reach over to put the thermometer under Atsushi’s tongue, but Yosano interjects.

“Is it because of your right eye?” Yosano asks suddenly, tilting her head. “I've noticed you have trouble seeing out of it.”

Dazai has never said anything about that eye to her before. He thought he was pretty okay at hiding his vision problems - he's never had to address it before, but Yosano makes him so nervous that he slipped up and said something he shouldn’t have.

It’s not a problem, really, if anyone finds out. He can get by perfectly fine, it’s nothing more than an inconvenience at this point in his life, and he can certainly lie his way around what happened, just like he does with everything else.

“Has it always been that way? Or is it an old injury?”

But for some reason, he can’t open his mouth to spit out the lie he was going to tell Yosano. The moment she asks that, he feels a shiver shoot up his spine, suddenly overcome with nausea. What happened to his right eye is something he still hasn’t quite attempted to work through, mentally, and he can’t do it in front of Yosano.

Even though he knows that she knows Mori just as well as he does.

Whatever face he makes is enough to get her to ease up.

“I'm sorry,” is all she says. She lowers her head, busying herself with checking the rest of his vitals as Dazai slides the thermometer under Atsushi’s tongue, and they’re in silence again.

Dazai silently shows her the thermometer reading once it beeps without even checking it himself, because there’s a throbbing pain behind his blind eye that he can’t ignore. He’s trying not to think about it, but the more he tries to trick himself into thinking of something else, the more he feels it.

Mori’s new favorite tool, digging around his eye socket when he was just fourteen, with no anesthesia or even any mild sedating medication, under the promise that it would lead to a very quick and painless suicide. That was one of many in a series of promises by Mori to assist him in ending his life, only to leave him suffering more than he was the day before.

Yosano disappears from view. He hears her ask a question that he doesn’t understand but nods to anyway, and suddenly, the lights come off.

He holds a palm up to his eye, pressing against it in some hope that this strange phantom pain he’s feeling will disappear. He hasn’t felt this in such a long time. He thinks Chuuya would scold him for not using the opportunity to talk about things like he always says he should, he just can’t bring himself to do it.

It’s worse, for some reason, because he knows Yosano suffered under him to. It’s not comforting to know that. He doesn’t want to put images of him in her mind, because he wouldn’t want that from her, either.

He feels awfully dizzy. He’s considering lying down on the empty cot, at least until the feeling subsides, but Atsushi shifts, and Dazai realizes he’s been too distracted to notice that Atsushi is trying to get up. He’s not sure where Yosano went - it’s still dark and the orange light coming in through the windows from the sunset is starting to dim.

“Stay down, Atsushi,” Dazai tells him gently. He almost reaches a hand out to lay on his chest and make sure he doesn't get up, but he doesn't need to. Atsushi hardly has the strength to hold his head up, and he collapses back onto the pillows with a shaky sigh from the exertion.

“Where's…Akutagawa?” Atsushi murmurs all feverishly, eyes darting around the room. He doesn't seem to recognize entirely where he is.

Dazai almost wants to laugh. A few months ago that question would've been asked out of fear, but Atsushi sounds concerned, despite how terribly he's feeling himself. 

“He's fine. Don't worry about him,” Dazai assures him with a half smile. Sure, he can’t confirm that, but he hopes that at this point in his life, Akutagawa would speak up and take care of himself.

The irony is lost on him, though.

“Dazai,” Atsushi breathes out, for some reason, not at all comforted by those words. He takes in a few deeper breaths, like it’s hard for him to get the air that he’s looking for. His eyes are locked on Dazai. “He…he jumped in after me. I'm just…his lungs, I'm…”

“I'll call and check on him. Worry about yourself right now,” Dazai tells him, trying to ignore how his stomach sinks with that information. He hadn't considered that. Akutagawa seemed perfectly fine when he saw him with Atsushi - soaking wet, sure, but he was conscious and communicative. Dazai doesn’t have to worry about Atsushi, most of the time, with his healing abilities and all - but Akutagawa has none of that.

Surely that’s why Atsushi is concerned, too.

He takes his phone out, and decides he’ll step over to the counter to make the call, not wanting to bother Atsushi with the static of a phone call or any voices raised above a whisper or quiet tone. His eyes follow him, but not long enough for Dazai to pull up his contacts list. Atsushi’s eyes fall shut, screwed shut tight like he’s in pain, but then relax.

