#the sequel fixed that but not the boredom

[flash-from-the-past]

Cake Mania

[chuluoyi]

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄

- sylus x reader

more than friends with benefits, definitely lovers. your relationship is one filled with banters, steamy nights, and secret strings attached... but when someone shows an interest in you, sylus won't hesitate to stake his claim for everyone to see

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—jealousy, crack, fluff, smut, a dash of comfort, assassin!reader (not l&ds mc)

note: loosely a sequel to strictly (un)professional. how this snowballed into 3.8k... i don't really know :')

“Missus, please spare us!”

You shot an unamused look at the twins before you, who clasped their hands together, pleading for you to let them go.

“Why is it so difficult for both of you to say?” you hissed, crossing your arms together. “I’m not asking for much—just a recount of what happened!”

“Boss will have our tongues for this!” Kieran looked up at you, quivering. “No way, I want to live!”

“He’s terrifying…” Luke shuddered in fear, hugging himself. “You don’t know how frightening he is!”

You were holding both Luke and Kieran hostage, the tender preys, all because Sylus refused to reveal what you had been wanting to know these past few weeks.

“So you’re afraid of Sylus…” You fixed them with a steely glare. “But have you ever thought that if you don’t spill it now, I will be the one taking both your tongues?”

“—?! Missus, please!”

“Why are you bullying the twins?” A deep voice cut through the twins’ pitiful laments, and you let out an exasperated huff as your chance slipped away once more.

Speak of the devil, and Sylus shall appear. He looked at the scene before him as if you were all a bunch of kindergarteners.

Luke and Kieran immediately flocked to him. “Boss! Save us! She’s scary!”

And now you were suddenly the scary one. You rolled your eyes. "Your henchmen are useless."

Sylus glanced at you with a half smile, knowing what information you were squeezing the twins for. "Sweetie, just give it up. You'll find peace faster that way."

Was it wrong to be curious about what Sylus had been up to during the three weeks you were unconscious after the attack that literally took your life? Why was he being so secretive about it anyway?

“I know, you were so worried sick you didn’t even eat or sleep,” you taunted your lover with a wicked smile. “That’s why you won’t tell me about it.”

Sylus laughed outright. “Pftt. You’ve got quite the imagination. Good to know.”

Nothing much changed after that night of his confession—if you could call it that—to you. You were indeed no longer strictly his bedwarmer, but your banters stayed the same, if not even more sarcastic now.

“Chop chop, we have an auction to go to, sweetie.” Sylus placed his big hand on your head, amused. “Stop being a hissy kitten towards the poor twins and get ready, hmm?”

“I’ll definitely uncover it,” you shot him a resentful glare. “Just you wait and see.”

Such were your days with your true kindred-spirits lover. He would tease you during the day and turn you into a hot mess at night, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

In tonight's auction, you had one target: the broker for a new rising star firearms dealer. Sylus had been eyeing him, deducing his goods could be a nice addition to his armory.

And so, you went up to him. However...

“...Are you single, miss?”

Here we go again.

You forced a tight smile. “Sir, I’d appreciate it if we can stick to subject at hand.”

The man blinked, then quickly plastered on a wide grin to mask his surprise. “Oh yes! Yes, I-I’m sorry, I got distracted— well, I’d say this is a pretty solid MoU... but I’ll need to contact my boss first.”

This weirdo... you thought with boredom, is so transparent.

This wasn’t the first time you’d dealt with a situation like this. Granted, you were pretty and you knew it, but usually, more distinguished men would be a bit more subtle about it.

“Take all the time you need,” you encouraged smoothly, your eyes crinkling in an attempt to look friendly. “As you can see, Mr. Sylus has proposed the perfect bargain for this kind of dealings.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that. I assure you we’ll certainly try to accommodate his request.” The man nodded and gave you a meaningful look, before coughing awkwardly. “Uh, sorry, what was your name again, miss?”

Your faux smile remained perfectly still as you replied, “Mephisto.”

The man’s eyes roved over you, and he grinned roguishly. “Right. Still, I never expected Mr. Sylus’ secretary to be as beautiful as you, Miss Mephisto...”

This was tedious. Your patience was tested with every leering look he gave you. Sylus must know this already, and he's somewhere laughing at the sight of you dealing with this creep.

“You flatter me too much, I’m average.”

“No, no! I mean it!”

He knows... yet he wouldn't do anything about it. Not that you would expect Sylus to barge in like a man blinded by envy, but still, he was insufferable for not coming to you just like he had for Miss Hunter back then.

The man kept droning on and on about himself and everything else that had nothing to do with the business deal, and you were this close to dropping him and using your Evol to shut him up when—

He then turned to you expectantly. “Oh, there is a dance! Miss, would you mind if I have your first dance?”

“Oh...”

And it occurred to you... why not spice things up a little?

Sylus’ dark crimson eyes narrowed silently as he watched both of you from the island table while savoring his glass of wine, before he let out a loud snort.

That vermin doesn’t have a clue he is playing with fire.

For most of your interaction, the firearms dealer’s broker kept giving you suggestive looks, and occasionally brushing his hand against yours on purpose. He wasn't even trying to hide it, and it was amusing to see how aggravated you looked the entire time.

Adorable. Sylus found you incredibly endearing these days, from your pouts to your glazed eyes whenever he thrusted into you—

You were oh so delectable… at least until he saw you holding that lesser man's arm, as he led you to the dance floor.

A deep frown immediately formed in his forehead.

“What are you scheming now?” Sylus scowled, half exasperated and half in disbelief. “You naughty cat.”

He was even more irked when he saw how casually you wrapped your arms around that vermin, twirling and pressing yourself against him in a waltz. Seeing him trying to hit on you was one thing, but for you to reciprocate was just plain unacceptable.

—and to his ire, your audacity continued throughout the night.

. . .

“Miss Mephisto, do you play pool?”

“I do.”

“Then, will you play with me?”

Sylus was now burning with tendrils of anger, watching you from a closer corner. He had seen the broker put his hands on you so many times that he had lost count—during the dance, mingling with other guests, and while sharing hearty laughs. All in all, you were acting as if you had forgotten he was even here.

You were threading on a very thin ice and whether you realized it or not... you didn't seem to care.

"Ah, I think your stance is a bit off..." And to make it worse, the broker was definitely seizing every chance he could, as there was nothing wrong with your form—you often accompanied Sylus playing pool, so you were a pro—and yet he still got behind you, trying to drape his arms around your body.

That was the last straw. Enough is enough.

Before Sylus realized what he was doing, he stormed over to where you were, yanked your arm forcefully, and effectively separated you from him. He didn’t give a damn about the horrified shout from the broker or the judging looks from other partygoers as he dragged you by the hand out of the ballroom.

“Sylus!” you nearly shrieked when he kicked open a door to a meeting room and locked it with his black-red mist. He pinned you against the wall, and crashed his lips against yours in a searing kiss.

“Mmph!” You tried pushing him back, but he was stronger and held you in place, his tongue forcing your lips open as he pressed the back of your head toward him. His other hand slipped inside your dress—between your legs— two fingers in—

“—!” you couldn't even squeal as he devoured your mouth and the shock set in, feeling yourself getting aroused by the minute when his fingers did that scissoring thing and edged you further.

After he was done with your mouth, his hot lips trailed down to your neck and shoulder blades, sucking hard on several spots, making you gasp and moan.

"Hah... this... is the price to pay for testing me, sweetie," your lover growled his nickname for you with satisfaction as he noticed you trembling body, nibbling on your shoulder. "You want to get punished so badly, huh?"

"Ahh..." you threw your head back, clinging to him, grinding yourself against his fingers.

"Is it funny to you? Watching me see him touch you?" Sylus' unforgiving ruby eyes stared down at you like a lion eyeing its prey. "What an insolent little kitten you are..."

His fingers kept moving and thrusting inside you in an alarming speed, mercilessly hitting that one spot that could make you cry. He was seriously teaching you a lesson by forcing you to come undone right then and there.

"I-I...!" you tried to refute, but then you felt the knot inside you burst, and in the next second, you could feel yourself coming all over his fingers, shuddering, your breaths coming in pants.

Feeling faint, relief washed you when he pulled out his fingers. You leaned and clung onto him, pulling him closer, and Sylus finally saw what a mess he had turned you into.

Your glassy eyes focused solely on him, seemingly pleading—and those swollen lips, as well as the sizzling heat creeping up your cheeks—

“Ha,” he let out a low chuckle, a wicked grin curling his lips. “If I can still make you look like this, then I suppose I can forgive you.”

“You’re a meanie,” you mumbled breathlessly.

“You’re the mean one,” Sylus tutted with narrowed eyes, starting to pull away from you.

But then you pulled him close again and pressed your lips to his, this time with a gentleness that surprised him.

There was no malice or burning desire in your kiss. Strangely, it felt far more intimate. You pulled away, the heart-stopping swirls of his red eyes captivating you as you pressed your foreheads together.

“Needy, aren’t you, sweetie?” Sylus whispered, holding your gaze, his breath hot against your skin.

But right now, all of a sudden, you looked so vulnerable to him, as if any wrong word from his lips would shatter you. It made him almost feel guilty for manhandling you so roughly.

You didn’t respond, just wanting this closeness with him. Behind your snarky words and little schemes, this was what you wanted more than the release you just got. Sometimes, you still worried—did he want this too?

“What is it?” Sylus asked with a frown, seemingly concerned. “Talk. Tell me.”

“Nothing…” you replied in a small voice.

“Do you feel sick? Want to go back?”

You shook your head.

You weren’t usually this quiet. Sylus couldn’t help being restless at your sudden change. It felt awkward for him to do what he was about to do next, but instinctively, he figured it would comfort you a bit.

You felt a pang in your heart when he pulled away, but in the next instant, a wave of warmth enveloped you as he pressed you to him, burying your head against his sturdy chest.

For someone who deals with blood and gore, your body felt too soft and fragile, yet still fit perfectly in his arms. Though he had held you and made love to you many times before, it was only now that he truly noticed how small you were.

“You’re warm…” you murmured, your voice carrying a hint of a whine.

So needy and pliant… for him.

“My woman is such an enduring mystery.” Sylus mused, sounding almost as if he were lamenting. “Sometimes she’s a brazen kitten without a shred of shame, but then she pulls stunts like this.”

Your heart picked up the pace. You are... his. That was right. You were his woman in every sense of the word now, and he wasn't shying away from it.

But to cover your embarrassment, you could only come up with, “Can you not refer to me as cat...?”

He shot you an irked glance. “No.”

“He calls me by your bird’s name.”

“...”

“Sylus, you can’t murder him. Your deal will go down the drain.”

“Tch.” Sylus blew out an annoyed sigh, glaring at you. “By the time I get back here, you’re going back with me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, yes.”

Honestly you were exhausted, and you wanted to nothing more than a good sleep. But you couldn't just leave the broker without preamble because this deal depended on him, and Sylus too had some loose ends he had to tie before the two of you left.

Strangely, all eyes were on you when you returned to the ballroom. You wondered why as you navigated the crowd until you met the broker you had fooled in so many ways.

“Oh, Miss Mephisto, you’re back!” he was visibly and utterly drunk, and you cringed at the strong smell of alcohol on his breath. But then you noticed his eyes seemed to be fixated on your—

Neck. You realized in horror.

“Oh... hic, t-that... I-I see,” he blabbered, coughing awkwardly as he stared at the marks on your neck. “Miss... so that man is... y-your lover...?”

“Uh...” It was a wonder he didn’t recognize Sylus at first glance. Perhaps it was because he was so infamous, but it astounded you how this person couldn’t even tell that it was him.

"I-I thought... w-we..." he hiccupped again heartbrokenly, before snatching a glass on the table. "Oh, I need more drink!"

You observed him, half cringing. "Sir, I just want to remind you that once the documents are signed—"

"Yeah, yeah! It will be done by the end of the week!" he yelled at you. "Miss, how about you have a drink too!?"

Suddenly, a glass of gin was shoved into your hand, and you let out an irritated sigh. Yeah, he might be right. A glass of alcohol would help you sleep better tonight, you figured, so you chugged it down.

"Huh...?" And it didn’t take you long to realize something was amiss. The dizzying sensation set in far too quickly, you felt so hot, and you had to lean on the table next to you to keep from falling.

“Are you okay...?” a waitress asked you with concern, but the only sound you could hear was your own violent heartbeat. Before you knew it, the glass in your hand slipped from your grasp and crashed into the floor.

"Oh, miss! Are you okay?!" the broker suddenly got a hold over your body. "Oh! It seems you aren't feeling well! Let me escort you to you room!"

Room? You barely discerned what happened when he led you out of the crowd. Your head spun terribly, and then suddenly throbbed, making you clutch it and cry out in pain, "Ah!"

It didn't make sense, no matter how you saw it. You had a pretty good tolerance, so for you to get hungover from a gin was just—

“Oh, does it hurt much?” he suddenly asked in your ear, making you shiver. “Don’t worry... it'll be bearable soon enough... I’ll make sure you will feel good…”

It's him! You realized. He spiked your drink!

His arms were now locking yours, steering you to go into the elevator. You took a deep breath before directing your speech manipulation evol on him— "Let go!"

He was immediately jerked away from you, but as a result, you almost crumpled, your vision swimming and your head pounding intensely. The pain made you feel close to passing out, and yet you managed to trek forward, leaning on the wall for support.

You had to get away from him before he could catch up to you. Panic set in, and when strong arms caught you, you convulsed, thinking he had grabbed you—

“Stop thrashing!”

“S-Sylus...?” You looked up, trying to focus on his face, but everything was so blurry.

“I’m here.” His voice was ragged, and you’d recognize it anywhere. “What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

“M-my head...” Your voice came out as a broken whimper, clutching at your throbbing head. “Hurts...”

You were feverish, trembling against his hold, and you reeked of alcohol. Sylus instantly realized something was seriously wrong and pressed your head into his chest to provide comfort. “Just a little bit longer—” his deep voice carried a subtle hint of alarm as he hoisted you up to his arms. “Hang on, alright?”

But just as he was about to bring you back, he caught the sight of a fleeing silhouette in the corner, and realizing who it was, his right eye blazed, black and red mist swirled in the air and restrained the broker, engulfing his screams.

“S-spare me! P-please!” the man pleaded tearfully, pinned on the ground, and Sylus approached him silently, looking down at him with so much spite in his eyes.

“A roach that doesn’t seem to know his place…” The corners of his lips twisted into a sadistic smile. “Whether you survive or not depends on you. Best hope you’ll last.”

Despite his pleas, he paid it no mind as he walked away with you in his arms.

When you awakened, your head was no longer pounding.

It took you a moment to realize there was a cool compress on your forehead, you were now in a clean oversized sweater, and someone was holding your hand.

Sylus. You looked up to find him asleep, sitting with his back against the headboard beside you. It was rare to catch him sleeping. In this moment, he looked defenseless, yet a faint frown lingered on his handsome face.

Has he been waiting for you like this, holding your hand all night...?

You tried to get a better look at him, but the rustle seemed to wake him up instead, as his eyes cracked open.

“You awake?” he asked, voice so sultry it woke all your senses up. “I was just shutting my eyes.”

“Aren’t you uncomfortable sleeping like that?” you asked.

Sylus turned toward you, his eyes still hazy from sleep. “What about you? Feeling better?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He placed a hand on your head, ruffling your hair gently.

“Really, you...” His stare was so withering it made question marks appear in your head. “I took my eyes off you for one minute, and you ended up with alcohol poisoning?”

“—? I didn’t know! But wait, what happened to that bozo?”

Sylus gave you a deadpan look, and you gasped. “You… didn’t kill him and have his body secretly disposed of, did you?”

“Just who do you think I am?”

“…a kingpin of an illegal syndicate?”

Your lover’s scowl deepened further at your response. “Nah, he got lucky. I only returned him with a broken jaw, broken hips, and two missing teeth.”

“Sylus!”

If he looked sleepy before, now he definitely looked wide awake. Sylus always sleeps at dawn, and you wanted him to rest more than anything, but now you were itching to ask him...

“Say... were you waiting for me while sitting like this too when I wasn’t conscious for three weeks?” You avoided his gaze, the question burning on your lips. Sylus had never given you a straight answer whenever you asked him about this.

This time too, he grumbled, “Why do you keep asking that?”

“Because I can’t ask Luke and Kieran, they look as if you’d set them on fire.”

Sylus went silent, not giving you any affirmation at all, and you huffed and unclasped his hand, pursing your lips together. “I see. You don’t care about me at all. Noted.”

You heard him sigh, before his red eyes squarely landed on you.

“When I was shot, you worried about me even when you know I’m going to be alright,” he suddenly posed the question on you. “Didn’t you?”

You nodded, and he tousled your hair again—the action alone somehow made you feel warm.

“Whatever you felt that day, that’s the same to what I went through during those three weeks. Multiply it by ten.”

“Huh!?” you rose up from the sheets in surprise, facing him.

Sylus then turned away from you, crossing his arms and shutting his eyes. “That’s it, sweetie. I’m going back to sleep now.”

“Wait!”

You scrambled into his lap, clinging to his shoulder. Sylus begrudgingly opened his eyes again, a look of irritation on his face. “What?”

Multiply it by ten…? Heh. At this moment, you felt light and giddy, knowing that the two of you were now true lovers in every way that mattered even when you were faced with his sourness.

“Don't scowl too much!” you giggled merrily. You placed your fingers on the corners of his lips, gently lifting them to force a smile. “Honesty suits you much better, Sylus. It’s recommended.”

This cheeky woman... Sylus never thought the day would come for him to experience these myriad of emotions, much less for them to be incited by you.

He pulled you close, one arm around your hips and the other around the back of your head. Your lips met his in a passionate kiss that left no room for further conversation, only parting when you both needed to catch your breath.

“If you want me to, then don’t make me relive those nights,” he said with a sly smile, his crimson eyes glinting in the light and his voice like silk against your ears. “Can you?”

His tone softened your gaze, a warm sensation spreading through your chest. You responded with a playful snort, wrapping your arms around his neck and giving him another peck on the lips.

After your innocent make-out session, you nestled closer to him with a contented sigh, savoring the reassuring warmth of his embrace as you both drifted off again into the morning.

Epilogue

"Do you hear anything?"

"No, nothing..."

Luke and Kieran whispered amongst themselves as they tried to hear anything of importance beyond Sylus' bedroom. After their boss went back home with you passed out in his arms last night, they had totally expected the worst.

“Seems like she’s alright then…” Kieran concluded, stepping away from the door. “We should just go. If Boss catches us, we’re dead.”

The twins backed away from the door and went back to the living room, sighing in relief.

"But honestly, Boss has changed lately, hasn't he? He looks kinder, somehow."

"Are you sure, Luke? Maybe it's just when he looks at the missus. With us, meh."

“I still get chills thinking about when he destroyed the Protofield to dust after he found her following the explosion,” Luke gazed off in wonder. “It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, but it was also heartbreaking—especially when he tried to wake her and realized she was beyond help because the steel had pierced her heart…”

Luke and Kieran went quiet at the memory.

“Anyhow!” Kieran suddenly exclaimed. “All’s well that ends well! To be honest, I totally saw it coming that they'd end up together!”

“Ooh, you're right! They did a bad job of hiding it too, no less! I mean, one time, the missus came out of his room while—”

As the twins gossiped about their master and mistress, they were unaware that Mephisto the crow, perched nearby, was dutifully recording their conversation and would report it all to his master later.

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 18: When the gods choose to punish us, they merely answer our prayers.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by Shiroishi

“Sweetheart,” she called out placatingly. He scoffed and bit down on a tart, his jacket draped over his other shoulder. He’d decided he would start early today; there was little doubt going through the lower city would take some time. Ban was lounging on her throne, legs crossed and documents in hand. In his absence she would have to manage three meetings - not too horrible, especially since one of them was to finalize the turnover of the Sharran cloister to the city.

“I was just teasing!”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to scowl at her one last time, the faux-anger shifting into mirth. He shot her a wink. “I’ll try to be home relatively early. If not, well…” he waved the last of his tart, “it’ll be a lonely dinner for you yet again. Maybe you’ll miss me this time.”

The sound of her laughter was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

He and Ban hadn’t been back to the lower city often since the end of their adventure. They’d visited occasionally, but there had been no reason to of late.

Over the past week, he had sent his staff to begin searching.. So far all of the upper city had been scoured and to no one’s surprise it had yielded no results. He had also covered a fair amount of the lower city. That had likewise borne no fruit.

He had also considered… other possibilities. A Sending spell had allowed him to contact the twins in Waterdeep and inquire as to whether Vel or any of his associates had been active in Baldur’s Gate at that time. They had answered in the negative.

The morning proceeded in relative boredom. He went from house to house, knocking on each door and holding up Adrien’s portrait. A lot of them seemed surprised to see him - an elf in ostentatious clothes - tramping about lower city in all his finery going door to door about some man, but he found that he didn’t mind, as he agreed with their assessment.

He ended up at a house at the far end of a street and knocked on the door. It looked relatively well-kept, if a little old. The door creaked open, and a younger elf peered at him. Astarion cleared his throat, and began his spiel.

“Hello. My name is Astarion Ancunín.” He had avoided tacking on his title for this errand. “Have you by any chance seen or met this man?” He held up the open locket. His name is-”

The elf scratched his head. “Adrien, yeah.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open. He closed the locket, pocketing it. “Adrien Glasscraft, yes. You know of him?”

“He was my friend.” He opened the door wider. “You should probably come inside, Mister Ancunín.”

The house was quaint, even cozy, and Astarion made himself comfortable on the couch. Sprawled in his usual way, he caught the disapproving glance from the other elf as he sat on the chair opposite him. Astarion pointedly ignored it.

“My name is Lulen.” When Astarion made no response, merely tapping his knee, Lulen continued. “Adrien is someone I knew for several years, before he stopped coming by. If I may ask,” and he leaned forward. “What is your interest in him?”

Astarion’s lip curled. “He is important to someone important.” That, he felt, was as detailed an explanation as he was willing to give. Lulen fell silent, eyes fixed on a spot behind him, and Astarion waited.

Lulen scanned Astarion’s clothes. “It does make sense. He comes from a rich family, as far as I know. Some offshoot of a patriar family. He griped about it a lot.”

“Tell me what you know of Adrien, then,” Astarion prompted, “and perhaps you might be able to help me find your friend. Where and when did you see him last?”

“It was an evening, several years ago. He arrived here, angry, which was not an uncommon occurrence with him. We talked for some time, then he said he would head out and get some food, clear his head, and…”

“And?” Astarion prompted, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “Did he tell you where he went?”

Lulen shook his head. “No, but he mentioned heading to Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Astarion stood outside Fragyo’s, his scowl deepening. The sun was high in the sky, the midafternoon light harsh. There were several places to get food in Wyrm’s Crossing, and he had left this one for last, hoping he wouldn’t have to go in. The idea of stepping back into that cesspit was unpleasant; he did not relish the idea of having to relive all of his previous activities in that establishment, but it couldn’t be avoided. He’d been hoping to have his meal somewhere better, but he had lost track of time, so he supposed he’d grab something here while he investigated. Perhaps Adrien had slept over in the flophouse before he left Baldur’s Gate.

He made his way in. It wasn’t too busy at this time of day, and he headed up to the counter. The halfling custodian peered at him, seemingly recalling his face.

“You’re- you were with…”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, waiting with his arms crossed.

“With the group - the ones who saved the city!”

Ah. He was relieved to be remembered for that and not for his other, older exploits in the flophouse.

“Apologies,” the halfling - Dashkent, he remembered now, bowed. “I am not very good with faces, and so it took me a moment to remember where I knew you from.”

He scoffed, but waved his hand dismissively. Resolving to question the halfling after he’d eaten, he ordered his lunch, and then slipped into a seat at an empty table, scanning the room. He had been here countless times before, of course. They’d always kept a low profile when they’d hunted here, hunkering in corners and darkened alcoves at night, whispering those sickly sweet words, laying their traps.

He ate with disinterest - the fare here was still bland, despite having his sense of taste back - and flicked open the locket, studying Adrien’s features for what felt like the millionth time. The black hair, that jawline, those eyes…

They always stood out, those eyes. They could hardly have done anything else. They were Ban’s eyes, after all, an exact match down to the shape and shade of brown-

No… not just that. He’d seen them somewhere else.

It was a cold night, and it had begun to rain. He pulled his cowl over his head. Ahead of him Dalyria and Petras had already opened the door, heading inside. Neither left the door open for him; he slipped inside without a word.

The three split up, as was their wont. Astarion took his usual corner, mug in hand, scanning the room. Searching for potential marks was a skill he’d fine-tuned. Anyone who seemed alone, a little lost, would be perfect. Attractive, if he could manage it, but when pickings were slim it didn’t matter. Tonight, however, was a good night for hunting - the flophouse was teeming with people, the rain likely helping force them indoors. He took his time; there was no need to rush with so many options.

Dalyria slipped into the seat beside him. He rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“I told you it would be a good idea to come tonight, didn’t I?” Her eyes also roamed over the patrons. “Good pickings. I’m sure even Petras will find someone. Why aren’t you mingling yet?”

He scoffed, and took a sip of whatever he had ordered - he didn’t exactly remember. “Petras needs them blind drunk before they’ll even look his way. I’m giving him a head start.”

Dalyria laughed. “Of course you are. Astarion, the prettiest of us lot, barely even needs to try, eh?” She tried to playfully touch his cheek; he growled and shifted away.

She stood up. “Do find yourself… something. Two more nights of coming up empty-handed and you’ll be…” she bit back a laugh as he snarled at her.

The thought was unpleasant, but he did not let it show. “Worried about me? How sweet of you.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Godey has nothing new under his metaphorical sleeves, dear sister. It’ll be uneventful.”

“Judging by the way you screamed last time, I doubt that’s true.”

She drifted away and Astarion seethed, stewing over her flippant remarks.

Two weeks. Two weeks of coming up empty-handed and he’d come face to face with Godey. The door would latch closed behind him and not open again until the master was thoroughly satisfied. A date with Godey’s toys, a night of manacles and instruments and of blood, of screaming himself hoarse and it still not being enough to sate their lust. Two weeks - sometimes less, if Cazador’s whims dictated it so - until he was reminded of exactly how painful drawing his master’s ire was - not that he ever forgot. The man took what felt like boundless joy in breaking him, after all - far more than the rest. He rubbed a hand over his face, resentment bubbling to the top. Even in their shared suffering, he endured more. Far more.

Astarion swirled the contents of his mug, staring down at it absently. It wouldn’t do to fail tonight. He slipped into his thoughts, however - something he found himself doing more often lately, his mind sinking into nothingness. When someone jostled against his table and snapped him out of it, he had no idea how long it had been. He scanned the room. A fair bit of time must have passed, he realized, as Dalyria was now in the arms of a burly man.

A man caught his eye. He was seated at a table, alone, nursing a goblet of what looked like wine. Handsome. Black hair, square jaw, and alluringly dark brown eyes. Astarion sauntered over.

To his surprise the man looked up before he managed to say a word. “This chair’s free.” He tapped the seat beside him. Astarion slid in.

“You look awfully lonely, darling. Is it the weather, or something else?” Astarion sipped from his mug.

The man shot him a nervous smile. His eyes brightened as he took stock of Astarion’s face - a look he knew all too well. Tonight, that meant success.

“Something else.” The man returned his gaze to his drink. “The rain doesn’t help, I suppose. I headed out before it started. And you? What brings you here?”

Astarion noticed, belatedly, that the man had no cloak or anything to cover himself with, other than a jacket that was already soaked. He clicked his tongue. “Well, then. I’m all ears, if that’s what you need.” He would have added a coy ‘and perhaps more, if you want’, but something told him he’d have to take this particular mark slowly. He didn’t bother answering the man’s questions; more often than not people just wanted to talk about their own problems.

“It’s nothing more than common family drama,” the man said, pushing his sopping hair off his eyes. “The usual, really. I really don’t want to talk your ear off,” he chuckled, “and I’d rather hear about something else.”

Astarion found himself pleasantly surprised, but he was ready. “I am a magistrate. I’m here to meet someone, but…” he pretended to look around the room, “it seems that they have misplaced their clock.” He huffed. “Not my loss, considering that I now get to talk to you.”

“Adrien.” The man held out his hand.

He shook it, allowing his fingertips to subtly drag as he pulled away from Adrien’s grasp. “Astarion.”

Adrien nodded. “A wonderful name.” Again the man took a moment to look at his face; Astarion smiled, angling himself slightly so the light would catch his cheekbones. “Do you come here often?”

“Mm, once in a while.” Astarion took another sip of his drink. “And you? I haven’t seen you before, I feel. I’m certain I would have remembered a face like yours.”

“It’s my first time here, yes. I don’t come to this area often.” A blush crept across Adrien’s cheeks. Perfect.

“There must be a good reason then. With all the rain, and the frankly horrid state of this place… I will be very concerned if you tell me you’re here for leisure.”

Adrien laughed. “You… you got me. I was walking by to just… get my bearings, and have some dinner, but it started raining. I might have to stay the night here, and as correct as your assessment of this place is… I’d still rather be here than at home.”

“You and me both,” Astarion mused. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he supposed. Clapping his hands together to snap himself out of his melancholy, he sat up. “So. You’ve made me tell you my frankly boring reason for being here. Your turn, dear.”

