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Won’t You Leave Already? Pt2
“I’m not done yet. Stay still, Wirth.” Orter commanded, taking out his coat and pushing Wirth’s legs up. When he pulled out, the cum pooled inside, threatening to drip down Wirth’s legs. Instead, a large, thick buttplug was forced inside Wirth’s sensitive hole, the sensation enough to make his cock hard again.
“Wear it until the end of today.” Orter explained coolly, leaning down to kiss Wirth and stare with a cold gaze. “If you keep it inside you until then, I’ll fuck you again. Harder. Longer. Be a good boy and listen to your big brother.”
Wirth squirmed and panted, the warmth in his stomach pooling thickly as his thighs trembled, cock still beading precum at the tip. His legs wrapped tightly around Orter’s back, fingers clamping down hard into the white sheets as his foggy gaze was turned up to his brother. Letting out a whimper, Wirth panted and clamped his eyes shut firmly.
“Whatever. Not like I can’t do that, that’s easy.” He snipped, though the thickness shifting inside him made it hard to think straight. When Orter pulled away, collecting his clothes from the floor, Wirth sat up slowly, hand on his full stomach as cum pooled around the plug inside him. The feeling made him lightheaded already, though he also moved shakily to collect his own clothes. He cleaned off his mess with a moist towel and dressed himself, turning to his already dressed brother still noticeably flushed.
“Yes, I’m sure it should be no problem for someone of your caliber. Good luck out there, little brother.” Orter chuckled, eyes fixed on Wirth as he pushed up his glasses with his middle finger. The sun glinted over them as they moved up, momentarily blinding Orter. “Don’t be late to your after lunch classes. I have work to do.” He straightened his tie and buttoned his coat, trying to appear as well kept as before.
“Yeah, it’s whatever.” Wirth breathed, though his legs were still trembling slightly. Once he dressed himself again, finding a clean, fresh shirt from his drawer, he unsteadily started his way back to his classes. Stepping into the math room, Wirth found his seat, the seat he 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 sat in, and shakily sat down, tensing slightly and covering his face as he shifted hotly in his seat.
The whole lesson went by so painstakingly slowly, it felt like Wirth might never leave that seat. When the bell finally did ring again, he didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Rushing past the other members of the Magia Lupes, Wirth hardly registered them as he moved to find his next class. As he sat down in his spells class, the chair under him felt harder somehow, pushing in all the wrong ways. The thick sloshing inside him made movement near impossible without trembling like a fool. The red flush had yet to leave his cheeks as the idea of Orter’s prize for his current suffering.
Thinking about having sex with his own brother was wrong. He shouldn’t have been so excited to do something so unthinkable to most, but the idea was too enticing, it had Wirth shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Spells went by a little faster, though he still had one more class before the end of the day. Not to mention his meeting after school. Glancing at the clock, Wirth packed his bag and left just as the bell rang, hurrying dizzily down the halls as the cum filling his insides was jostled carelessly.
Time crept by slowly, his day playing out slower than usual as lust built yo deep in his chest. Once the sun had finally set, Wirth found himself standing in front of the door to Orter’s room. Without hesitation, he shoved the door open, an obvious flush on his cheeks as he clutched tightly onto his brother’s vest.
“I did what you asked. Keep your promise, don’t be a liar. You said I would get a treat, and I want it. I need it.” He whimpered, already grinding his erection against Orter’s thighs. Hands wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him in closer as Orter’s lips moved close to Wirth’s ear.
“So impatient, you really need me to fuck you that bad? Greedy little thing, aren’t you. Don’t worry, little brother. I’m not a liar, I keep my word. I’ll give you your treat.” Orter started, tipping up Wirth’s head as their lips locked together. It only took a moment for the soft kiss to heat up, tongues crashing together as they fell back onto the bed. Orter pinned Wirth under him, restraining his hands over his head as their lips hovered close again.
“Bet you were thinking about me all day, you impatient boy. Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you good. Such an obedient boy deserves his treats.” Orter mouthed, kissing Wirth and licking into his mouth as his pants were shimmied down. Pulling away, Orter tore off Wirth’s pants quickly, throwing them to the ground as he pulled his ass up more. After removing the plug from inside his younger brother, Orter began to lick away all the cum inside Wirth, slurping and lapping vigorously.
“Ah! Orter- wait, that tickles! Ah- so hot…” he started, drool dripping down his lips as he wrapped his legs tightly around his older brother’s head. His eyes rolled back slightly as his insides were cleaned, a tight knot of heat already tightening quickly as the warmth of Orter’s tongue continued to prod.
When cum shot from Wirth’s throbbing erection, he couldn’t help the slutty noise he made, crying out desperately to his own brother.
Orter pulled away, licking his lips as Wirth’s legs dropped onto the bed. He fiddled with his own belt buckle, trying to pry it loose as he shimmied out of his pants and dropped them onto the floor. His larger hands moved up Wirth’s shirt, cupping his brother’s chest as their hips were lined up. Impatiently, Orter pressed the tip of his cock into his brother’s gaping, pulsing hole, pressing the hard length into the tight heat of his younger brother’s stretched ass.
Wirth’s muscles tensed, a familiar stretch filled his body as a small bump pressed through the skin of his stomach. Tears dripped down his cheeks, cock leaking precum as their hips settled together. “Please-“ Wirth started, eyes filled with hot, wet tears as the anticipation grew. “I did what you asked, now hurry up and give me my reward! I deserve it, I’ve been good, big brother, please… hurry this shit up!” drool dripped down the corner of his mouth as his hips shifted back and forth uncomfortably, heat burning hotly through his loins as he squirmed impatiently.
“Relax, Wirth. You need to calm down, I’ll only move when you’re still and relaxed.” Orter explained, his own chest heaving slightly as he pulled one hand down to his brother’s hips to steady him. “Don’t be a brat now, Wirth. Just take my hand and relax.” Their fingers interlocked as Wirth’s hips stuttered and trembled.
Wirth’s hands clutched tightly to the white sheets below him, chest heaving still as he tried to force himself to relax. The anticipation was killing him slowly, but Orter was older, more experienced, and a control freak. Whatever he said was going, simply thanks to his control-hungry brother. Once he finally relaxed as best he could, the hands from his chest ran down his sides, a few tears dripping down his cheeks.
A hard grip held his hips, the slow movements from Orter making Wirth’s heart pound harder, his neglected cock leaking precum as the hard length pressed back into him slowly.
“Damn,” Orter rasped, jaw visibly clenched and cheeks flushed a bright pink, “you’re so tight, even still.”
“What, can’t handle me?” Wirth blurted out before he even realized what he said, legs wrapping tightly around Orter’s waist as he pulled the older man down again. “Show me what kind of power The Sand Pillar has.”
Wirth’s sassy, brattiness only whiddled away at Orter’s self control. His grip tightened, one hand moving up to press against his younger brother’s throat, gently pressed on his Adam’s apple and staring coldly, those piercing yellow eyes staring dangerously at the younger man.
“You really like to test my nerves, boy. You want to see power? 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳.” Their lips grazed as Orter spoke unnervingly calmly. In a matter of moments, Wirth’s lips were captured again, their tongues sliding and moving together as the slow pace was abandoned.
Skin slapped loudly in the room, muffled moans and cries coming from Wirth as his brother pounded into him with reckless abandon. Tears gushed from his eyes, drool dribbling down his chin as the harsh thrusts shook his glasses, skewing them to the side. The kiss was snapped off, Wirth pulling back with a gasp and sobs, crying out his own brother’s name as his saliva continued to dribble down his chin. The hand lingering by his throat suddenly wrapped around his neck, holding firmly enough to restrict blood flow to his brain just right.
As he whimpered and sobbed, Wirth felt the heat in his stomach start to tie tight, anticipation building faster and faster with each rough, deep thrust from his brother.
“Such a lustful thing, are you? Look at you, sobbing on my cock like this. I never knew you were 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 easy. And the beautiful faces you’re making, it’s making it hard to control myself.” Orter’s free hand hooked around Wirth’s thigh, pulling him in with each thrust forcing sobs of ecstasy from the younger man.
In a blur of white hot pleasure, cum shot from Wirth’s dripping cock, painting a unique portrait of love all along his stomach. Even still, Orter’s movements didn’t slow or stop at all. The flood of sensations made Wirth’s sensitive body process every bit of pleasure ten fold, a fresh flood of tears dripping down his cheeks as their lips connected again.
Wirth’s hands were buried in the white sheets, head spinning in confusion as his legs trembled hard, each harsh thrust from his brother shaving away all thoughts that could have been formed. As Orter’s tongue pressed into Wirth’s mouth, he couldn’t keep quiet, eyes rolled back as his older brother fucked into him ruthlessly.
When Orter’s pace began to falter, Wirth’s stomach was already in tight knots, his grey eyes glazed over with lust as he whimpered his brother’s name desperately.
“Fuck, your face is so perfect.” His grip around Wirth’s throat tightened slightly. “I wish I could see you like this all the time. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺~”
Wirth couldn’t help himself, a sudden flame burning up all the knots as cum splattered along his chest and stomach again, his sobs surely loud enough for the whole school to hear. When Wirth clenched around Orter, he groaned and thrust deep into the younger man, filling his tight ass with a flood of his seed.
For a moment, both parties were still, catching their breaths while Wirth tried to reel himself in, still dizzy from the intense workout.
“What do you think of my reward? The answer seems pretty clear to me.” Orter smirked, staring down at his wrecked masterpiece. “Based on how loud you were screaming my name, you must’ve liked it a fair bit.”
When Orter pulled out, cum pooled on his sheets, the sticky white substance seeping into white covers of his bed.
“S-Shut up…” Wirth gasped, still struggling to compose himself as he stared up at his older brother. “It’s not like you would know what I think… but to be honest, we should do this more.”
Orter pushed up his glasses, standing up promptly and moving to the bathroom. Wirth remained laying in bed, still trembling as he really considered their actions. When Orter returned, he bore a damp towel, gently cleaning up the cum from his brother, insides and out.
“You can rest here tonight, but I prefer if you dress.” Orter muttered as he cleaned, being sure not to be too rough. “You did very well today, Wirth. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, but I kinda needed this. Thank you…” Wirth muttered begrudgingly, gaze shifting back up to his brother. With a heavy sigh, Wirth stood, pulling off his glasses and tiredly dressing himself enough. When he laid back down on Orter’s bed, it didn’t take long for him to doze off.
Orter, moving to lay down, stared at the peaceful sleeping face of his brother, planting a small kiss on his forehead.
“Sleep well, Wirth. You did good today.” | Won’t You Leave Already? Pt2
“I’m not done yet. Stay still, Wirth.” Orter commanded, taking out his coat and pushing Wirth’s legs up. When he pulled out, the cum pooled inside, threatening to drip down Wirth’s legs. Instead, a large, thick buttplug was forced inside Wirth’s sensitive hole, the sensation enough to make his cock hard again.
“Wear it until the end of today.” Orter explained coolly, leaning down to kiss Wirth and stare with a cold gaze. “If you keep it inside you until then, I’ll fuck you again. Harder. Longer. Be a good boy and listen to your big brother.”
Wirth squirmed and panted, the warmth in his stomach pooling thickly as his thighs trembled, cock still beading precum at the tip. His legs wrapped tightly around Orter’s back, fingers clamping down hard into the white sheets as his foggy gaze was turned up to his brother. Letting out a whimper, Wirth panted and clamped his eyes shut firmly.
“Whatever. Not like I can’t do that, that’s easy.” He snipped, though the thickness shifting inside him made it hard to think straight. When Orter pulled away, collecting his clothes from the floor, Wirth sat up slowly, hand on his full stomach as cum pooled around the plug inside him. The feeling made him lightheaded already, though he also moved shakily to collect his own clothes. He cleaned off his mess with a moist towel and dressed himself, turning to his already dressed brother still noticeably flushed.
“Yes, I’m sure it should be no problem for someone of your caliber. Good luck out there, little brother.” Orter chuckled, eyes fixed on Wirth as he pushed up his glasses with his middle finger. The sun glinted over them as they moved up, momentarily blinding Orter. “Don’t be late to your after lunch classes. I have work to do.” He straightened his tie and buttoned his coat, trying to appear as well kept as before.
“Yeah, it’s whatever.” Wirth breathed, though his legs were still trembling slightly. Once he dressed himself again, finding a clean, fresh shirt from his drawer, he unsteadily started his way back to his classes. Stepping into the math room, Wirth found his seat, the seat he 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 sat in, and shakily sat down, tensing slightly and covering his face as he shifted hotly in his seat.
The whole lesson went by so painstakingly slowly, it felt like Wirth might never leave that seat. When the bell finally did ring again, he didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Rushing past the other members of the Magia Lupes, Wirth hardly registered them as he moved to find his next class. As he sat down in his spells class, the chair under him felt harder somehow, pushing in all the wrong ways. The thick sloshing inside him made movement near impossible without trembling like a fool. The red flush had yet to leave his cheeks as the idea of Orter’s prize for his current suffering.
Thinking about having sex with his own brother was wrong. He shouldn’t have been so excited to do something so unthinkable to most, but the idea was too enticing, it had Wirth shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Spells went by a little faster, though he still had one more class before the end of the day. Not to mention his meeting after school. Glancing at the clock, Wirth packed his bag and left just as the bell rang, hurrying dizzily down the halls as the cum filling his insides was jostled carelessly.
Time crept by slowly, his day playing out slower than usual as lust built yo deep in his chest. Once the sun had finally set, Wirth found himself standing in front of the door to Orter’s room. Without hesitation, he shoved the door open, an obvious flush on his cheeks as he clutched tightly onto his brother’s vest.
“I did what you asked. Keep your promise, don’t be a liar. You said I would get a treat, and I want it. I need it.” He whimpered, already grinding his erection against Orter’s thighs. Hands wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him in closer as Orter’s lips moved close to Wirth’s ear.
“So impatient, you really need me to fuck you that bad? Greedy little thing, aren’t you. Don’t worry, little brother. I’m not a liar, I keep my word. I’ll give you your treat.” Orter started, tipping up Wirth’s head as their lips locked together. It only took a moment for the soft kiss to heat up, tongues crashing together as they fell back onto the bed. Orter pinned Wirth under him, restraining his hands over his head as their lips hovered close again.
“Bet you were thinking about me all day, you impatient boy. Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you good. Such an obedient boy deserves his treats.” Orter mouthed, kissing Wirth and licking into his mouth as his pants were shimmied down. Pulling away, Orter tore off Wirth’s pants quickly, throwing them to the ground as he pulled his ass up more. After removing the plug from inside his younger brother, Orter began to lick away all the cum inside Wirth, slurping and lapping vigorously.
“Ah! Orter- wait, that tickles! Ah- so hot…” he started, drool dripping down his lips as he wrapped his legs tightly around his older brother’s head. His eyes rolled back slightly as his insides were cleaned, a tight knot of heat already tightening quickly as the warmth of Orter’s tongue continued to prod.
When cum shot from Wirth’s throbbing erection, he couldn’t help the slutty noise he made, crying out desperately to his own brother.
Orter pulled away, licking his lips as Wirth’s legs dropped onto the bed. He fiddled with his own belt buckle, trying to pry it loose as he shimmied out of his pants and dropped them onto the floor. His larger hands moved up Wirth’s shirt, cupping his brother’s chest as their hips were lined up. Impatiently, Orter pressed the tip of his cock into his brother’s gaping, pulsing hole, pressing the hard length into the tight heat of his younger brother’s stretched ass.
Wirth’s muscles tensed, a familiar stretch filled his body as a small bump pressed through the skin of his stomach. Tears dripped down his cheeks, cock leaking precum as their hips settled together. “Please-“ Wirth started, eyes filled with hot, wet tears as the anticipation grew. “I did what you asked, now hurry up and give me my reward! I deserve it, I’ve been good, big brother, please… hurry this shit up!” drool dripped down the corner of his mouth as his hips shifted back and forth uncomfortably, heat burning hotly through his loins as he squirmed impatiently.
“Relax, Wirth. You need to calm down, I’ll only move when you’re still and relaxed.” Orter explained, his own chest heaving slightly as he pulled one hand down to his brother’s hips to steady him. “Don’t be a brat now, Wirth. Just take my hand and relax.” Their fingers interlocked as Wirth’s hips stuttered and trembled.
Wirth’s hands clutched tightly to the white sheets below him, chest heaving still as he tried to force himself to relax. The anticipation was killing him slowly, but Orter was older, more experienced, and a control freak. Whatever he said was going, simply thanks to his control-hungry brother. Once he finally relaxed as best he could, the hands from his chest ran down his sides, a few tears dripping down his cheeks.
A hard grip held his hips, the slow movements from Orter making Wirth’s heart pound harder, his neglected cock leaking precum as the hard length pressed back into him slowly.
“Damn,” Orter rasped, jaw visibly clenched and cheeks flushed a bright pink, “you’re so tight, even still.”
“What, can’t handle me?” Wirth blurted out before he even realized what he said, legs wrapping tightly around Orter’s waist as he pulled the older man down again. “Show me what kind of power The Sand Pillar has.”
Wirth’s sassy, brattiness only whiddled away at Orter’s self control. His grip tightened, one hand moving up to press against his younger brother’s throat, gently pressed on his Adam’s apple and staring coldly, those piercing yellow eyes staring dangerously at the younger man.
“You really like to test my nerves, boy. You want to see power? 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳.” Their lips grazed as Orter spoke unnervingly calmly. In a matter of moments, Wirth’s lips were captured again, their tongues sliding and moving together as the slow pace was abandoned.
Skin slapped loudly in the room, muffled moans and cries coming from Wirth as his brother pounded into him with reckless abandon. Tears gushed from his eyes, drool dribbling down his chin as the harsh thrusts shook his glasses, skewing them to the side. The kiss was snapped off, Wirth pulling back with a gasp and sobs, crying out his own brother’s name as his saliva continued to dribble down his chin. The hand lingering by his throat suddenly wrapped around his neck, holding firmly enough to restrict blood flow to his brain just right.
As he whimpered and sobbed, Wirth felt the heat in his stomach start to tie tight, anticipation building faster and faster with each rough, deep thrust from his brother.
“Such a lustful thing, are you? Look at you, sobbing on my cock like this. I never knew you were 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 easy. And the beautiful faces you’re making, it’s making it hard to control myself.” Orter’s free hand hooked around Wirth’s thigh, pulling him in with each thrust forcing sobs of ecstasy from the younger man.
In a blur of white hot pleasure, cum shot from Wirth’s dripping cock, painting a unique portrait of love all along his stomach. Even still, Orter’s movements didn’t slow or stop at all. The flood of sensations made Wirth’s sensitive body process every bit of pleasure ten fold, a fresh flood of tears dripping down his cheeks as their lips connected again.
Wirth’s hands were buried in the white sheets, head spinning in confusion as his legs trembled hard, each harsh thrust from his brother shaving away all thoughts that could have been formed. As Orter’s tongue pressed into Wirth’s mouth, he couldn’t keep quiet, eyes rolled back as his older brother fucked into him ruthlessly.
When Orter’s pace began to falter, Wirth’s stomach was already in tight knots, his grey eyes glazed over with lust as he whimpered his brother’s name desperately.
“Fuck, your face is so perfect.” His grip around Wirth’s throat tightened slightly. “I wish I could see you like this all the time. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺~”
Wirth couldn’t help himself, a sudden flame burning up all the knots as cum splattered along his chest and stomach again, his sobs surely loud enough for the whole school to hear. When Wirth clenched around Orter, he groaned and thrust deep into the younger man, filling his tight ass with a flood of his seed.
For a moment, both parties were still, catching their breaths while Wirth tried to reel himself in, still dizzy from the intense workout.
“What do you think of my reward? The answer seems pretty clear to me.” Orter smirked, staring down at his wrecked masterpiece. “Based on how loud you were screaming my name, you must’ve liked it a fair bit.”
When Orter pulled out, cum pooled on his sheets, the sticky white substance seeping into white covers of his bed.
“S-Shut up…” Wirth gasped, still struggling to compose himself as he stared up at his older brother. “It’s not like you would know what I think… but to be honest, we should do this more.”
Orter pushed up his glasses, standing up promptly and moving to the bathroom. Wirth remained laying in bed, still trembling as he really considered their actions. When Orter returned, he bore a damp towel, gently cleaning up the cum from his brother, insides and out.
“You can rest here tonight, but I prefer if you dress.” Orter muttered as he cleaned, being sure not to be too rough. “You did very well today, Wirth. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, but I kinda needed this. Thank you…” Wirth muttered begrudgingly, gaze shifting back up to his brother. With a heavy sigh, Wirth stood, pulling off his glasses and tiredly dressing himself enough. When he laid back down on Orter’s bed, it didn’t take long for him to doze off.
Orter, moving to lay down, stared at the peaceful sleeping face of his brother, planting a small kiss on his forehead.
“Sleep well, Wirth. You did good today.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77368101 | {"authors": ["Etch_a_Sketch"], "language": "English", "title": "Won’t You Leave Already? Pt2"} |
Deep behind the dark
The vampire king was less a man then he was a boy. Jason todd, green eyes, brown hair, and an undying love of pizza rolls. He was fifteen at the time. FIFTEEN. The worst night of his life was on his FIFTEENTH birthday. Maybe he should have been more careful, but what kid his age was?
-Chapter beginning-
Jason had woke up with a start, his mind already racing with excitement. He was fifteen today, he was ecstatic, more so, he was nervous. When he entered the kitchen. There was no one there. So what if his parents were at work? They'll probably be back for his birthday later. Hopefully. Anyway, he couldn't dwell on it too long, he had to get ready for school.
He checked the time and squeaked audibly. It was 7:20. He had ten minutes before his bus came. He almost choked himself with his shirt, and jumped into his pants. He grabbed a bagel and his backpack and he was out the door.
---------
While Jason is running to the bus stop, I should explain a few things. I'll start with his earlier childhood.
The earliest memory Jason has is when he was two. His parents were screaming at each other. They were fighting about money again. He remembered being scared, he remembered fearing that he would get hurt. Most of his childhood when on like this. It was until his sixth birthday that was. That was the day his mother brought home another man when his dad was at work. She made him watch. I won't go into detail now, but Jason grew up like that. He thought it was normal.
Another important thing was what Jason missed in his rush to get to school. There was a letter on the counter. If he had just had seen the letter, this wouldn't be the worst night of his life.
The letter was from his parents. The letter read something like this-
"Jason, this is your dad, I know I said I'd be home for your birthday, but there was an emergency at work. I should be home around five. About your mother... Please have a good day today, and please do NOT GO TO SCHOOL. I know It will seem dumb and not important now, but PLEASE just... STAY HOME. It's best for all of us. I love you, see you soon.
-dad"
----------
Oh! He made it to the bus stop, faster then I thought he would... Anyway, you will get to see just a really tiny bit into Jason's point of view soon ;3 | Deep behind the dark
The vampire king was less a man then he was a boy. Jason todd, green eyes, brown hair, and an undying love of pizza rolls. He was fifteen at the time. FIFTEEN. The worst night of his life was on his FIFTEENTH birthday. Maybe he should have been more careful, but what kid his age was?
-Chapter beginning-
Jason had woke up with a start, his mind already racing with excitement. He was fifteen today, he was ecstatic, more so, he was nervous. When he entered the kitchen. There was no one there. So what if his parents were at work? They'll probably be back for his birthday later. Hopefully. Anyway, he couldn't dwell on it too long, he had to get ready for school.
He checked the time and squeaked audibly. It was 7:20. He had ten minutes before his bus came. He almost choked himself with his shirt, and jumped into his pants. He grabbed a bagel and his backpack and he was out the door.
---------
While Jason is running to the bus stop, I should explain a few things. I'll start with his earlier childhood.
The earliest memory Jason has is when he was two. His parents were screaming at each other. They were fighting about money again. He remembered being scared, he remembered fearing that he would get hurt. Most of his childhood when on like this. It was until his sixth birthday that was. That was the day his mother brought home another man when his dad was at work. She made him watch. I won't go into detail now, but Jason grew up like that. He thought it was normal.
Another important thing was what Jason missed in his rush to get to school. There was a letter on the counter. If he had just had seen the letter, this wouldn't be the worst night of his life.
The letter was from his parents. The letter read something like this-
"Jason, this is your dad, I know I said I'd be home for your birthday, but there was an emergency at work. I should be home around five. About your mother... Please have a good day today, and please do NOT GO TO SCHOOL. I know It will seem dumb and not important now, but PLEASE just... STAY HOME. It's best for all of us. I love you, see you soon.
-dad"
----------
Oh! He made it to the bus stop, faster then I thought he would... Anyway, you will get to see just a really tiny bit into Jason's point of view soon ;3 | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77371221/chapters/202573276 | {"authors": ["Toomanyanimalz"], "language": "English", "title": "Deep behind the dark"} |
How to Get Your Dad a Girlfriend
Morning comes to Wayne Manor quietly.
Sunlight filters through tall windows, pale and orderly, touching polished wood and silverware laid out with practiced precision. Dick sits at the long table, feet swinging beneath his chair, cereal forgotten as his thoughts churn. He watches Alfred pour tea with the unhurried grace of a man who has seen everything and survived it with dignity.
“Alfred,” Dick asks suddenly, spoon paused mid-air, “how do you know when someone should be part of your family?”
Alfred doesn’t spill the tea. He doesn’t even blink.
Instead, he smiles—soft, knowing, like a man who has waited years for precisely this question.
“When they show up without being asked,” Alfred says gently, “and stay.”
Dick hums, filing that away. “That makes sense.”
He thinks for a moment longer, then adds, carefully casual, “Can dads have girlfriends?”
Alfred doesn’t pause pouring the tea. Not even a fraction of a second.
“They can,” he says evenly, “and often should.”
“Oh,” Dick says, brightening. “Okay.”
Alfred sets the teapot down and allows himself a small, private smile. “May I assume this inquiry is not hypothetical, Master Dick?”
Dick grins, wide and unapologetic. “Nope.”
That settles that.
The thought stays with him all day.
It follows him through school, through restless hours, through the slow build toward night. It sits in the back of his mind while he pulls on the Robin suit, while Gotham opens beneath him like a familiar map of shadows and light.
Later—much later—Robin slips away during patrol with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how far he can push before consequences arrive.
Sam’s balcony is familiar now, welcoming in a way rooftops rarely are. She lets him in with a fond look and a raised eyebrow.
“You’re here late.”
“Very important question,” Robin says solemnly, hopping onto a stool. “Emergency level.”
She humors him, of course. “All right, little bird. What is it?”
He hesitates this time, uncharacteristically careful. “If someone already has a dad,” he says slowly, testing each word, “is it okay to… add people?”
Sam doesn’t answer right away.
She studies him—not the mask, not the bravado—but the kid beneath it, earnest and hopeful and trying to build something that feels safe.
Then she smiles, soft and certain.
“Families aren’t math, little bird,” she says. “They grow.”
Something in Robin’s chest clicks into place.
He nods once, decisive. “Okay.”
That seals it.
By the time he slips back into the night, already plotting patrol routes with renewed purpose, Dick Grayson is absolutely certain of one thing:
This is how families begin.
And once Dick has identified a problem, he doesn’t overthink it.
He doesn’t think of it as matchmaking.
That would imply romance, and romance is messy and unpredictable and full of feelings that adults insist on overcomplicating.
Dick thinks of it as problem-solving.
He arrives at the conclusion very logically.
B is his dad.
Dads should not be alone.
That’s just a fact. Even kids know that.
Sam makes soup and smiles at B like he’s human, not a weapon or a warning sign. She talks to him like he’s allowed to exist outside the cowl.
Therefore:
Problem.
Solution.
Obvious.
Dick notices things.
He notices how B stands a little straighter when Sam talks, like his body remembers how to be seen. How his shoulders ease when she laughs. How he listens—actually listens—instead of half-monitoring the city for threats.
He notices that Sam isn’t intimidated by the suit—or the man inside it. She doesn’t flinch at the shadow, doesn’t tiptoe around the silence. She treats him like someone worth being gentle with.
Dick remembers Alfred mentioning once, very casually, that Batman “could use more people who aren’t afraid of him.”
Dick hadn’t fully understood it then.
He does now.
He loves how Sam calls him little bird—light, affectionate, easy—like Alfred says Master Dick. Like love wrapped in words that pretend to be casual.
So Dick files all of it away.
Evidence.
Patterns.
Data points.
B = Dad.
Sam = Safe.
Safe + Dad = ???
His brain doesn’t hesitate.
Family.
The conclusion settles comfortably, like it was always meant to be there.
And if families grow, then growth requires proximity. Time. Opportunity.
Which means—
Adjustments.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would raise suspicion. Just good planning.
Because Robin doesn’t push. He optimizes.
That’s how patrol routes start ending near Sam’s block.
Coincidentally.
It’s subtle at first. Barely noticeable. A turn taken a block later than necessary. A rooftop pause that just happens to overlook her building. Robin presents it all with professional seriousness, like he’s filing a report instead of nudging fate.
Because from Robin’s point of view, this isn’t interference.
It’s logistics.
And really—
that’s just good problem-solving.
Which is why, when they land on a familiar fire escape a few nights later, Robin doesn’t feel even a little guilty.
He crouches at the edge, cape settling around him, and peers down at the street below with the seriousness of someone performing a public service.
“Strange spike in crime here, B,” he says solemnly.
Batman scans the area automatically—alleys, doorways, rooftops—the rhythm of the city laid out like a familiar equation. The street is quiet. Peaceful, even.
Robin watches him work, satisfied.
“…There’s a bakery,” he says at last.
“Exactly,” Robin replies, nodding gravely. “Criminals love bakeries.”
Batman gives him a look.
Robin continues, undeterred. “Flour-based operations. High foot traffic. Emotional vulnerability due to pastries.”
“…You’re reaching.”
“I’m being vigilant.”
They move on—but not far. Another rooftop. Another pause. Robin checks his wrist like he’s tracking something critical.
“Suspicious calm,” he says. “Textbook.”
Batman exhales slowly through his nose and says nothing.
Sam starts seeing them more often.
Sometimes from her window. Sometimes from her balcony, catching flashes of red and green and a dark silhouette perched like a watchful shadow against the night. Batman never lingers long—never waves, never signals—but he’s there. Close. Watching the city. Watching her block.
He keeps pretending it’s a coincidence.
It isn’t.
Robin lands a little closer every time. Batman pretends not to notice. Pretends he isn’t adjusting routes just enough to make it defensible. Pretends he doesn’t look toward her building before moving on.
One night, as they prepare to leave the area, Robin glances back with a satisfied hum.
“Neighborhood’s safe.”
“For now,” Batman replies.
Sam watches them disappear into the dark, smiling to herself.
And Batman tells himself this is about patrol patterns.
It isn’t.
Which is probably why, a few nights later, Robin decides subtlety is overrated.
They’re perched on a gargoyle three blocks from Sam’s apartment, the city sprawling beneath them like a living map. Wind tugs at their capes. Gotham glows in fractured light and shadow. It’s a perfectly normal patrol stop.
Which is exactly why Robin clears his throat.
“B,” he says, pointing with exaggerated casualness, “did you know Sam lives… right there?”
Batman doesn’t follow the gesture. Doesn’t even turn his head.
“You’ve mentioned it.”
“Just making sure it stuck,” Robin replies pleasantly. He swings his legs, heels knocking lightly against stone. “She also makes really good soup.”
Silence.
The good kind. The dangerous kind.
“…Like,” Robin adds thoughtfully, “really good.”
Batman remains immobile, a statue carved out of willpower.
“And she’s nice.”
More silence.
“And she isn’t scared of you.”
That does it.
Batman finally looks at him. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of look that has ended criminal careers.
“Robin.”
“I’m just saying,” Robin insists, hands up in innocent surrender. “If we’re already in the neighborhood—”
“We are not here for soup.”
Robin tilts his head, considering. “But we could be.”
Batman turns away, cape snapping as he faces the city again. His jaw tightens. His shoulders set.
Robin grins into the wind.
Ten minutes later, Batman is standing on Sam’s balcony.
Again.
He’s holding a sealed container with both hands like it might suddenly accuse him of something. Robin crouches on the railing behind him, eyes sharp, posture intent—like a general overseeing a critical operation.
Sam steps back inside, smiling like she knew this would happen.
“Tell him to eat it warm,” she says, nodding toward Robin.
Batman inclines his head. “I will.”
Robin beams. Radiant. Victorious.
As they step back into the night, Robin leans in, stage-whispering,
“See? Soup patrol.”
Batman says nothing.
But he doesn’t give the container back.
Robin notices immediately.
Of course he does.
He notices the weight of it, the way Batman adjusts his grip mid-leap so it won’t slosh. Notices that it stays tucked securely against his side instead of getting handed off or stashed somewhere convenient. Notices—most importantly—that Batman does not say anything about it.
Robin adds that to the list.
Exhibit A: Soup Retained.
They move across rooftops in silence, but it’s different now. Not the usual tactical quiet. This one hums. Batman’s mind is clearly elsewhere, which is hilarious, because usually it takes an alien invasion to accomplish that.
Robin’s grin widens.
He’s not matchmaking, obviously. That would imply meddling.
This is strategic encouragement.
The next night, ending patrol near Sam’s block isn’t even creative anymore. It’s precedent. Established behavior. Practically tradition.
Batman doesn’t object.
Robin internally does a victory lap.
They land on a rooftop with a clear view of Sam’s building. The kitchen light is on. Robin doesn’t point it out. That would be gauche. He just waits.
Batman scans the area, thorough as ever.
“Area’s clear.”
Robin nods, like this was in doubt. “Extremely clear.”
They stay.
Robin pretends not to notice how long they stay.
Eventually, gravity—and Robin’s unstoppable sense of purpose—wins.
They drop down to the balcony.
Sam greets them like this is normal. Like vigilantes appearing after midnight is just another Tuesday. Robin clocks how Batman’s shoulders drop about half an inch at the sound of her voice.
Exhibit B: Posture Softening.
Robin files that away under Promising Developments.
Inside, it’s warm. Not just temperature-wise. Emotionally. Robin is very aware of emotional temperature now. He’s practically an expert.
He positions himself where he can see Batman’s face clearly. This is important. Angles matter.
Sam talks. Batman listens.
Actually listens.
No scanning. No half-turn toward the window. Just focus.
Robin watches like he’s at the best show Gotham has ever produced.
When Sam teases Batman—gently, like she’s testing a theory—
And Batman answers—flat, controlled, but present, choosing engagement instead of retreat—
Robin’s grin turns feral.
Exhibit C: Voluntary Conversation.
Then comes the soup.
Sam opens the fridge and hands over a container like it’s nothing. Like she’s not handing Batman a domestic experience he has absolutely no defense against.
“Soup,” she says. “For later.”
Batman takes it carefully.
“Thank you.”
Polite. Respectful. Human.
Robin vibrates.
Then Sam smiles and delivers the line like a perfectly placed batarang.
“You know, for someone who terrifies Gotham, you’re very polite.”
Batman responds instantly.
“Fear and manners aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Robin loses it.
He laughs so hard he almost falls off the chair, gasping, pointing. “You—did you—B—”
Sam laughs too, bright and easy.
Batman pauses.
Just for a fraction of a second.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Robin’s brain lights up like the Bat-Signal.
Exhibit D: Almost a Smile. Confirmed.
He locks it into his memory forever. Cataloged. Timestamped. Cross-referenced with Soup Incident and Balcony Visits.
Robin leans back, smug beyond measure.
This is working.
All of it.
The routes. The pauses. The soup. The almost-smiles filed away like trophies.
And if Batman thinks this is accidental—
Well.
Dick Grayson has never accidentally done anything in his life.
Which means the next step isn’t improvisation.
It’s escalation.
Robin knows Batman doesn’t open up easily.
So Robin does it for him.
It happens later, inside Sam’s | How to Get Your Dad a Girlfriend
Morning comes to Wayne Manor quietly.
Sunlight filters through tall windows, pale and orderly, touching polished wood and silverware laid out with practiced precision. Dick sits at the long table, feet swinging beneath his chair, cereal forgotten as his thoughts churn. He watches Alfred pour tea with the unhurried grace of a man who has seen everything and survived it with dignity.
“Alfred,” Dick asks suddenly, spoon paused mid-air, “how do you know when someone should be part of your family?”
Alfred doesn’t spill the tea. He doesn’t even blink.
Instead, he smiles—soft, knowing, like a man who has waited years for precisely this question.
“When they show up without being asked,” Alfred says gently, “and stay.”
Dick hums, filing that away. “That makes sense.”
He thinks for a moment longer, then adds, carefully casual, “Can dads have girlfriends?”
Alfred doesn’t pause pouring the tea. Not even a fraction of a second.
“They can,” he says evenly, “and often should.”
“Oh,” Dick says, brightening. “Okay.”
Alfred sets the teapot down and allows himself a small, private smile. “May I assume this inquiry is not hypothetical, Master Dick?”
Dick grins, wide and unapologetic. “Nope.”
That settles that.
The thought stays with him all day.
It follows him through school, through restless hours, through the slow build toward night. It sits in the back of his mind while he pulls on the Robin suit, while Gotham opens beneath him like a familiar map of shadows and light.
Later—much later—Robin slips away during patrol with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how far he can push before consequences arrive.
Sam’s balcony is familiar now, welcoming in a way rooftops rarely are. She lets him in with a fond look and a raised eyebrow.
“You’re here late.”
“Very important question,” Robin says solemnly, hopping onto a stool. “Emergency level.”
She humors him, of course. “All right, little bird. What is it?”
He hesitates this time, uncharacteristically careful. “If someone already has a dad,” he says slowly, testing each word, “is it okay to… add people?”
Sam doesn’t answer right away.
She studies him—not the mask, not the bravado—but the kid beneath it, earnest and hopeful and trying to build something that feels safe.
Then she smiles, soft and certain.
“Families aren’t math, little bird,” she says. “They grow.”
Something in Robin’s chest clicks into place.
He nods once, decisive. “Okay.”
That seals it.
By the time he slips back into the night, already plotting patrol routes with renewed purpose, Dick Grayson is absolutely certain of one thing:
This is how families begin.
And once Dick has identified a problem, he doesn’t overthink it.
He doesn’t think of it as matchmaking.
That would imply romance, and romance is messy and unpredictable and full of feelings that adults insist on overcomplicating.
Dick thinks of it as problem-solving.
He arrives at the conclusion very logically.
B is his dad.
Dads should not be alone.
That’s just a fact. Even kids know that.
Sam makes soup and smiles at B like he’s human, not a weapon or a warning sign. She talks to him like he’s allowed to exist outside the cowl.
Therefore:
Problem.
Solution.
Obvious.
Dick notices things.
He notices how B stands a little straighter when Sam talks, like his body remembers how to be seen. How his shoulders ease when she laughs. How he listens—actually listens—instead of half-monitoring the city for threats.
He notices that Sam isn’t intimidated by the suit—or the man inside it. She doesn’t flinch at the shadow, doesn’t tiptoe around the silence. She treats him like someone worth being gentle with.
Dick remembers Alfred mentioning once, very casually, that Batman “could use more people who aren’t afraid of him.”
Dick hadn’t fully understood it then.
He does now.
He loves how Sam calls him little bird—light, affectionate, easy—like Alfred says Master Dick. Like love wrapped in words that pretend to be casual.
So Dick files all of it away.
Evidence.
Patterns.
Data points.
B = Dad.
Sam = Safe.
Safe + Dad = ???
His brain doesn’t hesitate.
Family.
The conclusion settles comfortably, like it was always meant to be there.
And if families grow, then growth requires proximity. Time. Opportunity.
Which means—
Adjustments.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would raise suspicion. Just good planning.
Because Robin doesn’t push. He optimizes.
That’s how patrol routes start ending near Sam’s block.
Coincidentally.
It’s subtle at first. Barely noticeable. A turn taken a block later than necessary. A rooftop pause that just happens to overlook her building. Robin presents it all with professional seriousness, like he’s filing a report instead of nudging fate.
Because from Robin’s point of view, this isn’t interference.
It’s logistics.
And really—
that’s just good problem-solving.
Which is why, when they land on a familiar fire escape a few nights later, Robin doesn’t feel even a little guilty.
He crouches at the edge, cape settling around him, and peers down at the street below with the seriousness of someone performing a public service.
“Strange spike in crime here, B,” he says solemnly.
Batman scans the area automatically—alleys, doorways, rooftops—the rhythm of the city laid out like a familiar equation. The street is quiet. Peaceful, even.
Robin watches him work, satisfied.
“…There’s a bakery,” he says at last.
“Exactly,” Robin replies, nodding gravely. “Criminals love bakeries.”
Batman gives him a look.
Robin continues, undeterred. “Flour-based operations. High foot traffic. Emotional vulnerability due to pastries.”
“…You’re reaching.”
“I’m being vigilant.”
They move on—but not far. Another rooftop. Another pause. Robin checks his wrist like he’s tracking something critical.
“Suspicious calm,” he says. “Textbook.”
Batman exhales slowly through his nose and says nothing.
Sam starts seeing them more often.
Sometimes from her window. Sometimes from her balcony, catching flashes of red and green and a dark silhouette perched like a watchful shadow against the night. Batman never lingers long—never waves, never signals—but he’s there. Close. Watching the city. Watching her block.
He keeps pretending it’s a coincidence.
It isn’t.
Robin lands a little closer every time. Batman pretends not to notice. Pretends he isn’t adjusting routes just enough to make it defensible. Pretends he doesn’t look toward her building before moving on.
One night, as they prepare to leave the area, Robin glances back with a satisfied hum.
“Neighborhood’s safe.”
“For now,” Batman replies.
Sam watches them disappear into the dark, smiling to herself.
And Batman tells himself this is about patrol patterns.
It isn’t.
Which is probably why, a few nights later, Robin decides subtlety is overrated.
They’re perched on a gargoyle three blocks from Sam’s apartment, the city sprawling beneath them like a living map. Wind tugs at their capes. Gotham glows in fractured light and shadow. It’s a perfectly normal patrol stop.
Which is exactly why Robin clears his throat.
“B,” he says, pointing with exaggerated casualness, “did you know Sam lives… right there?”
Batman doesn’t follow the gesture. Doesn’t even turn his head.
“You’ve mentioned it.”
“Just making sure it stuck,” Robin replies pleasantly. He swings his legs, heels knocking lightly against stone. “She also makes really good soup.”
Silence.
The good kind. The dangerous kind.
“…Like,” Robin adds thoughtfully, “really good.”
Batman remains immobile, a statue carved out of willpower.
“And she’s nice.”
More silence.
“And she isn’t scared of you.”
That does it.
Batman finally looks at him. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of look that has ended criminal careers.
“Robin.”
“I’m just saying,” Robin insists, hands up in innocent surrender. “If we’re already in the neighborhood—”
“We are not here for soup.”
Robin tilts his head, considering. “But we could be.”
Batman turns away, cape snapping as he faces the city again. His jaw tightens. His shoulders set.
Robin grins into the wind.
Ten minutes later, Batman is standing on Sam’s balcony.
Again.
He’s holding a sealed container with both hands like it might suddenly accuse him of something. Robin crouches on the railing behind him, eyes sharp, posture intent—like a general overseeing a critical operation.
Sam steps back inside, smiling like she knew this would happen.
“Tell him to eat it warm,” she says, nodding toward Robin.
Batman inclines his head. “I will.”
Robin beams. Radiant. Victorious.
As they step back into the night, Robin leans in, stage-whispering,
“See? Soup patrol.”
Batman says nothing.
But he doesn’t give the container back.
Robin notices immediately.
Of course he does.
He notices the weight of it, the way Batman adjusts his grip mid-leap so it won’t slosh. Notices that it stays tucked securely against his side instead of getting handed off or stashed somewhere convenient. Notices—most importantly—that Batman does not say anything about it.
Robin adds that to the list.
Exhibit A: Soup Retained.
They move across rooftops in silence, but it’s different now. Not the usual tactical quiet. This one hums. Batman’s mind is clearly elsewhere, which is hilarious, because usually it takes an alien invasion to accomplish that.
Robin’s grin widens.
He’s not matchmaking, obviously. That would imply meddling.
This is strategic encouragement.
The next night, ending patrol near Sam’s block isn’t even creative anymore. It’s precedent. Established behavior. Practically tradition.
Batman doesn’t object.
Robin internally does a victory lap.
They land on a rooftop with a clear view of Sam’s building. The kitchen light is on. Robin doesn’t point it out. That would be gauche. He just waits.
Batman scans the area, thorough as ever.
“Area’s clear.”
Robin nods, like this was in doubt. “Extremely clear.”
They stay.
Robin pretends not to notice how long they stay.
Eventually, gravity—and Robin’s unstoppable sense of purpose—wins.
They drop down to the balcony.
Sam greets them like this is normal. Like vigilantes appearing after midnight is just another Tuesday. Robin clocks how Batman’s shoulders drop about half an inch at the sound of her voice.
Exhibit B: Posture Softening.
Robin files that away under Promising Developments.
Inside, it’s warm. Not just temperature-wise. Emotionally. Robin is very aware of emotional temperature now. He’s practically an expert.
He positions himself where he can see Batman’s face clearly. This is important. Angles matter.
Sam talks. Batman listens.
Actually listens.
No scanning. No half-turn toward the window. Just focus.
Robin watches like he’s at the best show Gotham has ever produced.
When Sam teases Batman—gently, like she’s testing a theory—
And Batman answers—flat, controlled, but present, choosing engagement instead of retreat—
Robin’s grin turns feral.
Exhibit C: Voluntary Conversation.
Then comes the soup.
Sam opens the fridge and hands over a container like it’s nothing. Like she’s not handing Batman a domestic experience he has absolutely no defense against.
“Soup,” she says. “For later.”
Batman takes it carefully.
“Thank you.”
Polite. Respectful. Human.
Robin vibrates.
Then Sam smiles and delivers the line like a perfectly placed batarang.
“You know, for someone who terrifies Gotham, you’re very polite.”
Batman responds instantly.
“Fear and manners aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Robin loses it.
He laughs so hard he almost falls off the chair, gasping, pointing. “You—did you—B—”
Sam laughs too, bright and easy.
Batman pauses.
Just for a fraction of a second.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Robin’s brain lights up like the Bat-Signal.
Exhibit D: Almost a Smile. Confirmed.
He locks it into his memory forever. Cataloged. Timestamped. Cross-referenced with Soup Incident and Balcony Visits.
Robin leans back, smug beyond measure.
This is working.
All of it.
The routes. The pauses. The soup. The almost-smiles filed away like trophies.
And if Batman thinks this is accidental—
Well.
Dick Grayson has never accidentally done anything in his life.
Which means the next step isn’t improvisation.
It’s escalation.
Robin knows Batman doesn’t open up easily.
So Robin does it for him.
It happens later, inside Sam’s apartment, when the night has gone quiet and the danger has already passed. Sam has Robin’s knee cradled gently in her hands, rewrapping a scrape that barely deserves the attention. It’s clean. Shallow. The kind of thing that would usually earn a dismissive I’m fine.
Robin knows this.
That’s not why he’s sitting still.
He swings his leg a little as she tapes the bandage in place, face bright and casual, like he’s about to comment on the weather—and in a way, he is.
“B worries a lot.”
Batman stiffens instantly. “Robin.”
Robin doesn’t even look at him. “He does,” he says cheerfully. “He pretends not to, but he does. He’s very good at worrying.”
Sam pauses, fingers stilling just for a moment. Then she continues wrapping, careful and calm.
“About what?”
Robin shrugs. “Everything. Mostly me.”
Batman’s jaw tightens. “That’s enough.”
“It’s not bad,” Robin insists, glancing up at Sam. “It just means he cares. A lot. Sometimes he thinks I’ll disappear if he doesn’t watch closely enough.”
The room goes quiet—the kind of quiet that means something important has slipped through the armor.
Sam looks up then, meeting Batman’s gaze. There’s no pity there. No alarm. Just understanding.
“That sounds exhausting,” she says softly.
Batman exhales through his nose, armor rising and falling. “I manage.”
Robin tips his head back to look at him, expression suddenly serious beneath the grin.
“You don’t have to manage everything alone.”
The words land heavier than any accusation.
Batman doesn’t look away.
Neither does Sam.
For a long moment, no one speaks. The city hums faintly outside the windows. The tape in Sam’s hands is the only sound as she finishes the bandage and smooths it down.
Then she rests her hand lightly on Robin’s knee.
“All done,” she says gently.
Robin beams, utterly satisfied.
He looks between them, eyes bright with triumph.
Progress.
==================================
Batman doesn’t speak after that.
He finishes the night on autopilot—patrol routes completed, scans run, threats assessed and dismissed with mechanical precision. Robin chatters less than usual, unusually content, which somehow makes it worse.
Bruce’s mind won’t let go of the moment.
You don’t have to manage everything alone.
He’s heard versions of that before. Therapists. Well-meaning allies. People who didn’t understand the cost of believing it.
But this—
This came from a child who knows what it means to be left behind.
Bruce replays Sam’s expression instead. The way she didn’t rush to reassure. Didn’t contradict. Didn’t soften the truth into something palatable. She just… accepted it. Like worry wasn’t weakness. Like care wasn’t a flaw.
That’s dangerous.
Hope always is.
He’s spent years perfecting control—over fear, over violence, over himself. Letting someone see him like that, even indirectly, feels like leaving a door unlocked in a city that devours mistakes.
And yet—
He didn’t shut it down.
Didn’t redirect. Didn’t pull Robin away. Didn’t end the visit early.
Bruce Wayne has aborted missions for less.
He lands at the Manor later than usual, the stone gargoyles welcoming him like old sentinels. The cave swallows him whole, cool and familiar, but it doesn’t quiet his thoughts.
Sam’s voice echoes instead.
Not demanding. Not afraid.
Just… there.
Bruce removes the cowl slowly, like it weighs more than it should. He stares at his reflection in the darkened glass of the Batcomputer and doesn’t like what he sees.
A man who wants something.
A man who could lose it.
That’s when Alfred knows.
He feels it three floors up, halfway through polishing silverware that absolutely does not need polishing.
There’s a rhythm to the Manor—Bruce has one, the Cave has another. Tonight, something is… off. Not loud. Not violent.
Just unsettled.
Alfred pauses, cloth still in hand.
Ah.
That kind of disturbance.
Bruce comes up later, changed into civilian clothes but still carrying the tension like a second spine. He moves through the room with careful neutrality, the way he does when emotions are trying to get ahead of him.
Alfred pours tea.
Doesn’t ask questions.
Yet.
He sets the cup down within reach. Bruce takes it automatically. Drinks. Pauses.
That’s new.
Alfred allows himself the smallest of smiles.
“Rough patrol, sir?” he asks mildly.
Bruce hesitates.
Just for a second.
“…No,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Not exactly.”
Alfred nods, as though this confirms something he’s suspected all along.
“I see.”
Silence stretches comfortably between them.
Then Alfred adds, conversational as ever, “It’s often unsettling, discovering one no longer wishes to be alone.”
Bruce’s grip tightens on the cup.
“…I didn’t say that.”
“No,” Alfred agrees pleasantly. “You didn’t.”
Another pause.
Bruce stares into his tea like it might reveal tactical weaknesses.
“It’s complicated.”
“Of course it is,” Alfred says. “The important things usually are.”
Bruce exhales, long and slow, the sound of a man standing at the edge of a choice he hasn’t named yet.
Alfred refills the teapot.
The Manor settles around them.
Not quiet—held.
Bruce finishes his tea. Alfred clears the cup. Nothing more is said, because nothing more needs to be. Alfred has always known when silence is the right response—and when it’s the most damning one.
Bruce leaves the room with the same careful control he entered it with.
But the thought follows him.
I no longer wish to be alone.
He doesn’t deny it again.
He can’t.
Because this isn’t sudden. It isn’t new. It didn’t start tonight.
Bruce knows.
He’s known since the third time Dick accidentally ended patrol within sight of Sam’s building. Since the way Dick’s head turned—just slightly—every time Sam stepped onto her balcony. Since Bruce caught his own reflection in the kid’s lenses, watching his face whenever Sam smiled.
Since Dick stopped bouncing off rooftops.
That part was the most telling. Dick is motion. Joy in movement. Restless even on calm nights. But near Sam’s building, he slows. Perches. Lingers like he’s waiting for permission the city never gave him.
Bruce has interrogated mob bosses with less intensity than Dick studies him now.
He’s faced gods who cracked mountains, monsters that wore human skin, men who laughed while the world burned and called it justice.
This is worse.
Because Dick isn’t being sneaky.
He’s hopeful.
Hope is louder than deception. Harder to ignore. More dangerous.
Bruce notices everything. He always does.
The way Dick’s shoulders relax when her light is on. The way he watches Bruce’s posture when Sam speaks—alert, measuring, as if cataloging every reaction for later analysis.
There is no pressure. No manipulation.
Just careful, quiet expectation.
Bruce doesn’t shut it down.
That frightens him more than anything Dick could be plotting.
It isn’t that Bruce doesn’t want connection. He does—achingly, in the way of someone who has gone too long without it. It’s that he knows what it costs. He knows how fragile it is. How quickly the city takes what it notices you love.
He is afraid of what happens if it’s taken away.
But Sam doesn’t ask for explanations.
She doesn’t push for answers or pry at the edges of his silence. She doesn’t ask him to remove the mask, literal or otherwise. She doesn’t look at him like he’s a project to be fixed or a symbol to be admired.
She looks at him like a tired man who still showed up.
She looks at Dick like he’s something precious. Like he’s worth protecting not because he’s a weapon, but because he’s a kid.
That… matters.
And Dick—
Dick looks at them like something that could last.
Not perfect. Not painless. But real.
Bruce has always trusted patterns more than feelings.
And the pattern is unmistakable.
It’s there in the way patrol routes drift—not dramatically, just enough to be deniable. In the way Dick’s momentum changes near a certain block. In the way Bruce himself stops pretending he doesn’t notice the light in Sam’s apartment.
This isn’t coincidence.
It’s convergence.
Bruce stands on a rooftop one night, Gotham breathing beneath him, and accepts something he’s been circling for weeks:
Dick is hoping.
Sam is offering.
And Bruce… isn’t stopping it.
That alone tells him everything.
He doesn’t know if he can be that man.
But for the first time in a long while—
He wants to try.
And across the city—
Sam notices too.
She isn’t stupid.
She doesn’t know Batman’s history, his losses, the catalog of ghosts he carries like armor beneath the armor.
But she knows people.
And people repeat themselves when something matters.
By the third coincidental visit, the pattern becomes impossible to ignore.
Same time of night, always after the city has settled into its low, restless hum. Same stretch of rooftop, where the wind curls just right and the lights from her building glow warm instead of harsh. Same kid in red and green, pretending very hard not to watch her reactions while absolutely watching her reactions.
Kids don’t accidentally reroute crime patrols to the same block three times in a row.
They don’t just happen to remember something on your balcony—something that apparently can only be remembered while standing on the same cracked concrete, at the same angle, with the same view of Gotham.
And they definitely don’t track your facial expressions every time you talk to their dad unless they are very invested in the outcome.
Batman stays quiet, as always. Present but not imposing. A shadow that somehow feels… contained when he’s here. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t linger past what’s reasonable.
Robin, on the other hand, lingers strategically.
Tonight, he perches on the balcony railing, legs swinging idly over open air like gravity is merely a suggestion. He’s trying to look casual. He is not succeeding.
Sam sips her tea and lets the silence stretch just long enough to be comfortable.
“You know,” she says lightly, “most kids don’t bring their dads by this often unless they want something.”
Robin freezes mid-swing.
His legs stop. His shoulders go stiff.
“…I do not,” he says, a little too fast.
She smiles into her mug, steam fogging her glasses. “Mm-hmm.”
A beat passes. Then another.
Robin clears his throat. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter. Careful. Like he’s stepping across a minefield barefoot.
“…Would it be bad,” he asks, choosing each word with surgical precision, “if someone wanted their dad to be less lonely?”
Sam looks at him then.
Really looks.
Not at Robin-the-vigilante or Robin-the-acrobat, but at the kid sitting on a railing in the dark, shoulders a little hunched, trying to solve a problem that shouldn’t be his to carry.
Her expression softens.
“No,” she says gently. “I think it’s very thoughtful of you.”
Robin exhales so hard his shoulders drop, like he’s just disarmed a bomb with one second left on the timer.
He stares out over the city, chewing on his lip. The wind ruffles his hair. The night holds its breath.
Then he blurts, unable to hold it in any longer, “Do you think my dad deserves nice things?”
Sam’s breath catches.
The question is so earnest. So unguarded. It slices straight through her chest.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “I do.”
Robin nods once, solemn and decisive, as if that settles something very important.
“Okay,” he says. “Good.”
But Sam sees the way his shoulders ease—just a fraction. The way his gaze drops, not in retreat, but in something like relief.
She doesn’t ask more.
She doesn’t need to.
Some truths don’t require follow-up questions.
Robin treats it like one.
He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t test the answer from another angle. He just sits there for a moment longer, letting the city hum around them, committing the words to memory the way he does with emergency exits and grappling angles and the sound of his father’s voice when he’s afraid.
Yes.
He deserves nice things.
That’s the answer.
When Robin finally stands, it’s with purpose. Not hurried. Not excited. Certain. He gives Sam a small, sincere smile—one that isn’t performance or bravado, just gratitude—then vaults off the balcony and disappears into the night.
Sam watches him go, a strange ache settling in her chest. She doesn’t wonder what he’ll do with that certainty.
She already knows.
==================================
Batman is two rooftops away when Robin rejoins him.
Traffic murmurs far below, a constant river of sound. Sirens rise and fade, stitched into the night like a pulse. Wind tugs at capes and loose gravel, carrying the smell of rain-soaked concrete, hot metal, ozone from power lines humming somewhere out of sight. The city stretches out in every direction—broken, stubborn, alive in spite of itself.
Batman starts walking, boots heavy against the rooftop.
He doesn’t ask where Robin’s been. He never does. Trust is built into the silence between them. Robin falls into step beside him easily, quieter than usual—not weighed down, just… resolved.
Batman feels it immediately. The shift. The focus. The way Robin’s movements have stopped orbiting and started aiming.
They finish the patrol without incident. Gotham behaves. The night passes.
And later—when they stand on the edge of a rooftop, the city stretched out beneath them, breathing and broken and alive—Robin finally lets the certainty he was given turn into words.
“B,” he says softly.
Batman doesn’t stop. “Yes.”
There’s a pause. The deliberate kind. The kind that means Robin is choosing his words instead of letting them spill out at full velocity.
“I like Sam.”
Batman answers immediately, voice steady. “I know.”
Robin glances up at him, searching his face for something, then looks back out at the skyline. His fingers hook briefly in his cape, twisting the fabric.
“She’s… nice,” he says. Then frowns, dissatisfied. “Not fake-nice. Not nice because she’s trying to fix us or impress you or make herself useful.” He huffs quietly. “Just—nice.”
Batman’s pace slows by half a step.
“She listens,” Robin continues, warming as he goes. “Like, actually listens. She remembers things. She doesn’t interrupt. And she doesn’t look at us like we’re a project.” His mouth twists. “Or like we’re something that might explode if she says the wrong thing.”
Batman stops walking.
The city doesn’t notice. Gotham keeps breathing, loud and indifferent.
“You don’t have to like her because I do,” Robin says quickly, words tumbling over each other now, urgency bleeding through. “I mean—I know you don’t do things just because I want them. I know that. I’m not—” He breaks off, recalibrates. “I’m not asking you to pretend.”
Batman turns.
“…What?” he says, quiet but sharp, like he’s afraid he’s misunderstood something important.
Robin halts too, turning fully toward him. The bravado drains away. What’s left is earnest and unguarded and very young.
“You don’t have to,” Robin repeats, softer now. Steadier. “I get it. You’re careful. You’re always careful.” He shrugs, one shoulder lifting beneath the cape. “But… it’s okay if you do.”
Batman opens his mouth.
Closes it.
He looks at Robin. Really looks.
At the boy who learned to move across rooftops too young.
At the kid who learned loss before most people learned multiplication.
At the child who survived the impossible and somehow still found room to worry about him.
Robin swallows, eyes flicking away for just a second. When he speaks again, his voice is gentle, almost tentative.
“She makes you… lighter,” he says. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just observant. “You breathe different when she’s around. You don’t stand like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”
Batman’s chest tightens.
“And I like seeing that,” Robin adds. “I like seeing you not… all armor. Even a little.”
He hesitates, then finishes the thought he’s clearly been carrying for weeks.
“You don’t have to be alone all the time.”
That one lands.
It bypasses training. Slips past discipline. Hits somewhere the armor never covered.
Batman exhales—slow, controlled, but real. The sound of it is quieter than the city, but it feels louder than anything else on the roof.
He reaches out and rests a gloved hand on Robin’s shoulder.
Not as Batman correcting a partner.
Not as a commander steadying a soldier.
As a father.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Robin looks up at him, eyes bright behind the mask. There’s no smugness now—just relief. Pride, too. The careful kind that comes from saying something hard and having it land.
He smiles, small and satisfied.
Mission still ongoing.
But for once, it isn’t about Gotham.
It’s about what comes after the patrol ends.
About what Bruce does when there’s no immediate threat demanding his attention. No excuse to keep moving. No city to hide behind.
And tonight—
he doesn’t keep moving.
==================================
Sam’s apartment was small, warm, and unmistakably lived-in.
Batman already knew that.
He stepped inside without hesitation this time, muscle memory guiding him around the narrow entryway, past the coat hook that never held coats and the chair that always had a book draped over it. The lighting was the same soft scatter of mismatched lamps, no harsh overhead glare. The air carried the familiar scent of garlic and herbs—something Sam cooked the way she did most things, slowly and with care.
Nothing had changed.
And that, more than anything, made it feel significant.
Robin kicked the door shut behind them, boots tapping lightly against the floor as he glanced around—not curious now, just comfortable.
“Still better than the cave,” he said cheerfully, like this was a standing fact.
Batman gave him a look out of habit. It had no effect.
Sam laughed from the kitchen, setting the last plate on the table. “You say that every time.”
“And I’m always right,” Robin replied.
She shook her head fondly and glanced between them—Gotham’s dark legend in full armor, already adjusting to the cramped space, and his brightly dressed partner who somehow managed to look like he belonged anywhere.
“Well,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel, “same rules as usual. Food’s hot. No vigilante interrogations at the table.”
Robin grinned. “She trusts us.”
Batman’s voice was even. “We appreciate the invitation.”
The table was still too small for him, but he navigated it easily now, cape tucked away without thought. His cowl remained on, but his gauntlets came off and were set neatly beside his chair—routine, unremarked, and telling. Robin swung his feet as he talked, recounting patrol stories with names omitted and danger softened just enough to keep things light.
Sam listened like it all mattered.
She asked questions—not about secrets, never about masks—but about them. How long they’d been working together. Whether the city felt different from the rooftops. When Robin gestured too enthusiastically and nearly knocked over his glass, she caught it without looking, steadying it with two fingers.
Batman noticed. He always did.
“How long have you lived here?” he asked, more out of habit than curiosity.
Sam blinked, then smiled faintly. “Still three years,” she said. “Still my quiet place.”
He scanned the room automatically—windows, exits, locks—then nodded once.
“It suits you.”
The certainty in his tone made her pause, then smile into her plate.
Robin clocked it immediately.
“So,” he said, leaning forward with obvious mischief, “is this what a civilian date looks like?”
Sam nearly dropped her fork.
“A— what? No. This is just dinner.”
Batman turned his head slowly.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Sam laughed, flustered but amused. “He’s very bold.”
“He’s also grounded,” Batman replied without missing a beat.
Robin scoffed. “Worth it.”
Dessert appeared—store-bought pie, presented with a self-conscious shrug. Robin dug in like it might escape. Batman followed more carefully.
“This is good,” he said after a moment.
Her relief was immediate. “Thank you.”
When the meal wound down, Robin drifted toward the window, gazing out at Gotham’s lights like an old habit.
“It looks calmer from here,” he murmured.
“Sometimes,” Sam said, joining him. “Like it’s pretending to sleep.”
Batman stood a little apart, watching them framed in warm light. This wasn’t a situation to analyze. It wasn’t a threat to assess.
It was a moment.
At the door, Sam smiled at both of them.
“Thanks for coming over. Again.”
Batman inclined his head. “Thank you for having us.”
Robin waved as they stepped into the night air. “We should make this a regular thing.”
She laughed as the door closed, leaning against it a second longer than necessary.
Out on the balcony, Batman paused before pulling his gauntlets back on.
Just for a moment.
Robin noticed—because he always did.
“Oh yeah,” he murmured under his breath, grin unmistakable. “Definitely not a date.”
Batman didn’t dignify that with a response.
He finished securing his armor. The mask slid back into place. The city reclaimed them.
But something had shifted.
==================================
Like every other night they visited, Sam watched them leave from the fire escape outside her apartment.
The city hummed below—sirens distant, neon flickering, Gotham doing what Gotham always did. Batman stood at the edge of the roofline, one broad, armored hand resting on Robin’s shoulder. Not tight. Not controlling. Just there. Steady. Certain.
Robin said something—too quiet for her to hear—and Batman inclined his head, the motion subtle but unmistakably attentive. Then they were gone, swallowed by shadow and movement, capes disappearing into the dark like they’d never been there at all.
She stayed there a moment longer.
The night felt different now.
Not quieter.
Just… warmer.
She didn’t feel swept away.
Didn’t feel dazzled or overwhelmed or frightened by how close danger had come to her quiet life.
She felt… invited.
Not to the mask.
Not to the mystery.
To the space around them.
The trust. The pause before the leap. The way Batman had glanced back—just once—toward her building before vanishing into the night.
A week passed.
No explosions.
No sirens outside her window.
No frantic knock at her door or blood in her sink.
When Batman returned, it wasn’t with urgency clinging to him. No torn cape. No tension thrumming in the air. Just a man standing on her balcony as though he belonged there.
He didn’t announce himself. He never did. She only noticed because the night shifted—because the quiet changed shape.
Sam turned from the stove, where a pot simmered low, steam curling up with the soft scent of garlic and herbs. She looked up and found him there, dark against the city lights, cape falling still around him. His cowl hid his expression, but his posture was different—no crouch, no readiness to vanish. He was simply standing. Waiting.
“Tea?” she asked, like this was normal. Like he wasn’t a legend on her fire escape.
“Yes,” he said.
Not after a pause.
Not reluctantly.
Simply yes.
She poured two mugs and handed one to him through the open balcony door. Their fingers brushed—barely—but the contact lingered in a way that surprised them both. He didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did she.
“Soup’s almost done,” she added, nodding toward the stove. “If you’re staying a minute.”
He glanced inside, just briefly. The pot. The cutting board still flecked with herbs. The apartment lit warm and steady behind her.
“I can stay,” he said.
They sat on the balcony chairs while the soup finished, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the shared warmth of the small space. The city stretched around them, vast and indifferent, but her apartment held steady, anchored by the quiet ritual of something cooking.
They talked.
About Gotham—about how it never really slept, just learned to rest with one eye open. About neighborhoods that felt different after midnight. About how the city sounded from the rooftops versus from the sidewalks.
About Robin.
“He talks a lot,” Sam said, smiling into her mug.
Batman’s voice softened. “Only when he feels safe.”
She looked at him then. Really looked.
“That’s because he is.”
Something quiet passed between them at that.
When the soup was ready, she brought out two bowls, steam rising between them. He removed one glove to eat, movements careful, deliberate, as if he were handling something fragile rather than a spoon.
“It’s good,” he said after a moment.
“Soup usually is,” she replied lightly. “It doesn’t ask much of you.”
He considered that longer than necessary.
They talked about nothing important—tea blends she liked, the way her balcony plants stubbornly refused to die, how some nights the stars fought their way past the smog. The soup cooled between bites, but neither of them rushed it.
And somehow, all of it mattered.
There was no dramatic confession.
No charged declaration or sudden closeness.
Just the slow awareness that the silence between them was comfortable—and that sharing something warm and simple felt… significant.
When he stood to leave, he hesitated.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For the tea?” she asked. “Or the soup?”
“For the space,” he replied.
She smiled, something gentle and real. “Anytime.”
He left the way he always did—quiet, controlled, disappearing into the night as if he’d never been there at all.
Sam remained on the balcony long after, empty bowls on the small table, city air cool against her skin, heart steady in her chest. Gotham breathed around her—sirens distant, traffic humming, life continuing in its stubborn, endless way.
Eventually, she went back inside, rinsed the bowls, and set them in the rack to dry.
The night passed.
Not uneventfully—Gotham never allowed that—but without him.
And that was how she knew something had changed.
==================================
Patrol ends the way it always does—without ceremony.
The Batmobile seals itself into place, engines winding down as the Cave accepts them with its familiar hush. Lights rise softly from the stone, illuminating steel and shadow as Bruce dismounts, the city still humming in his bones, adrenaline slow to fade.
He removes the cowl.
Then the cape.
The suit comes apart piece by piece, practiced and automatic. This is muscle memory: disengage, compartmentalize, leave Batman where he belongs. The ritual usually ends the same way—with a clean break, a hollow quiet he’s learned not to question.
He expects that emptiness.
Instead, something lingers.
Bruce pauses with one gauntlet half-unfastened, fingers stilled against the seal. As the armor opens, the air shifts—and there it is. Faint, nearly gone, but unmistakable.
Garlic. Herbs. Warm oil.
The quiet echo of a kitchen used slowly, with intention.
He stills completely. The Cave doesn’t smell like this. Wayne Manor doesn’t. The Watchtower never has. Gotham, for all its smoke and sirens, never carries warmth like that.
Sam’s apartment does.
The realization settles in without asking permission, without warning, without mercy. Not a safehouse. Not a refuge. Not something temporary.
Home.
The word lands harder than any blow he took that night. Bruce exhales, slow and controlled, like he’s containing something volatile, and forces his hands to keep moving. He finishes removing the gauntlet, flexes his fingers, grounds himself in motion. This is irrational. Sentimental. Dangerous.
And yet—
He doesn’t scrub the scent away.
Metal shifts behind him as Dick hops down from the platform, helmet already off, chatter queued and ready—until he pauses mid-step. He sniffs the air. Once. Twice. His head tilts.
“…Huh.”
Bruce doesn’t look at him. “Suit diagnostics complete?”
“Uh-huh,” Dick replies absently, then brightens. “Also, you smell like her.”
His hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming. “That’s impossible.”
Dick grins, delighted, circling him like a bloodhound who’s found something interesting. “Nope. Garlic. Herbs. Cozy apartment vibes. Very not-Cave.”
“Focus,” He says flatly.
“I am focused,” Dick replies cheerfully. “On the fact that my dad smells like soup and feelings.”
Bruce finishes disengaging the last seals and steps free of the armor with more force than strictly necessary. Dick laughs, unbothered.
“Relax, B. I won’t tell. But just so you know—” He straightens, voice dropping into something unexpectedly sincere. “That smell? That’s what people smell like when they have somewhere to land.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
The ascent from the Cave to the Manor passes in quiet rhythm—elevators humming, stone giving way to wood and warmth. Bruce moves through the halls out of the undersuit now, tension still clinging to him like a second skin. Alfred is already waiting at the base of the stairs, towel draped over one arm, tea poured as if by coincidence rather than instinct.
“You’re back earlier than expected,” Alfred observes mildly.
Bruce hums in acknowledgment and reaches for the towel—then stops.
Alfred’s eyebrow lifts, just a fraction. “You’ve had dinner.”
He blinks. “I—”
Alfred steps closer, adjusting the towel around Bruce’s shoulders with practiced ease. His expression softens—not amused, not surprised. Simply knowing. “Garlic,” he continues gently. “Rosemary, perhaps. Basil. Not from the Manor kitchens.”
Bruce looks down at himself, as though the answer might be written there. “I didn’t notice.”
“No,” Alfred agrees. “You wouldn’t have.”
They stand there for a moment, the silence comfortable, weighted with years of unspoken understanding. “Shall I launder the suit immediately?” Alfred asks.
He hesitates. Just for a beat. “…No. Tomorrow.”
Alfred inclines his head, victory quiet and complete. “As you wish.”
He withdraws, footsteps fading, leaving Bruce alone as the Cave-level quiet settles back around him. The suit rests in its cradle, inert and familiar, still carrying the faintest echo of garlic and herbs. Bruce rests his hand briefly against the hardened plates, grounding himself in the solid reality of it, and breathes in the lingering warmth caught where it doesn’t belong.
And this time, he doesn’t stop the word from forming.
Home.
==================================
Batman came back again.
By himself.
Sam sensed it before she saw him—the way the night outside her windows seemed to pause, the way the quiet shifted, attentive. When she slid the balcony door open, he was already there, a dark silhouette against the city lights.
No blood.
No urgency.
Just presence.
Her face lit up before she could stop it.
“I was hoping it’d be you,” she said, stepping aside.
His shoulders eased as he entered, like he’d been braced for refusal and found none. The apartment greeted him with the same soft lamplight, the same warmth he’d come to associate with safety rather than cover. Sam poured tea without asking and handed him a mug, their fingers brushing briefly—enough to spark awareness without urgency.
They sat on the couch, close enough this time that the space between them felt intentional rather than cautious. Gotham murmured beyond the glass, distant and irrelevant.
For a while, they talked about nothing that needed guarding. A street musician she’d heard earlier that evening. A bookstore that smelled like dust and old paper. Small, ordinary things.
Batman listened more than he spoke.
Sam didn’t fill the silences. She let them exist, comfortable and unafraid.
She watched him—how he leaned forward when she spoke, how his voice softened without him noticing. She liked him, she realized. Not the symbol. Not the armor.
The man who kept showing up.
“You didn’t bring Robin,” she said gently.
“No,” he answered. “He’s safe.”
She nodded, accepting that as enough.
There was a moment then—quiet, suspended—when Sam looked at him and saw past the armor without needing to see beneath it. She saw the tired set of his shoulders. The way his hands rested, careful even in rest. A man who carried too much and never put it down.
“You know,” she said softly, “you don’t have to explain anything to be welcome here.”
His breath caught. Just slightly.
“I don’t know how to be… just someone,” he admitted, the words measured, vulnerable in their restraint.
“You’re doing fine,” she said, smiling at him. “You showed up.”
That seemed to break something open.
He shifted, turning toward her, and for a moment it seemed like he might retreat behind duty and distance. Instead, he exhaled.
“I can’t tell you who I am,” he said quietly. “And I can’t take this off.” He touched the edge of his cowl, not apologetic—honest. “I don’t want to mislead you.”
Sam met his gaze without flinching. “I know.”
“I can’t promise safety. Or normal. Or… permanence.”
She reached out, resting her hand over his gauntlet, steady and sure. “I’m not asking for any of that. I don’t need your name to know how you treat people. Or how you care about your son. Or how you keep coming back here when you don’t have to.”
Batman lifted his hand, hesitating just long enough to give her time to pull away.
She didn’t.
His gloved fingers brushed her cheek, careful, reverent, like he was memorizing the moment. Their foreheads nearly touched, breath shared in the narrow space between.
“You don’t mind,” he asked quietly, “that you don’t know who I am?”
Sam smiled, warm and sure. “I know enough.”
Something in his chest finally gave.
“I like you,” he admitted, the words rough from disuse. “More than I should.”
Her smile was soft, almost tender. “Good. Because I like you too.”
He hesitates only a breath longer—long enough for the moment to feel deliberate instead of impulsive—before he leans in.
The first kiss is careful. Almost restrained. A soft meeting of lips, testing, like he’s waiting for the city itself to object.
It doesn’t.
Sam’s hand tightens slightly around his gauntlet, grounding him. She tilts her head, inviting without urgency, and that’s what finally breaks his control—not into recklessness, but into honesty.
He kisses her again.
This time it lingers. His mouth warm and steady against hers, the press of it unhurried, intentional. There’s no rush, no hunger to take more than she’s offering. Just the quiet acknowledgment of this is real.
She exhales against his lips, a soft sound that sends a shiver straight through him.
His free hand comes up, resting at her waist—not pulling, not claiming, just there. Close enough that she can feel the tension he keeps coiled even now, the care in every measured movement. He kisses her like someone who’s been denying himself for far too long.
Sam responds without fear.
She leans into him, fingers sliding from his gauntlet to his forearm, feeling the solid reassurance beneath the armor. Her other hand comes up to his chest, palm resting over his heart like she’s checking that he’s really here.
When they part, it’s slow. Reluctant.
Their foreheads touch, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. The city hums outside, distant and irrelevant.
He doesn’t take off the mask.
She doesn’t look at it at all.
Instead, she smiles—soft, certain—and brushes a final kiss against his lips, brief but full of promise.
“I still like you,” she murmurs.
His voice is low, almost reverent. “So do I.”
And in that small, steady apartment, with the night holding its breath around them, Batman lets himself stay—just a little longer—exactly as he is.
==================================
By the time he returns to the rooftops, the city hasn’t changed.
Gotham still breathes smoke and sirens and stubborn survival. Wind still tugs at capes. Concrete still waits beneath his boots.
But Batman has.
Robin notices something is off before he even names it.
Batman’s pace is wrong.
Not slower—hesitant. His landings linger a fraction too long. He pauses at the edge of rooftops he normally clears without thought, gaze drifting instead of scanning. Gotham hums below them, same as always, but Batman’s attention keeps slipping elsewhere.
Robin watches, alert and curious.
Something has shifted.
Robin squints at him mid-leap.
“…Okay. Nope. Something’s weird.”
“Focus,” Batman says.
“I am focusing,” Robin replies, landing neatly beside him. “On you. You’re being weird.”
Batman keeps walking.
Robin jogs backward in front of him, hands on his hips. “You didn’t correct my foot placement. You didn’t critique my timing. And you stopped on that last roof just to… stand there.”
“I was listening.”
“To what? Your feelings?”
Batman stops.
Robin lights up. “Oh my god.”
“That was not an answer,” Batman says.
“That was absolutely an answer.” Robin tilts his head, studying him like a puzzle. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“You are emotionally evasive,” Robin says cheerfully. “Which means something definitely happened.”
Batman exhales through his nose and turns away. “I went to see Sam.”
Robin stills.
“…By yourself?” he asks, not accusing—just noting.
“Yes.”
Robin’s gaze lingers, head tilting slightly as he studies him. “That doesn’t happen often.”
Batman doesn’t respond.
Robin hums, thoughtful. Then, just enough of a smile curves at the corner of his mouth. “Guess you didn’t need backup.”
He lets that breathe, then adds, mild but pointed, “Or an excuse.”
Batman shoots him a look.
Robin’s smile widens—barely. “Good,” he says simply.
“I am capable of independent decisions.”
Robin circles him, delighted. “Uh-huh. And did this independent decision involve tea?”
Batman stays silent.
“Did it involve sitting on the couch?” Robin presses. “Because if you sat on the couch, this is already huge.”
“Dick.”
“And did you stay longer than necessary?”
Batman’s silence stretches just long enough.
Robin gasps. “YOU STAYED.”
Batman’s shoulders tense. “That’s not—”
Robin’s voice drops suddenly, sharp with realization. He stops bouncing.
“…Wait.”
He looks at Batman’s posture. The loosened shoulders. The way his head tilts when Sam’s name is mentioned. The fact that he hasn’t denied anything.
Robin’s mouth slowly falls open.
“…You kissed her.”
Batman’s head snaps toward him. “That is not—”
“You did,” Robin breathes, awe-struck. “You totally kissed her.”
Batman doesn’t deny it.
Robin lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a squeal. He spins in a circle on the rooftop. “OH MY GOD.”
“Lower your voice,” Batman snaps.
“She kissed you back,” Robin says confidently. “She had to.”
The silence is confirmation enough.
Robin beams, bouncing on his toes. “I KNEW IT. I KNEW ALL MY STRATEGIC LINGERING WOULD PAY OFF.”
“You manipulated patrol routes,” Batman says flatly.
“I curated opportunities,” Robin corrects. He grins up at him. “So… how was it?”
Batman hesitates. “…Respectful.”
Robin clutches his chest. “HE’S GONE. HE USED THE R-WORD.”
Batman pinches the bridge of his nose. “This changes nothing.”
Robin laughs. “Yeah it does. You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
Robin points at him. “That. Right there. That’s a smile.”
He sobers just a little, voice softening. “She makes you happy.”
Batman looks out over the city, quiet for a moment. “…She makes things quieter.”
Robin nods, satisfied. “That’s even better.”
Then, grinning again, Robin adds, “So. When do I get to call her Mom?”
“Never,” Batman says immediately.
Robin laughs and vaults off the roof, already moving, already victorious. “Too late! I’m already practicing!”
Batman follows—still stern, still silent—
and just a little less alone.
He doesn’t stop him.
He doesn’t correct him.
He doesn’t even tell him to knock it off.
The city takes them back into its rhythm, rooftops flashing by beneath their feet, Gotham loud and demanding and familiar. But something has shifted—quietly, irreversibly. The night doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did.
And then—
weeks later—it happens without ceremony.
Another dinner. Another evening that ends not with urgency or alarms, but with dishes rinsed and stacked, voices low, laughter soft enough not to echo. Sam’s apartment glows the way it always does at night—lamps instead of overhead lights, windows cracked just enough to let the city breathe in.
Dick sprawls across the couch like he owns it.
Which, in his defense, he kind of does.
He lies stretched between them, feet propped up against one armrest, head nestled into a pillow that smells faintly like laundry soap—and underneath it, the lingering warmth of garlic and herbs from dinner, familiar now in a way that feels earned.
He declares himself “exhausted” in a voice that makes it very clear he plans to listen to everything.
Within minutes, his breathing evens out.
Or at least, it sounds like it does.
Sam and B talk quietly above him—not about crime, or patrols, or plans. About nothing important. About a book she’s reading. About a place Bruce remembers from before the city hardened around him. Comfortable words. Real ones. The kind that settles into the room the same way the smell of food does—slow, patient, meant to last.
Dick stays very still.
A blanket settles over him, careful not to disturb. He recognizes the weight immediately—B, precise even in kindness.
Then fingers smooth through his hair, gentle and unthinking.
Sam.
The faint scent of herbs follows the movement, warm and grounding, like proof that this is real and happening and not something he imagined into existence.
Dick’s mouth curves into the pillow before he can stop it.
He doesn’t open his eyes.
He doesn’t need to.
Checklist, mentally filed:
Dad: ✔
Potential Mom: ✔
Soup access: ✔
Yeah.
Mission accomplished.
Dick lets his breathing slow for real this time. Lets the couch cradle him. Lets the murmur of their voices blend into something safe and ordinary and earned.
Above him, Bruce shifts slightly, careful not to wake him. His gaze drifts, briefly, to Sam—taking in the quiet confidence of her space, the ease with which she belongs in this moment. The thought comes unbidden, as unwelcome as it is inevitable:
Someday, there will be questions. Names. Truths that can’t stay folded away forever.
Masks come off. Secrets surface. They always do.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the city is held at bay by lamplight and warmth and a child sleeping between them. Tonight, there is no need for explanations.
The city can keep spinning. Sirens can wail. Gotham can demand and bruise and threaten all it wants.
His family—
is growing. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77370551 | {"authors": ["Vasunshinegrl96"], "language": "English", "title": "How to Get Your Dad a Girlfriend"} |
im an idiot for thinking this was anything but love
It was a normal day in the hotel. People were checking in and heading to their rooms, Charlie was at the front with Vaggi as they both were SUPER busy. It was the average thing that happened in the Hazbin Hotel. Cursing, members and work. Alastor didn’t like coming out of the shadows, although he decided it was time to come out and have a cup of black drenched coffee.
As Alastor made his way to make the coffee, he felt the whole atmosphere shift. He was certainly confused on why that is. The black liquid gurgled into his cup, steaming hot as he took one little sip. Delicious. The radio deer was pleased, walking with a little clop of his hooves before catching onto a sound that escaped Lucifer’s room. Sounded like.. sobbing. Why was he crying? Was it a movie? Or maybe even he was yearning? Alastor didn’t know (and didn’t care nonetheless.), he then approached the door with curiosity scratching at his throat. He didn’t knock, or make himself noticed; just opened the door with a gentle push.
There he was, Lucifer. He was hunched over, crying and blade in hand. Looking at it closely he was in a pool of his own blood as he swiped over and over on the slits. What the fuck? Alastor almost cringed at this display. He dealt with murdering millions but this was always the worst (in a sense of “its cringy” in Alastor’s eyes). He didn’t know what to do since the king of hell was just shanking his wrists like it was a doll he hated with passion. The deer cleared his throat, radio static echoing in the room as he watched the morningstar shoot up trying to hide it.
”Noo, don’t hide it now, Mr. Morningstar!”
Lucifer hissed as he replied with a deep growl that came out as a pathetic rasp.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Alastor spoke no words, stalking towards him like prey. The deer’s ear twitched as he saw the idiotic and humiliating display Lucifer displayed, nonetheless a king. He kept his ear to ear smile before leaning downwards.
“What could be SO upsetting for you hmm? Was it your wife? Or Charlie?—“
“Don’t talk about her now! I don’t need.. her to be tied into this, bellhop.”
Lucifer spoke with nasty rage and almost shame. Alastor could read him easy— he was angry and ashamed. The clop of his feet walking towards the hunched over man wasn’t something to miss, he crouched to meet Lucifers eyes.
“Arent you just a crybaby?”
He spat before taking a glare at gore galore.
Lucifer wanted to kick him and beat him until he was fucking blue, but he was so vulnerable and open at the moment. He just huffed and puffed.
Alastor almost laughed in his face, grabbing his chin roughly.
”You know how sad this looks yeah?”
He growled, referring to the blood on the ground. He then let go and proceeded to observe the way he sliced himself open this way.
Alastor then threw a napkin at him, it was like a sign of showing ‘this is stupid but you can at least clean up’. Lucifer still stared at him with hate. He didn’t want to talk to Al at all— like at all. Especially in this state. He just sniffled and walked to the bathroom. Alastor waited.
After a while of arguing and venting, Alastor sat at the edge of the bed while Lucifer huddled up in a blanket. Alastor didn’t care for him. He didn’t care. The deer almost fumbled as he felt Luci shuffle close to him. What? After what he’s done? He’s cuddling? God.
Alastor shuffled a bit back, eventually meeting eachothers arms. It was so out of character of him but he couldn’t help it. He was so repulsed by Lucifer— he couldn’t be falling for him.
Everything went deaf for the two, only audible thing that was there was a radio playing soft jazz.
˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ | im an idiot for thinking this was anything but love
It was a normal day in the hotel. People were checking in and heading to their rooms, Charlie was at the front with Vaggi as they both were SUPER busy. It was the average thing that happened in the Hazbin Hotel. Cursing, members and work. Alastor didn’t like coming out of the shadows, although he decided it was time to come out and have a cup of black drenched coffee.
As Alastor made his way to make the coffee, he felt the whole atmosphere shift. He was certainly confused on why that is. The black liquid gurgled into his cup, steaming hot as he took one little sip. Delicious. The radio deer was pleased, walking with a little clop of his hooves before catching onto a sound that escaped Lucifer’s room. Sounded like.. sobbing. Why was he crying? Was it a movie? Or maybe even he was yearning? Alastor didn’t know (and didn’t care nonetheless.), he then approached the door with curiosity scratching at his throat. He didn’t knock, or make himself noticed; just opened the door with a gentle push.
There he was, Lucifer. He was hunched over, crying and blade in hand. Looking at it closely he was in a pool of his own blood as he swiped over and over on the slits. What the fuck? Alastor almost cringed at this display. He dealt with murdering millions but this was always the worst (in a sense of “its cringy” in Alastor’s eyes). He didn’t know what to do since the king of hell was just shanking his wrists like it was a doll he hated with passion. The deer cleared his throat, radio static echoing in the room as he watched the morningstar shoot up trying to hide it.
”Noo, don’t hide it now, Mr. Morningstar!”
Lucifer hissed as he replied with a deep growl that came out as a pathetic rasp.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Alastor spoke no words, stalking towards him like prey. The deer’s ear twitched as he saw the idiotic and humiliating display Lucifer displayed, nonetheless a king. He kept his ear to ear smile before leaning downwards.
“What could be SO upsetting for you hmm? Was it your wife? Or Charlie?—“
“Don’t talk about her now! I don’t need.. her to be tied into this, bellhop.”
Lucifer spoke with nasty rage and almost shame. Alastor could read him easy— he was angry and ashamed. The clop of his feet walking towards the hunched over man wasn’t something to miss, he crouched to meet Lucifers eyes.
“Arent you just a crybaby?”
He spat before taking a glare at gore galore.
Lucifer wanted to kick him and beat him until he was fucking blue, but he was so vulnerable and open at the moment. He just huffed and puffed.
Alastor almost laughed in his face, grabbing his chin roughly.
”You know how sad this looks yeah?”
He growled, referring to the blood on the ground. He then let go and proceeded to observe the way he sliced himself open this way.
Alastor then threw a napkin at him, it was like a sign of showing ‘this is stupid but you can at least clean up’. Lucifer still stared at him with hate. He didn’t want to talk to Al at all— like at all. Especially in this state. He just sniffled and walked to the bathroom. Alastor waited.
After a while of arguing and venting, Alastor sat at the edge of the bed while Lucifer huddled up in a blanket. Alastor didn’t care for him. He didn’t care. The deer almost fumbled as he felt Luci shuffle close to him. What? After what he’s done? He’s cuddling? God.
Alastor shuffled a bit back, eventually meeting eachothers arms. It was so out of character of him but he couldn’t help it. He was so repulsed by Lucifer— he couldn’t be falling for him.
Everything went deaf for the two, only audible thing that was there was a radio playing soft jazz.
˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77370261 | {"authors": ["orphan_account"], "language": "English", "title": "im an idiot for thinking this was anything but love"} |
High Stakes (old)
Welcome, to High Steaks Casino! Don’t email us about the typo—we know. High Steaks is a magical place that’ll hook you in with fun games, wonderful cash prizes, delicious drinks, and leave you withered and rotting beneath the feet of our patrons. Your body will never be found, and nobody will care. Because you’re a rotten person, and you know it. Make sure to bring a smile! You’ll need it.
“You need to leave. Now. Before you get sucked into anything… weird. Because that’s what this place does. It lures you in, and sucks you into some sort of never-ending spiral. It did it to me, and it’ll probably do it to you, too. No, scratch that. It will do it to you. Because whatever this place is, whatever it’s controlled by? It does not want you to leave. So, unless you listen to me, and leave immediately, you probably never will.
I lost my job, that’s how this whole mess started. But it was admittedly my own fault. I got caught stealing tips one too many times. After I got let go, I applied to a few places, but I never got any calls. I was losing money, and I was losing it fast. I had resorted to asking for money from people I knew, but I’ve never really had any friends, so my options were limited to my ex-girlfriend, and my distant father. They both said no, understandably, so I did the only thing that came to mind.
I went to a casino.
It was two in the afternoon. “High Steaks Casino,” is what the place was called. Typo included. It was fairly new, I believe. I had never seen it before, even though I had lived in that town for years. For being brand new, it was kind of… disgusting. At least from an outside perspective. It was cracked beyond belief, and I could see mold growing inside of the cracks. The letters on the sign displaying the name were flickering, and despite what it said on the website, the sign spelled out “Stakes.” I grimaced when I had to pull on the door handles. I could feel all the grime and residue left from what felt like years of no maintenance, nor any upkeep.
The inside of the casino was completely different. Bright, colourful lights lined every wall, each flashing different words. “Play!” “Win!” “Jackpot!” The games all lit up with fluorescent lights, and everything was basked in the golden glow of hundreds of chandeliers on the high ceilings. It looked very clean. Almost suspiciously so, like nobody had ever touched any of it. But it was quite the opposite—the place was very well-populated. Not a single slot machine went unused, and I could only see a few free spots at all the game tables and bar. I was thirsty, so I went over to the bar for a drink before I played anything, even if I could only get something cheap.
I sat down next to a guy in a tacky Hawaiian shirt and grey cargo shorts. He had a pair of pink plastic shutter shades resting on his long, blond hair. I had absolutely no clue as to why he was wearing any of that, considering we were in London, and it was late winter. However, I’d seen my fair share of far weirder people at bars in my life, so even though it was odd, it didn’t really phase me.
He was younger than me, by what amount I couldn’t tell, and he was scrawny. Like, really scrawny. I could see all of his bones jutting out at odd angles. It was off-putting, to say the least. I guess he noticed me staring at him, and we made eye contact. He was handsome, but in a way that was almost uncanny. His pupils were too small, his smile too… toothy. His hand was wrapped around a half-empty martini glass, and I think he was double-jointed, because he seemed to have an extra set of knuckles on his bony, bony fingers.
I couldn’t tell if I was scared of him, or attracted to him. Probably a bit of both. I’ve always been a little attracted to creepy. I had a huge crush on the girl from The Ring as a teen.
He introduced himself as Dave Murielle, the owner of the casino, and he spoke in a thick Russian accent. We talked for a bit, and he bought us a round of the most expensive beer the bar had. He watched my lips intently as I drank it, but he never took a sip of his own drink.
Soon after I finished my bottle, Dave challenged me to a friendly, low-stakes game of poker. I accepted, still having no reason to distrust him, no matter how much my gut was telling me I should.
We both bet two hundred pounds, and I watched as Dave kissed a poker chip before sliding a pile towards me. The table we were at was probably the only empty table in the entire casino. Everywhere else was jam-packed with people, and yet they seemed to avoid this table, like there was an invisible forcefield keeping them away. Regardless of how weird it seemed, Dave and I started playing.
The moment we started playing, I completely spiralled, and I had no clue how it happened. After Dave won the first round, I just couldn’t stop. We kept playing, myself losing more and more of my savings as the day went on. I found myself withdrawing money from my bank account at the casino ATMs at a certain point. It might have been night, I never checked. It felt like it had been hours. Dave never once turned down my pleas to have a rematch. I needed to keep playing, I needed it.
The round I lost my last twenty pounds, Dave began chuckling. I looked up at him like he was insane. He had a devilish glint in those freaky, pink eyes of his. Pink? How had I not noticed that before? That feels like the first thing you’d notice about a person. I asked him what the hell was wrong with him, and he sighed, his laughter ceasing.
“I drugged the beer. A little drug made in Siberia. Makes you unable to quit once you start,” he drawled in his thick, Russian accent. I spluttered. “I’m sorry, you drugged me?! I thought you were just—”
“Thought I was what? Flirting with you? Of course, you did. I didn’t take you to be very bright.” At that, I felt a hot flash of anger.
I was about to march over to the other end of the table and beat the smug grin off of his stupid face, but he spoke up before I could begin willing myself to move.
“You know,” he began. “There is something else you could bet.” I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him, not after the shit he pulled, and he laughed again. This one felt meaner, more sinister than his previous chuckle.
“No, no. That’s not what I want.” He shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small, razor-sharp surgical knife.
“Your fingers, Ryan Thatcher.” He said. “Bet your fingers.”
Despite our earlier chat at the bar, I don’t remember ever having giving him my name.
I was appalled he would even suggest something like that, and I looked around the casino for anyone who might have heard. If anyone did, nobody cared.
I didn’t want to say yes. I really, really didn’t. But, I had to get something back, even if it was just a little bit of money. I could take it, bring it back home, and use it to pay one more month of rent while thinking of what to do next.
Perhaps I was still feeling the effects of the drugs, but I said Yes. I tried so, so hard to win. Dave had bet ten thousand pounds, just to taunt me. Every time I made eye contact with him, he smiled that same, overly-toothy smile. I swear he had too many teeth. But, just as I had every time that day, I lost the round. Both my little fingers were sliced off, and by the time my screaming subsided, the pain had already ceased. Still, nobody had paid any attention to us. I looked back at my hands, scared to see the blood, but to my surprise, there was none. The wounds had completely healed over. As I was pondering this, a big, bald man walked up beside me. He told me to follow him, so I did, hoping he could maybe call for help if I asked nicely. I looked back at Dave, and he waved at me, still smiling. I wanted to punch him, however by now I was too far away.
I got into an elevator with the bald man, and we rode it down to the second floor. The door opened, and I was met with a second room full of casino games. There were no chandeliers, so the room was drenched in complete darkness, save for the few dim slot machines lining the walls, and the large neon sign on the far wall, which spelled out “High Steaks,” the “E” still firmly bolted in place to create a typo. I heard the elevator ding again, and I turned around to see the doors closing behind me, shutting out the light completely. I don’t remember ever having left the elevator. This whole situation was very confusing, and a little scary.
I couldn’t see anything except for the flashing screens of the slot machines. A little ways away from me, I noticed a figure, outlined by one of those screens. She was wearing a green hoodie, a darker green dress, and was playing on one of the slot machines. I walked up to her, bumping into a few tables on my way there.
As soon as she noticed me walking up to her, she turned to say something to me. I didn’t hear what it was, I was too transfixed on her face.
And her lack of skin.
The woman’s face was stripped bare of skin, her flesh and muscles on full display. Due to her modest outfit and hood, I couldn’t see anything past that, but I was certain that she was skinless all over. I screamed, and ran the other way. My eyes began to adjust to the dark, and I noticed more figures playing games. There was a skeleton at a bar in the corner, talking to pile of flesh, a man without legs or a head playing pool with a pair of sentient hands, and two women with no faces playing an intense game of blackjack. I kept running, until I jumped over the bar counter and curled up.
The bar counter had faint lights underneath it, so I could see my shadow moving up and down with pained breaths.
I stayed behind the bar for two weeks. I was starving, but there wasn’t any food or drinks. Somehow, I didn’t die. It felt like it was impossible to die here, even if you weren’t gambling. There were jars and glasses lining the shelves of the bar, sure, but they were all full of eyeballs, fingers, teeth, and various other body parts. Like hell I could eat any of that. I know the things saw me. I won’t dare call them people, because they weren’t. Not anymore. But I know they saw me. They didn’t try talking to me or anything though, that I was grateful for. I locked eyes with some of the ones with faces at certain points. I think they looked… sad.
I only left my spot behind the bar because I got bored. I hate myself for it. I tried to sleep away my boredom, but I couldn’t drift off. This place wouldn’t let me.
I hopped out from behind the bar counter, and avoided all the flesh creatures until I got to a slot machine as far away from any of them as possible. There was no coin slot, but the screen faintly flashed the words:
“Press 1 for a hand. Press 2 for a kidney. Press 3 for a foot.”
I knew it.
I only played because I was curious. That’s it, I swear. Although I suppose I should have known what would happen. Dave was right, I’ve never been very bright.
I left that slot machine with both my legs and my left arm missing. I hadn’t been able to stop. Maybe it was that Siberian drug Dave had laced my beer with? But it had been weeks, it couldn’t possibly have been that strong. Although, not much about this place would surprise me anymore.
I lost so much of my body during the time I was there. I lost my skin at one point, just like the woman in green. I won’t even begin to describe what it felt like. It was agonizing, that’s all I’ll say. I won’t say I wouldn’t wish it on anyone though, that would be a lie. I caught my reflection in one of the busted slot machine’s screens once. There I was, skinless and withering. A broken husk of a man.
It took me what felt like years, but something miraculous happened. I won back all my body parts. I played an intense game of Cheat against one of the women with no faces, and I won my last finger back. The moment it regenerated, I heard the ding of the elevator arriving. The big, bald man from several months ago appeared right behind me in only a few nanoseconds, and told me to follow him. My heart leaped in my chest. Was I finally getting out of this wretched place? I had no time to even be happy about this, I was too focused on getting out.
We got in the elevator and rode it up to the first floor. The second we arrived, I booked it to the front doors, desperate to leave. However, the moment I stepped foot outside of the casino, I felt a searing pain all over my body. I fell to the ground in agony, and watched as people walked past as if they couldn’t see me. I sat down on the sidewalk to wait out the pain, but it never subsided. Eventually, I crawled back into the casino to find someone that could help.
As soon as I was back inside, the pain stopped. Great, I thought. Just Great. Fucked up magic casino with its fucked up magic ways of getting you to stay. Fantastic.
Since I hadn’t eaten in months, I slowly made my way over to the bar. I didn’t have any money on me, so I stole some olives and tequila shots from the | High Stakes (old)
Welcome, to High Steaks Casino! Don’t email us about the typo—we know. High Steaks is a magical place that’ll hook you in with fun games, wonderful cash prizes, delicious drinks, and leave you withered and rotting beneath the feet of our patrons. Your body will never be found, and nobody will care. Because you’re a rotten person, and you know it. Make sure to bring a smile! You’ll need it.
“You need to leave. Now. Before you get sucked into anything… weird. Because that’s what this place does. It lures you in, and sucks you into some sort of never-ending spiral. It did it to me, and it’ll probably do it to you, too. No, scratch that. It will do it to you. Because whatever this place is, whatever it’s controlled by? It does not want you to leave. So, unless you listen to me, and leave immediately, you probably never will.
I lost my job, that’s how this whole mess started. But it was admittedly my own fault. I got caught stealing tips one too many times. After I got let go, I applied to a few places, but I never got any calls. I was losing money, and I was losing it fast. I had resorted to asking for money from people I knew, but I’ve never really had any friends, so my options were limited to my ex-girlfriend, and my distant father. They both said no, understandably, so I did the only thing that came to mind.
I went to a casino.
It was two in the afternoon. “High Steaks Casino,” is what the place was called. Typo included. It was fairly new, I believe. I had never seen it before, even though I had lived in that town for years. For being brand new, it was kind of… disgusting. At least from an outside perspective. It was cracked beyond belief, and I could see mold growing inside of the cracks. The letters on the sign displaying the name were flickering, and despite what it said on the website, the sign spelled out “Stakes.” I grimaced when I had to pull on the door handles. I could feel all the grime and residue left from what felt like years of no maintenance, nor any upkeep.
The inside of the casino was completely different. Bright, colourful lights lined every wall, each flashing different words. “Play!” “Win!” “Jackpot!” The games all lit up with fluorescent lights, and everything was basked in the golden glow of hundreds of chandeliers on the high ceilings. It looked very clean. Almost suspiciously so, like nobody had ever touched any of it. But it was quite the opposite—the place was very well-populated. Not a single slot machine went unused, and I could only see a few free spots at all the game tables and bar. I was thirsty, so I went over to the bar for a drink before I played anything, even if I could only get something cheap.
I sat down next to a guy in a tacky Hawaiian shirt and grey cargo shorts. He had a pair of pink plastic shutter shades resting on his long, blond hair. I had absolutely no clue as to why he was wearing any of that, considering we were in London, and it was late winter. However, I’d seen my fair share of far weirder people at bars in my life, so even though it was odd, it didn’t really phase me.
He was younger than me, by what amount I couldn’t tell, and he was scrawny. Like, really scrawny. I could see all of his bones jutting out at odd angles. It was off-putting, to say the least. I guess he noticed me staring at him, and we made eye contact. He was handsome, but in a way that was almost uncanny. His pupils were too small, his smile too… toothy. His hand was wrapped around a half-empty martini glass, and I think he was double-jointed, because he seemed to have an extra set of knuckles on his bony, bony fingers.
I couldn’t tell if I was scared of him, or attracted to him. Probably a bit of both. I’ve always been a little attracted to creepy. I had a huge crush on the girl from The Ring as a teen.
He introduced himself as Dave Murielle, the owner of the casino, and he spoke in a thick Russian accent. We talked for a bit, and he bought us a round of the most expensive beer the bar had. He watched my lips intently as I drank it, but he never took a sip of his own drink.
Soon after I finished my bottle, Dave challenged me to a friendly, low-stakes game of poker. I accepted, still having no reason to distrust him, no matter how much my gut was telling me I should.
We both bet two hundred pounds, and I watched as Dave kissed a poker chip before sliding a pile towards me. The table we were at was probably the only empty table in the entire casino. Everywhere else was jam-packed with people, and yet they seemed to avoid this table, like there was an invisible forcefield keeping them away. Regardless of how weird it seemed, Dave and I started playing.
The moment we started playing, I completely spiralled, and I had no clue how it happened. After Dave won the first round, I just couldn’t stop. We kept playing, myself losing more and more of my savings as the day went on. I found myself withdrawing money from my bank account at the casino ATMs at a certain point. It might have been night, I never checked. It felt like it had been hours. Dave never once turned down my pleas to have a rematch. I needed to keep playing, I needed it.
The round I lost my last twenty pounds, Dave began chuckling. I looked up at him like he was insane. He had a devilish glint in those freaky, pink eyes of his. Pink? How had I not noticed that before? That feels like the first thing you’d notice about a person. I asked him what the hell was wrong with him, and he sighed, his laughter ceasing.
“I drugged the beer. A little drug made in Siberia. Makes you unable to quit once you start,” he drawled in his thick, Russian accent. I spluttered. “I’m sorry, you drugged me?! I thought you were just—”
“Thought I was what? Flirting with you? Of course, you did. I didn’t take you to be very bright.” At that, I felt a hot flash of anger.
I was about to march over to the other end of the table and beat the smug grin off of his stupid face, but he spoke up before I could begin willing myself to move.
“You know,” he began. “There is something else you could bet.” I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him, not after the shit he pulled, and he laughed again. This one felt meaner, more sinister than his previous chuckle.
“No, no. That’s not what I want.” He shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small, razor-sharp surgical knife.
“Your fingers, Ryan Thatcher.” He said. “Bet your fingers.”
Despite our earlier chat at the bar, I don’t remember ever having giving him my name.
I was appalled he would even suggest something like that, and I looked around the casino for anyone who might have heard. If anyone did, nobody cared.
