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thetriumphantpanda · 9 months

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the gift that keeps giving | marcus pike

Summary | Isn't it just your luck to get the office hottie as your secret santa this year?

Pairing | Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.4K

Warnings | Just... Marcus Pike being Marcus Pike, some flirting and general office banter and a steamy kiss but nothing explicit!

Authors Note | To my Cheese & Crackers. My Darling Friend. I hope this makes your festive season that little bit lighter. I hope you love this because I love you, to the moon and back and beyond. Thank you for making 2023 that little bit easier. Happy Christmas @undercoverpena 🧡

“That’s looking a little worse for wear.” Marcus, stood at your desk, waiting for his report, finger pointed at the very much dead succulent on your desk.

You look up from your desk, fingers still flitting across the keyboard as you race to finish the notes he’d asked for.

“It’s looking dead, Marcus.”

“I was trying not to rub it in,” He shrugs, running a finger over one of the branches, a look of remorse on his face when he snaps off and lands on the white of the desk, “But yeah, that’s very much dead.”

“Frank deserved it.” You shrug, eyes never leaving your screen.

“Frank?”

“Yes, Frank,” You nod your head towards the succulent, “You’re meant to name plants, makes you more attached to them, more likely to care properly for them,” Another shrug of your shoulders, “Now look at him, showing me up as a bad mother.”

Marcus can’t help but chuckle a little, “You’ll have to get yourself another.”

“If I can’t keep a succulent alive,” You sigh, fingers slowing ever-so-slightly on the keyboard, “There isn’t much hope for anything else.”

“I believe in you.” He offers.

You stare at him through your lashes, a look that warns him that he needs to be quiet, “You know, the longer you stand there distracting me, the longer it’ll take me to type these notes up?”

“I always thought you thrived on pressure?” He teases, reminding you of a conversation a few months ago where you’d admitted that the best work you produce is always to a time crunch.

“Marcus, respectfully,” You finally look up at him properly, “You need to leave me alone, if you go and sit down in your office and leave me to it, this report will be on your desk in the next twenty minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re late.” Your voice is monotone as Marcus hurries out of the elevator.

“I know.” He’s stressed, twenty minutes late to his debrief meeting.

“I told you last night what time you needed to be here.”

He runs a hand over his face, taking the manila file from your hand, flicking through it to make sure he knows what the fuck is going on right now.

“I’ve just moved.”

You sigh, shake your head, but keep up his pace as you race through the office, “What’s that got to do with you being late?”

“The fridge magnet,” He offers, as if you’ll know exactly what he’s talking about, “I lost it when I moved.”

“Am I supposed to make the link myself?”

He stops at his desk, blindly opening drawers, rooting through papers to try and find something, “I used it to pin important things on the fridge, like when I need to be in to speak to the big boss.”

You shake your head, trailing behind him again as he starts walking again, “You can get a damn fridge magnet on every street corner, Marcus.”

“I know,” He says, a little breathless, as he finally comes to the meeting room door, “I’ll get around to it eventually, promise.”

There’s a small gift bag sitting on your desk when you come back from the Christmas lunch. There are an array of other gift bags and small wrapped presents on everyone’s desk. You sigh, flopping into your chair. Someone from the finance team is already passing around glasses of something fizzy, work clearly done for the day. Someone is hooking their phone up to the a speaker. You look left and right, making sure that no-one is looking, before you pull open the top of the back and peer in.

You can’t quite believe it, reaching your hand inside to grasp the pot, pulling it out. A scoff leaves your mouth, a small cactus sitting in a pot that’s been painted like a Christmas jumper. You shake your head, a laugh escaping as you drag a finger over the little spines, like you always do when trying to choose a new plant. You push the bag out of the way, setting the small plant down on your desk, right where Frank had been before.

You use your fingers to turn it around, setting it perfectly in place, when those familiar legs come into view, perfectly pressed trousers right in your eyeline, but it isn’t the legs you’re really looking at, although you do sometimes, it’s his fingers, pressing a fridge magnet onto your desk, sliding it across to you, a magnet that is now so familiar to you, having stood in that damn gift shop for almost thirty minutes try to choose the right one. One with a watercolour painting splashed across it, one that you know he likes, never shutting about what the colours mean and how it makes him feel.

“Oh my god,” You feign surprise, “Does this mean you’ll be on time from now on?”

“It looks like,” He’s got a smile on his mouth when you look at him, “Also means you’ll be able to get off my case.”

You smile back at him, “I’m pretty sure I’m the only reason you still have a job after your timekeeping this past month,” You tease, “But sure, if you want me off your case that bad, I’ll leave you alone.”

His attention moves from the magnet to the cactus already having pride of place on your desk. He picks it up, annoying you slightly as you’d just got it in the right position for you, “What are you going to name it?”

You raise your eyebrow, a knowing look in your eye, “It’s your gift, Marcus, you should name it.”

Marcus drops his head, a snort of a laugh breathing from his nostrils, “That obvious, huh?”

“About as obvious as this.” You bring your fingers to the fridge magnet.

You hold his eyes, watching as he thinks for a second, before he offers his name, “Vincent.”

There’s an actual laugh that drops from your mouth now, “You’re so predictable, Pike,” You shake your head, “Of course it would be an artist.”

He shifts from foot to foot a little, “You know,” His hand comes nervously to the back of his neck, “If it wasn’t for the damn $5 cap, I’d have gotten us a gift certificate to this restaurant downtown that I like.”

You breath catches in your throat slightly, because there’s no way, there’s no way that means what it means, “Us?”

“Yeah, I mean, if you’d like it of course,” His nervous hand running up and down the side of his neck, “I don’t need a secret santa to take you out.”

You shake your head a little, bite your bottom lip, “It’s funny, because if it hadn’t been for the $5 dollar cap, I would have got us tickets to the new exhibition at the gallery.”

Your words sink in, him realising you want him just as much as he wants you, outside of this office and the professional relationship you have.

“And what if dinner came with a kiss?”

“What if the exhibition came with one too?”

He’s taking hold of your wrist, dragging you from your chair, back out of the office and down towards the privacy of the alcove near the elevator. Your back, pressed against the wall, Marcus’ hands on your waist as his mouth finally slants over your own. It’s exactly how you’d imagined it for all these months, soft but sure, warm hands seeping through the layers of your clothes. And he tastes exactly as you thought he would, slightly sweet, considering his sweet tooth, and you can taste the beer he drank at lunch. It’s intoxicating. You slip your hands under the shoulders of his suit jacket, gripping the broadness of him as he pulls away.

“Gotta keep your hands to yourself,” He whispers against your mouth, “If you don’t we’re gonna be sat with HR in the morning.”

You bite your lip, leaning towards him a little to press your lips gently to his own, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, agent.”

He looks at you, fire in his eyes, “Go and get your things,” It’s a strict order, that floats straight to settle in your tummy, “I’m sure I can get us in for dinner somewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

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missinghan · 9 months

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falling asleep in a time machine ⤖ bang chan

❖ genre : mafia au; fluffy angst; hurt/comfort; female reader insert

❖ word count : 6,9k.

❖ warning : swearing, implied major character death, mention of arson, depictions of vomiting, killing, blood, death, can be brutal (!!!), delusional happy ending.

❖ summary : four times you try to go back in time and save chan; or alternatively, you keep dreaming about chan to see if there is a way to undo his death when in reality there isn’t — from the world of illicit & priceless.

❖ author’s note : just finished my first term of uni (like actually the first term ever) and I’m so dead inside so here’s a silly little something. I can’t use pts anymore so pls bear with the banner *cries and dusts off this old blog* also I try to explain here why Chan was so attached and pissed off when mc stole his mother’s ring even though it’s accidental.

first attempt —

There are three missions that have altered the course of your and Chan’s relationship.

The first mission goes back to when you were still going on heists and Ryujin had foolishly put a piece of Chan’s mother’s sentiments into your pocket. Neither you nor Chan have come to know or like each other much before it.

The second one is the mansion with a bomb planted in the basement and Chan got locked inside a conference room with a three-layered door, one of them made from the same metal as the fucking Titanic. The third mission involves a casino where the Germans and Italians came together to push Chan toward a dead-end they had cultivated for the Devil himself, to his ultimate demise. They are all too arrogant to admit that Chan will take over the entirety of the East Asian market before any of them can start rolling in their graves.

Three missions of importance and not long after that, you and Chan have agreed to never go on a mission without each other. An unwritten contract. An unspoken promise. Nothing that the mafia engages in is legal so everything runs on trust, on how much faith you are willing to give those who you keep close.

However, there is a fourth mission that the Underworld records will fail to keep because even only a minuscule part of the Bang family is informed about this—how their precious heir has been summoned to bring home the girl he loves.

“Would you do laundry and taxes with me?”

“That’s an odd way to propose to someone, Y/N. And please, you’re asking an obvious question.” Chan looks up at you from his book. His smile is gentle, soft at the corners with his dimples sinking in—it’s how you know that he means it—the way it usually is these days. The way it has been for the past year. It is almost obscure, you think, how you both would have wanted each other’s head on a stick a year ago before one of you managed to make the other person cry out of gratitude.

You lift the book away from his face, glimpsing at the cover. Because Chan is an absolute heathen, he has been reading No Longer Human and you’re being annoying about it because he hasn’t come out to train with you for two days already. “Are you telling me you’ll say ‘no’?”

“We’re already doing laundry and taxes together. We will just have matching rings and a signed piece of paper,” Chan gives you a pointed look; he always looks so serious whenever he wants to correct you as if your sarcasm is that dry. “So it naturally implies as a ‘yes’, idiot,” he nags, even though he doesn’t mean the last part.

“Oh how you wound me, love,” you bite back, even though you don’t mean it either. “Chan, come on. You’re locking yourself up in a prison.”

Chan lets out a long, heavy sigh as if he’s insulted that you have just called his room a prison—which you never verbally hinted at, he simply interpreted it that way. He reaches over to grab the book from your hand, seemingly giving up his reading time for you, and places it on his bedside.

“What are you–” You watch as Chan walks over to one of his mahogany drawers. “-doing?”

“I need caffeine to talk to you.”

Despite your bristling, he stays true to his words and finds himself a mug, a tea bag, along with a boiler. By the time Chan finishes filling up the boiler with water and turns on the heating switch, your legs are dangling over the edge of his bed as you puff up like a cat, baffled and offended.

“So,” Chan inquires, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. “What’s up?”

“I find your current state distressing to look at,” you elaborate with glee, a glint coming into your eyes that Chan knows you’re up to no good. “Take a week off with me. We can go anywhere you want, it’ll be a short getaway, just the two of us.”

Chan’s back is turned toward you because he’s too busy searching for a spoon but you can boldly assume that he’s smiling. It’s hinted in his tone when he asks, “You mean a vacation?”

“Brilliant interpretation, Chan,” you smile wryly. “Of course, I meant a vacation!”

“No, you can go have fun by yourself. You have my permission,” he shakes his head. “I have things to attend to. Meetings, banquets, important business transactions. You know how boring the mafia lifestyle is.”

You still, voice low and suppressed in something Chan can’t seem to grasp at. “You’re going back to your family.” It’s barely a movement, a small enough action. Any passerby would think that you have only faltered a little but Chan has observed you for a good while now to notice you’re holding your shoulders back from trembling.

“I am going back to my family,” he repeats calmly. “Only for a week, though. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Chan, I know they want to see me.”

Chan tries not to let anything show on his face. “And they may very well kill you because that is what they are. Godawful, egoistic, and incapable of compassion.”

“Let me go with you, I—” you begin, though you cut yourself off almost instantly. The room is suddenly steeped in silence, unwieldy at the absence of your words. Every noise seems amplified in the quiet: the boys’ chatters echoing dully from the living room, the ticking hands of the clock, and every breath you take to calm the anxiety in your rib cage.

I do not fear death, sickness, or anyone’s hatred. What I fear most is losing you, Chan. It’s all so beyond you because a year ago, you were a thief, taking things as you please and sending them away when they’re no longer of use for your benefit. Now there is someone who you will live for and his kiss you will kill for, his laugh you will die for.

“Chan, do you have any idea what I would turn into if you left me?” You have always worried loudly, from the volume of your attentiveness and the anxiety beneath your skin all lie in the tender manner of how you love Chan—the same goes for him, that you can be certain of.

“I will never leave you, Y/N. We will be okay,” he assures you, unbearably calm.

Chan is a liar.

second attempt —

Chan is supposed to go back to the Bang family’s estate with Yuriko for the New Year. Yuriko is the housekeeper whom he has retired for about a year ever since you came into the picture. The boys, especially Jisung, have been forced into keeping their surroundings clean because, for some wicked reason, they think you are absolutely terrifying when you’re upset about their muddy shoes dirtying the floor after a mission. Yuriko always giggles at that, her Young Master surely knows how to pick a partner.

“I’ve got word that your father wants you to back to the estate, Young Master,” Yuriko tells Chan when she finds you and Chan in the archive because you have insisted on reading about something you won’t say a word to him. Surely, Chan recognizes what you’re searching for but he doesn’t mention it.

“He said he wanted to make sure you are ready to take over his position. And there is a dinner he wants your attendance for,” Yuriko continues, hands clasped behind her back. You didn’t even realize when she stepped in and approached Chan—for a mere housekeeper to be so swift and quiet with her movements, you have long guessed that she’s not just any old woman to be hired by the Bang family.

The way Chan stiffens in his seat is telling all on its own. You are suddenly struck with the recurring memory of how Minho used to babble about how much of an ass Chan’s family is when he has had one too many drinks. “You don’t know how bigshot mafia families treat their children, do you? They kept the world from knowing for a reason. I’m surprised Chan didn’t turn out to be a monster like them.”

“Forgive me, Yuriko, but you can tell the old man to suck it up,” Chan says softly but his voice is dark, tense, riddled with a sharpness you haven’t heard from him in a long time—you were threatened just the same way when you had stolen his mother’s ring. Now you realize Chan only ever speaks so heartlessly if something precious to him is hanging on the verge of being taken away.

“Young Master,” Yuriko frowns for two reasons; firstly, Chan has never been able to decline his blood family of anything and secondly, there isn’t much that she can do to solve the problem at hand. She’s a mere servant for the Bang family; she doesn’t have much power to begin with and therefore, she can’t exactly tell them ‘no’.

“No, you can’t make me,” Chan grits because he knows, he understands it all too well. Unsaid words of all the things money can buy hang in the air like bile.

“Young Master Christopher, you must know what happens if you defy your father.” And there goes Yuriko’s final warning along with Chan dashing out of the archive, straight through the hallway and the front door of the mansion, completely vanishing in the white curtain of December snow.

Yuriko murmurs something under her breath, unintended for you to hear her. You continue staring forward, the file in your hands completely forgotten. “He can come home with me,” you say without actually thinking about it until she turns to stare at you, expressionless before breaking into a fit of giggles.

“I think Young Master would like that.”

With that, you set off to find Chan.

“No one will love you unconditionally like we do.” “You belong to us, so do as we say.” “Work to kill, kill or you’ll die. You were born to kill, it’s a gift that not everyone receives.” “The world will bow before you and sway the way you want it but you’ll have to-”

“I don’t want any of that,” Chan hisses but the voices keep coming back louder, harsher, with more bite than he has ever heard from them. “None of you ever gave me anything that matters! You just can’t admit that you made me a murderer!!”

The snow around him sinks with each step he takes, their words still echoing in his mind and sending shivers down his spine, driven so deeply inside his skull that he wishes he could have nothing of this reality. “Be mindful of yourself. Control it.” “Your fangs and claws are too sharp for you to be swinging just at anyone,” he hears them again

His nose burns in the cold but Chan doesn’t notice something warm and wet trickle down his cheekbones. “You never cared about restraint. You said I must kill or I would die. You all just want to possess me, you want me not as an heir but as a commodity!!”

