#the anxiety just keeps piling up over things so tiny that not even i can see them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mediumgayitalian · 3 months

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The sunlight disorients him.

Usually, he wakes to a blaring alarm. If he has no alarm set, nothing planned for the day, he wakes when he cannot physically stand the taste of his own breath anymore, stumbling out of bed and ambling like a zombie for the nearest toothbrush. (On rare, rare occasions, he wakes to humming – low, drawling, lilting, floating around his darkened room, brightening it. He dreams about those mornings.)

He cannot remember the last time he woke to gentle sun.

Stretching, he takes a minute to catalogue the space as he wakes up, noticing the light curtains over wide windows, small TV tucked in between two double beds, and a desk, larger than he would have expected, taking up the far right corner.

Will is nowhere to be found.

“Jogging, mebbe,” Nico mumbles to himself; tiny, forgotten accent slipping out before he can stop it. Gingerly, he peels off the blankets and pads to the bathroom. Will’s blue-capped toothbrush sits next to the sink, quelling Nico’s ridiculous anxiety that Will, actually, has never been here at all, and Nico dreamed this whole thing up. He smiles slightly at the dorky stickers plastered all over the handle, colour mostly worn away, and the watch forgotten next to the soap dispenser.

He hears a heavy door open and shut, pausing to make out quiet footsteps over the running water. Quickly rinsing the suds off his face, he towels off and steps back out into the hotel room, watching his friend.

Will has his back turned, hunched over the desk. He wears a hoodie, blue with big white clouds all over it – his favourite – and, of course, horrible cargo shorts. Nico counts seven pockets, and that’s just what he can see from the back. There is a book shoved in two of them, keys hanging out of a third, and an apple bulging from the pocket near his hip.

“Morning.”

Will jumps, whirling around.

“You scared the shit outta me!”

“Sorry,” Nico says, not sorry. He’s grinning. “Were you out for a run?”

“I was out for a run hours ago, yes. It’s, like, ten-thirty, dude. You’ve been sleeping for eight hundred years.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” They’ve had this argument more times than he can physically count, he refuses to have it again when he doesn’t have the upper hand. He’ll bring it up again when Will’s sleepy again at nine o’clock. “Where were you?”

Will steps to the side, revealing three separate heaping plates of food on the desk, piled high with eggs, toast, a muffin, bacon, and, of course, an entire plate devoted to fruit. Nico descends upon it like a swarm of seagulls upon a terrorized child’s ice cream cone – with fury, insatiable hunger, and endless hubris. He makes sure to ignore the fruit.

Five minutes later, he’s satiated enough to turn a percentage of his attention away from the food. He spins the desk chair halfway to face Will, instead, curled up on the bed with one knee pulled to his chest, watching him fondly.

“How many times did you almost drop this on the way up?” he asks around a mouthful of bacon.

Will’s smile drops, eyes narrowing. “Shut up.”

“Four floors, and there’s a good chance you took the stairs to keep the elevators for ‘someone who needs them more’, so –”

“I hate you.”

“– I’m guessing one time per flight of stairs? Oh, wait, there are three plates, definitely more –”

“I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again.”

“– and you have a new band-aid on your knee, so you definitely tripped and dropped it at least once.” He pops the last of the bacon in his mouth, smiling wickedly. “Twice? Three times? If you don’t tell me I’m going to assume six and move on.”

Will’s glare intensifies. He mumbles something.

“Hm?”

He mumbles again. Nico doesn’t even pretend not to be delighted. He knows the smile on his face is wide enough to make him look deranged, he simply doesn’t care. Opportunities to press Will’s buttons this beautiful do not show up every day. He must treasure them.

“Didn’t catch that.”

“Hadtogoback.”

“Gonna have to speak up, bud.”

“I had to go back!” Will explodes, hands thrown in the air. “I fuckin’ – I dropped the stupid plates, the first time, so I had to fuckin’ – clean it up and – two stupid trips, you jerk, you better appreciate this –”

Nico almost bites through his lip. “You dropped it?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Will says defensively. “I was concentrating really hard but –”

Nico loses it.

“– my shoe got caught on the last step and I didn’t have any hands to catch myself.” He scowls. “Three people saw.”

He can’t breathe. There are genuine, actual tears streaming down his face, burn in his eyes almost as bad as the burn in his lungs, the ache in his belly. He wraps his shaking arms around himself in an attempt to hold himself together, laughing so hard he feels like his muscles might actually rip themselves off his bones. Every time he tries to calm down, he pictures Will, in his dorky flip-flops, egg in his hair, half a muffin crushed on his cheek, bright red, sprawled on the ground, food everywhere. If he could think of literally anything else, he’d be worried about his heart straight-up failing.

“I hate you. Actually.”

“I’m – oh my God,” he wheezes. He manages, finally, to get an actual breath in, desperately trying to think of literally anything else to calm down. Fucking – bumper to bumper traffic. Bedbugs. His father’s frowning face. That always works. “Holy shit, Will.”

“I should’ve just woken your ungrateful ass up.”

“Probably.” He flicks a grape at him, smiling. Will catches it in his mouth, rolling his eyes but smiling back. “Glad you didn’t.”

“Whatever.”

Nico finishes the rest of his breakfast in relative peace, managing to turn away if his mouth threatens to betray the tentative truce they’ve negotiated. He even eats one entire peach when Will starts pelting him with tiny hotel soap bottles and listing side effects of cholesterol-induced heart disease.

The second he finishes the last bite, Will orders him to clear off the desk. Nico mutters about bossiness and how Will is most definitely not in charge of him, doing as he asks. When he comes back – took him a hot second to shove the paper plates into a small enough ball to fit in the garbage can – Will has dragged the desk over to the bed, sitting criss-cross next to it, examining one of the many papers he has covering it.

“So,” he says, gesturing next to him. Nico dutifully sits, peering at the various maps and markings. “We gotta plan part two.”

“Didn’t we already do this?” Nico asks. “Back at Dunkin’s?”

“Not this far. I wanted to Preserve the Spontaneous Road Trip Spirit.” Nico can hear the capitalization.

“So, planning, then.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Nico smiles. “Brief me, captain.”

Will jumps right in, pointing and gesturing and every once and a while catching Nico’s eye to ask, right? Sound good?

Nico just watches him.

The midday sun shines directly in his face, catching and reflecting on his pale eyelashes, making his eyes go squinty. His excitement is obvious, in his chattering, his waving hands, his bouncing curls; every part of him moving. Even his stupid cargo shorts look endearing, every other pocket bulging, filled absentmindedly with slips of paper or pens or bandaids or granola bars. Nico watches him and feels he might burst.

“You’re not listening,” Will accuses.

Nico jumps back into focus. “Yes I am.”

“What’d I just say?”

“‘You’re not listening’.”

WIll cracks a smile. “You’re not funny.”

“Run over that again,” Nico answers, and grins devilishly when Will does. Not funny his ass.

He listens, though, through Will’s second explanation. It’s not too hard – Will’s always been organised. The wide penciled circle around their location in Atlanta, outlining the area they can drive before their next fuel stop, is pretty wide. But the options are limited, in Nico’s opinion – while he’s sure there is indeed something to do in South Carolina, there’s nothing to do for him, specifically. He’s cool with skipping it.

“There is one place we can go,” Will says. His voice has gone oddly quiet, and after at minute he glances over at Nico, like he’s waiting for his permission.

“Your road trip, dude,” he murmurs, nudging their shoulders together. “I’ll even go to South Carolina if you want to, but no promises that I won’t complain about it.”

That, thankfully, draws a huff out of him, some of the tenseness fading from his frame.

“South Carolina is beautiful, you know.”

“Says the boy who is currently visiting his third state ever.”

“...Touché.” He taps his pencil on the map, pink eraser thunking somewhere in the Bermuda triangle. “I was thinking – we could try Nashville? Music Row, or Broadway?”

Nico groans. “Oh, of course you wanna go hang out with all the goddamn hillbillies, you fuckin’ country boy –”

“It’s good music!”

Nico groans louder. Secretly, though, he watches his friend out of the corner of his eye, watches as his shoulders slump, relieved, and he knows he’ll spend as long as he needs in lasso-slingin’ Tennessee, following Will in and out of – barns and ranches and cowboy boot shops, probably. Are saloons still a thing?

He has a feeling that there is more to Will’s hesitance than a fear about being judged for his Marty Robbins obsession. If Tennessee is where he’s gonna get answers – well. He’ll brave the goddamn sea of cowboy hats.

A knock at the door startles them both. A voice calls hesitantly through the door: “Mr. di Angelo?”

“Wrong door, probably,” Will whispers after a moment. He looks to Nico. “Right?”

There’s another knock. “Mr. di Angelo?”

“Yeah.” Nico rolls of the bed, landing on the floor with a grunt. “Another room with a Mr. di Angelo.”

He creeps towards the door, keeping low as if whoever’s outside can see him. After a moment, the bed creaks, and Will’s quiet footsteps pad behind him.

“You think it’s room service?” Will whispers, plastered to the opposite side of the door. Even ducking, his hair brushes the edge of the peephole.

Nico shoves his head down, pinching him when he squawks. “Be quiet, tall person, I need to see.”

“Get a stepstool then, jerk! Stop using my neck as a lever!”

“What part of be quiet are you missing! God!”

“Mr. di Angelo, please open the door.”

The voice on the other side of the door sounds amused. Face flaming, Nico shoves Will somewhere behind him, still bitching, and swings open the door.

“Good afternoon,” says the man in the hallway. He’s dressed very smartly in a tailored black suit, nametag reading Eric. “Are you Mr. di Angelo?”

Nico clears his throat, trying to stand taller. “That’s me.”

“Good. I’m with Hotel Administration. We received a fax for you this morning?” He hands Nico a manilla folder. “First page says confidential, so we put it in the envelope. We tried to call this morning but didn’t get any response.”

Vaguely, Nico remembers a ringing phone. He also remembers yanking the plug out of the wall in sleep-deprived rage.

Oops.

Ignoring Will’s snickering, Nico thanks the man, closing the door and sitting on the nearest bed. Will scooches over to make room for him, tossing and catching a pillow. Nico leans back against the headboard, crossing his leg over Will’s.

“What’s in the envelope?”

“Checking now.”

The envelope is the cheap kind you get in a box of fifty; speckled brown, thin, machine-cut. It’s not sealed and so Nico flips it open easily, sliding out a small stack of papers. The first is a huge CONFIDENTIAL, printed diagonally across otherwise blank paper. The second is a bank statement.

Nico shoots upright.

“What? Nico, what’s –”

“Mr. di Angelo, we regret to lose your business,’” Nico recites in a shaking voice, “‘but appreciate your time with us and wish you all the best with your future banking.’”

Frantically, he scans the document again. Successful cancellation. Expedited closure date. Transferred affairs to –

– parent account.

“–co? Nico? Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

The air pushes out of Nico’s lungs like a crushed balloon. “Fuck.”

“Nico.” Warm hands press on his bloodless cheeks, fingers sliding in his hair. “Nico, look at me.”

He gasps. Will squeezes gently, eyes dark and stern and kind, thumbs callus-rough and dragging across his cheekbones.

“Good. Again. There you go, you got it.”

Nico grabs his wrists when he tries to pull away. Will takes the hint, sliding his hands under Nico’s free one and knocking their shoulders together.

“What’s wrong, Nico?”

Instead of answering, Nico sets the papers on the bed between them. Will squints, and for a second Nico prays that he’s wrong, that he’s mixed up the words. That it doesn’t say what it knows it does.

Then Will inhales, quick and sharp, and the hope is dashed.

“Your card…”

“Next page,” Nico says softly.

Niccolò,

The papers rustle as Will flips them, and this one he takes much longer to read.

Vorrei sapere che ho fermato un caso di frode alla radice.

After a minute, he holds it out, shaking his head.

Un criminale ha rubato la tua carta di credito, e l’ha usata per comprare una stanza d’albergo in Georgia. Qualche spacciatore, non ci sono dubbi.

“It’s a little formal, I can’t –”

Ho disattivato la carta, naturalmente. Ti darò quella nuova appena ti vedrò.

Nico takes the scanned letter. Vaguely, he registers Will’s hands brushing up his arms as they move two wrap around his face again, this time forcing his jaw to unclench.

“Power play,” Nico snarls. His clenched fingers wrinkle the pulpy paper. “He knows exactly where I am. If he wanted to drag me home, he could drag me by the fucking –”

“But instead he’s forcing you to call him,” Will says softly. “Oh, Nico, I’m so sorry.”

The hands drop from his face again. It knocks the cloudiness right out of Nico’s head, and he snaps up, frowning at Will’s crooking fingers, the bitten lips. He won’t meet Nico’s eyes.

“Why are you sorry my father’s being a haughty jackass who suddenly cares what I do with my time?”

“And his money.” Will picks up the bank statement, reading over it again, and again, like it might change. Like Nico’s credit card will magically become un-cancelled, like they will suddenly become un-stranded. “This whole stupid thing is my fault. I never should have dragged you into it, Neeks, I’m so –”

“If you apologise again I’m going to push you off the bed.”

“– sorry.”

“Will.” Nico snatches back the statement, shaking his head. He waits until blue eyes meet his then smiles, as reassuringly as he can with such a pit in his stomach. “My father is –” He sighs. “It’s not about the money. You know he doesn’t care about the money.”

Will shrugs. It’s true – Nico has made dumber purchases. When he was twelve, he bought a trampoline, just to see if his father would say anything. Fifteen, marble statue. Sixteen, a car.

Then he stopped trying.

“How far can we go, on the gas we have? How many miles?”

Will shrugs. “Three and a half hours? Four, if we push it?”

“And on a full tank of gas?”

“Almost six.”

“And then we’re stuck.”

“And then we’re stuck, yeah. Unless you got Greyhound money hidden somewhere.”

Nico sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s what he wants, Will. He doesn’t care about the – about the stupid money. He wants me. He wants me to ask, rather, to pick up a phone and beg him to come get us ‘cause we have no other options. He wants me to admit I need his help.”

The first time he ran away, he’d had to avoid every cop car. He knew he was being looked for, he saw his own face plastered on news screens. It had only been a matter of time. The second attempt was – easier. Much easier. He’d hardly even had to hide his face. By the third time, he’d waited a week, waited almost a month, before he was cold and hungry and walked to the nearest social services building himself. The car ride home, the humiliation so potent he could taste the bitterness of it, had made the cold, rainy nights with nothing but the same ratty hoodie he’d worn when he left worth it. He swore he’d never subject himself to that again.

And yet here he is.

Out of options.

“You know what? No.” In a swift, unstoppable movement, Will snatches the stack of papers, ripping them into four pieces faster than Nico can reach an arm out to stop him. “We’re not doing this.”

“Will – what –”

He throws himself off the bed, stomping over to his backpack. A folded pair of socks goes flying over his shoulder, a book hits the ground with a heavy thunk. His muttering grows louder, cursing interspersed between every word.

“What are you –”

“We are not dealing with this right now.” With a frustrated finally, Will yanks a bag of something out of his backpack, stomping back towards the bed. He throws a Ziploc bag onto the duvet, and it bounces once, twice, three times before splitting open and spilling quarters everywhere.

“What the hell is –”

“You already payed for the room, right?”

Nico snaps his jaw shut. “Yes.”

“And it’s Saturday.”

“I – it is, yeah.”

“Not a business day.”

“No.”

“Well.” Will nods. “Bank’s closed. Hotel can’t process anything, and they have no reason to suspect your card, which worked just fine last night, is gonna bounce. We’ve got a day of breathing room, at least, and I don’t want to think about it.”

He holds up a hand when Nico starts to argue, grim set to his mouth giving way to something a little sharper, a little more dangerous.

“We might not be old enough to gamble, but when you’re in Atlanta, you do as the Atlantians do.” He meets Nico’s eye, grinning. “You still any good Street Fighters?”

———

next chapter

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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 1 year

Text

Under Orders - Part 3

Masterlist

Part 1 🔹Part 2🔹Part 3🔹Part 4🔹Part 5

Pairing: Dom!Marshall x reader x Dom!August

Summary: The long-awaited weekend with both of your guys has finally arrived...

Word count: 7.6k

Warnings: NSFW, SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI, BDSM, D/s dynamic (technically D/s/D), praise kink, bondage, oral sex (f receiving) (m receiving, face fucking), p-in-v sex (unprotected, creampie), anal sex (toys, fingering, p-in-a) (f receiving) (unprotected, anal creampie), double (and technically triple) penetration, slight hurt/comfort, use of pet names/titles (Daddy, Sir, princess, kitten, sweetheart, love and darling), established relationship, extra light dacryphilia, spanking, voyeurism, exhibitionism, slight humiliation/degradation, slight objectification, bratty behavior, punishment/funishment, Also check-ins, aftercare and some polyam vibes... Tell me if I missed any because... Yeah, it's a lot.

A/N: Alright! You were all promised a weekend with both of your men and oh boy, it's here and it's a LOT. I had a ton of fun writing this. I think we're done now, but I'll keep these guys in mind in case inspiration strikes at some point...

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @keanureevesisbae @fvckinghenrycavill @peaches1958 @know1udno @dedicated-to-mr-cavill @7eamfan7asy @ylva-stark @summersong69 @kingliam2019 @mayloma @sloppyzengarden @youve-yeed-yer-last-haw @sillyrabbit81 @ellethespaceunicorn @liveoncoffeeandflowersss

You have to get dressed because ‘Marshall is coming over to watch the game', which is bullshit; they just want an excuse to have you sit pretty and get wet for the first part of the night. With a bit of luck – just a teensy little bit – it’ll mean lots of ‘pre-game’ cuddles for you.

The downside: you have to pick something to wear that will rile both of your guys up without making it seem like you dressed up for one or the other – which means your whole wardrobe is entirely useless. It’s a massive luxury problem you’re having, for sure, but it’s still a problem, and it’s still going to need a solution.

August finds you in front of your dresser, surrounded by a few tiny piles of expensive lace. He leans nonchalantly in the doorway, looking at you with one eyebrow raised, and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” There is a hint of amusement in his voice that makes you want to lunge for his throat – but you don’t. Instead, you decide to go with the truth. Anything else would be a massive mistake, considering the night you’re about to have. So you get up, and fall down on the bed with a sigh, which is enough to prompt August to come over and sit next to you.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly, as if you’re embarrassed. You aren’t – not consciously, anyway. If there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that you love having them both near you, but if any of your hunches regarding the events of this evening are right, you’re in for a wild ride. It’s definitely anxiety-inducing. You can tell August swallows a chuckle when you tell him about your concerns – not because he thinks your fears are funny, but because he thinks they’re silly.

“I promise we’ll keep you safe, darling.” He leans in to kiss you. It’s just a soft peck on your lips, but it really helps settle your nerves. Your voice is stronger, steadier, now that you’re slightly calmer, and you tell him that’s not what you’re worried about, per se.

“What if I can’t do it?” He instantly knows what you’re referring to, of course, and a smile spreads across his face.

“Then it’s not happening. There’s a million other ways for us to enjoy our favorite little toy.” He says it so casually, as if he isn’t comparing you to a lifeless object to be used for his pleasure – well, his and Marshall’s. You hide your face in the duvet as he says it, knowing he can tell you’re turned on by it.

“Do you want me to help you pick something?” He asks when you will yourself out of hiding again, and he seems surprised when you shake your head.

“No, I want you to make a decision for me, Daddy,” you say softly, shifting positions so that your head is in his lap. August thinks about his answer for a moment before apparently deciding he’s willing to help you out.

“Shower, shave, hair, make-up.” Absolutely not a request – and also very clear instructions that are easy to follow, and that’s exactly what you were hoping for. You immediately get off the bed and make your way to the bathroom.

“Oh, and darling,” he says just before you’re out the door, “no red lipstick. It makes you look like such a whore.” You know he’s teasing you – he likes red lipstick on you on occasion, he’s just telling you he prefers something… sweeter for tonight. Still, something inside you feels the desperate need to just disagree.

“But, Daddy,” you say innocently, “what if I want to look like a whore?”

“I don’t think my orders are up for debate, kitten,” he says sternly.

“Pink isn’t going to make me look like any less of a slut when it’s smeared all over my face and your cock.” Your innocent voice has disappeared, and your statement is completed by the most challenging eyes you can conjure up. It takes everything you’ve got to not lose control of that gaze when August gets up and paces to you.

“Darling, Sir may enjoy this attitude, but if you keep this up with me, you won’t be able to sit by the time he gets here.” There’s a large, warm, incredibly distracting hand at the back of your neck, its thumb effortlessly stroking up and down your throat, reaching all the way across it with ease. Before he speaks again, that hand tightens slightly, making you gasp: “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer, and the pressure around your throat disappears again.

“Good girl.”

You take your time in the bathroom, and when you’re finally done and ready to come out, August is laying on the bed, reading a book. As soon as he sees you, he puts it away and sits at the edge of the mattress, signaling you to come closer.

He gives you a quick once-over once you’re in front of him – the ultra-light version of a genuine inspection – and nods approvingly. Your eyes widen in anticipation when you see your favorite toy laying on the bed. August pulls you in so you’re standing between his knees, and kisses the naked skin of your stomach softly.

You chuckle as the coarse hair of his mustache tickles you, and he hums softly when he hears it. Suddenly, his hand lands on your ass. It’s a playful smack, but he’s strong, so it still hurts quite a bit.

“Get on the bed, darling,” he says as he taps the mattress. You know he likes to watch you as you prepare yourself for the plug – which has become second nature by now, anyway – and you put on a bit of a show for him.

“Kitten, don’t get in trouble before Marshall even gets here,” August says, laughing at your suddenly somewhat scared expression. “Put that where it belongs and get dressed, my angel.” He gives you a soft kiss and another playfully harsh slap on your ass that leaves your cheek stinging.

You look at the things he’s picked for you. You don’t recognize what he’s laid out, but it’s absolutely perfect. He gives you a quick wink before leaving the bedroom, and you smile. August knows how to spoil his girl – it’s astounding how often new lingerie is part of the program. You quickly do as he asks and make your way downstairs just as Marshall steps through the door.

“Hey,” he says as he gives you a hug. He can’t seem to help himself: his hand lightly squeezes your ass while he hugs you, and you laugh. The skirt you’re wearing is short, so his fingers slip underneath the fabric without really even trying. “How are you feeling?” It can be annoying to have to explain everything twice, but tonight you’re grateful they’re both checking in on you.

“A little nervous,” you admit to him with the same hint of shyness in your voice as when you talked to August. Marshall also reassures you that you’re in good hands. Of course you know that. In fact, you’ve never doubted that for even so much as a second, but that doesn’t make the nerves go away. Marshall studies your face for a moment until he’s satisfied nothing else is wrong.

“Pink,” he says softly as he slowly drags a finger along your bottom lip. “I would have preferred red.” You can hear August chuckle from the kitchen, and you pout at Marshall.

“Daddy said it makes me look like a whore.”

“Did he, now?” Marshall raises his eyebrows. You chuckle at the amused expression on his face. Marshall wraps an arm around you and walks you over to the kitchen, where August is getting a drink. “August, why don’t we want her to look like a whore?” He pulls you in front of him, locking his arms around you from behind firmly: escaping him is impossible. August walks over and grabs your hips below Marshall’s arms. You hum when he steps towards you. It’s a very nice feeling, being sandwiched between your men like this. August thinks for a moment before answering Marshall’s question.

“You know my preferences, Marshall,” he says with a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You know mine, Walker,” Marshall retorts, making both you and August laugh softly as you exchange glances. The lingerie you’re wearing is definitely more up Marshall’s alley than August’s. Marshall catches on immediately.

“Now I’m very curious to find out what’s underneath this…” This time he slips his hands underneath your skirt on purpose. August reassures him he’ll like it. It doesn’t help his patience, but you tell him to stop, earning yourself an approving look from August while Marshall whines like a kid – it’s really funny.

“Now you won’t let him look?” August teases before he kisses you. When he steps away, you laugh.

“Well, Daddy, Sir, either you two were planning on having me as your halftime show, or you’re not the men I thought you were.” You can tell from the look the guys share that you’re right.

The three of you get comfortable on the couch; August sprawled out on the chaise, your legs entwined with his, while you snuggled into Marshall’s side. Between the plug and the two pairs of hands roaming your body freely, you find yourself squirming all the way through the first half. So much, that Marshall is already losing his patience. Fortunately for you, his arms aren’t long enough to reach to your ass comfortably. Unfortunately for you, they’re both here tonight.

“August, do me a favor,” Marshall growls as he jerks your shoulders around so you’re mostly laying on your stomach, “smack her for me. Can’t stand this squirming.”

August is happy to oblige, and you shriek at the rough impact of his palm on your ass.

“Thanks,” Marshall says before taking another sip of his drink, and August chuckles.

“My pleasure,” he says.

“Not mine,” you growl, “it was his fault!” You point at August and scowl at Marshall, who raises his eyebrows at you.

“Are you blaming Daddy for your squirming, darling? I don’t think that’s fair.” He looks at August. “Do you?”

“I think she can either be a good girl and take this,” August replies, and he softly strokes your leg all the way up your thigh, “or you can be a good girl and take something far more severe.” That’s your cue to scowl at August as well. They both laugh at your reaction and continue touching you until you can’t wait for half-time any longer.

When it finally rolls around, August orders you to stand up and take off your skirt and top. To your surprise, Marshall turns off the TV.

“Aren’t you going to…” You don’t get to finish your question.

“We thought we shouldn’t make you suffer through the second half,” Marshall says. You’re just glad it wasn’t a particularly exciting game. They definitely would have finished watching it if it were. You rolled your eyes at the thought. Men. Incorrigible, as always. Marshall carefully tests the coffee table with his foot.

“How sturdy is that thing?”

“Strong enough to support her weight,” August answers offhandedly, but with a suspiciously sly smile. You flash a more embarrassed one when you remember how you both got that first-hand knowledge.

“Sit,” August gestures to the table, “spread your legs.” You do as you’re asked, immediately. For the first time, Marshall takes a moment to appreciate the underwear you’re in.

It’s not a color August prefers on you – too dark for his tastes – but Marshall seems to love it. Your heart rate quickens as you sit there awaiting further instructions, but you don’t get any. The only thing August says is a reminder that you are their halftime show.

“Or should I tell you what not to do?” Marshall winks as he says it. You smile back at him while you lean back a little and drag a hand from your knee to your thigh. The guys exchange glances and then look back at you, waiting for you to make a move, but you’re frozen. It doesn’t take long before they’re both by your side, asking what’s wrong.

“It’s the nerves,” you sigh, wishing they wouldn’t give you a choice. And it looks like your prayers are answered when Marshall yanks your panties down and sticks them in his back pocket.

“I know you can put on a show for me, love,” he says, reminding you – again – of the last time you were together, “now, if you don’t start playing with that pretty pussy soon, you won’t get to do so at all. And for the love of God, stop squirming.” Your nerves quiet down as soon as you’re told what to do.

“Am I allowed to come, Sir? Daddy?” The guys exchange looks again when you ask and August steps up for this one.

“Sure,” he says, which seems to surprise Marshall.

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows at August, who pulls his face into a smug grin.

“Yeah, why not?” he says. “Better make them count, though.” Oh, that doesn’t sound good.

“What are you thinking, Walker?”

“I’m thinking five for every orgasm she has,” August says. That’s definitely not good. Or maybe it is, you haven’t decided yet.

“Each side?” August nods in reply, and Marshall considers that for a moment. “Not ten?” He seems vaguely disappointed, but also looks on board with the idea.

“She’s been good,” August answers plainly, and Marshall agrees with him.

It does something to you when they talk about you like you’re not there. Even when they talk about spanking you every time you come. They get back on the couch and look at you as you slowly open your legs again.