“Akutagawa's that Port Mafia kid?” Yosano chimes in, scaring Dazai, not enough to make him flinch but enough to lift his head. She’s in the doorway of her office, backlit by the honey-colored light, evidently listening to his conversation with Atsushi.

“That's him,” Dazai says, leaning against the counter. “They were working together this morning.”

Yosano nods, remembering the briefing she was given before Atsushi arrived in the infirmary.

“You knew him, didn't you? Before you joined us,” she asks. Quietly.

“He was my subordinate,” Dazai answers, turning to face her just a bit more. Yosano's come into contact with him once before, he’s sure. Most of the Armed Detective Agency members were familiar enough with Akutagawa to know him by name, by the time Dazai joined.

Just as Dazai finds Akutagawa’s contact to call him, Yosano’s brow furrows and opens her mouth to say something, but Dazai turns away when the line clicks.

Akutagawa always answers a little too quickly.

“Bite the dust yet?” he says. Maybe a bit of an insensitive joke, considering Akutagawa’s condition. He’s distracted for a moment, peering out the window. The sky’s starting to look rather dark, even for the evening. The orange meets with black clouds overhead.

“What do you want?” he answers with an annoyed huff.

“Your boyfriend wanted me to make sure you're okay,” Dazai taunts, deciding that's probably a joke that Akutagawa can't ignore.

“Dazai -”

“I think he has every right to be concerned with how terrible your lungs are. And he's bordering on pneumonia over here,” Dazai tells him with an exasperated sigh. He’s sure Akutagawa doesn’t care about any of that, but Akutagawa doesn't say anything for long enough for Dazai to realize he's not sure how to react to that information.

“Is he - ” he pauses. “Surely he’ll be fine.”

Hm. Interesting.

“He'll be fine,” Dazai says. Despite Atsushi’s current condition, he certainly will be fine - those Tiger healing abilities will always pull him through. “Go see your doctor. The last thing your useless lungs need is another bout of pneumonia.”

“I don't answer to you,” Akutagawa grumbles, but a few coughs that he didn’t seem to expect betray his biting tone.

“Want me to tell Chuuya? ‘Cause you know exactly that he'll hound you to your grave about it.”

Akutagawa groans. “I’m hanging up. Your voice is giving me a headache.”

Dazai wants to make a joke in return, but Akutagawa truly does hang up the phone. Dazai’s a little more than surprised. But he’s certainly more surprised that little Akutagawa has the capacity to worry about someone other than his sister. And his enemy, no less.

He smiles to himself, but suddenly, the sharp pain in his eye returns.

“Dazai,” Yosano says with a huff, still standing in the doorway with her brow knotted together, “does that happen often?”

Dazai blinks. He’s not sure how she could possibly know that his eye is causing him any pain, so he wonders if maybe she’s asking about something else. Yosano is a detective, but she’s not a mind-reader by any means. “Calling my former subordinate? Well, unfortunately -”

“No, Dazai. Your eye,” she clarifies, her eyes fixed on that eye specifically. It does feel wet, now that he’s thinking about it. But he doesn’t think a tear has slipped out. The tips of his fingers graze over it, the motion causing a sharp pain there, but when he pulls his hand back, he sees blood.

“Oh,” Dazai says,  “well…it used to. Happen often.”

“I don’t mean to stop on your toes. But I’d prefer if you let me have a look at it,” Yosano says, but she doesn’t move from her spot in the doorway. Dazai squints trying to look at her, the bright light proving to be far too much for his sensitive eye at the moment. He’s nauseous at the idea of another doctor proding around at his eye.

Dazai wants to tell her no. He wants to say it’s fine, he’s been dealing with chronic paina nd random bouts of bleeding there for years, it’s just slowed down a lot since joining the Agency. He’s not worried about it.

But he thinks that she’s concerned because she knew Mori just as well as he did.

“If you have to,” he says as casually as he can muster, smiling awkwardly to break the tension. “But no needles or anything.”

“I don’t need needles to examine your eye. Go sit down in my office chair and I’ll find my ophthalmoscope,” she says, heading for some drawers on the opposite side of him.

Dazai awkwardly shifts around beside trudging into her office, sitting down in a chair that probably needs replacing. At least that way he doesn’t feel like he’s in a sterile doctor’s office. He’s just in Yosano’s work office. Her desk is littered with piles of unfinished paperwork, little trinkets and broken tools she’s working on fixing.