“It’s how we’ve been running this family. It’s how we keep things in order. You’re one of us, Christopher, you are this family.”

With a huff, Chan eventually gives in and listens because he has no other choice but to; he slides down against concrete with a white-out vision, a quivering figure with nothing on but his cardigan. “Then you’re just as godawful as any of them,” he tells himself, knees curling against his chest, almost justified in his own lie that he wants to burst out laughing.

Chan knows they have made him more of a weapon than a child, more of a monster than a man and he is stuck with it for good. He has been holding onto life just because he can, not so much that he wants to. Because he never truly wanted anything before or was wanted in any way.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking man-child!”

He hears someone’s nagging from afar and ignores it, hugging himself impossibly tighter because asking for comfort is unacceptable, they taught him so. “Chan!!” He hopes it goes away with all of the other voices.

It doesn’t. Instead, it comes closer in a humane form, boots crunching against the snow and warm breaths sounding rhythmically. “It’s been an hour. Do you have any idea how worried we all were- how worried I was?! What the actual hell,” you snap. “Now I’m going to hear all this shit from Seungmin again because I let you run off and he’s too terrified of you to properly lecture you. God-”

Your rambles cut off when you kneel down next to him, rummaging for a scarf, a pair of gloves, yet another pair of gloves, his puffer jacket, and a hat from your bag. Chan quietly watches as he tries to blink away the oncoming tears but he can’t—they keep coming. He doesn’t reply when your scolding goes on because even though your voice is sharp, Chan can catch the worry hidden along the edges. Being cared for and cherished like this has made him realize how much he doesn’t want to come back to his family and he wants to cry like he’s the fourteen-year-old boy who used to refuse to pick up a gun all over again.

A child who was unable to stuff down the overwhelming agony and grief forced upon him. A child who was weaponized. A child who was threatened into killing his own mother. “If you can’t kill what you hold near and dear, you’ll never be able to kill anyone to save yourself.”

“Chan?” you call out to him, unbearably soft. There’s a certainty, a sort of gentleness in the way his name is said that only makes his tears come hotter, more and more of it because your love feels big, overwhelming.

Chan hates crying so he never did, not when they had locked him up in his room, not when they had starved him because of his disobedience, not when they had made him pull the trigger with the gun’s mouth pressing against his mother’s chest. Chan hates crying but it seems to be all he’s doing now.

You’re wrapping him up so gently and trying to warm him up because you know he’s just as human as any mundane individual out there. Humans shiver when the temperature drops, they shed tears when they’re upset, and they bleed and bruise at the right amount of impact. That’s why humans are so clingy toward each other so they can prevent harm from coming the other person’s way. Because no one enjoys getting hurt and there is no good reason to voluntarily get hurt; it sounds like common sense but Chan never grew up with such things. He never came to think he was deserving of such things.

“Chan, come home with me. Forget your family. I don’t need to know about them,” you smile at him, somehow empathetic and so understanding when Chan has barely given you an explanation, when he is desperate to fill the silence but he knows his voice will be weak with tears, stumbling, and pitching all over the place.

Chan sniffles, finding the courage to say something back because he wants to, not because he feels like he has to, “Can I really…come-come home with you?”

“I’m sure the girls wouldn't mind, they might be a little annoying. Yeji, though, can be wary of strangers,” you shrug, something so relaxed about your posture tells him that you have learned to accept something without telling him.

A breathy chuckle. “Especially when they’re a mafia leader.”

An exhale. Chan shudders when you embrace him wholly—every moment of pride and arrogance, betrayal and hurt that he has been boxing away—as the beautiful mess that he is. You’re the safest person on the face of Earth not because you are on equal terms with him in power but because you never care about those things. You will let him break something, burn something down, cry, and laugh however he pleases but you won’t ever let go of his hand. You never ask him for anything in return while continuing to save him over and over again.

He’s so unbelievably lucky, Chan thinks but doesn’t say it aloud, instead, he tells you, “If you’ll have me.”

The night after you drive Chan back to your mansion, the place goes up in flames. Only you are able to open your eyes to see the next daylight.

“Welcome home,” you want to whisper but can only watch a last smile bloom on the face of a ghost amidst the orange blaze.

third attempt —

You decide to come home with Chan.

For a non-mafia family, it might go like this.

Meeting Chan’s parents will be the hardest thing you have ever done—and that is coming from someone who has broken through the world’s most modern security systems and got your hands on objects worth billions of dollars.

You will bow when you meet them, use the politest speech you have taught yourself last minute, and desperately try not to remember how Chan was forced to shoot his own mother as a child. They will pinch your cheek and call you lovely, chuckling at how stiff you are and offering you a ‘Come on in! Don’t mind the mess, it’s always how our house is.’

You will smile and you will play along because you want them to like you so badly it hurts.

Chan will gawk at you without even trying to hide it because you have given him a completely different experience upon your first encounter. Casual, timid, and quick with your tongues when it comes to those witty retorts.

They will then ask you, ‘‘What are your hobbies? Any sports? Instruments?’’ Purely in the Asian parents’ style.

You will be so nervous that you forget you play the violin and practice meditation occasionally. You will sit at their dinner table in their cozy, lived-in home, and rack your brain for a proper answer that might be deemed reasonable for a mundane girl. “It can be anything you do for fun, honey. No need to be nervous,” they will say again and you will give them a small grimace in return.

It’s probably deeply fucked up when the first thing that comes to your mind is ‘I retired from heists a year ago because museums are fucking boring so I have moved on to finding new and creative ways to eliminate anything that might be the cause of Chan’s suffering.’

“…You play the violin beautifully,” Chan will suggest quietly beside you, his hand laced with yours beneath the table. “And you interrupt my reading time whenever you need attention.”

“I…I like to be with you,” you will finally find the courage to say with a firm squeeze of his hand, and the strength to smile when his eyes widen faintly, flustered yet not surprised.

Still, it doesn’t matter whether Chan was born from a mafia family. You don’t hesitate to hold his hand beneath the table when Chan tenses up from the disappointed gaze of his father, lean over ever so slightly, and whisper, “I like to be with you.” He almost gasps but refrains. “Wherever we are. As long as you allow me to stay by your side.”

For once, Chan lets himself think that he won’t fuck up something before he even gets to have it in his arms.

You did come home with Chan even if the dinner is anything but cozy and mundane. Their smiles are cold porcelain, a familiarity with death so staggering you feel nauseous. They are all here, though. Every single one of them. “I’ll be back,” you say and excuse yourself to use the restroom, he assumes.

Chan finds an uneasy slick in his throat, almost thick like blood when he sees a bright thing in your eyes. He lets you go anyway. Will things happen differently if he holds you back?

Minutes after your withdrawal from the dinner table, an explosion goes off downstairs. The mansion quivers with a long string of rumble, a horrible feeling looming over everyone in the room like an ugly shadow. Though, no one bats an eye. Maintaining such a high position in the Underworld for so long is more than enough for the bounty on each of their heads to go up to millions of dollars.

As much as Chan detests his blood family, he doesn’t want to die here, a horrendous place for his corpse to be found. So he stands as the rest of the room begins arming themselves, doing his best not to pay any heed to his father, and bolts downstairs.

In situations like this, he is taught to close his heart and kill. Hence why there was barely any screaming when the commotion occurred, only the metallic sounds of bullets being clicked into their chamber. Truth be told, there is a weapon vault on the main floor of the mansion. Chan knows the most efficient shortcut there and can run through any hallways even without any lights on. He did grow up in this terrible place, and now he will make use of that to get you out of here before anything else.

Chan arrives at the main floor and there is nothing but a giant hole and crumbled metal pieces in the weapon vault—or what used to be the weapon vault, blown up by a bomb it seems. Well, shit, he doesn’t even know how to register this. The entrance to his father’s most treasured place in the mansion has a three-layered door with an extremely lethal surveillance system, who and how the fuck-

He stops. He doesn’t so much as twitch. It gives him a moment of pure chill when the main floor has gone completely muted, both audibly and visually, like his life has just tipped off balance and leaned towards the bad part of a zombie movie. Upstairs, there is a cry for help and the sound of bullets continuously firing.

“My fucking god,” Chan curses and turns on his heels, steeling himself mentally while rushing up the stairs.

Upon arriving at the scene, it’s difficult to say whether turning up just five minutes earlier would have made much of a difference. Fuck, but if he had held you back, would things have taken a different turn?

There is a lot of blood. Too much blood to be explained away, and too much evidence to be traced back to no one else other than you. Well, to be fair, you’re the only person still standing and kicking aside from Chan anyway. The shotgun in your hand with a silencer attached speaks volumes, a knife between your teeth, and your left hand is fisted tightly.

“…Y-Y/N,” Chan utters, in disbelief. “You’re Y/N, aren’t you?”

You release something in your left hand and several fifteen-bullet magazines drop to the ground, the sound scratching his spine in the wrong way. The knife also hits the ground, metal echoing loudly against hard marble.

“You’re here, Chan,” you reply, like your hands and clothes aren’t painted red. Swiftly, you duck to fumble for something beneath the dining table. Chan’s gaze follows you suit, prompting uneasiness to crawl down his throat when he realizes everything is, quite literally, drenched in blood. When he manages to snap out of it, you are unwrapping something from a white blanket—Berry, his eight-year-old Spaniel.

You don’t look one bit surprised to see him—you have been expecting him. You simply keep on tucking Berry neatly into the blanket, murmuring something along the lines of ‘it’s over now’ and ‘I’m sorry I scared you’. Berry offers you a small whimper in return, still startled and recovering from the loud ruckus.

Chan inhales very slowly. Exhales. “What did you do?”

“I killed everyone here,” you say levelly, as if mass murder is no big deal. “You’re a little late. I thought your intuition would be keener than that.”

“This is no time for a fucking joke,” he snaps. Chan has snapped because he’s mad at himself. He has been living purely by his intuition for more than two decades already, without it he would have died a long time ago. Yet when it comes to you, he’s always the most irrational.

Your lips twitch like you’re about to smile but realize he’s upset. “You’re right, sorry.”

Chan moves further into the room, his shoes squelching with each blood-drenched step he takes. He takes the scene in once again and keeps calm because that is what he has trained himself to do ever since the first time he got kidnapped. When his gaze brushes over the corpse of his father, he tries not to think about anything just yet. What’s done is done but Chan can piece the scene together from the explosion downstairs—a bait that anyone will be eager to take and a good way to disarm your enemies—to the scattering of hole-filled bodies, their blood blooming against the marble floor like a grotesque bouquet.

The crux of it is you know all too well he will run to find you without question, lending you the space and time to kill whoever remains.

“Why?”

Your eyes sweep over the mass of bodies, dull and distant. “Does it really matter?” You don’t think it’s fair to say you did it because you love him; it will become a curse that haunts him for as long as he lives. Yes, you love Chan with your entire soul but you also simply want to act as you please, allowing yourself to have your selfish ways of declaring your love for him.

His chest heaves without any stability. “I thought you said you’re used to taking many things but you don’t take lives!!”

You cut right in, all glass. “Will anyone be able to do anything about it? Can anyone possibly arrest me, Chan?”

Chan shudders, a sour thing gnawing at the back of his throat. It’s a morbid feeling he knows will become recurring at night, on the bad days. Chan wants to be furious, it feels like a moral obligation to be. Then again, everything the world has learned about empathy is already torn up by his family, they smeared it beneath their feet like it’s common trash. In the end, all of his nightmares and source of fear amounts to this, a mass of corpses with no resolution.

“Do you want to kill me, Chan? If so, do it. You’re your own person, you are free.”

Your eyes have turned into ice, and suddenly you have become so intangible that Chan slowly grows afraid. He thinks of terrible things, Am I allowed to have you? What makes you want me so badly? Why am I different from any of them?

The sound of retching interrupts his train of thought. It takes him precisely half a second to stare at how you are folded over your knees, dry heaving at the marble floor with Berry fumbling for help right at your side. Chan rushes to you to keep your hair out of your face as you gasp for air, choking on stomach bile and body raking with shudders. Once his hand smooths over the fabric on your back, you eventually cough and hack out the last of whatever is left that your system rejects.

You breathe as shallowly as you can. Quiet wheezes, hollow breaths that pull in and out of your lungs too quickly. Chan rubs small, gentle circles on your back and doesn’t expect it when you snap up to look at him with wide, pained eyes as though you didn’t just murder his entire family in cold blood minutes ago, like you didn’t just take out the Underworld’s most feared lineage of demons by yourself.

Chan decides not to say anything, lets you lean into him shakily, and tries to figure out what you’re attempting to do with your hands. Dry blood makes your skin itchy every time your fingers twitch but you don’t mind it.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he finally whispers with you sitting in the circle of his arms; you’re shaking like you’re sobbing even though you make no noise and cry no tears. Chan lets you squirm with a wild mania in your eyes, frantic and lost. He can’t quite pinpoint what you want until he gets it.

You stop shaking the moment your head leans against the left side of his chest, right where his beating heart is. A pattern in his rib cage and a rhythm in your ears, relief so immense you feel like you can finally breathe. What you want is just to hear the sound of his heartbeat. It makes Chan feel a little exposed, somewhat scrutinized but he really doesn’t mind taking himself apart to hand his heart over to you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, your tone wet and warm with oncoming tears.

Chan presses his lips into a thin line, feeling like a hypocrite when he keeps you caged in his arms. “What are you sorry for, silly?” From the bottom of his heart, it’s abominable, he thinks—that even amidst such gruesome bloodshed created by your own hands, Chan is relieved that you are not hurt.

“I’m sorry this isn’t real.”

fourth attempt —

Chan is coming home with you. The childhood home you used to grow up in with two extremely loving, a little too oblivious parents who never once questioned their daughter’s occupation in the big city.

It takes time to adjust but Chan is sliding into your little family without noticing it himself. He manages to impress your mom with his cooking and discusses politics with your dad. You might be going delusional but you swear you saw him chuckling faintly at your parents’ terrible taste of reality TV.

The house might only amount to one-tenth of his mansion but it smells like fresh laundry all around, tender and soft, smothered in the love of ordinary human beings. So everything just feels that much bigger, a love so warm and overwhelming it stains Chan’s eyes with unfamiliar myriads of emotions. It takes him a few days to finally laugh a little louder, not refraining his speech to specifically formal phrases, and allowing himself to nag you in front of your parents. He even makes a sound of disbelief when you keep telling them he’s only a friend from work.

“Oh my god, why are you so salty about it,” you chide and close your bedroom door. “If I had said you’re my boyfriend, they would have started interrogating you!”

Chan sits on the duvet you have laid on the floor for him—your childhood bed is too small to share—and mumbles something morbid under his breath, “I am quite good at tolerating any methods of torture thank you very much.” However, he doesn’t miss the look your parents give you whenever you bid them goodnight with Chan hovering over you in a way that’s nowhere near platonic.

You snort, actually, no, it’s too bitter for you to even react. “The worst they will do is leave you out when we watch TV,” you grin to relieve the inevitably building tension, shit-eating and all.

“That’s cruel. You know I love reality TV,” Chan replies, completely monotone. He flings an arm over his eyes like he’s putting in effort to mimic a dying body trying to convey his love in a Shakespeare play. Wrestling with like ten other housewives to buy those eggs on sale for your mom was more of a workout than any gun fights he has engaged in.

“Sleep. Mom said we’re going outside tomorrow,” you huff, tossing him a teddy bear from your bed—the amount of stuffed animals you own is impressive, they easily take up half of your bed so Chan had to accept his fate with the duvet.

“I thought we’re heading back?”

“We will after going out with her. She said she wanted something from the bakery.”

