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mypoisonedvine · 3 years

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Making Ends Meet | dark!Mandalorian x reader

summary: you’re just a simple woman trying to make your way in the universe, with the universe’s oldest profession. unfortunately for you, a new customer doesn’t plan on going easy on you.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: smut (dub con), kidnapping (?? kinda), prostitution, rough sex, pain kink, lots and lots of degradation, ooc mando being a meanie

please do not read if this content would be triggering or upsetting for you, dark fics aren’t for everyone and it is your responsibility to manage your own content consumption

If you were going to have any hope of making rent this month, you needed to book someone tonight— and not a cheapskate who’d try to stiff you after he’d already stiffed you, no, you needed a big spender, a high roller. You needed somebody who had extra credits to throw around and wore it on his sleeve.

You needed a guy like the one who had just walked in— with beskar on his sleeve. That’ll do quite nicely, you thought to yourself as you watched the Mandalorian cross the room to talk to the bartender.

Seemed like he was here on business, unfortunately, from the way he didn’t even venture a glance at you or any of the other women skulking about; but then again, you couldn’t be entirely sure where he was looking with that big helmet covering his face. It might not be the easiest sell, but you were determined to get this guy for the night— and, more importantly, his money.

Walking up to the bar with your best sultry saunter, you leaned in beside him and smiled as he turned his head to look at you. "Hey," you purred. "Haven't seen you around before. We don't get a lot of new faces around here… even when they're hidden."

He didn't say anything, which was a little concerning, but his head tilted down a bit as if he was looking at your body, which was a good sign.

“What brings you to Tatooine, hm? Business…” you trailed off as you ghosted your fingertips over his armor-clad forearm, “or pleasure?”

“Business is my pleasure,” he informed you sternly.

“And pleasure is my business,” you countered with a smirk. Before you could say anything else, the bartender returned with a sack in his palm that he tossed into the Mandalorian’s hands, something metallic jingling inside.

“For a job well done,” he explained with a crooked, toothy smile, “as promised.”

“Payday, huh?” you noticed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Never comes often enough, amirite?”

Your quip was met with tense silence as he slipped the bag into a sack at his waist. He turned to leave, but you reached out for his shoulder and stopped him.

“Wait,” you requested, desperation starting to taint your tone of voice. He spun and faced you again, and you tried to keep your body language relaxed and sensual in spite of your stress. “What are you gonna spend all that on?”

“My ship,” he decided after a quick moment.

“Why not spend it on yourself? You must be tired after working a long, hard day,” you sighed sympathetically, stepping a little closer. “Why don’t you stay a bit longer and take a moment to relax?”

It didn’t seem like he knew what to do with that, and you motioned to a wide, cushioned chair nearby. Amazingly, it worked; he walked to the chair with that swagger of his, the blaster at his hip suddenly so much more obvious with the way it swung with every step. As soon as he sat down, you put a leg up beside him, straddling him slightly but leaving enough space to (hopefully) have him wanting more.

“You must be getting hot under there,” you smiled, making sure the double entendre was obvious.

“Maybe I am,” he shrugged.

“All this heavy armor... does it get uncomfortable?”

“I’m comfortable,” he denied.

“Good,” you purred before biting down on your lip as you rubbed his chest— or, rather, his chestplate. “You know, I’ve heard that Mandalorians are even harder underneath the steel.”

He paused a little before he answered. “Only in a few key places,” he finally replied, his gloved hand reaching to brush over your thigh. You grinned, knowing you finally had him.

“Why don’t you come to my room and show me?” you suggested.

“I imagine your time isn’t free,” he observed.

“Fifty credits for an hour, or a hundred for the whole night,” you enumerated.

“That’s a little steep,” he noted with a tone of irritation.

“It’s my price,” you shrugged, “take it or leave it.”

“I’ll leave it,” he decided, shoving you back and standing up to leave.

“No, wait,” you blurted out, “eighty for the night.”

“I don’t have all night,” he informed you sternly. “Twenty for the hour.”

“Twenty?!” you squawked. “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

He grabbed your wrist tightly, suddenly, and pulled you into him. “A whore,” he answered with a rough growl, “and apparently not as cheap as you look.”

You swallowed dryly, irritated by his attitude but desperate for the cash you knew he had. “How often do you come through Mos Eisley?” you asked quietly.

“As rarely as I can manage,” he replied.

“If you pay a hundred now, I’ll be here every time you come in, for as long as you need,” you offered. “Standing order, permanently.”

It was difficult to negotiate with someone whose face you couldn’t see: you weren’t sure if the silence was him considering it, or just watching you squirm in his grasp for fun.

“A hundred,” he repeated slowly, “for whatever I want.”

“Whatever you want,” you nodded quickly.

“Whenever I want,” he added.

“Whenever you want.”

He let go of your wrist and you stumbled back, rubbing the sore skin with your other hand. “Show me to your room,” he requested suddenly.

You led him back behind a few tattered curtains, past the hall and up the stairs to your cramped apartment. It wasn't much, but the red silk draped everywhere and the incense burning in the corner certainly set the mood for the work you did. Your door slid shut automatically behind him, and normally this is the part where he’d kiss you or you’d kiss him, but that was sort of impossible in his current state. With an awkward pause, you waited for him to undress.

“Take off your clothes,” he instructed instead— and it was even more dominant than you expected, but you were happy to oblige as you untied the strip of fabric keeping your flowy tunic together, letting it fall off of your shoulders and onto the floor. You didn’t have anything else on, just for the sake of simplicity, and he said nothing as he stepped forward until he was just inches away from you.

He quickly disposed of his gloves to touch you with his bare hands; his rough, warm skin over your waist and hips and breasts was a strong contrast to the worn leather, and even moreso to the hard, cold beskar. His skin was tan, especially considering that it rarely saw the sun, and you let yourself imagine what the rest of him would look like based on that long with the subtle dusting of dark hair that extended from his arms. Of course, in your mind, he was stunningly gorgeous, because it was more fun for you that way. The way he spun you around quickly and forced you to bend over the edge of your bed made you realize he wasn’t as interested in your fun, though.

You yelped a little at the unexpected force, and again when he slapped your ass out of nowhere.

“You’d better make it worth my while, after I paid a hundred credits,” he grunted.

“Of course,” you agreed quickly, looking back to see him slipping to fingers underneath the edge of his helmet.

“Don’t turn around,” he growled. “Don’t look back.”

“Okay,” you nodded nervously as you whipped your head back to face in front of you, staring diligently at the dark red comforter beneath you, “I— I won’t.”

You heard the rustle of clothing and a sigh of relief— noticeably one not modulated through the helmet speaker. Unceremoniously, his helmet was tossed down onto the bed beside you, bouncing and rolling a bit before it found purchase on your quilt.

Next must have been his trousers, as you heard his heavily-equipped belt fall to the floor just before the subtle little grunt you’d come to know as the sure sign that a man had freed a throbbing cock from the confines of his trousers. He roughly kicked your legs apart, grabbing your hips and using them to hold you up as he started to grind his bare cock against your slickened folds. You could tell by the way his shaft spread your lips that you had no chance of taking him— he was too thick, you couldn't even tell how long he was yet but he was definitely too thick.

He must have realized something similar, because he pushed you forward a bit; you realized he was looking down at your pussy, which made your face burn with embarrassment.

"Get yourself wet for me," he instructed firmly.

You didn't think you would ever be able to get wet enough to fit him. "How?" you asked.

"I don't care how, just do it. You have thirty seconds."

You gasped a bit but shoved your hand between your legs and frantically rubbed your clit— it didn't really feel that good, with the pressure and fear overwhelming your senses instead of pleasure. And he didn't make it any easier on you by literally counting each second. You got a bit wetter, sure, and you'd already been turned on from earlier, but it was still not gonna do you much good against the monster he intended on putting inside you at any moment.

"Fifteen," he continued counting, his voice dropping so much deeper all of a sudden. "Fourteen."

Halfway out of time already and you weren't that much more wet than when you started. Your mind was racing with thoughts of everything sexy you could manage to conjure— his voice did help, the deep timbre reverberating right up your spine as anxious fear started to blend in with forced arousal. You tried to focus on the ways that being fucked by a faceless, mysterious stranger was sexy, rather than the ways it was terrifying.

"Ten," he counted, his voice changing as you heard him smile— you weren't sure how you could hear it, but you could. "There you go, I can see it now."

You whimpered a little, the sound catching in your throat as fingers suddenly teased your entrance, not quite pushing in but threatening to. As they swirled around your folds, a lewd wet sound filled the air, mixing in with your heavy breathing and his dark chuckle.

"You hear that?" he asked, and you nodded quickly. "Just a few seconds left, make them count."

Rubbing faster, you felt your hips start to rock of their own volition, similarly to the way your walls were clenching around nothing in search of being filled.

"Three, two, one," he finished as you felt the thick head of his cock start to push against you. You dropped your hand, knowing you'd need both to stabilize yourself. "You want it?" he asked roughly.

"Yes," you answered, your voice coming out weaker than expected.

"Beg for it," he instructed coldly.

"Put your cock in me, please—" was all you could get out before the words stopped in your throat as he suddenly pushed in. You were barely processing the first inch as he barreled past your resistance to shove the next few in. It already felt like you would run out of room inside your body before he ran out of cock.

"F-fuck," you hissed, "slow down. You're too big." You hoped maybe he'd take pity on you if you phrased it as a compliment. You were wrong.

"You're a whore," he reminded you, "can't you take it? It's all you're good for, anyways."

That got you to shut your mouth as he thrust himself completely into you, finding the end of you easily with the head of his cock while your hands clutched the bedsheets for dear life. You winced but managed to suppress a cry as he started to fuck you, not quite fast yet but so much deeper than your brain could process. "Ffffuu-uuck," you stammered, the sting starting to fade but the overwhelming pressure never really letting up.

"How's it feel?" he asked, almost sounding like he could moan but holding back. "Don't lie."

You realized, then, that he didn't want you to fake pleasure like most clients did— he wanted to see your pain, and know he caused it. He enjoyed hurting you. You swallowed the lump in your throat and whimpered your honest reply: "Hurts."

"Good."

His balls slapping against your clit only added to the overwhelming sensations you were trying so hard to ignore, pain and pleasure becoming indistinguishable all of a sudden. You could tell your walls were clamping down on him as pressure built in your gut and threatened to push past the point of no return. Your moan was so much louder than you expected it to be, broken and guttural and animalistic.

He pulled your hair roughly, making you yelp. “That’s right,” he instructed through his teeth, “fuckin’ scream for it.”

“Fuck!” you sobbed loudly.

He leaned forward and it felt like his body would surround yours, somehow, especially when he reached down to roughly grope one breast and then another. He never stopped thrusting through it all, even when his head fell exhaustedly between your shoulder blades— it was so odd to be able to feel his forehead and hair on your skin but have no idea what his face looked like at all.

The telltale signs of orgasm were arriving in your body— your thighs quivered, your voice cracked, your walls and clit throbbed with need. It felt like you could read every detail of his cock inside your silky wet heat, like the ridge of his leaking head was rubbing up against your swollen g-spot with every thrust. You felt as if being so full of him had forced you to vacate your mind, too, to accommodate his size— as if that were possible.

Either he sensed your peak approaching as well, or he just had convenient timing. "Wanna feel you come around it," he grunted. "Can you come for me? Or are you completely useless?"

“‘M close,” you warned him as your answer, shame sending a shiver up your spine even though you felt guilty for it.

“Then come,” he ordered, “right fuckin’ now.”

It was odd how that actually did push you over the edge, his brutal thrusts and degrading words creating a perfect storm inside you as the friction became too much to bear. You sobbed as it wracked through you, arching your back absent-mindedly, clenching your legs together as best you could with his legs in between them. He didn’t stop fucking you through it, which meant that the sensation built to the point of ‘too much’ extremely quickly as your attempts at begging for mercy were lost to breathless moans. Overwhelmed, your body collapsed onto the bed limply, your hips only staying up because he held them up, like your weight was nothing to him at all.

"Yeah, just like that,” he taunted, “fuckin' come on my cock, fuck— you're just a dumb slut, huh? You love getting fucked like the desperate, needy fucktoy you are, is that it?"

"Y-yes," you whined weakly, cheeks burning at the feeling of him using your body— or maybe it was from the head rush caused by the afterglow of your orgasm.

"You like it when it hurts,” he posited. “You want me to hurt you."

"Yes— don't stop, please…" you whimpered, quiet but definitely loud enough for him to hear.

“Not gonna stop,” he promised, “‘til you’re full of my come.”

“Fuck,” you groaned, voice sounding hoarse and thin. It had been a while since you lost your voice because of a session… and since you had walked funny for a few days afterwards. This one was definitely going to do both.

As his hips started to slam harder and faster into yours, you really hoped it was a sign that he was close; his raspy groans made you sure of it, though. You could feel his cock swelling and flexing, incredibly, and it made you a little light-headed but it made your overstimulated walls throb around him as well.

With one deep, exhausted growl from the man behind you, a warmth began to spread through you from the inside out. When he released his grip on your hips, you fell onto the bed with a sigh and a thud. A hand appeared in your peripheral vision to snatch the helmet off of your bed, and it only took him a few moments to stuff his softening cock back into his trousers and magically be dressed again. Funny how he looked exactly the same as he had half an hour ago, meanwhile you were confident you looked totally fucked-out and fucked-up.

“You’re a good fuck,” he offered a monotone compliment as he pulled on his gloves, staring down at you as you slipped your robe back on and tried to ignore the warm sticky feeling between your legs.

“You’re… intense,” you replied, chuckling a little. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

He didn’t respond, or leave, but just stood there looking at you for a minute as you stood up and adjusted yourself, trying not to limp noticeably because you figured he didn’t need any more ego. “‘Whenever I want’ only applies when I’m on this planet,” he observed suddenly, interrupting the silence, “which I try not to be.”

“You can come around as often as you like,” you explained. You froze when he appeared behind you, reaching his arms out and caging you in against the wall the second you'd turned to face him.

“But wouldn’t it be so much more cost-effective if you were with me all the time? On my ship?”

You whimpered a little as he leaned in closer, and you felt his gaze on you through the dark visor of his helmet even though you couldn’t see it. “That… that wasn’t the deal,” you whispered nervously.

“The deal’s changed,” he growled, ignoring your yelps of pain as he manhandled you and pinned you to the wall by your neck before you could even try to fight back. “Whatever I want, whenever I want,” he growled, “that’s what you said. I’ll hold you to that.”

The leather gloves creaked softly as he tightened his grip on the sides of your neck, forcing your lips to fall into a useless gasp for air. Your hands reached out to claw at his chest, a silent plea for release, but he wasn’t having it.

“Whatever you want,” you barely managed to croak out as your vision started to go dark. “Please, Mando…”

“Whenever I want?”

“Whenever, please,” you cried, tears stinging your eyes. He let go, finally, and you crumpled at his feet. Somehow, you’d managed to sell yourself into slavery— for a measly hundred credits. This whole thing had begun with you needing to make rent, and it ended with you realizing you wouldn’t return to your apartment again at all.

He didn't need to shackle or bind you to make you follow him to his ship; his power over you was nauseatingly effortless, but you weren't about to try to run from an unhinged warrior like him.

You'd always wanted to leave Tatooine and explore the galaxy… this wasn't exactly how you'd imagined doing it, as a Mandalorian's whore, but there were worse fates. Like being a Mandalorian's target. And you planned on doing whatever he wanted you to if it meant avoiding that.

#dark!mandalorian #dark!mandalorian smut #dark!din djarin smut #the mandalorian dark fic #dark!din djarin x reader #dark!din djarin x y/n #dark!din djarin x you #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity)#my writing #my fic

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kj-1130 · 3 years

Text

Listen to Me

Uswnt x reader

⚠️mentions of fighting/violence, cursing, Chad being an asshole, mentions of racism, homophobia, and sexism. Lemme know if there’s more I missed.⚠️

Main Masterlist

It was time for another camp. You were the last to arrive due to still being in school and having to be there as many hours as you possibly could.

So here you were in the airport walking towards a pissed off Alex Morgan and Christen Press.

The day before your flight to camp, you had gotten into trouble. Trouble meaning you got into a fight. And word got to your teammates.

“Hello my favorite, most amazing people in the whole wide world.”

Alex simply rolled her eyes and grabbed your suitcase before walking towards the exit with you and Christen trailing behind.

You lowered your gaze to the terminal floor. Christen tried to catch your eyes but ultimately failed and decided just to look straight forward as she talked.

“You know, you shouldn’t resort to violence, (y/n). I don’t know what happened but everyone’s pretty upset and disappointed right now.”

Ouch. The disappointment card. Just had to pull that one like you haven’t heard it just about everyday of your life. You were honestly confused if people were actually disappointed when they said it or just used it as a guilt trip.

The ride to the hotel was full of silence. And not one of those silences where you feel comfortable with the people you adore and love. It was one of those silences where it made you nervous and anxious. It made you fidget and uncomfortable.

Getting your room assignment, being with Tierna, you tried to book it up the stairs. That worked for all of five seconds until you were called into the meeting room.