I didn’t want to say yes. I really, really didn’t. But, I had to get something back, even if it was just a little bit of money. I could take it, bring it back home, and use it to pay one more month of rent while thinking of what to do next.
Perhaps I was still feeling the effects of the drugs, but I said Yes. I tried so, so hard to win. Dave had bet ten thousand pounds, just to taunt me. Every time I made eye contact with him, he smiled that same, overly-toothy smile. I swear he had too many teeth. But, just as I had every time that day, I lost the round. Both my little fingers were sliced off, and by the time my screaming subsided, the pain had already ceased. Still, nobody had paid any attention to us. I looked back at my hands, scared to see the blood, but to my surprise, there was none. The wounds had completely healed over. As I was pondering this, a big, bald man walked up beside me. He told me to follow him, so I did, hoping he could maybe call for help if I asked nicely. I looked back at Dave, and he waved at me, still smiling. I wanted to punch him, however by now I was too far away.
I got into an elevator with the bald man, and we rode it down to the second floor. The door opened, and I was met with a second room full of casino games. There were no chandeliers, so the room was drenched in complete darkness, save for the few dim slot machines lining the walls, and the large neon sign on the far wall, which spelled out “High Steaks,” the “E” still firmly bolted in place to create a typo. I heard the elevator ding again, and I turned around to see the doors closing behind me, shutting out the light completely. I don’t remember ever having left the elevator. This whole situation was very confusing, and a little scary.
I couldn’t see anything except for the flashing screens of the slot machines. A little ways away from me, I noticed a figure, outlined by one of those screens. She was wearing a green hoodie, a darker green dress, and was playing on one of the slot machines. I walked up to her, bumping into a few tables on my way there.
As soon as she noticed me walking up to her, she turned to say something to me. I didn’t hear what it was, I was too transfixed on her face.
And her lack of skin.
The woman’s face was stripped bare of skin, her flesh and muscles on full display. Due to her modest outfit and hood, I couldn’t see anything past that, but I was certain that she was skinless all over. I screamed, and ran the other way. My eyes began to adjust to the dark, and I noticed more figures playing games. There was a skeleton at a bar in the corner, talking to pile of flesh, a man without legs or a head playing pool with a pair of sentient hands, and two women with no faces playing an intense game of blackjack. I kept running, until I jumped over the bar counter and curled up.
The bar counter had faint lights underneath it, so I could see my shadow moving up and down with pained breaths.
I stayed behind the bar for two weeks. I was starving, but there wasn’t any food or drinks. Somehow, I didn’t die. It felt like it was impossible to die here, even if you weren’t gambling. There were jars and glasses lining the shelves of the bar, sure, but they were all full of eyeballs, fingers, teeth, and various other body parts. Like hell I could eat any of that. I know the things saw me. I won’t dare call them people, because they weren’t. Not anymore. But I know they saw me. They didn’t try talking to me or anything though, that I was grateful for. I locked eyes with some of the ones with faces at certain points. I think they looked… sad.
I only left my spot behind the bar because I got bored. I hate myself for it. I tried to sleep away my boredom, but I couldn’t drift off. This place wouldn’t let me.
I hopped out from behind the bar counter, and avoided all the flesh creatures until I got to a slot machine as far away from any of them as possible. There was no coin slot, but the screen faintly flashed the words:
“Press 1 for a hand. Press 2 for a kidney. Press 3 for a foot.”
I knew it.
I only played because I was curious. That’s it, I swear. Although I suppose I should have known what would happen. Dave was right, I’ve never been very bright.
I left that slot machine with both my legs and my left arm missing. I hadn’t been able to stop. Maybe it was that Siberian drug Dave had laced my beer with? But it had been weeks, it couldn’t possibly have been that strong. Although, not much about this place would surprise me anymore.
I lost so much of my body during the time I was there. I lost my skin at one point, just like the woman in green. I won’t even begin to describe what it felt like. It was agonizing, that’s all I’ll say. I won’t say I wouldn’t wish it on anyone though, that would be a lie. I caught my reflection in one of the busted slot machine’s screens once. There I was, skinless and withering. A broken husk of a man.
It took me what felt like years, but something miraculous happened. I won back all my body parts. I played an intense game of Cheat against one of the women with no faces, and I won my last finger back. The moment it regenerated, I heard the ding of the elevator arriving. The big, bald man from several months ago appeared right behind me in only a few nanoseconds, and told me to follow him. My heart leaped in my chest. Was I finally getting out of this wretched place? I had no time to even be happy about this, I was too focused on getting out.
We got in the elevator and rode it up to the first floor. The second we arrived, I booked it to the front doors, desperate to leave. However, the moment I stepped foot outside of the casino, I felt a searing pain all over my body. I fell to the ground in agony, and watched as people walked past as if they couldn’t see me. I sat down on the sidewalk to wait out the pain, but it never subsided. Eventually, I crawled back into the casino to find someone that could help.
As soon as I was back inside, the pain stopped. Great, I thought. Just Great. Fucked up magic casino with its fucked up magic ways of getting you to stay. Fantastic.
Since I hadn’t eaten in months, I slowly made my way over to the bar. I didn’t have any money on me, so I stole some olives and tequila shots from the couple sitting next to me when they weren’t looking. I then passed out at the counter, having not slept since the night before I came to the casino several months ago.
I woke up to an obnoxious, sinister sounding laugh coming from a nearby pool table. I looked behind myself.
It was Dave.
He was holding a pool stick in one hand, and his little surgical knife in the other. The woman he was playing against looked absolutely horrified, and I watched as she sorrowfully placed her hands against the green felt of the table. Dave brought his hand with the knife down, and sliced her little fingers clean off, just as he had done to me. The bald man showed up behind the girl, from where I hadn’t seen, and she followed him off to the elevator, down to the second floor. At least it wasn’t me anymore, I had thought.
Dave swiped his hair back with his hands, and I got pissed beyond belief. Who did this guy think he was? I stood up, all my exhaustion replaced with pure rage, and stormed over to him. Where did he get off on ruining my life? And with that stupid smirk, no less?? Yeah, I was going to fuck him up.
I watched as he took a sip of his cocktail. It was beet red, and it had pinkish-tan sphere with a toothpick floating around inside it. I smacked it out of his hands, and the glass shattered. Nobody seemed to notice. Dave slid his pink shutter shades up into his blond hair, and smiled at me.
“Ryan,” he said. “You are back.” He had absolutely no malice in his voice.
I shoved him onto the floor, and began beating him up.
Whenever I punched him, his flesh and bones would… move, somehow. They would move in a way that I wouldn’t be able to cause any damage to him. I started pulling at his skin, trying to rip it off, but it felt rubbery, and always snapped back perfectly onto his jutting bones. He never once broke his smile. This irritated me more than words can describe. Here I was, pouring all my anger and hatred into these punches, and Dave wasn’t even breaking face.
Once I got too exhausted to continue, I stood up and propped myself up on the pool table, panting. Dave stood up and dusted himself off like nothing had even happened. He watched as I heaved, and tried to regain my balance.
“Come with me,” he said once I had mostly recovered. I was too tired to even begin to process that I could say ‘No’. Although, I don’t think I would have anyway. I needed an opportunity to kill him.
I followed Dave to the corner of the casino, to a little office surrounded by busted slot machines. The office looked as dirty as the outside of the casino, which was a large contrast to the rest of the first floor. Dave pulled out a small, pink key from the pocket of his shorts, and unlocked the door. It made a gross, squelching sound when he did.
I took a look inside the office as I stepped inside. There was a desk in the center, with two swivelling chairs on either side of it, and a small cup of pencils and scissors on the right corner. The left corner had a stack of plain white paper, and a small, circular paperweight.
The left side of the office had a small bookshelf, mostly full of crude magazines and pots of plastic flowers. The carpet was old and shedding. All things considered, it was a relatively normal office.
Dave’s office.
Dave beckoned for me to sit down on one of the swivelling chairs, and he took the one on the opposite side of the desk.
“So,” he said. “You want out?”
I nodded slowly, trying to seem as intimidating as I could. He chuckled. Of course. If my intimidation worked on anyone, it wouldn’t be him.
“Play poker with me.”
I got instant déjà vu. If I lost, would I have to go back to the second floor? Obviously, stupid question. I shook my head, and stood up to leave.
“No thanks, Murielle.” I exaggerated my anger by pointing my finger harshly between his eyes. “I’m done with this shit.”
I went to open the door, but it was locked. I tried again. I heard a mean, mean laugh coming from behind me. I turned around.
“It was not a suggestion, Thatcher.” We locked eyes.
“Play poker with me.”
My eyes raced around the room, looking for a way to get out. My gaze landed on a book bound in human skin, resting on top of the bookshelf. I think I saw it pulsing.
I sighed, and sat back down. What else was I supposed to do? And besides, I was overflowing with the confidence of winning my whole body back. Dave flashed his dumb, handsome, creepy smile, and pulled a briefcase full of poker chips and cards out of his desk. He evenly sorted the supplies, and kissed the last chip before sliding it over to me.
We played for what felt like years.
It was probably only a few hours, but I honestly couldn’t tell. Every time I looked at my hands, I noticed that they seemed older. I didn’t need to eat or drink; I didn’t need anything other than to win. I prayed to a god I don’t believe in that Dave wouldn’t cheat. I swear I had a panic attack every other minute.
And despite the odds, I won. I actually won. I nearly cried with relief, I was going to get out of this place! I stood up swiftly, and asked Dave for the key with a large smile.
He smiled back even harder. It threw me off immediately. I watched as he opened a drawer on the desk and began to rummage through it, seemingly looking for something specific. He eventually pulled out a small handgun.
I backed up. “Hey, hey, what the fuck are you gonna do with that thing?” I demanded. Dave laughed, resting his hand on his hip.
“Relax, boy. It’s not for you.”
My jaw clenched. “You said you’d let me go if I won.”
His smile grew once again, now completely uncanny. He did have too many teeth. “I said no such thing.”
Dave then brought the handgun to his mouth, shoved it inside, and pulled the trigger.
His head and skull exploded, blowing brains and blood all over the right wall, staining it bright red. I watched in horror as Dave’s limp body fell to the floor, brains smearing against the wall as he slid down. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to find that key, but I didn’t want to touch the body. I really, really didn’t.
But I had to. Eventually, my hunger got too much to bear, and I had to search Dave’s pockets for the key. But it wasn’t there. I looked in the drawers of the desk as well, but all I found was a messy stash of tiny glass jars, each filled with the same liquid. Purple and gold, each creating swirling patterns into one another, never mixing. The Siberian spiral drug.
The door was still locked tight. I considered using the gun to break the lock, but as soon as I pulled the trigger against the door, nothing happened. Why the hell had there been only one bullet? I was starving, and it refused to go away. I was worried my stomach would start digesting itself soon. I wasn’t on the second floor anymore. I only had one option, and it almost made me laugh.
Dave’s flesh tasted surprisingly sweet. It was a weird feeling, cannibalism. It felt almost divine, to be able to devour another human being in that way. I ate his heart as though it was an apple from the garden of Eden. The blood dripping down my jaw felt almost heavenly. This was the closest I had ever been to anyone in my life, the closest I would ever be again. I ate him down to the bone over the course of about a month, delicately ripping off all the rot and decay, feeling almost sad to waste it. Whether that was because it was waste of a good meal, or because I was enamoured with the process of eating Dave, I couldn’t tell. The room began to smell rancid very fast, but I revelled in it. And that stupid smile of his? I finally ripped it off his face.
I began to grow bored. I tried reading Dave’s lewd magazines, but they were all in bad taste. Soon, the only thing left to explore was the book bound in skin.
It was an instruction manual for running the casino. It showed the layout of the second floor, ways to cheat without getting caught, and a guide to a perfect poker face. At the end of the book, was a long list of crossed out names, with the title of the page reading “Owners.” None of the names I recognized, except for the last two.
Dave Murielle, and Ryan Thatcher. My name was the only one not crossed out.
I looked at the picture of Dave. He was completely different from how I remembered him. Shorter hair, blue eyes, Hawaiian shirt not as tacky. His skin actually seemed to cover his bones normally, and his handsome smile had the perfect number of teeth.
On the back cover of the book, was that small pink key. It fit into the door’s lock perfectly, and made a gross noise as I turned it. I opened the door, and the sound of machines and laughter flooded my ears.
I booked it to the door, bumping into nearly everyone in my path, causing a string of groans and swears, but I didn’t process a damn word out of anyone’s mouth. I found myself in front of the large double doors, and prepared myself to leave. I collected my thoughts, and took a step forward.
I tried to, at least.
My body wouldn’t move, no matter how much I willed it to. It’s not that I didn’t want to leave. I did. I really, really did. I just couldn’t move. I watched as other people came in and out of the casino doors just fine, and none of them paid any attention to me just standing there.
At this point, I had stopped keeping track of time. It just didn’t matter anymore. After a little while, I stepped away from the doors, and went over to the bar.
As the new owner, I get free drinks. Which is nice, I guess. I binge-drank a few bottles of beer, trying to drown out the lingering taste of flesh in my mouth. Miraculously, my teeth hadn’t begun to decay yet. More weird flesh magic, I assume.
Since I own the place now, it’s become my job to send people down to the second floor. Every time I need to lure in a victim, I have to go back into the office for another dose of the drug. Dave’s body is gone now. I don’t know where it went, I sure as hell never moved it. In a way, I almost miss it. I know now I can never be that intimate with someone ever again.
I’ve cut off the fingers of about five people since I started my new job. I leave them in the garbage. I think the casino eats them. Something like that, at least. Everything about my situation is downright terrible.
I’ve realized something now, something I should have realized long ago. I don’t know when I realized it, it could have been recently. It could have been when I saw Dave shoot himself. It could have been when I caught my skinless reflection in the screen of that broken slot machine. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know it now. And what I know is this:
We are all nothing more than suits of flesh pretending to be people. Some of us are better at pretending than others, those of us who appear “ordinary.” I used to think I was ordinary, but recently I’ve noticed my smile growing a few extra teeth.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77363991 | {"authors": ["KMichaelCastor"], "language": "English", "title": "High Stakes (old)"} |
Im doing better than i ever was
The evening lived and moved around her, while the candlelight slid across polished tables, caught on glass and silver. Their Conversations rose and fell and turned into seas of clinking glasses and low laughter. Perched in the seat beside her was Travis, who was grinning like he couldn’t believe his luck , the crease beside his eye deepening as he did. Taylor laughed alongside him, it came easy, like it always did.
The conversation naturally slid on the table between them, carried by habit. She barely even noticed the words being said. It didn’t matter, the warmth was enough to lift her chest without much effort. To look at travis talking to his brother, or see Kylie with her quick wit, she felt indefinitely excited for the simple, quiet happiness their future would hold. She softly squeezed his hand, grounding the thought before it floated away.
She’d always been terrified of what an engagement meant. Always bolted before she got there, terrified of the prospect of an infinite commitment, but somehow she felt like she chose this. When she glanced at her hand she truly began to smile, she imagined the future, and she really did see him in it. It was warm.
later, when the last bite had been eaten and the final toast had been made, they left the restaurant together. the city night was crisp, carrying the faint scent of nearby trees and late-blooming flowers. stepping inside their house afterward, taylor kicked off her boots and loosened her hair into a messy bun, settling onto the couch with a quiet sigh. the day had been perfect, warm, celebratory, and now the gentle hum of her home wrapped around her like a soft blanket. Everything was perfect, she thought, as she peeked at her ring once again, not being able to stop herself from forming a smile.
Her phone pinged.
Tree paine. She picked it up with an easy smile. “Hey.. just a heads up, out of courtesy, Karlie liked your engagement post.”
Her stomach automatically tightened in a shy flutter. But she breathed deep, not letting it expand into anything more. It was only a like, polite, civil, it was just her being amicable. Being in a positive mood, taylor decided maybe it was time to finally reach out. Maybe there was a place for the past in the present. It was all in the past now, wasn’t it? | Im doing better than i ever was
The evening lived and moved around her, while the candlelight slid across polished tables, caught on glass and silver. Their Conversations rose and fell and turned into seas of clinking glasses and low laughter. Perched in the seat beside her was Travis, who was grinning like he couldn’t believe his luck , the crease beside his eye deepening as he did. Taylor laughed alongside him, it came easy, like it always did.
The conversation naturally slid on the table between them, carried by habit. She barely even noticed the words being said. It didn’t matter, the warmth was enough to lift her chest without much effort. To look at travis talking to his brother, or see Kylie with her quick wit, she felt indefinitely excited for the simple, quiet happiness their future would hold. She softly squeezed his hand, grounding the thought before it floated away.
She’d always been terrified of what an engagement meant. Always bolted before she got there, terrified of the prospect of an infinite commitment, but somehow she felt like she chose this. When she glanced at her hand she truly began to smile, she imagined the future, and she really did see him in it. It was warm.
later, when the last bite had been eaten and the final toast had been made, they left the restaurant together. the city night was crisp, carrying the faint scent of nearby trees and late-blooming flowers. stepping inside their house afterward, taylor kicked off her boots and loosened her hair into a messy bun, settling onto the couch with a quiet sigh. the day had been perfect, warm, celebratory, and now the gentle hum of her home wrapped around her like a soft blanket. Everything was perfect, she thought, as she peeked at her ring once again, not being able to stop herself from forming a smile.
Her phone pinged.
Tree paine. She picked it up with an easy smile. “Hey.. just a heads up, out of courtesy, Karlie liked your engagement post.”
Her stomach automatically tightened in a shy flutter. But she breathed deep, not letting it expand into anything more. It was only a like, polite, civil, it was just her being amicable. Being in a positive mood, taylor decided maybe it was time to finally reach out. Maybe there was a place for the past in the present. It was all in the past now, wasn’t it? | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77367611/chapters/202562336 | {"authors": ["Hermidnights"], "language": "English", "title": "Im doing better than i ever was"} |
Monster F*cker Diaries Tales
It had been a long and arduous journey and she was extremely nervous, but that acrid stench of estrogen and testosterone finally filled her lungs. This must be it Jazra thought. She had been fairly new to the area and her queer-platonic discord partners had been urging her to venture out and mingle. A bar in the crater of what used to be the free-range whites commune near the coast of Maryland. Far away from the hustle and bustle of any sort of “Urban” influence of Old Baltimore before the war. Now it was a haven for all sorts of queer transgenders looking to have the “sleepovers” they never could that are almost always just orgies. In which the discord strictly platonic partners were excited for Jazra to potentially experience. And this wasn’t just any sort of bar, it was wreathed in what seemed to be plot-relevant-synthesized hormones. She tended to have a hard time navigating new spaces and talking to new people on account of being your average AuDHD black femme transfem. She breathed deep the bombed-out crater air with her bustling B cup MTF breasts and hormonally augmented lungs and calmed her biohacked nerves as she made her way towards the bar.
In the center of this man-(and woman and they) made city stood an inviting and yet imposing bar named after one of the pioneers of liberation. The Ru-Paul's Cafe. Named after the late great oil baron who used his oil money to aid the Dylan Mulvany government takeover. It was magnificent and a testament to how capitalism really did save the day when it mattered most. Except for the all the horrors and disenfranchisement and slavery and genocides and apartheids and ethnic cleanses and lobbying and wealth inequality and overconsumption of resources and human aided climate change and the prison industrial complex and whitewashing and military intelligence based government agencies and healthcare denial and wage theft and slave catchers that became the police force and suppression of minority groups and the proliferation of misinformation and AI and workplace crunch and so so so much more. Aside from all that, capitalism truly served as a boon to all.
Standing before such a revered and magnificent monument to a hero of the old war filled Jazra with awe and more awe. The cool night air dancing along her MTF hips, ass, and rockin’ B cup sized tit-breasts as she took in such a marvelous marvel. The building was swarmed in transgenderated T-girls and a smattering of other queers. It seemed to be white girl Wednesday. She entered the Slay Queen golden sashay-the-day-away double doors into what could be called rainbow capitalistic opulence. Pride flags adorned nearly every wall of all sorts. A banner with the phrase “in this house we believe: Black lives matter*, No one is illegal on stolen land*, Love is Love, (cis) women’s rights are human rights, Kindness is everything. (*- unless it conflicts with the longevity and continuation of white culture). And beyond the cornucopia of excessive bullshit stood a beautiful femme behind the bar.
A radiance that radiated radiant other worldly radiance. From their crown to the buxom battle ready breasts the bartender was intoxicating. Deftly with the ease and confidence of a law enforcement officer shooting an unarmed dog they poured drinks as if it came as simply as breathing. Defining the grandiosity of their eminence and beauty would require an author with at least a bachelor's degree and experience in a master’s degree program but then dropping out halfway through at minimum. From the entrance to the bar, it was as if a chasm opened up between them once the bartender locked eyes with Jazra. A sense of vast oceans and endless seas, intangible, divided the two. The eye contact was enough to get her macro-clitoris engorged with anemic blood. She was wreathed in that weird fucking horny energy that makes one do something really intensely wild. Like have an all day sex marathon and not drink nearly any water then wonder why they’re so dehydrated and dizzy the next day. Before she realized it, she realized she had been holding her breath and began coughing up the invisible waters that invaded her mind throat. Her hacking and coughing drew the attention of those inside as they looked on with irritation and annoyance at the newcomer who can’t handle their liquor so much so they start cough on entry. Fucking lightweight. As Jazra gathered herself and in her embarrassment she decided to move towards the bar. Maybe the pretty femme could help her silly goofy horny-ass out.
Jazra took a deep breath. And with her anxiety-stricken meat command center going into overdrive, she made her way to the bartender.
“H-hi” said Jazra, “would you be able to maybe..”
“Oh you’re so adorable!” Exclaimed the bartender “Wanna fuck after my shift?” They said with a wink both in their eye and words and maybe other places too ;).
Flushed and embarrassed at such a proposition she was hit with a sexual arousal whiplash shorting out her Estradiol drunk woman™️ brain.
“Oh uh actually um I uh” she stumbled out of her soft nubile MTF lips. She really hadn’t been propositioned in person before. She had plenty of E-suitors who wished to be E-dommed over discord, but to have flesh sex was an ever-intimidating prospect. “Actually, yes I would li-“
“Great! I’m off in about an hour then we can go back to mine okay cutie?” they said with a thalassic flow upon the words which they speaked. Crashing upon her body in the same way in which wall street crashed in 1929. Showing signs of a decline imminent with the agricultural sector dealing with overproduction and low purchasing power from the farmers leading many of them into debt. Factory owners chose to cut laborers to reduce costs leading to an uptick in unemployment. Despite this, investors continue to put stock into the agricultural sector where the purchasing price of stocks largely exceeded their true value.
Almost as if swaying, the waves of the words washing over her, Jazra was entranced in the cerulean splendor splashing sensually upon her ears. ‘Queer Femme seduces you at a queer bar ASMR’ but in real life. Jazra’s entire body was tingling in anticipation. Her she/her penis quivering and trembling while her melanin rich girl-ass and girl-hole pulsed and puckered at the thought of being entwined in a sex entwining that's really hot or something. In truth she forgot why she initially came to this place, She was simply awash in awe and desire from her Estrogenatedly augmented hips and ass to her HRT enhanced soft supple breasts. She began to stammer out a question, yet looking into their eyes she couldn’t find the words the speak. Simply drawn in to this silent sea that submerged her every thought.
As if predicting her next question, the bartender spoke softly, “You can call me Subira love.” They said while pointing out their name tag and an ever present they/them pronoun pin next to it. Ashamed Jazra face went hot with embarrassment. And her “transmission stick” twitched a bit against her dinosaur print boyshorts underwear.
“oh, haha Yea I uh Didn’t see that...I guess I uh..I...I’m Jazra” Said who you’d expect to say that.
“Excuse me if you’re done fucking the bartender I’ve waited more than long enough to get a drink” Said a what sounded like a sentient pair of knee high socks and an amazon skirt.
“Lemme take care of the talking Blahaj sweetheart, and I’ll meet you soon” Subira said sweetly leaving a kiss in the air for Jazra to indulge in.
Without a word Jazra nodded, still stunned and in shock about everything that happened she didn’t even seem phased by the rude blonde, white woman behind her as she looked to make herself comfortable as she waited.
-
Time passed more slowly than what felt humanly possible. In no time the place as teeming with transgenders all desperately horny yet also too socially awkward to make the first move. Some even just walking around topless to nude in the hopes that someone would get the hint. More often than not it seemed others did not engage for fear of “misreading the room” and “coming off as intimidating and entitled to sex”. Though others got straight to business in the not too secret quite literally right next to the bathrooms that contained an unknowable amount of gloryholes sponsored by Ru-Paul himself when the building was being designed. His face adorning the bathroom walls with “Slay” written in a most beautiful calligraphy.
She would attempt to mingle and talk others yet she was often met with the same sort of disdain and distance defining a deplorable delve into deeper connections.
“I just wanted to say I love your hair” A tailed butt plug queer slurred as they reached up for Jazra’s head.
“Is that your real hair or that horse hair stuff” Said another ignorant wretch.
“I think it’s called ‘weave’ the Blacks use. Some sort of cultural thing I think.” Chimed in another of the white bar patrons.
Nimbly ducking and dodging the inane ignorance plauging this bar she moved to find a more secluded spot where she could make herself as invisible as possible as she waited.. Upon her traversal through the veritable white sea she found them. Subira stood ever tall and graciously eyes locked onto her just like an old Imperial drone locked onto an unarmed civilians for sport. She wouldn’t have been able to look away if she tried. And that realization was kinda hot for her not even gonna lie to you reader not even going to lie. The brief stare down and Jazra found herself transfixed in moving ever closer to Subira. The thought of being held and handled by this salacious, sea salt smelling, sexy, sight to behold.
“Ready to go babe?” Subira reached out to take Jazra’s hand.
Jazira had a very brief moment of hesitation before taking their hand and back out the double doors whence she arrived in with stares and murmurs directed about them the whole way out.
Subira led the way as they walked hand in hand. They asked more about Jazra and Jazra speaking more on her past that the author is choosing to elaborate more on in part two. They way they spoke just flowed as if the conversation itself swirled itself so naturally just as the whirling of the whirlpool effect seen in porcelain toilets with indoor plumbing. A spectacle to witness. Before long they found themselves along the coastline. Moonlight illuminating and reflecting off the shards of long discarded Hitachi brand magic wands that have crashed upon the shores. The scene created such a beautiful backdrop with Subira right in the foreground of Jazra’s corneas.
“Ugh finally today was especially rough.” Subira stretched out their arms and popped a few bones in the process “I know what this looks like but gimme one second and it’ll make more sense promise” Subira’s words soothing and sublime.
Jazera’s upbringing and knowing she’s not white told her to get the fuck out of there and no sex was worth this, yet it seemed far more that her horny desire outpaced her black woman living in a white centric world survival sense. Something about Subira was just drawing her. Magnetically. As if magnets were drawing her closer to Subira magnetizingly.
A sweet tune was hovering just above them. Nothing quite like the transfem hyperpop Jazra would listen to while she would inject herself with Estradiol Cypionate (Compared to Estradiol Valerate, Estradiol Cypionate has a longer half-life in which one can take a lower dosage of it compared to Valerate and have potentially more stable levels over the course of a week over taking Valerate every four to seven days depending on one's body. Though the information pertaining to transgender hormones and healthcare can be dubious and inconsistent as everyone's body is different and results are subject to change.) It was a sound that nearly had a scent, a sight, a sensation attached to it. Transfixed by the otherworldly tune she found its source to be Sabira themselves yet. Sabira’s mouth was not singing in time with the song. Nor was it open at all. It was nearly as if this cadence, this near serenade was emanating practically radiating from the waters beyond them both. Subria moved around, the sandy, fucked up, heavily polluted beachfront with a dancer’s grace. Their movements ebbing and flowing in time with the sea song that rang in-between Jazra’s MTF head holes. Jazra was bricked up something fierce. Her woman penis hadn’t been so stiff ever since she started taking Testosterone suppressing hormones to suppress her testosterone. Now almost rhythmically her meat baton bobbed not unlike a fishing bob in the fishing waters. Her body tingled with the tingles one gets when thinking back to someone who fucked them really good and it kinda just hits them in the middle of driving home and makes them moan a little to themselves. She was moldable, like InstaMorph moldable plastics.
“Cutie, you look like you're going to make a mess already and I’ve hardly touched you” Sabira whispered from across the macro-plastic stricken sands.
“you’re really pretty” Jazra said goofily. She had not quite been courted like this and the extended physical contact was more than she could ever ask for.
Fluidly, Subira | Monster F*cker Diaries Tales
It had been a long and arduous journey and she was extremely nervous, but that acrid stench of estrogen and testosterone finally filled her lungs. This must be it Jazra thought. She had been fairly new to the area and her queer-platonic discord partners had been urging her to venture out and mingle. A bar in the crater of what used to be the free-range whites commune near the coast of Maryland. Far away from the hustle and bustle of any sort of “Urban” influence of Old Baltimore before the war. Now it was a haven for all sorts of queer transgenders looking to have the “sleepovers” they never could that are almost always just orgies. In which the discord strictly platonic partners were excited for Jazra to potentially experience. And this wasn’t just any sort of bar, it was wreathed in what seemed to be plot-relevant-synthesized hormones. She tended to have a hard time navigating new spaces and talking to new people on account of being your average AuDHD black femme transfem. She breathed deep the bombed-out crater air with her bustling B cup MTF breasts and hormonally augmented lungs and calmed her biohacked nerves as she made her way towards the bar.
In the center of this man-(and woman and they) made city stood an inviting and yet imposing bar named after one of the pioneers of liberation. The Ru-Paul's Cafe. Named after the late great oil baron who used his oil money to aid the Dylan Mulvany government takeover. It was magnificent and a testament to how capitalism really did save the day when it mattered most. Except for the all the horrors and disenfranchisement and slavery and genocides and apartheids and ethnic cleanses and lobbying and wealth inequality and overconsumption of resources and human aided climate change and the prison industrial complex and whitewashing and military intelligence based government agencies and healthcare denial and wage theft and slave catchers that became the police force and suppression of minority groups and the proliferation of misinformation and AI and workplace crunch and so so so much more. Aside from all that, capitalism truly served as a boon to all.
Standing before such a revered and magnificent monument to a hero of the old war filled Jazra with awe and more awe. The cool night air dancing along her MTF hips, ass, and rockin’ B cup sized tit-breasts as she took in such a marvelous marvel. The building was swarmed in transgenderated T-girls and a smattering of other queers. It seemed to be white girl Wednesday. She entered the Slay Queen golden sashay-the-day-away double doors into what could be called rainbow capitalistic opulence. Pride flags adorned nearly every wall of all sorts. A banner with the phrase “in this house we believe: Black lives matter*, No one is illegal on stolen land*, Love is Love, (cis) women’s rights are human rights, Kindness is everything. (*- unless it conflicts with the longevity and continuation of white culture). And beyond the cornucopia of excessive bullshit stood a beautiful femme behind the bar.
A radiance that radiated radiant other worldly radiance. From their crown to the buxom battle ready breasts the bartender was intoxicating. Deftly with the ease and confidence of a law enforcement officer shooting an unarmed dog they poured drinks as if it came as simply as breathing. Defining the grandiosity of their eminence and beauty would require an author with at least a bachelor's degree and experience in a master’s degree program but then dropping out halfway through at minimum. From the entrance to the bar, it was as if a chasm opened up between them once the bartender locked eyes with Jazra. A sense of vast oceans and endless seas, intangible, divided the two. The eye contact was enough to get her macro-clitoris engorged with anemic blood. She was wreathed in that weird fucking horny energy that makes one do something really intensely wild. Like have an all day sex marathon and not drink nearly any water then wonder why they’re so dehydrated and dizzy the next day. Before she realized it, she realized she had been holding her breath and began coughing up the invisible waters that invaded her mind throat. Her hacking and coughing drew the attention of those inside as they looked on with irritation and annoyance at the newcomer who can’t handle their liquor so much so they start cough on entry. Fucking lightweight. As Jazra gathered herself and in her embarrassment she decided to move towards the bar. Maybe the pretty femme could help her silly goofy horny-ass out.
Jazra took a deep breath. And with her anxiety-stricken meat command center going into overdrive, she made her way to the bartender.
“H-hi” said Jazra, “would you be able to maybe..”
“Oh you’re so adorable!” Exclaimed the bartender “Wanna fuck after my shift?” They said with a wink both in their eye and words and maybe other places too ;).
Flushed and embarrassed at such a proposition she was hit with a sexual arousal whiplash shorting out her Estradiol drunk woman™️ brain.
“Oh uh actually um I uh” she stumbled out of her soft nubile MTF lips. She really hadn’t been propositioned in person before. She had plenty of E-suitors who wished to be E-dommed over discord, but to have flesh sex was an ever-intimidating prospect. “Actually, yes I would li-“
“Great! I’m off in about an hour then we can go back to mine okay cutie?” they said with a thalassic flow upon the words which they speaked. Crashing upon her body in the same way in which wall street crashed in 1929. Showing signs of a decline imminent with the agricultural sector dealing with overproduction and low purchasing power from the farmers leading many of them into debt. Factory owners chose to cut laborers to reduce costs leading to an uptick in unemployment. Despite this, investors continue to put stock into the agricultural sector where the purchasing price of stocks largely exceeded their true value.
Almost as if swaying, the waves of the words washing over her, Jazra was entranced in the cerulean splendor splashing sensually upon her ears. ‘Queer Femme seduces you at a queer bar ASMR’ but in real life. Jazra’s entire body was tingling in anticipation. Her she/her penis quivering and trembling while her melanin rich girl-ass and girl-hole pulsed and puckered at the thought of being entwined in a sex entwining that's really hot or something. In truth she forgot why she initially came to this place, She was simply awash in awe and desire from her Estrogenatedly augmented hips and ass to her HRT enhanced soft supple breasts. She began to stammer out a question, yet looking into their eyes she couldn’t find the words the speak. Simply drawn in to this silent sea that submerged her every thought.
As if predicting her next question, the bartender spoke softly, “You can call me Subira love.” They said while pointing out their name tag and an ever present they/them pronoun pin next to it. Ashamed Jazra face went hot with embarrassment. And her “transmission stick” twitched a bit against her dinosaur print boyshorts underwear.
“oh, haha Yea I uh Didn’t see that...I guess I uh..I...I’m Jazra” Said who you’d expect to say that.
“Excuse me if you’re done fucking the bartender I’ve waited more than long enough to get a drink” Said a what sounded like a sentient pair of knee high socks and an amazon skirt.
“Lemme take care of the talking Blahaj sweetheart, and I’ll meet you soon” Subira said sweetly leaving a kiss in the air for Jazra to indulge in.
Without a word Jazra nodded, still stunned and in shock about everything that happened she didn’t even seem phased by the rude blonde, white woman behind her as she looked to make herself comfortable as she waited.
-
Time passed more slowly than what felt humanly possible. In no time the place as teeming with transgenders all desperately horny yet also too socially awkward to make the first move. Some even just walking around topless to nude in the hopes that someone would get the hint. More often than not it seemed others did not engage for fear of “misreading the room” and “coming off as intimidating and entitled to sex”. Though others got straight to business in the not too secret quite literally right next to the bathrooms that contained an unknowable amount of gloryholes sponsored by Ru-Paul himself when the building was being designed. His face adorning the bathroom walls with “Slay” written in a most beautiful calligraphy.
She would attempt to mingle and talk others yet she was often met with the same sort of disdain and distance defining a deplorable delve into deeper connections.
“I just wanted to say I love your hair” A tailed butt plug queer slurred as they reached up for Jazra’s head.
“Is that your real hair or that horse hair stuff” Said another ignorant wretch.
“I think it’s called ‘weave’ the Blacks use. Some sort of cultural thing I think.” Chimed in another of the white bar patrons.
Nimbly ducking and dodging the inane ignorance plauging this bar she moved to find a more secluded spot where she could make herself as invisible as possible as she waited.. Upon her traversal through the veritable white sea she found them. Subira stood ever tall and graciously eyes locked onto her just like an old Imperial drone locked onto an unarmed civilians for sport. She wouldn’t have been able to look away if she tried. And that realization was kinda hot for her not even gonna lie to you reader not even going to lie. The brief stare down and Jazra found herself transfixed in moving ever closer to Subira. The thought of being held and handled by this salacious, sea salt smelling, sexy, sight to behold.
“Ready to go babe?” Subira reached out to take Jazra’s hand.
Jazira had a very brief moment of hesitation before taking their hand and back out the double doors whence she arrived in with stares and murmurs directed about them the whole way out.
Subira led the way as they walked hand in hand. They asked more about Jazra and Jazra speaking more on her past that the author is choosing to elaborate more on in part two. They way they spoke just flowed as if the conversation itself swirled itself so naturally just as the whirling of the whirlpool effect seen in porcelain toilets with indoor plumbing. A spectacle to witness. Before long they found themselves along the coastline. Moonlight illuminating and reflecting off the shards of long discarded Hitachi brand magic wands that have crashed upon the shores. The scene created such a beautiful backdrop with Subira right in the foreground of Jazra’s corneas.
“Ugh finally today was especially rough.” Subira stretched out their arms and popped a few bones in the process “I know what this looks like but gimme one second and it’ll make more sense promise” Subira’s words soothing and sublime.
Jazera’s upbringing and knowing she’s not white told her to get the fuck out of there and no sex was worth this, yet it seemed far more that her horny desire outpaced her black woman living in a white centric world survival sense. Something about Subira was just drawing her. Magnetically. As if magnets were drawing her closer to Subira magnetizingly.
A sweet tune was hovering just above them. Nothing quite like the transfem hyperpop Jazra would listen to while she would inject herself with Estradiol Cypionate (Compared to Estradiol Valerate, Estradiol Cypionate has a longer half-life in which one can take a lower dosage of it compared to Valerate and have potentially more stable levels over the course of a week over taking Valerate every four to seven days depending on one's body. Though the information pertaining to transgender hormones and healthcare can be dubious and inconsistent as everyone's body is different and results are subject to change.) It was a sound that nearly had a scent, a sight, a sensation attached to it. Transfixed by the otherworldly tune she found its source to be Sabira themselves yet. Sabira’s mouth was not singing in time with the song. Nor was it open at all. It was nearly as if this cadence, this near serenade was emanating practically radiating from the waters beyond them both. Subria moved around, the sandy, fucked up, heavily polluted beachfront with a dancer’s grace. Their movements ebbing and flowing in time with the sea song that rang in-between Jazra’s MTF head holes. Jazra was bricked up something fierce. Her woman penis hadn’t been so stiff ever since she started taking Testosterone suppressing hormones to suppress her testosterone. Now almost rhythmically her meat baton bobbed not unlike a fishing bob in the fishing waters. Her body tingled with the tingles one gets when thinking back to someone who fucked them really good and it kinda just hits them in the middle of driving home and makes them moan a little to themselves. She was moldable, like InstaMorph moldable plastics.
“Cutie, you look like you're going to make a mess already and I’ve hardly touched you” Sabira whispered from across the macro-plastic stricken sands.
“you’re really pretty” Jazra said goofily. She had not quite been courted like this and the extended physical contact was more than she could ever ask for.
Fluidly, Subira closed the distance between the two queers standing
“Thank you” as Subira pressed their lips upon the lips of Jazra in a kissing fashion.
The lip contact between the two sent wet electric sensations through Jazra’s whole form. Her nipples began to surge with sexual electricity, and her stomach sent sexy sex neurons up to her brain as she was nearly drowning in pleasure from just a simple kiss. Yet it felt as if it were no simple kiss. She noted that something was different about Subira and she seemed to be uniquely attuned to something far beyond what Jazra has experienced. As Subira released the kiss Jazra went in for seconds and they started macking on each other's mouths all sloppy style. The sea itself seemed to begin swallowing them both whole.
It was when Jazra finally opened her eyes she realized she was no longer but surround by water. Not only that but fully submerged and seemingly she was okay?
“I told you it would make more sense later” Subira chirped with a grin on their face explaining absolutely nothing.
“How is this more sense?” Jazra asked quizzically.
“Well clearly you can see I’m a Mer-They" Their scaled limbs and body shimmered iridescently against Subira’s brilliant scales.
“Huh?" Jazra bubbled out of her carbon dioxide producing hole.
Subira reached out and cupped the African-American Transgender MTF Woman’s cheek.
“May I?” Subira bubbled through Maryland coastal waters.
Jazra nodded taken in by all the extravagance that comes from hooking up with a Mer-they under moonlight underwater as is the fantasy of many an AMAB she/her.
The kiss hit like lightning in a bottle. Zapping Jazra’s pleasure centers to attention and sub space as her body fell deeply into the sensation that was Subira’s lips. Locking lips like their lives depended on it each moment further and further excited Jazra’s touch starved ass. Some real The Shape of Water type shit (Author’s note: I have not seen the movie). Subira’s scaled hands glided down to the T-girls waist and pulled her in closer. Moving their mouth away from hers and down her neck. Kissing before putting some real suction on her elhers-danlos skin.
“This okay?” Subira whispered as she reached to grip the fully submerged woman’s volumetric right backside cheek.
Jazrra again nodded in a pleasurable bliss.
Subira moved their hands to remove and strip her down to her proverbial birthday suit. Revealing her Brachiosaurus (A genus of sauropod ‘Lizard footed’ dinosaur which lived primarily during the Late Jurassic period) printed boyshorts Subira chuckled lightly to herself. Then came the reveal of Jazra’s hot rod cock n balls buoyantly exposed to the open waters.
Jazra was much too enamored in such sensations rippling through her body to be self conscious. She had hardly ever felt more present in the moment as Subira’s shimmeringly shining scaled Sfingers stroked her Shenis sensually. Their other hand cupping and fondling her ta-tas in an ever harmonious motion. Through the gurgle of being fully submerged in water Jazra moaned a high pitched squeal of that of a trapped prey animal.
Subira’s eyes went sharp and near instinctively turned Jazra around and bit into the girl’s neck while continuing to stroke her taking their free hand to tilt her chin up exposing more of her neck to be sucked and savored. The sudden shock caused Jazera to whimper and moan as she reached her first underwater orgasm. Her hips bucking back and forth with her body firing off quick twitches of pleasure as her lady wand pumped girl goo out her proverbial missile silo.
She had to catch her breath. Yet how could she if she was underwater? What is a Mer-they? What is going on? How does one cum from an undersea handjob? All questions the universe seemingly unable to answer.
She was squirming around for several seconds to a couple minutes in her jubilant release. And it seemed Subira was still desiring more of. Using their Mer-They connection to the Maryland waters they commanded the girl jizz into their aquatic gullet as they swallowed greedily the life cum goo of the deep sea dived dickgirl with them. And with that Subira smashed a kiss of the deep on Jazra. Cum stained lips smacking about the face lips of the she/her in their arms Subira began to caress and tease the tits. With a crab’s finesse Subira pinched upon the melaninated nipples of her muse. Jazra yelped in an ecstasy that made her whimper in the watery wetness that could only be dreamt up by someone with incredible imaginative talents.
Subira utilized both a two-point pinch and a lateral pinch to really eek out the most the buoyant B- cup breasts could handle. Clearly an expert working in their field.
Jazra was elated, estatic, e-happy to be in the grasp of a being such as Subira. Their hands worked swiftly deftly and deftly swiftly. Such must be how any mer-person must be navigating the inky depths of the Atlantic coast as well as the implicit and explicit social dynamics attached to the various cultures, subcultures, microcultures and such found in groups of peoples from all over the world which demands constant adjustment and masking to navigate such arduous pitfalls for fear of social exile, which for many human folk is a sentence that can cause long term psychological stress must be. And that versatility is on display with the way they are handling the wet breasts beneath the waters.
‘Twas upon such movement a pleasure eruption shook the waters as Jazra blasted life back unto the waters in which it began some billions of years behind the present moment with a single cell organism.
Jazra felt the waves of pleasure move in conjunction with the current of the waters or however water moves. She was safe, warm, cradled in the arms of a they/them beauty of fictitious 2am queer sex writings. She stayed in the arms of her watery lover as aquatic aftercare helped her come back down from such thalassic heights. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77371551 | {"authors": ["VolcanicGlass404"], "language": "English", "title": "Monster F*cker Diaries Tales"} |
Mugged
Hiccup knew he shouldn't have gone to the Northern Markets alone. But he didn't have much of a choice. He needed to find a gift for Astrid's birthday and didn't want to spoil the surprise. None of his friends knew how to keep a secret.
Now he was lying in an alley, bloodied and bruised, regretting his poor choices. He pressed his hand against his side and pulled it back to look at the blood. He felt sick from the sight of it. If he had the strength, he'd throw up.
He needed to get out of here but couldn't move. The pain alone felt paralyzing, but that wasn't the worst part. The Hunters had taken his prosthetic leg, leaving him crippled and helpless. Not only was his leg gone, but so was Toothless. They took his dragon.
"Help," the Dragon Rider weakly called out, praying to gods someone found him before he bled out.
This was the Northern Markets, though. It was run by Hunters and disreputable thugs. No one would help him, not without payment. Payment Hiccup didn't have. Every coin he had had been taken when the Hunters took Toothless, along with his gift for Astrid.
Not even half an hour ago:
Hiccup and Toothless were walking back toward the beach so they could take off and head back to Dragon's Edge. In his satchel was Astrid's birthday present. It had taken most of the day to find them, and when he did, Hiccup was elated. He was surprised that the gentleman running the stall offered a fair price for them. Usually the stall runners here took you for every coin you had and then some.
"How about we get something to eat before flying back, eh, Bud?" Hiccup suggested to the Night Fury. "If memory serves, the tavern isn't too far from the beach. Get you some fish and me some yak chops or a bowl of stew. Can't fly on an empty stomach now, can we?"
Toothless began to let out a croon of agreement when everything changed. Someone was coming, and they weren't good. The dragon let out a low growl as his body tensed up, ready to fight.
Hiccup noticed the sudden change in his dragon's body language and began to reach for his sword, Inferno. Before he could even get a proper grip on it, someone came up from behind, grabbed his wrist while placing a hand over his mouth, and began to drag him away from the crowds.
Toothless turned to attack, only to be taken down by several dragon root arrows before he could even get a shot off. Hiccup watched in horror as his dragon collapsed in front of him. He tried to get away from whoever was pulling him away, but it was clear they were bigger and stronger than him.
"Stop struggling," the person demanded.
Hiccup tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the hand over his mouth.
Once his kidnapper found an isolated spot, a dark alleyway between market sites, they dropped Hiccup like a sack of potatoes and placed a foot on top of him to keep him from running.
"Dragon Hunters," Hiccup noted, looking up at the man pinning him down. Even in the dark he could make out the symbols on the man's helmet. "I should have known. Can't go anywhere without running into you guys."
"Listen here, runt," the Hunter said. "We don't want you. Johann could care less if you lived or died. He just wants the Night Fury. Has a special job for the filthy beast."
Hiccup tried to push the Hunter's foot off him, only to get a kick in the chin for his efforts.
"Quit it," the Hunter snapped. "Or I might stop being nice."
Hiccup spit out a mouthful of blood. "Oh yeah, real nice. You aren't taking my dragon."
The Hunter bent down and picked Hiccup up, slamming him into a wall. He pulled out a knife and held it to the younger man's throat. "Oh yes, we are. And if you don't let us, well, like I said, Johann doesn't care if you live or die." He raised the knife up and made a quick cut into Hiccup's cheek. "Get the message yet?"
Hiccup clenched his teeth, trying to figure a way out. He tried reaching for his sword once again only to be spun around, his face pressed against the wall.
The Hunter chuckled as he grabbed the sword and threw it as far as he could. He spun Hiccup around again. "You think you're smart, don't you?"
"Smarter than you," Hiccup quipped, earning a punch to the stomach. "Point proven," he groaned, trying not to double over.
The Hunter tossed him to the ground once more, but this time, instead of pinning him, he began to kick the Dragon Rider wherever he could reach. Hiccup curled into a ball, trying to protect the more vulnerable parts of his body.
"Not so clever now, are you?" The Hunter seethed as he stopped kicking, for the moment at least. He knelt down next to Hiccup, grabbed hold of his satchel, and ripped it away from him.
Hiccup tried to protest, but the only sound he could make was a faint squeak. Pain wracking his body. He was almost positive he had at least one broken rib.
The Hunter laughed. "That's more like it. You know, if Johann let us keeptoys, I'd keep you. Fortunately for you, he's the only one allowed playthings, and he doesn't like you enough to bother. And he's made clear that if we tried using you, we'd be executed. You're very lucky I'm not alone on this island, because breaking you would befun."
A horn blared in the distance, causing the Hunter to groan in disappointment. "Well, it sounds like it's time for me to go. And don't worry about the dragon. We'll take good care of him for you. You might even see him again. He won't look the same though. He'll make a very lovely matching set of boots and vests."
Hiccup felt a surge of anger boil up inside as the Hunter stood and began to walk away. With a newfound surge of energy, Hiccup managed to stand up and charge the man. No one was taking his dragon and turning him into boots.
He leaped onto the man's back and wrapped his arms around his throat. "Bring Toothless back right now, or I will kill you."
"No, you won't." The Hunter reached around, grabbed hold of Hiccup's shoulders, and flung him over his head.
Before Hiccup had the chance to get back up, the Hunter reached down, grabbed hold of his prosthetic leg, and ripped it off. He quickly stuffed it into the satchel he had taken before picking Hiccup up and slamming into the wall once more.
He pulled his knife back out and, without a second's hesitation, shoved it into Hiccup's side, causing him to howl in pain. Smiling, he pulled the knife out and dropped Hiccup, confident the walking twig couldn't come after him again. "I'll be sure to tell Johann that you won't be a problem anymore."
Hiccup could feel the pull of darkness tugging at him. The edges of his eyesight were going dark. He feared that if he closed his eyes, he'd never wake up. His friends would never find him, forever wondering what happened to him.
"I FOUND HIM!" He heard a familiar voice shout. He knew that voice, but he couldn't place it. The pain and urge to sleep made it impossible to think.
"SOMEONE GET A STRETCHER!" He heard the voice shout as it got closer to him. Before he could register what was happening, he felt himself being turned over onto his back as a pair of hands pressed against his side. "Hang in there, brother. You're going to be okay."
A sense of safety washed over Hiccup as he let the darkness he had been fighting finally claim him. He knew he'd wake up again. | Mugged
Hiccup knew he shouldn't have gone to the Northern Markets alone. But he didn't have much of a choice. He needed to find a gift for Astrid's birthday and didn't want to spoil the surprise. None of his friends knew how to keep a secret.
Now he was lying in an alley, bloodied and bruised, regretting his poor choices. He pressed his hand against his side and pulled it back to look at the blood. He felt sick from the sight of it. If he had the strength, he'd throw up.
He needed to get out of here but couldn't move. The pain alone felt paralyzing, but that wasn't the worst part. The Hunters had taken his prosthetic leg, leaving him crippled and helpless. Not only was his leg gone, but so was Toothless. They took his dragon.
"Help," the Dragon Rider weakly called out, praying to gods someone found him before he bled out.
This was the Northern Markets, though. It was run by Hunters and disreputable thugs. No one would help him, not without payment. Payment Hiccup didn't have. Every coin he had had been taken when the Hunters took Toothless, along with his gift for Astrid.
Not even half an hour ago:
Hiccup and Toothless were walking back toward the beach so they could take off and head back to Dragon's Edge. In his satchel was Astrid's birthday present. It had taken most of the day to find them, and when he did, Hiccup was elated. He was surprised that the gentleman running the stall offered a fair price for them. Usually the stall runners here took you for every coin you had and then some.
"How about we get something to eat before flying back, eh, Bud?" Hiccup suggested to the Night Fury. "If memory serves, the tavern isn't too far from the beach. Get you some fish and me some yak chops or a bowl of stew. Can't fly on an empty stomach now, can we?"
Toothless began to let out a croon of agreement when everything changed. Someone was coming, and they weren't good. The dragon let out a low growl as his body tensed up, ready to fight.
Hiccup noticed the sudden change in his dragon's body language and began to reach for his sword, Inferno. Before he could even get a proper grip on it, someone came up from behind, grabbed his wrist while placing a hand over his mouth, and began to drag him away from the crowds.
Toothless turned to attack, only to be taken down by several dragon root arrows before he could even get a shot off. Hiccup watched in horror as his dragon collapsed in front of him. He tried to get away from whoever was pulling him away, but it was clear they were bigger and stronger than him.
"Stop struggling," the person demanded.
Hiccup tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the hand over his mouth.
Once his kidnapper found an isolated spot, a dark alleyway between market sites, they dropped Hiccup like a sack of potatoes and placed a foot on top of him to keep him from running.
"Dragon Hunters," Hiccup noted, looking up at the man pinning him down. Even in the dark he could make out the symbols on the man's helmet. "I should have known. Can't go anywhere without running into you guys."
"Listen here, runt," the Hunter said. "We don't want you. Johann could care less if you lived or died. He just wants the Night Fury. Has a special job for the filthy beast."
Hiccup tried to push the Hunter's foot off him, only to get a kick in the chin for his efforts.
"Quit it," the Hunter snapped. "Or I might stop being nice."
Hiccup spit out a mouthful of blood. "Oh yeah, real nice. You aren't taking my dragon."
The Hunter bent down and picked Hiccup up, slamming him into a wall. He pulled out a knife and held it to the younger man's throat. "Oh yes, we are. And if you don't let us, well, like I said, Johann doesn't care if you live or die." He raised the knife up and made a quick cut into Hiccup's cheek. "Get the message yet?"
Hiccup clenched his teeth, trying to figure a way out. He tried reaching for his sword once again only to be spun around, his face pressed against the wall.
The Hunter chuckled as he grabbed the sword and threw it as far as he could. He spun Hiccup around again. "You think you're smart, don't you?"
"Smarter than you," Hiccup quipped, earning a punch to the stomach. "Point proven," he groaned, trying not to double over.
The Hunter tossed him to the ground once more, but this time, instead of pinning him, he began to kick the Dragon Rider wherever he could reach. Hiccup curled into a ball, trying to protect the more vulnerable parts of his body.
"Not so clever now, are you?" The Hunter seethed as he stopped kicking, for the moment at least. He knelt down next to Hiccup, grabbed hold of his satchel, and ripped it away from him.
Hiccup tried to protest, but the only sound he could make was a faint squeak. Pain wracking his body. He was almost positive he had at least one broken rib.
The Hunter laughed. "That's more like it. You know, if Johann let us keeptoys, I'd keep you. Fortunately for you, he's the only one allowed playthings, and he doesn't like you enough to bother. And he's made clear that if we tried using you, we'd be executed. You're very lucky I'm not alone on this island, because breaking you would befun."
A horn blared in the distance, causing the Hunter to groan in disappointment. "Well, it sounds like it's time for me to go. And don't worry about the dragon. We'll take good care of him for you. You might even see him again. He won't look the same though. He'll make a very lovely matching set of boots and vests."
Hiccup felt a surge of anger boil up inside as the Hunter stood and began to walk away. With a newfound surge of energy, Hiccup managed to stand up and charge the man. No one was taking his dragon and turning him into boots.
He leaped onto the man's back and wrapped his arms around his throat. "Bring Toothless back right now, or I will kill you."
"No, you won't." The Hunter reached around, grabbed hold of Hiccup's shoulders, and flung him over his head.
Before Hiccup had the chance to get back up, the Hunter reached down, grabbed hold of his prosthetic leg, and ripped it off. He quickly stuffed it into the satchel he had taken before picking Hiccup up and slamming into the wall once more.
He pulled his knife back out and, without a second's hesitation, shoved it into Hiccup's side, causing him to howl in pain. Smiling, he pulled the knife out and dropped Hiccup, confident the walking twig couldn't come after him again. "I'll be sure to tell Johann that you won't be a problem anymore."
Hiccup could feel the pull of darkness tugging at him. The edges of his eyesight were going dark. He feared that if he closed his eyes, he'd never wake up. His friends would never find him, forever wondering what happened to him.
"I FOUND HIM!" He heard a familiar voice shout. He knew that voice, but he couldn't place it. The pain and urge to sleep made it impossible to think.
"SOMEONE GET A STRETCHER!" He heard the voice shout as it got closer to him. Before he could register what was happening, he felt himself being turned over onto his back as a pair of hands pressed against his side. "Hang in there, brother. You're going to be okay."
A sense of safety washed over Hiccup as he let the darkness he had been fighting finally claim him. He knew he'd wake up again. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77365796/chapters/202557176 | {"authors": ["DragonTraining101"], "language": "English", "title": "Mugged"} |
The Filth in my Bones
Rudo just wanted to sleep. Why couldn't he sleep?! Everything felt too heavy, his shoulders aching as if they were being compressed by his own skin.
He could feel the filth, the filth that covered him and sept into his bones. He was contaminated, not even his insides were clean of the filth he carried with him. He was so dirty. So dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty.
He curled into himself on his bed, kicking the blanket off. Almost immediately regretting it, feeling like a shield protecting him was gone. He choked on himself, hitting his head. He was such a fucking moron, he was so stupid. He couldn't do anything right.
He couldn't fight right, he couldn't help right, he couldn't save anyone right, he couldn't make friends right, he couldn't smile right, he couldn't protect right, he couldn't love right.
He sobbed, a raw and hurtful feeling. He hadn't cried in months, or years, he didn't know! Time slipped through his fingers. All he knew is that it felt too raw, the tears felt more like acid, the choking feeling making his throat feel as if it was closing in.
He was being strangled by his own mind, his own emotions like a noose around his neck. 'Rope" uncomfortable against his skin, breath escaping him as fast as it came. He needed air, he needed to breathe.
He gasped harshly, but it felt more like fueling a fire. He went into a coughing fit, throat burning with each one as they got worse and rougher until just raw, loud sobs. Tears trailed down his face in streams, the acidic feeling intensifying the more he cried.
He hit himself, choking between cries as he tried to get his to quiet down, to stop being so pathetic. He knew no one else was here, or at least not close enough to hear him, no one would know. No one would care.
He choked again, gripping his chest roughly as he curled against himself as if instinct. No one cared anymore. The only one who did died, the ones he thought did left him.
No one cared if he screamed.
No one cared if he cried.
No one cared if he got hurt.
No one cared if he lived.
No one cared if he died.
No one would care if he went and left this place.
No one cared if he was sold off as nothing but meat and organs.
No one cared if he was who he was.
No one alive today would.
He was only here because he was powerful, because his vital instrument was powerful. Because he could do so much, because he already knew how to fight. Because he was a tool.
"Shut up!" He screamed, scratching at the sides of his face. Who was he talking to? It was only him. It was his fault he was so upset, it was his fault he was like this, it was his fault he is so.. wrong.
He hit his head.
It was all his fault. Of course it was all his fault.
He hit his head again. He really couldn't get any better, could he?
And again.
He really was cursed, built to be nothing but filth -- a stain on the already filthy world humans had created.
And again.
He could feel his brain, it felt like it was pulsing in his skull.
And again.
His forehead stung where he hit, his head hurting even more in turn.
And again.
He really should just die.
And again.
It'd be better if he did, no one would have to deal with him. No one really cared about him anyways.
And again.
He really should. The world would be better like that. He should die.
He finally stopped hitting himself, breathing in huge gasping breaths. The tears had soaked his face and pillow, everything was blurry and unsure. He licked his suddenly dry lips, gasping to catch his breath.
He didn't wanna do this anymore, he didn't wanna be here anymore. He didn't wanna live in a world like this anymore.
He rubbed his eyes roughly, trying to clear it of the painful tears but only making them sting more instead.
He didn't wanna live in a world without dad. | The Filth in my Bones
Rudo just wanted to sleep. Why couldn't he sleep?! Everything felt too heavy, his shoulders aching as if they were being compressed by his own skin.
He could feel the filth, the filth that covered him and sept into his bones. He was contaminated, not even his insides were clean of the filth he carried with him. He was so dirty. So dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty.
He curled into himself on his bed, kicking the blanket off. Almost immediately regretting it, feeling like a shield protecting him was gone. He choked on himself, hitting his head. He was such a fucking moron, he was so stupid. He couldn't do anything right.
He couldn't fight right, he couldn't help right, he couldn't save anyone right, he couldn't make friends right, he couldn't smile right, he couldn't protect right, he couldn't love right.
He sobbed, a raw and hurtful feeling. He hadn't cried in months, or years, he didn't know! Time slipped through his fingers. All he knew is that it felt too raw, the tears felt more like acid, the choking feeling making his throat feel as if it was closing in.
He was being strangled by his own mind, his own emotions like a noose around his neck. 'Rope" uncomfortable against his skin, breath escaping him as fast as it came. He needed air, he needed to breathe.
He gasped harshly, but it felt more like fueling a fire. He went into a coughing fit, throat burning with each one as they got worse and rougher until just raw, loud sobs. Tears trailed down his face in streams, the acidic feeling intensifying the more he cried.
He hit himself, choking between cries as he tried to get his to quiet down, to stop being so pathetic. He knew no one else was here, or at least not close enough to hear him, no one would know. No one would care.
He choked again, gripping his chest roughly as he curled against himself as if instinct. No one cared anymore. The only one who did died, the ones he thought did left him.
No one cared if he screamed.
No one cared if he cried.
No one cared if he got hurt.
No one cared if he lived.
No one cared if he died.
No one would care if he went and left this place.
No one cared if he was sold off as nothing but meat and organs.
No one cared if he was who he was.
No one alive today would.
He was only here because he was powerful, because his vital instrument was powerful. Because he could do so much, because he already knew how to fight. Because he was a tool.
"Shut up!" He screamed, scratching at the sides of his face. Who was he talking to? It was only him. It was his fault he was so upset, it was his fault he was like this, it was his fault he is so.. wrong.
He hit his head.
It was all his fault. Of course it was all his fault.
He hit his head again. He really couldn't get any better, could he?
And again.
He really was cursed, built to be nothing but filth -- a stain on the already filthy world humans had created.
And again.
He could feel his brain, it felt like it was pulsing in his skull.
And again.
His forehead stung where he hit, his head hurting even more in turn.
And again.
He really should just die.
And again.
It'd be better if he did, no one would have to deal with him. No one really cared about him anyways.
And again.
He really should. The world would be better like that. He should die.
He finally stopped hitting himself, breathing in huge gasping breaths. The tears had soaked his face and pillow, everything was blurry and unsure. He licked his suddenly dry lips, gasping to catch his breath.
He didn't wanna do this anymore, he didn't wanna be here anymore. He didn't wanna live in a world like this anymore.
He rubbed his eyes roughly, trying to clear it of the painful tears but only making them sting more instead.
He didn't wanna live in a world without dad. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77362676 | {"authors": ["ABunchOfRaccooons"], "language": "English", "title": "The Filth in my Bones"} |
Coils and Clutches
It's honestly a miracle that they managed to find this place.
For so many years, explorers, archaeologists, biologists and many fool hardy adventurers have tried and failed to find the ruins of this ancient temple that resided deep in these lands. If not for the treacherous terrain of heavy foliage and hidden dangers, the heat and humidity alone would make anyone turn back or die trying.
This group was not here for science or glory alone.
"There's so many entrances here..." the linguist, a slim, young man with short red hair and maroon eyes looked around with a tilt of his head; the one who was known for studying all kinds of languages as well as art pieces of many forms; such as the ancient sites of Suna's crypts as well as the ancient dwellings of once thriving civilizations; Sasori Akasuna.
Indeed, there were several openings in fact that had carved structures along the outside of them; snake statues that had their fangs bared out with gemstone eyes that seem to gleam wickedly; almost as if daring this group to try where all others have failed.
"Which one do you think will lead us to the center though?" One of two archaeologists, the taller one with dark navy hair, tanned skin and tattoos of a shark along his left arm and a huge pawprint on his right shoulder with the name Samehada underneath. A strong looking man carrying the tools he and his fellow needed to carefully remove any historical items they discover here. He was Kisame Hoshigaki.
Beside him, the second archaeologist was slim young man with straight dark crimson hair and violet eyes that look around; a much more well studied one who has better known for writing notes and drawing out the areas, Nagato Uzumaki, "Hmm...We may have to split up if we're going to properly cover ground, perhaps some of us could go in pairs?"
"It certainly would help cover more ground...perhaps map out the area," A scientist by heart, with skin paler than porcelain and long black hair, Orochimaru takes it all in as he tucked a strand behind his pierced ear. He was there to study any interesting fauna he comes across as this area was still unrecorded and the fact they managed to get this close-closer than anyone else-has him more excited than he wishes to admit.
"As long as we have radios to reach each other and don't lose the signals, I do believe we will be all right," Then there was the leader of this group, a seasoned man with long dark black hair that remained untamed even when tied back in a ponytail and a stern face; the one who organized and funded this journey, found the right people to lead them here and was very much looking forwards to the glory that followed, Madara Uchiha, "Remember we are here to make discoveries and learn about the people who once resided here. If we're going to split up, I agree with Nagato that it should be in pairs."
The last one with them was the one native to this land; a man of Takigakure who had lived as a recluse and walked these trails of the forest many many times. He had been promised a lot of money and recognition for it so he could continue to live unbothered and have enough wealth for it to be comfortable. He looked at their travelers calmly with a tilt of his head; Kakuzu nodded in agreement, the quietest one of their group.
"Then it's decided. Sasori and Nagato, you'll pair up and enter the lower entrance, make sure to gather tools you need from Kisame. Orochimaru you will pair with Kisame and go to one of the higher level entrances. Kakuzu and I shall explore the ones on the highest level. Make sure you all gather your items and supplies as well as the radios. If you lose the signal then mark where you stopped and turn back; Once we have all gone as far as we can go separately, we'll meet back outside and then go back into the marked spots together as a group and continue on. Understood?" Madara looked at them all with narrowed eyes.
"..Yes sir," all answer in unison.
As Kakuzu turned to get the radios from the bags he froze when he hears rustling. His bloodshot emerald eyes looked to the underbrush, trying to spot the cause of the noise. Instead he's just met with the faint rustling that reminded him of the anaconda they all passed when they crossed the river; the creature had made a sound just like that slithering on the forest floor after a meal.
He shook his head and turned back with what they needed.
With all of them having what they needed and the groups parted, they were all ready to begin the plunge; this group of omegas of varying skills and qualities wanted to make the discovery of the century.
Unaware of what awaits them deep in the caverns. | Coils and Clutches
It's honestly a miracle that they managed to find this place.
For so many years, explorers, archaeologists, biologists and many fool hardy adventurers have tried and failed to find the ruins of this ancient temple that resided deep in these lands. If not for the treacherous terrain of heavy foliage and hidden dangers, the heat and humidity alone would make anyone turn back or die trying.
This group was not here for science or glory alone.
"There's so many entrances here..." the linguist, a slim, young man with short red hair and maroon eyes looked around with a tilt of his head; the one who was known for studying all kinds of languages as well as art pieces of many forms; such as the ancient sites of Suna's crypts as well as the ancient dwellings of once thriving civilizations; Sasori Akasuna.
Indeed, there were several openings in fact that had carved structures along the outside of them; snake statues that had their fangs bared out with gemstone eyes that seem to gleam wickedly; almost as if daring this group to try where all others have failed.
"Which one do you think will lead us to the center though?" One of two archaeologists, the taller one with dark navy hair, tanned skin and tattoos of a shark along his left arm and a huge pawprint on his right shoulder with the name Samehada underneath. A strong looking man carrying the tools he and his fellow needed to carefully remove any historical items they discover here. He was Kisame Hoshigaki.
Beside him, the second archaeologist was slim young man with straight dark crimson hair and violet eyes that look around; a much more well studied one who has better known for writing notes and drawing out the areas, Nagato Uzumaki, "Hmm...We may have to split up if we're going to properly cover ground, perhaps some of us could go in pairs?"
"It certainly would help cover more ground...perhaps map out the area," A scientist by heart, with skin paler than porcelain and long black hair, Orochimaru takes it all in as he tucked a strand behind his pierced ear. He was there to study any interesting fauna he comes across as this area was still unrecorded and the fact they managed to get this close-closer than anyone else-has him more excited than he wishes to admit.
"As long as we have radios to reach each other and don't lose the signals, I do believe we will be all right," Then there was the leader of this group, a seasoned man with long dark black hair that remained untamed even when tied back in a ponytail and a stern face; the one who organized and funded this journey, found the right people to lead them here and was very much looking forwards to the glory that followed, Madara Uchiha, "Remember we are here to make discoveries and learn about the people who once resided here. If we're going to split up, I agree with Nagato that it should be in pairs."
The last one with them was the one native to this land; a man of Takigakure who had lived as a recluse and walked these trails of the forest many many times. He had been promised a lot of money and recognition for it so he could continue to live unbothered and have enough wealth for it to be comfortable. He looked at their travelers calmly with a tilt of his head; Kakuzu nodded in agreement, the quietest one of their group.
"Then it's decided. Sasori and Nagato, you'll pair up and enter the lower entrance, make sure to gather tools you need from Kisame. Orochimaru you will pair with Kisame and go to one of the higher level entrances. Kakuzu and I shall explore the ones on the highest level. Make sure you all gather your items and supplies as well as the radios. If you lose the signal then mark where you stopped and turn back; Once we have all gone as far as we can go separately, we'll meet back outside and then go back into the marked spots together as a group and continue on. Understood?" Madara looked at them all with narrowed eyes.
"..Yes sir," all answer in unison.
As Kakuzu turned to get the radios from the bags he froze when he hears rustling. His bloodshot emerald eyes looked to the underbrush, trying to spot the cause of the noise. Instead he's just met with the faint rustling that reminded him of the anaconda they all passed when they crossed the river; the creature had made a sound just like that slithering on the forest floor after a meal.
He shook his head and turned back with what they needed.
With all of them having what they needed and the groups parted, they were all ready to begin the plunge; this group of omegas of varying skills and qualities wanted to make the discovery of the century.
Unaware of what awaits them deep in the caverns. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77363811/chapters/202552051 | {"authors": ["melodiouswanderer"], "language": "English", "title": "Coils and Clutches"} |
The Undercity: A Star Wars Tale of Coruscant during the days of the Old Republic
Prologue or Intro *shrugs* Welcome to my hell
I used to dream a lot when I was a kid. I used to dream of a beautiful wife and an incredible daughter who was full of an incredible mind and strength that far surpassed me. I would watch as she pushed me to do better; to be a better father and partner. To be a better caregiver and man.
My beautiful wife, and the way she would sway to the music of Iktotch always kept me in check and it was always enough to weather the storms. I watched as the love of my life held our baby as we rushed through our busy mountain home, and I watched as the hooded man came and took our daughter away. All that dreaming wasn’t enough to stop it, and yet I kept dreaming still.
I would dream of tall and towering city lights shining down on me, full of ambition and hope. They would create that warm feeling of success, even before you ever achieved it, as my body would spiral round and round the swirling neon stars all screaming “OPPORTUNITY!” It wasn’t Iktotch but it was our home still. And it was a home where we could be near our daughter, whether she knew it or not. It was enough for us.
Soon, it was the home to our son. I dreamt of how we moved forward with our lives, undaunted by our torn hearts with the gentle words of it being for the best, lingering on the sinews. And my wife still mesmerized me with her dance, as she would hold our baby boy and he would laugh to the music of our distant moon, as we all spun around our crowded living room. Those dreams never stopped, and I never wanted them to. But they also never stopped the hooded man that came back, to take our son away. I guess dreams always do come true.
I used to have nightmares, a lot, when I was a kid. | The Undercity: A Star Wars Tale of Coruscant during the days of the Old Republic
Prologue or Intro *shrugs* Welcome to my hell
I used to dream a lot when I was a kid. I used to dream of a beautiful wife and an incredible daughter who was full of an incredible mind and strength that far surpassed me. I would watch as she pushed me to do better; to be a better father and partner. To be a better caregiver and man.
My beautiful wife, and the way she would sway to the music of Iktotch always kept me in check and it was always enough to weather the storms. I watched as the love of my life held our baby as we rushed through our busy mountain home, and I watched as the hooded man came and took our daughter away. All that dreaming wasn’t enough to stop it, and yet I kept dreaming still.
I would dream of tall and towering city lights shining down on me, full of ambition and hope. They would create that warm feeling of success, even before you ever achieved it, as my body would spiral round and round the swirling neon stars all screaming “OPPORTUNITY!” It wasn’t Iktotch but it was our home still. And it was a home where we could be near our daughter, whether she knew it or not. It was enough for us.
Soon, it was the home to our son. I dreamt of how we moved forward with our lives, undaunted by our torn hearts with the gentle words of it being for the best, lingering on the sinews. And my wife still mesmerized me with her dance, as she would hold our baby boy and he would laugh to the music of our distant moon, as we all spun around our crowded living room. Those dreams never stopped, and I never wanted them to. But they also never stopped the hooded man that came back, to take our son away. I guess dreams always do come true.
I used to have nightmares, a lot, when I was a kid. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77363101/chapters/202550106 | {"authors": ["OrangeCrantheBugMan"], "language": "English", "title": "The Undercity: A Star Wars Tale of Coruscant during the days of the Old Republic"} |
After Many Springs
When the night is a vast softness
Filled with blue stars,
And broken shafts of moon-glimmer
Fall upon the earth,
Am I too old to see the fairies dance?
I cannot find them anymore
- After Many Springs, Langston Hughes
The ring is perfect. Simple, but elegant enough to go with whatever outfit Brucie Wayne has to wear for whatever gala is on the agenda, and yet solid enough to be a tangible reminder of Clark. Of them.
Engaged.
Isn’t that a thought? (He’d known it was coming, of course. He is the Batman, after all. But still, to actually see the ring is something else entirely).
The ring is some kind of black stone that appears to be interlaced with veins of dark blue, gold, and something that turns iridescent in the right lighting. Bruce holds it up towards the light coming in from the bedroom window, considering. Opal, maybe?
“Regretting your decision already?” Clark teases from his spot next to Bruce on the bed. He’s stretched out in the sun, as lax and warm as a cat, probably relishing in the small amount of sunlight that Gotham gets in the morning. Somewhere under the covers, Clark’s wearing old shorts and a flannel shirt that is, frankly, offensive to the threat count of the Egyptian cotton sheets. Bruce finds that he doesn’t mind.
“I can’t recognize this stone,” He says, turning the ring in the light,” I’ve never seen anything like it.” It doesn’t reflect like Opal. It doesn’t reflect like anything he’s ever seen. On the planet, anyway.
“Is that a good thing?” Clark asks, finally sitting up and leaning against Bruce’s shoulder.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Good.”
“What is it?” Bruce turns to look at his—and he almost can’t believe this—fiance.
“Because you aren’t going to stick it under a microscope later?” Clark raises an eyebrow,” It’s not from Earth, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That trip you took with Hal a couple months ago,” Bruce shakes his head,” Why Mr. Kent, how devious you’ve been. Lying to me already?” He’s smiling, but Clark probably can’t see it from his spot on Bruce’s shoulder.
“What? I didn’t lie!” Clark sputters, sitting up and turning to face Bruce,”It really was a humanitarian mission! We just, er, took a detour? It wasn’t a lie so much as a—You’re messing with me.” Clark pouts slightly, a habit Bruce has always found to be endearing, if childish.
“I want a divorce,” Clark announces, before collapsing back onto the bed.
“You have to marry me first,” Bruce points out, looking down at him.
“I suppose I do, don’t I,” Clark smiles and leans up, and Bruce happily indulges him in a kiss. And then another. And another. And then, well, the Egyptian cotton is relieved of Clark’s offensive sleep wear, alongside Bruce’s silk pajamas, which find themselves in an unceremonious pile on the floor.
After, when Bruce’s chest is sweaty and heaving, and Clark looks as unfazed as ever, Bruce lays on his side and watches Clark walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower. It’s a simple enough action, something that Bruce has watched him do a thousand times, but maybe that’s why it suddenly hits him. All at once, Bruce is struck by the realization that he’s happy.
Not just uninjured, or content, or not actively bleeding out. Happy, in a way he’s never let himself be. If he focuses, he can hear Alfred puttering away in the kitchen, and the slightest snoring coming from Dick’s room down the hall. And here, in front of him, Clark is stepping out of the shower with wet hair and a towel around his waist.
And somehow, by some miracle, Bruce hasn’t sabotaged this, the way he has so many other things before. Nobody’s attacking, nobody’s hurt, nobody’s leaving. Right now, with Clark toweling his hair and buttoning up a “work shirt”, Bruce is happy. And he’s been happy. And maybe, just maybe, it’s possible to keep being happy.
“Okay,” Clark sighs once he’s dressed for the day. White button up over a terribly ill-fitting pair of black slacks and, as ever, his civilian glasses. He’s messy. Bruce loves him.
“I’ll see you at the school for Dick’s presentation?” Clark continues, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Bruce’s lips.
“It’s at 2:30,” Bruce reminds him,” Don’t be late.”
There’s a poster on their fridge:
Gotham Academy Presentation Night: September 18, 2027, 2:30pm
“Never,” Clark smiles and pauses in the doorway to their bedroom,” I love you.”
“I love you,” Bruce watches him walk away, then pulls himself out of bed.
There’s a slight ache in his bones from yesterday’s patrol, which was probably only exacerbated by the morning’s earlier activities, but nothing that’ll impede tonight’s patrol. He has to get Dick ready for school, and prepare with Lucius for the board meeting, and the Riddler’s moving something through the docks that needs to be investigated.
It’s strange, he thinks as he ties his tie, but it’s the little things he’s looking forward to.
Dick’s nervous wave before his presentation (and he’ll still be nervous, even though they’ve practiced a million times), Clark’s clapping and beaming smile, Alfred’s quite pride.
(It’s the little things he’ll remember, later. The little things he’ll weep over at night).
“B! Hurry up! Alfred made pancakes!”
Bruce smiles and leaves their bedroom, sunlight still streaming through the windows.
Outside, clouds roll in.
Clark is, rather predictably, late. At first, this is neither surprising nor a cause for concern. Bruce and Alfred mingle with other parents, before they are told by the principal to find their seats.
When the lights dim in the auditorium, Bruce feels slightly cold.
They sit through a presentation on pigeon domestication, an experimental racoon-proof trashcan demonstration, and three separate presentations on Gotham’s water quality. (It’s abysmal; Bruce decides on WE’s new project right there and then).
At 3:00pm, when it is Dick’s turn to present and Clark still hasn’t appeared, Bruce’s small amount of concern morphs into something else.
He checks his messages for the fifth time.
2:30, don’t be late.
You’re late, Kent.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
He checks the justice league communicator. Nothing.
Bruce listens patiently to Dick’s presentation on snail reproduction and claps at the end with the rest of the parents. He tries very hard to ignore the empty seat next to him.
By the time presentation night has ended, Bruce has sat through four more analyses of Gotham’s water quality, a surprisingly interesting history of squirrel migration, and no less than nine presentations on the psychology of various Gotham villains.
Clark still has not appeared.
Batman does not panic. So, Bruce does not panic. There’s plenty of logical explanations here. There was a natural disaster, or an attack in Metropolis, or Clark was suddenly called off planet. Traitorously, his mind reminds him that, if any of these things were the case, a report would’ve come in on the Justice League comms.
“Mrs. Johnson didn’t like my presentation,” Dick announces with all the confidence of the average seventh-grader,” She thinks snails reproduce too violently, and that it was an inappropriate topic,” He rolls his eyes,”I disagreed, so now I have detention tomorrow. Anyway, where’s Clark? Can we stop at Game Stop?”
“You have detention, Master Richard?” Alfred asks, eyebrows raised just enough to be both amused and disappointed.
“Yeah,” Dick sighs,” So I guess no Game Stop?”
“Alfred will take you out for dinner,” Bruce says,” I have to go check on something.”
Dick, ever the perceptive child, narrows his eyes,” Is everything okay?”
“I’ll tell you if it isn’t.”
Bruce has a sinking feeling that nothing is okay, but he doesn’t know where to start with that.
It stars to rain when Bruce arrives home. He heads immediately to the cave.
Alfred finds him there at midnight. Batman had only gone out in time to stop a few muggings, before Bruce returned to the cave.
Still, in all his time sitting in front of his computer, he’s found nothing useful. The news hasn’t reported any natural disasters, no villain has been spotted in Metropolis, and none of the other League members have requested backup today.
There’s just Clark’s homing beacon, a blinking red dot on the Daily Planet. The last place he was before he turned it off.
It taunts him.
There’s been no sightings of Superman all day, and no one in the League can get ahold of him.
Bruce doesn’t want to have to face the reality of the situation, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.
Superman is missing.
Clark is gone.
It takes less than a week for the papers to catch on. During that time, Bruce throws himself into every one of Clark’s active cases, trying to trace his last steps. He’s scoured every inch of the Daily Planet, interviewed staff and people that were on-site that day.
He’s found nothing.
Had Luthor taken him? Did something happen off-world?
But there’s no evidence. Clark’s just gone, without a trace.
And Bruce can’t find him.
In the few minutes he spares not working, he comforts Dick and makes arrangements, so that when Clark returns, his life won’t be in complete upheaval. Bruce Wayne pulls some strings so that Clark Kent is granted a sabbatical from the Daily Planet. Kara agrees to take up the slack in Metropolis when she returns from searching for her cousin.
She searches off-world, where Bruce can’t follow.
She finds nothing.
A month passes. Bruce has the slight beginning of a beard. Dick has nightmares every night again, dreams of his parents and Clark.
The League calls a meeting.
(Looking back, Bruce will attribute all his future grief to this moment. Whether that’s a fair assessment is debatable, but this is, perhaps, the last moment he had hope).
They sit around the oval table. All of them: Diana, Arthur, Oliver, Hal, J’onn, Shayera, Barry. All of them, except for one.
Kal’s absence is glaringly obvious; the empty seat next to Batman hurts almost as much as the endlessly blinking homing beacon still displayed on the batcomputer’s screen.
“I don’t understand,” Barry starts, shaking his head,” Nobody’s been able to reach him? That’s…I mean, he’s Superman! He can’t just disappear!”
“And yet we cannot find him,” Diana sighs,” During his absence, we will each take shifts monitoring Metropolis for both potential danger, and for any sign of him.”
Hal raises an eyebrow,” You think someone, what, kidnapped him?”
“Why else would he just up and leave?” Oliver asks, mild tone quickly giving way to concern.
Of course he’s worried. Everyone is.
Superman is gone.
“I don’t know,” Hal tosses his hands up in the air,” I just can’t picture anyone getting Big Blue to go somewhere he didn’t want to go.”
Want to go.
Briefly, Bruce thinks of the weight on his ring finger. Then he thinks about Clark’s smile, and the nervous look he’d had in his eyes when he’d proposed.
No, Clark wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t leave Metropolis, he wouldn’t leave Earth, and he certainly wouldn’t leave Bruce, and Dick, and the life they were building together.
“We treat this as a missing person’s case,” He announces, grateful his voice modulator covers up any unsteadiness.
“Barry, I need you to spend any spare second you have searching,” Batman orders.
“Yeah, of course, just uh…Searching where?”
“Everywhere.”
Barry blinks. “Right, obviously,” He nods and then disappears in a burst of red and gold.
“I’ll organize duty rosters to cover Metropolis. It’s imperative that we protect the public and keep people from panicking. Once the rogues realize Superman’s gone, they’ll almost certainly try something, and we need to be prepared.”
“Is he?” J’onn asks, knowing eyes seeing right past the cowl,” Gone?”
Batman pauses.
Maybe that’s the reason they can’t find Clark. Maybe he’s not only missing, maybe it’s something worse, something permanent, something they can’t come back from.
No.
“We operate on the basis that Superman is alive but out of commission.”
“Alright,” Diana tries to smile encouragingly. Bruce appreciates the effort.” We have a plan. We’ll find him, but in the meantime, you all know what to do,” She glances at Batman for a moment, and he nods stiffly.
“Dismissed,” Diana says, far nicer than Bruce himself would have.
He doesn’t have it in him. Not right now, at any rate.
(Maybe not ever again).
Bruce barely waits for the League to leave before he’s collapsing in his chair, head in his hands.
“We’re going to find him,” Diana promises.
“What if we can’t?” Bruce pauses, then,” What if Barry comes back and finds nothing?” | After Many Springs
When the night is a vast softness
Filled with blue stars,
And broken shafts of moon-glimmer
Fall upon the earth,
Am I too old to see the fairies dance?
I cannot find them anymore
- After Many Springs, Langston Hughes
The ring is perfect. Simple, but elegant enough to go with whatever outfit Brucie Wayne has to wear for whatever gala is on the agenda, and yet solid enough to be a tangible reminder of Clark. Of them.
Engaged.
Isn’t that a thought? (He’d known it was coming, of course. He is the Batman, after all. But still, to actually see the ring is something else entirely).
The ring is some kind of black stone that appears to be interlaced with veins of dark blue, gold, and something that turns iridescent in the right lighting. Bruce holds it up towards the light coming in from the bedroom window, considering. Opal, maybe?
“Regretting your decision already?” Clark teases from his spot next to Bruce on the bed. He’s stretched out in the sun, as lax and warm as a cat, probably relishing in the small amount of sunlight that Gotham gets in the morning. Somewhere under the covers, Clark’s wearing old shorts and a flannel shirt that is, frankly, offensive to the threat count of the Egyptian cotton sheets. Bruce finds that he doesn’t mind.
“I can’t recognize this stone,” He says, turning the ring in the light,” I’ve never seen anything like it.” It doesn’t reflect like Opal. It doesn’t reflect like anything he’s ever seen. On the planet, anyway.
“Is that a good thing?” Clark asks, finally sitting up and leaning against Bruce’s shoulder.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Good.”
“What is it?” Bruce turns to look at his—and he almost can’t believe this—fiance.
“Because you aren’t going to stick it under a microscope later?” Clark raises an eyebrow,” It’s not from Earth, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That trip you took with Hal a couple months ago,” Bruce shakes his head,” Why Mr. Kent, how devious you’ve been. Lying to me already?” He’s smiling, but Clark probably can’t see it from his spot on Bruce’s shoulder.
“What? I didn’t lie!” Clark sputters, sitting up and turning to face Bruce,”It really was a humanitarian mission! We just, er, took a detour? It wasn’t a lie so much as a—You’re messing with me.” Clark pouts slightly, a habit Bruce has always found to be endearing, if childish.
“I want a divorce,” Clark announces, before collapsing back onto the bed.
“You have to marry me first,” Bruce points out, looking down at him.
“I suppose I do, don’t I,” Clark smiles and leans up, and Bruce happily indulges him in a kiss. And then another. And another. And then, well, the Egyptian cotton is relieved of Clark’s offensive sleep wear, alongside Bruce’s silk pajamas, which find themselves in an unceremonious pile on the floor.
After, when Bruce’s chest is sweaty and heaving, and Clark looks as unfazed as ever, Bruce lays on his side and watches Clark walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower. It’s a simple enough action, something that Bruce has watched him do a thousand times, but maybe that’s why it suddenly hits him. All at once, Bruce is struck by the realization that he’s happy.
Not just uninjured, or content, or not actively bleeding out. Happy, in a way he’s never let himself be. If he focuses, he can hear Alfred puttering away in the kitchen, and the slightest snoring coming from Dick’s room down the hall. And here, in front of him, Clark is stepping out of the shower with wet hair and a towel around his waist.
And somehow, by some miracle, Bruce hasn’t sabotaged this, the way he has so many other things before. Nobody’s attacking, nobody’s hurt, nobody’s leaving. Right now, with Clark toweling his hair and buttoning up a “work shirt”, Bruce is happy. And he’s been happy. And maybe, just maybe, it’s possible to keep being happy.
“Okay,” Clark sighs once he’s dressed for the day. White button up over a terribly ill-fitting pair of black slacks and, as ever, his civilian glasses. He’s messy. Bruce loves him.
“I’ll see you at the school for Dick’s presentation?” Clark continues, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Bruce’s lips.
“It’s at 2:30,” Bruce reminds him,” Don’t be late.”
There’s a poster on their fridge:
Gotham Academy Presentation Night: September 18, 2027, 2:30pm
“Never,” Clark smiles and pauses in the doorway to their bedroom,” I love you.”
“I love you,” Bruce watches him walk away, then pulls himself out of bed.
There’s a slight ache in his bones from yesterday’s patrol, which was probably only exacerbated by the morning’s earlier activities, but nothing that’ll impede tonight’s patrol. He has to get Dick ready for school, and prepare with Lucius for the board meeting, and the Riddler’s moving something through the docks that needs to be investigated.
It’s strange, he thinks as he ties his tie, but it’s the little things he’s looking forward to.
Dick’s nervous wave before his presentation (and he’ll still be nervous, even though they’ve practiced a million times), Clark’s clapping and beaming smile, Alfred’s quite pride.
(It’s the little things he’ll remember, later. The little things he’ll weep over at night).
“B! Hurry up! Alfred made pancakes!”
Bruce smiles and leaves their bedroom, sunlight still streaming through the windows.
Outside, clouds roll in.
Clark is, rather predictably, late. At first, this is neither surprising nor a cause for concern. Bruce and Alfred mingle with other parents, before they are told by the principal to find their seats.
When the lights dim in the auditorium, Bruce feels slightly cold.
They sit through a presentation on pigeon domestication, an experimental racoon-proof trashcan demonstration, and three separate presentations on Gotham’s water quality. (It’s abysmal; Bruce decides on WE’s new project right there and then).
At 3:00pm, when it is Dick’s turn to present and Clark still hasn’t appeared, Bruce’s small amount of concern morphs into something else.
He checks his messages for the fifth time.
2:30, don’t be late.
You’re late, Kent.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
He checks the justice league communicator. Nothing.
Bruce listens patiently to Dick’s presentation on snail reproduction and claps at the end with the rest of the parents. He tries very hard to ignore the empty seat next to him.
By the time presentation night has ended, Bruce has sat through four more analyses of Gotham’s water quality, a surprisingly interesting history of squirrel migration, and no less than nine presentations on the psychology of various Gotham villains.
Clark still has not appeared.
Batman does not panic. So, Bruce does not panic. There’s plenty of logical explanations here. There was a natural disaster, or an attack in Metropolis, or Clark was suddenly called off planet. Traitorously, his mind reminds him that, if any of these things were the case, a report would’ve come in on the Justice League comms.
“Mrs. Johnson didn’t like my presentation,” Dick announces with all the confidence of the average seventh-grader,” She thinks snails reproduce too violently, and that it was an inappropriate topic,” He rolls his eyes,”I disagreed, so now I have detention tomorrow. Anyway, where’s Clark? Can we stop at Game Stop?”
“You have detention, Master Richard?” Alfred asks, eyebrows raised just enough to be both amused and disappointed.
“Yeah,” Dick sighs,” So I guess no Game Stop?”
“Alfred will take you out for dinner,” Bruce says,” I have to go check on something.”
Dick, ever the perceptive child, narrows his eyes,” Is everything okay?”
“I’ll tell you if it isn’t.”
Bruce has a sinking feeling that nothing is okay, but he doesn’t know where to start with that.
It stars to rain when Bruce arrives home. He heads immediately to the cave.
Alfred finds him there at midnight. Batman had only gone out in time to stop a few muggings, before Bruce returned to the cave.
Still, in all his time sitting in front of his computer, he’s found nothing useful. The news hasn’t reported any natural disasters, no villain has been spotted in Metropolis, and none of the other League members have requested backup today.
There’s just Clark’s homing beacon, a blinking red dot on the Daily Planet. The last place he was before he turned it off.
It taunts him.
There’s been no sightings of Superman all day, and no one in the League can get ahold of him.
Bruce doesn’t want to have to face the reality of the situation, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.
Superman is missing.
Clark is gone.
It takes less than a week for the papers to catch on. During that time, Bruce throws himself into every one of Clark’s active cases, trying to trace his last steps. He’s scoured every inch of the Daily Planet, interviewed staff and people that were on-site that day.
He’s found nothing.
Had Luthor taken him? Did something happen off-world?
But there’s no evidence. Clark’s just gone, without a trace.
And Bruce can’t find him.
In the few minutes he spares not working, he comforts Dick and makes arrangements, so that when Clark returns, his life won’t be in complete upheaval. Bruce Wayne pulls some strings so that Clark Kent is granted a sabbatical from the Daily Planet. Kara agrees to take up the slack in Metropolis when she returns from searching for her cousin.
She searches off-world, where Bruce can’t follow.
She finds nothing.
A month passes. Bruce has the slight beginning of a beard. Dick has nightmares every night again, dreams of his parents and Clark.
The League calls a meeting.
(Looking back, Bruce will attribute all his future grief to this moment. Whether that’s a fair assessment is debatable, but this is, perhaps, the last moment he had hope).
They sit around the oval table. All of them: Diana, Arthur, Oliver, Hal, J’onn, Shayera, Barry. All of them, except for one.
Kal’s absence is glaringly obvious; the empty seat next to Batman hurts almost as much as the endlessly blinking homing beacon still displayed on the batcomputer’s screen.
“I don’t understand,” Barry starts, shaking his head,” Nobody’s been able to reach him? That’s…I mean, he’s Superman! He can’t just disappear!”
“And yet we cannot find him,” Diana sighs,” During his absence, we will each take shifts monitoring Metropolis for both potential danger, and for any sign of him.”
Hal raises an eyebrow,” You think someone, what, kidnapped him?”
“Why else would he just up and leave?” Oliver asks, mild tone quickly giving way to concern.
Of course he’s worried. Everyone is.
Superman is gone.
“I don’t know,” Hal tosses his hands up in the air,” I just can’t picture anyone getting Big Blue to go somewhere he didn’t want to go.”
Want to go.
Briefly, Bruce thinks of the weight on his ring finger. Then he thinks about Clark’s smile, and the nervous look he’d had in his eyes when he’d proposed.
No, Clark wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t leave Metropolis, he wouldn’t leave Earth, and he certainly wouldn’t leave Bruce, and Dick, and the life they were building together.
“We treat this as a missing person’s case,” He announces, grateful his voice modulator covers up any unsteadiness.
“Barry, I need you to spend any spare second you have searching,” Batman orders.
“Yeah, of course, just uh…Searching where?”
“Everywhere.”
Barry blinks. “Right, obviously,” He nods and then disappears in a burst of red and gold.
“I’ll organize duty rosters to cover Metropolis. It’s imperative that we protect the public and keep people from panicking. Once the rogues realize Superman’s gone, they’ll almost certainly try something, and we need to be prepared.”
“Is he?” J’onn asks, knowing eyes seeing right past the cowl,” Gone?”
Batman pauses.
Maybe that’s the reason they can’t find Clark. Maybe he’s not only missing, maybe it’s something worse, something permanent, something they can’t come back from.
No.
“We operate on the basis that Superman is alive but out of commission.”
“Alright,” Diana tries to smile encouragingly. Bruce appreciates the effort.” We have a plan. We’ll find him, but in the meantime, you all know what to do,” She glances at Batman for a moment, and he nods stiffly.
“Dismissed,” Diana says, far nicer than Bruce himself would have.
He doesn’t have it in him. Not right now, at any rate.
(Maybe not ever again).
Bruce barely waits for the League to leave before he’s collapsing in his chair, head in his hands.
“We’re going to find him,” Diana promises.
“What if we can’t?” Bruce pauses, then,” What if Barry comes back and finds nothing?”
“Kal-El is strong. He will survive.”
But will I?
Bruce thinks about his empty bed waiting for him at home, the half-finished puzzle Clark was working on with Dick.
He thinks about the man he loves. And then he thinks about never seeing Clark again.
Bruce is struck with a fear so visceral it hurts, punching a slight gasp out of him.
Diana, saint that she is, leaves the room with a gentle touch to his shoulder on her way out.
Alone—always horribly, endlessly alone—Bruce breaks.
Superman Still Missing?
It has now been almost three years since the last sighting of Metropolis’s beloved superhero, the symbol of hope himself, Superman. Next month, Metropolis will be hosting a memorial ceremony, which has invited discourse in the community. While most of the world has resigned itself to grieving the hero, some still search for answers.
Where is the Man of Steel? What could have happened to him?
And, most importantly:
Will he ever return?
—Lois Lane,
August 23, 2029 | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77362391/chapters/202548301 | {"authors": ["Burning_Sands999"], "language": "English", "title": "After Many Springs"} |
I don't wanna be the owner of your fantasy (I just wanna be a part of your family)
Whatsapp chat with: Laila ♥️
Today
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top gun, second one 17:36
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—
Sure enough, Carlos finds himself in front of room #1240—just a little after 10 P.M. He’s still wired, body still on Spanish time. He feels himself bouncing on his heels, waiting for Jannik to open the door. It’s a bit easier to navigate here; neither of their teams came along to this trip, only their managers (who were, conveniently, on the other side of the floor). Still, Carlos’ hoodie is pulled up over his head.
It only takes a few moments for the door to open, revealing Jannik. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, his hair a mess on his head and his hoodie askew. His face looked tired too—nevertheless, a small smile appeared on his face the moment he opened the door. Carlos could feel one growing on his, too.
Carlos steps in easily. Then, the door shuts behind him—then, the two of them are alone. They haven’t been this alone in weeks.
“Janni—” he starts, and he almost gets his name out when Jannik is on him instantly, his huge body bracketing him against the wall. Jannik’s lips are warm against his; a little rough, a little chapped but Carlos loves it. He loves all of Jannik. Carlos’ eyes slip shut as he lets Jannik’s hands roam under his hoodie, already gripping him tightly. It’s so nice—to be wanted as wild as this. He took pride in this—to make this man act without inhibition. He opens his mouth and lets Jannik slip his tongue in, groaning at the pleasure.
He’s trying to get Jannik to take the hint; he puts himself up on his toes, almost as if he was trying to climb him. As he kisses Jannik, he grabs one of his hands to put against the back of his thigh, pushing it downward. And because Jannik is Jannik—he gets the hint quickly, breaking their kiss to grab the back of Carlos’ thighs, hoisting him up. A lot of people assumed that Jannik wasn’t strong like this, considering his body. But they were wrong; people were usually wrong about him. Jannik picks him up with ease, and pins his back to the wall. Carlos can’t help but open his eyes—and he’s met with Jannik’s own, piercing right through his. It’s then, when Carlos wraps his arms around his neck. Their breaths mingle, and Carlos just wants more.
“Come on,” he pants against Jannik, “take me.”
The words turn Jannik on, and he’s instantly hoisted higher. He lets out a yelp at his roughness, scrambling to hold on as they move to the bed and Jannik drops him onto it. Carlos is already reaching out to him as Jannik climbs on top, pulling at the drawstrings of his sweats. He looks up at Jannik—stares into his eyes—as he manages to untie them, his hands finding his waistband. Then—Jannik’s hands find their way to his hair, and Carlos closes his eyes and gets lost in it all.
—
Whenever they slept together, no matter how many times they’d fuck that night—it always ended with Carlos on his back, peering up at Jannik’s face. He loved this angle; loved how Jannik could get so deep, get so close. He loved feeling the muscles of Jannik’s back, how he could drag his nails up and down and trace them afterward. He loved seeing Jannik’s biceps flex as he held himself up and thrusted into him.
Most of all, he loved watching Jannik’s face. The man was usually so stoic. But here—he left it all behind. It was just his desire that was left. Carlos loved watching him tilt his head back when he entered him like this. He felt chills when he’d see the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, his orange hair flopping down to cover it. Jannik would pull his lips in, gnawing them as he tried to hold back—which he did, every time. He would only start letting himself go—panting his name—when Carlos deemed it okay. He’d say, yes, Jannik—I want to hear you. And the dam would break, and suddenly it was just the two of them.
Then—when they were both close—they’d open their eyes, stare into them like they were each other’s only one. For these few moments—it was true. They weren’t being shared; they weren’t horrible fucking people. They were impossibly close—intertwined—operating on a level that no one else could reach. It was like that, both in the bed and on the court. There was nowhere else where they could be themselves. Carlos finds himself so impossibly in love everytime; it’s suffocating, it’s horrible. A nightmare that he can’t get enough of. How fucking sick was that?
“Jan,” he pants, feeling his gut start to twist up, chills down his spine and legs and arms. He’s pulled Jannik in now, crossing his ankles behind his back to get him to go deeper, faster. Carlos forgot how good sex could be when it meant something; when he was in love. He doesn’t get enough of it—not when he only sees Jannik just once a month, if they’re lucky. Jannik understands him completely, knows his body like the back of his hand. Then—Jannik is going deeper, faster, and—
“Fuck, Carlos,” Jannik pants, and the only sounds filling the room were the sound of Jannik’s skin on Carlos’ own, and both of their breathing. He’s close, Carlos thinks to himself, and he was too. So, like clockwork, he opens his eyes and he’s met with Jannik’s own, staring so deeply into him it’s like they’ve known each other since birth. This is when Carlos holds his tongue; tries not to let his affection spill out so openly. Jannik wouldn’t like that, he knows he wouldn’t. Instead, he digs his hand into Jannik’s hair, groaning aloud when Jannik hits him particularly deep.
Carlos is panting Jannik’s name when something changes—Jannik closes his eyes. He blinks up at him, watching as Jannik’s eyes fall close and he speeds up, frantic and desperate, as if Carlos was running away from him. As if Carlos could.
Jannik buries his head in his neck—Carlos can feel his breath against him, there. That’s when Carlos hears it: the mumbling. He doesn’t quite know what Jannik’s saying, but it’s not difficult to piece together—he can hear bits and pieces of it, his shaky Italian. Carlos screws his eyes shut, then; a pathetic attempt to turn a blind eye to his words, as if he could totally erase them from his mind. Something has changed between them but | I don't wanna be the owner of your fantasy (I just wanna be a part of your family)
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soon 17:34
Sent Message: ok i'm going 17:34
Received Message:text me when you land, be safe 17:35
te quiero 17:35
charly? 17:40
ehh no signal i'll see you later 17:40
Type a message
Whatsapp chat with: Jannik Sinner
Today
Sent Message: hi jannik! 17:35
am leaving soon 17:35
we got delayed maybe 45 mins 17:35
Received Message:Ahh, sorry 17:36
Are you ok? 17:36
Sent Message: yes i'm going to watch a movie 17:36
top gun, second one 17:36
Received Message:You will like that 17:37
I already know which one you'll text me about 17:37
Sent Message: who? 17:38
Received Message:Cazzo I forgot his name 17:39
Received Message:One with mustache 17:39
Sent Message: 🤣🤣 he’s hot 17:40
Received Message:I can't have a mustache 17:41
Sent Message: and i don’t want u to 🤣🤣 17:41
why are u awake still? it's late there no? 17:41
Received Message:Good I will look ugly and you will not want me 17:42
Received Message:Yes, it's late 17:42
Received Message:Still jet lagged a bit 17:42
Sent Message: not possible 17:43
sleep soon, u will need the energy when i arrive 17:43
Received Message:Oh I'm sure 17:44
Sent Message: for tennis!!! 😵💫🥴 17:47
Received Message:Only tennis ? Don't lie 17:47
Sent Message: crazy 17:48
Received Message:Maybe 17:50
Sent Message: will i see u? when i come 17:55
Received Message:Of course 17:58
Received Message:I don't know if 17:58
Received Message:In the afternoon, I didn't know 17:58
Received Message:At night yes 17:58
Received Message:Why do you ask? if you know the answer 17:58
Sent Message: 🤷 we haven’t really talked since we left turin 18:00
maybe it has changed 18:00
us 18:00
Received Message:I'm sorry, I didn't 18:01
Sent Message: you fell asleep? 18:15
Received Message:No, sorry 18:16
Received Message:Thinking 18:16
Received Message:I can't say it, I don't know how to 18:16
Received Message:Maybe I can say it better when you're here 18:16
Received Message:But it has not changed . Me and you 18:16
Sent Message: ok jannik 18:17
i just wanted to be sure 18:17
it hasn't for me as well 18:17
and we're leaving now 18:18
i'll see u soon? 18:18
Received Message:Yes, ok 18:19
Received Message:Text me when you arrive 18:19
Received Message:♥️ 18:19
Sent Message: i will 18:19
Type a message
Whatsapp chat with: Jannik Sinner
Today
Sent Message: made it finally 😩 14:34
oh and the guy from top gun 14:34
his name is rooster 🤤🥵 14:34
Received Message:Glad you made it 14:45
I'm out right now 14:45
Then dinner with team but I will be back early 14:45
Boo 👎 14:45
Sent Message: don't tell me u are jealous 14:47
Received Message:Pff . whatever 14:48
Room #1240, tonight 14:48
Just text me when u will come 14:48
Type a message
—
Sure enough, Carlos finds himself in front of room #1240—just a little after 10 P.M. He’s still wired, body still on Spanish time. He feels himself bouncing on his heels, waiting for Jannik to open the door. It’s a bit easier to navigate here; neither of their teams came along to this trip, only their managers (who were, conveniently, on the other side of the floor). Still, Carlos’ hoodie is pulled up over his head.
It only takes a few moments for the door to open, revealing Jannik. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, his hair a mess on his head and his hoodie askew. His face looked tired too—nevertheless, a small smile appeared on his face the moment he opened the door. Carlos could feel one growing on his, too.
Carlos steps in easily. Then, the door shuts behind him—then, the two of them are alone. They haven’t been this alone in weeks.
“Janni—” he starts, and he almost gets his name out when Jannik is on him instantly, his huge body bracketing him against the wall. Jannik’s lips are warm against his; a little rough, a little chapped but Carlos loves it. He loves all of Jannik. Carlos’ eyes slip shut as he lets Jannik’s hands roam under his hoodie, already gripping him tightly. It’s so nice—to be wanted as wild as this. He took pride in this—to make this man act without inhibition. He opens his mouth and lets Jannik slip his tongue in, groaning at the pleasure.