“I suppose so. It’s a long tale, but I can give you the sum of it.” He wrapped his hands around his goblet and took a small breath. “My parents are shit, and I’m here-”

“To get some reprieve from them, yes.” Astarion slid closer. “While I would agree that that’s common… it doesn’t mean that it’s not important.” He waved a hand. “Like I said. I wouldn’t mind lending you an ear. Or my… company. Whichever you prefer. I’m not picky.”

A small risk, that.

The man turned to him, surprised. His lips pursed. “I would love your company, really. But I’ve already promised the rest of my evening to another. However, the first part of your offer I would heartily accept.”

Astarion groaned inwardly. He wanted to make a quick exit, but there was nothing for it. The night was likely to be wasted, anyway; the patrons were slowly clearing out as the rain began to ease off. “Of course. Please, do regale me.”

“My father wants me to be his heir. Wants to marry me off. If only she hadn’t left…” Adrien murmured angrily, and Astarion opened his mouth to ask some followup question he didn’t even give a thought to when the words died in his throat.

Petras stood in front of them, drink in hand, glaring at Astarion.

“Petras!” Adrien smiled. “Please, sit. I was merely talking to… uh…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Astarion stood up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, darling, I must be off. After all, my associate may yet still arrive. Wouldn’t do well to be otherwise occupied, as pleasurable as that would have been for both of us…” He couldn’t help that last statement, smirking as Petras resisted the urge to hiss - and failed.

“Nice to have met you, Adrien.”

He sauntered off, a little miffed that Petras, of all people, had stolen a mark off him. Not stolen, exactly, he corrected himself, but still. Petras? Over him? That Adrien must’ve had bad vision. Astarion slinked back into his corner, nursing his drink and pointedly not looking at where the other two were in deep conversation.

To his dread, the night ended fruitlessly for him. He headed home some hours later, slipping into the palace and down to the dormitory. Petras had left first, followed by Dalyria, who had also managed to bring home a victim.

Astarion opened the door to find Petras on his bunk, legs crossed and smirking. He sighed. “Of course you’re filthying my bed, Petras. Won’t you ever be anything but predictable?”

“You have to admit I was anything but tonight. Didn’t expect that, did you?” Petras shifted, and Astarion bit back a snarl as he realized his sibling was lying on his blanket.

“Expect what? A man to be kind enough to uphold an earlier arrangement, even to one as… well, to someone who looks like you do?” Astarion laughed. “A surprise, to be sure, but angels do exist. As do charity workers.”

Petras glowered, and then he flicked something at Astarion. He caught it instinctively, opening his hand to see what it was. A cufflink. “Here. A consolation gift. Gods know you’d gripe about losing to me for days. Maybe this’ll get you to shut up.”

It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

Astarion frantically reached into his pocket, pulling out the cufflink the Glasscrafts had given him. There was no doubt - this was its counterpart. Fuck.

How would he tell her? Darling, we killed your brother. He was there, that day, perhaps only a couple of rooms away. We stupidly did the rite, not thinking someone we cared about might be in one of those damned kennels. We-

He snapped the locket shut, unable to look that portrait in the eye. Her eyes. He should head home, that was for certain. There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to search for. Nothing.

Astarion’s mind whirled with the possibilities. He could not tell her, that was always an option. He could already imagine the words he’d say.

Darling, I have some bad news. I’ve scoured all of Baldur’s Gate, and there was nothing of your brother to be found. Perhaps he’s made his life somewhere else, and we’re better off leaving him to his peace?

Darling, your brother told me he wanted nothing to do with you. He shooed me away, threatened to stake me- gods, you didn’t tell me he was vehemently against vampires!

Darling-

…He couldn’t do that to her.

Oh, but it would be easy. He could simply say the words, run his hands down her body, cup her ass, slip a finger between her legs. Purr and say the right words with just the right tone, and she’d believe him, because she trusted him. Trusted him to no longer use his skills to deceive her, trusted him to be honest.

And he would. As frightened as he was of her response, he would.

The long carriage ride felt like mere seconds. He was willing it to drag out, to delay seeing her face, asking him, ‘Love, how was your day?’ How would he respond?

He wondered if she'd leave him. Likely not, he figured - hoped, but she would be beside herself and rightfully so. He had no idea how much affection there was between Ban and Adrien, but he had no doubt it was more fond than he and his own siblings had been. Would she blame him? Not unreasonable, if so - that price was paid for him, after all.

What would she have done if they’d walked past those kennels and seen Adrien? Would she have stopped the ritual, told him to find a spare to swap her brother out? Would that have been the push to make her entirely say no to the idea? What if he’d argued back? And he was sure he would have - he could still recall the ice-cold fear that had gripped him then, the smell of blood and rot so strong it had suffused his senses and clouded out all other thoughts.

They would have fought. No, she would have talked him down. No. He would have stormed off. No. They would have-

He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was little use in what ifs, especially at this point.

He felt a sudden surge of loathing and he placed his trembling palm over his racing heart as he watched the mansion come into view. The price that had been paid for it, for all this - it had never really mattered, not for him, and barely for her, but now…

He was sure some god was out there, laughing at their fate. He would have seen the humor in it himself, if it hadn’t befallen them.

Soon he was spilling out of the carriage into the courtyard, breaths coming too short, praying she wouldn’t yet be out of her last meeting for the day. Please.

He stepped into the foyer and called the chamberlain over.

“My lord?”

“Rainier, where is the lady of the house?”

The chamberlain frowned. “She is still occupied in the gardens, making arrangements with Shadowheart and the city representative. The cloisters-” he cut off as Astarion waved a hand at him.

Good. He had some time to try and at least present a solution together with the problem. That would at least ease the blow.

“A Sending spell. To Gale. Ask him to come as soon as possible. Tell him it is an emergency. Bring him to the study the moment he arrives.”

Astarion’s head whipped up a little while later as Gale stepped into the room. He was still dressed in what looked like his teaching robes. The man looked slightly harried, the robes ink-stained on the sleeves.

“Astarion.” Gale sat in the armchair opposite his. “What brings me here, in such a hurry? Did something happen? Where’s Ban? Are you both alright?” His eyes followed Astarion as he quickly shut the door, locking it.

“Ban is fine. She’s outside, in negotiations with Shadowheart and the city planner.”

“Then what is-”

“It’s about her brother.” He sat in his own armchair, then leaned forwards, rubbing his face. “We were making attempts to look for him. He disappeared several years ago, and she wanted to seek him out.”

“A brilliant idea, which I assume did not yield the results you wished for. What can I do to help?”

Astarion glanced at him, grateful for the offer. “We - or rather, I - found him.” He looked away. “Or what became of him, at least.” There was a waver in his voice, he knew, but there was no hiding it.

“What became-” Gale trailed off at the look on his face. “Astarion. What exactly befell the man?” Gale’s concern was obvious. Astarion felt some relief there; at least someone could share in this burden that felt like a stone in his heart. “If he’s dead, a scroll of true resurrection would work, provided either his body or in the absence of it, his soul…”

He shook his head, and Gale’s sentence trailed off. How would he say this? Gale had been there as well. In some ways they all had doomed Ban’s sibling.

“He was one of the seven thousand, Gale.” Astarion kept his eyes fixed to the wall. “We killed him, and damned his soul as well.”

Gale swore. “Then why would you ask for me to come, if you knew this? True resurrection would definitely not work.”

“Wish.”

“Oh, no. No.” Gale shook his head, raising a finger. “The risks involved in casting that spell… no. It cannot be done.”

As Astarion opened his mouth to protest, Gale pushed on.

“Wish is a difficult spell to cast, for one. I’m not even certain I’d be able to cast it. Then there is the issue of intent - what is your stated goal? To return Ban’s brother, yes. But by what means? Are you able to specify, down to the minutest detail? If you do not, the spell will have unintended consequences, consequences that are certain to only bring more trouble.”

“If I specify-”

“What do you specify then? Undoing the rite itself? What about everything else that came with it? What about Ban? What about the arrangement with the hells? Would they not come after you if seven thousand souls they owned suddenly disappeared? What if it undid time itself, reverted everything back to before it happened, including our memories?” Gale stared at him, and Astarion had no choice but to meet his gaze head on. “Wish is a spell that alters reality, but it does so in completely unpredictable ways. It is manageable for smaller requests, smaller wishes that wouldn’t unravel so much of the fabric of reality. But you’re dealing with something that’s on a massive scale, involving thousands of souls, Astarion. I would not risk it.”

Astarion found that he could not disagree. “If I only ask for one soul back, what then?”

“You could, but what would happen with the rite? It required each and every one of them as payment. What would the hells do, were you to renege on your arrangement and pluck one right out of their grasp? And what condition would her brother be in? Would he be a tormented soul? A spirit? He might even come back in the form of a coin, for all we know.”

“A coin?”

Gale exhaled. “When souls are sent to the hells, to demons or devils - it matters not - the soul may be used in some other manner, but they are usually turned into soul coins.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “The coins we found when we were wandering about? The same coins Karlach used?”

“One and the same,” Gale nodded, voice grim. “Now, a lesser devil might have used some of the souls for something else, made them into servants or something of that nature, but the fact that Mephistopheles was the one who received them, and received seven thousand of them in one go… it’s likely her brother’s soul is now, in fact, in a coin.”

Astarion swallowed. “And am I not able to simply wish him to come back as a whole, living being? That would circumvent his arrival as… as that, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, but yet again we do not know the consequences of it. Usually turning into a coin is a one-way process. And there’s a chance the spell would consider that as a second wish: one, that her brother return unharmed, and that two: he returns as not a coin. So you see-”

“I know!” Astarion got up, pacing. Wish would not work; that much was obvious. “Do you have any other ideas, then?”

Gale stared at him, askance. “Simply accepting what happened and mourning her brother aside, I would suggest reading up on the circumstances regarding the rite.”

Astarion froze. “And what good would that do?”

Potentially a lot of good, he knew. He still didn’t want to do it.

“Because you’d want to know the specifics of the contract. It might help with understanding or finding a means by which to retrieve Ban’s brother, if any such method exists. You could also consult a diabolist,” Gale added. “Or, Karlach and Wyll might be able to wrangle some fiends for you.”

They were all good suggestions, but right now it merely felt like meaningless words swimming in Astarion’s head. There were too many options, none of which seemed to lead to better chances of success. Then there was the bigger concern in his mind - telling Ban about it in the first place.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’d invite you to stay over for dinner, but I doubt tonight will be anything but deeply unpleasant.”

Gale stood. “I understand. I will, of course, begin researching on my end as well. Let me know if you need anything more, and I will be in contact if I find anything of use. Good luck, my friend.” He clasped Astarion’s shoulder, and slipped away, leaving him to his thoughts.

He found her seeing Shadowheart and the city planner off. She was standing by the front door, waving goodbye. Shadowheart shot him a smile from afar, no doubt thinking about her wedding present, but he could barely muster a response, merely raising his hand in farewell.

As they departed, Astarion wrapped his arms around Ban from behind, pressing his nose against the top of her head. Taking a deep breath, he held her close, hoping she would let the moment stand. He did not know what to say, or how to even begin; but he needed to seek comfort. Gods knew this might be the last peaceful moment they would have for a while. Possibly ever.

Her hands settled on top of his arm, rubbing gently. Her muscles were tense, he noted, but that thought was brushed aside. “Good evening, love.”

Ban arched her neck, and he pecked the proffered cheek. “Did your day go well?”

“Well enough. I-” He stopped himself. Not yet. She didn’t turn to face him, or ask him about what he had just tried to say. Evidently something else was on her mind. “I trust the business with the cloister has now been fully resolved?”

She pulled away from his grasp, heading back inside the palace. “It has. They’ve agreed on a lump sum. Only the paperwork needs to be signed.”

He followed her in, a step behind her. “That’s… wonderful news.”

They headed towards the dining room. If she was avoiding his gaze as much as he was hers, he couldn’t muster enough courage to ask.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The only sounds were of clinking glasses and the utensils as they ate. Neither reached out to the other’s mind - an uncommon thing during mealtimes - but neither commented on it. He was thankful for it - it gave him some time to think and consider exactly how he wanted to broach the topic.

She finally cleared her throat after dessert, the first sound she’d made in a while, and he looked up.

“Astarion,” she said, her face tight. He tensed. Did she already know? How?

“My love?” He forced a lightness he did not feel at all into his voice.

“I think it’s time you tell me how much contact you’ve actually been having with my parents.” Before he could say anything she passed an envelope to him, and he looked down at it.

A letter addressed to him, from Roderich. Ban hadn’t opened it. He fought down a flood of relief, then waved it at her. “If you were so concerned about our correspondence, love, you could have opened it. I would not have minded.”

“I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

Cold. Angry. He sighed, thoughts of Adrien temporarily pushed from his mind. He ripped the envelope open, scanning the text as quickly as he could. As expected, it was nothing of import.

“Here.” He passed the letter to her. “They are merely asking for updates, the impatient wretches.”

Ban read the letter, and then reread it. “I see. But why would they ask for updates in the first place?”

“I made an agreement with them,” he confessed. “I was to inform them if… if we found Adrien, and in return they promised to leave you both alone.”

Her eyes softened. “That… well.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “Sorry. It’s just that… when it comes to them, I… I find it hard to be reasonable.”

“I don’t blame you.” His old methods slipped back in without his conscious choice. Sidetrack the conversation, spin it into something else. Do anything, everything - just to avoid what needed to be said. “There’s little need to apologize. Shall we head to our room, then? I've yet to finish that book.”

Ban stared at him for a long moment, far longer than she usually did. He felt her eyes move from his face to his body, her index and middle finger shifting to feel his pulse.

Controlling his body language was something he could do without much trouble, seeing as he'd had to do it for centuries. Calming his pulse however, was another; he hadn’t had much practice with that. As her fingertips touched his wrist he pulled it away.

She frowned. “What's wrong?”

No. Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I’m not ready!

He spoke anyway.

“Adrien left your parents.”

She broke into a laugh. “Well, that's ironic. And also good! If he ran away, I'm sure we'll stumble onto him eventually, but there's no rush. He'll handle himself well - at least I hope.”

He made a small, strangled sound, fighting to get the words out.

“He… left, to cool off.”

“Oh.” She sat up straighter. “And then decided to run away? Impulsive as always.”

“That was my initial conclusion.” Astarion gripped the table, knuckles white.

“But there's more to it.” The smile on her face died. “What happened, Astarion?”

“He-”

A deep breath, and then another. His hand sought hers, gripped it tight. Ban bit her lip.

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Astarion didn't know whether to shake his head or nod. He felt frozen, eyes locked onto hers. “He…”

“He is.” Her voice cracked, and he hated it. Ban was never one to cry, after all. He could count on one hand the number of times she'd allowed it to happen in his presence. “Y-you don't have to say anything, I… thank you, for finding him.”

“He isn't just deceased, Ban.” He locked eyes with her, steeling himself. His jaw tightened.

“Then what? Please. I know it's bad. The way you've been acting all night, the way you haven't spoken - please.”

“By all definitions he's dead,” he managed to say. “The circumstances of his demise are, however, a matter in and of itself.”

He stared at her for a long, hard moment.

“We killed him, love. We killed him in the rite.”

[talaok]

Can I kiss you?

pairing: Virgin!Peter Parker x Stark!fem!reader  summary: this is a sequel to -A helping...mouth- but can stand alone. You basically offer to help Peter out again. warnings: Verginity loss, unprotected sex ( sub!Peter x Dom!reader)  a/n:I was desperate to write some subby smut but I'll get back to the requests now.

pt.3

you were sat on the couch in the living room of the avengers tower, zapping channels, desperately trying to find something good. Everything looked tedious, and you were bored out of your mind. You checked your phone and much to your dismay, no new notifications had appeared. Hugh. you threw it on the cushion as you pressed the remote again. It was 4 pm and the sun was shining outside, brewing possibilities of all the things you could have done today, but there you were, on the couch, slowly going insane. Another car commercial appeared on the screen and that was it. You shut it off and got up. The only thing left to do was to bother your father. You sighed as you pressed the elevator button, maybe he was doing something interesting in his lab for once. The elevator's door dinged as they opened and for the first time in your life, you believed in miracles. Peter was right in front of you, standing awkwardly in the middle of the elevator. His face dropped as soon as he saw you, while yours lit up. What was a better cure for boredom than this? "hi peter" you smiled widely stepping into the elevator he swallowed nervously "h-hi Y/n" he basically whispered. You were staring at him, and he was doing quite the opposite, his eyes never leaving the floor. "How are you doing?" you asked, stepping closer to him. "I'm-I'm fine" "good" you looked at the button pressed "What brings you here?" his fingers twitched around the bag's handles he was gripping. "Mr. Stark asked me to bring him a thing" "Oh" you pretended to be interested "Is it like a secret superhero thing?" He glanced at you quickly before turning right back "Yes-Kind of" "cool" An idea came to mind. You just wanted to have some fun. "And what about the suit" you bit down a smirk "did you fix it?" His adam's apple bobbed up and down as he gulped, his cheeks getting even redder than they already were. "Uh-I-" he cleared his throat "Yes" he nodded "it's fixed" "Well I'm just glad I could help" He stiffened and you smiled "I hope you didn't mind" You stepped closer to him again, you were now right next to him. "N-no I didn't" his eyes found yours, and you could see so much fear in them you almost felt bad "You were really h-helpful" he stuttered. "I'm glad" you grinned. "and you know" your hand found his hair, caressing it gently, as an almost interceptable groan left his mouth "I'd love to help out again" you toyed with the hem of his shirt "maybe we could help each other out this time" his chest was moving up and down far too quickly for him to be breathing normally. "wouldn't you like that?" you asked gently. "I- I would love that" he immediately spat out. Such a cute boy. "bu-but your father-" he started but you interrupted him. "my father has nothing to do with this Peter" your fingers guided his chin to look at you "Bu-but if he found out-" "we'll just have to make sure that he won't" you bit your lip "you're not that loud, are you?" His eyes widened, followed quickly by his mouth but you stepped away, a knowing smirk remained printed on your lips as the elevator doors opened and you stepped out, not sure whether he was ever gonna do the same or just become part of the elevator. Elevatorman didn't sound half bad. What's he doing there? Nobody knows, he's just there. Some say he used to have something to do with spiders. you laughed softly at the picture before entering your dad's lab. "hey dad, Peter is here to give you some super secret thing" "Ok, tell him to come in " Tony said, going back to his work but stopping to look back at you "and try not to torture the boy too much all right?" "Don't worry dad, I wouldn't dream of it" you smiled guiltily before getting out. "he's waiting for you" you said as you reached Peter, who had apparently regained the ability to move his legs as he was outside the elevator "And so will I" you whispered to his ear before stepping into the elevator again "15th floor, 1st room on the right" you said, waving at him as the doors closed. Finally some fun.

You had heard his steps outside 10 minutes ago and he still hadn't knocked. You could almost see him breathing heavily in front of the door, thinking about what he should say and panicking about wether he should even be doing this. You had waited but now it was just getting ridiculous, and plus as time passed, the possibility of him changing his mind increased, and you didn't want that. You really really didn't want that. "Hey there" you greeted him as you opened the door. His eyes widened and his cheeks reddened once again. "I was just about to-" he said panicked, before his expression changed to a confused one "h-how did you-?" You chuckled softly "I could hear you overthinking from the other side of the wall" "Oh" he said "It's nothing" you smiled reassuringly "come in" he did, stepping into your room like he was afraid a trap might fall on him any minute. You closed the door behind him and walked up to him. "did everything go alright with my dad?" you asked, tracing your fingers on his arms. "Y-yes, everything alright" he looked at his feet. "good" you hummed "Is this your room?" he looked around at the books-filled space. "yup" you said stepping closer to him "b-but you don't live here" You laughed softly " nope" you slowly intertwined your arms behind his neck "but I come here sometimes" you kept talking as you felt his breathing getting faster "So dad decided to give this room to me" you played with the hair at the base of his neck, twisting some locks between your fingers "You like it?" he glanced at you, so close to him he could feel every inch of you, and he put all his effort into spitting out some words, trying to at least look like he wasn't having a heart attack. "I-I do" he smiles softly "You read a lot" "I do" you did the same. You looked at his hands, frozen by his side, and laughed softly "you can touch me you know?" He blushed "I'm sorry I-" "stop apologizing Peter" you said, taking one of his hands in yours "here" you placed it on your waist "you like that?" he gulped as he could only nod shyly. "Do you want to use the other one too?" He didn't answer, he just slowly raised his hand to set it gently on your waist. You looked up at him and smiled. You couldn't help but do only that. he looked so soft, his pupils scanning frantically your whole face and his pinkish mouth parted, ragged breaths escaping it. You wanted to know what he was thinking. for the first time in your life, you felt like you couldn't fully understand a boy. they usually were quite frankly, simple. You batted your eyes and smiled at their jokes and they would text you asking you to "watch a movie" at their house. It was easy. But with Peter, it wasn't like that. He had many thoughts spinning in that head of his, and some of them you felt you could understand, but some other ones, they were harder to reach. And you liked that. you liked, for once, not knowing. "What are you thinking?" you asked His lips twitched into a shy smile. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself before he actually could. "Don't worry" you stood on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek "I won't judge". Peter felt a shiver run down his spine, and he wondered at that moment, what he had done in his life to be so lucky. "Can I-" he looked at you shily "can I kiss you?" Your heart skipped a beat, as a warmth invaded your body. God, he was sweet. "Of course Peter" you smiled, leaning up once again to meet his lips with yours. He was unsure at first but as he calmed down your lips melted into one another, just like your two bodies. He smiled sincerely as you leaned away, for the first time since you had met him, seemingly careless. "Y-you're really beautiful" he whispered, and now it was your turn to blush. You didn't know how to respond, so you kissed him again, walking towards the bed until his legs hit it. He looked at you confusedly and you smiled "sit" He did and you didn't miss the opportunity to straddle him. Your lips found his again and your tongue started exploring his mouth, as your hips started moving on their own, earning little moans from him. His hands came up to your waist, staying there awkwardly as your hands roamed through his hair and back. "y/n" he murmured against your lips "shit" he whined as you kissed his neck. "mh-mh?" you asked, not stopping the trail of kisses you were leaving on his pretty neck. "I-I" he couldn't talk, and so you stopped to look at him. "what baby?" Fuck. The pet name made him groan lowly, only worsening the situation. he looked down at his crotch and you followed his line of sight, a very evident bulge prominent under his jeans. you smiled softly "It's fine baby" you stroked his cheek "actually it's more than fine" you chuckled "I'd be offended if it hadn't happened" "oh" he breathed a sigh of relief and you kissed him briefly before going back to his neck. Little desperate moans fled his mouth as you started sucking on a spot below his ear. You drank all those pretty sounds up, praying to never forget them as you watched his skin redden. "There " you said once the hickey was fully formed on his neck "now you're gonna remember me every time you see it" He laughed softly "I-I don't think I'm gonna need this y/n" You grinned, pushing him onto the bed "shut up" you murmured giddily before attacking his lips once again. You kept kissing him and grinding on his crotch, as he kept emitting low groans. You found the hem of his shirt and broke the kiss to take it off of him. Your hands immediately finding his sculpted abs and firm chest, exploring and tracing every line of his six-pack. he was immobile, mesmerized by the look of you, touching him where he had never been touched, making him feel things he had never felt. You kissed his pec quickly before leaning away to take off your shirt. Peter thought he was gonna die, and to be honest he wouldn't have even minded it. Your perfect boobs were squished between a white lacey bra, and peter tried, he really did, to take his eyes off of them, but he couldn't. You laughed softly "Would you like to take it off?" "Yes" he spat out, "please yes" he murmured as his hands unclasped your bra. He tossed it somewhere on the floor as his mouth slacked open. "shit" he said, looking at you for approval as his hands came up to grope your tits. You bit your lip just as he did, nodding while his hands gently touched you everywhere. You took advantage of this moment to let your hand travel to his crotch. A desperate moan left his mouth as you gently stroked his erection through his pants. "F-fuck" he pleaded, looking at you. "I know baby" you cooed "I'm gonna make you feel better" you ghosted his lips "I promise" He growled lowly. Your fingers found his zipper and you undid it, kissing his briefly before getting off of him to kneel in front of him. Flashbacks from the last time passed through his mind and he gulped nervously. "raise your hips honey" he obeyed eagerly and you pulled his pants off of him, getting up to admire him once you did, all of him. he blushed, and you smirked. Your hands found your skirt and you started to shuffle it down your legs but peter's thin voice interrupted you. "wait y/n" You tilted your head to the side "yes baby?" you asked, noticing his cock twitch at the pet name. "I- I have to tell you something" "what is it?" you asked sweetly "Well I-I" he avoided your gaze "I've never done this y/n" You smiled "baby" your skirt fell to the floor, and Peter started having serious doubts about whether or not his heart could take this. You climbed back onto him "don't worry" you kissed him gently "I'm gonna take care of you baby" you kissed him again "you just have to relax" you gripped his cock "i'll take care of the rest, alright?" He looked at you with those big beautiful puppy eyes before nodding eagerly, just the feeling of your hand on his cock almost killing him. You positioned his dick at your entrance and moaned lowly as you sank down on it. A series of ragged little breaths left his mouth, and he groaned loudly once he bottomed out. He put his hands on your waist and you bit your lip "good boy" you praised him, before starting to move up and down his length. "shit" he murmured "feels good?" you kept your pace "Y-yes" he growled thinly, unable to speak. "Good" you bent down to kiss him "you're doing so good baby" you gripped his shoulders "making me feel so good" you bit your lip "fucking me with your hard cock" he moaned "such a good boy" you kept looking at him as your moans intertwined, becoming one. As you bounced on his cock you noticed his eyes fixated somewhere, and you smirked softly as you realized where. "you can touch them y'know?" you raised your eyebrows and his mouth parted in stunner "I- just-" you cut him off, taking one of his hands to place it on your boob. He looked at you unsurely before you nodded at him, encouraging him to bring his other hand up, groping your other breast. He took them both in his hands, studying their every inch, as you kept up your pace, your thighs starting to tire slightly. "You like that?" you asked, "you like my tits?" "I-I do" he moaned desperately "they are perfect " he breathed out. You smiled, bending down again to kiss him, this time your tongue infiltrating into his mouth, drowning out his groans as he started getting closer. "Are you coming baby?" you asked sweetly "are you gonna cum inside of me honey?" you asked out of breath "fill me up real good?" He nodded, his eyes shut from the pleasure, as his mouth stayed parted, the same filthy little moans escaping from it. "so good" you praised him, going a little faster now "so good for me baby" "y/n" he whispered your name, and you realized he was coming "shit y/n" he continued. "Then cum peter" you put a hand on his chest to get more leverage "be a good boy and cum inside of me baby" you said, finally sending him over the edge. Desperate moans resembling your name came out of his mouth and they filled the room as you kept moving, letting him ride out his high. He opened his eyes once he was back to earth, and you couldn't help but smile at his cuteness. His cheeks were red and he was breathing heavily, so so so cute. "This was really fun" you kissed him before getting off of him to lay next to him. "It was" he agreed, staring at the ceiling before turning back to you, his brows furrowed. "But You- you didn't cum" he almost whispered, and you laughed softly "Don't worry baby" you shuffled his hair "It'll be for another time" Another time, Another time, peter thought, he had no idea if you had just said that to shut him up, but he hoped to god it meant what he wanted. 'Cause if there was one thing he knew right now, was that you were gonna be his only thought for yet another week.

[avelera]

Some slightly more coherent thoughts about Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse (ATSV) now that I've had a little time to process and long to return to the theater to see it again and again and again:

1 ) Go see it. Holy shit, go see it. Re-watch Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (ITSV) before you go if you have the chance but you don't have to, they recap it well enough and I promise anyway, the first thing you're gonna do when you get home after is turn ITSV on and then scream a bunch because it is all so tightly connected from the very beginning.

2 ) ITSV is a masterpiece. ATSV is more of a masterpiece in the same way that 11 is bigger than 10. They took everything in ITSV, which is a perfect 10/10 and made it 11/10 for this film. I shit you not. It cannot be otherwise expressed with words. Everything is just bigger, faster, bolder, more.

Ok, now getting into some of the more spoiler-y thoughts:

3 ) Loved me those themes of connection and loneliness. When you go back to ITSV, you see it's right there from the start. All of the version of Spider-Man are lonely. They are tired. They're isolated and unsupported and they are all suffering. Miles makes their lives better. They make Miles' life better. This becomes such a huge, huge theme in ATSV as Miles literally breaks the canon, he is the ultimate fix-it fanfic character, every Spider-Man he interacts with gets some element of their tragic backstory fixed. Peter B. reunites with MJ and has a child that brings joy back into his life. Gwen gets a friend again. Pavitr doesn't have to watch his girlfriend's father die. They are no longer doomed by the narrative.

4) Another post commented on how tired Peni looks when we finally see her, but she's not the only one. All of the Spider-People in the Spider-Verse look tired and it is, in fact I'd argue, Miguel's fault. He appealed to their sense of martyrdom to put together an organization that helps people and saves the world(s). BUT he made "maintaining the canon" an aspect of this (a wonderful meta commentary on Miles himself, btw, and all the comic book nerds who want to rehash the same story over and over instead of transforming it into something new and hopeful). Because they had all suffered so much, it followed logically for all the Spider-People that all of their parallel universe selves must also suffer.