You reluctantly stepped down and made your way to the space and left your suitcase by the door. In the room were almost all the responsible/‘scary when they want to be’ ones. Sitting down in a chair with a sigh, you looked down at your fidgeting hands and waited for someone to start talking.

The silence that filled the room was very tense. All that could be heard was the movement of your hands and breathing.

When you thought things couldn’t get any worse, the most mama-bear of them all, Carli, spoke up.

“You know you can lose your spot for stuff like this right? You got into a fight, this is not something you need to be taking lightly at all. I don’t care what caused it, but you need to fix whatever’s going on with your behavior and attitude because you’ve been off for the past few weeks anyway. If something like this happens again, we won’t hesitate to take some disciplinary actions ourselves. Am I clear, (y/n)?”

You mumbled ‘crystal’ and attempted to leave the room only to get pulled down by Ash. “Now do you wanna tell us what started the fight?”

You were honestly getting really uncomfortable. Any movement you were making at the moment was probably the only thing keeping you from breaking right now; the furrowing of your eyebrows, the rolling of your shoulders, scratching your arms, bouncing your leg. You probably looked crazy.

You shrugged your shoulders and started spinning in your chair.

Ash put her hand on it and prohibited it from being able to move. “That was not a suggestion.”

Sighing and dragging your hands over your face you told them, “A boy knocked books out of my hands and pushed me so I pushed him back. He didn’t like that so he threw the first punch and I wasn’t about to let him push me around so I beat his ass.”

It wasn’t a total lie but it wasn’t the full truth. Yes he did push you. And yes he did hit you first. But there was so much more to the situation than that.

“Look I’m tired and I have work I need to do. If you want to scold me anymore, just please save it for tomorrow.”

Honestly you had never run up stairs so fast. The situation was so awkward and the way everyone was staring at you didn’t make anything better. There was so much disappointment in their eyes.

It’s like what you do will never be enough for anyone.

The next day everyone came down from breakfast. You went to sleep after 12 due to having work piled up from your asshole teachers. It’s not like they grade half of it anyway.

You still didn’t understand one of the lessons so decided to watch some YouTube videos on it and take notes while eating breakfast. That also gave you an excuse to sit away from anyone who would possibly want to lecture you about your ‘reckless actions’.

You were the last one down. Deciding to already have headphones in—to ignore anyone calling your name—you grabbed your breakfast and sat down at a table by yourself. Pulling your notebook and pencil out, you started the video and took notes while eating.

You could feel their eyes burning holes in your head. You’d honestly prefer they just come ask what they wanted than staring at you like some museum exhibit.

You just ignored it and did your work. That was easier said than done as Casey came over, sat next to you, and snatched your earphones out.

“Hey!” You scrambled to pause the video so you didn’t miss anything. “I was watching that.”

Turning to Casey, you pushed your glasses up and gave her a look that said ‘can I help you?’

“Don’t give me that face. I’m not the one you need to be having an attitude with.”

“I-I don’t have an attitude though.”

“Stop talking.”

You purse your lips, nod your head, and start bouncing your leg waiting to hear whatever she wanted to say to you.

“Look, I don’t know what’s been going on at school or at home but everyone can tell you’re on edge. Isolating yourself isn’t going to help anyone-”

“But I’m not isolating myself.”

“Interrupt me one more time, child.”

Casey was your first team mom. When you joined the red stars, she immediately took you under her wing and she became your mentor. The two of you worked well together and she constantly kept you on track. She was very nice but could be very strict when she wanted to be.

“All I’m saying is you’re making yourself look more guilty to them because you’re sitting over here looking like you’re all up in your feelings. You aren’t in your feelings. Right? Cause that’d be another conversation I’d have to have with somebody’s child and-”

You cut her off with your chuckle and shook your head. “Casey, I’m fine.”

She nods her head and contemplates for a few seconds, “Alright, come sit at the table with me then.”

“But I’m working.”

“Okay. You can work over there too.”

You simply watched as she grabbed your phone, notebook and breakfast to the table with a gaped mouth.

You blinked at her while she mouthed ‘come here’. Reluctantly, you pushed yourself out the seat and slowly made your way over. You sat down and reached out for your phone only for Casey to snatch it away.

“I need to do my work. What did you do that for?”

“Your work can wait. Socialize,” she said while putting your phone out of work.

With raised eyebrows you said, “Seriously?”

“Does it look like I’m kidding?”

Huffing you turned in your seat and played with your food. You’d honestly lost your appetite this morning; it was only 9 in the morning and people were already testing your patience.

You looked up and your eyes locked with Carli’s.

“Stop playing with your food, (y/n).”

You put your fork down and just got up to throw your food away. You couldn’t deal with this right now.

The two weeks of camp was boring and went by agonizingly slow. It consisted of pretty much the same routine; you’d do work after training, work during breakfast and spend any free days or breaks by yourself (occasionally with Tierna) in your room, on your phone looking at ways to improve and tricks to do.

It became annoying when all the vets constantly reprimanded you for the smallest of things. With Carli, it’d be ‘stop playing around so much’. With Alex it’d be ‘pick up after yourself’. Even Kelley was doing it for fuck’s sake.

You honestly couldn’t wait to leave and at least be somewhere where all the attention isn’t on you.

When you got to the airport, your girlfriend was there waiting for you. She pulled you in her arms and any leftover tension from the past two weeks immediately went away. She always knew how to make you feel better.

The two of you drove to her house and went over some school work before going to bed for the night. It wasn’t an unusual routine between you two.

When the alarm went off in the morning both of you groaned. The school you went to was a total pain in the ass and regardless of what day it was, you could count on it to be an awful day. It was a predominately white school with only 2 percent being a person of color; you and your girlfriend being part of that 2%. Half of them were racist, sexist, homophobic, and just all around assholes.

Walking into the school building, you could immediately feel all eyes on you. Trying to get past it, the two of you just went to your lockers with your heads down.

“Aye! Look at me you freak!”

It was the same dude you got into a fight with last time(his name is Chad by the way). Apparently a black eye didn’t teach him shit.

“When I tell you to do something I expect you to do it.”

He grabs your shoulders, turns you around and pins you to the lockers.

“You see my eye?”

“Yeah, you got your ass beat by a girl. What you gonna do about it?”

He punched you in the stomach hard.

“(Y/n)!” Your girlfriend. You looked up at her and shook your head signaling her not to get involved.

“Ima make you look worse than you made me-”

“Are you sure about that? Last time you failed, what makes you think it won’t happen again?”

Chad chuckles and shakes his head.

“You think you’re all that with that equal pay shit, and your racial equality and women loving women crap. Guess what you little bitch I’m going to end you and all those lesbians and gays and anybody else who thinks they deserve equality because you don’t. You don’t belong here. Just go kill-”

You kicked him in his balls, twisted his arm behind his back, and pulled it. When you heard that crack you smirked and leaned down to his ear.

“I don’t wanna embarrass you in front of your racist, sexist, homophobic, buddies, but lemme tell you. You don’t own anybody nor are you superior to anybody. Do I make myself clear?”

He only grunted but you pulled tighter which made him yell out.

“I said, ‘do I make myself clear’?”

“Yes!”

You pushed him on the ground and walked over him to your girlfriend.

“Why in the world would do that? You know what they’re going to do to you. You might not even get invited back to camp!”

“Babe, calm down. I honestly don’t care at this point. And neither should you.”

“(Y/n) (L/n)! My office! Now!”

You gave her a kiss and walked away slowly.

“Wish me luck.”

“You seriously got into another fight! What is going on with you!”

It was the first thing you heard when walking into the hotel lobby. Literally everyone was there. From the youngings to the vets. Surprisingly, you were called back to camp, but you honestly think it was just so everyone could scold you. Carli was absolutely livid, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything at the moment since you were so pissed.

Walking past the team, you attempted to make it to the stairs, only for Casey to grab the back of your shirt and pull you back towards the tables. She pushed you down into a seat and took your belongings away from you.

You tried to get back up but you were only pushed down again.

Carli bent down and stared you dead in the eye.

“What is going on with you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. What I did was what I intended to do. It was no mistake.”

Alex interrupted, “(Y/n), you don’t understand-”

“No you don’t understand!” You stood abruptly from the chair and slammed your hands on the table. The chair fell and it was absolute silence.

You’d never been so loud. You were always on the quiet side and this was the biggest reaction anyone had ever seen from you.

You were heavily breathing, staring at Carli, the adrenaline pumping through you.

“Did they tell you what he did to me?! Did they tell you what he calls me, my girlfriend and every other female, lgbtq member, or person of color in that school?! No! Because they don’t give a shit. And they won’t give a shit until it’s one of their kids getting hurt!”

There was no dry eye in the room. Your hands were shaking and you took a deep breath to calm down. In a lower voice you spoke.

“They don’t give a damn about my well-being so why should I give a fuck about theirs?”

Taking a few more trembling breaths, you wiped the tears off your face.

“So excuse me for being off for the past few weeks. This shit will take a toll on anybody. And you can cut the bullshit with the ‘don’t fight fire with fire’ cause that’s the only way something gets through those thick ass skulls. They don’t allow you to do it peacefully. They don’t allow you to educate them.”

You looked at Casey with tears in your eyes.

“I just wanna go to school and get an education and be treated like a normal human being. What’s wrong with that?”

Crystal came over to you and caught you before you fell. She lowered you both to the floor as you sobbed your heart out. You kept mumbling ‘I’m sorry’ into her neck between breaths as she rocked you back and forth trying to console you.

Casey and Christen were the next ones over, the latter rubbing your back while the other was trying to wipe away the onslaught of tears on your face.

“Shh, shh baby. You did nothing wrong.”

Soon, every member of the team was crowded around. Tears were streaming down everyone’s face. Their baby, only 16, was going through all this stress and pain. Because of something no one deserves.

You eventually calmed down after 15 more minutes of crying. You’d been transferred to Casey’s lap, and your team mom was trying to comfort you to the best of her ability.

Casey took your face in her hands and wiped all the tears off. “You don’t need to be sorry, alright? There was nothing you did wrong. Stop saying sorry.”

You nodded your head and she kissed your forehead.

Everyone was still crying or wiping waterfalls of tears away.

They watched as you got up and searched frantically for something. You got your phone out of your backpack and turned it on. While you were pacing, the Home Screen popped up and you quickly logged in to text your girlfriend. One, because you always text her when you get to the hotel and two, if Chad and his stickman buddies hurt her, you were absolutely going to lose your shit.

When you logged in to your phone, you saw she already messaged you saying that you should talk to the others.

“Kinda late for that,” you muttered.

“What did you say, hun?” Christen asked.

You just shook your head and texted her back.

Gf: I mean we could always try to talk to the board.

You: Or

You: We could go on strike.

Gf: I-

Gf: I’m done talking to you.

You: wait no! Don’t leave me.

You: I love you

You had a frown on your face when you put your phone away.

Casey pulled you back down into her lap. “What’s with the frown?”

You groaned and threw your head back. “She’s such an asshole. She left me on read!”

The team chuckled, glad to see you was somewhat back to yourself.

Your phone dinged and you pulled it out. She said ‘I love you too, weirdo’

There were a few moments of silence as everyone was thinking of what to do.

“Can we go on strike?”

“No!”

Casey flicked your ear for that.

Tobin spoke up, “Let’s create awareness first. Maybe identify the school board, post all the school’s faults on social media. I don’t know, just some ideas.”

Carli nodded her head. “Look, we’re here for you. For everyone in that school that’s been wronged. We’re gonna help you alright?”

You nodded your head and leaned back onto your team mom.

“And if all else fails, we go on strike.”

“Oh my god.”

—————-

Lowkey think this was trash but eh. I don’t really care at this point but uh this topic is very serious and what I put in here doesn’t even compare to what happens irl.

#uswnt x reader #uswnt imagines #Uswnt imagine #Uswnt #alex morgan #tobin heath #christen press #casey short #megan rapinoe #carli lloyd #mallory pugh #sam mewis #emily sonnett #crystal dunn #kelley ohara

334 notes · View notes

howlingsaturn · 3 years

Text

cotton candy skies (and the sweetness of your love)

carlos finally sought out his parents and told them about his relationship with tk. it doesn’t go quite like he expected and so he finds tk immediately after.

here we go lads, 2.8k of fluff coming right at you. i’ve wanted it to be mostly carlos centric but there is some tk pov in the beginning too. no trigger warning for this one but stay safe everyone. <3

ao3 link if you wanna say hi.

a forever with you

wouldn't nearly be enough

to quench the flames

you continue to rekindle in me

It's been a couple of weeks since their fight and TK can tell that it still lies heavily on Carlos' mind. While TK feels like it has brought them closer together, he finds Carlos staring off into space more recently. Sometimes he would look at TK with a hint of guilt and shame in his eyes and TK would need to assure him that it's okay, they've moved past it. Carlos would nod and kiss him but the weight on his shoulders would not lift one bit. It's frustrating, TK wants nothing more than to ease the tension in his body and help him carry the weight, but TK promised Carlos he would be patient and he's fully intent on keeping his promise.

It comes as a bit of a surprise to him when Carlos shows up at the firehouse towards the end of his shift, unannounced. TK is currently sitting at the table, nursing a mineral water and talking to Marjan about the call they've just responded to when Paul's excited exclamation echoes through the otherwise quiet firehouse.

"Reyes!" He calls, "Long time no see."

TK turns at just the right moment and as Carlos comes into view, a kind smile on his lips, TK can't stop his own from splitting into a grin. Paul's right though, Carlos hasn't been around as much as he used to because of the many hours he's currently working. TK has tried to talk him into taking a few days off but so far Carlos has refused, seemingly needing the distraction his job provides. It makes TK worry but he really tries not to push him too far, he trusts that Carlos will come to him if he's ready.

"Good to see you too, Strickland," TK hears Carlos laugh, watching as he leans in for a hug, "Work's been crazy lately, you know how it is."

"Don't have to tell me," Paul replies as they break apart, "Just make sure you're taking care of yourself, alright?"

Carlos' face softens and TK feels his heart clench in his chest. It's not surprising that Paul immediately knows something's been bothering Carlos but it leaves TK a bit unsettled anyway.

"Your boy's in there, by the way," Paul adds and TK shakes himself out of his thoughts. He watches as Carlos' eyes follow Paul's gesture and when their eyes meet, Carlos' smile settles. He tilts his head in a quick movement, asking TK to meet him outside, and TK is out of his seat before he can start overthinking Carlos' intentions. He jogs up to him, throwing a glance in Paul's direction but Paul has already turned back to his task.

"Hey," TK exclaims, a little breathless.

"Hi," Carlos echoes, "You got a minute? There's something I need to talk to you about."

"Sure," he responds with a grin although he can't help but feel a little anxious, "You have until the bell rings."

Carlos nods in understanding and turns half a step, walking back out of the firehouse. TK can feel the gazes of his team boring into his back but he takes a deep breath and follows Carlos outside.

"You okay?" TK asks when he comes to a stop next to Carlos, reaching out a hand to gently touch his wrist, watching him carefully. Carlos' hands are stuffed into his pockets, eyes locked into the distance to the left side of TK and he follows his gaze, quickly realising what has Carlos so transfixed: The sun is setting over the hills, only a few rays of sunshine are left to peek through the buildings, and the clouds are tinted in a soft pink colour that reminds TK of cotton candy. It makes his gut tingle with warmth.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He breathes out with a smile.

"Yeah."

TK turns to look at Carlos and finds him already looking at him, sporting a smile so soft, TK recognises it as the smile Carlos has reserved for him only. It makes his own smile widen and the anxiety that has previously made him breathless dissipates.

"You're a sap," TK says and Carlos just shrugs, reaching for TK's hand to pull him close against his side, needing the comfort. He takes a moment to look at TK and the way he tilts his head as he regards Carlos a little sceptically. He raises his brow, biting the inside of his cheek while he does so and Carlos finds it absolutely endearing. The pink sky behind him illuminates his face in a soft, warm glow and something about the light makes the green in his eyes pop out more than usual. He's beautiful and Carlos wishes he could freeze time so he could look at him forever. TK lets him have his fill, Carlos is surprised by how long he lets him stare, but after a while he starts fidgeting.

"Not that I don't love being the centre of your attention," he confesses, tilting his head down in slight embarrassment, "but you are kind of freaking me out right now."

"Sorry," Carlos laughs, enamored by the colour on TK's cheeks. His gaze drifts back towards the skyline and the weight of what happened today catches up on him again. The smile falls from his face as his muscles tense and the hand that still holds onto TK squeezes involuntarily.

"Carlos, baby, what's wrong?" TK reaches out with the hand that isn't clutched in Carlos' and squeezes where his neck meets his shoulder, just now noticing how rigid Carlos is.

"I love you a whole lot," Carlos says slowly, calculated, as his focus turns back to TK, "you know that right?"

It takes TK a bit off guard if he's honest. They haven't said the words in a while but TK knows, he's always known. Carlos wears his heart on his sleeve and there's not a day that goes by where Carlos doesn't show him how loved he is.