He’s trying to get Jannik to take the hint; he puts himself up on his toes, almost as if he was trying to climb him. As he kisses Jannik, he grabs one of his hands to put against the back of his thigh, pushing it downward. And because Jannik is Jannik—he gets the hint quickly, breaking their kiss to grab the back of Carlos’ thighs, hoisting him up. A lot of people assumed that Jannik wasn’t strong like this, considering his body. But they were wrong; people were usually wrong about him. Jannik picks him up with ease, and pins his back to the wall. Carlos can’t help but open his eyes—and he’s met with Jannik’s own, piercing right through his. It’s then, when Carlos wraps his arms around his neck. Their breaths mingle, and Carlos just wants more.
“Come on,” he pants against Jannik, “take me.”
The words turn Jannik on, and he’s instantly hoisted higher. He lets out a yelp at his roughness, scrambling to hold on as they move to the bed and Jannik drops him onto it. Carlos is already reaching out to him as Jannik climbs on top, pulling at the drawstrings of his sweats. He looks up at Jannik—stares into his eyes—as he manages to untie them, his hands finding his waistband. Then—Jannik’s hands find their way to his hair, and Carlos closes his eyes and gets lost in it all.
—
Whenever they slept together, no matter how many times they’d fuck that night—it always ended with Carlos on his back, peering up at Jannik’s face. He loved this angle; loved how Jannik could get so deep, get so close. He loved feeling the muscles of Jannik’s back, how he could drag his nails up and down and trace them afterward. He loved seeing Jannik’s biceps flex as he held himself up and thrusted into him.
Most of all, he loved watching Jannik’s face. The man was usually so stoic. But here—he left it all behind. It was just his desire that was left. Carlos loved watching him tilt his head back when he entered him like this. He felt chills when he’d see the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, his orange hair flopping down to cover it. Jannik would pull his lips in, gnawing them as he tried to hold back—which he did, every time. He would only start letting himself go—panting his name—when Carlos deemed it okay. He’d say, yes, Jannik—I want to hear you. And the dam would break, and suddenly it was just the two of them.
Then—when they were both close—they’d open their eyes, stare into them like they were each other’s only one. For these few moments—it was true. They weren’t being shared; they weren’t horrible fucking people. They were impossibly close—intertwined—operating on a level that no one else could reach. It was like that, both in the bed and on the court. There was nowhere else where they could be themselves. Carlos finds himself so impossibly in love everytime; it’s suffocating, it’s horrible. A nightmare that he can’t get enough of. How fucking sick was that?
“Jan,” he pants, feeling his gut start to twist up, chills down his spine and legs and arms. He’s pulled Jannik in now, crossing his ankles behind his back to get him to go deeper, faster. Carlos forgot how good sex could be when it meant something; when he was in love. He doesn’t get enough of it—not when he only sees Jannik just once a month, if they’re lucky. Jannik understands him completely, knows his body like the back of his hand. Then—Jannik is going deeper, faster, and—
“Fuck, Carlos,” Jannik pants, and the only sounds filling the room were the sound of Jannik’s skin on Carlos’ own, and both of their breathing. He’s close, Carlos thinks to himself, and he was too. So, like clockwork, he opens his eyes and he’s met with Jannik’s own, staring so deeply into him it’s like they’ve known each other since birth. This is when Carlos holds his tongue; tries not to let his affection spill out so openly. Jannik wouldn’t like that, he knows he wouldn’t. Instead, he digs his hand into Jannik’s hair, groaning aloud when Jannik hits him particularly deep.
Carlos is panting Jannik’s name when something changes—Jannik closes his eyes. He blinks up at him, watching as Jannik’s eyes fall close and he speeds up, frantic and desperate, as if Carlos was running away from him. As if Carlos could.
Jannik buries his head in his neck—Carlos can feel his breath against him, there. That’s when Carlos hears it: the mumbling. He doesn’t quite know what Jannik’s saying, but it’s not difficult to piece together—he can hear bits and pieces of it, his shaky Italian. Carlos screws his eyes shut, then; a pathetic attempt to turn a blind eye to his words, as if he could totally erase them from his mind. Something has changed between them but Carlos can’t pinpoint what, can’t pinpoint when. Or maybe it’s been like this all along, and the two of them have just buried it so deep—until now. Nevertheless, he continues to hear it—a phrase about love that Carlos can’t bear to even say in his mind. Not that he didn’t believe it, not that he hasn’t been thinking about it for the past year—but because it changes everything. They both wanted it—but they just couldn't have it, and in his mind—this was infinitely worse than only one of them wanting it. So much worse.
He doesn’t know how long it takes, but then he’s coming—a white-hot burst of pleasure deep in his stomach, traveling up to his spine and clouding his head. He feels Jannik come too—inside, the warmth filling him and Carlos just wants even more. When Jannik cradles him, gently holds him close—Carlos can’t help but cry.
—
Later—they lay side by side on Jannik’s bed. It’s huge, so big and so comfy and so foreign. The suites they gave them for this exhibition were grand; after years of this, he’s still not used to it.
Carlos pulled the comforter up to his chest, laying on his back with his arms folded behind his head. Thinking, thinking, thinking. He can feel Jannik think too—how could he not? He’s not looking at him now, but out of the corner of his eye—he sees him, laying on his side, face turned towards Carlos. There’s a gap between them that wasn’t present before, when Jannik dutifully cleaned them up. His big hands were gentle, holding him and cleaning them up as Carlos slowly fell back down to Earth. They don’t talk about what Jannik murmured, about the tears that fell down Carlos’ face. Maybe they should.
—
“What did you want to tell me,” Carlos says, eventually. “When we were texting.”
They’ve moved close to one another, facing each other on the bed. Carlos slowly moved his legs until they were near Jannik’s—and Jannik was the one that intertwined them, locking them together. They’ve turned off the lamp, too; now, it was just them in the dark. Jannik left the balcony door open a bit, though. It let the light from the moon and building seep through, blanketing Jannik in a hazy glow. He could barely make his features out here, yet—he sees him so clearly.
Jannik shrugs, but what else could Carlos expect? It’s always been like this—the two of them are always unable to find the words to describe what they were. Rivals is an easy one, one that Carlos despises when they’re together. The public can think that, sure—but it was too simple, too easy. They weren’t friends—not really—and they weren’t entirely lovers.
“It’s not different, us,” he starts, voice quiet. Carlos lifts his hand, placing it on Jannik’s cheek—smoothing the skin out with his thumb. In the dark, he can see Jannik lean into it—affection. “Is that what you want to hear?”
No, he thinks. He holds back.
“Could it be?” Carlos replies, and he hates how he sounds. Begging, desperate—like he’s put his whole being into Jannik’s palms. This is the only time he’ll do it—never outside, never on court, especially. It hasn’t been different in so long. They’ve been dancing around it, danced around it so much that they both went and got partners—two loving ones, which is the most horrible part.
Jannik just blinks and stares, a soft smile appearing on his face. Maybe this is it—a year of sleeping together finally reaching its apex—to this. The beginning of the year, of a new season.
He doesn’t answer him—instead, he says, “how is Germán?”
Something ugly twists inside Carlos; a year of doing this, and he still feels guilt for what he’s doing to Germán. He doesn’t know what makes him more sick. He thinks about Germán—back home, dutifully waiting for him. He’s been so blissfully unaware of him and Jannik—even though Carlos has almost slipped a few times. Whenever he feels particularly good, when Germán presses him into the mattress roughly—it almost slips out: Jannik. He’s able to hold his tongue at the very last moment. He doesn’t tell Jannik this—doesn’t tell him how Germán was inside merely 24 hours ago, and how badly Carlos wished it was Jannik. He doesn’t tell him that he thinks about him every time.
“He’s good,” he says, “we’re good.” He continues to gently rub at Jannik’s cheek, enjoying the way his eyes fall shut.
“He was with me for Christmas,” he whispers, and Jannik’s eyes open again. “I spent the first part with him, with his own family. They’re very nice, you know. Very accepting of us. His mama got us these—these matching sweaters. I liked it. And then… after, he came to my home.”
He remembers Christmas—how Germán blended so easily with his family. His brothers had so much to talk to him about—his parents loved his demeanor, his kindness towards Carlos. They talked about it at the table, during dinner: so nice, that you get to travel along with him. It gets lonely, no? And Germán held his hand under the table, his big hand completely enveloping Carlos’. Carlos just smiled, nodded along.
Carlos tells Jannik this—watches as his face morphs whenever he shares his story. He was asking for it, anyway.
“It’s very serious, now, then?” Jannik asks. Carlos sighs, and moves his hand to Jannik’s hair. He doesn’t want to do this with him now.
“And how is Laila?” he replies. Jannik tenses under his hand.
He feels Jannik’s hand move to his hip, gripping him there softly. And Jannik begins: “She came with me, for Christmas. Her family, too. We ski.”
“Yes?” Carlos snorts, “was she any good?”
“Better than you,” Jannik retorts, the two of them laughing softly together, as if it made their situation any lighter. “My dad taught her his schnitzel recipe; it was his gift to her.”
Carlos takes a breath, “very serious, then.” Jannik shrugs.
He wonders how Laila fits with his family—probably very well. Carlos doesn’t know how he’d be around them; too awkward, too loud, too different. He thinks Jannik would be embarrassed. But it would be if he said he hadn’t thought about it; being with Jannik in that way, being with his family like that. The two of them are inching to the end of what they had—both of them could feel it. Carlos could just imagine, but it could never become a reality—or maybe it could.
Here, in this room—Carlos finds his courage. A year of this—of something on and off—of something that only existed in hotel rooms, so cold and foreign. It’s the dawn of the new year, and he cannot keep living like this. Germán—he’s good. He’s fine. Carlos could live with it, if he tried hard enough. But what he couldn’t live with was not telling Jannik about it all.
“Can I tell you something instead?” he says, closing his eyes. He feels Jannik nod. He takes a deep breath.
“Our last night at home—we had sex. It was in my old bed. It was so small, we could barely fit, and we had to be very quiet,” he says softly, “I’ve never… I’ve never slept with someone there, you know? I didn't even lose my virginity there. I lost it at the academy. So… he was the first one.
I always wanted it to be special, there at home. Maybe it is weird, or odd. I don’t know. But I thought about it. I love my room, it’s so special to me. I could feel like I was a kid again, a real one. And then I was there, you know—on my back, staring at the ceiling with all my posters, and the ceiling glowed because I had those star things on there, from when I was young. My trophies were there, my old racket, my old shoes. I looked around and around and it wasn’t… I felt nothing.”
He opened his eyes halfway through, and he met Jannik’s as he continued his story, his confession. He felt Jannik’s hand tighten around his hip.
“I could only think about you,” he says, breathless. “I wished it was you, with me. In my old bed.”
Jannik stares at him wordlessly, his eyes wide open as he processes what Carlos has said. He doesn’t know if he even said it right—in his head, it made sense. He thinks his English was shaky—maybe Jannik didn’t understand his sentiment. But he hopes he does—hopes he understands what he’s confessing—his want, his desire.
But the minutes keep passing, and Jannik just stares at him—Carlos can’t read him. He can’t read him at all. Maybe he—
“Laila,” Jannik whispers, so softly that if Carlos just moved—he wouldn’t have been able to hear him. “She wanted to, in my room. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t even touch her. I don’t know. I felt so bad. I thought I would be sick.
Then my phone… it vibrated in my pocket and it was you, you were texting me feliz navidad. It was so late, and you apologized because it was so late. I really couldn’t, after reading that.”
Something blooms in Carlos’ chest, a horrible, possessive thing. Visions flash in his mind—Jannik and Laila not even being able to touch, and he thinks about his own body on Jannik’s bed. He wonders how large it was—probably small, like his. They’d lay together close, so impossibly close; intimacy, without the sex. He craved it so much; he craved it like a victory against Jannik, like the wind in his hair as he ran across the court, like the unpredictable clay that slid around under his feet. These were feelings so indescribable—what he felt for Jannik was included.
“What changed?” Carlos ends up asking. Jannik doesn’t respond at first. Instead, he pulls Carlos close—they’re skin to skin here. He can feel the gentle beat of Jannik’s heart. “Between us?” he adds.
“I do not know,” Jannik says, “I think I’ve always been like this. I thought that… with Laila, I don’t know. Maybe what I feel would disappear. It’s just become too much to bear. I can’t do it anymore,” he continues. Carlos feels a hand in his hair, and he closes his eyes at the comfort. “Too weak, maybe.”
“No, never,” Carlos replies.
“I don’t want you to be with him—to be there, in your bedroom. I do not like that your family loves him. I hate it all,” Jannik says with conviction, so firm and confident. This is his first time telling him this; Carlos knew Jannik didn’t like Germán, of course he didn’t. But he’s never expressed it like this. “And that makes me a very bad person, no?”
Yes, it does, Carlos thinks. It makes me bad, too. But what else could we do?
“He won’t ever be there again,” is what he settles on, leaning up to press a kiss to Jannik’s cheek, so chaste and so sweet. Carlos means it—and with the way Jannik turns him over to kiss him, slow and deep—he knows Jannik means it too. It’s the end of this. Maybe we could have something more.
The year still needs to unfold in front of them—and the next, and the next. There’s tennis to be played tomorrow—a song and dance for the public. And maybe, everything they’ve said tonight will be lost tomorrow. Carlos will tell Germán he’s landed, maybe Jannik will win tomorrow and mention Laila. But for now—they’ve both laid their desire out on the table, put themselves in the palms of the other’s hands. It’s the most open they’ve been. It could be enough. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77360836 | {"authors": ["drqco"], "language": "English", "title": "I don't wanna be the owner of your fantasy (I just wanna be a part of your family)"} |
Object of His Devotion
“Your Highness!,” you chided, pushing him lightly. “I demand you pull your hands away from me…”
The wording made your rejection sting tenfold.
“I’m your Prince!,” he snarled, digging his fingertips deeper into your tender shoulders until your face scrunched up in pain. “How dare you demand anything from me?”
“This is improper!,” you rebutted, the ache etched on your features. “Even for you, My Prince, this kind of behaviour is not acceptable. What would His Majesty say if he saw you chasing after a farmer?”
Kankurou did not care about his father’s opinion on his infatuation for you. For what it's worth, he did not care about anyone’s opinion on that matter. He was solely interested in you and how you might respond to his advances.
That day, he’d wandered down to the farm, where he found you tending to the cattle, as you usually did. Ignoring the stench of the animals, he watched closely as you and your younger siblings fed the beasts, as you replenished the pools where they drank from and slowly corralled them.
Your hair was braided loosely, your brown curls escaping the twists. He found it rather endearing how it waved with the wind. Your cheeks had reddened, dry with the cold air, and your plump lips were pale almost blueish.
Luckily for him, he had yet to be spotted. Luckily because watching you in your natural state was the greatest gift for him, as the lovely smile that you used to wear despite the weariness wiped away completely at the sight of him. Your displeasure in his presence was blatant and you couldn’t be chastised for it. You had plenty of reasons.
He kept watching you from a safe distance as you dismissed your siblings for the day. The oldest boy, the only other one who had your beautiful brown hair, insisted on staying behind to help you while the rest scurried after the first word left your mouth, cackling and pushing each other as they ran home. You yelled something after the children, but they continued running without a care.
He kept monitoring you as the second eldest carried most of the heavy tools back into the nearby shed with you tailing after him carrying some much lighter bags. The tenderness of the scene was ruined when he finished the heavy lifting and effortlessly lifted you instead as if you were a sack of rice, a hand right below your rear, and playfully twirled you. Yells of protests, smacks and loud laughing followed suit.
Shortly after, your brother left planting an unnecessary kiss to your forehead and you went back into the building to do God knows what.
Seizing the opportunity, he rushed to meet you and made himself known by clearing his throat before closing the door to the shed. You turned around lazily, expecting the man who had just left and flinched when you realized who he was.
“Prince Kankurou,” you addressed courtly, “have you got lost?”
“No, dear,” he laughed light-heartedly. “I’ve come to deliver a present.”
“A present? You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Your Highness.”
Ignoring your polite dismissal, he retrieved a volume of a story his sister had enjoyed and surely you would enjoy as well since you were so smart and were quite fond of reading. Many times, he’d seen you reading the same three books, over and over again. He had managed to get his hands on a beautifully manufactured tome with colourful pictures and gold accents with the hopes to win you over.
“I’ve brought this for you.”
You ogled the gift, dying to accept it yet too prideful to do so.
“Thank you, but I… cannot accept such a fine item, Your Highness.”
“Please, I insist you receive this as I’ve bought it with you in mind. I have no use for it myself.”
“I appreciate it, but I will not… receive this gift.” You seemed uncomfortable as you thought of your next words. “I’ve told you plenty of times already… that I cannot accept such tokens as it is inappropriate.”
“You’re misinterpreting my actions. My presents carry no ill intention.”
“I believe they do.”
“Dear…” He took a few steps forward and reached for your hand.
“Do not touch me!”
Despite your scorn for him, you hadn’t caused a scene up to that moment where you wanted to rebel against him.
“Why is it that you despise me so?”
“I do not, “ you affirmed. “I swear I do not, yet I will not allow for you to take such liberties.”
“I only want you to accept this simple book. I’ve favoured you countless times and you will not grant me this sole wish?”
“If your favour compromises my own wishes and dignity, then I’d rather lose it, Your Highness.”
“What have I done to you to deserve such coldness?”
“Pardon me?,” you scoffed with disdain. The Prince's apparent shamelessness ignited your ire and suppressed emotions. “It is your own fault that I deny you of your wish, for you have marred my body for life. You’ve made me undesirable, ineligible for any gentleman that learns of my shortcomings…”
“How so?”
You felt your eyes burning with frustration as you continued pouring your pain through your words.
“Have you forgotten… of that time when you purposefully blamed my family for the lost cattle and I was relentlessly punished under His Majesty’s command? Because I remember very well the flogs hitting my buttocks until the skin broke and the blood reached my toes. I remember the sleepless nights when my skin felt on fire. I remember the look in the faces of the people who witnessed the sights.”
In the middle of your outburst, carelessly interrupting your speech, he made a request: “Allow me to see how much I’ve harmed you”
With your cheeks ablaze, you refused once again, beyond hysterical. “Why, of course I will not! I’d never show anyone such a distasteful image.”
He closed the space between you, as you’d taken your distance from him in the middle of your exchange, and gripped your wrist with much more strength than necessary.
“I order you to show me, unless you wish I brought my guards in to hold you down.”
You remained silent for a while and stared at him. Internally, you debated whether he was serious or not. You hadn’t heard anyone outside, but similarly, you hadn't heard him until he made himself known. There was no certainty whether there were people waiting for him or not. By the tone he had used, sharp and resolute, you figured your best option was to oblige. Regardless, you’d already been humiliated in front of that man before.
With profound shame, you turned your back to him when he allowed it and slowly lifted the hem of your skirt past your stockings, until only a sliver of the back of your full thighs was visible. The fragment of your limb was enough to prove your point. The gesture showcased but a snippet of the damage done to your behind.
The young prince gaped at the gnarled skin. From what he could see, scars seemed to cover the entirety of your thighs. He wondered about the ruthless nature of the punishment.
Being honest, Kankurou didn’t remember what the issue had been. He remembered he had done something foolish; surely a mindless mistake caused by his lack of interest in his princely duties. He recalled his father’s wrath at finding out what had transpired and in desperation blaming the first child he’d encountered that day.
However, that child wasn’t you, but your overly affectionate brother. Later, he’d come to find out that you’d taken responsibility for the incident and, therefore, received the whipping instead of him.
Whatever it was he had done and you’d taken the blame for, he couldn’t think of a reason to be subjected to that kind of violence. As if your palpable resentment wasn’t enough, your skin was covered in marks that exhibited his faults. They extended from the juncture at the back of your knee, where the lesser scars were littered sporadically, and spread upwards under your skirt. The higher they were, the more they warped the initially delicate tissue.
“Lift it higher.”
His command tore through the silence like thunder and you indulged him, wordlessly. Up to that moment, you’d been focusing solely on the noises outside. It was mostly the pigs you could hear, but if you strained your hearing enough, you could also hear the crickets of insects, the ruffling of the leaves on the trees and the wind entering through the cracks of the wooden walls.
You shivered as the chilly breeze licked your nude skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its path as your garments moved upslope.
The gentlest graze of his fingertip along one of the thickest scars had the heavy layers of fabric of your skirt engulfing your loins once again as you turned to face him and riveted him with utter horror and bafflement in your eyes.
“You shan’t touch me!,” you hissed, scandalized. However, your voice came much quieter and tentative as you tried to pry away his greedy hands bunching up the fabric for the second time. “Please, Your Highness, do not touch me. I beg you, please.”
He sensed such terror in your trembling plea that he desisted from pulling your clothing from your body himself, yet he urged you to continue your demonstration under the premise that he’d keep his hands to himself.
True to his word, his itching hands remained next to his body as you slowly pulled up your clothing for the third time. Nonetheless, the slice of thigh you were serving him did little to sate his hunger now.
His next demand followed quickly. “Pull it further up.”
“Your Highness…”
“Be quiet.”
“But…!”
“I can do it for you if that’s what you desire.”
Silently save from your sniffling, the hem of your skirt raised torturously slowly, revealing more and more damage with every inch of exposure. His fascination was cut cruelly short when the fabric reached the swell of your bottom and halted.
“Why have you stopped?”
“My Prince, this is enough,” you sobbed. “Please, spare me. I cannot show you yet more.”
“I’ve told you already. I need to see the full extent of my cowardice.”
“It is not necessary, Your Highness. I forgive you, please”
“Continue,” he whispered sharply between clenched teeth, cutting you short.
He continued watching attentively as the skin became more bolted, the scars bulging and dipping, deforming the original shape of your body as the point with the most abuse came into view.
He would have been horrified had it been anyone else. The image would have made his stomach churn and plague his dreams if he wasn’t presented with your thick, milky thighs and your ample ramp under the dimming light of the dying day.
He felt himself burning with desire at the sight of your naked body and despite that there was something he had yet to see.
Your legs were closed shut and your bottom jiggled slightly with your barely contained sobs. Your skin was so pale that your scars would have disappeared completely, blending into your skin if it hadn’t been for their severity creating shadows where they shouldn’t have been.
He was distracted from your fairness by the contrast of your coat. The hair on your thighs was fine, scarce and almost invisible under the nightfall, whereas the hair leading to your axis became bolder, denser in quantity. It was so obscene, almost as if your body was asking to be seen, admired and explored in your most intimate spot.
A wave of excitement ran through the Prince’s spine as he instructed you to open your legs. In return, a few words of protest fell off your wobbly lips which shut hastily at the feel of his warm hand ghosting your hip.
“You are to spread those limbs promptly, my dear.“ You could barely contain the shiver that ran through your body when his voice came loud and clear right above the shell of your ear. You hadn’t noticed when he’d got so close to you, but he was serious. “I’ll be delighted to assist you if you please…”
When you opened your legs wider as per his behest, he finally pulled away with a content smile and got a glimpse of your womanhood behind the curly veil of hair covering it. The following order made you rest your clothed torso on a tall pile of hay before you and the new angle bared your core to him.
The warped tissue became almost impossibly white with the uncomfortable stretch as you settled on top of the animal feed. Surely, he would've spent hours assessing your abused skin if it hadn't been for the delicacy being bestowed to him.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight of your full lips parting slightly ajar. The image of your untainted pink folds opening up like a blooming flower in spring beneath that tuft of dark hair made his mouth dry instantly. His hand twitched beside his own thigh torn between his desire to further spread your legs and his foolish promise to keep away from you.
The two of you stood there for a long while, your snivelling breaking the silence periodically. During that quiet moment, Kankurou never peeled his eyes away from your sex as your lustrous folds reflected the last rays of sunshine beautifully, providing him with a most enchanting view that paired with that of the magnificent stained glass windows at Church. The seeming pureness of your core heightened in that frame of savage abuse.
Furthermore, the dying light made the scene all the more arousing. There was certain mysticism in the obscurity that made it even more forbidden, more sinful. He could feel himself growing harder in his garments while lecherous thoughts filled his mind.
On the other hand, the long stretch of silence made you falsely believe that you’d bored the Prince and he’d finally had enough, but alas, you were far from right. All it took was for you to shyly whisper his title for him to wake from his lustful | Object of His Devotion
“Your Highness!,” you chided, pushing him lightly. “I demand you pull your hands away from me…”
The wording made your rejection sting tenfold.
“I’m your Prince!,” he snarled, digging his fingertips deeper into your tender shoulders until your face scrunched up in pain. “How dare you demand anything from me?”
“This is improper!,” you rebutted, the ache etched on your features. “Even for you, My Prince, this kind of behaviour is not acceptable. What would His Majesty say if he saw you chasing after a farmer?”
Kankurou did not care about his father’s opinion on his infatuation for you. For what it's worth, he did not care about anyone’s opinion on that matter. He was solely interested in you and how you might respond to his advances.
That day, he’d wandered down to the farm, where he found you tending to the cattle, as you usually did. Ignoring the stench of the animals, he watched closely as you and your younger siblings fed the beasts, as you replenished the pools where they drank from and slowly corralled them.
Your hair was braided loosely, your brown curls escaping the twists. He found it rather endearing how it waved with the wind. Your cheeks had reddened, dry with the cold air, and your plump lips were pale almost blueish.
Luckily for him, he had yet to be spotted. Luckily because watching you in your natural state was the greatest gift for him, as the lovely smile that you used to wear despite the weariness wiped away completely at the sight of him. Your displeasure in his presence was blatant and you couldn’t be chastised for it. You had plenty of reasons.
He kept watching you from a safe distance as you dismissed your siblings for the day. The oldest boy, the only other one who had your beautiful brown hair, insisted on staying behind to help you while the rest scurried after the first word left your mouth, cackling and pushing each other as they ran home. You yelled something after the children, but they continued running without a care.
He kept monitoring you as the second eldest carried most of the heavy tools back into the nearby shed with you tailing after him carrying some much lighter bags. The tenderness of the scene was ruined when he finished the heavy lifting and effortlessly lifted you instead as if you were a sack of rice, a hand right below your rear, and playfully twirled you. Yells of protests, smacks and loud laughing followed suit.
Shortly after, your brother left planting an unnecessary kiss to your forehead and you went back into the building to do God knows what.
Seizing the opportunity, he rushed to meet you and made himself known by clearing his throat before closing the door to the shed. You turned around lazily, expecting the man who had just left and flinched when you realized who he was.
“Prince Kankurou,” you addressed courtly, “have you got lost?”
“No, dear,” he laughed light-heartedly. “I’ve come to deliver a present.”
“A present? You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Your Highness.”
Ignoring your polite dismissal, he retrieved a volume of a story his sister had enjoyed and surely you would enjoy as well since you were so smart and were quite fond of reading. Many times, he’d seen you reading the same three books, over and over again. He had managed to get his hands on a beautifully manufactured tome with colourful pictures and gold accents with the hopes to win you over.
“I’ve brought this for you.”
You ogled the gift, dying to accept it yet too prideful to do so.
“Thank you, but I… cannot accept such a fine item, Your Highness.”
“Please, I insist you receive this as I’ve bought it with you in mind. I have no use for it myself.”
“I appreciate it, but I will not… receive this gift.” You seemed uncomfortable as you thought of your next words. “I’ve told you plenty of times already… that I cannot accept such tokens as it is inappropriate.”
“You’re misinterpreting my actions. My presents carry no ill intention.”
“I believe they do.”
“Dear…” He took a few steps forward and reached for your hand.
“Do not touch me!”
Despite your scorn for him, you hadn’t caused a scene up to that moment where you wanted to rebel against him.
“Why is it that you despise me so?”
“I do not, “ you affirmed. “I swear I do not, yet I will not allow for you to take such liberties.”
“I only want you to accept this simple book. I’ve favoured you countless times and you will not grant me this sole wish?”
“If your favour compromises my own wishes and dignity, then I’d rather lose it, Your Highness.”
“What have I done to you to deserve such coldness?”
“Pardon me?,” you scoffed with disdain. The Prince's apparent shamelessness ignited your ire and suppressed emotions. “It is your own fault that I deny you of your wish, for you have marred my body for life. You’ve made me undesirable, ineligible for any gentleman that learns of my shortcomings…”
“How so?”
You felt your eyes burning with frustration as you continued pouring your pain through your words.
“Have you forgotten… of that time when you purposefully blamed my family for the lost cattle and I was relentlessly punished under His Majesty’s command? Because I remember very well the flogs hitting my buttocks until the skin broke and the blood reached my toes. I remember the sleepless nights when my skin felt on fire. I remember the look in the faces of the people who witnessed the sights.”
In the middle of your outburst, carelessly interrupting your speech, he made a request: “Allow me to see how much I’ve harmed you”
With your cheeks ablaze, you refused once again, beyond hysterical. “Why, of course I will not! I’d never show anyone such a distasteful image.”
He closed the space between you, as you’d taken your distance from him in the middle of your exchange, and gripped your wrist with much more strength than necessary.
“I order you to show me, unless you wish I brought my guards in to hold you down.”
You remained silent for a while and stared at him. Internally, you debated whether he was serious or not. You hadn’t heard anyone outside, but similarly, you hadn't heard him until he made himself known. There was no certainty whether there were people waiting for him or not. By the tone he had used, sharp and resolute, you figured your best option was to oblige. Regardless, you’d already been humiliated in front of that man before.
With profound shame, you turned your back to him when he allowed it and slowly lifted the hem of your skirt past your stockings, until only a sliver of the back of your full thighs was visible. The fragment of your limb was enough to prove your point. The gesture showcased but a snippet of the damage done to your behind.
The young prince gaped at the gnarled skin. From what he could see, scars seemed to cover the entirety of your thighs. He wondered about the ruthless nature of the punishment.
Being honest, Kankurou didn’t remember what the issue had been. He remembered he had done something foolish; surely a mindless mistake caused by his lack of interest in his princely duties. He recalled his father’s wrath at finding out what had transpired and in desperation blaming the first child he’d encountered that day.
However, that child wasn’t you, but your overly affectionate brother. Later, he’d come to find out that you’d taken responsibility for the incident and, therefore, received the whipping instead of him.
Whatever it was he had done and you’d taken the blame for, he couldn’t think of a reason to be subjected to that kind of violence. As if your palpable resentment wasn’t enough, your skin was covered in marks that exhibited his faults. They extended from the juncture at the back of your knee, where the lesser scars were littered sporadically, and spread upwards under your skirt. The higher they were, the more they warped the initially delicate tissue.
“Lift it higher.”
His command tore through the silence like thunder and you indulged him, wordlessly. Up to that moment, you’d been focusing solely on the noises outside. It was mostly the pigs you could hear, but if you strained your hearing enough, you could also hear the crickets of insects, the ruffling of the leaves on the trees and the wind entering through the cracks of the wooden walls.
You shivered as the chilly breeze licked your nude skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its path as your garments moved upslope.
The gentlest graze of his fingertip along one of the thickest scars had the heavy layers of fabric of your skirt engulfing your loins once again as you turned to face him and riveted him with utter horror and bafflement in your eyes.
“You shan’t touch me!,” you hissed, scandalized. However, your voice came much quieter and tentative as you tried to pry away his greedy hands bunching up the fabric for the second time. “Please, Your Highness, do not touch me. I beg you, please.”
He sensed such terror in your trembling plea that he desisted from pulling your clothing from your body himself, yet he urged you to continue your demonstration under the premise that he’d keep his hands to himself.
True to his word, his itching hands remained next to his body as you slowly pulled up your clothing for the third time. Nonetheless, the slice of thigh you were serving him did little to sate his hunger now.
His next demand followed quickly. “Pull it further up.”
“Your Highness…”
“Be quiet.”
“But…!”
“I can do it for you if that’s what you desire.”
Silently save from your sniffling, the hem of your skirt raised torturously slowly, revealing more and more damage with every inch of exposure. His fascination was cut cruelly short when the fabric reached the swell of your bottom and halted.
“Why have you stopped?”
“My Prince, this is enough,” you sobbed. “Please, spare me. I cannot show you yet more.”
“I’ve told you already. I need to see the full extent of my cowardice.”
“It is not necessary, Your Highness. I forgive you, please”
“Continue,” he whispered sharply between clenched teeth, cutting you short.
He continued watching attentively as the skin became more bolted, the scars bulging and dipping, deforming the original shape of your body as the point with the most abuse came into view.
He would have been horrified had it been anyone else. The image would have made his stomach churn and plague his dreams if he wasn’t presented with your thick, milky thighs and your ample ramp under the dimming light of the dying day.
He felt himself burning with desire at the sight of your naked body and despite that there was something he had yet to see.
Your legs were closed shut and your bottom jiggled slightly with your barely contained sobs. Your skin was so pale that your scars would have disappeared completely, blending into your skin if it hadn’t been for their severity creating shadows where they shouldn’t have been.
He was distracted from your fairness by the contrast of your coat. The hair on your thighs was fine, scarce and almost invisible under the nightfall, whereas the hair leading to your axis became bolder, denser in quantity. It was so obscene, almost as if your body was asking to be seen, admired and explored in your most intimate spot.
A wave of excitement ran through the Prince’s spine as he instructed you to open your legs. In return, a few words of protest fell off your wobbly lips which shut hastily at the feel of his warm hand ghosting your hip.
“You are to spread those limbs promptly, my dear.“ You could barely contain the shiver that ran through your body when his voice came loud and clear right above the shell of your ear. You hadn’t noticed when he’d got so close to you, but he was serious. “I’ll be delighted to assist you if you please…”
When you opened your legs wider as per his behest, he finally pulled away with a content smile and got a glimpse of your womanhood behind the curly veil of hair covering it. The following order made you rest your clothed torso on a tall pile of hay before you and the new angle bared your core to him.
The warped tissue became almost impossibly white with the uncomfortable stretch as you settled on top of the animal feed. Surely, he would've spent hours assessing your abused skin if it hadn't been for the delicacy being bestowed to him.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight of your full lips parting slightly ajar. The image of your untainted pink folds opening up like a blooming flower in spring beneath that tuft of dark hair made his mouth dry instantly. His hand twitched beside his own thigh torn between his desire to further spread your legs and his foolish promise to keep away from you.
The two of you stood there for a long while, your snivelling breaking the silence periodically. During that quiet moment, Kankurou never peeled his eyes away from your sex as your lustrous folds reflected the last rays of sunshine beautifully, providing him with a most enchanting view that paired with that of the magnificent stained glass windows at Church. The seeming pureness of your core heightened in that frame of savage abuse.
Furthermore, the dying light made the scene all the more arousing. There was certain mysticism in the obscurity that made it even more forbidden, more sinful. He could feel himself growing harder in his garments while lecherous thoughts filled his mind.
On the other hand, the long stretch of silence made you falsely believe that you’d bored the Prince and he’d finally had enough, but alas, you were far from right. All it took was for you to shyly whisper his title for him to wake from his lustful stupor.
As a man possessed, he snarled at you to remain still when you tried to deprive him of your delectable loins by covering yourself, while you heard the tell-tale rustling of clothes paired with a guttural sigh of relief.
You shrieked, hands flailing to stop him when you felt the weight of his heavy palm ruffle up your skirt higher. The clothes were balled up at your waist, where they fell heavily to the sides, reaching the floor. He was granted an excellent view of your behind, whereas you could barely turn your head to find more or your stuffy and dirty skirt.
“Be still! I promised I wouldn't touch you, did I not?” As if to prove his point, he flexed the fingers that held your dress, “I'm merely helping you with your dressing.”
There was silence again after that. No word was uttered, no movement was made, but his breathing was loud regardless. He sounded agitated, airless. He breathed as loudly as someone who had just run after cattle on the run on a hot, sunny day. You blamed it on your nerves. You should've been imagining such a thing. There was no reason for him to be so short/winded when he had barely moved since he locked both of you in the shed.
And yet, his breathing was getting shorter, more laboured by the minute. Similarly, an odd whish you'd missed at first became bolder. The sound quickly escalated, becoming somehow wetter and more frantic. The strange combination was frightening and confusing. You were concerned about the young man's health. So much so that you momentarily forgot about your shameful nudity.
“Your Highness, do you feel well?,” you asked innocently, but the sound didn't register in his ears.
Kankurou, the man prisoner to your charms, was devoid of all sense save from the sight of your rose-coloured flesh twitching and quivering under his gaze and the night’s coolness. With one hand, he held your garments. With the other, he held his feverish manhood. He stroked the hardness in his grip with precise deliberation as he marvelled on your slick, nether lips.
Amidst your bafflement, you tried to peek back at what was happening. Again, most of your view was blocked by your cumbersome skirt and what little you could see in the dimness of the barn was the outline of his hairy, naked calf over his fine trousers dropped on the floor as if they had the same value as your own clothes. You strained your neck some more in order to look at the prince’s face and gasped with worry.
You’d never seen him like that. His face was beet red and sweaty. The muscles in his jaws were pulled tight as speckles of saliva ejected from his clenched teeth with every quivering breath he drew. His dark eyes were half-lidded but curiously focused.
There was something in his expression that you couldn’t identify. In a moment it seemed vulnerable, his strong features scrunched up with emotion as he were to start crying, just for it to morph into some sort of angry determination the following second.
You feared the Prince was suffering from some sort of ailment and the prospect of him falling ill in your dwelling made you worry about the possible consequences. It was that worry that made you reach out and touch his left hand keeping your bulky skirt in place.
Immediately, his eyes locked with yours, bewilderment coating his flushed face like a child caught in mischief. His hand twitched in yours and you gripped it just slightly tighter.
“Are you well?,” you asked again, concern dripping from your tone.
His reaction was even more puzzling. You watched in confusion as his face seemed to melt, features slack as his mouth fell open in a pained whine. A whole body tremor shook him and he kept letting out those pitiful sounds as you felt hot liquid splattering across your buttocks and legs, slowly dribbling down them.
You tried to recoil at the foreign sensation, but the hand holding your dress held you back, pulling you closer with the motion. Your eyes remained fixed to the Prince’s face, now dreading being able to look down and find out what was poking your behind.
Kankurou watched your pretty face: swollen red lips, tear tracks down your cheeks and eyes wide with a mix of unease and uncertainty as he kept agitating his member. He glided the weeping head along his favourite scars as it drooled the last thick droplets of his seed.
It took him a few moments to level his breathing and in the meanwhile he never peeled his eyes from you. Likewise, you observed him in tentative wonder. There was one main question at the tip of your tongue, but you feared the answer, so you remained expectant of his next action.
“I’ve never felt better, dear,” he answered in the end, much later than you expected. In fact, you pondered over those words until you connected them to your previous questions.
After noticing the flash of recognition in your face, he took a step back and admired the masterpiece that you were. He greatly appreciated how his spent pooled in the dents carved on your skin before trickling their way down.
You turned your head around as soon as he motioned to pull your garments back to their rightful place. He could have had the courtesy of wiping the fluids off your body, but the idea of you returning home late with traces of him was unexplainably arousing.
He smoothed a hand over the swell of your curves and softly beckoned you to stand when he’d bent down to redress himself. You stood with your back facing him until he asked you to look at him. Still, you refused to meet his eye, but at last he could reach for your face and caress your braided brown hair before leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.
“Enjoy it,” he said, placing the forgotten book in your hands. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77366111 | {"authors": ["MidoriZuzu"], "language": "English", "title": "Object of His Devotion"} |
Jx1LULZ found dead in the Bronx
Noah woke up in a really super red maze. Evil maze, since it’s red. The bright red honestly kinda hurt his eyes and gave him a headache, but what can he do? There’s not really an exit or entrance anywhere, so he just has to man through it I guess.
He stood up and started to walk forwards, curious of where he’s found himself. After turning left a whole bunch of times (which I’m sure you can relate to…), Noah ran into a little red fella. It was the guy he saw outside his house earlier!1! The disturbing looking thing was named Jx1dx1, which Noah obviously already knew upon meating him earlier. Jx1 was red and probably evil, since he’s red and stuff like the maze, which is the conclusion Noah quickly came to. Evil in a cool way though, yknow? Like at least he’s got swagger as he molests you or something.
“Hello.Noah” Jx1 said evilly and red.
Before Noah could ask literally any questions, especially about his name, Jx1 grabbed Noah by the shoulders and guided him throughout the maze. Noah couldn’t help but blush a little bit. I mean, really scary demon looking dude who was manhandling you is… Kinda hot, even throughout his confusion.
Uhmmmm Jx1 finds a shovel somewhere in the maze garden maze. Noah couldn’t focus anything to question anything yet, honestly he’s probably more scared about getting whacked on the head by the shovel to expect anything else. I’d do the same. He just stood there as Jx1 started digging a hole.
Dirt went EVERYWHERE and none of it looked normal. It was evil dirt, red.
Noah goes to say something, the awkward silence making him a lot more nervous than he feels he should be, but he ends up stuttering over his words and giving up anyway. Jx1 doesn’t do anything. He’s totally locked in on his hole.
After a bit, there was a hole. One that Jx1 dug and it was red. Red maze. He looked proud of it, which I understand. It’s cute.
Before Noah could step back or do literally anything useful, Jx1 took his strong… clawed hands and grabbed him, dropping Noah in the hole feet first. He’s not mean about it, just efficient.
“You.will.grow” Jx1 said. His voice a lot more quiet than it usually is since this is nearing whenever Noah first met Jx1 and stuff. “Strongest”Cute.
The dirt kept piling up. Ankles, knees, waist. It’s not like Noah could crawl out anymore at this point. He doesn’t fight it at all actually, and he feels a bit stupid for it. He’s in a hole getting buried alive and he’s not sad, the least he could feel is stupid.
“I don’t want to planted.” Noah complains, like he genuinely feels like it’s reasonable.
“Nah.you.good.” Jx1 replies. So nonchalant… He packed the dirt down with the shovel, then his foot… His yummy…. Dark, sharp… flakey foot… “To.a.better.and.more.mature.little.plant..”
Then he leaves. Just like that. Sure he’ll be back sooner or later for water, but plants need privacy. Noah knows that. He needs to grow.
drawing for reference thanks | Jx1LULZ found dead in the Bronx
Noah woke up in a really super red maze. Evil maze, since it’s red. The bright red honestly kinda hurt his eyes and gave him a headache, but what can he do? There’s not really an exit or entrance anywhere, so he just has to man through it I guess.
He stood up and started to walk forwards, curious of where he’s found himself. After turning left a whole bunch of times (which I’m sure you can relate to…), Noah ran into a little red fella. It was the guy he saw outside his house earlier!1! The disturbing looking thing was named Jx1dx1, which Noah obviously already knew upon meating him earlier. Jx1 was red and probably evil, since he’s red and stuff like the maze, which is the conclusion Noah quickly came to. Evil in a cool way though, yknow? Like at least he’s got swagger as he molests you or something.
“Hello.Noah” Jx1 said evilly and red.
Before Noah could ask literally any questions, especially about his name, Jx1 grabbed Noah by the shoulders and guided him throughout the maze. Noah couldn’t help but blush a little bit. I mean, really scary demon looking dude who was manhandling you is… Kinda hot, even throughout his confusion.
Uhmmmm Jx1 finds a shovel somewhere in the maze garden maze. Noah couldn’t focus anything to question anything yet, honestly he’s probably more scared about getting whacked on the head by the shovel to expect anything else. I’d do the same. He just stood there as Jx1 started digging a hole.
Dirt went EVERYWHERE and none of it looked normal. It was evil dirt, red.
Noah goes to say something, the awkward silence making him a lot more nervous than he feels he should be, but he ends up stuttering over his words and giving up anyway. Jx1 doesn’t do anything. He’s totally locked in on his hole.
After a bit, there was a hole. One that Jx1 dug and it was red. Red maze. He looked proud of it, which I understand. It’s cute.
Before Noah could step back or do literally anything useful, Jx1 took his strong… clawed hands and grabbed him, dropping Noah in the hole feet first. He’s not mean about it, just efficient.
“You.will.grow” Jx1 said. His voice a lot more quiet than it usually is since this is nearing whenever Noah first met Jx1 and stuff. “Strongest”Cute.
The dirt kept piling up. Ankles, knees, waist. It’s not like Noah could crawl out anymore at this point. He doesn’t fight it at all actually, and he feels a bit stupid for it. He’s in a hole getting buried alive and he’s not sad, the least he could feel is stupid.
“I don’t want to planted.” Noah complains, like he genuinely feels like it’s reasonable.
“Nah.you.good.” Jx1 replies. So nonchalant… He packed the dirt down with the shovel, then his foot… His yummy…. Dark, sharp… flakey foot… “To.a.better.and.more.mature.little.plant..”
Then he leaves. Just like that. Sure he’ll be back sooner or later for water, but plants need privacy. Noah knows that. He needs to grow.
drawing for reference thanks | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77365206/chapters/202555691 | {"authors": ["pesticles"], "language": "English", "title": "Jx1LULZ found dead in the Bronx"} |
New Wings, New flight, New Sight
The ocean was a vast and open space with little to no distractions, especially from humans.
This quality made it very appealing for practicing uninterrupted and needing a large space. Thankfully, their lessons were fully aerial.
Atanti huffed in approval as he looked around the endless blue expanse. His large wings flapped as he looked for an area where the air was the most stable. Weak winds and constant updraft would be preferable but he needed to teach his brother the movements first, and that required stability. At the thought, the pressure of Abby and Cory sitting on his back is brought to the forefront of his mind. His rider likely wouldn't get to learn flight, that's alright. He was her stead. Cory didn't have one though. He had his own set of wings, and Atanti could tell this was the first pair. He'd have to keep bringing the fledgling everytime a new set grew in to make sure he could still fly.
"Hm..." Cory was afraid. The smell was notable in the salty air. Even without it the young thing kept grabbing fist fulls of his fur, tugging. Inevitably tearing some out in his panic. Foolish, panic would only get him killed. The child was lucky that Atanti was doing this. Someone had to stand up and raise them. Consequences for leaving him to fend for himself among humans. He doesn't see others fly, doesn't know how to fly, how to move his wings or how to catch the wind. Thankfully most of that is instinct, sadly he'd have to kick-start those instinct. It might be entertaining though.
Continued shuffling makes him huff again. At least death was excited. He'd told her before hand so she wouldn't panic.
"Cory can fly?"
"Yes. His first pair of wings have finally developed."
She jumped up and around his back as he barged down another wall in search of Cory. Inevitably he'd find the fledgling and drag him to open air if that's what it takes for him to fly. The earlier the easier. His rider settles down after a few moments. Questions, as he'd anticipated.
"Can I see him fly?"
He made a vaguely agreeing noise but she got him all the same.
He realized she was getting ahead.
"First he needs to learn. He's never flown before." She nods even though he couldn't see her.
"I'm taking both of you to a large area above water where we shouldn't be interrupted." The lizard smiles faintly at he feels the giddiness roll off the girl in waves.
"Is it like a surprise? It'll be so fun seeing his excitement!" He hums, a surprise. His smile turns sharp and cruel. "Yes, a surprise." She talks excitedly for the rest of their journey through the site until they find Cory collapsed and holding his sides in the break room. Wings always hurt when they come out the first time.
Cory wasn't ready for this.
Who'd be? Why would he be prepared to be thrown thousands of miles above open water by your brother. Who, by the way, had dragged a literal child with them. Well, not really dragged. She was riding the overgrown lizard when they had found him amidst the dying SCP Foundation agents. Cory pits the containment breach on 682. He was perfectly fine eating from the infinite pizza box in the break room for the rest of his break before going back to work. He can't believe the breach happened while he eating his first lunch. He'd just started when the breach began. He admits he might've been stress eating. His back had hurt all day. That wasn't new, it had hurt for a few days. But it had been fine, it had to be.
Oh god his back hurts why does it hurt OH ITS ONFIRE
But it had been a perfectly normal day! Well, as normal as it gets at the Foundation anyways. Full of anomalies and what-not.
Something was bursting from within his back and breaking his skin. Oh HIS SKIN-
Perfectly normal. Nothing odd. No sudden growth spurts or... Nothing at all.
Wings broke skin. He had just grown wings. He...He has wings.
There wasn't any weight on his back, the things had broken through his skin and shredded his clothes like thousands of knives. Only the weight of wings that weren't there before lay on his back now. On his bare back. Blood still dripping through the new wounds where the wings met skin. He shivers as wind from their left reaches his back, new sensation reaching his mind as the feathers are tussled by the movement. The sensation hurts, instinctually Cory knows because its new and the injury is new, unhealed. More wind has Cory recoiling deeper into the giant beast that flies them over the ocean. Its warm. The heat helps sooth his new senses. If he'd been any more present he would've tried to hide from Abby, to shield the grotesque display of blood from the girl.
By the horizon and small uninhabited island resides.
"Convenient," rumbled the lizard, tone pleased.
It doesn't take them long to land. Cory thought 682 was tired. It becomes apparent it wanted to him clean once the reptile had pushed him to the shoreline. Any other time it'd be odd if not disturbing, but with how drenched in his own blood Cory was anything would. Especially since they wanted Cory to fly. Blood crusted feathers would be easy or safe, especially for a first time flier.
He's in the water by the shore where he tries to salvage his destroyed shirt. It was stained in blood but he could wear it. Maybe. The two new holes weren't ideal. But-
There's something combing through his feathers. His wings fluff up as he tenses and turns to snarl at the assailant. 682 stands behind him, amused. Or was that pride. As if to answer, the beast shrills into his chest before forcefully turning him around and continuing to shuffle through his feathers. Huh? His wings twitches and tenses at first. But, slowly, he settles on the shallow water. This feels relaxing, nice. "What are you doing?" He asks softly, this is pleasant. An odd thought when accompanied by the situation but Cory takes what he can get. "Preening. She is exploring," answers the beast. The blond vaguely remembers preening being something birds do, something with cleaning he believes. Cory hums a pleased tone, it's comforting. He could fall asleep on the action alone. The cameraman feels the crust of blood being cleaned and too deep feathers being pulled.
The two fall into comfortable silence until Abby comes back. She finds a cleaned Cory Crater and a pleased Atanti.
"You have to spread your wings more. That close and you'll never catch wind much less fly." Lectures, that all Cory hears. "You glide for now but no landing." Cory sneers. Why does he have to do this? At least Abby seems to be enjoying this. Cory crosses his arms and huffs, bitter about the situation. Abby laughs before holding onto fur. What-
682 spins in the air, pausing softly when belly up, before righting himself. Luckily Abby was holding on tight before the flip.
Cory wasn't.
The blond screams as he starts to plummet into the ocean. His limbs flail in panic. Two figures blur as the dive beside him. They're safe. Copy. Survive.
The cameraman rights himself and mimics the lizard's wings to the best of his abilities. Noticing, the lizard slows his descent and maneuvers for Cory to be above his right wing. His wings instinctually mimic the new position while he reaches his hands for the edge of the wings. Stability. Safety. Salvation.
His heart is still beating 100 miles per hour but finally he can slow his breath enough to calm down. A miracle really.
Cory holds Atanti's wing like his life depends on it. The lizard chuckles. Abby compliments his wings, something about the sky that he doesn't pay attention to. At least someone likes them.
"Relax. Follow the wind." Cory knows its advice but the teasing tone it him makes him want to dish it back.
"Well-" he is cut off when 682 flaps his wings. This leads to Cory getting flung sky-high. Abby laughs at the blond's struggling. Traitors, all of them. What did he do to deserve this? Yet he can't deny how much he enjoys their company, the wind under his wings, the freedom.
It takes a while for Cory to get the hang of gliding. Then is flapping. That ends with Cory getting humiliated.
"Can you carry me?" Asks Abby during one of Cory's breaks after he learns to fly steadily. His wings curl into themselves; he can barely fly as it is. He isn't sure if she'd enjoy it. "He can," rumbles their ride. Abby cheers and puppy eyes him. He hesitates to carry her but an encouraging not-there sensation convinces him to hold her. "Hold on tight," he says before he spreads his wings at takes to the air.
"Yaa-aay! This is awesome Cory!" He looks back. Huh. He's much faster than Atanti. Or is the lizard slowing down to keep an eye on them?
"Higher, higher!" And so Abby starts chanting and Cory answers.
Eventually the young duo break the cloud coverage. "Wow," mumbles death, "It's so pretty!" The blond nods. "Yeah," the setting sun paints the clouds like watercolor, "It's beautiful." The beast behind them breaks the cover soon and hovers to their side. He eyes the horizon but isn't focusing on the sun.
The reptile witnesses two gods opening their eyes for the first time, their young eye only squint against a light their unused to. Deep in its chest pride rises, Termination watches Death and Chance dance around and through the cloud. "Yes," he says and the clouds rumble. "It's perfect." | New Wings, New flight, New Sight
The ocean was a vast and open space with little to no distractions, especially from humans.
This quality made it very appealing for practicing uninterrupted and needing a large space. Thankfully, their lessons were fully aerial.
Atanti huffed in approval as he looked around the endless blue expanse. His large wings flapped as he looked for an area where the air was the most stable. Weak winds and constant updraft would be preferable but he needed to teach his brother the movements first, and that required stability. At the thought, the pressure of Abby and Cory sitting on his back is brought to the forefront of his mind. His rider likely wouldn't get to learn flight, that's alright. He was her stead. Cory didn't have one though. He had his own set of wings, and Atanti could tell this was the first pair. He'd have to keep bringing the fledgling everytime a new set grew in to make sure he could still fly.
"Hm..." Cory was afraid. The smell was notable in the salty air. Even without it the young thing kept grabbing fist fulls of his fur, tugging. Inevitably tearing some out in his panic. Foolish, panic would only get him killed. The child was lucky that Atanti was doing this. Someone had to stand up and raise them. Consequences for leaving him to fend for himself among humans. He doesn't see others fly, doesn't know how to fly, how to move his wings or how to catch the wind. Thankfully most of that is instinct, sadly he'd have to kick-start those instinct. It might be entertaining though.
Continued shuffling makes him huff again. At least death was excited. He'd told her before hand so she wouldn't panic.
"Cory can fly?"
"Yes. His first pair of wings have finally developed."
She jumped up and around his back as he barged down another wall in search of Cory. Inevitably he'd find the fledgling and drag him to open air if that's what it takes for him to fly. The earlier the easier. His rider settles down after a few moments. Questions, as he'd anticipated.
"Can I see him fly?"
He made a vaguely agreeing noise but she got him all the same.
He realized she was getting ahead.
"First he needs to learn. He's never flown before." She nods even though he couldn't see her.
"I'm taking both of you to a large area above water where we shouldn't be interrupted." The lizard smiles faintly at he feels the giddiness roll off the girl in waves.
"Is it like a surprise? It'll be so fun seeing his excitement!" He hums, a surprise. His smile turns sharp and cruel. "Yes, a surprise." She talks excitedly for the rest of their journey through the site until they find Cory collapsed and holding his sides in the break room. Wings always hurt when they come out the first time.
Cory wasn't ready for this.
Who'd be? Why would he be prepared to be thrown thousands of miles above open water by your brother. Who, by the way, had dragged a literal child with them. Well, not really dragged. She was riding the overgrown lizard when they had found him amidst the dying SCP Foundation agents. Cory pits the containment breach on 682. He was perfectly fine eating from the infinite pizza box in the break room for the rest of his break before going back to work. He can't believe the breach happened while he eating his first lunch. He'd just started when the breach began. He admits he might've been stress eating. His back had hurt all day. That wasn't new, it had hurt for a few days. But it had been fine, it had to be.
Oh god his back hurts why does it hurt OH ITS ONFIRE
But it had been a perfectly normal day! Well, as normal as it gets at the Foundation anyways. Full of anomalies and what-not.
Something was bursting from within his back and breaking his skin. Oh HIS SKIN-
Perfectly normal. Nothing odd. No sudden growth spurts or... Nothing at all.
Wings broke skin. He had just grown wings. He...He has wings.
There wasn't any weight on his back, the things had broken through his skin and shredded his clothes like thousands of knives. Only the weight of wings that weren't there before lay on his back now. On his bare back. Blood still dripping through the new wounds where the wings met skin. He shivers as wind from their left reaches his back, new sensation reaching his mind as the feathers are tussled by the movement. The sensation hurts, instinctually Cory knows because its new and the injury is new, unhealed. More wind has Cory recoiling deeper into the giant beast that flies them over the ocean. Its warm. The heat helps sooth his new senses. If he'd been any more present he would've tried to hide from Abby, to shield the grotesque display of blood from the girl.
By the horizon and small uninhabited island resides.
"Convenient," rumbled the lizard, tone pleased.
It doesn't take them long to land. Cory thought 682 was tired. It becomes apparent it wanted to him clean once the reptile had pushed him to the shoreline. Any other time it'd be odd if not disturbing, but with how drenched in his own blood Cory was anything would. Especially since they wanted Cory to fly. Blood crusted feathers would be easy or safe, especially for a first time flier.
He's in the water by the shore where he tries to salvage his destroyed shirt. It was stained in blood but he could wear it. Maybe. The two new holes weren't ideal. But-
There's something combing through his feathers. His wings fluff up as he tenses and turns to snarl at the assailant. 682 stands behind him, amused. Or was that pride. As if to answer, the beast shrills into his chest before forcefully turning him around and continuing to shuffle through his feathers. Huh? His wings twitches and tenses at first. But, slowly, he settles on the shallow water. This feels relaxing, nice. "What are you doing?" He asks softly, this is pleasant. An odd thought when accompanied by the situation but Cory takes what he can get. "Preening. She is exploring," answers the beast. The blond vaguely remembers preening being something birds do, something with cleaning he believes. Cory hums a pleased tone, it's comforting. He could fall asleep on the action alone. The cameraman feels the crust of blood being cleaned and too deep feathers being pulled.
The two fall into comfortable silence until Abby comes back. She finds a cleaned Cory Crater and a pleased Atanti.
"You have to spread your wings more. That close and you'll never catch wind much less fly." Lectures, that all Cory hears. "You glide for now but no landing." Cory sneers. Why does he have to do this? At least Abby seems to be enjoying this. Cory crosses his arms and huffs, bitter about the situation. Abby laughs before holding onto fur. What-
682 spins in the air, pausing softly when belly up, before righting himself. Luckily Abby was holding on tight before the flip.
Cory wasn't.
The blond screams as he starts to plummet into the ocean. His limbs flail in panic. Two figures blur as the dive beside him. They're safe. Copy. Survive.
The cameraman rights himself and mimics the lizard's wings to the best of his abilities. Noticing, the lizard slows his descent and maneuvers for Cory to be above his right wing. His wings instinctually mimic the new position while he reaches his hands for the edge of the wings. Stability. Safety. Salvation.
His heart is still beating 100 miles per hour but finally he can slow his breath enough to calm down. A miracle really.
Cory holds Atanti's wing like his life depends on it. The lizard chuckles. Abby compliments his wings, something about the sky that he doesn't pay attention to. At least someone likes them.
"Relax. Follow the wind." Cory knows its advice but the teasing tone it him makes him want to dish it back.
"Well-" he is cut off when 682 flaps his wings. This leads to Cory getting flung sky-high. Abby laughs at the blond's struggling. Traitors, all of them. What did he do to deserve this? Yet he can't deny how much he enjoys their company, the wind under his wings, the freedom.
It takes a while for Cory to get the hang of gliding. Then is flapping. That ends with Cory getting humiliated.
"Can you carry me?" Asks Abby during one of Cory's breaks after he learns to fly steadily. His wings curl into themselves; he can barely fly as it is. He isn't sure if she'd enjoy it. "He can," rumbles their ride. Abby cheers and puppy eyes him. He hesitates to carry her but an encouraging not-there sensation convinces him to hold her. "Hold on tight," he says before he spreads his wings at takes to the air.
"Yaa-aay! This is awesome Cory!" He looks back. Huh. He's much faster than Atanti. Or is the lizard slowing down to keep an eye on them?
"Higher, higher!" And so Abby starts chanting and Cory answers.
Eventually the young duo break the cloud coverage. "Wow," mumbles death, "It's so pretty!" The blond nods. "Yeah," the setting sun paints the clouds like watercolor, "It's beautiful." The beast behind them breaks the cover soon and hovers to their side. He eyes the horizon but isn't focusing on the sun.
The reptile witnesses two gods opening their eyes for the first time, their young eye only squint against a light their unused to. Deep in its chest pride rises, Termination watches Death and Chance dance around and through the cloud. "Yes," he says and the clouds rumble. "It's perfect." | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77361536 | {"authors": ["MerRailuSolai"], "language": "English", "title": "New Wings, New flight, New Sight"} |
New Experiences
I’m Vanessa and last night I moved into a new foster home. I don’t know who will be there; that part is mostly normal for me. What is new is that I changed cities. Meaning I am far from all my friends; Charlie, Lacey, and Cortney, the people who got me through all the foster homes I was in, in how many years. Now I’m here, without them, and I don’t have a phone; I was never allowed to. This isn’t all new and terrifying, and I don’t like it.
It is currently 7AM, so I guess I better go downstairs before they run out of food for breakfast.
Once I get downstairs, not only is there food on the table, but the parents are just talking, yet not eating, not even anything on their plates yet. I do know they have two kids, however they don’t seem to be down yet, so that might be why. When they still didn’t see me, I decide I should make my presence known, so I say a simple, “good morning.”
When I spoke, they looked at me, both smiling. The woman is the first to speak, “good morning to you too,” she starts. Then she introduces herself and her husband. “My name is Jenna, and this is my husband, Mark. Our boys, Fred and James, are still asleep.”
Mark mutters something sounding along the lines of, “despite my efforts to wake them,” under his breath, with no real malice, just simple parental annoyance.
Jenna chuckles and says, “you didn’t want to wake her up dear, so you didn’t really put much effort into waking the boys.”
Mark pouts as Jenna continues. “Your name is Vanessa, correct? I was tired when you arrived, so I might not have heard correctly.” Her voice is soft yet carries across the room in a way that would make singers jealous.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m Vanessa.” I continue, tired and confused. As I look around, I notice the food; cereal, toast, bagels, pancakes, waffles, a wide variety of fruit, all flavors of fruit juices, and so much more, it’s a full buffet.
“We didn’t know what you would like,” Mark starts awkwardly, “so Jenna made it all,” he finishes, looking at his wife like a cold man looks at a fire. Loving and awestruck at her determination, and I kind of feel that too... well, awestruck at her determination, not love.
“Oh...” I say dumbly, then quickly follow it with, “thank you.” I sit down, looking at all the food.
Just as I sit down, the two boys come down the stairs. Both look exhausted, and when they sit down, they don’t even see me.
“Good morning boys,” Jenna says. “Did either of you notice our guest?” She asks after.
“Morning mama, and I did... but tired...” the shorter boy mumbles.
The taller boy responds with a tired grunt, then, “mamaaaaa! Fred was up all-night reading again! So I couldn’t sleep!” The taller boy, James, I suppose, whines.
“Just eat boys, you’re already late.” Mark says, looking disappointed, he watches as the boys eat and leave for school. After the boys leave, Mark turns to me and says, “we have excused you from school today, so you can get settled in today.”
All I could respond with was a small “ok.”
I eat slowly and go to my room.
Maybe this home won’t be so bad after all.
... Maybe... | New Experiences
I’m Vanessa and last night I moved into a new foster home. I don’t know who will be there; that part is mostly normal for me. What is new is that I changed cities. Meaning I am far from all my friends; Charlie, Lacey, and Cortney, the people who got me through all the foster homes I was in, in how many years. Now I’m here, without them, and I don’t have a phone; I was never allowed to. This isn’t all new and terrifying, and I don’t like it.
It is currently 7AM, so I guess I better go downstairs before they run out of food for breakfast.
Once I get downstairs, not only is there food on the table, but the parents are just talking, yet not eating, not even anything on their plates yet. I do know they have two kids, however they don’t seem to be down yet, so that might be why. When they still didn’t see me, I decide I should make my presence known, so I say a simple, “good morning.”
When I spoke, they looked at me, both smiling. The woman is the first to speak, “good morning to you too,” she starts. Then she introduces herself and her husband. “My name is Jenna, and this is my husband, Mark. Our boys, Fred and James, are still asleep.”
Mark mutters something sounding along the lines of, “despite my efforts to wake them,” under his breath, with no real malice, just simple parental annoyance.
Jenna chuckles and says, “you didn’t want to wake her up dear, so you didn’t really put much effort into waking the boys.”
Mark pouts as Jenna continues. “Your name is Vanessa, correct? I was tired when you arrived, so I might not have heard correctly.” Her voice is soft yet carries across the room in a way that would make singers jealous.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m Vanessa.” I continue, tired and confused. As I look around, I notice the food; cereal, toast, bagels, pancakes, waffles, a wide variety of fruit, all flavors of fruit juices, and so much more, it’s a full buffet.
“We didn’t know what you would like,” Mark starts awkwardly, “so Jenna made it all,” he finishes, looking at his wife like a cold man looks at a fire. Loving and awestruck at her determination, and I kind of feel that too... well, awestruck at her determination, not love.
“Oh...” I say dumbly, then quickly follow it with, “thank you.” I sit down, looking at all the food.
Just as I sit down, the two boys come down the stairs. Both look exhausted, and when they sit down, they don’t even see me.
“Good morning boys,” Jenna says. “Did either of you notice our guest?” She asks after.
“Morning mama, and I did... but tired...” the shorter boy mumbles.
The taller boy responds with a tired grunt, then, “mamaaaaa! Fred was up all-night reading again! So I couldn’t sleep!” The taller boy, James, I suppose, whines.
“Just eat boys, you’re already late.” Mark says, looking disappointed, he watches as the boys eat and leave for school. After the boys leave, Mark turns to me and says, “we have excused you from school today, so you can get settled in today.”
All I could respond with was a small “ok.”
I eat slowly and go to my room.
Maybe this home won’t be so bad after all.
... Maybe... | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77358086/chapters/202537021 | {"authors": ["Jasmine_Leaver689666"], "language": "English", "title": "New Experiences"} |
Put Me Back In It (I Would Do It Again)
Falling unconscious was supposed to be a mercy. A blessing, a way to protect yourself from the turmoil and anguish you were facing. It didn’t work that way for Elphaba though. She’d tried, she’d poured everything she had, every trick in that cursed book, every ounce of power she possessed into trying to save Fiyero. In the end it had amounted to nothing but hazy flashes of what they were doing to him dancing across her eyes, and an angry vow to never do anything good again. Collapsing to the cold stone floor of Kiamo Ko, she’d barely registered Chistery and the other monkeys wrapping a cloak around her before her eyes slid shut.
Where there was supposed to be blackness, there was full vivid colour. It was like she was wide awake suddenly, thrown back to the cornfields near the place she’d been born and rooted to the very spot no matter how hard she tried to move. She could hear the noises and wanted to cover her ears, didn’t want to hear them. She felt the bile rising in her throat and she screamed when the green and gold uniforms dragged him into view, fighting to get to him, to do anything to save him from the fate she’d cursed him to because he was foolish enough to love her. It started with fists, with jeers and shouts and demands of him telling them where the Wicked Witch had gone. He didn’t give them anything, and the fists only rained down harder. Into his middle, his head. Then a particularly vicious crack as someone aimed one straight at his nose, causing the blood to start flowing down the front of him like a river.
Struggling desperately against whatever held her, Elphaba practically screamed herself hoarse trying to make them stop. “I’M HERE, I’M HERE. STOP. YOU WANT ME. LEAVE HIM ALONE, TAKE ME” she screeched, not caring for her own safety now. She was unable to look away as one of them decided a rifle would be more efficient, using it to knock him to his knees and another bringing a heavy boot down on an ankle with yet another sickening snapping noise that left it twisted at an unnatural angle. None of her screams has any effect, no magic seemed to work, all she could do was watch as the man that she’d loved so desperately for so long was tortured with no end in sight. Still, no matter what they did he didn’t say a word, determined to protect her at the cost of his own life. “Please...no...please Yero I’m not worth it,” she whispered, her voice feeling raw from the screams. They’d hauled him to his feet now, broken and bloody, dragging him further to the pole in the middle of the clearing that was meant for a scarecrow. One of them shouted to get a torch, and he somehow, impossibly, raised his head then and she could have sworn he was looking directly towards her.
Her vision started to fade then, blurring once more at the edges and she let out one final desperate scream of his name before she woke up, clutching at the sheets and his name still on her lips. She was clutching at her chest after she’d bolted upright but then realized something.
Sheets.
How was she clutching sheets on the floor of Kiamo Ko? How was she in a bed if....
Blinking she looked and shook with confusion and disbelief, realizing she knew exactly where she was. She had no idea how, no idea why, but she did know this place. It was her own room, tiny as it was, in the Governor’s Mansion in Munchkinland. Kicking the sheets off and planting her feet on the floor, she stood up with shaking legs willing herself to make sense of it all. Was this another dream? Had her mind thrown her back to a less complicated time to protect her from seeing the loss of Fiyero? It certainly seemed like her room, the small bed, the wardrobe with a mirror she’d hung on the door. Next to it her crooked looking bookshelf by her small desk, her mother’s little green bottle glistening in the light next to the notes she’d been taking and the calendar she’d marked days off on. Feeling as wobbly legged as a newborn Horse, she sat back down on her bed again near immediately. Grabbing hold of her arm with one hand she rather viciously pinched it, wincing as her nails dug into her skin.
It wasn’t a dream.
Eyeing her desk she hauled herself up suddenly, scrambling for the calendar. With shaky hands she held it up, looking at the dates. If this was right, it would be less than a week till they’d make the journey to Shiz to take Nessa. She laughed humourlessly remembering this exact day, her father had left with her sister early on a trip out of town to pick up her last bunch of supplies, naturally leaving her to her own devices at home. If this was before Shiz, if this was when she’d somehow been taken to when she cast that desperate spell....that meant....
Fiyero. He would still be alive too. He had to be. If she, wicked as she was, had been returned he had to have been too. Elphaba knew she had to know. She had to see the place he’d been taken to, and if he wasn’t there, if there was no sign of him, she’d go to the ends of Oz to try and make sure he was all right. “Yero,” she breathed out, so quietly she seemed afraid to voice it now, “Please, by Oz please just be ok. I’ll never ask the world for a thing again.”
She shoved every other thought to the back of her mind, because if she even tried to dwell on them she’d break down even worse than before. She was going to find him, she was going to make sure he was okay.
Elphaba hurried to the closet after tossing her sleep clothes over her head, pulling out the first thing her hand touched and muttering curses at the dozens of tiny black buttons she had to do up. Of course she’d grab the same dress she’d worn to take her sister to school, fate clearly enjoyed having a sick sense of timing and she didn’t exactly have an extensive wardrobe to begin with. The rest of the ensemble got hastily thrown on, before she stopped still in front of her mirror as she shut the wardrobe door. She swallowed the lump on her throat then, almost able to feel his hands on her shoulders, his breath at her neck as he’d lifted the cloak off her. For just a split second she swore she could see his face behind hers, but when she whipped around she was alone.
“Of course I am,” she muttered, hurriedly pulling her multitude of tiny braids into a large one out of her way. “If this is truly then, he won’t have a clue who I was to him. I just need to see him,” she thought, “I just...need to see that he’s breathing again and that will be enough for me.” She hurried down the stairs and out the door then, boots clacking on the floor and paying no mind to the few servants left cleaning and organizing Nessa’s trunks. They largely ignored her, and she them, so none of them questioned the Governor’s strange green child hurrying through the halls.
Reaching the front door she thrust it open and shut it behind her. Out of habit, she reached a hand out to snatch the broom someone had been using to sweep the walk without breaking her stride, almost stopping short and laughing when she realized what she’d done. She didn’t stop to think about it though, just carried on with her fast paced walk. She’d always been given a wide berth out in public, but the way she was walking now had everyone she encountered practically jumping to get out of her way. Elphaba kept her head down, trying not to let her thoughts roam to what had happened in this very square what was less than a day ago to her. No she couldn’t think that and just kept willing her feet to move. Faster than she expected she reached the edge of the fields, and she took a deep breath to swallow the bile that suddenly rose again in her throat. She had to admit how terrified she was, what if the magic brought her back and, to further punish her for her wickedness, left him there after all? No...no...he hadn’t done anything wrong...it wouldn’t do that to him...would it?
The vision of those blue eyes of his, that had looked at her with such love and promised her they’d be together forever slammed into her, only they soon morphed into one of them slowly sliding shut, head falling to his chest and blood dripping from his hairline onto his eyelids. She dropped to her knees then, only held up by one hand on the broom she carried and dry heaved, nothing coming up as she tried to breathe and get herself under control.
“You can do this Elphaba, you can do this,” she murmured as she rose, wiping her mouth with her free hand and leaning on the broom almost like a crutch to steady herself. Another deep breath, in and out, and she just kept doing so as she made her way into the middle of the field. Mercifully, when she reached it, nothing was there. Nothing except the small clearing where the Munchkin farmer had placed to pole for a scarecrow yet to be nailed up, and she practically shook with relief.
It had spared him. The magic had spared Fiyero, and must have brought him back too. She didn’t think she’d ever get over the guilt for what he’d gone through, but if he was returned too, wherever he was, if he didn’t remember anything maybe it would be a blessing. She could just see that he was alive, and keep herself as far away from him as she could to avoid history repeating. It would hurt as badly as if she had to rip her own heart out, but it was no less than what should be her due for her actions.
With more deep breaths to steady herself, Elphaba tried to force herself to see logic. Logic she could do, she was good at that. He’d arrived at Shiz, what was it...a few months after she and Nessa had? So that meant now he was probably back at home, in the Vinkus. In...
The other castle.
That had to be where he was. They’d never lived in Kiamo Ko, she remembered him telling her. They’d lived in the other castle, even further to the West. At the time she’d laughed at him and just shaken her head, so blissfully happy lying there in his arms she hadn’t given it much thought. Now though, now she had a destination in mind. She would go West, go to the Vinkus, and make sure that everything was as it should be. What she’d do after she didn’t know, but that was a problem to solve later. As to how she’d get there.....
A laugh came unbidden from her lips then, looking at what was clutched in her hand. It seemed as though the magic maybe, just maybe, had taken pity on her. She knew she could get from Munchkinland to the West in a few hours from experience, what’s to say she couldn’t again. Laying the broom down on the ground she felt that familiar crackle of her power coming to life when she reached inside herself to summon it. She wasn’t as practised now, she wouldn’t have that control just yet, but this time around she did know what she was doing. She didn’t need the Grimmerie when this particular spell was burned straight into her mind with indelible ink.
Ahben Tahkay Ah Tum Entay Ditum Entayah....Ahben Tahkay Ah Tum Entay Ditum Entayah......Ahben Tahkay Ah Tum Entay Ditum Entayah....
Little bits of straw and even rocks started to float up then, but she kept at it. Repeating the words over and over again, desperate for it to work. Closing her eyes she repeated the words one more time, and just as suddenly they flew open as a familiar weight settled into her palm. “Hello my friend,” she said quietly, gripping it tightly and feeling the wood scratch against her palm, “Let’s fly.” Throwing one leg over it she settled herself on, only briefly bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t gotten a pair of trousers instead before kicking off with her heel and taking to the skies.
For days after, the people of Munchkinland would whisper and gossip about how the Governor’s strange older daughter had disappeared into the corn fields on the outskirts of town. Some even swore they’d seen a dark shape hurtle out of it and dart off towards the Western sky, some going so far as to say it was whatever malevolent force had cursed her to be green to begin with taking her back home. But Elphaba herself didn’t spare a thought for the reactions of any of the small minded people who’d always hated her, all she could think about was getting as far West as she could, as fast as possible.
*****
She wasn’t sure entirely how long it had been. Two hours, maybe three? Truly she hadn’t been able to focus on much but getting to the west, to the Vinkus, where Fiyero surely was. She had to know, she had to see that he was alive and unharmed. If she’d managed to keep him protected somehow from the horror she’d brought on him by associating with her. If whatever this trick of time she’d brought about with that horrible book happened to be how she’d saved him, even if he didn’t remember her or know anything of who they’d been, she’d have to live with that.
If it hadn’t been for her, Elphaba thought bitterly, he would still have been alive. The look on his face as he’d told her to just go was still fresh in her mind, along with the terrible images she’d seen of what they’d done to him. She couldn’t even close her eyes briefly against the vicious wind that flying so fast produced, because if she did all she could see was him strung up as she had been forced to witness after she thought she’d fallen unconscious. She could still hear the sickening crack of rifles against bone, see him bleeding onto the ground and… | Put Me Back In It (I Would Do It Again)
Falling unconscious was supposed to be a mercy. A blessing, a way to protect yourself from the turmoil and anguish you were facing. It didn’t work that way for Elphaba though. She’d tried, she’d poured everything she had, every trick in that cursed book, every ounce of power she possessed into trying to save Fiyero. In the end it had amounted to nothing but hazy flashes of what they were doing to him dancing across her eyes, and an angry vow to never do anything good again. Collapsing to the cold stone floor of Kiamo Ko, she’d barely registered Chistery and the other monkeys wrapping a cloak around her before her eyes slid shut.
Where there was supposed to be blackness, there was full vivid colour. It was like she was wide awake suddenly, thrown back to the cornfields near the place she’d been born and rooted to the very spot no matter how hard she tried to move. She could hear the noises and wanted to cover her ears, didn’t want to hear them. She felt the bile rising in her throat and she screamed when the green and gold uniforms dragged him into view, fighting to get to him, to do anything to save him from the fate she’d cursed him to because he was foolish enough to love her. It started with fists, with jeers and shouts and demands of him telling them where the Wicked Witch had gone. He didn’t give them anything, and the fists only rained down harder. Into his middle, his head. Then a particularly vicious crack as someone aimed one straight at his nose, causing the blood to start flowing down the front of him like a river.
Struggling desperately against whatever held her, Elphaba practically screamed herself hoarse trying to make them stop. “I’M HERE, I’M HERE. STOP. YOU WANT ME. LEAVE HIM ALONE, TAKE ME” she screeched, not caring for her own safety now. She was unable to look away as one of them decided a rifle would be more efficient, using it to knock him to his knees and another bringing a heavy boot down on an ankle with yet another sickening snapping noise that left it twisted at an unnatural angle. None of her screams has any effect, no magic seemed to work, all she could do was watch as the man that she’d loved so desperately for so long was tortured with no end in sight. Still, no matter what they did he didn’t say a word, determined to protect her at the cost of his own life. “Please...no...please Yero I’m not worth it,” she whispered, her voice feeling raw from the screams. They’d hauled him to his feet now, broken and bloody, dragging him further to the pole in the middle of the clearing that was meant for a scarecrow. One of them shouted to get a torch, and he somehow, impossibly, raised his head then and she could have sworn he was looking directly towards her.
Her vision started to fade then, blurring once more at the edges and she let out one final desperate scream of his name before she woke up, clutching at the sheets and his name still on her lips. She was clutching at her chest after she’d bolted upright but then realized something.
Sheets.
How was she clutching sheets on the floor of Kiamo Ko? How was she in a bed if....
Blinking she looked and shook with confusion and disbelief, realizing she knew exactly where she was. She had no idea how, no idea why, but she did know this place. It was her own room, tiny as it was, in the Governor’s Mansion in Munchkinland. Kicking the sheets off and planting her feet on the floor, she stood up with shaking legs willing herself to make sense of it all. Was this another dream? Had her mind thrown her back to a less complicated time to protect her from seeing the loss of Fiyero? It certainly seemed like her room, the small bed, the wardrobe with a mirror she’d hung on the door. Next to it her crooked looking bookshelf by her small desk, her mother’s little green bottle glistening in the light next to the notes she’d been taking and the calendar she’d marked days off on. Feeling as wobbly legged as a newborn Horse, she sat back down on her bed again near immediately. Grabbing hold of her arm with one hand she rather viciously pinched it, wincing as her nails dug into her skin.
It wasn’t a dream.
Eyeing her desk she hauled herself up suddenly, scrambling for the calendar. With shaky hands she held it up, looking at the dates. If this was right, it would be less than a week till they’d make the journey to Shiz to take Nessa. She laughed humourlessly remembering this exact day, her father had left with her sister early on a trip out of town to pick up her last bunch of supplies, naturally leaving her to her own devices at home. If this was before Shiz, if this was when she’d somehow been taken to when she cast that desperate spell....that meant....
Fiyero. He would still be alive too. He had to be. If she, wicked as she was, had been returned he had to have been too. Elphaba knew she had to know. She had to see the place he’d been taken to, and if he wasn’t there, if there was no sign of him, she’d go to the ends of Oz to try and make sure he was all right. “Yero,” she breathed out, so quietly she seemed afraid to voice it now, “Please, by Oz please just be ok. I’ll never ask the world for a thing again.”
She shoved every other thought to the back of her mind, because if she even tried to dwell on them she’d break down even worse than before. She was going to find him, she was going to make sure he was okay.
Elphaba hurried to the closet after tossing her sleep clothes over her head, pulling out the first thing her hand touched and muttering curses at the dozens of tiny black buttons she had to do up. Of course she’d grab the same dress she’d worn to take her sister to school, fate clearly enjoyed having a sick sense of timing and she didn’t exactly have an extensive wardrobe to begin with. The rest of the ensemble got hastily thrown on, before she stopped still in front of her mirror as she shut the wardrobe door. She swallowed the lump on her throat then, almost able to feel his hands on her shoulders, his breath at her neck as he’d lifted the cloak off her. For just a split second she swore she could see his face behind hers, but when she whipped around she was alone.
“Of course I am,” she muttered, hurriedly pulling her multitude of tiny braids into a large one out of her way. “If this is truly then, he won’t have a clue who I was to him. I just need to see him,” she thought, “I just...need to see that he’s breathing again and that will be enough for me.” She hurried down the stairs and out the door then, boots clacking on the floor and paying no mind to the few servants left cleaning and organizing Nessa’s trunks. They largely ignored her, and she them, so none of them questioned the Governor’s strange green child hurrying through the halls.
Reaching the front door she thrust it open and shut it behind her. Out of habit, she reached a hand out to snatch the broom someone had been using to sweep the walk without breaking her stride, almost stopping short and laughing when she realized what she’d done. She didn’t stop to think about it though, just carried on with her fast paced walk. She’d always been given a wide berth out in public, but the way she was walking now had everyone she encountered practically jumping to get out of her way. Elphaba kept her head down, trying not to let her thoughts roam to what had happened in this very square what was less than a day ago to her. No she couldn’t think that and just kept willing her feet to move. Faster than she expected she reached the edge of the fields, and she took a deep breath to swallow the bile that suddenly rose again in her throat. She had to admit how terrified she was, what if the magic brought her back and, to further punish her for her wickedness, left him there after all? No...no...he hadn’t done anything wrong...it wouldn’t do that to him...would it?
The vision of those blue eyes of his, that had looked at her with such love and promised her they’d be together forever slammed into her, only they soon morphed into one of them slowly sliding shut, head falling to his chest and blood dripping from his hairline onto his eyelids. She dropped to her knees then, only held up by one hand on the broom she carried and dry heaved, nothing coming up as she tried to breathe and get herself under control.
“You can do this Elphaba, you can do this,” she murmured as she rose, wiping her mouth with her free hand and leaning on the broom almost like a crutch to steady herself. Another deep breath, in and out, and she just kept doing so as she made her way into the middle of the field. Mercifully, when she reached it, nothing was there. Nothing except the small clearing where the Munchkin farmer had placed to pole for a scarecrow yet to be nailed up, and she practically shook with relief.
It had spared him. The magic had spared Fiyero, and must have brought him back too. She didn’t think she’d ever get over the guilt for what he’d gone through, but if he was returned too, wherever he was, if he didn’t remember anything maybe it would be a blessing. She could just see that he was alive, and keep herself as far away from him as she could to avoid history repeating. It would hurt as badly as if she had to rip her own heart out, but it was no less than what should be her due for her actions.
With more deep breaths to steady herself, Elphaba tried to force herself to see logic. Logic she could do, she was good at that. He’d arrived at Shiz, what was it...a few months after she and Nessa had? So that meant now he was probably back at home, in the Vinkus. In...
The other castle.
That had to be where he was. They’d never lived in Kiamo Ko, she remembered him telling her. They’d lived in the other castle, even further to the West. At the time she’d laughed at him and just shaken her head, so blissfully happy lying there in his arms she hadn’t given it much thought. Now though, now she had a destination in mind. She would go West, go to the Vinkus, and make sure that everything was as it should be. What she’d do after she didn’t know, but that was a problem to solve later. As to how she’d get there.....
A laugh came unbidden from her lips then, looking at what was clutched in her hand. It seemed as though the magic maybe, just maybe, had taken pity on her. She knew she could get from Munchkinland to the West in a few hours from experience, what’s to say she couldn’t again. Laying the broom down on the ground she felt that familiar crackle of her power coming to life when she reached inside herself to summon it. She wasn’t as practised now, she wouldn’t have that control just yet, but this time around she did know what she was doing. She didn’t need the Grimmerie when this particular spell was burned straight into her mind with indelible ink.
Ahben Tahkay Ah Tum Entay Ditum Entayah....Ahben Tahkay Ah Tum Entay Ditum Entayah......Ahben Tahkay Ah Tum Entay Ditum Entayah....
Little bits of straw and even rocks started to float up then, but she kept at it. Repeating the words over and over again, desperate for it to work. Closing her eyes she repeated the words one more time, and just as suddenly they flew open as a familiar weight settled into her palm. “Hello my friend,” she said quietly, gripping it tightly and feeling the wood scratch against her palm, “Let’s fly.” Throwing one leg over it she settled herself on, only briefly bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t gotten a pair of trousers instead before kicking off with her heel and taking to the skies.
For days after, the people of Munchkinland would whisper and gossip about how the Governor’s strange older daughter had disappeared into the corn fields on the outskirts of town. Some even swore they’d seen a dark shape hurtle out of it and dart off towards the Western sky, some going so far as to say it was whatever malevolent force had cursed her to be green to begin with taking her back home. But Elphaba herself didn’t spare a thought for the reactions of any of the small minded people who’d always hated her, all she could think about was getting as far West as she could, as fast as possible.
*****
She wasn’t sure entirely how long it had been. Two hours, maybe three? Truly she hadn’t been able to focus on much but getting to the west, to the Vinkus, where Fiyero surely was. She had to know, she had to see that he was alive and unharmed. If she’d managed to keep him protected somehow from the horror she’d brought on him by associating with her. If whatever this trick of time she’d brought about with that horrible book happened to be how she’d saved him, even if he didn’t remember her or know anything of who they’d been, she’d have to live with that.
If it hadn’t been for her, Elphaba thought bitterly, he would still have been alive. The look on his face as he’d told her to just go was still fresh in her mind, along with the terrible images she’d seen of what they’d done to him. She couldn’t even close her eyes briefly against the vicious wind that flying so fast produced, because if she did all she could see was him strung up as she had been forced to witness after she thought she’d fallen unconscious. She could still hear the sickening crack of rifles against bone, see him bleeding onto the ground and…
The appearance, however faint, of something on the horizon stopped her thoughts. Not just something, a castle. “The other castle” she breathed, the broom jerking to a stop in mid air causing her to grab even tighter hold so she didn’t topple off. She let out a muffled curse, it had been a hasty enchantment this time, solely based on memory, and this incarnation of her didn’t have the control she would several years from now when her broom would become all but an extension of herself.
Trying desperately to draw her focus back, she started it off again, the castle and surrounding town becoming clearer as she went. It wasn’t long before the broom jerked again to a stop. She hadn’t done it herself, and was about to curse it to the ends of the Deadly Desert when a chance look below made it feel as though her heart was being gripped in a vice squeezed as tight as it could go. It looked like a line of dust from something going frighteningly fast, that had come from the direction of the still far off city gates. Carefully she flew down a little lower and attempted to see what exactly it was. It was then she could swear her heart actually did stop because somehow she knew exactly what, or who, was making the disturbance. “Fiyero,” she breathed, as positive of the fact as she was of her own name.
A wild hope that maybe, he was rushing to find her too was viciously shoved aside. She couldn’t be that lucky, it wasn’t possible. She’d had her chance, her happiness, and it was gone. She just had to see that it was him for sure, had to know he was ok, and that would have to be enough. Unthinking of what she was doing, and not heeding the thought that she didn’t have her former control and precision, she pulled the broom into a nose dive towards the dust storm as quickly as possible. But she was going too far, too fast. Any plans she’d had about keeping her distance were long gone now and she cursed herself as she hurtled towards the ground.
Elphaba righted herself just in time to skid to a stop on the dirt path among the trees, the broom shooting out from under her sideways and hitting a nearby tree where it fell to the ground. She was sure she looked as wild and frantic as she felt but she didn’t care. What she knew to be Feldspur had halted too, and she almost broke down then and there at the sight of Fiyero hopping easily off of him, walking forward to stare at her.
He looked just as he had when he’d almost trampled her at Shiz, as when he’d laughed and told her she didn’t need to act like Glinda, or as when they’d rescued the cub from the poppyfied classroom. Like he had before she’d thrown Oz into chaos, before he’d had too much weighing on his shoulders and been forced into a life he didn’t deserve.
Most importantly, he was alive, he was unharmed, and suddenly she felt everything was worth it. It had worked, and any price she had to pay now was worth it to see he was breathing and whole. It tore at her heart to think he probably had no idea who she was; but she had foolishly been unable to stop herself from trying to find him. Or unable to stop herself moving a handful of steps closer to him.
It seemed like time stood still as they simply stood there and stared at each-other, and the gnawing feeling in her stomach only grew. Her suspicions seemed confirmed, he was staring at her with the shock most people did when they first saw her. To him, not only was she green, she was a strange woman who probably looked an absolute mess. She had just shown up, flying up to him as he rode off, almost crashing into him that time instead of her being nearly run over by him and Feldspur. Looking down at her boots, she prepared to try and explain herself, when his voice cut through the stillness.
“Why is it......that you’re always causing some sort of commotion,” he said, slowly and deliberately, as though the he seemed scared to even let the words leave his lips. Elphaba’s heart leapt painfully then. If he’d said that, did that mean…
No.
No he couldn’t know, how could he possibly remember. The world was never merciful to her, it certainly wouldn’t start now. Try as she might to keep the walls around herself up, the vice that had squeezed her heart let go just a little, allowing a tiny sliver of hope to wedge its’ way in.
“I told you, I don't…,” she managed to choke out, voice thick with emotion, “I don’t cause commotions…..I am one.”
“My Fae?” he said then, questioningly, the look in those beautiful blue eyes a mixture between recognition and relief.
She barely let him finish the question before she took off from the handful of feet away, flinging herself into his arms so hard he stumbled, asshe clung to him for dear life. Her legs wouldn’t hold her up and apparently neither did his, because within second he’d sunk to the ground with her in his arms. “Yero,” she choked out as they hit the floor, squeezing him impossibly tighter, “Yero, I did it. I saved you.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77361521/chapters/202546231 | {"authors": ["Tiny_Librarian"], "language": "English", "title": "Put Me Back In It (I Would Do It Again)"} |
shake the disease
It’s not as though she does it entirely out of the blue. She and Farryn have been discussing adding Lethica to their little arrangement (which mostly means poking fun at each other about it behind her back) for nearly a week now, and Briar’s never been one to beat around the bush for long. So, one night when the Mirabels are off dining with the Bishop and her companions are milling abstractly about, she figures it’s as good a chance as they’re gonna get.
“Hey Letty,” Briar calls across the table, sprawled back inelegantly in her chair. “Farryn and I are gonna have a lil’ girl’s night later, if you wanna join. Blow off some steam.” She shoots a charming wink, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “If you catch my meaning.”
“Oh?” Lethica folds her arms under her chest in a way that Briar feels completely heterosexual about. “And what sorts of things did you have in mind?”
Hook, line, sinker. She leans forward, tracing idly around the rim of her glass. “Oh, y’know. Just a bit of bonding between girls. Maybe some sparring practice.”
The faun beside her stifles a laugh in her cup of sap as Marius bristles. “That’s hardly appropriate–” he begins hotly, and is cut off.
“Maybe we can all have a girl’s night,” Briggsy interrupts him excitedly. Oblivious to the fact that he’s just effectively steamrolled the entire situation, he continues, hands waving about. "Like the real housewives from Real Housewives of Yona. We can go out dancing and cheat on our husbands!”
Jericho perks up as well. “Oh, gawrsh, I’ve always wanted to have a girl’s night! Me best gals used to have ‘em when I’d go out on the town, but they didn’t want me joinin’ on account of me bein’ a scarecrow and not a girl.”
The crocodilefolk frowns suddenly, seeming to remember something. He leans over conspicuously to whisper at Briar. “D’you think we’re allowed to join? Is that against the rules?”
She glances between him, Jericho, and Farryn, whose shoulders are shaking slightly in amusement. “I mean–”
“Of course you can,” Lethica soothes, amusement still evident in her voice. Well, so much for her expert seduction plan. “Would you like to join as well, Yorgrim?”
A second or two pass in silence before a loud snore emanates from the living room floor.
“Well, I think that's your answer,” Farryn remarks. Her back cracks loudly as she stands, stretching. “We’ll meet down here, then?”
“Yeah, just lemme put my shit upstairs first,” Briar sighs, levelling a finger at Briggsy. “You're in charge of drinks.”
“Aye aye, cap’n.” He gives a jaunty salute, heading down into the cellar with an unusual pep in his step as he hums some vague tune. Jericho follows suit, Lethica leaves to fetch her makeup kit, and Marius, presumably, slinks away to go mope about Lathander– and with that, the party disperses.
Girl’s night, indeed.
—
This is pathetic, Marius tells himself for the tenth time in as many minutes. A knight of Lathander does not sulk on the stairs like a kicked dog listening as his friends enjoy themselves without him. It’s undignified, unbecoming, downright inappropriate. He shouldn’t want this.
Generosity, courtesy, piety, fellowship, chastity. Crossdressing is not included in his knightly virtues, nor does he want it to be, because he’s not– because he doesn’t. Because he can’t. It shouldn’t matter to him, either, that everyone else seems to be completely fine with it, that Briggsy and Jericho had jumped at the chance to join with barely a moment’s consideration for what they are– what they’re supposed to be– what they can and can’t want. Somehow even their participation, thoughtless as it may be, feels more acceptable than his own.
Still, he makes no move to stand. Still, he remains rooted to the top of the stairwell, as he has been for the past half hour, soaking up their secondhand joy like a parasite. Bitter brambles tighten in his chest.
The wooden thunk of footsteps draws him from his thoughts, and he glances up to see Lethica climbing the stairs towards him. On instinct he shuffles towards the wall to let her pass. “Sorry.”
“It is alright.” Instead of walking by him, to his surprise, she leans elegantly on the railing and looks down at him. Her hair has been taken from its usual bun and plaited in the back. He decidedly does not stare.
“Did you, er– need something?” Marius asks, cringing internally. Lovely. Now he sounds like he doesn't want her here. “Not that I mind, of course, I just–”
Mercifully, she doesn't comment on the minor faux pas, instead lowering herself down to perch on the steps. “You do not have to confine yourself up here, you know.”
He flushes, looking down at his hands. His words are carefully chosen. “It would not be– appropriate, for me to join.”
She readjusts her position, one arm propping her up on the stair above as she turns to look at him. “Whyever not?”
Is she mocking him? She must be, he thinks, and yet he's never known her to be cruel. Sharply, he gestures at himself. “Well, it is a girl’s night, and I am–” He swallows around the words, enunciating deliberately to cover the misstep. “Not typically welcome in such spaces.”
Lethica waves a hand dismissively. Like it's that easy. Like he hasn't spent nearly a century knowing it isn't. “I hardly think anyone will mock you for joining, if that is your worry.”
“That isn't the problem. It's–” He pauses before he can say anything that will make him sound any more pathetic. I wasn’t invited sounds too clingy; I don’t want to impose is far too eager. Years of chivalry training and he’s still at a loss for words. The real problem, the one he just has to force himself to accept, is that he simply can’t.
This world, their world, will never be his to touch. His path has been set for a long, long time.
“It is not too late,” Lethica says, as though reading his mind, and Marius is seized by a sudden panic– an instantaneous soul-deep terror that she knows, somehow, has seen past the person he tries so hard to be to the depths of his selfish heart, the place that hidden, shameful seedling of something refuses to die.
He wants to tear it out. He wants to let it overtake him. He wants, and nothing good has ever come of allowing that want to bloom.
Unaware of the turmoil she’s caused him, or perhaps simply choosing to be merciful, Lethica continues: “The night has just begun. We have hardly even started on the drinks.”
She hadn’t known, then, and for some reason that just makes the knot in his chest pull tighter. Absurdly, he feels like crying. She doesn't understand. How could she, when she's so– herself?
“I– it isn’t–” He chokes on the word allowed. “It would be inappropriate, for a man, a– a knight, such as myself, to participate in such– activities.”
She tilts her head owlishly, and for a second Marius is grateful not to see her face– not to see the pity and disgust surely swirling in those eyes. Her voice is light enough when she speaks that he almost believes it.
“Briggsy is a man, is he not?” Lethica settles her chin on her hand, gaze never leaving him. “And he is participating.”
His nails dig sharply into his palms. “Well– yes, but–”
“And Jericho, no? Do you not think it appropriate for him to join?”
“I– I suppose not, but–”
Undeterred by his protests, she continues, the breezy tone of her voice taking on a quality that makes him feel oddly naked. “I was born a man, you know.” She lifts one eyebrow. “Does that mean I should not be invited?”
He recoils instantly, brows furrowing. Bullseye. “I– well– that’s different.”
“I do not see why it has to be.”
Marius’s mouth snaps shut with a click. It’s– it is different, it is, even if he can’t entirely justify how. It's just that she is a woman, plain and simple– no one in their right minds would deny that, and he can’t imagine they ever could have, either, no matter what she’d looked like. The way she’d been born was– irrelevant. Insignificant. Clearly she’d known, forever and always, that this was who she was meant to be, and so Shar had granted it to her– had allowed her to live in this way because it was right, because it was natural, because it was impossible for her to be anything else. It's different for Marius. It must be different. The alternative is too terrifying to fathom.
The blank, pallid porcelain of Lethica’s mask watches him in silence. He wills himself to breathe.
“You do not have to,” she begins, and oh, if only she knew the half of it. “But I do not think your presence would be unwelcome.” A beat, and then: “I, for one, would enjoy your company.”
If he had a heart, he's sure it would skip a beat. As it is, though, he just stiffens like a deer in headlights. It's not inappropriate for him to be there if she asked him to join, right? Her gaze is suddenly too much, and he looks away, feeling phantom heat rise to his cheeks. “I– suppose,” he says haltingly. “If you’re certain.”
In lieu of a response, Lethica stands, graceful as ever. “I will see you downstairs, then.”
“Wait,” Marius says, and then finds himself at an utter loss for words. She waits as he flounders, wracking his brain for anything to say before eventually blurting out: “Are you aware they were trying to proposition you?”
She pauses for a moment– looks down the stairs– looks at him again. Then she tips her head back and laughs, a rich, chiming sound that somehow makes the knot in his chest tighten further in a mix of confusion and utter infatuation. “You are very naive. It is adorable.”
Still laughing, she continues down the stairs and out of view. He hesitates only a few moments– reeling dizzily from the compliment, nonsensical and perhaps a bit condescending that it had been, by Lathander’s left ball she thinks he’s adorable– before steeling himself and shaking the thought away. He’ll worry about whatever the hell all that meant later. For now, he has a girl’s night to attend.
Marius stands, breathing deep for the first time in what feels like forever, and follows her down into the light. | shake the disease
It’s not as though she does it entirely out of the blue. She and Farryn have been discussing adding Lethica to their little arrangement (which mostly means poking fun at each other about it behind her back) for nearly a week now, and Briar’s never been one to beat around the bush for long. So, one night when the Mirabels are off dining with the Bishop and her companions are milling abstractly about, she figures it’s as good a chance as they’re gonna get.
“Hey Letty,” Briar calls across the table, sprawled back inelegantly in her chair. “Farryn and I are gonna have a lil’ girl’s night later, if you wanna join. Blow off some steam.” She shoots a charming wink, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “If you catch my meaning.”
“Oh?” Lethica folds her arms under her chest in a way that Briar feels completely heterosexual about. “And what sorts of things did you have in mind?”
Hook, line, sinker. She leans forward, tracing idly around the rim of her glass. “Oh, y’know. Just a bit of bonding between girls. Maybe some sparring practice.”
The faun beside her stifles a laugh in her cup of sap as Marius bristles. “That’s hardly appropriate–” he begins hotly, and is cut off.
“Maybe we can all have a girl’s night,” Briggsy interrupts him excitedly. Oblivious to the fact that he’s just effectively steamrolled the entire situation, he continues, hands waving about. "Like the real housewives from Real Housewives of Yona. We can go out dancing and cheat on our husbands!”
Jericho perks up as well. “Oh, gawrsh, I’ve always wanted to have a girl’s night! Me best gals used to have ‘em when I’d go out on the town, but they didn’t want me joinin’ on account of me bein’ a scarecrow and not a girl.”
The crocodilefolk frowns suddenly, seeming to remember something. He leans over conspicuously to whisper at Briar. “D’you think we’re allowed to join? Is that against the rules?”
She glances between him, Jericho, and Farryn, whose shoulders are shaking slightly in amusement. “I mean–”
“Of course you can,” Lethica soothes, amusement still evident in her voice. Well, so much for her expert seduction plan. “Would you like to join as well, Yorgrim?”
A second or two pass in silence before a loud snore emanates from the living room floor.
“Well, I think that's your answer,” Farryn remarks. Her back cracks loudly as she stands, stretching. “We’ll meet down here, then?”
“Yeah, just lemme put my shit upstairs first,” Briar sighs, levelling a finger at Briggsy. “You're in charge of drinks.”
“Aye aye, cap’n.” He gives a jaunty salute, heading down into the cellar with an unusual pep in his step as he hums some vague tune. Jericho follows suit, Lethica leaves to fetch her makeup kit, and Marius, presumably, slinks away to go mope about Lathander– and with that, the party disperses.
Girl’s night, indeed.
—
This is pathetic, Marius tells himself for the tenth time in as many minutes. A knight of Lathander does not sulk on the stairs like a kicked dog listening as his friends enjoy themselves without him. It’s undignified, unbecoming, downright inappropriate. He shouldn’t want this.
Generosity, courtesy, piety, fellowship, chastity. Crossdressing is not included in his knightly virtues, nor does he want it to be, because he’s not– because he doesn’t. Because he can’t. It shouldn’t matter to him, either, that everyone else seems to be completely fine with it, that Briggsy and Jericho had jumped at the chance to join with barely a moment’s consideration for what they are– what they’re supposed to be– what they can and can’t want. Somehow even their participation, thoughtless as it may be, feels more acceptable than his own.
Still, he makes no move to stand. Still, he remains rooted to the top of the stairwell, as he has been for the past half hour, soaking up their secondhand joy like a parasite. Bitter brambles tighten in his chest.
The wooden thunk of footsteps draws him from his thoughts, and he glances up to see Lethica climbing the stairs towards him. On instinct he shuffles towards the wall to let her pass. “Sorry.”
“It is alright.” Instead of walking by him, to his surprise, she leans elegantly on the railing and looks down at him. Her hair has been taken from its usual bun and plaited in the back. He decidedly does not stare.
“Did you, er– need something?” Marius asks, cringing internally. Lovely. Now he sounds like he doesn't want her here. “Not that I mind, of course, I just–”
Mercifully, she doesn't comment on the minor faux pas, instead lowering herself down to perch on the steps. “You do not have to confine yourself up here, you know.”
He flushes, looking down at his hands. His words are carefully chosen. “It would not be– appropriate, for me to join.”
She readjusts her position, one arm propping her up on the stair above as she turns to look at him. “Whyever not?”
Is she mocking him? She must be, he thinks, and yet he's never known her to be cruel. Sharply, he gestures at himself. “Well, it is a girl’s night, and I am–” He swallows around the words, enunciating deliberately to cover the misstep. “Not typically welcome in such spaces.”
Lethica waves a hand dismissively. Like it's that easy. Like he hasn't spent nearly a century knowing it isn't. “I hardly think anyone will mock you for joining, if that is your worry.”
“That isn't the problem. It's–” He pauses before he can say anything that will make him sound any more pathetic. I wasn’t invited sounds too clingy; I don’t want to impose is far too eager. Years of chivalry training and he’s still at a loss for words. The real problem, the one he just has to force himself to accept, is that he simply can’t.
This world, their world, will never be his to touch. His path has been set for a long, long time.
“It is not too late,” Lethica says, as though reading his mind, and Marius is seized by a sudden panic– an instantaneous soul-deep terror that she knows, somehow, has seen past the person he tries so hard to be to the depths of his selfish heart, the place that hidden, shameful seedling of something refuses to die.
He wants to tear it out. He wants to let it overtake him. He wants, and nothing good has ever come of allowing that want to bloom.
Unaware of the turmoil she’s caused him, or perhaps simply choosing to be merciful, Lethica continues: “The night has just begun. We have hardly even started on the drinks.”
She hadn’t known, then, and for some reason that just makes the knot in his chest pull tighter. Absurdly, he feels like crying. She doesn't understand. How could she, when she's so– herself?
“I– it isn’t–” He chokes on the word allowed. “It would be inappropriate, for a man, a– a knight, such as myself, to participate in such– activities.”
She tilts her head owlishly, and for a second Marius is grateful not to see her face– not to see the pity and disgust surely swirling in those eyes. Her voice is light enough when she speaks that he almost believes it.