Chan hums in response, his gaze skimming over the interior of your room again. Light pink wallpapers, white bookshelves and wardrobe lining the corners, and soft hues of blue on your bed and curtains to top it all off. “Truly, you are the designer of a generation.”

“Toddlers usually don’t like black. And I was eight, Chan, shut the fuck up,” you laugh, the sound so hearty it makes him want to bottle it and keep it all to himself like a child hiding his favorite candy.

“Hurts my eyes a little, but I like it,” he declares and unwinds for the day.

You never realize you don’t really walk around town every time you visit your parents. Maybe it’s because you didn’t have many friends growing up, meaning there’s no one to call up for a hangout, or maybe it’s because all of the memories you want to relive here are with your parents, in the warmth of their home. So you walk down the sleepy streets with laziness on your shoulders, somewhat at peace when Chan can’t seem to keep his eyes in one place, secretly comparing the imageries of bright, colorful Seoul with this hazy rural area.

“What is that place over there?” He asks when you stride past a sketchy-looking building when in reality, it’s a spa run by this really nice old lady upstairs.

“Did you go to school here?” He ponders when you glance at what looks like a middle school; no kids are running and shouting in the playground since it’s the New Year holiday.

Your mom notices how much curiosity Chan has for an apparent mid-twenties young adult so she giggles, offering to point out something she thinks he might be interested in, “That’s a small park Y/N used to play at. She wouldn’t leave when I came to pick her up after work.”

You can’t decide if you should scowl at your mom or burst out laughing at her implication that Chan, the leader of a notorious mafia group, should go and sit on one of the swings while she heads inside the bakery. “Come on, Chan,” you quickly make your choice.

Chan sighs, though the sound is fond because he sees a sort of excitement blooming loud and clear in your pretty eyes. You have observed Chan long enough to know when he has given in so you laugh, turning to your mom and saying, “We’ll be back in a minute.” The familiar promise melts Chan inside out but he doesn’t tell you that.

You accidentally drop your phone while walking down the stone steps so you turn away for half a second. And when you look back, Chan is seated neatly on the swing which is definitely not fitting for his age—his long legs dragging against the soil as his arms are crossed in front of his chest. As serious as he tries to look, you find the whole imagery so ridiculously unserious. He senses your gaze burning holes on the back of his neck so he stands, reaches upward, and lifts himself to sit on the metal bar that the chains rain down from.

“Chan, what the fuck, that’s not how you use a swing,” you chide, nearly rolling on the ground and barking a laugh. “If I take a photo of you right now, how dead am I?”

Chan doesn’t even need to turn his head. “What do you think?”

He looks down when your footsteps squish against the snow and he tries to imagine how a little you would hang around this place for an entire afternoon, up to no good things while waiting for your mom. “Concise as always, boss,” you purse your lips at him, nostalgia a heavy weight on the curve of your shoulders as you peer over places you used to designate as your hiding spots.

Chan catches something shifting on your face and he ponders; why would you voluntarily involve yourself in outlaw doings when you could have had a perfectly normal life? “When did you start stealing?”

“Probably when my parents sent me away for university. I hated it. School was hard and the expenses were awful for their bank accounts but they wouldn’t tell me that,” you mutter and decide to join him, legs dangling over the edges, a confession dragged from your lips unwillingly.

Chan scoots a little closer, a hand reaching over to your left side to keep you from falling. “And you figured you were pretty good at it?”

“Nothing to be proud of, obviously,” you shake your head and can’t help a small grin. “Okay, maybe just a little. I was making money from racing on the side as well.”

It takes him a moment to register your words when surprise halts the words in his throat. No wonder you’re better at handling car chases than any of his teammates who have been involved in this business for years. You look over at him, seeing that he’s having trouble reacting so you pinch his nose teasingly, “I know, so sexy, ain’t it?”

Chan rolls his eyes, neglects the warmth spreading on his cheeks, and simply sits with you. The swing creaks and groans beneath the weight of two adults, rust staining his hand when he lifts it to check.

“It was enough money for me to graduate and I was fine with that. Mind you I was always the top of my class,” you scoff, thinking of long days when you used to get little to no sleep, of when you had mustered the best smiles for your parents through FaceTime, of how you had begun not caring for how much money the jewels you had stolen were worth.

None of it matters anymore, you think as you lean into Chan, and he lets you. “I’ll guess this, you were homeschooled?”

Chan doesn’t answer immediately as realization tightens his ribs. You don’t talk about home or how you grew up, and Chan doesn’t talk about his parents. Perhaps you both are similar in that way so neither of you mind when the other person never initiated it. “I was. Everything I ever learned was taught in that forsaken mansion. Most of it, actually.”

“Everything?”

“You can’t run away from what you’re surrounded with,” he says, and there’s a chilling edge to it, an icy kind of shiver that makes your fingers more numb than the winter cold ever can.

“Chan, you’re not them,” you declare out of the blue, eyes crinkling up in adoration. “You are free, okay? No matter how hard they try to ruin you, you can’t become them.”

When you look up again, his eyes have a glassy shine when he says, “I know that now.”

“Don’t cry,” you huff out a breath.

“I’m not crying,” Chan shakes his head slowly, voice suspiciously shaky. “I guess I just thought you had a lot to live for and I was…you know, it was arrogant of me to keep you by my side.”

You laugh, a sharp, crisp bark of a sound that cuts right through his doubts. “Who do you think you’re talking to? If I wanted to run, I would have and no one could catch me, not now, not ever.”

“Well, I did,” Chan retorts, though there is no bite to it.

“Only because I let you,” you play along sedately. It’s the soft hum of your voice that makes breathing for him feel easier, and his shoulders feel lighter. When Chan exhales, it no longer tastes like the unfathomable, untouchable nightmares that he was so used to choke down, swallow, and not allow himself to throw them up as proof to show anyone else.

Your mom returns perhaps in about an hour, a box tucked in her arms and groceries hanging from her elbow. “Time to go back,” she yells from the top of the stone steps. “We need to cook dinner, kids!”

You don’t dare budge. Chan notices it and nudges your shoulder gently, sensing your discontent. “You heard your mom, come on now.”

“I don’t want to go back,” you disagree. “Let’s stay here. I want to go to the beach with you when it gets warmer. And diving, kayaking, too!”

“You told me to leave my credit cards back home. You’ll have to feed me and pay all of my expenses,” Chan reminds you.

“Guess what, I left mine at home too,” you reply breezily. Maybe you both need to find new jobs. You don’t think Chan should worry about that because there’s nothing that he can’t do if he puts his mind to it, he’s just that great. Chan is the greatest thing there is, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You watch rosy lips part, brown eyes widening as his grip on your shoulder falters faintly. “I don’t deserve good things, Y/N. I can’t stay here with you,” Chan says like he means it. “Tell me to leave.” He really is stupid until the very end.

“If you’re worried about that, I’ll kindly decline my spot in heaven and go to hell with you,” you assure him, your voice chirping with mirth but even that doesn’t seem to elevate his gloom at all. A groan. “Fine then, as the most wonderful person alive, I now denounce us of all our wrongdoings. And I announce us to be the best of normal friends as normal people!”

His solemn expression crumbles and now he just looks straight up insulted. “It’s supposed to be ‘husband and wife’,” Chan nags while fighting off a grin of his own.

A light feeling burgeons in your chest. “I thought you didn’t care about that kind of thing? We’re already doing laundry and taxes together, right? It’s not like we have enough money to buy the rings either.”

“I suppose I’ll have no say in that,” Chan sighs in defeat, finally smiling brightly as he reminds himself of what he has, and what he wants to become for you. “But I like to be with you as well. If you’ll have me.”

You look back at him, wanting nothing more than to burn those words into the flesh of your heart. “I already have you right here, don’t I?”

Because Chan’s existence is etched deeply somewhere inside your soul. And you love him everyday for that.

❖ note (yet again) : hello there, if you have reached the end, thank you so much for reading! I wish 2024 will bring you and your loved ones nothing but happiness and great health! (no one asked but I really tried to simplify their speech of affection towards each other here compared to illicit & priceless because all they really want is to be normal people living a normal life)

#stray kids #bang chan #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #bang chan x reader #skz x reader #chan imagines #chan scenarios #chan x reader #bang chan fluff #bang chan angst #mafia au #stray kids mafia au #bang chan mafia au #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #skz imagines #skz fanfic #skz scenarios

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glassrowboat · 20 days

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Worthy of Vespers. Argenti.

Summary: Just a drabble about an hc I have for Argenti where he's really insecure about the eczema on his hands

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder is such a common phrase, to the point you've come to roll your eyes at it every time it so much as graces your ears. For you have heard it too often. When you're poking at acne you know not to squeeze out of your skin but your mind keeps telling you to go on and do it because at least then you could convince yourself you look pretty, when you're struggling to try on a dress, when-

There's too many examples to count.

For it's too common a phrase.

One shoved at you like hearing it will do your whirling mind any good besides adding guilt on top of your self hatred and pus covered fingers as you finally give in and squeeze the white head that had been haunting you all day with a dull ache on your forehead; blood replacing the disgusting dot.

If only you could understand what Argenti of all people saw in you.

Then again, that's the same man who looks down at his hands and hides the red, irritated blotches away with a pair of leather gloves. Covering the digits you have kissed again and again with lips reserved only for his ethereal grace as Argenti’s lips tighten, forcing themselves up into a smile. All for your sake.

So maybe your eye was tainted, unable to see something in the person staring back at you, but was he not the same? Picking at patches of skin in distaste.

“You can adulate a potted plant, but your own visage is too much of a task for you?” You whispered as he tried to pull away. To yank his hands from you as your touch fell on the flakes of dead skin, he had been trying to scrub, scrub, and scrub off.

“Ah yes, the blooming colors that glowed a sprightly green akin to the nymphs in tales of folklore. Only a painter could possibly bring such a thing to life, but it still laid before our eyes gracing us with its presence.”

“That's great, honey.”

“And you-” Argenti cut himself off as your fingers ran over the roses on his skin, blooming for all the world to see.

“Yes, and you. Can you say something like that about yourself?” You asked.

You knew he couldn't. You've asked before and Argenti had only confessed he missed his pure white hair, how it would curl under his fingers as he braided it back and out of the way before training the day away, but that was gone now, washed away like blood after a rainstorm.

And you also knew he couldn't even try. Not when his eyes were flicking back to the eczema spots that had his throat bobbing every time you brought attention to them.

“Oh my stupid Knight of Beauty, you may not see it, but to me, you are worthy of vespers and evensong.” With a wink you added: “And to be worshiped by someone on their knees before you.”

“Hardly.” Argenti whispered back.

“Verily.” You corrected him with another kiss.

“You are stubborn as ever.” Argenti pulled away from you, going to pick up the washcloth he had been using to try and scour his skin like it was a counter in need of a cleaning. It hung from his hold, dripping water as he squeezed it over the basin it had been soaking in. “Just…a little longer.”

A splash of water rang before you answered him. “Is that really what you want?”

“It is. Please, I'll be with you in a moment, my love. I promise.”

With a sigh, you nodded, stood up front the floor, and gave Argenti one last look as you caught sight of him hunched over in the mirror. All as he scrubbed and scrubbed, for as they say: beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

#hoyoverse #x reader #gn reader #banner by cafekitsune #Argenti #argenti x reader #fem reader #drabble #hsr #honkai sr x you #honkai sr x reader #honkai star rail x reader

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ash-says · 7 months

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Cheating Anxiety With Me

Seatbelts tight? Hands Steady? Are you still shaking? No, then lets rideeeee.

Anxiety the feeling of dread, uneasiness, fear, shaking, restless, heart beating rapidly, etc

Coping with anxiety is difficult especially for the mentally deranged girlies. No hate I love you all. You are just so my type of people.

Today I am going to tell you how to deal with it because you know what I say, "Kill or get killed."

The classic deep breathing technique: Start from 1 breathe in to the count of 4 then hold at 5 and breathe out from 6 to 10. This will help in evening out your breathing and slow down your heart beats.

Move, Sway and twirl: You feel an anxiety attack taking over you the best way to tackle all that excess energy released through FFF hormone is by MOVING YOUR BODY. Exercise. Dance. Run. Anything just move.

Sleep: Yeah, you read it right. Just shut down your system and sleep. This is my personal go to. Overwhelming anxious thoughts, feelings, anything we let it marinate over a nap. Works wonders for me.

Talk to a friend: Another personal go to. Sometimes the feelings are so loud, disturbing and dark that sleep is no longer an option. At such times talk it out. Seek a friend. Best if they are physically present with you. Ask for a hug. Loving touch. Don't be embarrassed. It does wonders. Trust me.

Nature therapy: One of the ways I accidentally discovered was that trees, plants and flowers can be extremely calming. No one to rely on. Go and hug a tree. I promise you it works. Social anxiety? Okay I got you also covered. Buy some fresh flowers or if you have house plants touch them. Inhale their scent. Graze the petals or leaves lovingly and tenderly. Feel them. It will calm you down.

Sugar saves the day: Okay some people might come at me for this one but honestly anything sweet is the holy grail for dealing with it. Now the trick here is not eating desserts and chocolates but rather fruits like grapes, banana, watermelons, etc. Basically eat healthy things. We don't want diabetes now, do we?

The 333 rule: This one goes like name 3 things in your surroundings, identify 3 sounds and touch 3 things. This helps in distracting your brain and calming down your wreck of a system.

Positive self talk: Keep on repeating like a broken record that it is going to be okay and you will get through it. As loud as your inner thoughts get that much loud this self talk gets. Basically overpower that annoying bitch inside you. Winning is the only option.

Identify the triggers and face them: Literally be a detective and find out your triggers and then put yourself through it by yourself until it becomes a normal thing for you. I am not advising this for dangerous things but you can try this on smaller triggers. Example: A song, a scent, a topic is a trigger to you. So now listen to that song, inhale that scent, read things around that topic willingly and train your brain and body to tackle it so that when it comes up suddenly your brain doesn't go in survival mode.

No to drugs, alcohol and risky behaviors: You should be going to them over your dead body. Please I am begging you don't indulge in them. Yes I am asking you lovingly, with teary eyes please don't do this to yourself. Don't punish yourself more. The world is already a harsh place if you won't be kind to yourself, who will be then?

Bonus one: Find a strict no bullshit friend who isn't afraid to call you out on your toxic behavior, put you in your place and is ready to be the pillar on which you can rely on. Because we are not able to differentiate in right and wrong during those times. Its really difficult to maintain the moral compass. That's why you need a community of trusted people to hold you down.

Fight your way back. Because this world is a cruel place babygirl. You do anything to survive. If you are still dreaming of a saviour. Dream on.

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cravingsfromatwistedone · 7 months

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CHOCO-CHOCOBO! [ FIC / NSFW ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: NOW THAT I'M PLAYING FFXV, I JUST KNOW THAT PROMPTO WOULD ADORE THE CONCEPT OF CHOCOBO GIRLS (FF13: LIGHTNING RETURNS IN YUSNAAN) ! I'D LIKE TO THINK THAT THE GUY FROM THE CANVAS OF PRAYERS WHO WANTED A CHOCOBO GIRL'S NUMBER WAS PROMPTO IN ANOTHER LIFE. ANYWHO, ENJOY READING, MY DARLINGS! TW: ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP, USAGE OF PETNAMES (PRINCESS, BABE), EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT (IT STARTS OFF CUTE BUT IT GETS NASTY AFTER THAT!) PROMPTO ARGENTUM X FEM! READER

The Chocobo Post in Duscae has never been this livelier before ever since they organized Chocobo races. Now that the Deadeye in the area is dead, the owner and staff decided to implement a feature that was long pushed aside due to the past circumstances they had. With enough Gil and materials, what they had planned went in full swing, accompanied with many new and familiar faces; the owner himself even graciously invited the four Hunters

That's why the blonde male was shaking in his boots. Sure, he was excited that Noct mentioned something about visiting the Chocobo Post in a passing statement but he wasn't expecting this. His blue eyes keep flitting everywhere, from the gang to the owner then back to the girls in front of him. Mind you, girls who were dressed up akin to Chocobos. Their outfit consisted of scantily golden coloured bikini tops, thigh high stockings and boots that looked like Chocobo feet. Not to mention the feathery plumage behind them and the feathery wing-like gloves. It doesn't help that the girls were grinning at him, giggling at him as they beckon for him to come closer

"Hey, aren't you the one of the Hunters that killed off that Deadeye? Choco-choco thanks!" "Choco-chocobo, your hair have the same colour as our Chocobos! Say, do you want to take a picture with us?" "You're pretty cute for a Hunter, y'know! Come here, Chocobo boy!"