She walks in, adjusting the head of the opthalmoscope before looking at Dazai. She turns back to take some gauze from the counter and reaches to carefully dab at Dazai’s eye, to wipe off some of the blood.

“Is it painful?” Yosano asks.

Dazai was hoping she wouldn’t ask, but at this point, there’s no reason to lie to her. “Very.”

She peers through the opthalmascope after reaching back to turn off the office light. He knows the drill, he just stares forward, tries not to move, and at this point, he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t throw up. Yosano is nothing like Mori, but at the same time, she’s exactly like him.

“Hey,” she says, lowering the scope and looking at him with a very concerned gaze. “Breathe, okay? I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just looking.”

Dazai didn’t realize he was being that see-through just now.

He doesn’t say anything, he just does what she’s asked - breathes, something he forgot to do moments ago. He takes in a long, deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. He has to force himself to breathe out each time, or else he just ends up holding his breath and feeling worse.

It’s over, soon enough.

“You really can’t see from that eye,” she says, like she’s surprised to be able to confirm her theory, lowering the scope. “I’m not sure why it’s bleeding though. It might be a good idea for you to have it checked by an eye doctor.”

He smiles back awkwardly, with absolutely zero intention of following through on that. Yosano turns back to switch the lights back on, but all of it at once it too much. He shrinks away, his eyes forcing themselves shut, just the one throbbing through an intense stabbing pain.

Yosano shuts the light off as soon as she seems to register that his reaction is out of pain, and she disappears for a moment before coming back with something in her hand. The light coming off helped the pain subside rather quickly.

“Are you completely blind there? Or can you still see shapes, register lights?” Yosano asks.

“The second part,” Dazai answers, and Yosano presents him with a medical eyepatch.

“Put this on for a while. That way the light isn’t too much, and it might be a good idea to keep it covered while it’s bleeding like that,” Yosano suggests, and Dazai takes it. He’s certainly no stranger to these. The idea of putting it on isn’t something he;s thrilled about, but she’s right. It might help for a while.

So he puts it on.

He thanks her, quietly, before he wanders back to Atsushi’s cot, where the latter is thankfully fast asleep, but not looking much better.

Kunikida pokes his head in to ask how Atsushi’s holding up, to pass on the message to his very concerned colleagues. Dazai assures him that Atsushi will he just fine, he just needs someone to stay with him while he’s not feeling well, because he can’t handle it alone. Kunikida says that Kyoka offered to sit with him in place of Dazai, but Dazai insists that Kyoka getting sleep is more important.

The sun eventually sets completely as their coworkers file out of the building, leaving it eerily quiet. Yosano turns on the radio to fill the silence, just calming instrumental in her office, and she stays there, not coming out aside from peeking at Atsushi. The silence is long gone as wind starts to pick up around the building, whistling through the screened windows. He’s sure there’s a storm coming.

Eventually, Atsushi’s eyes flutter open.

Dazai doesn’t bother him with conversation right out of his sleep. He’s sure he’s confused and frazzled with that fever he’s been running, one that has Yosano concerned that he isn’t healing himself like they had hoped. She said she would give him until midnight before she would decide if he needed to be hospitalized.

Dazai hopes that’s not the outcome. Atsushi would handle that just as well as Dazai would.

“Dazai,” Atsushi murmurs feverishly with a pained groan, an arms over his middle, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, “I don't feel good.”

“I know, Atsushi,” Dazai tells him, reaching forward and patting his hair. “Wish we could make it go by faster for you.”

He's met with vague memories of himself being fever-riddled in the shipping container he used to call home, through the aftermath of some hurricaine that had not treated Yokohama kindly. He's sure he had pneumonia then too, but he was so sick he can hardly remember being treated after. He just remembers then fifteen-year-old Akutagawa showing up with Chuuya in tow, finding him drenched in sweat and coughing so much that it was making him vomit. He’s not sure how either of them ever found out he was so sick.

He remembers asking them to leave him. He felt so awful that he would have rather his body completed the process of killing him, which he was so certain would have been the outcome had no one found him. He begged both of them, over and over, to make it stop. To end it faster.

“I wish I could make it be over faster,” Chuuya has mumbled at some point. Then, Dazai had assumed Chuuya was making a remark to assist him with suicide, but he realizes now that Chuuya just wanted his suffering to end. He wanted him to feel better.

He’s not sure why Chuuya would have ever wanted that for him, but he feels that way about Atsushi. Atsushi at least deserves to feel better.