“Briggsy is a man, is he not?” Lethica settles her chin on her hand, gaze never leaving him. “And he is participating.”
His nails dig sharply into his palms. “Well– yes, but–”
“And Jericho, no? Do you not think it appropriate for him to join?”
“I– I suppose not, but–”
Undeterred by his protests, she continues, the breezy tone of her voice taking on a quality that makes him feel oddly naked. “I was born a man, you know.” She lifts one eyebrow. “Does that mean I should not be invited?”
He recoils instantly, brows furrowing. Bullseye. “I– well– that’s different.”
“I do not see why it has to be.”
Marius’s mouth snaps shut with a click. It’s– it is different, it is, even if he can’t entirely justify how. It's just that she is a woman, plain and simple– no one in their right minds would deny that, and he can’t imagine they ever could have, either, no matter what she’d looked like. The way she’d been born was– irrelevant. Insignificant. Clearly she’d known, forever and always, that this was who she was meant to be, and so Shar had granted it to her– had allowed her to live in this way because it was right, because it was natural, because it was impossible for her to be anything else. It's different for Marius. It must be different. The alternative is too terrifying to fathom.
The blank, pallid porcelain of Lethica’s mask watches him in silence. He wills himself to breathe.
“You do not have to,” she begins, and oh, if only she knew the half of it. “But I do not think your presence would be unwelcome.” A beat, and then: “I, for one, would enjoy your company.”
If he had a heart, he's sure it would skip a beat. As it is, though, he just stiffens like a deer in headlights. It's not inappropriate for him to be there if she asked him to join, right? Her gaze is suddenly too much, and he looks away, feeling phantom heat rise to his cheeks. “I– suppose,” he says haltingly. “If you’re certain.”
In lieu of a response, Lethica stands, graceful as ever. “I will see you downstairs, then.”
“Wait,” Marius says, and then finds himself at an utter loss for words. She waits as he flounders, wracking his brain for anything to say before eventually blurting out: “Are you aware they were trying to proposition you?”
She pauses for a moment– looks down the stairs– looks at him again. Then she tips her head back and laughs, a rich, chiming sound that somehow makes the knot in his chest tighten further in a mix of confusion and utter infatuation. “You are very naive. It is adorable.”
Still laughing, she continues down the stairs and out of view. He hesitates only a few moments– reeling dizzily from the compliment, nonsensical and perhaps a bit condescending that it had been, by Lathander’s left ball she thinks he’s adorable– before steeling himself and shaking the thought away. He’ll worry about whatever the hell all that meant later. For now, he has a girl’s night to attend.
Marius stands, breathing deep for the first time in what feels like forever, and follows her down into the light. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77355141 | {"authors": ["EvilToxicMossSauce"], "language": "English", "title": "shake the disease"} |
I am proud of you.
It had been just hours ago when John had destroyed Malphas and Gary, or “Astaroth.” John was in the back of Garcia’s Ford Pinto Wagon, still partially covered in blood. John stared down at his hands as Garcia spoke up.
“Hijo, are you doing alright?” The much older man asked solemnly.
“Yes, father,” John didn’t even look up, more focused on the blood between the wrinkles of his hands. John felt wrong, seeing Amy's bones after “finishing” his exorcism of her, making him feel deeper guilt.
“John, you did the right thing. I’m very proud of what you did back there, hijo.” Garcia tried to comfort John, but it always seemed like what he had to say was never enough. John didn’t know what to reply with. He wanted to believe him, but his past failures kept him back. He didn’t wanna move on or celebrate that he ended the profane Sabbath. Amy could’ve been saved a year ago, yet his fears held him back. He would’ve rather died that night. Garcia looked in his rear view mirror and sighed, turning the radio on. John just sat there, he didn't have the motivation or energy to do anything but sit. Garcia kept driving until seeing a small dimly lit gas station. It looked well used and a bit suspicious, but Garcia could use some time to stretch his legs, and maybe get John something nice. He pulled into a parking lot turning off the car, the radio with it.
“I'm gonna go in and stretch my legs, John. Do you wanna come just to get out of my car?” Garcia offered. John, surprisingly, took this offer up, undoing his seat belt and opening the car door taking in his surroundings. John was trying his hardest not to tear up, thinking about what had happened back in the crucible.
“Father, are you *really* proud of me?” John asked, anxiously swaying side to side.
“Yes hijo, I have a way to really show you how proud I am of you,” Garcia replied to John's sorrowful question, springing up an idea of how to “show how proud he is of John.” Garcia blushes thinking about the idea he had in his head. Before he knew it John, tilting his head like a puppy, answered him.
“I would like that,” the younger man let out a soft smile and blush before being interrupted by Garcia's demands or suggestions.
“Pull your pants down and bend over your car seat,” the car door of where John was sitting hadn’t been closed giving John an easier time to fulfill his “task,” John delicately undid his belt as if it were made of pure gold. He was clearly anxious which made Garcia all the hornier. The younger male unbuttoned his pants along with releasing the zipper holding his pants in place. With all this reinforcement removed from the pants they almost immediately slid down exposing his briefs underneath. Garcia watched as John slowly stripped himself, feeling his own erection grow.
John draped himself over the back seat cushions, pulling his briefs down, exposing his bare ass and cock. John blushed and looked down at a little misplaced rosary sitting on the floor.
“I could stare at you all day like this,” Garcia bit his lip pulling his own erect cock out of his jeans, rubbing against John's tight hole “you're so tense hijo, relax, i'm not gonna hurt you” he patted John's shoulder with one hand and sticking two fingers up John with the other. John let out a soft gasp with a subtle moan.
“Father!” John moaned out, gripping the leather seats like his life depended on it. Garcia smirked, and roughly thrust his fingers in and out of John's pink hole, making the younger man squirm.
“How are you supposed to handle my cock when you can't handle my fingers?” Garcia asked with a chuckle, removing his fingers from John's hole. Garcia jerked his member looking at John sprawled out on the seats, his cute little asshole almost right in Garcia's face.
“I don't know,” John replied, embarrassed. They were just fingers, and they had him squirming like trapped prey. “Is there anything you can do to make pushing your cock in me easier, father?” John asked, looking back at Garcia the best he could.
“I don't have lube, hijo, but I suppose there's something I can do,” Garcia got on the ground with a noticeable groan, spreading John's cheeks further apart. John, confused, kept trying to look back at the old man to get a glimpse of what he was attempting. He was then suddenly caught off guard with the feeling of warm, wet saliva against his tight fuck up.
“Daddy-” John shut his mouth quickly, eyes wide, thinking about what he just spat out. Garcia stopped licking John's asshole and laughed for a second.
“John, did you seriously just call me ‘daddy’?” Garcia teased, turning John's face a flush pink.
“I didn't mean t-” “It's fine, Hijo, I actually kind of enjoyed that,” Garcia cut off John, replying with a bit of humour behind his words, but nonetheless still honest. Before John could say anything, Garcia got right back to licking the rim of John's pink fuck hole and massaging the inside of it with his tongue. It was a sensation that John couldn't explain with words. It was new, foreign, but so damn enjoyable. His dick pulsated and rubbed against the cool leather seats, making John moan out louder. He couldn't even form words. The whole thing felt so damn good. Eventually, Garcia pulled away. Leaving John wanting more, so much more.
“Hijo, do you think you can handle my cock?” Garcia asked, using the seat John was on as support to get up. Garcia could've probably gotten away with slightly crouching to reach his asshole. John was way taller than the old man anyway. John looked back with a nod, almost pleading for it. Garcia smiled, and rubbed his tip against John's now wet hole. The old man watched as John looked back at him. Biting his lip with a blush.
“Prepare yourself,” Garcia said flirtatiously. His cock twitched as he watched John fix his grip on the leather seats, spreading his legs further. Propping his ass up, almost as if he was showing that cute pink hole to the world. Garcia smiled and gave John a teasing smack of his rear, making John moan out in pleasure. Once John started to settle down, Garcia shoved his cock up him.
“Oh gosh! Garcia, it feels so good!” John moaned out, burying his face into the smooth leather. Garcia smiled and started to thrust at a faster pace, making John whimper. Garcia wasn't super long about average, but his girth made it all more pleasurable. Garcia kept a pretty steady pace. Turned on by the sounds of the young man's cries, and the feeling of John's tight virginal hole stretching to fit Garcia's thick shaft.
“You're such a slut, taking a big cock from an older man. What do you think God is gonna say about this?” Garcia teased, slowly getting faster. With John stretched, Garcia had a hard time just keeping his cock in John. He stretched so well that his hole is now too loose. John mumbled in reply, too pleased and cock-hungry to even come up with something intelligible to say. Garcia felt himself get close to climax.
“Hijo, can I cum in you?” Garcia asked, rubbing John's back. Making him nod vigorously. Garcia sped up until he shot his warm load inside of the young man's hole. John orgasmed shortly after. Shaking and grabbing into the seats with all his might. Covering the side of the seat he was bent over in his warm cum. Garcia slowly pulled out, watching the cum spill from John's ass. Giving it a light smack. John shivered in pleasure, and melted right into the leather seats.
“Daddy,” John weakly moaned, making Garcia chuckle. Garcia flipped John over and kissed him passionately.
“God, you are adorable.” Garcia said, playing with the cum leaking from his entrance. John shivered, supported mainly by Garcia's arms. John was drooling a little bit and clearly out of it, but Garcia just chuckled and wiped the drool.
“Let's get you into your pants, Hijo,” John nodded in response. The older man first grabbed John's briefs, putting his legs through the holes on the bottom. Sliding them up until they covered his cute cock. John grabbed his pants and stumbled a little trying to get them up and on. “Careful hijo,” Garcia remarked, helping John stay balanced, but John was still shivering.
“Can I have your coat?” John asked shyly, just above a whisper. Garcia smiled, stripping off his own coat to drape around the shoulders of John.
“There you go! I'm gonna go into the gas station and get us some snacks, ok?” Garcia asked, wanting to make sure John didn't need him to stay.
“Ok,” John replied, fiddling around with his fingers as he watched the old man leave. John looked around the car's interior, scanning for any cool minor details he might've missed about the car. Before he knew it Garcia was already heading back to the car. Carrying a packet of cigarettes, a coffee cup, a small bag of chips, and a cookie. Garcia opened the back door and handed the coffee cup, chips, and cookie to John.
“Garcia, I don't like coffee that much…” John noted frowning, but Garcia pushed the cup closer.
“It's not coffee, try it Hijo,” Garcia smiled, seeing John grasp the cup, taking a small sip from it.
“it's-” “hot chocolate, I thought you'd like it” Garcia interrupted John, making the younger man let out a small chuckle. John carefully took another sip, opening the cookie bag.
“We gotta get back on the road Hijo,” Garcia said, going to the driver seat, and lighting a cigarette, which made John cough.
“I love you Garcia,” John mumbled, clearly not going into Garcia's ears, he seemed to have no reaction at all. Garcia smiled and looked back at John in the rear view mirror.
“Love you too hijo,” | I am proud of you.
It had been just hours ago when John had destroyed Malphas and Gary, or “Astaroth.” John was in the back of Garcia’s Ford Pinto Wagon, still partially covered in blood. John stared down at his hands as Garcia spoke up.
“Hijo, are you doing alright?” The much older man asked solemnly.
“Yes, father,” John didn’t even look up, more focused on the blood between the wrinkles of his hands. John felt wrong, seeing Amy's bones after “finishing” his exorcism of her, making him feel deeper guilt.
“John, you did the right thing. I’m very proud of what you did back there, hijo.” Garcia tried to comfort John, but it always seemed like what he had to say was never enough. John didn’t know what to reply with. He wanted to believe him, but his past failures kept him back. He didn’t wanna move on or celebrate that he ended the profane Sabbath. Amy could’ve been saved a year ago, yet his fears held him back. He would’ve rather died that night. Garcia looked in his rear view mirror and sighed, turning the radio on. John just sat there, he didn't have the motivation or energy to do anything but sit. Garcia kept driving until seeing a small dimly lit gas station. It looked well used and a bit suspicious, but Garcia could use some time to stretch his legs, and maybe get John something nice. He pulled into a parking lot turning off the car, the radio with it.
“I'm gonna go in and stretch my legs, John. Do you wanna come just to get out of my car?” Garcia offered. John, surprisingly, took this offer up, undoing his seat belt and opening the car door taking in his surroundings. John was trying his hardest not to tear up, thinking about what had happened back in the crucible.
“Father, are you *really* proud of me?” John asked, anxiously swaying side to side.
“Yes hijo, I have a way to really show you how proud I am of you,” Garcia replied to John's sorrowful question, springing up an idea of how to “show how proud he is of John.” Garcia blushes thinking about the idea he had in his head. Before he knew it John, tilting his head like a puppy, answered him.
“I would like that,” the younger man let out a soft smile and blush before being interrupted by Garcia's demands or suggestions.
“Pull your pants down and bend over your car seat,” the car door of where John was sitting hadn’t been closed giving John an easier time to fulfill his “task,” John delicately undid his belt as if it were made of pure gold. He was clearly anxious which made Garcia all the hornier. The younger male unbuttoned his pants along with releasing the zipper holding his pants in place. With all this reinforcement removed from the pants they almost immediately slid down exposing his briefs underneath. Garcia watched as John slowly stripped himself, feeling his own erection grow.
John draped himself over the back seat cushions, pulling his briefs down, exposing his bare ass and cock. John blushed and looked down at a little misplaced rosary sitting on the floor.
“I could stare at you all day like this,” Garcia bit his lip pulling his own erect cock out of his jeans, rubbing against John's tight hole “you're so tense hijo, relax, i'm not gonna hurt you” he patted John's shoulder with one hand and sticking two fingers up John with the other. John let out a soft gasp with a subtle moan.
“Father!” John moaned out, gripping the leather seats like his life depended on it. Garcia smirked, and roughly thrust his fingers in and out of John's pink hole, making the younger man squirm.
“How are you supposed to handle my cock when you can't handle my fingers?” Garcia asked with a chuckle, removing his fingers from John's hole. Garcia jerked his member looking at John sprawled out on the seats, his cute little asshole almost right in Garcia's face.
“I don't know,” John replied, embarrassed. They were just fingers, and they had him squirming like trapped prey. “Is there anything you can do to make pushing your cock in me easier, father?” John asked, looking back at Garcia the best he could.
“I don't have lube, hijo, but I suppose there's something I can do,” Garcia got on the ground with a noticeable groan, spreading John's cheeks further apart. John, confused, kept trying to look back at the old man to get a glimpse of what he was attempting. He was then suddenly caught off guard with the feeling of warm, wet saliva against his tight fuck up.
“Daddy-” John shut his mouth quickly, eyes wide, thinking about what he just spat out. Garcia stopped licking John's asshole and laughed for a second.
“John, did you seriously just call me ‘daddy’?” Garcia teased, turning John's face a flush pink.
“I didn't mean t-” “It's fine, Hijo, I actually kind of enjoyed that,” Garcia cut off John, replying with a bit of humour behind his words, but nonetheless still honest. Before John could say anything, Garcia got right back to licking the rim of John's pink fuck hole and massaging the inside of it with his tongue. It was a sensation that John couldn't explain with words. It was new, foreign, but so damn enjoyable. His dick pulsated and rubbed against the cool leather seats, making John moan out louder. He couldn't even form words. The whole thing felt so damn good. Eventually, Garcia pulled away. Leaving John wanting more, so much more.
“Hijo, do you think you can handle my cock?” Garcia asked, using the seat John was on as support to get up. Garcia could've probably gotten away with slightly crouching to reach his asshole. John was way taller than the old man anyway. John looked back with a nod, almost pleading for it. Garcia smiled, and rubbed his tip against John's now wet hole. The old man watched as John looked back at him. Biting his lip with a blush.
“Prepare yourself,” Garcia said flirtatiously. His cock twitched as he watched John fix his grip on the leather seats, spreading his legs further. Propping his ass up, almost as if he was showing that cute pink hole to the world. Garcia smiled and gave John a teasing smack of his rear, making John moan out in pleasure. Once John started to settle down, Garcia shoved his cock up him.
“Oh gosh! Garcia, it feels so good!” John moaned out, burying his face into the smooth leather. Garcia smiled and started to thrust at a faster pace, making John whimper. Garcia wasn't super long about average, but his girth made it all more pleasurable. Garcia kept a pretty steady pace. Turned on by the sounds of the young man's cries, and the feeling of John's tight virginal hole stretching to fit Garcia's thick shaft.
“You're such a slut, taking a big cock from an older man. What do you think God is gonna say about this?” Garcia teased, slowly getting faster. With John stretched, Garcia had a hard time just keeping his cock in John. He stretched so well that his hole is now too loose. John mumbled in reply, too pleased and cock-hungry to even come up with something intelligible to say. Garcia felt himself get close to climax.
“Hijo, can I cum in you?” Garcia asked, rubbing John's back. Making him nod vigorously. Garcia sped up until he shot his warm load inside of the young man's hole. John orgasmed shortly after. Shaking and grabbing into the seats with all his might. Covering the side of the seat he was bent over in his warm cum. Garcia slowly pulled out, watching the cum spill from John's ass. Giving it a light smack. John shivered in pleasure, and melted right into the leather seats.
“Daddy,” John weakly moaned, making Garcia chuckle. Garcia flipped John over and kissed him passionately.
“God, you are adorable.” Garcia said, playing with the cum leaking from his entrance. John shivered, supported mainly by Garcia's arms. John was drooling a little bit and clearly out of it, but Garcia just chuckled and wiped the drool.
“Let's get you into your pants, Hijo,” John nodded in response. The older man first grabbed John's briefs, putting his legs through the holes on the bottom. Sliding them up until they covered his cute cock. John grabbed his pants and stumbled a little trying to get them up and on. “Careful hijo,” Garcia remarked, helping John stay balanced, but John was still shivering.
“Can I have your coat?” John asked shyly, just above a whisper. Garcia smiled, stripping off his own coat to drape around the shoulders of John.
“There you go! I'm gonna go into the gas station and get us some snacks, ok?” Garcia asked, wanting to make sure John didn't need him to stay.
“Ok,” John replied, fiddling around with his fingers as he watched the old man leave. John looked around the car's interior, scanning for any cool minor details he might've missed about the car. Before he knew it Garcia was already heading back to the car. Carrying a packet of cigarettes, a coffee cup, a small bag of chips, and a cookie. Garcia opened the back door and handed the coffee cup, chips, and cookie to John.
“Garcia, I don't like coffee that much…” John noted frowning, but Garcia pushed the cup closer.
“It's not coffee, try it Hijo,” Garcia smiled, seeing John grasp the cup, taking a small sip from it.
“it's-” “hot chocolate, I thought you'd like it” Garcia interrupted John, making the younger man let out a small chuckle. John carefully took another sip, opening the cookie bag.
“We gotta get back on the road Hijo,” Garcia said, going to the driver seat, and lighting a cigarette, which made John cough.
“I love you Garcia,” John mumbled, clearly not going into Garcia's ears, he seemed to have no reaction at all. Garcia smiled and looked back at John in the rear view mirror.
“Love you too hijo,” | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77361056 | {"authors": ["Renscatlover_43"], "language": "English", "title": "I am proud of you."} |
Pop You Like a Pea (Edamame)
Rick woke up, and immediately noticed he's tied up to a chair. It's cold. It's dark. He can't see that far ahead of him. He realized he's naked, save for his boxers. Prime, his arch nemesis, walked into view in front of him, grinning from ear to ear. "Hi, baby!" He said, clearly happy Rick is now once again conscious.
Prime walked behind Rick, who tries to follow his movements. Rick craned his neck around as far as possible, but eventually lost sight of Prime. He heared Prime tinkering with something that sounded metallic. A few seconds later, Prime walked back in front of him brandishing a scalpel.
Wordlessly, Prime smiles down at Rick and tipped his head up with the tip of the scalpel. It cut into his skin immediately. Fuck, it stung.
"You might be wondering why I've brought you here today," Prime began.
"Yeah, no shit, dude." Rick retorted, fighting against the ropes tying him to the chair. "What the fuck's your problem?"
Prime ignored him. "I was bored, you see. And I missed you! So, naturally, I decided to find you and have some fun."
Rick squinted when Prime says "fun." Whatever "fun" Prime was planning usually meant Rick would be in danger in some way.
Prime untied one of Rick's arms, and grabbed him by the wrist before he can try anything. He walked in front of Rick and kneeled down. Rick glared at him for a second and looked away, blushing. Fuck, Prime looked good on his knees.
He's so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn't feel the cold touch of the scalpel hit his skin. What brought him back is the sudden sting of having his arm sliced open.
Rick inhaled sharply through his teeth. "What the fuck is your problem?" He asked again, this time very genuinely.
He still doesn't recieve an answer. Instead, Prime starts licking up the blood dripping down Rick's arm. Prime lets out a moan. He looks up to Rick, still grinning. "God, baby, you taste so good." Prime replied.
Rick glowered. "You're a freak."
"Mhmm." Prime agreed.
Rick realized Prime put the scalpel away somewhere. He looks around, and spotted where Prime's other hand is.
"Are you getting off to this?!" Rick demanded.
"Yes!" Prime grinned and nodded, his other hand palmed himself through his pants.
Rick was brainstorming ways to get out of this mess, when he felt a sudden stinging sensation in his arm again. He looked back down at Prime, who was tonguing the gash, looking up at him with hooded eyes.
"You're seriously getting off to this, huh." Rick said monotonously.
"God, yeah." Prime replied, before dropping Rick's arm unceremoniously and picking the scalpel up with his free hand. He brandished it, threatening to slice down Rick's bare chest next.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Rick shakes his head vigorously. Absolutely the fuck not, cutting into his arm was bad enough.
Prime wordlessly cut into his chest. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as cutting into his arm did; Prime's not going nearly as deep. Still stung quite a bit, though. Rick let out a small moan.
Fuck.
Rick is vaguely aware that Prime is giggling next to him. "You like that?" He teased.
"No." Rick glared at him again.
"Your body kinda says otherwise, dear." Prime gestured to the tent in Rick's boxers with the scalpel nonchalantly.
Fuuuuuck.
Yeah, okay, Rick was hard. Of course he was. It's fucking Prime messing with him, this shit always happens when Prime fucks with him.
"You fucking freak," Prime smirked and cocks an eyebrow at him.
"Shut. The fuck up." Rick says through gritted teeth. He blushed and looks as far away from Prime's face as possible.
Prime continues the assault and slides the scalpel down Rick's stomach. Still doesn't hurt as bad as his arm, but he realized Prime isn't stopping.
Prime reached his hip. He slowed down, but was still going.
"Prime. Don't." Rick growled.
"Don't what, sweetheart?" Prime asked, tauntingly.
Rick rolls his eyes. "If you put that damn thing anywhere near my dick I'll kill you."
That made Prime laugh. "Ha! Good luck with that, babe."
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate—" Rick was cut off by the sensation of Prime sliding his boxers down.
Before Rick could say anything, Prime started tracing the curve of his hard dick with the tip of the scalpel. It felt cold, still. Foreign. It kinda only made him harder.
Rick's fully aware of the fact that his dick is dripping precum. He's also vaguely aware of his arm—still bleeding, hurt to move—but he doesn't much care about that in the moment.
He focused back on Prime. He's tracing the curve of his dick back and forth, not putting any pressure on the scalpel. He reached the tip again.
"Prime. Don't you fucking dare."
Prime, of course, wordlessly did it anyway.
It hurt. As gentle as Prime was being, Rick was still in a lot of pain.
"Fuck!" Rick yelps. "You asshole!" He squeezed his eyes shut.
Suddenly, he feels warmth around his cock. Oh, fuck. Okay.
Prime licked up the blood dripping out of the cut on his dick. Starting at the base, he licked up to the tip, moaning. He took the head into his mouth.
Rick let out a moan, too. Wires are definitely getting crossed.
Mouth still on his dick, Prime took the scalpel and swiftly cut into his thigh.
It was in that moment that Rick was becoming painfully aware of how much blood he was losing. Not that Prime would *care,* of course, but Rick would rather be alive for a while longer, thank you. He was starting to get lightheaded and dizzy.
"Mmh!" Rick bit down on his lip as he yelped. That also hurt! Prime was now fixated on cutting up Rick's thigh. From the bottom of his hip to the top of his knee lay a giant, scarlet gash. A giant scarlet gash that was bleeding excessively.
If Prime kept this up, he'd... Well. He's rather not think about that. But he was getting dizzier and dizzier by the second.
He laid back in the chair a bit and let his eyes close. Welp. If he were to die here, so be it, he supposed.
Wait, no, that's stupid. His dick was hard and it's likely Prime won't let him die here. He fought hard to keep his eyes open and tried to move his free arm to Prime's hair, to grab his attention.
And—ohhhkay. Okay. Okay, whatever the fuck Prime was doing right now really hurt. Rick looked down to his leg and was met with the sight of Prime licking up the blood streaming down his thigh, and. Fucking hell, he looks hot. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Blood's smeared all over his mouth. It's dripping down his chin. It's streaked across his cheeks. There's a droplet theeatening to fall from the tip of his nose.
Rick's cock throbbed. He's so screwed.
He tried moving his free arm again, successfully this time. He gripped onto Prime's hair and yanked, with all his energy.
"Mm!! Fuck!" Prime's eyes rolled to the back of his head for a second. He looked at Rick, dazed for a second; he was *not* expecting that.
Then the bastard grinned at him. A big, toothy grin. He looked deranged. "Fuck, baby. Do that again."
"I hate you so much, I hope you know that." Rick grumbled. "Put your mouth back on my dick now."
"Oh, it's cute that you think you can tell me what to—" Prime cut himself off with a loud moan as Rick yanked at his hair again.
Rick looked down at Prime again. When the fuck did Prime pull his dick out? Whatever. Doesn't matter.
Prime started jerking himself faster after Rick pulled at his hair the second time. He was starting to crack. "F-fuck, please? Please do that again?"
Goddamn.
Rick guided Prime's face back to his cock. Prime got the hint: get back to sucking him off and he'll... Probably pull his hair more.
Prime rubbed his face against Rick's cock for a second, looking up at him with a lustful stare.
Rick took a deep breath to steady himself. His arm hurt. It was really painful to hold Prime where he wanted him. But again, it's not like he'll let Rick die, so.
He started trying to fuck into Prime's mouth. Keyword, try. He was tied down pretty well. He growled in frustration, opting instead to shove Prime down his length and yank him back off in a steady, yet painful, motion.
Prime melted at being manhandled like this. He was close. He kept moaning, and his hand started moving faster.
"God, you're kinda hot when you shut the fuck up for once, y'know? It's nice putting you in your place." Rick was close too. He kept yanking at Prime's hair to manoeuver him around and, okay, yeah, he was cumming. Down Prime's throat.
Prime moaned around Rick's length. He closed his eyes and cums too. He let Rick pull him off his cock. Prime nuzzled into Rick's other leg, the leg he didn't get to cut up. He gave him a small kiss on the inside of his thigh and smiled up at him.
They lay there in silence, for a few moments, before Rick spoke up. "Please tell me you aren't going to let me die here, you fucking deranged piece of shit." Rick groaned out in pain. It was kinda hard for him to stay conscious now.
Prime grinned his signature Cheshire cat grin. "Don't worry about that, sweetheart, 'course I've got something for your injuries." He tucked himself away and pulled out a syringe with a metallic purple liquid in it. He wordlessly injected it into Rick's good leg, and the wounds Prime inflicted on him earlier healed within seconds.
Prime stood up, and untied Rick. Rick finally relaxed, not realizing he was tensing his entire body. "Do this again and I will find you and kill you for good," He said with no humor in his voice.
Prime chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Same time next week?"
"Fuck off." | Pop You Like a Pea (Edamame)
Rick woke up, and immediately noticed he's tied up to a chair. It's cold. It's dark. He can't see that far ahead of him. He realized he's naked, save for his boxers. Prime, his arch nemesis, walked into view in front of him, grinning from ear to ear. "Hi, baby!" He said, clearly happy Rick is now once again conscious.
Prime walked behind Rick, who tries to follow his movements. Rick craned his neck around as far as possible, but eventually lost sight of Prime. He heared Prime tinkering with something that sounded metallic. A few seconds later, Prime walked back in front of him brandishing a scalpel.
Wordlessly, Prime smiles down at Rick and tipped his head up with the tip of the scalpel. It cut into his skin immediately. Fuck, it stung.
"You might be wondering why I've brought you here today," Prime began.
"Yeah, no shit, dude." Rick retorted, fighting against the ropes tying him to the chair. "What the fuck's your problem?"
Prime ignored him. "I was bored, you see. And I missed you! So, naturally, I decided to find you and have some fun."
Rick squinted when Prime says "fun." Whatever "fun" Prime was planning usually meant Rick would be in danger in some way.
Prime untied one of Rick's arms, and grabbed him by the wrist before he can try anything. He walked in front of Rick and kneeled down. Rick glared at him for a second and looked away, blushing. Fuck, Prime looked good on his knees.
He's so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn't feel the cold touch of the scalpel hit his skin. What brought him back is the sudden sting of having his arm sliced open.
Rick inhaled sharply through his teeth. "What the fuck is your problem?" He asked again, this time very genuinely.
He still doesn't recieve an answer. Instead, Prime starts licking up the blood dripping down Rick's arm. Prime lets out a moan. He looks up to Rick, still grinning. "God, baby, you taste so good." Prime replied.
Rick glowered. "You're a freak."
"Mhmm." Prime agreed.
Rick realized Prime put the scalpel away somewhere. He looks around, and spotted where Prime's other hand is.
"Are you getting off to this?!" Rick demanded.
"Yes!" Prime grinned and nodded, his other hand palmed himself through his pants.
Rick was brainstorming ways to get out of this mess, when he felt a sudden stinging sensation in his arm again. He looked back down at Prime, who was tonguing the gash, looking up at him with hooded eyes.
"You're seriously getting off to this, huh." Rick said monotonously.
"God, yeah." Prime replied, before dropping Rick's arm unceremoniously and picking the scalpel up with his free hand. He brandished it, threatening to slice down Rick's bare chest next.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Rick shakes his head vigorously. Absolutely the fuck not, cutting into his arm was bad enough.
Prime wordlessly cut into his chest. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as cutting into his arm did; Prime's not going nearly as deep. Still stung quite a bit, though. Rick let out a small moan.
Fuck.
Rick is vaguely aware that Prime is giggling next to him. "You like that?" He teased.
"No." Rick glared at him again.
"Your body kinda says otherwise, dear." Prime gestured to the tent in Rick's boxers with the scalpel nonchalantly.
Fuuuuuck.
Yeah, okay, Rick was hard. Of course he was. It's fucking Prime messing with him, this shit always happens when Prime fucks with him.
"You fucking freak," Prime smirked and cocks an eyebrow at him.
"Shut. The fuck up." Rick says through gritted teeth. He blushed and looks as far away from Prime's face as possible.
Prime continues the assault and slides the scalpel down Rick's stomach. Still doesn't hurt as bad as his arm, but he realized Prime isn't stopping.
Prime reached his hip. He slowed down, but was still going.
"Prime. Don't." Rick growled.
"Don't what, sweetheart?" Prime asked, tauntingly.
Rick rolls his eyes. "If you put that damn thing anywhere near my dick I'll kill you."
That made Prime laugh. "Ha! Good luck with that, babe."
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate—" Rick was cut off by the sensation of Prime sliding his boxers down.
Before Rick could say anything, Prime started tracing the curve of his hard dick with the tip of the scalpel. It felt cold, still. Foreign. It kinda only made him harder.
Rick's fully aware of the fact that his dick is dripping precum. He's also vaguely aware of his arm—still bleeding, hurt to move—but he doesn't much care about that in the moment.
He focused back on Prime. He's tracing the curve of his dick back and forth, not putting any pressure on the scalpel. He reached the tip again.
"Prime. Don't you fucking dare."
Prime, of course, wordlessly did it anyway.
It hurt. As gentle as Prime was being, Rick was still in a lot of pain.
"Fuck!" Rick yelps. "You asshole!" He squeezed his eyes shut.
Suddenly, he feels warmth around his cock. Oh, fuck. Okay.
Prime licked up the blood dripping out of the cut on his dick. Starting at the base, he licked up to the tip, moaning. He took the head into his mouth.
Rick let out a moan, too. Wires are definitely getting crossed.
Mouth still on his dick, Prime took the scalpel and swiftly cut into his thigh.
It was in that moment that Rick was becoming painfully aware of how much blood he was losing. Not that Prime would *care,* of course, but Rick would rather be alive for a while longer, thank you. He was starting to get lightheaded and dizzy.
"Mmh!" Rick bit down on his lip as he yelped. That also hurt! Prime was now fixated on cutting up Rick's thigh. From the bottom of his hip to the top of his knee lay a giant, scarlet gash. A giant scarlet gash that was bleeding excessively.
If Prime kept this up, he'd... Well. He's rather not think about that. But he was getting dizzier and dizzier by the second.
He laid back in the chair a bit and let his eyes close. Welp. If he were to die here, so be it, he supposed.
Wait, no, that's stupid. His dick was hard and it's likely Prime won't let him die here. He fought hard to keep his eyes open and tried to move his free arm to Prime's hair, to grab his attention.
And—ohhhkay. Okay. Okay, whatever the fuck Prime was doing right now really hurt. Rick looked down to his leg and was met with the sight of Prime licking up the blood streaming down his thigh, and. Fucking hell, he looks hot. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Blood's smeared all over his mouth. It's dripping down his chin. It's streaked across his cheeks. There's a droplet theeatening to fall from the tip of his nose.
Rick's cock throbbed. He's so screwed.
He tried moving his free arm again, successfully this time. He gripped onto Prime's hair and yanked, with all his energy.
"Mm!! Fuck!" Prime's eyes rolled to the back of his head for a second. He looked at Rick, dazed for a second; he was *not* expecting that.
Then the bastard grinned at him. A big, toothy grin. He looked deranged. "Fuck, baby. Do that again."
"I hate you so much, I hope you know that." Rick grumbled. "Put your mouth back on my dick now."
"Oh, it's cute that you think you can tell me what to—" Prime cut himself off with a loud moan as Rick yanked at his hair again.
Rick looked down at Prime again. When the fuck did Prime pull his dick out? Whatever. Doesn't matter.
Prime started jerking himself faster after Rick pulled at his hair the second time. He was starting to crack. "F-fuck, please? Please do that again?"
Goddamn.
Rick guided Prime's face back to his cock. Prime got the hint: get back to sucking him off and he'll... Probably pull his hair more.
Prime rubbed his face against Rick's cock for a second, looking up at him with a lustful stare.
Rick took a deep breath to steady himself. His arm hurt. It was really painful to hold Prime where he wanted him. But again, it's not like he'll let Rick die, so.
He started trying to fuck into Prime's mouth. Keyword, try. He was tied down pretty well. He growled in frustration, opting instead to shove Prime down his length and yank him back off in a steady, yet painful, motion.
Prime melted at being manhandled like this. He was close. He kept moaning, and his hand started moving faster.
"God, you're kinda hot when you shut the fuck up for once, y'know? It's nice putting you in your place." Rick was close too. He kept yanking at Prime's hair to manoeuver him around and, okay, yeah, he was cumming. Down Prime's throat.
Prime moaned around Rick's length. He closed his eyes and cums too. He let Rick pull him off his cock. Prime nuzzled into Rick's other leg, the leg he didn't get to cut up. He gave him a small kiss on the inside of his thigh and smiled up at him.
They lay there in silence, for a few moments, before Rick spoke up. "Please tell me you aren't going to let me die here, you fucking deranged piece of shit." Rick groaned out in pain. It was kinda hard for him to stay conscious now.
Prime grinned his signature Cheshire cat grin. "Don't worry about that, sweetheart, 'course I've got something for your injuries." He tucked himself away and pulled out a syringe with a metallic purple liquid in it. He wordlessly injected it into Rick's good leg, and the wounds Prime inflicted on him earlier healed within seconds.
Prime stood up, and untied Rick. Rick finally relaxed, not realizing he was tensing his entire body. "Do this again and I will find you and kill you for good," He said with no humor in his voice.
Prime chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Same time next week?"
"Fuck off." | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77353636 | {"authors": ["looFdetrevnIehT"], "language": "English", "title": "Pop You Like a Pea (Edamame)"} |
death on two legs (dedicated to…)
“Grandpa Rev, what’s the sky made of?”
Anakin looks up from the little wooden duck he’s carving. He’s taken to learning how to carve things. His prosthetics are finally stable enough to pull it off. “Depends on the sky, I suppose. Lots of clouds, by and large.”
Ben Solo, all of seven years old, lays in the grass, idly watching the clouds go by. “What are clouds made of?”
“Water.”
“But they’re fluffy.”
“Sometimes water is fluffy.”
“Huh.” Ben sounds thoughtful. He’s in questions mode these days, always wanting to know why this and why that. Anakin likes it. He likes it in general when Han and Leia drop Ben off for a week when they have general New Republic obligations. He and Ben get on like a house on fire, almost literally, when Anakin had been teaching Ben how to bake brownies.
It’s a good life, Anakin thinks. It’s good to have it.
“Grandpa Rev?”
“Mm-hm.”
“What did you used to be like?”
He huffs a laugh. “You’ll have to be more specific, kid.”
Ben doesn’t have to ask what specific means because Anakin’s told him that particular thing many times. “What were you like before? Before now?”
“Before now when, Ben?”
“When you wore all black.”
Anakin stares at Ben, bewildered. When he wore all—
Oh.
Anakin swallows. He’d hoped not to have to have this conversation until Ben was much older. “Ah. I see. You want to know what I was like… in my time with the Empire.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I was… I was very scary. And I did… a great many terrible things. I hurt lots of people. Your parents, Aunt Ahsoka, your Uncle Ben. I was… I was not a good person, Ben. I was not a good person for a very long time.”
Ben looks contemplative. Anakin waits, stomach tight.
“But you were powerful,” he says eventually.
Anakin blinks. It’s not what he expected. “…yes. I was.”
“And that’s good.”
“Power is entirely dependent on the character of the person who wields it. And my character was poor.”
“But you could have used it for good stuff, right?”
“I—“ Anakin struggles to parse his words. “I am very powerful now, Ben.”
“But the Dark Side makes you even more powerful, right? So you could keep everybody you loved safe. Bring order to the galaxy. That kinda thing.”
Anakin stares at Ben’s curious face, dread growing.
He remembers those words being said to him, a very long time ago.
He takes a deep breath, taking great care not to let his fear and anger bleed through. “Where did you hear that?”
Ben’s face shutters. “I dunno. Around.”
Anakin takes another breath. The new respirator system is whisper quiet. He barely hears it.
“The Dark Side doesn’t make you more powerful,” he tells Ben. “It consumes you. Do you know what consume means?” Ben shakes his head. “It means eat. The Dark Side eats and eats and eats at you. You become… bitter. Warped. And you do terrible, awful things, because you want to, but also because you think maybe if you keep doing them, the hollowness inside you will be filled back up, but it isn’t. It eats you too fast to ever keep filling. It drives away everybody you ever loved, as well it should.”
“But you love Mama and Papa and Uncle Luke and Grandpa Rex and Auntie Ahsoka, and they’re still here.”
“Only because I changed. I came out of the Dark. They hated me before. They were right to hate me before. The Dark Side makes you commit horrible acts. It… stains you, in a way you can never really wash away. The stains may fade. But they won’t ever go away. And it doesn’t save anybody, Ben. Usually it damns them.” Anakin puts the knife in the grass and takes one of Ben’s hands. “And anyone who tells you different, Ben, is a bad person. You can’t trust that person. And they certainly don’t sound like someone I would like.” Ben looks down, face quiet. “Where did you hear about this?”
Ben screws up his face, then sighs.
“I’ve been having funny dreams,” he tells Anakin. “But they don’t feel like dreams. They feel like they’re real. Like they’re stuff that’s gonna happen.”
“…alright.”
“I keep dreaming that… something bad’s gonna happen. To you and Mama and Papa and Uncle Luke and Uncle Chewie and Grandpa Rex and Auntie Ahsoka and Uncle Lando, to everybody, but I know, I know that if I was a little more powerful, if I was a little more like Darth Vader, that I could do something about it.”
Anakin wets his lips, chest feeling like it’s creaking a little bit. “Uh-huh.”
“I asked Mama if dreams can really come true and she said they can’t, so I didn’t think anybody would believe me.”
“I believe you, kid.”
Ben perks up a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I do. I… I believe you.” Anakin squeezes his hand. “I’m going to ask you permission for something, and you can tell me no. But I think… I think it’ll make the dreams better, if you say yes.”
“…okay?”
“I’d like to… take a glance inside your mind. I won’t open any doors. I won’t look at anything you don’t want me to look in. But I think… I think if you let me in, I can see what’s going on with the dreams.”
Ben purses his lips, thinking it over. Anakin prays to whoever might be listening that he says yes. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do otherwise. Maybe see if Luke or Ahsoka stand a chance.
“Okay,” he relents. “But be careful.”
“I’ll be exceedingly careful. That means very,” he adds when Ben opens his mouth. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
It’s got to be done delicately. He doesn’t want whoever’s been in Ben’s head to know he’s there. Anakin gently lifts a hand and rests it on Ben’s cheek.
“Okay, kid,” he says quietly. “Let’s do this.”
Anakin gently pushes at Ben’s mind. It gives way and-
Mold. Mold so thick he can smell it, even though he hasn’t smelled anything for thirty years. Someone’s been in here and someone’s been cultivating.
Anakin shatters the duck still in his hand, fist clenching abruptly. He jumps and the connection is severed, sending him reeling back a little, landing on his elbow heavily.
“Grandpa Rev!” Ben shouts, rushing up to him. “Grandpa Rev—“
“S’okay,” he wheezes. “S’okay. It’s—“ he takes Ben in his arms, clinging to him a little. “It’s okay, kid. I’m okay. I’m sorry I scared you.”
Ben pulls back, face anxious. “What did you see?”
Anakin takes a shaking breath.
“When you see these things,” he says, voice trembling a little bit. “Is there a voice?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can you place it?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Is there a name you know with the voice?”
Ben shuffles. “Well.”
“Yeah?”
“He sounds like this guy Mama works with. Snoke.”
“Snoke?”
“He’s a re-act-ion-ary.” Ben says the word carefully. “Mama doesn’t like him.”
Leia’s told him about Snoke, Anakin thinks. Oily, she’d said. A proponent of authoritarianism. He would make sense.
“Thanks, kid,” Anakin says softly. “That’s what I needed to know.” He takes both Ben’s hands. “You did the right thing, Ben.”
“Was he… in my head?”
“He was. He was trying to manipulate you to hurt the people you love.”
“What does manipulate mean?”
“It means trick you into doing something.”
Anakin doesn’t know what to expect (fear? horror? anger?) but to his surprise, Ben looks positively indignant, drawing himself up to full height. “He was gonna trick me into doing stuff for him?”
“Yeah.”
Ben puffs his chest out and for a blinding second, Anakin can only see the boy’s father. “I don’t even like it when Mama and Papa make me do stuff. Nobody manipulates me but me.”
“You—“ Anakin huffs half a laugh. “You are very much the child of both your parents.”
Ben wrinkles his nose. “That doesn’t sound like you meant it nicely.”
“I promise it was said fondly.” Anakin’s turning over a plan in his head. “Is he at that big New Republic party your parents and Uncle Luke are at?” He, Chewbacca, Rex, Lando, and Ahsoka had gotten out of it. He’d told the person he RSVPed to that part of why he’d left the Empire was so he didn’t have to go to these kinds of things anymore and the person had laughed nervously because they weren’t sure if he was joking or not.
“Yeah.”
“You think you could recognize him on sight?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s always wearing stuff colored like gold.”
“Hm. Tacky.”
“Didn’t Grandma Padmé wear gold sometimes?”
“Very rarely.” There’s some kind of dispute going on in Kashyyk that Chewbacca’s mired in and even if he wasn’t, he’s too far out to get here fast enough. Rex and Lando are giving him a hand. Everybody else is already there and if it comes to swift and summary execution will not be on board fast enough.
Anakin stands and holds out his hand to Ben. “Okay, kid. Let’s go inside. I have to make a call.” | death on two legs (dedicated to…)
“Grandpa Rev, what’s the sky made of?”
Anakin looks up from the little wooden duck he’s carving. He’s taken to learning how to carve things. His prosthetics are finally stable enough to pull it off. “Depends on the sky, I suppose. Lots of clouds, by and large.”
Ben Solo, all of seven years old, lays in the grass, idly watching the clouds go by. “What are clouds made of?”
“Water.”
“But they’re fluffy.”
“Sometimes water is fluffy.”
“Huh.” Ben sounds thoughtful. He’s in questions mode these days, always wanting to know why this and why that. Anakin likes it. He likes it in general when Han and Leia drop Ben off for a week when they have general New Republic obligations. He and Ben get on like a house on fire, almost literally, when Anakin had been teaching Ben how to bake brownies.
It’s a good life, Anakin thinks. It’s good to have it.
“Grandpa Rev?”
“Mm-hm.”
“What did you used to be like?”
He huffs a laugh. “You’ll have to be more specific, kid.”
Ben doesn’t have to ask what specific means because Anakin’s told him that particular thing many times. “What were you like before? Before now?”
“Before now when, Ben?”
“When you wore all black.”
Anakin stares at Ben, bewildered. When he wore all—
Oh.
Anakin swallows. He’d hoped not to have to have this conversation until Ben was much older. “Ah. I see. You want to know what I was like… in my time with the Empire.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I was… I was very scary. And I did… a great many terrible things. I hurt lots of people. Your parents, Aunt Ahsoka, your Uncle Ben. I was… I was not a good person, Ben. I was not a good person for a very long time.”
Ben looks contemplative. Anakin waits, stomach tight.
“But you were powerful,” he says eventually.
Anakin blinks. It’s not what he expected. “…yes. I was.”
“And that’s good.”
“Power is entirely dependent on the character of the person who wields it. And my character was poor.”
“But you could have used it for good stuff, right?”
“I—“ Anakin struggles to parse his words. “I am very powerful now, Ben.”
“But the Dark Side makes you even more powerful, right? So you could keep everybody you loved safe. Bring order to the galaxy. That kinda thing.”
Anakin stares at Ben’s curious face, dread growing.
He remembers those words being said to him, a very long time ago.
He takes a deep breath, taking great care not to let his fear and anger bleed through. “Where did you hear that?”
Ben’s face shutters. “I dunno. Around.”
Anakin takes another breath. The new respirator system is whisper quiet. He barely hears it.
“The Dark Side doesn’t make you more powerful,” he tells Ben. “It consumes you. Do you know what consume means?” Ben shakes his head. “It means eat. The Dark Side eats and eats and eats at you. You become… bitter. Warped. And you do terrible, awful things, because you want to, but also because you think maybe if you keep doing them, the hollowness inside you will be filled back up, but it isn’t. It eats you too fast to ever keep filling. It drives away everybody you ever loved, as well it should.”
“But you love Mama and Papa and Uncle Luke and Grandpa Rex and Auntie Ahsoka, and they’re still here.”
“Only because I changed. I came out of the Dark. They hated me before. They were right to hate me before. The Dark Side makes you commit horrible acts. It… stains you, in a way you can never really wash away. The stains may fade. But they won’t ever go away. And it doesn’t save anybody, Ben. Usually it damns them.” Anakin puts the knife in the grass and takes one of Ben’s hands. “And anyone who tells you different, Ben, is a bad person. You can’t trust that person. And they certainly don’t sound like someone I would like.” Ben looks down, face quiet. “Where did you hear about this?”
Ben screws up his face, then sighs.
“I’ve been having funny dreams,” he tells Anakin. “But they don’t feel like dreams. They feel like they’re real. Like they’re stuff that’s gonna happen.”
“…alright.”
“I keep dreaming that… something bad’s gonna happen. To you and Mama and Papa and Uncle Luke and Uncle Chewie and Grandpa Rex and Auntie Ahsoka and Uncle Lando, to everybody, but I know, I know that if I was a little more powerful, if I was a little more like Darth Vader, that I could do something about it.”
Anakin wets his lips, chest feeling like it’s creaking a little bit. “Uh-huh.”
“I asked Mama if dreams can really come true and she said they can’t, so I didn’t think anybody would believe me.”
“I believe you, kid.”
Ben perks up a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I do. I… I believe you.” Anakin squeezes his hand. “I’m going to ask you permission for something, and you can tell me no. But I think… I think it’ll make the dreams better, if you say yes.”
“…okay?”
“I’d like to… take a glance inside your mind. I won’t open any doors. I won’t look at anything you don’t want me to look in. But I think… I think if you let me in, I can see what’s going on with the dreams.”
Ben purses his lips, thinking it over. Anakin prays to whoever might be listening that he says yes. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do otherwise. Maybe see if Luke or Ahsoka stand a chance.
“Okay,” he relents. “But be careful.”
“I’ll be exceedingly careful. That means very,” he adds when Ben opens his mouth. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
It’s got to be done delicately. He doesn’t want whoever’s been in Ben’s head to know he’s there. Anakin gently lifts a hand and rests it on Ben’s cheek.
“Okay, kid,” he says quietly. “Let’s do this.”
Anakin gently pushes at Ben’s mind. It gives way and-
Mold. Mold so thick he can smell it, even though he hasn’t smelled anything for thirty years. Someone’s been in here and someone’s been cultivating.
Anakin shatters the duck still in his hand, fist clenching abruptly. He jumps and the connection is severed, sending him reeling back a little, landing on his elbow heavily.
“Grandpa Rev!” Ben shouts, rushing up to him. “Grandpa Rev—“
“S’okay,” he wheezes. “S’okay. It’s—“ he takes Ben in his arms, clinging to him a little. “It’s okay, kid. I’m okay. I’m sorry I scared you.”
Ben pulls back, face anxious. “What did you see?”
Anakin takes a shaking breath.
“When you see these things,” he says, voice trembling a little bit. “Is there a voice?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can you place it?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Is there a name you know with the voice?”
Ben shuffles. “Well.”
“Yeah?”
“He sounds like this guy Mama works with. Snoke.”
“Snoke?”
“He’s a re-act-ion-ary.” Ben says the word carefully. “Mama doesn’t like him.”
Leia’s told him about Snoke, Anakin thinks. Oily, she’d said. A proponent of authoritarianism. He would make sense.
“Thanks, kid,” Anakin says softly. “That’s what I needed to know.” He takes both Ben’s hands. “You did the right thing, Ben.”
“Was he… in my head?”
“He was. He was trying to manipulate you to hurt the people you love.”
“What does manipulate mean?”
“It means trick you into doing something.”
Anakin doesn’t know what to expect (fear? horror? anger?) but to his surprise, Ben looks positively indignant, drawing himself up to full height. “He was gonna trick me into doing stuff for him?”
“Yeah.”
Ben puffs his chest out and for a blinding second, Anakin can only see the boy’s father. “I don’t even like it when Mama and Papa make me do stuff. Nobody manipulates me but me.”
“You—“ Anakin huffs half a laugh. “You are very much the child of both your parents.”
Ben wrinkles his nose. “That doesn’t sound like you meant it nicely.”
“I promise it was said fondly.” Anakin’s turning over a plan in his head. “Is he at that big New Republic party your parents and Uncle Luke are at?” He, Chewbacca, Rex, Lando, and Ahsoka had gotten out of it. He’d told the person he RSVPed to that part of why he’d left the Empire was so he didn’t have to go to these kinds of things anymore and the person had laughed nervously because they weren’t sure if he was joking or not.
“Yeah.”
“You think you could recognize him on sight?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s always wearing stuff colored like gold.”
“Hm. Tacky.”
“Didn’t Grandma Padmé wear gold sometimes?”
“Very rarely.” There’s some kind of dispute going on in Kashyyk that Chewbacca’s mired in and even if he wasn’t, he’s too far out to get here fast enough. Rex and Lando are giving him a hand. Everybody else is already there and if it comes to swift and summary execution will not be on board fast enough.
Anakin stands and holds out his hand to Ben. “Okay, kid. Let’s go inside. I have to make a call.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77355106/chapters/202528551 | {"authors": ["cosmicocean", "Punkpuppydragon"], "language": "English", "title": "death on two legs (dedicated to…)"} |
Blow My Brains Out
Jason doesn't know what else to do, he's trying, he's trying so hard but…
He's obviously not trying hard enough, but he doesn't know how to try harder.
He's tried his hardest, and it didn't work.
He must have done something wrong…
It's the only thing he can think of.
He hugs sparky his dog and his dog plush close under his bed.
Sparky looks frightened and on edge, hackles raised and everything, growling quietly.
He flinches as something smashes, the shouting hasn't slowed, mom and dad still screaming at each other.
He wishes he were anywhere else, he wishes school was still on, he wishes mom and dad actually loved each other.
He wants to go home, but if he's already home, where else is he supposed to go?.
Tears run down his cheeks and drip onto the floor, quiet sobs spilling out of his mouth.
He might be heard if he's too loud, and last time dad heard him sobbing…
He might've been less scared of being noticed if dad hadn't been drinking and mom was taking the meds the doctors gave her.
They can't afford any more meds or drinks, but they never run out somehow.
He's scared… he hates shouting and he hates the sounds of mom and dad hitting each other.
He doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to know that mom and dad don't love each other.
He hopes this isn't what love is, he doesn't want this to be love.
Because… if this is what “love” is… what's the point of loving in the first place.
If someone hurts him out of love, does that make it better?.
He hopes not, but no one says anything, treating it as normal.
Maybe it does make it better.
Maybe that's why no one blinks at the bruises or tears, not even the blood is something to look at…
…
Jason doesn't want to live in a world like this…
He doesn't even realise when sparky cuddles up with him and he loses consciousness with the shouting and screaming fading in the background.
———
When Jason wakes up still cuddling Sparky and his plush, he's very uncomfortable and stiff , likely from having slept under his bed.
He doesn't crawl out for a few moments, not caring about the pain or discomfort he's in.
After a few minutes, when it's clear his dad isn't here and his mom is asleep, he crawls out slowly to not make a noise.
Sparky follows as he hugs his plush and moves towards his door before opening it a crack to glance out of.
Seeing no one there, he and sparky actually move out.
He keeps his steps as light as he can as he moves towards the kitchen, Sparky right behind him.
Sparky doesn't bark all too much, and he's grateful for that.
He's terrified, but he needs to feed Sparky.
He grabs Sparky's food once he's there, the apartment is small as well so he needs to be quiet.
Sparky follows with his tail wagging and tongue lolling out his mouth.
After he puts Sparky's food in his bowl and he starts to eat it along with drinking the water, he moves towards his moms room.
He hopes she took the pills and not the injection, she's always so out of it when she does.
“Mom? Are.. you ok?”
His voice is scratchy from lack of use.
He cracks her door open a little and peeks inside.
Mom's lying on the bed, not moving, he can see she's breathing, he can also see the injection thingy she used and the dots on her skin.
He sighs, moving towards the kitchen to make them both some breakfast.
He grabs a chair so he can actually reach the stove and counters.
He checks the fridge, grabbing one egg, he's not that hungry, he can always eat later.
He climbs on the chair and turns the stove on.
-
After the egg is done cooking, he plates it and climbs off the chair to bring it to his mom.
Sparky follows as he opens the door and calls out.
“Mom?... i… made you some breakfast?”.
She seems more lucid than before, humming in something.
He places the egg on the floor by her head, humming a small tune he knows his mom likes.
He starts to help her eat them since it seems like one of those days.
Sparky lies beside him as he helps feed his mom.
…
He feels like crying again for some reason | Blow My Brains Out
Jason doesn't know what else to do, he's trying, he's trying so hard but…
He's obviously not trying hard enough, but he doesn't know how to try harder.
He's tried his hardest, and it didn't work.
He must have done something wrong…
It's the only thing he can think of.
He hugs sparky his dog and his dog plush close under his bed.
Sparky looks frightened and on edge, hackles raised and everything, growling quietly.
He flinches as something smashes, the shouting hasn't slowed, mom and dad still screaming at each other.
He wishes he were anywhere else, he wishes school was still on, he wishes mom and dad actually loved each other.
He wants to go home, but if he's already home, where else is he supposed to go?.
Tears run down his cheeks and drip onto the floor, quiet sobs spilling out of his mouth.
He might be heard if he's too loud, and last time dad heard him sobbing…
He might've been less scared of being noticed if dad hadn't been drinking and mom was taking the meds the doctors gave her.
They can't afford any more meds or drinks, but they never run out somehow.
He's scared… he hates shouting and he hates the sounds of mom and dad hitting each other.
He doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to know that mom and dad don't love each other.
He hopes this isn't what love is, he doesn't want this to be love.
Because… if this is what “love” is… what's the point of loving in the first place.
If someone hurts him out of love, does that make it better?.
He hopes not, but no one says anything, treating it as normal.
Maybe it does make it better.
Maybe that's why no one blinks at the bruises or tears, not even the blood is something to look at…
…
Jason doesn't want to live in a world like this…
He doesn't even realise when sparky cuddles up with him and he loses consciousness with the shouting and screaming fading in the background.
———
When Jason wakes up still cuddling Sparky and his plush, he's very uncomfortable and stiff , likely from having slept under his bed.
He doesn't crawl out for a few moments, not caring about the pain or discomfort he's in.
After a few minutes, when it's clear his dad isn't here and his mom is asleep, he crawls out slowly to not make a noise.
Sparky follows as he hugs his plush and moves towards his door before opening it a crack to glance out of.
Seeing no one there, he and sparky actually move out.
He keeps his steps as light as he can as he moves towards the kitchen, Sparky right behind him.
Sparky doesn't bark all too much, and he's grateful for that.
He's terrified, but he needs to feed Sparky.
He grabs Sparky's food once he's there, the apartment is small as well so he needs to be quiet.
Sparky follows with his tail wagging and tongue lolling out his mouth.
After he puts Sparky's food in his bowl and he starts to eat it along with drinking the water, he moves towards his moms room.
He hopes she took the pills and not the injection, she's always so out of it when she does.
“Mom? Are.. you ok?”
His voice is scratchy from lack of use.
He cracks her door open a little and peeks inside.
Mom's lying on the bed, not moving, he can see she's breathing, he can also see the injection thingy she used and the dots on her skin.
He sighs, moving towards the kitchen to make them both some breakfast.
He grabs a chair so he can actually reach the stove and counters.
He checks the fridge, grabbing one egg, he's not that hungry, he can always eat later.
He climbs on the chair and turns the stove on.
-
After the egg is done cooking, he plates it and climbs off the chair to bring it to his mom.
Sparky follows as he opens the door and calls out.
“Mom?... i… made you some breakfast?”.
She seems more lucid than before, humming in something.
He places the egg on the floor by her head, humming a small tune he knows his mom likes.
He starts to help her eat them since it seems like one of those days.
Sparky lies beside him as he helps feed his mom.
…
He feels like crying again for some reason | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77354241 | {"authors": ["Red_Panda_Lover15"], "language": "English", "title": "Blow My Brains Out"} |
is it too much to ask?
It's easy for Mikasa to keep her emotions hidden, keep herself perfectly unflappable and stoic. She almost remembers a time this wasn't true, sees a young version of herself in the hazy dreams of a life far away, but whoever that girl was going to be, she has little in common with her now. The performance is her second skin, now. Burying things is much more comfortable than expressing any weakness.
Any weak point will be exploited, and she hasn't survived this long to be bested like that. Better to keep it inside. Better to keep her teeth bared.
Things get harder when the people she love get involved. Everyday that passes with barely a word from Eren, her composure fractures just a little further. The silence and the distance and the separation needle right into those soft spots under her armor, pressing on bruises that will never heal. He knows what she's like. He has to know this hurts her.
That, or he doesn't realize. And he doesn't know her at all.
She can't decide which is worse.
Watching him pull away has only made her dig her claws in deeper to the people she has left, clinging in ways she knows she isn't supposed to. She was supposed to grow out of this. It's irritating and off putting, it reeks of desperation, and no one wants someone who's desperate. She's not some lost dog begging for scraps.
But she is. Desperate. If he can leave, after everything, then anyone can. And she's trying, okay, she's doing everything she can not to give them a reason. It all keeps crumbling between her fingers, anyway, everything she's spent her life holding onto disappearing while she can't do a damn thing about it.
The only one who doesn't seem to be bothered by her clinginess is Sasha– she can't even fault Armin for it, because he's going through it, just like they all are, and he's at least trying. She might understand him better if she didn't know him.
Most nights go like this.
Mikasa crawls into Sasha's bed, when she thinks she's already fallen asleep. She never has. She folds herself into Sasha's side, drawn in by the warmth she's been denied so long, careful and slow trying not to wake her. Some nights, she cries silently, able to force her breathing to stay steady until exhaustion overtakes her. Others, the silence is too much to bear, and she tells Sasha things no one else will stop to hear.
"I wish he were more like you." She confesses, a whisper hissed through teeth she can't unclench.
Sasha stiffens in her arms.
It's terrible, isn't it? He's one of the last pieces of family she still has, and she's been loyal to him for as long as they've known each other. She would follow him anywhere, into any danger, trade any life to keep his safe. That's the way it's always been. He runs, and Mikasa chases.
But he's never the one to hold her. He's never the one to try and make her laugh. He's never the one to check in on her, make sure her cloak is clean, make sure she's eaten, to listen to her when something's bothering her. He doesn't wait for her. All the years she's known him, and never once has he reciprocated anything. Not since they met.
If all he gave her were scraps, she wouldn't care. But he won't even grant her that.
Is it too much to ask? For something, anything, any bit of attention at all. She doesn't have him for much longer. Eight years and she's already grieving. She just wishes things were different. Wishes he was different.
"I don't want to miss him anymore." She sucks in a sharp breath. "That's awful, isn't it? I'm awful."
If she really loved him, she wouldn't need anything in return. She wouldn't have this emptiness inside her, always wanting.
"You're not." Sasha rebuffs her immediately. "You're hurting."
She wouldn't say that if she could feel the pit in her chest. If she could pull back her ribcage and search, and search, and search, and not find any heart at all. Just a gaping wound where it should be, and no end to the cavity.
She wouldn't say that if she knew how selfishly Mikasa yearns for these stolen moments, where she's allowed to just break down and lean against someone who loves her. Where she's allowed to curl up in Sasha's arms and be held. Where she's allowed to be soft.
She wouldn't say that if she knew how badly Mikasa wanted to carve a space into her side and slot Sasha into it, fusing them into one whole, all so that she could never leave.
Everyone leaves. Always. Everyone always leaves, eventually. People die, and change, and once they see the ugliness inside her they won't want to stay anymore anyway. No matter what they promise.
It's not fair to Sasha. Asking her to stay, when she's playing second fiddle to someone who's always taken her for granted.
That's just it, isn't it? She's never left his side, since that day. He doesn't know what it would be like to live without her. He'll never have to. He knows she'll drop everything and come running the second he needs her, and he doesn't have to worry. Her presence has always been a guarantee.
How much longer? How much longer do they have? Something horrible is on the horizon. She can feel it, see the shadows on the wall, a threat none of them can fully comprehend.
Is this what she wants to spend the rest of her life doing? Chasing an impossible goal? Running after shadows, biting her own tail?
Sasha's arms are warm around her back, the sound of her heartbeat audible when she turns her ear to her chest. She smells like sweat and hay and grass and dirt. Her shirt is smooth against her cheek, the warmth of her body bleeding through. She's here. She's real.
"He was the most important person in my life." She loves him more than she could ever put into words. It wouldn't hurt so bad if she didn't. "It's always been us three. There was a time when I would've killed anyone in our regiment to keep him safe. But– I don't know. It's not. That's gone, now. He's gone. There's someone else now, I think."
Not where Eren was. That space will stay empty, frozen in time, always waiting for his return. But someone else has carved into her, while she wasn't looking, carried off a piece of her and given it a better home.
"I just hope it's not Connie. His ego is already too big for his bald little head." Sasha mutters, still rubbing soft circles into her back.
Her laugh is thick with tears, and it ends in a sort of breathless wheeze, but it's genuine. It's the first time she's really laughed all day, and Sasha manages to coax it out of her when she's feeling her worst.
If anyone deserves to survive this, it's Sasha. She's kind, and funny, and resourceful, and so clever. She never gets any credit for it, but she knows so much about the world around them, stuff Mikasa never could've figured out on her own. Even their closest comrades constantly call her an idiot, and she can be, but she's just as smart as any of them, or smarter.
"Thank you for listening to me, Sasha. I know it's a lot." She knows she's a lot. Too much, usually, and still never enough.
Her answer is immediate, like a reflex, like breathing. "Anything. Even if it's a lot."
Is it too much to ask for it? If she reaches out now, she can almost feel it brush the tips of her fingers. Someone close. Someone who'll stay.
She can pretend and she can deny and she can try to hide. But that's the only thing she wants, really. Humanity's problems are their own, and she's never been able to see past her immediate future. She doesn't dream, not anymore. There's very little she cares to hate.
The only thing she wants is the impossible. Something people like her, more beast than human, don't get. Can't ask for.
Asking betrays the need, and to need anything is to have a weak point. It pins a giant target on her back, tears a hole in her defenses, leaves her exposed to attack. If she rolls over, she exposes her soft underbelly.
How much longer does she have to wait? Her legs won't last. One day, she won't be able to keep up with the world. She'll fall behind, and it won't be a soft landing. Will this be one of her regrets, when she does? If she says nothing now, if she leaves things be, if she lets this moment go.
Mikasa has never been good at letting go. Everything she's lost has been ripped from her, left her hands bloody and bruised from the force she clutched it with.
Just this once, let her be weak. "I want you, Sasha. Not as a replacement. Just as yourself. I was stupid not to see it sooner."
The whispered confession leaves her armor scattered across the bedroom floor. Here she is. Weak, and soft, and wanting.
And for once, Sasha just stares. Her dark brown eyes stay trained on Mikasa like she's heard her say it's started raining titans, like that was the absolute last thing she expected to hear.
It's a long silence. Each minute gnaws away at her shaky confidence, but Sasha has always waited for her. It's the least she can do. She's not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. The only way she'll leave is if Sasha tells her to.
She doesn't want to think about that.
Still, she doesn't really get a choice. It won't leave her, now that she's thought it, the dark shadow circling her mind. It'll break her if Sasha doesn't want her anymore, of course it will. She doesn't know how she'll go on.
But she will. Somehow. She's already learned her body won't let her kill herself. It wants to live, even when she doesn't, and it'll fight tooth and nail to hang on. Maybe she'll try, anyway.
Somewhere in the bleeding time, she's squeezed her eyes shut, already flinching for a punch she hopes isn't coming. It sends her spinning a little sideways when Sasha's hand brushes her cheek, then. The rough callouses on her palms always feel so nice, though, so she can't find it in her to mind.
Her thumb brushes over Mikasa's scar; the tips of her fingers curl into the baby hairs on the back of her neck. "You're so beautiful, Mikasa."
The pillows shuffle, and warmth presses against her mouth. Sasha's lips are chapped and peeling, rough from where she keeps biting them, and they're perfect.
There's nothing that could make it better. It's her, and it's Sasha, and it's exactly what she didn't know she wanted. She doesn't know what she's doing, doesn't know what she's supposed to do, and it doesn't matter. She presses herself into her, kisses her like she can make them into one whole, like if she can just get past the skin their muscles and bones will melt together the way she needs them to.
It's Sasha who initiates, and it's Sasha who eventually breaks it. To yawn. It is kind of getting late, and they surely have another grueling day of work tomorrow, just like today and yesterday.
But she doesn't leave, doesn't pull away. Her face stays pressed close to Mikasa's, a small mercy.
Just breathing in the hot air from her mouth is good enough, she decides. Counts breaths as they get slower and slower, finding an easy rhythm as Sasha drifts off.
Everything isn't fixed. Death keeps creeping closer, casting its shadow from just beyond the horizon. She still feels that ache, can still trace the outline of the emptiness inside her.
But, just for tonight, she can let her guard down. She can just be held. Maybe that's enough. | is it too much to ask?
It's easy for Mikasa to keep her emotions hidden, keep herself perfectly unflappable and stoic. She almost remembers a time this wasn't true, sees a young version of herself in the hazy dreams of a life far away, but whoever that girl was going to be, she has little in common with her now. The performance is her second skin, now. Burying things is much more comfortable than expressing any weakness.
Any weak point will be exploited, and she hasn't survived this long to be bested like that. Better to keep it inside. Better to keep her teeth bared.
Things get harder when the people she love get involved. Everyday that passes with barely a word from Eren, her composure fractures just a little further. The silence and the distance and the separation needle right into those soft spots under her armor, pressing on bruises that will never heal. He knows what she's like. He has to know this hurts her.
That, or he doesn't realize. And he doesn't know her at all.
She can't decide which is worse.
Watching him pull away has only made her dig her claws in deeper to the people she has left, clinging in ways she knows she isn't supposed to. She was supposed to grow out of this. It's irritating and off putting, it reeks of desperation, and no one wants someone who's desperate. She's not some lost dog begging for scraps.
But she is. Desperate. If he can leave, after everything, then anyone can. And she's trying, okay, she's doing everything she can not to give them a reason. It all keeps crumbling between her fingers, anyway, everything she's spent her life holding onto disappearing while she can't do a damn thing about it.
The only one who doesn't seem to be bothered by her clinginess is Sasha– she can't even fault Armin for it, because he's going through it, just like they all are, and he's at least trying. She might understand him better if she didn't know him.
Most nights go like this.
Mikasa crawls into Sasha's bed, when she thinks she's already fallen asleep. She never has. She folds herself into Sasha's side, drawn in by the warmth she's been denied so long, careful and slow trying not to wake her. Some nights, she cries silently, able to force her breathing to stay steady until exhaustion overtakes her. Others, the silence is too much to bear, and she tells Sasha things no one else will stop to hear.
"I wish he were more like you." She confesses, a whisper hissed through teeth she can't unclench.
Sasha stiffens in her arms.
It's terrible, isn't it? He's one of the last pieces of family she still has, and she's been loyal to him for as long as they've known each other. She would follow him anywhere, into any danger, trade any life to keep his safe. That's the way it's always been. He runs, and Mikasa chases.
But he's never the one to hold her. He's never the one to try and make her laugh. He's never the one to check in on her, make sure her cloak is clean, make sure she's eaten, to listen to her when something's bothering her. He doesn't wait for her. All the years she's known him, and never once has he reciprocated anything. Not since they met.
If all he gave her were scraps, she wouldn't care. But he won't even grant her that.
Is it too much to ask? For something, anything, any bit of attention at all. She doesn't have him for much longer. Eight years and she's already grieving. She just wishes things were different. Wishes he was different.
"I don't want to miss him anymore." She sucks in a sharp breath. "That's awful, isn't it? I'm awful."
If she really loved him, she wouldn't need anything in return. She wouldn't have this emptiness inside her, always wanting.
"You're not." Sasha rebuffs her immediately. "You're hurting."
She wouldn't say that if she could feel the pit in her chest. If she could pull back her ribcage and search, and search, and search, and not find any heart at all. Just a gaping wound where it should be, and no end to the cavity.
She wouldn't say that if she knew how selfishly Mikasa yearns for these stolen moments, where she's allowed to just break down and lean against someone who loves her. Where she's allowed to curl up in Sasha's arms and be held. Where she's allowed to be soft.
She wouldn't say that if she knew how badly Mikasa wanted to carve a space into her side and slot Sasha into it, fusing them into one whole, all so that she could never leave.
Everyone leaves. Always. Everyone always leaves, eventually. People die, and change, and once they see the ugliness inside her they won't want to stay anymore anyway. No matter what they promise.
It's not fair to Sasha. Asking her to stay, when she's playing second fiddle to someone who's always taken her for granted.
That's just it, isn't it? She's never left his side, since that day. He doesn't know what it would be like to live without her. He'll never have to. He knows she'll drop everything and come running the second he needs her, and he doesn't have to worry. Her presence has always been a guarantee.
How much longer? How much longer do they have? Something horrible is on the horizon. She can feel it, see the shadows on the wall, a threat none of them can fully comprehend.
Is this what she wants to spend the rest of her life doing? Chasing an impossible goal? Running after shadows, biting her own tail?
Sasha's arms are warm around her back, the sound of her heartbeat audible when she turns her ear to her chest. She smells like sweat and hay and grass and dirt. Her shirt is smooth against her cheek, the warmth of her body bleeding through. She's here. She's real.
"He was the most important person in my life." She loves him more than she could ever put into words. It wouldn't hurt so bad if she didn't. "It's always been us three. There was a time when I would've killed anyone in our regiment to keep him safe. But– I don't know. It's not. That's gone, now. He's gone. There's someone else now, I think."
Not where Eren was. That space will stay empty, frozen in time, always waiting for his return. But someone else has carved into her, while she wasn't looking, carried off a piece of her and given it a better home.
"I just hope it's not Connie. His ego is already too big for his bald little head." Sasha mutters, still rubbing soft circles into her back.
Her laugh is thick with tears, and it ends in a sort of breathless wheeze, but it's genuine. It's the first time she's really laughed all day, and Sasha manages to coax it out of her when she's feeling her worst.
If anyone deserves to survive this, it's Sasha. She's kind, and funny, and resourceful, and so clever. She never gets any credit for it, but she knows so much about the world around them, stuff Mikasa never could've figured out on her own. Even their closest comrades constantly call her an idiot, and she can be, but she's just as smart as any of them, or smarter.
"Thank you for listening to me, Sasha. I know it's a lot." She knows she's a lot. Too much, usually, and still never enough.
Her answer is immediate, like a reflex, like breathing. "Anything. Even if it's a lot."
Is it too much to ask for it? If she reaches out now, she can almost feel it brush the tips of her fingers. Someone close. Someone who'll stay.
She can pretend and she can deny and she can try to hide. But that's the only thing she wants, really. Humanity's problems are their own, and she's never been able to see past her immediate future. She doesn't dream, not anymore. There's very little she cares to hate.
The only thing she wants is the impossible. Something people like her, more beast than human, don't get. Can't ask for.
Asking betrays the need, and to need anything is to have a weak point. It pins a giant target on her back, tears a hole in her defenses, leaves her exposed to attack. If she rolls over, she exposes her soft underbelly.
How much longer does she have to wait? Her legs won't last. One day, she won't be able to keep up with the world. She'll fall behind, and it won't be a soft landing. Will this be one of her regrets, when she does? If she says nothing now, if she leaves things be, if she lets this moment go.
Mikasa has never been good at letting go. Everything she's lost has been ripped from her, left her hands bloody and bruised from the force she clutched it with.
Just this once, let her be weak. "I want you, Sasha. Not as a replacement. Just as yourself. I was stupid not to see it sooner."
The whispered confession leaves her armor scattered across the bedroom floor. Here she is. Weak, and soft, and wanting.
And for once, Sasha just stares. Her dark brown eyes stay trained on Mikasa like she's heard her say it's started raining titans, like that was the absolute last thing she expected to hear.
It's a long silence. Each minute gnaws away at her shaky confidence, but Sasha has always waited for her. It's the least she can do. She's not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. The only way she'll leave is if Sasha tells her to.
She doesn't want to think about that.
Still, she doesn't really get a choice. It won't leave her, now that she's thought it, the dark shadow circling her mind. It'll break her if Sasha doesn't want her anymore, of course it will. She doesn't know how she'll go on.
But she will. Somehow. She's already learned her body won't let her kill herself. It wants to live, even when she doesn't, and it'll fight tooth and nail to hang on. Maybe she'll try, anyway.
Somewhere in the bleeding time, she's squeezed her eyes shut, already flinching for a punch she hopes isn't coming. It sends her spinning a little sideways when Sasha's hand brushes her cheek, then. The rough callouses on her palms always feel so nice, though, so she can't find it in her to mind.
Her thumb brushes over Mikasa's scar; the tips of her fingers curl into the baby hairs on the back of her neck. "You're so beautiful, Mikasa."
The pillows shuffle, and warmth presses against her mouth. Sasha's lips are chapped and peeling, rough from where she keeps biting them, and they're perfect.
There's nothing that could make it better. It's her, and it's Sasha, and it's exactly what she didn't know she wanted. She doesn't know what she's doing, doesn't know what she's supposed to do, and it doesn't matter. She presses herself into her, kisses her like she can make them into one whole, like if she can just get past the skin their muscles and bones will melt together the way she needs them to.
It's Sasha who initiates, and it's Sasha who eventually breaks it. To yawn. It is kind of getting late, and they surely have another grueling day of work tomorrow, just like today and yesterday.
But she doesn't leave, doesn't pull away. Her face stays pressed close to Mikasa's, a small mercy.
Just breathing in the hot air from her mouth is good enough, she decides. Counts breaths as they get slower and slower, finding an easy rhythm as Sasha drifts off.
Everything isn't fixed. Death keeps creeping closer, casting its shadow from just beyond the horizon. She still feels that ache, can still trace the outline of the emptiness inside her.
But, just for tonight, she can let her guard down. She can just be held. Maybe that's enough. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77357296 | {"authors": ["sea_puppy"], "language": "English", "title": "is it too much to ask?"} |
A Job Well Done
Keeley kicks off her platform clogs and throws herself into the corner of Rebecca's couch. For as firm as it is, it's such a comfy spot. Only, she has too much adrenaline running through her system. She can feel her aura buzzing. The International Women's Day activities were a delight and a slog to plan, a blur somewhere in the passing, and aside from one pointed incident, drama free.
Pouring herself a glass of bubbles and motioning to another glass, which Keeley discretely declines, Rebecca stands over her bar top and offers with a flip of her fringe, "You've really outdone yourself. I'm so proud."
A trill of pride tickles up Keeley's spine. Rebecca's praise always does this, but today, only Keeley's pride in herself is stronger. It has taken a lot of personal accountability leading up to this day. Finding the will to make her company sustainable. Taking the right chances and fighting tooth and nail to make them into opportunities for continual growth. Surrounding herself with the right people who respect her, love her unconditionally, and not tolerating anything less from anyone else. Certainly there's nowhere to go but up, but she's determined to enjoy the view from here for a moment. Well. After she fulfills her tiny side quest.
Kicking a perfectly manicured toe in the air, "And that's just the tip of the nip," Keeley tucks her chin into her shoulder with a spritely little smile.
"What does that mean? What is that look?" Rebecca's brows furrow as she places the flute to her lips.
"I sort of. Planned the entire day."
Tipping her head and raising a skeptical brow, Rebecca asks, "How could there possibly be more?"
"Finish that sip and let's head down to give the ladies the good news."
It is fond, the way Rebecca shakes her head in disbelief. "Keeley Jones."
As hard as Keeley has run herself, these girls have genuinely made a season of things. They won't likely be winning anything shiny this year, but they won't be square at the bottom if they carry on carrying on as they've been. They are outperforming by a mile, as far as Keeley understands. So as Keeley has planned a weekend at the Korean bath house for a full body tune up and cool down, a Girls marathon, and a tub of strawberry Häagen-Dazs for herself, she has planned one more little surprise to celebrate their collective good work.
When she steps into the locker room, it smells mildly of hot feet and Black Opium. Ted is bright with expectation and quickly finishes up their post game chat. When he catches that she and Rebecca have entered the room, he gives a sharp clap and concludes, "Alright, alright. I'm gonna need everyone to hush yer butts and make room for the incomparable Keeley Jones!"
The room comes alive with welcome tittering and at least one set of Bambi eyes Keeley avoids as she has finally drawn the hard line and does not date twenty-three year old footballers anymore. No matter how incredibly action figure-y she is built or how gentle and kind she might be. All that aside, the vibe in the room is impeccable. "Thank you, Ted."
They truly are Keeley's own creation. A room full of bad ass bitches. And Keeley absolutely loves being among the throng of them. Like she's their mother hen. Or their cool older sister.
"On this, our first International Women's Day celebration, I just wanted to say thank you all for your fab work on and off the field. I know today's fan event was a little touch and go–"
A frustrated voice comes from behind her, "Some filthy todger asked me to sign his dirty jock!"
Keeley cannot help but sigh and look to the heavens, "I know, and I'm truly very sorry for that. We've banned that bastard to hell. But, that little girl did bludgeon him for you with her footie trophy, and we gave her a pair of box seat tickets for the next home match. We'll set her up with a signed kit and a parade, probably." The girls pitch a chorus of ruckus praise and Keeley feels lit up at their response.
Shrugging, Keeley looks to her side to see Rebecca shaking her head no.
"Well, not a parade, but there's certainly a guaranteed spot on the roster when she's old enough."
Keeley looks over to Ted for some sort of confirmation, and watches his enthusiasm build as he wobbles his head and makes some noncommittal shrug, like perhaps he's saying maybe, but also yes, with a question mark caveat. Rebecca, standing next to him with her arms crossed, is still shaking her head no.
"You two are really killing the mood."
Another voice pipes up, "Keeley! What are all these fuzzy bags?"
Remembering what she's up to, Keeley snaps to focus with a squeal, "Oh! Yes! Please, open them! I gathered some bits and bobs from our sponsors for everyone. And if none of you want your Face Glow, I will happily accept them as a donation to my personal collection. That said, I've organized us a little celebratory do at VIVA where Pinter & Sons have paid for an open bar!"
The chaos of flying crepe paper and delighted shrieking is warm and affirming in a language that Keeley understands so specifically, she feels like she might sprout wings and fly.
Smiling to himself, Ted touches at his heart and moves to excuse himself for the night, but not before turning around and saying to the room, "The sun may be setting on International Women's Day, but that just means International Ladies Night is upon us!"
She does then. Keeley sprouts glorious iridescent wings like the most biblically accurate version of herself and grabs Rebecca's hand to follow Ted to his office. There will be questions, and Keeley will answer them all. There will be dancing and disco balls and dreamy eyes to avoid. But first, she intends to gloat a little with her friends about how good they all are at their jobs. | A Job Well Done
Keeley kicks off her platform clogs and throws herself into the corner of Rebecca's couch. For as firm as it is, it's such a comfy spot. Only, she has too much adrenaline running through her system. She can feel her aura buzzing. The International Women's Day activities were a delight and a slog to plan, a blur somewhere in the passing, and aside from one pointed incident, drama free.
Pouring herself a glass of bubbles and motioning to another glass, which Keeley discretely declines, Rebecca stands over her bar top and offers with a flip of her fringe, "You've really outdone yourself. I'm so proud."
A trill of pride tickles up Keeley's spine. Rebecca's praise always does this, but today, only Keeley's pride in herself is stronger. It has taken a lot of personal accountability leading up to this day. Finding the will to make her company sustainable. Taking the right chances and fighting tooth and nail to make them into opportunities for continual growth. Surrounding herself with the right people who respect her, love her unconditionally, and not tolerating anything less from anyone else. Certainly there's nowhere to go but up, but she's determined to enjoy the view from here for a moment. Well. After she fulfills her tiny side quest.
Kicking a perfectly manicured toe in the air, "And that's just the tip of the nip," Keeley tucks her chin into her shoulder with a spritely little smile.
"What does that mean? What is that look?" Rebecca's brows furrow as she places the flute to her lips.
"I sort of. Planned the entire day."
Tipping her head and raising a skeptical brow, Rebecca asks, "How could there possibly be more?"
"Finish that sip and let's head down to give the ladies the good news."
It is fond, the way Rebecca shakes her head in disbelief. "Keeley Jones."
As hard as Keeley has run herself, these girls have genuinely made a season of things. They won't likely be winning anything shiny this year, but they won't be square at the bottom if they carry on carrying on as they've been. They are outperforming by a mile, as far as Keeley understands. So as Keeley has planned a weekend at the Korean bath house for a full body tune up and cool down, a Girls marathon, and a tub of strawberry Häagen-Dazs for herself, she has planned one more little surprise to celebrate their collective good work.
When she steps into the locker room, it smells mildly of hot feet and Black Opium. Ted is bright with expectation and quickly finishes up their post game chat. When he catches that she and Rebecca have entered the room, he gives a sharp clap and concludes, "Alright, alright. I'm gonna need everyone to hush yer butts and make room for the incomparable Keeley Jones!"
The room comes alive with welcome tittering and at least one set of Bambi eyes Keeley avoids as she has finally drawn the hard line and does not date twenty-three year old footballers anymore. No matter how incredibly action figure-y she is built or how gentle and kind she might be. All that aside, the vibe in the room is impeccable. "Thank you, Ted."
They truly are Keeley's own creation. A room full of bad ass bitches. And Keeley absolutely loves being among the throng of them. Like she's their mother hen. Or their cool older sister.
"On this, our first International Women's Day celebration, I just wanted to say thank you all for your fab work on and off the field. I know today's fan event was a little touch and go–"
A frustrated voice comes from behind her, "Some filthy todger asked me to sign his dirty jock!"
Keeley cannot help but sigh and look to the heavens, "I know, and I'm truly very sorry for that. We've banned that bastard to hell. But, that little girl did bludgeon him for you with her footie trophy, and we gave her a pair of box seat tickets for the next home match. We'll set her up with a signed kit and a parade, probably." The girls pitch a chorus of ruckus praise and Keeley feels lit up at their response.
Shrugging, Keeley looks to her side to see Rebecca shaking her head no.
"Well, not a parade, but there's certainly a guaranteed spot on the roster when she's old enough."
Keeley looks over to Ted for some sort of confirmation, and watches his enthusiasm build as he wobbles his head and makes some noncommittal shrug, like perhaps he's saying maybe, but also yes, with a question mark caveat. Rebecca, standing next to him with her arms crossed, is still shaking her head no.
"You two are really killing the mood."
Another voice pipes up, "Keeley! What are all these fuzzy bags?"
Remembering what she's up to, Keeley snaps to focus with a squeal, "Oh! Yes! Please, open them! I gathered some bits and bobs from our sponsors for everyone. And if none of you want your Face Glow, I will happily accept them as a donation to my personal collection. That said, I've organized us a little celebratory do at VIVA where Pinter & Sons have paid for an open bar!"
The chaos of flying crepe paper and delighted shrieking is warm and affirming in a language that Keeley understands so specifically, she feels like she might sprout wings and fly.
Smiling to himself, Ted touches at his heart and moves to excuse himself for the night, but not before turning around and saying to the room, "The sun may be setting on International Women's Day, but that just means International Ladies Night is upon us!"
She does then. Keeley sprouts glorious iridescent wings like the most biblically accurate version of herself and grabs Rebecca's hand to follow Ted to his office. There will be questions, and Keeley will answer them all. There will be dancing and disco balls and dreamy eyes to avoid. But first, she intends to gloat a little with her friends about how good they all are at their jobs. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77356306 | {"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "A Job Well Done"} |
Everybody's Changing
Keane is, unfortunately, entirely on board for the ‘all bald’ approach.
Booker actually whimpers as he watches his boyfriend take the clippers to first his own face, then his head.
He looks wrong.
A couple pointed looks at Booker’s barely-stubbled chin silences him on the matter.
At least Keane’s shaving to protect his (and their) identity. Not for something stupid and pointless like a bet on a football match. Unlike certain other bald-faced men in this room who shall not be named.
Booker has to leave the room when the razor comes out. He can’t watch.
Miscreant is entirely fascinated with the process, watching from the edge of the tub with his tiny badger face, chittering contentedly to himself. At one point he jumps up on to the counter to steal a tuft of hair and scamper off down the hallway.
Keane doesn’t quite manage to stop the aptly-named ferret as he sweeps up the hair and gets it all into the waste basket before switching to a razor to finish the job.
He fills the sink with hot water before coating his face and head with a layer of shaving cream and then dragging the razor carefully across his skin, over and over and over again. It makes a satisfying rasping sound that only Keane can hear. Oddly relaxing, once he gets in the zone.
He goes over his head and face once before wiping off the leftover shaving cream with a warm cloth and tossing the blade in the trash. Then he grabs a new one, empties and rinses the sink before refilling it, and carefully re-shaves just his face, doing a thorough job with the new, sharp blade.
Last, he does the same to his head, dragging his hand over his scalp to feel for the spots that need further attention. Then putting more shaving cream on just those spots. Carefully dragging the blade blindly over that spot until the rasping sound subsides. Until all that’s left is clean, shiny skin.
He shuts the door, strips down, and steps into the shower to get all the hair shrapnel off him. Rubs moisturizer into his face and scalp after drying off. And then piling his clothes in the corner and wraps a towel around his waist to make the short trip across the hall to his room to get dressed.
A memory asserts itself as he steps out, of back when he first joined them. When they didn’t trust him enough to let him use the bathroom with the door closed. When he and Booker were forced to bunk together for the same reason. No one trusted Keane not to try to escape, or harm Andy in those early days. And while they were willing to let Booker back in while they figured out what to do with their new, problematic immortal, they weren’t willing to do it without making him suffer a bit for it.
Getting stuck with Keane was Book’s penance.
But Keane’s long since proven himself, Booker’s earned his way (mostly) out of the doghouse, and Andy isn’t mortal anymore.
No one knows why, but since they’re happy with the result, they aren’t particularly inclined to figure it out.
She stabs herself every other day or so, just to make sure.
They’re a strange lot.
Keane steps into his room, having managed to cross the hall without being accosted or otherwise harassed for wandering the house mostly naked. He tosses his damp towel into the empty hamper on the floor.
There’s nothing on the dressers. No shoes on the floor. The bed is made, with not a crease in the bedding.
His bedroom doesn’t look very lived in.
Because it’s not.
Irony: where he and Booker once shared a bed. (Or a few different beds and one awful couch.) Sleeping next to each other as part of their joint penance for separate sins. Not touching. Fully clothed.
Not particularly inclined to share the space, but making do.
They now have separate rooms and share Booker’s bed by choice. Naked, most of the time. It’s a marked improvement, if you were to ask Keane.
He’s come a long way in the eyes of the other immortals, and he’d like to think he’s earned it. He pulls on some comfortable sweats, ignoring the phantom pain of buckshot in his shoulder as he pulls the hoodie over his head. Then he pads barefoot out to the living area.
Organized chaos might be too mild a word for what he sees.
Nile’s sitting on a chair in the kitchen while Joe carefully weaves her hair into neat braids, close to the scalp.
Nicky’s walking towards the front door with two empty trash bags in hand, looking like he’s on a mission.
He is.
Andy is standing at the kitchen table, laying out a terrifying collection of weapons.
Quynh is curled up in the corner of the sofa, watching the rest with an expression of curiosity. She doesn’t seem particularly stressed, and that’s a relief. And no one blames her for not joining the bustle. She’s earned the rest.
Miscreant is perched on the back of the couch behind her, investigating his tuft of purloined hair.
Booker’s nowhere to be seen, but there’s a light on in his (their) room and the door’s open a crack.
Keane grabs a vacuum and goes back to do a proper job of cleaning up the mess that was his hair.
He goes to find Booker after. The man’s got a large duffel bag set on his bed and he’s packing clothes away into it in quick, sure movements that tell Keane he’s done this countless times before.
Keane leans in the doorway, just enjoying the view.
The strong lines of his back.
Calloused hands made for violence that are very adept at other things.
A jawline that’s almost irresistible.
And shoulders that sag a lot less than they did before. When they met, before Merrick labs and after.
It seems they can both square their shoulders a lot more easily these days.
Keane glances behind himself at the rest. The way they bustle about the house, competent and wrapped in their own tasks. Then back to the man doing the same before him.
He has a lot to be thankful for, as strange as his life has become.
He wonders when he’ll see the others again. How long he and Booker will be out there alone.
Not so different from when they arrived in Canada, months back.
And yet. Everything’s changed since then.
A whispered confession in the freezing confines of a car in a snowstorm. Warm arms around him in hotel rooms. A kiss. A break.
Pain.
Reunion, easing the ache.
An embrace. Another kiss.
Many more kisses. The pain becomes all but a memory.
Other things. Bodies entwined, skin to skin.
Another confession.
That one changes everything.
And now. Now where it will go back to just the two of them. But this time they mean something to each other.
He wonders what’s in store for them this time around.
Booker turns, and Keane could easily take offense from the unmitigatedly appalled expression on his face as he sees his lover completely clean-shaven and bald for the first time.
He does not.
He does grin like the petty, completely in love idiot he is.
“It’ll grow back,” he deadpans.
“This is karmic retribution for this,” Booker says, stroking his hand over his own, clean-shaven as of the day before, face.
“Likely,” Keane agrees.
Booker throws a pair of socks at him, bouncing the rolled up bundle of cloth off his forehead. Keane catches it before it hits the ground, lobbing it back underhand at Booker. He quirks a brow and doesn’t comment further.
“Any clue where we’ll head?” he asks Booker.
Booker shakes his head. “Maybe north for a bit? This country is big enough to get lost in. We could stay in motels for a while. Or maybe buy an RV.” He shrugs. “We’ll figure it out as we go. Long as we change identities a couple of times and keep as unremarkable as possible, we should be able to disappear long enough for the aftermath of last night to die down. Hopefully.”
Keane nods. It makes sense. Less of a plan than their last road trip, but a little more comfortable with the company at least. It’s something.
Booker heaves a sigh, shoulders sagging. “We’ll be a lot less memorable without a ferret in tow,” he admits.
Keane goes to him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in. “I’m sorry. I know I like to tease, but I’ll miss the little terror too.”
It makes more sense to leave Miscreant behind in the house that is his home. Quynh is his favourite person anyways. He’ll be okay here with her and Andy.
Booker will just miss the little dude.
Keane can admit that he will too.
***
They don’t all leave at once.
Joe and Nile take a day trip to go buy a car in a city to the south, posing as newlyweds looking for something eco friendly and cost-effective. They decide on a basic used car that’ll be comfortable for three of them and blend in as they meander their way back east.
While they’re gone the others take a day trip to Edmonton to drop off Booker and Keane. Minus Nicky, who’s working on disposing of any material evidence they were ever in that horse barn where rich fucks were making people fight (and kill) each other for sport. And someone needs to stay behind in case Copley finds out they’ve been compromised. For quick cleanup and bug-out.
It’s a tearful goodbye in the living room as Booker prepares to part with Miscreant. The little troublemaker has brought so much joy into all their lives. Just a little bit of unnecessary chaos they all needed. Snuggly and intelligent and bitey and meddling.
None of them had been looking for a pet, but Booker was in heartbroken mode and couldn’t resist. In any case the little guy’s grown on all of them.
He took vital part in Booker and Keane getting back together, too. Tangentially.
Then again, would Booker have even gone out on that snowy winter day and brought back the little critter on impulse if they hadn’t broken up in the first place.
Likely not.
Cycles and circles. Patterns and dominoes. How many of the things the immortals have done can be chalked up to coincidence? And then traced back to something that feels… more.
But right now Booker’s eyes are red-rimmed and he’s sniffling into the soft fur of the ferret while said ferret tries to squirm out of his arms.
Such is the way of Miscreant.
Aptly named shit-disturber.
Maybe that’s why the badger-faced mustelid likes Quynh the best.
She is also a shit-disturber, and takes full advantage of the guilt of the others to disturb their shit with almost perfect impunity.
Two peas in a pod.
Pea one scampers over to pea two and climbs up her leg to her shoulder and sits there glaring at Booker and grooming himself.
Booker laughs through the sniffles. “I’ll miss you too,” he says, shaking his head.
Quynh carries little Miscreant over to his enclosure and sets him gently inside where he can’t get into (too much) trouble while they’re gone.
“You’ll see him in a few months,” Andy assures him as they pull on their boots by the door. “And he won’t forget you.”
Booker’s not so sure about that. They’ve only had him for a few months.
She squeezes the back of his neck and then heads out the door ahead of him.
Booker and Keane heft loaded duffel bags and follow her out, Keane locking up behind them before heading to the SUV.
The women take the front while the boys sit in the back. Keane reaches across the seat to offer his hand. Booker takes it with a grateful smile. He’ll be fine, but that doesn’t mean the offered comfort isn’t welcome.
A hell of a lot better than the bottle, even Booker would admit.
Andy’s in charge of music for the trip and she listens loudly enough for it to prohibit conversation, until they reach the outskirts of their destination.
“Haven’t been here in decades,” Keane muses as they drive past an Ikea and under an overpass that marks their entry to Edmonton. “And then I spent most of my time on the base.”
It’s changed a lot since then, but what hasn’t?
He distantly wonders if that’s his life now.
“Were any of you here before… this?” he asks.
How many cities have they watched grow from tents to high-rises.
Andy nods. “A bit before the Great War. Not before that though.” It’s a bit outside their usual circles, though those expanded over time.
Planes changed everything.
And before that? Trains. Cars. Ships.
For a new immortal like Keane, it’s incomprehensible.
“You’ll get used to it,” Booker assures him.
Keane’s not so sure.
“You have the benefit of having people around you who know what the fuck is going on,” Andy says, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “I envy you that.”
It’s a privilege he hadn’t considered.
How did Andy discover what she was. How long until she came to any sort of understanding about it.
And after that. How long was she alone in it.
Did she have relationships that lasted decades, with people who knew her secret?
Was there someone who soured her on the experience of being a couple? Were | Everybody's Changing
Keane is, unfortunately, entirely on board for the ‘all bald’ approach.
Booker actually whimpers as he watches his boyfriend take the clippers to first his own face, then his head.
He looks wrong.
A couple pointed looks at Booker’s barely-stubbled chin silences him on the matter.
At least Keane’s shaving to protect his (and their) identity. Not for something stupid and pointless like a bet on a football match. Unlike certain other bald-faced men in this room who shall not be named.
Booker has to leave the room when the razor comes out. He can’t watch.
Miscreant is entirely fascinated with the process, watching from the edge of the tub with his tiny badger face, chittering contentedly to himself. At one point he jumps up on to the counter to steal a tuft of hair and scamper off down the hallway.
Keane doesn’t quite manage to stop the aptly-named ferret as he sweeps up the hair and gets it all into the waste basket before switching to a razor to finish the job.
He fills the sink with hot water before coating his face and head with a layer of shaving cream and then dragging the razor carefully across his skin, over and over and over again. It makes a satisfying rasping sound that only Keane can hear. Oddly relaxing, once he gets in the zone.
He goes over his head and face once before wiping off the leftover shaving cream with a warm cloth and tossing the blade in the trash. Then he grabs a new one, empties and rinses the sink before refilling it, and carefully re-shaves just his face, doing a thorough job with the new, sharp blade.
Last, he does the same to his head, dragging his hand over his scalp to feel for the spots that need further attention. Then putting more shaving cream on just those spots. Carefully dragging the blade blindly over that spot until the rasping sound subsides. Until all that’s left is clean, shiny skin.
He shuts the door, strips down, and steps into the shower to get all the hair shrapnel off him. Rubs moisturizer into his face and scalp after drying off. And then piling his clothes in the corner and wraps a towel around his waist to make the short trip across the hall to his room to get dressed.
A memory asserts itself as he steps out, of back when he first joined them. When they didn’t trust him enough to let him use the bathroom with the door closed. When he and Booker were forced to bunk together for the same reason. No one trusted Keane not to try to escape, or harm Andy in those early days. And while they were willing to let Booker back in while they figured out what to do with their new, problematic immortal, they weren’t willing to do it without making him suffer a bit for it.
Getting stuck with Keane was Book’s penance.
But Keane’s long since proven himself, Booker’s earned his way (mostly) out of the doghouse, and Andy isn’t mortal anymore.
No one knows why, but since they’re happy with the result, they aren’t particularly inclined to figure it out.
She stabs herself every other day or so, just to make sure.
They’re a strange lot.
Keane steps into his room, having managed to cross the hall without being accosted or otherwise harassed for wandering the house mostly naked. He tosses his damp towel into the empty hamper on the floor.
There’s nothing on the dressers. No shoes on the floor. The bed is made, with not a crease in the bedding.
His bedroom doesn’t look very lived in.
Because it’s not.
Irony: where he and Booker once shared a bed. (Or a few different beds and one awful couch.) Sleeping next to each other as part of their joint penance for separate sins. Not touching. Fully clothed.
Not particularly inclined to share the space, but making do.
They now have separate rooms and share Booker’s bed by choice. Naked, most of the time. It’s a marked improvement, if you were to ask Keane.
He’s come a long way in the eyes of the other immortals, and he’d like to think he’s earned it. He pulls on some comfortable sweats, ignoring the phantom pain of buckshot in his shoulder as he pulls the hoodie over his head. Then he pads barefoot out to the living area.
Organized chaos might be too mild a word for what he sees.
Nile’s sitting on a chair in the kitchen while Joe carefully weaves her hair into neat braids, close to the scalp.
Nicky’s walking towards the front door with two empty trash bags in hand, looking like he’s on a mission.
He is.
Andy is standing at the kitchen table, laying out a terrifying collection of weapons.
Quynh is curled up in the corner of the sofa, watching the rest with an expression of curiosity. She doesn’t seem particularly stressed, and that’s a relief. And no one blames her for not joining the bustle. She’s earned the rest.
Miscreant is perched on the back of the couch behind her, investigating his tuft of purloined hair.
Booker’s nowhere to be seen, but there’s a light on in his (their) room and the door’s open a crack.
Keane grabs a vacuum and goes back to do a proper job of cleaning up the mess that was his hair.
He goes to find Booker after. The man’s got a large duffel bag set on his bed and he’s packing clothes away into it in quick, sure movements that tell Keane he’s done this countless times before.
Keane leans in the doorway, just enjoying the view.
The strong lines of his back.
Calloused hands made for violence that are very adept at other things.
A jawline that’s almost irresistible.
And shoulders that sag a lot less than they did before. When they met, before Merrick labs and after.
It seems they can both square their shoulders a lot more easily these days.
Keane glances behind himself at the rest. The way they bustle about the house, competent and wrapped in their own tasks. Then back to the man doing the same before him.
He has a lot to be thankful for, as strange as his life has become.
He wonders when he’ll see the others again. How long he and Booker will be out there alone.
Not so different from when they arrived in Canada, months back.
And yet. Everything’s changed since then.
A whispered confession in the freezing confines of a car in a snowstorm. Warm arms around him in hotel rooms. A kiss. A break.
Pain.
Reunion, easing the ache.
An embrace. Another kiss.
Many more kisses. The pain becomes all but a memory.
Other things. Bodies entwined, skin to skin.
Another confession.
That one changes everything.
And now. Now where it will go back to just the two of them. But this time they mean something to each other.
He wonders what’s in store for them this time around.
Booker turns, and Keane could easily take offense from the unmitigatedly appalled expression on his face as he sees his lover completely clean-shaven and bald for the first time.
He does not.
He does grin like the petty, completely in love idiot he is.
“It’ll grow back,” he deadpans.
“This is karmic retribution for this,” Booker says, stroking his hand over his own, clean-shaven as of the day before, face.
“Likely,” Keane agrees.
Booker throws a pair of socks at him, bouncing the rolled up bundle of cloth off his forehead. Keane catches it before it hits the ground, lobbing it back underhand at Booker. He quirks a brow and doesn’t comment further.
“Any clue where we’ll head?” he asks Booker.
Booker shakes his head. “Maybe north for a bit? This country is big enough to get lost in. We could stay in motels for a while. Or maybe buy an RV.” He shrugs. “We’ll figure it out as we go. Long as we change identities a couple of times and keep as unremarkable as possible, we should be able to disappear long enough for the aftermath of last night to die down. Hopefully.”
Keane nods. It makes sense. Less of a plan than their last road trip, but a little more comfortable with the company at least. It’s something.
Booker heaves a sigh, shoulders sagging. “We’ll be a lot less memorable without a ferret in tow,” he admits.
Keane goes to him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in. “I’m sorry. I know I like to tease, but I’ll miss the little terror too.”
It makes more sense to leave Miscreant behind in the house that is his home. Quynh is his favourite person anyways. He’ll be okay here with her and Andy.
Booker will just miss the little dude.
Keane can admit that he will too.
***
They don’t all leave at once.
Joe and Nile take a day trip to go buy a car in a city to the south, posing as newlyweds looking for something eco friendly and cost-effective. They decide on a basic used car that’ll be comfortable for three of them and blend in as they meander their way back east.
While they’re gone the others take a day trip to Edmonton to drop off Booker and Keane. Minus Nicky, who’s working on disposing of any material evidence they were ever in that horse barn where rich fucks were making people fight (and kill) each other for sport. And someone needs to stay behind in case Copley finds out they’ve been compromised. For quick cleanup and bug-out.
It’s a tearful goodbye in the living room as Booker prepares to part with Miscreant. The little troublemaker has brought so much joy into all their lives. Just a little bit of unnecessary chaos they all needed. Snuggly and intelligent and bitey and meddling.
None of them had been looking for a pet, but Booker was in heartbroken mode and couldn’t resist. In any case the little guy’s grown on all of them.
He took vital part in Booker and Keane getting back together, too. Tangentially.
Then again, would Booker have even gone out on that snowy winter day and brought back the little critter on impulse if they hadn’t broken up in the first place.
Likely not.
Cycles and circles. Patterns and dominoes. How many of the things the immortals have done can be chalked up to coincidence? And then traced back to something that feels… more.
But right now Booker’s eyes are red-rimmed and he’s sniffling into the soft fur of the ferret while said ferret tries to squirm out of his arms.
Such is the way of Miscreant.
Aptly named shit-disturber.
Maybe that’s why the badger-faced mustelid likes Quynh the best.
She is also a shit-disturber, and takes full advantage of the guilt of the others to disturb their shit with almost perfect impunity.
Two peas in a pod.
Pea one scampers over to pea two and climbs up her leg to her shoulder and sits there glaring at Booker and grooming himself.
Booker laughs through the sniffles. “I’ll miss you too,” he says, shaking his head.