No wonder the guys were grinning from ear-to-ear in the car, refusing to give an inkling of what he was going to see when they arrived there. Everyone that day could still remember the visible flush that was on his cheeks and neck, the male capable of saying yes meekly to the Chocobo Girls' invitation for an impromptu photo session. It was a really, really long day

⋘══════∗ {♡} ∗══════ ⋙

"Do you think this looks alright?" You asked, the feathery plumage fluttering as you do a twirl. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Hard. "Yeah, it looks fine, totally fine—" He blurted out, propping his chin up on his hand as he stared up at the figure standing in front of him, baby blue eyes skimming down your form greedily. It doesn't help that his skin is warming up considerably too. He sat up straight, hands reaching out for you and his fingertips grazing your exposed sides "Can I touch it?" He coughed out, shaking his head as he cleared his throat before muttering "Can I touch you?—" His eyes are wide with so much hope pooling in them, his brows arching upwards and his lips pursed in a thin line. A very nervous, quivering line

"You don't have to ask permission," You giggled as a smile blossomed on your pink lips. Lips that he just simply adores. He sucked in a breath sharply, holding it as his gloved hands enveloped around the smooth flesh. He pressed his thumbs into your muscles gently, slowly trailing them upwards while he pulled you closer and closer to him "So pretty," He mumbled, his golden bangs tickling the skin of your breasts as he planted a soft kiss in between them "My very own Chocobo girl who's the cutest," The male added a beat later, letting his lips linger on your skin a while longer before sinking his teeth in, evoking out a gasp of surprise out of your lips. It's so hot. His ears are burning from hearing that precious little noise. "The sexiest," He drawled out, arms snaking around your hips and waist as his hands began to fondle with the straps of the costume "Wanna take these off," He muttered, his fingers hooking into the elastic band of your shorts, sliding them down just enough so he could see your pussy. It was soaking wet, your wetness staining the fabric. His tongue swiped against his lips unconsciously, his eyes narrowing in interest as he pulled the cloth down all the way through before his hands went back to squeeze your thighs, tempted to just swipe the pads of his fingers against your clit "All this just for me?" He questioned, the edges of his eyes crinkling from grinning too widely "Can't wait to fuck you stupid, babe—" The male hastily dragged his other hand to the buckle of his belt, undoing it as he tugged you down to his lap, cock straining against the fabric of his jeans and once he does undo his jeans, he's almost embarrassed of how stiff he was. Keyword; almost. He couldn't care less of about what he feels right now, the only thing he wants to feel is your tight walls enveloping him and clenching down on him like a vice. His blue eyes turned into half-lids as he watched how the head of his cock brush and prod against your soaked folds, your arousal just simply dripping and coating over the flushed tip. He let out a hiss through gritted teeth as you started to lower yourself down, fingers digging into your backside as you take him inch by inch He knew that you had to ease yourself like this every time, your cunny too tight even for his size but fuck, he can't take it anymore—

The blond wrapped his arms around you, muttering a gentle 'Sorry' against the shell of your ear before grabbing a handful of your thighs and forcing you down his cock, the male happily swallowing up your whimper when he pressed his lips on yours. " 'm sorry, 'm sorry—" He chanted, groaning into your mouth as your hips met in rapid succession "Wanted my cock in you so, so, much, princess—" As soon as he said those words, he felt you tighten around his pulsing cock and he nearly sprained his neck from how hard he threw his head back, his brain filled to the brim with the thoughts of your warm pussy and how good it felt to be in it. One of his hands slithered up to grab a fistful of your hair, pulling it back just so he could litter a mess of hickeys on the soft skin of your neck

"That's it, keep-mmh-taking my cock like that," The blond praised, his mouth parted slightly before he moved up to your lips, blue eyes fluttering shut from the taste of your tongue invading his mouth which just made him hasten his pace even more. He had to pull away, he had to. If not, he would've busted his load right then and there and he didn't want that He wanted his sweet, sexy girlfriend to cum first So with another whine leaving his lips, he dragged his hand to be in between your legs, rubbing his fingers on to your clit furiously while you start to squirm in his embrace. The male knew you was close, judging by the way your muscles are tensing up, your moans getting higher in pitch. He wasn't so far behind either, his thrusts mostly consisted of him rutting his pathetic cock in and out as he tried to push the both of you over the edge "P-Prompto, I'm going to—" Your words were cut off by a loud, pleasured cry and it made Prompto lose his mind, your slick juices dribbling down his thighs as he continued to bully his cock into you. It was more than enough for the man to let loose now that your needs were satiated first. With another bruising kiss to your lips, the blond pulled away before putting his entire focus into his pace, not really heeding the constant pleas and whines from you to 'slow down' and be 'gentle' He's almost there, he can feel it. His thighs going taut, his jaws clenched and the constant, throbbing ache in his loins as he kept on going. His persistence was then rewarded, the blond whimpering in pure delight as he felt his sweet girl clenching on him for the third time. His body not even hesitating to just simply flood you with his warmth, your pussy milking his cock for he's worth while you both basked in the sweet, sweet afterglow. He'll worry about the Chocobo costume later on, his brain's too mushed to think about cleaning them and returning them back to the owner. It was a rental after all

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aegon-targaryen · 2 months

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Beneath the Skin

Zelink Week Day 5: Spellbound | TOTK Zelink | read on AO3) | @zelinkcommunity

Some days, Link couldn’t take his eyes off her. And it wasn’t because of the giddy intoxication he’d felt at seventeen in that field of flowers, or at one-hundred-and-seventeen, when she stopped being a memory and started being a girl whose heart beat alongside his. That longing had come from hope. This one was born of desperation. Like if he didn’t spend every minute taking stock of her blond hair and her Champion-blue shirt and the excited bounce in her steps, all of it would fall away from him.

And here he was again, following the wavering light of Zelda’s torch into the darkness, only he carried more scars and a sword reforged by her sacrifice. There was no Demon King waiting for them this time. Surely the Depths were still populated by monsters and Yiga, but nothing that posed a true threat.

Right?

Link was sweating under his leathers despite the chill that permeated this place. He couldn’t help but glance behind him at the Brightblooms that led back to their anchored hot air balloon. They weren’t really necessary—he’d already activated most of the Lightroots during the Upheaval—but some combination of habit and paranoia made him keep dropping them anyway.

Besides, it was a welcome distraction from the restless ache that kept traveling up and down his right arm. The Gloom had left behind unnatural scars, but otherwise the limb was fully functional; he couldn’t guess why it was hurting now. Still, he’d choose pain over the alien sensation of wearing someone else’s skin any day.

“And how do Brightblooms work, exactly?” Zelda wondered. “Unlike other bioluminescent plants, they only glow when struck with physical force. Yet they produce so much light that their name is apt indeed!”

She kept thinking aloud as they walked, and Link tried to let the familiar flow of her voice ease his mind. They were here for research, nothing more. Perhaps he should show her one of the Zonai mines. Or a Frox, as long as her curiosity didn’t overpower her caution.

When Zelda halted in her tracks, his hand flew to the Master Sword—habit and paranoia once again; there was no sign of danger. She was crouching down to study a swath of blackened earth that spread outwards in jagged patches, as if scorched by a lightning strike or an experimental use of Fire Fruit.

Link saw her hand quest towards it and blurted out, “Don’t.”

She glanced up at him, her face alight with the thrill of discovery. “You know what this is?”

“It’s…where the Gloom used to be.”

“I see. Not so different from the marks left behind by Malice. It should be safe to touch, since the Gloom itself has all faded.”

Even so, she used the end of her torch to poke at the damaged ground. The sound was like ashes being scraped out of a hearth, but in its place Link heard a puppet’s mocking laughter, a screaming chorus of scarlet hands, a black dragon roaring at the ruinous sky. He dug his fingernails into his palm to make sure the flesh and the pain still belonged to him.

The scraping stopped. Zelda straightened, her lips pressed into a worried line. “Link?”

He met her gaze listlessly.

“The Gloom is gone, you know. So is he.”

“I know,” he murmured. The proof was right there here at their feet, and all across Hyrule—their enemies were dead, and the chasm they’d used to get here no longer spewed foul red fog.

So why did his arm still hurt?

“I have enough pictures and samples to last weeks of study,” Zelda said softly. “Do you want to turn back?”

He almost said yes. He almost confessed that this place held nothing but bad memories of losing her, of wandering mindlessly through the dark after that final pool of tears revealed her fate, of throwing himself at Ganondorf in a heartbroken rage. But Zelda was taking his hand, prying his fingers open so she could kiss the crescent marks his nails had left upon the skin, every little movement a reminder that she was here. She was herself again, and Rauru and Sonia had given them a chance that Link didn’t want to squander.

“Let’s keep going,” he said at last.

“All right,” Zelda relented, though she kept hold of his hand as they continued, dropping it only to take pictures with the Purah Pad or gather soil and plant life in the little vials she wore on her belt. As they left the Gloom-scarred earth behind, Link tried to see this place through her eyes: the strange fireflies fluttering around the shadows, the little Froxes scuttling in the dirt, the giant mushrooms growing tall without sun or rain. Zelda had been teaching him to see the world differently for as long as he could remember. If she could find beauty here, so could he.

Or so he thought until he heard a familiar squeal somewhere in the darkness. Link caught Zelda’s arm just as a pair of Bokoblins burst out from behind a boulder—an ambush, though not a very good one. He drew his sword with a sigh; this wouldn’t take long.

And then light came blaring out of the darkness. Not the orange glow of Zelda’s torch, nor the golden sun of her power—the monsters were shrouded in pure, miasmic red.

For the first time since the Demon Dragon had faded into the sky, Link felt his insides twist in recognition, corruption calling to corruption. Agony seized his fingers and raged all the way up to his collarbone. His jaw locked with terrified shock, so tight that he couldn’t scream even if he wanted to.

Only Zelda’s presence made him stumble forward, ducking past the first Bokoblin’s mace and plunging his blade through its chest. The motion was instinctive, mechanical. He couldn’t sense the weight of the sword, couldn’t sense his fingers wrapped around its hilt; there was no room for anything but the Gloom dragging his life away like a fish gasping on a hook.

The second monster swung its sword in a scarlet arc. Link was in the castle sanctum, the imposter’s laughter still ringing in his ears while rot climbed up his legs and choked his air and poured from Ganondorf’s phantom in an unstoppable tide. He’d been paralyzed then, and he was paralyzed now, because it was supposed to be over, they were supposed to be safe—

A wave of sacred power knocked the Bokoblin aside, and the Depths fell silent again.

“Link? Are you hurt?”

He stared at the corpses as if seeing death for the first time, spellbound by the red tendrils that rose from them like steam. His legs shook; his stomach roiled with sickness; it took him three tries to slide the Master Sword into its scabbard. Zelda drew closer, her brow creased with worry, a faint aura of light still shimmering around her as she reached for his shoulder.

The Gloom recoiled from her touch, and Link flinched back, clutching his arm, digging his nails in again to feel something, anything else. She snatched her hand away as though burned, staring at him through the darkness.

“Link?” she repeated, her voice shrinking down to something small and scared. “Can you answer me?”

“They—” he gulped, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Her fear always wrenched at him in a way his own never did. He concentrated on her familiar face, flushed with life the way it always was after she used her power. “They didn’t get me.”

“You froze before they even reached us. You never freeze.”

“I wasn’t expecting the—the—”

“Nor was I. Clearly the Gloom no longer plagues the Depths or the Surface, but perhaps the living things it infected are still…” Realizing what she’d said, her eyes widened with horror. “Oh, Link.”

Of course she’d figured it out all on her own. Link hugged his arm to his chest and stared at his boots. Zelda had lost him once, in the mud and fire of the Calamity, and under the castle they had lost each other. But that was supposed to be over. He wanted so badly for it to be over.

“It barely affects me,” he mumbled. “I thought all of it was gone until today.”

“But there are days when you’re tired and tense. The words I’m not hungry never used to be in your vocabulary, but you’ve said them more times than I can count since the Upheaval. I think I understand why now.”

He hadn’t even noticed. Then again, everything seemed manageable compared to the weakness he'd felt upon waking far above Hyrule, barely able to hold a sword. The person Link was before the Gloom ever touched him seemed as distant as his lost memories. Pain had never been a stranger to him, but Zelda was right—it hadn’t always been his constant parasite, either.

She pulled him into an awkward embrace, cautious of her burning torch and his trembling arm, and told him quietly, “We’ll figure this out. You’re going to be just fine.”

He released a shaky breath, resting his forehead against her shoulder. It always felt better to let her in. Why did he keep forgetting that?

Without another word, they turned and walked back along the path of Brightblooms. The ache laced up and down Link’s arm with every step, but that awful soul-sucking sensation had faded with the monsters’ deaths—not that it wouldn’t return.

He shuddered at the thought, and when Zelda rested a hand on his back, he allowed her to guide him the rest of the way to the balloon, allowed her to sit him down on the bench while she unchained the anchors and planted a Flame Emitter in the center of the basket. With a rush of warm air and a wobbling lurch, they were airborne, ascending slowly towards the surface.

Link laid the Master Sword across his knees, opening and closing his right hand as though he could expel what plagued him the same way he would ease a cramp. Zelda’s fingers drummed restlessly at the edge of her bench. He wished passionately that he could close the distance to hold her again without unbalancing the balloon.

“How bad is the pain?” she asked after a while.

“That doesn’t bother me. It’s more that…whenever I’m near Gloom, like with those monsters, it—it pulls at me and I—” He stopped at the look in her eyes, dropping his gaze to watch the Depths recede beneath them.

“I know you used Sundelions during the Upheaval. Did anything else help you?”

“The Lights of Blessing from Rauru’s shrines. A little of the Gloom left me every time I got one.”

“You felt that happen?”

“It…tried to hold on. But the light was stronger. Maybe that’s why I always felt better around…around you.”

Zelda’s hand crept up to press against the Zonai stone she still wore on a string around her neck, tucked under her shirt—because he couldn’t stand to look at it, and she couldn’t stand to let it go. Link tilted his head back to watch the widening sliver of sky above them, remembering the wind, the soft feel of her mane, the tears in her eyes and in his. For months, the light dancing over her scales had been both his only solace and the worst pain he’d ever felt.

“Then I may be able to help,” she said, and he was glad to be pulled back into the present, to see her sitting right across from him.

“Really?” Link’s voice sounded thin and childish. “I—I want it gone.”

“I know, Link. And I’ll do everything in my power, but if the Gloom tries to hold on, as you said…I’m worried I might hurt you.”

“You would never hurt me,” he promised softly, holding her gaze across the flames.

She gave him a small smile, half hope and half sorrow, and was about to reply when a sudden current of air made the balloon lurch. Zelda listed sideways, catching herself on the railing, and by the time he registered his brief flash of panic—by the time he remembered the last time they’d plummeted into the dark together—the basket had already stabilized beneath them.