"Of course," TK tells him and now he's worried. He presses himself to Carlos' side, if to comfort Carlos or himself, he isn't sure, and plants a soft kiss to his shoulder. He looks up at him, searching his face, but as his hand slides down to curl around his elbow, Carlos looks away again. TK notices the tension in his jaw but the way his chest deeply expands with each breath tells TK that Carlos isn't as upset as he initially thought he was. It feels more like he's trying to order his thoughts, desperately searching for something he can't find, something he can no longer make sense of.

"I visited my parents today," Carlos finally explains and TK's heart skips a beat, squeezing his arm in silent support.

"I told them I lied. I told them that the handsome guy they met at the market a while back wasn't my friend from work but the love of my life."

Carlos can feel the way TK's breath hitches from how close he stands and it makes him hide a smile. He turns to look at him and watches TK as he opens and closes his mouth, visibly fumbling to assemble his thoughts. Carlos knows exactly what he's thinking. Love of his life?

"And how do-- how did they react?" TK finally gets out, swallowing heavily.

"They were calm," Carlos replies, "Surprised. I think they didn't know what to say at first, but after a few minutes of awkward silence my mom started asking about you and the how's and when's of our relationship." He shrugs, a futile attempt to appear nonchalant, but TK can see right through him. The anxiety of that talk probably still lingers.

"And then she asked me if I was happy."

"Oh," TK mutters and it sounds a little self-conscious, "What did you say?"

"The truth," he replies, eager to erase TK's doubts, "that you make me the happiest man on earth. That when you walked out on me a month ago, it felt like my heart was torn into a million pieces and that that day, I swore to myself to never make you doubt your place in my life ever again."

Carlos can clearly see the impact his words have on TK and he realises he should've been more open with him. He knows he has turned into himself lately, knows he has tried really hard to hide himself and his feelings away. But the terror he had felt upon the prospect of his parents finding out about TK and their relationship and disapproving of it, has been weighing heavily on him. He doesn't know why he's been so scared, he knows he would survive his parents' rejection, but to Carlos, there's nothing more important than family. And despite the fact that he's a grown man with a secure job and stable relationships, he can't imagine not having his parents' house to return to and seek shelter in if his world starts collapsing. When it comes to his mother, he will always be the soft little guy with too many fears, desperate for a comforting touch or reassuring words. He just can't help it.

"Carlos," TK pulls him out of his own head and he hurries to order his thoughts. There's something else he needs to get out, a confession that has changed his life completely.

"But you know what my mom did?"

TK shakes his head.

"She took my hand and said she was glad I had somebody who loves me. She said she was sorry for how they reacted all those years ago, that they figured by simply acting like it wasn't a big deal, like it didn't change anything, they would do me a favour."

Carlos chokes on his words, willing away the tears that threaten to spill, and holds onto TK a little stronger. TK presses another kiss to his shoulder, resting his cheek against Carlos and rubbing circles into his arm. He doesn't know why he's getting so emotional now, this is even about him.

"You know what else she said?" Carlos asks.

"Hm?"

"She said couldn't wait to properly meet you."

TK's eyes widen in surprise and something about the huge smile that's now gracing Carlos' lips, makes him choke on his own tears as well. Carlos reaches for him then, tilting TK's head up for a kiss, and TK all but melts into him.

"So wait," he mumbles between kisses, "You do want me to meet your parents now right?"

Carlos laughs again, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "Of course I want you to meet my parents."

"Ok, ok," TK says and winds his arms around Carlos' neck, "just making sure."

He kisses him again, feverishly so, and when TK pulls back to look at him, Carlos isn't yet ready to let go. He coaxes TK into another kiss and then another and another until he's breathless with it all.

"I'm so proud of you," TK whispers when they finally break apart, gently cupping Carlos' face in his hands, and the noise Carlos makes in response sounds a little pained. Carlos curses silently as he can't help the tears that we'll up in his eyes again. Today has been one hell of a roller coaster ride.

"You are so fucking brave," TK adds, not allowing Carlos to look away even for a second, and as he raises on his tiptoes to press a series of soft pecks onto Carlos' cheeks, Carlos finally loses the tension in his shoulders. He lets himself be tugged into a hug, his arms winding across TK's back to pull him closer and he allows himself to calm. He pulls back after a while, the urge to see TK too strong to ignore, and when TK smiles at him gleefully, Carlos knows he’s going to be okay. Right here with TK in his arms, he feels safe.

"I love you," TK tells him, his hands resting against the back of Carlos' neck and Carlos has to kiss him for it. It's probably wildly inappropriate, standing outside the firehouse wrapped around each other like that, but Carlos doesn't care, he only has one priority and that's kissing TK. Judging by the way TK holds onto him and reciprocates the kiss, Carlos doesn't think he minds either. He does eventually break the kiss, much to TK's dismay, but only because there's more he needs to say.

He takes another moment to look at TK, it seems that he can't stop staring at him today, and the flush shining high on his cheekbones makes Carlos' stomach flutter. His eyes are wide with joy, his lips red and puffy and he looks so god damn perfect, Carlos cannot wait to take him home and show him how utterly loved he is. He reaches up a hand and cups his jaw, pressing another longing kiss to his lips that leaves TK chasing after him with eyes still closed. Carlos presses his thumb to TK's bottom lip, applying gentle pressure, and he watches mesmerized as TK swallows, his eyes fluttering open with a gasp.

"Move in with me," Carlos says and the way TK's brows raise almost comically makes him stifle a laugh.

"What?" TK responds confusedly.

"You heard me. Move in with me, Ty."

TK studies him for a few seconds, probably debating whether he's understood Carlos correctly and what comes out of his mouth is exactly what Carlos had expected.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks, a hint of excitement glinting behind the insecurity in his eyes but Carlos knows he needs more reassurance than that.

"Sure about wanting you to come home to me every day? Absolutely."

"And you're not just saying that because I've complained about my parents so much lately?"

Carlos huffs out a laugh, gently squeezing TK's hip.

"Look, of course I want you to have a safe space to retreat to when things get difficult with your parents but it's not just that."

TK's lips twitch into a smile and Carlos has to force himself not to kiss him again because if he did, he's not sure he could make himself stop. There's just something about the way TK looks at him that lights a fire in his chest.

"I miss you when you're not around," Carlos explains, his voice dropping low with emotion, "the house is far too quiet and the bed far too cold without you there. You already occupy so much space in my heart, it's only reasonable you occupy space in my home, hopefully our home, too."

TK lets out a watery laugh, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to hold the tears at bay.

"That was so damn cheesy," he says and Carlos fears if he smiles any harder, he's going to tear his face apart. There's not a hint of nervousness in Carlos, he already knows what TK's answer is going to be.

"Well did it work?" He asks anyway, his own smile hurting his cheeks.

TK squints at him, pretending to think it over, but he's far too happy to be a little shit about it for long.

"Yeah," he replies softly, genuinely, "I love you, Carlos, more than I ever thought possible and I hope you know that you make me really happy too. So yes, I'd love to move in with you."

Carlos leans down and kisses him but their smiles are too wide for it to be a proper kiss.

"You know I would offer you a key in a grand romantic gesture but you already have one."

TK makes a snorting sound, shaking his head in amusement.

"So no grand romantic gestures for me?"

Carlos' smile turns soft then, images of a shared future appearing in his head and they look as beautiful as cotton candy skies.

"Not this time, no."

TK wriggles his eyebrows knowingly and it makes Carlos blush, but his smile changes as well. It's sweeter now, his eyes mirroring what Carlos feels, and sometimes Carlos wonders what he did to deserve a love this special.

"This time, huh?" TK asks, and the roughness of his voice masks the humour in his response, "Are you already planning a proper one then?"

Carlos just shrugs and secures his hold on TK, but it's not like he ever plans on letting go anyway.

"Maybe."

TK launches himself at him, pulling Carlos into another earth-shattering, toe-curling, breath-stealing kiss, and as the sun fully sets behind them, the sky now a warm orange, something in Carlos settles. Marriage is not something that is going to happen in the near future, they both know, but if Carlos is already making a mental checklist of everything he needs for the perfect proposal, TK doesn't have to know.

#man the fluff got me good #it's been fun to write though ngl #im in love with their love tbh #tarlos #tarlos fic #howlingsaturnsfics #911ls #911ls spoilers #tk strand #carlos reyes

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beewolfwrites · 3 years

Text

And When I am Formulated, Sprawling on a Pin - Chapter Twelve: And We All Fall Down

I know I say it every time, but thanks for all the support for this fic so far. It means a lot :)

As usual, you can find this fanfic in full on AO3 here.

And if you’re reading this for the first time, hello! This is a Chishiya x OC/female reader fic, and I hope you enjoy!

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

That evening, I didn’t leave my room. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see Niragi’s face, the glint in his eyes as he turned on me. The image flashed in my brain over and over until I felt sick. He would try to kill me out of revenge. That was a fact. And that night, I drifted in and out of sleep, trying to stay awake just in case he burst through the door to finish what he started.

But he never did.

And then there was the marks he’d left. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I flinched back, seeing another girl’s face. The skin of my neck was purple and red, like splotched lily pads of bites, marks and bruises. My cheek was blue and cut from the way he’d backhanded me, and my ankle wasn’t much better.

If I left my room, people would stare. They would know. Some of them had seen me being dragged into Niragi’s room.

As the alcohol wore off, it became easier to realise how stupid I had been to get drunk enough that I could barely form proper sentences. The way he’d been pretending to listen… how he’d kept refilling my glass… even how he’d licked my cheek right before he had pulled me away from the bar. The scared faces in the hallways, they knew what was going to happen.

They pitied me.

And now, if I left my room, they would know.

The morning after the incident, I stayed holed up in my little cave, drinking water from the bathroom tap in a poor attempt at curing the intense hangover that was turning my mind into slush.

I didn’t have any knives or items I could use as a weapon, but I did manage to find a screwdriver that somebody had left in a drawer. It wasn’t exactly much protection against a rifle, but it was all I had.

But this wouldn’t last. I would have to face them eventually; my visa was due to expire. For now though, I passed the time by translating what I could of The Metamorphosis. The kanji seemed simple enough, but some of the clunky phrasing threw me off.

‘“気がかりな夢. That must mean anxious dreams.’ I followed the kanji closely with my fingertip. ‘But where’s the bit about the cockroach?’

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

I held my breath, clutching my screwdriver until my knuckles turned white.

There was another knock.

Oh god, this is it. I’m going to die.

And then the person called out. ‘It’s Kuina!’

The relief I felt was a cool breeze, washing over me. ‘Come in.’

The door opened and Kuina entered. She took a seat on the end of the bed, but she wasn’t smiling. Instead, she was looking at me in the same way my mother used to at times.

There must’ve been a full minute where neither of us spoke, trying to figure out the best way to broach the subject.

Then at last, she said quietly. ‘Apparently Niragi’s been throwing a fit. Someone scratched his face… and I’ve heard some rumours.’

I tried to swallow against the lump in my throat. ‘What did you hear?’

‘People say they saw you drunk, that Niragi took you into his room.’ She paused, tentative. ‘Did he—’

‘No,’ I interrupted. I could feel my upper lip beginning to tremble. ‘I got away before he could. He was going to though. He said it was because of Chishiya. He wanted to… you know, get back at Chishiya. Not that he would care, anyway. We had an argument.’

It was that part that upset me more than I thought it would. The fact that no matter how many times he had helped me or saved my life, he wouldn’t give a damn about what Niragi did to me. If Niragi wanted to get back at him, he’d chosen the wrong method entirely.

‘Ah…’ Kuina tilted her head back. I could feel the questions just threatening to spill from her lips. She wanted to know, but she also didn’t want to ask.

I didn’t want to talk about it, or even think about it. ‘Can you see anything that mentions a cockroach in here?’ I pointed at the line of text I had been studying.

She seemed visibly confused by the sudden switch in subject, but she still walked across the room to peer at the book. ‘I can’t see anything that mentions a cockroach.’

I raised a brow. ‘That’s hard to believe. The cockroach is the main character.’

Kuina squinted, then nodded. ‘It says “匹の巨大な毒虫” instead’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘Giant poisonous insect.’

Snapping the book shoot, I tossed it onto the table. ‘I want words with whoever translated this,’ I said, laughing harder than necessary.

Kuina smiled awkwardly, unsure. I didn’t know what was so funny. There was nothing especially funny about the words. In fact, they were utterly devastating. I was devastated. Then I realised I wasn’t actually laughing at all. Kuina’s arm made its way around my shoulders, as her fingers brushed through my hair comfortingly. She didn’t speak, but just having her there was enough.

‘I’m sorry.’ I wiped at my face with my sleeve. ‘I just, I don’t know what to do. Or even how to react.’

She shrugged. ‘How you’re reacting is fine as it is. There’s no one way of going about it.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, sniffing. I probably looked a sight for sore eyes, and my hangover was still raging. ‘I’m scared of running into him, Niragi, I mean. And Chishiya too, I don’t want to see him.’

How I’d behaved back then was shameful, the way I’d snapped and screamed at him, even though he was stating things I already knew deep down were true. He had been right, but I hadn’t wanted to hear it. Yet despite that, I was still hurt. Right off the bat, he’d dismissed everything I felt, smiling as my anger only grew stronger. He had been in control of the entire conversation, and I’d walked right into his web.

Kuina played with her quit-smoking aide sheepishly. ‘Well, actually, I admit, I didn’t just come down here to see if the rumours were true. I also kind of need to speak to you about something… we both do.’

This was the last thing I wanted. Facing Chishiya again was bad enough after our argument, but now that I was covered in Niragi’s pawprints, it was much, much worse. ‘Kuina, I really don’t want to see him.’

She held up her hands, and bargained, ‘you don’t have to speak to him, or say anything at all. I’ll even talk to him for you. Just hear us out.’

The thought of seeing his smug face again sent dread through me. He’d probably take one look at these bruises and call me pathetic. I knew I shouldn’t care what he thinks, but I really did, even if I didn’t know why. But since it was Kuina who was asking, it was hard to refuse.

‘Fine.’ I nodded stiffly. ‘But I’m not speaking to him.’

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

The rooftop burned under the glare of the sun, the heat radiating through the soles of my shoes. I had to squint, as the brightness clashed with my awful hangover. Standing at the edge, looking down on the patio, Chishiya had his back to us. However, there was something off about his appearance that I couldn’t place at first. Everything about him seemed as normal, except it didn’t. He was wearing the white-grey hoodie that I had painstakingly washed and dried.

Is he trying to taunt me? I wondered.

But the thought flew out of my head as he turned around. When his gaze fell on me, his expression changed. It was one that I had never seen before, as his eyes narrowed, lips parting slightly. It was completely unreadable, and it lasted no more than a few seconds, before he looked away.

He doesn’t look too smug… unless the hoodie’s an apology? I dismissed the idea immediately. I can’t see him doing that.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he spoke. ‘Before you storm off again, there’s something you probably want in on.’

I glanced at Kuina, and she nodded reassuringly.

‘We’re leaving the Beach,’ Chishiya said.

My stomach fell. Was I was hearing this right? He couldn’t leave, neither of them could. It would only end in disaster. And Kuina… she was my only friend here. What would I do without her?

‘Things are getting tense between Hatter and the militant faction.’ He continued. ‘It’s only a matter of time before Hatter dies and this place turns to chaos. That’s why we plan on stealing the cards and leaving before that happens.’

What?

My head spun and Kuina’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, steadying me. ‘It’s a lot to take in,’ she said, ‘but we’re telling you this for a reason. We want your help… and we also want you to come with us.’

‘We’?

I swallowed, my eyes darting to Chishiya. He was finally looking at me. But it was strange. His expression was unusually guarded, suddenly more serious than I had ever seen it before. I couldn’t see any of his usual slyness, nothing to suggest he was telling something other than the truth.

‘We’d be killed immediately,’ I whispered to Kuina. ‘If something goes wrong, they’ll shoot us on the spot.’

She smiled bitterly. ‘With Hatter gone, we’ll be killed anyway.’

‘Niragi approached you before the Two of Spades game, didn’t he?’ Chishiya said. ‘I’m sure it was about me. As was this.’ His catlike gaze brushed over my skin.

He wasn’t wrong. Niragi had his eye on Chishiya, and given the slightest opportunity, he wouldn’t hesitate to have him captured, tortured and eventually shot. And after yesterday, I had a target on my back too.

I have nothing to lose.

‘Okay,’ I said, at last. ‘I’ll go with you. But first you need to let me know what the plan is.’ Stubborn as ever, I directed my words at Kuina. I still wasn’t prepared to deal with Chishiya just yet.

He seemed to notice this as he stepped away from the roof edge and walked to the door. He kept his head down as he passed, avoiding all contact with me. ‘You’ll have to talk her through the details. I’ve got something I need to do.’

And with that, he left us alone on the rooftop.

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

Kuina and I must’ve spent at least an hour up there, sitting and watching the other residents flirt, drink and splash around in the pool below. She walked me through the basis of their plan. It wasn’t complex or particularly detailed. Once Hatter had been murdered, the militants would likely force the other executives to put Aguni in charge, at which point there would be a speech with all the Beach members to announce Hatter’s death. The speech would keep the militant faction distracted, and we’d use the opportunity to break into Hatter’s room and steal the cards from the safe. Chishiya had assured Kuina that he knew what the code was. How he knew was still a mystery.