You can clearly feel your pulse between them, and you know there’s no way in the world you’re not soaking wet right now. Leaning back on one arm, you raise your feet, putting them on the edge of the table, spreading yourself wider as you run your fingers through your folds.

It’s tempting to just tease a little before giving up, but they’ll never go for that in a million years. They both groan when you bite your lip and look at them. One finger slides into your slick core with ease, and adding a second is no problem, either.

“What’s your problem with the squirming?” August asks Marshall as they’re looking at you. The sudden conversation gives you the same feeling as before, and the urge to please them gets stronger with every move your hands make.

“I’m not sure. Makes me want to tie her down,” Marshall replies to the question. He sounds rather indifferent, but you know he isn’t. Before August introduced you to Marshall, you’d tried some light bondage with him, but it was nothing compared to what Marshall introduced you to. August likes seeing you restrained – Marshall loves tying you up.

“Why don’t you?” The way August says it makes it sounds like an invitation – or you hope it’s an invitation so much that your mind is starting to play tricks on you. Either way; every cell in your body screams with joy at the thought of being tied to the table you’re sitting on. Marshall doesn’t answer, but he gets up from the couch to get something from his bag – and that’s all the confirmation you need.

“Keep touching yourself, darling,” he says to you as he starts securing your ankle to your thigh. You watch Marshall work for only a minute; you know what he looks like when he does this. The concentration on his face, the excitement in his eyes.

You’ll probably get to see it again the next time you spend time with him. What you don’t get to see too often, however, is August as he watches you being tied down to his coffee table by his best friend. His eyes are on you, full of adoration, his breaths are heavy and low growls escape him every few seconds.

The sight alone is enough to bring you to the edge, but watching him reach into his jeans, stroking his cock, getting off on seeing you like this… That’s just too much to handle. You finish hard, and at first you don’t think about the punishment you just earned yourself – until you hear both men laughing.

“That’s five,” August says, looking at Marshall to see if he wants to do something about that immediately.

“She can get them later, I’m not untying her,” is the gruff answer. Marshall secures your other leg, before pushing you onto your back and fixing both of your legs to the coffee table, spreading them as far as is comfortable for you. Since your hands are free, you expect to be asked to continue playing with yourself, but reality has something far more cruel in store for you.

“August,” Marshall asks, a wide grin spreading across his face, “that agreement about the punishment for each orgasm. Does that apply only to the ones she causes herself?”

“I believe I used the words ‘five for every orgasm she has’.” Your eyes are already begging, but you know it’s not going to work.

“Hm. Thought so,” Marshall replies. You don’t like the look in his eyes at all. Before you can decide whether opening your mouth would be brave or stupid – although you should know by now that it’s most definitely very, very stupid – you’re already speaking.

“I thought he was the sadist,” you point at August, who raises an eyebrow in such a way that makes you instantly regret the way you talked about him. And the pointing, you definitely regret that, too. The sting of two sharp smacks on your ass makes you shriek.

“I think it’s best if you don’t talk about Daddy – or me – like that, darling,” Marshall says. Tears sting behind your eyes, still from the impact. He really hit you hard.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Sorry, Daddy,” you say in a small voice. You let your head hang back, over the edge of the table, and just wait.

At first, nothing happens, and the anticipation makes you strain against the ropes that keep your legs in place. Suddenly, rough fingers stroke your wet pussy, and you gasp. Two of them push into you with ease, and just a few strokes – executed with precision – are enough to have you moaning loudly.

It’s only a matter of time before Marshall’s beard tickles between your legs, and you feel his hot breath on your skin. Do you want him to eat you out? Yes, absolutely. He’s so good at it, and it’s going to be absolutely amazing. On the other hand; he’s going to be so mean to you, and you’re going to get so punished when you come…

For a moment, you think about it as if you have a choice, and then you realize you don’t. You’re tied to the fucking coffee table, and there’s nothing you can do to stop either one of these guys from doing whatever they want to you. You really are a lucky girl.

Marshall’s tongue is warm and soft, especially compared to his beard, which is kind of rough against your skin. You gasp when he slowly licks every inch of your pussy before settling at your clit. He works that special spot with deadly precision, knowing exactly what you need, exactly when you need it. It’s amazing.

You’re moaning and swearing, begging him to stop, but you know he won’t. It’s almost impossible to move your hips, but that doesn’t stop you from instinctively trying to grind against his mouth. Eventually, it’s the sound of August’s moans and grunts that take you right to the edge again.

“Stop, please, Sir,” you beg, “I can’t. I’m going to… Please stop!” For a moment, you think it worked, because his mouth disappears.

“August, she keeps telling me to stop,” he says with a devious tone to his voice you don’t recognize – although it doesn’t take a genius to realize it can’t be a good thing, “I can’t work like this.”

By the time you’ve raised your head to look at what is going on, August has left the couch and has made his way to where your head hangs over the edge of the table. You’re screwed – in the best possible way, probably.

“Want me to shut her up?” August asks. The guys laugh as you protest the idea, and you earn yourself a few more sharp smacks to your behind for squirming. You know what’s going to happen, and you’re more than looking forward to it, but you’re not necessarily in a very comfortable position.

“My neck,” you whisper softy, and August immediately moves away, grabbing you a blanket to use as padding between your neck and the sharp edge of the table.

“Better, kitten?” he asks as he gently strokes your cheek. You nod – which feels weird, since you’re practically upside down – and he smiles at you.

“Yes, thank you, Daddy.”

Marshall’s mouth easily finds its way back to your clit, but this time August makes sure you can’t beg him to stop what he’s doing anymore. You raise a hand to his thigh – just in case – and part your lips so he can push his cock into your mouth. August gives you a moment to get used to him before he gently pulls out and slides back. He’s careful at first, but he knows you can take him all the way down in this position, and it doesn’t take long for him to pick up the pace.

“That’s it, good girl,” August says, “you’re doing amazing.” Your cheeks heat up when you hear his words, and for a moment you’re distracted from Marshall, who is still going down on you and doesn’t seem inclined to try anything else anytime soon. You just know he won’t stop until you come.

The good news is; you won’t last long. Between Marshall giving head and August fucking your throat – there’s really no reason to try to put a pretty description on that – you’re drowning in sensations, and you’re just one little nudge away from reaching your peak.

Marshall makes it happen when one of his heavy arms travels up your body, reaching for your throat. He doesn’t grab you, just gently lays his hand down, thumb softly stroking the side of your neck as August keeps using your mouth, but it’s enough to pull you over the finish line for the second time tonight. Marshall lets you ride out your high on his tongue, and then he withdraws – August doesn’t, although he does give you a moment to breathe.

“So, that’s ten,” Marshall says. The amusement in his voice is more than clear.

You hear the familiar sound of a belt buckle being undone, and you moan loudly around August’s cock when you realize what’s next. Soon, you feel the tip of Marshall’s cock push into you, and you moan again. Marshall’s hand is still on your throat, and you feel him pull you down slightly as he sinks deeper into your pussy. The growl that escapes him makes you shiver.

“Fuck, look at that,” August grunts. He’s close, and the view can’t be helping him much right now. You know he loves watching you, whether you’re playing with yourself or getting railed by another guy doesn’t matter much. After a few more brutal thrusts, he warns you that he can’t take it anymore. He does it out of courtesy; it’s not as if you can pull away, he will, or you would want him to.

“She’s so fucking perfect,” Marshall growls and slams his hips against yours as August fills your throat with thick ropes of cum. It’s a struggle to swallow all of it, and you feel some spill out of the corner of your mouth. August makes sure that whatever you couldn’t take in on the first try ends up in your mouth anyway, and you chuckle as you hear him moan when you gently suck on his finger.

“You were right, princess, pink doesn’t make you look like any less of a slut when it’s smeared all over your face like this,” August says as he strokes your cheek. It has to be covered in black streaks from your mascara, and you just know he loves the way you look right now.

“This tight fucking pussy doesn’t help, either,” Marshall says through clenched teeth in between heavy breaths. “God, you’re such a perfect little fuck toy.” He grunts as he comes, sliding deep into you one last time. He takes a moment to admire what he’s done to you before he starts to untie you.

While Marshall puts the ropes away, August gathers you into his arms and carries you back to the couch. You curl up in his lap, resting your head on his chest, catching your breath while you’re listening to the fast beating of his heart. If this already has you worked up like this – something you’ve actually done before – then how are you ever going to survive what you’re actually trying to achieve tonight?

“Good girl,” August groans into your ear as he traces the marks the ropes left on your legs, “you looked so pretty, princess. You’re so perfect.” His praise relaxes you, and you melt into his arms. It doesn’t take long for Marshall to join you, and you lean your head back against his chest. Having both of them hold you like this makes you wish they’d never leave, that you’d always get both of them, but you’re afraid that’s just going to be a fantasy forever.

“So, darling, do you want them now, or all at once when we’re done?” Marshall whispers into your ear when he feels you’ve calmed down sufficiently. You scowl at him, then at August, but there’s going to be no escaping this punishment.

“Daddy,” you whine, but he just laughs.

“I didn’t think so, kitten.” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose and smiles. “If you’re a smart girl, you’re going to answer Sir’s question before he decides to leave it to me. I don’t feel like hurting my hand spanking you, you know that.” Oh yeah, you know. The last time August spanked you, he used his belt, and you could barely sit for two days. If you let Marshall do this, you’re going to enjoy it at least a little. With August? No chance.

“I’ll take ‘em now,” you growl at Marshall, who raises an eyebrow in surprise.

“Not like that, kitten.” It’s August who calls you out on your behavior. “I think you’re going to ask Sir to spank you, and you’re going to ask nicely. Otherwise, I’m going to have to take over, after all.”

“Would you please spank me now, Sir?” you repeat, avoiding both Marshall’s eyes and August’s as you say it, mostly so you don’t accidentally give any more attitude. August chuckles. You know how much he loves making you ask for your punishment. You’re fairly sure the spanking you’re about to get won’t be the last of the evening, and taking all of them at once when you’re through with the planned program is definitely going to be too much.

You protest lightly while Marshall manhandles you into position, making him laugh. He loves a bit of resistance from you – as long as you’re not squirming. His hands are heavy on the back of your thighs, which are trembling in anticipation.

“Are you alright, love?” There’s genuine concern in his voice, and his hand gently massages your ass. You nod, and not long after, Marshall’s hand makes contact with your skin. He’s going easy on you – very easy – and you just know he’s doing it on purpose. It’s right there in that sweet spot between pleasure and pain that turns you on more than anything else, and slowly but surely, your nerves begin to fade. You let out a soft yelp with each slap, out of surprise and anticipation rather than agony. Without thinking, you move your hand to the base of August’s cock and wrap your fingers around him.

“Come closer, please, Daddy,” you say, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. Marshall isn’t spanking you so hard that you’re afraid you’ll involuntarily clench your teeth, so you consider it safe enough to suck August off. When Marshall is done, you try to crawl out of his lap, but he won’t let you.

“Got any lube on hand?” he asks August, and you’re immediately caught up on what he’s going to do to you next. You whine when he removes the plug you were still wearing and replaces it with his well-lubed fingers. After a while, he seems convinced it’s time for something else, and he orders you to sit on his cock. Of course, you happily oblige.

It’s possible that getting spanked while sucking August off has made you wetter than ever before, and you easily take Marshall all the way into your soaked pussy. He keeps working his fingers into you while he kisses you deeply. August seems to be looking for something else in the meantime, and it isn’t until Marshall lets you go that you can tell what it is. He’s holding a very recognizable, shiny foil square.

“Condoms?” you ask. It’s surprising; you never use condoms with either of them. This feels like a weird time to start.

“Just in case we need to switch,” August says, “or want to.” For a moment, you want to ask what he means, but then you remember what you’re trying to do here. You take a deep breath when Marshall pulls his fingers out of you, trying desperately to relax when August’s cock slowly takes their place. Or rather tries to, because it’s not exactly smooth sailing at this point. Marshall raises his eyebrows at you when you swear under your breath, but you can’t help yourself. There’s no way this is going to work.

“More lube, please Daddy,” you whine. Marshall let’s out a low growl; your walls are squeezing him tight as you tense up.

“Relax, love,” he murmurs into your ear, but you shake your head.

“I can’t, Sir. I- Wait,” you gasp. You know you can’t stand to try the same thing – and fail – again, so maybe it helps to change the strategy. Marshall protests when you lift yourself off his cock. Now that you’re not filled up already, August slides into your ass with ease – exactly the way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. It takes you only a short moment to adjust and then you slowly sink back down onto Marshall.

Your mouth falls open, you can’t see straight, and there is absolutely no way you can stop yourself from swearing now. The boys are way too caught up in whatever they’re feeling to say anything about it. The sensation is overwhelming, and the feeling of victory when you finally sit all the way down is indescribable.

“Wow,” you choke out between ragged breaths.

“’Wow’ sounds about right,” Marshall snarls through gritted teeth. If he clenches his jaw any harder, you’re afraid he’s going to shatter his teeth.

“Doesn’t begin to cover it,” August says as he leans his forehead against your shoulder. You sit there for a while, getting used to the feeling of being filled by two cocks. And then August moves, and you see stars.

“Fuck!” you exclaim, digging your nails into Marshall’s shoulder. He hisses when you do it, and you give him an apologetic look. “Sorry, Sir.”

“It’s okay, baby,” he says before pressing a gentle kiss on your lips, “you’re doing amazing.”

“You really are, kitten,” August says. He strokes your hair out of the way and kisses your neck softly. “You’re taking us so well. Both of us. I’m so proud of you.” Their words make your heart swell with pride, but if you had to be perfectly honest; you’re pretty damn proud of yourself, too. The three of you take another minute to adjust to the intense sensations before anyone moves again.

This time, to your surprise, it’s you. You move slowly, careful not to overestimate yourself when you lower yourself back onto the two cocks that fill you up inch by inch until they’re both completely inside you. It’s a seriously tight fit, but it feels so good. The move of your hips become faster as you get used to the way Marshall and August stretch you out, and the moans and grunts that the guys let out follow suit. Soon, your own movements, which are fairly restricted by the position you’re in, aren’t enough.

“Fuck me,” you gasp, and you can tell from the way Marshall looks pasts you that they’re exchanging glances, unsure whether it’s a good idea.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” August asks. The tone of his voice mimics the display of concern that is so clear on Marshall’s face.

“I’m sure,” you say. “Fuck me. I can handle it.”

That seems to convince them, because they both start moving; slowly at first, but picking up the pace as soon as they realize you weren’t lying. They can’t keep the same rhythm, which makes the entire experience rather interesting, and soon enough you feel your next orgasm building inside you. This one, you decide, is going to be so fucking worth it, there’s no way you’re going to even so much as try to deny yourself. Punishment be damned.

Fingers dig into your hips, your shoulders, your thigh. August’s lips move against the skin of your neck so gently it’s almost a ridiculous contrast with the way you’re being fucked senseless right now. When you lean your head back, it hits August’s shoulder, and frees up space for Marshall to kiss the other side of your neck. He never stops thrusting up into you, though. Every move they make is erratic, you’re getting closer with every thrust, and judging from the sounds they are making; so are they.

“Don’t stop!” You hope the words are something resembling intelligible between the moans that roll off your tongue freely, but it doesn’t matter much. “I’m comi- Fuck!”

Apparently the way your body tenses up from your orgasm is something the guys can’t handle: August sinks his teeth into your shoulder while Marshall throws his head back as he fills you up for the second time tonight. While August disappears to take care of some cleanup, Marshall pulls you down onto his cock and against his chest. You kiss his neck softly, earning you some appreciative moans.

“That was very impressive, darling,” he murmurs into your ear. “Do you think you can handle another round?” Another round? Your first instinct is to call him crazy, but considering the proposal for even a second sends shivers down your spine and makes your walls clench around Marshall’s cock. He chuckles when he feels the involuntary reaction of your body to his question.

“Come here,” he says as he moves you around so you’re in his lap with your back against him. He’s almost rough in his movements, impatient.

“Wait,” you say as you bend forward to grab the lube off the coffee table. You have to admit, August does a really good job making sure there’s always plenty in stock. Marshall applies a very generous amount before pulling your legs onto the edge of the couch. It’s genuinely surprising how easily his cock slides all the way into your ass.

“God, who would have thought that another cock was better prep than a few fingers?” You think you think it, but judging from the fact that Marshall laughs, you’ve actually said it out loud. It doesn’t matter; you laugh too – but only for a second. Marshall doesn’t waste any time, telling you to give him a sign if he hurts you and then taking off. His moves are far more gentle than they were a moment ago, but the feeling is no less intense – if you first divide everything you were going through about five minutes ago by two, that is.

In one of the rare moments when you can actually open your eyes, you see August, standing in the doorway. He’s biting his lip and stroking himself. Before you met August you didn’t have yourself pegged for someone with exhibitionist tendencies, but you have to admit; there’s just something you love about him watching you.

“You get off on Daddy watching you ride my cock, don’t you?” The extra effort you put in now that August is watching the two of you hasn’t escaped Marshall’s attention.

“Yes, Sir.” Almost mindlessly, you drop your hand between your legs and you finger yourself to within an inch of your next orgasm. You’re so close to the edge when something pulls your hand away: August.

“Do you want to help me come, Daddy?” He makes you shriek by shoving a few fingers – you’re not sure how many – inside you without warning. He doesn’t need to answer you; the way he curls them deep inside your pussy makes it abundantly clear that that’s exactly what he wants to do, and he does it so quickly that you’re not entirely sure whether you should be ashamed of it.

He keeps his fingers inside you while you ride out your high, but even when you’ve come down you whine when he pulls them out and holds them up to your mouth. Three fingers drum an impatient rhythm on your lower lip.

“Open up, princess,” he says, and you’re more than happy to obey him.

“Look at you, sweetheart,” Marshall groans in your ear, “licking my cum off Daddy’s fingers.”

With his fingers still in your mouth, August shoves his cock into your pussy. Your head falls back onto Marshall’s shoulder, and you moan loudly around August’s fingers. The different position and… configuration make everything feel different than before, but it’s at least as good. It doesn’t take long before you’re begging both of them to come inside you, and it doesn’t sound like they’re far off.

It’s a good thing, because despite the fact that all of this feels absolutely glorious, you’re not quite sure just how much more of this you can take. Meanwhile, the boys seem to have entered into a petty contest to see who can last the longest, but it has them finishing at about the same time. They’re both growling in your ear as they fill you up completely, and they don’t move for a while after they come.

“August, move,” you say rather unceremoniously while pushing against his shoulder. He does as you ask, but gives you a quizzical look. “I really need to not have a dick up my ass right now.” Both of them laugh as you say it, and they help you get up – which is something you desperately need, because standing on your own is a challenge you’re not exactly up for anymore, especially considering the fact that you’re still wearing your heels.

Marshall’s hands grab your hips, and he tries to pull you back into his lap, but you resist him.

“No, I’m all sticky,” you say, but he doesn’t care.

“We’ll take care of that in a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur as you sink back onto his lap and lean against his chest. August sits down next to you and gently strokes your back while pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. None of you speak for a few minutes, until August suggests you take your minute in the bathroom, which you agree to.

“And then I want both of you in the shower with me,” you say. It’s your turn to be stern about this. Marshall can be very good at not stepping on any toes, and last time you were all together he did exactly that, but at the expense of his own needs. Never again. Not on your watch, anyway.

They seem more than happy to oblige, because once you’re done in the downstairs bathroom, they’re nowhere to be found on the ground floor. Once you make it upstairs, where you can already hear the water running, there’s no sign of Marshall. It’s just August, lying in bed, reading. You don’t have to ask the question; the look on your face is more than enough or him, and he points at the door to the bathroom and shrugs. A wave of anxiety hits you as you walk towards the door, and you just fiercely hope that Marshall is okay.

He is in the shower. His back is turned to you, but you can easily tell he’s tense. Without thinking, you join him. The water is colder than you’re used to, and your instinctive reaction gives away your whereabouts.

“I need both of you close to me right now, is that okay?” Marshall doesn’t look at you, and his behavior is starting to worry you. You’ve seen him drop before, and as much as you never want that to happen again, you doubt whether this is the same thing.

“I love you.” He says it like he’s committed a crime – a particularly grueling one, at that – and you can’t help but look at him in surprise. Does he think this is new information to you? He’s never said it out loud, but it’s so obvious from everything he does…

You’re pretty sure that there would be tears in his eyes if it wasn’t for the water crashing down on his head. “I’m afraid August is gonna be really mad at me for that.” Both of you turn around when you hear someone behind you laugh as if that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard in his entire life – and knowing August, it probably is, or he wouldn’t be laughing like that.

“You think I didn’t know?” August casually leans against the shower wall before taking the final steps towards the two of you. “You honestly thought I’d let you near her if you didn’t love her?” You can’t explain how glad you are to hear him say that. It makes admitting to yourself that you love both of them a lot easier for you.

“I’m away half the time, Angel,” August says to you as he wraps his arms around you, “I like to know you’re taken care of by someone who loves you just as much as I do.” His eyes leave yours and he looks at Marshall before he continues: “Someone I can trust.”

You reach around Marshall to turn up the heat of the water, and both Marshall and August laugh.

“Why do you shower in lava?” August asks.

“Why do both of you shower in ice?” you retort.

“How about a compromise?” Marshall proposes, and you are all ears. “We’ll set the water temperature to something that doesn’t melt our skin off, and then we’ll keep you nice and warm?” You pretend to think about that for a moment, until two individual eyebrows are raised and you stick your bratty attitude right back where it belonged. Alright, most of it…

“Ok,” you say slowly, “but I demand to be kept warm all night. By both of you.” You add the last part mostly for Marshall. The last time the three of you spent time together, he’d gone home for the night, but you don’t want that now. He seems hesitant at first, but the look in his eyes disappears when August agrees – seemingly without even thinking about it. You can tell from the way he looks at Marshall that he’d meant everything he had just said.

After they have both agreed to your terms, they get to work on what they’d promised to do. Four hands roam your body freely, squeezing and lingering in all the places they know you love, somehow always finding their way inside you, teasing you until you feel that all too familiar feeling in your stomach. It’s a fantastic shower, without a doubt, it’s just that you doubt whether you’re getting much cleaner…

“Guys,” you say, “stop. I can’t take any more. Please, don’t.”

“Maybe we should listen,” August says, and Marshall raises his eyebrows in surprise. “After all, she still has an open tab for two.”

“Oh god, no. Not tonight,” you beg, “seriously, I…” You want to continue, but you’re shushed by both guys.

“Tonight is done, princess,” August says, “you’re done.” Suddenly, a wave of complete exhaustion washes over you that threatens to make your knees give out.

“It’s okay,” Marshall murmurs in your ear while he runs his hands over your back, “let’s get you to bed, okay?”

The guys get you ready for bed as if you have ‘handle with care’ tattooed on your forehead, and you smile all the way through it. They dry you off so carefully that you have to ask them to hurry up a bit, causing all three of you to laugh. Soon, you are in bed, which is a whole process of finding out which of whose limbs go where, but when you finally settle into a position that is comfortable for all three of you, you all sigh.

“Comfortable?” August asks, and you can’t do anything but nod and whisper the softest ‘yeah’ against his skin. He kisses your forehead just as Marshall does the same to your shoulder. “Good.”

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soleminisanction · 7 months

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Did I spend my Saturday putting together character write-ups of my two main Our Life: Now & Forever MCs? Yes. Yes I did. What can I say, I'm addicted.

Alvis Norling - Step One

Pronouns: He/They

Alvis was born intersex, so their mother opted to raise them gender-neutral from birth and leave their pronouns and gender up to them as they got older. The he part of he/they is a fairly recent development.

Despite identifying as “kind of” a boy, Alvis has a preference for feminine clothes. Not skirts or dresses, they almost never wear anything like that, but they tend to wear women’s pants and girls’ blouses, that sort of thing.

His biological father was of Russian heritage, while Opal is Welsh.

Favorite color is silver. The thought that it pairs so nicely with Qiu’s gold makes him happy.

Fell for Qiu pretty much the moment they met. He’s the prettiest person they’ve ever seen, so cool and graceful, it’s like hanging out with a prince. Alvis is completely blown away that this guy would even talk to them, and is just happy to spend whatever time they can with him.

Tamarack overwhelms them, but in a good way. They’re pretty content to be dragged along by her like a doll, deferring to her in pretty much everything. He admires her a lot, and just the fact that somebody so fun and confident seems to like him makes him happy. She’s their best friend, and he especially appreciates the way she looks out for him when his social anxiety acts up.

He starts off afraid of the woods but he’s going to learn to love it with Tamarack’s help. Getting used to the people who hang around Qiu all the time takes considerably longer, particularly after Darren's less-than-stellar first impression. Alvis also finds Baxter intimidating.

Due to his missing leg, Alvis walks with a prosthetic and sometimes with the assistance of a cane. While he can usually manage on his scooter, there are some days when he has trouble getting to school by himself; luckily, Opal’s arrangement with the Lins and the Baumanns includes Qiu and Tamarack’s respective guardians cluing them in on the situation, so he can always count on leaning on Tamarack’s shoulder or catching a ride on Qiu’s bike if he needs to.

Opal calls them a starling as a term of endearment because their voice is sweet and they’re tiny and light. As they get older, the use of that name extends to a small handful of their most precious people, most notably Qiu.

Alvis Norling - Step Two

Pronouns: He/Him

By fourteen Alvis is pretty settled in Golden Grove, but is far from the most popular kid in school. He's more of a quiet fixture in town, a common presence in the local library, park and craft store, but one who mostly keeps to himself or to the company of his best friend Tamarack.

He's still head-over-heels for Qiu, and the fact that they're not as close as they used to be is a source of a lot of melancholy and longing for him.

Biggest hobby is jewelry-making. He makes a lot of his own accessories (including the earrings hidden by his messy hair) and often gifts the rest to friends and family.

Overall demeanor is of a somewhat restrained, academic, effeminate gay man -- less flashy and flamboyant than most queens, but in the same rough area of the gender spectrum. Like a queen who's also a librarian.

Very much the mom friend.

Chandra Dúskar - Step One

Pronouns: She/Her

Cisgender female and an incorrigible lesbian pretty much from birth. Chandra has flirted with a lot of girls in the past (and let boys simp for her to get her way) but none of them have ever struck her with full-blown love at first sight the way Tamarack did when she burst out of her leaf pile. Chandra came home and told her mum that very afternoon that she was going to marry Tamarack one day, and she sticks to it.

She also decides, on her first day of school, that she's going to be popular someday, and goes after that goal with confidence to spare.

Style isn't full gothic lolita but she's close to it. The outfit she wears in this picture has jeans, for example, but also a sporty skirt worn over it, and she definitely favors the black with colorful accents look.

Adores spooky things and is super excited by the prospect of her house, the town, or anywhere else being haunted. Naturally, autumn is her favorite time of year because it has Halloween, the best holiday ever.

Give Qiu a run for his money in terms of friendly showing off. From the moment they meet Chandra wants to match him toe-to-toe in terms of athletics, popularity, and dance performances. So naturally, they're best friends.

Thinks Baxter is cool and mysterious and Darren is cute and fun to tease.

Wears her hair over her eye like that because she likes to surprise people with her heterochromia. And also because she's a little self-conscious about her birthmark, though she'd never admit that.

Favorite colors are black, pink and cranberry. Favorite drinks are hot chocolate and Shirley Temples.

Doesn't know how to ride a bike and has no interest in learning, especially not when she can hitch a ride on Tamarack's scooter.

Chandra Dúskar - Step Two

Pronouns: She/Her

Her personal style remains more feminine than the head shot might lead you to believe, it's just taken on a distinctly goth-punk edge as she grows into her rebellious phase.