This is the crab bucket mentality. Miguel dragged all the Spider-People into the crab bucket with him. He taught them learned helplessness. They're all tired and worn down because they have to keep reliving their own trauma by standing by and making sure these awful things that happened to them continue to happen, over and over. It's the mirror too for any marginalized community where the past generation believes the next one must suffer as they did. But it's exhausting for them to see the misery and do nothing. That's why they're all so tired. It makes sense to them that to be Spider-People, the next generation must suffer as they did but they are also, all of them, heroes and so it wears them down to watch this happen over and over. Miles brings back their energy and joy and their hope by refusing to be doomed by the narrative.

It's wonderful fanfic but it's also fantastic storytelling and it works on so many layers of the story, Doylist and Watsonian, all the way down.

5 ) THIS is a tightly knit story. Every. Single. Element. Ties back to the central story, the central themes. Every line either reveals plot, character, setting, or themes. It is so, so tight as a writer I was gaping. In necessary, if brief, moments of exposition they make sure to keep the screen busy and moving. There's no time for boredom. It is literally so fast that even as someone with ADHD I was sometimes overwhelmed as much as riveted. The few scenes that slowed down to simply fast movie pace felt achingly slow as a result and I bet you they were maybe 30 seconds long.

6 ) I AM. SO HYPED. FOR THE ENDING AND THE SEQUEL IT SETS UP? The perfect dark mirror story, not rushed but simply introduced so we can see that the final boss for Miles is himself. Unless they subvert that expectation, which they might! But it is so ominous to see Prowler Miles, it makes so much sense, it is perfect and deep and rich. Literally every time you think, "Maybe they'll rehash old material?" they don't they just keep introducing cool new characters and concepts and themes it's mindblowing.

7 ) They never leave you with one thread. Miles is going to face himself and fight to save his dad from the Spot and fight Miguel, presumably, in the next one. No single line only does one thing. No frame does one thing. And yet everything ties back to the core story of Miles and the Spider-People both on the Watsonian and Doylist level. I want to study every frame under a microscope. It's insane.

8 ) THE ART IT'S JUST. I'm not an artist so I'll leave it at this but THE ART.

9 ) I love Pavitr and Hobie. So much. I gasped when we saw Pavitr's world.

10 ) The Spot's animation was insane just insane and I think he's foreshadowed in the ITSV and it blew my mind on the re-watch.

I need to see it again. I could talk about any single element for hours. But I just can't stop thinking about the mastery embodied in this film. I know a sequel to a superhero movie that's animated will never win Best Picture but I do not exaggerate when I say that in itself might be an indictment of Best Picture. This film deserves Best Picture. It is the best movie I've seen in an unfathomably long time including ITSV.

[britt-kageryuu]

Clips from a stream that wasn't VODed because, they weren't sure if the full VOD wouldn't be demonized or something.

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

Leo's model is in Rainbow Unicorn themed pajamas, with matching slippers and eyemask on top of his head.

Leo: So out of boredom, let's read some fanfiction! I need something new to read after rereading this one very long Text Message/Group Chat fic from 2018 again, it has a whole set of sequel fics attached. So send in some recommendations, but Watch The Ratings People! Not to mention the tags!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The screen where the story is showing is half coved by an Image of an embarrassed looking cartoon red eared slider.

Leo: Well then, I guess some people don't like to rate, or maybe tag their stories properly. I'm going to skim over this to see if I can read, let alone show this on stream.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leo: Well that one was nice and short, maybe a bit rushed feeling, but not bad. And now to peek back into the pandoras' box of suggestions. Maybe some from that one popular ended series that got bashed for apparent queer baiting... Was that to vauge?... There are HOW MANY shows that that happened too?... Wow!

He looks very amazed, confused, and a bit worried.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leo is just staring at the suggestion that was chosen. He slowly turns to look at the camera with a bit of a concerned look.

Leo: How Long Have You Been Writing Fanfiction About Us!?.... WHY?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leo: And Fanfiction about our Dad, who's model is a tall rat man that vaguely looks like Lou Jitsu!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leo: Huh, a Fix-It story for Jupiter Jim that makes half the series irrelevant. Let's see what this author decided needed fixing, other then the overly redundant 60 'Last Trip to The Moon' movies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leo: Well that was interesting, and let's end this stream before I more seriously start to question you guy's taste in fanfiction! Good Night Everybody!!

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

Masterpost

[wander-over-the-words]

BioFluff Week 2023 Fic #1

Title: La Familia Sinclair.

Prompt: Photos/Memories

Summary: The one where Eleanor looks through Sinclair’s family photo album.

Characters: Augustus Sinclair, Subject Delta, Eleanor Lamb; mentions of Sofia Lamb, Grace Holloway, Stanley Poole, Gilbert Alexander, Little Sisters, Big Daddies.

Pairing: Some Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta, but mostly just Eleanor and Sinclair family fluff.

Warnings: mentions of deaths of family members, child neglect, child abuse via corporal punishment, murder.

Notes: First submission for a new BioFluff Week! Here’s the response to the prompt ‘Photos’! Shit ton of Sinclair headcanons in this one, alongside some progression of Sinclair and Eleanor’s familial relationship.

Side note: This works as a sequel to my seventh prompt from last year, It’s Not All Sunshine and Rainbows, but it’s not a necessity to read that first; would just help to explain a couple things, and the events of that fic are mentioned in this one.

All material belongs to Irrational Games.

Fic also available on AO3.

…

“Pretty sure I left the waterin’ can inside, sugar,” Sinclair calls to Delta as he steps up onto the porch in his back garden, pulling the soil-stained gardening gloves from his hands and leaving Delta standing by his freshly-planted rose bushes. “Be a lamb an’ wait here - I’ll go fetch it.”

Delta gives him a thumbs up as Sinclair tosses the gloves onto the ground by his foot, then turns and makes his way into the house, not bothering to fix his sleeves from where they’ve been rolled up to his elbows as he places his hands on his hips and ponders what he did with that darn watering can.

He retraces his steps back into the foyer of his lavish home, lifting a hand to his chin to tap at it with one finger.

This morning, at breakfast, he and Delta had been chatting about planting those roses Delta had wanted for the back garden, so Sinclair and Eleanor had gone into town to buy them from that gardening shop they’d gone to for the top soil (which had taken far longer than it’d needed to because he hadn’t had the heart to tell Eleanor to stop asking the employees more questions about plants and the sun and bees and rain and so on and so forth). When they’d brought the flowers home, Delta had taken them out back to start planting right away, and Sinclair had grabbed the watering can from where his gardener had left it in the basement prior to Sinclair’s ‘disappearance’. He’d filled it up at the kitchen sink, and then there’d been a knock at the door.

Door-to-door salesman, something he definitely hadn’t missed when he’d lived in Rapture. With expert charisma, Sinclair had cut the salespitch short and shooed the guy away from his property; when Eleanor had tried to say he’d been rude not to at least listen to what the man had to say, Sinclair had delivered to her a very valuable lesson about living on the surface.

“Honey, listen,” he’d said, pointing toward the doorway. “As someone who worked that job back in his days as a young entrepreneur, let me go ahead and tell you the truth: it’s a scam. They’re alllll scams. The aim of the game, sweet pea, is to either charm the homeowner into buyin’ or annoyin’ ‘em so much that they might as well be fish purchasin’ water - anythin’ to get you off their doorstep. And whether they wanted that product or not, it’ll either break or - well, they’ll never see it in the first place. Their money’s gone, and all they gots left is a hunk of junk. The only sellers goin’ door-to-door that you should ever say more’n two words to are the Girl Scouts when they come by sellin’ their cookies. When they come ta town, everybody wins.

“As for the sellers: they do the same thing, every day, with never a hitch in their schedules, and people get wise to their schemes. Eventually, either the boredom will get to ‘em, or the guilt will. Trust me, honey,” he’d held up his hands, flicking one dismissively toward the door, “that job is nothin’ but a soul-sucker, on both sides of the coin.”

After a moment, he’d smirked, shrugged a shoulder, then smugly adjusted his tie as he added, “But admittedly, it was how I made my first hundred.”

And then he’d gone to the back garden, to join Delta and help him to plant those roses - so that means that, unless it grew legs and ran away, the watering can is on the kitchen counter, next to the sink.

With a nod, Sinclair spins on his heel to start making his way to the kitchen, only to jump as he immediately sees Eleanor sitting on one of the sofas in the living room, quiet as a mouse. 

Eleanor apparently hasn’t noticed him either, seated with her feet on the cushions and her knees pulled up; the only reason they aren’t touching her chest is because she has a large book open and propped against her legs. It’s got her full attention.

Starting the walk to the kitchen, Sinclair is about to leave her be when he does a double take at which book she’s holding, with its short-but-wide stature and its thick, brown leather cover with the gold-coloured plating on the corners and matching cursive on the front. He thought it’d just been one of the many books he’d treated her to when they were setting her up in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but now that he takes a second look at it…

“Hold on a moment - have you got my photo album?” he asks.

Eleanor flinches, then looks over at him. Her brow furrows and her shoulders hunch a little, concerned.

“I was only having a look, I swear,” she says.

Lifting a hand in the beginnings of a comforting gesture, Sinclair opens his mouth to reply, falters as something occurs to him, then he frowns disapprovingly and puts his hands on his hips instead.

“Well, I was about ta wax poetic about how you ain’t in trouble for lookin’,” he says, “but it occurs to me that the last I saw of that album, I was puttin’ it away - in my safe.”

Eleanor shrinks back guiltily.

While Sinclair’s office is open for anybody to look at (nothing of interest in there anymore anyways, until he gets his law firm up and running again), his safe is most certainly not. He’d cracked it open soon after returning to the house after so many years, having no problem remembering the code considering it was the number of letters for each of his names (eight-seven-eight-five). Inside had been his most important documents - such as his birth certificate and the deed to his house - but alongside those had been more personal items, like his mother’s handwritten recipes (that he has, of course, memorised), the pocket watch his grandfather had promised him when he’d been small, and that photo album Eleanor’s got in her hands - pretty much the only items that he’d had with him that weren’t clothing or cash when he’d moved away from Panama, the same ones he’d guarded with his life before he’d had a secure place to put them.

When they’d been cleaning the house, Sinclair had popped open the safe to give the inside a polish, just to ensure his belongings would remain pristine, and Eleanor and Delta had caught sight of the book. They’d been too excited for him to have the heart to deny them a peek, and so they’d all ended up flicking through it together. Delta and Eleanor reacted with pure fascination at the pictures of Sinclair’s family members, gotten a good few giggles in at the snapshots of him as a little boy, and Delta had fussed over his baby pictures in particular, making hand gestures to communicate how tiny and adorable Augustus used to be and letting out long croons that - with a more human voice - would’ve been coos.

When they’d finished their trip down memory lane, Sinclair had put the book back in the safe - and he’s certain that he’d locked it back up.

Bristling, he marches over to stand in front of her, reaching for the book with both hands, shutting it, and then passing it to his right hand to brandish it in the air.

“Now, it was one thing ta be sneakin’ around and keepin’ secrets ‘tween you and your daddy - that, I didn’t mind so much,” Sinclair goes on, “but if you’re really gonna be upgradin’ that ta stealin’ from me - especially somethin’ I hold near an’ dear - then we might hafta have a talk (with everybody present) about how you treat the fella lettin’ you live under his roof.”

Eleanor looks a lot more guilty now.

“I’m so sorry,” she says quietly. “You’re right: I shouldn’t have taken it without your permission.”

“Well, no, you shouldn’t have.”

She peeks up at him from beneath her hair.

“I recognise I have no right to ask this of you, but please, don’t tell Father.”

He gets it, he does: she’s spent a lifetime sneaking around her mother - and even Auntie Grace and Uncle Stanley - and such habits are hard to kick. 

Since arriving at this house, Sinclair’s caught her multiple times, nosing through his things like she was looking for something damning. He’s walked into a room before only to interrupt a hushed conversation with Delta, and she would turn and look at him like she’ll get in trouble just for chatting with her dad, and he’s previously come downstairs in the night to find her sneaking around his kitchen, taking something from the fridge or grabbing a glass of water or juice, and when she’d noticed him, she’d gotten defensive, as though ready to fight back against some punishment. 

He doesn’t think she’s intentionally implying he’s anything like Lamb, though it was tricky not to feel like a third wheel in those early days, and he does approach the situation with understanding. She spent years imprisoned, having to ask for things and stealing when she couldn’t get permission, it’s simply taking some time for her to get comfortable in her new life. When she decided she wanted his photo album, she’d elected to take it while he wasn’t looking, just as she would if she were still locked up in Persephone, with Lamb. 

He understands, but that doesn’t mean he appreciates it.

He can see that she feels bad, however, and he knows that she’s trying to get over bad habits, so some of the tension leaves his shoulders. 

Really, of all the things she could’ve taken from his safe, his album is the option that makes him the least angry, if only by a fraction - if she’d taken his grandfather’s watch or his mother’s recipes, then she’d be in big trouble.

“Hm. Well.” He looks her up and down, then lowers the book. “Maybe we won’t hafta let your daddy know of my grievances, or your behaviour.” He wiggles the book to gesture to it. “What were you lookin’ at it for, anyway?”

Eleanor averts her eyes.

“I…I only wanted to have another look. That’s all,” she says, and Sinclair can tell that’s not the whole truth.

Sinclair gives a hum.

“That so,” he says rather than asks. “You find my past just that fascinatin’, do ya?”

“Is that…so unbelievable?” Eleanor asks, still not looking at him.

Sinclair doesn’t reply, just lifts his eyebrows up high and stares at her hard, cocking his head slowly to project just how much he doesn’t believe her. His free hand holds his hip, while the album is pressed against the other hip, in lieu of having his hand hold it as well. If she’s going to be stealing his belongings, he has a right to know what she wants with them, he feels.

When he doesn’t speak, Eleanor lifts her gaze to look at him, sees the expression on his face, then bunches up her shoulders even more and averts her eyes again. She’s the picture of a nervous teenager, despite how well she apparently thinks she’s keeping up the nonchalant act, but there is some familiarity in the way that she looks as though she’s trying to hide behind her own shoulders - her father does the same thing.

There’s silence between them for a few moments, Eleanor glances at him again and drops her gaze when she sees he’s still staring, then her brow furrows even more and she speaks.

“...When we were in town last,” Eleanor says, “getting Father’s roses for him…I overheard a conversation, on our way back from the shops. There were some people around the same age as myself, and they were…discussing things that their grandparents had told them. It just…made me realise that I…I can’t relate to that. I don’t have any grandparents to speak of. And any time I brought up such topics with Mother, she would find them ridiculous, so…I’m sorry for being so secretive.”

Hands falling from his hips at last, the rest of the tension leaves Sinclair’s body language, surprised at such a personal response. He almost feels a little guilty for getting upset with her like that, however justified he is. 

For a moment, he doesn’t really know what to say, then he shrugs a shoulder.

“Well,” he says hesitantly. “Well, that all depends on…whether your momma’s momma an’ papa are still around. Might be that we could do some diggin’ into Lamb’s family history, be able to scoop up a lead.”

Eleanor hums in reply, but her frown deepens. 

“I suppose…yes,” she says quietly, which isn’t the response Sinclair anticipated; for whatever reason, she doesn’t seem quite content with that option. 

Sinclair opens his mouth to make another point, then closes it, hesitating. 

He doesn’t know if he should mention Delta’s family because…well, it’s an unspoken topic between them all, but upon thinking about it, it’s very easy to work out that it’s nearly impossible for Eleanor to be Delta’s biological child. By the time ‘Johnny Topside’ had arrived in Rapture, Eleanor was already born, so unless Lamb went to extreme lengths to acquire the, ah, genetic material she needed from a man or somehow knew ‘Topside’ beforehand and already had it in her possession (Sinclair winces at the notion that she could have just, what, had it in her suitcase when she came to Rapture?), Eleanor can’t be his. 

(Besides, Gil and the other folks who made Delta what he is would have had to have been supremely fucking lucky to have paired Eleanor with her real father, if that had been the case, and nobody in Rapture was that lucky.)

Then again, he knows it doesn’t matter in the long run because Eleanor will never see any man but Delta as her father, blood-related or not, and Delta feels much the same. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to be the one to breach that topic with her, but if there’s a chance it could make her feel better…

He steps lightly: giving another shrug of the shoulder, he adds, “There might…also be a chance of us, ah…findin’ somethin’ out about your daddy. Maybe find whoever raised him into the gentleman we know so well.”

It seems to work: Eleanor’s lips lift up in a hopeful little smile and she nods.

“That does sound lovely,” she says. “And it would be a treat for Father, as well, to get to know his family all over again. I’m sure he’d love that.”

“Course he would,” Sinclair replies with a nod. “We’d just hafta go puttin’ in the hard work ta find out who it was he used to be.”

Eleanor hums again and says no more, so Sinclair rubs the back of his neck and then awkwardly holds out the book as a peace offering.

Eleanor looks up at him, her eyes silently questioning on whether he’s certain, and when he nods, she gratefully takes the album back and flips to the pages she was on before.

Still feeling a little awkward, Sinclair moves over to sit beside her on the couch, on the edge of the cushion, hands on his knees.

“Hm. An’ here I was, thinkin’ you mighta just been scopin’ out ideas fer your own shutterbuggin’,” Sinclair says, trying to lighten the mood a little.

Since arriving on the surface, Eleanor’s taken up photography, brought on by her fascination of the world around her. Sinclair bought her a camera once her interest had become known - since the camera he’d had here at the house was beyond old, she deserved to have the latest thing - and she’d been so thrilled that she’d thrown her arms around him in an excited hug. He’d been so startled, so unused to physical touch beyond what Delta does, that he’d just frozen up, then had cut the hug short with an uncomfortable laugh and shooing hands.

Ever since then, she’s been snapping all over the place. He doesn’t know if she’d gotten any such inspiration from watching her father using the genetic research camera down in Rapture - she doesn’t seem as interested in film as she does photography - but it seems like Delta’s got his own regular junior shutterbug.

Eleanor flashes a smile, then runs a finger over the page she’s got the book on.

“Could you tell me…what your grandparents were like?” she asks after a moment.

Sinclair is briefly caught off guard, thinking they’d moved past the topic, then he cocks his head and stares into space as he thinks.

“Well,” he says, “I don’t recall any of my time with my dear ol’ nana - she went an’ lost her health ta sickness and left us before I ever set my feet on the ground. I was told ‘bout her by my granddaddy, though, an’ he always said she was a…nice lady, if just a bit fiery with her temper.” 

He titters, then goes on, “My granddaddy was a modest fella. He was stern, but he was fair, too. But most of all, he just enjoyed bein’ a granddaddy, an’ since we lived under his roof, he got ta spend all the time in the world gettin’ to know me - and I him. He had fun tellin’ me stories - both fictional and non - an’ did his best to help teach me right from wrong. He believed in helpin’ his fellow man, however much that message stuck itself in my mind.” 

He looks to Eleanor as he adds, “And if I’m honest, honey: your daddy makes me think of him sometimes, when he’s bein’ especially noble.”

Eleanor smiles gratefully, then turns her attention back to the book.

Sinclair straightens his back and tilts himself to look at the pages she’s got the book flipped to, and just as it was when he first saw those pictures upon returning to Georgia, his heart feels heavier when he sees his late family members. Upon first glance at one of the pictures, he locks eyes with his mother.

These photos are from before Sinclair’s birth, so she looks a little younger than he remembers her, but still just as beautiful, with her brown skin and her wavy, dark hair that’s long enough to reach her chest, her soft face and kind eyes and loving smiles, and her dresses that he remembers as vibrant and colourful, even with these pictures being in black and white. 

And even without colour in the photos, it’s clear from just a glance that Augustus got his hair and eyes from her.

Hola, Mama, he thinks with a smile, nostalgic, then his gaze drifts to the older man and woman on either side of her in the picture, taken at some party or event before Sinclair’s birth. Hola, Abuelo y Abuela.

And then his eyes find a photograph on the next page, of his parents on a date, embracing with happy, youthful grins on their faces, and he looks the younger image of his father in his eyes as his own face falls.

Papa, he regards him calmly and says no more than that.

His focus is broken when Eleanor starts flipping pages, startling him and making him look to her, surprised.

Most pictures of his grandparents are in the section of the album from before his birth, since his nana died so soon afterwards; he would’ve thought Eleanor would’ve wanted to look at those, to see the two of them together.

But no - Eleanor’s still flipping over several pages, skipping the time before Sinclair’s life had started and all of his baby pictures (and God knows, Mama and Abuelo made sure to take plenty), until she stops upon a page with a soft hum of amusement, then turns the pages much slower now, actually taking in what she’s seeing.

Sinclair sits back on the couch and picks up his glasses from where they’re dangling off his neck, putting them on to see better what she’s looking at.

Snapshots of his childhood, from age three, according to the writings on the slips of paper under each image. His mother and grandfather were dedicated to capturing practically every minute of his early years, being his biggest fans and all - and of course, for every image of him being the sole figure, there’s a picture of him with either or both of them. Not hard to capture, either - he’d spent all of his time together with them - but Abuelo was especially generous in letting his daughter be in the most photos with his grandson. Seemed to be more excited taking the pictures than being in them; Sinclair almost wishes there were more of he and his grandfather together.

Sinclair skims the photos whenever Eleanor stops on a page, looking at his child self: a poor but tidy little kid, young enough that his dark hair was still a little fluffy, even when combed as neatly as Mama could get it. He’s dressed in baggy, long-sleeved shirts and equally baggy trousers, in tiny little suits whenever they went to church, and he’s smiling and laughing in all of these pictures, with baby fat still in his cheeks and already getting round around the waist, a neat foreshadowing to his present day figure. 

His brow furrows slightly at the earlier pictures of he and his mother, stopping at one where she’s crouching down to his height and hugging him tightly, captured amidst blowing a raspberry against his cheek, and Augustus’s past self is frozen mid-laughter, little hands holding the fabric of his mama’s bright dress. 

All of his memories of his mother are like that, with her making him laugh and smile, and her smiling and laughing in return - because that was the kind of mother she was. He’d been mostly oblivious to familial situations - their lack of money, what was going on behind the scenes with his father - when he’d been young because his mother always made sure to shield him from the harsh realities, to block his view with her smile and her warm hugs and kisses and her baking. From the second she knew about him, Augustus was the light of her life, and she made sure he knew that.

He still thinks it’d been the worst day of his life, when she’d died. 

Her baking is in the pictures too: there’s a photo of one of her pies on the current page, and then the picture next to it is little Augustus sitting in his mother’s lap with a plate resting atop his knees. A slice of the aforementioned pie sits upon the plate, a couple of bites taken from it, and Augustus is holding up a spoon toward his mother, offering the little wedge of pie on top to her. Judging by how she’s leaning in with her smile open and a proud, grateful look in her eyes, she’s accepted his offer.

To this day, he’s still never tasted a pie better than the ones his mama made, or even just as good. Not even when he’d tried to replicate them himself.

“Your mother…She seemed lovely,” Eleanor says quietly, reaching out and touching the picture with a finger delicately, careful not to smudge it. 

“She was,” Sinclair says wistfully. “Nicest lady you’d ever meet, no matter where you’d go.” 

“And she baked so often.” Eleanor observes, turning pages over in one group, then using her thumb to flick through those to prove how many pictures feature his mother’s food. “This first lot of pages are full of pictures of…pies and cakes and such.”

Sinclair gives a fond grin. “Yeah, that was her hobby. She liked stitchin’ together clothin’ for us too, but there was just that spark in her eyes and a spring in her step when it came to the kitchen. She loved it. Mostly cause she liked havin’ people stuffin’ themselves full of her food, made that spring in her step extra high ta see folks enjoyin’ the fruits of her labour, and I always got the first piece of whatever she made,” he prods himself in the chest with a finger, “cause what I thought was more important to her than anythin’, as her baby.”

He cocks his head and gives his tummy a pat as he adds, “Which, come ta think of it, was probably where I adopted my taste for the sweeter things in life…”

Glancing at him, Eleanor gives him a smile, then looks back to the photographs to turn the page. 

More pictures of he and his grandfather and his mother together; Sinclair sees Eleanor’s attention go to the snapshot of he and his mother’s old tradition of dancing around the kitchen, little Augustus balanced on her feet. More grins and frozen laughter, more of the adoration in their eyes; the norm, for the two of them. Only person who’s ever gotten him to dance, too - well, until recently, since Delta did the impossible and got him to slow dance to some of his old records after Eleanor had gone to bed.

Seems poetic that way, considering he’s never loved anybody as much as he loved his mama until Delta came along, even if the types of love are different. Makes him a little sad to know she’ll never meet the fella that turned his life around, despite the knowledge that Mama probably wouldn’t look upon their relationship with ease. She was a woman of God, after all, and here her precious baby boy is, in love with another man, never mind Delta’s current appearance.

He wants to believe she could’ve gotten over it, though, if only after knowing how much Delta’s influence has changed him - because he also isn’t oblivious to the fact that if she had seen him to his adult years, she would be absolutely ashamed of him, as would Abuelo. Even without the events down in Rapture; the scamming, the lying, the lack of empathy for his clients - they would’ve disowned him, and he would have to beg them for forgiveness.

(Then again, if his mama had lived to see him as an adult, he wouldn’t be the man he is today because when Mama said “No”, he listened. She adored him, yes, but she knew when to put her foot down. She would’ve taught him right from wrong far better than Papa ever did - or didn’t, as it were.)

Doesn’t do him well to think about falling out with either of them, so Sinclair looks down at the pictures of them together and focuses on them instead.

There’s a photo of himself sitting on a stool with an arepa con queso, munching on it as he watches Abuelo putting up shelves in one of the rooms of their house; the picture’s snapped his grandfather smiling down at him amidst reaching up to hold one of the pieces in place before he nails it to the wall. He remembers Abuelo saying Augustus could help him, which basically amounted to being allowed to tell him to work harder while he sat on a stool and ate the snacks Mama brought for them, though he does remember Abuelo letting him choose what colour to paint the shelves and lifting him up on his shoulders to test them with one of his toys. See if Abuelo’s work got the Augustus Approval.

Underneath that, there’s a picture of his mama sitting in a chair in their living room, with his little self dressed in his pyjamas (he remembers they were powder blue) and pulled into her lap, his head against her heart as he slumbers. She’s smiling down at him warmly, and Augustus knows this is one of those times where she’d sung and rocked him to sleep. Probably comforting him; he used to be scared of the dark as a kid, and he recalls how he used to go scrambling out of bed at the slightest bump in the night, yelling for her, and then hiding his face in her shoulder when she inevitably came running and scooped him up into her arms.

“...She seemed to adore you,” Eleanor says quietly; when Sinclair looks over at her, he sees she’s looking at the same picture as he is.

“She did,” he replies, “and I her. See, she was a lot like my granddaddy, an’ not just cause both of ‘em had the same blood runnin’ through their veins: she was happy to be a momma, despite everythin’ that preceded and proceeded my birth.”

Eleanor stares silently, thoughtfully, then she hums with a small pout and hastily turns more pages. 

Sinclair is perplexed by her behaviour, but leaves his questions in his head as he looks at the book, watching her flip through pages just slow enough that he can see the pictures (and there’s a cold stinging sensation in his blood when he sees the photos containing his grandfather come to a sudden end) until she stops on a seemingly random page.

On the rightmost page, there’s one, large photograph taking up the space. His mother is holding him in her arms, he’s bigger than he was in the previous pictures, and both of them are grinning at the camera - but the photo is one of the rare ones where his father is in it too.

He’s standing on the other side of Augustus, glass of something (probably booze, Sinclair thinks) in his hand. His father was a white man, tall and somewhat imposing (or maybe he just seemed that way, in Sinclair’s youth), with a head of black hair, clipped short compared to the mess it was in the photo from earlier, and a bushy moustache on his lip that had long convinced Sinclair not to grow his own facial hair out. Dressed in a suit that’s a little on the shabby side, a little ill-fitting, and he’s nowhere near as friendly-looking as Sinclair’s mother. 

He’s looking at the camera, but he isn’t looking at it like his son and wife are, and instead of grinning, his expression is stony.

They’re in the living room, surrounded by balloons and a few wrapped presents, and on the table in front of them is a cake covered in white icing and topped with a ring of strawberry chunks. The banner above their heads proclaims Feliz cumpleaños!.

Eleanor points at it. “What does this translate to?”

“Happy birthday,” Augustus replies. “That looks to be my…” he trails off as he tilts himself to check the Spanish writing beneath the photograph, “...seventh birthday.”

Eleanor nods, then frowns confusedly.

“Your father isn’t smiling. Why isn’t he smiling?” she asks. “If it’s your birthday, then…he should be happy?”

Sinclair scoffs out a sarcastic laugh.

“He should be, shouldn’t he?” he says with fake amusement, then shakes his head. “He ain’t smilin’, honey, cause he doesn’t feel like it.”

Eleanor’s frown only tightens.

“But why wouldn’t he feel like it? Your joy should bring joy to him - you’re his child.”

“Mm-hm,” Sinclair replies, crossing one leg over the other’s knee to rest there. “Precisely.”

Eleanor turns her head to look at him then.

“I don’t…understand.”

Dropping his gaze to his lap, Sinclair sighs through his nose, thinks about how to word this, then taps his own knee casually and settles on what to say.

“Sweetheart,” he says, turning his head to look at Eleanor again, “I recognise that you hit the jackpot when it came ta fathers, but some of us other folk ain’t as lucky. Yours is more than happy to be your daddy, while mine rued the day he was told he was gonna be one - unlike my momma, who was fond o’ me the second she learned about the bun bakin’ in her belly. My daddy didn’t go into romancin’ my momma with the idea of settlin’ down, you see, and so when I came around, he decided ta let me know just how much he resented me bein’ in his space.”