Dazai hears the thunder start to roll overhead, confirming his suspicions of a storm. Thankfully it’s not nearly as loud in the Armed Detective Agency’s building as it would be in their dorms, but they can still hear the thunder very well.

“I wanna go home…” Atsushi murmurs quietly, laying on his side, defeated with a quiet huff. He shifts uncomfortably, shivers.

“You can't yet, Atsushi. You've gotta stay here for a little longer,” Dazai tells him kindly, brushing his hair out of his glassy, fevered eyes. “We can’t let you go anywhere in this storm, anyway.”

He shivers at the sound of the thunder, curling up like a scared dog. Dazai half smiles, taking the end of the sheet and bringing it up to cover his shoulders, so he’s a little more secure.

“I didn't ever realize that you were scared of thunder,” Dazai says with a fond smile.

“I'm not scared,” Atsushi murmurs with a harsh shiver, “I just…I just don't like it…”

Dazai almost laughs. He’s heard those exact words from Akutagawa, years ago. He understands their negative associations. Akutagawa’s past living on the streets never gave him a good memory with a storm, and he’s sure Atsushi’s in the same boat, where he was trapped in the orphanage for most of the time, all by himself.

“You’re safe in here,” Dazai assures him, his tone that of a teacher trying to comfort a kindergarten student, making a little more teasing than he intended, but he hopes Atsushi knows that he means it. Dazai’s still trying to learn that too, but they are safe here, in the Agency.

Atsushi barely makes it over the side of the cot to vomit.

Dazai rubs his shoulder gently, telling him it’s fine and not to worry. It’s still just water, of course, there’s nothing else in his system. Yosano peeks out at the sound of the commotion, and gets to work with setting up IV fluids for him.

Atsushi breathes heavy over the side of the cot for a few minutes, visibly nauseous but without much energy to do anything other than gag miserably. Dazai doesn’t take his hand off of him. He must feel terrible right now, being so visibly sick isn’t something he shows willingly a lot of the time. Dazai tucks the longer pieces of his hair out of his face when he gags and coughs, bringing up nothing more than spit and water.

“Any better?” Dazai asks when Atsushi trunks himself onto his back, to which the latter shakes his head, closing his eyes. He looks terrible. Dazai reaches forward to adjust his hair, it’s stuck to his forehead in all sorts of directions.

“I wanna go home,” he says again through a quiet burp, visibly distressed, “’m fine…”

“You’re not fine, Atsushi. You’re still throwing up,” Dazai tells him, rubbing his shoulder. “Just let us take care of you for a little while longer.”

Yosano takes Atsushi’s hand and starts to place an IV as gently and quickly as she can. Dazai busies himself with distracting Atsushi, who is already starting to drift back into a sleep, unbothered what Yosano is doing for the most part - Dazai is more bothered than Atsushi is, up until the needle part is over. Dazai holds Atsushi’s free hand.

Yosano is gentle in the way that she finishes up the job, with adjusting everything, placing the tape. Her hands are quick and efficient, but not oblivious to the feelings of the person that she works on. Very unlike Mori, who never cared much if he was hurting a patient more than he should have been. That’s comforting, at least.

“Mori used to talk about you,” Dazai says.

She looks up. Dazai always has a hard time telling what she's thinking. She must have learned that from Mori, because Dazai has heard it’s very difficult to tell what he’s thinking, too.

“Never by name, but…I put the pieces together,” he says, rubbing circles into Atsushi’s hand with his thumb, thinking maybe it’s more soothing for him than it is for sleeping Atsushi. “The way you wrap bandages, give injections…”

“I've thought the same of the way you do things,” she says quietly. “I'm sorry you had to suffer with him for so long.”

“I'm here now,” Dazai shrugs. He has to be nonchalant about it, any other way makes him feel like he’s losing his mind, but he’s grateful to be here now. “And so are you.”

Yosano smiles back at him.

…

The next morning, Dazai feels himself wake up with the morning light spilling in through the windows. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he has his book in his lap, and he’s on the cot beside Atsushi.

And Atsushi’s still there, looking like he’s starting to wake up, too.

Dazai stretches his limbs out, surprised by the feeling that he’s gotten a fairly good rest. And Atsushi is still here - that means he’s improving, at least, and Yosano decided he didn’t need to be hospitalized. He moves to the chair where he was before beside Atsushi. His eyes are blinking open, slowly, carefully.