Quynh carries little Miscreant over to his enclosure and sets him gently inside where he can’t get into (too much) trouble while they’re gone.
“You’ll see him in a few months,” Andy assures him as they pull on their boots by the door. “And he won’t forget you.”
Booker’s not so sure about that. They’ve only had him for a few months.
She squeezes the back of his neck and then heads out the door ahead of him.
Booker and Keane heft loaded duffel bags and follow her out, Keane locking up behind them before heading to the SUV.
The women take the front while the boys sit in the back. Keane reaches across the seat to offer his hand. Booker takes it with a grateful smile. He’ll be fine, but that doesn’t mean the offered comfort isn’t welcome.
A hell of a lot better than the bottle, even Booker would admit.
Andy’s in charge of music for the trip and she listens loudly enough for it to prohibit conversation, until they reach the outskirts of their destination.
“Haven’t been here in decades,” Keane muses as they drive past an Ikea and under an overpass that marks their entry to Edmonton. “And then I spent most of my time on the base.”
It’s changed a lot since then, but what hasn’t?
He distantly wonders if that’s his life now.
“Were any of you here before… this?” he asks.
How many cities have they watched grow from tents to high-rises.
Andy nods. “A bit before the Great War. Not before that though.” It’s a bit outside their usual circles, though those expanded over time.
Planes changed everything.
And before that? Trains. Cars. Ships.
For a new immortal like Keane, it’s incomprehensible.
“You’ll get used to it,” Booker assures him.
Keane’s not so sure.
“You have the benefit of having people around you who know what the fuck is going on,” Andy says, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “I envy you that.”
It’s a privilege he hadn’t considered.
How did Andy discover what she was. How long until she came to any sort of understanding about it.
And after that. How long was she alone in it.
Did she have relationships that lasted decades, with people who knew her secret?
Was there someone who soured her on the experience of being a couple? Were there years or decades or centuries where she gave up on love. Or herself. Or hope.
Keane wouldn’t have described himself as a lonely person though he knows he’s lived a lonely life, at least for the past decade and a half or so. What if it had been ten times that? A hundred.
He stares at the back of her head as she drives, wondering that she’s still sane.
She and her lover (and really, any who knew her well) would argue she’s not, though they’d be (mostly) teasing.
And really, did any of them even understand that immortality was even a possibility, before they lived it. Keane’s the first.
His journey from immortality to understanding was startlingly short, he’s coming to realise. Shit.
He knew. Almost from the very beginning, he knew what he’d become and that he wasn’t alone. He swallows a hard lump in his throat and Booker reaches across the seat to grip his hand where it’s resting loosely on his thigh. He squeezes once and holds on.
“I won’t take it for granted,” Keane promises after a long silence.
He gets a soft smile in the rearview mirror and then she’s pulling into a drive-thru and the conversation is taken over with the chaos of ordering through a tiny box when there are four people with distinct opinions involved.
Later there are hugs and brushed away tears and promises to call until Quynh finally speaks up. “Enough,” she declares, staring imperiously down at the two errant men like a disapproving queen. “We have phones. It will be months, not years. Talk all the time. Even see, if we want to.” She holds up her phone, pointing at the blank screen. “Is not goodbye. Is ‘see you later’. And also: now we can have really loud sex.”
Andy snorts. “I love you,” she says through the laughter.
And then the two get back in the car and leave the men to their motel, whatever the volume they may or may not be having sex at.
This part is familiar, and Booker and Keane smirk at each other as they remember that first night after the snow storm. Getting a room with two beds and sharing one anyways. They’re well beyond that now, in any case. So they get the room with the biggest bed, because they can both get thrashy when the nightmares hit.
It’s a lower end establishment, but clean. They want to stay a few days, buy themselves an RV, and start travelling together up north with the cover of being aspiring wildlife photographers.
As good a cover as any, and they can use it to disappear into the wilderness for a while. Keane prefers it to trying to do the same in a city, where he gets the feeling old habits might creep in. He’s not sure how Booker would handle him clubbing. Not that he’d cheat or anything. But Keane knows he can get a bit handsy on the dance floor.
Something tells him that’s not Booker’s thing, whether he’s watching it or dancing with him. Their cover relies on them being unremarkable. Which means maintaining a veneer of being good friends.
People might correctly assume what they are to each other, but they’ll try not to raise eyebrows in small communities, standing out as ‘those gay photographers’.
Maybe next time they can hide in cities and enjoy the benefits of being openly together. But not yet.
Keane still wants to keep Booker to himself anyways. To hold this thing they’ve found close to his chest and keep it from outsiders. To protect it until it’s ready to fly.
“You seem lost in thought,” Booker says as he scans himself into their room with an armful of takeout.
“Thinking about us,” Keane admits as he walks over to meet him, taking the bag and kissing Booker briefly before taking the food over to the room’s little desk.
“Oh?” says Booker, flashing a boyish (and utterly devastating) grin as he toes off his shoes by the door.
Keane grins right back. He can’t help himself.
Booker is kind enough to be equally devastated.
“Just thinking how I’m lucky enough to have you entirely to myself for a while, with no meddling,” Keane says as he pulls plastic take-out containers out of the bag, laying them out on the desk side by side.
“Oh don’t underestimate the others’ ability to meddle from a distance. They excel at it,” Booker cautions.
Keane groans. “It figures they’re not done fucking with me.”
“That’s probably for the best. If they’re done fucking with you it means they’re done with you,” he says.
“You mean I have to put up with this for eternity, or go my own way?” Keane says with dawning horror.
The grin Booker flashes is decidedly wolfish this time. “Take it or leave it. That’s the deal.”
Keane steps into Booker, setting his hand on Booker’s hip and tilting his head up for a kiss. “Well since you appear to be a package deal, I guess I’ll put up with them.”
There’s no more words for a while.
And the food gets a bit cold while the clothes get redistributed and the bed gets mussed.
They eat sprawled in the bed after, not bothering to dress first.
It’s a distracting enough view Booker nearly drops his food on the bed. After that they put some underwear on and at least move the meal off the bed.
No one wants to sleep in cold noodles. (Worse than the wet spot.)
“So do we actually have a plan?” Keane asks partway through the meal, leaning a hip against the desk and gesturing with his chopsticks, clad only in boxer briefs.
It’s a helluva view, Booker decides from where he’s sitting at said desk, taking a moment to quietly ogle before replying. “A bit of one. Head north. Take our time. Don’t stay too long in one place but don’t be in a rush either. It’s a big country, and it’s not winter anymore. Get lost a bit. Let that whole fiasco at the horse farm get forgotten. Wait for the time to feel right. Head back when that happens, move on if it doesn’t.”
“You make it sound simple,” Keane says, head cocked as he searches his lover for signs of upset or distress. If he’s hiding his true feelings like he has in the past.
Whatever he sees, it’s not that. Book seems relaxed. His hand isn’t twitching. He’s not reaching for his pocket. Just enjoying takeout in his underwear and showing off a frankly spectacular body.
Booker’s not the only one taking the opportunity to ogle. He can do that now, after all.
The current oglee leans back in his chair. “It is, and it isn’t. Sometimes we have to cut and run. Take what we can and disappear in the dead of night. That can mean leaving behind people and places we’ve come to love. It will happen again,” he insists. “You’ll get used to it eventually.”
“But…?”
“But sometimes it hurts. Sometimes you feel like you leave a piece of yourself behind when you go. And over the years, you can feel like you’ve left so many behind there’s not much of you left.”
It’s not a maudlin over-the-top speech. Or it’s not meant as such. Booker’s being very matter-of-fact about this.
“Do you feel like that now?”
A slow, peaceful smile spreads over Booker’s face. “Nah. Not this time. I feel… lighter… than I have in years. Decades, maybe. A lot of good things have happened recently.”
Keane nods. And well he knows it. While he and Booker were freezing their balls off in that blizzard somewhere in Ontario, the others were pulling Quynh out of the ocean.
He got to watch her turn from a terrified and traumatized woman into the brave, funny, sarcastic immortal he’s had the good fortune to come to know.
The return of Andy’s immortality, for whatever reason. By whatever power. It’s back. Booker doesn’t have to feel (as) guilty about the betrayal. And now restored to herself and her lover, Andy’s lighter and happier than she’s been since they lost Quynh. Hundreds of years of grief let go. Hundreds of years of love to heap on her own miracle.
Book’s leaving behind the drink. Choosing to find a different way.
Keane is singularly positioned to support him in that, as a man who doesn’t drink, by choice.
And this time, Booker’s gotten to bring his lover with him. The first person he’s tried with in over two hundred years. After mourning his wife for so long, he thinks Jehanne would be proud of him for finally being brave enough to love again.
So aside from having to leave Miscreant behind for a time, he’s made out pretty well in his life recently.
For the first time since waking up freezing in a noose somewhere in Russia centuries ago, Booker feels like he’s taking more with him than he’s leaving behind.
It’s more than something.
It’s everything. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77354236/chapters/202526201 | {"authors": ["Ghrelt"], "language": "English", "title": "Everybody's Changing"} |
Reunited (And it Feels so Good)
January 7th, 10:55 a.m., Checkmate Headquarters
John sat next to Adrian in the empty “conference room” (also known as the storage closet). There was just enough space for a narrow table with six chairs squeezed in around it, along with the shelving units that ran around the perimeter. He was rubbing Adrian’s shoulders and trying to hype him up like he was about to step into the ring.
“Okay, Kitten, you can do this. You’re gonna be great. It’s gonna go just fine. But remember, if it doesn’t feel right, just nope the hell out of here. There’s no reason to be nervous, not at all.”
“You keep saying that, but I’m not nervous!” Adrian snapped. “What do I have to be nervous about? He should be nervous, huh-huh-huh! Yeah! Chris should be nervous, I shouldn’t be nervous. And I’m not! I’m the wounded party, here.” He shook his knees up and down.
“That’s the spirit!” John kissed his forehead. “That’s my brave guy.”
“Seriously, you sound like my fucking mom. If you ever want to get laid again, stop.”
Meanwhile, in the hallway just outside, Emilia Harcourt had her boyfriend pressed up against the plaster, her hands fisted in the shoulders of his tight muscle shirt.
“And don’t fuck this up!” She shook him, bouncing his back off the wall. “I mean it. You fuck this up, you don’t get to breathe his name around me again, got it? The first time you whine to me about how much you miss him, I’m snapping your dick off and shoving it down your throat.”
Chris scoffed. “Come on, Em. I don’t miss Vij. I just, y’know, feel wistful and nostalgic about the stuff we used to do together, and I have a painful sense of regret that we don’t hang out any more because his unique personality traits meshed with mine in ways that enriched both of our lives.”
“That’s called missing someone, dumbass!”
“Okay, whatever you say, Miss I Know the Names of Feelings.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Anyway, what’s there to fuck up? Vij can’t stay mad at me, not for this long. I bet he doesn’t even remember why he’s mad. Who would still hold that stuff against me?”
As he spoke, John emerged from the conference room, giving Chris a death stare as he passed.
“What the fuck, Economos? God, what’s your fucking problem lately?” John answered by flipping him the bird behind his back. “I swear to god, that guy’s been acting like I pissed in his Cheerios. Real fucking mature, dude!”
Emilia took that opportunity to shove him into the cramped room and shut the door behind him.
Adrian watched as Chris made his less-than-graceful entrance. It felt like all of his internal organs shifted two inches to the left, simultaneously. He looked away and began to fidget with a paperclip he found on the table, even as the tips of his ears started to burn.
Chris’ mouth went dry and his knees started to shake. What the hell? I must need more protein or something. He turned a chair around backwards and swung his leg over the seat, sitting down. He nodded at Adrian.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Adrian replied, still not looking up.
They sat in silence, the only sound coming from the buzzing light fixture in the ceiling. Finally, Chris cleared his throat. Adrian’s head snapped up at the noise, and he looked like he might climb up the shelving like a startled howler monkey.
Chris cleared his throat again. He felt a lump in his throat. Dusty in here, he thought.
“Been a while.” His voice sounded thick in his ears. Definitely it was the dust.
Adrian shrugged, looking back down.
Chris sighed. As much as Adrian’s nonstop monologue was irritating, his professional-grade, platinum-tier silent treatment game was always a million times worse. Might as well get this over with.
“So, I hear that you’re still pissed at me over that night out at that bar.” Adrian nodded, so Chris continued. “Well, I’m… I’m sorry for the shit that I said. I was upset. You took me by surprise, and I lashed out. It wasn’t cool of me, and I didn't mean it. So yeah. Sorry.” He put his hand out for a shake.
Adrian stared at him in disbelief. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Yeah? You wanted an apology, I apologized, what else is there?”
Adrian snorted. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe apologizing for every other fucking thing you did to me? Like, lashing out, I get lashing out, I wouldn’t still be mad if it was just that, but what about all the other stuff?”
“What other stuff? Putting up with your fucking crazy bullshit?” Chris could feel his face grow red. He had extended himself, and for what? What fucking gratitude!
“Hah! Hah hah hah hah hah!” Adrian’s derisive laughter echoed through the small room. “Oh, that’s funny, like you don’t know. Like you don’t know that you used me… For years! For years, you let me do everything for you, and you didn’t even think of me as a friend!”
“I let you do what, now? The way I remember it, I was pretty fucking nice to you — I let you hang around with me, I taught you all about superheroing, I included you in all sorts of awesome sex stuff…”
“Oh, that’s what you remember? That’s what you remember, huh? How about — five hundred dollars for doors and hinges that you didn’t pay me back for! How about you borrowed my car and then got arrested, and I got a bunch of parking tickets because of it! How about how I only did all that ‘awesome sex stuff’ because you wanted me to! How about I went to prison to try to kill your dad for you?”
“You did what, now?”
“Never mind! That’s just an example!” Adrian jabbed his finger in Chris’ direction. “I wanted to break you out of jail or kill a judge for you, Chris! And you didn’t even fucking — you write this letter full of all this heartfelt shit, and you mention everybody but me!”
“Jesus, are you still hung up on that fucking letter? I was losing it, Adrian! I didn’t take the time to make sure that I’d given everybody a shoutout, you slipped my mind!”
“That’s the fucking problem!” Adrian screamed. “I fucking killed myself for your approval, and I slipped your mind!”
“I never asked you to do those things!” Chris shouted back. “Well, okay, I did ask for you to get the doors and to borrow your car, I’ll shoot you a fucking Venmo once I figure out how to do it! But as I seem to recall, it was you who wanted to get involved with the sex stuff! You’d pout for days unless I included you in three-ways, and you never seemed to complain about it when it was just the two of us, either! And you know what? I wasn’t going to say anything, but I think you owe me an apology, too!” He crossed his arms over his massive chest.
“For what?” Adrian’s voice cracked with indignation.
“For misleading me! You never let me know who you were, because then I’d have been able to make a choice about whether or not I wanted to smash chicks with Gut’s little brother!”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem fucking me once you knew who I was!”
“Well, that’s ‘cause we already had a thing! It’s hard to explain! And you didn’t tell me that you had feelings for me, so I didn’t get to make that choice, either!” Chris shook his head. “I wouldn’t have fucked you if I’d known. Oh, and don’t you start thinking that we’re gonna pick up where we left off! The Peacemaker Express is only pulling into one station now!”
“Huh? What?” Adrian grimaced, genuinely puzzled.
“We aren’t going to start fucking again, Adrian.” Chris leaned on the table.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself!” Adrian laughed again. “For one thing, John wouldn’t like that, and for another, I don’t even want to fuck you because you look like a bag of meat and goo. There. I said it. Meat, and, goo.” He stuck his tongue out at Chris.
Chris gaped in shock. “Meat and goo? Fuck off. Meat, sure, I can see that, I’m pure muscle! But goo? Never! And who the fuck is John?”
“Economos? You know, big guy, glasses? Computers?”
“Why the fuck would John care who you fuck? He your guardian now or something?”
“No, he's my boyfriend?”
“That’s the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever —“ he was cut off by the sound of shattering glass and creaking metal exploding through the front of the building. | Reunited (And it Feels so Good)
January 7th, 10:55 a.m., Checkmate Headquarters
John sat next to Adrian in the empty “conference room” (also known as the storage closet). There was just enough space for a narrow table with six chairs squeezed in around it, along with the shelving units that ran around the perimeter. He was rubbing Adrian’s shoulders and trying to hype him up like he was about to step into the ring.
“Okay, Kitten, you can do this. You’re gonna be great. It’s gonna go just fine. But remember, if it doesn’t feel right, just nope the hell out of here. There’s no reason to be nervous, not at all.”
“You keep saying that, but I’m not nervous!” Adrian snapped. “What do I have to be nervous about? He should be nervous, huh-huh-huh! Yeah! Chris should be nervous, I shouldn’t be nervous. And I’m not! I’m the wounded party, here.” He shook his knees up and down.
“That’s the spirit!” John kissed his forehead. “That’s my brave guy.”
“Seriously, you sound like my fucking mom. If you ever want to get laid again, stop.”
Meanwhile, in the hallway just outside, Emilia Harcourt had her boyfriend pressed up against the plaster, her hands fisted in the shoulders of his tight muscle shirt.
“And don’t fuck this up!” She shook him, bouncing his back off the wall. “I mean it. You fuck this up, you don’t get to breathe his name around me again, got it? The first time you whine to me about how much you miss him, I’m snapping your dick off and shoving it down your throat.”
Chris scoffed. “Come on, Em. I don’t miss Vij. I just, y’know, feel wistful and nostalgic about the stuff we used to do together, and I have a painful sense of regret that we don’t hang out any more because his unique personality traits meshed with mine in ways that enriched both of our lives.”
“That’s called missing someone, dumbass!”
“Okay, whatever you say, Miss I Know the Names of Feelings.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Anyway, what’s there to fuck up? Vij can’t stay mad at me, not for this long. I bet he doesn’t even remember why he’s mad. Who would still hold that stuff against me?”
As he spoke, John emerged from the conference room, giving Chris a death stare as he passed.
“What the fuck, Economos? God, what’s your fucking problem lately?” John answered by flipping him the bird behind his back. “I swear to god, that guy’s been acting like I pissed in his Cheerios. Real fucking mature, dude!”
Emilia took that opportunity to shove him into the cramped room and shut the door behind him.
Adrian watched as Chris made his less-than-graceful entrance. It felt like all of his internal organs shifted two inches to the left, simultaneously. He looked away and began to fidget with a paperclip he found on the table, even as the tips of his ears started to burn.
Chris’ mouth went dry and his knees started to shake. What the hell? I must need more protein or something. He turned a chair around backwards and swung his leg over the seat, sitting down. He nodded at Adrian.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Adrian replied, still not looking up.
They sat in silence, the only sound coming from the buzzing light fixture in the ceiling. Finally, Chris cleared his throat. Adrian’s head snapped up at the noise, and he looked like he might climb up the shelving like a startled howler monkey.
Chris cleared his throat again. He felt a lump in his throat. Dusty in here, he thought.
“Been a while.” His voice sounded thick in his ears. Definitely it was the dust.
Adrian shrugged, looking back down.
Chris sighed. As much as Adrian’s nonstop monologue was irritating, his professional-grade, platinum-tier silent treatment game was always a million times worse. Might as well get this over with.
“So, I hear that you’re still pissed at me over that night out at that bar.” Adrian nodded, so Chris continued. “Well, I’m… I’m sorry for the shit that I said. I was upset. You took me by surprise, and I lashed out. It wasn’t cool of me, and I didn't mean it. So yeah. Sorry.” He put his hand out for a shake.
Adrian stared at him in disbelief. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Yeah? You wanted an apology, I apologized, what else is there?”
Adrian snorted. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe apologizing for every other fucking thing you did to me? Like, lashing out, I get lashing out, I wouldn’t still be mad if it was just that, but what about all the other stuff?”
“What other stuff? Putting up with your fucking crazy bullshit?” Chris could feel his face grow red. He had extended himself, and for what? What fucking gratitude!
“Hah! Hah hah hah hah hah!” Adrian’s derisive laughter echoed through the small room. “Oh, that’s funny, like you don’t know. Like you don’t know that you used me… For years! For years, you let me do everything for you, and you didn’t even think of me as a friend!”
“I let you do what, now? The way I remember it, I was pretty fucking nice to you — I let you hang around with me, I taught you all about superheroing, I included you in all sorts of awesome sex stuff…”
“Oh, that’s what you remember? That’s what you remember, huh? How about — five hundred dollars for doors and hinges that you didn’t pay me back for! How about you borrowed my car and then got arrested, and I got a bunch of parking tickets because of it! How about how I only did all that ‘awesome sex stuff’ because you wanted me to! How about I went to prison to try to kill your dad for you?”
“You did what, now?”
“Never mind! That’s just an example!” Adrian jabbed his finger in Chris’ direction. “I wanted to break you out of jail or kill a judge for you, Chris! And you didn’t even fucking — you write this letter full of all this heartfelt shit, and you mention everybody but me!”
“Jesus, are you still hung up on that fucking letter? I was losing it, Adrian! I didn’t take the time to make sure that I’d given everybody a shoutout, you slipped my mind!”
“That’s the fucking problem!” Adrian screamed. “I fucking killed myself for your approval, and I slipped your mind!”
“I never asked you to do those things!” Chris shouted back. “Well, okay, I did ask for you to get the doors and to borrow your car, I’ll shoot you a fucking Venmo once I figure out how to do it! But as I seem to recall, it was you who wanted to get involved with the sex stuff! You’d pout for days unless I included you in three-ways, and you never seemed to complain about it when it was just the two of us, either! And you know what? I wasn’t going to say anything, but I think you owe me an apology, too!” He crossed his arms over his massive chest.
“For what?” Adrian’s voice cracked with indignation.
“For misleading me! You never let me know who you were, because then I’d have been able to make a choice about whether or not I wanted to smash chicks with Gut’s little brother!”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem fucking me once you knew who I was!”
“Well, that’s ‘cause we already had a thing! It’s hard to explain! And you didn’t tell me that you had feelings for me, so I didn’t get to make that choice, either!” Chris shook his head. “I wouldn’t have fucked you if I’d known. Oh, and don’t you start thinking that we’re gonna pick up where we left off! The Peacemaker Express is only pulling into one station now!”
“Huh? What?” Adrian grimaced, genuinely puzzled.
“We aren’t going to start fucking again, Adrian.” Chris leaned on the table.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself!” Adrian laughed again. “For one thing, John wouldn’t like that, and for another, I don’t even want to fuck you because you look like a bag of meat and goo. There. I said it. Meat, and, goo.” He stuck his tongue out at Chris.
Chris gaped in shock. “Meat and goo? Fuck off. Meat, sure, I can see that, I’m pure muscle! But goo? Never! And who the fuck is John?”
“Economos? You know, big guy, glasses? Computers?”
“Why the fuck would John care who you fuck? He your guardian now or something?”
“No, he's my boyfriend?”
“That’s the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever —“ he was cut off by the sound of shattering glass and creaking metal exploding through the front of the building. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77354081/chapters/202525696 | {"authors": ["punkrockgaia"], "language": "English", "title": "Reunited (And it Feels so Good)"} |
i'll love you forever, i'll like you for always
In university, David took a theatre class.
He needed to fulfill McGill’s arts requirement, and his freshman roommate’s improv show had been pretty funny, and he’d thought that failing at jokes would be more fun—or at least less embarrassing—than failing at creating writing or failing at painting for an hour twice a week. He signed up for it with Tommy, the Redmen’s second-best defenseman, and braced himself.
And it was fine. Or at least not that embarrassing. But that was only because there were so many more embarrassing people there. The introductory theatre class was required for the theatre major and consequently was full of eighteen-year-olds that were so starry-eyed they couldn’t see a meter in front of them. There were at least a dozen too-peppy girls that tittered at everything David said, even when he wasn’t trying to be funny, but they were at least better than the few girls who, convinced they were some undiscovered starlette, showed up for their end-of-semester rehearsals twenty minutes late and glared murderously at him when he fumbled lines.
Most memorable, though, were the overt homosexuals, who more or less pretended David and Tommy didn’t exist. David couldn’t remember their names, but there were three of them: a trio of men who didn’t seem to like each other but were nevertheless so like each other that David couldn’t help grouping them together. They would slink, perfumed and buoyant, amongst the women, sometimes indistinguishable from them. They performed non-comedic parts better than David or Tommy, but usually not without a touch of that girlishness which pervaded their normal speech.
Tommy thought it was gross, and would look at David incredulously during rehearsal if he thought one of the homosexuals’ gestures or intonations was particularly transparent. David tried to be more polite—but he couldn’t deny that he thought it was… weird.
It made him think about his own behaviour around his teammates. Weren’t they all performing too? He had wondered then, half-amused and half-nauseous, whether his ‘performances’ in the locker room were tinged with that same girlishness, and whether anyone could see it like he could see it in the trio’s manufactured masculinity on stage.
But he didn’t think about it much then, and hadn’t thought about it much since. Until now. Skidding out of Shane’s driveway, phone charger wrapped around his knuckles like boxing tape, he thinks about those three homosexual men again for the first time in decades.
Shane isn’t like them. Shane is… Shane is like David. He is so much like David that sometimes his mullishness in the mom-manager lunches that Yuna enforces makes David want to burst out in laughter and tears. He had known, when Shane was short with them, that the kid was hiding something. David had behaved more or less exactly the same way with his parents. But he had never thought that this something was—
A man that looked ridiculously like Rozanov, kissing Shane against the window of Shane’s cottage, his hand coming to rest on—to grab at Shane’s—
David swerves into the driveway and parks with the passenger rearview mirror buried an inch or two in the hedges. He doesn’t really remember the drive. He sits, unmoving, for several long moments.
Homosexual isn’t the correct word anymore, he thinks vaguely. It’s ‘gay’. Gay marriage was legalized in Quebec in 2004. He remembers seeing it on the news: the surge of weddings, couples twice his age walking down rainbow aisles, people parading and kissing in the streets. Maybe the gay men in his theatre class were there.
A gust of wind ruffles the hedges. Their leaves stutter and scuffle against the car. David stares at them, unseeing.
Shane had been a really easy kid to raise. At work dinners, David would nod along sympathetically to his coworkers’ laments: delinquent children flunking classes, pilfering liquor cabinets, totalling cars. Yuna relayed even crazier stories from parents on the PTA. But Shane was, comparatively, perfect. He got straight As, took out the trash every week, said please and thank you, made his bed every morning. Neat square corners. It sometimes made David nervous, like it was too good to be true, like some other shoe was going to drop and he’d finally have to join his colleagues in their ranks of failed parents.
But he hasn’t failed. And he’s not even sure that this counts as ‘another shoe dropping.’ The longer he thinks about it, the less it matters.
This is, he supposes, the ineffable eye to this hurricane: Shane is David’s son. David loves him. Is proud of him. These things cannot change. David may not understand how or why Shane is gay. There may not be a how or why for him to understand. But do parents need to fully understand their kids’ romantic and sexual inclinations? As long as that Rozanov-clone—or any other respectable young man—makes Shane happy, isn’t that enough?
Maybe he’s scared that liking men would somehow turn Shane into one of those theatre boys, corrupt his discipline into their louche languor—but it’s a ridiculous idea. Mostly because he knows Shane isn’t like that, but also because… it wouldn’t matter if he was.
He closes his eyes and imagines, just as an experiment: his son wearing lipstick and feather boas, talking like a girl, browsing designer purses, kissing men. And he finds that he doesn’t really care. The puddle of revulsion that used to pool in his stomach as a college student has evaporated, and all that’s left is… regret.
He should’ve been nicer to the gay men in his class. He hadn’t been as bad as Tommy, but he hadn’t exactly been polite, either. If someone treated Shane the way that David treated his classmates…
David bristles just thinking about it, then sighs and curls forward until his forehead comes to rest on the steering wheel. People will treat Shane that way. Maybe even worse. David isn’t on the Internet much, but even he’s seen what people’ve been saying about Scott Hunter.
“David?”
He straightens. Looks up. Yuna stands on the front doorstep, still in her slippers.
What will he tell her?
“Are you okay? You’ve been sitting out there for like fifteen minutes. Is everything alright?”
He gets out of the car and goes to her, gently taking her by the elbow and leading her inside.
“David? What’s wrong? Is Shane alright?” David toes off his shoes, puts the charger in the key dish, and tries to keep them moving, towards the living room or dining room, but Yuna plants herself in the entryway. “David. Answer me. What’s going on?”
“Can we just… sit down?” Yuna stares at him for a moment but obliges, going to the living room and sitting on the very edge of her usual loveseat. David sits next to her. He always feels calmer like this, when everybody’s settled for a big conversation, but he’s still not sure…
Yuna had suggested that Shane might be gay before, so maybe this wouldn’t surprise her as much as it did him. But that had been ages ago, when Shane had gone to his senior prom as the only bachelor in his group of friends, the odd one out in a cluster of paired tuxes and gowns.
Something occurs to him: Maybe he shouldn’t tell Yuna. Shane had kept it a secret from them for all these years—and he still didn’t want them to know. David had mucked it all up by accident.
Yuna crosses her arms. David sighs. He can’t not tell her. Everything they’ve done to raise Shane, they’ve done together. They’ll do this together, too.
The simple truth will have to do.
“I went to Shane’s. To pick up my charger. You know, the older one, since—”
“Yes, since the new one doesn’t—yes, I know. Did something happen? Did you interrupt his silent retreat?”
“I…” He takes a deep breath, worries at the hollows of his knees with his thumbs. “I’m just going to tell you what I saw. Just the facts, broadly, and we can talk about the specifics after,” and Yuna, after so many years of suffering David’s inanities and inabilities, nods expectantly.
As David takes another deep breath, Shane’s car pulls into the driveway. Yuna turns to look, and David takes the opportunity to privately crumple with relief.
“Is he here for the same reason you can’t talk?” she asks, still looking out the window, no doubt squinting at the person in the passenger seat.
“Yeah. He’ll—I think he’ll explain everything.” She turns back to look at him, brows creased. Wordlessly, she reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it. He squeezes back. | i'll love you forever, i'll like you for always
In university, David took a theatre class.
He needed to fulfill McGill’s arts requirement, and his freshman roommate’s improv show had been pretty funny, and he’d thought that failing at jokes would be more fun—or at least less embarrassing—than failing at creating writing or failing at painting for an hour twice a week. He signed up for it with Tommy, the Redmen’s second-best defenseman, and braced himself.
And it was fine. Or at least not that embarrassing. But that was only because there were so many more embarrassing people there. The introductory theatre class was required for the theatre major and consequently was full of eighteen-year-olds that were so starry-eyed they couldn’t see a meter in front of them. There were at least a dozen too-peppy girls that tittered at everything David said, even when he wasn’t trying to be funny, but they were at least better than the few girls who, convinced they were some undiscovered starlette, showed up for their end-of-semester rehearsals twenty minutes late and glared murderously at him when he fumbled lines.
Most memorable, though, were the overt homosexuals, who more or less pretended David and Tommy didn’t exist. David couldn’t remember their names, but there were three of them: a trio of men who didn’t seem to like each other but were nevertheless so like each other that David couldn’t help grouping them together. They would slink, perfumed and buoyant, amongst the women, sometimes indistinguishable from them. They performed non-comedic parts better than David or Tommy, but usually not without a touch of that girlishness which pervaded their normal speech.
Tommy thought it was gross, and would look at David incredulously during rehearsal if he thought one of the homosexuals’ gestures or intonations was particularly transparent. David tried to be more polite—but he couldn’t deny that he thought it was… weird.
It made him think about his own behaviour around his teammates. Weren’t they all performing too? He had wondered then, half-amused and half-nauseous, whether his ‘performances’ in the locker room were tinged with that same girlishness, and whether anyone could see it like he could see it in the trio’s manufactured masculinity on stage.
But he didn’t think about it much then, and hadn’t thought about it much since. Until now. Skidding out of Shane’s driveway, phone charger wrapped around his knuckles like boxing tape, he thinks about those three homosexual men again for the first time in decades.
Shane isn’t like them. Shane is… Shane is like David. He is so much like David that sometimes his mullishness in the mom-manager lunches that Yuna enforces makes David want to burst out in laughter and tears. He had known, when Shane was short with them, that the kid was hiding something. David had behaved more or less exactly the same way with his parents. But he had never thought that this something was—
A man that looked ridiculously like Rozanov, kissing Shane against the window of Shane’s cottage, his hand coming to rest on—to grab at Shane’s—
David swerves into the driveway and parks with the passenger rearview mirror buried an inch or two in the hedges. He doesn’t really remember the drive. He sits, unmoving, for several long moments.
Homosexual isn’t the correct word anymore, he thinks vaguely. It’s ‘gay’. Gay marriage was legalized in Quebec in 2004. He remembers seeing it on the news: the surge of weddings, couples twice his age walking down rainbow aisles, people parading and kissing in the streets. Maybe the gay men in his theatre class were there.
A gust of wind ruffles the hedges. Their leaves stutter and scuffle against the car. David stares at them, unseeing.
Shane had been a really easy kid to raise. At work dinners, David would nod along sympathetically to his coworkers’ laments: delinquent children flunking classes, pilfering liquor cabinets, totalling cars. Yuna relayed even crazier stories from parents on the PTA. But Shane was, comparatively, perfect. He got straight As, took out the trash every week, said please and thank you, made his bed every morning. Neat square corners. It sometimes made David nervous, like it was too good to be true, like some other shoe was going to drop and he’d finally have to join his colleagues in their ranks of failed parents.
But he hasn’t failed. And he’s not even sure that this counts as ‘another shoe dropping.’ The longer he thinks about it, the less it matters.
This is, he supposes, the ineffable eye to this hurricane: Shane is David’s son. David loves him. Is proud of him. These things cannot change. David may not understand how or why Shane is gay. There may not be a how or why for him to understand. But do parents need to fully understand their kids’ romantic and sexual inclinations? As long as that Rozanov-clone—or any other respectable young man—makes Shane happy, isn’t that enough?
Maybe he’s scared that liking men would somehow turn Shane into one of those theatre boys, corrupt his discipline into their louche languor—but it’s a ridiculous idea. Mostly because he knows Shane isn’t like that, but also because… it wouldn’t matter if he was.
He closes his eyes and imagines, just as an experiment: his son wearing lipstick and feather boas, talking like a girl, browsing designer purses, kissing men. And he finds that he doesn’t really care. The puddle of revulsion that used to pool in his stomach as a college student has evaporated, and all that’s left is… regret.
He should’ve been nicer to the gay men in his class. He hadn’t been as bad as Tommy, but he hadn’t exactly been polite, either. If someone treated Shane the way that David treated his classmates…
David bristles just thinking about it, then sighs and curls forward until his forehead comes to rest on the steering wheel. People will treat Shane that way. Maybe even worse. David isn’t on the Internet much, but even he’s seen what people’ve been saying about Scott Hunter.
“David?”
He straightens. Looks up. Yuna stands on the front doorstep, still in her slippers.
What will he tell her?
“Are you okay? You’ve been sitting out there for like fifteen minutes. Is everything alright?”
He gets out of the car and goes to her, gently taking her by the elbow and leading her inside.
“David? What’s wrong? Is Shane alright?” David toes off his shoes, puts the charger in the key dish, and tries to keep them moving, towards the living room or dining room, but Yuna plants herself in the entryway. “David. Answer me. What’s going on?”
“Can we just… sit down?” Yuna stares at him for a moment but obliges, going to the living room and sitting on the very edge of her usual loveseat. David sits next to her. He always feels calmer like this, when everybody’s settled for a big conversation, but he’s still not sure…
Yuna had suggested that Shane might be gay before, so maybe this wouldn’t surprise her as much as it did him. But that had been ages ago, when Shane had gone to his senior prom as the only bachelor in his group of friends, the odd one out in a cluster of paired tuxes and gowns.
Something occurs to him: Maybe he shouldn’t tell Yuna. Shane had kept it a secret from them for all these years—and he still didn’t want them to know. David had mucked it all up by accident.
Yuna crosses her arms. David sighs. He can’t not tell her. Everything they’ve done to raise Shane, they’ve done together. They’ll do this together, too.
The simple truth will have to do.
“I went to Shane’s. To pick up my charger. You know, the older one, since—”
“Yes, since the new one doesn’t—yes, I know. Did something happen? Did you interrupt his silent retreat?”
“I…” He takes a deep breath, worries at the hollows of his knees with his thumbs. “I’m just going to tell you what I saw. Just the facts, broadly, and we can talk about the specifics after,” and Yuna, after so many years of suffering David’s inanities and inabilities, nods expectantly.
As David takes another deep breath, Shane’s car pulls into the driveway. Yuna turns to look, and David takes the opportunity to privately crumple with relief.
“Is he here for the same reason you can’t talk?” she asks, still looking out the window, no doubt squinting at the person in the passenger seat.
“Yeah. He’ll—I think he’ll explain everything.” She turns back to look at him, brows creased. Wordlessly, she reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it. He squeezes back. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77350916 | {"authors": ["juliedelicious"], "language": "English", "title": "i'll love you forever, i'll like you for always"} |
Rumination
How the dark of his hair melted into the shadows of the room fascinated her. Rich sable that hinted only at threaded silver should whatever hiding light catch right. Dense, one might imagine it to be woven like rope.
"Would that it be that coarse?" Might come the thought but wrong would such a guess be.
Newly clean, such hair sprawled unbound by its usual braid as water flowing between them, like midnights softest darkness. It did not lay heavied with rune charms, and carved rings and regal bands.
All the things her husband decorated himself with, things meant to catch the eye and impress with pride and status, yet hers had been caught by so much else.
Curled onto his side, broad frame hunched inwards and with his back to her, he slept facing their door, between her and whatever she feared might come through it.
Always was he so guarding, and while none sought to encroach, he seemed most unaware of lurking fiends, or her.
Along the threads of ebony her fingers unwound them them into loose ripples, letting them slip free and return to mingle again with the dark, solid patterns inked across his skin. How she loved to travel along those the rivers from her fingertips, vessels pathing themselves across his rugged form.
Only when he slept did she let herself appreciate him so, even tucked snugly into their winter blankets as they were. The moments he would wake would tug and withdraw, beckoning her to seek comfort in frigid shouldering, the glares of warning… All of which yearned to melt against his warmth at all hours as always was he so warm.
It was no foreign wish that he would wake to her, arms folded against the small of his back, face inclined upon the dip of his shoulder's blade.
Yet in that wish she could let herself have him, caught as she dared close.
Within was a hope for him to leave her walls no choice but to crumble beneath his touch, to finally face him and take him as her heart desperately wanted.
Held hard to their bed, her hands so much smaller and drowning beneath his own as they surrounded them.
Like the surge of the sea he would move between her legs, committing the ache of his memory far ashore.
The scars upon his lips would seek her, carrying with them their need to speak quiet tales and stories to her own, of all he'd seen and traveled. Of the man he was she yearned to know.
In their close quarters, he would breathe love against her, wordless yet clear and she would return the same again.
Effortless was the way their hearts sought to sow into this new soil, yet grown thus were vines that blossomed thorny reminders of guilt into every crevice.
How could she let herself be hopeful for such a wanted return when her hands held the bloody pieces of her former life just the same?
They had left ruins behind them with little structure remaining to mend like broken bones, rebuilding instead with a cast of iron forged Danelaw rather than the crafted splint of long honored sovereignty.
All who had once claimed familiarity with nobility, no matter how keen, and all who held close a friend most bellicose were put to blade.
How she had been spared such a culling was made clear in that she persisted only by his preference. Only that they had married in willing truth before the kingdom's collapse.
She would not forsake the treasure that was her life, yet it held no glint when the light of the small, innocent lives of her cousins were cruelly quenched in its stead. Those once trusting and hopeful smiles of their maids, their mother twisted in a final vision towards the agony of betrayal and death.
It was through tears that the first mournful arrow to lodge itself into her king was let loose from her own fingers. Convinced first at the behest of Ragnarsson blades, but decided upon by her own ire.
All their life had they been so close. Matters of the heart, of faith spoken in confidence and trust. At his back, she kept hers.
Her wit, her intuition served him gladly.
Yet when she came to him, her judgment contested against the lingering remnants of fire smoke and mead, all her devoted years were served with the same treachery that King Edmund had accused of her.
"Guards… Arrest her."
Words spoken with such easy conviction.
Yet as tortured hours waned, and Edmund gurgled pleas for some last rite of mercy it was her name he whispered.
"L-liseron.. Lees…", and it was Ubba who cleaved him silent, headless.
Their vows had formed tangible as flesh and blood, then.
Liseron gifted him an accomplice in the regicide of a man she too loved and from Ubba's own generosity was carved a pit from which he'd gouged the only other in her heart free of.
That life lay razed and buried and in many ways so too did her once lofty perception of love and loyalty.
Still, she pleaded for it, to gather all the comfort sprouting from Ubba's many warmly offered gestures, only to find them chilled as she brought them close. Left with the memory of frigid judgment, seeking to thaw itself near a hearth too frightened by winter to smolder...
She did not know when his breathing turned conscious, but to her he remained beyond awaking. Not until the deep inhale, or the hand that reached back to find her.
Comfortable with assuming his unawareness, shed been shocked, hands to her face to clear their shallow wells before he turned onto his back.
Did her sniffling wake him? The small saddened shudders of her body? Perhaps she'd stained his shoulder with one to many tear and upon feeling the drop, sought to swipe it away.
No words cracked from her voice, but they were felt enough. Left with hardly a chance to get away, he pulled her to his chest.
Thick woolen coverings that had shrugged free were pulled back up and about them, an arm tight to her. He bowed his head to kiss the top of hers.
"You're not a blade, Liseron. Not a stone. So cry, if it helps you." | Rumination
How the dark of his hair melted into the shadows of the room fascinated her. Rich sable that hinted only at threaded silver should whatever hiding light catch right. Dense, one might imagine it to be woven like rope.
"Would that it be that coarse?" Might come the thought but wrong would such a guess be.
Newly clean, such hair sprawled unbound by its usual braid as water flowing between them, like midnights softest darkness. It did not lay heavied with rune charms, and carved rings and regal bands.
All the things her husband decorated himself with, things meant to catch the eye and impress with pride and status, yet hers had been caught by so much else.
Curled onto his side, broad frame hunched inwards and with his back to her, he slept facing their door, between her and whatever she feared might come through it.
Always was he so guarding, and while none sought to encroach, he seemed most unaware of lurking fiends, or her.
Along the threads of ebony her fingers unwound them them into loose ripples, letting them slip free and return to mingle again with the dark, solid patterns inked across his skin. How she loved to travel along those the rivers from her fingertips, vessels pathing themselves across his rugged form.
Only when he slept did she let herself appreciate him so, even tucked snugly into their winter blankets as they were. The moments he would wake would tug and withdraw, beckoning her to seek comfort in frigid shouldering, the glares of warning… All of which yearned to melt against his warmth at all hours as always was he so warm.
It was no foreign wish that he would wake to her, arms folded against the small of his back, face inclined upon the dip of his shoulder's blade.
Yet in that wish she could let herself have him, caught as she dared close.
Within was a hope for him to leave her walls no choice but to crumble beneath his touch, to finally face him and take him as her heart desperately wanted.
Held hard to their bed, her hands so much smaller and drowning beneath his own as they surrounded them.
Like the surge of the sea he would move between her legs, committing the ache of his memory far ashore.
The scars upon his lips would seek her, carrying with them their need to speak quiet tales and stories to her own, of all he'd seen and traveled. Of the man he was she yearned to know.
In their close quarters, he would breathe love against her, wordless yet clear and she would return the same again.
Effortless was the way their hearts sought to sow into this new soil, yet grown thus were vines that blossomed thorny reminders of guilt into every crevice.
How could she let herself be hopeful for such a wanted return when her hands held the bloody pieces of her former life just the same?
They had left ruins behind them with little structure remaining to mend like broken bones, rebuilding instead with a cast of iron forged Danelaw rather than the crafted splint of long honored sovereignty.
All who had once claimed familiarity with nobility, no matter how keen, and all who held close a friend most bellicose were put to blade.
How she had been spared such a culling was made clear in that she persisted only by his preference. Only that they had married in willing truth before the kingdom's collapse.
She would not forsake the treasure that was her life, yet it held no glint when the light of the small, innocent lives of her cousins were cruelly quenched in its stead. Those once trusting and hopeful smiles of their maids, their mother twisted in a final vision towards the agony of betrayal and death.
It was through tears that the first mournful arrow to lodge itself into her king was let loose from her own fingers. Convinced first at the behest of Ragnarsson blades, but decided upon by her own ire.
All their life had they been so close. Matters of the heart, of faith spoken in confidence and trust. At his back, she kept hers.
Her wit, her intuition served him gladly.
Yet when she came to him, her judgment contested against the lingering remnants of fire smoke and mead, all her devoted years were served with the same treachery that King Edmund had accused of her.
"Guards… Arrest her."
Words spoken with such easy conviction.
Yet as tortured hours waned, and Edmund gurgled pleas for some last rite of mercy it was her name he whispered.
"L-liseron.. Lees…", and it was Ubba who cleaved him silent, headless.
Their vows had formed tangible as flesh and blood, then.
Liseron gifted him an accomplice in the regicide of a man she too loved and from Ubba's own generosity was carved a pit from which he'd gouged the only other in her heart free of.
That life lay razed and buried and in many ways so too did her once lofty perception of love and loyalty.
Still, she pleaded for it, to gather all the comfort sprouting from Ubba's many warmly offered gestures, only to find them chilled as she brought them close. Left with the memory of frigid judgment, seeking to thaw itself near a hearth too frightened by winter to smolder...
She did not know when his breathing turned conscious, but to her he remained beyond awaking. Not until the deep inhale, or the hand that reached back to find her.
Comfortable with assuming his unawareness, shed been shocked, hands to her face to clear their shallow wells before he turned onto his back.
Did her sniffling wake him? The small saddened shudders of her body? Perhaps she'd stained his shoulder with one to many tear and upon feeling the drop, sought to swipe it away.
No words cracked from her voice, but they were felt enough. Left with hardly a chance to get away, he pulled her to his chest.
Thick woolen coverings that had shrugged free were pulled back up and about them, an arm tight to her. He bowed his head to kiss the top of hers.
"You're not a blade, Liseron. Not a stone. So cry, if it helps you." | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77349346 | {"authors": ["BCDF"], "language": "English", "title": "Rumination"} |
Post-Apocalyptic Adolescence
The first thing Percy Jackson thought when he woke up was: Oh gods. Today is the first day of school.
The second thing he thought was: Wow. Hazel’s hair smells really, really good.
Lavender. Maybe rosemary? Something warm and clean and not at all like monster ichor or smoke or blood or puke or anything else bad.. Percy stayed very still, eyes closed, because Hazel was tucked against his side, one arm slung across his stomach like she’d claimed him sometime in the night and dared the universe to argue. It didn't, and neither did Percy.
He catalogued things instead of thinking about school. That was safer.
Her breathing. Slow. Even. She wasn’t having nightmares. Good.
The way her curls had escaped the braid he’d done last night and were now absolutely everywhere. Also good.
The faint wrinkle in the blanket where she’d kicked at it in her sleep. Adorable.
The fact that in approximately forty-five minutes, they’d have to stop pretending this moment could last. Bad. Very bad.
School, his brain reminded him helpfully, like it always did. Right. That.
Percy refocused on Hazel. School was a problem for future Percy. She looked younger when she slept. Softer. Less like someone who had clawed her way out of the Underworld and more like someone who deserved to be worried about quizzes and homework and her hair. Not that she'd ever have that, she was a demigod after all.
He swallowed hard and very carefully began the complicated process of removing himself from the bed without waking her. This involved slow movements, holding his breath, freezing whenever she shifted, and one moment of genuine panic when she murmured something and tightened her grip on his shirt. He waited. Hazel relaxed again. Percy escaped.
He padded to the bathroom, did his business, brushed his teeth while zoning out and forgetting whether he’d already brushed his teeth (twice, apparently), splashed water on his face, and stared at his reflection like it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do today.
He looked fine. Normal. Just a guy. Just a seventeen-year-old with bedhead and dark circles and a future full of… math tests.
Cool. Totally fine. No notes.
The smell hit him as soon as he reached the kitchen.
Blue.
He stopped dead.
His mom stood at the stove, flipping pancakes that were violently blue, like she’d personally challenged the concept of subtlety and won. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled like she hadn’t just anchored him to every childhood morning he’d ever had.
“Yes,” Percy said, voice cracking just a little. “Yes, please. I accept this offering.”
She laughed softly. “Figured you’d want something nice for your first day.”
There it was again. First day of school.
Percy’s shoulders slumped as he collapsed into a chair. “I was hoping we could all just… agree not to acknowledge that.”
Sally slid a plate in front of him. “Eat.”
He did. Like his life depended on it. Which, emotionally, it kind of did.
Hazel wandered in a minute later, hair a mess, wearing a nightgown that made her look like a little old lady (Hazel actually looked a lot like his grandmother, now that he thought about it). She didn’t say good morning. Didn’t say anything at all. She just grabbed a plate, sat across from him, and started eating with quiet determination.
Percy watched her chew and thought about how she’d only been here a week and already fit into the kitchen like she’d grown up in it. Like this was allowed. Like this was normal.
“So,” Hazel said finally, after a long moment, her voice calm and measured, “I suppose today’s the day.”
He winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“I don’t see much point in lying to ourselves before breakfast.”
Fair. Annoyingly fair.
They finished eating in silence. The good kind. The kind where neither of them was alone in their dread.
Sally eventually clapped her hands gently. “Alright. You two should get dressed.”
Hazel nodded. Percy nodded. Neither of them moved.
Hazel living here still felt… fragile. Like if Percy acknowledged it too hard, the universe might notice and revoke the privilege. His mom hadn’t tried very hard to keep them apart, which Percy appreciated deeply and also found mildly terrifying. He’d sworn — sworn — they wouldn’t do anything beyond kissing for at least two more years, and Sally had accepted that with a look that said I trust you, but I’m also not naïve.
They dressed quickly. Percy grabbed jeans and a blue t-shirt without thinking. When he turned around, Hazel was standing there in a simple purple dress, hands folded neatly in front of her.
His brain short-circuited.
“Nope,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Hazel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You are not wearing that. It’s— it’s too nice. They’ll eat you alive. Not literally. Probably. But still.”
She sighed, tired already. “Percy, it’s just a dress.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
He yanked open his drawer, tossed her a blue shirt identical to his, and a pair of jeans. “Please. For my sanity.”
She eyed him for a long moment, then took the clothes. “You’re awfully dramatic for someone who’s faced down Titans.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She changed. Percy exhaled. Balance restored.
Hazel sat on the bed, and Percy dropped behind her automatically, fingers already reaching for her hair. He braided slowly, carefully, like this was a ritual and not just something he’d picked up because it calmed him down.
“You’re fretful,” Hazel said lightly.
“Am not.”
“You’ve braided this one three times.”
“…okay maybe a little.”
She smiled, small and fond. “We’ll manage.”
He nodded, even though his chest hurt.
At the door, his mom hugged Percy first, then Hazel, holding her a second longer. “Good luck,” she said.
Hazel smiled politely. "That's not something you should ever say to Percy.”
Percy snorted despite himself.
The subway ride was crowded and loud and too fast (Percy wasn't stupid enough to try driving to Goode at this hour). Hazel’s stop came first. Percy hugged her tight, like he could transfer courage through proximity.
“Be careful,” he said.
“I always am,” she replied. “I'll be fine, don't worry."
No promises.
His stop came next. He ran the rest of the way, backpack thumping against his spine. He knew this place. He knew the halls. He knew the classes. He’d survived here before. He’d survived monsters. He could survive this.
He slid into math just before the bell, heart racing, legs jittery, mind already skipping ahead to a hundred different things he should be worried about.
He stared at the board.
Numbers blurred.
He thought about Hazel. About Annabeth. About Jason, Piper, Leo, Frank — all of them scattered across the country like someone had dropped a map and never bothered to pick it back up.
We’re fine, he told himself.
He didn’t believe it. | Post-Apocalyptic Adolescence
The first thing Percy Jackson thought when he woke up was: Oh gods. Today is the first day of school.
The second thing he thought was: Wow. Hazel’s hair smells really, really good.
Lavender. Maybe rosemary? Something warm and clean and not at all like monster ichor or smoke or blood or puke or anything else bad.. Percy stayed very still, eyes closed, because Hazel was tucked against his side, one arm slung across his stomach like she’d claimed him sometime in the night and dared the universe to argue. It didn't, and neither did Percy.
He catalogued things instead of thinking about school. That was safer.
Her breathing. Slow. Even. She wasn’t having nightmares. Good.
The way her curls had escaped the braid he’d done last night and were now absolutely everywhere. Also good.
The faint wrinkle in the blanket where she’d kicked at it in her sleep. Adorable.
The fact that in approximately forty-five minutes, they’d have to stop pretending this moment could last. Bad. Very bad.
School, his brain reminded him helpfully, like it always did. Right. That.
Percy refocused on Hazel. School was a problem for future Percy. She looked younger when she slept. Softer. Less like someone who had clawed her way out of the Underworld and more like someone who deserved to be worried about quizzes and homework and her hair. Not that she'd ever have that, she was a demigod after all.
He swallowed hard and very carefully began the complicated process of removing himself from the bed without waking her. This involved slow movements, holding his breath, freezing whenever she shifted, and one moment of genuine panic when she murmured something and tightened her grip on his shirt. He waited. Hazel relaxed again. Percy escaped.
He padded to the bathroom, did his business, brushed his teeth while zoning out and forgetting whether he’d already brushed his teeth (twice, apparently), splashed water on his face, and stared at his reflection like it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do today.
He looked fine. Normal. Just a guy. Just a seventeen-year-old with bedhead and dark circles and a future full of… math tests.
Cool. Totally fine. No notes.
The smell hit him as soon as he reached the kitchen.
Blue.
He stopped dead.
His mom stood at the stove, flipping pancakes that were violently blue, like she’d personally challenged the concept of subtlety and won. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled like she hadn’t just anchored him to every childhood morning he’d ever had.
“Yes,” Percy said, voice cracking just a little. “Yes, please. I accept this offering.”
She laughed softly. “Figured you’d want something nice for your first day.”
There it was again. First day of school.
Percy’s shoulders slumped as he collapsed into a chair. “I was hoping we could all just… agree not to acknowledge that.”
Sally slid a plate in front of him. “Eat.”
He did. Like his life depended on it. Which, emotionally, it kind of did.
Hazel wandered in a minute later, hair a mess, wearing a nightgown that made her look like a little old lady (Hazel actually looked a lot like his grandmother, now that he thought about it). She didn’t say good morning. Didn’t say anything at all. She just grabbed a plate, sat across from him, and started eating with quiet determination.
Percy watched her chew and thought about how she’d only been here a week and already fit into the kitchen like she’d grown up in it. Like this was allowed. Like this was normal.
“So,” Hazel said finally, after a long moment, her voice calm and measured, “I suppose today’s the day.”
He winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“I don’t see much point in lying to ourselves before breakfast.”
Fair. Annoyingly fair.
They finished eating in silence. The good kind. The kind where neither of them was alone in their dread.
Sally eventually clapped her hands gently. “Alright. You two should get dressed.”
Hazel nodded. Percy nodded. Neither of them moved.
Hazel living here still felt… fragile. Like if Percy acknowledged it too hard, the universe might notice and revoke the privilege. His mom hadn’t tried very hard to keep them apart, which Percy appreciated deeply and also found mildly terrifying. He’d sworn — sworn — they wouldn’t do anything beyond kissing for at least two more years, and Sally had accepted that with a look that said I trust you, but I’m also not naïve.
They dressed quickly. Percy grabbed jeans and a blue t-shirt without thinking. When he turned around, Hazel was standing there in a simple purple dress, hands folded neatly in front of her.
His brain short-circuited.
“Nope,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Hazel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You are not wearing that. It’s— it’s too nice. They’ll eat you alive. Not literally. Probably. But still.”
She sighed, tired already. “Percy, it’s just a dress.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
He yanked open his drawer, tossed her a blue shirt identical to his, and a pair of jeans. “Please. For my sanity.”
She eyed him for a long moment, then took the clothes. “You’re awfully dramatic for someone who’s faced down Titans.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She changed. Percy exhaled. Balance restored.
Hazel sat on the bed, and Percy dropped behind her automatically, fingers already reaching for her hair. He braided slowly, carefully, like this was a ritual and not just something he’d picked up because it calmed him down.
“You’re fretful,” Hazel said lightly.
“Am not.”
“You’ve braided this one three times.”
“…okay maybe a little.”
She smiled, small and fond. “We’ll manage.”
He nodded, even though his chest hurt.
At the door, his mom hugged Percy first, then Hazel, holding her a second longer. “Good luck,” she said.
Hazel smiled politely. "That's not something you should ever say to Percy.”
Percy snorted despite himself.
The subway ride was crowded and loud and too fast (Percy wasn't stupid enough to try driving to Goode at this hour). Hazel’s stop came first. Percy hugged her tight, like he could transfer courage through proximity.
“Be careful,” he said.
“I always am,” she replied. “I'll be fine, don't worry."
No promises.
His stop came next. He ran the rest of the way, backpack thumping against his spine. He knew this place. He knew the halls. He knew the classes. He’d survived here before. He’d survived monsters. He could survive this.
He slid into math just before the bell, heart racing, legs jittery, mind already skipping ahead to a hundred different things he should be worried about.
He stared at the board.
Numbers blurred.
He thought about Hazel. About Annabeth. About Jason, Piper, Leo, Frank — all of them scattered across the country like someone had dropped a map and never bothered to pick it back up.
We’re fine, he told himself.
He didn’t believe it. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77352276/chapters/202520416 | {"authors": ["WingFeet"], "language": "English", "title": "Post-Apocalyptic Adolescence"} |
Do You Believe In Soulmates, Vox?
“Ey, listen to this one!” As if her grating voice isn’t enough, Mimzy nudges Vox several times with her elbow to make sure she has his attention.
He often wonders how Alastor tolerates her, but chalks it up to a mixture of amusement and an unselfconscious talent for partying. Vox mostly just finds her irritating. If he thinks about it for too long, especially while he’s drinking, he begins to wonder if Alastor finds him entertaining for similar reasons, if his own brand of annoying is what keeps him hanging around.
Vox’s gut clenches, and he tries to banish the thought with another sip of his drink.
“Go on, dear,” Alastor responds, indulgently. Vox merely grunts in acknowledgement.
“Okay, okay,” she continues excitedly, and then clears her throat with an exaggerated growl. “‘Seeking connections: Female, d.o.d: 1957. Do you believe in soulmates? Come find the truth. Fresh sinner, petite, blonde.’” She snorts and slaps her knee. “Can you believe this shit? Soulmates? Who makes it to this shithole and still believes in this crap?”
Vox’s abdomen tightens again, the feeling rippling uncomfortably throughout his body until he shivers with it. “Ha! She’s gonna get eaten alive.” He says, reacting with the appropriate amount of incredulity, and if there’s any warble in his voice, it can easily be blamed on the drink.
Alastor merely giggles, his head drooping and a finger tracing the rim of his glass. His ears bounce with the motion.
“Can you imagine?” He sighs.
“Putting out an invitation like that? Like a rabbit servin’ itself up on a platter for wolves.”
“Such fantasies,” Alastor says simply, and although Vox is sensible enough to know that Alastor is mocking and not wistful, there’s a part of him that idly dreams for a moment. He takes another, longer pull from his glass. He isn’t sure it’s helping him keep his sentimentality under control or if it’s making it worse.
He studies Alastor’s eyes, focused on Mimzy’s yapping, while creeping static begins to fill his ears. He doesn’t quite notice the noise until the neon glow of Alastor’s pink pupils flicker to him. The static roars, reaching its crescendo with an earsplitting burst of feedback.
–
Mimzy had refused Alastor’s gentlemanly offer to escort her home, to Vox’s delight. With a shrug, Alastor simply turned to Vox, and asked him if he’d like to return to his apartment for a nightcap.
They are both more drunk than either would like to admit. Alastor’s energy is clearly augmented by a handful of lines of coke. It wasn’t that Vox didn’t want to partake—he fucking missed it, in fact. His screen didn’t have the capacity to snort anything. (He has tried, but the one time he made the attempt with his gills all he got for it was a fiery pain that ached through his ribs all night and several hours blacked out. He might have even had a heart attack, who fucking knows.)
Vox fumbles with his key at the door only for Alastor’s tentacle to slip through the cracks and manipulate the tumblers. Vox is mildly discomfitted that it was that goddamn easy, but his heart also thumps in his chest imagining Alastor breaking into his apartment to…do what? He doesn’t know.
Alastor plops onto Vox’s couch and bends over the coffee table. At first Vox thinks that Al is doing more lines, but is relieved to see that he’s only rolling a joint. “Put on a pot of coffee, Vox? And perhaps that lovely aged stuff that you served last time?”
Vox shrugs off his coat and does as he’s asked. He returns with everything piled on a little serving tray. The little carafe, a set of mugs, a crystal decanter full of honey-colored alcohol, and two tumblers. He doesn’t bother with cream or sugar. Al takes his black, and so Vox does the same.
Vox serves the drinks while Alastor lights up. If Alastor wasn’t at least polite, Vox might feel like he’s being treated like his little errand boy. He burns his tongue on his coffee to try to distract himself when his cock twitches in his shorts at the thought. The coffee in hell sucks, even with sugar and cream. Bitter punishment, self-inflicted punishment.
The weed stinks, but the heady skunk smell is preferable to the sulfurous smell that permeates every corner of hell, or the rot or the sewage, depending on which specific corner. Alastor only huffs the tiniest cough, the cloud rolling from his parted lips in pretty waves. He offers it to Vox, and Vox takes it, chases the bitterness on his tongue away with the smoke.
“Do you believe in soulmates, Vox?”
Vox chokes, pounds on his chest with a fist as his lungs seize, smoke spat out in explosive little puffs. There are tears beaded in the corners of his eyes when he finally manages to catch his breath. All at once, the taste, the smell, the liquor all become immediately overwhelming, and his stomach lurches and his head spins.
Stumbling towards the ensuite bathroom, Vox sways and his head connects painfully with the door frame. Somewhere in all of the panic and urgent need to evacuate the contents of his stomach, he spares a worry for his screen or the chassis cracking. Somehow he makes it, finds the toilet bowl in the dimness of the unlit bathroom, and his elbows shake as he heaves and heaves and heaves. When there’s nothing left to throw up, he rests with his head propped up against the toilet seat. One shaky hand flushes the vile contents away. He barely flinches as his own sick splashes up against his screen.
He contemplates passing out in the bathroom, rather than facing Alastor again. He probably already left, excusing himself from Vox’s disastrous little episode. But then something cold and primal strikes in the center of his chest, and he turns, carefully, to not send his head spinning again, to see a shadow standing in his bedroom. The glow of Alastor’s eyes is animal, makes Vox remember what it was to be a child afraid of the dark. He never considered that the monsters that hid in darkness would ever arouse him.
“Come now, let's get you cleaned up,” Is what Alastor says, disarming, despite the menacing way he lurks in the dark. There’s a hum of static that seems to emanate from his chest as he grips Vox’s arm and levers him to his feet, one hand coming to steady his hip. Vox thinks that the sound is almost a purr, but it's much more likely to be irritation than anything else.
As they pass the mirror, the red glow catches bright against the tell tale splinter of a crack in his screen. Fuck.
Alastor leaves the lights off, blessedly, depositing Vox onto his bed, one leg dangling off the side where his foot can connect with the ground and keep the ceiling from rolling.
Alastor departs for a moment, only to return with a towel that he roughly wipes over Vox’s face. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to ask him to stop before anything gets pushed into the cracks in his screen. The awe he feels at the uncharacteristic attention is dimmed by the pounding in his head and the general suffering spread across his nerves. Vox simply breathes through it, wondering if Alastor has finally fled, when the bed dips with added weight.
Alastor settles next to him, radiating comforting heat.
“I know,” Alastor says, and Vox understands it as words meant to soothe, and not a confession.
Vox rolls to his side, stares at the grey features of his bedroom until his equilibrium settles. He drifts, exhausting pulling him under with urgent, grasping hands. He doesn’t hear it when Alastor draws close, and whispers:
“We’re inevitable, aren’t we?”
–
Seventy-ish years pass.
Vox is drunk, but clearly not quite enough. His hands linger on Alastor’s lapels, one claw reaching to toy with a button on his shirt.
“You—” Vox starts, cutting himself off, and licking his lips in thought. The alcohol seems to be gumming up whatever machine processors pass for his brain, because it takes him far too long. “Just—!” He tries again, and once again fails.
The urge to demand that Vox just get on with it and get it over with burns on Alastor’s tongue—but he is loath to give him permission. It could be argued that he is under duress, but Alastor would know the truth, and he would hate himself for it.
Vox is clearly struggling with something internally, his brow furrowed, his mouth working silently as he slogs through his thoughts, or wars with whichever impulse is the strongest. “Fuck,” he says under his breath, and then: “Fuck! Fuck!”
The finer details of their deal had become lost in the urgency of the situation. Alastor certainly hadn’t accounted for the possibility of Vox using the opportunity to molest him—and yet he can’t exactly say he is surprised by this turn.
“Since it seems that you can’t decide what to say, perhaps you ought to just…say it all. Bleed your pathetic little heart out on me, why not?” Alastor taunts, voice dripping with condescension. If nothing else, he can at least attempt to wring a confession or two out of Vox to his benefit. Perhaps if he gets him talking, he might even become too distracted, too emotional to go through with it.
“You don’t get it.” Vox finally says, his head drooping, his expression hidden at this angle.
“What, exactly, don’t I understand? Your little crush on me?”
The only warning Alastor gets before the shock hits is the prickling static that lifts the fine hairs at the back of his neck. His body jerks hard against his bonds as Vox looses volt after volt. His jaw locks, his lungs burn, and an endless moment passes. When Vox finally relents, lets go of him, the smell of burned flesh fills his nose. His heart stutters in his chest, pains him, fills him with a sudden extreme fatigue that has him drawing heavy, difficult breaths.
“When you looked at me, it was the first time it ever felt like anyone had seen me, and I didn’t have to say a word to you!” Alastor’s vision swims when he looks at Vox, black spots appearing and disappearing and painting the scene like cigarette burns.
“And I saw you, too.” Vox’s voice is small, and Alastor’s focus waxes and wanes although he tries, he can’t read his expression. For a moment, he blinks, and he’s taken back 70 years, seeing a different man with a distinctly shaped head before him.
“Vox,” is all Alastor manages. He shuts his eyes against the stinging, searing brightness of the lights above. Wetness dribbles over his lips, and at first he thinks that he is spilling tears, but then the copper taste registers and he understands that his nose is pouring blood.
“Shit.” Vox swears, and the rest of the world goes to match the darkness behind his closed eyes.
When he wakes, he has no idea how much time has passed, blinking sluggishly against a gritty feeling in his eyes. The previous scene comes back to him slowly, and he recognizes that he is staring up at the high ceiling of Vox’s penthouse suite, and that he is laid up upon Vox’s bed.
“Your heart stopped for a second.” Vox explains. Alastor’s neck feels stiff as he turns to find Vox sitting next to him, cigarette in hand, staring blankly across the room. “My, uh…my bad. I guess.”
“Fuck you,” Alastor wheezes. He coughs, pushes back against the ache in his chest as he forces his body upright, elbows resting on his bent knees while he adjusts, waits for the feeling to pass. Silence hangs between them.
“So much for how inevitable we are, huh?” Vox muses. Alastor doesn’t quite register the comment immediately, nor the low warble in Vox’s voice. When understanding clicks into place, he is struck by a cold feeling in his center, something that makes his skin crawl with discomfort.
“You were imagining things,” Alastor argues, cringing at how unconvincing it sounds to even his own ears.
“I kept my apartment tapped,” Vox explains. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Alastor needs a drink, something to quiet the drumming pulse in his head. Vox sits up slightly when he catches the movement of Alastor’s shadow tendrils rooting about the room. He only scoffs as one of the shadows emerges victorious, a nearly empty bottle of cheap scotch curled in its grip. Alastor finishes the bottle off in one go and tries to focus on the warmth in his belly rather than the rolling nausea that follows. He scrubs at | Do You Believe In Soulmates, Vox?
“Ey, listen to this one!” As if her grating voice isn’t enough, Mimzy nudges Vox several times with her elbow to make sure she has his attention.
He often wonders how Alastor tolerates her, but chalks it up to a mixture of amusement and an unselfconscious talent for partying. Vox mostly just finds her irritating. If he thinks about it for too long, especially while he’s drinking, he begins to wonder if Alastor finds him entertaining for similar reasons, if his own brand of annoying is what keeps him hanging around.
Vox’s gut clenches, and he tries to banish the thought with another sip of his drink.
“Go on, dear,” Alastor responds, indulgently. Vox merely grunts in acknowledgement.
“Okay, okay,” she continues excitedly, and then clears her throat with an exaggerated growl. “‘Seeking connections: Female, d.o.d: 1957. Do you believe in soulmates? Come find the truth. Fresh sinner, petite, blonde.’” She snorts and slaps her knee. “Can you believe this shit? Soulmates? Who makes it to this shithole and still believes in this crap?”
Vox’s abdomen tightens again, the feeling rippling uncomfortably throughout his body until he shivers with it. “Ha! She’s gonna get eaten alive.” He says, reacting with the appropriate amount of incredulity, and if there’s any warble in his voice, it can easily be blamed on the drink.
Alastor merely giggles, his head drooping and a finger tracing the rim of his glass. His ears bounce with the motion.
“Can you imagine?” He sighs.
“Putting out an invitation like that? Like a rabbit servin’ itself up on a platter for wolves.”
“Such fantasies,” Alastor says simply, and although Vox is sensible enough to know that Alastor is mocking and not wistful, there’s a part of him that idly dreams for a moment. He takes another, longer pull from his glass. He isn’t sure it’s helping him keep his sentimentality under control or if it’s making it worse.
He studies Alastor’s eyes, focused on Mimzy’s yapping, while creeping static begins to fill his ears. He doesn’t quite notice the noise until the neon glow of Alastor’s pink pupils flicker to him. The static roars, reaching its crescendo with an earsplitting burst of feedback.
–
Mimzy had refused Alastor’s gentlemanly offer to escort her home, to Vox’s delight. With a shrug, Alastor simply turned to Vox, and asked him if he’d like to return to his apartment for a nightcap.
They are both more drunk than either would like to admit. Alastor’s energy is clearly augmented by a handful of lines of coke. It wasn’t that Vox didn’t want to partake—he fucking missed it, in fact. His screen didn’t have the capacity to snort anything. (He has tried, but the one time he made the attempt with his gills all he got for it was a fiery pain that ached through his ribs all night and several hours blacked out. He might have even had a heart attack, who fucking knows.)
Vox fumbles with his key at the door only for Alastor’s tentacle to slip through the cracks and manipulate the tumblers. Vox is mildly discomfitted that it was that goddamn easy, but his heart also thumps in his chest imagining Alastor breaking into his apartment to…do what? He doesn’t know.
Alastor plops onto Vox’s couch and bends over the coffee table. At first Vox thinks that Al is doing more lines, but is relieved to see that he’s only rolling a joint. “Put on a pot of coffee, Vox? And perhaps that lovely aged stuff that you served last time?”
Vox shrugs off his coat and does as he’s asked. He returns with everything piled on a little serving tray. The little carafe, a set of mugs, a crystal decanter full of honey-colored alcohol, and two tumblers. He doesn’t bother with cream or sugar. Al takes his black, and so Vox does the same.
Vox serves the drinks while Alastor lights up. If Alastor wasn’t at least polite, Vox might feel like he’s being treated like his little errand boy. He burns his tongue on his coffee to try to distract himself when his cock twitches in his shorts at the thought. The coffee in hell sucks, even with sugar and cream. Bitter punishment, self-inflicted punishment.
The weed stinks, but the heady skunk smell is preferable to the sulfurous smell that permeates every corner of hell, or the rot or the sewage, depending on which specific corner. Alastor only huffs the tiniest cough, the cloud rolling from his parted lips in pretty waves. He offers it to Vox, and Vox takes it, chases the bitterness on his tongue away with the smoke.
“Do you believe in soulmates, Vox?”
Vox chokes, pounds on his chest with a fist as his lungs seize, smoke spat out in explosive little puffs. There are tears beaded in the corners of his eyes when he finally manages to catch his breath. All at once, the taste, the smell, the liquor all become immediately overwhelming, and his stomach lurches and his head spins.
Stumbling towards the ensuite bathroom, Vox sways and his head connects painfully with the door frame. Somewhere in all of the panic and urgent need to evacuate the contents of his stomach, he spares a worry for his screen or the chassis cracking. Somehow he makes it, finds the toilet bowl in the dimness of the unlit bathroom, and his elbows shake as he heaves and heaves and heaves. When there’s nothing left to throw up, he rests with his head propped up against the toilet seat. One shaky hand flushes the vile contents away. He barely flinches as his own sick splashes up against his screen.
He contemplates passing out in the bathroom, rather than facing Alastor again. He probably already left, excusing himself from Vox’s disastrous little episode. But then something cold and primal strikes in the center of his chest, and he turns, carefully, to not send his head spinning again, to see a shadow standing in his bedroom. The glow of Alastor’s eyes is animal, makes Vox remember what it was to be a child afraid of the dark. He never considered that the monsters that hid in darkness would ever arouse him.
“Come now, let's get you cleaned up,” Is what Alastor says, disarming, despite the menacing way he lurks in the dark. There’s a hum of static that seems to emanate from his chest as he grips Vox’s arm and levers him to his feet, one hand coming to steady his hip. Vox thinks that the sound is almost a purr, but it's much more likely to be irritation than anything else.
As they pass the mirror, the red glow catches bright against the tell tale splinter of a crack in his screen. Fuck.
Alastor leaves the lights off, blessedly, depositing Vox onto his bed, one leg dangling off the side where his foot can connect with the ground and keep the ceiling from rolling.
Alastor departs for a moment, only to return with a towel that he roughly wipes over Vox’s face. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to ask him to stop before anything gets pushed into the cracks in his screen. The awe he feels at the uncharacteristic attention is dimmed by the pounding in his head and the general suffering spread across his nerves. Vox simply breathes through it, wondering if Alastor has finally fled, when the bed dips with added weight.
Alastor settles next to him, radiating comforting heat.
“I know,” Alastor says, and Vox understands it as words meant to soothe, and not a confession.
Vox rolls to his side, stares at the grey features of his bedroom until his equilibrium settles. He drifts, exhausting pulling him under with urgent, grasping hands. He doesn’t hear it when Alastor draws close, and whispers:
“We’re inevitable, aren’t we?”
–
Seventy-ish years pass.
Vox is drunk, but clearly not quite enough. His hands linger on Alastor’s lapels, one claw reaching to toy with a button on his shirt.
“You—” Vox starts, cutting himself off, and licking his lips in thought. The alcohol seems to be gumming up whatever machine processors pass for his brain, because it takes him far too long. “Just—!” He tries again, and once again fails.
The urge to demand that Vox just get on with it and get it over with burns on Alastor’s tongue—but he is loath to give him permission. It could be argued that he is under duress, but Alastor would know the truth, and he would hate himself for it.
Vox is clearly struggling with something internally, his brow furrowed, his mouth working silently as he slogs through his thoughts, or wars with whichever impulse is the strongest. “Fuck,” he says under his breath, and then: “Fuck! Fuck!”
The finer details of their deal had become lost in the urgency of the situation. Alastor certainly hadn’t accounted for the possibility of Vox using the opportunity to molest him—and yet he can’t exactly say he is surprised by this turn.
“Since it seems that you can’t decide what to say, perhaps you ought to just…say it all. Bleed your pathetic little heart out on me, why not?” Alastor taunts, voice dripping with condescension. If nothing else, he can at least attempt to wring a confession or two out of Vox to his benefit. Perhaps if he gets him talking, he might even become too distracted, too emotional to go through with it.
“You don’t get it.” Vox finally says, his head drooping, his expression hidden at this angle.
“What, exactly, don’t I understand? Your little crush on me?”
The only warning Alastor gets before the shock hits is the prickling static that lifts the fine hairs at the back of his neck. His body jerks hard against his bonds as Vox looses volt after volt. His jaw locks, his lungs burn, and an endless moment passes. When Vox finally relents, lets go of him, the smell of burned flesh fills his nose. His heart stutters in his chest, pains him, fills him with a sudden extreme fatigue that has him drawing heavy, difficult breaths.
“When you looked at me, it was the first time it ever felt like anyone had seen me, and I didn’t have to say a word to you!” Alastor’s vision swims when he looks at Vox, black spots appearing and disappearing and painting the scene like cigarette burns.
“And I saw you, too.” Vox’s voice is small, and Alastor’s focus waxes and wanes although he tries, he can’t read his expression. For a moment, he blinks, and he’s taken back 70 years, seeing a different man with a distinctly shaped head before him.
“Vox,” is all Alastor manages. He shuts his eyes against the stinging, searing brightness of the lights above. Wetness dribbles over his lips, and at first he thinks that he is spilling tears, but then the copper taste registers and he understands that his nose is pouring blood.
“Shit.” Vox swears, and the rest of the world goes to match the darkness behind his closed eyes.
When he wakes, he has no idea how much time has passed, blinking sluggishly against a gritty feeling in his eyes. The previous scene comes back to him slowly, and he recognizes that he is staring up at the high ceiling of Vox’s penthouse suite, and that he is laid up upon Vox’s bed.
“Your heart stopped for a second.” Vox explains. Alastor’s neck feels stiff as he turns to find Vox sitting next to him, cigarette in hand, staring blankly across the room. “My, uh…my bad. I guess.”
“Fuck you,” Alastor wheezes. He coughs, pushes back against the ache in his chest as he forces his body upright, elbows resting on his bent knees while he adjusts, waits for the feeling to pass. Silence hangs between them.
“So much for how inevitable we are, huh?” Vox muses. Alastor doesn’t quite register the comment immediately, nor the low warble in Vox’s voice. When understanding clicks into place, he is struck by a cold feeling in his center, something that makes his skin crawl with discomfort.
“You were imagining things,” Alastor argues, cringing at how unconvincing it sounds to even his own ears.
“I kept my apartment tapped,” Vox explains. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Alastor needs a drink, something to quiet the drumming pulse in his head. Vox sits up slightly when he catches the movement of Alastor’s shadow tendrils rooting about the room. He only scoffs as one of the shadows emerges victorious, a nearly empty bottle of cheap scotch curled in its grip. Alastor finishes the bottle off in one go and tries to focus on the warmth in his belly rather than the rolling nausea that follows. He scrubs at the coagulated blood and leftover moisture that lingers on his lip.
“Giving up so easily isn’t like you,” Alastor declares, with as much composure as he can muster.
“Fuck off,” Vox says. “This isn’t a fucking romcom.” The latter statement seems to be exclusively for his own benefit.
When Vox’s wires attempt to wrangle him and remove him from the bed, likely to put him back into the godforsaken fucking chair, Alastor’s shadows snap at them to keep them at an arm’s length. “Oh, but I find you quite comedic.”
“I’m not in the mood, Alastor.”
“Funny! You were very much in a particular /mood/…” Alastor glances at the clock, surmising that little time has elapsed since he had passed out. “...only a few short minutes ago!”
Vox only scoffs unhappily, crossing his arms and staring straight ahead while his cigarette burns down in his fingers.
Before he can argue, Alastor says: “Come now, Vox. I know that I won’t hear the end of it until you get exactly what you want. You might as well get it over with so I don’t have to endure this pathetic one-sided mating ritual every night.”
“Alastor, what the fuck are you even talking about?!” Vox finally reacts with appropriate alarm, his face even illuminating with flush. “What game are you trying to play with me now?”
“You wound me, Vox.”
“I don’t, but it can be arranged.”
“That’s the spirit! Now—!” Alastor splays his legs wide, and pats his inner thigh in invitation. “Do what you will! I’ll lie here uncomplaining like a good little captive!”
Vox simply stares, eyes blown wide, literally expanding to fill half of his screen’s display. For a moment Alastor thinks he hasn’t quite convinced him, but then he shifts and crawls closer, one leg hooking over Alastor’s.
“I fucking hate you.”
“And I, you.” Alastor responds poetically.
Vox leans in, and Alastor stiffens for a moment on instinct. When Vox doesn’t proceed, he forces himself to relax, to let the tension slacken.
“You know…this means something to me,” Vox says.
“Ah-ah!” Alastor scolds, albeit gently. “I won’t tolerate your sentimentality.”
Even under threat of death, Alastor would never admit that what Vox gives him is exactly what he wants. He won’t tolerate meaninglessly saccharine declarations, but he will admit…passion speaks much louder through action, rather than words.
“You’re such a fucking prick.” Vox replies, and this time Alastor can see clear evidence of his fragility with the way that tears begin to shimmer cartoonishly in his eyes.
Alastor breathes through the inexplicable panic that bubbles in his gut, his hands coming up to grab the edges of Vox’s screen and keep him from drawing away. The look on his face is something akin to (teary-eyed) awe, or perhaps he is just drunk. The liquor Alastor just downed is starting to make his head feel fuzzy as well, not nearly as inebriated at Vox, but more than enough to do the job. Once he is confident that he won’t betray his distress at Vox’s tears, he leans in, opens his mouth, and licks across one eye, and then the other, collecting the salt-taste on his tongue and flatly ignoring Vox’s little hiss of pain or discomfort.
Alastor hums with mock pleasure and watches as Vox’s throat bobs with a heavy swallow. His eyes flicker down, and sure enough, there’s an obvious tent in Vox’s slacks. Curiously, Alastor’s thigh bumps up against Vox’s crotch, enjoys the way it makes his breath stutter and makes his body twitch in reaction.
Whatever reservations that Vox has, they seem to melt away as he finally leans in and kisses Alastor. Kissing is generally not Alastor’s favorite, he doesn’t quite understand the appeal of twining tongues and excessive drool—but he endures and perhaps it even makes something flutter in his chest as Vox thoroughly licks into his mouth.
And Vox’s hands stay busy all the while, petting up and down Alastor’s thighs, sliding ticklishly up his torso, palms fitting over the meager form of Alastor’s breasts, or where they ought to be under the layers of his ensemble. Still, Alastor can feel his nipples harden into peaks, the fabric of his undershirt feeling rough and unforgiving. When a high noise threatens to slip out of his throat, he tries to hide it in the timbre of a hum.
Vox makes a little amused noise, and begins to work on the line of buttons of Alastor’s shirt, surprisingly nimble for his state of inebriation. His jacket and his shirt sleeves threaten to crumple and tangle together as he shoves them from his shoulders impatiently. Once freed, Vox moves down Alastor’s body, his tongue glancing across his navel before he takes the hem of Alastor’s undershirt between his teeth and tugs it up as he surges forward.
He looks utterly ridiculous, and Alastor’s answering giggle is genuine. A moment later, he can’t mask the gasping curse that slips out as the wet heat of Vox’s tongue curls around one stiffened nipple. The attention becomes overstimulating quickly, and when the hard edge of Vox’s teeth scrape over the sensitive flesh, it doesn’t cut but it still stings and the sting feels good.
“Fuck,” Alastor says, and then with one shaking hand he fumbles twice before he successfully snaps, removing the remainder of his clothes. The temperate air that hits his naked skin is an immense relief.
“Oh, God!” Vox whimpers pathetically, his screen glowing brighter than ever as he takes in a newly bared Alastor. The glass surface feels nearly burning hot as it presses into Alastor’s chest and Alastor waits on pins and tenterhooks, awaiting the return of the wet warmth of Vox’s clever mouth to his tender breasts. Instead, he lifts himself to his elbows and crawls down, seizing Alastor’s thighs and tugging.
Alastor yelps with surprise as his body slides almost weightlessly, his spine lifting away from the surface of the bed with an undue amount of his weight resting on his neck and shoulders. Before he can complain, Vox instructs him: “Brace your feet—yeah like that.” Alastor understands immediately and complies, his knees bending and his hooves finding purchase in the muscled expanse of Vox’s back. All of the shared heat between them coalesces into a single focus point at the pinnacle of Alastor’s thighs.
Vox parts his labia with two fingers, exposing him. The tip of his tongue meets his flesh, flattening and dragging searingly up the length of his cunt, and the arousal is so intense that nearly feels like a cramp. Alastor is sure that Vox could simply repeat the motion a handful of times and that alone would be enough to make him climax so hard that he would see the face of god. His breath hitches as Vox does it again, and again.
Vox’s tongue finds and shallowly breaches his entrance, simply tracing around the rim with exquisite pressure. If the hard edges of his hooves or the points of his dewclaws are hurting Vox, it only seems to encourage him as he makes a throaty, deep groan that vibrates directly into Alastor’s cunt and nearly brings him to the edge.
His clit is throbbing, he is already so close, and he uses the leverage his hooves allow to move against Vox’s face, trying to wordlessly demand the last bit of stimulation he needs to finish. One probing flick of Vox’s tongue is all he needs to begin the cascading waves of a very hard climax. Vox chases the blinding heat of Alastor’s pleasure with expertise, his voice climbing higher and higher until he’s nearly howling with it.
When the tension drains from his limbs and he goes limp, Vox gently lowers Alastor back down to the bed, petting his thighs as he twitches with rippling little aftershocks.
Alastor’s eyes fall shut as he recovers from his heaving breaths. A moment later, he cracks them open once more as he hears the shuffling of fabric and the sound of a zipper. “God, you’re so fucking…” Vox cuts himself off with a noise that sounds nearly pained. His hand is wrapped around his cock and pulling in long, slow strokes. Even in a post-orgasmic haze, Alastor feels offended.
“I offer myself up to you like a cut of prime meat and you still have the audacity to touch yourself to the sight of me.” He clicks his tongue with disapproval.
Vox, the moron, has the gall to look like he doesn’t understand. He releases himself, hesitantly, his hand still hovering over his member and his brow furrowing. “W-what?” A little glitch distorts his screen for a split second.
“Put your cock in me, idiot.”
Vox glitches much harder this time. He grasps both of Alastor’s knees and glances between his sex and his face as if he has no idea how to proceed.
“Just get on w—” Alastor attempts to threaten, but Vox’s expression shifts, and with one shockingly competent motion he flips Alastor onto his belly. His claws leave gouges in the sheets as he’s yanked to his knees.
His body still flush with the feel-good chemicals of his climax, Alastor flinches as he feels Vox take his cock in hand and gently taps it against his cunt. He braces himself.
“Ready?”
“Mmm.” Alastor answers affirmatively, his face cushioned in his folded forearms.
There’s a heavy pressure at his entrance and the tension in Alastor’s body winds tighter. The force of it makes him feel like his nerves are live wires, and then Vox slips in, and Alastor releases his held breath with a ragged gasp.
An entirely different weight falls across the length of his body, Vox curling to drape himself across Alastor. Between the slight sting of penetration and Vox laying atop him like dead weight, it’s almost too much. The bed sheets tangle in his grip.
“Fuck, you’re so tight it—” Vox gasps in a little whimper, “—it almost hurts.”
“Just move,” Alastor complains, although there’s no venom behind it.
Vox doesn’t move. Instead, from his vantage, he noses through the sweat-dampened hair at Alastor’s nape and begins to kiss his neck. Static prickles ticklishly between each press of his lips. “Relax…please?” One hand slips around Alastor’s chest to play with one of his nipples.
Vox’s other hand slides soothingly up and down the curve of Alastor’s hip. Alastor realizes that he is trembling. He breathes and forces himself to relax, if not for his own comfort, to at least do away with the embarrassing virginal shivering.
“Perfect,” Vox says, low and breathy. His claws curl carefully into the meat of Alastor’s hip and he thrusts forward, pushing a little deeper. Gently, almost infuriatingly slowly, Vox works himself to the hilt little by little, his hips finally meeting Alastor’s ass with a little fleshy noise. Now/ he begins to move.
Vox’s thrusts are languorous, but still hard enough to make Alastor’s body sway forward with each motion. The discomfort of the snug fit begins to fade with each roll of Vox’s hips until Alastor's skin begins to prickle with hazy pleasure. The hand that braces against his hip suddenly slides under, Vox’s fingertips finding and rubbing up against his clit in tight, firm circles. This sudden surge of stimulation feels like being struck by lighting in a way that Alastor finds decidedly unpleasant.
He smacks Vox’s hand away. Vox stops fucking him, and Alastor whines, and then curses, humiliated. “I didn’t say ‘stop’! I just don’t want to cum again.”
“But—”
Alastor awkwardly thrusts back, trying to restore the comfortable rhythm that Vox abandoned. Vox makes a stupid noise, almost a gurgle, and resumes. “I don’t understand.” He says quietly between panting breaths.
But you don’t have to, do you? Being seen isn’t the same as being understood, is it?
Alastor enjoys the pleasure of the motion; it's warm, it's indulgent, and that’s all he needs or wants. He shudders when Vox’s movements speed up and become erratic, spitting breathless little curses as he reaches orgasm. A contented smile that Vox can’t see curls upon his lips as he layers little zapping kisses once again at his nape and across his naked shoulders.
—
In the morning, Alastor slithers out of Vox’s bed and into the ensuite bathroom. In Vox’s fancy over-engineered shower, he mutters to himself in disgust at the sheer amount of dried fluids that he has to scrub from his body. Admittedly the water pressure is nice, and the temperature reaches truly purifying levels.
When he emerges, Vox is conspicuously absent from both the bed and his bedroom entirely. Alastor finds him in the kitchen, where he is pissing in the sink.
“Disgusting!”
Vox startles, and thankfully his stream stutters enough that it doesn’t fling all over the counters. “Don’t fucking judge me!” He immediately snaps, as he tucks himself back into his shorts. “What, were you planning on taking a month long fucking shower in there?”
Alastor rolls his eyes, but bites his tongue against complaining about the state that Vox left him in overnight. He needs coffee, but first he needs disinfectant. He kneels, trying to find whatever idiotic hidden seam exists that will allow him access to the under-sink area. His search is cut short as wire wraps around his body whip-quick and yanks him to his feet.
“We have cleaning staff for that, if that’s what you’re trying to do. And it's time for you to get back in your chair.”
Vox blessedly, thoroughly washes his hands, and Alastor simply watches the way his fingers slip between each other and scrub. He notices Alastor staring, and flush begins to glow upon his face, his gaze pointedly looking anywhere but directly at Alastor.
“We can get coffee downstairs,” he says quietly, knowingly. With a sigh, he pulls Alastor along with him as he returns to his room to prepare for the day.
Alastor waits for him to complete his routine, once again restrained to his chair. He gazes boredly out the window.
“About last night…”
“No.”
They exchange a look. Alastor can’t quite read Vox’s expression.
“No, no.” He says, then, and it's clear that he’s slotting a mask into place. His next words are much louder, much more animated. “That’s exactly what I expected. Now, we have a lot to do today!”
Funnily enough, that’s exactly what Alastor expected, too. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77352906 | {"authors": ["ddddaikon"], "language": "English", "title": "Do You Believe In Soulmates, Vox?"} |
until something breaks that cannot be fixed
Techno is twenty-one, and still small and scrawny, and his good days are getting rarer and rarer.
It’s been- for a while, life has gone on pretty much as normal. Techno stays at home and reads, he lays out in the yard on sunny days, plays fetch with Blitz. He does his school work, finally reaching the last year level- which he is incredibly, brilliantly proud of. He’s worked so hard to get this far.
But now.
Phil watches him every day, of course he does. He’s still working the usual three days a week, but when he’s home, he just watches Techno. And he wants to deny it- god, he doesn’t want it to be true- but it is true.
Techno is getting worse.
He’s weaker. Stays mostly in bed or on the couch, sleeping more and more. He struggles to get up, to get around the house- some days, he seems too fatigued for even the most basic of tasks.
Phil doesn’t want this to be happening, but it is, and there is nothing to do about it but take care of his son.
At Techno’s next check-up, a social worker comes in to talk to them about next steps.
Techno is having a bad day- he’s exhausted, slumped against Phil’s side, too tired to hold himself upright or speak much. He’s so- so small. So fragile in Phil’s embrace.
She doesn’t say, in so many words, that Techno doesn’t have a lot of time left. That he’s dying.
She says it when she asks, what are your thoughts on long-term care. When she offers pamphlets about hospice, about nursing homes that could take him.
It’s not an option, and it never could be. Techno’s trauma aside, there’s no way, no universe in which Phil could give the care of his child over to strangers. Could let him out of his sight.
“We want to keep him at home,” Phil says. “That’s the only option.”
The social worker nods. “Techno? Is that what you want?” she asks.
Techno lifts his head slightly, letting it drop back on Phil’s shoulder almost right away, like he’s just too tired to do even that. “I don’t care,” he whispers. “Phil… he knows. What I want.”
Phil blinks hard. He can’t cry right now.
“Okay, so at-home care, you can definitely do that.” The social worker writes something down. “We can arrange for a hospice nurse to assist-”
“What kind of care will he need?” Phil asks.
“As Techno’s condition progresses, he’s probably going to need a lot of help with daily tasks. He’ll likely become bed-bound at some point. I really would recommend working with hospice care, they would be able to help both Techno and the rest of your family prepare.”
Techno flinches slightly, fingers closing in Phil’s shirt.
“I- yeah.” Phil glances at Techno. “We- we’ll think about it, yeah.”
The conversation goes on. Phil makes notes on his phone, typing with one hand.
She tells him Techno should have a caregiver in the home round-the-clock. That he’ll likely need help with bathing, eating, even just getting to the bathroom. That it’s only going to get more and more difficult, nigh-impossible, for Techno to move around the house.
It’s all so impossible to bear. Phil’s son is dying. Techno’s life that has held so much pain and misery is coming to an end (far too soon, for them, but to Techno he suspects it’s a relief, that at long last he’s going to be able to rest).
He bears up under it, because he must. Because Techno needs him to be strong.
Tommy’s starting college next fall. He’s working now, saving up money for tuition, because Phil and Kristin are spending so much on Techno’s medical care.
Tommy is sitting in the living room when Phil comes in- carrying Techno, who’s too fatigued to stand, just dead weight in Phil’s arms with his own arms looped around Phil’s neck.
“Hey- hey, you’re back.” Tommy stumbles over himself as he gets up from the couch. Blitz trots over, bouncing around Phil’s legs. “How- what did they say?”
Later, Phil mouths over Techno’s head. “Tech,” he says softly, “do you want to lie down?”
Techno’s jaw works. “Bed,” he whispers at last, nearly inaudible as if that, too, takes too much effort.
Phil settles him in bed, helping adjust his limbs till Techno’s curled up comfortably. Tucks a warm blanket over him, puts Steve under his arm. Blitz jumps up on the bed, curling up beside Techno and putting her head down on her front paws.
“You want the blackout curtains closed?” Phil asks softly.
“Yeah,” Techno breathes, eyes already closed. “Mm… my aids…”
“Yep. I’ve got you.” Phil closes the curtains, turns back to crouch over Techno and take his hearing aids out, putting them right into the charger on Techno’s bedside table.
The table is accumulating a lot of clutter. A glass of water, half-empty, that Phil will have to take and refill. Some snacks, in case Techno gets the energy to eat something. A nearly-empty package of peanuts- a good sign, since Phil checked the table yesterday afternoon and that wasn’t there then. The medication caddy, today’s sections empty- Phil is pretty sure they’ll have to take over Techno’s dosages soon. Probably even start giving them through his G-tube.
Techno closes his eyes, huddling down into the blankets slightly. Phil knows Techno won’t hear him if he says anything, so instead he smooths Techno’s hair, leans down to kiss his forehead.
He turns out the light and closes the door partway as he goes out. Tommy’s sitting at the kitchen table, fidgeting with something.
“How is he?” he asks, as soon as Phil comes into the room.
Phil takes a minute to put down the glass, and the trash. To just lean against the counter and compose himself.
“It’s- he’s not doing too well,” Phil says quietly. “We’ll talk about it more when Kristin gets home, but it… yeah. He’s really- really tired today, we should- let him rest.”
This has been a long time coming, and yet, no time at all. Techno has been in their lives for nine years- nine beautiful, heartbreaking, wonderful years. It’s not enough.
They’ve known for a long time that Techno wouldn’t get to live the long, happy, healthy life they hoped they could give him. The things his parents did (the things his parents failed to do) have left scars that are far too deep. He’s just not strong enough.
But this. This, Phil doesn’t know how to bear. Nine years, maybe ten if Techno makes it that long, isn’t enough. It will never be enough.
Techno doesn’t eat dinner with them that night. Phil checks on him, but he’s sound asleep, so instead he sets up the feeding tube. Techno doesn’t stir once- and Phil still isn’t comfortable doing this while he’s not aware, but they’ve talked about it, and Techno says it’s okay. And he does need to get food in him, even if he doesn’t have the energy to eat.
“How is he?” Kristin asks, the second Phil sits down.
He puts his head in his hands, taking a shaky breath. “It’s- bad,” he manages. “They’re recommending hospice.”
A clatter as Kristin puts down her spoon. “Oh,” she gets out after a minute.
“That’s-” Tommy’s breath hitches. “That’s for people who are dying.”
Kristin puts her hand on Phil’s arm. He takes a deep breath, wipes his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says, dull and defeated. “It’s end-of-life care. To- to try to keep him comfortable. They’re saying he- he’s gonna need a lot of help, even with just- just basic stuff. Bathing and going to the bathroom and all that. Eventually he’s gonna end up bed-bound, it’s…”
They’ve been talking about this for a long time. What could happen when Techno got to this point. They’ve talked about the possibilities- he might need this kind of care, or that; he might need to be helped around the house constantly, or he might be able to take care of himself a bit-
And these possibilities have come up before. They’ve even discussed potentially needing to hire someone to provide care, but the more Phil thinks about it, the less he likes that idea. They can’t send Techno away, and he can’t put his son’s care into someone else’s hands.
“What are the options?” Kristin asks. Steady, the way she always is- even though Phil knows that’s not how she’s feeling.
“We keep him here, or- or put him in a nursing home.”
“No,” Tommy says loudly. “Absolutely not. No.”
“No,” Phil repeats. “Obviously, we’re not doing that.”
Tommy deflates, slumping in his chair. “So- so we just, what, wait for him to- to-”
Phil nods, just staring at the table. “Pretty much.”
It’s not so simple as that, as waiting for Techno to- to- to die- but, essentially, that’s what all of this boils down to, isn’t it? Keeping him comfortable, out of pain, until it’s over.
~~~
“They’ve said you’ll need a caregiver round-the-clock,” Phil’s saying gently.
Techno nods, staring at Blitz lying across his lap. He’s a bit better today. The pain is bearable. Despite that, he’s too short of breath to get up and move around, and his feet are too swollen and painful to stand on for long. Phil helped him hobble to the bathroom, and then to sit in the recliner in the living room.
Phil’s telling him what the doctors had said in his appointment yesterday. Techno was far too tired to process any of it- hardly even to hear it.
“They’ve recommended we talk to hospice, have a nurse come in to help. Is that something you think would be okay?”
Techno’s brain fog is making it hard to remember things. Isn’t Phil supposed to be at work?
“Techno,” Phil says.
He blinks. “What?” he whispers.
“Do you think it would be okay for a hospice nurse to come in and help us take care of you?”
Techno doesn’t know how he feels about that. “Jus’ want you.”
“We’ll still be here,” Kristin says, leaning forwards. Techno’s gaze flicks over to her, though it’s hard- he’s so very tired. “We think it might be helpful to have someone to check on you every day and help us keep you comfortable.”
“Oh.” He smooths one hand over Blitz’s head, and she nudges into him. He’s so tired. “I… I guess that’s okay, then.”
“Okay.” Phil rubs his arm gently. “One of us will need to help you around the house.”
“That includes helping you in the bathroom and the shower,” Kristin adds. “If you’re not comfortable with me or Phil doing that, the nurse could-”
“Phil,” Techno says, as soon as he’s processed what they mean.
“Okay,” Phil says. “You understand what that means?”
It’s already been so hard to find the energy to get up and stagger to the bathroom, let alone shower. He’s had to take as long as a week between showers, sometimes. And it’s not like he has any sense of modesty left to preserve- they’ve both given him sponge baths, or been present in the room while he’s had them, a few times.
“Yes,” he whispers. “S’okay. Wan’ Phil.”
“Alright, mate. I’ll stay.”
Something stirs in his mind, and he looks between them. “Is… y’re s’posed t’be at work,” he whispers.
“I took the day off,” Phil says. “And this- we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about that.”
“Oh.” Techno sighs. “Is… that okay. Tha’ I want you to stay.”
His words are all slurring and stumbling over themselves. It’s so hard to talk, he’s so tired.
“Yes. Yes, Techno, of course it’s okay.” Phil’s hand slides down to squeeze his; Techno tries to return the grip, without any strength at all. “Whatever you want is okay. You can have anything at all.”
“Anything,” Kristin echoes. “All you have to do is ask, baby.”
Techno tries again to squeeze Phil’s hand. “Jus’ stay,” he whispers, tears springing to his eyes. “Please stay.”
Kristin takes his other hand, lifting it so she can lightly kiss his fingers. “Until the end,” she says softly.
Phil doesn’t say anything else, but he holds Techno’s hand a bit tighter, putting | until something breaks that cannot be fixed
Techno is twenty-one, and still small and scrawny, and his good days are getting rarer and rarer.
It’s been- for a while, life has gone on pretty much as normal. Techno stays at home and reads, he lays out in the yard on sunny days, plays fetch with Blitz. He does his school work, finally reaching the last year level- which he is incredibly, brilliantly proud of. He’s worked so hard to get this far.
But now.
Phil watches him every day, of course he does. He’s still working the usual three days a week, but when he’s home, he just watches Techno. And he wants to deny it- god, he doesn’t want it to be true- but it is true.
Techno is getting worse.
He’s weaker. Stays mostly in bed or on the couch, sleeping more and more. He struggles to get up, to get around the house- some days, he seems too fatigued for even the most basic of tasks.
Phil doesn’t want this to be happening, but it is, and there is nothing to do about it but take care of his son.
At Techno’s next check-up, a social worker comes in to talk to them about next steps.
Techno is having a bad day- he’s exhausted, slumped against Phil’s side, too tired to hold himself upright or speak much. He’s so- so small. So fragile in Phil’s embrace.
She doesn’t say, in so many words, that Techno doesn’t have a lot of time left. That he’s dying.
She says it when she asks, what are your thoughts on long-term care. When she offers pamphlets about hospice, about nursing homes that could take him.
It’s not an option, and it never could be. Techno’s trauma aside, there’s no way, no universe in which Phil could give the care of his child over to strangers. Could let him out of his sight.
“We want to keep him at home,” Phil says. “That’s the only option.”
The social worker nods. “Techno? Is that what you want?” she asks.
Techno lifts his head slightly, letting it drop back on Phil’s shoulder almost right away, like he’s just too tired to do even that. “I don’t care,” he whispers. “Phil… he knows. What I want.”
Phil blinks hard. He can’t cry right now.
“Okay, so at-home care, you can definitely do that.” The social worker writes something down. “We can arrange for a hospice nurse to assist-”
“What kind of care will he need?” Phil asks.
“As Techno’s condition progresses, he’s probably going to need a lot of help with daily tasks. He’ll likely become bed-bound at some point. I really would recommend working with hospice care, they would be able to help both Techno and the rest of your family prepare.”
Techno flinches slightly, fingers closing in Phil’s shirt.
“I- yeah.” Phil glances at Techno. “We- we’ll think about it, yeah.”
The conversation goes on. Phil makes notes on his phone, typing with one hand.
She tells him Techno should have a caregiver in the home round-the-clock. That he’ll likely need help with bathing, eating, even just getting to the bathroom. That it’s only going to get more and more difficult, nigh-impossible, for Techno to move around the house.
It’s all so impossible to bear. Phil’s son is dying. Techno’s life that has held so much pain and misery is coming to an end (far too soon, for them, but to Techno he suspects it’s a relief, that at long last he’s going to be able to rest).
He bears up under it, because he must. Because Techno needs him to be strong.
Tommy’s starting college next fall. He’s working now, saving up money for tuition, because Phil and Kristin are spending so much on Techno’s medical care.
Tommy is sitting in the living room when Phil comes in- carrying Techno, who’s too fatigued to stand, just dead weight in Phil’s arms with his own arms looped around Phil’s neck.
“Hey- hey, you’re back.” Tommy stumbles over himself as he gets up from the couch. Blitz trots over, bouncing around Phil’s legs. “How- what did they say?”
Later, Phil mouths over Techno’s head. “Tech,” he says softly, “do you want to lie down?”
Techno’s jaw works. “Bed,” he whispers at last, nearly inaudible as if that, too, takes too much effort.
Phil settles him in bed, helping adjust his limbs till Techno’s curled up comfortably. Tucks a warm blanket over him, puts Steve under his arm. Blitz jumps up on the bed, curling up beside Techno and putting her head down on her front paws.
“You want the blackout curtains closed?” Phil asks softly.
“Yeah,” Techno breathes, eyes already closed. “Mm… my aids…”
“Yep. I’ve got you.” Phil closes the curtains, turns back to crouch over Techno and take his hearing aids out, putting them right into the charger on Techno’s bedside table.
The table is accumulating a lot of clutter. A glass of water, half-empty, that Phil will have to take and refill. Some snacks, in case Techno gets the energy to eat something. A nearly-empty package of peanuts- a good sign, since Phil checked the table yesterday afternoon and that wasn’t there then. The medication caddy, today’s sections empty- Phil is pretty sure they’ll have to take over Techno’s dosages soon. Probably even start giving them through his G-tube.