It would be dangerous, but I wasn’t worried for myself. I was worried for Kuina, and dare I say it, Chishiya too. Even though he made me so mad and so hurt, I didn’t actually want anything bad to happen to him. It was hard to admit, but I actually cared. Perhaps more than I wanted to.

What a shame he doesn’t return the favour, I thought glumly, as I made my way back to my room after parting with Kuina.

The Hunting Season game had only given me a two-day visa, meaning mine was due to expire tonight, and knowing how nervous I was, Kuina had promised me she’d meet me down in the lobby.

Let’s hope I’m not put in a group with Niragi.

When I opened the door to my room, it took me a moment to realise that something was off. The air felt different, like someone had been in here.

And then I saw it. On a chair by the window was a stack of books, and as I approached them, a heaviness inside my heart lifted. The first book was an intermediate Japanese language textbook, seconded by an English-Japanese dictionary. The third was the battered, well-read copy of Wuthering Heights. But that wasn’t all. Tucked beside them on the chair was the Walkman-turned-taser that I had last seen in the Tag game. It had a small post-it note stuck to the top.

“For Niragi, next time.”

I couldn’t keep the smile from my face as I clutched the taser. With the edge of my sleeve, I wiped away the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I wasn’t sure why I was crying, whether it was the shock of Niragi’s attack finally catching up to me, or the knowledge that Chishiya actually did care, even if just a little bit. It was a small gesture, his coming into my room and leaving these items, but it meant the world.

Part of me wanted to go and find him, ask him about it, and even thank him. But I didn’t get a chance, as the announcement for the games sounded throughout the hotel.

#alice in borderland #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x oc #chishiya x reader #aib #chishiya alice in borderland

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odos-bucket · 3 years

Text

So to continue my thoughts on Clark and Bruce adopting Jason together (begun here)

They go back to crime alley the next day. Bruce brings a copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel for Jason, who seems vaguely surprised to see them again. He isn’t as wary as he had been when they’d met in the middle of the night, and even sits beside Clark when they get onto the bus (though both end up giving their places up to other passengers before they can reach their destination).

At this point Clark and Bruce are focused on the idea of getting Jason enrolled in school, so the intention with this get together is to familiarize him with some potential institutions. Bruce was up all the previous night researching Gotham boarding schools, and reaching out to faculty members.

Despite all the preparation, the whole thing goes terribly.

Jason seems fine on the bus, but is tense and anxious during the actual school visits. He’s engaged by the classes and lectures he sits in on, but overall feels out of place, and is distrustful of pretty much everyone he ends up interacting with. He’s feeling conflicted, because he loves school, and he knows he’ll be pissed at himself forever if he really has this opportunity and ends up letting it slip by. But on the other hand he’s justifiably paranoid about perceived kindness from strangers (and yeah maybe it’s a little easier to trust Superman than it would be just anybody, but he still doesn’t really know the guy). And even if there isn’t some hidden catch to the offer, he’s not sure he can get on board with living somewhere where there’s a curfew, where his activities would be monitored. The idea of ceding any amount of control in his life at this point makes his skin crawl. He figures he owes it to himself to at least see if this is something that could work out, but goddamn if everything about it isn’t overwhelming and kind of horrifying.

And that’s all before other people start making themselves problems. Everywhere they end up going there’s bullshit to deal with from students, teachers, and administration.

Because of course the people running facilities designed to cater to Gotham socialites don’t treat Jason right. Even with freakin’ Batman and Superman with him he gets suspicious glares and withering looks.

None of that is any less than he expected. What really gets Jason is how put off everyone seems to be by his questions. He comes into every office with a list of things he’s curious about (Batman isn’t the only one who stayed up the previous night to prepare). He wants to know what percentage of the student bodies are there on scholarship, how the meal plans work, what the curfews are, how tightly regulated students’ time is outside of classes, what his life would be like if he put it into their hands.

The administrators don’t like the ‘interrogation’. Which is absolutely insane, because really they should expect any prospective student to have questions. And they should be prepared to answer them. That should be a part of their job, right??

But there’s this attitude of, “We don’t need to explain ourselves to the likes of you,” of, “Just be grateful you have a place here at all.” And that’s what puts Jason over the edge, has him realizing that this isn’t something he’s going to be able to deal with.

It’s after he gets more or less the same reception at the third place they’ve visited, that he finally just has to leave. He can’t take it, he can’t stand it, he has to get out of the office before he bites somebody’s head off.

He gets outside as quickly as he can, and feels some relief breathing in the fresh air (fresh by Gotham standards at least). He feels so stupid for believing he could have this. Really he should have known better. And he hates feeling stupid more than anything.

Superman trails out after him. And Jason can’t figure out what he’s still doing here. And he’s embarrassed to be upset in front of him. And he’s angry that he feels embarrassed when he doesn’t have any good reason to be. And-

“Jason.”

His name ends up cutting through the disorientation he hadn’t quite realized he was experiencing.

Superman is in front of him, just far enough away that he can’t reach out and touch him. Jason stares at him.

“This is shit,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual.

“What happened?”

They had offered to go in with him to meet the dean of the first school. Jason had turned them down, and they hadn’t offered any of the subsequent times. He hadn’t exactly been keeping them apprized of what was going on either, even though questioning him wasn’t something they had given up on after it had failed to yield anything the first time.

“The same thing that always happens,” Jason says. “No one really want someone like me at their fancy school.”

Superman’s eyes narrow.

“What happened?” He asks again. “What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter… Look, this has been fun and all, but I kinda just want to go home. So if you don’t mind-“

Batman appears with them as quickly as he’s able to disappear. Neither see where he comes from. He’s just suddenly walking toward them, meeting them, and continuing on without slowing down.

“We’re leaving,” he grunts.

Jason hesitates briefly, confused. But then his thoughts catch up to him enough to realize that leaving is exactly what he wants to be doing, and he hurries after Batman.

The heroes are deeply engrossed in their own conversation as they make their way off the grounds. It’s soft, and urgent, and Jason assumes it has something to do with the fate of the world, which he’s vaguely interested in. But he doesn’t think they’d appreciate him asking questions about things that don’t directly concern him. So he says nothing.

As they get closer to the street he realizes he’s not sure what happens next. He’s feeling tired, and frustrated, and he both really wants to be alone, and doesn’t want them to leave him. Mostly- at least so he tells himself- he wants to make sure that they don’t leave him without bus fare. He’s pretty sure they’ll give it to him if he asks, but he’s also hoping that he doesn’t need to ask.

Once they’re off the property, Batman turns around to face him.

“Jason, I’m so sorry. I don’t know exactly what Dean Sterlins said to you, but if it was anything like what he was saying while I was in there, it was way way out of line.” He starts off sounding tired, and ends up sounding angry.

Angry grownups are something that Jason generally tries to avoid, but Batman’s anger doesn’t feel particularly dangerous, and as he goes on it shifts into something more like urgency.

“Please believe, we never would have knowingly put you in that situation. I- Were the others the same?” There’s a hint of resignation in his tone that suggests he already knows the answer to that, so Jason doesn’t feel the need to do more than shrug.

Batman sighs, and it comes out as such an unexpectedly sad sound that he almost snorts out a laugh.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Superman asks gently.

Because he had been holding out a stupid hope that if he stuck with this long enough he might find something worthwhile. Because he didn’t want to give them a reason to believe he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Because it didn’t occur to him that they might genuinely want to know until literally just now.

He shrugs. The heroes exchange a look.

Jason’s grip on the book Batman gave him tightens slightly, and he clears his throat.

“Look, uh, I’m sure there’s somewhere else you guys need to be. I appreciate you taking the time to…” He gestures around. “You know.”

“There’s no where else we need to be today,” Superman says.

“Oh… Okay?”

“There’s one more place we’d like to take you,” he continues. “If it’s all right with you. It’ll be the last one.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. He kind of just wants to go home at this point. The optimistic ‘maybe the next place will be different’ feeling he’d had at the beginning of the day has long since shriveled. And curling up with his new book sounds pretty nice right now.

But at the same time, the last three visits have all included opportunities for free food. It stands to reason that this next one will as well. That should make it worth it even if he already knows with near certainty that they can’t be heading somewhere where he might actually have a future. Plus, Superman has this dumb, hopeful look on his face that it’s hard to say no to.

So he takes the bus with them to a fourth location. The ride’s a little less than half an hour long, and the building they arrive at looks different from the campuses they’d been to earlier. It’s not huge. The architecture is pretty simple by Gotham standards. It’s more immediately recognizable as a school.

They go inside, and Batman stops to exchange a few brief words with a woman in the front office.

“There’s a seventh grade English class starting in about ten minutes,” he informs Jason afterwards. “Would you like to sit in on it? We can meet back here afterwards.”

Jason agrees eagerly. This was the part of the last three trips that he’d actually liked. Maybe he can get in and out without needing to sit down with any deans or headmasters.

He attends a class where the students aren’t wearing uniforms, where he gets a few curious glances, but no lingering glares. He gives a note from the woman at the front desk to the teacher, and a few kids offer him greeting nods or smiles before the lecture begins.

The class is more than halfway done, and he’s been deeply engrossed in a discussion about The Giver- which he has never read, but now fully intends to- when all the observations he’s been making about this place click together.

The class ends, and he meets his chaperones back in the hall- where Superman is entertaining a group of ten year olds- to inform them of his realization.

“This isn’t a boarding school,” he says, once the rest of the kids have shuffled on to their next classes.

“No it is not,” Batman agrees.

Jason scowls.

“I stopped going to regular school for a reason,” he reminds them. “I can’t do this. As in literally can’t. I tried!” He’s trying not to sound upset, but it feels like they’re teasing him with this one.

“School’s a lot to manage without a stable living situation.” Batman says.

Jason huffs out a low agreement.

“So we were thinking…” He looks around, as if confirming the hall’s emptiness, before stepping into Jason’s line of sight. “We were thinking you could come and stay with us, and we could bring you to school here.”

Jason’s mind doesn’t process the offer fast enough for him to react immediately. Even once he’s sure of what he’s heard he thinks he must be misunderstanding. He looks up and at each of them try to draw clues from their expressions, their body language. It’s nearly impossible to do with Batman. Superman looks open, honest, and… hopeful. But that’s how he always looks, so does it really even mean anything?

Unable to make any useful interpretations, he asks the only question his mind has been able to form.

“What?”

“Would you like to come and live with us?” Superman says clearly.

Jason continues to stare for several seconds.

“Both of you?” He asks, because that’s interesting, and far easier to comprehend than the idea that someone might want him.

Batman clears his throat, and Superman-

-Superman blushes, which is enough to distract Jason from all the bizarre turns this day has taken.

“And, um, and our son,” he adds. “We have a son. He’s about five years older than you.”

The gears in Jason’s brain turn and click together.

“Robin,” he says quietly.

The vigilantes exchange uncertain looks, like they’ve been doing all day.

“Nightwing now,” Batman says, barely loud enough to be a whisper.

Jason just nods, because this is insane, and despite being born and raised in Gotham, he doesn’t always have a prepared response to insanity. A long moment passes, and all three of them stare at each other.

“Y- you want to foster me?” He says the words so so carefully, like he could chase the reality of them out of existence if he misspeaks, like he’s sure he hasn’t understood them properly.

“We do,” Superman says, quickly enough that the breath that had caught in Jason’s throat as soon as he’d gotten the question out can escape before it gets the chance to make him light headed. “We really do.”

Jason can’t imagine how this will work. He’s pretty sure it’s not a process that can be undergone with fake identities. Does that mean they’re willing to let him know who they are? Or maybe there’s some kind of exception for super heroes. He understands the procedure well enough to know that it’s bound to be a bureaucratic nightmare.

“Yeah,” he finds himself saying before he’s done thinking it through.

Today has been weird, and exhausting. But he likes this place. And he’s pretty sure he likes these people. And really, he would be crazy to say no, wouldn’t he.

“Let’s try it.”

#batfam #batfamily #superbat #bruce wayne #clark kent #jason todd #dc #my writing #batman #superman #batman and robin

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spookyboywhump · 3 years

Text

Hehehehe Wren snaps on another dog

CW: Bad Timeline, pet whump, dehumanization, beating, strangulation, derogatory language

***

Wren wanted to be anywhere but there. Nicholas had dragged him to another party, after forcing him into another humiliating outfit, sheer blue fabrics and a white skirt that was shorter than he cared for. When Nicholas wasn’t looking he’d done a quick spin in it in front of the mirror, and since then he kept one hand on the hem to hold it down, even now as he knelt on the floor out of the way. Nicholas had walked off to do something, telling him to wait there and behave. He didn’t particularly care, he preferred being away from him anyway. At some point another man slipped off from his owner and knelt down beside him, but Wren didn’t want to pay him any attention, and he intended not to even as he spoke up.

“Aren’t you a pretty little lap dog.”

He bristled at the comment, trying to ignore the man. The other dogs usually didn’t bother him, they knew to steer clear of Nicholas and his prized pet, but apparently this one was feeling bold. Wren could tell he was a fighter, from the bruises on his knuckles and the scars on his face. He couldn’t remember fighting him during his time there, he wondered if Zander would’ve known him. Unfortunately though, Zander wasn’t there to help.

“Is it nice?” Wren still didn’t answer, trying to keep his eyes on the floor. “Do you like just being a bitch to your owner?”

Just fucking ignore him and he’ll knock it off, He told himself. He didn’t know why he tried to tell himself that, that tactic didn’t work in middle school and it didn’t seem to be working now.

“Hey puppy, are you ignoring me or just stupid?” He snapped, and Wren glared at him, though that only confirmed that he was listening to him whether he liked it or not. “You know it’s rude not to answer when somebody speaks to you.”

“I don’t answer to anyone who’s wearing a collar.” He said without thinking, trying to keep himself calm as he saw the man getting angrier, growling in that way that Zander would.

“You fucking brat, just because you’re some toy to your owner doesn’t make you better than any other dog!” He snapped.

“Don’t call me a toy.” He said bluntly.

“Why? That’s all you are, just some bastard’s pretty little fuck toy!”

He didn’t think before he moved. One minute he was sitting there on his knees, tense and anxious, and the next he had the man on the floor, straddling him as he brought his fist down hard on his face.

“I said, don’t call me a fucking toy!”He shouted, overwhelmed with the anger he’d been burying for so long. He only managed to hit him one more time before the man was able to shove him off him, hitting him hard in the face and disorienting him enough he could push him off. Wren was quicker on his feet though, running on pure adrenaline as he jumped up and kicked the man hard as he was trying to get him, his foot connecting with his nose with a sickening sound, blood splattering on his white shoe. He didn’t care though, he just kept kicking him, until he was able to catch Wren’s ankle and pull hard enough to unbalance him, he fell backwards and hit his head hard against the marble flooring. He felt dizzy, but he tried to ignore it, all he could focus on was beating this man senseless, beating him until he won.

By the time they were separated Wren was on top of him again. His own nose was gushing blood, his lip was split, and he didn’t even feel the pain, his hands wrapped around the man’s throat, who was clawing at his arms in an attempt to make him let go. He didn’t let go until he was suddenly grabbed him behind, strong arms slipped under his and grabbed him around the chest, dragging him off the man even as he tried to hang on, digging his nails in before he was ripped away.

“Let me go!” He screamed, thrashing and kicking against the man’s grasp. “Fucking let me go, I’m going to fucking finish this!”

“Enough!” The man snapped at him, he only just then realized it was Nicholas, which just made him struggle harder.

“I’m not your fucking toy! I don’t have to fucking listen to you!” He shouted, which he knew would only make him angrier, but he hardly cared. Nicholas was able to get one arm out from under his, locking it around Wren’s throat and holding him in place until he finally stopped kicking, having to focus everything he had on breathing. That was when he let go of him, kicking him to the floor and kneeling on his back, twisting one arm behind him.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you but that’s enough, Love.” He snarled. Wren stayed silent, still trying to catch his breath. From his spot on the floor he could see the faces of some of the other owners, some shocked, some amused, he assumed the angry one owned the dog he attacked. He turned his head to the other side and he could see the man, pissed off and covered in blood. He didn’t feel bad even the slightest bit. With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes, ready to accept whatever punishment Nicholas wished to throw at him.

***

“Don’t look at me like that love, this is your own fault.” Nicholas sighed, locking the leather cuffs around his wrists. The chain was looped around one of the posts of the bed, pulling his arms up as he sat on the floor. He didn’t say a word, still angry and now in pain, and Nichols didn’t seem to care. “I’m going easy on you tonight because I’m sure that mutt antagonized you, but I won’t tolerate this happening again.” He said. Once the cuffs were locked he leaned forward and kissed his forehead before getting up to go about his night.

He was left there like that all night long, still in his blood smeared clothes. Nicholas had been gracious enough to clean the blood from his face but that was really all he’d done for him. He’d made a point to let Cain sleep in bed with him that night, as though it would actually upset Wren or make him jealous, but really he was just irritated.

He was sick of being treated like an object, a toy. Even other dogs didn’t respect him, believing he was below them just for what he was forced to be. He didn’t want to be a lapdog. He didn’t want to be a dog. He wanted to be Eli again, he wanted to go home, back to that brief moment of freedom he hadn’t appreciated enough.