Super stylish. Super confident. Super witchy. Always gets her way.

She and Qiu are the top dogs on campus, and also best friends. Chandra picks up the slack where they've stopped caring, though at a glance people usually find her the more intimidating of the two just based on her looks and style.

Is completely unsubtle about how much she adores "her Tammy." It might not help Tamarack's confidence to be showered with compliments all the time but dammit, Chandra's going to try.

Fully intends to get an eyebrow piercing and/or a tattoo once she's older.

#our life now and forever #olnf #olnf mc #olnf oc #I'm a little sorry to those who followed me for my DC content #but also not #join me in the nostalgic joy these games are freeeeeeee #:D #my characters #my ocs #original character #time i've spent playing this demo: 40 hours #time I've spent playing Baldur's Gate 3: 30 hours

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the-bl-road · 3 months

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Not A True Alpha Chapter 1 - Pit Babe Fiction

Characters: Reader, Alan, North, Sonic

Summary: In an environment full of Alphas, you had no choice but to suppress yourself and become one.

A/N: please refrain from getting to close to the blurred line between characters and actors.

Cross posted on AO3

Working in an environment where the surrounding people are just as passionate about your work as you are, was considered a bonus at any time of your life. Working in a garage dominated by Alphas on the other hand, was a totally different ball game…

Growing up, you never really minded anyone’s secondary gender, but that all changed when you presented. Along with this change, you also presented with a sweet but subtle scent, which was close to a mix of vanilla and sweet oranges; even with the subtlety, it attracted the wrong kind of attention anytime you were out of the house. Alphas that you came across would give you looks, with their eyes wide and their mouth in an eerie grin, and any Omegas would whisper warnings for you to stay clear.

Not only that, but after almost a year of presenting, you had developed a power. The power had come so suddenly, that it blinded you every time you accidentally triggered it by being near anyone you had a close relationship with. All of these snowballed into a big snowman of anxiety, to a point where you didn’t feel safe enough to step outside, let alone see anyone you knew.

Until one day, you came across suppressants.

Hours went by as you did all the research you could, to make sure that suppressants were what you needed and what you’ve been looking for this entire time. Your heart skipped a beat when you read that a particular suppressant could also suppress your powers too; it was like all your problems have been answered with this one tiny pill. Without much thinking, you got in contact with the company that was selling it and it wasn’t many days after that, your first batch was delivered.

Looking back now, it’s been ten years since you started the suppressants. Despite the regular warnings from professionals about not being on them for too long, you managed to time things perfectly so that you had a period in between months or years, to take yourself off the pills before starting back on them again. So far your planning has worked as well as you had hoped it would.

With the upcoming racing season looming above them, everyone’s schedule was full of things that needed to be done before the first race even began. From the driver’s needing to get in extra practice around the track, to the mechanics making sure that all the cars were in mint condition, it was a madhouse to say the least.

As one of the main mechanics in the garage, your responsibility was also piled on. On top of following orders and schedules from the head mechanic, you also had to help ensure that everyone else was also keeping to their time frames and with the drivers throwing more jobs at you to bring their car up to speed, you wondered just how your brain hasn’t fallen apart already.

It had been another long day and you were walking towards one of the cars when you heard a conversation in passing;

“P’Alan must’ve got new car sprays, I can smell the vanilla smell…”

“I was in the kitchen and I could smell oranges…. Now I’m craving oranges…"

You didn’t think anything of it, just a random conversation you happened to overhear, but boy did you miss that big cue. You dove your head down to check over the engine of the car as you had previously done, and got immersed back into work. It didn’t take long before your vision started to blur and a sharp piercing headache came on, as your ears ring at a high pitch, almost blocking all the noise around you. You dropped the tool that was in your hand with a loud clang to the floor, then banged your head on the hood of the car as you unconsciously shuffled backwards.

This is not happening….not now, it’s early. How could I not see the signs?!

Your heart felt like it was beating faster than it should be and the blinding headache was the trigger to your powers coming back in full force.

‘This car is running smoothly, and at a high speed, but why does it feel like something is still not right?!’

‘I trust that the guys will get everything done in time - what’s going on?’

‘This is going to be great content for our next video!’

‘If I beat P’Babe today, I might just get a reward!’

‘With the wind like this, I need to be careful about when I brake for corners…’

Alan was in his office when he heard the commotion outside, and he got up to see what was going on but one of the mechanics beat him to it as they ran into his office.

“P’Alan! Something’s wrong with Spark!” the mechanic had exclaimed as he came to a stop. (Spark being the nickname everyone had given you, after your first fix almost ended in flames). Alan sprinted out of his office as quick as he could, but as soon as he reached the workshop floor, you had bolted out the back door, towards the race track.

North and Sonic, who were by the race track, saw you running for your life towards the open track and they were confused as to what you were doing, until they saw Alan chasing after you.

“SPARK!”

“P’Alan, what’s going on?!”

“I-I don’t know,” he sighed as he gave up the chase and ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

Your power overtook your thinking and with all these thoughts being so loud, you didn’t even know where your feet were taking you. After what felt like forever, your body decided it’s had enough of running and just ended up collapsing on the patch of grass in the middle of the track, before you curled up to try and hide from everything and everyone.

But no matter how small you made yourself to be, your power was currently too strong to control, which was a side effect of taking the suppressants for too long. You were too complacent with this cycle and you didn’t quite plan your break as thoroughly as you normally would have. Now it was causing a big disruption for everything.

‘Spark… where are you?’

‘Couldn’t have gone far, I can follow the scent…’

#pit babe #pit babe the series #pit babe fiction

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marshmallowgoop · 2 years

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Demon Get Out, Luck Come In

Part of the DCMK Fanfic Server Anniversary Exchange 2022! For @shsl-box-worshipper.

Shinichi calls in the night. She recognizes him not by the number but by his voice. It's thick with weariness and exhaustion, and every word sounds pained, as though he's dying of sleep deprivation, or something he would never admit to, and merely talking takes all the strength he has left.

But it's unmistakably his. She holds on to the sound. She presses the phone hard against her ear.

Her father is out drinking at his favorite bar. Conan is already fast asleep—she brought him to bed after dinner, as soon as she found him in a crumpled pile on the couch, and he didn't so much as stir in her arms. His snores continued, the gentle rise and fall of his chest carrying on as she gently laid his head against the pillow and pulled sheets up to his chin, and that was the state she found him in only moments ago, before the phone call, when she cracked open the door and peeked inside.

Shinichi coughs. Then he yawns—the fourth she's counted in three minutes (and yes, she is keeping track, thank you)—and Ran thinks of her father slumped over the counter of a smoky pub, and she thinks of Conan so deep in slumber that little could wake him, and she feels safe, letting her scowl deepen, and her fingers fold into a fist, and her mouth spill out, “You don't call for forever, and when you do, you sound like your soul's being devoured by demons.”

He groans, sighs. A fluttery, “C'mon, Ran” escapes his lips.

Ran imagines what he must look like. She imagines his prideful, teasing smile, his blue eyes creased with unvoiced laughter.

Her mind makes him real. It always has, ever since his desk at school sat empty, ever since he called and asked, You wouldn't happen to be sitting alone in your dad's office, crying your eyes out, would ya? It always has, ever since her heart began mumbling its quiet, silly anxieties.

You'll forget him, it says. You won't remember his face.

She fills in the blanks he'd never solve for her. She spins fantasies, delusions. His phone pressed against his cheek as he walks down the street and talks to her. A bench beneath a tree, its branches coated in snow, and Shinichi seated there, clad in a blue coat fringed with white fluff. A hotel, where he’s staying on the fourteenth floor, and he can stand by the window with his phone in hand, can look down and see cars the size of his thumb.

His tone is playful, but the tiredness that’s taken hold of him still lingers, like the reek of fish in the kitchen when she’d grilled it half a day before, as he tells her, “You know there’s no such thing as demons.”

Ran answers quickly. “That’s just what you think. I don’t know that at all.”

“Well,” he says, “I’m a detective who embraces logic and reasoning. There’s nothing logical about a mystical creature that eats humans.”

He laughs, barely. It carries with it all the enthusiasm of a deflating balloon at a child’s birthday party. “Demons existing alongside us for so long, without any real, documented evidence? It’s completely nonsensical.”

Ran shuts her eyes. She’s not in a nice hotel with wrapped fruit and chocolates left on the bedside table, or an overwhelming stench of clean surrounding her, but she had been looking out a window herself, the one bearing her father’s name, where she could watch the snow that had been falling steadily all evening. The lights from the buildings surrounding the agency, and the dim orange from the streetlamps, brighten the darkened Beika sky enough for her to see the tiny flakes drifting to the ground.

It’s calming, she thinks. Millions of tiny, unique creatures with only one destination and one goal. All they have to do is fall. They would never have to worry about trying to get up again.

But now she doesn’t want to see it. She collapses into the chair at her father’s desk. It’s still loaded with emptied beer cans, left abandoned after a day of no work and no cases. A few have toppled over, leaking drops of alcohol onto the surface. Others are still upright, their tabs reaching towards the ceiling.

She could collapse into the mess. Shinichi sounds as though he hasn’t slept in a week. She’s not sure she’s slept in a week herself.

“It was a mistake to try to talk to you about this,” Ran eventually says. The bitterness is entirely intended but still burns her throat and stings her eyes. She’s cried in front of Shinichi a million times over, and yet she holds the tears in, leaning back in her father’s chair, letting head fall and hair slide off shoulders as she stares up.

She speaks before Shinichi has a chance to respond, or defend himself, or make excuses, or tell her uselessly, It puts me in a spot to hear you cry. “You never call,” she repeats. “When you do, you sound like you’re dying.”

She pushes away nightmares. Shinichi collapsed against the side of a phone booth, covered in blood. Shinichi in a hospital, surrounded by monitors, stuffed full of wires and cords.

“Do you have any idea what I’m going through right now?” she asks. “Do you even care?”

He breathes her name. She doesn’t listen. She tells him, “I’m worried sick about Conan. He’s still not well. I’ve tried to call the number his mother gave me, but she never answers. Or when she does, it’s only to laugh and tell me not to think too hard about it. That these things are normal for him.”

Ran swallows. Shinichi is silent. The ceiling is splashed with tiny remnants of color from outside, but to Ran, it may as well be an endless expanse of darkness.

So she sits up straight. She tears her eyes away. Her hands have grown sweaty, holding the phone, but still she grips it more tightly.

“A-and then you call me, and I have to worry about you, too.” She blinks, and the hot tears she’d been keeping inside rush down her cheeks. They run past her chin and fall to her skirt. They leave dark, tiny circles on the fabric—ugly stains that she wishes were made by the snow instead.

“What’s wrong with you all?” she asks. Her voice is little more than a whisper. It could be mistaken for nothing. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Shinichi says more things to her. He talks for a long time. He doesn’t sound angry or irritated or even drained anymore, as though every last syllable takes a massive toll on his body.

But she can still hear the off-quality to his voice, the hurt that he’s trying so desperately to hide.

So she hardly listens to his platitudes, his promises that he’s fine, that Conan is just a child preparing for a growth spurt, that he’ll be back home soon, he swears. There's nothing he can't handle. He’ll solve this case and be back home.

When the call ends, she does fall into the mess of garbage and rot. She places her head in a cocoon made with her arms. She smells nothing but beer and hears nothing but her own sobs.

---

The man who mutates Ran’s worry into fear visits the agency early in the afternoon, clad in a crisp gray suit and sweating as though he had run a marathon before climbing the steps to the office. The fabric stretched across his shoulders is flecked with dark, wet splotches, and he offers her a crooked, awkward grin between heaving breaths.

Ran wishes she could say that he’s a stranger, but she’s seen this man before. He’s hard to miss.

When she first caught a glimpse of him, back when Conan’s presence in her life was as fresh and biting as Shinichi’s absence, the words that immediately swam to mind were foreigner and big. He looked far too large for the little stairs that he rushed up and down again, but he carried on without faltering, taking the steps two at once, then three, on and on, in a pattern that never seemed to end.

The first time, Ran felt Conan’s grip on her hand stiffen, his tiny fingers trembling.

“There’s no reason to be afraid of people who look a little different than you,” she said with a smile. The smile stayed with her as she greeted the man who now stands in her doorway.

It was a fleeting, nothing interaction—a tourist exercising where he could, enjoying the Beika streets as he went. That was what Ran thought.

But then she saw him again. And again. Day after day, at different times, but seemingly always when she and Conan happened to be passing by, he was there, running up and down the stairs by the crepe and waffle shop she’d stopped visiting long ago, heart too burdened with guilt for the miserable, famished looks Conan would send her way regardless of how many expensive pastries she’d order for him.

The last time, only a day prior, the man’s eyes locked on to hers. She swore it, couldn’t mistake the flood of recognition that filled his features for anything else, and Ran very nearly kicked his face in. It’s only the possibility that he could be a genuine client for her father that keeps her from doing so now, as she stands holding the door open halfway, her eyes narrowed, face fixed in a scowl.

“Are you a stalker or something?” she asks.

The man flushes. “It’s not like that, I swear!” he says. But his eyes are wide, his irises little more than specks in a sea of white, and his mouth hangs agape, as though he doesn’t know what to say next.

It’s only after he runs a nervous, shaking hand through the shoulder-length hair that frames his face that he lowers his voice to a whisper and removes a card from his pocket. He holds it out to Ran.

“The truth is,” he says, cheeks reddening, “I’m actually a demon hunter.”

---

It doesn’t take the man long to explain himself to her father. He says that he knows Sleeping Kogoro’s famous for investigating murders, and he acknowledges that it’s a strange proposition, but there’s something odd happening around Beika, and could the great detective perhaps investigate three individuals?

Their pictures are laid out on the table situated between the agency’s twin couches. Ran recognizes them all. There's the married couple who own the crepe and waffle shop she no longer frequents, standing before their restaurant and smiling at an invisible cameraman, their arms wrapped around each other. And then there's Miss Azusa from Poirot, grinning broadly in bright sunlight, hand posed in a peace sign, looking as though the worst thing that could happen in this town is a spilled coffee.

Something about seeing their images here, painting them as culprits or criminals or perhaps demons, if this man is to be believed, turns Ran's stomach. But she thinks she can't feel as uncomfortable as the not-stranger, who had hardly seemed to fit through their doorway with his broad shoulders and towering height, and whose enormous fingers, wrapped around the teacup that Ran had passed his way, make the porcelain look as though it'd be more fitting for a child's miniature doll set than a real human person. Even the card that he'd retrieved from his pocket before settling down on their worn sofa, that she'd grasped by the top-right corner and gawked at incredulously, that displays the katakana of his name in a cold, icy blue, seems minuscule in comparison to him.

Ran wouldn't be able to voice it, but something tells her that it's not the foreignness or his size that give him the out-of-place quality that leaks and drips off of him more than his bafflingly excessive perspiration. Perhaps it's his words, and the words on the card that had set Ran's heart thudding in her chest. Perhaps it's her father's disinterest, the mocking evident in his tone.

But Mr. Andre Camel looks as though he would certainly rather be anywhere else but here. There's a dejected, pitiable intensity in his wide-set eyes, and he places the too-small-for-him teacup on the table with a trembling hand. He hasn't taken even a sip.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” he muses. His hand finds his hair, and he nervously pulls the soggy-looking strands through his fingers. He sighs and chews on his lower lip. “It feels like I'm asking you to do my job.”

Her father only grunts. He's smoking now, and the smell has sufficiently filled the room.

Mr. Camel continues, “But I've never come across anything quite like this. Normally, I know a demon, you know? But I wonder if there's some new technology they've come up with, something to cloak their energy, and I'm not much of a detective, so I figured....”

He stops. Smoke continues to dance around her, and Ran holds the now-emptied tea tray tightly against the school uniform she hasn't bothered to change out from yet. Her father is the greatest detective in the world. If there is a demon hiding here in Beika, he'd be able to catch it.

But her eyes find the two pictures on the table again. Her father would never. Not to people he knew.

“Even the greatest detective in the world can't detect something that's not real,” he says. The ridicule that had colored his tone throughout this whole conversation is mixed with something else now, something harder than mere making fun, something like anger. Maybe even malice.

Mr. Camel drops his gaze to their carpet, his shoulders hunched. For such a large man, he suddenly looks to Ran to be completely and utterly small.

He says he understands. He says it quietly and dejectedly, staring at his feet with the kind of mortified expression that Ran would sooner expect from a person who'd discovered their cat torn open on the road, thoroughly devoured by the tires of a car.

But then he offers money—a lot of it. Then he tells them, “Even if you find nothing, I want you to have it.”

“I work for a living,” is her father's cool reply.

Mr. Camel pauses by the door before he leaves. He's still wearing that troubled expression on his face, as if he's prepared to say something that his tongue won't let him voice, and while Ran doesn't notice it then, she'll know later that Conan watches the scene. He peers out from her father's room, where he had spent the day submerged in fits of feverish sleep.

Later, Ran will see that he looks healthier than he had in the morning, when she'd forced him to stay home from school. She'll see that the dark rings around his eyes have faded into something softer, more gray than black, but that his face still seems devoid of color, and he stands almost lopsided, as though he doesn't have the strength to hold himself upright. She'll see his hair in ruffled disarray, and the way the blue-green pajamas that she had gotten for him only weeks before, that had once fit perfectly, now hang off of him, leaving him swimming in piles of bunched-up fabric.

But later, she won't see the terror he holds in his tired eyes, as he stares at the not-stranger through a crack in the door.

Ran says, “I want to know something,” and Mr. Camel's hand slips away from the handle he had been so close to grasping. He looks at her, questioning, hopeful.

“You're always running up and down those stairs,” Ran tells him. “Why? If you're a demon hunter, shouldn't you be hunting demons, not stairs?”

For the first time, Mr. Camel doesn't look awkward and out of place. He smiles. He even laughs, and it almost sounds happy.

“It's important to stay in shape to hunt demons.” He says it as though he's a superhero, and she's nothing more than a curious, overly enthusiastic fan who needs to know to stay out of the way.

But then his awkwardness returns, as he adds, “And when I was using the stairs at the hotel, I got strange looks.” A grin comes over him, small and inelegant. “Kind of like what I'm getting right now.”

He turns the handle. “If you ever change your mind,” he says, stepping away, his back facing Ran and her father and the boy hiding himself behind the safety of a door, “give me a call.”

And then, just like that, he's gone.

Ran never sees him on the stairs again.

---

But she does see the number on his card again. Many times she finds herself staring at it. Many times she runs his words through her head.

Demons often shapeshift into their prey, he said, as he pulled out the photos of the crepe and waffle couple, of Miss Azusa downstairs. They take over their lives and get access to more food.

It's a notion that Shinichi would instantly dismiss. She can imagine his rebuttals, that prideful, teasing smile on his lips. How would they impersonate someone so well that no one would notice? he'd ask.

Ran has her own rebuttals to his rebuttals. No one would think that their loved one had been replaced by a demon.

Even Mr. Camel admitted as much. I know my work isn't... the most seriously regarded, he said. It'd been a part of his opening spiel. It came paired with a face as red as the spluttering setting sun.

A part of her has to wonder how he makes a living on such a career. That part questions where all the money he offered her father could come from. That part speculates that maybe the “demon hunting” is a front for something else, something more nefarious, something that she would expect from one of Shinchi's favorite detective stories (which he had a tendency of completely spoiling to her).

But another part—the part that Ran can't swallow down, that distracts her in class, that screams at her when she cooks dinner—considers that he's serious. There's something strange happening in Beika. Maybe something supernatural.

She thinks of this and little else when she returns home from karate practice one late afternoon and finds what looks to be an empty agency. Her father is not at his desk, surrounded by crumpled, empty cans of beer. There is no Conan watching TV or playing the soccer video game her father had used as a bribe to get him to stop ordering any more food from the restaurant they found themselves at in the midst of a case. (“A game would be cheaper than these entrees,” her father said.)

All is quiet in the office, in her home. The only sounds are the lingering remnants of chatter and the clinks of dishes from the cafe downstairs. The only noises are the tiny whirs of cars as they pass by on the street below.

But when Ran abandons her bright blue jacket and lets her school bag and karate gi leave her hands, she finds quickly that she is not alone. Conan is there, collapsed on the couch, a book over his face and an arm lolling off the side.

The gentle snores she missed when she entered become obvious. She stands watching for a long time, listening to the steady rise and fall of his breath. It's only after she knows she's been hovering there for more time than she should that she removes the book.

It's a mystery novel, of course, some Detective Samonji adventure that she knew Conan had already read. He got it as soon as he could and devoured it all in a single night.

Reading by the light of his phone, her father told her, grumpy and irritated the morning afterwards. His hair stuck up outrageously, as though a lack of sleep somehow contributed to more bedhead than usual.

She smiled at that. Just like Shinichi, she thought. Eating up new books like they were nothing.

Conan read the book again after that. He pored over the pages before dinner and sat clutching it even with dishes full of fish and rice and soup placed before him.

He whined when she snatched his treasure away. You need to eat food, she said.

As she closes the book now and places it on the table before her, she thinks that she'd certainly seen seen this particular novel many times after that, too.

But the tears don't come until she removes his glasses. Her throat burns, and she sits on the couch opposite of him, wiping absently at her left eye. It's not as if it's anything new, and that's what hurts. That's what turns her stomach, more than anything else.

It's as though she stepped into her memories. There is no mistaking it. He looks exactly the same. Exactly the same.

Mr. Camel's words ring in her head.

Demons often shapeshift into their prey, he said.

Demons often shapeshift into children, he told them.

They want you to let your guard down, he stressed.

Horrible explanations fill her mind. A demon killed Shinichi, she thinks. But Shinichi is famous, a public figure. His face fills TV screens. It's splashed across newspapers that her father rips to pieces.

The demon couldn't shapeshift into him. Someone would notice. They'd realize he'd lost his abilities. They'd know his mind was no longer the same.

Ran looks down to the glasses still clutched in one hand. Tears hit the lenses, splattering against the surface, and a sob escapes her lips.

It's loud. It's ravaged and ragged, more like a scream than a cry, and she doesn't quiet the sound quickly enough.

Conan stirs. He groans, sighs. He turns his small body towards her, mumbling softly, almost incomprehensively, “Sorry, sorry. I'm so sorry, Ran.”

He's sweating now. His breathing has hastened—he's panting, Ran realizes. His mouth is a small, open o, and his eyelids tremble but don't open.

Ran feels frozen in place. She can't think of Andre Camel's phone number scrawled at the bottom of his business card. She can't think of the nightmare scenarios her mind constructs.

She can think only of Conan, staying home from school after long nights of fevered dreams that leave him screaming and her rushing into the room and holding back tears and falling to knees and throwing arms around tiny shoulders and saying It's okay, it's okay, it's all okay, Conan. She can think only of his tired smiles, his guilt-stricken faces over breakfast, his baggy clothes, his sickly form crumpled on the couch as he gasps for air.

“I'll keep you safe,” she whispers.

ii.

It's something that he's painfully aware of, being in the realm of half-asleep, half-awake, where his dreams and reality melt and mix and merge. He's not sure he can deduce one from the other—the real from the false, the truth from the lie.

He thinks it's his dream, seeing Ran. She sits on the couch opposite of him, wearing a school uniform that appears as pressed and unwrinkled as it had to have been that morning, and still shines as brilliantly blue.

But she's not looking at him, no matter how many times she says his name.

She mumbles it again. “Shinichi,” she says. Her voice is soft but heavy, dripping in a kind of despair that haunts him more than even the gnawing emptiness in his belly that's always on the verge of swallowing him whole. “What would you do?”

Ran shakes her head. It's obvious that she's been crying. Her eyes are red. Her cheeks are puffy. Her nose looks inflamed.

But she continues to talk to him as though he's a ghost. “You'd solve this yourself,” she tells him, or the air, or nothing at all. “I know you would.”

And it is only here that Shinichi can realize, Oh. Of course. He is a ghost, in Ran's eyes. He cannot be anything else.

His body aches. He can't move, can't even do something as trivial as lift a finger or part his lips to make sound. But what kills him, and makes his heartbeat scream in his ears, is that he can't wrap his arms around her—not the arms that she'd want, anyway. What makes him feel the uselessness of his new form as strongly as the whap of old man Mori's hand against his head is that he can't solve whatever mystery plagues her—not with the voice she'd want to hear.

It has to be a dream. Dreams are the only place he can find reprieve from the pain that's been building in his stomach ever since the day he had become this. But the truth of the matter, the fact that this cannot be happening outside of his mindscape, doesn't make it any easier to open his eyes. He remains stuck where he is, watching the girl in front of him, and he can do nothing but think to himself, “Sorry, sorry. I'm so sorry, Ran.”

Salvation comes in the form of old man Mori. It's a slam of the agency door and a drunken crash into the chair at his desk. He must be back from mahjong. Shinichi must have fallen asleep on the couch, must have a book over his face to cancel out the bright lights streaming in from the windows emblazoned with the name of the old man's business. He must have fallen asleep after he came back from school, when his head felt so light and cloudy that reaching back in his memories produces little else but vague sensations, sights, and smells.

He cut his knee on the way home, he thinks. The dizziness had grown overwhelming, and he tripped on the sidewalk, scraping the skin just beneath his shorts, spilling out a stream of red that trickled down to his socks.

It was nauseating, the smell of the iron in his blood. He identified it immediately—the cool, metallic scent that reminded him of the rusting water fountains at the high school he can no longer attend.

He'd always tried to avoid drinking from those fountains. He only ever did if he'd forgotten his water bottle. But sitting there on the sidewalk, with the burning afternoon sun dripping warmth onto his stinging knee, the tiniest flicker of a thought crossed over him.

It smelled good. Less like blood, less like metal, less like rust, less like water that would make him stick out his tongue in disgust, and more like lemon pie after a hard day of soccer practice. More like Ran's beef stew. More like the scattered memories of his mother's curry and rice.

How long did he remain there, on the heat-soaked sidewalk, staring at the blood coursing down his leg? Did he ever take a cloth and wipe away the dirt, the half-dried wound? Did he climb up the steps to the agency, throw open the drawer that had been devoted to him, and close his fingers around minuscule socks that would replace his soiled ones?

Did he run his tongue across the broken skin to get it to stop oozing?

There's a dull ache in his head, but still he reaches back, trying to retrace the steps that had led him here, but all he can think is blood, blood, blood, and—

“Cancel any dinner plans!” Conan hears, and it's only then that he can open his eyes.

Ran is in front of him, on the opposite couch, still wearing her school uniform, though it doesn't look quite as pressed and unwrinkled as it had that morning, and its blue is more purple when drenched in the light of the setting sun that falls over her and fills her face.

And she has been crying. He can still see the trail where the tears had fallen. It shines almost-yellow in the light, as though to mock him.

Ran has also taken his glasses.

It's automatic, that he whines for them. He sits up wearily and forces his voice into the most obnoxious, grating, childish register that he can muster. “I don't like being without them,” he cries.

But Ran isn't paying attention to him. Her eyes are on her father, who says here, with hardly even a gasp of enthusiasm, “Big winnings tonight, kids. Let's get outta this joint. My treat.”

Normally, Ran's face would light up at the mere mention of an evening spent at a restaurant rather than leaning over a hot stove. She'd clap her hands together and smile a smile that spread across her entire face. Her eyes would sparkle.

But now she trembles. The glasses she'd taken, folded up and still clutched in her fingers, shake. Shinichi's stomach screams, but the sound of the wobbling frames screams louder.

Old man Mori continues, “There's this place out in Haido Town, some fancy-schmanzy Italian restaurant.”