Techno closes his eyes, huddling down into the blankets slightly. Phil knows Techno won’t hear him if he says anything, so instead he smooths Techno’s hair, leans down to kiss his forehead.
He turns out the light and closes the door partway as he goes out. Tommy’s sitting at the kitchen table, fidgeting with something.
“How is he?” he asks, as soon as Phil comes into the room.
Phil takes a minute to put down the glass, and the trash. To just lean against the counter and compose himself.
“It’s- he’s not doing too well,” Phil says quietly. “We’ll talk about it more when Kristin gets home, but it… yeah. He’s really- really tired today, we should- let him rest.”
This has been a long time coming, and yet, no time at all. Techno has been in their lives for nine years- nine beautiful, heartbreaking, wonderful years. It’s not enough.
They’ve known for a long time that Techno wouldn’t get to live the long, happy, healthy life they hoped they could give him. The things his parents did (the things his parents failed to do) have left scars that are far too deep. He’s just not strong enough.
But this. This, Phil doesn’t know how to bear. Nine years, maybe ten if Techno makes it that long, isn’t enough. It will never be enough.
Techno doesn’t eat dinner with them that night. Phil checks on him, but he’s sound asleep, so instead he sets up the feeding tube. Techno doesn’t stir once- and Phil still isn’t comfortable doing this while he’s not aware, but they’ve talked about it, and Techno says it’s okay. And he does need to get food in him, even if he doesn’t have the energy to eat.
“How is he?” Kristin asks, the second Phil sits down.
He puts his head in his hands, taking a shaky breath. “It’s- bad,” he manages. “They’re recommending hospice.”
A clatter as Kristin puts down her spoon. “Oh,” she gets out after a minute.
“That’s-” Tommy’s breath hitches. “That’s for people who are dying.”
Kristin puts her hand on Phil’s arm. He takes a deep breath, wipes his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says, dull and defeated. “It’s end-of-life care. To- to try to keep him comfortable. They’re saying he- he’s gonna need a lot of help, even with just- just basic stuff. Bathing and going to the bathroom and all that. Eventually he’s gonna end up bed-bound, it’s…”
They’ve been talking about this for a long time. What could happen when Techno got to this point. They’ve talked about the possibilities- he might need this kind of care, or that; he might need to be helped around the house constantly, or he might be able to take care of himself a bit-
And these possibilities have come up before. They’ve even discussed potentially needing to hire someone to provide care, but the more Phil thinks about it, the less he likes that idea. They can’t send Techno away, and he can’t put his son’s care into someone else’s hands.
“What are the options?” Kristin asks. Steady, the way she always is- even though Phil knows that’s not how she’s feeling.
“We keep him here, or- or put him in a nursing home.”
“No,” Tommy says loudly. “Absolutely not. No.”
“No,” Phil repeats. “Obviously, we’re not doing that.”
Tommy deflates, slumping in his chair. “So- so we just, what, wait for him to- to-”
Phil nods, just staring at the table. “Pretty much.”
It’s not so simple as that, as waiting for Techno to- to- to die- but, essentially, that’s what all of this boils down to, isn’t it? Keeping him comfortable, out of pain, until it’s over.
~~~
“They’ve said you’ll need a caregiver round-the-clock,” Phil’s saying gently.
Techno nods, staring at Blitz lying across his lap. He’s a bit better today. The pain is bearable. Despite that, he’s too short of breath to get up and move around, and his feet are too swollen and painful to stand on for long. Phil helped him hobble to the bathroom, and then to sit in the recliner in the living room.
Phil’s telling him what the doctors had said in his appointment yesterday. Techno was far too tired to process any of it- hardly even to hear it.
“They’ve recommended we talk to hospice, have a nurse come in to help. Is that something you think would be okay?”
Techno’s brain fog is making it hard to remember things. Isn’t Phil supposed to be at work?
“Techno,” Phil says.
He blinks. “What?” he whispers.
“Do you think it would be okay for a hospice nurse to come in and help us take care of you?”
Techno doesn’t know how he feels about that. “Jus’ want you.”
“We’ll still be here,” Kristin says, leaning forwards. Techno’s gaze flicks over to her, though it’s hard- he’s so very tired. “We think it might be helpful to have someone to check on you every day and help us keep you comfortable.”
“Oh.” He smooths one hand over Blitz’s head, and she nudges into him. He’s so tired. “I… I guess that’s okay, then.”
“Okay.” Phil rubs his arm gently. “One of us will need to help you around the house.”
“That includes helping you in the bathroom and the shower,” Kristin adds. “If you’re not comfortable with me or Phil doing that, the nurse could-”
“Phil,” Techno says, as soon as he’s processed what they mean.
“Okay,” Phil says. “You understand what that means?”
It’s already been so hard to find the energy to get up and stagger to the bathroom, let alone shower. He’s had to take as long as a week between showers, sometimes. And it’s not like he has any sense of modesty left to preserve- they’ve both given him sponge baths, or been present in the room while he’s had them, a few times.
“Yes,” he whispers. “S’okay. Wan’ Phil.”
“Alright, mate. I’ll stay.”
Something stirs in his mind, and he looks between them. “Is… y’re s’posed t’be at work,” he whispers.
“I took the day off,” Phil says. “And this- we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about that.”
“Oh.” Techno sighs. “Is… that okay. Tha’ I want you to stay.”
His words are all slurring and stumbling over themselves. It’s so hard to talk, he’s so tired.
“Yes. Yes, Techno, of course it’s okay.” Phil’s hand slides down to squeeze his; Techno tries to return the grip, without any strength at all. “Whatever you want is okay. You can have anything at all.”
“Anything,” Kristin echoes. “All you have to do is ask, baby.”
Techno tries again to squeeze Phil’s hand. “Jus’ stay,” he whispers, tears springing to his eyes. “Please stay.”
Kristin takes his other hand, lifting it so she can lightly kiss his fingers. “Until the end,” she says softly.
Phil doesn’t say anything else, but he holds Techno’s hand a bit tighter, putting his head down on the arm of the chair. Techno is almost too tired to cry, but he does, clinging to Phil and Kristin’s hands as tightly as he can.
Waking up is so, so hard.
Techno’s chest hurts almost all the time now, but it’s worse when he wakes up. Everything is worse first thing in the morning. The pain, the stiffness, the brain fog.
Today is one of the very bad days. When Techno struggles to hold on to thoughts, when moving is too tiring, when he feels hungry but eating sounds so unappealing.
“Techno.”
Techno blinks. He didn’t realize Phil came in, but there he is, crouching in front of Techno, one hand already in his hair. Blitz is there- she’s always there, though. She’s licking his hand.
“You doin’ okay?”
Techno tries to shake his head, but he can’t. “No,” he breathes. Even the nearly-soundless syllable makes his voice crack. “F- feel so bad.”
“Oh, honey.” Phil leans in to kiss his forehead. Techno closes his eyes, relaxing into it. “I’m so sorry. Do you need something for the pain?”
“No,” he whispers. “Not… not th’ pain.”
“Tired?”
“Brain foggy.” A whine slips out in spite of himself. “Can’ think.”
“Okay. That’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to do anything today if you don’t want to, you can just rest.”
Phil helps him sit up, piling pillows up around him. Techno’s gaze slips to the side, something… something doesn’t look right…
“M… my meds,” he manages after a minute of staring at the bedside table. “Where…”
“I took over those a few days ago,” Phil says gently, and that… Techno feels like he should’ve remembered that. “Do you need something?”
“N… no.”
He stares at the table for another minute. When he looks up, Phil is looking at him expectantly. Techno doesn’t… understand. “Sorry, did… did you…”
“It’s okay.” Phil rests his hand on Techno’s. “I was just asking if you thought you could try to eat something?”
A whimper slips out of him. He doesn’t… he can’t, he just can’t.
Phil sighs, quietly, and he doesn’t sound upset and Techno is too dulled to react anyway.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get you a bag of formula, you think you can manage that at least?”
Techno’s breath hitches, he doesn’t want that, but- “’ll try.”
“Okay. First, I’m gonna prep your meds, okay?”
Techno shakes his head uselessly. “I… I can’ eat.”
“You don’t have to try to swallow any pills,” Phil says gently. “I can put them through your G-tube, remember?”
“Oh.” Techno frowns. “How…”
“I’m gonna crush up your pills and mix them with some water.” Phil is so… so patient, even though he’s probably already explained this. “Then I can give it to you through the tube, and you don’t have to try to do anything. Okay?”
“Mm-hm.” He blinks, slow and tired. “I w… wanna go back t’sleep.”
“Okay.” Phil had been getting up, but now he sits back down, taking Techno’s hand again. “You can sleep. I’m gonna give you your meds, and then run a feed. Is that okay?”
“Jus’ half?” Techno’s breath hitches. “’m really not hungry.”
Phil’s expression softens. “Okay, Techno. We can do half. You try to get some more rest, okay?”
~~~
It’s been days since Techno ate.
And it’s not like he isn’t getting any nutrition- he’s still tolerating the feeds, half a bag at a time, but he just doesn’t want to eat. And it’s killing Phil to watch Techno just lie there, doing so little and hardly ever asking to be taken out of bed and not eating.
Because Techno- he loves food. He’s never been a picky eater, devouring everything that’s set before him. But now-
Phil follows a schedule. Kristin’s working five days a week now, and Tommy is old enough to drive himself around and do whatever he wants, and Phil is left to care for his son’s failing body.
Today, Wednesday, is bath day. One of three Phil plans throughout the week. At first twice a week was fine, but Techno’s struggling to get to the bathroom, and it’s become necessary to bathe him more frequently.
Phil did sponge baths at first, until Techno managed to express his preference for an actual proper bath. Now, he fills the tub with warm water- not too hot, but enough to get some warmth back into Techno’s body- and lets Techno soak in it till the water cools.
“M’sorry…”
Phil pauses, setting the rag down to cup Techno’s face. “What for, honey?” he murmurs.
Techno blinks, lifting his head slightly. “You’re doin’… so much work…” He sighs. “An’ I… know you’re worried. ‘bout me.”
“I always worry about you,” Phil says automatically, getting back to work, gently wiping the cloth over Techno’s skin. “And… you’re right. I am worried.”
“Sorry,” Techno repeats weakly.
“It’s not your fault. Don’t apologize, Techno, you can’t help this.”
Techno lifts his arm before Phil can reach over and do it for him. The movement is weak, and Techno’s not able to move as much as Phil needs him to, but it’s something. Most days he’s barely able to move at all, he is so weak and fatigued.
“Does… it ever hurt that I can’t… call you dad?”
Phil contemplates his answer for a second. If he’s to be honest, he should say yes, that it used to. He doesn’t lie to Techno, if he can help it. But this is a time when a lie is necessary, is kinder.
“No, Techno, I don’t mind. You’re still mine- still ours- no matter what you call us.”
Another sigh. “Sometimes… I wish I could. I wish you were my mum an’ dad.”
“We do, too.” Phil can’t pause to think about how awful it is, the nine years they’ve had to care for Techno versus the twelve he suffered his parents’ abuse. It isn’t enough. It can’t ever be enough. “It’s okay, sweetheart. That doesn’t change that we love you. Nothing can change that.”
There’s the barest smile on Techno’s face. “I know.”
It also doesn’t change the fact that Techno calls them Mom and Dad every time he says their names. His voice has long since lost that little bit of awe, the love etched into every syllable, but the casualness of it almost makes it mean more.
Phil finishes Techno’s bath in silence. Dresses him, and carries him back to bed.
“It’s about lunch time,” Phil says softly. “Can you eat?”
This time, Techno doesn’t lift his head off the pillow- barely strains as if to make an effort. “I don’ think so,” he whispers.
Phil, anxious and desperate for any kind of sign of the old Techno, clasps one bone-thin hand between both of his. “Is there anything you could eat?” he begs. “Anything at all? I’ll get you whatever you want, Techno, no matter what it is.”
A look crosses that tired face, something Phil can’t make out exactly. Something similarly desperate and sorrowing and so, so tired.
Techno doesn’t answer, though. Finally, Phil gets up, moves away to get the feeding tube supplies.
“Strawberries.”
It’s the barest whisper, nearly silent. The medication bottle almost slips out of Phil’s hands. “What?”
“Strawberries,” Techno repeats. Gazing at Phil with tears glittering in his eyes.
“Oh. Oh!” Phil could swear his heart skips a beat. “Yes. Yes, mate, I- we’ll get you strawberries.”
It’s getting towards winter, and strawberries are thoroughly out of season, and they will be expensive. Ridiculously expensive.
Techno wants strawberries, nothing else will do, and by god is Phil going to make it happen.
Techno slips back into sleep then, or at least just lays there, eyes closed. Phil grabs his phone, tapping out a message to Kristin so quickly it takes him five tries to type the words properly.
Phil: Techno wants strawberries, can you stop and get him some
It takes a minute for her to reply. Phil’s hands shake as he sorts pills into the day-by-day organizer, stopping to count several times to make sure he has the right number of each one.
Kristin: He asked?
Phil: yes
Phil: he wants strawberries just please
Phil: he needs this
He knows the urgency of the request isn’t lost on her. Kristin knows just as well as Phil does how hard it’s been, how little Techno’s wanted. Not just food, but anything at all. Like he’s retreating back into himself the longer the days go on.
They don’t- can’t- fault him for it- he is dying after all- but it’s still so gut-wrenching. To watch Techno’s personality fade away, drained into silence.
And so, the desperation. The reminders that any request, for anything at all, will be fulfilled. That whatever he wants, he can have, no matter how hard it might be to get.
Kristin: I’ll be home early then
Kristin: I’m leaving right now, I’ll get them if I have to drive to Kinoko
Phi’s breath hitches over a sob, or a laugh, or both. He looks back over at Techno- who’s almost definitely sleeping, now.
He whispers it into the silence anyway.
“Kristin’s getting you strawberries,” he whispers. “And anything else you might want. All you have to do is ask.”
“I got them,” Kristin says breathlessly, when Phil opens the bedroom door. She holds up a plastic carton of perfectly plump, perfectly red strawberries. “I didn’t have to go quite all the way to Kinoko- anyway, I-” Her voice sinks to a whisper. “I took the sticker off. He shouldn’t have to worry about that.”
“Thank you. I love you so fucking much, you know that?”
“Of course.” She kisses him. “How is he?” she asks, still quiet.
“Resting. He- he’s been pretty quiet, after he asked. I think he- he might be a little bit better? I don’t know.”
“That’s- it’s good.” Kristin rests her head against his. “Good.”
‘Better’ is all relative now, of course. It’s only a matter of time until ‘better’ is replaced by ‘declining’ and then by ‘gone’. Each good day Techno has is outweighed by the number of bad days there are to come. Each ‘good’ day is one more day he lingers, too fatigued and in too much pain to move.
Phil wants time with Techno, of course he does, but not like this. He doesn’t want Techno to suffer- and right now, he is suffering. He won’t take anything stronger than naproxen for the pain. He doesn’t want his mind to be clouded by drugs.
“Thank you,” Phil repeats, kissing Kristin again. “Come on, come in and give them to him.”
She follows him in quietly- not that it matters, because the second Phil’s hand touches his shoulder, Techno blinks. Slowly at first, then faster, squinting at Kristin like he doesn’t quite know what he’s seeing.
“Hi, baby.” She sits on the edge of the bed beside his legs.
Techno opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. “Kris’n?” he slurs at last, frowning. “Y… y’re early… right?”
“I am. Someone told me you needed some strawberries.”
She holds up the carton, and Techno’s eyes just light up. Phil’s breath hitches painfully in his chest at the sight- Techno hasn’t looked like that, so bright and so fucking happy, since- since- he can’t even remember when.
Kristin’s breath catches, too, but Phil doesn’t look at her- he can’t take his eyes off of Techno. The little bit of life breathed back into him is the most fucking beautiful thing Phil’s ever seen.
“Here,” Kristin says after a second, still slightly choked up. The plastic crinkles and pops. “Here, sweetheart, have one.”
“Have as many as you want,” Phil says, probably sounding a little insane- sue him, it’s been nearly a week since Techno actually ate. “They’re for you.”
Techno reaches for the container, but his hands shake and it’s clear he just won’t have the strength. Phil doesn’t wait for Techno to say anything- just picks one, and holds it to his mouth so he can take a bite.
And he’d almost worry that they’ve fucked up somehow, because Techno’s breath catches and his eyes well up with tears, but then-
He smiles. Techno, weak and sick and wasting away, smiles. Tiny and fragile and perfect and everything.
“S’good,” he whispers, after he’s swallowed the bite he took. “Perfect.”
“Good. Good,” Kristin breathes. “Oh, Tech, I’m so glad.”
He glances between them, tears trickling down his cheeks. “More?”
“Of course.”
It’s so little, but it’s everything at the same time. Just to see Techno finally, finally eat something.
It happens during a visit with Techno’s hospice nurse.
She comes twice a week. There isn’t much she can do for him, it’s all comfort care now that Techno mostly refuses, but she still comes.
And at every visit, she asks Techno the same question.
“Is there anything you want that I can help you with?”
Usually Techno says no. Or asks her to adjust some medication or other to help relieve one of his symptoms. To ease the pain, or better control the heart palpitations, or clear the brain fog a bit more.
Today, though.
Today, Techno inhales shakily, thin fingers twitching weakly around Phil’s hand.
“I… I want… to have my G-tube removed,” he whispers, nearly inaudible.
Phil’s heart just about stops.
“No,” he breathes, before he can stop himself. “Techno-”
The nurse gently lays her hand on Phil’s arm, stopping anything else he might have been going to say. “Techno,” she says quietly, “I need to know that you understand what you’re asking for. You’re getting all of your nutrition through the tube, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Techno whispers.
“So it’s likely that if the tube is removed, you will not be able to meet your nutritional requirements orally.”
“I’ll starve, and die.” A shudder runs through Techno’s body. “I understand.”
“Please,” Phil can’t help saying. Tears burning behind his eyes. He can’t- not like this, Techno can’t- “Tech, mate-”
“Phil,” he says, weak and quiet and so, so filled with love and pain. Watching him with something so very old and tired behind those eyes. “It’s… over soon, anyway. ‘n I… want it gone. Jus’ for once.”
Phil fights the sobs that threaten to choke him. “Y- yeah,” he manages. He knows- god does he know how much Techno hates the tube. “I- I know.”
Not like this, though. It shouldn’t happen like this, it should not be this way. Not when Techno spent so much of his life underfed and hungry, not when he knows that feeling all too well.
“Just- fuck, mate, I don’t want you to suffer. I don’t want you to have to- to go through that again.”
“If it helps,” the nurse says quietly, making Phil startle a bit- he’d kind of forgotten she was there- “you may not feel it very much, Techno. Phil’s notes would indicate you’ve had less of an appetite lately, right?”
A weak nod.
“This is pretty common at end-of-life,” the nurse says, still so quiet. “Your body’s systems start to shut down, and you have less desire or need for food. There are medications you can take to make it easier-”
Techno nods, very weakly squeezing Phil’s hand. He looks so- so resigned. Like he’s lost whatever last thing was giving him the will to hold on.
“I want it over,” he whispers. “I want… is, is there something stronger… for the pain?”
“Yes,” the nurse says. “I can give you-”
“Anything,” Techno rasps, interrupting. “I just wan’ it to stop.”
“He’s given up,” Phil says that night, leaning all his weight on the kitchen table. Kristin inhales sharply; Tommy is silent. Phil feels like he’s falling, falling out of control, spiraling into a deep dark abyss. “They’re sending someone over tomorrow to remove his G-tube, and then…”
Tommy sobs quietly. Phil can’t lift his head. There’s nothing left inside him but grief and even that is dulled, numbed by the sheer much of it all.
“The nurse started him on morphine,” Phil whispers. “He’s… it’ll help. With the hunger pangs. If he… she said it does tend to go. Near the end. He might not feel it anymore. He just- I think he just doesn’t want to die with that damned tube in him.”
Techno has always hated the feeding tube. Tolerated it, because he had to, but hated it. And Phil can understand that now, at the end, he would just want it gone.
Silence. The quiet is so heavy. They’ve all been carrying this for so long, and now…
Phil doesn’t know what’s kept Techno hanging on so long. Maybe it was them. Maybe it was Phil, though he can hardly believe that- but Techno’s always been so attached to him, it was Phil he wanted to care for him when he couldn’t care for himself anymore. Maybe it was Blitz, or Tommy, or Kristin. Maybe it was some thing in Techno’s own heart that Phil will never know about.
Whatever it was, he’s either found it, or let go of it. And now he’s given up.
At least he’s finally accepting the drugs that will stop the pain. At least he’s not going to suffer. It’s the only comfort in this whole howling storm of pain and grief- that Techno won’t be suffering, at least for a short time.
Even if Phil knows it is going to destroy him to watch his son waste away and die, still and silent and everything he was when he came to them, everything he’s been fighting so hard to overcome.
Nine and a half years isn’t enough. Techno was supposed to have more time with them, he was supposed to gain some degree of independence and maybe, someday, be able to leave the house without one of them with him.
Instead, there is this.
After what feels like hours, Phil picks himself back up and staggers down the hall to sit at Techno’s bedside again. He’s sleeping- unconscious- pulled down by the opioids- lying so, so still, one hand curled around Steve and the other resting on Blitz, who’s laying beside him. Phil’s never been good at reading the dog’s body language, but the way she looks up at him and then puts her head back down on Techno’s hip seems… sad.
Techno is so pale, face sunken and hollow. His eyelids flicker, like he’s dreaming; his hair is pulled into a braid, brittle and brown and fading to pink at the tips where he’s growing out the last of the dye.
This is Phil’s son. This is what remains of his son. Still so, so young, and yet so worn and tired. He’s been through so much.
They made him so many promises on that first day, so long ago. Phil thinks- hopes- prays- that they kept all of them.
It has always been anything you want, you can ask for, and we will do everything we can to make it happen. This, now, is possibly one of the last things Techno is asking for. To be allowed to spend his last few days without the much-despised feeding tube; to not be in pain.
Phil has never been able to deny him anything.
Techno is so, so quiet.
Phil holds him as much as he can, because Techno is always so cold now. Techno shivers less and is so much calmer in Phil’s arms, resting against his chest. With Blitz lying across his lap, the way she’s always liked- the way Techno likes.
Techno is barely conscious, though. The pain medication is so strong- and at least he’s not suffering, but he’s not- he’s so confused and quiet and so, so painfully still.
He’s wasting away into nothing at all, and Phil knows he doesn’t have much time left.
And for all his agonizing- for all Phil watches and worries and spends every spare second cradling Techno in his arms- it’s so quick and quiet and easy that for a few minutes he doesn’t know it’s happened at all.
Blitz is whining. That’s what Phil notices first.
And then, that he doesn’t know the last time Techno took a breath.
Phil gently shifts Techno in his arms, placing his fingertips against a pulse point, and-
Nothing, not even the weakest of flutters.
Phil’s own heart feels cold. He gathers Techno closer- Techno’s body- pressing his lips to his son’s forehead. Blitz whimpers, putting her head back down on Techno’s lap.
It was so quiet and so easy that Phil hopes Techno didn’t realize it was happening. That he just- went to sleep. He wouldn’t have felt a thing, in any case- that was why he asked for the strong painkillers. He didn’t want to be in pain anymore.
This last week, he hasn’t been in pain. He hasn’t felt pain, or hunger, or breathlessness, as his body’s systems slowed and, finally, stopped.
A soft sob breaks from Phil’s chest. He cradles Techno’s body closer, rocking him gently, crying into his dry, brittle hair.
“I’m so sorry,” he whimpers. “I’m so sorry, Techno. I love you. I love you so much. I’m so sorry it came to this.”
~~~
Kristin gets home, and sets her bag down, and then she sees Tommy curled up in a tight little knot on the couch, hugging Blitz.
“Hey, sweetheart, is something wrong?”
A dry sob. “Te- Techno-”
No. Oh, no.
She hurries down the hall to Techno’s room. To where Phil is sitting on the bed, cradling their son in his arms. Techno is still- far, far too still.
“Phil,” she says, and that’s all she can manage.
He doesn’t react right away. When he does, it’s to take a shuddering breath, to press Techno’s frail body closer.
“It- it was easy,” he whispers. “He wasn’t- I don’t think he knew. I was holding him, and he didn’t- I didn’t notice right away. Until he just- he wasn’t breathing, and I checked his pulse, and he- he wasn’t-”
Another heaving, shuddering breath. Kristin’s heart breaks.
“But he, he didn’t suffer. He didn’t suffer,” Phil says. “He went easily.”
They knew this was coming, knew it was going to be soon, but she never could have been ready. Could not in any way have been prepared to come home to find him gone.
He went easily, and Techno deserves that final respite. A painless end to a life full of suffering.
“I- I called the hospice nurse,” Phil gets out after a minute. “She’s on her way, to help us…”
Kristin forces herself to move. To walk across the room and sit on the side of the bed. She takes one of the limp, bone-thin hands, clasping it between her palms.
Techno’s fingers are so cold.
“Was he sleeping?” she whispers, cupping his face. He looks so much thinner, so much more worn and tired, than he did even when he came to them.
Phil nods, breath hitching. “I think. He- he was so- so out of it all the time this last week, with the drugs, it- it was hard to tell. But- I was holding him, and I think he was sleeping, and he… just went.”
Kristin swipes away tears. “He deserved that,” she whispers, nearly silent. “For it to be easy. To- to not know.”
And soon the hospice nurse will be here, and they’ll have to let go of Techno and put his body to rest, but for now, they have these last few moments alone with their son. Just to hold him, to grieve the time he should have had. To mourn for all the suffering he went through in the time he did have.
Kristin knows Phil had been planning to put Steve in the casket before they closed it.
But when the time comes, he clutches the worn stuffed bear closer, shaking his head. Crying into the matted fur.
“I can’t,” he whimpers. “I can’t.”
They’d said, earlier that day, he took Steve everywhere. He should get to have him now.
Phil is still clinging to the bear, and Kristin won’t press the issue. Whatever they’d decided before, it’s unimportant now.
Phil had wanted Techno to have Steve with him. Techno used to take his bear almost everywhere, clinging to it like some physical reminder that he is loved and safe.
She thinks he would understand them needing to hold on to this, as a reminder that they loved him. That he was here, and he was theirs, and he was loved and adored and so, so precious to them.
She thinks Techno would want them to have this piece of him to hold on to.
Tommy is pretty quiet. He hasn’t said much- not to them, not at all that Kristin’s aware of. He seems upset- of course he is- but he’s seemed uncomfortable with everything, too.
They’d asked him if he wanted to help with the body, and he’d said no. He hadn’t wanted to help them clean Techno’s room or help arrange things for the funeral and he hasn’t gotten close enough to the casket to look at Techno’s body.
And that’s fine, because it has to be. Because whatever Tommy needs to do to grieve is okay. Even if, right now, that’s not grieving at all, at least not outwardly.
Phil’s hardly stopped crying. They’re both taking it hard, but Kristin knows he’s taking it harder. He spent every day for the last several months caring for Techno as he got weaker and weaker, as he wasted away into nothing. They’ve both spent months preparing for this, and yet, she knows, it’s nothing they could ever have been prepared for at all.
Nine and a half years. It was meant to be more, it should’ve been more.
“Phil,” Kristin says, after what feels like a long, long time, “we need to go now.”
“No.” His breath hitches with another sob. “No, I can’t, I’m not- not ready-”
She isn’t ready. She will never be ready.
“I know,” she whispers. “I know, but we- we need to lay him to rest. It’s time to let him go.”
She hates the words. It’s something utterly impossible to carry, impossible to say. They were never supposed to have to let him go, at least not for a long time, and he was supposed to get better before getting worse. He wasn’t supposed to spend every day in pain, struggling for just the little bits of peace and happiness and light that he got.
“No.” Phil shakes his head, pressing Steve closer. “No. Please.”
Kristin goes back to the open casket. Techno’s hollow face is relaxed, peaceful. He didn’t have any formal clothes, never had an occasion to wear them, so they chose his favorite T-shirt (a Disney’s Robin Hood logo, his first movie and always his favorite) and a pair of light pink pajama pants patterned with strawberries. It was what he chose to wear, what he liked to wear and was comfortable in, so it is good enough for him to be put to rest now.
She gently takes his hand, cups his face. Leans down to rest their foreheads together for a minute, while she fights tears under control. Techno is so, so cold.
“I love you,” she breathes. “I love you, baby. I’m- I’m glad you’re not hurting anymore.”
It’s the only comfort she can find in the midst of the howling grief. That Techno is finally at peace, finally not in pain.
Phil spends a little longer bent over him, sobbing over their son’s body. He steps away on his own, though, just as Kristin was making up her mind to gently guide him away.
Tommy finally moves, briefly resting one hand on Techno’s chest. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but Kristin thinks his lips are moving.
They follow the hearse to the cemetery, and they spend a long time standing in the damp and dismal fog, silent during the little private graveside service.
And then, they go home.
It’s so empty without him. So cold.
~~~
Tommy makes it nearly a month before he breaks.
He knows it’s too early, the headstone won’t be up yet- they were told it would be six months, at the very least, probably closer to a year- but he needs to do something.
So he takes Blitz and walks to the cemetery, and he places a bunch of wildflowers on Techno’s grave, and does his best not to shatter into pieces.
Techno was older than him, and yet, he wasn’t, at the same time. He was made of hurting and broken pieces, held together by love. He was so hurt, and so, so kind.
Tommy’s had people, plenty of people, he’s been protective of. He’s been the older kid in a lot of shit foster homes.
He’d never cared about any of them the way he did about Techno, though.
He thought…
When Wilbur died- so long ago now that Tommy can’t remember him clearly- he thought that was the worst pain he’d ever felt, he would ever have to feel.
Now, though.
The word holds an entirely different meaning, in this context. This is more than just pain, it’s- it’s-
Tommy doesn’t have the words to describe it. It’s too big, there is too much of it.
He thinks his parents are calling it grief, though that seems too small a word for the weight Tommy’s carrying.
He looks up when the approaching footsteps he’d noticed stop. The woman isn’t someone he’s met- and she looks older and harder than the blurry footage he’d seen- but he recognizes Techno’s bio mom in an instant.
Tommy didn’t know she was getting out of prison. He knew- the video said she’d be eligible for parole after serving eight or nine years- but he hadn’t known they would actually-
She’s crying, and Tommy’s grief and pain snaps, breaking into pure fury.
“Fuck off,” he snarls. Blitz presses against his leg, growling lowly.
The woman startles, like she hadn’t noticed he was there. “Excuse me?” she asks, hard.
“I know who you are. Go fuck yourself, you don’t deserve to be fucking crying over him.”
“I don’t know who you are or who you’re here to see, but this is where my son was buried-”
“Come off it, you’re a goddamn piece of shit.” Tommy feels the burn of tears, and he knows he shouldn’t be swearing at a complete stranger, but he can’t- he can’t stop remembering an afternoon long ago, remembering Techno calling his parents irreparably traumatizing, wanting him dead, actively and excessively abusive. Remembering the way Techno’s eyes had gone hollow when Tommy asked why don’t you call them Mom and Dad.
Remembering pulling Techno into a closet to hide, remembering Techno going utterly still and sliding down the wall to slump in the corner like he was dead. Begging please, I don’t know what I did wrong, please let me out, please, I’ll be good. A fear he knows Techno did not learn from Phil and Kristin.
“He wasn’t your son, you don’t get to fucking call him that.” There is dirt under his fingernails and tears on his face and anger, anger in every part of him, but Tommy stands and faces her down, standing guardian over Techno’s grave. Blitz is still growling, still pressed against his leg. Protecting what’s left of Techno the same as him.
Techno didn’t want them anywhere near him in life; Tommy can only imagine how much this would piss him off, how traumatizing and painful it would be.
“How dare you-”
“No. No, how dare you. Techno deserved better. He deserved the whole fucking world and it’s your fault he didn’t get to have it. You don’t get to- to come here and pretend to be grieving for him.” Tommy’s voice breaks. The pain is so vividly all-encompassing and he misses Techno so horribly much that he feels like he’s dying from it. “It’s your fault. You fucked him up and he died because of it, he suffered for his entire fucking life and that’s your fault.”
She stands there, staring at him, expression some kind of mix between outraged and upset.
“Get away,” Tommy snaps. “You had better keep away if you know what’s good for you, you and your piece of shit husband, because if I ever see you around here again I’m going to do something I won’t regret.”
He couldn’t protect Techno from the memories. No one could ease the trauma, or lessen the pain, or heal his damaged body.
This, at least, Tommy can do. He thinks- he believes that Techno would’ve wanted this. That it would make him happy, or at least have brought him some little bit of peace, for Tommy to fight for him.
And the bitch, for all the damage she did to her helpless child, is a goddamn coward, because she turns and all but runs away, and Tommy is left to collapse back to the ground, sobbing into his arms.
Kristin finds him there, later. Tommy doesn’t know how much later. Blitz is pressed against his side, still and silent, but he’s lost hold of time altogether, sitting here getting colder and more tired and an ache building in his limbs. He cried until he couldn’t anymore, and now he’s just sitting here, curled up tight, not knowing what to do with the pain like a heavy, hot ember in his heart.
Blitz moves, woofing softly.
“Tommy?” Kristin’s voice is quiet, worried.
He doesn’t answer- he can’t. He doesn’t know how.
After a minute his mom sits down beside him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. She tucks Tommy close enough to tilt his head against her shoulder.
“I just wanted to talk to him,” Tommy says, feeling full of pain and utterly hollow at the same time. “I just- that was all. But- but his mom- his bio mom, she-”
Kristin goes still. “Tommy,” she says after a second, “how- how did you know-”
“It was an accident,” he blurts. “A couple years ago, I- there was this true-crime documentary video, and I didn’t mean to, I know I should’ve stopped when I realized it was about him, but I didn’t, and I shouldn’t have watched it-”
She curls her hand around his, sighing. “Oh, Tommy.”
“She- she was crying,” he says blankly. “How- how the fuck- where does she get off crying over him? After everything she did?”
Kristin squeezes his hand. She doesn’t say anything.
“I-” Tommy’s voice cracks, comes out small. “I yelled at her. She called him her son and all I could think about was Techno telling me he couldn’t call you an’ Phil his parents because it would hurt too much. All of the shit he went through and how much he suffered and how it’s their fault. And I yelled at her and told her to fuck off and that if I ever saw her again I- I would-”
His voice breaks completely. He doesn’t even know what he would’ve done, what he thinks he might do.
“Oh, baby.” Kristin hugs him closer.
“I c-couldn’t protect him,” he hiccups. “I couldn’t keep him safe from that, and I can’t- he’s not here to know that I’m trying, but I have to anyway, because he’s-”
Because he loves his brother. Because Techno was so hurt, he went through so, so much, and Tommy couldn’t protect him. No one could, until it was too late to give him the life he deserved.
“I think he knows,” Kristin says quietly, when Tommy’s voice fails him again. “I think- I believe there’s something more, after this, and I know that if there is, Techno knows. He knows you love him- he’s known that for a long, long time.”
“I know.”
“He couldn’t always show it. It was hard for him, because he’d been so hurt, and he didn’t know how to trust. But he loved you too, Tommy. He did. Even when it was hard for him to trust you.”
Tommy thought he didn’t have any tears left, but he sobs again, dry and aching.
“He suffered so much,” he whimpers. “I ju-ust wanted to- to protect him. I couldn’t- not from something inside his head. But if he- if he’d been here, and she’d tried to- I think he, he would’ve wanted me to…”
“Yeah,” Kristin murmurs. “He would have. He might not have been able to show it, but I think he’d have been glad you fought for him.”
Tommy scrubs his hands over his face. After a minute he rests his chin on his folded arms, tipping his head to the side to look at his mom.
“Did you know?” he whimpers. “That they- that she got paroled?”
“No.” Kristin’s voice takes on a cold edge. “If I’d known they were even considering it, we would’ve gone to the hearings. We would’ve fought for him, too.”
“I know.” Tommy can’t imagine any universe in which they wouldn’t fight for Techno, wouldn’t do everything in their power to protect him.
Silence. They sit there in the cool, damp, late-evening air, until Tommy can’t feel his feet. Until Kristin finally sighs and stands up, pulling him with her. Blitz gets up, shaking herself, tags jingling.
“I miss him so much,” Tommy whispers. “I wish there was more I could’ve done.”
“You did so much for him.” She pauses, pulling him into a tight hug. “Tommy, you did so, so much to help him. Without you he wouldn’t have known what it was like to have a friend, let alone a brother. He loved you so much.”
Tommy breaks apart all over again, sobbing into his mom’s shoulder, but she only holds him tighter. She only holds him, and lets him cry, even as he feels like he’s going to fall to pieces. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77352911 | {"authors": ["rubys_ramblings"], "language": "English", "title": "until something breaks that cannot be fixed"} |
Once Upon a Dream
Walking. He was walking. There was nothing else he could do. All the muscles in his body burned, his legs above all. His skin was clammy with sweat, his throat dry as sandpaper, his mind echoing with a sonorous, commanding voice: Go.
And so he went. His feet kept moving, and they would whether he wanted them to or not. He knew this. He didn’t acknowledge the people that approached him on his way - not the concerned ladies asking if he was alright, the stern guards demanding to know where he was going, the children throwing rocks at the stranger walking by. He kept going, in as straight a line as he managed.
From his parade uniform, he pulled his medals with his increasingly feeble hands. He was so tired. He had no idea how long he had been walking, and he wanted to stop, to just collapse and fall asleep. Most likely, his feet would keep walking even if his mind dozed off. He mustn’t doze off. He pressed the pins of the medals into his face, the sharp pain jolting his attention back to his body. Soon, it faded into the general miasma of agony, his aching legs, his pounding head, his skin burned in the wretched summer heat. He had been walking for several days straight, with no food or water to sustain him.
Eventually, somewhere in a forest of blessed shade many miles from where he had started, his legs gave out. His mind, delirious from lack of sleep, still echoed only the one command.
Go.
Even as he lay on the ground, breathing his last, he could feel his legs moving as if they were still walking. They would keep going, he knew, until the muscles were wasted away by time, eaten by animals. But he had followed the order. He had gone as far as he could, and he had stayed conscious the whole time. The oblivion that encroached on his mind now was not sleep, he knew that. It was death. And death was safe where sleep was not.
Edward awoke with a start as the train clunkily changed tracks. What an awful dream. He reached a hand down to rub his calf, still feeling the ghost of a cramp from the walk of death he had just endured.
“Good morning, sunshine,” chirped George from the seat opposite. Edward smiled weakly in return. The greeting could be taken as irony, but George was not the ironic kind. He was of a sunnier disposition than Edward, though, and certainly sunnier than the cloudy evening outside. Neither morning nor sunshine. Whether anything was good, well, that remained to be seen.
“Should clear up around seven,” John said, following Edward’s gaze and gesturing with his phone, on which the weather app was open, “Moon should give us enough light to get over the wall, and then tomorrow’s forecast looks much more promising.”
Edward replied with a nod that he hoped was encouraging, still in a daze from the dream.
It was far from the first time he dreamed about dying. It had always been obvious to Edward Little that reincarnation was real, and that he’d lived many lives. He dreamed about them all the time. Bits and pieces, sometimes on repeat - when a scenario came back, it was always from the same perspective, with the same exact events, which he had come to learn was unusual for dreams, even when people had the same dream over and over there were differences, minor or major. Edward’s recurring dreams never varied; if he dreamed of the same event, it played out the same way. They weren’t really dreams, they were memories. Of running through cobblestone streets or forest paths, of playing a fiddle, of holding his newborn son in his arms, of shoeing a horse. He dreamed a lot about horses, enough that he was thoroughly convinced that if he ever had the money to buy a horse, he’d know exactly how to take care of it. This was not his richest lifetime, though, so he doubted he could put that to the test. He had died of illness and gunshots and accidents, over and over again. Mustard gas, once, that was horrible. On his worst nights, that was the one that came back to him. But this last dream… He had never had that one before.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember the world around him. Most of the memory was filled with pain and the desperate instruction to go, though he had no clear idea of where he was going to. Still, the things he could make out around him, the buildings, the clothes… It was older than most of his memories. Perhaps the oldest one yet. Fifteenth century, maybe fourteenth? There was something supernatural about it, too, the way his legs carried him without his interference. Normally there was nothing impossible about his memories except his ability to remember them many hundred years later.
He blinked his eyes open to find John looking at him, looking a little nervous.
“Thanks for coming along. It means a lot to me.”
“Oh, it’s no bother,” he insisted, “I’m glad you asked me to come. It’s a really exciting idea. An adventure.”
That was the truth, although there was a pinch of indulgence in the decision, too. John’s interest in urban exploration, like his other hobbies - painting, choir singing, bouldering, half a dozen bookclubs - was a pretty obvious attempt at distraction. The poor man had grown up in quite a restrictive family, and Edward knew it was no coincidence that since he’d met him, he’d had much more frequent dreams of those lifetimes where he died in some sort of a closet. He hoped John would not suffer that fate, although he was not ready yet - for now, even being friends with a certified homosexual seemed to be incredible progress for him, though Edward was hardly the most exciting ambassador for the rainbow crowd.
The train rolled to a halt at the tiny request stop, and the three of them spilled out onto the platform, counting over their rucksacks and their climbing gear. This really was the middle of nowhere, and if they found out they were missing anything, it wasn’t as easy as just going into town and buying a replacement. Satisfied that they had all they needed, they trekked towards the ruins that John was so excited about exploring.
Edward felt weird. It intensified the closer they got to the dot on John’s map app indicating the abandoned old castle, a foreboding sense of deja vú that he’d only had a couple of times before. Specifically, he’d felt it when he found himself in a place he had visited in a former life. It buzzed right under his skin, and he hoped to god it wasn’t noticeable. He wouldn’t know how to explain it if it was.
All of a sudden, George let out a long, impressed whistle.
“Will you look at that!” he marvelled, and Edward looked ahead to see that the castle had come into view.
It really was worth a whistle. High walls surrounded a fortification with tall spires and gothic arches, turrets and battlements - a defence structure, but a grand one, fit to also home a noble family, as it once had. Some old lord and lady whose descendants were probably living it up in some tax haven or another, not giving two shits about their beautiful ancestral home now that it was in too much disrepair to attract your average tourist. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, especially the way it was overgrown with vines and flowers. The closer they got to the castle walls, the more evident it became that they were almost entirely covered in climbing roses, blooming red and beautiful in the dusk. The sight made Edward shiver, though he couldn’t quite say why. He felt his head spin. Roses, red as blood, stems full of thorns, at the back of his mind, chasing him, luring him, waiting for him.
“Is it safe to climb through those flowers?” he asked, trying to shake his thoughts back to normalcy with a health and safety concern. He was used to handling those. Could handle them in his sleep, except he never would, because working while asleep was definitely a health and safety violation.
“‘Course it is,” John brushed him off, retrieving some pitons from his black Db. He tested the wall a couple of places, then experimentally hauled himself up.
“Be sure to wear your gloves,” he called over his shoulder at George and Edward, “There are some gnarly thorns up here.”
John’s word choice was perhaps not what Edward would have gone for, but he donned his sturdy gloves nonetheless. As his friend had promised, the gibbous moon was bright and made their ascent much easier than it would have been in darkness. Edward’s feet were the last of the trio to hit the ground on the other side, right next to a whole tangle of the red roses, spun around something slumped against the wall. A body, his morbid imagination supplied, although it didn’t feel like imagination. It felt almost like one of his memory dreams, though not as clear. He nudged the portentous heap with his toe, and something metal clattered from what looked like it might be a hand - a knife and fork, perhaps, too marred to identify. That must be his lordship’s silverware! The thieving bastard, his mind supplied him, along with a rage he didn’t quite understand.
“John,” he said out loud, keeping his voice steady, “Has this place actually been properly explored before?”
“Not in depth,” John answered, “We’ll be making some history here!”
He sounded excited yet distracted, and Edward tore his eyes away from the silverware thief that his mind wanted to name “Hickey”, to see what he was doing. It was nothing more exciting than erecting a tent, but given the lateness of the hour that was the most useful activity he could be doing. More useful than George, who was flitting about, looking at this and that, never quite getting near enough to touch one interesting feature before his roaming eyes were distracted by another.
“Oh, this place is marvellous. Just marvellous, John!”
His giddy excitement quelled a little bit of Edward’s nervousness. He turned to his companions with a wide, brilliant grin.
“It’s like we are in a fairy tale!” he exclaimed, not physically clapping his hands like a little lord in a period drama, but certainly doing so in spirit.
“I thought the same thing when we spotted the place,” Edward smiled. Then he nodded pointedly towards John. George, taking the hint, joined him in helping the leader of their little expedition set up their shelter for the night. No sooner were they inside in their sleeping bags than the rain started tapping against the roof again.
“Perfect timing,” John commented as Edward handed out bruised bananas and miraculously non-crushed Nature Valley bars.
“Sleeping Beauty, specifically,” George continued, although the speech he was continuing must have been internal, “That, like so many other fairy tales, has some really dark versions floating around there. From back in history.”
Out of habit, Edward caught John’s eye in case he needed updating on a reference his parents had barred him from in childhood. Disney movies were off limits, so he probably wouldn’t be familiar with Grimm’s fairy tales, either.
“The gist of it is, a king and queen have a child, and they invite some fairies to the christening. They neglect to invite one of them, though, and she’s offended, so she curses the little princess to prick her finger and die when she grows up. The other fairies change the curse, or something, and she and the rest of the castle falls asleep for a century instead. Then a prince finds her and wakes her up with true love’s kiss, which breaks the spell.”
George nodded along with the incomplete summary, while Edward’s unbidden thoughts corrected him - it’s been far more than just one century.
“In the older versions,” George added with matter-of-fact cheer, “She gets a piece of wood stuck in her finger and it poisons her. While she sleeps, a king comes along and, well, beds her because she’s so beautiful.”
“Jesus,” Edward grimaced, while John looked scandalised.
“She gives birth in her sleep, and the baby pulls the splinter out of her finger so she wakes up. When he king finds out, he brings her and the child to his castle, but the queen is jealous and orders the cook to bake the child into a pie. But the king finds out and has the queen executed, so Sleeping Beauty gets to be queen instead.”
A silence settled in the little tent, George’s barely visible face grinning with a macabre glee better suited to a man half his age.
“Well,” John eventually mumbled, “Thank you for that delightful bedtime story, George.”
The other two chuckled.
“Are you sure you’re not getting that pie thing from Titus?” Edward mused, and there was a rustling sound as George shrugged inside his sleeping bag.
“Every story could use little Shakespearian twist.”
With that, the tension was broken, and the thrumming of the rain soon lulled both John and George into deep sleep, snoring gently in their sleeping bag cocoons. Edward lay awake. Something in him feared sleep in this place. Death is safe where sleep is not, his dream from the train echoed in his head. Neither he nor George had touched on the aspect that made the castle so reminiscent of the one from Sleeping Beauty - the roses growing over everything and everyone in the castle to protect them from the outside world.
It’s a stupid fairytale, Edward thought. There was never a king and queen in this castle, there was a baron and a baroness. And they never had any children, besides. There would be no princess or other noble babe to prick her finger. The lord and lady made that choice when the fairy came to the wedding, and then… And then…
Edward fell asleep. | Once Upon a Dream
Walking. He was walking. There was nothing else he could do. All the muscles in his body burned, his legs above all. His skin was clammy with sweat, his throat dry as sandpaper, his mind echoing with a sonorous, commanding voice: Go.
And so he went. His feet kept moving, and they would whether he wanted them to or not. He knew this. He didn’t acknowledge the people that approached him on his way - not the concerned ladies asking if he was alright, the stern guards demanding to know where he was going, the children throwing rocks at the stranger walking by. He kept going, in as straight a line as he managed.
From his parade uniform, he pulled his medals with his increasingly feeble hands. He was so tired. He had no idea how long he had been walking, and he wanted to stop, to just collapse and fall asleep. Most likely, his feet would keep walking even if his mind dozed off. He mustn’t doze off. He pressed the pins of the medals into his face, the sharp pain jolting his attention back to his body. Soon, it faded into the general miasma of agony, his aching legs, his pounding head, his skin burned in the wretched summer heat. He had been walking for several days straight, with no food or water to sustain him.
Eventually, somewhere in a forest of blessed shade many miles from where he had started, his legs gave out. His mind, delirious from lack of sleep, still echoed only the one command.
Go.
Even as he lay on the ground, breathing his last, he could feel his legs moving as if they were still walking. They would keep going, he knew, until the muscles were wasted away by time, eaten by animals. But he had followed the order. He had gone as far as he could, and he had stayed conscious the whole time. The oblivion that encroached on his mind now was not sleep, he knew that. It was death. And death was safe where sleep was not.
Edward awoke with a start as the train clunkily changed tracks. What an awful dream. He reached a hand down to rub his calf, still feeling the ghost of a cramp from the walk of death he had just endured.
“Good morning, sunshine,” chirped George from the seat opposite. Edward smiled weakly in return. The greeting could be taken as irony, but George was not the ironic kind. He was of a sunnier disposition than Edward, though, and certainly sunnier than the cloudy evening outside. Neither morning nor sunshine. Whether anything was good, well, that remained to be seen.
“Should clear up around seven,” John said, following Edward’s gaze and gesturing with his phone, on which the weather app was open, “Moon should give us enough light to get over the wall, and then tomorrow’s forecast looks much more promising.”
Edward replied with a nod that he hoped was encouraging, still in a daze from the dream.
It was far from the first time he dreamed about dying. It had always been obvious to Edward Little that reincarnation was real, and that he’d lived many lives. He dreamed about them all the time. Bits and pieces, sometimes on repeat - when a scenario came back, it was always from the same perspective, with the same exact events, which he had come to learn was unusual for dreams, even when people had the same dream over and over there were differences, minor or major. Edward’s recurring dreams never varied; if he dreamed of the same event, it played out the same way. They weren’t really dreams, they were memories. Of running through cobblestone streets or forest paths, of playing a fiddle, of holding his newborn son in his arms, of shoeing a horse. He dreamed a lot about horses, enough that he was thoroughly convinced that if he ever had the money to buy a horse, he’d know exactly how to take care of it. This was not his richest lifetime, though, so he doubted he could put that to the test. He had died of illness and gunshots and accidents, over and over again. Mustard gas, once, that was horrible. On his worst nights, that was the one that came back to him. But this last dream… He had never had that one before.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember the world around him. Most of the memory was filled with pain and the desperate instruction to go, though he had no clear idea of where he was going to. Still, the things he could make out around him, the buildings, the clothes… It was older than most of his memories. Perhaps the oldest one yet. Fifteenth century, maybe fourteenth? There was something supernatural about it, too, the way his legs carried him without his interference. Normally there was nothing impossible about his memories except his ability to remember them many hundred years later.
He blinked his eyes open to find John looking at him, looking a little nervous.
“Thanks for coming along. It means a lot to me.”
“Oh, it’s no bother,” he insisted, “I’m glad you asked me to come. It’s a really exciting idea. An adventure.”
That was the truth, although there was a pinch of indulgence in the decision, too. John’s interest in urban exploration, like his other hobbies - painting, choir singing, bouldering, half a dozen bookclubs - was a pretty obvious attempt at distraction. The poor man had grown up in quite a restrictive family, and Edward knew it was no coincidence that since he’d met him, he’d had much more frequent dreams of those lifetimes where he died in some sort of a closet. He hoped John would not suffer that fate, although he was not ready yet - for now, even being friends with a certified homosexual seemed to be incredible progress for him, though Edward was hardly the most exciting ambassador for the rainbow crowd.
The train rolled to a halt at the tiny request stop, and the three of them spilled out onto the platform, counting over their rucksacks and their climbing gear. This really was the middle of nowhere, and if they found out they were missing anything, it wasn’t as easy as just going into town and buying a replacement. Satisfied that they had all they needed, they trekked towards the ruins that John was so excited about exploring.
Edward felt weird. It intensified the closer they got to the dot on John’s map app indicating the abandoned old castle, a foreboding sense of deja vú that he’d only had a couple of times before. Specifically, he’d felt it when he found himself in a place he had visited in a former life. It buzzed right under his skin, and he hoped to god it wasn’t noticeable. He wouldn’t know how to explain it if it was.
All of a sudden, George let out a long, impressed whistle.
“Will you look at that!” he marvelled, and Edward looked ahead to see that the castle had come into view.
It really was worth a whistle. High walls surrounded a fortification with tall spires and gothic arches, turrets and battlements - a defence structure, but a grand one, fit to also home a noble family, as it once had. Some old lord and lady whose descendants were probably living it up in some tax haven or another, not giving two shits about their beautiful ancestral home now that it was in too much disrepair to attract your average tourist. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, especially the way it was overgrown with vines and flowers. The closer they got to the castle walls, the more evident it became that they were almost entirely covered in climbing roses, blooming red and beautiful in the dusk. The sight made Edward shiver, though he couldn’t quite say why. He felt his head spin. Roses, red as blood, stems full of thorns, at the back of his mind, chasing him, luring him, waiting for him.
“Is it safe to climb through those flowers?” he asked, trying to shake his thoughts back to normalcy with a health and safety concern. He was used to handling those. Could handle them in his sleep, except he never would, because working while asleep was definitely a health and safety violation.
“‘Course it is,” John brushed him off, retrieving some pitons from his black Db. He tested the wall a couple of places, then experimentally hauled himself up.
“Be sure to wear your gloves,” he called over his shoulder at George and Edward, “There are some gnarly thorns up here.”
John’s word choice was perhaps not what Edward would have gone for, but he donned his sturdy gloves nonetheless. As his friend had promised, the gibbous moon was bright and made their ascent much easier than it would have been in darkness. Edward’s feet were the last of the trio to hit the ground on the other side, right next to a whole tangle of the red roses, spun around something slumped against the wall. A body, his morbid imagination supplied, although it didn’t feel like imagination. It felt almost like one of his memory dreams, though not as clear. He nudged the portentous heap with his toe, and something metal clattered from what looked like it might be a hand - a knife and fork, perhaps, too marred to identify. That must be his lordship’s silverware! The thieving bastard, his mind supplied him, along with a rage he didn’t quite understand.
“John,” he said out loud, keeping his voice steady, “Has this place actually been properly explored before?”
“Not in depth,” John answered, “We’ll be making some history here!”
He sounded excited yet distracted, and Edward tore his eyes away from the silverware thief that his mind wanted to name “Hickey”, to see what he was doing. It was nothing more exciting than erecting a tent, but given the lateness of the hour that was the most useful activity he could be doing. More useful than George, who was flitting about, looking at this and that, never quite getting near enough to touch one interesting feature before his roaming eyes were distracted by another.
“Oh, this place is marvellous. Just marvellous, John!”
His giddy excitement quelled a little bit of Edward’s nervousness. He turned to his companions with a wide, brilliant grin.
“It’s like we are in a fairy tale!” he exclaimed, not physically clapping his hands like a little lord in a period drama, but certainly doing so in spirit.
“I thought the same thing when we spotted the place,” Edward smiled. Then he nodded pointedly towards John. George, taking the hint, joined him in helping the leader of their little expedition set up their shelter for the night. No sooner were they inside in their sleeping bags than the rain started tapping against the roof again.
“Perfect timing,” John commented as Edward handed out bruised bananas and miraculously non-crushed Nature Valley bars.
“Sleeping Beauty, specifically,” George continued, although the speech he was continuing must have been internal, “That, like so many other fairy tales, has some really dark versions floating around there. From back in history.”
Out of habit, Edward caught John’s eye in case he needed updating on a reference his parents had barred him from in childhood. Disney movies were off limits, so he probably wouldn’t be familiar with Grimm’s fairy tales, either.
“The gist of it is, a king and queen have a child, and they invite some fairies to the christening. They neglect to invite one of them, though, and she’s offended, so she curses the little princess to prick her finger and die when she grows up. The other fairies change the curse, or something, and she and the rest of the castle falls asleep for a century instead. Then a prince finds her and wakes her up with true love’s kiss, which breaks the spell.”
George nodded along with the incomplete summary, while Edward’s unbidden thoughts corrected him - it’s been far more than just one century.
“In the older versions,” George added with matter-of-fact cheer, “She gets a piece of wood stuck in her finger and it poisons her. While she sleeps, a king comes along and, well, beds her because she’s so beautiful.”
“Jesus,” Edward grimaced, while John looked scandalised.
“She gives birth in her sleep, and the baby pulls the splinter out of her finger so she wakes up. When he king finds out, he brings her and the child to his castle, but the queen is jealous and orders the cook to bake the child into a pie. But the king finds out and has the queen executed, so Sleeping Beauty gets to be queen instead.”
A silence settled in the little tent, George’s barely visible face grinning with a macabre glee better suited to a man half his age.
“Well,” John eventually mumbled, “Thank you for that delightful bedtime story, George.”
The other two chuckled.
“Are you sure you’re not getting that pie thing from Titus?” Edward mused, and there was a rustling sound as George shrugged inside his sleeping bag.
“Every story could use little Shakespearian twist.”
With that, the tension was broken, and the thrumming of the rain soon lulled both John and George into deep sleep, snoring gently in their sleeping bag cocoons. Edward lay awake. Something in him feared sleep in this place. Death is safe where sleep is not, his dream from the train echoed in his head. Neither he nor George had touched on the aspect that made the castle so reminiscent of the one from Sleeping Beauty - the roses growing over everything and everyone in the castle to protect them from the outside world.
It’s a stupid fairytale, Edward thought. There was never a king and queen in this castle, there was a baron and a baroness. And they never had any children, besides. There would be no princess or other noble babe to prick her finger. The lord and lady made that choice when the fairy came to the wedding, and then… And then…
Edward fell asleep. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77351276/chapters/202517361 | {"authors": ["AnAcronymStick"], "language": "English", "title": "Once Upon a Dream"} |
Bees
B127 didn’t know how long exactly he’d spent cooped up in his escape pod. Cycles, deca-cycles, stellar-cycles, vorns? All of it had been filled with thoughts of the people he’d left behind. His brothers and sisters in arms… He knew what he was doing was a mission assigned to him by Optimus Prime himself, but something deep within his spark still felt as though all he was doing was running away. But, no. He had a job to do. He was going to find a safe place for what remained of the Autobots to regroup, and when he did? The Decepticons wouldn’t know what hit them.
He was startled from his thoughts by the jolting feeling of his pod entering the planet’s atmosphere. The roaring sound of oxygen igniting as metal passed through the air. As the ground approached, the reverse thrusters kicked in to slow his descent. His last thought before impact was of the planet’s name. Optimus had told him what little the scanners had learned before sending him off. Remnant…
———————————————
General James Ironwood wasn’t sure what to make of this latest batch of recruits for the Atlesian military. He’d been told that they’d shown the most promise so far in the history of the kingdom. That they’d proven to be effective, well organized, and disciplined on the field. As for his own personal assessment? He was overseeing two teams of these recruits practicing against each other from behind a video feed, and so far, he was realizing that those assessments were actually split between both. For the first team, red, ‘effective and organized’ definitely applied. They’d taken out the second team, blue, in one fell swoop three times now, hiding in plain sight beneath piles of snow and loose foliage, and striking right when their opponents looked away. They were, however, not anywhere near as disciplined as the second team - A fact made quite evident when the leader of team Red, Jack Burns, shot the subdued leader of team Blue, Danny Bell. Repeatedly. Absolutely zero trigger discipline. Lucky him they were using practice rounds.
Still, it seemed to all be friendly banter. Jack cut Danny down from the makeshift trap he’d been caught in, and helped him up.
“Oh, I hate you…” Were the first words out of Danny’s mouth as soon as he was freed.
“Wow, man. That hurts. ‘Cause I love you.” John gave Danny a playful punch to the shoulder. “But you refuse to let it in ‘cause you got intimacy issues. A therapist’ll probably tell you, you weren’t hugged enough as a kid-”
“Jack! Look, man.” All the while, Danny had diverted his attention to something else.
“Danny, I know I look stupid, but-” John stopped, when he turned to look at what Danny was talking about in spite of himself. With him now looking at it, Ironwood could see it, too. Something was falling from the sky. Burning, and coming in fast.
Fortunately, Danny managed to come to his senses fast enough. “Take cover!” He called out, tackling John away from the impact zone. The other recruits followed suit. Even with everyone out of the immediate blast radius, the landing still knocked out the video feed. Audio was fine, but Ironwood could no longer see what was going on on the other end.
———————————————
As he came back online from a brief reboot triggered by the shock of the impact, the first thing B127 realized was that he was in fact not alone. He could hear voices - Or at least, what sounded like voices - Speaking in a language he couldn’t understand. This was quickly remedied. Even through the burning wreckage, automatic translator systems combined with quick network scanning parsed the words of those around him.
“ - in the northwest corner of the training course! Multiple injuries!” was the first thing he understood. Injuries. His landing had injured someone. That wasn’t good, not in the slightest. Not only because someone had been hurt, and because it was his fault, but also because it would probably make it just that much harder to work with the locals if he needed to - Which at this rate, he probably would. Perfect. Just perfect… He listened for more information.
“And would someone please explain to me why you dropped napalm on your own guys?!” Same voice again. It was a blunt, straightforward way of speaking, that reminded him a little bit of Warpath. Not quite as loud, but he’d be surprised if anyone could match the tank’s energy and attitude.
“Negative. There are no live fire drills in the northwest sector.” Another voice. This one came with the crackle of static indicative of primitive long-range communications technology. The locals were more than likely fairly advanced.
“What the hell hit us, then?!” It was at that moment that the servos in B’s arms and legs decided to kick back into gear. He stood up, and scanned his surroundings. His optics met the eyes of one of the locals, who he assumed was the one he’d just now heard speaking. First note? The locals were small. Not in the way B himself was small, mind - Even if he was one of the shortest ‘bots he knew, especially compared to the likes of Optimus Prime or Ironhide. These people barely made it up to his own waist. Second note? His energon was low. Incredibly low. He’d nearly forgotten, his first priority was to figure out a way to fuel himself and the others when they got here-
“Target on your right!” His battle mask flipped up, the hex-grid scanners kicking in to analyze his surroundings. Target? Where- Oh. They meant him. He briefly scanned an idle hoverbike, committing its blueprint to his T-Cog’s limited formatting space. He’d miss his Cybertronian alt-mode, but he was going to need a disguise at some point, anyhow. Once he had it, he turned and ran. He heard engines revving behind him, and soon enough he caught a glimpse of vehicles in pursuit. Fair enough, he thought to himself - But he could play that game, too. With a little bit of focus, his body shifted. Plates folded together, joints compressed past their normal angles, until finally his form matched that of the smaller of the vehicles now chasing him. This, unfortunately, didn’t last very long.
“Take it down!” B heard someone shout behind him, and before long a rocket launcher mounted on top of one of the larger four-wheeled transports fired off - Impacting the ground next to him as he just barely managed swerve away from it. Still, with that proximity, the explosion sent B flying off the side of the path. He shifted back to his root-mode mid-air, and began running again. Still, the locals gave chase. Persistent. He’d be more impressed if he wasn’t the one they were after. Bullets grazed and bounced off of his armored plating - Though some were noticeably more impactful than others, creating minor dents - And another rocket just barely missed him. He continued onward, his arm-blade jutting out briefly to cut down a few trees, so his pursuers’ vehicles couldn’t go, until he came to a clearing. Unfortunately, that clearing was also a dead-end.
Engines approached once more. They must have found a way around. Just great. He scanned for a way out - And he found one. An old mineshaft that looked like it cut through the mountain. It’d be a tight fit, but he didn’t have any other options. He burst forward, dashing towards the entrance - But he wasn’t fast enough. A vehicle rammed into him, sending him rolling onto the ground. He groaned. That was going to hurt, later. It was going to hurt a lot.
The locals began to surround him, as he stood up. Now that he was getting a better look at them… They looked like soldiers. All dressed in identical uniforms, holding mostly identical weapons. No wonder they were so quick to aggression. His battle mask folded back, uncovering his - hopefully - much more friendly looking faceplate.
———————————————
Finally, the video feed came back online. General Ironwood had been anxious to see just what was giving these recruits such a hard time - But nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. He was expecting a Grimm, or maybe some kind of large animal. Instead, what he saw through Burns’ camera was a towering, bright yellow humanoid machine staring down.
“Please…” It spoke. The machine spoke. Ironwood’s eyes widened. “This is a mistake.”
“Stay cool, hold your fire.” Burns ordered his team. Smart, Ironwood thought. They had no idea what this thing was capable of. If it could speak, it could more than likely be reasoned with, and all things considered it didn’t seem as though it wanted a fight.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Confirmation. Though, not wanting to didn’t mean not willing to…
The sound of an Atlesian fighter flying overhead caught just about everyone’s attention.
“Who called in the airfleet?” It was a valid question, on Burns’ part - But unfortunately Ironwood had no idea in the slightest. There weren’t supposed to be any flight tests or patrols in that sector that day.
“That’s not the airfleet…” The machine confirmed, as the fighter pulled around to fly at them. “... Run.” The sound of missiles firing rang out - And then, the whole connection went dead.
———————————————
B was thrown backwards by the blast, but was relatively undamaged. He wasn’t sure if the same could be said for the locals, but they weren’t his immediate priority. He glared up at the fighter. He knew those colors, knew that flight pattern.
“Blitzwing…” He muttered. The purple and yellow triple-changing seeker had been a thorn in his side forever, mostly due to the fact that he just refused to stay down. Perks of being one of Shockwave’s favorite experiments, if he had to guess why. Fortunately for him, there was no Shockwave on this planet. Unfortunately for him, Blitzwing was still an incredibly formidable opponent, and B was all on his own here. The Decepticon transformed mid-air, still flying at him with his clawed servo outstretched. B barely had time to register what was happening, before he was being slammed into the mountainside.
“Did you think you could hide?!” Blitzwing snarled. He always was the aggressive type - Even by Decepticon standards.
B responded by pulling himself out of the seeker’s grasp, and kicking him right in the faceplate. “Yeah, actually, I did.” He snarked, as he fell back to the ground, before grabbing a nearby metal bar from a collapsed structure to use as a weapon. He struck Blitzwing with it, but the larger bot brushed it off, grabbing the bar and tossing it to the side. One of the downsides to being so small, B reminded himself in that moment, as Blitzwing struck back, sending him a fair bit away, was that it made close-quarters a really dangerous place to be.
“Now you’ll die screaming,” Blitzwing’s voice grated on his audials. His servo folded back to make way for an integrated machine gun. “Like your friends!”
“Better than listening to you blabber on!” B charged, knocking the ‘Con to the ground. He used his momentum to gain some distance, turning himself in the air so he’d be facing Blitzwing’s back when he landed, and launched forward - All in one fluid motion, as his arm-blade shot out again in an attempt to strike. Unfortunately, Blitzwing was the better fighter. And he was faster. And he could fly. The seeker activated the jets in his heels, blasting backwards to dodge the strike, before kicking into full gear and going airborne. He burst towards B - Grabbing him by the chestplate, and dragging him upwards.
B’s back hit the side of the mountain. Blitzwing was dragging him across it in an attempt to destabilize him - And boy was it working. In a desperate attempt to get out of the ‘Con’s hold, he dug his elbow into the rocky surface. The sudden change in B’s momentum forced Blitzwing to let go, allowing B to grab onto the back of his legs, instead. He crawled up the seeker’s back, and began stabbing into his aerial alt-mode’s frontal ventilation and jets from behind to force him to go to ground. As a bonus, he also cut the barrel off of his tank mode’s cannon. No heavy artillery for you, big guy.
Blitzwing’s thrusters sputtered to a halt, putting them both into a free-fall. B was able to right himself mid-air. The flier wasn’t so lucky. He landed on the ground face-first, but it didn’t really do much more than piss him off. He got up fairly quickly, and, growling like some kind of very angry animal, he folded out his integrated machine gun again. The impact of the heavy rounds combined with the rate of fire forced B to cover his front with his arms, but still it forced him backwards - Nearly sending him off the cliffside. Blitzwing caught him just before he did, however - And he pulled him up.
“Gee, thanks…” B groaned. This was going to go just great, he could already tell…
“Tell me where your friends are hiding.” Blitzwing snarled back. Again, so very great.
“I’ll never talk…”
“Is that right?” Oh. He knew that tone. Blitzwing, notoriously, was a raging sadist - Part of why he got along so well with Shockwave, B imagined. That, and being stupidly easy to rebuild by design. He could hardly count the number of times he was sure he’d killed him, only to see him on the battlefield | Bees
B127 didn’t know how long exactly he’d spent cooped up in his escape pod. Cycles, deca-cycles, stellar-cycles, vorns? All of it had been filled with thoughts of the people he’d left behind. His brothers and sisters in arms… He knew what he was doing was a mission assigned to him by Optimus Prime himself, but something deep within his spark still felt as though all he was doing was running away. But, no. He had a job to do. He was going to find a safe place for what remained of the Autobots to regroup, and when he did? The Decepticons wouldn’t know what hit them.
He was startled from his thoughts by the jolting feeling of his pod entering the planet’s atmosphere. The roaring sound of oxygen igniting as metal passed through the air. As the ground approached, the reverse thrusters kicked in to slow his descent. His last thought before impact was of the planet’s name. Optimus had told him what little the scanners had learned before sending him off. Remnant…
———————————————
General James Ironwood wasn’t sure what to make of this latest batch of recruits for the Atlesian military. He’d been told that they’d shown the most promise so far in the history of the kingdom. That they’d proven to be effective, well organized, and disciplined on the field. As for his own personal assessment? He was overseeing two teams of these recruits practicing against each other from behind a video feed, and so far, he was realizing that those assessments were actually split between both. For the first team, red, ‘effective and organized’ definitely applied. They’d taken out the second team, blue, in one fell swoop three times now, hiding in plain sight beneath piles of snow and loose foliage, and striking right when their opponents looked away. They were, however, not anywhere near as disciplined as the second team - A fact made quite evident when the leader of team Red, Jack Burns, shot the subdued leader of team Blue, Danny Bell. Repeatedly. Absolutely zero trigger discipline. Lucky him they were using practice rounds.
Still, it seemed to all be friendly banter. Jack cut Danny down from the makeshift trap he’d been caught in, and helped him up.
“Oh, I hate you…” Were the first words out of Danny’s mouth as soon as he was freed.
“Wow, man. That hurts. ‘Cause I love you.” John gave Danny a playful punch to the shoulder. “But you refuse to let it in ‘cause you got intimacy issues. A therapist’ll probably tell you, you weren’t hugged enough as a kid-”
“Jack! Look, man.” All the while, Danny had diverted his attention to something else.
“Danny, I know I look stupid, but-” John stopped, when he turned to look at what Danny was talking about in spite of himself. With him now looking at it, Ironwood could see it, too. Something was falling from the sky. Burning, and coming in fast.
Fortunately, Danny managed to come to his senses fast enough. “Take cover!” He called out, tackling John away from the impact zone. The other recruits followed suit. Even with everyone out of the immediate blast radius, the landing still knocked out the video feed. Audio was fine, but Ironwood could no longer see what was going on on the other end.
———————————————
As he came back online from a brief reboot triggered by the shock of the impact, the first thing B127 realized was that he was in fact not alone. He could hear voices - Or at least, what sounded like voices - Speaking in a language he couldn’t understand. This was quickly remedied. Even through the burning wreckage, automatic translator systems combined with quick network scanning parsed the words of those around him.
“ - in the northwest corner of the training course! Multiple injuries!” was the first thing he understood. Injuries. His landing had injured someone. That wasn’t good, not in the slightest. Not only because someone had been hurt, and because it was his fault, but also because it would probably make it just that much harder to work with the locals if he needed to - Which at this rate, he probably would. Perfect. Just perfect… He listened for more information.
“And would someone please explain to me why you dropped napalm on your own guys?!” Same voice again. It was a blunt, straightforward way of speaking, that reminded him a little bit of Warpath. Not quite as loud, but he’d be surprised if anyone could match the tank’s energy and attitude.
“Negative. There are no live fire drills in the northwest sector.” Another voice. This one came with the crackle of static indicative of primitive long-range communications technology. The locals were more than likely fairly advanced.
“What the hell hit us, then?!” It was at that moment that the servos in B’s arms and legs decided to kick back into gear. He stood up, and scanned his surroundings. His optics met the eyes of one of the locals, who he assumed was the one he’d just now heard speaking. First note? The locals were small. Not in the way B himself was small, mind - Even if he was one of the shortest ‘bots he knew, especially compared to the likes of Optimus Prime or Ironhide. These people barely made it up to his own waist. Second note? His energon was low. Incredibly low. He’d nearly forgotten, his first priority was to figure out a way to fuel himself and the others when they got here-
“Target on your right!” His battle mask flipped up, the hex-grid scanners kicking in to analyze his surroundings. Target? Where- Oh. They meant him. He briefly scanned an idle hoverbike, committing its blueprint to his T-Cog’s limited formatting space. He’d miss his Cybertronian alt-mode, but he was going to need a disguise at some point, anyhow. Once he had it, he turned and ran. He heard engines revving behind him, and soon enough he caught a glimpse of vehicles in pursuit. Fair enough, he thought to himself - But he could play that game, too. With a little bit of focus, his body shifted. Plates folded together, joints compressed past their normal angles, until finally his form matched that of the smaller of the vehicles now chasing him. This, unfortunately, didn’t last very long.
“Take it down!” B heard someone shout behind him, and before long a rocket launcher mounted on top of one of the larger four-wheeled transports fired off - Impacting the ground next to him as he just barely managed swerve away from it. Still, with that proximity, the explosion sent B flying off the side of the path. He shifted back to his root-mode mid-air, and began running again. Still, the locals gave chase. Persistent. He’d be more impressed if he wasn’t the one they were after. Bullets grazed and bounced off of his armored plating - Though some were noticeably more impactful than others, creating minor dents - And another rocket just barely missed him. He continued onward, his arm-blade jutting out briefly to cut down a few trees, so his pursuers’ vehicles couldn’t go, until he came to a clearing. Unfortunately, that clearing was also a dead-end.
Engines approached once more. They must have found a way around. Just great. He scanned for a way out - And he found one. An old mineshaft that looked like it cut through the mountain. It’d be a tight fit, but he didn’t have any other options. He burst forward, dashing towards the entrance - But he wasn’t fast enough. A vehicle rammed into him, sending him rolling onto the ground. He groaned. That was going to hurt, later. It was going to hurt a lot.
The locals began to surround him, as he stood up. Now that he was getting a better look at them… They looked like soldiers. All dressed in identical uniforms, holding mostly identical weapons. No wonder they were so quick to aggression. His battle mask folded back, uncovering his - hopefully - much more friendly looking faceplate.
———————————————
Finally, the video feed came back online. General Ironwood had been anxious to see just what was giving these recruits such a hard time - But nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. He was expecting a Grimm, or maybe some kind of large animal. Instead, what he saw through Burns’ camera was a towering, bright yellow humanoid machine staring down.
“Please…” It spoke. The machine spoke. Ironwood’s eyes widened. “This is a mistake.”
“Stay cool, hold your fire.” Burns ordered his team. Smart, Ironwood thought. They had no idea what this thing was capable of. If it could speak, it could more than likely be reasoned with, and all things considered it didn’t seem as though it wanted a fight.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Confirmation. Though, not wanting to didn’t mean not willing to…
The sound of an Atlesian fighter flying overhead caught just about everyone’s attention.
“Who called in the airfleet?” It was a valid question, on Burns’ part - But unfortunately Ironwood had no idea in the slightest. There weren’t supposed to be any flight tests or patrols in that sector that day.
“That’s not the airfleet…” The machine confirmed, as the fighter pulled around to fly at them. “... Run.” The sound of missiles firing rang out - And then, the whole connection went dead.
———————————————
B was thrown backwards by the blast, but was relatively undamaged. He wasn’t sure if the same could be said for the locals, but they weren’t his immediate priority. He glared up at the fighter. He knew those colors, knew that flight pattern.
“Blitzwing…” He muttered. The purple and yellow triple-changing seeker had been a thorn in his side forever, mostly due to the fact that he just refused to stay down. Perks of being one of Shockwave’s favorite experiments, if he had to guess why. Fortunately for him, there was no Shockwave on this planet. Unfortunately for him, Blitzwing was still an incredibly formidable opponent, and B was all on his own here. The Decepticon transformed mid-air, still flying at him with his clawed servo outstretched. B barely had time to register what was happening, before he was being slammed into the mountainside.
“Did you think you could hide?!” Blitzwing snarled. He always was the aggressive type - Even by Decepticon standards.
B responded by pulling himself out of the seeker’s grasp, and kicking him right in the faceplate. “Yeah, actually, I did.” He snarked, as he fell back to the ground, before grabbing a nearby metal bar from a collapsed structure to use as a weapon. He struck Blitzwing with it, but the larger bot brushed it off, grabbing the bar and tossing it to the side. One of the downsides to being so small, B reminded himself in that moment, as Blitzwing struck back, sending him a fair bit away, was that it made close-quarters a really dangerous place to be.
“Now you’ll die screaming,” Blitzwing’s voice grated on his audials. His servo folded back to make way for an integrated machine gun. “Like your friends!”
“Better than listening to you blabber on!” B charged, knocking the ‘Con to the ground. He used his momentum to gain some distance, turning himself in the air so he’d be facing Blitzwing’s back when he landed, and launched forward - All in one fluid motion, as his arm-blade shot out again in an attempt to strike. Unfortunately, Blitzwing was the better fighter. And he was faster. And he could fly. The seeker activated the jets in his heels, blasting backwards to dodge the strike, before kicking into full gear and going airborne. He burst towards B - Grabbing him by the chestplate, and dragging him upwards.
B’s back hit the side of the mountain. Blitzwing was dragging him across it in an attempt to destabilize him - And boy was it working. In a desperate attempt to get out of the ‘Con’s hold, he dug his elbow into the rocky surface. The sudden change in B’s momentum forced Blitzwing to let go, allowing B to grab onto the back of his legs, instead. He crawled up the seeker’s back, and began stabbing into his aerial alt-mode’s frontal ventilation and jets from behind to force him to go to ground. As a bonus, he also cut the barrel off of his tank mode’s cannon. No heavy artillery for you, big guy.
Blitzwing’s thrusters sputtered to a halt, putting them both into a free-fall. B was able to right himself mid-air. The flier wasn’t so lucky. He landed on the ground face-first, but it didn’t really do much more than piss him off. He got up fairly quickly, and, growling like some kind of very angry animal, he folded out his integrated machine gun again. The impact of the heavy rounds combined with the rate of fire forced B to cover his front with his arms, but still it forced him backwards - Nearly sending him off the cliffside. Blitzwing caught him just before he did, however - And he pulled him up.
“Gee, thanks…” B groaned. This was going to go just great, he could already tell…
“Tell me where your friends are hiding.” Blitzwing snarled back. Again, so very great.
“I’ll never talk…”
“Is that right?” Oh. He knew that tone. Blitzwing, notoriously, was a raging sadist - Part of why he got along so well with Shockwave, B imagined. That, and being stupidly easy to rebuild by design. He could hardly count the number of times he was sure he’d killed him, only to see him on the battlefield again only a stellar-cycle later. “Then let’s make it official.” His free servo shifted into an electron spike-blade - A kind of brute-force surgical tool usually used in Decepticon interrogations. Though, Blitzwing probably just used it because it hurt like a glitch. B found that last part out the hard way - As the spike-blade dug into his neck, impaling his vocal component, before ripping it right out in a mess of coolant, wires, and energon. He tried to scream. Tried to say anything, really - But he couldn’t. He clawed at the wound, as Blitzwing tossed the component to the side, before dropping the smaller bot off the side of the cliff.
B found himself in freefall. The shock from having his voice quite literally ripped from his throat made it hard to gain his bearings, so hitting the ground took even more out of him. As he slowly regained his senses for what felt like the hundredth time this cycle, he heard Blitzwing landing nearby. Amazing, he thought, as he felt him being hoisted up once more. He looked the cockroach of a seeker in the optics, mustering up what little defiance he had left.
“B-127…” Don’t wear it out… “As a member of the Autobot resistance, you are a traitor to Cybertron.” ‘Traitor’ my aft-plating… “And are hereby sentenced… To death.”
B decided, that wasn’t happening. He pulled together just enough energy to make one last swift move - Pulling open the missile housing on Blitzwing’s arm, ripping one of the warheads off, and jamming it right into the weld-line of the seeker’s cockpit. Blitzwing panicked, trying to rip the explosive out of himself - And in that panic, loosened his grip just enough for B to kick himself free. He fell to the ground, before his servo folded back to make way for an energy cannon. Blitzwing let out an enraged bellow, before B fired, triggering the missile. The resulting explosion, made from the warhead itself and the ignition of Blitzwing’s energon reserves, more than likely would have briefly shut down B’s optics if not for his battle mask. He internally thanked Wheeljack for insisting on its installment.
As B stood back up, he surveyed the damage - Both to the surrounding area, and to himself. It was… Quite extensive, in both fields. Vehicles, buildings, all of it was nothing but scrap. He couldn’t see any signs of survivors, either, and something deep within his spark panged with guilt. This had been his fault, he thought. Blitzwing had been after him. If he hadn’t been here, neither would the Decepticon, and then no one else would have gotten hurt. As for his own status? Beyond just his voicebox, his chassis had taken quite the beating. Blitzwing’s brutal methods had also evidently damaged his memory, as well. He didn’t need the warnings for that - He could already feel himself fading. He needed to find cover, and fast. He moved forward, his only purpose now being to find a place where he could refuel and recharge.
He never found one. Instead, he eventually came upon a pool of frozen water. He collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t go any further. He barely caught his fall with his servos. One last chance. His chest hit the water. He scanned the area for something, anything he could use as a temporary alt mode before he fell into his clearly inevitable stasis. His optics, just before they failed him, landed on a rather sporty motorcycle. It’d do, nicely. With what little energy he had left, he scanned it - And, just as the pieces finished clicking into place to conceal him, he shut down…
———————————————
As soon as the connection had been cut, Ironwood had ordered a team to be sent in to recover any survivors - And, if possible, any wreckage. He’d even gone along himself. After all, he just had to see this with his own eyes… When he’d arrived, he found exactly one survivor. John Burns. He’d been caught under a truck that had thankfully shielded him from the blast - Rendering him unconscious due to a mix of head trauma and blood loss, but alive. The yellow machine had evidently managed to leave the scene. Given the armaments found on the scattered pieces of the much larger one, however, Ironwood decided that the loss of life was the worst of what had happened here. If he was right about the seeming intelligence of the machines, Professor Polendina would have plenty to work through.
———————————————
Taiyang Xiao Long needed to get his daughter a bike. A motorbike, to be specific - Something he’d promised Yang he’d get for her when she turned 17. He’d been dreading the day, as he was sure all fathers did, but today he knew he just had to do it. He knew that between both Raven and Summer vanishing, he hadn’t been the most present father over the years, but he wanted to show her that he cared. That he listened. So, it was because of that, that he ended up staring down a sports bike that looked to be in fairly good condition. His only concern? The price. Not that it was too expensive - In fact, it the opposite. It was suspiciously cheap.
“What’s with this one?” He called out to the owner of the dealership - A rather portly old man named Gordon something-or-other who’d supposedly worked with vehicles his whole life.
“This’un?” Gordon shuffled over, with his hands in his pockets. He gave the seat of the bike a solid pat.
“Yeah,” Taiyang raised an eyebrow. “Why’s it so cheap? It looks just fine.”
“Oh, that’s ‘cause it’s got no engine in it. Yer gonna have t’ get that separate.”
“Huh.” Well, that was… Convenient. He and Yang had been restoring an old engine together that fit this model. He’d been planning to buy a full one and just take the engine out before giving it to Yang, but if this one came without… “Well, I’ll take it.”
“Glad fer it. No one’s picked this thing up since it came t’ me, 2 years ago!” Gordon barked out a laugh, before holding out his hand. Taiyang shook it. Yang was going to be so happy with this, he was sure of it. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77351286/chapters/202517371 | {"authors": ["Cray Collector-Thief of Genders (Dedotron)"], "language": "English", "title": "Bees"} |
Hotel for Harlots
The building, if it could be called that, was a staggering surprise to what I had expected. Not that I had any real idea of what it was I would be looking at, but things like brothels and prostitution sound so old fashioned, that rickety stairs and the warm smell of candles is all I had turning about in that head of mine. But it’s like a hotel straight from Tokyo or Dubai or som high end side of paradise, shimmering high against the black night with its bright windows punctuating the darkness.
It was formal, too, the process. Felt like I was booking a hotel room, not a woman, thought I guess I did do that too. When I walk in, I’m anxious. The floor is a beautiful shiny tile that reflects my image back at me, and I’m aware of how nervous I look. My nails have been bitten to stumps, and my breakfast lunch and dinner want to crawl out my oesophagus. But I go through, and the woman at the reception smiles at me.
I tell her my name, and she smiles. Taps something away at her computer and then gives me a room number.
”One of our ladies will be with you shortly. Just head on over.”
So I do. I take my room key and head to an empty elevator and as the doors slide close and I ascend I feel my knees go weak. It’s not so much that I’ve never done anything like this before because I’ve always been a bit of a stay-in-lane kind of girl, which is true, but also that I’ve never, you know, done that, that thing, with a woman before.
But that’s why I’m here. Men have never appealed to me beyond a small fondness. I thought that was normal. Turns out after seeing my friends all crazy about their boyfriends while I was more crazy over them, it wasn’t.
My stomach churns in hard knots and I feel like fainting. I want to make a run for it, as I always do, but I hold, for a minute, because then the door slides open and I rush to my room and enter before I can talk myself out of it.
It’s a beautiful room, wide and high walled and so tall up in the sky that the city looks like a constellation under here. There’s no need to close the curtains. The thought sends a sick thrill down my back. I slowly remove my shoes and sit on the bed. Time ticks in hours.
Finally, there is a click at the door and a woman enters full stride. And she is—fucking stunning. Blonde hair spills in waves down a back in a dress that parts at the hips in a slit and has a very, very low neckline—exposing a very, very ample cleavage. Her lips are painted red and her eyes are dark and she’s smiling at me.
Another jolt shoots up my body, this time between my legs, and I am ashamed.
”Is this your first time?” She asks me by way of greeting, and I nod. I can’t see to do much else, because she’s a goddess and I want to kiss her feet right now.
She steps closer and sits beside me on the bed. The proximity makes my heart thunder like a monster truck. Oh fuck, this is really happening. Okay. Wow.
She smiles. It’s a kind one, with an undertone of something sultry that makes me shiver. She places her hand on my knee, “you’re here to… see how you like it?”
I swallow. “Something like that.”
She grins wider now, and inches closer. Her hand has crawled up to my thigh now, and I feel a thumping deep inside my core. Oh, fuck.
Her dress has slipped down now, just an inch, and through it the barest sliver of nipple pokes out through the fabric. My throat goes dry.
She notices me staring. “Want a look?”
I nod, before I can stop myself, and she laughs. She pulls me onto the bed, makes me lean down against the pillow, and straddles me. Her dress parts and her bare thighs are against my hip. Then slowly, she lifts down her dress, and two full swelling beasts are staring down at me.
I stare, and have to hold myself in hard from moaning. The nipples are dark and hard. I find myself drooling. She smirks, lifting one up with her hand.
”Don’t be shy, baby, have a taste.”
You don’t have to ask me twice. I clamp my lips around the nipple and feel the warm skin over my tongue. I moan into it. My tongue explores—slowly, at first, and then quicker, before I’m lapping up like a dog and sucking like I’m a starving pauper in the sahara. It’s a hard nipple and between my legs is an ache for ecstasy that grows with each lick. I pull it, I swirl my tongue around it, I pull her closer by the hip and then begin doing the same to the other one.
i’m closer to orgasming now than I ever did when my brother’s best friend was inside me, and I haven’t even been touched down there yet.
she’s moaning, too—
“Ah—there, just like that, baby. Suckle me all you like. How does it—ah—how does it taste?”
I can’t take it anymore. My fingers slip down, involuntarily, and try to touch my core—
She grabs my wrist and pulls it away.
”Oh, no, no, dear. Not that fast. At least get rid of your clothes first!” And she does. She discards my shirt, and my pants, until all I’m left in is lacy lingerie I bought with my savings because I had nothing sexy at home.
She stares at the panties—damp at the bottom, and tsks. Then, inching closer, she pulls off her entire dress, and opens her legs until her bare pussy is against my stomach. Oh god.
She strokes my hair and kisses my neck. I moan. She unclips my bra, and my breasts fall loose against my chest, nipples hard.
I moan. And her eyes glimmer.
”Since it’s your first time, I’ll go easy on you.” Her fingers slip near my panties. She presses, slightly—
“Ahngh!”
“You like that?” She purrs, pushing again.
”Ah!”
The pleasure spikes before disappearing as the touch ends. I whimper, my pussy aching, and she begins rubbing in slow, deliberate movements. My slick has already seeped through the panty’s fabric and onto her hand, and I open my legs involuntarily.
”Ah! Hngh!”
”So loud,” she whispers, “tell me. Do you want me to go faster?”
”Yes—hngh!”
”Do you want me to go harder?”
”Please…”
”please what?”
”P-Please go harder, ah!”
And she does. Her fingers rub harder and faster against my aching clit until I’m groating into the air. Her boobs bounce against my cheek and I latch onto one of them again. As I suck, she rubs, and the faster I suck, the faster she rubs.
My saliva drips down her breasts, but I don’t care. There’s ecstasy between my legs and it’s so close—it’s so close—
she stops rubbing.
I groan.
She winks at me. “don’t worry, sugar, it’s coming. In all due time.”
Then, she pulls from her bundle of dresses something long.
And bristled.
A hairbrush.
”Wantto know how deep this baby can go?”
I moan hard. “Yes.”
She lifts it up, holding close to my throbbing slit, but doesn’t put it in. Why? Why not?
“I think you need something to sweeten it up down there,” she says, and proceeds to shove the hairbrush up her own pussy. She grunts and moans, and I watch as the end of the brush begins to slicken up with her juice.
She pulls it out, panting: “Ready.”
Then it’s thrust inside me and I scream as she pumps it in with one hand and rubs my slit with the other. And I can’t shut up:
”Ah!”
”Angh!”
”Ah, ah, ah!”
And, as I reach for her breast again and begin feeding as she pumps inside me while rubbing me out, the pleasure comes, in hot pursuit, and I moan against her breast as th best orgasm of my life breaks through. | Hotel for Harlots
The building, if it could be called that, was a staggering surprise to what I had expected. Not that I had any real idea of what it was I would be looking at, but things like brothels and prostitution sound so old fashioned, that rickety stairs and the warm smell of candles is all I had turning about in that head of mine. But it’s like a hotel straight from Tokyo or Dubai or som high end side of paradise, shimmering high against the black night with its bright windows punctuating the darkness.
It was formal, too, the process. Felt like I was booking a hotel room, not a woman, thought I guess I did do that too. When I walk in, I’m anxious. The floor is a beautiful shiny tile that reflects my image back at me, and I’m aware of how nervous I look. My nails have been bitten to stumps, and my breakfast lunch and dinner want to crawl out my oesophagus. But I go through, and the woman at the reception smiles at me.
I tell her my name, and she smiles. Taps something away at her computer and then gives me a room number.
”One of our ladies will be with you shortly. Just head on over.”
So I do. I take my room key and head to an empty elevator and as the doors slide close and I ascend I feel my knees go weak. It’s not so much that I’ve never done anything like this before because I’ve always been a bit of a stay-in-lane kind of girl, which is true, but also that I’ve never, you know, done that, that thing, with a woman before.
But that’s why I’m here. Men have never appealed to me beyond a small fondness. I thought that was normal. Turns out after seeing my friends all crazy about their boyfriends while I was more crazy over them, it wasn’t.
My stomach churns in hard knots and I feel like fainting. I want to make a run for it, as I always do, but I hold, for a minute, because then the door slides open and I rush to my room and enter before I can talk myself out of it.
It’s a beautiful room, wide and high walled and so tall up in the sky that the city looks like a constellation under here. There’s no need to close the curtains. The thought sends a sick thrill down my back. I slowly remove my shoes and sit on the bed. Time ticks in hours.
Finally, there is a click at the door and a woman enters full stride. And she is—fucking stunning. Blonde hair spills in waves down a back in a dress that parts at the hips in a slit and has a very, very low neckline—exposing a very, very ample cleavage. Her lips are painted red and her eyes are dark and she’s smiling at me.
Another jolt shoots up my body, this time between my legs, and I am ashamed.
”Is this your first time?” She asks me by way of greeting, and I nod. I can’t see to do much else, because she’s a goddess and I want to kiss her feet right now.
She steps closer and sits beside me on the bed. The proximity makes my heart thunder like a monster truck. Oh fuck, this is really happening. Okay. Wow.
She smiles. It’s a kind one, with an undertone of something sultry that makes me shiver. She places her hand on my knee, “you’re here to… see how you like it?”
I swallow. “Something like that.”
She grins wider now, and inches closer. Her hand has crawled up to my thigh now, and I feel a thumping deep inside my core. Oh, fuck.
Her dress has slipped down now, just an inch, and through it the barest sliver of nipple pokes out through the fabric. My throat goes dry.
She notices me staring. “Want a look?”
I nod, before I can stop myself, and she laughs. She pulls me onto the bed, makes me lean down against the pillow, and straddles me. Her dress parts and her bare thighs are against my hip. Then slowly, she lifts down her dress, and two full swelling beasts are staring down at me.
I stare, and have to hold myself in hard from moaning. The nipples are dark and hard. I find myself drooling. She smirks, lifting one up with her hand.
”Don’t be shy, baby, have a taste.”
You don’t have to ask me twice. I clamp my lips around the nipple and feel the warm skin over my tongue. I moan into it. My tongue explores—slowly, at first, and then quicker, before I’m lapping up like a dog and sucking like I’m a starving pauper in the sahara. It’s a hard nipple and between my legs is an ache for ecstasy that grows with each lick. I pull it, I swirl my tongue around it, I pull her closer by the hip and then begin doing the same to the other one.
i’m closer to orgasming now than I ever did when my brother’s best friend was inside me, and I haven’t even been touched down there yet.
she’s moaning, too—
“Ah—there, just like that, baby. Suckle me all you like. How does it—ah—how does it taste?”
I can’t take it anymore. My fingers slip down, involuntarily, and try to touch my core—
She grabs my wrist and pulls it away.
”Oh, no, no, dear. Not that fast. At least get rid of your clothes first!” And she does. She discards my shirt, and my pants, until all I’m left in is lacy lingerie I bought with my savings because I had nothing sexy at home.
She stares at the panties—damp at the bottom, and tsks. Then, inching closer, she pulls off her entire dress, and opens her legs until her bare pussy is against my stomach. Oh god.
She strokes my hair and kisses my neck. I moan. She unclips my bra, and my breasts fall loose against my chest, nipples hard.
I moan. And her eyes glimmer.
”Since it’s your first time, I’ll go easy on you.” Her fingers slip near my panties. She presses, slightly—
“Ahngh!”
“You like that?” She purrs, pushing again.
”Ah!”
The pleasure spikes before disappearing as the touch ends. I whimper, my pussy aching, and she begins rubbing in slow, deliberate movements. My slick has already seeped through the panty’s fabric and onto her hand, and I open my legs involuntarily.
”Ah! Hngh!”
”So loud,” she whispers, “tell me. Do you want me to go faster?”
”Yes—hngh!”
”Do you want me to go harder?”
”Please…”
”please what?”
”P-Please go harder, ah!”
And she does. Her fingers rub harder and faster against my aching clit until I’m groating into the air. Her boobs bounce against my cheek and I latch onto one of them again. As I suck, she rubs, and the faster I suck, the faster she rubs.
My saliva drips down her breasts, but I don’t care. There’s ecstasy between my legs and it’s so close—it’s so close—
she stops rubbing.
I groan.
She winks at me. “don’t worry, sugar, it’s coming. In all due time.”
Then, she pulls from her bundle of dresses something long.
And bristled.
A hairbrush.
”Wantto know how deep this baby can go?”
I moan hard. “Yes.”
She lifts it up, holding close to my throbbing slit, but doesn’t put it in. Why? Why not?
“I think you need something to sweeten it up down there,” she says, and proceeds to shove the hairbrush up her own pussy. She grunts and moans, and I watch as the end of the brush begins to slicken up with her juice.
She pulls it out, panting: “Ready.”
Then it’s thrust inside me and I scream as she pumps it in with one hand and rubs my slit with the other. And I can’t shut up:
”Ah!”
”Angh!”
”Ah, ah, ah!”
And, as I reach for her breast again and begin feeding as she pumps inside me while rubbing me out, the pleasure comes, in hot pursuit, and I moan against her breast as th best orgasm of my life breaks through. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77351941 | {"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "Hotel for Harlots"} |
Bloodless
I awoke lying face-up on a comfortable bed in a dark room, dressed in my own pajamas, a gray sweatshirt and gray shorts. How long had I slept? I felt I couldn’t be sure. Whatever I had been doing last seemed like a distant memory. It could have been years ago, a lifetime ago. Never before had I felt so disconnected from the world.
I felt barely able to move as those memories coalesced. I was… I had been in a garage? The garage, right, where my Mistress had been kept against Her will for the better part of a week. The garage that belonged to…
Oh! Nicole Perreira, how could I forget, she was, she was…
I was Hers?
I had hated Her, She was the enemy of my Goddess, but Nicole, too, was a Goddess to me. She had taken my blood, and that made me Hers. And She had taken so, so much. Her fangs were in my neck much longer than my other Mistress, Mistress Naomi, ever had Her fangs in me. I thought… I thought I had gone into shock after that. I barely internalized anything that had happened there, but my Mistress was stabbed, maybe? Mistress Nicole, that was.
She… She had been stabbed. Sh-shit. I had barely known Her as my Mistress or otherwise, but She had most definitely been stabbed. Stabbed by Caroline, her protégé. Mistress Nicole had gotten pretty worked up, excited to take me as Her thrall, over Caroline and Mistress Naomi’s protests, and Caroline had ended up picking up a knife from the floor at Mistress Naomi’s behest…
…Oh Goddess, my Mistresses disagreed, didn’t They? More than that, They were mortal enemies. What did I do? Who did I side with between Them? That was a completely impossible choice. I had only been taken by Mistress Nicole a short time ago, but I belonged to Her, needed to serve Her and defend Her and please Her. Perhaps Mistress Naomi would come first, since She had taken me first, but I was still Mistress Nicole’s too. She would always have to be considered. Although, uh…
Was She dead?
My memories were so blurry, and I had barely been able to take it in at the time, but I realized that Mistress Nicole had been stabbed straight through the heart with a silver knife, I was pretty sure, while I lay there in shock with most of my blood missing, half-conscious and clammy, drained like I had never been drained before. She was dead. And I thought, I wasn’t sure, but I thought… I thought that the very last thing that had happened was Mistress Naomi leaving Her cage, climbing on top of me and holding me in Her gentle embrace, sinking Her fangs into me despite how much had already been taken.
Perhaps I only had one Mistress, still. But thinking about any of it too hard hurt my head. I needed to figure out where things stood, first and foremost. I needed to know who I served, and who was left for me to serve. I needed to know my life’s purpose.
I looked around the room, getting my bearings. It was pretty dark, but I guessed my eyes had adjusted by now, because I didn’t have any trouble seeing around me. This was Mistress Naomi’s bedroom in Her hotel, connected to the living room in Her suite by a set of double doors. No one else seemed to be here, including Mistress Naomi Herself.
Thinking back, I had been very badly injured when Mistress Nicole had knocked me across the room, but those injuries seemed to be gone now. I felt so much better, strong as I ever had, in fact. I’d expect bruises like that to have lasted for weeks. Had I been unconscious for that long, or was I suffering from some kind of memory loss? Was Mistress Naomi tampering with my memories? I would have absolutely loved that, but it didn’t feel quite right. I’d have expected Her to be in the room with me in that case, if nothing else. It wouldn’t have been like Her to leave me alone in a vulnerable state.
The only other possibility I could think of was that my injuries had somehow healed much more quickly than normal. Looking at myself, there was no trace of bruises left on my sides. How could that have even happened? I did look pretty pale, but not bruised… oh…
Oh Goddess, I was so pale… could that really be the case?
And I had barely started to get a hold on my environment when I started to notice the scent surrounding me. It was a metallic, savory scent, one that seemed to make my whole body light up in excitement as I smelled it. It was relatively faint, but as soon as I took notice of it, it seemed to be overcoming me, consuming me with the desire to find its source.
It was the smell of human blood. The blood, I could only assume, of the various people in the other rooms of Mistress Naomi’s hotel that surrounded me. Separated from me by walls, but I was apparently now sensitive enough to this wonderful smell that it resembled the feeling of walking down a city street and smelling garlic from outside a restaurant, though that was a surprisingly unpleasant smell to imagine at the moment.
Shit… was this real? Was I really a vampire? Mistress Naomi had turned me, hadn’t She? If it was Her will, I would accept it, but why would She do that?
I thought that my heart should’ve been beating at a million miles an hour, but instead, it didn’t feel like it was beating at all. There must have been some kind of mistake. I wasn’t a vampire! I was a normal human girl, a thrall to my Mistresses but never a vampire myself. That wasn’t how this worked! There was no way this could be…
I stood up, my body feeling almost alien to me. Sure, I went to the gym three times a week, I had always kept that up, but I had never felt this strong. It didn’t feel like I should have been able to stand up so easily after being unconscious (or worse), but I found it easy now.
Mistress Naomi’s bedroom was adorned with a large floor-to-ceiling mirror. I had been surprised by Her choice of decor during my earlier times here, but She liked dressing Her thralls up in clothing and makeup that She thought was cute sometimes, so it was there. I knew that Her lack of a reflection mostly felt like an annoyance to Her, judging by how she talked about it. It made getting Herself ready for the night harder than it would be for a human — styling Her hair, trying out new outfits, that sort of thing. She relied on us to help Her with these types of tasks.
I was terrified to look in the mirror, knowing what I’d probably find. It was a foregone conclusion, given what I was seeing and feeling so far. But I thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d see myself reflected, and be assured that this was all just a bad dream.
I stepped directly in front of the mirror. It reflected an empty room.
I was… basically a walking corpse now? My Mistresses were beautiful and perfect, of course, but They were, in some sense, walking corpses… members of the undead. And, at least in form, I was no different from Them now, seemingly. It was strange. I didn’t feel dead. My body didn’t quite feel like my own, but I was still the same person I had always been, even if the mirror disagreed.
I mean, wasn’t I? There was that thing that Mistress Nicole had said about Her being a parasite who inherited Her own memories. It didn’t seem like it quite matched up with what I had seen from Her or from Mistress Naomi, but even thinking back to that felt like such a distant memory, something from another life. Was I not me any more? Was “Valerie” dead?
I, uh… I needed to talk to someone. Mistress Naomi? Lauren? Sandra? Gail? Hannah? Anyone. I was fucking panicking and I needed someone to tell me that I was still me, that I wasn’t an undead parasite now, that things could ever be the same again.
Oh… ohhh, Lauren. Lauren. The thought of her, my beloved girlfriend who I had lived with for years, made my mouth water. I was reminded of her scent, the musk in her crotch, the smell of her blood… the smell of her blood, something I had only smelled incidentally, something I had never even considered before… It was totally overwhelming. I needed it, I needed her, I needed to love her and cherish her, go on long walks with her and watch movies together, sleep with her in my arms and play video games together, own and control her and drink her blood…
Oh Goddess, I needed to drink her blood so badly! It was all-consuming, a desire above desires, the one need I felt I truly had at that moment and the thought was making me shiver and shake with uncontrollable bloodlust, because I was not human, that I was sure of as I looked in the mirror and saw nothing reflected, as I looked at my own hand and saw how pale it was, as I reached that hand up to my lips and felt long fangs there that could surely pierce Laurie’s skin, draw her blood out onto my tongue and into my body, nourishing me, making sure that she would be mine forever.
I put a hand up to the mirror in front of me… this was so wrong. I couldn’t stand looking at it any longer. How could I think of Laurie this way? She was my girlfriend, the love of my life. I couldn’t hurt her, I didn’t want to, I wanted our relationship to be that of equal partners. At least… at least that’s what I needed to tell myself to think! I realized that the reason I wanted this so badly was because I loved her so deeply, cared for her so much… this was part of what love meant to me now because I wasn’t fucking human any more!
I pressed my hand into the mirror harder, filled with tension like I never had been before, and it shattered to pieces in front of me.
A glass shard fell onto my arm, piercing into my skin, but it barely hurt. I pulled it out, and the bloodless wound it had left closed instantaneously before my eyes.
And… oh Goddess, I had just shattered Mistress Naomi’s mirror. Like most of Her things, it looked very expensive, probably custom-made, even. It was shattered now. It wasn’t coming back. It reminded me of myself, actually. My life had apparently been shattered without warning, and there was going to be no way to put myself back together, maybe. This is what I was now. I didn’t regret putting my life on the line to save Mistress Naomi (though it went against Mistress Nicole’s will and that gave me a headache), but I had never expected this, especially not from Mistress Naomi Herself.
But I was not OK at all at that moment. I felt dizzy, conflicted between two Mistresses, overwhelmed by the smell of blood all around me, ashamed and confused about what I was feeling about Lauren. I needed to get on the phone now before things got any worse. Wherever Mistress Naomi was, I hoped that She would respond…
I walked over to the phone on Mistress Naomi’s nightstand. There was a speed dial button for the front desk of the hotel, standard on all of the hotel’s phones, so I decided to just press that to get it over with. Whoever was down there could get me in touch with Mistress Naomi, anyway, and would probably do an at least OK job of calming me down on their own. At least I hoped so. I pressed the button and reached for the receiver, not sure if I was really ready for human interaction.