He shakes his head, then looks her in the eye.

“What I’m sayin’, sweet pea, is that he didn’t want me - and he made sure I knew that.”

Eleanor’s eyes widen at him, then she turns to point her eyes down at the photo album again, staring at it without really staring at it. He can see her turning this over in her head; she looks distressed.

After all, her experience with fatherhood is much different, going from not having one to having one forced on her, but bonding with him all the same and loving him by choice. She acknowledged back in Persephone that Delta might’ve not wanted a daughter, might’ve not wanted her, but that she loved him anyway, and once they’d all had a chance to breathe after the lifeboat had burst out of the water, Delta had assured her the best he could that she was his girl, despite having been brought together by strangers in lab coats rather than blood or prior interaction.

By all accounts, Sinclair would say Delta’s a fantastic father, even without the whole plot of tearing through a hellhole of a city to get back to his girl. He encourages Eleanor’s interests, protects and comforts her when she’s frightened by something no matter how small, worries for her and won’t hesitate to tell her off if she pushes the limits (coming from him, it’s a growl and a wag of the finger, but it does the job just fine) - and of course, he’s as much a great, big cuddlebug to her as he is to Sinclair, so there’re hugs a-plenty.

Like Sinclair had said, she’s lucky to have a good father, someone who adores her and shows it in everything he does; Delta has made peace with the concept of Eleanor being his daughter - first when he was brainwashed and just as easily after he was cured - and he loves it.

Sinclair’s father, on the other hand, never got that far with him. To Sinclair’s mother and grandfather, he was a gift from God. To Sinclair’s father, he was a nuisance that ruined his father’s life.

There’s silence between them as Augustus lets Eleanor think on this, then her eyes widen.

“Made sure you knew it…” she mutters thoughtfully, then looks to him in rising worry. “Does that mean…?! Are…Are you implying that he harmed you?”

Ah.

Sinclair opens his mouth, closes it, then says, “Uh, well, now - see, he showed it in lots o’ ways, honey, like never feedin’ me or changin’ me when I was fresh out the oven, never came runnin’ when he heard me cryin’, never read to me or played with me, certainly wasn’t interested in talkin’ with me - come to think of it, I ain’t sure we ever had a proper conversation ‘til my momma -”

“Augustus,” Eleanor cuts in, turning some in her seat to look at him, still with elevating concern on her face, “did your father harm you?”

Sinclair falters, unsure of what to say.

He hadn’t meant to imply that in the first place, and he clearly hasn’t done well to sway her from the topic - she’s an observant girl and she’s onto him - but to be honest, he’s surprised to see her getting so suddenly worked up over this. He agrees, the notion is horrible, but…?

Sinclair hesitates, tries to think of how to delicately word this when he knows she’ll find it upsetting, then looks her in the face.

“...A handful o’ times,” he says, watching her worry turn into horror. “It was his idea of teachin’ me discipline.”

“Discipline? How is that discipline?! How could he possibly -” She cuts herself off to ask, “What - What would he even do to you?”

Sinclair can only sigh.

He supposes if he isn’t honest on the topic, as much as he doesn’t want to upset her, then her mind will conjure things up, and she’ll be under some wrong impression and theorise worse things than what really happened.

He hangs his head for a moment, hesitating, then lifts it to look at her as he says, “For the littler things - like botherin’ him when he was tryin’ to relax or speakin’ outta term - he would jus’ smack me upside the head (or - wherever he could reach at the time), just to let me know I was startin’ to cross a line there. And if I crossed that line, he would, ah…take a belt to the backs of my hands. Hit ‘em until they were sore all over, maybe even…left behind some marks.” He clears his throat. “An’ God forbid he heard me speakin’ in an ungentlemanly way - in that case, he would haul me over to the sink, push my head in the water an’ take a bar of soap to my mouth.” 

He clicks his tongue distastefully as he mutters to himself, “Can still taste it sometimes,” before he remembers who he is in the presence of; he looks to her with wide eyes before hastily adding, “But that was all when I was bad, of course, and - Lord knows, I gave my teachers hell sometimes, but my daddy didn’t see it fit to do this sorta stuff on the regular.” 

“So he only did it sometimes?” Eleanor nearly snaps, shooting down his attempt at making the situation just a little better, then scoffs in disgust and mutters bitterly, “That doesn’t make it right.”

“Trust me, honey, I ain’t sayin’ it was my preferred method when it came ta parentin’ (‘specially since I was the child in that scenario), just that my daddy didn’t fetch his belt over every little thing.”

She looks away to stare into space, scowling now, then looks back at him.

“Is…that why you refuse to use bad language? Because of what that man did to you?”

“Hm. No. I don’t like swearin’,” he says curtly, “because there’re a million words out there - treasure trove of language - and anybody who resorts ta cursin’ just to make their point heard is a person who ain’t mastered the art of speakin’ - either that, or their momma didn’t raise ‘em right. My preferences have got nothin’ ta do with my daddy. Fact is, the only reason I’ve ever cursed in my life was cause I was nearly your age and feelin’ rebellious.”

He looks to her. “And you’d surely know a thing or two about rebellin’, now, wouldn’t you?”

That was supposed to make her smile, but she’s too caught up with this new information to really take part in the amusement, still scowling.

“You were a teenager…Hardly younger than me…” she says thoughtfully, then asks, “What about when you were little? Did he harm you then?”

Sinclair hesitates - he really shouldn’t be talking about this sort of thing when he knows it’s upsetting her so much, but then he knows she’s not going to drop it if he doesn’t answer, or she’ll get the wrong idea and think he was black and blue his entire childhood - and holds up a finger.

“He only did it the once. Just the one time. I…don’t recall what it was I did that set ‘im off, but…he grabbed me by my arm, held me in place so’s that he could put a beat down on me. I cried loud enough that my momma came runnin’ and, well…” 

He arches an eyebrow at her.

“You remember how your daddy would rip people apart for puttin’ their hands on you?”

Eleanor nods.

“Well, my momma didn’t have the strength for that, nor did she have a man-sized drill or an array of guns, but she put up the same kinda fight that your daddy did. I wasn’t audience to the whole thing, o’ course, since my granddaddy got me outta there in a second, but my daddy never tried ta lay a hand on me again, for as long as my momma lived.” 

He gives a huff of a chuckle. “Ta be honest, that’s why I never understood why they elected ta make Big Daddies. People in charge o’ that project had obviously never heard nor seen a momma bear in action.” 

Eleanor’s expression lets up just a little, momentarily comforted by the fact that Augustus didn’t suffer for his entire childhood, but then her scowl returns.

“That’s revolting,” she says angrily. “What a vile way to treat one’s child.”

Sinclair shrugs a shoulder. “That’s just how things were back in my day, honey. Was the regular to discipline yer children with a bit o’ pain - though, most folks favoured the traditional method of spanking. In some folks’s eyes, I was spoiled for not gettin’ disciplined ‘properly’. I certainly wasn’t the only child gettin’ smacked in the world, and I was most certainly not the last. Hell - I think you’ll find, sweetie pie, that some folks continue my daddy’s practises, both up here and in Rapture.”

“The last person I ever saw harming a child was soon ripped apart by a man just like Father,” Eleanor says bitterly, to which Sinclair gives an admitting shrug. “And anybody who would follow their example simply doesn’t deserve to have children.”

Sinclair gives a humourless chuckle, then rubs Eleanor’s shoulder comfortingly.

He says, “But don’t let yerself get worked up and upset about it. Nobody’s laid a hand on me in years - well, nobody but Splicers - and you can take some comfort in the fact that your daddy would never lay a finger on you.”

He takes his hand from her shoulder and, when he sees that Eleanor is still cross, he leans in and nudges her with his elbow.

“Strictly speakin’, you can also take some comfort, I suppose,” he says, “in the fact that my papa’s been dead an’ buried since before I could begin the path that he trod: with a bottle. Now,” he rubs his chin, “my granddaddy always said we should never celebrate the death of our fellow man, but, well, he ain’t here an’...you never met ‘im, so I reckon that entitles you ta feel however you’d like to feel - if you’re wantin’ to talk loopholes.”

Eleanor looks at him. “Is that the way you felt, when he finally passed away? Did you feel…relieved? Did you celebrate?”

Sinclair raises his eyebrows and looks her in the eye, fixing her with a serious look.

“Now, would you celebrate if you heard of your momma passin’ away?” he asks.

Eleanor’s face falls guiltily, clearly understanding that she’d gotten the wrong end of the stick, and shakes her head.

(They have no idea where Lamb is nowadays; she’d disappeared during the first night they were all on the surface, whilst they’d been asleep. Only Delta saw her go, but he’d communicated that she hadn’t said a word to him before leaving; they’d just shared a look, then she walked out the door and never looked back. For all intents and purposes, Sinclair considers that her officially surrendering custody of Eleanor to Delta - and himself, now. He’d offered to go look for her when they’d realised she was gone, but Eleanor had declined; she’d clearly been sad that her mother would just leave like that, but she made no effort to look for her or ask around for her, and she still hasn’t in all the time they’ve been in Georgia. Now, the topic of her mother is rarely brought up; he understands that Eleanor’s feelings toward her are…complicated, and Sinclair’s own feelings towards her are better left unsaid, for Eleanor’s sake.)

“Honey,” Sinclair goes on, “I understand how things sound from your point of view - but I was there, and I know how things really were between he and I. Sure, we were nothin’ like you and your daddy - Lord knows, we were somethin’ more like you an’ your momma - but the whole situation was…more complicated than it may have first seemed. Things weren’t all bad, and he did step up (if even a little) once my momma couldn’t take care of me anymore.

“And at the end of the day, sweetheart,” he says, nudging her with his elbow again, “he was still my daddy. An’ not only that, but he was also the only person I had left in the world, so…you gotta understand where I’m comin’ from. Got it?”

(He also doesn’t mention to her that he was the person to find his father’s body; this chat’s been serious enough already, she doesn’t need to hear about that.)

“...Yes. I understand,” Eleanor says with a nod, then chews her lip before adding, “I’m just…sorry. That you had to grow up in an environment like that.”

“D’aw, now,” Sinclair mutters, waving a hand dismissively. “Thank you for the kind words, sweet pea, but I’m just fine. Reckon I turned out,” he falters, then says, “at least a little on the good side of the line.”

Eleanor gives him a small smile, then replicates his elbow nudge.

“I think you turned out far more than a little on the good side of the line.”

Slightly taken aback, Sinclair gives her a smile.

They both look back to the book as Eleanor goes back to turning pages, going over Sinclair’s later childhood.

A muted sadness settles in Sinclair’s heart as he sees the photo of his ninth birthday, another one of himself and his mama and papa; when Eleanor turns the page, the first picture is of him, just him, smiling shyly at the camera, and then the next is his tenth birthday, and that photograph only contains himself and his father, standing side-by-side beneath the same banner from before. The writing beneath these photos is untidy and clearly a child’s handwriting.

And then the next picture is his eleventh birthday. Then his twelfth. Then his thirteenth. His fourteenth. Fifteenth. Sixteenth. Seventeenth. And then his eighteenth, where he is the lone figure, with his birthday cake.

And then Eleanor turns the page, and there’s a picture of Sinclair in a suit with a stripey blazer, white slacks and a Panama hat atop his head. Beneath it is an outdated dollar bill.

“Ah - there, ya see.” Sinclair leans over to point. “That there’s me back when I was goin’ door-to-door. If I recall rightly, I asked a fella on the street ta take my picture for me. An’ that there’s,” he points again, “my hundredth dollar.”

“You kept the dollar?” Eleanor asks incredulously, grinning in amusement.

“Course I did - it was my hundredth dollar, earned all by myself. Before that, the only money I had was left behind from my parents an’ my grandparents before ‘em, alongside the odd bit o’ change I got from trickin’ my fellow students back at school. But that dollar? I got that all by myself, through hard work. Believe I had a right ta be proud of that.”

“Didn’t you just earlier tell me that that job is just one, big scam and a ‘soul-sucker’?” Eleanor asks, turning her head to look at him and raising her eyebrow.

Sinclair stammers for a moment, then says, “Well, it was, it’s just - that didn’t seem like such an issue back then, heh.”

Eleanor smiles, amused, and looks to the right-most page: a picture of a slightly older Sinclair in a cap and gown, shaking hands with an older man, with his rolled diploma in his other hand (“Now, there’s me graduatin’ from law school,” Sinclair says to her), and underneath that, a wide shot of the house they currently reside in, with Sinclair standing on the porch, arms out at his sides and a grin just barely visible on his face from this distance.

She turns the page again and again and again, only to find the rest of the album empty. She gives a little frown as she turns the pages back to the collection of birthday photos, the only evidence left of Sinclair’s growth from child to teenager, compared to the vast collection of his earlier years.

(And Sinclair gives a little wince at seeing his teenaged self, now dressing in full suits; sixteen was the age he started experimenting with hair pomade, and Sinclair can only look disapprovingly at the way his younger self has practically plastered his hair to his scalp, rather than genuinely styling it. Gives a small shake of his head and thinks Boy, you had no idea what you were doin’, did you?)

“I suppose your father didn’t have as much interest in recording your ageing as your mother and grandfather did,” she says, somewhat bitterly.

Sinclair gives another admitting shrug.

Her frown deepens, glaring at the image of Sinclair’s father beside him in the pictures, then grabs a handful of pages to turn backwards.

It takes them back to Sinclair’s earlier childhood, his mother and grandfather alive and well again, back to coddling Sinclair’s child self. There’s a photograph of Augustus - about three years old - fast asleep in his grandfather’s lap, with his grandfather lulled to sleep against the head of his armchair, clearly a sneaky shot by Augustus’s mother (and Sinclair can tell it happened amidst story time, since that was generally the reason he’d be sat upon his granddad’s thigh like that). 

Underneath it is his child self as the sole figure, proudly showing the camera a drawing he’s done with crayons; brings back the memory of excitedly showing Mama and Abuelo what he’d drawn and them acting like it was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen, gushing about how he’ll grow up to be an artist, for sure. Any attempts to show Papa had had him gruffly telling his son “Not now, Augustus,” and walking away.

Nowadays, Sinclair’s decent at drawing, though he’s better at drawing buildings and scenary than people.

On the next page, there’s Sinclair and his mother in the kitchen. The camera is behind them as they work at the counter, with Sinclair’s past self standing on a chair so that he can reach, but they’ve got their heads turned to look at each other, so Eleanor can see the way they’re smiling at each other with utter adoration. 

She smiles at the pictures, but then her face falls into another thoughtful little frown and she once again raises a finger to carefully stroke over the image of Sinclair and his mum.

“I think I like these pictures better,” she says quietly.

“So do I, honey, so do I,” Sinclair replies.

All’s quiet between them, Eleanor even stops turning pages. Her brow is scrunched up more than before as she stares down at the photograph, brushing the bottom right corner with a finger like before. 

Sinclair’s inclined to offer a penny for her thoughts, but she speaks before he can.

“About your mother...Do you…Do you suppose…Do you think she would have…liked me?”

Sinclair’s face falls in his surprise, eyes wide, as a jolt goes through his heart as a sudden understanding dawns on him.

All this obsession with the topic of grandparents, her apparent disinterest in the option of having Lamb’s parents around to be these grandparents she desires, even when they’re her actual biological family (though, he sympathises with not wanting to meet the people responsible for raising a woman like Lamb), and the fact that upon stealing his photo album, she didn’t fuss over the photos of his grandparents, but his parents…

Sinclair’s not oblivious. He’s always known what it would mean to get into a relationship with a man who is also a father: even when he and Eleanor had had their awkward camaraderie, Sinclair would still have to play the role of a…a guardian to her, especially so until Delta gets out of that suit and can (hopefully) show his face in public. Lord knows, it’s obviously not legal for he and Delta to marry (and it’s far too early for that sort of thing, anyway), but with his relationship with her dad being what it is anyway, he would technically be a sort of…step-father to her.

Hell, they’ve already described him as such to the people who have asked: a couple of cops had turned up on their first day in this house, suspicious after it’d been left for twenty-odd years, only for the homeowner - who had ‘mysteriously disappeared’ - to turn up out of the blue. No doubt they knew as well of Sinclair’s old reputation of being the town’s resident bad guy: with a distinct air of distrust toward him, they’d asked Eleanor if she knows ‘this man’. 

The two of them had tried saying they were father and daughter, then hastily ‘corrected’ themselves when it dawned on them how unbelievable that is, considering not only do they have completely different accents, but they look absolutely nothing like each other.

(Sinclair had been inclined to sarcastically tell them to have a look at her real father, see how much like her he doesn’t look. Unfortunately, rather than saying that, he’d had to say he was married to her ‘late’ mother, the thought of which…still makes him feel nauseated.)

But that was for the sake of a lie, for the sake of Sinclair not being accused of anything unsavoury, for the sake of removing any suspicion from the fact that Augustus Sinclair has turned up after twenty-something years of being missing, now accompanied by a random teenager and a strange diving suit statue that had stood at the side of his living room.

(Questioning that last thing had had Sinclair sarcastically asking the coppers if he comes to their homes and insults their interior decorating - and he’d had to quickly distract them when a noise that kind of sounded like a whale laughing came from the statue.)

This right here, what he believes Eleanor to be implying, is…something different.

Sinclair’s never been a family man; even when he was a child, being told he would grow up to find a beautiful wife and have tons of babies, he would baulk at the idea and wonder if that was really his only option. It didn’t change when he was a teenager, where he was more obsessed with money, since he was learning the art of the scam (of course, back in those days, his prizes were measly amounts of pocket money and cigarettes), whilst all of his fellow male classmates were talking about girls - which, obviously, wasn’t his inclination anyway. 

He’d been content living here before, by his lonesome. He’d had staff members, sure, but they didn’t sleep here and certainly didn’t live here, were never invited to. This huge house was his and his alone, and he’d been completely fine with that. No spouse, no children - the way he’d always seen his life going.

And now…there’s Delta, who he never wants to be without again. 

And there’s…Eleanor, who he’s always thought of as a sweet girl, and he’d sympathised with her back in Rapture, but who had never been part of his plan upon getting to the surface. 

He’d said as much, telling Delta about that private island of theirs - and very pointedly not mentioning Eleanor. Whether Delta had picked up on that, he’s not sure; the big guy was just so jazzed about the island and then Sinclair telling him about this house, over in Georgia. Could be he just assumed Sinclair forgot to mention her because - obviously, looking back on it now - Delta was never going to let Sinclair get away with leaving Eleanor behind, and not just because he’d needed her to live.

He’s aware they’ve grown closer over the time in this house - Eleanor had shown her growing fondness for him when she sought his comfort during that tornado last month and was evidently concerned for his safety, she’d shown it just earlier when she’d grown furious on his behalf over his father’s treatment of him, and he’d felt it back during that tornado’s visit, when he’d felt protective over her when she was frightened. The thought was still a little scary, but he’d embraced it and everything had turned out okay. 

All in all, he’s accepted his role as her guardian.

But if Eleanor’s looking to have his parents be her grandparents posthumously, then that means she’s starting to look at him as a…a parent…and that’s a little more scary than the notion that they’re moving past their awkwardness toward each other. He’s spent his entire life being contently childfree, he can’t just change that in the blink of an eye.

And actually now, looking at it, he sees how she might’ve starting getting that impression, what with him buying her things that she’ll like, comforting her when she’s worried or scared, and even scolding her earlier when she’d crossed one of his lines (and, oh, God, that whole ‘stare until the child admits their wrong-doings’ is what his Abuelo used to do, oh, God). The realisation makes him feel…itchy.

Though, honestly? If one had explained this whole thing to him a few months ago, he would’ve laughed himself silly. But now that he’s here, in the moment…well. He isn’t sure about parent and child - Eleanor’s moving at a pace he can’t quite keep up with there - but to recognise Eleanor as…family, at least…

That doesn’t sound…so ridiculous anymore. Being considered a dad makes him blanche still, but family…that’s a start, that’s…comfortable.

(Although - his mind briefly drifts to the notion of her calling him, what? Other Father? Step-Father? The thought makes him sweat, and he genuinely hopes she won’t start calling him that any time soon. ‘Augustus’ is just fine, he thinks.)

Sinclair comes out of his head and focuses back on Eleanor, looking all shy as she tries to hide behind bunched up shoulders again, fiddling with the corner of the page she’s still got the book turned to. 

Here it is again - seeing her like that gives him the urge to make her feel better, and the only way to do that is -

“Ya wanna know what I think, honey?” he says, nudging her with his elbow again. “I think my momma woulda liked you very much.”

In an instant, Eleanor drops her shy demeanour and turns her head to look at him fully, smiling wide with a hopeful look in her big, blue eyes - and the sight of her like that warms his heart.

“Really? Do you mean that?” she asks.

“Mm-hm. See, I’m bettin’ that if I took ya down to meet her, she’d start sayin’ ‘Augustus, why aren’t you feeding this girl?’, and then she’d go ahead and bake you one o’ her trusty old pies and serve you more slices than you can eat. Hell, she’d probably cook you a whole big dinner, with all the foods she used ta make for me, and then she’d probably take you aside and wanna measure you up for a dress or somethin’.”

Eleanor appears positively giddy at the thought, wiggling a little in her seat in excitement, then she asks, “Do you think she would have liked Father, as well?”

Sinclair cocks his head and rubs the back of his neck.

“Well…that’s another one of those complicated situations I was talkin’ about,” he says, then gives her a half-smile, “but…I like ta think she woulda liked him very much as well. Personally, I struggle ta think of anybody who can’t grow ta like your daddy (obvious options aside), and besides, he keeps me from gettin’ into trouble, which she’d be more’n grateful for, I’m sure.”

Eleanor giggles, then looks down at the pictures, chuffed to bits. After a moment, however, she frowns and looks back at him.

“And I’m guessing that your father wouldn’t have been a fan of mine?” she asks.

Sinclair gives a puff of a chuckle. 

“I highly doubt it.”

Eleanor gives a “Hmph,” as she turns her nose up and shuts her eyes before haughtily saying, “Good. I wouldn’t have been a fan of his either. And I can’t imagine what Father would’ve done, had they had the chance to meet.”

Sinclair gives another humourless laugh.

Honestly, he wouldn’t have put it past his father to try to get physical with him even now, at his age; dear old Dad liked to be top dog around the place, enjoyed being the ‘man of the house’, and Augustus would always have been lower than him on the status ladder, in his eyes. 

Brings to mind the notion of his father giving him a smack, only to unleash the beast that is Subject Delta. He can see it in his imagination: Delta suddenly roaring furiously like he had any time a Splicer got too close to Sinclair down in Persephone, throwing aside furniture to get to Sinclair’s dad, and Sinclair having to hurry to get between them before Delta reduced his father to paste on the floor. 

(Though, to be honest, Sinclair’s not giving Delta enough credit there; he has self-control, after all. The criminal being Sinclair’s dad - worst Delta would’ve done was grab him and hoist him up in the air to frighten him. Make it clear that he is to never harm Augustus again, or he really would end up as paste on the floor.)

“Then we’ll say it’s a fortunate turn of events that your daddy will never meet mine,” Sinclair says with a smirk.

Eleanor looks at him, smiling now, then looks back down at the photo album delightedly. 

Sinclair lets her think her thoughts before watching her turn back to the later photos in the book, until she gets to the last photo - and then she flips the page, to the blank spots.

“There’s so much space in here, still,” she says, then looks at him, turning slightly shy again. “Do you suppose we could…put our photographs in here as well?”

Their photos. In a family photo album. Alongside pictures of his parents and his grandparents. 

There’s that feeling again.

He still feels hesitant in the face of this new title, but she’s looking at him all hopeful again, and he already feels sore at the mere thought of telling her no, so…

Sinclair opens his mouth to reply, only to stop and look over Eleanor’s shoulder as there comes the telltale thump-thump-thump of heavy footsteps coming closer, and Eleanor looks over too as Delta steps through the doors to the foyer, looks around, then sees them and gives a soft grunt. He starts making his way over.

“Oh!” Sinclair exclaims, sliding forward in his seat, unsure of whether he should meet Delta halfway. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry! I just went an’ ditched you by your roses, didn’t I?”

Delta shrugs. Doesn’t mind, he just came to make sure everything was okay. All’s forgiven.

He comes walking into the living room, over to Eleanor’s side of the couch, stops behind Eleanor’s shoulder, then tilts at the waist to appear curious, silently asking what’s going on.

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid, Father,” Eleanor says, smiling up at him. “I had him distracted. But look: we were having another look at Augustus’s family photo album.”

Delta gives a thoughtful rumble, then his shoulders perk upwards as he leans over and pokes at the top corner of the book’s cover, indicating that he wants Eleanor to turn to an earlier page.

Eleanor grins with amusement as she immediately knows what he’s referring to.

Sinclair knows what Delta’s referring to as well, judging by the way he shakes his head with a smile full of fake exasperation and says, “Oh, c’mon, now, chief…”

Eleanor turns back the pages in one massive group, all the way to the start of the book; she goes a little too far, to the time before Sinclair’s birth, and flips a couple of pages before finding an example of what Delta wants to see.

On the rightmost page, two large photographs take up the entire space: on the left is Sinclair’s mother, younger and still with pregnancy weight, her arms full with a little baby swaddled in a blanket, fast asleep against her heart. On the right is the same scene, only this time, the camera’s been moved to the side of her and closer for the sake of focusing specifically on the baby, his mother starting to get cropped out of frame. Her smile can still be seen, however, only now it’s less relaxed and proud and more amusedly exasperated - and it looks exactly like the one Sinclair’s currently wearing.

This close, it’s easier to see that the baby is chubby-cheeked and has a smattering of dark hair on their head the same colour as their mama’s, at peace in their mama’s hold. And underneath the photograph - in Sinclair’s grandfather’s handwriting - is Augustus Teodoro Sinclair Ortiz, tiene dos dias.

Delta immediately lets out a happy croon, then holds up a hand, his index finger and thumb pinching a small space between them. He then gestures towards his own covered face and pats his heart.

So small! So cute!

Eleanor giggles and turns the page, revealing a double-page spread of various pictures from Sinclair’s earliest days - Sinclair in his grandfather’s arms, then in his grandmother’s, then Sinclair being fed, then Sinclair being bathed, then Sinclair playing with his mama - which just makes Delta croon more.

Sinclair turns in his seat, leaning his elbow on the top of the couch and fixing Delta with a raised eyebrow and a strained smile. He’s appearing casual, but he’s got a faint blush of embarrassment on his cheeks.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, kid,” he says amusedly. “My family always reckoned I was a handsome baby, let’s just leave it at that. Though, you might wanna take it down a notch,” he points a finger at him, “cause if we end up findin’ a relative of yours, I’m gonna be askin’ for your baby pictures, and then we’ll see how you like bein’ held up like a showcase.”

Delta shrugs. He would also like to see his baby pictures, so he invites Augustus to ask for them. This threat doesn’t frighten him, Augustus.

“An’ as fer you, young lady,” Sinclair says to Eleanor before reaching over to shut the book, then he takes it and holds it close to his chest, turning away from her a little to jokingly protect the book from her, “I think you’ve had enough time eyeballin’ my pictures for today. Think I’ll be holdin’ onto this for a time, ‘til your daddy’s purged those snapshots from his mind.”

Eleanor giggles.

“That’s fair,” she says, before twisting in her seat to look up at Delta. “Father, we were just discussing up the possibility of adding our own photographs to the album as well. There’re plenty of empty pages to fill. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Delta’s shoulders only perk up higher, delighted with the notion, and just as always, seeing Delta look happy makes Augustus happy.

“Well, you know what, honey?” he says, smiling and turning back to her properly, before patting Eleanor’s knee, getting her attention. “It sounds like…a mighty good idea ta me.”

Eleanor gasps happily, then grins and excitedly looks up at Delta.

“Oh! We should start by taking pictures of your roses, Father!” she says, then starts scrambling up from the sofa. “Hold on - I’ll just go and fetch my camera!”

As she runs out of the living room and across the foyer, Sinclair calls out to her, brandishing the album up in the air, “An’ I’m settin’ the ground rule now: this album stays in my safe when you ain’t usin’ it!”

“Alright!” Eleanor calls back without looking, practically flying up the stairs to go to her room.

Sinclair watches her go, then gives a soft sigh and removes his glasses, letting them hang from the cord around his neck again. Photo album in hand, he rises from the sofa, then looks over at Delta, who’s watching him.

“Well. Reckon we oughta be gettin’ back to it, hey, chief?” he says, sounding tired, then holds up the book. “I’ll go put this away so that it’s secure, then you an’ I can go back ta twiddlin’ our green thumbs, hm?”

He starts to walk toward the stairs, but just as he goes to pass Delta, an arm comes down in front of him and blocks his way, startling him.

Sinclair whips his head around to look at Delta, raising an eyebrow in confusion, only for that arm Delta had put out to wrap around him and pull him in for a gentle hug.

“Aww,” Sinclair says with a chuckle, patting Delta’s chest. “Now, what’s this all about, pumpkin? Did ya miss me, or are you always jus’ feelin’ cuddly?”

Delta is silent; his response comes in pulling back from the hug a little to free up space between them, then prodding Sinclair in the chest and holding his finger there in his designated sign of asking Sinclair if he’s okay.

Sinclair’s mouth forms an ‘o’ in his surprise, but then he gives a puff of a laugh through his nose and shakes his head as he hangs it; should’ve known Delta would notice his demeanour, he’s even more observant than Eleanor. He’d dare to say, as well, that Delta knows him better than anybody, nowadays.