Then he's quiet. He stares at one of the bent, fallen-over beer cans on his desk. Only after a moment of silence does he add, “And the guys were saying that the place is haunted by demons or something.”

Mr. Mori grins, sort of. It's bitter, unkind. “They say that lots of murders happen around there. Weird, unexplained deaths. If I tell that Camel bloke that the 'odd thing in Beika' is just some demonic pasta, it wouldn't be considered stealing to take his money, right?”

If it's a joke, no one laughs. Ran says nothing. Her face becomes hard, and her grip on the glasses tightens.

Shinichi says nothing, too. He doesn't even continue his charade of bellyaching about how naked his face feels.

But his stomach speaks. It rumbles loudly enough that he's convinced the entire building shakes with the noise, and panic sets in. Fear. Dread.

It's possibly the worst thing that could have happened. He wanted to refuse. He wanted to stay here, in the agency. He wanted to sleep, the only place where he could ever find himself free of the pain strangling his insides. He wanted to say he wasn't hungry. He wanted Ran to smile sweetly at him, the way she always does when she's hiding her tears. He wanted her to declare that she'd fix some soup for him when they came back, and he wanted to tell her no, and he wanted her to insist.

He wanted to feel as though he wasn't a nuisance. He wanted to feel as though she liked having him here. He wanted to feel as though he was actually himself. At least a little.

But there's no mistaking the sound that erupted out of him. He's famished and starving, and the hardness of Ran's face has morphed to concern.

“Did you not eat enough at school today?” she asks. Her mouth is set in a frown, and she has seemingly forgotten all about the glasses that are still in her fingers. “Did you skip the foods you don't like on your plate, and now you're too hungry?”

Shinichi shakes his head, which feels as though it's stuffed full of cotton that he'd almost wish would start poking out of his ears, if that would change the subject.

The truth is that he ate everything on his plate. The truth is that he kept running his tongue over the chopsticks long after he devoured everything, and that Ayumi felt so sorry for him that she passed over half of her bread, and Haibara looked as though he'd sprouted another head, or maybe like he'd risen from the grave (which he could admit was partly the truth, at least).

Sometimes, when the two of them are alone, he considers it. His mouth almost forms questions about lab tests, about side effects, about consequences to what had been done to him.

But it's not something to ever ask at lunch, when he sits surrounded by walls decorated with first graders' renditions of the kanji for mountain, and he eats encircled by children who don't deserve the burden of drugs and poisons and the unbelievable, sickening truth.

So he said nothing. He swallowed Ayumi's bread whole, without chewing. It was an act that disturbed everyone, even Genta, who stared at him not as though he were a zombie or mutation but instead something that had always been monstrous, like one of the creatures villainizing Kamen Yaiba on TV every week.

With Ran's hard gaze all over him, Shinichi can only shake his head guiltily. “No, I ate everything.” He tries at a smile, but the pain twists it, he knows it does, and his heartbeat quickens at the recognition that even his eyesight seems to be fading, the world taking on muted, almost pastel colors.

He tells himself that it must be nothing more than the light of the sun.

“I'm gonna get really tall soon!” he tries. “I'm preparing for a growth spurt! That's why I'm so hungry!”

He laughs. It sounds fake to his ears, and it must sound fake to everyone else's. Ran looks mortified. Her eyes are wide. She bites her lip. She drops his glasses to the floor.

Shinichi scrambles for them before she can as she spills out quiet apologies. He holds them with trembling fingers and shoves them on his face. When he looks up again, Ran is smiling, sort of. It's certainly more convincing than what he had managed.

“You're just about at that age, huh?” she says. Her facade doesn't falter. “We might need to get you new clothes soon!”

Shinichi expects a karate kick to the gut when he fixes things and returns. He didn't expect it here, but that's what it feels like. Everything hurts. The edges of his vision are blurry and non-distinct. She couldn't have thought of anything worse to say.

Ran knows as well as he does that his clothes are fitting worse and worse by the day. They grow baggier and baggier, the fabric hanging off of him more and more. No matter how much he eats, how much he hears murmurings between Ran and her father when they think and he thinks he must be asleep, Shinichi continues to lose weight. His ribs poke out of his skin. It's almost a blessing that he's swimming in the pile of too much that's become his outfits. Ran can't see the truth. Not the full of it. Not what she should never see.

It's a thought that's crossed his mind, more than once. The poison is simply a delayed death. It shrinks you, and then, it starves you. It's not the quick, instant, easy, effortless demise that Gin thought it was. It's slow, and painful, and...

And he smiles. He smiles broadly, flashing his teeth, lifting his arms up in the air exactly as he'd imagine a real six-year-old child would. He cheers and says, “Yay!” like he's excited, and no matter how false it sounds, how contrived, Ran continues to smile sweetly back.

“We'll have to go shopping sometime,” she says.

They leave about ten minutes later. This is as much time it takes for Ran to change out of her school uniform and brush her hair, and for the old man to throw up—at least twice, though Shinichi doesn't bother to count any more than that—in their only toilet.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Shinichi asked before they stepped out into the cold autumn evening. He stood by the door to the bathroom, already clad in his too-big blue-and-yellow hoodie. The last remnants of the flush that swept the old man's vomit away still rang in his ears. “It seems like you're not feeling very well.”

All this accomplished was a whap on the head and an irritated, “That's why I want to go out, you moron.”

So Shinichi finds himself in the backseat of a taxi, surrounded by people and noises and smells that cover the world in a glossy, hazy sheen, as though big greasy fingers had left behind smudges on his glasses.

But there's nothing marring the lenses. They're not even dented or scratched.

He sighs as he leans against the window. Watching the Tokyo streets blur by him in a flurry of lights and colors probably isn't the best way to ease his dizziness or calm his aching stomach, but something about focusing on the places outside of the car rather than the people inside of it does make him forget, at least for a moment, the neverending ache building in his stomach and threatening to spill over.

Will he vomit, like the old man? Will he faint? Will he ruin their night of pasta and garlic bread and salad sprinkled with cheese?

He certainly feels like he will, when he steps out of the cab and clutches Ran's hand as they enter the restaurant. It's not what he wants, but he leans on her more than usual, more than he should. He's not sure he can walk without her support.

They're able to find a table quickly. It takes even less time than it would have to be seated at the shoddy, unkempt restaurant that belongs to the family of a classmate in his elementary school.

He shakes his head at the thought. Sixteen-year-old Shinichi Kudo, calling a six-year-old child in the first grade a classmate. Maybe it's worse than his health problems, that these kinds of sentences form in his head. Maybe it's—

Ran grabs his hand again after they've settled down at their table. Her skin is warm against his, as though she is completely untouched by the cold outside.

“If there is something demonic here,” she says. “I'll protect you!”

Shinichi speaks without thinking. “But you're terrified of demons and ghosts, Ran.”

She flushes. Her hand falls out of his and instead busies itself with smoothing out the skirt she changed into purely for this excursion. It's one he hasn't seen before, he thinks—it's a lighter blue than their school uniforms, as bright as the Beika sky on its clearest days, and the fabric falls to her ankles, where white ruffles poke out from the ends. Maybe she got it during that shopping trip she'd accompanied Sonoko on the other week, the one he wasn't allowed to join.

“I love you,” she said back then, leaning down so that she could look him in the eyes, “but Sonoko doesn't always want to babysit you with me. You understand, right?”

Just because he understood didn't mean he liked it.

Ran says now, “But most 'demons' and 'monsters' are just people in costumes! And people aren't scary, right?”

The red that colored her cheeks only moments ago has vanished. She tilts her head at him, smiling, but it's strained. Hurt. Desperate.

“And you'll give me strength, won't you, Conan?” she asks.

Shinichi doesn't get the chance to respond on account of a scream breaking out behind them. It's the kind of loud, terrified, desperate screeching that he's heard all too often.

But it's not the sound that alerts him to what happened. It's the smell.

Of course, he's in an Italian restaurant. It's filled with smells, and all of them attacked him as soon as he entered. There's garlic, and wine, and the perfume of the patrons, and their shampoos, and lotions. There's the whispered breath of the outdoors, of trees and dirt, of cold, crisp air. There's the homey fragrance of burning wax from the candles placed on tables, and the acrid reek of cleaning supplies used in the bathroom, and Shinichi picks all of it up, devouring it as though smells could be enough to satiate the emptiness threatening to tear a hole straight through him.

But none of those smells matter. The one that does, and the one that sets his heart racing as he realizes what it is, as he jumps to his feet and runs to the source, as he hears Ran call after him but he keeps running anyway, is the smell of death.

It's a middle-aged man. He's fallen to the gaudy, scarlet carpet of the restaurant, and his mouth hangs wide open, blood spilling out and oozing past his lips. It drips down his chin and pools up on his brilliantly white blouse, and if Shinichi were thinking right, he'd take note of the abandoned plate of spaghetti coated in red sauce, and he'd wonder what kind of person would choose to wear white to consume such a meal.

He takes no such notes now, though. There are flickering streaks of color bouncing at the corners of his sight. Everything is hazy, as though the restaurant is coated in smoke. Outlines of people and objects disappear. He wonders how he remains standing. He's so dizzy he could collapse.

Ran and old man Mori are by his side in a moment. They say things to him, Shinichi thinks, but he hears none of it. His attention is fully on the dead man—whom Mr. Mori quickly confirms is indeed dead.

It's not as though corpses are an unusual element of his life. It's not as though he hasn't been here before, at a restaurant when someone drops dead before he can have a bite to eat or even a sip of the complimentary water.

But never has he been so transfixed. Never has he found himself staring at the blood and... licking his lips?

Shinichi holds a hand over his chest. His heart races against his palm, as fluttery as a newborn bird, and his breathing comes just as hurried.

It's only here that he recognizes his name.

“Conan!” Ran cries. She's crouched down in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. Shinichi couldn't say how long she'd been standing there, how long she'd been calling for him. He can barely see her. He can barely see anything but the corpse that Ran should have concealed from his sight with her body.

“You shouldn't be looking at things like this,” Ran says. She stands up, and she moves in a way that Conan knows to mean that she's going to bring him into her arms—where he won't be able to get away.

So he runs.

He doesn't think. He races out of the restaurant, the bell ringing in his ears as the door closes behind him, and he runs aimlessly down the streets. His insides feel as though they're going to explode, and his body is hot no matter the raw, icy fingers of the night air wrapping around him. His breath comes and goes in rapid, heaving gasps.

It's only when his lungs feel as though they're on fire and reducing themselves to ashes that he stops by an empty alley. He places his hand on a red brick wall and doesn't care when he slides his palm down the surface and feels the skin break. He coughs and splutters. The world around him twirls and spins. It dances in hypnotizing, nauseating circles.

“What am I doing?” he asks nobody at all.

But he finds that he's not alone.

“Running from a corpse because you wanted to eat it?” a voice asks.

iii.

She shouldn't have waited so long.

The signs were already there, even when she first laid her eyes on him in that tiny, suffocating classroom that she now calls hers.

She saw the baggy clothes. She saw the massive appetite, the desperate reaching for every last scrap of food. She saw the weary, hungry glances that were obvious even to those who didn't know to look. She saw the forced smiles, how sickeningly blatant they were.

(She'd list a tendency to stare at dead bodies here, too, but that was probably an issue before any APTX 4869.)

Kudo looks at her with an expression she can't read. Panicked? Angry? Scared? All she knows is that his eyes are the size of dinner plates and almost seem to shine red here, in this darkened alley lit only by the dimmest street lamps.

One hand holds him almost steady against the wall; the other is clenched in a fist. There's sweat pouring down his face. He's panting. He looks horrible.

Of course he does. Anyone would, if they raced away from a scene like he did. If they felt what he did.

Any human, anyway.

“Haibara?” he eventually manages. He swallows and stands straighter, which really isn't that much straighter at all. “What are you doing here?”

She takes the spare tracking glasses off her face, folding them slowly and deliberately as she hides them in her pocket. “Stopping you from being an idiot, Kudo,” she says.

It's dark. She can hardly see. But she imagines he flushes.

“At least I'm not the one saying impossible things,” he counters.

Ai shrugs her shoulders. “Sure,” she says. “How about you consider this? An old man seeks eternal youth. A monster tells him, 'If you kill me and drink my blood, it can be yours. But you will be a monster like me.'”

She pauses, for dramatic effect. For reasons she doesn't have time for. “Does the old man take it?” she asks. “Is it worth it to live forever, if that life is the life of a monster?”

Kudo groans. Maybe he rolls his eyes, throws his most disapproving glare at her.

Ai thinks he does. She thinks she sees it, just barely, in the orange glow that defines an evening in a cold Beika alley.

“What are you talking about?” he eventually asks. “There's no such thing as immortality, and there's no such thing as monsters.”

She answers immediately. “I think you know as well as I do that there are plenty of monsters.”

Ai doesn't mean for her voice to sound so harsh, so jaded. But any anger Kudo might have had for her finding him like this seemingly melts off his face.

“I'm sorry,” he tells her. “But you know that's not what I meant.”

Ai ignores him. “I think you need to come back with me to the professor's,” she says. “You can tell the girl at the detective agency that before she finds you here. I don't think it's a good idea for you to see her now.”

“But it's a good idea for me to see you and the professor?”

“A better idea,” Ai agrees. “At least we know how to help you.”

Kudo doesn't move. He stares at her intensely, starved for information, for salvation, relief. It's a look that says, You know?

Ai turns away. “And you're not going to like it,” she says.

It takes Kudo a moment to respond. He's so quiet that he may as well not even be there anymore, on the brink of death, suffering in ways that he would never voice. His breathing is no longer the pained, ragged breaths that they had been when she found him. They come soft and shaky, a terror that's flecked with anger, and his words are hardly audible, when he says bitterly, “It's not like that's anything new.”

It takes Ai too long to realize that it's because she messed up. She should have been here sooner, should have said something before. She should have known that Kudo would never let on how bad it had gotten, that he'd never reveal how close he'd been all this time.

She should have done something. She shouldn't be doing this now.

When she finally turns her gaze back towards the monster that she created, he's completely lopsided, falling against the brick wall, and his eyes are hardly open anymore. “How long have you known?” she's sure he asks, but the words come out slurred and mumbled, as messy as a drunk man's drawl, and before Ai knows it, he's collapsed on the ground, and she's well aware that he's hardly breathing at all anymore.

Later, she'll barely remember what she does here. It will be a blur in her mind, a rush of events that never should have happened.

She screams his name, she thinks. She shakes his cold, collapsed body.

She remembers things she's wanted to forget.

---

She still has dreams, sometimes.

In her dreams, it might be after school, when she's walking home with Kudo and the kids. Kudo might be kicking a soccer ball the entire way, the ball bouncing up and down, filling her ears with a pattern of whap, whap, whaps. The others might be talking about something Ms. Kobayashi said in class that day, or maybe they'll be laughing about how quickly Genta ate his lunch. It will all be normal and ordinary and regular.

As normal and ordinary and regular as Ai's life can ever be, in any case.

But whatever the scenario, she'll always catch a familiar figure from the corner of her eye. The conversations will become meaningless, nothing but noise. The black-and-white soccer ball leaping into the air will no longer exist.

And she'll stop in place. And she'll run.

The kids will call after her. Even Kudo will, using the kind of tone reserved for the girl at the detective agency, stuffed full of worry and concern, compassion and fear. The gentle whap, whap, whaps of the soccer ball will vanish. She'll see the abandoned ball rolling on the sidewalk as she goes. She'll see that Kudo became so distracted that he didn't bother to even catch the ball in his small, mutated hands.

But she won't look back. She'll race forward, and she'll see her sister, looking exactly as she had in her final days: little more than skin and bone, with a face as white and pale as the moon hanging high in the sky. Dark circles will stand out under her eyes, and her hair will be devoid of its once-enviable shine and volume, hanging limply in messy strands. Her lips will be so cracked that parts have been left bright red and bleeding.

“Forgotten about me already?” she'll ask. Her voice will be quiet enough that anyone else could mistake it for the whir of the wind. She'll smile gently, in a way that Ai would now expect from Kudo's sweetheart, the cut-up pieces of her lips shining in the dying light of the sun.

And Ai will catch her breath. She'll say, “Of course not.”

But her sister will shake her head. She'll step forward, and it will become obvious how overly large her clothes are, how pitifully they're held up with a large belt around the woman's waist. Her sister will lean down, making her eyes level with Ai's, and she'll say something that the girl can't understand, something that she's never been able to hear.

And then it will happen, all at once. Her sister will wrap her arms around her, but the arms will quickly no longer be the arms that had always held her close with the silent promise that I'll get my precious little sister out of here. They'll be massive and hulking and as red as the woman's bleeding lips. Twin horns will spring from her head, curled and gray and spiraling towards the sky, and when Ai looks into what had been her sister's face, she'll find bright yellow eyes staring back, and rows of sharp teeth.

And the mouth will open wide. And she'll hear the gunshots.

And she'll see Gin.

And her sister's crumpled body.

And the smile of the man who killed her.

“I've always wanted to see her blood on the snow,” he'll say. He'll step over the body. He'll grin at Ai, or her dead sister, his eyes glinting, and for the first time, Ai will realize that it is indeed snowing. It's falling all over her. It's catching in her hair. It's melting on her sister's too-big clothes. It's piling up on her sister's head.

Her sister, who once more looks like her sister.

Gin will say, “If snow is pure, and demons are the opposite, what better resting place for a demon is there than the snow?”

Ai's mind never lets her relive the rest. She always wakes up.

---

But Dr. Agasa notices.

He wakes one night after she does, no doubt startled into consciousness from her battered breaths and the half-scream that leaves her lips. She stares wide-eyed at the wall before her and panics when he says her name, a shuddered gasp pouring out as she looks his way and sees not Gin, holding the gun that had killed her sister, smiling at her as though she is nothing but food on a plate to be devoured, but instead an old man with soft eyes creased in concern, wearing pajamas dotted with bears and a sleep cap that hangs lopsided on his head.

He fixes her tea that is too sweet. They sit on couches, opposite of each other, where Ai can look out the window and see that there is no snow, only drops of rain splattering the glass.

“It's the fourth time this week, Ai,” the professor says. His voice is thick with worry, and Ai consumes that feeling more than she does the tea. The warmth of his words twists inside her stomach. There's a dizziness in her head, a building emptiness in her gut. The rain-streaked window almost looks smudged.

He won't push her to say anything. Ai knows he won't. He's as patient as he was the day he found her, when he held an umbrella over her crumpled body and led her inside, when he got her into dry clothes and fixed her tea that was too sweet, when he listened to her sloppy explanations, when he swore that she would be safe with him.

But she wishes he would push. She wishes he would ask. She wishes she could say what she's kept hidden from him, from Kudo. She wishes she had more time. She wishes she were anywhere but here.

And yet, somehow, she's here. She's here, wrapped in a blanket that smells of the professor's cologne, staring out the window as a lone car slowly drives past, its lights throwing streaks of yellow into her eyes and onto the professor's floor, and she merely says, “Bad food at lunch. It gives me nightmares.”

The professor sighs. He's quiet, and then he says, “If you ever want to talk about anything, I'm here.”

She swallows the lump in her throat. But she says nothing.

---

It's about two hours later that Kudo finally wakes up again. He's wrapped in a crimson blanket on the same couch that Dr. Agasa would sit Ai in every time her bad dreams woke him with her.

But Ai sits opposite of Kudo instead of the old man, holding a mug of coffee in her hands but not drinking, just staring.

Not at Kudo, she'd say. She'd say she isn't looking at anything at all. Not the way his breathing has calmed. Not the way the sweat has disappeared from his brow. Not the way there finally looks to be some color in his cheeks again.

When he wakes, he rises rapidly and inelegantly, springing into an upwards position and placing a hand on his heart as he shouts one name.

It's not hers, but she's the only one who can respond.

“No,” Ai says. “Just me.”

His eyes slide over towards her, confusion lining every inch of his face. “Haibara?” he asks, and she's too slow to place a hand over the huge bandage on her arm. She knows he finds that before anything else.

There's a sense of terror in his voice, after he swallows, looks her up and down, and asks, “What happened to you?”

“We'll get there,” Ai answers, but she clutches her coffee more tightly, as if to say, But I don't want to. “How are you feeling?”

He must be running the night's events in his head because it takes a long moment for him to acknowledge the question, and when he does eventually speak, it has nothing to do with what she'd asked, and he's scrambling to leave the couch.

“I have to go back to the restaurant and solve that case!” he splutters, but as soon as he stands, he slips and falls to the carpet.

Ai finally takes a sip of her coffee. “You're not going anywhere,” she says. She's sufficiently burned her tongue. “The case has been solved. You should give your caretaker more credit.”

Kudo sits up where he's landed on the floor. “Oh,” he says. “That's... good.”

“Yes, so you have no excuse to leave,” Ai agrees. “We've already told the girl from the detective agency that you're staying here for the night. You got so spooked by the case that you wanted Dr. Agasa's new game to cheer you up.”

“Now she's going to think I need therapy, too,” Kudo grumbles. But he stands and places himself back down on the couch anyway. At least Ai doesn't have to knock him out with her own tranquilizer dart.

“In any case,” Ai says, “we want to monitor you for the night to make sure you'll be all right. That was way too close. You should have said something sooner.”

She hates the words as soon as they come out, but guilt crosses Kudo's face anyway.

“It was that bad?” he asks.

“Worse than you could imagine,” Ai answers automatically.

“But you knew,” Kudo says, echoing her own thoughts. His voice takes on a fiercer, louder volume as he adds, “Do you know how much it's hurt Ran to have to deal with... whatever's wrong with me?”

He doesn't say it, but Ai hears the unanswered questions. Why didn't you say something before? Why did you let me suffer?

“I didn't want it to be true,” Ai tells him. She doesn't look at him, at his eyes staring holes into her. She doesn't say, But I knew it was true. She focuses on the dark depths of her coffee.

It was her idea to handle this alone. But it's times like these that she misses the doctor's insight. He's known Kudo for the boy's entire life. The doctor would know what to say. He'd support her, even if she made the wrong choice. He wouldn't blame her, not the way that Kudo would.

“Well, whatever it is, it seems to be true,” Kudo pouts. He looks exactly like the child her drug had transformed him into. “Are you ever going to be upfront with me?”

“Idiot.” Ai says it without thinking. “I have been. Your detective brain just can't comprehend it.”

He stares at her blankly. It's not that she'd expect any brain to understand it.

---

It's not something that can be explained.

That's what she winds up telling the doctor, the fourth time they find themselves on opposite couches drinking tea too sweet when they ought to be sleeping.

“Explain it to me anyway,” the doctor says.

She taps her fingers against her mug. It's as bright and yellow as a sunflower.

Or as her sister's eyes had been moments before she died.

It takes her a long time, but eventually she finds the strength to ask, “Professor, do you... believe in the supernatural?”

---

Kudo doesn't. Ai knows as much. He would never believe, even if everyone around him could deduce the truth.

But he has to realize. He has to understand.

“That's ridiculous,” he says, laughing slightly, though there's not a trace of humor in his voice. “Don't be silly. That can't be true.”

Ai continues to stare into the depths of her coffee. She doesn't know if she hopes to find her reflection looking back, with her pitiful, weary eyes, but she finds only black, only darkness, the only light nothing more than a tiny crescent stretching around the rim.

“D-don't be ridiculous,” Kudo says again. His voice trembles and wavers. Sweat beads down his forehead.

Ai drinks. She drinks and thinks of the one she called her sister, the one who said to her, You know you shouldn't think of a demon that way, the one who starved herself in the hopes that it'd give her the strength she'd need. She thinks of blood in the snow, of corpses, of cutting herself open so that Kudo could stand here with panic in his eyes and power behind his fear.

The coffee is ice cold.

#detective conan #case closed #ran mori #conan edogawa #ai haibara #andre camel #akemi miyano #hiroshi agasa #writing #goop fic #dcmk fic #long post #blood #body horror #alcohol mention #been very absent from tumblr because i've been working on this! and organizing nanowrimo meetups as an ml #but i don't have any in-person meetups 'til saturday and this fic is done so! i feel like i can catch up now!

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altf4dotwav · 9 months

Text

DISPATCH_2

It's sort of common for some people with trauma to say "I wish I never felt ever again," or something to that effect. To never feel an emotion again sometimes would solve almost all of my immediate issues. No more anxiety to disable me. No depressive thoughts. Nothing. I would just float on from one year to the next in ignorant bliss.

I always said that I felt things more intensely than others. One of my best friends is like that too. I remember he was talking about something that really hit him hard and why he reacted the way he did to it. He said, "I'm just a giant pussy," but in a way that meant he owned that. He *is* a giant pussy, like myself, in the way that he is aware that he feels emotions and is effected by them. It was something that I hold onto till this very day. Yeah, I'm a huge giant dripping pussy of emotions. And I'm okay with that. It keeps me from feeling like I never want to experience emotions. It grounds me by reminding me that a person I love dearly can feel the same way as I do sometimes, but they own it and I can too.

Feeling happy is bittersweet. For a long time, I always thought happiness was just a small treat for living life. You got small moments where you're happy, but the rest of life is miserable. And it's hard now to look back and see if I've ever really been happy in my life. I grew up in rough conditions at times and I'm a victim of child abuse. I've been homeless 3 times across the span of my life. I didn't date until I was 19. I've tried to end my own life too many times to count. How do I feel like I could ever be happy if all I've ever known is the worst possible outcome besides death?

What happens when your brain can manufacture that feeling of happiness? How do you know that the joy you're feeling is real or just a symptom?

Mania is a terrifying force while also, ironically, being one of the best feelings in the world. It's almost euphoric. You laugh the hardest at all the jokes and feel uplifted and motivated. There isn't a drug in the world that'll make you feel as good as pure Mania does. You're invincible.

But you're also irrational, easily angered, mean, impulsive. It only takes a small transgression to switch to a Monster. You lash out and hurt others desperately to bring them down to the near bedrock that is your level. You fall off the top of the mountain into a ravine. You end up in a broken pile of anger and impulsive thoughts at the bottom.

YOU MADE ME DO THIS LOOK AT WHAT YOU MADE ME DO THIS IS YOUR FAULT I DID THIS BECAUSE OF YOU BLAME GAME

My Word document closes and the Transmission application pops up in its place. OUT is in grey but IN is pulsing slowly, begging me to click on it. I do and I'm taken to an MSN email box. A single email greets me with the title CLAIM YOUR FREE GIFT!!!!!!!! The mouse cursor hovers over it, my instincts screaming at me to exit out of the window. I click it anyway. There's only one sentence in the body of the email:

EVEN IF YOU ARE NOT READY FOR THE DAY, IT CANNOT ALWAYS BE NIGHT

I look up from the monitor of the computer, startled by the woosh of a fireplace coming to life suddenly from across The Room. The bright orange and yellow light of the dancing flames have lit up The Room enough so I can see its entirety.

It's a bare room with only the desk, my chair, the fireplace, and a picture of a helicopter hanging completely square on the wall opposite from the desk. Under the picture is a sturdy dark wooden door. The handle is gone and a bar welded across the middle let me know the door is basically decoration at this point. The walls are a pale eggshell white with tiny cracks near the top, spiderwebbing out upwards towards the black and infinite chasm of what should be a roof. The Room is small and circular like I'm at the top of a lighthouse, only the windows have been walled over by a slumlord.

A Jenga puzzle of old but pristine wooden planks make up the floor. The old wood had warped and settled over decades, creating small canyons between some boards. By the fireplace, I notice a big cardboard box labelled "TO HELIPORT" stamped on the side is now visible. For the first time since I've been aware of this Room, I feel compelled to get up to see what is inside the cardboard cube.

I'm not even aware of how I got to the box by the time I'm standing in front of it; as if an edit was made between me getting up from the chair and walking a short distance.