“We’re okay,” Link murmured, wanting to say the words aloud.

“We’re okay,” Zelda echoed, and her smile returned—shaken, yet bright as ever. The balloon drifted quietly towards the sky, and not much later, sunlight broke through the shadows.

The evening was cool and quiet by the time they sat down in front of the pond, the balloon stashed and the horses fed and Zelda’s samples carefully transported down the ladder to her well. Plumes of smoke rose from the chimneys of Hateno, wavering in the wind that rustled the grass and rippled the water’s surface.

His arms were bare under the climbing tunic, prickling with goosebumps as she trailed her fingers down the whorled scars the Gloom had left behind and paused at the pulse point in his wrist. “If this works, I believe much of the pain will leave you,” she said quietly. “But…we should be prepared for the possibility that there might be some lasting damage, even so.”

Link nodded. He had enough scars to expect that.

“Are you ready?”

The Master Sword was nestled in the grass beside them. Zelda had healed them the first time they’d broken together, placing Link in the blue waters of the Shrine and the sword in an unbreachable sanctuary. How fitting that she would be the one to do it again.

“Yes,” he whispered, leaning in to press his lips to hers. There was fear in the kiss, both their hearts hammering in anticipation of the pain, and he pulled back to cup her face in his hands, reminding her firmly, “You would never hurt me.”

Zelda rested her forehead against his and took his hands. “Close your eyes, Link.”

He did, opening his other senses to the familiar smell of her, the cool wind on his skin, the sound of children laughing across the bridge. Light bloomed past his closed eyelids, and he knew without sight that it was golden and beautiful.

The Gloom reacted instantly, sinking its claws into the center of his being. Link clenched his jaw, resisting the instincts that screamed at him to pull away as Zelda tightened her grip on his hands and opened the floodgates of her power.

He’d spoken the truth: she couldn’t hurt him, but the corruption was writhing and snarling through him without mercy, trying to anchor itself against the flood. A whimper slipped through his gritted teeth. Zelda’s voice was on the verge of breaking when she told him, “Breathe, Link—it’s working, just breathe—”

Link dragged in a shuddering gasp, his mind casting about for a weapon against the pain. He found what he always found: the memories he’d gathered over the years, carefully stored and cultivated with the same meticulous attention she gave her flower garden, so when moments like this one came roaring in—as they always did and always would—he had some good to shield him from the bad.

He breathed in and remembered Zelda smiling at him for the first time, Zelda capturing a frog in her hands, Zelda pressing her lips to her stallion’s forehead while Link wished for things he never expected to have. A century of pain later, their lives intertwined in ways more precious than he could have imagined—the messy cooking lessons, the quiet journeys, the first night she’d sat up in bed and asked him to stay, the long argument that had ended with a kiss and a homecoming and a new beginning.

All of that was so much bigger than the pain, so much stronger. Link could feel the Gloom’s hold weakening, could feel wisps of it rising from his skin. But more than anything, he felt Zelda’s strong hands holding him fast, her forehead still pressed against his, her power embracing him the same way it had so many times. The last breath he took on Blatchery Plain, the first one he drew after she reached through the walls of her prison to wake him up, the way she crossed the sky to catch him as he fell, her white scales shining like a beacon at the end of all hope.

The Gloom was rippling out of him now, fleeing from the relentless flow of power. But the gnarled root of it was still latched onto his heart—one last legacy of the enemy they’d been born to fight, still trying to claim what would never belong to him.

Zelda lifted Link’s right hand and pressed it to his chest, her palm over his. He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, green as wildflowers and shining with tears.

“Let it go,” she said, the words so soft and so knowing, and he lifted his head, a long breath rushing out of him as he banished the last of the Gloom and watched it rise towards the sky in thin red ribbons, quickly erased by the wind.

Finally, the weight was gone, and Link had never realized just how heavy it was until this moment—until he dragged in his next breath and knew his body belonged to him again. He released a shuddering sob and kissed the glowing symbol on Zelda’s hand, reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks even as more fell.

“Thank you,” he choked out, “thank you, thank you—”

She hugged him so hard he thought his ribs might bruise, but that was the sort of pain he could cherish. When she buried her face in his shoulder, Link understood that this had fixed something for her too—it had returned some of the control she lost when she fell through the dark and landed in a place where all roads led to the sacrificial altar.

The setting sun burnished the sky, the wind swept long and low across the plains of Necluda, and they held each other until his stomach growled at a truly embarrassing volume. Zelda was the first to chuckle, and soon enough they were both sprawled out on the grass, laughing with hysterical relief.

“I’m hungry,” Link announced happily when he caught his breath, sending her into another round of giggles. “Zelda, it’s been so long since I’ve been really hungry.”

She clambered up and offered him a hand. “Well, we’d better fix that. What would you like?”

“Everything,” he answered, and though his skin was scarred and his muscles were tired, he felt light as air when she pulled him to his feet and drew into a deep kiss, her fingers tangling in his loose hair, her lips still fighting a smile.

“Everything,” Zelda promised.

They went home, turning their minds to simpler things. Link left the door open to the wind and the wild, glancing up from time to time to watch as Naydra rose from the Depths, climbed past the northern mountain, and soared into the starry sky.

#my writing #zelink week 2024 #loz #totk #totk zelink #zelink fanfiction #zelink

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mopeyy · 9 months

Text

Forgotten Love

Nor x Fem Na'vi Reader

angst

Summary: Reader is in love with Nor, but he's still in love with her dead sister.

Inspired by this post!!

The soft ground of pandora glowed with each step you took, the leaves rustling from the soft wind. The glowing plants and moon guided you safely through the forest. You thought back to what led you out here tonight, how nobody in the resistance could find Nor, and you were tasked to look for him. Of course, you were the only one who knew where he'd be. You knew Nor more than anyone here, you'd memorized him from the many years you spent together in the RDA.

You stepped over a log, making your way towards the top of the waterfall, his favorite spot. You weren't surprised to see his figure sitting there, his legs dangling over the edge. Since the resistance rescued all of you, he often came up here to think. You didn't try to be quiet as you approached him, not wanting to accidentally scare him. His sharp ears twitched when you took a step. He knew you were there.

He said nothing when you took a seat next to him, still keeping his gaze on the view infront of him. Determined to end the silence, you spoke first. "Everyone is looking for you, Priya sent me to go and find you." He let a soft smile pass his face, "Well than you've found me." His gaze was unwavering, still not turning to look at you. You took note to the crease in his brows, and how his ears were slightly pinned back, he was upset. "Is this about the Aranahe? I know we spoke about it last time." You questioned.

Was he still upset? Scared that the Na'vi might view him different? Your thoughts came to an end when he replied, "No, not this time. its just-" He paused, contemplating on wether to not to tell you, "Its nothing, don't worry yourself" He ended, deciding to keep whatever he was thinking about private. You let out a soft sigh. With everything going on it was not a good time to keep secrets from one another. You placed a hand on his shoulder, "I don't mind worrying, you are my friend. Tell me, what's on your mind?" He glanced at you from the corner of his eye before placing his hand on top of yours.

He opened his mouth to speak, "Im just thinking about Aha'ri. How unfair it is that we get to be here and she doesn't. " You stayed silent, leading him to continue, "She would have loved it here, to be Na'vi. She was so brave and adventurous." A smile overtook his face as he spoke about her. You watched how his eyes held a different look in them. It was a look you haven't seen before. Why did he look this way when speaking about your sister? "I don't know I just...well, do you ever think about her?" He asked, turning to face you and watch for your response.

You swallowed before answering, "Of course I do, everyday. She was the only family I had left." you whispered, voice growing quiet and sad at the thought of her. He took your silence as his turn to speak, "I sometimes wonder what things would be like if she was still here. How different they would be." You raised a brow at this, confused you asked, "Different how?" He paused once again, thinking about his next words, "I haven't told anyone this before but, when we were children I.." he hesitated, taking a short pause before continuing, "When we were children I was in love with her. And...sometimes I think I still am." He confessed. He watched your face for any sort of reaction but you couldn't believe what you were hearing. Yes, Nor often talked of your sister but you just thought it was because he missed her like the rest of you did, you had never imagined that he may have loved her. You knew for a fact that your sister had not felt the same. When you were children all she focused on was escaping and keeping your Sarentu culture alive. She wasn't focused on love. and never once had she mentioned such a thought about Nor. How could he love someone who didn't feel the same, someone who was no longer here? How could he still love her when you were right here, in love with him.

Your eyes fell to your lap and your ears pinned to your head. You removed your hand from his shoulder and stood up. Watching you, he stood up too. "Im sorry, was that too much? I know speaking of her can bring back the memories for you and that was never my intention." He explained, he felt bad thinking that the thought of your sister made you sad all over again. You shook your head and began walking away from him, "Its not that Nor, its nothing don't worry." He started to walk behind you. He didn't want you to leave the conversation upset. "What happened to being friends and telling each other what's on our minds?" He questioned, using your words against you. When you didn't respond he grabbed your arm. Soft enough not to hurt you, but tight enough to stop you from walking away. He put his other hand on your hip, turning you to face him. "Y/n, what is it?" He pleaded.

You let out a soft breath before looking up at him through your lashes, begging your eyes not to water. "Its you Nor" You spoke. His face changed to one of confusion. His eyes narrowed and his brows creased in confusion. "I-what?" He replied, the confusion evident in his tone. You rolled your eyes. How could he be so dense? "Im upset because of you Nor. How could you love my sister when I've been here the whole time? How could you love her when I love you." You mumbled the last part. When he stayed quiet you continued to speak, "Why do you think its always me who finds you when no one else can? Why do you thinks its always me who comforts you when your upset? Why do you thinks it me who knows what concerns you? Why do you think its me who knows you." You finished.

Upon your confession his grip on you loosened. You took this as your chance to leave. Your broke free of his grip and walked away into the forest. he didn't follow after you.

comment if you want part 2!

#avatar frontiers of pandora x reader #avatar frontiers of pandora #nor avatar frontier of pandora #nor #nor x reader #nor frontiers of pandora

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violet-lazer · 1 year

Text

Astronomy

Content / Warnings : EXPLICIT 18+, Terzo/Reader, Gender-Neutral Reader, Fluff and Smut, Terzo is a Hopeless Romantic, 3.2k words. Thanks, please enjoy! (AO3)

It’s not that he can’t commit, as he’d told you one evening, fingers tracing your spine as you lay together in flushed afterglow. It isn’t that his eyes wander or he grows bored of his lovers. He’s simply never wanted to. Until-

Or: Terzo wants to watch the stars with you.

Breezy nighttime air hits your face as you’re gently guided out of the heavy front doors of the Ministry and into the grounds. There’s grass underneath your feet, the gentle trill of birdsong in your ears, and you can’t see a bloody thing. Terzo’s hands are over your eyes, and he’s leading you from behind to a destination unknown. His chest is warm against your back.

“I could’ve just closed my eyes,” you say, as you carefully pick your way forwards through the grass. Terzo chuckles, and you feel the rumble.

“I admit, the distance feels much longer at this pace,” he says. “Perhaps I should have done a test run. But can you not feel the excitement coursing through you? The mystery?”

“I can feel myself tripping and breaking my neck,” you reply flatly. Terzo tuts.

“Where is your sense of adventure, hm? You will change your tune soon enough. Come.”

You know the grounds well, and as you venture on, you can tell you’re approaching the greenhouses when you’re hit with a heady bouquet of fragrance- honeysuckle, jasmine, rose; the evil-looking plant that Primo claims eats people. You continue walking, and you recognise you’re out past the edge of the well-kept gardens and meandering towards the edge of the woods where the foliage creeps along the floor like beckoning fingers. About three minutes of careful navigation later, you stumble on a rock and almost fall directly on your arse before Terzo grabs you.

To his credit, Terzo catches you with only the mildest of fumbles, and even manages to keep one gloved hand over your eyes as he does it. Very professional. He clears his throat.

“Shit. Ah. We are stepping onto a path now. Pick your feet up, please.”

You crane your head sideways and hope he can feel the withering look emanating from you that his hands are mercifully concealing. In apology, he presses a kiss to the most accessible part of your cheek.

“Sorry. We are nearly there.”

Gingerly, you let him nudge you forwards. There’s stone underneath your feet now, uneven cobbles. You know where you’re going.

The ruined groundskeeper’s cottage at the edge of the woods is haunted. Well, that’s what the priests say to attempt to dissuade any curious Siblings from exploring the structure too enthusiastically. Yes, it’s true that it’s all crumbling stone and ivy encroaching through dead windows, and the wind can be exceptionally vocal in the winter. Sure, nobody is quite sure why or when it was abandoned. Haunted, though? You think it’s more likely that a decrepit abode is a potential health and safety nightmare and the senior clergy is keen to minimise the number of accident forms they have to fill out. Still, it has its uses for the bold- you’ve heard tell of Siblings holding seances, conducting rituals, throwing the occasional orgy. You’ve been there yourself, once, years ago when you were a fresh initiate determined to lay bare all of the secrets the Ministry had to offer. You’d chanced a careful exploration and found naught but empty rooms and disappointment; a week later a sizeable chunk of ceiling fell directly onto a similarly inquisitive Sibling so you’d steered clear ever since. That was an isolated incident though. Probably.

Terzo slows his pace, bringing the two of you to a stop. After imploring you to close your eyes for just a second- you comply- he reaches around and in front of you, and you hear the distinctive sound of the cottage door pushing open. The iron knocker sounds a clang as he lets go and replaces his hands over your eyes.

“Here we are. One more step.”

Together, you cross the threshold. Once you’ve come to a stop, Terzo lets his hands drop and you inhale sharply at the sight that greets you. You’re expecting cold, half-ruined walls and the aura of decay but before you, the shell of the living room feels alive. A frankly staggering number of candles bathe the small room in an inviting glow, and the years-cold fireplace is aflame. In the centre of the room, on the floor, a large, heavy-looking blanket has been arranged with some complementary pillows. You can smell incense from one indistinct corner of the space. It’s warm. It’s beautiful.

Behind you, with a voice you could swear was tinged with the slightest hint of nerves, Terzo says: “Well?”

Turning on your heel, you finally come face to face with Terzo. Half-lit by candlelight, shadows playing on his handsome face, he’s looking at you with the most earnest of expressions; hand outstretched for yours. This is for you. He’s done this for you. Anything you could say feels insufficient. But you have a go.

“I can’t believe you’ve done all this for me.”

He smiles. “Well. I can. Let me show you the best part, hm?”

You slide your hand into his and he guides you toward the centre of the room, encouraging you down to sit opposite him on the blanket. It’s thick enough that you don’t feel any residual cold from the floor, and it’s probably absolutely fantastic on the knees if you were to, say, end up straddling someone tonight. Hm.

Terzo raises an eyebrow at you. “Comfortable, yes? If you wish to be staring at the ceiling later I think you may be disappointed. Look up.”

You look up. Directly above you is the famed hole in the roof, and it’s large enough, almost the size of the sprawling blanket you’re sitting on, that when you gaze upwards into the inky sky you can see a vast array of stars.

You pull your gaze back to Terzo and you want to tell him.