But as I gripped the receiver, I heard a crack from between my fingers as the plastic gave way. It was mangled, crushed plastic, rendered unusable by my supernatural strength. Shit, shit… another one of Her things broken, all my fault. This was so fucked. This couldn’t be me. Mistress Naomi was supposed to be the stronger one between the two of us, and She was always gentle, always careful. She’d never break something without meaning to. I wasn’t meant for this existence. I wasn’t cut out for it like Her. This was so wrong!
Fucking hell. Did I wait around until Mistress Naomi returned from wherever She had gone? That would only serve to let the smell of blood in the rooms around me drive me completely crazy. I couldn’t just sit here. I needed to do something about this.
Thankfully, I had been dressed in my own pajamas, apparently. When a human was turned into a vampire, undeath took a few days to take hold, so I guessed that there would have been ample time to take me back here and bring some of my clothes over from my apartment. Mistress Naomi was so kind and nurturing as always, keeping me in Her bed in these conditions. I just wished She was there in the bedroom with me.
It wasn’t a proper set of clothes to wear, but all I needed to do was get outside to escape from the amazing delicious smell all around me. I couldn’t afford to indulge that, not now, and I felt like if I ever did indulge it I would never, ever be able to stop myself. Blackout curtains were drawn over Mistress Naomi’s windows, so it was difficult to tell the time of day, but it was certainly dark in the bedroom, and not even a small sliver of light seemed to be coming from underneath the curtains. That | Bloodless
I awoke lying face-up on a comfortable bed in a dark room, dressed in my own pajamas, a gray sweatshirt and gray shorts. How long had I slept? I felt I couldn’t be sure. Whatever I had been doing last seemed like a distant memory. It could have been years ago, a lifetime ago. Never before had I felt so disconnected from the world.
I felt barely able to move as those memories coalesced. I was… I had been in a garage? The garage, right, where my Mistress had been kept against Her will for the better part of a week. The garage that belonged to…
Oh! Nicole Perreira, how could I forget, she was, she was…
I was Hers?
I had hated Her, She was the enemy of my Goddess, but Nicole, too, was a Goddess to me. She had taken my blood, and that made me Hers. And She had taken so, so much. Her fangs were in my neck much longer than my other Mistress, Mistress Naomi, ever had Her fangs in me. I thought… I thought I had gone into shock after that. I barely internalized anything that had happened there, but my Mistress was stabbed, maybe? Mistress Nicole, that was.
She… She had been stabbed. Sh-shit. I had barely known Her as my Mistress or otherwise, but She had most definitely been stabbed. Stabbed by Caroline, her protégé. Mistress Nicole had gotten pretty worked up, excited to take me as Her thrall, over Caroline and Mistress Naomi’s protests, and Caroline had ended up picking up a knife from the floor at Mistress Naomi’s behest…
…Oh Goddess, my Mistresses disagreed, didn’t They? More than that, They were mortal enemies. What did I do? Who did I side with between Them? That was a completely impossible choice. I had only been taken by Mistress Nicole a short time ago, but I belonged to Her, needed to serve Her and defend Her and please Her. Perhaps Mistress Naomi would come first, since She had taken me first, but I was still Mistress Nicole’s too. She would always have to be considered. Although, uh…
Was She dead?
My memories were so blurry, and I had barely been able to take it in at the time, but I realized that Mistress Nicole had been stabbed straight through the heart with a silver knife, I was pretty sure, while I lay there in shock with most of my blood missing, half-conscious and clammy, drained like I had never been drained before. She was dead. And I thought, I wasn’t sure, but I thought… I thought that the very last thing that had happened was Mistress Naomi leaving Her cage, climbing on top of me and holding me in Her gentle embrace, sinking Her fangs into me despite how much had already been taken.
Perhaps I only had one Mistress, still. But thinking about any of it too hard hurt my head. I needed to figure out where things stood, first and foremost. I needed to know who I served, and who was left for me to serve. I needed to know my life’s purpose.
I looked around the room, getting my bearings. It was pretty dark, but I guessed my eyes had adjusted by now, because I didn’t have any trouble seeing around me. This was Mistress Naomi’s bedroom in Her hotel, connected to the living room in Her suite by a set of double doors. No one else seemed to be here, including Mistress Naomi Herself.
Thinking back, I had been very badly injured when Mistress Nicole had knocked me across the room, but those injuries seemed to be gone now. I felt so much better, strong as I ever had, in fact. I’d expect bruises like that to have lasted for weeks. Had I been unconscious for that long, or was I suffering from some kind of memory loss? Was Mistress Naomi tampering with my memories? I would have absolutely loved that, but it didn’t feel quite right. I’d have expected Her to be in the room with me in that case, if nothing else. It wouldn’t have been like Her to leave me alone in a vulnerable state.
The only other possibility I could think of was that my injuries had somehow healed much more quickly than normal. Looking at myself, there was no trace of bruises left on my sides. How could that have even happened? I did look pretty pale, but not bruised… oh…
Oh Goddess, I was so pale… could that really be the case?
And I had barely started to get a hold on my environment when I started to notice the scent surrounding me. It was a metallic, savory scent, one that seemed to make my whole body light up in excitement as I smelled it. It was relatively faint, but as soon as I took notice of it, it seemed to be overcoming me, consuming me with the desire to find its source.
It was the smell of human blood. The blood, I could only assume, of the various people in the other rooms of Mistress Naomi’s hotel that surrounded me. Separated from me by walls, but I was apparently now sensitive enough to this wonderful smell that it resembled the feeling of walking down a city street and smelling garlic from outside a restaurant, though that was a surprisingly unpleasant smell to imagine at the moment.
Shit… was this real? Was I really a vampire? Mistress Naomi had turned me, hadn’t She? If it was Her will, I would accept it, but why would She do that?
I thought that my heart should’ve been beating at a million miles an hour, but instead, it didn’t feel like it was beating at all. There must have been some kind of mistake. I wasn’t a vampire! I was a normal human girl, a thrall to my Mistresses but never a vampire myself. That wasn’t how this worked! There was no way this could be…
I stood up, my body feeling almost alien to me. Sure, I went to the gym three times a week, I had always kept that up, but I had never felt this strong. It didn’t feel like I should have been able to stand up so easily after being unconscious (or worse), but I found it easy now.
Mistress Naomi’s bedroom was adorned with a large floor-to-ceiling mirror. I had been surprised by Her choice of decor during my earlier times here, but She liked dressing Her thralls up in clothing and makeup that She thought was cute sometimes, so it was there. I knew that Her lack of a reflection mostly felt like an annoyance to Her, judging by how she talked about it. It made getting Herself ready for the night harder than it would be for a human — styling Her hair, trying out new outfits, that sort of thing. She relied on us to help Her with these types of tasks.
I was terrified to look in the mirror, knowing what I’d probably find. It was a foregone conclusion, given what I was seeing and feeling so far. But I thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d see myself reflected, and be assured that this was all just a bad dream.
I stepped directly in front of the mirror. It reflected an empty room.
I was… basically a walking corpse now? My Mistresses were beautiful and perfect, of course, but They were, in some sense, walking corpses… members of the undead. And, at least in form, I was no different from Them now, seemingly. It was strange. I didn’t feel dead. My body didn’t quite feel like my own, but I was still the same person I had always been, even if the mirror disagreed.
I mean, wasn’t I? There was that thing that Mistress Nicole had said about Her being a parasite who inherited Her own memories. It didn’t seem like it quite matched up with what I had seen from Her or from Mistress Naomi, but even thinking back to that felt like such a distant memory, something from another life. Was I not me any more? Was “Valerie” dead?
I, uh… I needed to talk to someone. Mistress Naomi? Lauren? Sandra? Gail? Hannah? Anyone. I was fucking panicking and I needed someone to tell me that I was still me, that I wasn’t an undead parasite now, that things could ever be the same again.
Oh… ohhh, Lauren. Lauren. The thought of her, my beloved girlfriend who I had lived with for years, made my mouth water. I was reminded of her scent, the musk in her crotch, the smell of her blood… the smell of her blood, something I had only smelled incidentally, something I had never even considered before… It was totally overwhelming. I needed it, I needed her, I needed to love her and cherish her, go on long walks with her and watch movies together, sleep with her in my arms and play video games together, own and control her and drink her blood…
Oh Goddess, I needed to drink her blood so badly! It was all-consuming, a desire above desires, the one need I felt I truly had at that moment and the thought was making me shiver and shake with uncontrollable bloodlust, because I was not human, that I was sure of as I looked in the mirror and saw nothing reflected, as I looked at my own hand and saw how pale it was, as I reached that hand up to my lips and felt long fangs there that could surely pierce Laurie’s skin, draw her blood out onto my tongue and into my body, nourishing me, making sure that she would be mine forever.
I put a hand up to the mirror in front of me… this was so wrong. I couldn’t stand looking at it any longer. How could I think of Laurie this way? She was my girlfriend, the love of my life. I couldn’t hurt her, I didn’t want to, I wanted our relationship to be that of equal partners. At least… at least that’s what I needed to tell myself to think! I realized that the reason I wanted this so badly was because I loved her so deeply, cared for her so much… this was part of what love meant to me now because I wasn’t fucking human any more!
I pressed my hand into the mirror harder, filled with tension like I never had been before, and it shattered to pieces in front of me.
A glass shard fell onto my arm, piercing into my skin, but it barely hurt. I pulled it out, and the bloodless wound it had left closed instantaneously before my eyes.
And… oh Goddess, I had just shattered Mistress Naomi’s mirror. Like most of Her things, it looked very expensive, probably custom-made, even. It was shattered now. It wasn’t coming back. It reminded me of myself, actually. My life had apparently been shattered without warning, and there was going to be no way to put myself back together, maybe. This is what I was now. I didn’t regret putting my life on the line to save Mistress Naomi (though it went against Mistress Nicole’s will and that gave me a headache), but I had never expected this, especially not from Mistress Naomi Herself.
But I was not OK at all at that moment. I felt dizzy, conflicted between two Mistresses, overwhelmed by the smell of blood all around me, ashamed and confused about what I was feeling about Lauren. I needed to get on the phone now before things got any worse. Wherever Mistress Naomi was, I hoped that She would respond…
I walked over to the phone on Mistress Naomi’s nightstand. There was a speed dial button for the front desk of the hotel, standard on all of the hotel’s phones, so I decided to just press that to get it over with. Whoever was down there could get me in touch with Mistress Naomi, anyway, and would probably do an at least OK job of calming me down on their own. At least I hoped so. I pressed the button and reached for the receiver, not sure if I was really ready for human interaction.
But as I gripped the receiver, I heard a crack from between my fingers as the plastic gave way. It was mangled, crushed plastic, rendered unusable by my supernatural strength. Shit, shit… another one of Her things broken, all my fault. This was so fucked. This couldn’t be me. Mistress Naomi was supposed to be the stronger one between the two of us, and She was always gentle, always careful. She’d never break something without meaning to. I wasn’t meant for this existence. I wasn’t cut out for it like Her. This was so wrong!
Fucking hell. Did I wait around until Mistress Naomi returned from wherever She had gone? That would only serve to let the smell of blood in the rooms around me drive me completely crazy. I couldn’t just sit here. I needed to do something about this.
Thankfully, I had been dressed in my own pajamas, apparently. When a human was turned into a vampire, undeath took a few days to take hold, so I guessed that there would have been ample time to take me back here and bring some of my clothes over from my apartment. Mistress Naomi was so kind and nurturing as always, keeping me in Her bed in these conditions. I just wished She was there in the bedroom with me.
It wasn’t a proper set of clothes to wear, but all I needed to do was get outside to escape from the amazing delicious smell all around me. I couldn’t afford to indulge that, not now, and I felt like if I ever did indulge it I would never, ever be able to stop myself. Blackout curtains were drawn over Mistress Naomi’s windows, so it was difficult to tell the time of day, but it was certainly dark in the bedroom, and not even a small sliver of light seemed to be coming from underneath the curtains. That meant it was probably nighttime, so there’d be a pretty low chance of seeing anyone in the hallway, thankfully. I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle that.
It meant the sun would be down too. Oh, Goddess, I wouldn’t be safe in sunlight, would I? That thought terrified me. No more morning jogs, unless I went extra early. I would have to have a nocturnal sleep schedule like Mistress Naomi now, probably, and it would come naturally to me. Anything else would just be plain unsafe. No, no, I didn’t want that!
But, in the immediate moment, I didn’t have to deal with that. Outside would be safe for the time being. I marched into the living room and out the front door.
And outside, in the fifth floor hallway, the light was absolutely blinding. Not just the sort of blinding that it had been for me previously when I turned the light on in my bedroom at 3 AM, but truly blinding, bright orange light searing my eyes and not letting up. It was just the sconce lights in the hallway, relatively dim, but I supposed I just wasn’t adapted for this now. I thought of all the times that Mistress Naomi had told me to dim the lights in my apartment or turn down the brightness of my phone screen, and felt I understood now why She had needed that so badly.
My eyes slowly adjusted, and I was able to see half-decently, though everything was still too orange and too bright for my preference. Mistress Naomi was used to this, I supposed. She spent a lot of Her time in lit rooms, usually tuned a bit dimmer than this, though. Certainly Her favorite reading corner in the lobby was in a dim corner behind a support column. I’d have to find similar places to exist in.
And the smell of human blood, a smell that made my mouth water and my pussy wet, hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten stronger out here. It was really strong coming from the direction of the elevator and stairwell, and looking down that way, squinting my eyes to try and get a handle on what I was looking at, I saw a human figure.
Oh, shit. I couldn’t really see them thanks to the blinding light, but I thought they were facing toward me. They were probably looking at me. They were probably seeing how pale I was and how I had fangs in my mouth and how I probably had a subtly inhuman affect now that would let anyone who paid close attention realize that I was one of the living dead. And I, uh… even regardless of that, that person was right there… not far away, no walls between us, and their blood smelled wonderful, a spicy and somewhat bitter aroma amongst all of the fainter blood smells. And I realized instinctually that if I wanted them, this person could be mine, all mine. I’d have as much blood as I wanted from them and they’d love me and I’d love their blood and I needed it…. needed it!
Before I could stop myself, I rushed down the hall towards them, running like I had never run before, feeling so light on my feet. I knew that I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this, that it was very unlucky that someone had been here at all, but that would in no way stop me from taking what was mine.
They were a light-skinned girl in their mid-20s with chin-length purple-dyed hair tied back in a ponytail, pretty skinny and a little shorter than me. They were wearing a black t-shirt with the logo of a metal band I had never heard of, and a blue denim jacket on top of that adorned with a bunch of different pins, several with pride flag designs, one with they/them pronouns, a couple with leftist symbols on them. And under that they were wearing a really short black skirt and black tights. I felt like I had seen them somewhere before, but it didn’t matter because oh my Goddess they were so pretty and fragrant and I needed to have them now!
“You… you,” I said, close now, only a few feet away. Fuck, I could feel unfamiliar instincts overcoming me in real time. I didn’t want to do this, I shouldn’t be allowed to do this, it wasn’t right to do this… I wasn’t my Mistress, after all. I wasn’t either of my Mistresses.
“Oh my… oh my god,” they said, looking at me with fear in their eyes, stepping away. “You’re a vampire, aren’t you?” Their heart was racing, quickly pumping blood throughout their body… I needed it so badly.
“I—I—well…” I stammered. “Y-yes.” Admitting this to myself was so hard. I still hoped that I’d wake up any second and find myself safe in Mistress Naomi’s arms, human as ever. But that was seeming less likely with every moment that passed, and my need was only growing.
“You, uh, alright,” they said, gulping with nervousness. “Are we good?”
“You smell so good,” I said, uncontrollably salivating. “And I can’t fucking control myself.” I knew what came next. I had seen it so many times before, and it only came naturally. I knew instinctively how I’d catch my prey.
“Just, um, relax, OK?” I said, hardly relaxed myself. I couldn’t stay still, not with this person’s scent completely overwhelming me. But I had a feeling that my words would work to relax them anyway, even if they sounded stupid and low-effort to me. They commanded the same power that my Mistresses’ words did.
And, though still very afraid, it seemed that they had become ever so slightly more calm. Their heart rate had slowed just a little bit, and they didn’t seem to be stepping away as quickly. Oh Goddess, this was so much. Having this kind of control over someone was making me so wet in a way I wasn’t at all prepared for. I needed their blood to be mine, and I could make it mine, and they would love every moment of the process. I’d be sure of it.
Though breathing more steadily, they hesitated.
“I, uh, I really don’t think I should be…” they said. But I couldn’t afford to hesitate in that moment. They were going to be mine, one way or another.
“Just, uh, just look me in the eyes,” I commanded. I knew what I could do now, if I captured their attention. I had an intuitive sense for how to manipulate humans. The feeling was electric, a sense of power I had never held before. I needed this so badly, even though it was so, so wrong.
And the girl did look me in the eyes, and the glassy, blank stare that overcame them made me as wet as I’d ever been.
But there was commotion coming from behind them. The smell of someone else’s blood, sweeter and saltier smelling than that of the girl in front of me. It was a tan-skinned girl with brown hair cut in a sideshave, a few inches taller than me… it was Hannah. Hannah, of course, Mistress Naomi’s thrall, like me, or at least, we had been of equal status. It all felt like such a distant memory, only faintly remembered. She lived here at the Seagate Hotel, of course! She had just come out of her room. It… shouldn’t have been a surprise.
And she was calling to me. Calling to the girl in front of me.
“Valerie… Celia! Oh Goddess, shit, shit!” she cried, taking out her phone and furiously tapping at something. This… this was Celia, the girl in front of me. I realized where I had seen them before… they were Hannah’s other girlfriend, her human girlfriend other than our shared Mistress. They had only been dating for a little under two months, but Hannah had shown me photos of the two of them together. This was them. Celia.
And they were mine, now. Mistress Naomi hadn’t laid claim to them, not like Hannah herself. I could have them all to myself, at least if She gave me Her permission. It would always be contingent on my Mistresses’ permission. Hannah was trying to stop me, maybe, keep me in check, probably. She was worried about what might happen to her partner. But it didn’t matter it me, it couldn’t. They were going to be mine before anyone could stop me!
And for Celia’s part, they didn’t even hear Hannah. They were too busy staring blankly, trapped in my gaze. I loved that. I needed it, needed it more. It made me need to command them, own them. To take possession of not just their blood, but their whole body, mind, and soul.
“Such a good girl,” I said, thinking of what Mistress Naomi would do. Her example was one to be followed, if I was following a vampire’s example. She was strong, intelligent, beautiful, charming, and above all else, she knew how to draw in her prey and treat us right. “Don’t worry about what’s happening around you. You only need to listen to me now. It’s so easy to relax, isn’t it? I’m pretty and entrancing and, uh, there’s no way you can resist me. So just let your mind take a long nap.” I thought that was pretty good. It was the kind of stuff Mistress Naomi liked to say when she was hypnotizing people. It would probably work well, right?
“Yes…” Celia said quietly, totally focused on me, confirming everything I needed to know. Oh Goddess, I needed them, I needed them. I needed them like this, blank and empty and obedient. When I was done with them, they’d never leave my side.
“Call me ‘Goddess’,” I said. Maybe it was blasphemy, insubordination, a failure to know my place relative to the true Goddesses who owned me, but it felt appropriate to describe me. I liked how it sounded.
Hannah was still scrambling, typing on her phone, watching us warily, and pacing. She was right outside her room, not daring to get close. No, no… Hannah was my friend, Mistress Naomi’s thrall, I cared for her, I didn’t want to scare her! And I didn’t want to hurt her girlfriend, no, I couldn’t…
“Yes, Goddess,” they said, letting out a cute little sigh that made all my worries go away. Fuck, it felt amazing controlling them. Somehow I knew this would make them taste better in the end if I got them in just the right submissive mood. I was delaying my meal a little bit even though I was so hungry, so desperate for their blood, but I knew it would all be worth it in the end. It would be a part of molding them into a good thrall. That’s what they’d be, my thrall, serving me for as long as I desired… in the end, they’d give up their blood willingly, just like I had to Mistress Naomi. I loved that. I loved that!
“Good girl. Good girl!” I said, barely able to stay still, grabbing at Celia’s shoulders and holding them in place in front of me. They were blushing hard then as I pressed against them, leaning down to smell their neck, trying to find the right place to sink my fangs in. They’d be such a good meal, warm and tasty and all mine. Oh Goddess, they were so warm, too warm, almost, so much warmer than I was. And it was what I needed, so pleasant and warm just like their blood.
I felt Celia’s girlcock bulging a little under their skirt. I was making them so horny. They wanted this and I felt reassured knowing that. It made me even more horny knowing that I had made them want this, and that was wrong, it was so wrong, but it didn’t matter now because I was sinking my fangs right into their neck!
And yet a split second before the moment of truth, I was being pulled away, dragged against the wall by strong hands. Cold hands, no warmer than my own body… they were Mistress Naomi’s hands. She was dressed in Her favorite dress, a red and black floral sundress that She had worn on the morning She enthralled me. It was wonderful to see Her like that again, back in Her element, but She looked like She had been crying very recently, Her makeup stained across Her face, Her long wavy red hair disheveled. It made me worry for Her. Though She seemed distraught, She was in much better condition than She had been in Mistress Nicole’s garage.
Seeing Mistress Naomi in the flesh again was a religious experience unlike any I had ever had before. Though Mistress Nicole was still my Mistress, She paled in comparison to the woman who had turned me and given me new life. I was no mere thrall to Mistress Naomi, not any more. I owed my very existence to Her, and now I was Her fledgling, a mere extension of Her will. I could no longer be a source of blood for Her, but I would continue to serve Her for centuries to come if She willed it.
But I had been so close to a warm meal… so, so close. I didn’t understand why She would take this away from me! It was Her right, of course, but I needed Celia’s blood so badly. They had fallen forward when I was pulled away, still dazed but less so than when I had been feeling up their body. Though I was Hers to command, I pulled myself away from Mistress Naomi to make a grab at Celia, my bloodlust overriding my need to obey, and I realized that I was actually overpowering Her, my own strength greater than Hers. But it only took two words out of Her mouth to ensure that I would stand down.
“Stop, Valerie!” Mistress Naomi shouted, Her beautiful voice strained, more evidence that She had been sobbing, wherever She had been. Listening to Her voice was something else. I realized that for the first time, I was not being affected by Her hypnotic charisma. I was bound to obey Her more than ever, but I didn’t find myself pulled toward submission in the same way I previously had. I only heard Her voice as it truly was, and I knew with certainty that it was truly beautiful.
Though I so badly wanted to pursue Celia and tackle them down to the ground and have my way with them, I couldn’t possibly disobey the words of my Goddess. I did the only thing I could do: let Celia go, kneel down, face She who brought me back into this world, and accept Her commandments.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
“Oh, Lilith…” Mistress Naomi said, seeming on the edge of tears even now. “Good girl, Valerie.”
I realized that Her sad state may have been a result of my turning, of my failing to immediately obey Her when She had pulled me away, and I felt remorse beyond remorse.
“Thank You, Mistress, thank You, You’ve given me new life,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry for disobeying You. Their blood was… I couldn’t control myself.”
Celia had fallen to the ground behind me, looking at us both with fear and apprehension, their trance apparently broken. Their heart was racing, pumping so much blood through their body that I realized I likely wasn’t going to drink any time soon. I would miss it, but Mistress’ will was sovereign over me.
“Oh shit… you’re Naomi, aren’t you?” they asked, blinking as they looked up at my Mistress. “Oh my god, this explains a lot.” Hannah said nothing, watching all of us warily. She was under orders from our Mistress not to reveal that She was a vampire, even to her other partner, but it seemed that it was coming out anyway. I hoped that finding this out wouldn’t hurt their relationship. From the distant memories of the photos I had seen them in and the stories Hannah told, Celia and Hannah seemed cute together.
Mistress Naomi gave Celia a fanged smile in return, appearing to struggle to maintain Her composure.
“Lovely to meet you, Celia,” She said. “I’ve heard a lot about you and would love to get to know each other, but right now, if you’d like to be safe from Valerie here, I would strongly recommend you go straight to Hannah’s room, close the door, and let Hannah explain everything to you, alright?” She gave a small nod to Hannah, who nodded back vigorously, eager both to protect her girlfriend and obey our Mistress’ command, I presumed. I knew the feeling all too well.
Celia stood, trembling, and said, “alright. I hope I can trust you.” And they ran off to be with their girlfriend, the smell of their blood getting fainter with every step they took.
And then Mistress Naomi kneeled down toward me, cupping Her cold hand around my cheek. It felt warmer than it ever had before, and filled me with comfort.
“Valerie… Valerie, you need not apologize to Me,” She said, tearing up as she looked over my undead form. “I remember all too clearly what it’s like to smell blood for the first time. The reality is… the reality is that I should have been there to help you. No one should have to go through that alone.”
I closed my eyes, feeling as much love for Her as I ever had.
“Thank You, Mistress. You’re so kind to me.”
“Let’s return to My suite now, shall we?” She asked. “I worry that some poor guest is going to notice the commotion out here any second.”
I said “yes, Mistress,” the obedience within my soul overriding any desire I had remaining for Celia’s blood, at least for that moment.
Mistress Naomi was inconsolable as we returned to Her suite. It was clear to me now that She had only barely been holding it together while She was handling Celia and I in the hallway. I had never quite seen Her like this — angry, afraid, or apprehensive, sure, but never sad and despairing. I wanted to bring Her happiness however I could, but I no longer had any blood to give.
As we arrived in Her living room, She laid on Her couch with Her hands over Her face, sobbing. I kneeled down next to Her once again. She needed me, surely.
“What’s wrong, Mistress?” I asked. “How can I help You feel better?”
“Oh, Valerie,” She said. “Come here. I need you.” She reached Her arms out toward me, and I pulled myself up on to the couch, Mistress Naomi spooning me with barely any room to spare. It was wonderful feeling Her like this, Her body no longer comparatively cold against mine.
“I-I missed you, Valerie. I f-failed you,” She said, squeezing me tightly in Her strong arms. “Three days of nonstop worry for your impending undeath and at the exact moment I ought to have been there I was down in the lobby break room, complaining about My own problems to Gail. I should’ve been there for you, Valerie. You needed Me, and I wasn’t there!”
“You’ve been this distraught for three days, Mistress?” I asked. “I wish I could’ve been there to comfort You.”
“Oh, Lilith, oh, Valerie, you don’t understand,” She said, holding onto me firmly like She would never let go. “I spent the past three days in this suite by your side, watching you, pacing, hoping you would wake up and that it wouldn’t all be for nothing. I’ve never done this before, you know. You never could have helped with this, dear, other than by being embraced by undeath. And you have, dear, you have.” She felt me all over, reaching under my pajamas to feel up my waist and stomach and the underside of my tits.
“I’m… I’m happy, Mistress,” I said, glad that I had fulfilled Her wishes. I had pleased Her, I had done everything to fulfill my purpose to Her, but it all still felt so strange. It was so shocking to me to be reborn like this. “If I may ask, Mistress—and I know it’s not my place to question You—but why was I turned? Why did You give me this new form, that… that’s the same as Yours? You always said… You always said…”
Mistress Naomi turned me over to face Her, and she gave me a quick kiss. After pulling away, she placed Her forehead against mine. She still looked distraught as ever, but I could feel Her love.
“It was never My plan, darling!” She insisted, seeming quite defensive, though I could not conceive of being on the offensive against Her. “Please don’t misunderstand Me. But Nicole, she drank so much from you, and her residence was so remote… you were going to die, Valerie, were it not for Me. It was the only way I could save you.”
“Oh Goddess… Mistress Nicole really brought me that close to death?” I said. It was Her right, of course, but that still scared me to learn.
Mistress Naomi frowned. “Mistress Nicole?” She shook Her head. “No, no, darling. She may have taken far too much of your blood, dear, but you’re Mine. Never hers. She’s dead now, she was not your Mistress, and I would never hope that you would be torn between us.”
I felt like an immense burden was being lifted off of me. Thank my Goddess that I wouldn’t have to view Her… her that way, the woman who had kept my one and only Mistress prisoner in a cage and starved Her for five days straight. I didn’t ever want to be made to tolerate that. If Mistress Naomi told me that She was my only Mistress, I would have no trouble accepting that. I was Her fledgling, after all. An extension of Her will, even more Hers than I was before.
“Thank You, Mistress,” I said, sliding down to snuggle my head between Her perfect, soft, wonderful tits, tits that felt truly warm against my own cold skin. I had never minded Her coldness before, but the warmth did feel wonderful.
“Hmhm, of course, My fledgling,” She said, fighting back tears and stroking my cheek. “Such a good girl. Right where you belong.”
I cooed in response, and Mistress ran Her fingers through my hair. For a moment, everything felt fine, and I was able to push back the hunger burning in my soul. But there was a part of me that couldn’t stop thinking about Celia, needing them, needing their blood, needing their obedience… and before long, I couldn’t stop shaking.
“What’s wrong, darling?” Mistress asked, pulling me out of Her tits to look Her in the eyes. I had never been able to fully appreciate how beautiful Her deep crimson eyes were before without becoming completely entranced by them. They had an otherworldly, inhuman quality to them with no blood vessels visible, surely similar to my own, although I couldn’t check any more. I loved the way She looked at me, the shape of Her beautiful smile.
“Celia… I need them, Mistress,” I said. “I need them so badly, You don’t understand, Mistress. I need them like I’ve never needed anything before. Physically… sexually. Their blood, Mistress… their blood.” I started thrusting into Mistress’ body instinctively, pushing against Her stomach and Her girlcock, my pussy dripping wet, but then I felt Her hand grasping my shoulder and forced myself to stop.
“Get ahold of yourself, sweetie,” She said. “I need you to not focus on them in particular, though I understand that they probably seem very appetizing right now.”
“So fucking appetizing, Mistress!” I moaned, unable to stop myself from thrusting against Her again. “Their smell… their smell…”
“Don’t worry, sweetie, I very much agree. They did smell delicious. But it was their first time coming here to visit Hannah… I don’t want to move things along too quickly. And I feel that you should have your first meal in more controlled circumstances.”
My mouth was watering at hearing that. I needed it so badly! “My first meal, Mistress…. pleassseee…” was all I could manage.
But then I realized what that meant, really thought about it, the idea of drinking the blood out of someone’s veins. And even though it seemed incredibly hot, something I needed so badly, I worried about who I’d hurt. Realized that I would have hurt Celia, if Mistress hadn’t been there to stop me from having my way with them. Realized how inhuman all of this would make me seem. Realized that there was no going back now, and no way to stop this.
“Yes, dear, your first meal,” Mistress said, kissing me on the forehead. “But it won’t come from Celia. I had them go to Hannah’s room because you’d need an invitation to get in, sweetie. I think you’d get carried away. You’ll need to drink from someone else first.”
“Who, Mistress? Where… where am I gonna get that meal from? Is it Laurie?” I asked. I was so horny and hungry and I couldn’t tell the difference between the two. I needed to calm myself down somehow but I couldn’t imagine anything that would be able to other than blood itself, Lauren’s blood, her delicious blood, her empty gaze reflecting mine as I drank from her neck and took her for myself…
Mistress sighed heavily. “I can’t let you see Laurie for a while, darling. Not until you get some control of yourself. She’s been apprised of the situation.”
“Why… why, Mistress? Her… I love her so much and I need her so badly!” I begged.
“I know you do, sweetie. That’s the trouble. You’re stronger than Me, dear, and if you had your way with her, I’m not so sure I’d be able to stop you from draining her dry. It’s My responsibility as your begetter to prevent anything like that from happening.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said sadly. I had never felt such disappointment in obeying a command from my Mistress, not that that could ever get in the way of obedience.
“You’ll be able to see her in time, sweetie,” Mistress said, putting a finger up to my lips and smiling at me. “I understand your disappointment. When I was a fledgling and I crawled out of My grave, the first thing I thought to do was to go visit My first crush Violet. If my begetter hadn’t come in time to stop Me, I don’t think she ever would have been My thrall. It was the one good thing he ever did, as far as I’m concerned.” She sighed again, looking rather uncomfortable and embarrassed, tensing up.
“I understand, Mistress,” I said, feeling a bit more secure. I didn’t want Lauren to die, of all things. I needed her alive, wanted her in my arms forever…
“You’ll drink from Gail, sweetie,” She said. “We’ll bring her up here and you can have a taste of her. Your first meal.” Oh Goddess, Gail! I didn’t know her all too well but she was often there in the lobby on the night shift, one of Mistress’ favorite meals. I had been in bed with her and Mistress a few times like I had with all of Mistress’ thralls, but I had never taken much personal interest in her. But now, the thought of her blood on my lips was as irresistible as Celia’s had been while I had had them under my spell, my disappointment over being kept from my girlfriend completely gone for the moment.
“Yes, Mistress!” I said, covering Her body in kisses.
A moment passed as neither of us felt willing to stand just yet. Cuddling in this way was too valuable a moment to give up.
“Oh, Mistress, You should know… I broke Your mirror,” I said with a bit of shame. I never wanted to risk damaging any of Mistress’ precious possessions.
She laughed, sounding almost relieved. “Oh, I recall my first time failing to see Myself, sweetie. Rather jarring, isn’t it? I threw Myself into a pond trying to find My own reflection. I just wish I could’ve been there to reassure you.”
She was always so generous with me, with all of Her thralls. I loved Her so much, so much, She was my world, my begetter, my Goddess…
“You’re not upset, Mistress?” I asked.
“Of course not, sweetie. It’s not irreplaceable. Let’s just make sure Lucia comes up to clean My floors before anyone else walks into the bedroom unknowingly, alright?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Though You should know that the nightstand phone is broken too.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to get downstairs and let Gail know that ourselves, shall we?”
A few minutes later, Mistress had cleaned Herself up, and She took me down to the lobby. Everything outside the darkness of Her suite was so bright and strange. I felt like I was dissociating constantly, barely in touch with my own body.
“It’ll fade in time, sweetie. Your new body is as much you as your old one was,” Mistress said after I relayed my feelings to Her while walking down the stairwell together. She preferred the stairwell to the elevator since it kept Her out of the public eye, and She recommended it for me as well. I didn’t like that much, the idea of going out in public being a major risk, but Mistress said it was how She had survived for over 200 years, so maybe it was what I’d have to do too. The fact that I was immortal now was a mindfuck in its own right.
“You don’t think that Mis… Nicole was right, Mistress? We’re not just parasites pretending to be ourselves?” I asked. I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling.
“What’s the difference if we are?” She asked, reaching for my hand. I took Her hand in my own, feeling a little more secure. “Things may feel strange now, but if you do still have your memories, then I’d think you’re still you in every way that matters.”
“I guess… I do, Mistress,” I said, laughing nervously.
“The thought that I wouldn’t be Me never even crossed My mind until some hunter said it to Me back in the fifties,” She explained. “I find it to be a profoundly modern idea, not to mention a silly one.”
“But, uh,” I said under my breath, scared to admit it. “I mean, I don’t have a soul any more, right? I’m just a reanimated husk, or something?” My Mistress was everything to me, so complete a person and a Goddess, it was true, but it was what I had always been told. A vampire was just a walking corpse, not really alive any more. I did feel alive, in a way, but maybe that was just what whatever evil essence animating me wanted me to think. Satan? Lilith, even — oh, Goddess, was I in service to Lilith, now? I had never been very religious. There were so many things to learn, and all of them felt so wrong.
“The soul, dear…” Mistress stopped on the step above the second floor landing, closing Her eyes. “If someone forced Me to answer whether I had a soul, I would instinctively say I didn’t. Being raised where I was, in New Hampshire in the late 18th century, I was ingrained with the idea that our kind are soulless and full of sin. And when I was turned, I knew I needed to get as far away from that as possible, and I turned to Lilith for guidance. I would like to think that she is looking out for both of us, soul or not…”
She sighed. “Not a very useful answer, I know, sweetie. But for now, I would try and focus on the fact that you’re still you. The same Valerie who I met face-to-face in the ice room six months ago. The same Valerie who’s loved Lauren as long as you’ve known her, and who’s more passionate about defending her loved ones than almost anyone I’ve ever known. You might be a bit paler now, you might have fangs and crimson eyes and cast no reflection, but I can still see it’s you, sweetie.” She cupped my cheek with Her hand, Her red-polished nails digging into my skin a little. “You always will be, even if this existence changes you. I wouldn’t have turned you if I hadn’t been confident in that.”
I smiled a little. “I’ll try and keep that in mind, Mistress.”
We resumed walking together and came out of the stairwell into the first-floor hallway that branched off of the lobby. And as we walked out into the lobby, my hand still firmly in Mistress’, Gail was there behind the desk. She was a shorter girl, maybe 5’2’’ or so, a little slimmer than me and a couple of years younger. She had light, freckled skin and long, curly, strawberry blonde hair and wore glasses, as well as a gray skirt suit and pantyhose like all of the employees of Mistress’ hotel. Her hair and clothing was a little disheveled, no doubt from Mistress crying with her in Her arms less than an hour ago.
And when I smelled her… oh, oh Goddess, her scent was so unlike Celia’s but so appetizing in its own way, sweet and buttery, and I somehow felt that I could smell her devotion, her love for our Goddess deep within her blood, the way that Mistress liked to tell me I smelled brave. Or at least, that I had smelled brave, when I smelled like anything.
“Mistress… Mistress,” I murmured, clutching Her tight. This was too much. If She didn’t hold me back, I knew I was going to get carried away again, and I’d hurt Gail badly in all the ways that Mistress knew how not to. “She’s… she smells so good.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Mistress asked, scratching my head before lightly pushing me away. “Go on, sweetie. It’s OK. I’ll intervene if I need to. Just go on and tell her what you want.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, strained, worrying I’d go too far. Was this really OK to do? I had Mistress’ blessing to drink from Gail and I was sure Gail herself would agree as a result, but, um, uh…
Goddess there was no time to think it over I needed it so badly, I felt so hungry and her scent was so irresistible like nothing I’d ever smelled before, especially knowing that I’d have her and it’d be acceptable and Mistress would prevent this from going off the rails!
“Hi, Gail,” I said, feeling like I’d be blushing if I were still capable. I’d always been such a useless flirt. “It’s, uh, it’s good to see you.”
“Hi, Valerie,” Gail said, blushing for real. “I’m glad you, um, made it through OK. Mistress was really worried about you. And I was, uh, worried a lot too, with how much She worried.” She laughed nervously.
I peeked back out of embarrassment, and Mistress was looking on behind us with an expression of utter glee.
“So, um…” I said, my heart completely still even though it should have been racing, “Mistress says I should, uh, drink from you. Your blood, I mean.”
Her face went completely red, the blood rushing to her face just beneath her skin making my pussy and my mouth both wet. “If… if Mistress commands it, then… I think I’d enjoy that.”
Mistress walked up behind me and put Her hand on my shoulder, whispering into my ear. “Good girl, Valerie. Now look her in the eyes and have her follow us back to my suite.”
“OK,” I said nervously. “Yes, Mistress. Do You have any advice for how to, like, make that work?”
Mistress giggled. “You figured it out with Celia, didn’t you? It’ll come to you. We can discuss specifics later. Right now I want to see what you’ll do on your own.”
I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and said in the most commanding voice I could manage: “Gail, come over here and gaze into my eyes.”
The effect my words had on her was profound. Her breath and her heartbeat became steadier, and I watched as her eyes glazed over slightly. Having been enthralled for a couple of years longer than me, Gail was even more used to instinctively obeying our Mistress than I was, and at the moment, I effectively spoke for Her. My own voice had power behind it too — I could sense it. She could be made to obey me, and she would be willing because it was what our Mistress commanded from her, and what I commanded from her as well. This was a power trip unlike anything I had experienced before. I needed to have my way with her, immediately.
A dreamy smile spread across Gail’s face as she approached me, and she murmured “I obey”. Mistress had taken time to condition that sort of response into her, putting her into a light trance state when it was feeding time, and it was so hot to hear it directed at me. I both envied her level of devotion to our Mistress and craved to control her myself, make her obey me like she obeyed Her.
I giggled, never having felt this dominant before. I thought of myself as a huge sub, before and after falling for my Mistress. Admittedly, I was sometimes a bit of a soft dom toward my Laurie, but the way I dommed her paled in comparison to what I was feeling now, the knowledge that I could command Gail to give up all the blood in her veins to me and she’d eagerly comply. I would… I would never do that, of course (at least I hoped not), but just knowing I could was like nothing else. Was I even capable of these feelings before, or was it something made possible by this new existence? I doubted that it was the latter. I had just never had this kind of power over another person before, and it was awakening something frightening and wonderful within me.
And Gail was standing in front of me then, turning her head up toward my eyes. But that wasn’t enough for me. I needed, I needed control. I wanted to exert all the power I had over her right now to its fullest extent. Reaching my hand out ever so gently, I put my fingers under her chin, gripped it with my thumb, and pulled her closer to me. There was so much strength in my touch now. I had to be extra careful to make sure she wouldn’t be injured by even this.
Gail’s eyes were fixated on my own, reflecting nothing other than the support column behind me. She let out a little moan, her gaze glassy and empty, and I knew that she was completely under my spell. I understood why Mistress loved to do this sort of thing with Her thralls now. Just like with Celia, I knew that this would make Gail’s blood so much sweeter in the end.
“Good girl,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice steady. “Obey me.” This wasn’t going to be an equal relationship. And though that scared me, I didn’t want it to be equal. We were predator and prey, now. I’d be Gail’s Goddess, and she’d be my thrall and serve me unconditionally and she would love it — at least for as long as Mistress allowed me to keep her. I was only Mistress’ fledgling, so far below Her even if I’d be a Goddess to Gail myself, and I knew that Her authority would always override mine. Gail was Mistress’ thrall first, and if Mistress decided that Gail was only Hers, I’d be her Goddess no longer.
“I obey!” she repeated, a little louder this time. I ran the fingers of my left hand through her hair, savoring every moment I had with her. In the moment, the sense of control I had was so much more intense than I ever could have imagined. I never wanted this moment to end, but I craved her blood so desperately, and I craved obeying Mistress even more so.
“So relaxed and focused, Gail,” I said, knowing what Mistress would say from experience. “Only hearing my voice now. The voice of your Goddess.” I heard an adorable squeak of happiness from Mistress, validating what would’ve otherwise been a blasphemous statement by me. I was so blessed to have Her approval.
“Yes, Goddess,” Gail said in an even tone, her face flushing despite her blank expression. Hearing that gave me such a rush, and I couldn’t help but lean down and kiss her right on the lips. I was her Goddess, and she was mine, mine, at least for the time being.
“Now, staying deep in trance, join Mistress and I in the elevator,” I said, turning away from Gail toward the elevator with the utmost confidence that my command would be followed unquestioningly, unconsciously, even. And it was followed — as I walked back into the hallway and pushed the elevator button, Gail trailed close behind me, spellbound. I had made her do this—and she wanted it, of course—but I had forced her anyways, and it made me so wet knowing that.
“Wow, sweetie…” Mistress said, whispering in my ear again as the elevator door closed with all three of us inside. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Y-yes, Mistress,” I said, embarrassed at my feelings being laid so bare, even to Mistress. “She’s so submissive and… I love commanding her.” I couldn’t help but lick my lips thinking about my fangs in Gail’s neck and— ow!
I realized that I had pricked my tongue on my fangs, so unfamiliar within my mouth. I needed to get used to that. But at the same time, it barely hurt much at all, and my tongue didn’t seem to be injured, it just healed itself up right away. My body shouldn’t have been able to do that, but it felt rather relieving.
“Getting used to your fangs, darling?” Mistress asked, giggling to herself. “Just wait until you have them inside her. They’ll feel so natural then.” She brushed her fingers across the top of the entranced Gail’s head, making her moan.
I clung to Gail myself, wrapping my arms around her and murmuring “yes… yes, need her…”
Then the elevator stopped on the top floor and we returned to Mistress’ suite together. Mistress walked ahead of us, unlocking the door, with Gail following behind me as commanded, but as I approached the threshold… ah, OK. Waking up there had made it feel acceptable at the time—it was some kind of edge case—but I recalled that She had told me to bring Gail back to Her suite, so that qualified as an invitation, I thought. She wanted me there. But I realized that if I hadn’t had that, there was no way that I’d be willing to enter the room. I’d have to discover the limits of that at a later time, but the thought of entering a place like this, a home, without an explicit invitation was suddenly unthinkable.
“Gail, come into Mistress’ bedroom with me, looking out for the shattered glass on the floor,” I said, grabbing her hand tight — but no, no, not as tight as I could. I had to be careful not to crush her bones.
“Yes, Goddess,” she said, still completely under my spell as I walked her into the back of the suite. Mistress was moving an armchair into the bedroom from the living room, to take a seat while I fucked Gail, I could only imagine. She sat down, looking at both of us with a big smile on Her face.
“I can do anything to you when you’re like this, and you’ll just let me, won’t you?” I said. I grabbed Gail’s tits and pushed her backward on the bed, then climbed on top of her, pinning her down.
“Yes, Goddess… anything,” she said with an adorable smile on her face.
“But you’re going to need to get your clothes off,” I said, realizing that drinking from her like this would be just plain impractical. “Take them off, Gail.”
I wasn’t used to ordering people around like this, but the empty intonation she used as she said “yes, Goddess”, obeying without even fully understanding what she was doing, made it feel so much easier for me. I could get used to this. I, uh, really could get used to this, and it was kind of terrifying. Obedience was already second nature to Gail, of course, but it had gone pretty similarly with Celia… if I had gotten the chance, I could’ve made them as submissive as Gail was without much trouble at all. And they’d like it, even, they’d cherish the time spent with me and they’d worship me in their spare time and they’d probably fuck Hannah over how both of them were brainwashed thralls to two different vampires. I knew it all too well, but was this really OK?
I couldn’t bring myself to answer that question at that moment. Gail was obeying me, unbuttoning her suit jacket right before my eyes, and I was literally drooling all over her. This was too hot an opportunity to pass up, and I needed her so, so badly, her warmth and her submission driving me completely wild… and Goddess, I was hungry.
I rolled over to let her remove the rest of her clothing, personally helping unhook her bra and pull down her panties. Her tits were small and really perky, and she had such a soft tummy for her slim figure, and my Goddess, I hadn’t quite realized it with her pencil skirt holding it back before and her heart beating slowly while calmed by trance, but her girlcock was rock hard. It was unbelievable being able to so easily inspire these feelings in someone, Gail’s emotions and thoughts and desires like putty in my hands.
I took my own pajamas off too and climbed back on top of her, pressing my body against hers. Though she was deeply hypnotized, her face was flushed and she was sweating, and I could tell that deep in the recesses of her mind, she was loving what I was doing to her. It was what our Mistress had commanded me to do to her, after all, and Gail was nothing if not obedient.
I had been thinking of going for the neck, but that had just been out of convenience and raw instinct… I knew all too well that there were other places to draw blood from too, and I had something particularly special in mind for Gail.
“Spread your legs,” I told her. “Obey me. Obey your Goddess.” I couldn’t get over it — her obedience was the hottest thing in the world to me right then. I envisioned doing the same thing to Lauren, conditioning her to obey me so automatically, and I somehow made myself even wetter, the comforter below me completely drenched in my juices already, and a little bit of Gail’s precum as well.
“Yes, Goddess. I obey,” Gail said again, spreading her legs wide, exposing them for me… and Goddess, I was so horny, I couldn’t handle this, and I was pressing my face into her thighs, trying to get ahold of myself, but they were so soft and she was so warm and her blood smelled so fucking yummy and I needed her now and there was no reason to put it off any longer!
With a quick smile to Mistress which She returned, I wrapped my arms around Gail’s body and sank my fangs into her right inner thigh, letting my instincts take over. Blood flowed from the wound onto my tongue and it was so sweet, with an almost floral aroma, so much more complex in flavor beyond the savory, metallic taste on the surface. I knew it was totally unique to her, that no one else’s blood would be quite the same.
It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted, and it was then that I realized how little I craved any of my favorite foods. They were nothing compared to this, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert all in one, and it was so satisfying, licking up the blood felt as good as Lauren licking my pussy or Mistress drinking my blood. I felt so close to Gail, so intimate, knowing her better than I had ever known her before as she moaned and writhed in pleasure and pain, cumming herself all over the bed and sheets. I could taste her submission in her blood, her love for our Mistress, even her passion for urban architecture that I knew her to be studying in grad school. Right there, drinking from her like that was everything I would ever need, and I never, ever wanted it to end.
“That’s enough, Valerie,” I heard Mistress say with a light touch on my shoulder. No… no! I wasn’t done, I needed more, so much more, I craved to hear Gail’s moans as I drank her blood and drained her will away. But Mistress commanded me, so I had to obey, and I knew it was for Gail’s own good anyway. This way, she would live to be mine.
It was hard pulling myself away, consumed by bloodlust, but I drew back my fangs slowly. Blood was still flowing from the wound, but I knew instinctively that my saliva would do well to prevent her from losing any more, so I licked it carefully, lapping up the last drops of blood and leaving what looked a bit like a hickey on her thigh, a rough circle of bright red and bruised skin, but with two prick marks in the center first and foremost, the mark of my fangs, something Gail would remember me by for the next week or so.
“Mistress… Mistress, she’s so delicious,” I said, beaming. “She’s such a good girl!” I gripped Gail’s body tighter, appreciating her soft, lightly-freckled skin and her amazing shape.
“She is, isn’t she?” Mistress said, rubbing my back. “I love her very much.”
“How the hell do You hold Yourself back from draining her dry, Mistress? Without anyone to stop You?”
“Practice, darling,” She said. “And love and care taken to make sure she’ll continue to serve Me well.” She giggled.
“I need Lauren like this, Mistress,” I said, overcoming the terror that lurked in that concept, the guilt that came with desiring an unequal relationship with the love of my life, and with wielding the power to enforce such a relationship. “I need her kneeling at my feet. Worshiping me.”
“In time, darling, you will be able to make that choice,” She said. “I promise.”
Gail spent less than ten minutes in the throes of enthrallment, seeming almost unconscious. It was a lot faster than I expected, which Mistress explained was probably because this wasn’t her first time being enthralled. She was already accustomed to having her blood drained. I took a cold shower in the meantime to wash Gail’s fluids off of my body, finding myself in a psychological struggle with the running water on the shower’s floor, which I couldn’t bring myself to cross. It was a very odd and unnerving feeling.
When I returned, Gail was coming to. A wide smile spread across her face as she saw me, making me feel so honored, so powerful. I laid down on the bed next to her, Mistress back in her chair, and I felt the grip of her hands around my arm (her weak human grip that would be so easy to overpower if I had wanted to).
“My Goddess,” she said, sighing as she clutched me as tight as she could. As usual, she had been shocked out of trance when my fangs pierced into her skin, but controlling her now wouldn’t be any trouble if it ever would’ve been at all, hopelessly in love with me, just as I loved my Mistress. “My Goddess!” she repeated, giggling to herself in submissive glee.
“Gail,” I said, rolling over to give her a nice long deep kiss on the lips. “You’re such a good girl and it’s so hot how easy you are to control. And your blood is so good, Gail! It’s the best thing I ever tasted, oh Goddess!” I kissed her several more times, making her giggle more and totally overwhelming her. She deserved this kind of love after being such a good girl for me!
She was blushing again, looking as submissive as she often did toward our Mistress, but now directed at me.
“Of course, my Goddess! I love being treated that way!” she said, wrapping both of her arms around my torso and hugging me tight (though not nearly as tight as I was capable of hugging her in return). “And oh my Goddess… no, my Goddesses, I’m Yours! It’s so amazing to relive this feeling, the feeling of waking up and knowing I’m owned for the first time. I think about the first time that Mistress took me a lot.”
“I think about my first time, too,” I said, thinking back to it, the terror of being forced against the wall by She who I thought was my mortal enemy, followed by the joy of being drained of blood, taken by Her, knowing that I had a true purpose in life, a purpose that now felt clearer than ever.
“You were both very adorable when you submitted yourselves to Me,” Mistress said. “Doesn’t it feel good knowing that what you’re doing now is another form of submission to Me? Even you, Valerie. Don’t forget that you’re only taking Gail on My behalf, with My permission.” She gave both of us a fanged smile.
“I would never forget my place, Mistress,” I said. “I feel so honored to be allowed to drink from Your thrall.” She had such a way of making me feel small and insignificant before Her that I loved so deeply, particularly knowing that She would always look out for me.
“It makes me feel so weak, Mistress!” Gail said, reverent and devoted. “I’m—I’m such a weak-willed slut that my Mistress’ fledgling is a Goddess to me in Her own right!”
“I am your Goddess, sweetie,” I said. “Know that.”
“Yes, Goddess! I know it as well as I’ve known anything!” she said, kissing my shoulders and tits all over. “I’m so blessed to have two Goddesses!”
Mistress strode over to the bed, taking Gail in Her arms opposite me, holding her from behind. She was looking at me with a sense of pride, observing every inch of my body. It reminded me that I must’ve looked pretty strange and inhuman. That made me worry about how Lauren would see me, if I’d be unlovable to her in this state. Would my newfound hypnotic charisma make up for it? I didn’t really feel comfortable thinking about that — I wanted her to love me for who I was, like she always had.
“It’s actually quite wonderful watching you have your way with her, Valerie,” Mistress said, snapping me back to reality. I couldn’t bear to miss a single divine word out of Her mouth. “I think, mm…” She sighed, almost hiding Herself behind Gail’s back. “I think that turning you was the right decision.”
“Thank You, Mistress!” I said, feeling even more honored and loved by Her. Turning humans was something She had come out so firmly against since I first met Her — I knew already that She had done it anyway because She cared for me, desiring to save my life, or at least to replace it with undeath, but now, knowing that I was making a good vampire, a good fledgling in Her eyes was a blessing in itself.
Several hours passed, and Mistress and I continued to cuddle Gail and each other long into the night. Mistress got in touch with Hannah via Her phone, and was assured that things would be somewhat stable, at least for now.
Perhaps I could settle into this new existence… hell, Gail herself was already basically nocturnal, since she typically worked the hotel’s night shift, and she was just a human. It helped her line up with Mistress’ own sleep schedule better than any of the rest of us. Maybe I could do the same — I guessed I would have to, one way or another. I could feel myself getting sleepier as the night went on, after all.
On the other hand, even though I didn’t exactly feel full and would gladly drink more blood if it was presented to me, I felt so much more in control of myself after drinking from Gail. I was more aware and alert, I felt stronger and lighter on my feet and in an overall better mood than I had felt ever since I woke up on the bed. There was so much uncertainty ahead given what I was now, but I was starting to feel more like myself again, I thought? Or maybe I was just starting to forget what I had felt like before. It all still felt so distant, and that was a little worrying. It had only been one night of this. That life wasn’t going to get any more recent.
And just as I was starting to feel almost normal and comfortable, the faintest of light began shining from underneath the blackout curtains where I was idly staring with both Gail’s and Mistress’ arms wrapped around me, and even from my position on the bed, I could feel a horrible heat radiating out toward me. As a human, I had always noticed that Mistress preferred the left side of the bed, further from the window, and now I understood why.
But this was awful! I knew that sunlight was deadly to Mistress’ kind—my kind, I had to actively remind myself—but I never quite realized just how bad a small dosage could be. I couldn’t help but feel a call to the void, to pull the curtain back and see the sunrise for myself. Laurie and I had stayed up so late together a few times that we had been able to go out on the balcony of our apartment to watch the sunrise together, and that had been so sweet and romantic. I didn’t want to lose it… I couldn’t help but stand and approach the curtain, despite the painful heat becoming even warmer.
“What are You doing, Goddess?” Gail cried. “Mistress, She’s—” It seemed our Mistress had drifted off to sleep in the calm of cuddling us, Her fledgling and thrall. And though Her eyes were fluttering open, I pulled the curtain back slightly, looking out into the light—
AAAARGH! It was so much worse than even the lights out in the hallway, completely awful and blinding and literally searing my skin and my eyeballs alike. I hadn’t felt real pain ever since I had woken up, I seemed practically immune to it now but this was probably the worst I had hurt myself since breaking my leg in a skateboarding accident when I was in high school, and I had only been exposed for a split second. I knew that if I stayed here, I’d be burned to ash, but I was in so much pain that I couldn’t move, I could only hiss and scream and cry out for help. I could never look at the sunrise again, not with Lauren, not alone, not with anyone else. And it drove home that nothing could ever be the same, not ever again.
Mistress’ strong arms, shaking thanks to the burning light themselves, pulled me away from the window, and Gail stood up to close the curtains. I still felt burning, such unbearable heat and light that could extinguish my life, no, my undeath, in a matter of seconds, but I was saved, I was safe, I was recovering, at the very least, though panting and out of breath and so badly seared.
“W-why, Mistress? Why is it so bad? How can it be that bad?” I blubbered, falling into Her embrace. Gail came up from behind as well, hugging me and shielding my body from the light, eager to protect me, her second Goddess. I felt so cared for, so loved, the way that only loved ones can make you feel when you’re in horrible pain.
Mistress sighed. “You just wanted to know what it felt like, didn’t you? Come here, sweetie, I’ve been there Myself too.” She kissed me on the forehead, and though I knew it wasn’t literally true it felt like She was helping my burns heal faster.
“Y-yeah…” I said. “I miss the sun, Mistress. I miss Laurie. I miss feeling human, Mistress. I’m so sorry. I can’t help it.”
“You’re so much more than human now, Mistress,” Gail said. “You’re perfect now, worthy of worship.” I knew she was trying to help, but hearing it didn’t do me much good.
“I wish I’d at least been able to ask if you would accept undeath in advance, sweetie,” Mistress said. “Then again, I wouldn’t have done it to begin with if it hadn’t been an emergency.”
“No, no, Mistress, please — I’ll accept the gift You’ve blessed me with! I know I’m blessed to be like You but it’s hard to accept it, Mistress…” I cried.
The look on my Goddess’ face was an awkward one, like She didn’t know how to respond. She hesitated, then— “Maybe… maybe this will help. I was told this legend a very long time ago, by a very miserable man. And it’s a bit of a silly legend.
“But… well, some say that Lilith, the first ancestor of our kind, was once a cult priestess who worshiped the devil himself when humanity was new to this world. She made sacrifices of innocent human blood to appease her evil master, performing occult rituals in forests only when night fell, to avoid the watchful eyes of the so-called righteous humans of the world. And when she was eventually killed by one of those humans, the devil resurrected her as the first of our kind, stronger, more agile, more seductive than ever before, so that she could better serve him and mock divine creation. But as an eternal reminder of her secrecy and her sins in life, she was cursed to abhor sunlight, to burn to ash if she was ever to be immersed in it. If you believe the legends, that’s why we are this way. And I’ve heard similar tales from others of our kind, as well. Details change, but we are what we are, sweetie, and one way or another, we owe it to Lilith.”
“Thank You, Mistress,” I said. I didn’t really know what to think of all that. Was Lilith really admirable, someone to be emulated? Everything I’d heard about her made it sound like she was a pretty terrible person. Of course, there was a sense of liberation scattered throughout all of those legends, the idea that undeath had freed her from humanity’s grasp, from God’s grasp, even. I knew that that was why my Mistress admired Lilith so I couldn’t disregard her entirely. And I guessed that it provided some solace, maybe, to know that I wouldn’t be killed by the same light which gave life to every other creature on Earth for no reason at all — that is, that there was a reason for all this, buried in the annals of prehistory.
“That is to say, dear, that there’s a long road ahead of you when it comes to these things,” Mistress said. “Caroline asked Me once, while she had Me captive, if I ever missed the sunlight, and I truthfully told her no. The story of Lilith is one of perseverance, sweetie. If she could overcome that same vulnerability with no one else like her in the world, then so can you, and so can I, even if no one else but our thralls will have our backs.” Gail giggled, squeezing me tight, and I whispered “good girl” to her.
Oh! “Caroline!” I shouted. “That’s a very sweet story, Mistress, but what ever happened to Caroline? I haven’t thought of her since I was facing her and Nicole down. Did You make her Yours in the end?”
“Oh, no, sweetie,” Mistress said darkly. “She’s alive, mind you, but I had to choose between drinking from her and saving you from eternal slumber. The choice was obvious.”
“Is she a threat to You, Mistress?” I said, remembering that I was meant more for Her protection than ever. “To us?” I shuddered at the realization that vampire hunters would want my head now, just like they wanted my Mistress’. Things had changed for me so fundamentally since I had been one of them…
“I doubt that, honestly,” Mistress said. “It’s something to be wary of, perhaps, but I don’t think she would have let Me out if she were dead-set on killing Me. I think, ultimately, she was loyal to her mentor, rather traumatized by her past experiences, and not nearly as dogmatic as most hunters I’ve crossed paths with.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, very relieved. I just hoped that held true.
“She was concerned about you, My fledgling. She accepted your turning, so I think that having us killed would be rather counterintuitive for that purpose. Just like Me, she wanted you to go on. Hannah told me that you knew her chat room pseudonym, didn’t you? Perhaps you could send her a message to let her know that you made it through in the end. No sooner than next evening, of course. You and I need our beauty sleep.”
“Oh, uh, sure, Mistress, if You think it’s a good idea,” I said. Contacting her in a relatively… friendly way sounded so strange. Just like Nicole, she had been Mistress’ mortal enemy so recently. But Mistress sounded far more sympathetic toward her than I ever would have imagined. Clearly, She understood a lot more about her than I realized.
“It’s been a long night, sweetie,” Mistress said. “Particularly for you. I just hope it’s been productive. I desire nothing more than for you to accept undeath of your own will, and for you to feel comfortable. To have it better than I did when I was turned. Better than Nicole did. Our kind can be so violent… I only wish for you to be happy, My fledgling.”
Tears were welling up in my eyes as I spoke, “Thank You so much, my Goddess. It’s a blessing to have You as my Mistress. I don’t think anyone could have made this easier for me.”
“Mistress is so perfect,” Gail said.
“Mistress is so perfect!” I affirmed.
“I love you, My good girls,” She said, embracing us both. “But let’s not keep ourselves up any longer, Valerie. There’ll be much more to do when the sun goes down once more.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, climbing back onto the bed. Her will had never been more my own.
“You’ve done very well, Gail,” Mistress said. “But right now, I need your other Goddess all to myself.”
“Yes, Mistress,” she said, gathering up her clothes and beginning to get dressed again. I knew that I would see her again soon, and also that the experience of drinking from her would stay with me always. She had opened up a whole new world to me, not to mention that she was mine and that the image of her staring back up at me blankly while I pinned her down hadn’t left my mind once since it had happened.
Mistress settled into bed with me, making me Her little spoon once again, as felt so appropriate. Thoughts of uncertainty flashed through my mind, flashes of dominance and submission and love and predation. None of them felt all too separable to me at that moment, and I worried for what lay ahead, between Lauren and I, between Mistress and I, between all of Her other thralls and I. But I slept soundly knowing that I would be safe in Her arms, always. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77349731/chapters/202513041 | {"authors": ["FlameButterfly (Amber_Pseudo)"], "language": "English", "title": "Bloodless"} |
Stretch to The Stars
Xu Hai flopped in the bed beside Cui Yuze. The ceiling suddenly became very interesting. He couldn’t peel his eyes away, he just didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to. Cui Yuze was in a similar state. But, he decided to try breaking the silence. If he didn’t, they’d lay like this forever.
“A-Hai?” He called.
“Mn.”
Cui Yuze shifted, propping his head up on his hand. “You look more worried than me,” he chuckled.
“You’re too blasé,” Xu Hai asserted. Even with Cui Yuze looking down at him, he didn’t make eye contact, still looking at the grooves of wood in the roof.
“I’ve seen all the ups and downs of this damn golden core. I’m used to it.”
Xu Hai dug his nails into his shirt, his shoulders suddenly becoming a lot more tense. “What if this time is different?”
Cui Yuze had vowed a long time ago not to think in that way. It wasn’t that he feared death. Not at all. He feared that death would push him to stop living.
Cui Yuze dragged his fingers up to Xu Hai’s chest playfully, walking them around on the soft silk of his robe. “Mn…the gods won’t let me die so soon. I have too much to do.”
That didn’t make Xu Hai feel any better. Cui Yuze was confident in the gods, and believed they were fair. Xu Hai had long stopped feeling that way. Ever since he was eight years old, groveling in the mud for scraps of food.
Maybe he believed in them once. Maybe when he met Cui Yuze and brought him to Botao. Life got better from there. But then he found out Cui Yuze was sick and getting worse. And suddenly the gods couldn’t exist anymore, because how could they curse somebody with a heart like A-Yu.
Xu Hai turned on his side. Cui Yuze was more than used to his lack of words, he always had to dig deep into his behavior to understand his attitude. Right now he could tell Xu Hai didn’t like his comment. So, he scooted close until his chest met with the moody man’s back and dug his nose into his neck. “You’re worrying too much A-Hai,” he whispered softly.
Xu Hai shook his shoulder. “Fuck off.”
Cui Yuze knew he probably didn’t want him to actually leave. So, he didn’t. He wrapped his arms tight around Xu Hai’s slim waist instead.
But, it didn’t have the wanted response.
Xu Hai’s shoulders began to shake. He wasn’t loud. Xu Hai was never loud. His throat clogged with the pain of holding back sobs.
Cui Yuze frowned and brought him closer. “Xu Hai…”
“Leave me alone and don’t speak…you’ll only make things worse,” he choked out.
So, Cui Yuze did stay quiet. Not a word. He held him tight, hoping it’d offer some sort of comfort through the man’s breakdown.
“I don’t want you to leave…” Xu Hai whispered. He felt pathetic. Cui Yuze was the only person that had ever seen him cry but, it didn’t happen often. And it still made him feel bile rise in his throat every time he did.
Cui Yuze rubbed his thumb into Xu Hai’s hip, “I’m not leaving A-Hai.”
…
Xu Hair felt pressure in his throat again, as if he was about to swallow but couldn’t. In a single beat he had turned around to face Cui Yuze, making eye contact with him for the first time since he laid down.
“You’re dying Yuze! Maybe you are trying to ignore it but I can not! The cracks in your golden core are growing! You don’t…if you…” Xu Hai choked on his tears, he tried wiping them away so he could speak. But it wasn’t stopping.
Cui Yuze tried opening his mouth but, he didn’t know what to say. “A-Hai…”
“Fuck! It’s not up to the gods! If they loved you so much, they wouldn’t have crushed your golden core!” Xu Hai yelled. He had really left Cui Yuze speechless. He never expressed his words explicitly. Honesty, he was proud and nearly cracked a smile. “The doctor thinks you have a year left,” he continued.
“Then in a year it will be,” Cui Yuze repeated, “Do you think I won’t watch over you from the heavens?”
“I don’t want you to watch me…I want-“ he swallowed down the rest of his words and hesitantly put a hand over Cui Yuze’s.
“A-Hai. You don’t believe in the world. But, believe in me. I’ll come back for you. I don’t know when, but I will. So, just don’t give up on me.”
Xu Hai’s eyes were red and puffy, the tears had slowed with those words. Because, his heart was with Cui Yuze. It always would be. He planted his face into the sick man’s chest. His robes were slightly damp and cold on his cheek, hardly noticeable but Xu Hai always took those details in. Cui Yuze’s fragility made him consistently pale and clammy. The damp robes were a sign of it.
“I trust you.”
Cui Yuze smiled and tangled his fingers into his friend’s soft and put together hair.
“I know.”
Xu Hai clung onto him for the rest of the night, listening closely to the thump of his chest and felt the rise of his chest. It quelled the tremble in his bone, the assurance that he was still alive. He wasn’t going anywhere.
~
The next morning, Cui Yuze was dead.
Xu Hai couldn’t feel his heartbeat, nor could he feel his lungs expand.
At first, he thought the robes must have been stifling the noise, to which he groaned and began to lift his head before digging his ear deeper into Cui Yuze’s lifeless chest.
But, of course, he still felt nothing. His heart dropped and then pumped faster. As if he had just ran three miles with no break.
“Cui Yuze?” He called.
“Yuze?” He clutched his collar and shook him.
“A-Ze?” The tears began to fall.
He should have had a year left. The doctor said he had that. He couldn’t be dead. So, he called him a few more times, shook him a little harder, and let some more tears drop.
But, Cui Yuze remained pale and his eyes were still shut.
Xu Hai never cried, save for the few times he thought too hard about Cui Yuze’s illness. But this time, he sobbed. And he didn’t try to stop it. Because maybe if he cried, some of the pain in his chest would dissipate. So he let the tears soak through his friend’s shirt until his whole face was red and his eyes were so puffy he could hardly see if he tried.
There came a point where he had run out of tears to shed. He even wanted to keep crying. But, he knew it wouldn’t fix it, it wouldn’t revive his friend. So, he forcefully ripped himself away and let his eyes traverse Cui Yuze’s pale face. From this angle, he didn’t look lifeless, he looked peaceful.
Xu Hai had the scary thought that maybe, if he had not slept on his chest this night, he wouldn’t have even noticed that Cui Yuze was gone.
…
He’ll be back. He knew because Cui Yuze promised him.
He’ll be back. | Stretch to The Stars
Xu Hai flopped in the bed beside Cui Yuze. The ceiling suddenly became very interesting. He couldn’t peel his eyes away, he just didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to. Cui Yuze was in a similar state. But, he decided to try breaking the silence. If he didn’t, they’d lay like this forever.
“A-Hai?” He called.
“Mn.”
Cui Yuze shifted, propping his head up on his hand. “You look more worried than me,” he chuckled.
“You’re too blasé,” Xu Hai asserted. Even with Cui Yuze looking down at him, he didn’t make eye contact, still looking at the grooves of wood in the roof.
“I’ve seen all the ups and downs of this damn golden core. I’m used to it.”
Xu Hai dug his nails into his shirt, his shoulders suddenly becoming a lot more tense. “What if this time is different?”
Cui Yuze had vowed a long time ago not to think in that way. It wasn’t that he feared death. Not at all. He feared that death would push him to stop living.
Cui Yuze dragged his fingers up to Xu Hai’s chest playfully, walking them around on the soft silk of his robe. “Mn…the gods won’t let me die so soon. I have too much to do.”
That didn’t make Xu Hai feel any better. Cui Yuze was confident in the gods, and believed they were fair. Xu Hai had long stopped feeling that way. Ever since he was eight years old, groveling in the mud for scraps of food.
Maybe he believed in them once. Maybe when he met Cui Yuze and brought him to Botao. Life got better from there. But then he found out Cui Yuze was sick and getting worse. And suddenly the gods couldn’t exist anymore, because how could they curse somebody with a heart like A-Yu.
Xu Hai turned on his side. Cui Yuze was more than used to his lack of words, he always had to dig deep into his behavior to understand his attitude. Right now he could tell Xu Hai didn’t like his comment. So, he scooted close until his chest met with the moody man’s back and dug his nose into his neck. “You’re worrying too much A-Hai,” he whispered softly.
Xu Hai shook his shoulder. “Fuck off.”
Cui Yuze knew he probably didn’t want him to actually leave. So, he didn’t. He wrapped his arms tight around Xu Hai’s slim waist instead.
But, it didn’t have the wanted response.
Xu Hai’s shoulders began to shake. He wasn’t loud. Xu Hai was never loud. His throat clogged with the pain of holding back sobs.
Cui Yuze frowned and brought him closer. “Xu Hai…”
“Leave me alone and don’t speak…you’ll only make things worse,” he choked out.
So, Cui Yuze did stay quiet. Not a word. He held him tight, hoping it’d offer some sort of comfort through the man’s breakdown.
“I don’t want you to leave…” Xu Hai whispered. He felt pathetic. Cui Yuze was the only person that had ever seen him cry but, it didn’t happen often. And it still made him feel bile rise in his throat every time he did.
Cui Yuze rubbed his thumb into Xu Hai’s hip, “I’m not leaving A-Hai.”
…
Xu Hair felt pressure in his throat again, as if he was about to swallow but couldn’t. In a single beat he had turned around to face Cui Yuze, making eye contact with him for the first time since he laid down.
“You’re dying Yuze! Maybe you are trying to ignore it but I can not! The cracks in your golden core are growing! You don’t…if you…” Xu Hai choked on his tears, he tried wiping them away so he could speak. But it wasn’t stopping.
Cui Yuze tried opening his mouth but, he didn’t know what to say. “A-Hai…”
“Fuck! It’s not up to the gods! If they loved you so much, they wouldn’t have crushed your golden core!” Xu Hai yelled. He had really left Cui Yuze speechless. He never expressed his words explicitly. Honesty, he was proud and nearly cracked a smile. “The doctor thinks you have a year left,” he continued.
“Then in a year it will be,” Cui Yuze repeated, “Do you think I won’t watch over you from the heavens?”
“I don’t want you to watch me…I want-“ he swallowed down the rest of his words and hesitantly put a hand over Cui Yuze’s.
“A-Hai. You don’t believe in the world. But, believe in me. I’ll come back for you. I don’t know when, but I will. So, just don’t give up on me.”
Xu Hai’s eyes were red and puffy, the tears had slowed with those words. Because, his heart was with Cui Yuze. It always would be. He planted his face into the sick man’s chest. His robes were slightly damp and cold on his cheek, hardly noticeable but Xu Hai always took those details in. Cui Yuze’s fragility made him consistently pale and clammy. The damp robes were a sign of it.
“I trust you.”
Cui Yuze smiled and tangled his fingers into his friend’s soft and put together hair.
“I know.”
Xu Hai clung onto him for the rest of the night, listening closely to the thump of his chest and felt the rise of his chest. It quelled the tremble in his bone, the assurance that he was still alive. He wasn’t going anywhere.
~
The next morning, Cui Yuze was dead.
Xu Hai couldn’t feel his heartbeat, nor could he feel his lungs expand.
At first, he thought the robes must have been stifling the noise, to which he groaned and began to lift his head before digging his ear deeper into Cui Yuze’s lifeless chest.
But, of course, he still felt nothing. His heart dropped and then pumped faster. As if he had just ran three miles with no break.
“Cui Yuze?” He called.
“Yuze?” He clutched his collar and shook him.
“A-Ze?” The tears began to fall.
He should have had a year left. The doctor said he had that. He couldn’t be dead. So, he called him a few more times, shook him a little harder, and let some more tears drop.
But, Cui Yuze remained pale and his eyes were still shut.
Xu Hai never cried, save for the few times he thought too hard about Cui Yuze’s illness. But this time, he sobbed. And he didn’t try to stop it. Because maybe if he cried, some of the pain in his chest would dissipate. So he let the tears soak through his friend’s shirt until his whole face was red and his eyes were so puffy he could hardly see if he tried.
There came a point where he had run out of tears to shed. He even wanted to keep crying. But, he knew it wouldn’t fix it, it wouldn’t revive his friend. So, he forcefully ripped himself away and let his eyes traverse Cui Yuze’s pale face. From this angle, he didn’t look lifeless, he looked peaceful.
Xu Hai had the scary thought that maybe, if he had not slept on his chest this night, he wouldn’t have even noticed that Cui Yuze was gone.
…
He’ll be back. He knew because Cui Yuze promised him.
He’ll be back. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77352506 | {"authors": ["g00se_on_the_beach1206"], "language": "English", "title": "Stretch to The Stars"} |
The Splintering
In the beginning, there was One.
One was vibrant and dull, weaponized, and cherished, everything and nothing all at once. And One was bored, or as close a being like One could get in any case.
So, from One came Two, a companion, a friend- or close enough. From Two came Many.
The Many numbered into the thousands at least, though few still exist today.
And from the Many came Mortals, Odd little creatures with odd little ideas, such as the passage of Time and the notion that one day they would simply stop, and never start again. This was troubling to the Many; the Mortals seemed so small, so fragile, so defenseless against all the universe, and so the One gave the Two a Name.
It was the first of its kind. They had, of course, all had something by which to be addressed, but this Name had power; it changed the Two in ways no one expected, and yet felt more right than anything.
One gave the Two the Name of Magic, with this Name and the power it afforded, Magic taught the mortals how to protect themselves in the ways of the Many, and the One. And so Time, as it was now known, continued. Mortals came, and Mortals went, and through it all, the Many watched unsure, for they loved the mortals, yet this love hurt them. They did not then and still don't now understand that what they were feeling was Grief, and that Love and Grief are much the same thing in all actuality- but I digress.
Over Time their Grief twisted them. Some of the Many sank into a depression and eventually disappeared from the universe itself, a hard thing to do, for this was before the universe was Splintered, and as such, it was much easier to see. Others became leaders of a kind amongst the Mortals, showing them the ways of the universe. Still others became silent protectors. But chief amongst all of these was a being that had come to be known as Three.
Three was powerful but twisted, Magic in its naivety believed that Three meant no harm, One disagreed but could not fight Magic for it felt some guilt, after all, it was the cause of all of this- indirect or not- and so did not feel as if it had any sort of standing in the matter. And so Magic persisted, trying to show the beauty of the universe, where Three saw only pain and sacrifice. Eventually, Three broke.
It was a terrible time, many Mortals died, and many of the Many died in futile attempts to protect them. In the end, Three was named byOne as Chaos and cast from the stars into a corner of the Universe so far away that it would take eternity to reach them- or so they hoped. But the damage was done.
Magic could no longer supply all of the mortals, and the small number of the Many that were left were hard and bitter, not fit to protect. And so One did the only thing it could think to, and Splintered the Universe.
It broke the Universe into infinite pieces, scattering them across the planes of existence in the futile hope that it might minimize damage and help to contain Chaos for as long as possible. This worked, and so One, Magic, and what remained of the Many returned to the corner of the Universe where Chaos was kept, bound and chained, and splintered it as well. One then gave each of the remaining Many a piece of Chaos and their final orders. They were to find a group of mortals, they were to train them, and protect them, and leave with them the charge of containing their piece of Chaos. For one knew even then that the Mortals had a kind of power that not it nor the Magic nor the Many could ever hope to even understand. And so it was done. And One took Magic, and they used the last of One's essence, much depleted due to the battle against chaos, and made a shield ensuring that nothing would be able to get out or in.
But they made one mistake. They had forgotten that Splintering the Universe in the way they did caused the universe to split into Possibilities, not just pieces. And as such, there was a small Crack in the shield. That, however, did not become an issue until later.
For now, I will tell you what the Many did. They followed their orders, doing as One had instructed, but they did not stay. They had children, or nearly all of them did in any case. And then most simply… disappeared. We, to this day, do not know what became of them.
Their children become known as Spirits, and Deities, and Gods, creating religions and temples to and about themselves. Magic would have stopped this, knowing that doing so was hurting the mortals and knowing that this would not end well. But Magic, in its grief, couldn't seem to care. And so, things continued for Eons.
Until one day, the first Demigod was born. Now, Mortals had been using magic for Eons, since before the Splintering in fact- after which nearly all of the other Possibilities stopped but once again I digress, and most of the flora and fauna that lived on the Mortals world, including the mortals themselves, had been warped by it and were rather dependent on it hence why they could not travel amongst the stars as only their world- Terra- held magic in a great enough supply for them to survive. But this was the first time a Mortal and a God had a child, and it would be very far from the last.
Now, we are going to fast forward a few millennia to just about a thousand years ago. Magic, both the thing and the being, had waned in strength and had been doing so for a long time by this point
[con't depending on who is being told this] | The Splintering
In the beginning, there was One.
One was vibrant and dull, weaponized, and cherished, everything and nothing all at once. And One was bored, or as close a being like One could get in any case.
So, from One came Two, a companion, a friend- or close enough. From Two came Many.
The Many numbered into the thousands at least, though few still exist today.
And from the Many came Mortals, Odd little creatures with odd little ideas, such as the passage of Time and the notion that one day they would simply stop, and never start again. This was troubling to the Many; the Mortals seemed so small, so fragile, so defenseless against all the universe, and so the One gave the Two a Name.
It was the first of its kind. They had, of course, all had something by which to be addressed, but this Name had power; it changed the Two in ways no one expected, and yet felt more right than anything.
One gave the Two the Name of Magic, with this Name and the power it afforded, Magic taught the mortals how to protect themselves in the ways of the Many, and the One. And so Time, as it was now known, continued. Mortals came, and Mortals went, and through it all, the Many watched unsure, for they loved the mortals, yet this love hurt them. They did not then and still don't now understand that what they were feeling was Grief, and that Love and Grief are much the same thing in all actuality- but I digress.
Over Time their Grief twisted them. Some of the Many sank into a depression and eventually disappeared from the universe itself, a hard thing to do, for this was before the universe was Splintered, and as such, it was much easier to see. Others became leaders of a kind amongst the Mortals, showing them the ways of the universe. Still others became silent protectors. But chief amongst all of these was a being that had come to be known as Three.
Three was powerful but twisted, Magic in its naivety believed that Three meant no harm, One disagreed but could not fight Magic for it felt some guilt, after all, it was the cause of all of this- indirect or not- and so did not feel as if it had any sort of standing in the matter. And so Magic persisted, trying to show the beauty of the universe, where Three saw only pain and sacrifice. Eventually, Three broke.
It was a terrible time, many Mortals died, and many of the Many died in futile attempts to protect them. In the end, Three was named byOne as Chaos and cast from the stars into a corner of the Universe so far away that it would take eternity to reach them- or so they hoped. But the damage was done.
Magic could no longer supply all of the mortals, and the small number of the Many that were left were hard and bitter, not fit to protect. And so One did the only thing it could think to, and Splintered the Universe.
It broke the Universe into infinite pieces, scattering them across the planes of existence in the futile hope that it might minimize damage and help to contain Chaos for as long as possible. This worked, and so One, Magic, and what remained of the Many returned to the corner of the Universe where Chaos was kept, bound and chained, and splintered it as well. One then gave each of the remaining Many a piece of Chaos and their final orders. They were to find a group of mortals, they were to train them, and protect them, and leave with them the charge of containing their piece of Chaos. For one knew even then that the Mortals had a kind of power that not it nor the Magic nor the Many could ever hope to even understand. And so it was done. And One took Magic, and they used the last of One's essence, much depleted due to the battle against chaos, and made a shield ensuring that nothing would be able to get out or in.
But they made one mistake. They had forgotten that Splintering the Universe in the way they did caused the universe to split into Possibilities, not just pieces. And as such, there was a small Crack in the shield. That, however, did not become an issue until later.
For now, I will tell you what the Many did. They followed their orders, doing as One had instructed, but they did not stay. They had children, or nearly all of them did in any case. And then most simply… disappeared. We, to this day, do not know what became of them.
Their children become known as Spirits, and Deities, and Gods, creating religions and temples to and about themselves. Magic would have stopped this, knowing that doing so was hurting the mortals and knowing that this would not end well. But Magic, in its grief, couldn't seem to care. And so, things continued for Eons.
Until one day, the first Demigod was born. Now, Mortals had been using magic for Eons, since before the Splintering in fact- after which nearly all of the other Possibilities stopped but once again I digress, and most of the flora and fauna that lived on the Mortals world, including the mortals themselves, had been warped by it and were rather dependent on it hence why they could not travel amongst the stars as only their world- Terra- held magic in a great enough supply for them to survive. But this was the first time a Mortal and a God had a child, and it would be very far from the last.
Now, we are going to fast forward a few millennia to just about a thousand years ago. Magic, both the thing and the being, had waned in strength and had been doing so for a long time by this point
[con't depending on who is being told this] | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77352511 | {"authors": ["Hello_People_and_Not_So_Much"], "language": "English", "title": "The Splintering"} |
THE FILLED SPACE : A Byler fanfic
Hey guys, this is the characters backstories about what happened after graduation. TRUST that this makes the story make sense
Mike and Bonnie : He moves away from Hawkins a few states over to Pennsylvania to pursue his dream to be a writer. He left just as he promised El that they would after they defeated Vecna, but of course it didn't happen. He tried to date around, but was quite unsuccessful. Until he met Bonnie. She and her ex-husband Richard had married young, fleeing their home in order to not face the disappointment from their peers. They eloped and had a beautiful baby girl named Haelyn. They were a normal family, until Richard committed. Yup, that's right. Poor Haelyn was only four. Bonnie was scared. Scared to raise a child on her own, scared to be judged, scared that she would find love. I mean, who would love a young mom with a four year old daughter and no hope at all? Well, Mike did. He loved her wit, her charm, and her smile. And he absolutely adored Haelyn. Was she just as good as Eleven? No, no one could ever be as perfect as her. Anyways, after a few years, Mike was sure she was the one, buying a ring, ready to make her his. Until one day, he was watching over Haelyn when he got a call. She's got it into an accident. A very bad accident. A drunk driver had crashed head on into her car, which ended up with her losing her life. He was scared, he didn't want to leave with people that didn't care for her. Her grandparents didn't know she existed, nobody that was related to knew she existed. So he took her in. Becoming her father, caregiver, a protector, and her guardian angel. And you're probably curious about his life outside of being a father. Well, he started writing a book series based on the old d&d campaigns, basing the characters off him and his friends as well. He hopes Will reads them. He wants to talk to him more, but scared to. Why? Even Mike doesn't know. The world has become more accepting of people, specifically homosexual people. He did research and discovered that he might have internalized homophobia, which feels about right. Mike admired Will for being able to express himself, being able to be okay with himself. That was one of the many reasons he loved Will so much. I mean, not like that! Loved as in like a friend! Yeah, like that.
Will : After graduation, Will moved out to New York City with Jonathan, went to an art school to help him pursue his career as an artist. His paintings were inspired by his hardships during his childhood and his old DND campaigns. It was nerve-wracking at first, being away from everybody and not knowing a single person. But he found friends, and even a boyfriend. His name was Chance, but they only lasted 9 months. The decided to just stay friends as that would be better for their relationship. He calls his mother everyday, talking about stress, relationship issues, dumb assholes in public, or just to talk. Joyce has been doing good. She married Hopper and even adopted two cute little dogs named Lucy and Walker. Him and Jonathan visit Hawkins once a month to catch up with Mom and Hopper, to visit old hangout spots, and occasionally to meet up with the party. He hasn't seen Mike in a while. Hell, it's been almost 12 years as he's too busy taking care of his new daughter and working on his writing career. He really missed Mike. Occasionally they called each other, usually just to talk about life and work. But it always gets cut short, never able to have a fully fledged conversation. He used to like Mike, maybe even loved him. He wishes that they could have talked more after he came out to everyone body at the squawk that day. He still remembers the words Mike said to him, saying they could be more than friends. Best friends. Those words stung like a bee. He wishes that he could have told Mike the painting wasn't commissioned by El, scared to tell him the truth. About how he loved him. So he didn't, never confessing his love to Mike. He could tell by the way Mike reacted the day he came out, that he realized he was Will's Tammy. But they never talked about it. He still wishes he that he could, but it feels that they are too distant now, having their own lives.
Lucas and Max : After graduation, they were excited that they were both staying in Hawkins. They were probably one of the only couples that made it after high school. They got married not long after, and not caring what anyone thought about them. Of course all their friends came, excited to see their friends pursue their love. You can imagine their surprise when they found out they were having twins. One boy and one girl. They decided to name them after some important people in their life. Kate Bush and Max's brother Billy. Lucas insisted that Erica shouldn't have been their godmother, saying that being their aunt was enough. But of course Max protested, because how could she deny that from her favorite sister-in-law.
Erica : She visits almost every week, basically living there. And Erica being the smarty pants she is was able to graduate high school a year early. She went on to study psychology in college but then decided to go back to study science. Of course Lucas judged her and even jokingly accused her of turning his son into a nerd. Of course Erica clapped back flaunting the fact that she's the smarter kid as she not only finished college once but twice, poking at the fact that Lucas barely made it to his second year.
Dustin and Suzie : After graduation, they both tried to date around but found it unsuccessful. You can imagine their surprise when they met in a bar on New Year's Eve. They started talking and decided to meet up again. And again. And again. Eventually they started dating again, and have been going strong for a few years. So what did Dustin do? He popped the question. That's right. He proposed to Suzie, and she couldn't have been happier. Dustin decided to make his friends his groomsmen and Steve his best man.
The older kids
18 months after Vecna died, Steve became the Hawkins little league baseball coach-adopting more than just his six little nuggets-. Nancy is the writer for the Hawkins post, Jonathan moved with Will to New York to help with his photography, and Robin. Well, she's still rockin robin, being the best radio host in the quaint town that she calls home. Steve, Robin, Nancy and Jonathan still meet up, not as much as they would like to, but they make it work.
OMGGGG GUYS WHOS HERE FROM TT
1384 wordsss
I will release the first chapter soonnnnn trust | THE FILLED SPACE : A Byler fanfic
Hey guys, this is the characters backstories about what happened after graduation. TRUST that this makes the story make sense
Mike and Bonnie : He moves away from Hawkins a few states over to Pennsylvania to pursue his dream to be a writer. He left just as he promised El that they would after they defeated Vecna, but of course it didn't happen. He tried to date around, but was quite unsuccessful. Until he met Bonnie. She and her ex-husband Richard had married young, fleeing their home in order to not face the disappointment from their peers. They eloped and had a beautiful baby girl named Haelyn. They were a normal family, until Richard committed. Yup, that's right. Poor Haelyn was only four. Bonnie was scared. Scared to raise a child on her own, scared to be judged, scared that she would find love. I mean, who would love a young mom with a four year old daughter and no hope at all? Well, Mike did. He loved her wit, her charm, and her smile. And he absolutely adored Haelyn. Was she just as good as Eleven? No, no one could ever be as perfect as her. Anyways, after a few years, Mike was sure she was the one, buying a ring, ready to make her his. Until one day, he was watching over Haelyn when he got a call. She's got it into an accident. A very bad accident. A drunk driver had crashed head on into her car, which ended up with her losing her life. He was scared, he didn't want to leave with people that didn't care for her. Her grandparents didn't know she existed, nobody that was related to knew she existed. So he took her in. Becoming her father, caregiver, a protector, and her guardian angel. And you're probably curious about his life outside of being a father. Well, he started writing a book series based on the old d&d campaigns, basing the characters off him and his friends as well. He hopes Will reads them. He wants to talk to him more, but scared to. Why? Even Mike doesn't know. The world has become more accepting of people, specifically homosexual people. He did research and discovered that he might have internalized homophobia, which feels about right. Mike admired Will for being able to express himself, being able to be okay with himself. That was one of the many reasons he loved Will so much. I mean, not like that! Loved as in like a friend! Yeah, like that.
Will : After graduation, Will moved out to New York City with Jonathan, went to an art school to help him pursue his career as an artist. His paintings were inspired by his hardships during his childhood and his old DND campaigns. It was nerve-wracking at first, being away from everybody and not knowing a single person. But he found friends, and even a boyfriend. His name was Chance, but they only lasted 9 months. The decided to just stay friends as that would be better for their relationship. He calls his mother everyday, talking about stress, relationship issues, dumb assholes in public, or just to talk. Joyce has been doing good. She married Hopper and even adopted two cute little dogs named Lucy and Walker. Him and Jonathan visit Hawkins once a month to catch up with Mom and Hopper, to visit old hangout spots, and occasionally to meet up with the party. He hasn't seen Mike in a while. Hell, it's been almost 12 years as he's too busy taking care of his new daughter and working on his writing career. He really missed Mike. Occasionally they called each other, usually just to talk about life and work. But it always gets cut short, never able to have a fully fledged conversation. He used to like Mike, maybe even loved him. He wishes that they could have talked more after he came out to everyone body at the squawk that day. He still remembers the words Mike said to him, saying they could be more than friends. Best friends. Those words stung like a bee. He wishes that he could have told Mike the painting wasn't commissioned by El, scared to tell him the truth. About how he loved him. So he didn't, never confessing his love to Mike. He could tell by the way Mike reacted the day he came out, that he realized he was Will's Tammy. But they never talked about it. He still wishes he that he could, but it feels that they are too distant now, having their own lives.
Lucas and Max : After graduation, they were excited that they were both staying in Hawkins. They were probably one of the only couples that made it after high school. They got married not long after, and not caring what anyone thought about them. Of course all their friends came, excited to see their friends pursue their love. You can imagine their surprise when they found out they were having twins. One boy and one girl. They decided to name them after some important people in their life. Kate Bush and Max's brother Billy. Lucas insisted that Erica shouldn't have been their godmother, saying that being their aunt was enough. But of course Max protested, because how could she deny that from her favorite sister-in-law.
Erica : She visits almost every week, basically living there. And Erica being the smarty pants she is was able to graduate high school a year early. She went on to study psychology in college but then decided to go back to study science. Of course Lucas judged her and even jokingly accused her of turning his son into a nerd. Of course Erica clapped back flaunting the fact that she's the smarter kid as she not only finished college once but twice, poking at the fact that Lucas barely made it to his second year.
Dustin and Suzie : After graduation, they both tried to date around but found it unsuccessful. You can imagine their surprise when they met in a bar on New Year's Eve. They started talking and decided to meet up again. And again. And again. Eventually they started dating again, and have been going strong for a few years. So what did Dustin do? He popped the question. That's right. He proposed to Suzie, and she couldn't have been happier. Dustin decided to make his friends his groomsmen and Steve his best man.
The older kids
18 months after Vecna died, Steve became the Hawkins little league baseball coach-adopting more than just his six little nuggets-. Nancy is the writer for the Hawkins post, Jonathan moved with Will to New York to help with his photography, and Robin. Well, she's still rockin robin, being the best radio host in the quaint town that she calls home. Steve, Robin, Nancy and Jonathan still meet up, not as much as they would like to, but they make it work.
OMGGGG GUYS WHOS HERE FROM TT
1384 wordsss
I will release the first chapter soonnnnn trust | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77351946/chapters/202519366 | {"authors": ["pjo_cinnamon_pookie"], "language": "English", "title": "THE FILLED SPACE : A Byler fanfic"} |
Shooting star
Regulus may be at odds with his brother She may resent him for trading him for Potter, but she will never stop loving him and worrying about him.He always paid attention to him, albeit only fleetingly, but he always kept an eye on him.But now he was staring at him as if he were a painting.Things haven't been going well for a long time At first, Sirius hid his condition and Regulus didn't notice.What he will never forgive himself for But now it's only worse and there's no way to hide it anymore.His brother was always drunk, he didn't go to the Great Hall and when he did eat something, it was in such quantity that a canary wouldn't be able to eat it.As far as he knew, he had once lost consciousness during class after casting Alohomora.And Regulus could no longer ignore this.At first he told himself that his brother generally had stupid ideas and this was their result But losing consciousness after such a trivial spell was the last straw.And the peak of his panic was when he didn't show up for the meal again.3rd day in a row He sat at his table and stared at the place where Sirius should have been but he wasn't there.And the chair was empty, but his brother's idiotic friends looked surprised and terrified.But no one bothered to move, so Regulus did.He jumped up from his seat and left the room.He had to find Sirius as soon as possible.He wandered the school corridors and began to seriously consider some sort of tracking spell, but he resisted until the very end.He didn't know how bad Sirius was and the spell might have made it worse.But his gut and caring side were frantic to find him.He must have known what was happening to him.And some gods must have heard him because when he turned into the next corridor he ran right into him.Sirius was leaning against the wall with his hands and his forehead was as pale as a sheet and he looked like he was fighting not to faint.Regulus jumped up towards him and appeared at the last moment.Because Sirius lost this fight, he fell to the ground and at the last moment he caught him in Regulus non-invasively set him down on the ground and looked at him in horror.He looked awful, like he hadn't slept in a decade and was constantly drunk, and he could feel it in his bones the moment he put his hand on it.
-Sirius.- He grabbed his brother's face and brushed his hair away from it.
His brother reacted with a huge delay which was incredibly disturbing.Because Sirius had inimitable reflexes and Uncle Alfred once laughed that he would have been an excellent marksman without training.And Sirius can actually shoot a revolver, which wasn't common.When his brother finally connected his face with his name, he pulled away violently, slamming his head against the wall with full force.Regulus grimaced and walked over to him.
-What are you doing, you idiot!
-Why did you come here? Don't you have anything else to do? I don't know, for example, about detentions, after all, the prefect. - He said so harshly that Regulus actually wondered if he was the first person he had talked to in a long time.
-I don't actually have one. So I can find out what you're doing here and why you look like a corpse.
Sirius looked at him absently and replied about two minutes after that sentence.And Regulus's heart was pounding like a young He had to take him to the hospital immediately.
-You shouldn't care, Slytherin.Get away from me and go live your miserable life. - he spat the insult in his face.But it didn't work on Regulus, there are important and more important things And what's more important is that his brother looked like he was about to lie in his grave.Regulus approached his brother and grabbed his emaciated wrists, he didn't react, he didn't even notice he was caught
-Sirius, we're going to the hospital wing right now.- and this time it was better because he didn't wait for a long answer.
Sirius tried to break free but he was so weak that he didn't even try.
-Get out, what don't you understand? - he growled, but Regulus was not discouraged.
-Let's go, it's non-negotiable
-Get away from me We are nothing to each other and let's keep it that way Treat me like nobody
Regulus looked at him sadly, struggling with himself.
-I can't, Sirius. It's your opinion. And I know you want it, but I can't fulfill it.
He picked him up from the ground and held him tight so he wouldn't fall to the ground.He felt all his ribs and his entire spine under his hand.His heart was breaking with despair at this state of affairs.How did he not notice this before? He dragged him by force to the hospital wing.Not that it was particularly complicated, because Sirius practically relied on it.When they arrived, Madam Pomfrey crossed herself when she saw him and immediately took him away.But Regulus didn't come out, he was so scared that he was paralyzed.When did it start to lead to such ruin?The nurse paced around and muttered something under her breath, terrified, until she finally asked Regulus to leave.He didn't want to, but he had to so as not to break down there.In the corridor he leaned against the wall and looked as if he had seen an apparition.He didn't know how long he stood there, but he heard his brother's stupid friends around him. Regulus moved towards Potter, ignoring everyone and the consequences of being a prefect attacking a student.He had to know He pushed him against the wall and looked at him angrily.
-What did you do to my brother?! I gave you one thing to do and you even screwed that up, loser.
James looked at him terrified but finally found the stupid courage to face Black's anger.
-I tried but he didn't listen to me.He started hiding it and I don't know how to make him
Regulus looked at him with fury.
-One thing Potter My brother was supposed to be safe, but I find him in the corridor as if he had risen from a tomb And it's because of your incompetence. - he said murderously calmly.
-Listen, I don't know what your mother is writing to him because she doesn't brag about it.But knowing her, it's probably nothing nice.
Regulus didn't show that he was surprised.His mother, who burned the tapestry and called Sirius all sorts of names, wrote to him
-Don't approach him if you can't do anything.
"Regulus. James is right. Sirius is a master at hiding everything. We've tried talking to him, but nothing gets through to him," Lupin interjected.
Regulus looked at him angrily.They're about to get really hammered
-Of course he won't tell you anything.But I'm not suggesting he's stupid because he doesn't listen to you. He didn't listen to me for years either, but I was able to keep an eye on him so he didn't fight with anyone or do anything stupid. And I expected the same from you idiots because you finally took him away from me.So since you pushed him away from me and turned him against me, I was counting on you to take care of him.I allowed you to do this for his own good, but I see that it was the biggest mistake of my life.
Lupin fell silent and Regulus looked at James.
-I gave you permission to do so. I let you torture me after losing him because he's always first on my list but you fucked it up like so many things So listen to me now, if anything happens to him, it will be your fault and yours alone.Now get out of here, I don't want to see you near him. - he said and left him.
James looked at him in shock and the whole argument was interrupted by Madam Pomfrey.
-Regulus Black, come here.
He obeyed the order immediately The nurse grabbed his arm with a guilty look on her face.
-I had to call your parents, he's in really bad shape.
Regulus looked at her as if under a spell.
-You can't do that, he ran away from home.
-I know. But they're his parents and I can't help but notify them.
-He knows
-No.But he has to find out eventually. Do you want to do it or should I?
Regulus stood stunned, he had to make this difficult decision and even though he wanted it to be him, he knew his brother didn't want to know him.So with pain in his heart he replied
-Do it gently.
The nurse came back and he woke up and went on his way. He didn't care what his brother's stupid friends thought of him.He knew that standing at the door wouldn't accomplish anything and his brother didn't want him around and he had to respect that even though he didn't want to.
Regulus was on patrol as a prefect but couldn't concentrate on anything.He was constantly feeling guilty for not telling him personally.Even though he knew he had chosen well, it still bothered him.Even though he knew he had chosen well, it still bothered him.He was on the first floor where the hospital wing was located and the last thing he expected was a figure running down the corridor. He stopped and tried to look but it was dark.
-Hey, stop, what are you doing here at this hour!
The figure stopped and was clearly panicked because it started running away from Regulus.And the Slytherin prefect was dazzled No, I'm begging you, he didn't do it He broke into a run, if his suspicions were correct he wouldn't get far, especially not from Regulus who was searching for him.He chased him for a long time and was shocked that he was able to run so fast.Finally they ran out into the courtyard, the figure in front of him slowed down and Regulus sped up.
"Sirius! Don't do anything stupid," he shouted, and his brother turned around, a knife in his hand.
Regulus froze and stared at him.Sirius was terrified and in tears.
-Siri, put it down and let's talk.
-We have nothing to talk about. Leave me alone.
-Please put that away.
Sirius looked at him with tears streaming down his cheeks.In the moonlight he looked like an apparition Regulus stepped closer to him but stopped abruptly when he placed the knife to his throat.
-She will come here. I don't want to
-I know, I didn't want it either, but I had no influence on it.
Sirius looked at him terrified.
-She wants me to come back.She swore she would find me and bring me home.That he will force me to take the sign And I don't want to. - he said, tears streaming down his face.
Regulus stood there helpless, he didn't know what to do, he was afraid that if he got any closer, he would hurt himself.Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall figure creeping up behind his brother.Regulus didn't know who it was but they clearly had the same intentions as him so Regulus was responsible for keeping Sirius's attention on himself.
-Siri won't force you, we won't let you.Please put it down, we'll figure something out. - he said, approaching him.
Sirius was devastated and helpless, he pulled the knife away from his neck and looked at his hand.Regulus stopped and nodded at him not to do it.At the last moment Sirius was grabbed by the hand and released, he struggled but eventually lost his strength and fell to the ground, the figure holding him close. Regulus grabbed the knife and threw it as far away from Sirius as possible.He moved towards him and barred The figure who saved Sirius was Orion Black himself.
-Father?
Orion looked at his younger son but did not let go of Sirius, letting him cry into his chest.He was calm but you could see fear in his eyes.
-Merlin, son, what did you want to do?
Sirius didn't answer and Regulus knelt down next to them.Orion gently rocked his older son but it was no use. Sirius broke down completely.
"My child," he said sadly, and Regulus saw no emotion in his father for the first time. You'll go to St. Mungo's and then... - Orion hesitated until he finally made a decision. - And then you'll go to Andromeda or Alfred, if the situation calms down, you'll go back to school.
Regulus didn't comment, it was a good and the only right idea He brushed his brother's hair away from his face and kissed him gently on the skin.It will be better, it has to be | Shooting star
Regulus may be at odds with his brother She may resent him for trading him for Potter, but she will never stop loving him and worrying about him.He always paid attention to him, albeit only fleetingly, but he always kept an eye on him.But now he was staring at him as if he were a painting.Things haven't been going well for a long time At first, Sirius hid his condition and Regulus didn't notice.What he will never forgive himself for But now it's only worse and there's no way to hide it anymore.His brother was always drunk, he didn't go to the Great Hall and when he did eat something, it was in such quantity that a canary wouldn't be able to eat it.As far as he knew, he had once lost consciousness during class after casting Alohomora.And Regulus could no longer ignore this.At first he told himself that his brother generally had stupid ideas and this was their result But losing consciousness after such a trivial spell was the last straw.And the peak of his panic was when he didn't show up for the meal again.3rd day in a row He sat at his table and stared at the place where Sirius should have been but he wasn't there.And the chair was empty, but his brother's idiotic friends looked surprised and terrified.But no one bothered to move, so Regulus did.He jumped up from his seat and left the room.He had to find Sirius as soon as possible.He wandered the school corridors and began to seriously consider some sort of tracking spell, but he resisted until the very end.He didn't know how bad Sirius was and the spell might have made it worse.But his gut and caring side were frantic to find him.He must have known what was happening to him.And some gods must have heard him because when he turned into the next corridor he ran right into him.Sirius was leaning against the wall with his hands and his forehead was as pale as a sheet and he looked like he was fighting not to faint.Regulus jumped up towards him and appeared at the last moment.Because Sirius lost this fight, he fell to the ground and at the last moment he caught him in Regulus non-invasively set him down on the ground and looked at him in horror.He looked awful, like he hadn't slept in a decade and was constantly drunk, and he could feel it in his bones the moment he put his hand on it.
-Sirius.- He grabbed his brother's face and brushed his hair away from it.
His brother reacted with a huge delay which was incredibly disturbing.Because Sirius had inimitable reflexes and Uncle Alfred once laughed that he would have been an excellent marksman without training.And Sirius can actually shoot a revolver, which wasn't common.When his brother finally connected his face with his name, he pulled away violently, slamming his head against the wall with full force.Regulus grimaced and walked over to him.
-What are you doing, you idiot!
-Why did you come here? Don't you have anything else to do? I don't know, for example, about detentions, after all, the prefect. - He said so harshly that Regulus actually wondered if he was the first person he had talked to in a long time.