Dazai reaches forward to lay the back of his hand on Atsushi’s cheek, and he’s still feeling a little warm, but not nearly as hot as before. That’s good. He probably just needs a few more hours of rest and he’ll be good as new.

Atsushi groans, eyes screwing shut for a moment, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Everything okay?” Dazai asks him.

“Nauseous,” Atsushi murmurs quietly.

“Hmm. The antibiotics,” Dazai says with a nod. He says Yosano adding quite a bit to his IV, and he’s sure it’s helped his condition, but the side effects are never fun to deal with. “I’m sure Yosano can add something for your nausea if you’re still feeling sick.”

“Did you ever call Akutagawa?”

Dazai’s surprised to hear him ask for a follow-up, when he’s clearly still not feeling well. He’s still out of it, too, he’s just saying what’s on his mind.

“I did. What he does is his own choice, though,” Dazai says with a half-smile. “He’s never listened to me.”

Not that I ever gave him good examples to follow.

“I wish…wish he’d ask for help,” Atsushi murmurs, fighting his own exhaustion as he stares at the ceiling and tries desperately to keep himself awake. “He doesn’t have to…to do everything alone…”

“You’re right. He doesn’t,” Dazai tells him. Advice Dazai could surely use himself. “Go back to sleep, Atsushi. You’ve got some more resting to do before you’re back to yourself.”

Atsushi doesn’t need to be told twice. Even if he wants to stay awake, his eyes betray him, and he starts to fall asleep again.

Dazai supposes he has some lessons to learn after all.

[yun-jin-noona]

When you wake up next to him (in the middle of the night)

.

It wasn't invited in, you promise.

But...it wasn't necessarily shooed away either.

Mark was a dick, he knew it, you knew it, everyone outside the relationship also knew it. He wasn't like that from the start, he was a nice man- romantic gestures and dates were aplenty, and he never asked for more than he gave.

Then he pulled a ring out.

It was a complete 180 after the engagement, it was like he was someone different- someone far, far worse.

Now it's happened again. But this time it's...strange.

Mark seems to have forgotten a whole lot. About you, about him, about us. He always denied it when his abuse was brought up, but now its like...he genuinely can't remember?

Not to mention his speech is so...weird, now. Stunted, as if he somehow had a stroke that nobody knew about.

But the change is fine, he doesn't hurt you anymore- doesn't hurl insults for the smallest things, doesn't stop you from going out, he's even letting you make new friends! Well, letting is a strong word, he actually isn't stopping you at all.

But today, he just seemed...off. He was twitchy, but also lethargic. His posture was worse and he seemed not to talk so much.

You thought he was just having an off day, but then you heard something outside- it sounded like an animal, crying out.

You're not sure why you felt compelled to investigate, maybe to save the creature if you could?

The sight that was presented was...not anything you'd imagined, not in your wildest dreams.

The raccoon was dead, yes. But hunched over it was...Oh my god, is that Mark?

But he's different, his body is contorted, it looks broken, and- oh hell, did tentacles just come out of his goddamn back?

He, it- whatever the fuck, turns to you as you begin to dry heave, its a miracle nothing came up, really.

"Sorry...sorry...you weren't.. supposed to...see...this." He says. Its not Marks voice anymore, but it also...sort of is?

You don't know what's going on, but when he begins to rise and step closer to you, everything goes black.

You wake up the next morning, still cuddled close to what has to be Mark, there's no way he's anything else. It's not as if there's actually something out there that snatches people's bodies and pretends to be them and-

"Good morning sleepyhead~"

Speak of the devil.

"How'd you sleep? I think you had a nightmare last night, do you want to talk about it, love?"

Bullshit. No way that was a dream. Your throat still hurts from trying to evacuate yoru stomach contents.

"I...I can't quite remember, sorry."

He frowns- more like pouts, comically, and kisses the top of your head, patting your side gently where his arm curls around you.

"C'mon, at least let me make you breakfast, I went to the butchers on the way home yesterday- what do you say to some sausage?"

"I think I'll pass, my stomach doesn't feel quite right- I'll just have some toast."

He looks genuinely concerned. "Oh? Do you want me to go pick up some medicine?"

"No- I'm sure it's nothing, just feel uneasy is all."

Mark pets your head with his other hand. "My poor sweetheart, take it easy then today, alright? If you need anything, call me, work isn't as important as you."

He seems genuine. He seems to care. You almost think he loves you again.

"Alright, thank you."

You swear you can hear a cracking as he gets up out of bed- it's probably just his spine, right?