He didn’t sleep that night. He simply sat there, seething, upset beyond even the point of tears, his face blank as he tried to think up a way out of this nightmare.

#whump #my writing #bad timeline #Wren #Nicholas #pet whump #dehumanization #strangulation tw #beating #wren fucking SNAPS

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raineydaywrites · 3 years

Text

the drought was the very worst

Febuwhump day 26: recovery

Fic Summary: Time heals all wounds. But a little friendly competition can maybe help speed it up.

Or, the story of the first day that Taako and Lucretia spend alone together after the Day of Story and Song.

All three of the reapers were currently on an extended mission. They expected to be gone for a few days "four, at most" according to Krav. They'd blown open a whole network of necromancers, and hoped to eliminate them before they started whatever creepy ritual they were planning for the next week. Nothing too complicated, but apparently time consuming.

Taako was not worried about them. They could handle themselves. But he certainly was put out over the temporary displacement from three of his favorite people.

It didn't help that Magnus was super busy with his dog school and Merle was super busy with his earl duties and Davenport was off on another exploration, and meanwhile, Taako's school was on harvest break. It had been nice, for the first few weeks, and Taako was usually glad to get time to relax and chill, but he had to say that it would have been nice to have something else to do while most of his family were busy.

He probably ought to get dressed and get going for the day. He didn't feel like laying around all day, and moping around about this would eventually just make him miserable.

He picked over the offerings in the closet. They'd gotten so used to sharing/stealing each others' clothes over the century they'd spent together that they didn't even pretend to need separate closets when they'd built this place. And anyway, it was just easier to clean and hang everything in the same room.

Taako didn't feel like getting himself into anything too complicated, so he found a relatively simple sundress and slipped it on, before tying his hair up into a loose bun. Best way to look great without putting much effort into it.

He probably ought to make himself something to eat, but without anyone else to cook with or for, the biggest reward of cooking breakfast was gone. Maybe he'd be more into the idea by the time lunch or dinner came around.

Usually, Krav, Lup, and Barry would come home in the evenings when they could. Sure, they didn't actually need to sleep or eat to keep going, but they usually would choose to. It was uncomfortable to know that they wouldn't this week, to be so reminded to the fact that they were- not like him anymore. Taako would never say that out loud, but it was.

He left the closet, determined not to think about upsetting but irrelevant shit anymore, and made his way the main family room. Lucretia was there. She was settled on a couch, flipping through a book. Taako tilted his head in surprise to see her.

"I thought you would be at the Bureau today," he said. Lucretia jumped, as if she hadn't realized that anyone else was here either, which was ridiculous. Both he and Angus were on break, and he, at least, had nothing else to be doing. He was pretty sure Angus wasn't working on any cases right now anyway, so he should be knocking around here somewhere too.

"No. Avi and Killian have suggested that I'm 'overworking' myself, and arguing with them has started to be more trouble than it's worth," Lucretia said simply. Taako snorted.

"They're not wrong, Creesh," he said, flopping down on the other couch. "I'm more surprised that they convinced you to take a day off than I am surprised that you need one."

Lucretia scowled half-heartedly at him, but she was self-aware enough to know that he was right. There was silence for a moment.

"Huh. Is that my dress?" Lucretia asked, furrowing her brows as she took a closer look at Taako's outfit.

Taako glanced down at it, assessing. He really wasn't sure who had bought it originally, but yeah it easily could have been Lucretia. It was a cut and color that she liked, and it looked just about her size.

"Probably. Is that a problem?" Taako gave her a challenging look, daring her to say something.

"No, of course not," Lucretia scoffed. "I just didn't realize we were so close in size."

It was a fair point. They didn't use to be able to fit each others' clothes as well as this dress fit Taako. But it had been a while since he'd last stolen anything of Lucretia's or she'd stolen anyth- any of his clothes. They didn't have a huge overlap in style to begin with, and it had only been a few months since the whole group of them had moved into this place together.

Taako just shrugged. They'd never been too caught up in how well the stuff they took fit. The only times it was even mentioned were if someone ripped anything or when the size difference was particularly noticeable, like the times when Merle would show up to breakfast wearing Magnus' t-shirts as pajamas.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" Lucretia asked, hesitant.

Taako firmly didn't think about any potential reasons that the clothing discussion could have prompted that question.

"Nah. Just woke up," he responded.

"So you're going to make something soon?" Lucretia pressed.

"Why do you ask? So you can steal some without asking?" Taako shot back. Lucretia tensed but didn't quite flinch the way she used to when he said stuff like that. Which meant it was nearing its end as a useful manipulation tactic, and he should probably find a new one.

"I- I'd appreciate having something, yes. I haven't eaten yet today either," Lucretia said. She was manipulating him right back, and Taako knew it, but he still heaved himself up off the couch, sighing.

"Gods, Lucretia, you'd think someone as responsible and in-control as you would remember that living people have to eat things," he said.

He took the book out of her hands and set it down with the pages still open, snickering when her expression twisted in distaste at the improper positioning. When she reached out a hand to correct it, he grabbed it and yanked her upright, startling a laugh out of her. He pulled her along behind him to the kitchen.

"If I'm going to make something for you, you're helping with the boring shit," Taako announced. He let go of her hands to start washing his own, and started thinking about what to make. Nothing sounded particularly appealing at the moment, so he'd probably just stick with something basic.

"Okay? Like what?" Lucretia asked, washing her hands as well. Taako nodded approvingly. It was great when he didn't have to remind idiots -cough, cough, Magnus and Merle, occasionally Barry- about basic shit like sanitizing your hands before shoving it into something you were cooking for other people.

Honestly, Taako wasn't sure. He mostly just wanted to keep her from wandering off and forgetting to eat for longer, or getting bored and giving up on it himself, and, as an added bonus, he knew it must be driving Lucretia crazy knowing that her book was, at this very moment, sustaining damage to the spine and pages. And yeah, there she went, tossing an assessing look back toward the family room, probably trying to figure out if she could hurry back and correct the book without him noticing.

He grabbed some fruit and a knife and set them on the cutting board nearest Lucretia.

"Just cut that shit up. I'm making eggs. Eggs and fruit is a breakfast, right? I'm not in the mood for anything complicated, especially not for just you and me." Taako hoped playing it off as laziness would stave off any concern. He used to want to cook all the time, and he'd used to take any opportunity to do so.

Lucretia just hummed agreement, but Taako got the feeling that she still saw through it. After all, she hadn't always fed herself properly back on the Starblaster either, and 'Lucretia forgot to eat' used to be an opportunity that he always took, because he liked cooking and it was a great way to not have to admit to worrying about her, way back in the beginning, and a nice way to spend some time with a friend later on.

They were quiet for several long moments, just letting the sounds of cooking fill the room. The silence made Taako anxious, but he wasn't quite sure how to break it. He glanced over at Lucretia, to check on her progress with the fruit, and saw her staring off into space blankly. He went back to cooking the eggs.

When the eggs were ready, he salted them with the No Sodium salt shaker, knowing that they were good, but knowing that there would be just the tiniest tendril of worry tugging at his mind throughout the meal if he didn't.

It was ridiculous, really, that he needed that. He had never made a fatal mistake in the kitchen, and it had been a long time even since he thought he had. And this meal didn't even involve transmutation. But the thoughts that maybe he'd mess up in some different way could get stuck in his mind for hours sometimes. It could take hours, after all, for some illnesses and poisons to even show their symptoms. At Glamour Springs, it had happened pretty quickly, but if he messed up here, made some mistake of a different sort than pissing somebody off, then who knew how long it would be before symptoms would show themselves?

He shook himself, forced his mind away from the thoughts, and set the plates next to Lucretia's fruit. She didn't respond to his nearness, and when the plates hit the counter, she moved her head to look at them only after several long seconds.

Taako snapped his fingers in front of Lucretia's face a couple times, eying the knife she was almost cradling. Probably shouldn't have left her to cut stuff up when he'd realized that she was so out of it. She could have hurt herself. But, whatever, the moment had passed, and it didn't look like she was bleeding, so it didn't matter.

The snapping got her moving at a quicker pace, but she still didn't seem like she was all there yet.

Taako started to hum under his breath, hoping the sensory input would wake her up a little. She'd always reacted well to that in the past.

Lucretia finished cutting the fruits in front of her, setting the knife down and swaying back and forth a little to the humming. She plated the fruit and set it next to Taako's eggs. She made a humming noise in the back of her throat, a thanks without words, and washed off the knife.

Taako still didn't really feel like eating, but the food was made, and it would do no good to waste it. Besides which, if he ducked out of eating, then Lucretia could too, and he didn't want that. She had a bad habit of not eating when she felt bad, which always ended up with her making herself feel worse.

If they had to play Fantasy Chicken with their meals to get her to eat right, then he could play Fantasy Chicken.

They were both stubborn people, and neither was willing to back down, so the food got eaten, and the dishes got washed, and Lucretia snuck back to her book when Taako wasn't looking, but she came back with the book and a board game that he hadn't realized they still had.

"Look what I found the other day," Lucretia said, brandishing the box proudly.

Taako grinned at the Fantasy Clue box- they'd all played a lot of games together on the Starblaster, but some games had been more embraced by some of them than others- like Merle and Davenport with their modified euchre rules once the rest of them tired of playing along.

For him and Lucretia, it had been Fantasy Clue, and yeah, they'd had to modify it pretty hard to make it work with two people, but they had made it work nonetheless.

"Do you want to play?" Lucretia asked, hesitant.

Taako refused to let himself hesitate in his response, "Hell yeah, let's break that bad boy out."

Lucretia smiled widely, a smile he'd missed, that told him that he'd made the right decision.

They set the board up on the floor in the living room, so that they could spread out as needed, and started to play.

The game was intense, both of them competitive and stubborn and smart as hell, but it was fun.

They lost track of time as they played, until Angus peeked in at them curiously.

"What are you playing?" Angus asked, eyeing the board curiously.

Taako met Lucretia's eyes, both of them thinking the same thing, not needed to say a word to get their point across.

Do we really want to try to take the World's Best Detective in Fantasy Clue?

The answer was 'no,' for sure, but they decided to do it anyway.

He trounced them, of course.

The rest of the family made sure to come home at the end of the week, as they each realized that they'd left Taako and Lucretia alone with just each other (and Angus, but he was a kid) for the first time since the Day of Story and Song, and they'd accidentally done it for an entire week.

Anything could have happened.

But when they got there, the only thing they found out of the ordinary were the many scoreboards that had popped up over the week, as Taako and Lucretia refused to be outdone by an eleven year old, no matter who he was.

While Lucretia and Taako discussed strategies to take down the new champion, Angus grinned smugly at the rest of them, and silently accepted his well earned money from the 'who can get them to get along again' betting pool.

#taz balance #the adventure zone #taz lucretia #taako adventurezone #taako taaco #lucretia adventurezone #febuwhump #febuwhumpday26 #angus mcdonald

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 3 years

Text

TATMILB, CHAPTER 6

Penelope spent her life writing love letters, which didn’t seem like a terrible idea until the letters were mailed out and Schneider received one of them. Hoping to fool their exes, they agree to fake a relationship. But are they lying to everyone around them, or to themselves? aka my To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before-inspired AU.

Penelope x Schneider, ODAAT. available on ao3 with extra author’s notes.

Chapter 6: Penelope and Schneider reveal their new relationship to Lydia and Alex, but Penelope decides not to tell Elena. When Schneider arrives to take Penelope out, he interrupts their videochat.

“Okay you two,” Lydia said before Penelope had even shut the door behind them all. She threw both arms out, a human barrier to any member of the family moving past her spot in the living room. “Tell me what is going on right now.”

“Abuelita? What’s going on?”

Alex’d had a good game, so while the silence on the way home was been tense, it didn’t prepare him for whatever was currently happening.

“That is what we are going to find out, Papito. Your Mami and Schneider, they are...I do not know what they are, but they are something. They have been keeping it a secret from us!”

“Keeping...what a secret?”

“They kissed! While you were at the bat.”

“Aw, man! I got a great hit off that last pitch. You missed it?” He looked at their guilty faces before catching up.

“Wait. You kissed?!? Like, the two of you?” He pointed to his mom. “You and Schneider?”

“Yes. Okay. Yes, we did.”

“We didn’t want the family to find out this way,” Schneider interjected, trying to take some of the pressure off her. She shot him a grateful look. Plus, what he was saying was true. Technically.

“Yeah. I know this might be a surprise, but Schneider and I are...dating.” She reached over and held his hand. “And I’m sure that you will both have lots of opinions about that, but we’re all free until dinner so you know what? Go for it. Let’s get it all out there.”

Schneider took the cushion next to her, their hands still clasped, and Lydia watched them for another moment before she shook her head.

“Eh.”

Penelope gaped at her mom as Lydia waved her hands dismissively and went into the kitchen to fix Alex a snack.

Even more alarmingly, her son looked ready to follow her. “Alex!” Penelope gestured at him, then at the floor near the couch, calling him back. “You don’t have anything you want to ask, or say?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Okay.” She stared at Schneider, eyes wide and helpless.

“You’re not, I don’t know, surprised?” he ventured.

“No. Should I be?”

Alex, with the usual level of cool radiating off of him, shifted in his baseball cleats and rolled his eyes. “You’re always hugging and stuff, and you’re already in the family. It kind of felt inevitable.”

Lydia was vocalizing in the kitchen to mambo music, but she waved a wooden spoon in agreement with Alex’s words before returning to the stove.

As soon as Alex headed to his room to change and her Mami’s back was turned, Penelope snatched her hand away. What the hell was wrong with her family? What was she supposed to do with that reaction?

Schneider looked as baffled as she felt, and sat silently beside her, scrolling on his phone until dinner.

Lydia waited until the food was ready before she returned to the subject.

“So, mija. Does Elena know?”

“About--oh.” Nice job, Penelope. If you’re going to have a fake boyfriend, maybe try to make it seem like you remember that. “No, Mami, I haven’t told her yet. I didn’t want to tell her such big news in a text. It can wait 'til the next time we videochat.”

It could wait forever, she thought, shrinking from the very idea of that conversation. Alex was perpetually in his own world--as long as the people he loved were okay, he was content to leave them alone and do his own thing. But Elena had opinions. She was affected by the lives and the choices of everyone around her, and this involved two of the most stable adult presences in her world.

It had seemed like a much better idea before Penelope really thought about how it could rock Elena’s foundations. Telling her that her mom and Schneider were dating? Lying to her, to tell her that?

It was horrible.

Unless...what if Penelope said nothing at all?

Elena didn’t have to be baffled and shocked, or upset over being kept out of the loop like her Abuelita, if she never knew it was happening. The contract could be over before she came home from her semester away; she would hear about it secondhand and Penelope could explain it then.

The only other kind way to handle it would be to tell Elena the truth, Penelope knew, to make her the one person who knew it was all a sham.

Hi baby, how’s London? Have you seen the big clock yet? Is it really that big? Oh yeah, by the way, I’m dating Schneider now, in case your brother or your Abuelita happen to mention that in one of your texts or conversations.

Yeah, I know that sounds crazy. You probably feel really confused, but I have good news for you, it’s all fake!!

That’s right. It’s an elaborate conspiracy that Schneider and I came up with over ice cream and baseball because I wanted to avoid Max and he needed to make Nikki jealous.

She sighed and shook her head, tucking that conundrum away until Sunday, when she and Elena had already planned to talk. Maybe when they got on the call, she would know what to do.

****

By the time her phone buzzed on Sunday evening, Penelope had begun to worry Elena wasn't going to call.

“Hey, Mom,” her daughter said, beaming through the tiny screen. “Sorry, I know I’m late. I just realized I got the time zones off--still working on that.”

“Baby, it’s fine. I'm just happy to see you. Tell me everything about your week. How are your classes? What have you gotten to see? What do you think of the food?”

Elena laughed. “Slow down! I can only answer one question at a time. Let’s see, my classes are good. Really interesting, a totally different style than I’m used to--but in a fun way. I’m still having to catch myself when I start to panic, about being so out of my element. I think I’m doing okay though.”

“That’s good. You’re supposed to have fun, not just try to ace your classes,” Penelope agreed. “Not that you should be aiming for less than acing your classes!”

Striking that balance between encouragement and adding to her daughter’s anxious tendencies was still a work-in-progress, Penelope thought to herself, smiling at Elena. “I miss you, mija.”

“I miss you too--all of you. We went on a tour this week,” she added, with no attempt at a segue.

It was refreshing to see Elena overflowing with excitement, unable to hold it all in--a welcome change from her glum mood since her breakup. Penelope nodded along.

“A tour of what?”

“Oh, well, it was with my Religious History class, so it was a lot of old religious buildings, mostly. Landmarks and functioning spaces. Alex would have hated it, there wasn’t a single good selfie backdrop. But I had a blast. We saw Southwark Cathedral!”

“Ah. Cool,” she said, trying to remember if she should know what that was.

“It’s from Doctor Who, Mom.” Elena’s quirked lips were patronizing, but only a little. “The Tenth Doctor was there in an episode, and I couldn’t believe how big it seemed even in person. You expect movie magic, you know? But it was just...really cool.”