“You got eyes like microscopes, chief,” Sinclair says, glancing up at him, before patting the hand Delta’s got on him. “But no matter what you’re seein’, I’m alright. I just, uh…”

He’s not really sure how to talk about all these feelings he’s got churning inside of him right now, not sure if he even wants to, to be honest. But if he does end up chatting about it, it’s probably best to do so after Eleanor’s gone to bed; he doesn’t want to dash her hopes by having her hear about how he’s getting a little overwhelmed by everything.

He clears his throat, then reaches up to pat Delta’s chest again, giving him a smile as he says, “Forget it - I’m just fine, honey. Nothin’ to worry your head over, it’s just that, ah…this walk down memory lane was a li’l more like a trip and a fall this time.”

Delta gives a sympathetic croon, then pulls Sinclair in for a slightly tighter hug, not enough to hurt him but enough to make his point clear, using both arms this time and bending forward to try and encompass Sinclair’s body with his own.

“You are too good ta me, pumpkin pie. Didn’t I just say I was alright? You got eyes like microscopes but ears like dams, is that it?” Sinclair says with a laugh, humouring Delta by hugging him back and patting his side. “But like I said, I’m jus’ fine, so you stop your fussin’. Instead,” he pulls back and prods Delta’s chest with a finger, “you should be concernin’ yourself with the state of those roses of yours. Poor things must be gettin’ thirsty, waitin’ on us this whole time.”

Delta’s shoulders perk up again, eager to get back to work, and Sinclair chuckles before telling him he’ll just quickly put his album upstairs, out of the way, and he’ll join Delta afterwards. 

As he walks up the stairs, Sinclair looks fondly down at the album in his hands, giving another soft sigh through his nose as the gold cursive on the cover catches the light, shining: La Familia.

[roguelibrarian]

First sentences game!

tagged by @altschmerzes (thanks bro!!!)

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

I've decided to steal altschmerzes' idea and only use WIPs that I haven't posted because I think that's more fun. Also keep in mind, these are all unpublished WIPs, so almost none of what you're about to see has been edited.

As for tagging...hoo boy, do I even know 10 fic writers anymore who Gav didn't also tag? I'm not sure I do, so if you see this and want to participate, you can go ahead and say I tagged you.

Putting the rest of this under a cut so it doesn't eat up anyone's entire dash.

1. untitled Kept from the Light sequel/finale

Obi-Wan drained the last dregs of caf from his cup before setting it down with a heavy sigh.  Weariness tugging at his eyelids, he poured himself another cup and drained nearly half of it in one gulp.  Sleep hadn’t come back easily after he’d woken in a cold sweat from a dream about Anakin. About the massacre. It was a string of images and memories.  Caleb Dume’s terrified face as he told the Council what he’d seen.  Anakin’s eyes, wild with anger, as he fought to the bitter end against the Jedi tasked with bringing him in.  The twelve bodies laid out, awaiting their funerals.  Six of them impossibly small. Caf wasn’t going to fix this.

2. untitled main fic in my Across the Stars series, also known as the Starkiller Leia AU

Starkiller was bored. In theory, she was above things like boredom.  In theory, she spent every waking moment training, preparing for her next mission. In theory. In practice, she was kriffing bored.

3. Duel of the Dads, my "crack treated seriously" fic in which Kanan and Ezra need to team up with both Maul and Hondo and it's about as stressful as you would expect

Warmth and softness surrounded him on all sides, a cocoon of safety and love.  It felt like…home.  Smelled like it, too, now that he thought about it.  And the soft hum floating to his ears sounded almost like his parents’ voices when they were too far away for him to hear exactly what they were saying. Ezra opened his eyes, blinking in confusion as he took in his surroundings.  He was home.  This was his parents’ house, his childhood bedroom, looking exactly as it had the last morning he woke up here.  Before everything fell apart. Slowly, he stood, his throat tightening as he got a better look at the room.  Deep down, he knew this shouldn’t be possible, but for a moment, he let himself not care.  He’d thought he would never see this place again, and he was going to let himself bask in it as long as he could. No sooner had the thought entered his mind when something shifted.  The air suddenly felt colder, and the drone of his parents’ voices vanished.  There was something wrong; some sticky, clinging feeling that crawled up his spine and burrowed its way into his bones.

4. the untitled deep cover agent AU, also known as extreme gaslighting: amnesia edition

A-wing interceptors had long since become synonymous with the Rebellion.  Each and every one of them may as well have had the Starbird painted on their hulls.  Those who piloted them were feared, admired, avoided, or shot down on sight depending on the planet.  And so, as the small ship dropped out of hyperspace above Coruscant’s atmosphere, Ezra knew it wouldn’t be long before Imperial forces moved to intercept him.

5. untitled Emperor Maul AU fic

(so you know how in my "Maul finds Ezra first" AUs, Maul is raising Ezra with this idea that one day they'll defeat Palpatine? yeah, this is the AU where they actually manage to do that, leading to Maul accidentally-on-purpose ruling the galaxy.)

Ezra’s heart pounded in his throat as the lift descended.  He clung to his lightsaber so tightly that his fingers ached.  Even though his Master stood right beside him, he was alone, as if the rest of the galaxy outside his own head had just dropped away. Control your fear.  The voice in Ezra’s head was somewhere between his own and his master’s.  Ezra gripped his weapon even tighter, letting his anger well up within him and drown out the fear.  He was more than ready for this.  This was the purpose he’d been raised for.  Sidious had tortured his Master, used him, and then thrown him away.  And today, he would finally pay for it.

6. untitled Sith Sabine AU, in which Maul stays in power on Mandalore and Sabine is both Force sensitive and Maul's apprentice

Sabine’s eyes snapped open at the barely audible sound of a vent sliding open.  She stayed still, her muscles relaxed, feigning sleep.  Quiet metallic steps crawled down the wall, the pattern indicating at least six legs. All at once, the clanking of metal against stone stopped.  Still Sabine didn’t move, keeping her breath steady and even as she waited.  Any second now… There was a soft scraping noise and Sabine could sense the droid hurtling through the air toward her.

7. yet another untitled fic that I've been referring to as the Malachor AU

(this one I started writing/planning at the same time as Lost and Found. it's another AU where Maul kidnapped Ezra as a small child, but in this one Ezra and Kanan meet on Malachor)

Ezra had never felt so small in his life.  Here on Malachor, surrounded on all sides by the Force, the Temple towering above him, he was a meaningless speck in thousands of years of history and power. He wasn’t afraid.  Intimidated, maybe, but not afraid.  The knowledge that was hidden within the Temple was his birthright.  And this time, he would finally claim it.

8. another "Order 66 didn't happen" AU, in which Ezra is kidnapped by Maul as a kid, but in this one Maul doesn't kill his parents, and angst ensues

The dream had mostly faded already by the time Ezra figured out how to move.  He drew his knees up to his chest as he huddled in the corner, his stomach doing backflips.  What little he did remember made him feel like hundreds of tiny bugs were crawling across his skin. Shadows surrounding him.  Barely being able to breathe.  Struggling against something that wouldn’t let go. He stiffened, all thoughts of the dream vanishing from his mind, at the sound of footsteps in the corridor.  He shrank back into the corner as the door slid open to reveal his Master.  Ezra lowered his gaze, blinking rapidly.  Even the dim light in the corridor was nearly blinding in the complete darkness of his cell.

9. an upcoming "In the Shadows" fic, in which Kanan and Ezra finally escape the Inquisitors...by getting themselves captured by the Rebellion

He and Kanan were the only ones in the room, so Ezra let himself slouch as he leaned against the wall.  The other Inquisitors expected more decorum from him, but Kanan still let him get away with it.  Not that Ezra had much capacity to care right now.  After spending all day reaching into the minds of stormtroopers and officers, Ezra’s own head was filling with pressure and static.  Something was grating against the inside of his skin, which felt like it had been stuck onto his body all wrong.

10. the next (again, untitled) "In the Blood" fic, in which Ezra stares at that holo of himself and his parents for too long and has a small nervous breakdown

Ezra had been staring at the image so long that his eyes were starting to ache, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away.  In the holo, he and his parents all looked so happy.  So normal.  His father had no idea that the little boy in front of him wasn’t his.  That he was a monster born out of darkness.

also, I know it said 10, but I'm gonna add on an 11th one as a bonus. this is from a fic that I don't know if I'll ever post because I've been considering reworking it as original fiction but I've been kicking this idea around for like, years and I low-key really want to share it

11. untitled modern AU in which Maul is a serial killer and also Ezra's dad via kidnapping, because I am a parody of myself but I'm leaning into it now

“The body found in the Cowen Forest Preserve has now been identified as nineteen-year-old Hannah Walsh.  Police are attributing this death to the serial killer known as the Mauler, making this the killer’s twenty-seventh known victim.  The public is advised to –” Ezra slammed the button to shut off the radio.  Up until now, it had been doing its job as background noise, keeping him from getting distracted by his own thoughts.  But the news about the body found a few days ago had driven him right back to the things he wanted to avoid.

[batri-jopa]

Help, my fic writing turned out to be...

Little Lace Dress of Horror!😱

Okey, once I got your attention, I just wanted to say that I'm writing another fanfiction. It was meant to be a shortie short this time. Nothing serious nor official, you know:

Imagine it's like crocheting a nice little lace collar out of boredom and curiosity, just to see how it gonna look. I even let it gone wild with all the Homeric similes I dared to put into the pattern because hey, afterall it's me who's having fun here, right? If the finished version would look no good or ridiculous - then I simply won't share it and nobody even needs to know! So I kept crocheting my little fic freely, joyfully and without a plan. Yet at some moment I could not help but really liked the direction in which this crocheted collar-design was going and I wished to finish and show it to you someday. Of course the Monstrously Overgrown Laces are not that easy to be fixed and finished in a neat way, especially as at some point it looks like the main pattern was taking two different directions at the same time... Now whenever I force myself to try and do something about it I just sit and stare and "oh, this piece looks nice... and this one too... but the two don't quite fit to one another..." And, well, it doesn't make it go anywhere farther ever since😑

After 2 or 3 weeks of struggling with my indecisiveness about how to put that lace collar into a decent shape - my brain already crocheted its other end making it all look more like a top shirt. Well, okey - I though - it's just few centimeters longer than I planned, maybe it'll be even more usefull to wear... I'll name it a "bonus" or "sequel" and that'll be just fine I guess (and let me tell you this part IS fine, having exactly 1234 words and I don't want to touch it not to spoil it😋). But it won't stop me from making the exact collar part more neat later, right?

Must I say I was not surprised at all when after another few weeks the top shirt became a full sized sweater? (Three chapters?! Ahh... so that's a tiny triptych, huh?) I spend a week on making it fit and I'm actually quite proud of those sleeves I decided to add last night. ("He smiled slyly and bit his lower lip, looking with satisfaction at the effect he managed to achieve" - and oooh, so am I...😋)

But this morning I started to think how this might look nice as a tunic or even as a dress (this scene in the movie was way too good and important to not appear at all, so even with those few other circumstances rearanged, it got to take place somehow!)

So finally I took few steps back to look at it as a whole and now I'm like...😵‍💫

Jeeez, why is this collar still so freaking loose as if it got two holes for the head!?!!😫

[casuallyimagining]

Home (11)

Hybrid Min Yoongi x Female Reader; Platonic OT7 x Female Reader; Namseok; Jinkook

Summary: After helping Yoongi get away from his abusive former owner, you’re left to focus on your relationship and how it progresses. That is, until you find six other hybrids who need your help, and their former owner decides he’s going to make your life hell. Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff Word Count: 1,629 Rating: M Warnings (updated per chapter): stalking, wild animal attack, major character injury, blood, implied homophobia, slight internalized homophobia, starvation, hospitalization, discussion of sexual assault, discussion of physical assault, discussion of controlling behavior,

Major thanks to @eatjeanjin for beta-ing this and for listening to me complain almost constantly. You’ve been nothing but helpful and sweet, and I’m so grateful for your opinions and assistance.

banners by @mintkims

Sequel to Fix You. Read it first.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Celebrate 1 year of Fix You

The growl that ripped through Namjoon’s chest was downright deadly. You had never heard him sound that threatening, not even when he fought the wolf to protect you and Yoongi. He sidestepped ever so slightly so that he was standing between Seungri and Jungkook.

Beside you, the fur on Yoongi’s tail was standing on end as it swished behind him agitatedly. His ears were flat against his head, his wide eyes contrasting with his constricted pupils. He looked ready to pounce, and you grabbed his hand to prevent him from doing something stupid.

You really didn’t need an assault lawsuit right now.

“Oh, stand down,” Seungri said, his voice dripping with boredom. “I’ve seen your little protective act, wolf-boy. You’re not scary.”

From behind you, you heard Jungkook whimper. Yoongi’s head whipped around to check on the pup, but you leveled your gaze on Seungri. His salt-and-pepper hair was styled perfectly, his clothes, while far too formal and stifling for the heat, fit him well. He looked as though he was just coming back from an important business meeting in his tailored slacks and silk button-down shirt. But that didn’t mean you wanted to punch him in the face any less.

“What do you want?” you questioned, trying to distract him from Jungkook.

“I was just passing by, saw you all here, and thought I’d come to congratulate the puppy on his new ownership.” He offered you a smile that dripped honey and venom. “You’re quite clever, you know that?”

Yoongi shifted his weight beside you, the movement catching Seungri’s eye. He watched the cat hybrid for a moment, before cooing. “What’s the matter, kitty? Didn’t you know? I just got the letter in the mail yesterday. She owns the pup now. Full, legal ownership.”

Beside you, Yoongi tensed, his whole body going rigid. His tail, still puffed up and agitated, fell so that it was brushing against the ground.

“She made a big deal about not wanting to own you, didn’t she? Guess puppy changed her mind.” Seungri shrugged. “Oh well. Things change. People get bored. Nice hair by the way, kitty.”

Yoongi didn’t respond, but it didn’t seem like Seungri cared. He was already starting to back away. He waved sarcastically at you before turning on his heel.

“I’ll see you around,” he called over his shoulder.

As soon as Seungri was out of sight, Namjoon relaxed a little. You could see that he was still on guard, but he allowed the tension he was holding in his body to release.

“What was he saying about ownership?” the wolf hybrid asked. You could hear a tinge of frustration in his voice.

“The hospital,” you explained weakly. Your eyes were trained on Yoongi. “I-”

“The doctor said that noona owns me now, not Seungri. It’s why I wasn’t so scared. He’s mean, but he can’t do anything now.” Jungkook explained, hopping off the swing and approaching the blanket and picnic basket. “When’re Taehyung-hyung and Hobi-hyung coming back? I’m hungry.”

Yoongi dropped your hand, but there was force behind it. Almost like he was throwing it away, disgusted by your touch. He crouched at the picnic basket and dug out the sandwich he had made for Jungkook.

“Yoongi…” Your voice was soft, but you knew he had heard you. You could see the effort on his face to not let his ears adjust to the direction of your voice.

Jungkook and Namjoon exchanged a look, the pup looked confused. Namjoon stepped closer to him and whispered something into one of his floppy puppy ears. Jungkook’s eyes widened impossibly before his eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh,” he said softly, his ears drooping as he hung his head slightly, plopping down onto the blanket.

“We’re here!” Hobi called, waving as he approached. He and Taehyung were both grinning.

“Puppy milk for the puppy,” the panther hybrid teased, sitting the bag on the blanket in front of Jungkook.

Hoseok frowned, looking between Namjoon, Yoongi, and you. Namjoon stood awkwardly off to the side. Yoongi sat beside Jungkook on the picnic blanket, refusing to look up from the basket of food. And you stood helplessly between them, watching Yoongi.

“What happened?” the snake viper asked softly, his brow furrowing.

Namjoon sighed, shaking his head. “Long story.”

It was almost midnight, and your bedroom was dark. You laid in bed, unable to fall asleep. You were exhausted--your emotions had been running wild since the picnic--but your brain wouldn’t shut up. It didn’t help that, for the first time in two and a half years, Yoongi wasn’t snuggled into your side.

He laid beside you, shoved so far to the edge of the bed that it felt like a whole country was between you. You could tell he was regretting giving his room to Namjoon and Hobi. He was laying on his side, his back to you, but you could tell that he wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too heavy, and his tail would flick agitatedly every so often.

You were mad at yourself. He was hurting because you were an idiot. You should have explained the situation right away, when he had asked why you smelled like Jungkook. You should have anticipated he would be hurt by you denying him only to adopt Jungkook. But you had wanted to tell him later, when it was quiet and you could take the time to fully explain it. You didn’t blame him for being hurt.

But you had to admit, you were a little hurt, too. You had thought that he had moved past the sulking and the silent treatment. You had thought that, after three years, he would have been more willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. But apparently that wasn’t the case.

You sighed, staring at the ceiling. You wanted to say something, but what? You could easily make things worse, so you continued to lay there and think. And stew.

“This whole situation scares me,” you said eventually. You were practically whispering, but you knew Yoongi could hear you. He didn’t respond, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw his ear twitch in your direction. “After everything, it’s… I’m worried that you don’t trust me. And it scares me that I’m scared to tell you that.”

He shifted beside you so that he was laying on his back, but didn’t speak.

“I just… this isn’t going to work if, when something goes wrong, we don’t give each other the chance to explain.” You sighed again, feeling your eyes start to sting. “We need to trust each other.”

“I do trust you.”

“I want to believe you.”

“I do.”

“Then why shut down? Why not give me the chance to explain? I didn’t want to adopt him, but I didn’t have a choice. Dr. Jung did some hospital procedure so he could treat Jungkook.” You closed your eyes, attempting--and failing--to stave off the tears. “I didn’t want to adopt him. I don’t like it. It’s weird. He’s a person. I don’t-”

“You smelled like Jungkook. He said you adopted him. What was I supposed to think?”

“Jungkook hugged me at the hospital. He was crying, Yoongi. What was I supposed to do? Push him off and let him figure it out on his own?” You frowned through your tears. “He’s just a pup.”

“He’s twenty-four,” Yoongi responded dryly.

“Oh, what, so you four can call him pup and treat him like he’s a kid, but I can’t?”

“That’s not-”

“I just…” You sighed, exhausted. “I don’t know what you want from me. I’m sorry that things happened the way they did, but I promise you that I was going to tell you. I was waiting for some privacy because I knew it would be a touchy subject.”

Yoongi let out a defeated sigh, and for a moment, you thought that was that. That maybe your relationship with him was over before it had even had the chance to get off the ground. Maybe he was reconsidering letting the other hybrids stay. But then you felt his tail bump into your side tentatively, like it wasn’t sure if it was allowed to do that, and he spoke.

“How about…” You were both staring up at the ceiling, but you felt him move as he scratched behind his human ear in thought. “How about we write letters?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Jess always used to make me write letters to myself.”

“Dear Min Yoongi, today is going to be a good day and here’s why…” you quoted him.

You remembered the letters well. He had done them silently, without much input from you, only needing casual reminders to journal on busy or stressful days. But as small and dumb as they seemed, Jess assured you both that the letters would help Yoongi build his confidence, little by little. She never asked to read them, only that he do them. And somehow, they worked.

“Right, well…” You heard him swallow thickly. “What if we modified it? Write each other letters instead?”

You were about to tell him no, that it was silly and that you could just tell him how you felt. But you stopped yourself. Yoongi wasn’t always the greatest with speaking his thoughts. He had to sit with his emotions sometimes to actually sort them out. This was an olive branch, an attempt at meeting in the middle. This was his way of telling you he didn’t have the ability to fight this out with you right now, but that he didn’t want to just give up on everything.

“Letters,” you agreed, nodding once. “We’ll exchange them tomorrow night?”

He hummed in agreement. “Tomorrow night.”

You reached over, groping for his hand blindly and giving it a squeeze. “Goodnight, kitty.”

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Celebrate 1 year of Fix You

As always, your feedback is appreciated. Please feel free to pop into my ask box with questions or comments about the series!

Tag list: @softbbyg0rl, @eddievoid, @horanghae18, @rosquilleta, @madjanmil, @namecannotbblank, @http-himawari, @halesandy, @lostatthebarns, @cuteipat, @agustneeds, @overtherainbow35, @xjordynary, @seolaquotes, @huearmy, @staerryminimini, @chimchoomi @zae007live, @ghostkat23, @forvever-ddaeng, @blaaiissee, @childfmoonn, @junhaven, @justaweird0, @pro-in-stupidity, @kisskissshutmydoor, @borahae-reads, @effielumiere @ohmydarlin-g, @alngelias, @elenaramos1, @kamen-tenshi, @narcissism-iskey, @readingfavorites, @devilsadvcte, @tinyoonsblog, @reallysparklychaos, , @lovelgirl22, @veronawrites, @jinscharms, @jaiuneamesolitaiire, @skinnybonsai, @youngbloodslut, @glitterypersonyouth, @janeelizabeth1216, @xthefuckerysquaredx

[arvandus]

The Sound of Silence (18+ Aizawa x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: After once again being stood up for a date at your favorite jazz club, you decide to give up dating entirely in favor of watching and fantasizing about your favorite jazz musician, Aizawa Shouta.  You had assumed you’d never meet him face to face.  You had assumed that he didn’t even know you existed.  You’re about to learn that your assumptions are wrong.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY/NSFW; reader wears a sexy black dress (minimally described); minor sexual harassment; slow build; praise kink (if you squint); hand kink (probably); fingering; ‘baby’ petname.

Special Note:  A few days late, but here’s my contribution to the BNHarem January Collab ‘Making Beautiful Music’ posted by @kingexpl0sionmurder​​. It was supposed to be a oneshot, but this particular piece got a mind of its own and will at least have a sequel. If we’re all really lucky, it may become a multichapter series in the far and distant future, when my life is less crazy (I have ideas, ok??).  In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this fic!

Word Count: 9486

Recommended Song: No specific song at the moment, but this was what I listened to while writing this.

Lesson 1

It was crowded tonight, the air of the small club Midnight hot and heavy with the scent of cigar smoke and booze. The noise of conversations and laughing voices filled the air like the buzzing of a hive, as bodies mingled about like busy bees, each looking for their own bit of nectar.  Some looking to win romance.  Some looking to win money.  While others were simply winning by enjoying the company of friends.  Their movements were carried on the music that filled the space, upbeat jazz played by a three-person band.  It was comforting in its familiarity, developed over multiple visits – some with friends, some with coworkers, and some with potential love interests.

You sat at the bar, a drink held protectively in your hand as your eyes searched.  You checked your phone for messages but found none.  It’d been a full twenty minutes and you were pretty sure by this point that your date wasn’t going to show up.  It was supposed to be your first date in over a month, and you’d had high hopes for it - you’d clicked well with the person on your dating app (or so you thought), talking over the course of a couple of weeks before finally deciding to meet. So tonight, you’d put in a little extra effort into your appearance, donning a black dress that showed off your curves and putting careful attention into your makeup.

Damn. You were genuinely interested in this one.

You sent them a quick text in the hopes that you’d get a response.  Give them an extra ten minutes… You thought. Maybe they were caught in traffic or something.

But by the time you hit the 45-minute mark with no messages, you’d officially given up.  A half-hearted sigh fell past your painted lips. You weren’t really too surprised by this point.  You’d been having terrible luck in the dating scene for a while now.  Sometimes it was them.  Sometimes it was you.  But for whatever reason, each attempt ended in failure.

Oh well. It was likely for the best.  At least you would be able to enjoy the rest of your evening in solitude instead of enduring a potentially disastrous date.  And as for your attire, it certainly didn’t hurt to feel sexy, even if you had no one to share it with.

You loved this place. The atmosphere, the music… you’d even managed to make friends with the bartender Hizashi to the point that he’d walk you to your car on the nights that you stayed until closing.

Your eyes scanned around the room, observing.  Wooden tables littered the main floor, where small lit candles cast yellow light on observing faces, eyes trained on the musicians.  Booths lined along the far wall, filled mostly with men who puffed cigars over a game of cards, their raucous laughter carrying through the din.  Closer to the bar was an arrangement of tall, round tables with matching bar height chairs. A group of women, likely on a ladies’ night out, filled the table closest to you, taking shots and laughing, their heels perched on the rungs.  Waiters zigzagged their way through the crowd with expert precision, platters held high with drinks and snacks, while patrons milled about, waiting for an open table.

And, of course, there was the stage itself, where the jazz band finished their final piece before collecting their instruments and leaving the small stage.  All that was left from their departure was a black baby grand piano, property of the club.  Your pulse quickened as you checked your watch.  Was it that time already?

Not a moment later, there he was.  Long, black, wavy hair pulled back into a half ponytail, the hint of a 5 o’ clock shadow dusting his jawline and framing his lips.  He was dressed in simple clothes, as always… a black v-neck shirt with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms and dark jeans.  He entered the stage without so much a glance towards the busy room, instead making his way to the piano with his hands in his pockets. He sat down and from your position at the bar, you could barely see his long fingers arrange themselves at the keys, gently curled.

As soon as he began to play, the mood in the club shifted slightly from buzzing to relaxing.  The flow of his fingers across the keys drew a lazy melody reminiscent of rainy days and hot coffee; of snuggling under warm blankets, feet intertwined with a lover who danced their fingers across your skin, gently tickling your flesh the way his fingers tickled those keys.

Aizawa Shouta.

Of course you knew his name. The first time you’d heard him play, you’d felt weightless, your body going numb as every sensation coalesced into your chest like the forming of a star.  The question of his identity had fallen from your lips before you’d even realized it, and it had been Hizashi who’d answered you, a chuckle on his lips.

Fuck.  It felt like he was making love to you through the notes, each key meticulously selected like a carefully-worded love letter. It made your palms sweat against your glass, your breath hitching in your throat as that familiar sensation took you over, holding you hostage.

This.  This was probably why none of the people you dated ever seemed to work out.  You’d tried… God, you’d tried… some of them were nice, good people.  But you couldn’t help but search for that feeling – this feeling – each time you met someone new.  And every single time it fell short. It was an impossible standard, an invisible bar that no one was able to jump.  Deep down you knew this, yet you couldn’t figure out how to let it go. It was just music, right? Played by a handsome man who didn’t even know you existed.  But you didn’t want to let go of this feeling, to settle for someone that made you feel only an inkling of what he made you feel.  Or worse, to let it go and be left with emptiness.

You had no solutions. You were trapped in Aizawa’s maze of music, unwilling to find your way out as his notes weaved a cage around your heart.

You lost yourself to his melody, the club around you fading away.  Time lost its meaning as you watched his hands dance along the keys, his fingers nimble.  His half-lidded eyes were fixed on the instrument before him, his expression neutral.  To anyone else watching, he would look almost bored; but you’d seen him play often enough that you’d grown accustomed to reading the nuances of his body language, even across the smoky haze.  You knew his look of boredom was really a look of focus as he submerged himself in his art, his hands playing on instinct, a direct link between what he felt and what he expressed.

He loved what he did.

And you loved watching.

Hizashi’s voice interrupted your hypnosis.  “Another night solo, huh?”

You took a look at the bartender as he prepped some cocktails for some waiting patrons.  He had his wire-framed spectacles on again, the orange tinted ones, the color visible from the white backlight of the bar. His long blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and he wore a pinstriped shirt adorned with a black waistcoat.

You chuckled and took a sip of your drink. “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

“You got stood up again?” You shrugged and Hizashi shook his head slightly.  “If they ain’t willing to show up, then they ain’t worth your time.”

“Probably more like the other way around, don’t ya think?” you replied wryly.

Hizashi scoffed. “Don’t let them get to you. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

You grinned and set your glass down.  “Are you flirting with me, Hizashi?”

He grinned back and winked at you through his spectacles.  “Always, darlin’.”

You chuckled and returned your eyes to the stage. “It’s okay…” you said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s time I stopped trying.”

“Mhm…” Hizashi watched you stare at Aizawa and he raised an eyebrow.  “Y’know, I can get you an introduction if you’d like…”

“What??”

“Don’t play coy with me, darlin’.  You know who I’m talking about.  If you want to meet him, I can introduce you to him. We’re good friends, he and I. Known each other for years.” He commented.

You weren’t surprised by this news… you’d seen Aizawa join Hizashi at the bar on rare occasions after his performance was done.  But you’d always been occupied at a table with company when it happened. 

Watching him from a distance was one thing.  But actually meeting him?  Up close? Where you couldn’t hide your girlish infatuation?

You felt your pulse quicken with dread, heat flooding your body.  “No, it’s okay.  I wouldn’t want to inconvenience him.”

Hizashi gave you a skeptical look over the rim of his glasses before he shrugged. “Suit yourself, darlin’.”

The blonde stepped away, a new group of customers hollering for his attention.  You took a large gulp of your drink hoping it would quell your nerves at the thought of meeting the man on stage.  No. You definitely didn’t want to meet him.  The last thing you needed was for your interaction with him to be a dud just like it was with all the others, destroying your own secret little fantasy. He was handsome to look at.  And you fantasized about his skilled hands when you were in the quiet of your bedroom. But that was all it was; just harmless daydreams over someone you didn’t really know or plan to get to know. Besides, if you’d ever thought you had a chance with him, you certainly wouldn’t be trying to meet people through a dating app.

Gradually the time ticked by as you enjoyed watching the dark-haired man play, Hizashi stopping in to check on you from time to time and place fresh drinks in front of you.  You were content for the time being, enjoying the steady buzz you were maintaining as you enjoyed the ambiance.  Occasionally you people watched or engaged in conversation with Hizashi when he wasn’t busy… but for the most part, you relaxed as you observed the raven-haired pianist, letting his music ease the tension in your shoulders as the alcohol warmed your bones.