It’s been two months since you and he began sleeping together. A month and a half since he asked you to be his. Mindful of his…popularity, the more cynical voice in your head warned you to be realistic, to keep your expectations low, to prepare yourself for the possibility that he would grow tired of you and move on. As other Siblings had helpfully reminded you, Terzo wasn’t widely known for commitment. But he’s given you no reason for pause. Terzo wants to spend every waking moment with you, and every sleeping one at that. So attentive and present that it would be genuinely impressive if he could find the time to court anyone else. It’s not that he can’t commit, as he’d told you one evening, fingers tracing your spine as you lay together in flushed afterglow. It isn’t that his eyes wander or he grows bored of his lovers. He’s simply never wanted to. Until-

Still, neither of you have dropped the bomb yet. The declaration that feels like the point of no return, that desperate leap into the unknown. If you cross that threshold together any illusion of a casual affair is shattered, and what then? You either belong to each other for the rest of your lives or suffer complete and utter heartbreak. Perhaps, though, tonight could be the night. Perhaps. Let’s see how brave you feel. But fucking hell, he’s brought you to gaze at the stars and he’s so close and so handsome and you know it’s only a matter of time before you slip. You swallow.

“Thank you,” you say. “Terzo, this is–”

“I am in love with you.”

It comes out of him so quickly, so honestly that you’re stunned to silence, and judging by Terzo’s expression, it’s taken him by surprise as well. After a moment, he clears his throat.

“Hm. I was planning to save that for later.”

This would be a good time to respond, but you’re struggling and he’s in love with you. Your heart is going to burst out of your throat. Fuck, this is real; and it’s more than you’d dared to hope for. Is this why he’s brought you here tonight, to tell you? The reason he’d double- and triple- checked this morning that you were still on for a date? Hey. You still haven’t said anything. Glancing downwards, Terzo runs a hand through his hair.

“Do not feel pressured to say it back. It is still early, I know-”

“I’m in love with you too.”

Of course you’re in love with him. You never stood a chance. Every morning you wake up next to him and he pulls you into a lazy morning embrace, each time you pass in the corridor and he pushes you into a corner to steal a few secret kisses, you fall just a little bit further. Your response comes pouring out of you like it’s the simplest thing in the world. And it is, really. The dissipating tension in Terzo’s shoulders is instant, and extremely visible.

Terzo lets out a deep exhale. “Thank fuck for that.”

He leans forwards to kiss you and you meet him in the middle. It’s slow, tender, his hand raising to caress your cheek. When you reach forward to tangle your fingers in his hair his tongue presses into your mouth and you accept him wholeheartedly. Oh, the things he does to you. Oh, the things he could be doing to you right now. If you just shift forwards like so, you could get your legs either side of his to straddle him and-

You’re just about to make your move when Terzo pulls back gently. You frown, and he laughs.

“I know, I know. I want to ravish you too. But I cannot be thinking with my cock all the time, yes? We are on a very strict schedule and-” he makes a show of checking an imaginary watch- “I believe it is time for the light refreshment and star-gazing portion of the night.”

Pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, he gets to his feet and retrieves a decently-sized picnic basket from one of the unlit corners of the room and places it in front of you with a flourish. It’s almost comically prototypical, complete with red gingham cloth. Very cute. You laugh.

“How long has that been there?”

Terzo shrugs. “Oh, years, I would imagine. It was here when I arrived, actually.”

“Mmhm.”

With one hand, he flips up the lid of the basket and gestures for you to have a look. You peer in to assess the contents.

Ooh. Well, there’s definitely a bottle in there, that’s always a welcome sight. And ah- on top there are a couple of boxes emblazoned with the name of that little patisserie in town you adore. The two of you had had your first proper date there, sat across from each other at a tiny table on a rainy afternoon, condensation painting the window as you took turns sampling each others’ pastries. And he’d held your hand over the table even though anybody could have seen you and you allowed yourself to entertain the dangerous idea that he might be serious about all this.

You look back up at Terzo. He gives you the smallest of self-satisfied smiles, and you think you’ll let him have this one. Sitting beside you, he busies himself unpacking the basket, and you watch him set plates, glasses and an expensive-looking bottle of red before you. As he pokes around for a corkscrew, your gaze wanders to properly take in your surroundings. Here, in the centre, pools of candlelight encircle you, and the darkness beyond is inconsequential. You could be anywhere. It’s just you, him, a blanket he’s surely stolen from someone and a really impractical amount of candles for one man to have arranged and lit by himself.

“Did you do all of this yourself?” you ask. Terzo stops what he’s doing and graces you with an extremely complacent look.

“Yes,” he says. Then, he tilts his head in consideration. “Well. I planned everything. And I did ninety-nine percent of the legwork. I was at the patisserie at nine o'clock this morning wrestling an old man for the last box of tiny croissants. But Omega did help me with some of the-” he waves a hand at your surroundings- “decor.”

You nod, quietly lamenting the fact that you were not present to witness your lover antagonising the elderly.

“Makes sense. I was thinking some of those candles were placed a bit high for you to reach.”

Terzo quirks an eyebrow at you. “Oh?”

Oh? The change in atmosphere is palpable as Terzo shifts onto his knees, leaning towards you to close the small distance between you in one swift motion. He’s fixing you with a look that sends a shiver running down your spine to settle between your legs, and you can scarcely catch your breath as he reaches up to trace your bottom lip with his thumb.

“But I can reach you.”

You gladly let him push you onto your back. The blanket cushions you nicely as Terzo climbs on top of you. Trailing kisses down your neck, his hands begin to wander, fingers ghosting any exposed inch of skin as he works his way down, down, towards the heart of your desire. Terzo gives your thigh a squeeze before tracing teasing, exploratory touches between your legs over your clothes. How easily you begin to fall apart for him, bucking your hips upwards to grind against his hand, to chase the friction you crave. He looks you straight in the eye as he slips his hand beneath the layers of fabric that separate you, and when he bypasses that final barrier, fingers finding your warmth, his moan matches the one that falls from your lips. Your need for him is laid bare, and Terzo regards you with a hunger that borders on animalistic.

“Already so desperate for me, hm?”

Well, it’s his fault. And he knows it too, giving you a wry smile as he withdraws his fingers and shifts to settle on his knees before you. You help him undress you, pulling your underwear down and off and as soon as it hits the floor he’s there, sliding his hands up your thighs and spreading your legs. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him. Terzo descends upon you slowly, reverently, pressing kisses to every sensitive inch of skin as he makes his way towards your aching core, and you are almost delirious with anticipation. Please.

“We are off-schedule.” he says, voice thick with lust. “Head back, love. I want you to see stars.”

And then his tongue is on you, warm and wet, and you throw your head back in sheer pleasure. Terzo moans around you as he tastes you and in response you reach down to knot your fingers in his hair. Fuck, you can’t help but rock your hips into him, grinding into his mouth while he goes down on you. Above you it’s constellations that neither of you likely know the name of, your moans escaping into the air as Terzo brings you towards your ruin.

There’s nothing separating the two of you here from the stars thousands of miles away but there’s no time to get existential as Terzo pauses to reach up and push two gloved fingers into your mouth. Obediently, you suck, tongue eager against leather and when he’s satisfied he withdraws, hand sliding down between your thighs. Slowly, presses a finger into you and you breathe a fuck right towards the heavens. Terzo hums approvingly and you can’t help but lift your head to look at him. He’s so beautiful when he’s between your legs, mouth full of you, paint beginning to smear along your thighs. The most divine evidence of his unholy devotion to worshipping you. He pushes another finger into you gently and begins to fuck you, fingers crooked to stroke the most sensitive area of your heat. You’re edging closer and closer to your climax with every lap of his tongue and when you finally come you’re a mess of clenched thighs and choked gasps, twitching tight around his fingers. Desperately, you pull him on top of you to catch him in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. You feel his cock hard against your leg and you reach to palm him through his trousers. Groaning, Terzo grinds into your touch, biting at your lip.

“Let me fuck you,” he breathes into your ear.

“Fuck me then,” you respond.

Already there’s want simmering between your thighs, an ache to be filled, completely. Terzo requires no more encouragement, rearing back and swiftly unbuttoning his trousers; you’re treated to the glorious sight of that dark spill of hair leading from his stomach to his cock. He shifts his trousers down his thighs- deftly taking his underwear with them- and kicks them off hurriedly before settling between your legs. And now, he looks down upon you as if he has all the time in the world. Grasping his already-leaking cock, Terzo begins to stroke himself languidly above you; the sensation of precum leaking onto your skin makes you shiver. This is Terzo in his element, and he’s at his most powerful right as he’s about to sink into you. You lift your legs to wrap them around him; to coax him forwards, and he lets you. Pushing the head of his cock down through pooled precum he guides himself into you, exhaling a satisfied sigh as you stretch around him. Terzo rolls his hips to fuck you and you draw him close once again; he buries his head in your shoulder as he thrusts and you revel in each needy groan that escapes him. It’s not long before his pace quickens and he lifts his head to meet your gaze, nose bumping against yours, breaths ragged and heavy. You’ve never seen a more exquisite sight, and he’s yours. You lift your hands to his face.

“I love you,” you gasp, and his breath hitches, hips bucking hard against yours.

“Shit, I’m-”

Almost immediately he spills into you, thrusting shallowly as he rides his orgasm out, wide eyes giving the distinct impression that his own cock has ambushed him. Regardless, he leans down to capture you in a kiss, messy and unrefined, and his tongue scrapes your teeth in his desperation to push it into your mouth. When you part, Terzo pulls out of you gently and collapses on his back next to you, finding your hand and lacing your fingers together as his breath evens out. After a few moments, you break the silence.

“I told you I love you and you came immediately.”

There’s a pause, and then you hear Terzo chuckle. “Apparently so. How embarrassing.”

You laugh, letting your thumb trace lazy circles over his, gazing upwards into oblivion above.

“Stars are nice, though.”

“Mm.” He gives your hand a squeeze and then lets go, propping himself up on his elbows. “You know, I was actually planning to seduce you with my astronomical knowledge over our little picnic. I borrowed a book on constellations and everything. Studied for, oh, a full afternoon. But alas-” he makes sure to heave a dramatic sigh- “it wasn’t necessary. Hours, wasted.”

As much of a shame as it was that Terzo hadn’t had the chance to flex his new-found knowledge, the fact that you’d derailed his plans so completely and so quickly feels infinitely more gratifying. In fact, you’re going to have some pastries and wine in about two minutes to celebrate. But in the name of generosity…

Scanning for your target, you pick out a particularly bright cluster of stars and raise your arm to point.

“Alright, what’s that one?”

He’s quiet for a moment as he follows the line of your finger, eyes narrowing in consideration. He hums. Then, he turns to look at you with the utmost seriousness.

“I do not have a fucking clue.”

#the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction #terzo #terzo x reader #papa emeritus iii

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linddzz · 1 year

Note

Tell me about corals magic man

oh man this ask keeps sitting here and I keep starting to write stuff out, forgetting it, then never finishing. So since I am still processing tons of coral pics from a recent field work excursion about coral (and have a day off to just CHILL at home before regular work again) this is as good a time as any. CORAL. IT'S IMPORTANT I GUESS BUT WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? PLANT?? ANIMAL??? OVERAMBITIOUS ROCK??? Yes. kind of. Technically just an animal is correct. Corals are animals, but they are fucking weird animals. Weird in the way that only marine invertebrates can get. I love them because they're freaks. Let me show you.

Corals are a cnidarian, which puts them in the same category as anemones and jellyfish, and when you look at an individual coral polyp you can instantly see the relationship. They are colonial animals with massive structures formed out of polyps that are all clones of each other, and all building a support structure to form the whole, called the colony. An especially cute metaphor I've heard is that each coral polyp has it's own little nook like a room in the massive home they all work to build. A layer of tissue connects polyps to each other over the colony, allowing them to share nutrients and such over the entire structure like little marine communists. These polyps can range widely in size, and they can either be distinctly separate or all fused together, only distinguished by separate mouths. Numbers can also range from millions to a couple species that will have one or polyp mouths max. Polyps can extend out or retract into their little nook, called the calyx, and extend more when the coral is capturing prey from the water.

Lookit those cute little polyps, these guys make their own cubby for themselves!

Don't worry about what I just said about capturing prey and feeding, look at those cute little guys. Some of them are out and some are retracted, showing the little bump where they live.

Fused polyps like on brain corals don't extend exactly, but feeder tentacles will come out from that delineation between the ridge and oral groove. It's actually called an oral groove! Those tentacles are full of the same stinging cells jellyfish and anemones have! One biologist referred to brain corals as a wall of mouths! Ive seen them using those tentacles to slowly drag struggling little shrimps and larval fish towards a slowly opening mouth amongst that wall of mouths! It's like living in a place where at night, the walls open mouths and drag you into them with unthinking stinging strings! Sometimes they just spit out digestive strings to digest stuff outside of their body, like other coral that got too close and needs to check itself! Isn't that great!

A lot of people are surprised to hear "mouths" and "feeding" with corals and yup, corals are animals and therefore they eat! Each polyp has a mouth and tentacles and will extend them to capture prey, mostly zooplankton but also some plant material. Because they're fucking weird though, many species also gain energy via photosynthesis with the help of a symbiotic dinoflagellate called the zooxanthellae or symbiodinium. It's this algae like symbiont that actually gives coral most of their colors. These colors can range from psychadelic to just brown, with regular old browns and greens and yellows being the most common colors (especially in the Caribbean). A bleached coral is still alive, but due to stress has lost their zooxanthellae. They can survive and recover, but in this state they are highly stressed, prone to disease, and can starve slowly without the symbionts helping with their nutritional needs. They appear white or faded because the loss of their symbionts reveals the white calcium skeleton beneath the tissue.

Bleached portion of coral beside unbleached. A dead coral is one that has lost all of it's tissue, and every individual polyp has died, leaving nothing but the skeleton which can no longer grow without the living polyps. Bleached coral is very, very vulnerable to becoming a dead coral.

Unusually high heat is the most common trigger for a bleaching event. And this is where, in my education talks I sometimes do, I pause with a strained grimace of a smile as we all contemplate ocean temperatures hiking up every summer. SO WHY ARE THESE WEIRDASS ROCK ANIMALS IMPORTANT BESIDES BEING COOL TO LOOK AT? Coral structure can be colloquially described as stony or soft. Stony corals are what I work with more, and these guys are the ones that build a hard, calcium based structure as their support building, and these powerhouses are the ones that build the coral reef. Soft corals are what it says on the tin, they may have a sort of support structure that varies amongst families, but it's flexible (you'll see them waving very beautifully and gracefully in the currents) and they (for the most part) do not build the reef. If they do add to reef building it, it's with a very slow process of depositing fine layers. (Soft corals of course have their role in the overall reef health, but reefs are bonkers complicated ecosystems and I'm trying to keep on track here.) When you're looking at the reef, you are looking on centuries, if not millennia, of stony corals building on top of each other. Sometimes this building has been going on for so long that islands are made of fossilized reefs from millions of years ago, with corals that still resemble modern species in the rock. (This is the case of BonAire and blew my goddamn mind seeing the fossil reef it's so fuckin cool.)

Sometimes just a single colony will keep building on itself into massive structures. Polyp clones adding on and on to their predecessors, giving the colony overall a lifespan in centuries. It's thought that some huge colonies may be thousands of years old, because the fastest growing stony corals have a growth rate that may equal centimeters per year.

It's those reef structures of calcium carbonate building up and up that provide the homes to so many other creatures that coral reefs are some of the most biologically diverse, and biologically dense ecosystems out there, like rainforests of the ocean. Even marine life that doesn't live directly in the reefs have a connection to them, using them as feeding grounds, breeding areas, a place to hide while young and vulnerable, ect. They even protect coastlines, acting as a literal barrier that reduces wave damage from storms or just wave action in general. The reef takes the brunt of the physical damage, colonies get knocked around, but the still living polyps keep on building and rebuilding so the reef can go on and not get smashed into rubble every year. That is, if there are still stony corals alive to do the rebuilding. :))))))

So you have these weird animals who build stone structures like cathedrals, have algae in their tissue, live as massive ancient colonies of clones that can eat, photosynthesize, and also reproduce both asexually and sexually. They're able to branch out and do all of that because they are adapted to insanely stable environments. Temperatures don't fluctuate by more than a couple degrees seasonally, tides are consistent, storm seasons are consistent, the water is consistently clear due to lack of algae, which allows sunlight to penetrate and feed the symbionts that feed the coral. Mineral levels in the water are stable so they can take the calcium and carbonate from the sea water to build their skeletons. Without having to be able to adjust to changes in the environment they just went hog fucking wild on all the ways an animal can be an animal.