The quiet awe in her tone carried through the videochat. Apparently her daughter was in fact picking up culture and independent experiences overseas, just like she was supposed to. Penelope ignored the pang of separation in response and focused on the pride underneath it.

“So you went to a Doctor Who church, where else?”

“It’s not a Doctor Who church, Mom, there’s no such thing. Though if there were, I’d seriously consider joining. Sadly, none of the other spots on the tour were show locations, at least not today. I’m pretty sure the exchange student group events will do more of the classic tourist stuff while we’re here. Which should cover some Who basics. Buckingham Palace, Tower of London, London Eye...”

She trailed off, looking away from the screen.

“Is somebody there? Do you need to go?”

“No.” Elena shook her head. “No, I’m fine. How are you, by the way? You aimed so many questions at me, I want to know what I’ve been missing.”

Penelope had already decided to keep the conversation focused on Elena, to avoid any slip-ups about her new arrangement with Schneider. But with the way Elena was focused slightly past her, eyes a little glassy, she had a good reason to now.

“You’re not missing anything, everything’s boring and the same here. Your Abuelita may be planning to turn your bedroom into a shoe closet, but I’ll hold her off until you get back. Don’t try to change the subject though--I can see you, Elena. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, Mom. I just had a second where, well...the London Eye is one of Syd’s bucket list items. They--we--talked about it a lot. Before. I think seeing it on the tour with the other exchange kids is going to be hard.”

She held back a sympathetic sigh, remembering how much it hurt to lose someone at Elena’s age. Even her last adult breakup was so hard that it was still haunting her.

“Oh, honey, I understand. Breakups come with moments like that, I promise. It’s normal.”

“I really would rather talk about anything else. Please.”

”Okay.” It had been so easy for her Mami to make Penelope’s relationship woes worse without even meaning to, when she was a teenager. Now that she was the mom, treading lightly was the best she could do. “Why don’t you tell me about the food, then?”

Elena was in the middle of describing a dinner she’d had at a pub called The Ivy House when Schneider opened Penelope’s bedroom door.

”Hello, privacy!” she snapped at him, tugging a throw blanket over her toes as though he’d caught her in a compromised position. Really, she was just startled. Schneider never knocked on the front door but he still knocked on her door, most of the time. He wasn’t completely oblivious to boundaries.

”Hello, person who didn’t respond to my texts,” he replied, unfazed. “Hello, Elena.”

”Hey Schneider.” She waved across the continents, matching his grin.

”In case it escaped your attention,” Penelope pointed out, “I haven’t replied to--or read yet--your texts, because we were busy catching up.”

”Well, it’s not like you told me,” he said. “Six messages, Pen. I thought maybe you were standing me up.”

She froze, aiming her coldest look his way but keeping it below a glare that Elena could catch long-distance and wonder about.

“Ha, very funny. Of course I’m not standing you up,” she said, hoping Elena would interpret that to mean if I were, it could mean we’d planned a date, which is a funny and impossible idea while Schneider would know she meant something else entirely.

”Hey, gimme the phone,” he said, ignoring Penelope’s careful parsing of words and taking her pocket-sized daughter right out of her hands.

”How’s life in jolly old England?” Schneider asked Elena, his gaze flicking to Penelope, who started gesturing wildly as soon as Elena was out of sight.

Do. Not. Tell. Her. She mouthed, punctuating the words with a mimed zipping of her lips. He watched her and then went back to chatting with Elena with no reaction at all, leaving Penelope panicking. Leave it to Schneider to let the secret out. It would be even worse if Elena found out from him when Penelope had completely avoided the subject, wouldn’t it? Maybe she should come clean now, while he was there. Safety in numbers.

”Yeah, your mom and I are gonna go grab dinner,” she heard him say, and she squeezed her hands into fists, calming down on purpose. “There’s this place on Sunset I wanna try.”

”It’s a vegan hipster place, isn’t it?” Elena fake-groaned through the phone, like he was still the most embarrassing adult she had ever met. “Schneider, organic local food is fantastic, but you have got to start looking outside the box for places that aren’t trendy. You know where I had dinner last night?”

Penelope took advantage of that moment to snatch her phone back. “And as I’ve heard this story already, I think now might be a good time to say goodnight, honey. You can talk Schneider’s ear off about the superiority of legacy recipes and family-owned bars another time. Preferably while I am very far away.”

”I’ll have you know, though,” Schneider interjected, leaning over so his face was partly in the frame next to Penelope’s, “that we’re getting Italian tonight. Your mom has very kindly agreed to give me her opinion cuz I’m still trying to find a new Italian fave ever since La Vite Blu had that little rat problem.”

”Ew, your old favorite place used to have rats?” Elena shuddered.

”No, not rats like the animal. It had ties to the mob, apparently--somebody told the authorities, and bing bang boom, no more La Vite Blu.”

”You are so weird.” Elena swallowed hard, offering them a slightly trembling smile. “You guys have fun at dinner though, okay? If you like it, maybe I can come with next time, when I’m back. I miss you.”

”We miss you too.” Schneider put his arm around Penelope and she leaned back against it a little, comforted. Her baby was so far away, and not all the way grown yet after all.

”Call or text if you need anything, okay? And keep checking in. I love you, Elena.”

”Love you too, Mom. Bye, Schneider.”

The screen went dark, before lighting back up to tell Penelope that she had six text messages.

”Jeez, you weren’t kidding. You know where I live, Schneider...obviously,” she added, gesturing around her bedroom. “There was no need to freak out because it took me a minute to get back to you.”

”I wasn’t freaking out.” He walked away, his voice carrying back to her as he headed for the living room. “I was just trying to make sure we were still on the same page.”

She followed him, still annoyed but unable to articulate why. Was it the barging into her room? Because that was rare, but not unprecedented. Was it the way he told Elena about dinner? Because Elena’s comment about joining them made it seem like she’d missed any possible date implications. And when Penelope thought back, all Schneider said was that they’d be eating dinner together. They did that all the time.

”Well, I have to get ready,” she said, emerging from the hallway to find him standing next to the dining room table.

There were flowers sitting on it. Once he realized she was there, Schneider picked the bouquet up off the table and held it out. “For you.”

“Uh. Thanks.” She glanced around them, then stared back down at the flowers. “You know, nobody can see your romantic gesture, right? Kinda ruins the public effect.”

“Well, it would be a little weird if we walked into the restaurant together and then I handed them to you. But it’s our first date. It seemed appropriate.”

Now he was watching her, she could feel it. Trying to tell if she was about to get upset over his attempt at a nice gesture, Penelope guessed. Her temper tended to hit him harder than the members of her family who shared her quick moods.

She gave in to the desire to lift them to her nose, breathing in for a long moment. They smelled like springtime, if it were springtime in a Disney movie. Sweet, but also earthy.

“I love them,” she said honestly. “Thank you.”

Schneider beamed, bouncing on his heels a little. “You’re welcome.”

“Okay,” she decided, “now I have to get ready and I have to put these in a vase. Give me a few minutes, okay?”

“No problem.”

Schneider sat on her couch in her empty apartment, perfectly at home while Penelope arranged the flowers in the family’s only vase. She was already trying to decide what to wear, now that his flowery touch had her feeling a competitive need to up her own standards. Her mind was so focused on the contents of her closet that she didn’t stop to read the card tucked into the bright bouquet.

Whatever nerves she was now feeling about their first fake date night, it didn’t seem like Schneider shared them. Penelope was pretty sure that as she went back to her room, she heard him pulling up a video on his phone about London’s best lesser-known pubs.

#alvareider #one day at a time #odaat #penelope x schneider #to all the men i've loved before #penelope alvarez #schneider #lydia riera #elena alvarez #alex alvarez #odaat fic #alvareider fic #my fic

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igirisuhito · 4 years

Text

Title: Collar Relationship: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito Rating: Mature Summary: Komaeda and Hinata decide to go through some of their old possessions. Hinata has a burning curiosity. Trigger Warnings: PTSD, Flashbacks, Triggers

[Ao3 Link]

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

"Oh! I… I didn't realise I even kept this."

Komaeda mused to himself as he reached into the cardboard box in front of him, struggling to pull out the object he was so intrigued by. He jiggled it slightly, shifting it out from beneath the things weighing it down, before finally yanking it out with a triumphant grin.

They had been encouraged by Kirigiri to sort through some of their things as a form of 'spring cleaning.' Hanamura had experienced a panic attack upon finding a familiar electric knife which led to the remnants realising just how much stuff they still owned from their despair days. So Togami, the good one, took charge and paired them up to go through their things together.

Hinata knew all he owned was his reserve course suit and the barrette he had taken from Nanami. They were what he had awoken with, after all, since he had brought nothing else to the island. So he was just here to help Komaeda sort out his things.

Hinata returned the smile before gazing down, curious as to what had gotten Komaeda so intrigued. The other boy's fingers were now wrapped around a heavy steel collar. From the front, a long metal chain dangled, dragging across the wooden floor noisily as he brought it closer to examine.

"That's from your time in Towa city, right?" Hinata watched him closely, anxious that Komaeda may be set off by the object.

A small sound escaped him, an involuntary noise that was rather croaky and high pitched. It only further deepened Hinata's fears, the seconds feeling as though they had been dragging on forever since Komaeda last spoke.

Cautiously reaching out, Hinata gently placed his hand on the small of the boy's back. "H-hey…it's alright…"

It was an understandable reaction, one that didn't surprise Hinata in the slightest. Komaeda was still rather prone to despair spirals even after all these years of being isolated on Jabberwock. But that's why they were doing this, why Hinata was here; to make sure he wouldn't hurt himself when something brought back memories of the atrocities they'd committed and horrors they'd lived through.

Komaeda made the noise again, and again. And before he knew it, he was giggling. It was a happy giggle, not like the ones that cracked through the depths of his soul and spewed from his mouth like toxins during a breakdown. The light-hearted and wholesome sound left Hinata finding himself confused, but pleased Komaeda seemed okay.

"I'm sorry, it's just…I really let myself wear just whatever huh? Despair does awful things to people." A bright smile had stretched across Komaeda's face, one of genuine warmth. He wiped at the tears in his eyes, seemingly unaware that Hinata was currently skating right off the side of his emotional half-pipe.

You literally sawed off your own hand but you're more upset about how you wore a collar…?

Deciding to keep that thought private, Hinata asked something else instead. "So uh... was it more of an edgy thing or a kinky thing?"

Komaeda's head snapped around to playfully glare at Hinata. "It wasn't kinky! Do you really think so lowly of me, Hinata-kun? Even in throes of despair I could never be so depraved as to force my sexual desires onto those around me, especially not the Warriors of Hope." He paused, a couple of breathless laughs escaping his lips. "I couldn't have done something like that, they would have bullied me for it in an instant. Children are merciless…"

"No no, you know I don't think of you like that, Komaeda." A small chuckle left Hinata as he thread his fingers through the front of his hair. "They were really awful kids, huh?"

"Victims of circumstance."

"I mean, they did kill thousands of people."

"So did you!"

"Yeah but I--!" Hinata sighed loudly in defeat as he realized the worthlessness of arguing about such a thing. "No...You're right."

Seeming pleased with his victory, Komaeda smirked cheekily as he set the collar down on the floor beside him. With that over with, he returned to rummaging through the box.

Hinata, however, didn't seem to be able to let it go. His eyes were still fixated on the shiny metal, poring over every detail and slight scratch. "Does it…hurt to wear?"

"Hmmm," As Komaeda spoke he continued sorting through his items, not stopping to look up at the other. "Not really, but if you have children yanking at the chain all day it's likely to cut into your skin a little."

"I see…" Even as Hinata gave a gentle nod of acceptance, he didn't seem to be able to peel his eyes away.

Something about that collar intrigued him, something he couldn't put into words. Perhaps it was purely just because of how odd the garment truly was. It weighed on his mind with a strange familiarity he couldn't place, one that he could only guess was due to his merge with Kamukura. A past memory?

"Do you want to try it on?"

The offer was enough to snap Hinata from his daze, heat rising in his cheeks as he shook his head wildly. "N-no…that's weird…"

Komaeda picked up the collar again, the metal making a soft tink against his fibreglass fingers. He unclasped the collar, allowing it to bend into its two halves before holding it out towards Hinata's neck. "I'll help you put it on."

Swallowing hard, Hinata stared at the metal nervously. Looking at it made him feel strange. Fuzzy, almost as though a static was settling over his brain. Was he getting…close to remembering something? Or was he… turned on by it? After all, a human on a collar and leash was unnatural, yet a popular fetish. And Komaeda was someone he was sexually attracted to...

He could sit and ponder the possibilities for hours, but it would be an unproductive use of time. Hinata expelled all the thoughts swirling around in his head, instead focusing on the situation right now. This strange feeling intrigued him, despite the fact it made him anxious as hell for no discernable reason.

As per usual, Hinata's curiosity outweighed his anxiety. "O-okay…"

With a small smile, Komaeda shuffled a little closer. He pressed the cool metal to the front of Hinata's neck, watching as the chain pooled in his lap. He then closed the collar before doing up the clasp with a loud click.

Hinata seized, every muscle in his body suddenly tensing with an intense sensation of panic. The kind of panic that made you think "This is it, I'm going to die."

The world seemed to fall out from beneath him, quickly being replaced by a vibrant green room, filled with the noisy hum of electronic equipment running and observational monitors beeping.

Strange men in white coats were looking down at him, faces going unrecognised.

"N-no…"

This will be the final part of the procedure. Are you ready, "Hinata-kun?"

"N-no!! Don't touch me!"

He furiously attempted to swat away the arm reaching for him, but he couldn't. After all, they'd strapped down any part of his body that was capable of movement. His left cheek itched immensely from the electrode stuck to his skin.

"It's okay, Hinata-kun." The procedure will be mostly painless, it's likely you won't remember a thing. This the final stage, after this you will be released and reborn as the Ultimate Hope.

I'm barely hanging on as is. I-If you take away any more I'm going to die. I'm going to forget who I am…

I don't want to forget her!

Hinata desperately tried to grab at the restraint around his neck. He could feel his knuckles against his skin as his fingers gripped onto the metal, but he knew his arms had been restrained.

It didn't make sense. None of this is making sense. What is going on?

Somebody pulled his hands away, probably angry at his lack of cooperation. Fingers dug sharply into his chin and lips, forcing his mouth open as they pressed hard against his teeth.

Why were they doing this? This wasn't part of the plan.

He let out a loud noise of discomfort, struggling to shake himself free of whatever held him. But before Hinata could push free of their grip, something hard was forced into his mouth.

Huh?

His mouth was suddenly so...cold. Ice cold. Stinging and burning into his tongue. He thrashed and whined, attempting to remove the object from his mouth, but instead his jaw was forced shut.

"Hinata-kun!!"

Who is that? The voice sounded too young to be one of the surgeons.

"It's not real! Whatever's going on right now is just an illusion!"

He could almost laugh. He must be in denial, hoping that this nightmare wasn't turning out exactly the way it was meant to. After all, it was him who wanted this

badly.

"The Kamukura project ended a long time ago! You're safe now, Hinata-kun!"

The… Kamukura project?

Ah, that's right. I've already become Kamukura Izuru. I've been Kamukura Izuru. There's no reason for this to be happening.

Then that means…

This isn't reality.

Click. The soft sound of the collar's clasp being undone was what finally pulled Hinata back.

He could feel the ice melting against his tongue. The restraint had been removed from around his neck, yet the sensation of pressure and cool touch of the metal still lingered.

He should… try to open his eyes.

Cracking one open, Hinata found himself surprised by the flood of bright warm sunlight. The sharp contrast between that and the harsh neon green of the neuroscience institute surprised him.

It was almost as if the warmth of the world was welcoming him with open arms.

He could hear seagulls, the rhythmic thud of the washing machine, the sound of metal chain clattering against the wood floor and heavy breathing.

Ah, that was his own breathing.

A mess of fluffy, white hair was above him, knelt down and leaning over him with a look of panic on his face. It was a familiar scene, one that reminded him of the time when he woke up on the beach within the simulation.

"Komae-dah…"

The boy moved the instant he heard his own name, practically throwing himself at Hinata in a tight hug and pulling him upright off the floor. As Komaeda pressed his chest as close to Hinata's as possible, he whispered apologies quickly and harshly, fast enough to barely sound like coherent words.

"I'msosorryI'msosorryI'msosorry!!"

Despite his best efforts to speak, Hinata's voice was barely above a whisper. "I-it's alright…not your fault…"

He was still shaking and his hands were grossly clammy from all the sweat. He wiped them on the back of Komaeda's shirt and hugged the boy in return.

"I-I should have known…" Komaeda mumbled, squeezing tighter.

Hinata wasn't sure of what to say to reassure him, he really didn't want Komaeda to fall into one of his deprecation spirals, not right now. His head was pounding and he could still feel the electrodes attached to various places on his head and chest.

"Ko-maeda...I think I'm still…"

Komaeda leapt out of his arms, shuffling back a little before grabbing Hinata's right hand. "Ah sorry, I was…scared. But please don't worry about me right now Hinata-kun. Focus on getting yourself back down."