The top of the box has a fine layer of dust on it and is sealed with clear packing tape. A box cutter is sitting on top of the tape, taunting me. I feel my heart pick up as my hands start to shake. What is going on? Why am I scared?

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID 3 TIMES YOU FAILED EVERY TIME NOW YOU'RE ONLY LEFT WITH SCARS OF EMBARASSMENT MARKINGS OF WEAKNESS LINES OF SHAME YOU BLAMED IT ON HER YOU ARE A MONSTER

With the swipe of a hand, I slap the knife into the fire off the top of the box like I was angrily shooing away a fly. The knife flies off the box and lands directly into the fireplace with a burst of embers as it hit the logs. Dust flies up into the air in the aftermath like dull glitter celebrating my beautiful display of hand-eye coordination. Pride washes over me, not only for eliminating this perceived threat of the knife, but also by the aim of the swat. I do a small fist pump.

I realize now that I'm also anxious about the contents of this box. Gently grabbing the sides, I try to lift the box slowly to judge its weight. To my surprise, the box is very light and feels like it's completely empty, but the feeling of something small and flat sliding around told me otherwise.

I set the box down and push the sides in that are at each end of the stretch of tape holding the box together. As both sides come in, it creates enough space for my finger to get in and rip the tape off cleanly. My hands have done this many times and I didn't even realize it was happening until I set the box down.

Dust swirls around in the light of the fireplace as I look at the cardboard square in front of me. I lift the flaps up to find a small electronic device sitting at the bottom. It's black and square with a small screen taking up the top third of the body. A circle dominates the last two thirds under the screen. On the top is a tiny switch on one side and a hole on the other with a wire plugged into it that splits off in two at the end.

It was an iPod.

The metal back of the mp3 player was cold in my hands as I picked it up. The headphones dangled like stiff and dirty strands of hair while I stared at the electronic device in my hand.

This is Mine.

I push the middle of the circle pad and the screen glows to life. My hands know exactly what to do with the iPod as my thumb scrolls through the system to find out what is on this thing. I get to the Artists section and scroll through a list of bands that activate the pleasure centers of my brain. It felt like I scrolled for a lifetime by the time I got to the end. Nothing stood out to me so I went back to see if there were any videos.

There was only one file labeled "themanwhosoldtheworld.mp4" in the Videos folder. This can be either a killer David Bowie song Past Me must have loved or another bit of information on just what the fuck is going on here. I make sure to check out the earbuds to see if they're nasty, and put them into my ears. With a satisfying *click* of the middle button, the video starts playing on the tiny screen.

Static of white noise and the bustle of people could be heard. It looked like the video was shot in a supermarket. The camera pans down, looking into a large, long freezer of various frozen bags of food. Suddenly, the camera stops and whips upwards to a woman's face. The camera person shouts excitedly, "FWENCH FWIES??" to which the woman responds just as excited with "FWENCH FWIES?!?!?!?!" Her face immediately gives me goosebumps, in a good way. She loves me.

Cut to black

A new video starts

The camera is pointing towards a sliding glass door and still. Behind the glass is a wooden porch where two people sit on stools, Me and another man. The porch is elevated, meaning we're on the second floor. We're both dressed in basketball shorts and hoodies on a beautiful fall day. I have a bong in my hand while we're both laughing. There's a cat in a hammock stuck to the glass by suction cups. A dog sits between Me and My Friend, her face blank with pure joy as she looks between us. My heart swells with emotion as my entire relationship with this man flashes before me. These images flick by on the screen for just moments, but I recognize every one of them. Us hugging on a porch while My Friend cries on my shoulder. In a van with desolate winter flying past us as we talk about everything. A kitchen of a fast food restaurant bustles with movement as the two of Us work back to back, talking shit to each other. Us together at a concert, singing in tandem with our other friends to every song. He's the first person who made me feel valuable in my existence. This person also loves me.

Cut to black

THIS IS WHAT MATTERS HOW CAN YOU GIVE THIS UP HOW COULD YOU EVEN TRY THIS IS LIFE AREN'T YOU GLAD YOU'RE HERE

I pull the earbuds out of my ears and look up. I'm back in the chair at the computer and my head feels like it's made of clam chowder. There's an immense pressure behind my forehead as my vision goes black.

My eyes open and I realize I'm facedown on the keyboard with drool leaking out of my mouth. I groan and blink my eyes for a few moments, realizing I don't have enough strength to lift my head or straighten my back to get off this keyboard. Hell, I can't even lift my arms up from dangling next to me like wet noodles. Even if I could, there's no way I could muster the power to push myself off the desk. Tears drip out of my eyes as I feel helpless and weak slouched over the computer. I understand what's happening after a moment and I settle in as I wait for the strength to come back to my body. I'm left with my thoughts the entire time and wish I never felt anything ever again.

The computer makes a short error noise that startles me out of my haze. I drag my eyes up to see if anything has changed on the monitor since I last checked. There's a Word document open that says:

GET TO WORK WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW WHEN YOU'RE DONE HIT SAVE DISPATCH WILL RELAY MESSAGE GOOD LUCK CHOOSE LIFE

A new document opens with the file name Dispatch_2 and a prompt at the top of the clean white digital page:

Have you ever felt happy?

I smile and laugh at how ironic this prompt is as I slowly lift my head up from the keyboard. A snail trail of slobber followed my face up as I fix my posture in the chair to be upright. After a lot of groans and heavy breathing, I'm able to put myself into a position to type.

And I start writing what I know.

It's sort of common for some people with trauma to say "I wish I never felt ever again," or something to that effect.

#dispatch

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afrustratedmom · 1 year

Text

I'm annoying when I'm annoyed

The older kids both had a day off. Which meant EVERYONE was home on a day when they are normally at daycare or at the office. Working from home with a baby is hard enough. Having my partner and my two older kids here all day is something else entirely. I just have to remind myself how much I love them. The answer is: SO. MUCH. By the end of the day I was getting short with everyone. Still breastfeeding and rocking a baby all day except let me try and clean our home with Thing 1 and Thing 2 bickering over which toy they don't feel like sharing, my man taking a leak in both toilets and not flushing either one of them, and everyone using several dishes for every snack they have in mind. AND EVERYONE IS SCREAMING. If hell exists, it's me stuck in an apartment of less than 1,000 square feet having to hear my family scream at the top of their lungs, while treating me like I'm Molly the Maid. My anxiety is through the roof and it is always all work and no play. I'm a maid, I'm a cook, I'm a referee, I'm a dairy cow. I'm a mom. I'm on the 6th or 7th load of laundry for the day (I've lost count) and I'm folding the towels by myself after my partner promised me he would help. But it's the 3rd time now that I've asked him to put away his clothes that I washed, dried, and folded. I've spent hours doing laundry today, PLEASE just put that very tiny pile away. I'll get to it, he tells me. But I'm still waiting. I wait so long I end up putting it away without muttering a word. The kids started screaming about a doll, I don't know which one and honestly, I don't care, because there are 3 of the same baby dolls in that room which makes their lack of sharing especially infuriating. The noise level is rising and at that moment the baby starts getting fussy. I should probably change her diaper because my partner has been playing with the kids all day, trying to keep them distracted. My partner says something, I don't even remember what he specifically said but it was a request for something that he thought I should do. I've done so much today but for some reason, someone else expects just ONE MORE thing from me. Perfect. I get snippy. My response is short and to the point. His response? You know, when you're annoyed, you're really annoying. I actually had to hold back the tears because that hurt. That's all my partner saw. Someone who was being annoying. Someone who was ticked for the sake of being ticked. I didn't bother giving him a response. He didn't see someone who was overstimulated, overwhelmed, over these kids, and over these chores. He didn't see that I spent 6+ hours wiping down counters, throwing out trash that had accumulated around the apartment, reorganizing the kids room, doing several loads of dishes and laundry, separating clothes for 3 different kids, cooking, asking the kids for the millionth time to stop touching what they shouldn't be touching, cleaning out the closet, and cleaning the same thing over and over because clean spaces equal places that my partner thinks he can place more trash and more clutter. He missed all of that. Should I have said that? Probably. But have I tried communicating those exact sentiments that I'm drowning a million times with zero change and half the time he isn't actually listening but on his phone watching Tik Tok? Also yes. So I'm sitting here, stewing in my own anger and hurt. I don't remember the last time we didn't fight over finances and our bills, where we weren't having difficult conversations about how to best deal with our older kids that we share with unyielding and unhelpful co-parents. Where I'm not tripping over his three pairs of shoes that he's left everywhere but the closet while I have a baby in a carrier strapped to my chest. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, I'M ASKING YOU FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME, MOVE YOUR DAMN SHOES. PLEASE STOP CREATING MORE WORK FOR ME. But I'm just annoying when I'm annoyed. Signed, A Frustrated Mom

#motherhood #parenthood #relationships #frustrated #momlife #lovelife

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opalesense · 3 years

Note

How would the genshin Bois, zhongli, childe, diluc and kaeya react to a fem traveller stuck in a wall after a harsh battle, they'll help her get out right?...right?

a sight to behold

zhongli, childe, diluc, kaeya & f!reader (NSFW-ish)

1.9k words • ~13 min. read

warnings: just a lot of teasing & dirty thoughts

notes: i was practically rubbing my hands together with evil intentions when i saw this request but i’ll spare the graphic details for another time, otherwise this will be extremely long!! also i wrote them separately here BUT i wouldn’t be opposed if someone requested them to be grouped together instead... anyway, i hope you enjoy this!! >:)

THE WIDELY FEARED PRIMO GEOVISHAP was certainly a sight to behold from above. You quickly understood why so many people often avoided interacting with this beast – it was intimidating even while it slept soundly, its loud snores echoing throughout the cavern despite being so far down. As you stood on the platform above its sleeping form, you studied its details, noticing the element it possessed and strategizing your combat plan quickly, thankful that you could manipulate an element that targetted its weakness. Once you made up your mind, you let out a huff as you took a leap of faith down, letting your glider save you at the last second before you could actually make contact with the ground.

Your companion followed behind swiftly, the two of you moving gently around the walls of the cavern, careful not to wake the beast from its slumber. In a low whisper, you began to describe your strategy to your partner, but alas, the beast suddenly awoke and interrupted your planning with a ear splitting roar.

Without a second thought, the two of you dashed to the creature, loosely following the details of the plan you had based on what you were able to say before you got interrupted. The battle was fine at first, but you soon realized how out of sync the two of you became as the fight progressed. Your elemental reactions were getting poorly timed, and it was difficult to keep an eye on each other’s movements with the beast constantly thrashing about and blocking communication.

In normal circumstances, the two of you excelled in combat together without needing any other support. Maybe it was bad luck, or maybe you bit off more than you could chew this time, but you noticed you were getting knocked around easier than usual. Things were obviously not going your way and you had to think of a solution fast.

But before you knew it, your distraction with your own thoughts got the best of you. One single swipe of the geovishap’s tail sent you flying across the cavern towards the opposite wall then tumbling on the ragged, rocky edges of floor, certainly leaving cuts and bruises for later. To make matters worse, one more aggressive roar from the beast shook the walls of cavern enough to send chunks of rock tumbling down towards your injured body. Unable to form coherent thoughts, you knew you didn’t have the strength to escape the avalanche. Instead, all you could do was lay there, helpless and bracing for impact, praying to the Archons that you can be saved.

zhongli

Zhongli made quick work of the beast, using his shield to deliver an extremely effective counter attack and finishing it once and for all. The creature wailed in pain in its dying moments before disintegrating into dust. He expected to see your face on the other side but alas, you were nowhere to be seen.

“[Y/N]?” his face tensed as he tried to think of where you could have disappeared to. As his eyes darted around the cavern, he immediately noticed a tiny speck of color amongst the rocks on the wall that resembled your clothing. He quickly sprinted towards you, lifting some of the boulders off of you effortlessly using his geo manipulation.

He began to subconsciously slow down once he saw the way you were displayed in front of him. Your legs were propped up slightly from the rocks underneath you that caved in from the impact. The way your hips curved up caused your skirt to fold back onto you, leaving you completely exposed under his gaze.

Ungodly thoughts began to race across Zhongli’s mind. He couldn’t help but slowly undress you in his mind, thinking about all the things he could do to you in this moment of vulnerability.

You poor thing... If only we were not in such a potential dire circumstance of life or death, what would stop me from keeping these rocks on top of you, grabbing those hips, and pressing myself against you? It would be the perfect opportunity to keep you still while I have my way with you... Perhaps I should check to see if you’re okay first, and maybe I can trap you with these rocks myself instead. Certainly I could even lift you in a better position for a better fit...

“Stay with me, [Y/N],” Zhongli snapped out of his fantasy and continued to lift the boulders off of you, wondering if he should really go through with his urges. “You will be okay...”

childe

Childe had noticed you fly across the cavern in the corner of his eye, and watching you land on the floor at such a fierce impact only fueled him to keep fighting. In a fit of a rage and frustration, he summoned his dual blades and quickly turned the tides of the battle towards his favor. He didn’t even need to watch the beast die to know it was dead within seconds, and after his final blow he quickly dashed towards where you landed only to find out you had been crushed by more rocks.

He let out another yell of frustration, grabbing the boulders one by one and pushing them off of you. “[Y/N]? Can you hear me?”

“I’m fine, just get these off of me!” you managed to call out from underneath the pile. Relieved that you were alive and well, he managed to push most of the boulders off but hesitated once he got a good look at the way you were laid out in front of him.

With your legs dangling off the edge of the pile, your ass was comedically exposed towards him, the rest of your upper half still trapped within the remains of the avalanche. Funnily enough, the hem of your skirt had even got trapped above your hips that you were completely exposed, causing Childe to grin evilly.

“Well, well, well,” he slowly walked over to you and placed a gloved hand on your bare cheek, still slightly out of breath from the heavy lifting. He gave a gentle squeeze, eliciting a gasp from you. “Is this my reward for helping you? If so, I’ll gladly take it now...”

“Did you forget that I’m stuck? What if I’m badly injured?!”

“In that case, I’m sure I can make all the pain go away and replace it with pleasure instead,” he gave one final squeeze and chuckled before walking away to grab another boulder. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding... But once you’re out, don’t expect all this help to come for free, you know.”

diluc

Diluc watched you tumble across the floor with panicked eyes, immediately worrying about your safety but not letting that distract him from the task at hand. In the heat of the moment under the influence of rage and anxiety, he summoned his pyro manipulation to set his claymore ablaze and deliver multiple final blows to the creature, smashing its figure into bits. The beast cried in its final moments and when he was sure it was dead, he dropped his sword as he sprinted towards you.

Pure panic settled in once he saw you had been crushed underneath the pile of rocks. He pushed himself to run faster, feeling tears form in the corners of his eyes but ignoring it. He didn’t want to lose you – not this easily.

“[Y/N]!” he called out once he reached the site, “Can you hear me?”

“I’m here, Diluc. I’m fine,” you reassured him. He deeply sighed in relief as he began to push the boulders off of you. Thank Barbatos you were alive and well! He shook the thought of you being fatally injured away from the forefront of his mind to focus on getting you out of this mess, using his strength to his advantage. But after a few rocks were pushed off of you, his eyes widened at the sight of you, a sight he will never forget.

While your legs and upper body were still trapped underneath the pile, the first thing Diluc revealed was your ass, exposed by your skirt that was coincidentally trapped above your hips. Your thighs were pinned together, rubbing gently as you squirmed in the rubbish, trying to wiggle your way out. Or at least, he wanted to believe you were wiggling for the sole purpose of getting out, and not to tease him.

With a nervous gulp, he averted his eyes away from you and resumed his work on the boulders. His mind couldn’t help but drift away into sinful corners, though. He envisioned the way he could firmly grab your thighs, pull down your underwear and...

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he took a more lighthearted tone to cover up his urges, “I thought you were surely dead.”

kaeya

After briefly witnessing you get thrown across the cavern, Kaeya managed to finally stab the beast in such a precise weakness point, making it wail in pain until it slowly withered away in its dying moments. He took no time at all to rush over to you, sprinting faster once he saw that you had been crushed by an avalanche.

“[Y/N], talk to me,” he subtly asked for reassurance that you were still alive as he began to analyze the situation and pinpoint exactly where you were in all this rubbish.

“I’m okay,” you weakly muttered with a grin, glad that he had come to your rescue, “Just a little bruised, that’s all.”

Following the trail of your voice, he put his mind to work. He started to strategically push certain rocks so that others would naturally fall off of you without him needing to lift too much. After awhile, he began to spot one of your arms, then your other arm, and with each rock tumbling down he soon revealed the full picture.

Or at least, a fraction of the full picture.

He was relieved to see that you had wrapped your arms around your head for protection before the crash, avoiding what would have been an extremely dangerous injury. With your entire body from the chest down still trapped, you felt the need to stretch out your arms in the newly freed space and take a deep breath, glad to finally have some fresh air. “Good morning,” you joked on your bed of rocks.

Even though he certainly felt some relief, he couldn’t fight the urge to tease you as he cooed over the sight of you so helpless underneath him. With an evil smirk, he pulled out one of the rocks that was supporting your neck, leaving your head hanging off the edge and eliciting a gasp from you. Before you could protest, he propped himself up against the wall with one arm, his body hovering over you and his crotch just inches away from your face.

“Look at that pretty mouth of yours... You tempt me even in the most dire situations, sweetheart,” he let his free hand run slender fingers across your scalp, slowly massaging you. “Now that I think about it, I do deserve a prize for saving you, don’t I?”

“Quit running your mouth and just help me get out of here,” you scolded him jokingly. He laughed and shook his head dismissively as he walked away to get back to work, fighting that strong urge to use your throat in such a vulnerable state.

“If you say so, sweetheart. Maybe some other time.”

#zhongli #childe #ajax #tartaglia #diluc #kaeya #zhongli x reader #childe x reader #ajax x reader #tartaglia x reader #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #mine #bang

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teddy06writes · 3 years

Note

Can I request a Sapnap x Karl x Quakity x Y/N ? I just like polyam ships and your Sapnap x Karl x Y/n just made me want more

Ee hee, thanks for the request

Sapnap x karl x reader x quackity (THE PEOPLE ARE ENABLING MEEEE)

trigger warnings: swearing, panic attack

premise: you and your boyfriends are out shopping/ trying to get kicked out of a target when you run into your asshole ex, when he starts to bother you your boys take care of it

(y/n/n)- your nick name

(also we’re pretending covid isn’t a thing)

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

“(y/n)! We are gods!”

You turned at Alex’s call, snorting upon seeing he and Karl T posing while standing in the target cart, Nick balanced on the front, also t posing.

You laughed at your boyfriends, quickly taking a picture before Karl started to wobble and fall, “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Yup!” Karl grinned as Alex helped him out of the cart to avoid falling.

You shook your head, quietly putting the picture onto your twitter with the caption, ‘look at these nerds <3′

“You guys are gonna die from idiocy some day.”

“Not when your there to save us.” Nick countered, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“If anything they’ll get dragged down with us.” Alex scoffed.

“Tragically,” You muttered, “Did we actually come here to do anything but solicit?”

Karl giggled, “Well I thought we were just terrorizing the people of Target.”

“The only thing we actually needed was more notecards.” Nick reminded helpfully.

You smiled, “At least one of you is useful.”

“Hey!” Alex protested, “We’re useful too!”

“Sometimes.” Karl giggled again.

“Betrayal!” He gasped dramatically as Karl threw his arms around his shoulders.

You rolled your eyes, “Well, if your useful too then, help me find notecards.”

Alex sighed dramatically, grabbing one your your hands and intertwining your fingers, “If we must.”

Karl grinned, hopping back to sit in the cart, “Lets go then!”

Nick rolled his eyes, muttering something about being ridiculous, before moving to the push the cart, you and Alex moving along beside them.

A half hour later found many random unnecessary but still necessary items piled into the cart around Karl, and note cards had still not been found.

You were hallway through the seasonal section when you sighed, “Alright this is taking too long, I’m going to actually get the note cards, I think they’re just down there, try not to break anything.”

Karl chuckled, “No promises.”

You smiled and headed out of the isle, towards office supplies.

“Well, well, well, (y/n), fancy seeing you here.”

You froze in the middle of grabbing the biggest package of notecards, trying to keep your hand still as you turned, “John,,, uh hi?”

Now, John wasn’t the worst person, no your relationship wasn’t necessarily bad, but towards the end it definitely took a turn for the worse. When you’d first brought up breaking things off he was, less than thrilled, leaving the last few weeks of your relationship a battle field of screaming matches that consisted of little more than his yells.

“It’s been a while.” He smiled.

“Uhh, yeah, it has been.” You began to fidget with your fingers, eyes darting back up the isle towards where you’d left Nick, Alex and Karl.

“Let me guess, still single?” He laughed, “Yeah it would make sense, I’ve only pulled like one person since you.”

You glanced down, “Uhh, no actually.”

John frowned, letting acid drip into his voice, “Oh, I guess the were right when they said you always moved on fast.”

“It- it- it- it’s been a year and a half?” Your attempts to keep your voce steady began to fail, “And, I’ve only been dating one of them for a few months.”

-It was true, Alex had been the last one to join your relationship a few months ago-

His eyes narrowed, “You’re not telling me you’re still on the stupid polyamory thing are you?”

You cleared your throat uncertainly, “um, y- yeah, I have three boyfriends.”

He rolled his eyes, “There's no chance you’d ever fucking pull three people. Hell you barley even managed me.”

Your gaze stayed trained on the tile floor, unspeaking.

“It’s clear you haven’t moved past fucking your way into a relationship.”

You bit your lip, tears welling in your eyes as your breathing quickened, deep down you knew it wasn’t true, as a group you all respected Karl’s asexuality, even once, over some late night conversation of cuddles and lazily traded kisses, going so far as to promise that the relationship would remain entirely romantic if it made him more comfortable, and it had.

Still, there was a nagging in the back of your head, telling you that John was right. There obviously was only one reason they kept you around.

“That really is a shame,” You felt his hand rest on your shoulder, “I know I would stay with you for more than that.”

“Get your fucking hand off of them or I will rip your arm off and beat you to death with it!”

You were simultaneously relieved and flooded with more anxiety upon hearing Nick’s voice.

“Who are you?” John asked skeptically.

“Their boyfriends, who the fuck are you?” Alex spit.

He laughed, dry and harsh, “So you’re the fucking idols who thought you could get away with dating (y/n), not that I care their very-”

“No, you shut the fuck up!” Nick cut him off before he could say anything else advancing up the isle towards him, “Why the fuck are you bothering them?!”

They continued a back and forth exchange, as you slowly slid down to the floor, nails pressing tightly into your palms, breathing far too fast.

“Hey, hey, (y/n/n), (y/n/n) look at me.”

You opened eyes that you didn’t realize had been screwed shut to see Karl kneeling sitting In front of you, looking worried.

“Can I touch you or no darlin?” He asked softly, almost making you forget the yelling happening only a few feet away.

You bit your lip, quickly shaking your head, the tiny seed of doubt John had planted in your mind starting to grow.

“Okay, that’s fine. Can you breath with me? In for seven, hold for 4 out for 8, yeah?”

After a moment of trying to breath in sync with him, you held out a hand, and understanding Karl took it, moving to pull you into his arms, “In for 7, out for 8, just like me alright?”

You all but melted into his touch, doing your best to breath normally again.

“Get the fuck outta here man!” Alex yelled.

“You’re gonna regret this.” John sneered.

“No,” Nick said firmly, “Your gonna regret messing with our partner if you don’t fucking leave.”

After you heard footsteps hurrying away you felt Alex settle on your other side, “You alright baby?”

“Their starting to breath normally again.” Karl reported, running a hand through your hair.

Nick sat down on Karl’s other side, and you all stayed sat on the floor of the offices supply isle, Alex sending death glares to anyone who tried to ask you to move.

Eventually you sat up, sniffing.

“Who was that?” Nick asked softly.

“My ex.” You murmured.

“Why was he bothering you? What did he say?”

“Stupid stuff,” You muttered, rubbing at your eyes, “C’n we go home now?”

“Of course Darlin.” Karl assured, standing up and turning to help you up.

Later, back at the apartment, after everything had been put away, you all ended up in a cuddle plie on the couch, and that seed of doubt was beginning to shrivel with every pass Nick’s hands made through your hair, every small circle Alex absently traced into your palm and every tiny joke Karl made about the movie playing.

“Guys?” You asked softly.

“Yeah?” Alex asked.

“I love you.”

Karl grinned, “We love you too.”

Alex pressed a kiss to your knuckles in understanding and Nick hummed in response.

The tiny seed of doubt was gone.

#mcyt x reader #mcyt imagines #karl jacobs x reader #quackity x reader #quackity imagines #sapnap x reader #sapnap x karl x quackity x reader #sapnap x karl x reader x quackity #karlnapity #karlnapity x reader #poly #teddy06 writes #sapnap x Quackity x Karl x reader

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darkacademicfrom2021 · 3 years

Text

Flufftober - Day 2

2 - Sneaking Out Together

@prompts-in-a-barrel prompt in bold. Written for @flufftober2021 's event.

Pairing: Loki x Stark!reader

Tags: fluff, fluff FLUFFFFFFF (this is flufftober, of course there’ll be fluff). A tiny tiny bit of angst in the beginning (if you really squint) and maybe… maybe some father issues as well. I’m not discussing this with my therapist.

Word count: 1,2K

A/N: Listen. There isn’t an actual “sneaking out” because technically it isn’t. But it’s the most similar thing it could be, and honestly I like how it ended up.

Gif not mine.

“There was only one rule you had to follow”, started Tony Stark, in front of fucking everyone. The whole team was in there, and you wanted to bury your face in your arms, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t because if there was one thing you’d never lose, it was your dignity. So, you sat right, with your eyes directly on your father’s as he kept going on how bad it was what you had just done. “Just one rule about dating. What have I told you?”.

“Don’t get in trouble”, you repeated, the phrase already memorized. “You know, I don’t see what the big deal is about. I never got in trouble, and I’m not a little kid anymore, you can’t actually control my dating life”.

“As long as you live under my roof, you can’t date criminals. No, wait. As long as you’re an Avenger, for moral stuff, you can’t date criminals”.

“Firstly, he’s not a criminal. Secondly, I only live with you because I’m an Avenger. Thirdly, we’re not dating”.

“Are we not?”, inquired Loki from the doorframe. You shot a panicked look over him, and calmed yourself down as you saw his teaseful smirk showing across his face.

“Can we talk alone?”, you asked, and Tony and you walked out of the room to talk in the corridor. “I just… I just want you to support me, dad. That’s all I ever wanted”, you said, lowering your voice and head, knowing all of your confidence had faded away as soon as he looked at you with that disappointed look he’s always looked at you with.

“I can support you in many things, dear. I really do. I love your work in the science projects you’re doing… and your new friends are great, and I know how hard it is for you to socialize”, you sighed, and looked at him knowingly, because if your relationship could be described in a phrase, it definitely was “not the point I’m trying to make”.

“But?”.

“But how can I support you when you’re making a huge mistake?”.

You sighed in frustration and wiped a tear away.

“If you think being around him is a mistake then why did you even let him in the team to begin with? Why didn’t you just refuse Thor's demand of keeping him here? You know me, you knew I’d get attached”.

“So, you’re admitting you’re dating?”.

“Yes, we are something. Maybe not dating. I don’t know what we are”.

“Oh, what a great way to tell me you’re fucking. Great, nice. I love to hear that my little…”.

“No, not your ‘little-something’, dad. I’m an adult now. So take it or leave it. This is what’s happening, and whether you like it or not, Loki is actually really nice to me. He’s a gentleman, he treats me right, he’s all the Prince Charming you’d think an actual prince is”.