And here I once again pause with a strained grimace smile as we all take in how they need to be alive to keep building those reefs that support the ocean and the coasts, and how not stable their environment is becoming with new pollutants clouding waters, storms becoming more unpredictable, and waters having bigger temperature swings with hot summer spikes. :)))))))))))

#long post #marine biology #coral reefs #informative #corals are freaks and i love them #i barely touched how theyre freaks i wanted to keep this to a simple 101 guide on what they are and why theyre important #and why they are. not doing too great.#in the grand scheme of the world i believe coral reefs as an ecosystem type will survive #a few species are super hardy #some are more adaptable #in millions of years the ones that made it will eventually find new suitable places to rebuild on the rubble of ruins #but also i would prefer NOT HAVING A CATASTROPHIC EXTINCTION EVENT FOR THEM TO RECOVER FROM OVER A FEW MILLION YEARS THANKS #I WOULD PREFER THAT SORT OF RUIN NOT MAKING LIVES HARDER FOR EVERYONE

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dayurno · 9 months

Note

recently reread ur de-aged kevin fic and in the end notes you said you were thinking of doing a sequel w neilandrew being de-aged and just wanted to throw my hat in the ring to say yes pls! you genuinely have such incredible writing and characterization and would LOVE to see your take on it!

wawawa i plan to write it!!!!! i did start a little bit after finishing de-aged kevin and had to scrap it off because i didn't like it, so it might take a little longer. nonetheless i feel like i have no reason not to share it so i'll attach under the cut the scrapped version of kevin with de-aged andreil for your enjoyment :=) if its a little wonky i ask that you bear with me theres a reason why i didnt keep this version

There is a little garden behind Fox Tower where you could fit a dead body without any real effort.

Not that Kevin would know, of course. But he is sure that he has never seen anyone besides himself tend to the ground there — perhaps once in the past there was another athlete who enjoyed gardening, but such a character has not been around for at least a few years. It took Kevin almost an entire week to entirely weed out the square of dirt between Fox Tower’s backdoors and the fence where Palmetto State University property ends and Fox Perimeter starts.

Despite the loneliness of it, the ground is quite fertile; as patches of earth left alone by humankind often are. No one ever comes with Kevin when he gardens — Andrew finding it too soft a hobby and Neil, too pointless —, so there is no worry about someone else intervening with his flowers. Worlds apart from Evermore, Kevin quite enjoys the alone time tending to this garden provides, so he makes a habit out of it.

He’s not sure how well he is doing. His first attempt had been to plant daylilies, because the name had amused him and they were considered beginner plants, offending as the thought is. Daylilies, Kevin’s come to find, are low-maintenance, highly resistant and pest-free — three things Kevin cannot relate to, despite them sharing a surname. Those turned out fine, but one cannot go wrong with daylilies; they’re too easy. The only way Kevin could’ve killed them is if he was an absolute moron.

His second attempt — and the one he is currently keeping a close watch on — were tulips. They’re harder to care for than their predecessors, and take up more of Kevin’s time than he had previously imagined, though he doesn’t fault them for it. He’d gotten seeds from a shop a few blocks down to where Andrew usually buys his cigarettes in Columbia, and hadn’t bothered to ask for more information; Kevin’s first mistake, he realizes.

His tulips have… multiplied. Perhaps too much — hopeless, Kevin sits amidst the rows and rows of golden ladies, dainty-looking but quite surely outnumbering him, and wonders how many more of them could cause a natural imbalance in the area. For how they spread over the garden, Kevin is not sure he wants the answer. Their yellow bulbs seem to mock him.

Deciding this is now above him, Kevin wipes the dirt from his knees and springs up. He breaks the stem of a few tulips that have already bloomed, mindful that they must reserve their energy for a future reblooming, and checks for rotten bulbs before leaving. Surely, with time, his little garden will recover well enough so that it is not fully covered in tulips. Surely he’ll be able to plant something else, then.

If anything, Kevin is at least happy they don’t have thorns. Gathering the handful of flowers he’d cut off, he returns to his dorm, mindlessly wondering to himself if they have a vase wide enough to fit all of these tulips. When their whiny door pushes open under his weight, Kevin announces his arrival by calling out, “Do we still have that big vase from last year?”

No reply. Frowning, Kevin settles his flowers on the kitchen counter and glances over to where Andrew’s wallet and keys sit at their coffee table, even his half-finished pack of cigarettes left untouched. It is highly unlikely for Andrew to leave without at least one of those three items, creature of habit he is. How weird.

Grabbing for his phone, Kevin sees a flash of motion from the corner of his eye, and is just quick enough to sidestep a little body hiding behind the back of their sofa. The idea of something as small as this just hanging around their dorm is so baffling Kevin can hardly compute it, communication between his eyes and his brain coming to a screeching stop as he takes in the sight in front of him.

There’s a child. There’s a — there’s a child.

He is quite small. His hair, a gentle wheat-like thing, curls softly over his forehead, leading down to big, round brown eyes and a thin mouth. The child’s face is very tender, his cheeks flushed from exertion, but he does not meet Kevin’s stare with any such feeling — instead, his eyes widen slightly, and he stumbles back like he’s been hit.

For a moment, Kevin even worries he hasn’t sidestepped as well as he thought and indeed had hit this child on accident. Taking a few steps back himself, Kevin asks, “Who are you?”

It seems like the kind of question the child should ask him, instead of the opposite. The little boy tilts his head back to look at Kevin — and he does have to tilt it very far —, before steeling himself to answer, “I’m—I think I live here now?”

“That…” Kevin hesitates, “can’t be right.” The child’s eyes water slightly. Growing more and more panicked by the minute, Kevin immediately retracts it. “But I’m sure it is, if you’re saying it.”

The tears don’t fall, but they don’t quite recede either; the little boy's face is so fair it starts to look splotchy soon enough, red dusting his nose and cheeks. “Are you my new brother?” He asks, with all the certainty of someone who’s had many new brothers before. A nagging chill runs up Kevin’s spine.

“I don’t believe I am, since I don’t have any siblings,” Kevin limits himself to replying. He crouches down to meet the child’s stare, eyeing his tulips from above his head. Kevin really needs to get that vase soon; it’s not good for them to be out in the open like this. “Can you tell me your name? Why are you here? Where are your parents?”

The little boy eyes him suspiciously. He answers none of Kevin’s questions, but he informs, “There was another little boy too.”

“Right. Well,” Kevin stumbles a bit, unsure of what to say — and what to believe in, even. Children often see things that aren’t there for adults; he does not want to see any manner of spirit today. Or any other day. “Can you go get him for me? Then I can help you figure out what you’re doing here.”

“What else… can I be doing here?” The child asks, frowning lightly. “This is a new home. They—at the last one, they didn’t want me. And I have to be somewhere.”

Recognition shivers through Kevin. “I see,” he replies past the lump in his throat. “I think I might understand. The—the little boy that you mentioned, did he have blue eyes? And, and red hair?”

Andrew crinkles his little nose. “Was orange, not red.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. “I understand it now.” Kevin’s thighs tremble too much for him to hold his crouch, so he sits back on his heels, kneeling at Andrew’s height. “How old are you? If you don’t mind.”

Andrew blinks at him for a moment too long before showing Kevin his spread palm — it is unbearably small, chubby, and quite pale, too. “I’m five,” he says.

And he is. He is five years old. He is very five years old by the looks of it, which is not the age Andrew Minyard should be, because before Kevin left for his garden, he was pretty sure the Andrew he left behind was twenty-one.

“You’re five. Okay. That makes sense. Of course,” Kevin babbles, having gone half-stupid from shock. That this could be happening to him — that it could be happening to them again, after Kevin had spent a week of last month being six years old and with no recollection of it. What kind of rotten cosmic joke is this? “I see. Okay, well, let me just—” He rubs a hand across his face. “Hello, I’m Kevin. I am a collegiate athlete. That means I play Exy for a university. Have you heard of it?”

“Exy is on the TV all the time,” Andrew counters, but it seems to be all that he knows. He looks a little hesitant before he nods; tight and anxious. “Hi. I’m Andrew Doe.”

Without a surname makes one a John Doe. Kevin’s heart squeezes. “Hello, Andrew,” he greets, trying to work his face into something gentler. “I understand what you mean now. You called it a new home, correct? It’s not like that. I think what happened here is…”

“Do you work for my father?” A small voice cuts Kevin’s sentence short. He whips his head around to meet a boy a good few inches taller than Andrew leaning against the doorway of their bedroom, his hair a light ginger. When Kevin’s eyes meet his, Neil — Nathaniel? — hunches in on himself in self-reproach, placing little hands in front of his head. “Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

Kevin blinks. “No,” he answers, softening his voice. This is—this is not the time to doubt whether gentleness is achievable or not; this is the time to force it until it breaks, or until it gives. “I don’t work for your father. I’ve never even met him before.”

Neil pales. Perhaps the idea that someone does not know his father seems outlandish when Neil has been raised under his dominion — Kevin is sure it feels that way, for Neil to look so stricken. Often when you are this small and your parents are the overlords of your world, it feels strange to learn that they are not the end-all-be-all of everyone else’s.

Like a little tour guide, Andrew steps forward to explain, “I think you might be here because your mom and dad went away and children have to live somewhere.”

…Of course, being five years old, his understanding of the situation is about as good as Kevin had expected. Andrew’s explanation of the foster system is fairly good, all things considered, but too realistic for a child his age. He should, at least, still believe that they mean to find him a family instead of sending him from home to home because there is nowhere else for him to be.

Neil pales even further. “Is that true?”

“Is true. Is what happened to me.”

“Alright, alright,” Kevin intervenes at last, and two pairs of eyes turn to him; both hesitant in their own way. He coughs into his fist, deciding that honesty is the easiest route. “To be frank with both of you, I’m not sure why you’re here, either. But… thank you, Andrew, for trying to explain it.”

The little Andrew’s face does something unguarded and surprised before he looks away, blushing lightly.

Kevin keeps his eyes trained to his tulips. “I don’t know what happened for you to get here, but you’re welcome to stay until we can figure this out.”

He is eyed with suspicion from both sides. “I,” Neil shakily starts, the beginning of a meltdown creeping into his voice, “I want my mama. Where is she?”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin replies, and finds that he means it, “I don’t know. If I knew, I’d take you to her.”

He would do no such thing, but it is important to say it, anyway.

Springing upwards before Neil can bring out the waterworks, Kevin takes a few steps next to where he’d put aside his tulips and returns with one in each hand. “Here,” he says, kneeling to their height again. “Want a flower? I just got them from the garden.”

Andrew’s hand reaches for it, but does not bridge the distance, hesitant. Neil doesn’t even try to get it. “Flowers are for girls,” he tells Kevin.

“Hm. Do I look like a girl to you?”

“Yes.”

Kevin supposes that was a mistake on his part. It’s always the hair with children. “Well, I’m not,” he argues — argues! — with five-year-old Neil. “It’s very rude to not accept a gift.”

Neil eyes him, squinting quietly. He takes a few steps closer, looking more relaxed now that he’s figured Kevin is not working for his father. Coaxingly, Kevin offers one of the tulips in his direction — the bigger one, standing proud and yellow and delicate. It took a great effort for them to look this healthy. “These are called golden ladies. They’re perennials — that means they grow no matter the season. I plant them myself.”

A little hand curls around the stem of the smallest of Kevin’s tulips, catching it with all the clumsy delicacy of children who have yet to learn a finer touch. Letting Andrew take it, Kevin's mouth twitches. “Don’t worry about thorns, there’s none.”

He doesn’t mention the eco-system smasher Kevin had accidentally become in the process. Hopefully, no one notices the terrifying increase of tulips in Palmetto for the upcoming springs.

Andrew doesn’t answer him, eyes trained to the tulip. The yellow of the inner petals matches the pale of his hair; makes him look more flower than child. Sweet, sweet boy.

Kevin turns back to Neil. “Won’t you take it even if you don’t like them? I don’t have a vase yet. I’m afraid they’ll just rot if you don’t take them.” This is a lie — but it’s a fair one. Children shouldn’t be so restrained.

The idea of imminent destruction seems to convince Neil to walk the distance between himself and Kevin to take the flower in his little hand. He says nothing. Kevin can’t tell if he likes it at all — he’s so put-upon.

A little hand flutters in the general direction of Kevin’s head. “Why is your hair…” Andrew asks.

“What? Long?” The child nods. “What’s wrong about it?”

“It shouldn’t be like this.”

Well, that’s rude. Kevin huffs softly under his breath, absent-mindedly combing his fingers through his hair. “When I was a little over your age, I had a friend — a brother — who liked my hair like this. I think I just grew used to it.”

It’s not the full story, of course. He can’t tell them about Riko, and how much of his preferences Kevin had taken as law out of admiration, at first, then fear, later on. He can’t explain, either, that his hair staying this way is his own way of mourning — a childhood left unfinished, a little boy abused into the insanity of Riko’s final years, brotherhood yet to be tainted by blood and jealousy. Children this young can’t tell Kevin carries all the marks of the grieving.

“Oh,” Andrew replies. He looks like he wants to ask some more, but he doesn’t.

“I can teach you how to braid it later, if you want,” Kevin offers. He has not even a sliver of a clue about what children should do in their free time. In his time, his mother took him all around the world during her trips, which didn’t usually leave Kevin much time for playing; then, after she died, Exy consumed most of his time between little league and Tetsuji’s endurance bootcamp. “It’s a useful skill. You can impress your future wife with it.”

He knows well enough that Andrew is never, ever going to get a wife; still, Kevin knows no other way to frame the importance — or, rather, mask the lack thereof — of this to him.

Andrew nods politely. He, for one, is taking this much better than Neil seems to be — for good reason, Kevin imagines. Already registered in the foster system, Andrew must be used to adapting to new homes, new siblings, new adults with an eccentric knack for gardening and haircare. He’s indulging Kevin. A five-year-old!

“Well,” Kevin clears his throat, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Are you hungry? It should be almost lunchtime.”

No answer. It’s almost like dealing with the adults Andrew and Neil again.

Lunch is bland and unimaginative; Kevin follows the recipe obsessively, unwilling to make children choke down trash. It’s one thing for their adult selves to indulge Kevin in his lack of culinary talent, but children don’t yet have the taste buds for experimental food, nor the desire to put up with their caretakers’ inability to cook. More than once he resists the urge to add more spice — or even more salt.

While he cooks, Kevin allows Andrew and Neil to get acquainted with each other. They talk quietly, eyeing the other with no less suspicion they eyed Kevin with, and seem happy to do their own thing. Skittish, for sure: but can they be blamed for it? Kevin doesn’t expect them to hit it off immediately, especially with Neil’s under-socialization. In the week or so Kevin should have them, it is likely they’ll progress on that front.

Polite like a trained dog, Andrew waits by the kitchen doorway to help Kevin with setting the table. He’s far too small for such a task — he’ll drop any glassware Kevin gives him. Still, unwilling to let the child feel useless, Kevin asks him to set some napkins and cutlery out. Yes, that should be enough.

“Thank you, Andrew,” he says when he is done finishing up on their plates. Looking at the portions, Kevin is inclined to think they are far too much for someone of their size, but he doubts either have had access to an unrestricted meal in quite a while. At their age, Kevin knows he hadn’t. “It is very kind of you to help with the table.”