After nodding in response, Hinata took a deep breath and glanced around the room. He idly scratched at his left cheek as he took note of the objects around him.

Bed. Bookshelf. Messy stack of books. More fucking books. There's a gas mask under the- breathe. There is no gas mask under the bed. It doesn't matter. There's a coffee table. A desk that we added more recently.

Hinata swiveled around on his butt

The obnoxiously see-through bathroom. The toilet, bath, shower, towels. I think…I think I'm okay.

He let out a long sigh, relaxing his body enough to let himself fall back and lay down on the floor. Letting go of his hand, Komaeda continued to watch him cautiously. "Are you okay, Hinata-kun?"

He nodded. Still feeling a little uncomfortable with using his words, he opted to idly suck at the ice cube, reveling in the cool water dribbling down his throat.

Komaeda simply laid down next to him, wearing a gentle smile on that pale face. "We can stay here as long as you like, this was my last box of stuff anyway. If you wanna talk about it, you can. If you don't, that's fine too."

"I…" Despite the ice cube in his mouth, Hinata's throat felt unbearably dry and tight. "You were right. In your assumption…"

"Ah, so it was about the Kamukura project then." A soft sigh escaped Komaeda, one of dismay rather than frustration. "I couldn't think of anything else that would cause that kind of reaction. And I don't believe Kamukura did much during his time as a remnant."

Nodding again, Hinata found himself bringing his fingers to his neck. The skin was irritated, sore. He could still feel the collar sitting heavy on his Adam's apple, slowly crushing his esophagus…

"Hinata-kun."

Right. He took a deep gulp of air, having not realised until that moment he'd even been holding his breath. He was so grateful for Komaeda's attentiveness to detail that seemed to continue to save him time and time again.

"Do you like the weather here on Jabberwock Island?" The question came completely unprompted, out of the blue.

Hinata recognised this from one of their therapy sessions with Naegi, where he helped them learn methods on how to cope with these kinds of incidents. A subtle reminder of where the person was wrapped in a question designed to distract oneself. It seemed Komaeda had finally bitten back his curiosity in order to prioritise Hinata's fragile mental state.

"It's a lot like Japan's weather during the summer. Humid. I've never liked humid weather, it makes me sweat too much." He decided it best to answer the question, actually giving it a solid amount of thought. "Though it can be really nice when it rains and there's a humid heat, the atmosphere feels so strange."

Komaeda found himself smiling a little as he analysed Hinata's reaction. "Ah, I can understand that. The tropical thunderstorms we get here are quite interesting."

"It'd be nicer if they didn't trigger Saionji's panic attacks." Finding his mood suddenly souring again, Hinata muttered to himself.

"Trauma has unusual effects on people." Komaeda let out another one of those dry laughs, the kind he did when remembering something less than pleasant. "You and I both know this well."

There was a moment of silence in the room as Hinata blinked a few times, attempting to fully process the words as they were spoken.

"Yeah… I uh, I shouldn't have said that. It's not her fault, after all."

"You're allowed to have these kinds of feelings, you know? You're allowed to be angry that these things happened to us." Speaking in a tone of full yet agonisingly painful sincerity, Komaeda gently placed his right hand over the stump on his arm. "You're only human. You've always been human. It's better for you to express these emotions, especially after what just happened."

"I know… I just…" Gesturing vaguely, Hinata trailed off for a moment, unable to find the right words to describe his thoughts. "I just feel bad about everything that's happened. I'm kind of responsible for all of this. There's so many things that I wish I could change, wish I could have… done differently, I guess."

The other boy paused for a moment before speaking again, an expression unreadable to even Hinata painted onto his delicate features. "Hinata-kun…may I touch you?"

Hinata nodded in consent, and Komaeda wiggled himself closer. He wrapped an arm around Hinata's waist, humming softly as he snuggled up against the other.

"In all honesty, I just wish… I wish I didn't stop you at Hope's Peak. I should have let you shoot her. We wouldn't be in this stupid fucking mess if I just let you." Hinata's rage surged suddenly and he dug his fingers tightly into the fabric of Komaeda’s loose green jacket.

The anger within him eased as he clung to the other. Taking a moment before he groaned and buried his face in the other's chest, reciprocating the hug Komaeda had graciously offered him.

Once Hinata had noticeably cooled down, Komaeda spoke up again. "I don't think I was ever capable of killing her, even if you hadn't stopped me. My luck never planned for me to have an easy ride."

"Still, if I hadn't helped her at all-"

"Nothing would be different." The sudden stern tone made Hinata flinch. "You played less of a role in the whole thing than you care to admit, Hinata-kun."

Ah, he wasn't wrong.

All he had been used for was to manipulate the Reserve Course and put pressure on the faculty. She had other means of doing it and his denial to get involved would have just brought Enoshima more despair.

Hinata sighed loudly, moving his face up to Komaeda's neck and nestling his face into his untamed ivory hair.

"You're right…I'm sorry."

"It's fine, we all feel that way sometimes." Komaeda whispered, looping his other arm around Hinata.

As compelled as Hinata felt to object, he decided to accept it. Enoshima would have found other pawns to play her sick game with. They were lucky enough to just be alive.

They laid there in comfortable silence for a short while, basking in the warm rays of sunshine streaming through the window. All that could be heard was the sound of one another breathing and the ocean waves rolling into shore.

Fingers were threaded into the back of Hinata's hair, stroking through the strands soothingly as he succumbed to Komaeda's familiar touch and allowed himself to calm down. The gentle hold put him more at ease, pulled him back into reality, back into a world where everything was okay. Where there were no doctors here to hurt him, no anti-social scientists ready to break into his head, no creepy girls giggling as they tried to bludgeon him with a baseball bat.

It seemed as though Hinata's breathing had begun to slow down, his grip loosening as he was no longer desperately attempting to ground himself against Komaeda. It seemed he had calmed down enough to maybe talk about it, so Komaeda decided to pop the question.

"So, it was the collar that triggered it? Or a coincidentally timed flashback?"

"The collar. They used something similar to strap me down when they imbued me with my talents." As Hinata began to speak, his voice took on a dull and logical tone. "I believe any kind of restraint would likely elicit a similar reaction."

It wasn't unusual for Hinata to speak differently when recalling the operation or any of the events during the Hope Cultivation Project. It was as if he were trying to distance himself from the memories, to put up an emotionless front in order to make it hurt less. But at the end of the day it was more likely that he just saw things from an impersonal perspective.

Kamukura was always like that.

He never truly believed himself to be a part of society, a person of talent, a human. He was simply an outcast. Everything that he did or that had happened to him were just things that took place, nothing more, nothing less. Whoever's hands it were that dealt these actions meant little to him. The fact Hinata still tended to do this was likely just another side effect of the merge. Komaeda was just grateful that the tone of Kamukura's voice didn't frighten him anymore.

Before Komaeda's thoughts could spiral too much further into the contemplation of Hinata's actions, he spoke again.

"I'll keep that in mind. We'll make sure to add it to your profile's information, okay? That way this shouldn't happen again."

"Flashbacks are an inevitable part of having PTSD." Hinata mumbled the words into Komaeda's neck, seeming deflated.

"I know, but figuring out what triggers them helps." He ruffled Hinata's hair in an attempt to comfort him. "Once everyone knew not to use a hand saw around me, my stress went down immensely! I'm still so grateful everyone would do something like that just to ensure the comfort of somebody as worthless as me!"

There was another grumble from Hinata, who seemed unamused by Komaeda's comments. "You're not supposed to say stuff like that about yourself anymore…"

"And thus proves therapy isn't a perfect science either. At least it improves things bit by bit with time, like your triggers will." Knowing Hinata wouldn't be able to object to the argument, Komaeda found himself smirking a little.

He was right.

Hinata sighed loudly and snuggled closer into Komaeda's arms, groaning softly all the while.

"I know you think it's your job to protect all of us, Hinata, but having these issues doesn't make you weak. You're an Ultimate!" Upon seeing the other wince, Komaeda chuckled softly before directing his reassurance down a different path. "You do so much for our class, and we all love you dearly. Everyone wants to help you the best they can, Hinata-kun."

"Hm… do you think they would want to help me out with how cold my mouth is now?" Hinata squeezed the other boy tightly, keeping him firm in his grip.

"I can think of at least one who might-- Ah! Hinata-kun!!"

A cold tongue laved across the skin of Komaeda's neck, causing him to yelp and squirm. He attempted to push Hinata away, but was unsuccessful when the other boy suddenly rolled on top of him, straddling and pinning him in place. Leaning in close, Hinata eyed Komaeda's lips.

"May I?"

There was a soft huff of defeat from the boy beneath him, followed by a breathless laugh and that ever familiar smile.

"Of course."

Hinata pressed a light kiss to Komaeda's lips, causing the other boy to grin even wider as his cheeks flushed pink. "I love you."

"I love you too."

There was a moment of peace, perhaps the first true peace the two had felt all morning. Hinata felt hyper-aware of everything in the silence; the now lack of gentle thudding and swishing from the washing machine, which must have finished without them noticing. Dust particles danced in the golden rays of sunlight that always seemed to cut through any curtains they hung up. The gentle grey of Komaeda's eyes as they glistened slightly with tears after being the victim of a tickle assault, the slight red flush of his cheeks, the way his messy hair looked so nice with his bangs pinned back in order to keep the hair from his face and show off more of his forehead.

A warm sensation bubbled in Hinata's chest as he leaned his weight further onto Komaeda, allowing himself to relax with a soft sigh as he nuzzled further into the other boy. It felt as though he could fall asleep right there, completely calm in this perfect little world of theirs. Of course it couldn't last forever, but even so, it felt as though things were gonna be okay.

As long as Hinata and Komaeda were together, things would turn out okay.

It was no surprise that Komaeda was thinking the same thing, staring into those gorgeous mismatched eyes of his. There were scars on Hinata's face, scars that would continue to serve as painful reminders to both him and everyone around him. But Komaeda loved those scars, he loved every part of Hinata Hajime and Kamukura Izuru. No matter how many times they disagreed, fought, or got hurt, they always found solace in one another.

Komaeda had to pause to piece his train of thought back together. "Now, how about you get off me and let's pack everything back away, okay?"

With a gentle nod, Hinata shifted off the other's torso. Despite his mixed feelings on the loss of comforting heat and weight from Hinata's body, Komaeda sat himself up before rising to his feet and extending his hand towards the other. Hinata took another moment to recollect himself, before taking his hand and carefully rising to his feet.

Together they packed away all those memories, memories that would haunt them for a lifetime.

Your Handbook has been updated!

#Danganronpa #Komahina #komaeda nagito #Hinata Hajime #Ficgiri #Hinakoma

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sabineelectricheart · 3 years

Text

A Room Full of Clothes

Summary: Byleth is evicted from her apartment. Dimitri is ready to help her.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 4800

Notes: I wouldn’t call it fluff. God, no. But it’s kinda cute, in a way. I hope you like it.

The sun shone brightly over the edges of the Gronder Field as a new day begins in Remire. The citizens start their gruelling commute to Garreg Mach early, not to be late for their jobs in the city.

“Okay, I’m here!” Byleth wiggles an arm through the sleeve of her jacket before settling into the couch with the rest of her roommates. “I’m in a bit of rush, but I’m here, I’m ready and I’m ready to listen. Now, will you tell us why you’ve called this emergency meeting?”

Annette fidgets on the spot, standing in the centre of the living room. Her doe-like blue eyes flicker between the remaining three residents. Felix, Ingrid and Sylvain uneasily avoid their friend’s gaze. In fact, they avoid looking at anything other than the walls of their apartment.

Byleth furrows her brow, narrowing her eyes in question to their strange behaviour.

“What’s going on?” Byleth begins slowly.

When none of them dares to make eye-contact, she turns to Felix, who sits closest to her on the couch.

“Don’t look at me.” The bluenette huffs, throwing his hands up defensively and with the usual angry edge to his voice. “I am not the one who called this little sham of a meeting, Annette did.”

The man looks pointedly at their roommate standing, urging her to get over whatever it was. Felix was never a patient person.

Byleth frowns, turning her attention back to the redhead who is nervously gnawing at her lower lip. The sinking feeling in her gut tells her nothing good is going to come from this “emergency meeting”, and something tells her, from the way her roommates are refusing to make eye contact, there was nothing last minute about this gathering.

“Byleth, you know you’re my best friend, and a very good friend to all of us!” She says the latter in one rushed breath.

“Why do I get the feeling like you’re all about to breakup with me?” The woman in question mutters, earning herself a snort from Sylvain for the trouble. She, then, tries to catch Ingrid’s and Felix’s eyes, but they were much too busy staring at the carpet.

Annette does not hear her, or does not care to, and continues to trample over her own words.

“We were thinking, with the end of our school year and everything coming up so soon this summer. Oh, this isn’t easy!” She stutters, fingers fumbling together.

The sight makes Byleth uncomfortable and she frowns. Cold dread rushes up her spine. “What’s going on?”

Felix sighs. “Come on, Annette. Just spit it out! It’s just Byleth, for the Goddess’ sake!”

“We were wondering if you’re considering moving in with Dimitri?” The young physicist blurts out.

A heavy silence falls over the five, all sitting uncomfortably next to each other, with the exception of Annette, who had the misfortune of stand before them. Her fists balls up tightly, her eyes quickly scanning Byleth’s usually neutral face in a sad effort to read her thoughts.

The blue-haired schoolteacher breaks the silence with a nervous chuckle, waiting for them to tell her at any moment this is all some joke. When no one says anything after another loaded beat of silence, she whips her head between Sylvain and Annette, before craning her head to read Ingrid and Felix’s sheepish expressions.

“Excuse me, what?” She lets out another uneasy laugh.

Ingrid sighs, finally looking up from the spot on the ground she has been fixating on.

“I think what we are all trying to say, or ask, is … You and Dimitri have been getting pretty serious over the last year, and we’re all very glad for that. We also think that it’s a bit inevitable, taking from how often you stay over at his place, that eventually you’re going to move in with him.”

Heat flushes Byleth’s face and she gapes flabbergasted at the strange scenario unfolding in her living room. Where her roommates have decidedly taken it upon themselves to ask her an intimate question she had not even considered, or discussed, with her own boyfriend.

The young woman shakes her head bemused.

“What are you guys talking about? Dimitri and I have been together a while, yes, but I live here.” She jabs a finger on the sofa’s cushion to emphasise her irritation. “Where is all of this coming from?”

All four others exchange quiet, nervous glances and fall deadly silent.

Byleth’s frown deepens. “Are you guys worried I’m going to stop paying rent or something? Because I’m not, I know I live here and I’ll keep paying my share of the bills. Just because I spend a lot of time by Dimitri doesn’t mean…”

“Would someone just… Tell her, please?” Felix scoffs.

“Why don’t you, emo boy?” Sylvain snaps, and the bluenette shuts up and sulks.

“What are we supposed to think? You’re hardly ever here!” Annette interjects and Byleth’s attention snaps back to her. “In the last three months, you’ve probably been home a grand total of one week and that’s just to do your share of the chores and to get a fresh set clothes.”

“I don’t have any plans to move in with Dimitri anytime soon, and if I had, I’d like to think I’d discuss it with him first and then you guys before leaving.” The girl with the blue hair crosses her arms over her chest. Her brow furrows in anger, wondering why the people she trusts the most are testing her. “I’m trying to wrap my head around this. Are you guys upset, or… I don’t know, that I’m not really home to hang out?”

There’s a hasty chorus of disagreement and a snort from Sylvain.

“No! Of course not. We’re all happy you and Dimitri were able to work things out and be together. None of us miss either of you sulking on the hallways because of heartache, trust me. It’s just…” Annette’s shifty eyes dart around the face of her roommates again before dropping her voice to a near whisper. “Somebody could be living in that room. Garreg Mach is really expensive and it’s hard to find somewhere to live comfortably at a reasonable price.”

“I know that, which is why I pay one-fifth of the rent.” Byleth says a little stung by the comment. “I could make more of an effort to be here, you’re right about that, but I…”

Suddenly it all clicks, and after nearly three years dealing with shy kids trying to make sense of their own emotions, Byleth can practically see the puzzle pieces aligning perfectly together. A surge of hot energy courses through her. Betrayal and anger flare up.

“Oh my star!” Byleth gasps, jaw slacking as the realisation dawns on her. Her friends collectively tense at her tone. “You have someone for the room already, don’t you?!”

“See!” Annette’s eye grow wide. She nervously points an accusing finger at Byleth. “You’re calling it the room, not even my room.”

“That is not the point!” The woman adds flustered. “And you’re not even denying it!”

“Okay, okay.” Sylvain wheels himself between Annette and Byleth. “I think we all need to take a step back and reassess. Byleth deserves a proper explanation and we’ve done a terrible job so far.”

Felix shakes his head, rolling her eyes and Ingrid awkwardly scratches at her eyebrow.

Falling to him, the redhead gives his friend a pained smile and gently tells her, “Byleth, I think what Annette is trying to say is that we may have jumped the gun a bit and promised your room to someone else.”

She rubs her creased forehead, trying to wrap her head around the mess.