“Just… do me a favor and don’t lie for him, would you? He’s got that much already on him”.

“I’m not lying”, you looked at him defiantly, yet with that tenderness he always saw in you, even as a little kid.

Tony sighed, knowing you were honest.

“Please, don’t let him take your goodness away”.

That same night you couldn’t sleep. You rolled around in your bedsheets, grasping to them for your dearest dreams, but anxiety won, once again. You thought of your studies, your homework, your grades. You thought of your father and your dating life. You thought of Loki. You thought of him way too often. You knew —you were sure— you had fallen irremediably in love with him.

Who wouldn’t? He truly was prince charming.

Speaking of which, you heard a soft knocking at your window. You got up from bed and covered yourself up with a blanket, walking to see who was calling you at such late hours of the night.

The moonrays shone brightly and they were the only way you could see around; otherwise, it would be only darkness. Nights were better now, and Loki was in there, waving hello with that big smile of his, looking up at you as if he were Romeo. He truly was.

You smiled back and opened your window, looking around for any sign of your parents or Jarvis’s cameras being a bitch, and when there wasn’t any, you finally rested your elbows on your window frame and gave him the dreamy eyes he loved to be stared at with.

“My little love?”, he called in a whisper, yet you could still hear it.

“Dear”, you called him back. “Why are you awake?”.

“I can’t sleep without you”, he said, and you smiled involuntarily. Maybe your feelings weren’t so out of place after all. Maybe he felt the same way, and the only thing in your way was your dad and his prejudices.

“Really?”, you laughed softly, and he laughed too.

“Why are you awake, pray tell?”.

“Thoughts”.

“Of what?”.

“Of who, you may say”, you said, and he raised his eyebrows, wondering. “Of you, of course. And of my school books, that’s for sure”.

“Love and anxiety, all in one big package”, he said, and you rested your head over the heels of your hand. Did you just admit your love for him? And did he take it well? “I think it’s only fair for me to invite you to the library. The one from the compound is open at any time, right?”.

“Is this a study date at 4am?”.

“Darling, your idea of romanticism is so nerdy”, he laughed. “But if you may call it a date, then I’ll bring the candles”, he added, appearing a rose in his hand. “Shall I quote Shakespeare, too? Or is it enough for…?”.

“Well, no need to mock me, now”, you chuckled, while reaching for your clothes. “Meet you there?”.

“I’ll be there in a second, quite literally”, he said right before vanishing under a veil of green lights.

The night was spent with chattery over homework, with fun illusions he made in his hands, playing games and kissing —a lot. The night was spent so much, tiredness finally fell over you two, and before you could even realize, the sun had bathed both of your sleepy figures bent over the table, head resting over your arms. Loki was right in front of you and his legs intertwined with yours under the table. Books spread everywhere, you even used some as pillows. Not even once, you realized someone could walk in the library and let everyone know where you were last night.

And, as said, Tony and Pepper walked nonchalantly into the study area of the library, only to find you two sleeping over a pile of undone homework. You still had the rose behind your ear and a smile you wouldn’t be able to wipe off even awake. Pepper smiled and looked at Tony, who was staring in realization.

“They seem… good together”.

“You could even say happy? Good for each other?”, hinted Pepper, fighting back a giggle.

“Maybe… maybe they were right after all. I could give the guy a chance”, he nodded, rolling his eyes. “Now, let’s get those papers and close the curtains, they seem like they just fell asleep”.

(Taglist: @lucywrites02 , @louieboo87 @the-departed-potato , @jesuswasnotawhiteman , @idontknow296 , @beksib , @spythoschei , @geekwritersworld , @whatafuckingdumbass , @mysticunicorn7 @shadowolf993 , @joscelyn02 , @t00-pi , @selfship-mishaps , @sallymagnoliaposts , @deadgirl88 , @theonewiththenerds , @vicmc624 , @spiderlaufeyson @theaudacitytowrite )

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inkykeiji · 4 years

Text

all she want is payback for the way i always play that shit

characters: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaah yikes, sorry it’s so long???? the first part of a companion piece to i can take you there but baby you wont make it back; touya + reader have been fooling around for just under six months, our innocent lil good girl reader is the teeniest, tiniest bit more firm now. jealousy makes people crazy, yk how it is. touya is marginally softer for like, a second or two. | title credit: save that shit by lil peep

warnings: 18+, pseudo-incest (stepcest), public sex, cheating, drug use, generally toxic relationship (possessiveness, jealousy), size difference, dubcon if u squint i guess???, the tiniest bit of cumplay

words: 11k

synopsis:

Why can’t you just be mine? You want to ask, the words searing into your tongue, refusing to leave your lips.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick, angel,” he chastises softly, brushing your hair away from your clammy forehead as another shuddery sob rips through your chest.

“I want you,” you say instead, words garbled.

“You have me, baby,”

“All of you,”

His chest heaves with an exasperated sigh, head turning away and gazing up at the ceiling. “You have all of me, princess,”

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

In early February, your parents finally tie the knot.

“Now it’ll be official,” you remember Touya whispering in your ear, the night before. “I will officially be your niichan,”

The wedding is gorgeous—elegant and classy, just like Rei herself. A wintertime wedding is so beautiful, you tell Rei as she’s busy being fawned over by several stylists, adding the finishing touches to her hair and make up. She’s absolutely stunning, a lacy ivory dress clinging delicately to her small frame, accentuating her natural curves. It glitters gracefully in the pale sunshine streaming through the large bay windows, sparkling any time she moves.

Touya doesn’t sit with his family. Their eyes sear into your flesh, although Touya keeps his stare pointedly in front of him, glaring at the alter. But you can feel their gaze on your skin, can feel their eyes travelling up your body slowly, critically, sending shivers skittering up your spine. It makes your skin crawl, both of your hands curling around Touya’s, a tangled knot of fingers resting in your lap.

You’ve never seen his other siblings before. Rei talks about them sometimes, but never when Touya’s around. You know that once every month, the three of them join Rei and your father for a family dinner, but you’ve never had the pleasure of attending.

You’d missed the first family dinner by fluke, held up late at the library studying for midterms. But every occasion after that, Touya had made absolute certain that you weren’t there. You hadn’t thought much of it the first time it happened, too enraptured and tangled up in Touya to care, grinding desperately against him in the backseat of his car as his tongue forced its way down your throat. But then it happens again, and again, and it becomes too coincidental to ignore.

“Why do we never go to those dinners with your siblings?” you’d tried to bring it up subtly the third time you guys skipped out on dinner, heart thudding in your chest and gentle voice quivering slightly.

Touya sighed, raking a hand through his hair roughly, eyes not straying from the road ahead of him. It’s complicated, he told you in a quiet voice, and you were so startled, so shocked by his sheer, unadulterated honesty, that you couldn’t find your voice, rendering you incapable of replying. Touya didn’t bother looking over at you, didn’t need to, to know that his response surprised you.

The other Todoroki’s are all strikingly beautiful—not that you expected any less. The one with pure snow-white hair and gunmetal grey eyes captures your attention the most, looking as if he’s around your age. He smirks at you when he catches your stare, giving you a small, polite nod—though you can see that tiny glint of mischief in his eye, the same glint you’ve seen in Touya’s a thousand times before. Choking on a surprised gasp, you rapidly avert your gaze, eyes snapping back to the pile of hands in your lap.

Touya notices, of course, because Touya notices everything. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand squeezes yours tightly, just a little too tight to be comforting, as his eyes dart to his siblings across the aisle, glare losing most of its heat when it meets his brother’s stare.

Tense shoulders relax, falling slowly with the measured breath he exhales as he turns back to glower at the alter.

You know other guests are staring at you—you can feel their eyes, too. You know the pair of you look more like a couple than siblings, know you should both probably put some distance between yourselves, at least try to keep some semblance of normalcy, some masquerade of a typical sibling relationship.

But Touya’s knee is bouncing, and he seems…unsure. It’s unsettling, really—Touya always seems so confident in himself—and you can almost feel the tense anxiety rolling off of him in heavy waves. So instead of scooting away from him or untangling your hands, your other palm finds a spot high on the thigh pressed tightly against yours, small fingers beginning to knead the flesh.

Sapphire eyes find yours, and he gazes down at you with an odd sense of fondness in his stare, the tiniest smile ghosting across his lips. It makes your chest swell with pride, makes you want to grab his face and crash his lips against yours, forces a tingling warmth to spread through your veins. It shouldn’t, but it does.

He barely lets you leave his side that day, keeps you glued to his body, an arm wrapped tightly around you. He’s a constant, looming, protective presence, glaring at anyone who dares to look at you for more than a second.

“Touya-nii,” you laugh a little while leaving the ceremony, watching as one of your cousins immediately averts their eyes. “That’s my cousin,”

“And I’m your brother,” he says flatly.

You suppose he has a point.

The two of you find your parents and the rest of Touya’s siblings—yours too, now, you guess—standing around a limousine, beckoning you over.

Rei begins to explain their protocol for pictures—and yes, you both have to come—but you aren’t listening. Their eyes are on you again, you can feel them, gliding up your skin, taking sharp note of the way Touya has you pressed flush against him, the way your arm is wrapped firmly around his waist, little fingers twisting in his suit jacket as your heart begins to speed up.

Touya can feel it, too, and he looks down at you in concern, his thumb caressing your shoulder, before he meets the stares of his siblings with a glare so ferocious you’re surprised it doesn’t turn them to ash on the spot.

They offer for you to ride in the limo with the rest of them, Touya cutting them off as he curtly declines their offer—no thanks, you’ll take his car instead and meet them there.

Rei tries to reason with him, but the pointed look he gives her causes her to trail off mid-sentence, holding his eyes for a moment before a sad smile settles on her face, nodding once.

✰ ✰ ✰

Shinjuku Gyoen is nothing short of stunning in the wintertime. It had snowed this morning, around six AM, blanketing the garden in a soft layer of pure white powder, glittering delicately in the early afternoon sun.

Wide eyes drink it in as your face presses against the glass of the car window, your breath fogging it up. There’s something so whimsical and dreamy about snow, you think, about the way it softens even the sharpest of edges, the way it makes everything look prettier.

“You’re so cute,” Touya remarks, watching you from the corner of his eye, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“I’ve never been here during the winter,” you murmur in response, still captivated by the grounds.

Rei and your father are immediately whisked away by several photographers to do their photos alone, leaving the rest of you to litter the parking lot.

But the moment they disappear from view, Touya’s got you trapped between his body and the cold metal of his car, lips moving against the shell of your ear as he whispers filthy promises, things that force soft whimpers from your lips, things that make your legs feel like they’re about to give out as heat pools deep in your belly. He knows, of course, smirks and teases you even more when he feels you squeeze your thighs together helplessly, tells you you’re his perfect little slut and vows to reward you for being so good as soon as he can.

His other siblings are staring, you try to tell him in a quiet, broken whine.

“Oh yeah?” he breathes, pushing his hips harder into yours, practically grinding his hard cock against your waist. “Let ‘em. I bet they’d love to watch me fuck you stupid, huh? What do you think about that, baby? You want them to watch?”

A pathetic sound hitches in your throat and you bury your burning face in his neck, a low, wicked laugh rumbling deep in his chest.

He doesn’t let up on the absolute filth spilling from his mouth until he can hear your father hollering in the distance, calling for the kids and waving the five of you over.

✰ ✰ ✰

Pictures take too long, and Touya’s antsy by the end of it, picking anxiously at his cuticles as his knee bounces. He’s hauling you out of there the moment you’re officially released, a strong hand wrapped tightly around your wrist. You can hear his mother calling for him, and you look back at her desperately, mirroring her worried frown.

He doesn’t even wait for the rest of them to pile into the limo and leave, immediately rooting through his pockets the moment he’s in the safety of his own car, pulling out a little baggie of white powder. He can feel your wide eyes on him, watching his every movement, but his hands are beginning to shake, and panic is starting to rip viciously at his throat, and he just needs it all to fucking stop.

“There’s no way I could endure this shit sober,” he explains as he searches for something in the powder, cursing when he doesn’t find whatever it is he’s looking for. Frantic cobalt eyes dart around the car, landing on the glovebox, and he leans over you, hastily pulling a reflective object from the compartment.

It’s a mirror.

A tiny, circular mirror that he uses to tap out a line, fingers unsteady and breathing slightly laboured. The gentle sounds of his platinum credit card colliding with glass echo throughout the car.

Hovering over the small mirror, he pauses, a finger pressed to his nostril. He almost wants to tell you to look away, almost does, but he knows you’d disobey either way.

He doesn’t like doing drugs in front of you—you’re too precious, too pure and innocent and he doesn’t want you around anything that could potentially tarnish that. But he also can’t stand that look you get in your eyes, almost like you’re scared of him, on the rare occasions that you have caught him.

He nearly snaps at you when you quietly ask if you can help, if he needs someone to hold the mirror steady, currently balancing on the center console compartment, but you’ve got that goddamn look in your eyes, wide and terrified.

No, he says sternly, telling you that he doesn’t even want you near this stuff, much less touching it.

But cocaine highs don’t last long, he explains to you when you ask about the little round white pills clacking together in his pocket. You’re positive he shouldn’t be mixing drugs like that, positive that your apprehension and disapproval are written clearly across your face, based on the simmering look he shoots at you.

Don’t fucking start.

So you don’t. You swallow down your worries and sit nice and pretty and good for him, just like you’re supposed to.

✰ ✰ ✰

He only leaves you twice, briefly, throughout the entire night. The first is almost immediately after you enter the reception venue.

Depositing you near the head table, he tells you to stay put before he hurries away. You know where he’s going, what he’s about to do, an odd ache taking root and throbbing deep in your chest.

He’d scold you if he could see you, able to read your expressions like a fucking book, would tell you not to cry for him—he doesn’t need your pity. The words cut through your mind in a snarl, and you work hard to rid your face of the frown marring it; he’s already having such a difficult time today, and the last thing you want to do is upset him more with your concern.

Distraction, you need a distraction. Wide eyes scan the extravagant ballroom, all shimmering golds and beiges and crystal chandeliers, searching in a frenzy for something—anything—to rid your mind of images of pretty boys with inky hair and white, white, white.

You swear you hear your name, then Touya’s, hissed out in a sharp whisper, and your gaze lands on a small group of people not too far from you, with snow and fire for hair—the other Todoroki’s, huddled in a loose circle.

The air around you just feels off, you catch his sister saying in a low but frantic voice, eyes darting between her brothers. She sounds worried about you, you think, and it makes you feel weird. She shouldn’t be worried about you; Touya takes fantastic care of you. It isn’t any of their business anyway, you can almost hear Touya sneering in your head, and he’s right. You know he’s right.

Her brothers don’t look too keen on discussing the subject, especially the youngest, who keeps pulling at his collar and fidgeting with his cufflinks.

“Well, why don’t you go and tell her that yourself,” the one with white hair says, grey eyes connecting with yours. She whirls around quickly, mouth snapping shut when she finds your face. Her lips morph into a smile half a second later, and she waves you over.

You avert your eyes, hands tangling nervously in front of you. No. You shouldn’t go. You really, really shouldn’t go. Touya told you to stay put, and you can’t bear to think—don’t even want to consider—how furious he’d be if he found that not only had you moved, but you had moved to talk to his siblings.

You must spend too much time deliberating, though, looking back up to find them advancing towards you, only a few feet away. Your heart’s pounding almost violently in your chest, breath accelerating with each step closer.

“Hi,” she’s saying warmly as she reaches you, causing you to subconsciously take a step back. “We haven’t had a chance to meet. I’m Fuyumi,”

You want to say your name, to introduce yourself politely, but your lips are sealed shut, only able to manage a small sound of affirmation.

“Shouto,” the youngest says, cold heterochromatic eyes glancing at you for a moment before looking away. “M’Shouto,”

“I’m Natsuo,” the man with white hair smirks down at you, eyes burning into yours.

Some of your anxiety melts away as you meet his stone eyes; there’s something comforting about the way that he has Touya’s smirk, Touya’s mischievous glint to his gaze, Touya’s playful lilt to his voice.

You feel like you can breathe again when you’re looking at Natsuo, so you keep your stare directed at him as you stutter out your name, gazing up at him through your lashes.

“You always miss the family dinners,” Natsuo accuses with a knowing smirk, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Y’know, eventually, our parents are going to catch on,”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins, chills crawling on your skin. He knows?

And he says it so nonchalantly, so casually, as if he’s discussing the weather and not the fact that Touya deliberately kidnaps you to fuck your brains out in his car every single time they gather for one of those dinners. Fuyumi and Shouto look over at him with brows furrowed in confusion, but you choke on a gasp, coughing a little and nodding.

Touya returns then, saving you from having to respond.

“What’s wrong?” he’s asking immediately as his hands find purchase on your hips, pulling you back against his chest and wrapping his arms around you. A soft sigh leaves your lips as you lean on him, heart finally beginning to slow.

“N-Nothing, niichan,” you wrap your arms around his, hugging them to your chest, and he squeezes you in reassurance.

“You sure, baby?” Sapphire eyes search your face as you tilt your head back to look up at him, scanning for any sign of distress.

He shouldn’t be using that pet name here, not in front of his blood siblings, not loud enough that any of the passing guests can hear him with ease.

He shouldn’t.

But that doesn’t stop it from sending sparks skittering up your spine, heat beginning to coil in your tummy. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it, if you said you didn’t get some sort of twisted satisfaction at the loud gasp that leaves Fuyumi’s chest, or the sharp intake of breath Shouto chokes on, coughing as he tries to cover it up, all at the drop of that one, simple, four letter word.

Touya loves it, too—you can see it in the way his smirk grows into a full smile, a grin big enough to crinkle the edges of his eyes, can see it in his gaze, in the way his cobalt eyes almost sparkle at their reactions.

Your gaze flits back to the three people standing in front of you—your step-siblings, your mind corrects—eyes gliding over their faces slowly.

Natsuo looks thoroughly entertained, a stupid little grin stretched across his face, amusement dancing in his eyes. Fuyumi and Shouto, on the other hand, look thoroughly uncomfortable, shifting a little in place, their faces screwed up with poorly masked disgust.

Touya’s smile drops the moment he looks back at them. Azure eyes scan the faces of his siblings cautiously, giving Natsuo one quick, sharp nod of acknowledgment before his gaze lands on the youngest. And the glare Touya gives him is nothing short of terrifying, practically snarling at the boy, a rough, dangerous sound that gets lodged deep in his chest. It makes the boy cower away, shuffling ever-so-slightly closer to his sister, who shakily glares back.

Lips tugging down into a frown, you look up at Touya, forehead creasing in confusion. He’s still glowering at the kid, eyes narrowing just a little before he huffs and turns away, leaving without speaking a word to any of them.

“Don’t you ever talk to them again,” he’s murmuring as he whisks you away, something malicious in his voice. “You’re my little sister,”

You nod obediently, promising him that you won’t, reassuring him that you didn’t even want to as you relay the entire situation. But he can see it, the curiosity swirling in your eyes, a question dancing on your tongue.

Because although Touya appears to be on seriously awful terms with his younger siblings, Natsuo seems to be some sort of exception. From the interaction you just witnessed, you’re able to deduce that something, some line of communication, must be present between Touya and Natsuo, evident in their shared looks and swift, discreet nods.

He sighs, irritation coating his voice as he demands that you spit it out already.

It makes you jump a little, but the words come tumbling out of your mouth the moment he commands them to, powerless to disobey a direct order.

“Does that include Natsuo?”

Your voice is so tiny that he barely hears you, brows knitting together. There’s an odd look in his eye as he observes you—something that isn’t quite jealousy, but close to it—nose twitching a little as he considers.

“Alone, yes,” he finally says. “With me around it’s fine, I guess. But you are not to speak to him alone, do you hear me?”

Yes, niichan, of course, niichan.

✰ ✰ ✰

Dinner is absolute torture, and the two of you can barely keep your hands off of each other. It starts innocently enough, discreetly enough, with palms on thighs, fingers brushing down arms, hands interlaced under the table. But the need to touch grows, and grows, and grows, these simple actions too teasing to satisfy that dull burning in the pit of your stomach, flaring a little more each time his fingers press into your thigh, or his thumb runs across your knuckles.

And you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t start acting up now, not while the two of you are seated at the head table, looking out amongst the guests—a few months ago, you would’ve never thought to do something so indecent, so dangerous, in such a public place. But you just can’t help it, you’re getting restless now, brain going hazy with thoughts of him as your fingers trail up his thigh and ghost over his lap.

“Getting bold, are we, princess?” his hand catches your wrist, holding your palm in place and grinding up into it. His voice is low, head tipped towards you, sapphire eyes dark. A breath catches in your throat and he smirks, an evil little quirk up of his lips, raising an eyebrow at you in expectation.

You’re lucky they’re seated in a straight line instead of a circle, he murmurs in your ear, Natsuo snickering beside him. “Imagine what your daddy would think if he could see you, acting like such a desperate little slut in front of all of these people,”

A soft, broken moan escapes your lips without your permission, thighs squeezing together in an attempt to combat the heat pooling in your panties. Someone down the line of the table says something, but you’re too enticed by Touya to hear them, your father writing off whatever the remark was with an easygoing smile.

“Oh, those two are always in their own little world,” you hear him dismiss, voice sounding muddled and distant.

“Be a good girl and sit still,” Touya growls in your ear, grip tightening to near bruising.

“But niichan,” you whine, much too loud, gazing at him with glazed, blown eyes. “Niichan,” you repeat, leaning forward to whimper in his ear, fingers flexing around the bulge in his trousers. “N-Need you,”

“If you can’t behave, niichan won’t let you cum later,” he breathes, though his voice is stern, heavy with the weight of the threat.

A pout forms on your lips as he releases your wrist, firmly placing your hand back in your lap and holding it there for a moment, a silent warning for your wandering fingers to stay put.

But he’s up and out of his chair the instant dinner’s over, moving so quick his seat wobbles a little as he grasps your hand tightly in his, practically yanking you up and dragging you along behind him.

The best thing about these fancy venues, he’s telling you as he strides through the halls, cerulean eyes searching for something, is that they have single person washrooms.

The granite is cold on your cheek as Touya shoves you up against the wall, head bouncing a little as it whacks against it.

You whine and he laughs, a cruel, piercing sound echoing off the walls.

“Aw, baby,” he coos contemptuously. “Did that hurt?”

“Y-Yes,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut against the throbbing pain radiating through your cheek.

“Poor little thing,” he hisses, lips against your ear as his hands begin to bunch up your dress, gliding over your silk covered thighs, hands fisting in the material as he goes. Pushing it up around your waist, he leans back, hands travelling over the globes of your ass and kneading hard enough to make you cry out.

“You’re a slutty little brat, y’know that?”

Deft fingers hook in the waistband of your thong, all delicate baby pink lace, Touya snickering about how much of a whore you are, wearing such skimpy, slutty panties, as he lets the elastic snap back against your skin.

A little shocked gasp escapes your lips as he begins tugging the dainty fabric down your thighs—you had expected him to merely push them to the side, but he forces you to take them off entirely, stuffing the soaked material in his pocket.

“You think you can just tease niichan like that and get away with it?”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head against the wall.

“No,” he murmurs, hips grinding against your bare ass. “Good girls don’t tease their niichans without delivering, do they?”

“No,”

“On your knees,” he orders, spinning you around and stepping back just enough to allow you to sink to the floor. “Get my cock wet,”

Little fingers work quickly, eager to obey, as they undo his pants, practically salivating as you free his cock from its confines.

“Your cock’s so pretty, niichan,” you breathe, eyes glittering with pure, potent desire as you take it in your hands, tongue darting out to trace the prominent veins.

“No teasing,” he growls, a hand knotting in your hair. “I wanna see you choke on it,”

You nod as best you can, mouth instantly falling open, reduced to nothing more than a wet, warm little hole for him to stuff.

And then he’s shoving it down your throat, the hand fisted in your hair holding your head still, and you gag around it almost immediately, working to force you jaw open even more.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” he rasps out, voice echoing off the walls of the washroom.

The praise has your heart soaring, has you sucking hard around him as he thrusts into your mouth, coating his cock in thick saliva and desperate to hear more. It’s intoxicating, every quiet moan you manage to pull from him, every breathless good girl that falls from his lips, makes you feel lightheaded and heady and dizzy for more.

His hips pump a few more times before he’s pulling you off his cock completely, devious smirk forming on his lips at your whine of protest, and commanding you to go bend over the sink.

Calloused hands are bunching your dress up around your waist again, toe of his shoe kicking at your inner ankles and forcing your feet further apart.

He doesn’t bother stretching you out, not because he doesn’t have the time to, but because he simply doesn’t want to. It’s truly one of his favourite things, to see tears fill your eyes while his cock stretches your cute little pussy, and he knows you love it too, don’t you?

Yes, niichan, of course you do.

His cock glistens with your saliva, sufficiently wet that it slides in easily enough, with minimal pain for him. And the soft groan he lets out as he watches your little hole struggle to take him, paired with your sweet little whimpers of his name, is nothing short of gorgeous.

It has your pussy fluttering around him, pulling a breathless chuckle from his lips as he fills you to the hilt, hips pressed against your ass.

And then doesn’t fucking move.

Your brow furrows, eyes meeting his in the mirror. You try to fuck yourself back on him, but he’s too quick, hands stilling your hips immediately and tutting in disapproval.

“Niichan,” you whimper. “N-Niichan, please fuck me,”

“Do you think you deserve it?” he’s asking, tongue tracing the shell of your ear as he holds your gaze through the mirror. “After the way you behaved at dinner?”

“M’sorry,” you whine, wiggling back against him, his fingers digging into your flesh as he stops them, grip tightening. “Couldn’t help it, wanted you so bad,”

“Of course you couldn’t,” he smirks, hips starting to move slowly, teasingly, stilling after only three simple thrusts. A hand reaches down and finds your clit, forcing a gasp from you as his thumb brushes over it, back and forth, back and forth, featherlight grazes that have you arching back into him, trying to press further into his touch.

“Think you can cum just like this for me?” he asks, beginning to thrust shallowly again, just enough to have the head of his cock dragging against that spot buried deep inside your cunt, that spot he knows so well, then nudging your cervix. “Hmm?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, breath starting to come out in short little pants.

“Then do it,” he demands in a whisper, eyes still holding yours. “Show niichan how pretty you look, cumming all over his cock,”

And the combination of his deep, rough voice rumbling against your back as praises tumble from his lips, his thumb and cock, and the fact that anyone within a fifteen foot radius of this washroom could probably hear you, has you cumming within minutes with a sharp cry of Touya-nii!

Touya laughs at how pathetically quickly you came, about how easy it is to have you creaming on his cock, heat seeping into your cheeks as you try to look away.

“My turn,” he breathes, yanking your head back up by your hair, fingers finding root in the intricate updo that has begun to fall apart. “And I wanna see your face as I fuck you, so keep your damn head up,”

And then he’s slamming into you with enough vigour to propel you forward, face pressed against the mirror, toes barely touching the ground. Every moan and whimper and mewl he forces from your throat fogs up the glass, leaving tiny glistening drops of condensation as they fade.

You’re trying so hard to keep your eyes open, to watch him as he fucks you, because he always looks so damn pretty.

He’s stupidly attractive, with his shirtsleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, first few buttons undone and collar popped, revealing his sharp collarbone, smooth ivory skin stretched taut across it. Ebony hair clings to his forehead and neck delicately, coated in sweat, and he’s emitting the most glorious noises, heavy pants and little broken whines, peppered with praise.

Nails bite into your flesh as he holds you in place, hips snapping relentlessly, your fingers curling around the porcelain sink.

“You want niichan’s cum?” he growls in your ear, eyes burning into yours. You whimper in response, nodding against the mirror. “Yeah? Then fucking beg for it.”