A few hours later, as you were busy talking with Hizashi, the final note on the piano rang out, signaling the end of Aizawa’s shift.  The sudden silence hit you like a bucket of ice water, and your eyes darted towards the stage, your heart pumping panic through your veins.  You had planned to leave just before his shift ended, just to make sure you didn’t run into him.  Maybe it was the daydreaming, or the conversations with Hizashi, or the alcohol... but you’d lost track of time.  Now you could only watch and wait to see where he’d end up, hoping beyond hope that he’d disappear like he usually did.  Only rarely did he linger for a drink.  What were the odds, right?

Tonight was one of those rarities, and you held your breath, your posture going rigid, as he sat himself a mere two seats away from you.  He never once looked at you, instead, addressing Hizashi.

“Old Fashioned.” He requested, his voice deep.  It sent a shiver down your spine as the blood in your veins turned molten.  You knew instantly that that sound was now committed to memory.

“Do you even need to ask?” Hizashi replied with a grin as he slid the drink to him.

You disciplined your eyes to stare at your own drink as if it’d open up a portal for you to escape through. But as much as you struggled to control yourself, the simple gesture of Aizawa reaching for his drink made you break eye contact with your own. Your eyes caught how his fingers circled around his glass, long and surprisingly manicured.  You couldn’t help but watch as he brought the drink up to his lips to take a sip, and from there your gaze followed the curve of his mouth, the stubble that framed it, his jawline, his eyes…

Your eyes made contact with his briefly and you quickly looked back down at your drink, your heart pounding in your chest.

Shit.  He caught you staring.

You took a couple of deep swigs, forcing the alcohol down your tight throat, letting the burn of it act as a punishment for your violation. This. This was why you didn’t want to meet him.  No words had even been shared yet and you were already making a fool of yourself.

“Long night?” Hizashi asked him.  In the background, the next performer entered the stage and began to play, and you couldn’t help but strain your ears over the music to listen for Aizawa’s answer.

“I’ve had worse…” Aizawa replied.  “You?”

“Busy, but I’m in good company at least.” Hizashi replied.  Your heart pounded in your chest as your fingers tightened around your glass.  Your eyes darted up to lock with the bartender’s and you caught him smirking at you, his small, pointed mustache following the curve of his upper lip. 

He wouldn’t…

Suddenly another customer called for him from the other end of the bar.  “Duty calls, friend.  Be back in a sec.”

And just like that, you were left alone with him.  Aizawa. Your mind froze as it warred with itself between actually talking with him or grabbing your things and running away. Surely Hizashi would understand, right? And you could always pay back your tab later.   You took another deep gulp of alcohol in the hopes that it’d burn away some of your cowardice. 

Before you could so much as open your mouth, the unwelcome sensation of an unfamiliar hand on the curve of your back made your body go rigid, every muscle poised to fight.  A second later, the scent of hot breath laced in the stench of alcohol choked the air around you as an unfamiliar man slid into the open seat between you and the object of your affection.

“Hey there beautiful…” he slurred.  “You’ve been by yourself all night… you in need of some company?”

You covered your hand over your glass and shifted away from him slightly, your demeanor cold.  “No.”

“Aw, c’mon doll… don’t be like that…” he grinned.  “You don’t come here dressed like that for no good reason…”

The man’s hand was still on your back, its presence making your skin crawl.  It made the fog of your buzz lifting slightly, your senses suddenly heightened in the presence of a potential threat.  Your eyes searched frantically for Hizashi.  He had a way of handling drunken idiots.  But he was stuck at the other end of the bar still, a drunk woman trying desperately hard to flirt with him. 

You were on your own, and this creep clearly wasn’t taking no for an answer. Your brain started to fabricate worst-case scenarios and planning for them, a million options running through your mind.  Screaming. Throwing your drink in his face.  A well-placed kick to his shin.  Your pepper spray.

Your free hand slipped into your purse, fingers closing around you’re the plastic cylinder.  The feel of it gave you a sense of security, even if it might be a last resort.  You didn’t really want to use it, especially with Aizawa sitting behind him… you never had to use it before, and you couldn’t guarantee your accuracy, especially in such a tight space.

You watched from the corner of your eye as the man’s free hand reached forward to grasp your own that covered your drink, and your grip around the cylinder tightened, a warning beginning to fall from your lips.  But your words were cut short as the man’s hand was suddenly grabbed by familiar, long fingers and bent back at an uncomfortable angle that made the drunk cry out.

“Hey! What the hell?!” the man demanded.

Aizawa took a casual sip of his drink with his free hand while maintaining his grip on the offender, before pinning him with a dangerous glare.  “She said no.”

The man’s hand left your back as he struggled to free himself from Aizawa’s grip. “Let go!”

“First you will apologize to her.” Aizawa ordered.

The man sputtered.  “For what?!”

You watched in shock as Aizawa’s eyes narrowed.  His thumb positioned itself on a digit and began pushing it slowly backward.

“For touching her without permission.  For insinuating that her attire makes it acceptable for you to ignore her boundaries. For being a disgusting pig.”

With each statement, he pushed the finger back farther and farther, until the man was buckling to his knees under the pressure in an attempt to alleviate the pain and prevent the digit from breaking.

“Ow ow ow! Okay!  I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” The man begged.

Aizawa held him for a moment longer before finally releasing him. “Good.  Now get out.”

The man scurried away until he was out of reach before turning around to glare daggers at him.  “Hey, fuck you man!”  He shouted.  But for all of his drunken bravado, he stormed out of the club clutching his sore hand to his chest, as heads turned to watch him leave.

The hum of voices within the club fell silent for a moment, with only the band continuing their music. After the front door closed, the noise of people chattering slowly returned, countless sets of eyes turning back to their tables.  Aizawa turned his gaze back to you, the lethal look gone from his dark eyes.

“You okay?”

You nodded mutely, swallowing the dryness in your throat as your sweaty hand released the pepper spray in your purse.  Sensations warred within you, momentarily leaving you a confused mess.  The speed at which he came to your defense and his willingness to resort to violence on your behalf fueled a carnal need you didn’t even realize you had.  But even as hot arousal pooled deep in your gut, your heart still raced from the threat that had been quickly neutralized.

His eyes caught the movement of something over your shoulder and he cursed. “Shit.”

“SHOuTA!” Scolded a feminine voice.

He turned back to his drink, hunching his shoulders. “I told her not to call me that in public.” Aizawa muttered under his breath.

You spun on your stool to see the owner of the bar, Nemuri Kayama approaching, clad in a deep purple business suit with a dangerously low-cut black blouse. She was next to you in a matter of seconds, a cloud of strong perfume enveloping you as she snatched Aizawa’s drink from his hand as he began to raise it to his lips.

“What the hell was that?!” She demanded.  “What makes you think you can attack my customers like that?”

“Your customer was harassing this customer.” Aizawa pointed out.

Nemuri looked at you with her lavender eyes as if seeing you for this first time and paused in her verbal assault.

“Is this true?” She asked you.

She had a presence about her that instantly made you find your voice again.

“He was being handsy and wasn’t taking no for an answer.” You confirmed.

“Can I have my drink back now?” Aizawa asked.

She stared back and forth between the two of you for a moment before slamming the glass down in front of him, half of the contents spilling over the side. “Ugh. Fine.  But next time ask for one of my bouncers.  Or Hizashi.  Or me. Anyone but you.”

Aizawa’s mouth curled with a sly grin as he wiped at the spill with a napkin.  “And why is that?”

“Because you scare away customers.” She growled.

Aizawa stared into his drink, swirling its remaining contents.  “Well maybe you need better customers.” He took a sip.

“I’ll take whoever is willing to pay.  Unfortunately for you, this club doesn’t survive off of chivalry.”  She crossed her arms.  “Besides… it’s less about losing that drunken idiot and more about losing those who saw you almost break his hand.”

“I wasn’t going to break his hand.  I was going to break his finger.” Aizawa said.

You stifled a chuckle with a bite of your lip.

Nemuri rubbed the bridge of her nose in frustration.  “Don’t try to make it sound like that makes it any better.  And you!” She pointed at Hizashi, who had conveniently shown up not a minute before.  “You know better than to leave him alone like this!”

“I can either be a bartender or a babysitter, love.  I can’t do both.” Hizashi replied as he polished a glass.

 Nemuri grumbled under her breath before turning her gaze back to you. “I apologize for Aizawa’s violent behavior.” “Oh I didn’t mind…” you confessed with a small smile, and you could feel Aizawa’s eyes flicker to you briefly.

 “And I apologize for the inappropriate customer. Alcohol is no excuse for harassment.  I guarantee he won’t be returning to this club any time soon.” She looked at Hizashi.  “Get her a fresh drink.”  

 “Already on it…” He replied, sliding a new glass to you and removing your old one.

 She looked back at you. “And your drinks are on the house tonight.”

 “Thank you.” You replied.

 Nemuri gave a satisfied nod. “Now I need to go schmooze the rest of our frightened patrons, which is exactly how I didn’t want to spend my evening.” With a final glare at the two men, she stormed off, her pointed heels clicking on the hard floor.

 You stared at your new drink for a moment, the desire for it lost now.  “Hizashi, can I have a glass of water?”

 “Sure thing, darlin’.” Hizashi replied and placed a chilled glass in front of you.

You thanked him and took a sip followed by a long, deep breath.  Aizawa moved into the now-vacant seat next to you, and you welcomed the closeness. The gesture felt protective, a warning to anyone else who was dumb enough to try their luck with you after that display.  Noticing the closer proximity between the two of you, Hizashi quickly made himself scarce again.

“Thank you…” you said to Aizawa as your finger traced patterns into the condensation on the glass.

“It was nothing…” he replied.  There was a long silence before he spoke again.  “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

You looked at him with surprise then.  Scared? No. Aroused? Definitely.  The dampness of your panties were evidence enough of that, but he certainly didn’t need to know that.

“Not at all.” You confessed. “I actually really appreciate it.”

Aizawa’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if a weight had been lifted.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” you asked.  “You were so fast…”

Aizawa gave a small grin. “Piano isn’t the only thing I’m good at…”

You had no difficulty believing that…

“Were you a bouncer or something at one point?” you asked curiously.

Aizawa chuckled. “Yeah, something like that…” he took a swig of his drink, the ice in it clinking.  The amber colored liquid was nearly gone now.

His response only gave you more questions, but you forced them down. There was a fine line between being curious and nosey, and you were too worried of crossing it, thus ending your conversation with him.

“You’re a regular here.” He commented.  

It wasn’t a question – it was a statement. He recognized you. You averted your eyes away in embarrassment, feeling suddenly exposed, your anonymity blown.  How long had he noticed you’d been coming here?  Did he know how closely you watched him?

“Yeah.” You confessed, as you took another sip of water. The alcohol next to it was calling to you, promising to ease your anxiety, but you refrained for the moment.  You wanted to keep your wits about you while you talked to him.

“No company tonight?” he asked.

Oh.  He watched you more closely than you ever realized. You weren’t sure whether you were feeling embarrassed or aroused.  Was it possible to feel both?

“Not this time.  I got stood up.” You replied.

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet there.” He said, looking into his empty glass.

You gave a dry laugh. “True.  I’ve dodged lots of bullets lately.”

Aizawa chuckled. “I believe it…”

Contrary to his outward aloof demeanor, he was nice.  You could feel the tension in your body start to dissipate as words came easier.

“If you ever think you want to try a dating app, don’t.” you commented. “It makes for good stories, but sometimes it really makes you want to give up on humanity.”

That earned an honest laugh as he looked at you with a grin.  “Well now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

You couldn’t help but smile back.  This actually wasn’t so bad…

With amusement, you began to recount some of your more outlandish dating disasters with him, letting him in on the world of online dating from a woman’s perspective.  Aizawa listened with quiet interest, making the occasional wry joke or, for the more serious cases, wearing a deep frown of disapproval.  He was a good listener, and the conversation flowed easier than you had expected, words falling from your mouth without a second thought.  It felt natural.  Comfortable. And for the first time in a while, you felt like yourself.  After you ran out of stories, Aizawa offered a couple of his own, and you found yourself laughing at his own tales of dating woes. As Aizawa talked, Hizashi stopped by to quietly replace his empty drink before disappearing again, a pleased smile on his face.  His brief presence reminded you of your own glass pooling condensation on the paper coaster beneath it, and you returned to sipping its contents, once again finding the buzz you had been enjoying as you listened to Aizawa.

The time passed by as the two of you talked about the stress of dating and relationships. You’d learned that Aizawa rarely dated, but would occasionally have to endure awkward matchups thanks to Hizashi and Nemuri.  You learned how much of a private person he was, how he generally avoided dating culture entirely in favor of letting life play out on its own.  Everything about him exuded a man of experience and maturity, a man comfortable in his own skin and content with his life.  You couldn’t help but admire him as you soaked in every little detail that you’d wanted to know, committing every little bit of information he offered up to memory.  He was everything you’d imagined; kind, respectful, and serious with a sly sense of humor that he only shared once he was feeling comfortable.

Once the topic was exhausted, you sighed.  “I think I’m done with dating.” You confessed.  “I’ll just resign myself to my singlehood.”

Aizawa pinned you with a pensive look.  “Is that what you want?”

Something about the tone of his voice made your pulse race with excitement.

“Well… It’s better than being repeatedly disappointed.” You gave him a side glance as you took sip of your drink.  “But if the right guy comes along, I wouldn’t say no…”

“Hm… the right guy…” Aizawa muttered as he returned his gaze to his glass.

Your statement was a bold one, filled with invitation.  You hadn’t exactly planned for it to come out that way, but it was too late to take those words back now.  You quickly tried to turn the topic back to him.  “How about you?  Any special someone for you?”

He chuckled. “No.  No special someone.  Not yet, at least.”

The words fell from his mouth like breadcrumbs leading to a secret as he eyed you over the rim of his glass. You felt lightheaded and warm, the tips of your fingers buzzing with numbness. Maybe it was the half-finished drink in your hand.  Or maybe it was the look in Aizawa’s eyes that made you feel drunk, the Earth spinning under your feet as you mentally struggled to find some sort of purchase to keep from falling.  

Was he…?

Hope held you captive and you suddenly became acutely aware of how close you were to him.  Your eyes traced the scruff on his jawline, the stitching of his shirt, the slope of his neck as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. A stray strand of hair had come loose from his half-ponytail and was hanging over his forehead, begging to be touched. Your fingers twitched.  If you reached out to tuck it back into place, would he let you?

You couldn’t muster the courage and averted your eyes. You were filled with alcohol and infatuation, you reasoned.  Your defenses were down, your judgment potentially impaired… what if you were reading into something that wasn’t there?  What if you were wrong?  

You watched Hizashi close out a tab for an older couple as you took a sip of your water.

Warmth pressed against your forearm and looked down to see Aizawa’s arm resting against yours. All of your attention honed in on the softness of his shirtsleeve and the warmth of his skin as his hand fiddled with a paper coaster, flipping it over and over with each tap on the counter.  The contact was intentional, calculated in its subtle intimacy.  It was a silent question… a tentative invitation, absent of assumptions or expectations.  Your doubt evaporated like mist and you understood.  

He was interested.  In you.

Your heart did a somersault in your chest as you sat there, stunned.  Time froze as everything that’d transpired throughout the evening flitted through your mind.  It was a perfect amalgamation of circumstances, leading to this single moment, giving you the one thing you wanted most.  You held your breath as you stood on the precipice, uncertain if your next step would make you fall or let you fly.  

You stared at the contact and carefully… slowly… brushed your pinky along the back of his hand. It traced the vein that stood out there, following it to the knuckle. His own hand let go of the coaster his was holding, his own pinky linking with yours in affirmation.

You couldn’t help the elated smile that spread across your face in that moment and when you looked up at him with a shy glance, he had a smile of his own, small and secretive as he stared at your linked fingers.  Slowly the rest of his fingers followed, twining themselves into yours until he held your hand, his thumb brushing sensually against your skin.  That single action alone was enough to reignite the fire in your loins, your blood racing through your veins from the epicenter of his touch.

Hizashi’s voice crashed through your private, titillating moment.  “We’re closing up, lovebirds…”

Your hand pulled away from Aizawa’s on instinct as you looked around the now empty club.  Only staff remained, finalizing the last bit of cleanup and arranging the furniture for the next day.  How had it gotten so late so fast?

“You want me to walk you to your car?” Hizashi asked, a knowing grin on his face.

In all that had happened that evening, you’d forgotten about that little arrangement.  But you weren’t ready to leave just yet…

Aizawa’s voice answered before yours could.  “Leave me the keys to the place.  I’ll walk her tonight and lock up when we leave.”

“Suit yourself.” Hizashi replied with a shrug.  He placed a set of keys on the counter.  “Don’t tell Nemuri, though.  She’ll kill me.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, friend.” Aizawa replied.

With that, Hizashi gave a small salute, grabbed his coat, and left.  You watched, your heart pounding as the door closed behind him, leaving a deafening silence in its wake.

You were alone with Aizawa. Completely and utterly alone.

Your turned back to face him and froze.  Aizawa still sat on his stool, but he faced you now with an elbow propped against the counter, and that simple distinction made his presence fill your space.  He stared at you, the look in his eyes unfettered now, deep and hungry. “You really do look beautiful tonight.” He complimented.

With the way the words fell from his mouth and curled warmly into your chest like a cat, you believed him. You felt beautiful.

“Thank you.” You said with a soft smile.  “You look handsome yourself, Aizawa.”

He took your hand again and slowly began to lean forward, closing the small distance between you.  “Call me Shouta.”

You swallowed. “Shouta.” You whispered, feeling the name on your lips.

His dark pupils dilated and you felt his other hand on your jawline, warm, long fingers wrapping towards the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss.

His lips were warm and soft as his stubble tickled your skin, and you leaned into it fervently, your hands finding their home on his chest. You could feel his toned muscles beneath the black cotton and a purr found its way to the back of your throat. Shouta took it as an invitation, coming off of his barstool to stand between your now parted legs, his arm wrapping itself around your waist as his tongue slid along your lips.  You opened your mouth eagerly to taste the bourbon there, to feel the wet muscle dance and slide against your own.  Every touch, every taste, every smell enveloped you further and further in the essence that was Shouta until your entire body was singing, teetering on the edge.

Oh God… you were not going to let yourself cum just by kissing him.

You pulled out of the kiss slightly as your hands pressed gently against his chest, and he retreated from you just enough for his eyes to search your face, a silent question in them.

“I-I’m sorry, I just…” your words fell pitifully from your flushed, wet mouth, your voice shaky with pent-up arousal.

One second longer. One second longer is all it would have taken…

Shouta’s hand on your back began to rub soft, slow circles. “Would you like some water?” he asked, a small smile on his lips.

You nodded, and he kissed your forehead before handing you your glass.  You drank greedily before handing it back to him, half-empty.

“Have you ever been kissed like that?” he asked curiously, as he placed the glass back down onto the counter.

You gave a small laugh and shook your head.  “No… not like that.”

Your confession left you feeling embarrassed, even as your chest felt it would burst from this latest turn of events.

You kissed Aizawa Shouta.

Actually, he kissed you.

You needed a moment to collect yourself, to process everything you were feeling.

So, you completely changed the subject.

“How long have you been playing piano?” you asked.

Shouta didn’t miss a beat, returning to sit on his stool to give you the space you silently needed. But his hand still held yours, resting on the counter as his fingers twined with yours. It gave you a sense of reassurance, that everything was okay, despite your awkward hesitation.

“My grandpa had one when I was a kid.  Used to mess around on it.” He explained.  “He finally got me lessons from a guy he knew, and I’ve loved it ever since.”

You smiled as you watched his thumb trace across each of your fingernails.  You returned the gesture, tracing the details of his own hand. It was like living a dream, to see them up close and feel them, every fingernail, every vein, even the pads of his fingertips. The number of times you’d fantasized about these hands…

“I always wanted to learn how to play, but my family could never afford lessons.” You confessed. “But my mom used to have all of these old jazz albums, and I used to sit in my room and listen to them for hours.”

“I can teach you.”

Your fingers stopped their tracing.  “What?”

“I can teach you.” He repeated.

You shook your head.  “Um, no it’s okay… I’d probably be a terrible student anyway.”

“A student can only be as bad as the person teaching them.  Follow me.”

Before you could protest further, Shouta’s hand closed around yours and pulled you from your seat.  He led you up the steps of the stage and across it until you reached the black piano sitting forlornly in the empty space.

It felt strange being up on the stage, especially with the club being completely empty.  The stage light was bright and warm on your shoulders, and the silence sounded different there, affected by the difference in acoustics.

Shouta sat at one end of the black bench and pulled you down by your hand until you were sitting next to him.  The bench was small, meant for only one person, so you had to press yourself against him to be able to sit without feeling like you were going to fall off. Even then, it wasn’t the most comfortable arrangement, but you endured, if only to be close to him.

He released your hand and began his instruction.

“First thing you should know is how to find middle C.  Everything else will center around this.”  He pressed the white key with the thumb of his right hand, the note singing out into the empty space.  “Then, it’s D, E, F, G, A, B, which brings you back to C. That creates an octave, also known as a scale.” He played each note as he spoke.

“What about the black keys?” you asked curiously.

“Those are the half notes. Don’t worry about those right now.” He arranged his hand back how he initially had it, his thumb on the middle C key.

“Now,” he continued, “First, you must learn how to move your fingers along the keys.  Like this.”  Shouta demonstrated the motion again, his fingers playing each note slowly in a steady rhythm.  “The switch of the fingers is important. It will help you flow quickly and easily without having to watch where your hands are, which will be important for reading sheet music.”  He repeated the motion again, the sounds once again ringing out.  Then, he removed his hand.  “Your turn.”

You bit your lip and placed your hand how you’d seen his arranged and tried.  The notes were clumsy, lacking in rhythm and falling together as you forgot in your nervous haze where the switch of the fingers happened. Embarrassment flooded you and you withdrew your hand.

“Don’t expect to get it right on the first try.” He reassured.  “Let’s try it again.  Try to keep your fingers loose, curved like a bowl.”

Shouta modeled it again. You watched, but your focus was muddled with anxiety, attraction, and likely alcohol.  It was a poor recipe for learning, but you knew he was trying to make you feel comfortable, and you didn’t want to turn down his kindness.  You arranged your hand back on the keys again and tried again, with little improvement.

“I’m sorry, I…” you stuttered as you clutched your hand in your lap protectively.

His hand covered yours and you looked up at him to see him staring at you with warm patience.  “It’s okay.  If you don’t want to do this, we can stop.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open as you thought about it.  You knew he wouldn’t hold it against you if you wanted to quit.  And sure, you felt silly being so poor at it when sitting next to someone who’s skills you idolized.

But did you really want to stop?  How often would you get an opportunity like this?

“No, it’s okay.  Keep going, I want to learn.” You replied.

Shouta watched you for a moment longer before he placed his hand back on the keys.  “Place your hand over mine.”

You followed his instructions, your hand looking small compared to his.  His skin was warm, and it calmed the shaking in your fingers.

“Watch where the fingers land.  Feel how they move.” He played the notes, and you could feel the tendons of his hand tense and shift, his fingers rising and falling like a wave.

“It’s like they’re dancing.” You said.  “You switch to your thumb on this key… E?”

“Yes.” Shouta replied in approval.  “Your turn.”

This time you focused, remembering the feel of how his hand had moved under yours as you played the keys, switching your fingers at the right time.  The improvement was noticeable.

He smiled.  “Good.  Now, for the other hand.  You’ll start one octave lower.  Can you find it?”

Your arm crossed Aizawa’s chest to press the white key, letting the sound ring out.

“Perfect.  Only this time, your pinky will sit on this key, with the others following after.”

You placed your fingers across the white keys.  “Like this?”

Shouta nodded.  “Now you’ll try the same progression with your left hand.  The middle finger will follow after the thumb plays the G note.”

You removed your hand so he could place his own and demonstrate it for you.  You followed after him, imitating his actions, but this time your attempt was worse than your first, your hand angled awkwardly due to limited space as you pressed yourself against him.

“That was terrible.” You laughed. “I can’t reach very easily.”

A small mischievous smile formed on Shouta’s lips and he slipped his hand around your waist.

“Come here.” He said.

You didn’t fight him as he pulled you into his lap.  His right hand settled itself against your stomach as his legs parted slightly to make room for yours, your knees drawn together between his.  The heat of his touch seeped through the fabric of your dress, weaving a tight knot of desire deep in your core that made your body go rigid as you tried to keep yourself from melting against him.

“Is this okay?” He asked, leaning slightly to see your face from his position behind you.

You licked your lips and swallowed, giving a nod.  “Y-Yes…” you answered shakily.  “Are you okay…? I’m not too heavy?”

Shouta gave a soft laugh. “No.  Not at all.” His breath was hot against your skin and you could feel the scratch of his stubble as he spoke, sending goosebumps over your body. “Let’s continue.”

He placed his left hand on the keys again with ease, regardless of how poor his view of the piano was with you in front of him.  He knew this instrument like the back of his hand; could probably play it with his eyes closed and never miss a note.

He played the simple notes again, C through B, fingers tip-toeing across the keys as he said their names out loud, helping you to remember them.  You watched carefully for where the shift in finger arrangement happened, the middle finger following after the thumb just as he’d described.

“You try.” He instructed, his right arm still wrapped around your waist, holding you close against him. You could feel the warmth of his chest against your back now, feel the strength of his body beneath you.

You loved this.  The lap-sitting, the lesson, the praise. Each time Shouta praised your improvements it sent a thrill through you from your head down to your toes.  To be complimented by him, even for something as simple as pressing a few keys… it only made you want to please him more.

You played the progression of notes with renewed motivation, once again showing improvement from your first attempt.

“Good.”

Your spine straightened against him slightly.  The thumb of his hand caressed your abdomen where he held you.

“Now you need to learn to do the same but in reverse, until you’re back where your fingers started.”

You moved your hand away to let him demonstrate and his right hand left your stomach, leaving an ache in its wake.  You watched both of his hands play the simple notes up and down, working together with ease. But you knew it was all a ruse… he made it look easy, but if you tried to do the same, you’d fumble clumsily.

“I don’t know about this…” you chuckled.

“It takes practice,” he replied, “until it becomes muscle memory.”

Shouta demonstrated it again, up and down.  And again.

You placed your hands over his, wanting to feel the touch of his hands under yours more than the actual pressing of the keys.  All you wanted was his arm around your waist again, his hand on your lower abdomen.  His touch was tantalizing, and you wanted more of it.  

He completed the simple scale progression two more times with your hands on top of his.

“Do you want to try?” he offered.

His hands left the keys to hold you again, his arms wrapped more tightly around you this time. You leaned against him, reveling in being held in his arms.

“I’m going to mess up.” You warned.

“Just take it slow.”

You shook your head a little and let out a small breath, shifting your position in his lap slightly as you leaned forward to focus on the keys.  His arms loosened around you, his hands shifting to your thighs.

It was likely an innocent action, intended to give you the freedom to move as you made yourself comfortable.  But as soon as the tips of his fingers touched the bare skin below the hem of your dress, that sharp zap of arousal tingled the ends of your nerves, causing you to suck in air and part your knees slightly, your walls throbbing in hopeful anticipation.

It wasn’t intentional. Your body just… reacted.  But Shouta noticed instantly.

There was silence at first, his hands still on your thighs, waiting.  Finally, he spoke.  “Y/N….” his voice was huskier now.  “How long has it been since you’ve been cared for?”

Embarrassment flooded through you.  Embarrassment at your sensitivity to his touch, embarrassment at the answer to his question... You hesitated a moment before words fell clumsily from your mouth. “I, um… a long time.”

A low hum rumbled from Shouta’s chest as his fingers brushing gently along the inside of your thighs until they dipped just beneath the black fabric. The action was experimental, a testing of the waters, and it brought immediate results.  Your thighs widened the slightest bit more as you failed to fight back a whimper, your hands grasping his arms in need.  Not a moment later you could feel the growing firmness of his cock begin to press against your backside, despite the restriction of Shouta’s jeans. Shouta’s hands halted again their movement, waiting. He was miraculously under control despite his obvious arousal, and you envied him.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asked, his voice low.

Of course you did.  It was obvious you did.  Why else would your legs be parting like the red sea as if he were Moses?

But for some reason, your body language wasn’t enough for him.  He needed to hear it.  A sense of urgency filled you, desperate need driving you.  At this point, you’d give him whatever he wanted…

“Yes.” you begged. “Please, Shouta... Please touch me.” You leaned back against him, allowing the angle of your hips to tilt as your hands guided him further beneath the skirt of your dress.

With you draped onto him, your head tilted back, Shouta kissed the curve of your neck as his hands gently gripped the insides of your knees, pulling your legs apart until they were draped over his own.  You were open for him now, your skirt hiked halfway up by the spread of your legs.  

Your heart pounded in your chest with so much excitement that you could feel your own pulse in your neck and between your legs.  This was happening… This was really happening… How many times had you fantasized about this very thing?  How many times had you longed for this man, whispered his name on your tongue only to be met by the empty silence?  And now here he was, freeing you from the shackles of your loneliness in the best way possible.