“Why…” Byleth begins slowly, letting out a loud sigh and trying to stifle her anger into a passive voice. “…Would you offer my room to someone before even talking to me? Can’t you guys just tell them, I don’t know, sike?”

Annette and Sylvain share another anxious glance, trying to trade off the responsibility of telling the irate blackbelt in more martial arts they care to know the truth.

“One of our, ahem, friends in common told Annette she was struggling to find a place since the lease on her place was running out and well…” Sylvain scratched the back of his head, what he usually did whenever he felt nervous. “I think, our Annette here saw a colleague in need and… Offered up your room.”

They have hit Byleth in her weak spot, pulling at her heart strings and targeting the softness at the core of her nature. She opens her mouth, trying to come up with a solution before Annette hits her with the devastating, closing blow:

“It’s Dorothea.”

“Sylvain’s girlfriend?” Byleth groans, burying her face in her hands. “Why doesn’t she sleep on his room?!”

“She’s a model, you see.” Said man interjects with a moronic smile. “She owns too many clothes and shoes and make-up. Between her stuff and my stuff, we wouldn’t have any space.”

“Oh, so I’m being evicted, not so Dorothea can move in, but her clothes?!” The woman bawled. “What the fuck?!

Ingrid scoots closer and runs an arm, hopefully reassuring, around her friend’s shoulder. “It’s not like that, Byleth. Dorothea really needs a place to stay, and, well, you really don’t.”

The blue-haired woman glares at the blonde. “Easy for you to say, Ingrid. You’re engaged, why don’t you move in with Glenn?”

“Glenn lives in Fraldarius, Byleth.” The blonde biochemist responded, as if it was obvious.

“And Dimitri lives in the Upper City. Your point?” The other shot back.

She wishes the four of them had collectively shot her. It would hurt less. She stands up abruptly and shoulders her bag once more before heading for the front door.

“I need to go clear my head.” Byleth declared, picking up her keys from the table and walking to the door. “I can’t talk about this right now. I’m going to be late.”

No one moves, except for Annette, who looks like she is about to bolt after the young teacher, but Felix stops her.

“Oh, yeah? Where are you headed tonight?” Sylvain smugly calls out after Byleth, who glares at him before slamming the door.

*_*_*_*_*

When she arrives at Dimitri’s apartment, thirteen hours later, letting herself in with her own set of keys, the rich smell of oregano and sharp cheddar envelopes her seductively. Dedue must have stopped by.

The blond man can tell by the way Byleth storms in without so much of a greeting and the hasty way she unpacks the wine from her carrier bag that she is in a bad mood. She does not even bother petting or cooing at Rufus, aptly named after her boyfriend’s hated uncle, when it desperately whines at her heels.

Standing on the kitchen door after setting the dinner plates, Dimitri quirks an eyebrow at her. “Delays on the cable car again?”

His girlfriend remains eerily silent, opening and closing a few drawers and cabinet doors. Angry at her comfort and ease at which she can move around his apartment, finding exactly what she was looking for, where she was looking for it.

Dimitri continues to observe her. Eyes scanning, analysing, as she sets down two wine glasses with a clink. Impatiently, the resident uncorks the wine bottle and with a loud, long glug she pours the cheap red wine.

After handing Dimitri his glass, she gingerly-yet-decidedly taps hers with his and takes one long gulp. Byleth finally meets his eyes and pulls her drinks away, exhaling noisily.

“I’m getting kicked out of my apartment.” She declares, monotone. “I’m getting kicked out because of clothes.”

Dimitri freezes, wine glass suspended at his mouth. Out of all the reasons why she stomped into the house, this was not one of the scenarios he had prepared for. She downs the rest of her wine before pouring herself another generous serving.

“The tribe has spoken. I’ve been voted off the island. Big Brother has evicted me. I am the weakest link. I didn’t get a rose. Sashay away. I’m running out of TV catch phrases here, Dimitri.”

Byleth moves to the other side of the room and towards the couch, Rufus following closely behind her. When she plops down unceremoniously, she finally gives in and scratches the dark-brown Labrador behind its ear.

Dimitri throws a glance over his shoulder, ensuring the food his housekeeper brough over in the afternoon was covered before following the exasperated woman.

His eyebrows tightly knit together. “What do you mean you’re being kicked out?”

Byleth fills him in on why she is so frustrated, explaining the unwitting part that Dorothea played on the whole mess and recapping the details of the stupid living room meeting but overtly sidesteps the reasoning her roommates used to indirectly oust her from their home.

“Why do I get the feeling that there’s more to this than you’re letting on?” Dimitri says coolly, seeing through her as if she was made of glass.

He takes another drink of the terrible wine she has thoughtlessly chosen and fixes her with a serious stare. Byleth averts her blue eyes back down to her lap, heat prickling at her cheeks and ears. At the thought of presenting her boyfriend with the same words Annette had used calls a wave of embarrassment to wash over her.

She lets out a loud breath, the dark strands of her fringe blowing up briefly. She turns her head and meets his concerned gaze. “They did it because they’re expecting me to move in with you.”

The stillness that follows unnerves the older woman. Byleth cannot read Dimitri’s expression, and a rush of emotions surge through her. Mortified, she busies herself by petting Rufus’ eager head.

She is about to open her mouth again, on the verge of taking it all back, but then he speaks. “I wasn’t sure when to bring it up.”

“I’m sorry, what?” The woman balks.

Dimitri’s words take her by surprise, blowing her over in the complete opposite direction she anticipates. It is his turn to let out an exasperated sigh and takes a long drink as Byleth watches him nervously, gripping onto a spare throw pillow.

“Bring what up?” She asks, softly, trying to calm him down.

“I can see why they would think that.” He averts his gaze, toying with the stem of the wine glass. “You… Have been spending a lot of time here.”

“I have not!” She interrupts, but the man pays her no mind.

“I can see where they’re coming from. Most of your belongings are here. Your clothes, your class logs, your books, your plants, even your dog!” Dimitri lets out a chuckle.

Byleth stiffens. “They’re cacti and I can take them back to my apartment. I can clear out my drawer and take my paperwork, that’s not an issue, and I just keep Rufus here because Felix is allergic. I’m sorry if I’ve made myself too comfortable, but I…”

His large, comforting hand cuts her off mid-sentence, finding a spot on her lap.

“I don’t want to give you just a drawer.” He interjects.

The words die in her throat, mouth opening and closing a few times before she tilts her head quizzically. “What are you saying?”

Dimitri places his near-empty glass of wine on the coffee table, littered with her medical journal printouts.

“Well, you’ll be 29 soon…”

“And you’re 27, spring chicken.” Byleth smacks his arm with the pillow she holds.

Dimitri goes quiet, shooting her a deadpanned and exhausted look.

“I wasn’t meaning it as an insult, if you would just listen.” He mutters, clearly miffed at the jab at their age difference. “What I was trying to say, before you so rudely interrupted me, Byleth, is that you’re almost finally graduating college. I know you don’t like staying put for too long and you might want to move out of Garreg Mach altogether now, but if you choose to stay here…”

A pause weighs heavily on the living room environment. The man breathes out before continuing, feeling extremely bashful for broaching the subject.

“Well… Haven’t you… Haven’t you ever given it any thought on whether you’d like to live here with me?” His cheeks prickle pink at the words.

She feels like she is wading through a daydream, stomach somersaulting at the soft look he is giving her.

“Of course, it has crossed my mind. You know I like the school where I teach and I love my students. I don’t have anywhere else to go.” She plays with the frayed-ends of the pillow’s cover. “We’ve been together for a little over a year, everything’s been great and I love you—oh, don’t give me that look, it’s not like it’s a secret.”

A smug, coy smirk tugs at corners of his mouth and Byleth gives him another light whack with the pillow.

Another chorus of quiet laughter erupts from Dimitri, chest bouncing as he shields himself from the woman’s attack. “Okay, so would you care to elaborate what’s holding you back from moving in with me?”

Byleth freezes as his words, out in the open between them for the first time. Somewhere deep inside she resents her closest friends for forcing her hand to have this conversation. There is also a smaller hidden part of her that is so very grateful for them.

“It’s not that easy…” She mutters, anxious hands lavishing Rufus with attention.

Dimitri frowns. “Is it because you don’t want to move in with me?”

“No!” Byleth hurriedly responds, snapping her attention back to the young financier. “It’s not that.”

“Okay, humour me.” Dimitri studies her, silently intrigued by the challenge he has just posed. “Why not?”

“Where to begin? Oh, right, how about the fact that I can’t pay my share of the rent in the Upper City?” Byleth grumbles.

Despite her mother coming from wealth, Byleth’s life was always fraught with modest means. She had to delay going to college to raise some funds, and even then, she worked hard throughout her four years of education to get herself through it. It might be prideful of her, but she would not start relying on her moneybags boyfriend to pay all her bills when she finally was able to feel the coveted piece of paper in her hands.

Dimitri tenses. “Uh… Byleth, I own the townhouse. I thought you knew that.”

His attention uncomfortably shifts when Byleth’s jaw slacks.

“No, I did not know that, Dimitri,” she hisses.

He clears his throat. “Well, rent wouldn’t be an issue because I own the apartment. That is, in another three years, when I’m finished paying off the mortgage.”

Nervously, Byleth runs a hand through her hair. “Okay…” she starts slowly, trying to process the new information. “And how much is your mortgage—hey,” she scolds him when he opens his mouth to protest, eyes narrowing. “If you want to live together, I need to know these things, especially if I’m going to have to pull my weight in living costs.”

Dimitri’s frown deepens and he crosses his arms defensively over his chest. “I wouldn’t ask you to pay the mortgage, Byleth.”

The woman scoffs. “Then am I meant to just freeload and sit around your apartment, looking pretty, not contributing to the water, gas, electric bills?”

“You can contribute to the bills, and looking pretty wouldn’t hurt either, especially in that number you wore on my birthday, but I won’t have you paying towards the mortgage, it’s preposterous.” Dimitri reiterates, his light blond eyebrows knit together.

“Well, then I’m not moving in.” She pouts, arms also coming to cross over her chest.

He challenges her silence for a minute, then two, and after a year of being involved with the strong-headed teacher, he reconsiders.

With a defeated sigh, Dimitri reaches for Byleth’s forgotten notepad and pen on the coffee table. He scribbles quickly before loudly ripping the page out. He scrutinises her with a glare as he folds the page in halves, quarters, eights before reluctantly handing it over to her.

When Byleth smooths out the creases of the paper, she coughs loudly, awkwardly, at the figure staring back at her.

“Those are a lot of zeros.” She chokes out, eyes nearly bulging out of her head. “I can’t afford that. You know I can’t afford that. I teach kindergarten, for goodness sakes. That’s my dad’s yearly income. Double. By just sitting here, I’m practically depreciating the value of your home.”

The blond shakes his head. “I’m not asking you to pay for anything.”

“If we’re going to have a serious conversation about me moving in with you, you need to understand I do not want to live here rent-free.” Her face wrinkles in distaste for the idea.

“Then pay me what you’re paying in rent now at your current place.” Dimitri says defeated.

“No,” Byleth shakes her head decidedly and the man lets out another loud, exasperated breath. “No way. I didn’t take any handouts from my grandmother when she offered them, I won’t be taking them from my boyfriend, thank you. I am very much aware of our financial discrepancy, Dimitri.”

She crumples up the piece of paper and buries her face into the pillow. Money and social class have always been a sore spot between her and her friends. Felix and Sylvain were shamelessly rich, they were only slumming in Remire. Annette was definitively upper middle class, and Ingrid, while falling in a rough spot financially, was definitively marrying up next Spring.

That is not all. While they were all younger than her, they all had finished college and moved on to high-paying jobs, while she was stuck going to school every night because she had to work barely-over minimum wage. It was humiliating at times.

Now, her boyfriend wants her to move into his townhouse and become some sort of post-modern Stepford wife and it all seems so meaningless to her. She struggled to get herself where she is, all the way from when she was a little child and she had to say goodbye to whatever friend she made because her father had to move them to where there were work to now. If she caves in to Dimitri, what was even the point?

In the end, she knows that money is freedom, and she does not want to lose hers.

“This isn’t what I had planned. I was supposed to save up enough money to rent out my own little apartment by the end of next year. A grungy little place just for me, where you can finally come over and be forced to take cold showers in the shitty water pressure. A place in a neighbourhood where you’d tell me to call you every time I get home to make sure I got in okay. Not this!” She looks up to gesticulate wildly at his grossly luxurious living room.

“I’d ask you to call me when you got home regardless of where you choose to live.” He adds softly, hand on her thigh drawing comforting shapes.

“I don’t know what to do.” Byleth adds quietly, anxious hands once again petting an alert Rufus. “Our friends have accidentally kicked me out because they’re just… Well-meaning dickheads. And I know this is the next step for us, I just wish we had a say in it. Now, I have no choice but to accelerate my masterplan of winning the Imperial Lottery to afford living here. Twice.”

An uncharacteristically loud laugh erupts from Dimitri.

“You’re laughing, but I mean it. Even when I get my degree, I’ll have to work four jobs just to pay that stupid mortgage of yours.” Byleth adds seriously, slightly peeved at her boyfriend’s reaction.

“I know.” He replies coolly, almost smiling. “And I live to see the day when that happens, beloved. I just wish you’d hurry up already so I can finally retire and be a kept man.”

“Ha!” She giggles madly at the imagery it evokes, shoving him playfully and causing a wild grin to break out on his face. “The great Dimitri Blaiddyd, the Boar Prince of mergers and acquisitions, retired. What would you even spend your time doing? Going to the matinee and evening opera?”

“Which brings up another logistical point.” He begins thoughtfully. “If you move in, wherever will you run away to when you don’t want to go to the opera with me? You won’t have ‘last minute plans’ with your roommates or ‘pressing chores’ you have to complete at your apartment.”

She flushes. Clearly she is not as sly as she thinks she is.

Byleth changes the topic hastily. “Shouldn’t you be at least a little bit more… I don’t know… Opposed to us living together?”

Dimitri quietly considers her question as a hand comes up to rub the scruff on his jaw. Byleth immediately scolds herself for stupidly bringing on her own demise. Why would she question her boyfriend, with a notorious history of flighty behaviour, if he really wants to do this?

At this rate, she will be living in a cardboard under the Airmid River bridge. She wonders if her Uncle Seteth would let her sleep in Flayn’s room, now she is off to college in Fhirdiad.

“We’ve practically been living together for the last three months.” He says with a shrug, surprising Byleth. “I might’ve been disinclined about the notion a year ago, but… it’s as you said: everything’s been great and I love you.”

It is her turn to grin ear-to-ear at the words, she enjoys hearing the ease at which he uses them.

“It’s something that’s been on my mind lately, at an alarming frequency, if I may add.” He continues, clearing his throat and the hand on her thigh squeezes lightly. “I just never knew when it would be the right time to… Bring it up. I meant what I said earlier, I want to give you more than just a drawer. I want your cacti, your muddy shoes, your impressive collection of military history books. Those overpriced scented candles, your terrible, terrible, choice in wine, the way you somehow always manage to slam the door on your way out, how excited your demon dog gets when it knows it’s you unlocking the door. I want this to be your home too, Byleth. I want you to have your home with me.”

She swallows thickly. It might be the two heaped-glasses of terrible wine finally kicking in or the unguarded expression Dimitri wears so beautifully on his tired face, but the emotions are bubbling to the surface. They start as a prickle at the corners of her eyes and a stinging sensation in her nose.

A tear or two slip out, and before she can stop it, a goofy grin splits across her warm face. The hand on Byleth’s lap finally leaves its comfortable, warm spot. His thumb swipes at the rogue tears and Dimitri offers her a shy smile.

“Okay.” She says hoarsely, nodding slowly.

“Okay.” He echoes, blue eyes searching her face and the smile on his brightens by the second.

The hand resting on her face brings her towards him and their lips meet. His mouth slanting over hers in a new kiss, one they have never shared before. One that has always been waiting for them. It is painfully soft, reassuring, and feels like home. It feels like the kiss she has been searching for her whole life, and it has been waiting for her all along, right in the middle of this living room, on a Friday night, with the promise of a future waiting for them.

Maybe she owes her roommates an apology, and maybe a ‘Thank You’ card while she is at it.

The timer rings out loudly and Rufus’ barking follows. The alluring waft of potato gratin fills the house, their house, more prominent than before.

When they pull apart, her watery eyes find his, and they share a laugh at the silly looks on their faces.

“On one condition, though.” Byleth whispers, and they are still so close she can feel his breath ghosting across her lower lip. Dimitri quirks an eyebrow, somehow anticipating this request will be one her of lovely idiosyncrasies. “I still get to run away when you ask me to join you at the opera.”

Dimitri does not answer. Growling at Byleth’s vexing behaviour, he pounces on her and she fills the apartment with loud, raucous giggles while Dimitri lavishes the most sensitive part of her neck with ticklish kisses, beard relentlessly adding to the sensation.

They spend the remainder of the evening hashing out logistical details over wine and food. They fall into a comfortable routine, one they have never before noticed had always been there.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

#fire emblem #Dimitri Blaiddyd

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