Pleads are spilling from your lips immediately, nothing but senseless babbling as he pounds into you.

“Please, niichan, please, need it, your cum, stuff me with your cum,”

“That’s it,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “I want every single person in this godforsaken hall to hear you, I want every single person to know how much of—” he cuts himself off with a shuddery curse. “—How much of a slut my baby sister is,”

“Pretty please,” you whine out the words, eyes rolling back in your head. “Fill me up with your cum, niichan, I-I want it,”

His hips still just as your cunt clenches around him, cockhead pressed tightly against your cervix as he fills you with hot, thick ropes of cum.

He pulls out a few moments later, and you uncurl your fingers from around the rim of the sink, wincing at your appearance; lips bitten raw, hair beginning to fall from it’s elegant style, body covered in a thin layer of sweat.

You look back at him to find him already staring at you, expectantly, impatiently, hands jittery as he quirks his head towards the door.

“We can’t leave together,” he says, as if it’s obvious, even though you stumbled into the washroom together twenty minutes ago.

He needs more.

You nod, slow and dumb, staggering a little on your trembling legs. Grasping the doorknob you pause, turning to look at him again.

“What?” he asks as he searches through his pockets, not bothering to glance at you. He can feel your eyes on him.

“Um...” you shift nervously from foot to foot, lip caught between your teeth.

He looks over at you sharply, brows rising as if to ask why are you still here?

“M-My panties, niichan,”

Oh.

A wicked smirk spreads across his face, eyes twinkling, brows relaxing.

“What about them?”

“Well, I—I can’t return to the reception without them,”

“Oh, and why not?”

You pause, blinking a few times, at a loss for words. Why not? Because you can feel his cum beginning to trickle out of you, mixing with your juices and dribbling down your inner thigh?

“Exactly,” he says, when you take too long to reply. “Now be a good little girl and go. I’ll be out soon,”

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t go back into the ballroom, terrified that you’ll be ambushed by his—your—siblings again. Collapsing in one of the plush chairs, you cross your quivering legs tightly in a desperate attempt to keep the cum oozing out of you from getting on your dress.

People are looking again, probably think you’re drunk based on the way you teetered over to the seat, or the way your hair’s begun to come undone from it’s intricate updo, wispy strands framing your face.

He returns from the washroom only a few minutes later, eyes finding you immediately. There’s a stupid, smug smirk on his face, thinks it’s so cute that he fucked you so good you can’t walk, can’t even get up, that you need your niichan to help you.

A pout forms on your lips, eyebrows furrowing. “Not funny,”

“Very funny,” he chuckles as his hands snake under your armpits, hauling you to your feet. You stumble a little, bumping into him and he laughs again, wrapping a sturdy arm around your waist and propping you up against him.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,”

“Oh, niichan,” you murmur and he pauses, glancing over at you. You reach up, your thumb swiping across his nose to collect excess white powder.

“Thanks,” he breathes, winking at you. You hum noncommittally, about to rub your thumb across his white dress shirt to clean it when he catches your hand, bringing your thumb to his lips and licking it instead.

It isn’t discreet. It’s slow and deliberate, tongue sticking out of his mouth, flattening it against your thumb and dragging it up, from base to tip. You’re sure someone saw that, but you can’t be bothered to care, not when another bout of intense heat rushes to your core, forcing you to squeeze your legs together, trying in vain to keep Touya’s cum from seeping out, from your juices traveling down your leg. A soft whimper leaves your lips, breathing beginning to accelerate as your eyes bore into his, now half-lidded and dark. He holds your gaze for a moment before something snaps.

“We need to go,” he says, voice firm with no room for negotiation. “Now.”

And, God, his voice is rough and raw and fucking dripping with desire. It’s got you nodding before he’s even finished speaking, a flock of butterflies invading your stomach at the downright sinful grin he gives you in response. Such a good girl for him.

Despite the fact that you’ve barely recovered from your previous orgasm, you nearly moan at his look alone, the urge to kiss him burning through your veins and alighting your entire body in direct juxtaposition to the shivers his eyes just sent rippling across your skin. The insatiable need overwhelms your senses, and it’s dangerous. It’s dangerous, how captivated he has you, entirely wrapped around his slim finger and hanging on his every word, how you’re positive that, in that moment, you’d do anything he asked.

You wobble awkwardly in your heels, legs still shaking and having trouble keeping up with Touya’s swift pace. You’re about to ask him to slow down just a little so you don’t break an ankle, when you bump into your father.

Who just so happens to provide you with the perfect excuse to leave early. You can practically see the gears clicking into place in Touya’s mind, sapphire eyes glittering as a sinister smirk spreads across his face.

Your father’s eyes widen as he observes your appearance, strands of hair sticking to your clammy face and eyes half-lidded, chapped lips beginning to crack, leaning heavily against Touya and seemingly too weak to stand on your own.

“Hi dad,” you greet hoarsely, wincing a little at how grating your voice sounds.

He frowns immediately. “Jesus, sweetheart, are you feeling alright? You look…” he trails off, forehead wrinkling with worry.

“Oh, she’s not feeling too good,” Touya says softly, smoothly, just the right amount of concern and compassion in his tone.

“Oh no,” your father breathes, frown deepening. “That’s terrible,” he clicks his tongue with a shake of his head. “Do you think you’ll be able to tough out the rest of the reception?”

You begin to croak out an answer, but Touya speaks over you.

“She’s burning up, sir,” he informs him, and it isn’t a lie—not exactly, anyway. Technically, if your father were to feel your forehead, your body temperature would be above average, a result of Touya fucking the absolute life out of you a mere ten minutes ago.

Touya looks down at you with painfully sympathetic eyes, but you can still see that little glint of mischief, buried under all of that artificial benevolence.

“Maybe I should take her home?” Touya muses, looking back at your father, mimicking his anxiety effortlessly.

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “I think that’s the best thing to do,” his eyes dart to yours. “You really don’t look well,”

Oh, you’re sure you don’t. Resting a little more against Touya, you play up the symptoms a bit, whimpering quietly as little fingers twist in his shirt, nuzzling your face against his side. A soft noise of endearment sounds at the back of his throat, large hands readjusting your body to support you better.

Another whimper falls from your lips, but this time it isn’t from pretending you’re ill. You can feel his cum leaking out of you, slimy and cool as it drips down your inner thigh, and a sick thrill shoots through your body, abused cunt throbbing greedily.

Rei comes up behind your father then, wrapping her arms around his midsection and resting her chin on his shoulder, eyes flitting between the two of you carefully.

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“I’m gonna bring this little princess home,” Touya explains, nodding his head at you in indication as he speaks. “She isn’t feeling very well, poor thing,”

And it’s scary, scary how terrific he is at lying, how easily he slips into that niichan role, the one painstakingly crafted and flawlessly maintained around your parents, the one he’s perfected at this point.

Rei doesn’t say much, only cooing in sympathy, remarking that it’s such a shame, but your father’s eyes soften. “Such a good big brother,” he praises, clapping a hand on Touya’s shoulder.

Touya has to consciously work to smother the smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he responds.

“You have no idea,”

✰ ✰ ✰

Your parents don’t come home that night, opting to go straight to the airport from the venue, embarking on their honeymoon immediately.

It’s nice, playing house with Touya, having the entire place completely to yourselves. He’s been home an awful lot these past few weeks, more than he ever has in the past, and you get to experience things you never could before.

Every morning and every night, you cook breakfast and dinner together. You go grocery shopping together, wash the dishes together, fold the laundry together, all while stealing kisses in between; little domestic things you didn’t really do with your parents around.

You spend every night that they’re away in his bed, being fucked into his mattress, surrounded by the smell of him—campfire and Marlboros and expensive cologne—absolutely full of him in every sense.

You wake up in the mornings with his hand between your legs, playing with your cute little clit, or his cock pressed against your ass, grinding until you wake up. You have sleepy, slow morning sex while you’re both still half asleep, and it’s the most gentle he’s ever been. It consists of lazy, sloppy, messy thrusts against each other, hips meeting halfway—just grinding until he gets too impatient, though he usually lets you cum two or three times before he finally flips you over, trapping you under his body and slamming his hips into you, growling and grunting, your legs pushed up and folded on either side of you.

You get to fuck in the kitchen—not that you hadn’t before, but this time you get to take it slow. He eats you out while you sit on the counter and then fucks you into oblivion and it’s nasty, it’s disgusting, it’s so good. He cums so much that it’s leaking out of you, onto the counter, his chest heaving as he observes it with an odd little smile and a soft “fuck,”

And you get to fuck in the bathtub, that big jacuzzi in your parents room, water and bubbles sloshing around as you bounce on his cock, loud cries echoing off the walls.

It’s going great, until the last weekend of the honeymoon, a mere few days before your parents are supposed to return.

✰ ✰ ✰

A party.

Keigo tries to talk him out of it, tries to at least talk him out of letting you stay.

“She shouldn’t be here,” you hear Keigo hiss under his breath as guests begin to fill the house, Touya snorting in retort.

Keigo doesn’t think you should be around any of this at all—there’s no reason you should have to witness this shit, you catch him growling, gold eyes blazing. No, not a poor innocent babygirl like you, this isn’t the place for you.

But Touya’s too stubborn, too selfish to let Keigo take you out for the night. He knows he’s right, would rather not have you around these people, but he doesn’t have a fucking choice. The thought of you being out of his sight, out with another man, has anxiety rising in his throat, panic clawing at his chest.

As a result, you spend the entirety of the party being passed between Touya and Keigo. There are so many girls here, so many people you don’t know, wide eyes scanning the living room as your fingers twist in Keigo’s hoodie.

Niichan’s busy, Touya tells you, when you ask why you can’t just stay with him, when you ask where he keeps disappearing off to. Niichan’s working, don’t you know? Be a good girl and stay with Kei.

You can tell that Keigo isn’t happy about it. He coos softly when you timidly ask if he’s upset that he’s stuck babysitting you all night, in the middle of an apology when he cuts you off.

“It isn’t your fault, songbird,” he murmurs, gentle fingers tracing the curve of your face.

He’s even angrier at Touya when he takes that first girl back to his room, because the look on your face—the way it crumples accompanied by a soft, hurt sound caught at the back of your throat—kills him.

And it isn’t like you don’t know about his side whores. You do. They’re customers, he had snapped at you, the only time you had ever asked about it. But it’s an entirely different thing to actually have to witness it with your own eyes.

You can’t help the flare of jealousy that rises in your chest every time he takes a girl by the hand and leads them to his bedroom. It stings, burns, feels like a fire’s been lit in your chest, filling your lungs with dense smoke and making it hard for you to breathe.

Keigo tries his best to distract you, gentle fingers on your cheeks turning your face towards him, golden eyes softening in sympathy. He keeps you as preoccupied as he can, but it still isn’t enough. Your eyes are drawn to Touya every time he’s in the room—an automatic, instinctual reaction you couldn’t control even if you wanted to.

And every time you watch a girl giggle into his ear, or hop up with him, that fire smoldering in your chest blazes, rages, has you wheezing and hissing and pressing a palm flat against yourself, a desperate attempt to get the pain to stop.

Tomura’s here, too, though he’s sitting in a shrouded corner on his phone, the light from the screen reflected on his pale face, colours flashing intermittently. He looks absorbed with whatever he’s doing on there—probably playing a game, Keigo tells you, but why are you interested, anyway?

You don’t know, you aren’t sure, you can’t exactly put it into words. He terrifies you, but he sparks a morbid curiosity in you, too. He’s so silent, private, almost inobtrusive; and yet Touya never lets you anywhere near him. Your eyes keep flitting his way, as if trying to will something to happen, staring at him longingly and hoping he’ll look up from his phone for a split second and catch your gaze, that he’ll somehow magically get the hint that you’re desperate and dying to talk to him, and take the first step.

But it doesn’t happen.

Touya is thoroughly unimpressed each and every time he finds you sitting on Keigo’s knee or lap, leaning back against his chest as he speaks with that easygoing lilt that is so distinctly him, but there isn’t much he can do. The third time he returns to take you from his friend he can tell you’re beginning to get tired, can see it in your eyes, in the way you’re cuddling into a warm chest. He debates sending you to bed right then and there, but you protest, little hands tangling in Keigo’s hoodie.

“Aw, she’s alright for a little more, isn’t she?”

Touya’s sharp jaw clenches twice and he exhales slowly through his nose, eyes darting between your faces.

“Fine,” he says, although it doesn’t seem fine.

And you are exhausted, straddling Keigo’s hips, face pressed into his shoulder and hot breath evening out softly against his neck. Fingers ghost up and down your spine nonchalantly as Keigo talks softly to the people around him, his laugh vibrating against your chest and filling you with an odd, tingly sensation, a warmth that seeps through your body. You snuggle a little closer to him and he coos, readjusting you in his lap and wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you tightly to him.

“Don’t wanna go to bed with him,” you whisper, words muffled by his skin.

Keigo hums in question, squeezing you once. “Who, songbird?” he presses his lips to your ear as inconspicuously as he can, lidded gold eyes lazily scanning the room for your brother. “Touya?”

You nod sluggishly, little fingers curling in his hoodie, a silent plea not to let you go.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Keigo says softly with a small chuckle, but it sounds off to your ears—sad, even.

“Don’t wanna,” you repeat, pout evident in your voice. “Wanna stay with you,”

You wouldn’t have noticed the way his chest hitches at those four words if you weren’t pressed flush against it. But you feel it, feel his breath getting caught in his throat, reverberating against you as he clears it quietly. Unexpected guilt sours your mouth, makes your stomach turn to a block of heavy lead, weighting your body down.

“You know you can’t, sweetheart,” he finally responds, voice cracking just a bit, right on that last word. “Don’t hurt your niichan like that, he loves you,”

No he doesn’t, you want to say, but you can’t seem to force the words from your mouth, opting to shake your head instead, eyes shutting tightly against the burn of tears.

“He does,” Keigo says, more sternly this time. “Don’t doubt that,”

But you’re not so sure. If Touya loved you—really loved you—would he have disappeared no less than three times tonight, each with a different girl, leading them into his bedroom with those dark glittering sapphire eyes while they gaze up at him like he hung the fucking moon himself?

Honestly, is that even a question you want answered?

You keep your face buried in Keigo’s chest to block it out, to keep yourself from watching your big brother as he flits around the room, handing out discreet baggies in exchange for ridiculous wads of cash and talking in hushed voices, in code, to men who look much too old to be at a house party.

Eventually, Touya returns to retrieve you, bending down and speaking softly.

“It’s time for bed, princess,” A hand pets your head, and you flinch away.

“Hey,” you feel the couch dip beside you as he sits down. “Look at me,”

You’re shaking your head, trying in vain to press even closer to Keigo, but that doesn’t stop Touya from reaching out and gripping your chin, forcing you to face him.

Crystal eyes search your face carefully, wide and alert—he always works sober, you found out. He can tell you’re upset, can see it written plain as day across your face, eyes glassy with your lips set in a deep pout, eyebrows pushed together. Exhaling harshly, he closes his eyes, fingers rubbing at his eyes in exasperation.

“C’mon,” he says lowly, wrapping a hand around your bicep and tugging as he stands.

“No,” you nearly growl, shaking your head and viciously pulling your arm from his grip.

Touya stares at you for a moment, like he cannot believe you just had the audacity to tell him no, before he speaks, an incredulous laugh bubbling up from his chest. “What did you just say?”

Keigo’s sitting up straighter now, more alert as your body subconsciously curls into his chest, cowering away from your big brother. “Y-You heard me,”

Snorting in disbelief, Touya raises his eyebrows as his tongue runs along the front of his teeth, huffing out the remnants of a chuckle before his smile drops completely, blue fire blazing in his dark eyes.

“Get up,” he snarls, hand in a vice grip around your arm as he yanks harshly. The force of it has you practically falling off Keigo’s lap, though Touya catches you roughly before your knees hit the hardwood, hoisting you up by your arm to stand on unsteady feet.

“Move.” He instructs, giving you a shove in the vague direction of his bedroom. “Now.”

His chest bumps into your back and you stumble forward, yelping softly. He keeps pushing like this, strong hand clasping your shoulder so tightly you’re sure you’ll have five little bruises in the shape of his fingerprints in the morning, driving you to walk with the sheer force of his body.

“No,” your whispering, trying desperately to turn back and look at him as you approach his door, tears flooding your eyes, frantically shaking your head and trying your damnedest to plant your feet, heels digging into the floor in an attempt to stop him from pushing you forward.

“You really gonna say no to me a second time tonight? In less than fifteen minutes? You think that’s wise, baby?”

You don’t—of course you don’t. It’s probably one of the stupidest things you could do, in this situation.

But even though you know, know this isn’t a smart move, know you shouldn’t be testing him like this—challenging him like this, especially in front of so many people—you’re powerless to control the words that tumble from your lips next.

“I don’t want to sleep in a bed that’s been infested by your whores,”

They come out as a hiss—you don’t mean for them to, but they do, voice quivering under the combined weight of your fury and fear.

That gets him to stop, entire body going rigid. Icy dread rushes through your veins, panic clawing its way up your throat, forcing uneven breaths through your parted lips. Squeezing your eyes shut tightly, you brace yourself for the impact of his bellowing voice, shoulders tensing in anticipation for the blow, for him to really snap.

Except then he starts laughing, his hand relaxing around your shoulder, spinning you around to face him as he backs you up against his bedroom door, caging you in with his body.

“That’s what this is about?”

Eyebrows furrowing, you blink twice in disbelief, prompting hot tears to finally spill over. “I—Wh-Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re being silly, princess,”

It hurts, stings like three massive spikes just shot through your heart, causes a tiny whimper to sound from deep in your throat, chest hiccupping with pathetic little half-sobs.

“Sil…Silly?” Time feels as if it’s slowed, your sluggish brain having trouble comprehending the situation unfolding.

His lips pull down into a frown, eyes narrowing slightly as he regards you with extreme precision. “Yeah,” he says, but his voice sounds far away, muffled, like you’re underwater and he’s speaking to you from above the surface. “Hey—”

Your head’s shaking again, in slow, delayed motions from side to side. “No,” you whisper. “No.”

You feel nauseous, and the proximity of his presence is only making it worse, making you feel like you could hurl at any moment. Little hands find purchase on his chest and push, stomach lurching painfully as your head spins.

He catches your wrists easily, holding them together in one large hand, his other coming to grip your chin and force you to look at him.

Thick silence settles between the two of you as Touya’s eyes study your face slowly, noting the tears flowing steadily down your face, the way your breath stutters with sobs you’re so desperately trying to hold back, the way your entire body trembles.

“Are you seriously upset over this?” he asks, laughing a little.

Your gaze holds his, tears casting a thick, gleaming screen across your eyes.

“Yes, Touya,” you whisper, wishing your voice didn’t sound as small and weak as it does. “I’m seriously upset,”

That’s the first time you’ve used his first name—just his first name, void of any honorific—in a long, long time.

It gets him to pause again, his usual and well-worn mask of passivity melting away for just a second as shock crosses his face. Then his features are hardening again, brows knitting together and creasing his forehead, eyes narrowing into near slits.

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he spits harshly, the words cutting into your flesh. “You know none of them mean a thing,”

“Then why do you fuck around with them?” you shoot back almost immediately, voice fading into a whisper.

He glares at you, as if you’re wasting his precious time with such childish questions when he’s told you this already, and you can see the blue fire simmering in his eyes.

“It’s late,” he says curtly, voice sounding off to you. “You need sleep.”

You try to fight him on it, but he’s too quick, reflexes too swift, and he shoves you into his room, door slamming shut less than a second later.

Tears obstruct your vision as you stumble around, finally finding his desk chair and collapsing heavily. You don’t even bother trying to open the door, know it’s locked without having to hear that soft click! as the lock turns into place.

He’s right—it is late, well past three in the morning, and you are utterly exhausted, drawing your knees up to your chest and curling up in the plush chair.

But no matter how tired you are, you absolutely refuse to sleep in his bed. The party’s dying down, you can hear Touya’s muffled farewells as guests begin to leave while you fade in and out of consciousness.

You think you might’ve heard Keigo say something, might’ve caught the word stay, might’ve detected the annoyance laced in Touya’s voice as he responds, but you’re too worn out to reflect on it.

At some point in the night, Touya reenters his room, chuckling a little at your antics and carrying you to his bed.

The move wakes you, and you weakly protest—no, you don’t want to be in this bed, please, just let you go sleep in your own bed—but Touya ignores you entirely, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you tightly to his chest.

It’s then that the tears start up again, salt staining your puffy cheeks, head beginning to throb from dehydration.

“Shh, baby, shh,” he hushes you, nimble fingers combing through your hair. “I’m here, right here,”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Touya over these past few weeks, it’s that he becomes marginally softer in the middle of the night. Your fingers twist in his t-shirt, trying in vain to pull yourself impossibly closer, Touya making a soft noise akin to a coo in the back of his throat.

“I’ve got you, niichan’s got you,”

You hate it. You hate that he’s the only person you want comforting you right now, as you lay in his bed, surrounded by the smell of cheap perfume and clinging in desperation to him, needing him close, needing his body heat warming you and his hands on you. You hate the way your sobs come harder the more he soothes you, the heavy ache in your chest almost bruising, crushing your lungs and making it near impossible to breathe.

But you crave his comfort nonetheless. It’s a special kind of comfort, one that’s difficult to describe, one that only comes from the love and adoration and protection of a big brother.

Why can’t you just be mine? You want to ask, the words searing into your tongue, refusing to leave your lips.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick, angel,” he chastises softly, brushing your hair away from your clammy forehead as another shuddery sob rips through your chest.

“I want you,” you say instead, words garbled.

“You have me, baby,”

“All of you,”

His chest heaves with an exasperated sigh, head turning away and gazing up at the ceiling. “You have all of me, princess,”

There’s something in his voice that makes you stop, pause, his words reverberating in your mind. He sounds almost like…like he’s upset over this fact, like he wishes that you didn’t have all of him.

You want to press for more, to probe and prod and pick away at it, but exhaustion finally claims you, rendering you incapable of speech, your tongue moving sluggishly in your mouth as you desperately try to form words.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s grey when you wake, only a few hours later, eyes sticky and dry from lack of sleep. Your head is pounding, feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, lips cracked and dry from dehydration, and a painful lump forms almost immediately in your throat when you get a whiff of sickly sweet artificial vanilla, then another of intense, synthetic citrus.

The tears are starting up again, collecting in your eyes and clouding your vision. It makes you nauseous, makes your skin crawl and your chest burn as your throat fills with acid. The tears sting, but you blink hard to keep them at bay. You will not cry, not in front of him, not in his bed surrounded by the remnants of those other girls, not again. You refuse to give them the satisfaction.

You spring up quickly, halfway through climbing over Touya’s body when a strong hand latches onto your wrist.

“No,” Touya mumbles, face half buried in his pillow. “Stay,”

“No,” you whisper, pulling yourself free from his grasp and hurrying out of his room. You can smell them on your clothes, on your skin, and it makes you want to scrub your body under scalding water until it’s raw.

Everything hurts—it hurts so much it feels like your chest is collapsing in on itself, like you can’t breathe, gasping for air as you stumble onto the porch, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stop and realize you have nowhere to go.

Touya has cut you off from all of your friends at this point; any spare time you had was now claimed by him.

And that’s exactly why he doesn’t bother rolling out of bed to follow after you, isn’t worried about you going anywhere, knows you can’t leave him, no matter how badly you want to. No, not a precious little girl like you, with nowhere to find refuge.

You sit down heavily on one of the front steps, vision so blurry with tears you’re barely able to make out the figure advancing towards you. They’re finally escaping your eyes, rolling down your cheeks as you blink twice, trying to clear them. Your chest stutters under the force of a sob you’re desperately trying to hold back, clapping both hands over your mouth in an attempt to silence it.

“Hey—oh no,” Keigo breathes the moment your watery eyes look up at him. You squeeze your eyes shut, causing more tears to leak out as your shoulders shake, whole body trembling from the force of your sobs, poorly muffled by your palms.

“No, no, no, sweetheart,” he’s saying as he rushes to sit down next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders tightly.

Keigo’s the closest thing you have to a friend now. And really, you should be embarrassed by the way you practically fling yourself into his arms, burying your face in his chest as your hands form fists in his t-shirt. He’s a little startled by your borderline violent reaction, but he recovers quickly, arms encircling your body and pulling you against him.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, one hand rubbing your back while the other pets your hair. “Hey, it’s alright, I’m here,”

And you hate the way his words almost directly mirror Touya’s, the way his low sultry voice turned gentle and soft as he carded deft fingers through your hair echoing almost painfully in your head. But Keigo lets you cry, lets you stain his t-shirt with salty tears and saliva until you’ve got nothing left, never stopping his compassionate motions.

“You…Stayed the night?” you pull back a little, the fact that he’s still here, blonde hair all mussed up from sleep, finally dawning on you.

“Well, yeah,” he says, a little bashful as he looks away and ducks his head. “Wanted to make sure you were alright, s’all. Last night was…” he trails off, frowning. “What happened?”

Golden eyes search your face, his forehead crinkling in concern. A beat of silence passes.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but…” kind fingers move to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll feel better if you let it out, promise. And, not to brag or anything, but I’m preee-tty good at this kind’a stuff,” he chuckles a little.

“Got in a fight,” you whisper, eyes staring intently at the brick wall behind his shoulder as your chin trembles slightly, memories of last night flashing through your mind.

“A fight? With Touya?” Keigo moves his head a little, forcing his face into your field of vision and catching your face with tender fingers when you try to look away.

“Yeah,” tears are beginning to well up in your eyes as you think about it, the sheer fact that you’re in a fight making your heart feel like it’s ripping itself to shreds. A chaotic storm of emotions brews in your chest, switching mercilessly and swirling together so quickly that you can’t even tell what they are. Your insides feel all jumbled up, and trying to decipher what the heck’s going on only makes your head ache more.

They torment you, a deep sense of anguish finally settling at the core. You’re confused, livid at Touya for being such a jackass; jealous, because you want him all to yourself; heartbroken, because you want—need—his approval, desperate to hear him tell you that you’re his good little baby girl.

You want to be his good little baby girl.

But it isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair, sweetheart. Get used to it, he had told you once, when you had complained about something so silly, so simple as him eating the last ice cream cookie sandwich (he made it up to you, of course, telling you he wanted to taste your cream—such a cheeseball—and making you cum three times before taking you out to buy more).

No, it isn’t fair, but you don’t care. You want him to be yours, too.

Keigo tsks, bringing your attention back to him, mouth set in a hard line as sad eyes watch you. “What was it about?”

“I-It…H-He—” a shuddery breath cuts you off, and Keigo draws you into his arms, holding you against his chest as the sobs start up again, sobs that make it feel like your body’s about to tear apart, desperately clutching Keigo to try and keep yourself together.

“Oh, songbird,” he coos, rocking you gently. “Is it…Um, the other girls?”

“Yes,”

“But you know you’re his favourite, right?”

“D-Does it even matter, if he’s still fucking them anyway?” you ask, pulling back suddenly as hot anger flashes through you. “Why does he need them? Am I—” a sob cuts you off, but you swallow it, persevering. “Am I not good enough?” your voice breaks on the last word, fading into a whisper, big teary eyes scanning his face almost frantically, seeking an answer in his expression.

Keigo blinks, surprised by your sudden brashness, then gives you a small, sad smile. “Only he can answer that, sugarplum,” he whispers, using the pad of his thumb to catch a stray tear and wipe it across your cheekbone. “But just because he’s fucking around, doesn’t mean that you can’t, too,”

Your head tilts to the side, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Give him a taste of his own medicine,” Keigo shrugs, leaning back a little. “He definitely deserves it, for making an angel such as yourself so upset,”

You sniffle a little, wiping at your nose with the paw of your sweater as you consider the prospect.