Andrew tilts his head towards his food without comment. He is almost unnervingly polite. It’s not the Andrew Kevin knows, and the contrast feels scathing.

Despite the children’s best efforts, their meal is not quiet. Kevin is not good with children, but he likes to think he is good with Andrew and Neil — as good as one can be, anyway. He prompts them into conversation by asking questions about their interests, their lives, their routines; half of it is trying to figure out how to care for these two, and the other half is emulating a chewed-out memory of how Kayleigh used to talk to him.

She was never the kind of parent who baby-talked to Kevin. As soon as he was able to, she tried to engage him in conversation — however loose that concept can be for a five-year-old. Kayleigh, from what he remembers of her, had the ability to make anyone feel listened to; Kevin doesn’t remember ever doubting she cared for his childish babbling about toys and daycare, even if nostalgia had colored the memory a soft mouth-pink. He only wishes he would’ve gotten at least half of her social adeptness. From Kayleigh, all Kevin got was green eyes, a gaping hunger for success and an inescapable attraction to troubled men.

“I play Exy and I like books,” Kevin offers in trade for information. It’s — well, he doesn’t have many hobbies. The gardening and the cooking are a late product of much of Dr. Betsy Dobson’s insistence that Kevin must make something out of himself that isn’t Exy-related. “I like cooking but I’m not good at it. And I like gardening but it takes a lot of work so I don’t do it all the time.”

“It’s not that bad,” Andrew tells him, motioning to his food with small movements. He finished his plate in record time, inhaling Kevin’s poor attempt at a caesar salad like it’s a five stars meal. On the other hand, Neil is halfway through with his and looks done already. “Your food.”

“Not that bad?” Kevin tilts his head slightly, amused. He’ll take it, he supposes. “Thank you, Andrew.”

Hesitant, like perhaps he fears Kevin will be angry at him for it, Neil picks up the conversation where he left off to say, “I like… horses. But, um, like toys.”

“Horses, I see,” Kevin repeats, a bit hopeless. Children’s interests are so loose. “And what else?”

Neil flicks him a suspicious glare. “What else?”

“I gave you four of my interests. A conversation has to be equal.”

Looking as if Kevin had sprouted a second head right in front of him, Neil does not do as he is asked so much as he stares at Kevin, mouth open in a little o. Has no one asked this child what he likes before? It feels out of character for the Butcher of Baltimore, sure, but Neil’s mother had seemed to care for him, at least from what little Kevin had heard about her.

“No?” Kevin tries after a few moments of silence. “I’m just trying to be friends.”

“Why would you be my friend?” Neil asks, putting down his fork with surprising care; as if to ensure it makes no noise. Even his voice is small and unobtrusive, despite the words. “Adults and children aren’t friends. Adults want children to be quiet.”

Kevin hides a wince. He hadn’t imagined the Butcher of Baltimore, in all his serial killer glory, would have indulged his child in conversation — and by the way Neil acts, he could’ve guessed for himself that most of Neil’s childhood had been trying to stay out of his father’s way. But no one ever wants to assume the worst out of a loved one’s suffering; Kevin had held out hope there’d be at least a silver lining in Neil’s horror stories.

It is not unlike how Kevin and Riko were raised in the Nest, anyway. Their private tutors were stern, and despite much of their trying, there was no place for childhood in Evermore: they were told to keep quiet or else. The Master would often say that they were not to act like children — it hadn’t occurred to him up until now how cruel it is to forbid a child from being childish.

“Well, if I’m asking you, don’t you think I want to know?” Kevin argues. “Not all adults think the same thing. Do you think the same thing as every other child?”

A pause. Neil shakes his head, looking somewhat green, as if he had just realized what he said. From Kevin’s other side, Andrew stares anxiously.

Rubbing a hand through his face, Kevin slowly puts out, trying to enunciate his words as gentle as he can make them, “I am not angry that you spoke your mind. It makes sense, what you said.” He shakes his head a little. Only a few minutes in, and he’s already ruining it — Kevin’s no good for anything that doesn’t involve a racquet. “But I would not have asked if I didn’t want to know. Do you understand?”

A small, careful nod. Kevin will take whatever he can get.

“Good.” Kevin starts to gather the empty plates — his and Andrew’s —, and motions towards Neil’s half-finished one. “Do you not like it? I can make you something else, if you want.”

The sudden shift in conversation visibly vexes Neil, but, politely, he replies, “...Not hungry.”

From beside Kevin, Andrew flinches. Hurrying to dispel it, Kevin says, “It’ll be in the fridge in case you want it later.” Piling the plates into one of his hands, Kevin offers the other one to Andrew. “Come on, you didn’t get to tell me what you like during lunch.”

The child watches Kevin’s hand — the right one, smooth and unscarred if a little crooked from the years of gripping racquets — warily before accepting it, threading his little fingers through Kevin’s. His hand feels unimaginably small; so fragile it is a wonder it even exists. Kevin is reminded of the first time he saw a baby bird, back in Dublin: he’d told his mom he couldn’t tell if it was super ugly or super cute. She’d laughed for what felt like an eternity after.

Still sitting politely at the table, Neil watches their joined hands, frowning. Kevin can’t tell what he’s thinking — wouldn’t be able to even with an adult Neil —, but the face he makes claws at his heart. “N—” not his name, “ah, do you want to come with?”

Thus invited, Neil follows them into the kitchen. Kevin washes the dishes and listens as Andrew tells him, a little shyly, that he likes Sesame Street, street cats (“Really?” Kevin asks. “Aren’t their claws a little scary?” to which Andrew seems to lose some respect for him on the spot), chocolate and amusement parks, when he is allowed to go. It's a fairly common list — Kevin didn’t know what he expected a five-year-old version of Andrew to like. Something a little more unorthodox, perhaps.

But children are the same everywhere, at any point. Andrew soaks up the attention Kevin gives him, happy to answer all questions, if a little insecure on why Kevin would be asking them. Knowing where Andrew was at this age, he doesn’t doubt it’s been a while an adult has actually spoken to him with some level of care for what he has to say: when was the last time Andrew has actually felt companionship? Someone who hears what he says and asks questions about it?

It feels sacrilegious to stop now. Already out of dishes to clean, Kevin scrubs and re-scrubs their plates until his hands ache as he asks Andrew questions, not unaware of Neil’s watching eyes.

“And how is it? California?” Kevin asks. The next thing he says is a bold-faced lie, because he’s visited Jean before, but he still says it. “I’ve never been. I heard it’s beautiful.”

He’s heard no such thing. Jean seems to think California is where meaningful art goes to die, but he can’t tell Andrew that.

“Is okay,” Andrew tells him, propped up on a stool next to Kevin. His little legs swing mindlessly. “The traffic — there’s traffic. And Disneyland.”

“You’ve been?” He asks again.

“Oh, um, no.”

It’s expected. “I have not either,” Kevin relates, making it sound like a bigger woe than it really is. His hands are rubbed raw at this point, and the soap pricks at the skin of his palms — soon, he’ll have to stop. Just a little more. “I don’t think I’d like it, either way.”

Andrew watches him curiously. “Why?”

“I don’t like crowds.” It’s not as easy as that, but Kevin leaves it as it is. The prickling sensation of the soap starts to crawl up his wrist, and he decides it is time to stop. Drying his hands off on a nearby cloth, Kevin prompts, “How about some dessert?”

It is the first time he’s ever said those words, and they horrify him, but the quickly-hidden flash of interest in Andrew’s face is worth breaking his streak for. From the stool beside Andrew, Neil frowns lightly. This child is too serious — Kevin tries to remember if he was like this back in little league, but his memory is not the best after so many hits to the head.

He rummages through their freezer. Andrew’s adult self is fond of indulging — there are a few half-eaten ice cream cartons tucked beneath frozen peas and other such vegetables, though most of them are flavored a cherry liqueur Kevin will most certainly not feed to children. Scavenging further he is able to retain a sealed chocolate carton, the frost covering it making his fingertips tingle.

This has to be too frozen to eat. Helpless, Kevin turns to look at the two five-year-olds as if they have a better idea. It’s weird, now, to be the person Andrew and Neil look to for answers — Kevin is used to it being the other way around. He is caught thinking that he’ll probably struggle in the coming days, without his two little shadows making life easier for him.

“I think if I microwave it a little bit, nothing’s going to happen,” Kevin mumbles to himself, aware that he is not inspiring much respect as an authority figure. He’s no Andrew, after all: Kevin’s still himself, despite all his best efforts to be someone else.

The ice cream loses some of its original texture in the microwave, but, if anything, Andrew seems to enjoy it as Kevin passes him a bowl. Neil does not accept one himself, politely saying he doesn't like sweets, and the lack of attitude from him is disturbing. Kevin is used to Neil being a force of nature — seeing him this quiet, this contained, is not easy. It makes him think of the iron-shaped scar on his adult self’s chest. All that dead skin.

Unwilling to let him be left out, Kevin cuts some slices of apple for him, which Neil takes with some degree of gratefulness. The little boys settle in front of the TV while Kevin manages to find a children’s channel, looking small on their ratty dorm carpet. Kevin isn’t sure children should be this small in the first place — he’s not sure if they are little because of genetics, or neglect. How much can you hurt a child until they disappear?

Kevin sits himself with them, cross-legged. He is too old to see the appeal of children’s television, so most of it is watching them from the corner of his eye and finding out what to say to Aaron to get him to come and help.

You 14:36

Hello. I think whatever happened to me last month just happened to Andrew and Neil.

As in, they have turned into five-year-olds. If you’ve forgotten.

When there is no immediate response, Kevin huffs to himself and snatches a picture of their two little heads pending towards each other, deep in conversation about the show they are watching. Kevin is, at least, relieved to see them interacting at all: Andrew might have been to kindergarten already, but Neil has always been undersocialized, all tutors and nannies. If Kevin can’t be his friend, then at least Andrew can.

The picture gets him a quicker answer.

Aaron 14:45

what the fuck what the fuck what the ufck

why doe sthis keep fucking happening to you

Like it’s his fault!

You 14:45

This is not the kind of thing I can control.

They are good children. Polite. Easier to deal with than I was, I wager. But I need you to come and help.

Aaron 14:47

why should i

what makes you think i could help you

You 14:49

Because he is your brother.

Before Kevin can read Aaron’s answer, something hooks on his hair. Looking down, he finds Andrew’s hand hanging a few inches away from it, alarmed and wide-eyed at being caught. Behind him, Neil looks just as queasy, as if this had been their joint effort.

“Can I help you?” Kevin asks, raising his eyebrow a little. When he gets no response, he concedes, "You can touch. Don’t tug or pull. And keep it away from your mouth.”

No response. Kevin doubles down, “It’s really fine. Here.” He pulls his hair out of its low ponytail, letting it curtain down his shoulders and back. It’s not often he lets his hair down like this — it can be too much of a hassle. Kevin ought to cut it one day, but the thought still makes him a little sick to think of. “As long as you’re careful.”

An hesitant little hand inches closer and closer, still warily watching out for Kevin’s reaction. When Andrew finds no resistance, he combs little fingers down the length of Kevin’s hair, faint and amazed. He’s not very gentle — children are too clumsy for it, still, and there is some tugging. It doesn’t hurt, though. Kevin allows it.

Resigning himself to being played with, Kevin gives them his back, leaning his elbow against the couch. Another pair of little hands clutches at a chunk of hair, and he knows Andrew has convinced Neil to get in on their impromptu hairdresser salon. At least they’re playing, Kevin consoles himself as he feels a pull on his scalp. At least they’re getting along.

“I have hair ribbons on my desk,” he offers, knowing what he is setting himself up to and still going through with it. “Colorful ones. Satin. Would you like to see them?”

A pause on the tugging. “Really?” That was Neil.

“Yes. But I’ll have to get up to get them.”

“I can do it,” Andrew tells him, the ever-helpful little waiter. He’s so polite — Kevin wonders if they taught him there is a higher chance of getting adopted if you treat the foster parents with subservience. Probably. “Where is it?”

“Andrew, it’s fine—”

“I’ll do it. He’s still playing, so I’ll do it.”

So kind, giving Neil time to play by himself. Kevin, helplessly charmed, would allow him anything. “Okay. Thank you.” Motioning vaguely in the direction of their desks, he says, “It’s the one with the shelves on top of it. Yes, that one, with the books. Be careful not to hit your head!” Watching Andrew narrowly duck under a shelf gives Kevin half an aneurysm, but the child seems no less interested in his quest. “First drawer. There. Did you find it?”

“Yes,” Andrew replies, shoving a chubby fist into the drawer and pulling out a handful of hair ribbons, all different colors and sizes. There was an organization system to it, and his careless pulling has clearly ruined it. A little disheartened, Kevin doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “This?”

“Yes. Please keep the drawer closed.”

The drawer snaps shut, and Andrew makes his way back to them, freshly acquired ribbons falling over his fingers and wrist in colorful flops. Kevin doesn’t see him sit back down, but he feels Andrew’s hand on his hair again. “Why do you have shelves?” Neil asks after a few moments of silence, their hands working ribbons in his hair via extremely clumsy braiding. “Um, just you, I mean. The others are empty.”

That he’s asking anything seems like a blessing, when the child is so quiet. “My—” Kevin hesitates. How to even describe it? “My… friend built them for me. The shelves. He got annoyed at me for leaving my books everywhere.”

It’s true. Just as Kevin loathes Andrew’s habit of leaving his cigarettes anywhere, so does Andrew loathe Kevin’s astray book piles across the living room, left half-read or unfinished in his haste to get to class or practice. The shelves had been less of a compromise and more of a surprise: one day, they were simply sitting above his desk like they’ve always been there. Kevin never asked Andrew if he built them, but he figured the wood splinters on his fingers were reason enough. It took a lot of arguing for Andrew to take them out the right way, instead of just letting the splinters break on their own.

“Oh,” Andrew says, entirely unaware of the story being about his older self and focused on tying a bow on Kevin’s hair. “Where is he?”

“There’s two of them, actually. They’re away for work.” Kevin leans his head closer when the tugging starts to get a little painful. “What are you doing back there, anyway?”

“It’s pretty,” Neil murmurs, defending his work. Kevin doubts it is, but he’s happy to even have the little Neil’s attention at all.

“You know how to braid?” He asks, trying to steal a look and getting his head gently moved back by Andrew. “By the way, what’s your name? You haven’t said.”

Neil hesitates, hands freezing. Kevin keeps talking, “Whatever you want to be called.”

“Um,” Neil thinks on it for a moment. He seems to be rolling Kevin’s hair nervously around his fingers now; a nervous fidget. “My—my dad calls me Junior, but my mom calls me Nat—Nathaniel.”

He doesn’t say it like he enjoys being called either.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” Kevin tilts his head in acknowledgement, because he wasn’t raised in a barn. “I’m Kevin. It’s nice to meet you.”

Shy little thing he is, Nathaniel doesn’t answer.

The children play with Kevin’s hair for a few more minutes before losing interest, leaving him a mess of ribbons and tangles he decides not to deal with for now. He imagines they should be put to sleep soon — children this small sleep in the afternoon, do they not? At their age, Kevin is sure he had to be made to nap one way or another, what with his mother’s hectic schedule. It’s a bit of a parenting cop-out, he is aware, but… Kevin could use a nap himself. Sure the children do, too.

He makes a show out of yawning behind his palm. Two pairs of eyes turn to him, neither particularly moved by his display. Tough crowd.

“Maybe we can all take a nap,” Kevin suggests. Nothing.

#asks #kandreil #my writing #thisis very scuffed i did some minor editing but its seriously not good. dont perceive me

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