Shouta’s hands pushed the fabric up the rest of the way until it was pooled around your hips, exposing your panties.  The thin cotton fabric did little to protect your aching cunt from the cold air, and you sucked air through your teeth at the sensation.  His fingers traced invisible lines up the inside of your thighs, leaving nothing but singing nerves in their wake that cascaded into a shiver that rolled over your flesh, leaving goosebumps.  Your body was already moving of its own volition, hips rolling, eager for Shouta’s fingers yet simultaneously attempting to grind down onto his restrained cock.  Your breaths were already coming in hot and ragged, every inch of you frantic for the release that it had been denied all evening.

Shouta gave a low growl, his left hand holding down your hip, halting your movements.  “You better stop that…” he warned.  

No doubt your girating was making things difficult for him on his end.  But you didn’t care.  You were an unfettered, horny mess now.

A whine escaped your lips at his restriction.  In response, Shouta’s left hand trailed up the length of your body, caressing over your breast before finding its home on your neck.  His palm was against your voice box now, his fingers long enough to wrap around your throat and reach your jaw.  There was no force in his hold, but it still held power over you, ushering your body into stillness while your chest heaved with heavy breaths.

“Patience.” He whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

Shouta followed up his words with more gentle kisses along your neck, your shoulder… wherever his lips could reach with you on his lap.  The feel of his hand on your throat was a reminder of who was in control.  But it was also a promise - a promise to ensure your needs would be met.

Once Shouta was sure he had your compliance, his right hand travelled the remaining distance of your inner thigh to arrive at your panties, where moist heat greeted him.

A low hum of approval rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your back.  “You’re so wet.”

A pitiful “yes” was all you could muster before the tips of his fingers brushed gently against your clothed sex, stealing your voice and replacing it with a gasp.

Slowly Shouta pet you, his fingers stroking gentle circles over the wet cotton, teasing the sensitive flesh beneath.  With his hand still on your neck, you kept your body torturously motionless as he gradually increased the pressure of his digits, reducing his speed as he passed over your clit to drag the pads of his fingers over the bundle of nerves.

You swallowed the pooling saliva in your mouth, the action causing your throat to press against his hand. “Please…” you begged. “I can’t…”

Shouta was strict, but not cruel.  He obliged, slipping his fingers beneath the cotton to swim his digits into your juices, never breaking his circular, rhythmic motion over your slick entrance.  The scent of your arousal surrounded both of you, thick and heavy.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he growled against your skin.

Two of his fingers dipped into you then, slow at first, allowing you to stretch around him as your walls quivered.  Your thighs tensed at the intrusion, welcoming the stinging pressure as your core burned with fire. He withdrew his fingers slowly and you lifted your head to watch in carnal fascination to see his fingers shining wet down to the knuckles. He pushed them into you again, curling his fingers towards the sensitive, spongey tissue along the top of your walls, his thumb pressing down on your wet clit.  A zap of stimulation fired from your core before fizzling away, a teasing warning of what was to come.

“Oh-Oh fuck…” you gasped as one hand reached back and grabbed a fistful of Shouta’s thick, dark hair.

He picked up his pace then, his thumb driving firm circles around your swollen pearl as the sounds of your wet hole being finger-fucked filled the silence of the empty stage.  With each pass of his thumb, with each curl of his fingers, the heat grew hotter, your cunt swollen and burning with the need for release.  Your thighs were tensed so tightly now that it made your legs lift and you had to brace your feet against the piano, discordant notes ringing out to join the sounds of your heavy pants and wet squelching in a lewd song. Shouta’s hand left your throat to hold you under your thigh to keep you steady as his other hand worked fast and hard to unravel you.  With the absence of his touch on your neck, you were free to move your hips, grinding hard into his hand, his lap, whatever part of him you were touching.  Your grip on his hair tightened, mirroring the tension building within you, clinging to him like the boughs of a tree knowing that any second the flood would come.

Shouta was your lifeline, your rock, your destroyer.  You were the waves and he was the shore, and your body tensed to prepare itself to crash against him.

“Come on, baby…” Shouta whispered gruffly.  “I’ve got you. Cum for me.”

You came with a cry, loud and frantic as your walls clamped down on his fingers.  The ball of heat that you had been carrying like a stone exploded within you, incinerating every nerve from the inside out, leaving nothing but sweet, sharp, euphoria in its wake.  Your walls spasmed repeatedly, sucking greedily on Shouta’s drenched fingers, as you cried and moaned, bucked and arched.  Shouta’s arm was around your waist, holding you against him to keep you from sliding off of his lap as you rode the high of your orgasm, tumbling like a waterfall over and over again to finally become a puddle in his strong arms.  

Shouta held you silently against him as your body twitched with aftershocks of pleasure.  Once your spasms subsided and he was sure you wouldn’t fall from your perch, Shouta released his hold around your waist to draw his fingers up and down your arm, creating goosebumps under his gentle touch.  His fingers were still in you, his hand cupped between your legs.  The warmth of his touch on your tired cunt was comforting, and it brought forth a content moan from your parted lips.  Shouta smiled as he planted another kiss on your shoulder.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that with him.  But you finally made yourself sit up when you felt sleep starting to drag you down into its murky depths, your limbs feeling heavy.

Finally, Shouta spoke. “Better?” he asked.

You gave a laugh.  “Much.”  You looked down at yourself in amusement. “You made a mess of me, though…”

Shouta gave a satisfied hum and stared at his hand that held you.  “I like you messy.” He stated.

“So, you’re just gonna leave me like this?” you teased.

He laughed and withdrew his fingers, wiping the slick coating them onto his jeans.  “As much as I like that idea, no.”  He adjusted your ruined underwear and the hem of your dress back into place before turning you around in his lap.  His hands were planted on your rear, keeping you securely and comfortably in place.  “It’s late. We should get you home.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him.  “What about you?” you asked, your eyes glancing down to his lap. Your hands began to trail down his chest to reach the button of his pants, eager to reciprocate.

Shouta smiled at you and grabbed your hands, bringing them back up to plant kisses on your palms.  “Tonight was about you. There’ll be more opportunities for both of us later.”  You pouted and he chuckled. “Don’t give me that face.”

“It hardly seems fair…” you muttered.  You were looking forward to enjoying more of him… you didn’t want tonight to end.

He hummed as he began to trail kisses along your jawline and you arched your neck to allow him better access.  “We both… need sleep.”

Sleep? With his mouth on your skin, sleep was the last thing on your mind.  Shouta pulled his lips away to look into your eyes again and you could see the fatigue there, dark circles framing bloodshot eyes.  He really did look incredibly tired, and you couldn’t help but wonder how late it really was.  You brushed the errant strand of hair off of his forehead, tucking it behind his ear.

“Okay...” you softly agreed.

“You should come back tomorrow night.” He mused, the mischief back in his eyes. “We can continue our piano lessons.”

“I’d like that.” you smiled.

 You couldn’t wait.

[fanficlibraryposts]

Percy Jackson Fic Recs Part 2

so bad but he does it so well by greenconverses

Percy Jackson has wanted fashionable bookworm Annabeth Chase since he first laid eyes on her in the history seminar they shared together. He's not alone in those fantasies, but that doesn't mean Annabeth won't kill him if he tears one of her dresses. 

*even more punk!percy and girly!annabeth*

kid, you’re gonna go far by sundaysabotage

To say that Percy is excited to be going to college would be an understatement. For someone who never thought they’d live to see 17, going to college is kind of a big deal. It was the start of the rest of his life, a life without prophecies or cross-country quests or bothersome gods knocking on his door for help. Retirement is going to be awesome.

But first he needs to clean out his cabin. ___ Set immediately before the start of ‘i could be your hero’ but can be read in isolation

*the sequel/prequel to i could be your hero by sundaysabotage*

Russian Roulette by Darkmagyk

She might just be a minor princess, but she can see her future empire before her. As long as her idiot husband does not get in the way.

The nichest of AUs, where Annabeth is Catherine the Great.

*follows Annabeth as Catherine the Great, and Percy as essentially her mistress*

Amen by CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Percy knows he rambles quite a bit in his prayers to Poseidon, but at least he is safe in the knowledge that Poseidon is too busy of a god to ever really listen… right? Meanwhile, Poseidon is trying to be a responsible god, but Sally Jackson keeps praying to him about their son (aka I wrote another chapter because I’m weak).

as if you were a mythical thing by stardustupinlights

“You were looking for an excuse to speak to him anyways, and I gave it to you,” Aphrodite rolls her eyes, disregarding most of his words, and handing Apollo her wine glass in order to pull a mirror out of her bag, checking her lipstick. He resists the urge to spill it over her dress. “And, he asked me for help, even left me offerings. Why wouldn’t I take a chance to make two negatives a positive?”

“He left you dinner leftovers.”

Aphrodite waves it off. “Same thing, really. My children keep leaving me make-up and chocolate. Other people leave flowers. They’re sweet, but at least Percy Jackson offers something less habitual. I hate boredom.”

“You love chaos, and plotting, like with Reyna,” Apollo translates, and starts drinking her wine because, what in Hades, might as well. He needs a drink. “So I was a negative that needed fixing?”

“You are, yes,” she nods, no remorse to it, and Apollo wonders why he decided to go through with this.

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

Percy gets himself into a tough situation, Apollo helps. Love ensues, and it's only slightly Aphrodite's fault.

* so cute and deep, both Apollo and Percy are deeply vulnerable in their own way and with each other. I look forward to what comes next*

PJO Fic Rec Part 1

Disclaimer: The fanfiction above were not written by me for I am not nearly as creative. However, I am an avid reader and movie buff so these are some of my favorite fanfiction within the fandom. I politely ask that you read the tags attached the fanfiction beforehand so that you know what you are getting yourself into, there may be crossovers. If you don’t like it then don’t read it. In addition, I ask that there be no bashing, the fics are based on my preferences and what I like. Lastly, if there are any specific genre or fandom of fics you want me to get into let me know through my ask box.  

[mlwritingprompts]

Submitted prompt: Universal Oblivion

Hi Rjalker, it's the writer of the "Universal Theater" prompt here. I decided to make a sequel of sorts to my previous prompt, though it's mostly because the current season is already a dumpster fire on a whole new level. And I am here writing to desecrate it's half-opened grave because I am in a petty mood against the show :)

Don't expect me to give a proper ending to this AU, sadly I couldn't find how :(

So... just enjoy this I guess?

Again, if someone wants to use this for an AU or an original story, go for it.

The Akumatized Marinette, Cosmic Actress uses the neopronouns nix/nix/nix/nixself (used the same way as she/her/hers/herself). Because they're awesome. The only thing I regret is not finding out about neopronouns earlier or I would have given Akumanette neopronouns lol. Also the fact that I think the tone of the prompt is a little messed-up and all over the place, sorry for that.

Also, TW: unreality, 4th wall break, and I guess a little cosmic horror(?)

Used few parts of @Emberwritesinsight's "Time is Broken" AU. It kinda felt... fitting.

PS: Rjalker if it isn't too troublesome can you please give Cosmic Actress neopronouns in the other prompt or should I just say that nix decided to change nix pronouns on a whim? Still not sure how to approach this subject.

(Rjalker here, I already went in and fixed them as soon as you said you regretted not knowing about them for the first prompt :) It's not problem at all! )

===

"You know, people always speak that the reality is stranger than fantasy."

Cosmic Actress sighed as nix spoke.

"Well, to me personally... I have to disagree."

Nix shook nix head.

"In fantasy, the heroes triumph. No matter how hard the battles are. No matter how strong their foe is. The power of friendship will always save the day! It doesn't matter how smart and creative the villains are, no matter how outnumbered and outclassed the heroes are, the Good will win!"

Nix raised nix hands as if to emphasize nix point, nix face mockingly gleeful, before the expression became one of boredom.

"But, that isn't how reality works. At least to me. Reality is never so kind. Or at least, it rarely is." Again, nix shook nix head.

"In reality, a hopeless battle will still be hopeless. In reality, there is no way for you to defeat someone who is both stronger and smarter than you. Especially when they can easily hide and have minions that can change the fabric of reality as we know it." Nix sighed again.

"So, how do the heroes win in this scenario? How do they rise to the realm of fantasy, and surpass all these insurmountable odds? Simple. Have the universe give them unfair advantages. Give them inexplicable power-ups. Hit the villains with the Idiot Ball, if that's what the trope is called in this reality. Or maybe, some sudden interference out of nowhere, without any proper reason for it to occur. Do you understand, heroes?" Nix looked at the heroes facing nix.

None of them were in a good state.

Kyubi, Honeymoon, Do-Over, Destructo, Eternity, Protector and Roselina.

All of them were barely standing, some of them had their protective armors literally damaged and cracked, even though it should have been impossible.

They were trying their best to not fall or lose focus despite the pain.

Because they were not even sure if they would not faint and not wake up for days.

What was worse for them was the fact that the Akuma in front of them...

Nix wasn't even serious. Not even trying.

No matter how many combos they tried, no matter how many time resets via the Snake miraculous, no matter what kind of power they used to attack.

It all was useless.

Venom barely stopped nix. If it even hit nix at all, that is.

Shelter was casually broken with a finger.

Mirage was basically useless, and even a Mirage with of light as bright as the sun itself it was worthless.

The Cataclysm, the power of Destruction, that they hit her with by sheer mistake and mental exhaustion from the battle, was useless. Nix defenses and regeneration were too high to do much other than cause nix a slight annoyance.

Even the Lucky Charm was useless. No object could help them from the absolute power that was facing them.

They could only watch as nix literally ran circles around them, and defeated them soundly.

It's only thanks to the Akuma suddenly deciding to monologue that they were even given enough room to breathe properly.

Cosmic Actress looked at their state and sighed again.

"What I want to say is; I am not being... nerfed." Nix explained, "Back when I was Ladybug, when I was a hero, even when the universe was against me, the reality went out of it's way to not let Hawkmoth just win. Unfortunately for you, I am immune to all of these machinations of the cosmos. The only rule that applies to me is that I cannot truly win. I cannot use any of the Miraculouses in a way that allows me to free myself from this cosmic thread that is suffocating me."

Nix directed a single palm at them, and a large orb of chaotic energy came to existence.

"Me trying to do so will only cause a time reset. That also means that you... are not going to face me in the 'Easy' difficulty. Oblivion Orb."

With that, the orb rapidly sped towards the exhausted heroes, who could only watch as darkness consumed them all.

===========================

Chloe woke up with a killer headache.

She clutched her head, trying to stop the pain, as Tikki's voice suddenly rose next to her on her pillow, the little kwami screaming wordlessly as if having a nightmare.

"Wha- where am I?" Chloe asked, the overwhelming sense of confusion overriding even her concern for Tikki.

She took a moment to look around, trying to fight through the helpless confusion, as Tikki's frantic screams stopped, her eyes opening wide.

The same room, the same bed. But something was missing...

She wondered if she was having memory problems.

"Tikki, why were you screaming? Did you have a nightmare?" She asked her companion gently.

The poor kwami took a large breath before speaking. "Yes. I dreamed that you and the rest were fighting an Akuma and it- it wasn't even a contest! You all were...!"

Chloe could understand the meaning of her unfinished sentence and tried to calm her down. "But, an Akuma that powerful to easily ki-"

Words stuck in her mouth as she looked at the large mirror on the wall.

There, instead of her and Tikki's reflection, the figure of another being was showing.

A figure her mind immediately remembered. Just as she remembered the fight.

"C- C- Cosmic Actress!?"

The Akuma ignored the girl's paling, terrified face along with Tikki's.

"We need to talk. I, you, and your teammates. Meet me at the Eiffel Tower in an hour. Your team is being spoken to."

Just as suddenly the akuma appeared appeared, nix had disappeared.

Chloe shakily breathed and calmed herself.

She called her team and they all stated they faced the same thing.

And she knew that there is no other choice but to do as the Akuma told.

===========================

Time flew rapidly as the hour ended.

Chloe was on the top of the tower along with the rest of the team.

Only Sabrina decided to hide in the Burrow just in case things went south so there might be something to save... Or someone.

They couldn't argue against that.

Now, they impatiently waited for the Akuma nixself to appear.

It didn't take too long as only a minute later, space and time twisted beyond recognition, finally taking the form of a circle in front of Adrien, and Cosmic Actress appeared from it.

For a moment, Adrien could have sworn to have seen a humanoid figure peeking from the portal besides the Akuma, but the portal closed before he can make sure of what he saw.

"Now that everyone is here -- Well, except Sabrina -- I will talk. You cannot defeat me. Absolutely. And definitely not directly." Nix tone was as if nix was stating a fact.

And nix was stating a fact.

The heroes know it also.

"You said that you also can't win." Kagami spoke to the akuma.

Nix smiled. "Yes. I can't. I am not allowed to win because I am the villain. That is why... I am raising the white flag."

Adrien blinked. "The... white flag? Wait. You will give up!? After all that, you will just--!" He cut off his words in sudden horror in fear of enraging the akuma.

Nix only kept smiling. "Oh, I am not giving up. I am simply not going to fight you in particular anymore."

"... What?" Alya asked in incredulity.

The akuma is not giving up, yet, she will not fight them?

"It's really simple." Nix starts explaining. "You are not able to defeat me so, I just need to wait for the next generation of the Miraculous holders to stand up to me instead."

They can't believe nix.

"It's the perfect plan, really. If we go by the principle of the younger generation surpassing the older one --which I assure you is very true for the Miraculous holders by the way--, all you need to do is to train the younger generation to make the world a better place, and maybe, in the distant future, there will be someone or a group of people able to truly defeat me. And free me from this cursed fate and save the world at the same time."

The heroes look shocked at the plan. Even more was the utter conviction in nix voice.

But the surprise disappeared too fast and turned into dread as Cosmic Actress' smile turned into a cruel smirk.

"Of course, this is if you are ready to face the fact that this universe... Is already marching towards Utter Oblivion."

A shiver ran across their spines at the words.

"Oblivion?" This time, it was Nino who asked.

"Yes. And since this might be the last time I meet you, I might as well tell you everything."

Cosmic Actress took a breath. This will be a little long.

"Now, let me ask you a question. How many times has it rained in Paris this year?"

Needless to say, that was not the question they expected. It was just too random.

"Rained? Really?" Even Chloe couldn't comprehend the randomness of the question.

"Just answer me. Let me guess. Only once or twice?"

As they tried their best to recall, they found out that nix was correct. But it still doesn't explain anythi-

"Even in the winter and the autumn? Only once or twice?"

That-

Now that Alya thinks of it, it is indeed strange, but it is not enou-

"What about the fact that Alix, your friend, had never dyed her hair again? She had just dyed it once and the dye just... stayed there?"

Okay, that too was-

"Or maybe the fact that none of you, that no one in this city, ever changes their everyday clothes? As if you only have copies of the same outfit for no reason?

"Or maybe that, even with Paris being known as one of the biggest centers of fashion, the very designs are plain or are too similar to each other?"

They couldn't refute nix.

And as they ponder more, they realize that things are not normal.

"I will tell you why these things happen. It is all thanks to..." Nix pointed at them. "The very jewels that allow you to transform."

"Uhh, what?" Adrien's voice resounded.

Nix stopped smiling as nix looked at them.

"Didn't you find it strange? That the sources of the power for your Miraculouses are literal deities? Doesn't it sound even more ridiculous then, that the kwami, who are supposedly governing the universe, cannot refuse a holder's order? That their power can be used against the kwami's will? If the kwami are such powerful beings, why then, did they not erase me and the many other supervillains right away? Why didn't any of them decide to just not transform without their will?"

The dread and horror return to the heroes as they absorb nix speech, and the meaning behind it.

"That's right, the kwami, the fragments of the literal concepts, are slaves. Shackled by the Miraculouses. And what is happening to Paris, from the weather, creativity, and the rest... is because of that."

"No, no, no nonononononnono! It can't-!"

Just as they started to mutter and scream in denial as the reality slams itself on them, Cosmic Actress simply pointed at them.

Their high and raging emotions ceased to exist. They literally couldn't feel panic anymore, and they dropped from the shock.

"You can get shocked later. I still need to finish my talk. So, anyways, it's because of the kwami being enslaved that the world is marching toward it's annihilation."

Nix continued speaking casually. As if nix was talking about weather. And maybe, nix was literally like talking about weather from nix viewpoint.

"When the... Order of Guardians" they can hear the venom in nix voice when nix said that name. "Created the Miraculouses to enslave the kwami, they made a disastrous mistake in their arrogance and greed. They broke the concepts. They broke the universe's balance. The universe itself was no longer the same from the very attosecond a fragment of the concepts was enslaved and separated from the cosmos. The universe could no longer move the flow of causality in a natural way.

"The concepts are shattered, none of them can ever work in the natural and proper way they should. In some places in the universe, they work better, in others, they are unstable and annihilate everything that exists. Nothing is truly created or destroyed anymore. Nothing can be truly illusionary, Time and space are so twisted that it is impossible to understand. Even worse is that the universe can't sustain itself or heal the damage in any way. Its will is spread too thin and it cannot do anything. It can't simply act unnaturally. But the cracks in its existence do. They are slowly growing and widening. The universe as you know it is the equivalent of a person on life support against an illness that will kill them regardless."

Nix shook nix head as it stopped speaking for a moment as the group absorbed nix words.

"The kwami are, in a way, a better version of the will of the cosmos. They have an ego and their will and ability to think is much higher if only because they are literally a large mass of a concept shackled in a very small area and in a very tiny form. Their will is not spread too thin. But it is the same with the cosmos. They are shackled, and their powers are severely limited by the Shackles you are wearing. At the rate this is going, a millenia or two will be the most generous estimate for how long this universe will hold, before it collapses on it's own and it simply... ceases to exist."

Silence was deafening.

No one could speak. The revelations are too much.

It's only because Cosmic Actress made them unable to feel terror or panic that they are not having a mental breakdown.

"... Can't this be fixed? If the kwami being shackled and separated from the universe is the problem, then shouldn't breaking the shackles help?" Ivan asked this time.

The akuma shook nix head.

"No. It's too late for that to just fix everything. Far too late. Had that been done just a few days, or at best, a few years after the enslavement of the kwami, that might have been fixed with little problems. But today, it's been centuries if not millenias since those idiots at the Temple shackled the kwami. The universe can no longer fix this level of damage freely. Trust me. I know. I tried doing that before. At this point, if you do that right away, it will be like like taking a broken vase and having a literal toddler do the fixing. The universe as you know it will be completely unrecognizeable. And it won't stop the kwami from being enslaved again. The Order of the Guardians will still exist, they will still get the idea of enslaving literal concepts, and the universe will still want things to happen naturally so it won't stop them. And no. Time travelling to stop them is impossible. The laws of causality will not allow that to happen. Even I almost died and had my literal soul almost erased when I tried in one of the many time resets I've lived through."

"Is there no way to fix that?" Chloe asked.

"... To be honest. I don't know anymore. I've exhausted all my options through my long life. Teaming with other heroes. Creating subordinates to do it for me. Freeing the kwami right after they are enslaved. Even in timelines where I allowed the heroes to defeat me, another version of me will still exist in another timeline, still undefeated. Nothing really worked for me. I don't know if it's because of my position as the 'Final Villain', or because of any other reason. All. Failed."

For the first time since Cosmic Actress spoke, tiredness and resingation seeped into nix tone.

They could understand that.

It just sounded so hopeless.

"There's only one last options that I did not really try until now. It didn't really seem plausible to me, but I guess I must gamble here."

Nix took a breath as Chloe and the rest held theirs in anticipation.

"The only option left to me is to... gamble on the coexistence of the Theory of Narrative Causality and the Protagonist-Centered Morality. And that you are the protagonists of this era."

"I don't follow." Adrien told nix sincerely. All of them can't really understand nix words.

Nix rubbed nix forehead, feeling the headache resulted from explaining this. "Look, you people have media entertainment. And sometimes in the show, things happen because and I quote, 'because the plot says so'. Sometimes characters act in a different way only to justify the plot. Got it?

"This is exactly the reason why Hawkmoth, or rather, the former villain, Gabriel Agreste- not the current one, this reality's Gabriel is a good person somehow--didn't just win. He could have overwhelmed Marinette and the 'original' heroes by spamming Akumas every hour until they dropped from exhaustion. He could have made a tracking Akuma, or any of the other ways for him to win easily or solve his problems. He didn't do that because the universe, or at least the not-so-healthy area of the universe made it so.

"The same thing happened with Marinette and the many problems she had. She could have easily defeated Hawkmoth many times over, rescued herself from her partner's harassment (literally take the ring away with no guilt), forced people to respect her boundaries even if it required violence, stopped people from shipping her against her will, made better choices in her life. But the choice was basically stripped from her. In fact, me coming to existence was because the universe was stable for a moment and suddenly Hawkmoth couldn't magically ignore her negative emotions being unleashed like it happened many, many times before.

"And here we come to her partner. Your previous counterpart, Adrien Agreste."

Nix pointed at him much to everyone's surprise.

"You might be a good person in this reality, but in Marinette's reality, you were one of the most horrible people I've ever seen. You were a two-faced brat with no morals and with no care for anyone but yourself. You never cared that your classmates were threatened by an akuma, you casually joked in the most inappropriate times, you contstantly sexually harrassed Marinette as a 'hero', and you abused your power over her to stop her from dealing consequences to those that hurt and bullied her. You were all but literally given everything on a silver platter. You had the easiest and stupidest test to be a superhero, your classmates liked you instantly despite apparently never having time to bond with them. You all but have gotten a harem of girls fawning over you for the most nonsensical reasons, and somehow no one in Paris could see that you were literally harassing your partner. But of course, when someone does the slightest thing that you didn't like, it's suddenly the most horrible act ever. You were literally an embodiment of the Protagonist-Centered Morality in all but name."

Adrien was paling, but he didn't refute nix.

He'd seen them, the memories of what he did in that timeline. He knew just how horrible and disgusting the previous him was. It still didn't make it any less painful to hear it told to his face so bluntly.

But Cosmic Actress was still not over.

"Not like the rest of you were spared either from being Narratively Right or Narratively Wrong either, but it will take too long to talk about every little thing that you were tangled with. So I will just sum up that your entire behaviours as being a bunch of racist stereotypical caricatures, and existing to woobify the rich. I mean, how else would Chloe's pervious counterpart stay a billionaire or how her father didn't get murdered because he didn't even punish his daughter for crashing a train and basically committing to aiding a literal terrorist? Of course we can't also ignore forcefully trying to shove someone into a relationship simply because the relationship in question sounded 'cute', even if the person in question is making it clear they are not happy or comfortable."

The whole team was shaking, horrified by the pictures nix was painting.

Nix waited for them to calm down, feeling drained nixself. What nix was saying were things nix had wondered about for a long time, and never spoke to anyone else (except nix Amok and friend Natasi) so it felt a little liberating to voice them out.

"Okay, but what is our role in that? What can we do to fix all of--" Adrien spread his arms as if ponting to the world around them. "--This?"

Nix looked at them.

"Honestly, at this point I only have assumptions to go with." nix admitted "But the only thing that might work is you using the so-called favouritism of this broken universe for your benefit. If you are really the Heroes of this Reality, the Protagonists, then maybe, just maybe, if you desired to get rid of the shackles put on the kwami, wished so hard to fix this messed-up reality, you might bend the broken will of the universe for you and make it give you the results you desire. You may even allow for the current versions of you to continue existing, instead of being erased or reset to that of your original selves.

"Of course, this is not even a 50/50 chance for success, it might even be a one in a trillion or less in your favour. But at this point, I am more than satisfied by this infinitesimal chance of success. I really have nothing to lose either, except losing my sanity and memories as I continue living forever.

"But you do have a lot to lose. If you don't stop this, the entire universe might cease to exist, or the world will be reset, and you will be erased anyways, along with all your loved ones."

That was it. That was the whole message. A long speech about how messed-up the whole reality is. Nix has nothing else to tell them.

A portal opened behind Cosmic Actress, and nix glanced at the heroes for the last time.

"The choice is in your hands. Will you gamble on this one chance to give everyone their happiness? To free the kwami and fix the damage while simultaneously making sure that the history will not repeat itself? Or will you abandon all Hope, and succumb to the Despair? From this point, I am leaving this little war between us. You are also free from your responsibility to fight me. Do whatever you want in your lives. If you want to live normal lives, go for it. If you want to prepare the world for the worst, go for it. If you want to risk everything for a possibly nonexistent chance of happiness for you and the world as a whole, go for it. You are the only one who can decide what to do from now on.

"Farewell. We might never meet again, Heroes. Regardless of what you choose, I hope you live contently... Until your last breaths..."

With that, the portal closed, with what seemed to be a final farewell.

Only the superheroes were still there on the tower, processing the whole speech.

"Just... what should we do now? If this was true, what can we do...?" Alya asked, doubt clear in her voice.

"I don't know, Alya. I don't know..." Ivan told her.

None of them knew what to do.

The weight of the knowledge of their world's impending end hangs heavily, and there are not enough answers to how they can even start untangling this cosmic web that is hanging on every living being. =========================== END. =========================== Well, this was it. It was longer than I expected. Honestly I didn't expect it to be this... ridiculous or all over the place.

I hope that this was at least enteraining, and I can understand if you deleted and/or edited few parts for clarity.

I just hope it was... interesting.

[starsfic]

Revenge of the Size

Summary: An shapeshifting accident leaves Red Son at the mercy of Qi Xiaotian.

Notes: @azelforest-art-corner suggested this on Discord, kinda as a sequel to their Small Shengains story inspired by my work. Hope you enjoy!

-_-

Well, this sucked.

Red Son glared. At nothing in particular, nothing but how much bigger everything else was. He was perched on the kitchen counter, no bigger than the Noodle Boy when he had broken in two weeks ago.