“Y’know, it technically isn’t cheating, since you guys aren’t in any sort of official relationship to begin with,” Keigo reminds you gently, nudging just a tiny bit more.

It isn’t right—you know it isn’t. You’ve never been one to fight fire with fire, often preferring to avoid conflict and drama, but you’re so hurt; you’re so angry at him—angry at the way he reacted, as if it was you in the wrong, angry at the fact that he doesn’t even seen to care about your feelings on the issue, because he knows you’ll come running back either way, angry because he’s right, as evident in the way pathetically clung to him last night—that all you want to do in that moment is cause him a shred of the pain he’s causing you.

It’s an impulsive decision that has you pulling out your phone, quickly scrolling through your contacts, thumb jabbing at Tomura’s name—Touya had given you his number for emergencies only—before you have time to think it through, before you have time to regret it.

Tiny thumbs fly across the keyboard, your heart pounding in your chest as adrenaline accelerates your breathing.

Hey. Let’s hang out.

Keigo inhales through his teeth next to you, and your eyes dart to him in surprise, as if you had forgotten he was there.

“Well,” he begins, though his voice sounds odd to you—unlike his usually nonchalant, happy-go-lucky manner. “That’s, uh, definitely one that’s gonna hurt him, songbird,”

You look back down at your phone to see Tomura typing a response.

Yeah, definitely. Pick a day.

“Good.”

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya #no idea how this MONSTER grew so much???#big apologies #part two is DARK and it is coming tomorrow!!!#tw pseudo-incest #tw toxic relationship #tw dubcon #tw drugs #tw cheating

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sxftkxssxs · 3 years

Note

Hi, I hope you are having a nice day.

Can I request The Arcana main 6 comforting a S/O that has social anxiety?

I completely understand if you don't want to because it's a complicated matter or you simply don't want to. So don't even worry about it ♡.

thanks for requesting! :)

I'll try to write this as best I can, If i get anything wrong please tell me and I'll fix it as soon as possible !! (I got a little stuck on some of the scenarios so I might come back and fix them later on but i hope you like them anyways <3)

M6 With and s/o that has social anxiety

Asra

he understands,

they might not experience it himself but they try to listen to anything you say about it

you end up coming up with a tiny solution, more of a distraction

if you have to do something in public and your social anxiety’s being a pain, He’ll let you mess with their hands, or Faust will make you hold her.

He knows that there’s no way to fully “cure” your social anxiety so they’ll try to help in any way possible.

They try not to let you suffer it alone, he’s always there for you.

At least the shop isn’t the most famous place in town?

You start to feel the pit in your stomach, the nervousness. Before you can even try to overthink anything, Faust is slithering across your hands. “Friend! Calm?” You let a small smile slip. “It’s helping, Thank you Faust.” You drag a finger down her scales and she lets a shiver run through her. Asra is watching, smiling in awe at his familiar and favorite person. Yeah, he definitely got lucky.

Julian

you don't even have to tell him fully

his medical school background included mental illnesses,

while he knows you probably have your own ways of helping yourself, he wants to be able to help as well.

even if helping means just sitting in silence or cuddling at the end of the day

please tell him if he's attracting too much attention to the both of you

it's his natural environment to be in the spotlight, but he'll keep you out of it if you'd prefer

(let's be honest you obviously prefer it that way)

You groaned as you came home. Today sucked. You had to put yourself way out of your comfort zone, which resulted in that awful feeling in your chest and stomach. You had been nervous the entire day. Julian looked up from his stack of papers as you closed the door. He gave a sympathetic look, and opened his arms for a hug. "Let's go get ready for bed my dear." When you finally hit the bed, Julian basically turns you into a burrito. But it’s comforting, and he knows it. let’s hope you don’t mind being stuck with him bc ur kinda stuck in those blankets.

Nadia

She apologizes in advance

unfortunately for the both of you, being the countess and her lover puts you both in the spotlight.

she tries to keep you out of situations if she can but sometimes she either needs you or the situation requires both of your attention

when she does need you to address and issue with her she'll hold your hand, and chandra will be picking at your hair from time to time

please ignore the courtiers, all of them are kind of a pain besides volta

Nadia will give you ways to escape if she can tho <3

You tried to ignore the nausea that hit you as the courtiers all turned their eyes toward you. It was bad enough they were foul in court, but it felt like they were all laughing at you. Nadia placed a hand on your waist for support. “Ah, My apologies. It seems that there’s something we need to tend to. Excuse us,” There wasn’t really anything to tend to. Maybe a relaxing bath but who are you to complain?

Muriel

social anxiety bffs

no fr you both just cling to each other in social gatherings, Asra thinks it’s absolutely adorable

Muriel does know how bad it can be, so he helps in ways he thinks might work for you

Maybe it’s convincing Inanna into making your lap her chair for the day, or letting you hide behind him if you need to.

he’s so sweet about it, but truth be told you both try to avoid the big social settings

If you can’t avoid it you’re either together or complain afterwards

You planted yourself on the bed with a grunt. You’d had to go out and you got separated from muriel. That made today hell for the both of you, especially you. You’d been in the palace at a certain point, having to deal with some problems with Nadia. The palace is the exact opposite of where you want to be. A creak of the door opening pulled you from your thoughts. Muriel walked through the door, walking over to join you on the bed (as best as he could). Inanna laid herself beside the two of you. Even she felt exhausted. You snuggled your way in Muriels arms, finding a way to let Inanna in on the cuddle pile. “I’m never doing that again” “..me neither..”

Portia

oh you poor thing </3

she’s very adventurous, which can sometimes mean trouble, or even confrontation

if she sees that there’s confrontation coming she absolutely hides you somewhere and takes the blame lmao

does not let your social anxiety change her view of you at all, she still bugs you just as much to go out on adventures

pepi is your designated anxiety reliever

she’ll purr and lay in your lap to give you the perfect excuse to not move or go somewhere

Portia giggled at you, looking at the little ball of fluff on your lap. Pepi turned to be on her back. "Look at you two!" She placed a kiss on your cheek, giving pepi a little belly rub. "Pepi's been helping you unwind huh? guess I taught her well!" You let out a little giggle, pulling Portia into the chair beside you. You both spend the rest of your evening babying your favorite kitty and relaxing to the best of your abilities.

Lucio

I apologize for him

he's always gonna be attracting attention and i don't think you'd ever want to be in public with him

but he really does try to keep himself quiet for you!

since he's no good at that he tries to give you times to be alone with him and not bring spotlight to the both of you,

you really try to be near him but it doesn't really work out

the dogs will bark at him if he puts you in an uncomfortable situation, you can bet your life on it

Lucio knew parties weren’t your thing. That’s why you stayed up in his wing, away from where everyone was drinking and cheering. As much as he loves a party, he knows you’re more important. With Mercedes pulling on his suit he’s practically running through the halls to not fall over. She only lets go when you’re all in the same room. Melchior gives his sister a proud huff as you both decide it’s (absolutely) time for the party to end if Lucio wants you to survive in this castle. At least when everyone leaves you and the puppies get to give Lucio a piece of your minds :)

#asra and faust #asra the magician #asrathearcana #countess nadia #headcannons #imagine #julian devorak #julian x mc #nadia satrivana #request.✉️#the arcana julian #the arcana nadia #the arcana visual novel #the arcana main 6 #the arcana m6 #m6 #the arcana headcanons #the arcana imagines #the arcana game

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c-optimistic · 3 years

Note

Not sure if you’re still taking prompts, but I just watched Hozier’s from Eden music video and now I can’t stop thinking about Lena and Kara on the run finding and saving a kid from a bad situation...

obviously slightly different from the video and also an unambiguously happy ending

Alex handed over the keys to the beat up car, her eyes not straying from Kara’s for even a second.

“Travel at night as much as you can. The tank is full, but you need to make it last as long as possible.” She blinked, bit her lip, and squeezed Kara’s hand. “No powers. Not for anything. And no contact. I’ll find a way to let you know it’s safe.”

Kara nodded, pulling her sister closer and enveloping her in a tight hug, trying to memorize the way it felt, the warmth that burrowed into her bones and eased her mind. “We’ll be fine, Alex,” she said, injecting as much confidence in those four words as she possibly could. She was glad that Alex couldn’t see the tears she wasn’t quite able to suppress. “I’ll be listening for you.”

Alex pulled away and opened her mouth to argue, probably to point out that Kara’s statement went directly against the no power rule, but then her mouth snapped shut, like she knew better than to argue.

“Don’t put on any music you like on the radio. You know it makes you want to sing, and that sort of thing is bound to attract attention,” Alex said instead, smoothing over Kara’s shoulders and tugging slightly on the collar of her borrowed leather jacket. “Take care of each other,” she added, clearly no longer able to hide her anxiety behind jokes. Her eyes didn’t stray from Kara, but the comment was undoubtedly meant more for Lena than for Kara. “I love you, Kara.”

“Danvers sisters, right?” Kara said thickly, holding back tears. She pulled Alex in for one more tight hug, taking care to listen to her heartbeat, to memorize its unique rhythm. “I love you, too. You call if you need me. Okay? Do you promise?”

“Promise,” Alex said, pulling away and wiping at her cheeks. “All right. Go. Go.”

Kara and Lena didn’t need to be told a third time. They got into the car, and drove off into the night, Kara’s eyes on the rearview mirror long after Alex had disappeared entirely from view.

Very quickly, they developed a routine.

Hats, thick sunglasses, hoodies, and overall easily forgettable outfits became their norm, much to Lena’s eternal dismay. Kara would pretend not to see her wince as she pulled on sneakers, and Lena returned the favor by not calling Kara out when she used her superhearing to listen for Alex every single night.

They drove throughout the night for the most part, sticking to unpopulated areas as much as they could, not speaking much to the people they ran into at gas stations and diners. When the posters with their faces began cropping up on public restrooms and outside of convenience stores, Lena suggested they die or cut their hair.

During the day, they slept. Sometimes in the car, no relief from the sweltering heat. Sometimes, if they figured it was safe enough, they’d sleep a few hours at a motel before setting off again.

They definitely didn’t use each other’s names. Not once. In fact, they didn’t speak much at all.

(One thing filled both their minds:

Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.

As long as they were on the move, Lex couldn’t get to them.)

It wasn’t much of a life, but it wasn’t all bad either.

It meant Lena would surreptitiously take her hand out of anxiety or a desire to provide comfort when driving past other cars. It meant when Lena’s always busy mind became bored, she’d invent new games to play as they drove along.

It meant huddling up together one particularly cold desert night.

It meant becoming very familiar with the song Lena hummed as she showered.

It meant learning to decipher Lena’s mood based on tuts, clicks of her tongue, breathy sighs, and the roughness of her voice when she would break the silence between them.

No, it wasn’t a bad life, being on the run with her best friend, the only person on this planet after Alex who’d ever made Kara feel at home.

It wasn’t a bad life, with money carefully hidden in the car, under the mats and inside the seat cushions, their every need anticipated and planned for, long into the future. Theoretically, they could stay on the run for years, evading Lex’s long reach.

It wouldn’t be a bad life, but to be fair, when your only goal was survival, having a good life (or really living at all) just wasn’t the point.

Kara chewed on her lip as she refueled the car, her eyes on the meter, her ears on the men coming out of the gas station.

They were laughing, clearly a bit drunk despite the time of day, one of the men complaining loudly as they walked towards their car.

“Costs me a fortune to feed that boy. Clothe him. Give him a place to sleep. And if she can leave him, why can’t I?”

Kara didn’t react. She finished refueling, paid, then slid into the driver’s seat, watching as the drunk men piled into their car and pulled away. Her grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles white. Just a tiny bit more pressure, just a little bit more of a squeeze, and she could shatter it in her hands.

“Is something wrong?” Lena asked, reaching out and brushing her hand over Kara’s shoulder, so careful, so tentative. “You seem upset.”

Kara turned to her, still chewing on her lip.“What do you think about getting a good night’s sleep tonight? I know a place we can go. It’ll be safe.”

Lena’s eyes roved over Kara’s face for a moment. “What did you hear?” she asked finally, gesturing with her head in the direction the men had driven off to.

“Just that they’re leaving and won’t be back for a few days.”

Lena eyed her skeptically, clearly knowing there was something else, something Kara wasn’t sharing, but she didn’t comment. “Okay. Okay, if it’s safe. We can both use the rest.”

Kara didn’t respond, but her grip on the steering wheel finally eased. She didn’t speak as she inserted the key in the ignition and started the car, pulling slowly out of the gas station and down the road.

And Lena let out a breathy sigh, the only indication of her displeasure at being kept in the dark, though belied by the slight quirk of her lips.

(And as they drove, windows down and hair billowing in the wind, Kara wondered if Lena felt the way she did:

An aching need to stop running, even for just a moment.)

The floorboards of the house creaked under them as they stepped inside, Lena immediately wrinkling her nose at the smell—something harsh, like paint, and underneath it, the sickly sweet smell of rotting flowers.

“No wonder those men were in such a hurry to leave,” Lena muttered, distaste coloring her features as they stepped further in the home. The floor was littered with empty beer cans and filthy clothes, the smell of rotting flowers growing stronger. “This place is disgusting. Who would live here?”

Kara didn’t respond, just kept walking towards one of the rooms in the very back of the house. She wondered, briefly, stupidly, how Lena couldn’t hear what she could: the sound of a little heart, pounding furiously away in an equally small chest, body and bones rattling in fear.

“Where are you going?” Lena asked, still following dutifully. “Kara?”

It was the sound of her name that made her pause, turn around, and smile. “I had to help him,” she explained in a whisper before dropping to her knees and gently pulling a closet door open, revealing the pale, dirty face of a little boy. “Hi,” Kara said softly, heart breaking as he pressed himself against the wall of the closet in an attempt to create distance between them, his legs tangled in rags that made up what must have been his bed. (And in the corner of the closet, flowers, long dead.) “Don’t be scared,” she continued, though she didn’t advance further. She stared at him, listened to the terrified pounding of his little heart, and she came to a decision. Without thinking about it for longer than a second, she reached up and let her hair out of its ponytail, then pulled off her glasses. “Do you recognize me? Do you know who I am?” she asked, ignoring Lena’s warning hand on her shoulder, silently urging her not to do this.

The boy pushed away from the wall, approaching Kara with more than a little hesitancy. But his eyes never left her face. “Supergirl?” he finally whispered in awe, mouth falling open just a little bit. “Are you really her? Are you really here?”

“Yeah,” she answered, holding out a hand. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He paused for a moment more, as if not entirely sure she was telling the truth, but then he rushed forward, allowing Kara to pull him into a hug. “You’re really her. You’re really here.”

She broke Alex’s rules and used her powers to speed through cleaning the home. Lena was in the kitchen with the boy, digging through the cabinets and the fridge to make him something to eat, eventually settling on soup that Kara heated with her laser vision, much to the little boy’s glee.

Much later, when the child was wrapped in blankets and letting out soft snores as he slept in the only bed in the house, Lena handed Kara a mug of tea and motioned for her to follow her outside. They sat on a rickety bench on the porch in silence, sipping their tea and taking in the cool night air, the miles of empty desert around them. And then:

“You didn’t tell me because you knew it was a bad idea. You knew we shouldn’t have come here.”

“I wasn’t going to abandon this kid.”

“You don’t know this kid,” Lena admonished, sounding tired. And in her tone, something else. Guilt, maybe. “I know what you’re thinking, Kara. But we can’t help him. Lex is still after us. Being on the run is no place for a kid.”

“But what we found him in is?” Kara asked, turning to look at Lena. She took their mugs and placed them on the ground at their feet, then grabbed Lena’s hand. “You can’t look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to help him. I know you, Lena.”

“It would throw everything off. All our plans, the sacrifices we’ve made,” Lena said, pulling her hand out of Kara’s grasp.

Kara felt her back stiffen. “I know you’ve planned for a decade or more, but I can’t, Lena. I can’t live like this. I don’t want to look over my shoulder running from Lex forever. I just. Life has to be more. And this kid needs our help. We can’t use Lex as an excuse forever.”

This was very clearly the wrong thing to say.

“I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. No one asked you to go on the run with me. It was your choice, if you remember.”

(It was.

But here was the thing, the thing that Kara wasn’t sure how to put into words: she would’ve made the same choice again and again. She would’ve given everything up for Lena a hundred times over.)

“Lena, you know that’s not what I meant,” Kara said softly, reaching for her hand again, grateful when Lena grabbed on tightly.

“We can’t stay here. We’ll have to drive through the day and night for a while,” she said after a long pause. “We’ll need to get him clothes. And you need to explain to him he can’t mention Supergirl ever again,” she added, narrowing her eyes at Kara.

Kara nodded quickly and, absolutely unable to help it, leaned over and pressed a kiss to Lena’s temple.

“Have I ever told you you’re my favorite?” she asked as she pulled away.

Lena just rolled her eyes, picking up their mugs and getting to her feet.. “After Alex, maybe,” she said with a grin, holding out a hand for Kara to help her up.

“That’s different. Alex is my sister. You’re…” Kara trailed off, not noticing the tremble in Lena’s hand, “you’re you.”

“Very eloquent, love,” Lena laughed, the endearment making Kara’s heart skip a beat. “To think you’re a journalist.”

They laughed as they put away the mugs and settled for a sleepless night on the lumpy couch in the living room, Lena’s head resting on Kara’s shoulder as she slowly dozed off.

And Kara sat there, breathing in the smell of Lena’s shampoo, half of her focus on the little boy’s gentle breathing in the next room, the other half of her focus on Alex’s heartbeat thousands of miles away, her thoughts on what it meant to be a family.

It was after several days of driving that they found a place Lena determined to be safe enough to rest.

The boy, who had yet to tell either Kara or Lena his name, ran ahead of them, heading straight for the small garden littered with colorful flowers.

“We shouldn’t stay here long,” Lena said as she grabbed one of their bags from the car, struggling a bit with its weight. “Have you been listening for him?”

Kara didn’t ask who him was. Either it was Lex or it was the boy’s unfit father, and regardless of who Lena was referring to, the answer was yes. Of course she’d been listening for him. “No news,” she confirmed, taking the bag from Lena, swinging it easily over her shoulder. “I have heard some odd frequencies lately though. Not sure what to make of it.”

Lena, who was smiling gratefully at Kara’s help, suddenly stopped, fear taking over her features. She pulled Kara to a halt by the wrist, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t think—”

“—no,” Kara assured her, shifting the bag so that she could pull Lena into a loose, one-armed hug. “It’s similar to the frequency on Alex’s watch. I thought it was her way of signalling it’s safe but—”

“—but it seems more like a warning?”

Kara nodded, watching as the boy raced back towards them, a handful of flowers he’d pulled from the garden clutched in his fist. “A day or two,” Kara said in an undertone. “Just to rest. Then we’ll move on to the next place.”

Lena didn’t respond, but her hands twisted into the fabric of Kara’s shirt, and she pressed her face against Kara’s shoulder, and Kara figured that was answer enough.

Their routine changed.

It was as if, in their determination to give the child everything they possibly could for as long as they could, the fear and dreariness of being on the run was replaced by laughter and joy.

Lena took them all on a shopping trip, letting the boy pick out bright colored clothes, even rolling her eyes and conceding when Kara got them all baseball caps.

Rather than stay at sketchy motels, Kara would constantly be on the listen for people going on vacation or on weekend getaways, feeling better about ‘borrowing’ the home by making sure the home was immaculate when they left, Lena purposely leaving behind a small stack of bills.

They ate whatever the boy wanted, from sugary snacks to cheesy burgers. There was always music, usually a bubbly pop song Kara liked and they found that the boy preferred, leading to impromptu dances in the kitchen—with one memorable time, which Kara rather thought was seared into the back of her eyelids, Lena making the boy laugh as she grabbed his hands, swinging his arms to and fro, shaking her hips in time with the music.

(And in the dark, long after the child was asleep, Kara and Lena would lay together, heads close, trying to calculate what resources they had left, how much more they could stretch it out, how much longer they could continue this way.

And every night, long after Lena had finally drifted off, her head nestled on Kara’s shoulder, Kara would close her eyes and listen to the ever-closer frequency she didn’t recognize, increasingly worried about what it could mean.)

Then Lena changed their routine again.

Every morning, as Kara would make them coffee, Lena would press a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. She had them play the games she’d invent on the spot, winking at Kara when the boy would win every single one. And at night, every night, rather than just fit her head in the juncture between Kara’s head and shoulder, she would tangle their legs, hold Kara’s hand, pressed so tightly against Kara that she could feel Lena’s heartbeat against her skin.

(And Rao, did Kara want to take one of those moments, freeze it in time, commit it to memory, wanting it etched into her heart, where she could carry it forever.

But mostly, mostly, all Kara wanted was to close those few inches between their lips and finally, finally, kiss her.)

One night, weeks after finding the boy, after he’d already been tucked in and reminded that the next morning they would have to move on to the next place, the next town, Lena played with Kara’s fingers as they lay in the dark, the little breathy sighs she let out every few moments warning enough that she had something serious on her mind.

So Kara shifted a little, pulling away so that they were facing each other, hands still intertwined. And she made it a little easier for Lena. “I can practically feel the gears turning in your head. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

Lena didn’t respond right away. Instead, her eyes were fixed on Kara’s, and after a moment, she used her free hand to smooth over the scar above Kara’s eyebrow. “How do you do it?” she finally questioned, voice so soft that Kara wasn’t sure she’d even be audible without superhearing. “How are you so effortlessly good all the time?”

It wasn’t really what Kara was expecting (and if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t what she was hoping Lena was thinking about either). “What do you mean?”

“You came with me without a second thought. Then, with the boy, you didn’t even pause to help him. You knew he was in trouble, and that was all it took.” She closed her eyes, her brows furrowing, almost as if she was in pain. “But my first thought was how it would make things harder for us.”

“That’s not true,” Kara said easily, and without really thinking about it, she pulled Lena closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You know it isn’t.”

“Do I?” Lena snarked back, but her heart wasn’t in it. She allowed Kara’s closeness, even going as far as burying her head under Kara’s chin.

With her hand that wasn’t still tightly in Lena’s grasp, Kara began to rub comforting circles on Lena’s back. “Your first thought was the danger he’d be in just because of us,” Kara reminded her gently, still rubbing her back. “Besides, I don’t know if you know, but you’re incredible.”

“Kara, be serious.”

“I am,” Kara laughed. “Being good...it’s easy. It’s the default setting. But you, you’re extraordinary. You were told your entire life that the opposite was true. That the only thing you could do was evil. And yet look at you. You did good anyway.” She paused, wanting Lena to soak in her words. “Do you see how amazing that is? Every single time you make a choice, you have to go through years of noise, years of interference, years of lies, and every time, you find your way through all that,” she tugged their joined hands up, pressing it against Lena’s chest, right over her heart, “to this. A good, kind heart.”

Lena pulled away suddenly, leaving Kara wondering if she’d said the wrong thing, but then she noticed the expression on Lena’s face, the blazing look in her eyes. “Do you really believe that?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.

“I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t have said it otherwise, gosh Lena, I—”

But Lena didn’t let her finish. Instead, she swung one leg over Kara, straddling her, and after waiting for Kara’s eager nod, finally, finally, kissed her.

(It was okay, Kara thought as Lena’s hands pinned hers to the bed, that Lena didn’t let her finish her sentence.

There was all the time in the world to tell Lena how much she loved her. For now, showing her would have to be enough.)

The frequency only Kara could hear, the one that worried her so, got closer every day, and so they stopped staying anywhere for more than a few hours.

It was hardest on the boy. He and Lena had especially grown close, falling asleep in the back of the car as Kara drove, chancing a look at them in the rearview mirror every now and then, feeling her heart swell with fondness. But Lena’s whispered concerns, about how he was faring, how he was feeling, felt more and more serious as the days dragged on.

Being on the run was no place for a kid.

“We could fight,” Kara suggested one night as they drove through the darkness, the child asleep in the back, clutching a toy Lena had bought him weeks ago. “Just wait for Lex to find us and fight.”

Lena tugged on Kara’s right hand, pulling it out of its vice-like grip on the steering wheel, then brought it to her lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “We went on the run because we couldn’t fight. Nothing’s changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” Kara said, turning to look at Lena. “What do you want to do?”

“We have a two day head start on Lex, right?” Lena confirmed. At Kara’s nod, she pressed another kiss to the back of Kara’s hands before releasing it. “We’ll find a place, spend one more night with him.” She motioned towards the child. “Then we’ll take him to the police station. CPS, I don’t know. Once he’s safe, we can wait for Lex.”

“No,” came a small voice from the back of the car. Kara watched the boy slowly sit up, toy clutched to his chest, meeting her gaze through the rearview mirror. “I’m staying with you. I want to be with you and Lena.”

(They tried to argue with him, tried to make him see reason, but Kara knew it was a lost cause. There was no convincing a boy who felt he’d found his family that he’d be better off or safer anywhere else.

Kara would know: she’d felt that way after landing on Earth, after Clark sent her away.)

So they made their last stand.

With Lena’s help, Kara found a fairly sturdy home, one that seemed to have been empty for some time, and they began to prepare.

Kara put her suit on for the first time in almost a year. Lena pulled out what she’d called her ‘emergency technology’ and the boy was secured in the house, letting Lena hug him to her as Kara sat nearby, her focus on everything beyond the walls of the house.

The frequency drew closer, the sound almost maddening in Kara’s ear. But there wasn’t much of Lex’s fanfare. No explosions, no gunfire. No whirring of new Lexosuits. There was nothing except for that sound in Kara’s ear and cars approaching.

“Kara?” Lena questioned, taking her hand and breaking her focus.

“He’s here.”

(She could hear it, cars and trucks coming to a halt, heavy footed people beginning to surround the house, the sound of their weapons in their hands loud in Kara’s ears.

And also, something else, something Kara hadn’t heard from this close in a long time.)

“Kara, I’m scared,” the boy said, looking to her, still gripping tightly to Lena.

“That’s okay,” Kara told him, brushing his hair back and then getting to her feet. “But you’ve got nothing to be scared about.”

“Kara—”

But she waved Lena’s concern off. “Trust me. We’re safe.”

One of the people surrounding the house broke down the door, making the boy hide his face in Lena’s stomach. Footsteps approached. A gun was raised. And then:

“Alex. You found us.”

The DEO was loud. Or maybe it was that the city was loud. After being in the middle of nowhere for so long, the sudden influx of noise was a little a little different.

Different, but nice.

“So, you broke all my rules, right?” Alex said as she followed Kara out on the balcony, standing next to her and leaning against the balustrade. “I said to keep a low profile, you kidnapped a kid. I said no powers, I find you in your suit.”

“I didn’t sing,” Kara said with a grin. Lena was still with the boy, holding his hand as he was checked over by doctors, happily sucking on a lollipop that Alex had offered him. “Your watch is broken, the frequency it lets off is wrong, I thought you were Lex for weeks.”

“I had a run in with an Aellon. I knew the watch was acting fritzy afterwards, but Brainy said any changes in the frequency would be ‘nearly imperceiptible.’” She grinned a little, bumping her shoulder against Kara’s. “So, while I was busy working with Brainy, Nia, J’onn, and Kelly to bring Lex down...you and Lena started dating and adopted a kid?”

Kara snorted, turning her head, watching as Lena and the boy (who were clearly done with all the tests) walked over to where she was standing with her sister.

“Pretty much,” she told Alex, marveling at finally having her entire family together again.

#I watched the video once #sooo I'm sorry in advance #supercorp #fanfic

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