It had been an experiment. His curiosity had been sparked by Qi Xiaotian’s ability to size-shift and he had wondered if his own power allowed this power. It was just a strand of shapeshifting.

So he had tried it.

And now he was stuck, bored, until-

The elevator dinged. “I’m here!” his paramour- (he couldn’t bring himself to call him his partner. Despite their conversation about how they felt, the word made it a touch too real.)- called. Footsteps led to the doorway of the kitchen. “Red?”

“Hey, Noodle Boy.”

Xiaotian glanced down at the kitchen counter. His eyes widened and he dropped the grocery bags he held. “...Red?” Then suddenly his face was looming and Red Son yelped. Was this how Xiaotian felt during the jar incident? “What happened?” Thankfully, he kept his voice low, but it was still loud in his small ears.

“An accident.” That was all Red was willing to say.

Xiaotian offered a hand, speaking as he did. “Yeah, I figured, but how…?”

The fire demon sighed, hopping on. He was brought close to Xiaotian’s face, feeling even smaller with his embarrassment. “I was experimenting with shapeshifting, seeing if I could replicate your size-shift ability. And now…” He stood and nearly stumbled, but Xiaotian’s thumb pressed against his back, offering support. He gestured to himself once he was straight. “Here we are. I don’t know how to fix this, I thought you might have an idea?”

Xiaotian sighed, humming as he considered the question. “I really don’t know. All I do is think big to get bigger.”

Red glanced down at himself. The past hour had been filled with nothing but boredom, not trusting himself to do much more than sit on the counter. “I don’t think I’m in the right headspace for that.” His paramour hummed, thinking over the issue. Which wasn’t bad. What was the issue was the thumb supporting Red Son was moving.

Just gentle strokes.

But he wasn’t wearing his coat. Neither was the Noodle Boy, wearing a tank top that revealed the deep bite mark in his shoulder. And the touch was kind and… Red might’ve made a small noise. Xiaotian paused his humming to stare down at him.

And suddenly he was remembering last week, when their roles were reversed.

And guessing by the smirk, so did the Noodle Boy.

“Noodle Boy...” Red tried to sound serious, trying to back away but that thumb was there. He tried a nervous chuckle. “Noodle Boy...”

“Maybe we should wait upstairs...”

Before Red could say anything, Xiaotian was out of the kitchen and heading up the stairs.

As he sat down on the palm, unable to do much of anything else, Red hoped his revenge wouldn’t be too bad.

[five-rivers]

Oh God, imagine the social media reaction to tinyMight, the feral adorable badass. Imagine his bullies and unfortunate small-time villains from 40+ years ago finding out who they tried to beat up. Imagine those few who have seen Yagi but don't know he's All Might wondering if skeleton man is All Might's twin or something. Imagine the shenanigans if the de-aging takes longer to undo. Interactions with Gran, Izuku, the other teachers.

Sequel to this.

.

Toshinori felt his smile grow progressively more fixed the longer the detective stared at him with that haunted expression. Was he in some kind of trouble? It sounded as if the villain had swapped him for another rookie hero, one named All Might (cool name!), but that shouldn't be Toshinori's responsibility. Maybe the quirk also linked them, somehow? That would explain why the villains had been trying to kill him, and why the banana hero- Present Mic didn't want him to leave. On the other hand...

Oh, he should just ask. That would be easier.

He opened his mouth to do just that when the detective spoke instead.

"This is going to be so much paperwork," he said.

"I'm sorry?" said Toshinori.

"Yagi," continued the detective, "I love you like a brother, but ever since I met you, my paperwork load has tripled. Tripled."

"I've only just met you?"

If possible, the detective looked even more haunted.

Luckily, at this point, Present Mic opened the door to the car and slid into the seat next to the detective. "Thanks for coming, Detective Tsukauchi," he said. "Anyway, we have confirmation on the quirk that did this to you, and, well. It isn't time travel."

"Thank god," said Detective Tsukauchi.

"Um. I thought it was teleportation...?"

"You've been de-aged by about forty years," said Present Mic, all in a rush.

What. What?

The car started up in the silence.

"Are you telling me that I'm in the future? Oh my gosh, that's an amazing quirk."

"No, no, you're in the present. You're not-- It isn't going to send you back to the past when it wears off. You'll just, you know, go back to your normal age."

"Wow. That's still a really cool quirk. Does it have to be forty years, or can he adjust the amount of time? Like, he could use it on people with degenerative mental diseases, give their families one last time with them. Or, or for witness statements! It would be pretty good for a hero, too, you could de-age villains into kids and then they couldn't fight anymore... but maybe it'd be a little unethical... Hmm..."

"You don't seem very, uh, alarmed?" said Present Mic.

"What would I be alarmed about?"

"All of your friends and family being forty years older?" suggested Present Mic.

"Haha, I don't have any of those," said Toshinori, smiling as large as he could and giving the hero two thumbs up.

Present Mic and Detective Tsukauchi just stared at him.

Then Tsukauch turned to Present Mic. "You said it'll wear off? When?"

"Uh. The quirk registry wasn't entirely clear about that. But it does wear off."

"The press is going to be a nightmare," said Tsukauchi, rubbing his face.

"Why?" asked Toshinori.

The hero and detective exchanged another glance. Toshinori could practically hear them mentally screaming you tell him, no, you tell him at each other.

Tsukauchi coughed into his fist. "Well, Toshi- excuse me, Yagi-kun, you're... You've realized those two were trying to kill you?"

"It was... sort of hard not to, honestly," said Toshinori. "Is it because I'm a hero or something?"

"How did you-?"

Toshinori silently pinched the fabric of the overlarge jumpsuit leg between his fingers and raised an eyebrow.

"Right. Well. You're the Number One hero."

"Wow," said Toshinori. It seemed to be something he kept saying, today. "How did I do that without a quirk?"

"What?"

"He's a late bloomer," said Tsukauchi, quickly. "A late bloomer. You're a late bloomer."

"Uh. Okay?"

.

"UA is so cool," said Toshinori, shielding his eyes against the sun as he looked up at the building.

"Haha, yeah," said Tsukauchi.

"Did I really go to school here?"

"You teach here, too!" said Present Mic.

"That's so cool," said Toshinori. "I can't believe I'm going to be a hero for over thirty years. That's like, the longest any hero has ever served."

"There are a couple who've served for longer, now, actually," said Present Mic. "Like Yoroi Musha, Recovery Girl, and Gran Torino."

"Yoroi Musha is still a hero?" asked Toshnori. "Like, actively? That's so long."

The gate behind them beeped, and Toshinori turned around just in time to take the bottom of a boot straight to the face. Needless to say, he fell over.

"Gran Torino!"

"Holy crap! I thought he'd dodge! Toshinori, you idiot, are you alright?"

"Ow," said Toshinori, trying and failing to recognize the voice that was referring to him so familiarly.

"Gran Torino, you really can't go around kicking people like that."

"Yagi-kun? Are you okay? Should we get Recovery Girl?"

Toshinori raised a shaking hand, thumb up. "I think I have a concussion."

.

When they got to the infirmary, it was already occupied by a couple students and... a strange homeless-looking man, but that didn't make sense. Maybe an undercover hero was stopping here for some reason? But why?

The students, one small and green, other with a mix of red and white hair, stared at him openly.

"Oops, sorry," said Present Mic. "Didn't think that anyone would be here before noon."

The homeless man sighed deeply. "Neither did I," he said, "and yet..." He fixed a baleful glare on the two students.

"I-I'm sorry, Aizawa-sensei," squeaked the green one. "I tried to get out of the way of the door, but I didn't want to run into Todoroki-kun, and-"

"It isn't your fault, problem child," said Aizawa with a sigh heavy enough to crush an elephant, who... was a teacher, evidently. Man. Standards for teachers' dress had really fallen in forty years, hadn't they? "The first year support class shouldn't have been doing anything with explosives of that caliber. Anyway, who's-"

"Are you Midoriya-kun's secret brother?" asked the red and white student.

"Who?" asked Toshinori.

"Todoroki-kun! You can't just ask people that!"

"You have to admit, he looks just like your father-"

"All Might is not my father."

"Riiiiiight," said Present Mic, guiding Toshinori to a bed with a hand on his back. "Now, why don't you just relax here while I go get Recovery Girl?"

"Coward," whispered Tsukauchi.

Present Mic shrugged and disappeared.

"So," said Aizawa, exhibiting a well-practiced air of boredom. "Are you related to All Might?"

"Eraserhead-san," said Tsukauchi, through clenched teeth, "may I introduce you to Yagi Toshinori? Yagi-kun, this is Aizawa-san. He's in charge of class 1-A."

Aizawa went pale. "Please tell me it isn't time travel."

"If it was time travel, we would be in an underground bunker or something," said Tsukauchi. "No, it was an age-regression quirk."

The green student inhaled sharply, then let off a small, "Oh."

"Wait," said the red and white student- Todoroki?- narrowing his eyes.

"Don't say it," urged the green haired boy.

"What do you think about quirks, Yagi-san?"

"Quirks are great!" said Toshinori. "I sure wish I-"

"Had a note book to write about them in!" interrupted Tsukauchi, loudly.

Toshinori frowned up at him, confused. What did he say?

Todoroki rubbed his chin with a finger. "To... analyze the quirks in?" he asked.

"Um," said Toshinori. "Yes?"

"See, Midoriya-kun?" said Todoroki, turning to the other boy. "He's just like you. You're the same." He touched his pointer fingers together.

Midoriya, for his part, looked extremely flustered.

"The same," repeated Todoroki. He looked back at Toshinori. "Do you happen to have a brother? A twin, perhaps?"

"Uh, I don't think so? But, then, I was a doorstop baby, so..."

Todoroki nodded sagely. "So you must have reunited with your long lost brother, the skeleton man, later in life-"

"Stop calling him that!" hissed Midoriya, yanking on his friend's uniform jacket.

"I wouldn't have to, if you'd just tell me your uncle's name-"

"He isn't my uncle."

Both Aizawa and Tsukauchi looked like they wanted to die. Or at least be somewhere else.

"Uh," said Toshinori, wanting to change the subject even with his concussion. "What are your quirks, anyway?"

"My quirk is called Half-Hot, Half-Cold," said Todoroki. He raised his hands. "It allows me to make fire from my left side, and ice from my right."

"Oh, neat," said Toshinori. "There must be so many applications like that! I mean, combat is obvious, but it might be even better for rescue work- Lots of casualties in natural disasters are because of exposure, you'd be ideal to counteract that in any weather. Or if a victim is going into shock! Plus, it'd be useful to have in everyday life, if they ever change the public quirk usage law- Did they change that?"

"No," said Aizawa.

"Actually, yes," said Tsukauchi, "but probably not in the way you're thinking..."

"Don't use your quirk in public," said Aizawa.

"You don't have to worry about that, because-"

"Don't use your quirk in public," said Tsukauchi, interrupting again. "Please."

"He does have a hero license, though, so technically-"

"Problem child."

"Sorry."

"Oh, oh, and what's your quirk?"

"Please do not fall out of the bed, To- Yagi-kun," said Tsukauchi.

"I'm not going to," said Toshinori.

"Well," said Midoriya, who had a very complicated expression on his face, "my quirk is, uh, a strength enhancer..."

"Just like yours," said Todoroki, as if he had just made an irrefutable point.

Oh, yeah. Toshinori's older self had a quirk. Maybe that's what Tsukauchi was trying to keep him from talking about? He wished they had told him beforehand if it was some kind of secret.

Also: was Todoroki implying that Midoriya was Toshinori's son? That'd be, like... Wow. If this was forty years in the future, and Midoriya was about the same age as him, that meant he'd had Midoriya when he was forty? Hm. He wasn't sure how to feel about that...

Luckily, before he could start in on a spiral about whether the idea of himself at forty or the idea that he had kids was the thought that was bothering him, Present Mic came back with a little old woman who was, apparently, Recovery Girl.

Wow. Yeah. That was sure a change in... everything. Yep. Really driving home the whole 'forty years in the future' thing. It sure was.

Recovery Girl sighed deeply. "What did you get yourself into this time, Toshinori?"

"Gran Torino kicked him in the head," said Tsukauchi.

"I'm going to skin that man alive one of these days," said Recovery Girl. "But I was talking about the other thing. Although, I suppose that's rather obvious. Do you mind if I heal you, dear? It will probably knock you out for a little bit."

"Sure," said Toshinori, who was beginning to strongly desire an escape from the increasingly awkward conversations around him. "Knock me out. Please."

"Alright, then."

And then she did.

[britswriting]

Desire (7)

Desire Masterlist

Read on Wattpad

Sequel to Unbroken

T/W: Body negativity (Talking down to oneself about postpartum recovery)

*Leighton's POV*

The first week without Colby had been tortures.

I was so used to the texts, and calls.. It was like I was back on Sam's birthday and it sucked.

On Colby's birthday, the day after he said he wanted to give us space, I texted him Happy Birthday, and sent him a photo of Gemma so he had one of her on his birthday, but I didn't hear back for hours.

I laid around my house feeling sorry for myself, watching the sky go from bright and sunny to dark and cloudy, not hearing back from him until way after I had gotten Gemma down to sleep.

I laid on the couch watering Master Chef when he replied back with a "Thank You" which felt like a knife in my back.

Was he really done with me?

Had I really fucked him up this bad?

Aaliyah had texted me a few times, asking how things were going, to which I asked the same.

They had finally found a house in Tennessee, and were putting an offer in and before I knew it, she was officially leaving me February 14th.

Happy fucking Valentines Day to me.

Logan was leaving towards the start of February, so we planned to do a dinner at my parents house relatively soon.

Today was January 17th, and I was currently home alone since Gabe took Gemma to his parents house, and I spent my morning sleeping, only to be awakened by a puddle of milk soaking my sleep shirt.

That was a first.

I could feel the weight and wetness when I woke up, peeling the soggy shirt off of my chest.

I pumped before my chest exploded and then took a shower, now adding laundry to my to do list.

I spent most of the day cleaning.

Around dinner time, I was sitting on our old couch, searching job listings, but due to my criminal record, I couldn't find anything.

It would be so easy to go work for a grocery store or even a retail shop, but because of my damn criminal record I was getting nowhere.

I angrily shut my laptop, tossing it to the side and took a deep breath.

I kept checking my phone, waiting for any sort of message from anyone, but only adding to my boredom, there was nothing.

It felt like everyone kept going, and I was just stuck here, trapped between these four walls as I cooked and cleaned and washed baby bottles.

I was twenty one, and my life was already a housewife changing diapers.

I mindlessly stirred my mac and cheese, staring out the kitchen window, watching the world go by.

I took the pot of mac and cheese, a hot pad under it, and sat on the couch, continuing to watch Master Chef as I pumped, not wanting a repeat of this morning.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through the different apps, not finding any of the games to be interesting.

I saw my baby apps, one of them being my pregnancy bump app and deleted it, cleaning out my phone when I was interrupted by it ringing.

Alex's name flashed across it, and I quickly answered, desperate for any sort of attention.

"Hello?" I answered a little too quickly, setting my pot of mac and cheese on my coffee table.

"Hi! Are you busy?" She asked and I shook my head before realizing how much of an idiot I was.

"No, I'm bored out of my mind, why?"

"Good! Do you want to join my friends and I out tonight? Oh wait.. you have the baby, don't you?"

"No, baby daddy has her. Where are you going?"

"There is this new club in downtown LA and my friend knows the owner's son" She explained, now on speaker as I fixed my pump.

"I thought I was your only friend" I teased, biting my lower lip, trying to stop the smile that wanted to spread across my face.

"Ha ha" She grumbled and I giggled, reaching for the TV remote. "Are you in or?" She asked and I sighed, contemplating my choices.

"I haven't exactly been to a club.. I don't even think I have anything club worthy" I admitted, feeling bashful at the confession.

"You're twenty one and you've never been to a club?" She asked, sounding genuinely shocked which only added to my guilt complex.

I mentally sighed, reminding myself that I've never been a normal young adult, and it was fine that she was surprised by this revelation.

Yeah because I'm a recovering drug addict,

"No, I haven't. They're fun, no?" I asked and I could practically hear the excitement in her voice as she told me all about the music and the drinking and the dancing.

"I'm not the best dancer"

"Come on mama! Those hips don't lie!"

I cringed, glancing down at my pudgy tummy.

"I um.. What do you wear to the club? I still look like four months pregnant" I frowned, still disappointed in my body.

After all, I'm barely in my young adulthood, and my body was already ruined.

No guy would want me now.

"A dress, something lacy, a two piece, a crop top. Anything sexy or slutty or fun" She expressed and my forehead wrinkled as I looked down at my body.

"That's not happening" I told her bluntly and she giggled which made me roll my eyes.

"Come on, you looked hot on New Years!"

"You were drunk. I literally still look pregnant"

"Some guys dig that"

"Not helping" I grumbled.

"Text me your clothing sizes and I'll pick you out something. After all, we aren't leaving till like 10 anyway" She said and I sighed, not wanting to give her my sizes.

After some convincing, I sent her my hip and waist size, and even my bra size, reminding her I'm still nursing so it couldn't have lace fronting.

Lately due to Gemma sucking too hard at my nipples, I've had to use nipple cream and pads to soothe them.

My milk has also been a little heavy lately, hence the leaking this morning, so I also have thicker nipple pads for my nursing bras to help prevent it happening in public.

I get it's normal, but it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

Alex told me that she was going to go out shopping and that she'd FaceTime me some options lately to get the feel for my style, which meant I was left alone once again.

I ended up eating the whole box of mac and cheese by myself whilst listening to people argue about why their food was underdone, or why their ground beef was on fire.

Around 8:30, I had just gotten off the phone with Gabe after seeing how Gemma was doing, letting him know my plans for the night, when our buzzer rang.

I let Alex up, glancing down at my ugly panda pajamas and pink fuzzy bathrobe.

To make matters worse, my hair was tossed up on top of my head, and my acne was out of control.

Definitely not getting laid tonight, let alone anyone buying me some kiddy cocktails.

"Don't look at the mess, let's just fix it" I muttered, opening the door.

"You look hot, that's annoying" She laughed and I rolled my eyes, knowing I looked anything but.

"You look hot. I look like a mom who hasn't slept in four years" I looked down at my toes, seeing they needed to be clipped.

"It seems like you haven't showered in four years either" She joked and I glared.

"I showered this morning!" I exclaimed, feeling the need to defend myself.

I may look bad, but I didn't look that bad.

"Well, what's that then? Baby puke?" She asked, pointing to my shirt.

I glanced down and frowned, "It's mac and cheese. I dropped it on myself when I was- never mind. What did you buy me? Something that will make me feel fat and ugly?" I asked and she rolled her eyes, handing me the bag.

"I know you said no lace, but it's thick padding. Just try, and if it sucks, I have other options. Whatever you don't like we can return" She said and I nodded, both of us walking to my master bedroom.

"Don't um.. mind the bottles. I haven't washed them yet" I mumbled, seeing the empty milk bottles by my nightstand.

"Didn't notice. Now come on, go try them on and then we can  figure out the hair and makeup"

I dumped the bag contents onto my bed, seeing a few different things.

"I am not wearing skin tight pleather jeans" I said immediately, already knowing that they will not be comfy with my thick thighs.

"Okay, well there's other options" She reminded me and I nodded, stifling through them.

"This is the bra?" I asked and she nodded. "It's cute, I'll give you that. I don't know if my boobs will fit though. I'm quite large in the chest area lately. I mean, I naturally have big boobs, but with breastfeeding and-" I rambled and she laughed, telling me she got it. "Sorry" I mumbled. "I haven't had human interaction in a while, didn't mean to ramble" I apologized, suddenly feeling extremely embarrassed.

"Try it on" She encouraged and I frowned, not sure if I wanted to attempt to put it on and then come back out and admit the defeat of it not fitting. "Also.. try on this skirt with it. I thought the  pants could go with it, but I think this skirt is cuter" She tossed me a gray skirt and I nodded, walking over to the bathroom.

I decided not to turn towards the mirror, not wanting to see how fugly I looked right now.

I stripped from my clothes, my top loosening my messy bun, causing it to flop against my face.

I huffed, tugging the hair tie out.

I was left in granny panties, frowning at them.

Nothing makes you feel sexy like oversized underwear.

I had some thongs in my drawer, but I was too nervous to try them on and see how much I disliked them compared to my pre-pregnancy body.

My nipples were still quite dark, and looked quite raw from how often Gemma has been nursing lately.

I remember loving the way my boobs looked. Liking the size, and the way my nipples look. I even thought about getting nipple piercings at one point, but I'm glad I didn't.

I slipped on the gray skirt, seeing the elastic band going over my stomach. It seemed to hold everything into place, but I was too afraid to do the jump test.

I sat it up pretty high just to make sure everything was held into place, reaching over for the bra. I noticed how thick the padding was, and I smiled softly at the fact that she listened.

I squeezed my boobs a little, making sure nothing was going to come out as I tried this bra on just in case we had to return it, not knowing if I needed to grab a nipple pad or not.

Thankfully, nothing came out since I had just pumped, and I slipped it over my head, the back of it acting like a bralette, just it had more support under the boobs than my older bralettes.

I finally turned around in the mirror, thankful that it wasn't suffocating my chest.

With how big my boobs have been due to nursing, I struggled to find tops, even to just sleep in, that didn't feel like they were skin tight against my chest.

The worst part is if it was skin tight, and the material would rub against your sensitive nipples.

I don't think I've ever ripped a shirt off my body faster than the night I first experienced that horrid sensation.

I turned a bit in the mirror, bouncing a little to see if anything jiggled in an unattractive way. I noticed certain things move, but all I could hear in my head was Colby telling me how much he loved it.

I thankfully didn't look too bad, thanking God that this skirt really kept everything in place.

I tried not to let my eyes scan, and reminded myself that she said clubs were usually dark, much like New Years Eve.  

One thing I couldn't ignore though, were the white heads on my face.

I don't know how long I sat there picking and prodding at my face, but eventually a knock on the door caught my attention, my cheeks bright red now from being messed with.

"Sorry, I was picking at my pimples" I chuckled, opening the door, feeling the heat on my ears at the fact that I had been in the bathroom for so long.

"Holy shit, you look so good! It's definitely the one!" She complimented, scanning me. "Hm.. do you have any black shoes? Like black strappy heels?" She asked and I nodded, walking over to my closet.

We ended up finding some black heels to go with it, placing them next to the bathroom doorway, silently praying I didn't forget about them and trip on my way out.

"You said you showered earlier, right?" She asked and I nodded, "Good, then we can do your hair!" She smiled and I laughed, Alex reminding me a lot of Aaliyah the night I got ready for my date with Silas.

I wonder how he's doing. He was a really nice guy..

"Let's do lipstick last. I have to keep eating and drinking since I'm breastfeeding. Aaliyah always yelled at me for wearing away lipstick quickly" I snickered, a pain of hurt hitting my chest as I remembered she was moving away. "Wait, let me grab my water bottle before you do my hair" I quickly walked to the kitchen, filling up my gigantic water bottle.

I was definitely going to have to pee when we got there.

"I swear this thing weighs as much as my literal child" I laughed, placing the heavy bottle on my bathroom counter.

"Do you want your hair up, down... half and half?" She asked, playing with it a little bit.

"Um.. down. It hides stuff"

"What's there to hide?"

"Uh.. everything"  I let out an uncomfortable laugh, Alex shaking her head in disagreement.

"You look pretty, shut up"

"Well what do you want to do to my hair?"

"This" She murmured, moving my hair to the side and placing a soft kiss next to my ear.

"Alex" I whispered, my eyes closing as she kissed closer to my mouth.

"Tell me to stop" She whispered and I sighed, knowing I should but I really didn't want to.

"Alex, we really shouldn't"

"Yeah, but it's fun" She looked at me in the mirror.

"Yeah.. it is" I sighed, giving into her. Her hand pulled my jaw towards her, kissing me softly. "You're not drunk right now, right?" I questioned, wanting to make sure we weren't going to have a repeat of New Years Eve.

I'm all down for kissing her, but I was in no mood to go any further with her tonight.

She shook her head, kissing me again, "Mm, nope, fully sober" She murmured and I nodded, letting the kiss deepen.

~

"Yep, definitely going to regret that" I laughed, wiping some of the lipstick off the side of her mouth. "You're definitely going to need to reapply" I giggled, biting my bottom lip.

"Mm, it was worth it though, now we better hurry before we end up in bed together and not downing drinks at the club" She laughed, slapping my ass before grabbing the curling iron. "You're not into a pain kink right?" She asked and my eyes widened.

"What?!"

"I'm kidding!" She quickly said and I eyed her, not believing her.

"I don't believe you, and to answer your question. No. I do not. If you burn me with that curling iron, it's going to be shoved where the sun doesn't shine" I threatened and my jaw dropped. "Alex!" I gasped and she giggled, plugging in the curling iron.

~

"Damn, you look hot" Alex whistled and I rolled my eyes, fixing my hair.

"Not to give a double standard, but I much rather you whistle at me then some dick on the street" I chuckled, eyeing my appearance in the mirror.

"I like the way the outfit hugs your curves. You look good"

"Am I going to ruin this moment for you if I tell you I need to pump before we leave?" I asked and she laughed, shaking her head.

"Of course not! Go be a mom! Where do you pump? Do you want me to wait in the living room or?" She asked and I shrugged.

"I can pump wherever. I just need to grab the parts from the kitchen. I don't know if this would make you uncomfortable.. but I could pump whilst we do my makeup?" I suggested and Alex nodded, grabbing a black and blue bag. "I have a bra that works for pumping so I'm not just whipping out a boob at you" I chuckled, my boobs a little sore now.

"Whatever you want to do, I'm going to clean the brushes real quick" She grabbed a handful of brushes and a sponge, stepping aside so I could exit the bathroom.

When I got back, I sat down and started putting the parts together, having done this so many times I could do it in my sleep now.

"Um.. do you want me to put on a bra? Or cover?" I asked and she didn't pay attention to me, mumbling "Whatever you want" so I just unclipped my bra, connecting the pump, making sure the bottles were tight.

"How do you normally do your makeup?" Alex questioned aloud, drying her brushes.

"Um.. I'm not the best, my brother's actually better than me now" I snickered, "I'm not terrible, but I definitely am not good at like.. late night looks. I'm more of a shimmer and or natural glam type of girl. I haven't properly done my makeup since Before Gemma came. I've done some stuff for New Years and Christmas.. but it wasn't anything impressive. I like your makeup" I noted, looking at her eyeshadow and highlight.

I texted with Aaliyah whilst Alex started working on my face, letting my boobs empty the milk into bottles.

I loved how comfortable I felt with Alex.

It only felt weird for a moment to be openly pumping in front of her, but she didn't make a big deal about it as she moved around my face, putting who knows what on different areas of my skin.

It was nice.

Once we were done, I inspected her work in the mirror, feeling like a whole new woman.

Makeup was magical.

A/N: Makeup look, outfit above, black strappy heels, hair curled and down

"You're a miracle worker" I praised, turning my head a little to catch the highlight against the bathroom mirror.

"Please" She scoffed, cleaning her brushes again whilst I kept tilting my face in the mirror.

"You hid all the redness from my picking" I noted, not seeing an ounce of irritated skin.

"You keep complaining about your acne, it really isn't that bad. Yeah you have acne, but so what" She replied nonchalantly.

"Let me slip that bra back on, grab my shoes and bag, put these in the freezer, and I'm ready"

"You wanted to brush your teeth, we still need to do your lipstick. Do you have to pee?" She asked, glancing over at my water bottle.

"Oh shit. God, this is why I'm always late" I griped out of breath, quickly hurrying to the kitchen to go put the breastmilk in the freezer.

I always heard that when you forgot to do it, that it felt like the worst thing in the world to pour it down the sink.

Thankfully, that hasn't happened to me yet.

I quickly sharpied the date on it, tossing the bags into the freezer before going to find my shoes and toothbrush.

"Leigh, we're not in a rush. Honestly, the later the better. Slow down before you break an ankle" She warned and I rolled my eyes, shoving her out of the bathroom so I could pee and brush my teeth in peace.

By the time we were out the door, I was extremely out of breath.

"Are you going to make it?" She laughed, turning the key in her car.

"No" I breathed out, huffing like I just ran the hardest race of my life.

"I can see that" She giggled.

It was about a 30 minute drive to the club, so we listened to the radio and had some small conversation, but somehow we landed on the topic of Colby.

"I know this is dumb, but I'm really disappointed I didn't get to wear the outfit I planned to his party. It sucks to have missed it. He did so much for me on my birthday.. he literally.." I paused, memories flashing through my head. "He.. he flew out and hung out with my relatives.. he fit in so well. It's like he's always been there.. and it just felt so nice.. and here I am, tearing his heart into pieces right before his, and now I don't even know what he did" I frowned, leaning my head against my hand, my elbow resting on the window console.

"Colby's the guy you were sort of seeing before we met right?" Alex asked and I groaned.

"I wasn't even seeing him. It's messy. We think we like each other, but I'm not ready, and I'm worried that he's in it for the wrong reasons" I confessed.

"Honestly Leighton, it sounds like you could really use this night out. Let's go drink and party and forget about all of our problems. We both look hot as fuck, so let's go find someone to mess around with and have a good time. Forget about this Colby guy, he's a nobody now. Let's go do something we'll regret"

* * * *

What do we think of Alex?

Written on: July 8th, 9th, 10th 2022

Word Count: 3.6k

Part Eight