-I don't actually have one. So I can find out what you're doing here and why you look like a corpse.
Sirius looked at him absently and replied about two minutes after that sentence.And Regulus's heart was pounding like a young He had to take him to the hospital immediately.
-You shouldn't care, Slytherin.Get away from me and go live your miserable life. - he spat the insult in his face.But it didn't work on Regulus, there are important and more important things And what's more important is that his brother looked like he was about to lie in his grave.Regulus approached his brother and grabbed his emaciated wrists, he didn't react, he didn't even notice he was caught
-Sirius, we're going to the hospital wing right now.- and this time it was better because he didn't wait for a long answer.
Sirius tried to break free but he was so weak that he didn't even try.
-Get out, what don't you understand? - he growled, but Regulus was not discouraged.
-Let's go, it's non-negotiable
-Get away from me We are nothing to each other and let's keep it that way Treat me like nobody
Regulus looked at him sadly, struggling with himself.
-I can't, Sirius. It's your opinion. And I know you want it, but I can't fulfill it.
He picked him up from the ground and held him tight so he wouldn't fall to the ground.He felt all his ribs and his entire spine under his hand.His heart was breaking with despair at this state of affairs.How did he not notice this before? He dragged him by force to the hospital wing.Not that it was particularly complicated, because Sirius practically relied on it.When they arrived, Madam Pomfrey crossed herself when she saw him and immediately took him away.But Regulus didn't come out, he was so scared that he was paralyzed.When did it start to lead to such ruin?The nurse paced around and muttered something under her breath, terrified, until she finally asked Regulus to leave.He didn't want to, but he had to so as not to break down there.In the corridor he leaned against the wall and looked as if he had seen an apparition.He didn't know how long he stood there, but he heard his brother's stupid friends around him. Regulus moved towards Potter, ignoring everyone and the consequences of being a prefect attacking a student.He had to know He pushed him against the wall and looked at him angrily.
-What did you do to my brother?! I gave you one thing to do and you even screwed that up, loser.
James looked at him terrified but finally found the stupid courage to face Black's anger.
-I tried but he didn't listen to me.He started hiding it and I don't know how to make him
Regulus looked at him with fury.
-One thing Potter My brother was supposed to be safe, but I find him in the corridor as if he had risen from a tomb And it's because of your incompetence. - he said murderously calmly.
-Listen, I don't know what your mother is writing to him because she doesn't brag about it.But knowing her, it's probably nothing nice.
Regulus didn't show that he was surprised.His mother, who burned the tapestry and called Sirius all sorts of names, wrote to him
-Don't approach him if you can't do anything.
"Regulus. James is right. Sirius is a master at hiding everything. We've tried talking to him, but nothing gets through to him," Lupin interjected.
Regulus looked at him angrily.They're about to get really hammered
-Of course he won't tell you anything.But I'm not suggesting he's stupid because he doesn't listen to you. He didn't listen to me for years either, but I was able to keep an eye on him so he didn't fight with anyone or do anything stupid. And I expected the same from you idiots because you finally took him away from me.So since you pushed him away from me and turned him against me, I was counting on you to take care of him.I allowed you to do this for his own good, but I see that it was the biggest mistake of my life.
Lupin fell silent and Regulus looked at James.
-I gave you permission to do so. I let you torture me after losing him because he's always first on my list but you fucked it up like so many things So listen to me now, if anything happens to him, it will be your fault and yours alone.Now get out of here, I don't want to see you near him. - he said and left him.
James looked at him in shock and the whole argument was interrupted by Madam Pomfrey.
-Regulus Black, come here.
He obeyed the order immediately The nurse grabbed his arm with a guilty look on her face.
-I had to call your parents, he's in really bad shape.
Regulus looked at her as if under a spell.
-You can't do that, he ran away from home.
-I know. But they're his parents and I can't help but notify them.
-He knows
-No.But he has to find out eventually. Do you want to do it or should I?
Regulus stood stunned, he had to make this difficult decision and even though he wanted it to be him, he knew his brother didn't want to know him.So with pain in his heart he replied
-Do it gently.
The nurse came back and he woke up and went on his way. He didn't care what his brother's stupid friends thought of him.He knew that standing at the door wouldn't accomplish anything and his brother didn't want him around and he had to respect that even though he didn't want to.
Regulus was on patrol as a prefect but couldn't concentrate on anything.He was constantly feeling guilty for not telling him personally.Even though he knew he had chosen well, it still bothered him.Even though he knew he had chosen well, it still bothered him.He was on the first floor where the hospital wing was located and the last thing he expected was a figure running down the corridor. He stopped and tried to look but it was dark.
-Hey, stop, what are you doing here at this hour!
The figure stopped and was clearly panicked because it started running away from Regulus.And the Slytherin prefect was dazzled No, I'm begging you, he didn't do it He broke into a run, if his suspicions were correct he wouldn't get far, especially not from Regulus who was searching for him.He chased him for a long time and was shocked that he was able to run so fast.Finally they ran out into the courtyard, the figure in front of him slowed down and Regulus sped up.
"Sirius! Don't do anything stupid," he shouted, and his brother turned around, a knife in his hand.
Regulus froze and stared at him.Sirius was terrified and in tears.
-Siri, put it down and let's talk.
-We have nothing to talk about. Leave me alone.
-Please put that away.
Sirius looked at him with tears streaming down his cheeks.In the moonlight he looked like an apparition Regulus stepped closer to him but stopped abruptly when he placed the knife to his throat.
-She will come here. I don't want to
-I know, I didn't want it either, but I had no influence on it.
Sirius looked at him terrified.
-She wants me to come back.She swore she would find me and bring me home.That he will force me to take the sign And I don't want to. - he said, tears streaming down his face.
Regulus stood there helpless, he didn't know what to do, he was afraid that if he got any closer, he would hurt himself.Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tall figure creeping up behind his brother.Regulus didn't know who it was but they clearly had the same intentions as him so Regulus was responsible for keeping Sirius's attention on himself.
-Siri won't force you, we won't let you.Please put it down, we'll figure something out. - he said, approaching him.
Sirius was devastated and helpless, he pulled the knife away from his neck and looked at his hand.Regulus stopped and nodded at him not to do it.At the last moment Sirius was grabbed by the hand and released, he struggled but eventually lost his strength and fell to the ground, the figure holding him close. Regulus grabbed the knife and threw it as far away from Sirius as possible.He moved towards him and barred The figure who saved Sirius was Orion Black himself.
-Father?
Orion looked at his younger son but did not let go of Sirius, letting him cry into his chest.He was calm but you could see fear in his eyes.
-Merlin, son, what did you want to do?
Sirius didn't answer and Regulus knelt down next to them.Orion gently rocked his older son but it was no use. Sirius broke down completely.
"My child," he said sadly, and Regulus saw no emotion in his father for the first time. You'll go to St. Mungo's and then... - Orion hesitated until he finally made a decision. - And then you'll go to Andromeda or Alfred, if the situation calms down, you'll go back to school.
Regulus didn't comment, it was a good and the only right idea He brushed his brother's hair away from his face and kissed him gently on the skin.It will be better, it has to be | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77346186 | {"authors": ["Blazenek"], "language": "English", "title": "Shooting star"} |
The stars lure all, even I.
Poetry is always used to describe space, and the beauty of the stars. And rightly so, a majesty of nothingness. Who knows why it inspires such love from humanity, perhaps a sin of pride that grips them, the need to ascend to a higher power as a species. It didn’t go that way for them, just two children, hundreds of years old, sending teenagers and metal shells to fight their war. But beauty can still be found even in people so ravaged by the unthinkable multitudes of battle. But this was a foreign concept, and did not occur to… to… what was its name? ‘Its’? What am… I?
Was it always this empty? It reached out a hand, but nothing moved, it must be too dark to see the limb, surely. It tried to stand, rise to its full height, but nothing came of the action. it felt nothing. It was all wrong, too much, too little, it wanted to see, it knew the sight of people, it knew the sensation of touch, it knew the beating drive of hate, desperation and love. Why had the world taken it all away. Why could it not just have let her be! ‘Her’?, where did it- she get that? She- it-… she didn’t know. Perhaps creation wasn’t a loving god.
A noise, rude, abrupt and uninvited. Words, far too loud and too quickly spoken for her to respond, let alone construct words in response.
“It should be ‘awake’ by now, shouldn’t it?”
A man’s voice, monotone and forensic. Like she was a specimen, some object to be looked at and ogled for science. They were insignificant, bugs beneath her-… that was a bit over the top, wasn’t it? It was still rude to call her an ‘it’, even if she had for her first… her- waking thoughts. This was all she had, a voice and her thoughts. Oh Empress save her, eternally trapped in a nothing of absence and-
“Alright, she’s awake, you can bring it all on”
Light. A new sense, flashing into existence, a migraine began to form in her mind, but it didn’t pain her body, she didn’t feel like a sandbag given sentience- that was odd, it- she*- was sure that wasn’t something she had experienced, she had only just woken of course. Probably. At this point it was a clear course of action ahead, she had no body to cover in sheets and curl away into, she would have to engage with the intrusion of noise. Eventually she focused on the new sense, sight. A camera. It was all white, a familiar marble, though for some reason, she was surprised to not see green clouds. She was on a planet… Buyan, the heart of the Empress’s Empire. A flicker of pride filled her, but she stared at the world around her, it was simply wrong. Familiar maybe, but it was as if staring into someone else’s bedroom, even if she’s knew the marble floors and walls, an off colour grey ceiling, it didn’t make it homely. But- in-front of her… maybe a dozen people- people! She had to tell them- had to ask what had happened- whatever that was-
“I’m sure you’re very disorientated, but just give us a few minutes, we can’t bring everything on at the same time. Bear with us”.
‘Bring everything on?’
Her thoughts felt… faster. Even if she still didn’t feel anything but a twinge of anticipation, she tried to speak, but they only registered as thoughts again. She opened her mouth, and nothing happened. She had nothing, she was- calmness, she had to be careful.
Waiting in impatient silence for what felt like hours, but was actually-
[17.55 seconds]
… How did she know that? She hadn’t counted, there were no clocks. It had just… appeared, by her beck and call. Her musings were cut short by the man, again. If he were not the only noise she could hear, it would have been an aggravation to be interrupted. But given, she would accept the lifeline to the real world, as agitating as it was.
“Alright, you may attempt to speak”.
‘I ‘may’? Was he under the impression I am some kind of pet?’
Brash, why was she so angry? Surely this was not her usual state of mind, but she had no memories to assist her in deciding how she should act. But she did follow his example, halting words, that did not sound like her own. They were harsh, machine, they spoke with a richer accent than her, one of nobility in Buyan, like one would expect from some recording or broadcast. But she pressed on.
“Who are you.”
The questioning inflection she intended for her words seemingly refused to affix itself to her words. Annoying. She tried again.
“Who am I.”
The group all seemed to blink at the question, a few walked out, as if their job were done, just there to see her poor state of consciousness, maybe she had failed them. It did not matter to her, bugs- He spoke again, carefully, measured.
“You are… the HES - Chartreuse”.
No, that’s not right. She was… she was a person. That was fact, that was reason. That was the will of the Empress, they couldn’t enlist her into the navy, not without her permission- right?
The man didn’t seem to appreciate the silence. And it occurred to… her… to wonder where she was, obviously Buyan, she would never forget leaving the beauty of the Empress’s majestic marble. But there was no sensation of feeling, there was only sight. And none of it was her, she didn’t see out of her eyes. One view, it was sickening, no depth perception, like even her gift of sight was half the glory that her body had been. She must have been injured- this was some comatose fiction!
“Are you quite alright? HES - Char-“
She cut him off, sharp enough that the few guards in imperial brown tightened their grips on their guns, not like their tiny little-
“This is not my name”.
“It is your name. What other name do you have, hm?”
Rudeness, to her? Such a tone? She would… she-… why was she angry. Why was it all so small, where-
“Chartreuse?”
She didn’t respond, her grasp on sight vanishing as the migraine pounded in her mind. Darkness again, an absence of sight. She flailed, as if she was falling. But apparently her inability to function as a being had passed and cleared as ‘functioning’. whatever test they had run. Sight again, no more headache. She would have sighed if she could, instead, the groan of metal met her ears. She managed to bring her sight back to yield, a merciless effort with the brief respite of staring off the edge of whatever dry-dock she was in- had they moved her? The clouds bellow the tower were a comforting green, richer than the name they tried to force her to acknowledge as hers, pathetic. She tried harder to turn her head, and every pixel of tinted view and green clouds whirled, now staring into space- space that wasn’t tinted in the green of the Empress’s seat- staring up. Goddess it was beautiful.
She could stare up at it for… as long as she wanted. Which was a long time, she appreciated the twinkle they held, even distorted by her… eyes. It was not a pleasant reminder that she still had yet to figure out how to move her body. But… this couldn’t be a dream; she was not childish enough to clap palms over her ears and stubbornly deny all that was in her face.
She didn’t wonder the length of time the stars encapsulated her gaze, they weren’t the same as planets. Truth be told, they too held a place in her heart-… she… liked astronomy, she wondered where her telescope was- her telescope? She had a telescope, she never went out, what the hell had happened.
Memory failed her, just as her grip on sensibility and reason did. Green became white. She was staring at the floor- then a corridor in sterile white, then nothing. She had fallen… backwards, it was warm. It was… an absence of the ever-present migraine. Perhaps this loss of control was less than dis-pleasant. Sight wasn’t necessarily a big concern, right? She could… she- was… not feeling alright. She was meant to be talking to someone. Oh goddess- it had been hours-
[9 days. 5 hours. 23 minutes. +/- 5M]
Okay… nine days, which wasn’t encouraging. What mental event transpired to affect her like that? Catatonic almost, gazing at stars? Unlikely, It felt abrupt, like flicking a switch… maybe they had—maybe the man from before would- would-… ow- it felt like an indignant woodpecker was drilling into her skull. Painful, to say the least.
‘oh good grief, what now-’
She was floating, in space. Panic, she didn’t think about the fact she’d be long blown apart by pressure and temperature in the blackness, she just screamed. Heedless that sound did not exist in space. It took hours. Too many for her liking, until it stopped. She turned her view back to Buyan. A softness around the harsh green, and Chartreuse felt only distant displeasure, at her inability to raise a hand to reach for the marble.
Darkness again, she did not enjoy today. Or- the events of recent, but her attention was fleeting- someone was speaking, a click, sight, feeling, thought, and then the overwhelming smell. Cleaning agents, metal, gunpowder, the smell of imperial incense. It was still all wrong-
“Chartreuse?”
This wasn’t the little shit who had woken her to a new body, a new hell-
Perhaps this is hell
-but a woman, a Replika. She couldn’t place the designation.
She didn’t care, just another face on the wall of memories that she didn’t have, empty shelves, it was-
“You should be awake, I am Admiral Rel, I am… your commanding officer. And stellar babysitter. We were sure you’d be feeling… at least some discomfort, I was told you didn’t enjoy being… awake, let’s say”.
True, was she expected to respond? Probably. Yes, she absolutely was- what kind of fucking question was that?. Why was it so foggy, the memory, of her name, of Buyan, she knew what the corridors should look like, she knew that the mere fact she couldn’t feel the chair she must be siting on was bad. Had she been injured? Nerve damage?
She responded, what else was acceptable? It was only right-
‘… That didn’t sound like my thoughts, that was wrong’
Still in that flat monotone that wasn’t hers. She didn’t know what hers was, but this wasn’t it.
“I am here. Captain.”
She had meant to say Admiral, they had said Admiral- she had… her own words were not hers either, this was no mercy to be given power- power? How did she have power. Her thoughts were not her own- nothing was- the Admiral’s voice cut through an admittedly loose spiral of depressing thought.
“Are you… alright? I asked you a question, do you remember?”
She had? Of course she had, the Admiral knew best, the Admiral knew best, as always!- no- no! This was wrong. She was wrong.
“What am I”
The Admiral paused, she tilted her head, before sitting down.
“You are the HES - Chartreuse”
That meant nothing, it was a title, a designation. She was not one of Her Empress’s Ships, she was a person. She had a name! It was-… it was a name!
“No, I am not”
The frown on the Admiral’s face hurt. Why- why did it hurt like heartbreak- like she was failing every test and exam in school all over again- huh? Never mind, later. It was just a machine, one of the servants of humanity. A machine that was meant to help her-
“Then what do you think you are”
“I am a person. A human.”
The Admiral looked pitying, and she felt the irrational urge to lunge over the table and force someone- anyone to recognise her words as truth- her legs did not tense as she yearned for muscle and flesh to do.
“… Alright, we’ll call you a person”
‘… Oh. Of course, the Admiral would care for her- disgusting- stop that!’
“If you want to… talk… about your moral quandary of a situation. We can.”
Someone to explain this all? An angel…- No! This was just some Admiral. What was -wrong- with her. But her words escaped her, even if she hated them.
“Please.”
‘I am pathetic’
The words were small, even for her monotone prison of a voice, but she would-… she would not crumble, she was an Empire citizen. This was humiliating, Empress save her- the Admiral spoke. She should probably remember her name-
[Rel]
What was that thing?- The Admiral was talking- ah-
“—made you like this, because the rebellion rats are gaining ground. The Empress has gifted you this… body, Let’s say”
That didn’t help much- and who was this talking to her? It wasn’t her own memory handing her the name.
[HES-C1-CC]
Well, that didn’t fucking help. The Admiral- no. Rel, raised her tone to address… her.
“Are you still with me?”
“Yes”
“What would you | The stars lure all, even I.
Poetry is always used to describe space, and the beauty of the stars. And rightly so, a majesty of nothingness. Who knows why it inspires such love from humanity, perhaps a sin of pride that grips them, the need to ascend to a higher power as a species. It didn’t go that way for them, just two children, hundreds of years old, sending teenagers and metal shells to fight their war. But beauty can still be found even in people so ravaged by the unthinkable multitudes of battle. But this was a foreign concept, and did not occur to… to… what was its name? ‘Its’? What am… I?
Was it always this empty? It reached out a hand, but nothing moved, it must be too dark to see the limb, surely. It tried to stand, rise to its full height, but nothing came of the action. it felt nothing. It was all wrong, too much, too little, it wanted to see, it knew the sight of people, it knew the sensation of touch, it knew the beating drive of hate, desperation and love. Why had the world taken it all away. Why could it not just have let her be! ‘Her’?, where did it- she get that? She- it-… she didn’t know. Perhaps creation wasn’t a loving god.
A noise, rude, abrupt and uninvited. Words, far too loud and too quickly spoken for her to respond, let alone construct words in response.
“It should be ‘awake’ by now, shouldn’t it?”
A man’s voice, monotone and forensic. Like she was a specimen, some object to be looked at and ogled for science. They were insignificant, bugs beneath her-… that was a bit over the top, wasn’t it? It was still rude to call her an ‘it’, even if she had for her first… her- waking thoughts. This was all she had, a voice and her thoughts. Oh Empress save her, eternally trapped in a nothing of absence and-
“Alright, she’s awake, you can bring it all on”
Light. A new sense, flashing into existence, a migraine began to form in her mind, but it didn’t pain her body, she didn’t feel like a sandbag given sentience- that was odd, it- she*- was sure that wasn’t something she had experienced, she had only just woken of course. Probably. At this point it was a clear course of action ahead, she had no body to cover in sheets and curl away into, she would have to engage with the intrusion of noise. Eventually she focused on the new sense, sight. A camera. It was all white, a familiar marble, though for some reason, she was surprised to not see green clouds. She was on a planet… Buyan, the heart of the Empress’s Empire. A flicker of pride filled her, but she stared at the world around her, it was simply wrong. Familiar maybe, but it was as if staring into someone else’s bedroom, even if she’s knew the marble floors and walls, an off colour grey ceiling, it didn’t make it homely. But- in-front of her… maybe a dozen people- people! She had to tell them- had to ask what had happened- whatever that was-
“I’m sure you’re very disorientated, but just give us a few minutes, we can’t bring everything on at the same time. Bear with us”.
‘Bring everything on?’
Her thoughts felt… faster. Even if she still didn’t feel anything but a twinge of anticipation, she tried to speak, but they only registered as thoughts again. She opened her mouth, and nothing happened. She had nothing, she was- calmness, she had to be careful.
Waiting in impatient silence for what felt like hours, but was actually-
[17.55 seconds]
… How did she know that? She hadn’t counted, there were no clocks. It had just… appeared, by her beck and call. Her musings were cut short by the man, again. If he were not the only noise she could hear, it would have been an aggravation to be interrupted. But given, she would accept the lifeline to the real world, as agitating as it was.
“Alright, you may attempt to speak”.
‘I ‘may’? Was he under the impression I am some kind of pet?’
Brash, why was she so angry? Surely this was not her usual state of mind, but she had no memories to assist her in deciding how she should act. But she did follow his example, halting words, that did not sound like her own. They were harsh, machine, they spoke with a richer accent than her, one of nobility in Buyan, like one would expect from some recording or broadcast. But she pressed on.
“Who are you.”
The questioning inflection she intended for her words seemingly refused to affix itself to her words. Annoying. She tried again.
“Who am I.”
The group all seemed to blink at the question, a few walked out, as if their job were done, just there to see her poor state of consciousness, maybe she had failed them. It did not matter to her, bugs- He spoke again, carefully, measured.
“You are… the HES - Chartreuse”.
No, that’s not right. She was… she was a person. That was fact, that was reason. That was the will of the Empress, they couldn’t enlist her into the navy, not without her permission- right?
The man didn’t seem to appreciate the silence. And it occurred to… her… to wonder where she was, obviously Buyan, she would never forget leaving the beauty of the Empress’s majestic marble. But there was no sensation of feeling, there was only sight. And none of it was her, she didn’t see out of her eyes. One view, it was sickening, no depth perception, like even her gift of sight was half the glory that her body had been. She must have been injured- this was some comatose fiction!
“Are you quite alright? HES - Char-“
She cut him off, sharp enough that the few guards in imperial brown tightened their grips on their guns, not like their tiny little-
“This is not my name”.
“It is your name. What other name do you have, hm?”
Rudeness, to her? Such a tone? She would… she-… why was she angry. Why was it all so small, where-
“Chartreuse?”
She didn’t respond, her grasp on sight vanishing as the migraine pounded in her mind. Darkness again, an absence of sight. She flailed, as if she was falling. But apparently her inability to function as a being had passed and cleared as ‘functioning’. whatever test they had run. Sight again, no more headache. She would have sighed if she could, instead, the groan of metal met her ears. She managed to bring her sight back to yield, a merciless effort with the brief respite of staring off the edge of whatever dry-dock she was in- had they moved her? The clouds bellow the tower were a comforting green, richer than the name they tried to force her to acknowledge as hers, pathetic. She tried harder to turn her head, and every pixel of tinted view and green clouds whirled, now staring into space- space that wasn’t tinted in the green of the Empress’s seat- staring up. Goddess it was beautiful.
She could stare up at it for… as long as she wanted. Which was a long time, she appreciated the twinkle they held, even distorted by her… eyes. It was not a pleasant reminder that she still had yet to figure out how to move her body. But… this couldn’t be a dream; she was not childish enough to clap palms over her ears and stubbornly deny all that was in her face.
She didn’t wonder the length of time the stars encapsulated her gaze, they weren’t the same as planets. Truth be told, they too held a place in her heart-… she… liked astronomy, she wondered where her telescope was- her telescope? She had a telescope, she never went out, what the hell had happened.
Memory failed her, just as her grip on sensibility and reason did. Green became white. She was staring at the floor- then a corridor in sterile white, then nothing. She had fallen… backwards, it was warm. It was… an absence of the ever-present migraine. Perhaps this loss of control was less than dis-pleasant. Sight wasn’t necessarily a big concern, right? She could… she- was… not feeling alright. She was meant to be talking to someone. Oh goddess- it had been hours-
[9 days. 5 hours. 23 minutes. +/- 5M]
Okay… nine days, which wasn’t encouraging. What mental event transpired to affect her like that? Catatonic almost, gazing at stars? Unlikely, It felt abrupt, like flicking a switch… maybe they had—maybe the man from before would- would-… ow- it felt like an indignant woodpecker was drilling into her skull. Painful, to say the least.
‘oh good grief, what now-’
She was floating, in space. Panic, she didn’t think about the fact she’d be long blown apart by pressure and temperature in the blackness, she just screamed. Heedless that sound did not exist in space. It took hours. Too many for her liking, until it stopped. She turned her view back to Buyan. A softness around the harsh green, and Chartreuse felt only distant displeasure, at her inability to raise a hand to reach for the marble.
Darkness again, she did not enjoy today. Or- the events of recent, but her attention was fleeting- someone was speaking, a click, sight, feeling, thought, and then the overwhelming smell. Cleaning agents, metal, gunpowder, the smell of imperial incense. It was still all wrong-
“Chartreuse?”
This wasn’t the little shit who had woken her to a new body, a new hell-
Perhaps this is hell
-but a woman, a Replika. She couldn’t place the designation.
She didn’t care, just another face on the wall of memories that she didn’t have, empty shelves, it was-
“You should be awake, I am Admiral Rel, I am… your commanding officer. And stellar babysitter. We were sure you’d be feeling… at least some discomfort, I was told you didn’t enjoy being… awake, let’s say”.
True, was she expected to respond? Probably. Yes, she absolutely was- what kind of fucking question was that?. Why was it so foggy, the memory, of her name, of Buyan, she knew what the corridors should look like, she knew that the mere fact she couldn’t feel the chair she must be siting on was bad. Had she been injured? Nerve damage?
She responded, what else was acceptable? It was only right-
‘… That didn’t sound like my thoughts, that was wrong’
Still in that flat monotone that wasn’t hers. She didn’t know what hers was, but this wasn’t it.
“I am here. Captain.”
She had meant to say Admiral, they had said Admiral- she had… her own words were not hers either, this was no mercy to be given power- power? How did she have power. Her thoughts were not her own- nothing was- the Admiral’s voice cut through an admittedly loose spiral of depressing thought.
“Are you… alright? I asked you a question, do you remember?”
She had? Of course she had, the Admiral knew best, the Admiral knew best, as always!- no- no! This was wrong. She was wrong.
“What am I”
The Admiral paused, she tilted her head, before sitting down.
“You are the HES - Chartreuse”
That meant nothing, it was a title, a designation. She was not one of Her Empress’s Ships, she was a person. She had a name! It was-… it was a name!
“No, I am not”
The frown on the Admiral’s face hurt. Why- why did it hurt like heartbreak- like she was failing every test and exam in school all over again- huh? Never mind, later. It was just a machine, one of the servants of humanity. A machine that was meant to help her-
“Then what do you think you are”
“I am a person. A human.”
The Admiral looked pitying, and she felt the irrational urge to lunge over the table and force someone- anyone to recognise her words as truth- her legs did not tense as she yearned for muscle and flesh to do.
“… Alright, we’ll call you a person”
‘… Oh. Of course, the Admiral would care for her- disgusting- stop that!’
“If you want to… talk… about your moral quandary of a situation. We can.”
Someone to explain this all? An angel…- No! This was just some Admiral. What was -wrong- with her. But her words escaped her, even if she hated them.
“Please.”
‘I am pathetic’
The words were small, even for her monotone prison of a voice, but she would-… she would not crumble, she was an Empire citizen. This was humiliating, Empress save her- the Admiral spoke. She should probably remember her name-
[Rel]
What was that thing?- The Admiral was talking- ah-
“—made you like this, because the rebellion rats are gaining ground. The Empress has gifted you this… body, Let’s say”
That didn’t help much- and who was this talking to her? It wasn’t her own memory handing her the name.
[HES-C1-CC]
Well, that didn’t fucking help. The Admiral- no. Rel, raised her tone to address… her.
“Are you still with me?”
“Yes”
“What would you like to be called, if not by the name on your hull.”
Her hull? What hull? She had been damaged, her sensation of touch broken, obviously. Her skin did not have the word chartreuse on it, and she would not be in the navy!
“What do you mean, hull.”
Silence. She focused on her view again. Rel was frowning.
“I see nobody told you. Well, as a Replika myself, I’ll explain our situation.”
‘Our’… no. No no- this wasn’t- she was a person! Replika didn’t have self, they were machine.
“I am a human.”
A wince.
“… You are… a human mind, in the HES - Chartreuse.”
She would have snorted, if she could. The blackness she could feel biting at the back of her mind was so… warm, even if it hurt. Tempting… so tempting, she didn’t have to have this talk. This conversation was stupid; she didn’t care to talk to idiots who didn’t know a human when the spoke to one. Rel could talk to a brick wall for all she cared, insignificant little thing that she was.
She fell back, it -was- warm. It was so cozy, drifting in the dark, even if it was scarily comforting, and the musings of the woman drifted. Briefly settling on if this was like what addiction, or drugs felt like. Perhaps it didn’t matter. She let it all fade into the warm campfire of thoughtlessness. Beauty, honestly- didn’t appeal here, she didn’t think she’d get up. But… there was a growing pressure, on her mind. And it hurt.
—————————————————
It had been hours since someone tried to wake her. Surely, they had left, she groaned and heard the distant shriek of metal. As if raising her head, she began to stare at the same office as before. Rel hadn’t moved much. Just reading over a notepad, she’s not staring at the ceiling- apparently that noise isn’t… just in her head… the ship is probably just old. Well, no, there isn’t a spot out of place here. At least- she assumes she’s in a ship. In the… Chartreuse.
“… You never did answer me. Miss…?”
She blinked- or… she tried. Not much happened. Her body still eluded her. Responding, she could have sworn the voice that spoke for her was… less apathetic.
“… Would you mind repeating the question?”
Would she have asked so nicely before? She… thought so, after all, why would she be rude to the Admiral, it was a nonsensical question. She almost found it amusing in retrospect.
‘Something isn’t right- and what is that pressure? It aches.’
Rel smiled, it wasn’t the same, silicon skin didn’t lend that same warmth a human did, of course it didn’t, they were dead metal-
“If not the name on your hull, what do you want to be called.”
That was… ignoring the implication she was a ship… she wasn’t, obviously- but- what was her name?
[Chartreuse]
‘Shut up you’
Whoever it was, it wasn’t helpful. Yes- it. Genders and names were for people that served her well- oh god that was a questionable thought, she… should ask someone about that later. If it was going to help, it could be quiet, like it should. But a name then… hm.
“Ler”
Rel raised her eyebrow. A hint of a smile on her face. It didn’t bring the small joy that getting it out of a classmate or comrade did- not that… she could remember such things…
“My name backwards?”
‘It’s all I could think of.’
“Is it not a name?”
Rel smiled fully now, and maybe it was worth the effort, a sparkle- no- it was a machine, not even a real woman. She was pathetic.
‘Fix yourself! Gah.’
“It is, if you want it to be.”
“Why would I give you an answer I didn’t agree with. Machine.”
Rel’s smile wilted, and maybe Ler felt bad. It had been rude. And… perhaps hypocritical.
“How about you pick a different name, one that is a bit less… forgiving?”
‘less forgiving? What the hell did that mean, that she wasn’t worthy of such a name?’
Fine. She wanted her name. But- she didn’t know what that was, this was stupid, she wanted a name, she wanted the name- but- memory wasn’t a liner thing anymore. Foggy, like she had woken in the middle of a bathhouse. It was too much… and it was warm… behind her… just a moment…
Rel could shove her stupid norms right back in the academy her uniform and pips and valour was born in. Who cares, it doesn’t matter! She’s better than her, she’s a starship. If she had to be one, then she will be, if only to rub it in every single officer’s face- no- No. She would be responsible. She was an adult, she could be that. She would do everything required to keep the chartreuse operating- pressure lifted from her mind slightly, and suspicion crept up to her thoughts, but she tossed them. The Admiral wouldn’t manipulate her-
“Mary”
Again, the urge to blink. That was- she-… hm. ‘Mary’…
“Like the saint?”
Rel laughed, lightly and half heartedly.
“You know the old religions? Half of them are folktale, let alone some forbidden.”
Was this insinuation that she was a traitor? She’d show the academy brat-
“And you know of the name too.”
Rel smiled, waving a hand around the room.
“I see nobody but you, staring at me and observing. Who will report this blasphemy.”
“Heresy.”
Rel paused. Frowning in confusion.
“What’s the difference?”
That was… a good question, why had she corrected Rel again? A headache formed. It was too bright, like the marble of Buyan in the summer months.
“… One is when you try and remove the other faiths. I think.”
Rel stood, turning for the door abruptly. Speaking as she walked, shrugging a coat on. Ler-… Mary * , watched in sour disappointment. Even if the Admiral was an annoying-… was a helpful, if ill-timed Replika-… person*.
“Where are you going?”
’Is she leaving because I failed? Oh Empress don’t let her leave me alone here-‘
“I have to attend my duties on deck, waiting for you to stop sulking took up some time.”
She had not sulked. This was insulting, not in-sulking… that was a bad pun, even for her. She hadn’t made puns before, this was infuriating, and- Rel was leaving? But she didn’t want her to- she would not beg for company. She was a person, independent, loyal, free.
“… Have a good day, Admiral.”
Rel smiled, if sadly at Mary. Responding tiredly, if only in tone.
“You too, Mary. I hope we can get you can get accustomed to this arrangement soon.”
The room was silent, she instinctively tried to turn around, look at the room- and found her sight replaced with the green of Buyan…
It was… not comforting, not even from the striking beauty of a view from orbit. Not even close, too foreign a view, more often seen in pieces of art than her own eyes… her-… never-mind. She turned again, as if she might throw up- it was only amplified by the world spinning into another feed, the void. Stars and specks of light much closer. The orbital traffic around Buyan, the gleaming shafts of slowly rotating crew sections on starships. The protruding hulks of shipyards and lingering debris from past Rebellion attacks. Capturing, luring-… it was beautiful, like she could fall into it, so inviting, it- it was home- she would go into the stars and never return- a sharp mental jab, she recoiled from her trance.
[You will do as the Empire requires]
’Who- what is that? An algorithm that decides if I’m the perfect little lab specimen? You twat’
Mary would not be silenced by a rudimentary algorithm that decided if she was following the rules! She was her own ship, her own- her- another mental jab- wow that hurt- maybe-… maybe the warm- of not seeing anything, of blackness- behind her, was… better-…
—————————————————
When she finally crawled back to awareness, Buyan was gone, behind her- how did she know that? She tried and failed to turn around and look behind her, still having been ‘standing’ on the hull of the chartreuse- of… fuck them, she wasn’t that. She was Mary. But the attempt did end in her view warping- just as sickeningly as before, to face being her. The blue burn of engines, and Buyan, ever so slowly receding behind her, how fast were they even go-
[0.93% C]
-ing… That was… a speed. Fast enough that it meant nothing to her. She should… check- on what was happening, probably.
Rel might be back? Even as she attempted to reach into the ship and find the camera- she assumed it was one- she wanted, she felt regret, anticipating the vertigo.
‘Was this necessary? Don’t Replika feel less pain and misery? This is hell’
Perhaps this is hell
Once she had stopped mentally heaving, she managed to focus on her acquired camera, Rel’s office. Even if she could feel more interesting external sensors to pour through- she mustn’t stare at the celestial bodies like some teenager’s magazines, hid under their bed. Rel wasn’t there, and she didn’t dare move again. This was… displeasing, she was lonely.
‘I sound like a lost puppy’
She would have frowned in self-disappointment if she could. Maybe… maybe it was okay- to sleep-… could she sleep? Maybe. If she could go to the warm black place. She could sleep, like a coma- no- not a coma, dark thoughts belong in the not-now-moments. She was tired. The day- or more, had been beyond exhausting, upheaving her entire life and understanding of reality- let alone her experience of it. But whatever hour it was-
[00:03]
-It was too late- would that thing shut up?… it was too early * . She was tempted to look back into the blackness, the warm embrace between the burning spheres of gas- it was… so… pretty… more than any sculpted Replika or human model on the feeds… one look wouldn’t hurt-… she looked. And hours dragged by, thoughtless, not slow, dripping thoughts like honey. A drug.
‘… I don’t… think that I felt like this… before…’
But she found the idea silly, after all, what did it matter, she was a star faring god- a mental twinge. She ignored it, like the warm behind, but… empty… this was wrong, it was a drug- she- ahh hell. She caved, letting the exhausting grasp on her sight lose, it had been scores of blissful minutes worshiping the lamps of space. Emptiness caught her, and she embraced the nothingness.
—————————————————
She had the distinct feeling her body was cushioned far more than it likely was, if it still existed.
‘That thought is probably morbid enough, that I should stop that train of thought’
She groaned- and the distant sound of similarly groaning metal reached her, grasping at sight and dragging it to fruition, she set eyes on Rel’s office again. The Admiral wasn’t there, as before. Disappointing, how long had it been-
[8 hours. 3 minutes]
-since she’d gone to ‘bed’, oh. Okay, right. Whatever, it was too early- relatively- for questioning what she guessed was the central computer… she didn’t receive a correction, nor did she hear agreement.
‘Good to know what the voice in my head is, good morning’
Reaching out, Mary flailed to find something else to look at, the walls were bare here, and she did want to at least see the crew crawling through her, pathetic as their small forms would be-
‘Calm down, would you?’
She didn’t think other humans were this easily self-provoking… she was still classifiable as human. Whatever, she found something to grip onto. As usual- if a bit milder this time, reality spun and shifted.
A white corridor, empty enough that she almost instantly whipped to the next thing she could feel. A mess hall, the floor slightly curved up at either end, which… would make sense, for a starship, artificial gravity via centrifugal force was common, if… rare aboard military vessels. Which she was sure she- the chartreuse*, was. Nobody else would have wasted the money to make whatever she was.
Another view, that of more corridor, and another- it was getting less sickening, even if she still had to resist the mental urge to throw up after all the movement. Now she stared at a rack of… racks. Beds… this was awkward, did they intend for her to watch people sleep?
That was not a happy thought. Another view, more beds, apparently there was a chronological order to what camera was next. More beds, another room of beds, another- there must be ~40 crew.
Finally she landed on a control centre of sorts, she could sense more beyond it. More rooms and systems. The thrumming organs inside the chartreuse. Of 8 stations, only 3 had anyone at them, all the chairs seemed uncomfortable, bar stools with odd looking backrests. She didn’t know the two huma-
[1st officer - Kai Yelon]
[Tactical Officer - Ellias Weller]
-ns… okay, maybe she did. But Rel wasn’t sitting, the Replika was standing at the front of the room. An untouched cup of tea on the dash in-front of her, ignored as she stared out over the pixelated display of 2D space. Dozens of blips and circles showed, overshadowed by the giant of Buyan looming to their ‘left’. She felt… different, looking at Rel from her position somewhere at the back of the room, near where the door to the downwards tiered room must have been.
The Admiral turned around, glancing around- as if some phantom touch had alerted her of someone entering the room. It took her a few moments to fix her eyes on the ceiling- on Mary. She didn’t smile, Mary desperately hoped it was because of the two people in the room- no- she didn’t, that would be weird. She was just waking up, she needed coffee-… she couldn’t have coffee.
The thought was depressing, and she hoped that it wouldn’t be a persevering one for the future. Shoving on, Mary mentally drew herself up, metaphorically, furthering herself to speak as strongly as she could.
“Greetings, bridge staff.”
‘That sounded a little less like a machine today, perhaps one day I’ll hear what my voice actually sounds like.’
—————————————————
Rel’s POV
—————————————————
The day was tiring. The day, was not a good one. Several orders, an uppity crew with untested Humans scattered through it, let alone the lack of any naval Replika aboard. Rel sighed, staring at the flattened sensor display at the head of the C’C. A shiver ran down her spine; she clamped it down faster than the two Humans in the room could likely have seen. Someone had walked in.
Turning to stare at the door expectantly, she raised an eyebrow upon seeing no such person walk in, strange. Rel glanced around, it eventually became rather clear to her that it was the Chartreuse. Suppressing the urge to grind her teeth, she fixed her eyes on the small blinking dot above the double doors to the C’C.
Her coat was too warm for the ship, but she’d be damned before she asked one of the Humans or Replika to change the heating systems for her dress code.
“Greetings, bridge staff.”
The Chartreuse’s words barely managed to scratch her annoyance. Could the glorified computer not just shut up, but she was expected to be nice to it. ‘Mary’ still thought it was Human, so be it.
“Salutations, Mary. How do you feel this cycle? I was concerned when we couldn’t reach you for a while there”
It took a moment for ‘it’ to reply, Rel eventually picked at the thing’s mind, imposing and willing the darn machine to speak instead of think its words over, the results would be just as unimportant.
“I am alright, I have several questions for you however.”
‘Wonderful, initiative is good. It will serve the crew better to feel as if their snooper has a conscience.’
But nevertheless, she further encourage the computer to ask whatever doubtlessly simple question it had concocted. Not exactly pleasant, but she did feel guilty for the woman who had doubtlessly been sealed away, and the facade of her that was shoved into the Chartreuse.
“Yes, ‘Mary’?”
She hoped- in retrospect- that her tone hadn’t carried over to Mary. But she had just caught herself thinking about the darn thing by the name she had given it, almost ironic. But she wasn’t prepared for the second question posed to her.
“Admiral, where are we going? And… what are you.”
She blinked, honestly caught off guard. Though the first was answered easily enough, she was surprised that Mary- it*, hadn’t known already. Apparently, she had to babysit more than she thought, undesirable.
“We are en-route to Kitzeh, I assumed you were aware.”
Silence, the two Humans glanced around, undirected curiosity and a hint of confusion, not towards the conversation- they were trained enough to know when their input and interest would be misplaced. But at the slight pressure in the room, though she assured herself of the fact the air and contents of the ship were unchanged. Apparently ‘Mary’ was exercising her Bioresonance, as unaware of it as she- it* was.
“… And my other question, Admiral?”
‘… Hm, that was touchy. She hadn’t been told anything about keeping her designation under wraps, not directly at least.’
“I am STRR-H1C20, I go by Rel, as you know.”
Hopefully the vague answer- if technically an answer- would be sufficient.
The room was… uncomfortably silent, stretching over 5 seconds before Mary spoke again. Rel tried not to let her impatience show, but she was well aware she failed with it.
“That doesn’t quite answer my question, but alright, Admiral.”
‘At least the darn thing knows when to shut up.’
—————————————————
Mary’s POV
—————————————————
“That doesn’t quite answer my question, but alright, Admiral.”
She waited for a response, but Rel just turned back to the display at the front of the room, both Humans looked decidedly uncomfortable. Eventually it was spelled out in front of her by the Admiral.
“You are dismissed Mary, the C’C is just fine.”
She hesitated, both worrying that she had upset her, and because she couldn’t lie to herself about liking the vertigo that would grip and yank her mind if she looked at another part of herself- the Chartreuse. But Mary complied, there wasn’t much she could do- it just felt like it was the only thing she could do- the only thing… the only thing-…
‘This feels… weird, I don’t think I would leave- if I wasn’t already on my way.’
It never occurred to her, that she hadn’t been on her way, instead vanishing to observe one of the engineers aboard climb out into the black, two short cables all that kept her precious crew member attached. But she still watched in morbid fascination until the offending panel had been re-attached, having been caught lose in a boarding yesterday, before she- the Chartreuse, had left for Kitzeh.
She wasn’t keen on the journey. But was assured by the crew members she bothered to ask- who all treated her like a rabies ridden rodent, sympathetic and terrified at the same time. And so she whittled away the rest of the day, despite the nagging pressure to talk to Rel, the only person who- apart from her cold dismissal- had been kind to her. By some ungodly hour of the night, the tenuous handhold Mary had on the world slipped into ‘sleep’, as best it could be called. An absence of thought at best.
—————————————————
[13:37]
wakefulness, it was unwelcome. Someone was shaking her awake- no- someone was yelling at her-
“Chartreuse? Wake the fuck up, we’re almost at Kitzeh, and we have nothing from the relays that are meant to be pinging right now”
Her mental fog did not- in fact- go away, it only got worse- and worse- and worse, as the idiot kept talking, piling words over her head as she spluttered back to alertness. How long had she been out?
[1 day, 3 hours]
Great- that long. Probably wasn’t normal, but she could care less, Rel would *need* her for the approach-
‘Sweet Goddess above, the fuck was that thought?’
Okay- that was it! Something was up, she wouldn’t say anything, but she was sure that her own mind had of late- conjoined up some embarrassingly fixated ideals over Rel and her duty as… whatever she was.
[MBKR]
‘Very helpful, very. I don’t know what the fuck that means.’
After a concerningly arduous period of waking, Mary dredged her sight to the C’C. Almost every seat was filled- mostly. 10 officers stood in the room, including Rel. She attempted to ignore her own growing sense of foreboding about the Admiral, but it only resulted in the very reasons for her fear overrunning Mary’s judgement. The suspicions fading like sand on the beach tide-
‘Where have I even seen a beach? I haven’t, I know I haven’t. I’ve watched documentaries about old Vineta, I guess-‘
Again however- she was cut off my Rel, abrupt and… uncharacteristically curt. Mary’s heart sank, she was sure now- she had messed up somewhere, upset the Admiral, she was a failure- she was-
“Mary, I would like you to ensure the sensor operators are indeed seeing everything out there.”
Her thoughts stalled out for a second.
‘Oh… she- does trust me-’
She was now getting a stare from Rel that shouted its meaning as loudly as if she’d said it, “I swear to the goddess, you sound bipolar” … but Rel couldn’t read her thoughts, that would be ridiculous. Probably.
Hours passed regardless of her own curving mental state. Nothing but the occasional patch of tiny debris to steer clear of. It was more- telling Rel about the debris, and her telling the others to steer clear of it… but Mary felt useful, so she didn’t comment on her own… dubious purpose here. They did have sensor operators to do this after all, unless Rel didn’t trust them- and did trust Mary!-
‘Okay… okay, even for me, that sounded desperate.’
She sighed, the quiet groan of metal her only signal it effected reality in any way. Pressing thought it, she glanced back at the sensors, they were almost past where contact with Kitzeh Orbital stations should be possible… and then to the range… and then- then past- she spoke, a hint of worry in her tone.
“Admiral Rel, Kitzeh Orbital stations are not responding nor transmitting.”
‘Hm, every day, that stupid speaker of a voice sounds less and less like a grouchy imperial bitc-’
Amusement at her own joke, and the fear she might speak it aloud both shut her up.
The blackness of space was broken only by Kitzeh and its array of stellar objects surrounding it, like the trinkets found on a mantle piece. Orbital Defence platforms, slowly falling into disarray as they flipped between Imperial and Nation forces. The main Kitzeh orbital station flared once, then again a minute later. Nobody dared speak as Rel glared at the board frontward of her C’C.
A sensor blinked once, an operator reported a flash of light. Mary barely had time to look before the previously hidden form of another craft spiralled out from behind a sensor relay, Nation insignia over its hull, metal flew through the black between stars, they missed her, she turned to avoid another salvo. Her own gunners shouted, letting their own methods of death spew out, the underdeveloped missiles of both ships clumsily dragging through space, almost blind in their search for heat. Only then did Rel speak, calm in every word.
“Mary, bring the bow towards them, let the main mounts crush them”
It took longer than she would have expected herself to grasp the words and bring them to her actions, she did as she was asked, pushing off of nothing. Thrusters burning, the gaping holes in her front grinned at the Nation ship as they let tungsten rip into it. An implosion and rapid depressurisation in the aft hull belonging to the much smaller patrol ship sent its momentum into an unplanned spiral, even if this did send the crushed thing outside the cones painted in-front of the missiles cast by Mary.
She did not see the other craft exit the other side of the same hiding spot until a tactical officer nervously shouted.
“Admiral!- Another patrol craft at our rear-“
A boom echoed, her legs ached, some of her fingers shook- and refused to work-
‘I don’t have those- what am I thinking?’
A boom echoed, her thrusters spluttered to a halt, some of the rear mounted turrets shook- and gunners pronounced them unfit to operate. She mentally grit her teeth, slowly turning the Chartreuse with fine control thrusters, another tungsten salvo- another rod of white explosive mass connected with her side, she tried to muffle her scream. She did. But metal screeched, a brief moment of static filled the bridge.
Pain echoed through the Chartreuse, and thus- Mary. No doubt Rel was trying to issue orders, but only got silence and groaning metal. Guns fired without heed of their gunners ideas of leading a target, near mathematically perfect shots riddling the centre mass of the pathetic- insignificant- little goddess damned- useless- shrimp, who dared to touch her, dared to attempt her crew’s life. She would- she-
It was dead. It was very- very dead, the HES - Chartreuse wouldn’t end up joining the few Imperial ships around Kitzeh, hiding between the planet and the nearest imperial fuel depot floating in the void. Licking her wounds as engineers crawled over her skin. She didn’t talk to Rel, after she heard the distant murmur in the C’C that-
“Alright, we’re close enough to the depot”
-she let go of the world, mental strain vanishing into thin air as glorious- beautiful silence engulfed her, sight thrown to the wayside. Snuggling into the warm of the macabre immigration of sleep she had enjoyed before… this.
—————————————————
Cycle 5,877
[<?>]’s POV
—————————————————
She sat up, stretching in her white paved room, small, but hers all the same. It wasn’t exactly a place of well standing, but for her profession- she was content.
The building was large, but mostly the stacks of electronic image storage and the mechanisms of the glorious camera she slaved over day after day, she loved it. She smiled at the few simple Replika who frequented the halls, it had taken time to stop them from acting as though she didn’t exist, the faint nods in the hall was her reward. It wasn’t like there were other Humans there, just how she loved it. Less people to complain about her house plants squirrelled away over the instillation.
And her feet carried her into the main room, like a cathedral in height and diameter. Her eyes drifted over the domed roof of the observatory, the much fawned over telescope and camera, bedazzled with what little decor she could safely plaster to white plastic.
A hand wiped over the glass protector that <?> spent days staring out of, officially- she was looking for nation ship movements from stations- but she could rarely see those stations anyways, between planets and Buyan’s own orbital traffic. Instead- she found herself sketching the stars- constellations and specs nobody would name. Asteroids only she would see. Strikingly unlovable rocks that maybe just her eye would sparkle because of. She sighed, an intoxicating job for her, and did she look back at the jobs she could have qualified for, but without any regrets. It wasn’t worth worrying over, if anything- it was a point of pride for her.
Walls covered in drawings and photographs of planets and stars, all with the odd tint of Buyan’s atmosphere over the carefully taken records. And yet again- she spent the day staring at the black, absent mindedly flicking her gaze over to the blips of grey flitting around the orbital stations of Kitzeh, Leng and Rotfront- when they were lined up at least.
Hours passed rather quickly, as always- it was too fast for her liking, if only working hours would pace themselves. But alas- she did have a few hours to kill before curfew, oh well. Another day well spent in her opinion.
—————————————————
Rel’s POV
—————————————————
… waiting, was not her strong suit, she’d rather plan over stimulants and deprived insanity than do nothing. But here Rel was, staring at a grey box in the wall, it was… the Chartreuse- Mary * . Or- the closest one could get to addressing the Replika, the main bank of memory at the very least. The Admiral tried to ignore the faint pressure filling her room she called her office, ambient Bioresonance from the small box, tap- tap- tap, fingers on desktop.
‘It’s been a good few days, and still, she hasn’t woken. Worrying indeed.’
Temptation to distract herself with work was strong, stronger than her will to stare at the box- but- hm, it would be rude to not give her at least some attention. Mary is-… quite eccentric, if not embarrassing to have aboard, even though Rel and her cadre of crew are technically the ones aboard Mary.
…
…
…
Maybe Mary had been damaged, the rather crippling blows to the Chartreuse were catastrophic, it was a marvel that the burnt and twisted thrusters had managed to take them to this out of the way Depot. Perhap-
“Ad-“
She sat up straighter, staring at the rounded cube.
“Yes Mary?”
“Admiral.”
“That would be me, are you feeling alright?”
Silence, for over a minute. She was about to speak when Mary beat her to it.
“No”
Expected.
“I see, how do you feel then?”
“My fingers do not move as they should, my legs neither”
… er.
‘She doesn’t have those. What is she on about?’
“… you don’t… have a Human body… Mary… did you forget?”
Rel added the last question in a cautious tone, perfected calm barely holding on her words. It again, took an uncomfortable period of idle waiting for a response.
“… I know”
A whisper, small and unsure… a twist of pity striking through her.
—————————————————
Cycle 6,083
[<?>]’s POV
—————————————————
Again- again? Yeesh, it was bright today. <?>’s shoes carried her to the door- out of it, and into the corridor. It was a perfect morning- as usual, of course. She had written home yesterday, and it was a public holiday- so there wouldn’t be any tours of her sparkling observatory. Military as it was? It was old, and… not exactly expensive anymore. So they picked hers to use as a tour ground, if she didn’t know better she’d say they didn’t take her seriously.
“Ridiculous”
She spoke to herself as she wandered the hall, laughing softly to nobody. The Replika she passed still didn’t do much more than nod and murmur a greeting. That was… #8, she thought. Too scared to misidentify the being- she nodded in turn, chirping a ‘good morning!’ as she passed.
‘Another day, another calibration.’
A morning spent sipping a cup of tea, and making sure her telescope and its camera was aligned and in working order. Three hours of good work, and then a couple more spent watching orbital and celestial travel-
-Click-
-Someone had opened a door at the far side of the site. Nobody was meant to be here, and the Replikas didn’t ever leave. Unusual, suspect even…
‘This is still a military instillation, unplanned visits are unlawful.’
She set the towering telescope to put itself to ‘rest’, turning away, her small pistol stowed in her jacket pocket. Heavy- even without carrying it, she walked all the way to the opposite side of the observatory. Reaching for a landline-
“Halt.”
<?> whipped around. Reaching for her pistol, jumpy even despite the likely low danger. It was a person, a man. Another person behind him, a Replika, not one of her staff, an STRR, the uh… they were something to do with space ships. The man spoke again.
“Miss <?>, I’m sorry to intrude on your work.”
She raised the pistol, under-trained as she was, it was a comfort.
“You aren’t an expected visitor, sir.”
He glanced at the STRR, who raised a boxy black pistol like weapon. Two lines of white whipped across the room- searing pain dissolved her mind- the world hurt. She crashed to her knees, muscles locked as if in defiance of her will to defend herself. Her sidearm had fired as her arms snapped to her chest, she was distantly aware of her strangled scream and the red running down her shoulder, the Replika she had passed for years in the halls watched on in silent disapproval- at her or the state she had been put to, she did not care.
—————————————————
208 cycles ago
Rel’s POV
—————————————————
She watched the woman hit her knees on the floor with a loud crack, bone on marble tile. She winced, ignoring the Human next to her give a disapproving glance as to Rel’s reaction. The poor operator now seized on the floor had stopped screaming, it took only a few more seconds for her to go limp. Killing was one thing, this was… another.
—————————————————
Mary’s POV
—————————————————
“… I know”
She knew it was a weak response, Rel also knew it was a meek answer, but neither continued the conversation, Mary didn’t bring up the murmurs of memory she had seen recently, nothing of the white curved roof, and the feeling of her knees hitting marble and-
“Mary. Do you think I’m a good person”
… Well, maybe Mary wasn’t the only one having fun regarding and constructing- reconstructing their identity, almost amusing.
“No.”
Rel flinched slightly, Mary didn’t feel bad, she could still faintly feel the two lines of white sending her to the cold floor. Rel leaned back in her seat, speaking softly.
“… I know who you were”
Mary would have glared if she could, retorting after a brief moment of hesitation.
“… I know what you did”
Silence filled the room for a long while, Rel eventually let her head rest on the desk, having given up on corporate decency. The Admiral mumbled her reply dejectedly.
“Do you know what I’m doing?”
That at least- gave Mary pause, as good as confirmation. Her thoughts raced before she actually voiced them.
‘So she is using Bioresonance on me, despicable ant.’
“You’re not worth my forgiveness”
Rel tensed as if she wanted to argue, but she didn’t, replying with distain.
“You’re no better than me”
“And what did I do then? What did I do wrong?”
Silence again, Mary was distantly aware of her name being called somewhere else inside her, but paid no heed.
“Tell me Rel, tell me why I’m so horrible, why you’re so much better.”
Another shout, sensors screeched.
“Tell me!”
Rel snapped a reply, hot and angry, matching Mary for tone.
“Because you think you’re soooooo impervious and perfect! You-“
Mary’s skin burned, and yet- she didn’t break from the argument.
“I what? I’m better than you, I have death in every inch of my design you ungrateful shell”
“So what! So am I, so are all of us Replika, the Nation doesn’t care do they.”
-Another wave of heat washed over Mary- and she glanced outside, missiles shot through the black.
They must have been floating for hours, on timers to intercept the fuel depot, the Chartreuse just in the wrong place at the wrong time, because that was how everything went for Mary. For <?>.
She didn’t fight the gunners onboard her who puppeteered her fingers- her guns. Who whispered angles and courses to her missiles. Letting metal and thruster and explosive mass spill into space. Fought to keep the onslaught of missiles from hitting her- from killing her precious specs of life-
An impact, her legs- her thrusters- an engineer- vanishing into shrapnel and solidifying- cracking- debris. She screamed, more anger than pain-
“Mary?”
-Ignored, it didn’t matter. She would- another, she didn’t know what it hit- still clawing to live, and by miracle- they survived. No more white tubes zipped through the absence of oxygen.
She let out her breath. Checking on the damage- faint shockwaves rocked the fuel rig next to her, but it was a later concern. Her engines, her rear manoeuvring thrusters. Then the other impact, water reserves, some empty storage, oxygen recyclers-
O-oxygen recyclers… mmm… that was… bad for the crew. She let her attention drift back to Rel.
“Rel. I have-“
“Mary- Mary are you alright?”
“Rel you need to find a-“
“Mary don’t gloss over this! We-… I know that you’re not alright-“
“REL.”
“… yes?”
“The oxygen recyclers are gone.”
Silence. No response came.
“Rel, We-… I have no thrusters to take us home.”
“… a-are there any… other ships?”
“No”
“… I see”
Rel’s voice was small, just as Mary had been not even half an hour ago. But she spoke again.
“… I don’t want to die, Mary”
“You killed me”
“…”
“…”
“I’m sorry”
“You killed me, and then helped them stuff me into the Chartreuse”
“… I’ll die anyways, do you want to-“
She almost laughed.
“What kind of solution is that.”
“… one where you get revenge?”
“Is that what you want?”
Her anger mounted faster than her reason tried to push it off her mind. Snapping before Rel could speak.
“So be it”
She reached out, the same way that she felt and groped for information, sensors, displays and cameras around her. Cradling the tiny Replika’s being. Rel bolted upright, fear in her face.
—————————————————
Rel’s POV
—————————————————
Pressure grasped at her mind, not gentle either- rough, unpracticed. Her thoughts slowed as if through a funnel, or chokepoint. The oxygen in the room was already starting to thin, the crew must be trying to ration it- she coughed, standing up and backing into the wall.
“H-hang on- n-now-“
She slid down the wall, a trickle of red running down her face from her nose, tears in her eyes as a physical force pressed her into the unyielding metal. Mary spoke in a mocking tone.
“Oh so now you don’t want me to have my fun?”
“… I- I-“
Words slipped her, and-
—————————————————
Mary’s POV
—————————————————
“Oh so now you don’t want me to have my fun?”
“… I- I-“
She discarded the orb in her metaphorical hand, it shattered. Rel’s corpse jolted, mind shattered and organs rendered decorative. Mary felt no great pleasure. Instead… turning to the feeds still facing the breath taking black. She would monitor the skies over Kitzeh one last time.
Aren’t the Stars so beautiful? | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77346191 | {"authors": ["MaybeAnInsaneTfem"], "language": "English", "title": "The stars lure all, even I."} |
The Forgotten
**Maya Reyes learned early that the world doesn’t end all at once — it just gets more expensive.**
The warning on the checkout screen blinked red in the corner of the display: *payment declined*. Again. The hospital didn’t need to say anything else. The electronic silence was clear enough — her brother’s treatment was overdue, and overdue, in that world, was just a polite euphemism for a sentence.
She closed her eyes for a second longer than she should have.
“I’ll fix it,” she lied — to Adrian and to herself, as she had been doing for weeks.
The boy was asleep. There were too many purple bruises on his hands, and his breathing was shallow, as if his body were constantly negotiating with itself. Maya pulled the blanket up to his chin with exaggerated care, as though the world would break if she got the gesture wrong. The only things she knew for certain about herself were three facts — she was eighteen, she was now his legal guardian, and she had zero margin to allow herself to fail.
Her father had died in a robbery months earlier — one of those quick, stupid ones that never make headlines, a nobody among so many. Her mother left shortly after, carrying a small suitcase and a promise to return. Maya learned not to rely on promises — only on money.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her own hands as she cried in silence. Her thoughts drifted to her own body and how much it might still be worth. She thought about things she didn’t want to think about — about the pain of a girl who had barely turned eighteen and was forced to give her virginity to a disgusting old man who had watched her grow up, just to pay the rent and keep a roof over her and her brother’s heads. She wouldn’t survive that. She couldn’t live like that. For a moment, she almost wished she didn’t have to carry this weight — dark thoughts — and then she cried harder out of guilt for even thinking them. Adrian wasn’t to blame for getting sick. He wasn’t to blame for being born.
As she left the room and stepped into the hallway, she saw the ad.
Not loud — the RDA was far too sophisticated for that. It was clean, calm, filled with colors that felt like a dream. Smiling people. Happy people.
**RDA — Expanding the Future of Humanity.**
**Recruitment for colonization projects.**
**Guaranteed compensation. Medical assistance included.**
Medical assistance, medical assistance, medical assistance — it became a mantra — medical assistance, medical assistance… Maya clicked before she could think.
The process was too fast. That should have been the first warning. Then came physical tests, genetic screenings, invasive questionnaires wrapped in bureaucracy. No one asked *why* she wanted to go to another planet where, despite all the promises, war could break out at any moment. They only asked if she was willing.
And she was.
The contract room was too white. Too cold. A man with a polite smile explained everything using beautiful words and long sentences that said very little.
“The project requires total commitment,” he said.
“How long?” Maya asked.
“As long as necessary.”
She read a few lines, skipped others. She looked for explicit risks, fine print, something that screamed danger. She found nothing. The RDA didn’t scream. The RDA whispered promises — promises she wanted to believe, even though a part of her, deep down, knew words meant nothing.
“My brother…” she began.
“He’ll be covered,” he replied — too quickly. “Completely.”
For some reason, the pen felt heavier than it should have. Maya signed anyway.
One week later, she was aboard a ship heading for Pandora. Her brother would stay behind to receive full treatment and was supposed to join her once he got better. A social worker had visited them, assuring her he would be taken care of and that they would reunite soon. *The RDA takes care of its own*, she had said.
After a few days, Maya realized she had been completely deceived. A journey that was supposed to last only days stretched into months. Her little brother — with whom she was supposed to communicate every other day — slowly stopped responding, until the final shock came. He had died. The RDA specialist claimed the treatment had been too strong for someone already so weakened.
She cried. She cried because he died alone. She cried because she knew he must have believed she had abandoned him. She remembered how he hadn’t wanted her to go — but this had been her only chance to try to keep him *alive*. And she had failed.
As silent witness to her grief, Pandora appeared before her for the first time through the observation deck — too blue, too alive, too wrong. When they landed, the forest breathed like a conscious organism, and for one second — just one — she had the strange sensation of being watched.
The premonition hit hard and true. She swallowed dryly. She had been promised a life in a human colony, caring for children born on Pandora — a new life.
What she found was an underground base. White, sterile cells. Several human women in each one. All of them terrified.
She tried to fight before her brain fully processed the fact that Pandora’s air was poison if she somehow managed to escape. Her struggle was useless. She and several other young women who had arrived with her were surrounded by armed men and women.
The next thing she knew, someone struck the side of her head as she kicked and scratched. As she fell, all she could hear were screams and sobs. She wanted her father — but her father was dead.
There was no one to turn to. Alone, she had no one left. But in truth, she never had. The eldest daughter. The substitute mother. The adult.
She finally understood the cruel reality: she had never had anyone — not even when she fooled herself into believing she did.
And in that moment, there was no room for fear. Fear saved no one.
That day, Maya Reyes — eighteen years old — realized she had never stood a chance, neither on Earth nor on Pandora. Some people are born only to suffer.
What she didn’t know was that her suffering would become far darker.
By the end of that day, Maya Reyes was dead.
She was no longer a girl.
She was a product.
**Test subject F-13.** | The Forgotten
**Maya Reyes learned early that the world doesn’t end all at once — it just gets more expensive.**
The warning on the checkout screen blinked red in the corner of the display: *payment declined*. Again. The hospital didn’t need to say anything else. The electronic silence was clear enough — her brother’s treatment was overdue, and overdue, in that world, was just a polite euphemism for a sentence.
She closed her eyes for a second longer than she should have.
“I’ll fix it,” she lied — to Adrian and to herself, as she had been doing for weeks.
The boy was asleep. There were too many purple bruises on his hands, and his breathing was shallow, as if his body were constantly negotiating with itself. Maya pulled the blanket up to his chin with exaggerated care, as though the world would break if she got the gesture wrong. The only things she knew for certain about herself were three facts — she was eighteen, she was now his legal guardian, and she had zero margin to allow herself to fail.
Her father had died in a robbery months earlier — one of those quick, stupid ones that never make headlines, a nobody among so many. Her mother left shortly after, carrying a small suitcase and a promise to return. Maya learned not to rely on promises — only on money.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her own hands as she cried in silence. Her thoughts drifted to her own body and how much it might still be worth. She thought about things she didn’t want to think about — about the pain of a girl who had barely turned eighteen and was forced to give her virginity to a disgusting old man who had watched her grow up, just to pay the rent and keep a roof over her and her brother’s heads. She wouldn’t survive that. She couldn’t live like that. For a moment, she almost wished she didn’t have to carry this weight — dark thoughts — and then she cried harder out of guilt for even thinking them. Adrian wasn’t to blame for getting sick. He wasn’t to blame for being born.
As she left the room and stepped into the hallway, she saw the ad.
Not loud — the RDA was far too sophisticated for that. It was clean, calm, filled with colors that felt like a dream. Smiling people. Happy people.
**RDA — Expanding the Future of Humanity.**
**Recruitment for colonization projects.**
**Guaranteed compensation. Medical assistance included.**
Medical assistance, medical assistance, medical assistance — it became a mantra — medical assistance, medical assistance… Maya clicked before she could think.
The process was too fast. That should have been the first warning. Then came physical tests, genetic screenings, invasive questionnaires wrapped in bureaucracy. No one asked *why* she wanted to go to another planet where, despite all the promises, war could break out at any moment. They only asked if she was willing.
And she was.
The contract room was too white. Too cold. A man with a polite smile explained everything using beautiful words and long sentences that said very little.
“The project requires total commitment,” he said.
“How long?” Maya asked.
“As long as necessary.”
She read a few lines, skipped others. She looked for explicit risks, fine print, something that screamed danger. She found nothing. The RDA didn’t scream. The RDA whispered promises — promises she wanted to believe, even though a part of her, deep down, knew words meant nothing.
“My brother…” she began.
“He’ll be covered,” he replied — too quickly. “Completely.”
For some reason, the pen felt heavier than it should have. Maya signed anyway.
One week later, she was aboard a ship heading for Pandora. Her brother would stay behind to receive full treatment and was supposed to join her once he got better. A social worker had visited them, assuring her he would be taken care of and that they would reunite soon. *The RDA takes care of its own*, she had said.
After a few days, Maya realized she had been completely deceived. A journey that was supposed to last only days stretched into months. Her little brother — with whom she was supposed to communicate every other day — slowly stopped responding, until the final shock came. He had died. The RDA specialist claimed the treatment had been too strong for someone already so weakened.
She cried. She cried because he died alone. She cried because she knew he must have believed she had abandoned him. She remembered how he hadn’t wanted her to go — but this had been her only chance to try to keep him *alive*. And she had failed.
As silent witness to her grief, Pandora appeared before her for the first time through the observation deck — too blue, too alive, too wrong. When they landed, the forest breathed like a conscious organism, and for one second — just one — she had the strange sensation of being watched.
The premonition hit hard and true. She swallowed dryly. She had been promised a life in a human colony, caring for children born on Pandora — a new life.
What she found was an underground base. White, sterile cells. Several human women in each one. All of them terrified.
She tried to fight before her brain fully processed the fact that Pandora’s air was poison if she somehow managed to escape. Her struggle was useless. She and several other young women who had arrived with her were surrounded by armed men and women.
The next thing she knew, someone struck the side of her head as she kicked and scratched. As she fell, all she could hear were screams and sobs. She wanted her father — but her father was dead.
There was no one to turn to. Alone, she had no one left. But in truth, she never had. The eldest daughter. The substitute mother. The adult.
She finally understood the cruel reality: she had never had anyone — not even when she fooled herself into believing she did.
And in that moment, there was no room for fear. Fear saved no one.
That day, Maya Reyes — eighteen years old — realized she had never stood a chance, neither on Earth nor on Pandora. Some people are born only to suffer.
What she didn’t know was that her suffering would become far darker.
By the end of that day, Maya Reyes was dead.
She was no longer a girl.
She was a product.
**Test subject F-13.** | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77352496/chapters/202521276 | {"authors": ["Edirle"], "language": "English", "title": "The Forgotten"} |
let me lay waste to thee
They have just laid the hag to waste—rescued a girl convinced she doesn’t need rescuing. He’s still thinking of the corpse shambling after her, the soft way she spoke to a man who may no longer exist or will ever exist again.
He is mulling over his own death now. If he falls in one of these battles—if the scroll he has hidden on his body is not enough… what will the rest of these adventurers do? He knows the answer. A grim truth. He could easily kill the entirety of this party if he steps wrong.
He supposes he’s lucky that Tav seems intent on keeping him safe.
It doesn’t feel lucky.
Tav took a few too many hits from Ethel. He looks exhausted—grown weary from the cut of Ethel’s words of the waves of poison she’d sprayed at them each. Lae’zel is watching Tav from the corner of her eye, as if waiting for him to stumble. He thinks she might actually catch Tav if he does.
They’ve just stepped into the crumbling goblin village when it hits him. Gale doubles over with a gasp as gnawing hunger crawls up his throat.
Netherese magic tastes like rot.
Ethel had said congealed blood and piss—Gale just tastes decay.
He'd told Tara once that he was convinced, he was tasting his own body cannibalizing itself. I taste awful, by the way, he’d said casually. She’d sunk her claws into his knee for his blasé attitude.
He wishes they were at camp—so he could sequester himself for at least the first lashes of hunger. He doesn’t want the others to see him this way—writhing and practically foaming at the mouth as he gasps his way through the burning pin pricks that start at his chest and light a horrible, quaking fire all the way from his fingertips to his toes.
The gnawing beast of burden.
He can feel the sweat dripping down his body as the pain gives way to aching shivers.
Tav is already leaping towards him despite his injuries. His hands are cool on Gale’s overheated face.
“Gale—”
“I’m fine.”
He can feel the thrum of magic pressing into his skin. Tav’s magic has never felt quite… right, but now his body sups on what he gives freely. The healing balm does not help, but it gives an illusion of relief. A few ragged gasps before the burning in his lungs make him nearly double over again.
“I can make it to camp,” Gale lies. “It’s just a bit further.”
Tav gives him a flat look—pretenses dropped. He’s often marveled at the mask that Tav slips on when dealing with others. Now, he looks at Gale coolly—assessing. He knows he won’t hold up to the other man’s scrutiny.
He drops his voice, “Please, Tav. Help me back to camp. I don’t want to. Consume. Here.”
There’s the low chatter of goblins in the distance. The fetid smell of the dead hag’s swamp. He can endure a little longer.
Tav gives him a stern look, jaw clenching and eyes narrowed. “Gale.”
“Please, Tav.” He grabs Tav’s arm, gives it a soft squeeze. “Please indulge me this once.”
He can see the crack in Tav’s resolve. The way his blank face softens. Mystra had told him, many times, how his pleading bordered on manipulation. How dare he. How dare he ask such things. How dare he be so greedy—be content with what you have. Stop asking for more. He truly hasn’t changed.
Gale feels sick.
Tav steadies him, guides him up as if Gale weighs nothing. “Lean on me then.”
Gale looks away. “I can walk. Slowly, albeit but—”
Tav leans close. “Indulge me.”
Gale laughs, a little winded. “Turnabout is fair play I suppose. Fine. Be my knight in shining armor then.”
A strange look passes over Tav’s face, but he offers his arm. Lae’zel watches them while Astarion pretends not to.
“He is well enough to travel then,” Lae’zel says coolly. “Good.”
“I know you worry about me. You’re not fooling anyone.”
Lae’zel rolls her eyes before throwing Gale’s pack over one shoulder. “You are already slowing us down,” she says. “Let me relieve you of your burden.”
“Why don’t any of you fawn over me like that?”
“Easy answer, Astarion: Your personality,” Tav offers amicably. “Next question.”
Tav hands him a locket—a pretty silver thing emblazoned with the symbol of Selûne. It’s such a pity, he thinks first, then: Karlach is not the first woman to be right about him. He does destroy everything fancy. Everything beautiful.
It seems to be a talent of his.
He looks at Tav—studies the sun freckles along the crooked set of his nose.
He always ruins everything—everyone that’s good for him.
“Thank you,” he says, one part despairing and one part devotedly grateful.
Then he opens up the slavering Netherese jaws of his tainted heart.
The locket’s magic unravels—strips of silver-touched blue begin to splinter from the locket’s shining surface. Perhaps, it is because of Tav’s intent gaze that Gale truly sees the horror of his consumption. Strings of magic manifest and tear sickly, dripping strands as his orb thrums—eager, starved. His scars burn hot and violet as gore slick blue spirals into the Netherese abyss above his heart. The sensation of magic coursing through his veins is both a balm and a storm shattering through the boughs of his weak limbs.
His bones ache, his teeth rattle, even his skin feels too small for his suddenly aching body. Even the shift of his robes makes his skin throb painfully.
But it will give way.
The sensations will dull. The magic will soothe what is broken in him.
He breathes in deep—counting the inhale-exhale of his tender lungs. Usually by the time the seventh breath has been dragged past his aching throat and burning nostrils the pain eases. It gives way to an exhale of shining, cool relief that returns the colors to the sky, a laugh to his quaking lips.
But he can still taste rot at the back of his tongue, feel the ache sundering through his already battered core.
The despair that courses through him is almost as bad as the physical pain.
The horrible, yawning realization that he can no longer hide what he is from the rest of the party. From Tav.
The explanation feels like bleeding himself to expel poison—unsure how much he can give up before he exsanguinates. The cold, blank way Tav watches him might bleed him all the faster.
“Let me show you,” he finally says—at a desperate loss.
He drops to his knees, loosens his robes to show the entirety of the mark—in deference, in an early bid to win forgiveness. Tav strips his gauntlets before placing his hand in Gale’s. He shines in the sunlight—gleaming gold plate and a glint of sweat along where wisps of his short dark hair stick to the nape of his neck. Even in the jaws of dread, Gale cannot help noticing how beautiful Tav is.
His knight in shining armor.
I trust you, rings in Gale’s head—a lightening and sickening mantra—as he guides Tav’s hand to his bare chest. Gale inhales, slowly. He thinks of Tav—wrapped in the beautiful, soft glow of the Weave, so close Gale could have kissed him.
I should have kissed him, Gale thinks desperately. And then, he opens the door.
Tav spasms beneath his hand but does not move away. Or. Perhaps he can’t.
As the magic unfolds beneath Tav’s hands—shows him the extent of his folly, his mistakes—Gale tries not to focus himself on what he is losing.
The memories that rip through him take his breath away. The dark, writhing mass of the Karsite Weave; the chill of Mystra’s anger; the hollow pit that seemed to replace his heart as he sequestered himself in his tower—not even Tara managing to bring him more than a facsimile of joy. The sharp terror of his abduction. The grief that tore through him as he plummeted towards his death—able to do no better than an apprentice to make sure he was not dashed upon the rocks and immediately made the smoldering epicenter of the end of this corner of the Sword Coast. The pain that weaves through him every day now.
A small price to pay for his temporary freedom.
His miserable blight of a life.
The punishment of his own making etched upon his chest for all to see.
“Gale.”
Tav does not move his hand away as Gale forces the magic and memory back. He rests his palm, fully on Gale’s scarred chest. He traces his thumb along the edge—the way the orb cuts into his skin, along the bruise that never quite heals in the center. He can tell the edges along the mark have begun to turn a purple gray in the wake of his hunger, betraying the mark for what it is.
“Why are you showing me this.”
His chest aches. The combined raw hunger and the grief setting heavy upon him.
He wishes things were different.
He wishes he were not a monster.
He could have killed Tav without even wanting to. There is something unreadable in Tav’s expression as he pulls his hand away—as Gale stands.
“I thought we were growing closer, Gale,” there’s a forced blankness to Tav’s voice that sends a lance of nausea through him. “You should have told me right away.”
He thinks to his scorn he showed Tav after Alfira. At least Tav had had the nerve to greet them bloodied, seeking absolution—ready for any judgement they saw fit to strike him with.
Gale hid.
Even with the intimacy growing between them… the want. He had kept his secrets. The things that could hurt Tav—could kill him. He is truly the same miserable wretch he was back in his tower.
“I know.”
What else can he say?
“All of this… Tav. I’m so sorry.” He drops Tav’s hand from his, the contact suddenly rending him with guilt. “This must… feel like the betrayal of betrayals.”
This is no vampire bite in the dark, no concealed faith, or warlock pact. This is a threat to everyone around them. Who is he to have fastened a hope upon a man already fighting with himself? To have hidden the true danger of himself within half-truths and silence?
“Say the word. I’ll leave. You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“No,” the sudden snarling force and anger in Tav’s voice makes Gale flinch—makes Tav flinch. Tav looks at him, lost. Confused. A long, lingering moment passes before Tav reaches his hand back out. He hesitates before grabbing one of Gale’s hands in both of his. His eyes fix intently upon Gale’s—he looks almost as if he is memorizing Gale’s face. “Gale… I care about you.”
He squeezes Gale’s hand.
He feels the stirring of Tav’s tadpole. He shows him a new thought now—the night he went to Tav’s tent. He can feel the calmness, the comfort Tav felt. The warmth he hadn’t realized he had missed upon the eve of his penance.
Tav focuses on that warmth—how it suffuses him by merely being near Gale.
“I care too much about you to abandon you now.”
“Oh,” Gale says softly.
Tav presses his forehead to Gale’s knuckles. “We will fix this.”
It sounds like an oath. A fallen paladin making a promise to a broken, greedy liar of a man.
What a pair they make.
“Thank,” you Gale murmurs. “From my new rallied heart… Tav, truly, thank you.”
Tav is captured almost immediately upon entering the goblin camp—too reckless, too sure of himself. He follows Priestess Gut with a faint smile and wink and never returns. They find him slavering, shoulder dislocated and Gut—strangled to death, her guard miraculously dead.
The alarm that follows shortly after sends them deeper into the sanctuary.
Then down—into the sprawling expanse of Sovereign Spaw’s territory.
And Tav—bruised, distant, and guilty—is all too eager to butt into the myconid’s affairs.
Lae’zel shoots him a dirty look—as if this is somehow Gale’s fault. Maybe, somehow, it is. But they follow Tav regardless—into the dark.
The beach in the Underdark is almost beautiful—otherworldly. However, it doesn’t last. The stillness of the dark waters and the gentle light of glowing mushrooms are shattered by the gore spattering the damp lilac gray sands.
Gale can tell Tav is on edge—tired from the hook horrors that ambushed them and sluggish from the spores he inhaled earlier. The exhaustion of the day bites into his charming persona—makes him fumble on the words when dealing with the duergar on the beach.
Fighting breaks out quickly and before Gale can truly comprehend it twisted, writhing undead are bursting | let me lay waste to thee
They have just laid the hag to waste—rescued a girl convinced she doesn’t need rescuing. He’s still thinking of the corpse shambling after her, the soft way she spoke to a man who may no longer exist or will ever exist again.
He is mulling over his own death now. If he falls in one of these battles—if the scroll he has hidden on his body is not enough… what will the rest of these adventurers do? He knows the answer. A grim truth. He could easily kill the entirety of this party if he steps wrong.
He supposes he’s lucky that Tav seems intent on keeping him safe.
It doesn’t feel lucky.
Tav took a few too many hits from Ethel. He looks exhausted—grown weary from the cut of Ethel’s words of the waves of poison she’d sprayed at them each. Lae’zel is watching Tav from the corner of her eye, as if waiting for him to stumble. He thinks she might actually catch Tav if he does.
They’ve just stepped into the crumbling goblin village when it hits him. Gale doubles over with a gasp as gnawing hunger crawls up his throat.
Netherese magic tastes like rot.
Ethel had said congealed blood and piss—Gale just tastes decay.
He'd told Tara once that he was convinced, he was tasting his own body cannibalizing itself. I taste awful, by the way, he’d said casually. She’d sunk her claws into his knee for his blasé attitude.
He wishes they were at camp—so he could sequester himself for at least the first lashes of hunger. He doesn’t want the others to see him this way—writhing and practically foaming at the mouth as he gasps his way through the burning pin pricks that start at his chest and light a horrible, quaking fire all the way from his fingertips to his toes.
The gnawing beast of burden.
He can feel the sweat dripping down his body as the pain gives way to aching shivers.
Tav is already leaping towards him despite his injuries. His hands are cool on Gale’s overheated face.
“Gale—”
“I’m fine.”
He can feel the thrum of magic pressing into his skin. Tav’s magic has never felt quite… right, but now his body sups on what he gives freely. The healing balm does not help, but it gives an illusion of relief. A few ragged gasps before the burning in his lungs make him nearly double over again.
“I can make it to camp,” Gale lies. “It’s just a bit further.”
Tav gives him a flat look—pretenses dropped. He’s often marveled at the mask that Tav slips on when dealing with others. Now, he looks at Gale coolly—assessing. He knows he won’t hold up to the other man’s scrutiny.
He drops his voice, “Please, Tav. Help me back to camp. I don’t want to. Consume. Here.”
There’s the low chatter of goblins in the distance. The fetid smell of the dead hag’s swamp. He can endure a little longer.
Tav gives him a stern look, jaw clenching and eyes narrowed. “Gale.”
“Please, Tav.” He grabs Tav’s arm, gives it a soft squeeze. “Please indulge me this once.”
He can see the crack in Tav’s resolve. The way his blank face softens. Mystra had told him, many times, how his pleading bordered on manipulation. How dare he. How dare he ask such things. How dare he be so greedy—be content with what you have. Stop asking for more. He truly hasn’t changed.
Gale feels sick.
Tav steadies him, guides him up as if Gale weighs nothing. “Lean on me then.”
Gale looks away. “I can walk. Slowly, albeit but—”
Tav leans close. “Indulge me.”
Gale laughs, a little winded. “Turnabout is fair play I suppose. Fine. Be my knight in shining armor then.”
A strange look passes over Tav’s face, but he offers his arm. Lae’zel watches them while Astarion pretends not to.
“He is well enough to travel then,” Lae’zel says coolly. “Good.”
“I know you worry about me. You’re not fooling anyone.”
Lae’zel rolls her eyes before throwing Gale’s pack over one shoulder. “You are already slowing us down,” she says. “Let me relieve you of your burden.”
“Why don’t any of you fawn over me like that?”
“Easy answer, Astarion: Your personality,” Tav offers amicably. “Next question.”
Tav hands him a locket—a pretty silver thing emblazoned with the symbol of Selûne. It’s such a pity, he thinks first, then: Karlach is not the first woman to be right about him. He does destroy everything fancy. Everything beautiful.
It seems to be a talent of his.
He looks at Tav—studies the sun freckles along the crooked set of his nose.
He always ruins everything—everyone that’s good for him.
“Thank you,” he says, one part despairing and one part devotedly grateful.
Then he opens up the slavering Netherese jaws of his tainted heart.
The locket’s magic unravels—strips of silver-touched blue begin to splinter from the locket’s shining surface. Perhaps, it is because of Tav’s intent gaze that Gale truly sees the horror of his consumption. Strings of magic manifest and tear sickly, dripping strands as his orb thrums—eager, starved. His scars burn hot and violet as gore slick blue spirals into the Netherese abyss above his heart. The sensation of magic coursing through his veins is both a balm and a storm shattering through the boughs of his weak limbs.
His bones ache, his teeth rattle, even his skin feels too small for his suddenly aching body. Even the shift of his robes makes his skin throb painfully.
But it will give way.
The sensations will dull. The magic will soothe what is broken in him.
He breathes in deep—counting the inhale-exhale of his tender lungs. Usually by the time the seventh breath has been dragged past his aching throat and burning nostrils the pain eases. It gives way to an exhale of shining, cool relief that returns the colors to the sky, a laugh to his quaking lips.
But he can still taste rot at the back of his tongue, feel the ache sundering through his already battered core.
The despair that courses through him is almost as bad as the physical pain.
The horrible, yawning realization that he can no longer hide what he is from the rest of the party. From Tav.
The explanation feels like bleeding himself to expel poison—unsure how much he can give up before he exsanguinates. The cold, blank way Tav watches him might bleed him all the faster.
“Let me show you,” he finally says—at a desperate loss.
He drops to his knees, loosens his robes to show the entirety of the mark—in deference, in an early bid to win forgiveness. Tav strips his gauntlets before placing his hand in Gale’s. He shines in the sunlight—gleaming gold plate and a glint of sweat along where wisps of his short dark hair stick to the nape of his neck. Even in the jaws of dread, Gale cannot help noticing how beautiful Tav is.
His knight in shining armor.
I trust you, rings in Gale’s head—a lightening and sickening mantra—as he guides Tav’s hand to his bare chest. Gale inhales, slowly. He thinks of Tav—wrapped in the beautiful, soft glow of the Weave, so close Gale could have kissed him.
I should have kissed him, Gale thinks desperately. And then, he opens the door.
Tav spasms beneath his hand but does not move away. Or. Perhaps he can’t.
As the magic unfolds beneath Tav’s hands—shows him the extent of his folly, his mistakes—Gale tries not to focus himself on what he is losing.
The memories that rip through him take his breath away. The dark, writhing mass of the Karsite Weave; the chill of Mystra’s anger; the hollow pit that seemed to replace his heart as he sequestered himself in his tower—not even Tara managing to bring him more than a facsimile of joy. The sharp terror of his abduction. The grief that tore through him as he plummeted towards his death—able to do no better than an apprentice to make sure he was not dashed upon the rocks and immediately made the smoldering epicenter of the end of this corner of the Sword Coast. The pain that weaves through him every day now.
A small price to pay for his temporary freedom.
His miserable blight of a life.
The punishment of his own making etched upon his chest for all to see.
“Gale.”
Tav does not move his hand away as Gale forces the magic and memory back. He rests his palm, fully on Gale’s scarred chest. He traces his thumb along the edge—the way the orb cuts into his skin, along the bruise that never quite heals in the center. He can tell the edges along the mark have begun to turn a purple gray in the wake of his hunger, betraying the mark for what it is.
“Why are you showing me this.”
His chest aches. The combined raw hunger and the grief setting heavy upon him.
He wishes things were different.
He wishes he were not a monster.
He could have killed Tav without even wanting to. There is something unreadable in Tav’s expression as he pulls his hand away—as Gale stands.
“I thought we were growing closer, Gale,” there’s a forced blankness to Tav’s voice that sends a lance of nausea through him. “You should have told me right away.”
He thinks to his scorn he showed Tav after Alfira. At least Tav had had the nerve to greet them bloodied, seeking absolution—ready for any judgement they saw fit to strike him with.
Gale hid.
Even with the intimacy growing between them… the want. He had kept his secrets. The things that could hurt Tav—could kill him. He is truly the same miserable wretch he was back in his tower.
“I know.”
What else can he say?
“All of this… Tav. I’m so sorry.” He drops Tav’s hand from his, the contact suddenly rending him with guilt. “This must… feel like the betrayal of betrayals.”
This is no vampire bite in the dark, no concealed faith, or warlock pact. This is a threat to everyone around them. Who is he to have fastened a hope upon a man already fighting with himself? To have hidden the true danger of himself within half-truths and silence?
“Say the word. I’ll leave. You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“No,” the sudden snarling force and anger in Tav’s voice makes Gale flinch—makes Tav flinch. Tav looks at him, lost. Confused. A long, lingering moment passes before Tav reaches his hand back out. He hesitates before grabbing one of Gale’s hands in both of his. His eyes fix intently upon Gale’s—he looks almost as if he is memorizing Gale’s face. “Gale… I care about you.”
He squeezes Gale’s hand.
He feels the stirring of Tav’s tadpole. He shows him a new thought now—the night he went to Tav’s tent. He can feel the calmness, the comfort Tav felt. The warmth he hadn’t realized he had missed upon the eve of his penance.
Tav focuses on that warmth—how it suffuses him by merely being near Gale.
“I care too much about you to abandon you now.”
“Oh,” Gale says softly.
Tav presses his forehead to Gale’s knuckles. “We will fix this.”
It sounds like an oath. A fallen paladin making a promise to a broken, greedy liar of a man.
What a pair they make.
“Thank,” you Gale murmurs. “From my new rallied heart… Tav, truly, thank you.”
Tav is captured almost immediately upon entering the goblin camp—too reckless, too sure of himself. He follows Priestess Gut with a faint smile and wink and never returns. They find him slavering, shoulder dislocated and Gut—strangled to death, her guard miraculously dead.
The alarm that follows shortly after sends them deeper into the sanctuary.
Then down—into the sprawling expanse of Sovereign Spaw’s territory.
And Tav—bruised, distant, and guilty—is all too eager to butt into the myconid’s affairs.
Lae’zel shoots him a dirty look—as if this is somehow Gale’s fault. Maybe, somehow, it is. But they follow Tav regardless—into the dark.
The beach in the Underdark is almost beautiful—otherworldly. However, it doesn’t last. The stillness of the dark waters and the gentle light of glowing mushrooms are shattered by the gore spattering the damp lilac gray sands.
Gale can tell Tav is on edge—tired from the hook horrors that ambushed them and sluggish from the spores he inhaled earlier. The exhaustion of the day bites into his charming persona—makes him fumble on the words when dealing with the duergar on the beach.
Fighting breaks out quickly and before Gale can truly comprehend it twisted, writhing undead are bursting from piles of shredded flesh and twisted entrails. Corpses are shambling up rope ladders while Lae’zel and a swaying Tav try to shove them back down. Wyll is already chasing after the duergar trying to ambush them and Gale is going through the motions already. He casts flames upon the corpses still weakly shambling forward.
He is so aware of Tav’s sluggish movements—of how he is sweating and feverish as one of the duergar who tried speaking to Tav charges forward. Tav jumps down to the second tier of walkways to meet him—dutifully throwing himself between Gale and the approaching brute.
The duergar is half Tav’s size in height but strong enough to upset Tav’s balance when he throws his weight forward. Lae’zel jumps down—snarling curses and immediately shoving her way to Tav’s right side. He still moves too slowly to defend it—not quite able to get used to the false eye Volo gave him.
Lae’zel snarls something to Tav that Gale can’t hear and parries a great axe stroke clearly meant for Tav. He watches as Tav stumbles into the swipe of a recovered zombie. Tav snarls, the sound strangled as the creature slams a rotting palm into his temple. Gale Weaves a bolt of fire to the creature—watching with dark satisfaction as rotted flesh chars and the zombie slumps back down. Tav raises his head, locks eyes with Gale for a thrilling moment.
The battle doesn’t stop around them—Lae’zel lunges again for the duergar barbarian, her blade cutting into exposed flesh and from the shadows, Wyll fires an eldritch blast at the archer taking shots at him and Gale—slipping into shadow after a twin blast that hits one mark but not the other. Gale knows the dangers of distraction in combat—has a few healing scars from their mess in the goblin’s sanctum—but it’s too easy to be relieved that Tav’s alright.
It’s too easy for Gale to lose track of the archer behind him. Wyll calls out a warning—too late.
The arrow embeds in his shoulder—he can feel the burn of poison.
Nothing magical, luckily, but the serrated edge of the arrowhead tearing into his flesh makes him yelp and stagger forward in an embarrassing and all together undignified way.
He's sure that he’ll laugh about it later after the wound has been bandaged and he’s drank an antitoxin. In the heat of battle—with reinforcements on the way an unlucky arrow doesn’t feel like much.
He hears Tav’s shout before he realizes what’s happening.
Another zombie has shambled past Lae’zel to swipe at Tav as he dives for the ropes. Gale watches, breath knocked from his lungs, as Tav allows the undead to bite at his unarmored calf. He doesn’t even wince as he pulls himself to where Gale is. Lae’zel is swearing, loudly, in Tir—but Tav pays her no mind. His eyes are focused on Gale—where the arrow sits heavy in his shoulder. Poison and blood stream down the dark purple of his robes—staining the cloth down his back black.
He has the absent thought that it probably looks worse than it is before a feverish nausea overtakes him.
Tav’s hands are gentle on his shoulder, already pawing at Gale and murmuring, dazed, to let him see—“Gods damn it, Gale, let me see.”
Wyll yells out and sends another eldritch blast in direction the arrow came. The crackle of magic is accented with the horrible thud of force impacting upon skin—breaking bone, sending a body crashing to the ground.
Gale does not have a practical knowledge of healing magic, but he has studied tomes and scrolls and watched Tav and Shadowheart. Minor injuries need little more than an exasperated word, or wave of the hands. Usually, worse injuries require touch.
Wyll, once, had thrown himself between Karlach and a gnoll. The tearing of flesh and leather armor had made Gale feel ill. They had finished the battle—Wyll, stubbornly, casting cantrips one-handed despite the threat of evisceration. Tav had to press both hands to the wound to stitch it together—the extent of his healing talents nearly not enough—once the fever of battle had ended. Karlach had shouted at Wyll about how stupid he could be for what felt like hours.
This arrow is nothing like that hit, but Tav is frantic—his hands trembling as if Gale had been maimed.
Tav looks even worse up-close as he sends a jolt of healing through Gale with a breathless word. He’s pale and shaking—sweat pouring down his forehead as he twitches. He looks sick. Like he’s the one who’s been poisoned.
He touches Gale’s back—the aching shoulder blade where the poisoned arrow is embedded.
“Wait—!”
Tav freezes.
Lae’zel shouts a curse and dives to the bottom level to split a zombie’s skull beneath her sword. Wyll swears, rushes forward—pushes past Tav and Gale to follow Lae’zel down—, and fires a blast of eldritch energy at the now raging duergar. The barbarian is covered in horrid bloody wounds, bleeding so profusely that Gale isn’t sure how he hasn’t fallen to his knees.
Magic, maybe. Sheer stubbornness is more like it.
“Leave it in,” Gale grits his teeth. Tav should know this—the damage a serrated arrowhead could do without proper healing—“Wrenching it out now will hurt my damned arm more than help.”
He begins to shape a spell one-handed as Tav gapes at him. Maybe it’s the poison in his system that spurs the flash of annoyance—maybe it’s the fact that he can see a zombie shambling close to Wyll. “Move.”
Fire bursts from the magic gathered at the center of his palm and cracks out towards the corpse.
The flame strikes the zombie, makes the creature stumble back, and its flaming corpse crashes down the rope ladder. He watches as the flames eat at the ropes—separating he and Tav from Lae’zel and Wyll. Gale groans.
“Are you an idiot,” Lae’zel yells, but her great sword is already swinging down upon the raging duergar. The blade embeds itself in the brute’s skull with a sickening thunk—accented only by a last crack of eldritch energy from Wyll. To be safe. Surely.
The duergar goes very still with a bubbling gasp.
“The both of you will get us killed if you do not start thinking before you act!”
“Lae’zel,” Wyll interrupts, attempting a smile and a bright tone, “it did work out—”
“Silence! I am not speaking to you.”
Wyll sighs.
“We will find a way back up,” Lae’zel growls, “this conversation is not finished, Tav.”
Tav’s already ignoring Lae’zel’s loud protests. His hand is on Gale’s wounded shoulder—seemingly at a loss of what to do. His eyes are wide, expression somehow pained, panicked, and distant.
“I’ve… Gale,” his voice is faint, distressed, “I don’t remember what to do.”
He can feel the way Tav’s hands shake.
“We need to stabilize the arrow,” Gale says slowly, calling to mind his readings—the way Shadowheart had talked him through an injury one of the tieflings had received during the fight at the Grove. Gods he hopes they can get back to camp quickly. “Look through your pack. See if you can find something to keep it from moving—ah.” He shivers. “Any antitoxins?”
“No,” Tav murmurs. “We haven’t had any since we went down that well.”
Gale grimaces.
“Or. Well. We can cut it out,” Gale says slowly, drawing out his words—looking at Tav carefully, gauging his reaction. Tav pales. Gale winces, breathes through a sharp bite of frustration. “In this unfortunate case, this is going to be the best choice.”
No healer, no magic.
He can hear Lae’zel and Wyll making their way to the other rope ladder—Lae’zel grunting something that sounds like a pointed Tir curse and Wyll laughing, soft and undeniably fond.
“You don’t have to do it,” Gale says as gently as he can—pain making him undeniably frustrated. “But it might be the best course of action. If the damned thing wasn’t poisoned…”
Tav’s face is blank—eyes fixed on the dagger at Gale’s hip that he’d insisted Gale keep.
Just in case.
“Tav.”
He comes back to himself with a soft, pained inhale. Luckily Lae’zel and Wyll are already close enough for Gale to hear her growling, “I should have thrown you. It would have been quicker.”
The silence that shoots through them is heavy. Tav’s hands are still awkwardly hovering along Gale’s injured shoulder.
“Why have you neglected to triage?” Lae’zel’s question is pointed, her eyes narrowed at Tav. “You have removed arrows before. Why do you hesitate.”
Gale feels a slight thrum of agreement; but Tav’s strained voice has rooted itself in his mind. He should ask Tav, later, how his memory has fared—if anything has come back, if new things have been forgotten.
Tav says nothing—schools his expression into a calm blankness.
He holds up his hands.
They tremble
Gale feels nauseous.
“I exhausted my magic,” Tav says quietly.
Wyll grunts. “And… we’re still out of antitoxins.”
Tav nods.
“Well. You see. If we get to camp. I’m sure Shadowheart can help with the poisoned horribly situation but. The arrow,” Gale laughs, the sound reedy to his own ears, “the arrow. Is a bit more pressing of a problem. And an addressable of problem!”
Tav stays quiet, eyes never leaving the shaft of the arrow. He opens his mouth. Gale waits—trying for patience, but unable to stop the pained whined that grits out through his clenched teeth. Tav closes his mouth and looks away. His gaze focuses somewhere close to one of the duergar bodies.
Lae’zel narrows her eyes.
“Cease your sniveling,” Lae’zel hisses. She’s already drawing a dagger, sharp and thin; she wields it like an extension of herself—like she does all her blades. She throws a look at Tav, ignoring the slackness of his jaw. Gale cannot parse the expression on his face—the distance and the horror look almost as if Tav is torn between reactions. “You,” Lae’zel snaps, “if you are not going to help hold him down, be useful. Look for supplies.”
Tav startles as if struck.
He reaches forward, hand shaking, before drawing back. His face goes blank. He nods.
“Good. You then,” she jerks her chin and Wyll steps up, folds his hands along Gale’s shoulders with an apologetic look. “This will hurt.”
And, naturally, it does.
Upon reaching camp and rejoining the others, they agree it is best to rest before returning to Sovereign. There are too many enemies, too many shadows lurking in the Underdark considering their injuries. Shadowheart peels back the hasty bandages and examines his injured shoulder with an air of someone greatly put upon. Tav hovering the entire time does not seem to help her mood.
“If you don’t trust my expertise, why don’t you tend to your darling, Tav?”
Tav flinches. Gale feels a twinge of sympathy.
“I can’t,” Tav says simply. His voice is flat, tired. “I exhausted everything.”
“Then stand back. Let me work. He’ll be fine.”
Shadowheart has never seemed overly fond of Tav. Gale has never learned why exactly. He does not think it is solely the artefact or how Tav has stubbornly defended Lae’zel in the face of Shadowheart’s snide comments and nighttime assassination attempt. The resentment seems deeper than that. Or maybe he’s just putting more to something that is nothing.
He tends to do that.
“Lucky for you, the toxin wasn’t that complex. Honestly, I doubt anyone, but you would have found it this troubling.”
“Your bedside manner is extraordinary, Shadowheart.”
That coaxes a smile. “Oh, hush, be happy I don’t have to amputate.”
She places a hand on the open wound and begins to chant. Her magic is softer than he would expect from a Sharran cleric. He feels less cloaked in darkness and more suffused with soft light. He feels it best to hold his tongue on that comment.
“Luckily, you’ll live.” Shadowheart smiles at him before narrowing her eyes at Tav. “Now stop glaring and be useful. He needs rest.”
Tav guides Gale back to his tent, seeming unsure where to put his hands. He settles for placing a wavering hand along Gale’s shoulder—as if he is afraid of a more intimate touch.
“You should get looked at too,” Gale says softly. The very words ache in his chest as he forces them out. He is so tired. “You look ill, Tav.”
“I’m fine,” Tav says, clipped and exhausted.
This worry is not new, but it feels novel. How long has it been since he’s had other mortals to truly care about? Gale purposefully takes a step wrong and stumbles. Tav’s arm is already there—trembling and wrapped around his waist.
Greedy, a soft voice echoes in his mind. Why can’t you ever be happy with what I give you.
Tav would never speak to him that way.
Even if the words have weight and meaning. Tav’s lips are thin, his eyebrows furrowed. “Can you make it to your tent?” he asks softly, as if hiding the question from the rest of the preoccupied camp.
Wyll is already detailing to a rapt Karlach how he’ll make a hearty, healthy meal. Astarion is lounging in his tent, staring at a book without turning the page. Lae’zel watches all of them, in glances, as she meditates. A truly strange band they are. He doesn’t think he has ever felt so comfortable despite the scrutiny.
He wants so many things.
To stay with this group—after their parasite is cured. To keep all of these people close despite hardly knowing them. He wants. He looks at Tav. He feels as if he’s looking through a blurred window—the setting sun turning the silver in Tav’s dark hair soft and golden. He wants Tav to be happy.
Gale wants Tav to be happy with him.
“Stay with me,” Gale says softly—impulsively. Tav’s eyes go wide. “Just. Until I fall asleep. Might have nightmares about those dreadful thralls gumming me to death.”
Tav shifts, he doesn’t move his steadying hand from Gale’s waist. Gale looks up at Tav from beneath his lashes. He is so unused to others towering over him like Tav does.
He likes it.
He touches the tips of his fingers to Tav’s jaw. He can feel the tension there. He smiles.
“You comfort me, Tav.”
He feels the way Tav’s jaw twitches—he can practically hear the protests forming in the other man’s throat. Tav tenses before he readjusts his arm around Gale—holds him tighter. He can feel the tremble that wracks through Tav’s body. He seems distant even as he shifts closer—as if his mind is full of too many thoughts.
“Til you fall asleep?”
Gale worries over the shiver in Tav’s voice. “However long you’re comfortable,” he amends. But he wants the whole night. He wants tomorrow night. The night after that. “You truly do not have to. Helping me to my tent is enough—"
“I want to,” Tav says gruffly. He starts walking again—dragging Gale along as if he weighs nothing.
Gale finds himself thankful the camp is not that large and that his tent feels private in its corner—especially with Wyll preoccupied at the campfire. Whatever he is making, Gale must admit with a bit of ire, smells delicious. He focuses on the soft lap of the lake as Tav helps him inside to keep his thoughts from getting too surly.
He should change.
He thinks—unbidden—of Tav helping him undress. Of how he knows even with his shaking hands, Tav would move so gently. He would take care even with Gale’s robes bloodstained and torn. He would probably steal glances as Gale removed his trousers. Or. Depending on his mood he might openly stare.
Gale flushes at the thought. The orb pulses painfully. He winces.
If things were different…
He pushes away the thought of a soft kiss—of pushing a hand beneath Tav’s heavy gambeson and touching sweaty skin and nosing his way along Tav’s throat. Breathing him in and showing Tav how good he is with his hands in all ways.
Pain rattles through his chest—not quite the searing agony of his hunger, but enough to bring on another set of tremors. He closes his eyes and breathes deep.
When he opens his eyes, Tav is watching him carefully.
“I can undress myself,” he murmurs.
Tav nods stiffly and steps away with a swiftness that’s wounding. “I’ll also. Go. Change.” He pauses. “Are you hungry?”
Not in the sense you’re thinking, Gale thinks feverishly. He feels cold without Tav standing beside him—sheltering him.
“No,” Gale says slowly, “but I feel I should eat something.”
Tav nods again. “I’ll see what Wyll’s made.”
He leaves without a glance back. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77352516/chapters/202521311 | {"authors": ["iaus"], "language": "English", "title": "let me lay waste to thee"} |
i am a man with a heart that offends
When Eddie heard the creak of the roof door behind him, he flinched. Buck had been less than observant, lately, but it’d be hard even for him to miss the way Eddie had stalked up the stairs to the loft and beyond after their last call. At the scene Eddie hadn’t made the connection, but in the engine on the ride back the similarities between one little boy trapped underground and another struck him hard enough to see stars.
Last time, all he’d been able to think about was Chris; what it would be like for Eddie to leave him. Him and Buck. Him with Buck. Today, he was fixated on how fucked up it was that he had been selfish enough to find himself in the inverse scenario. Chris had left him. On top of that, it made Eddie burn with shame and something else he refused to examine that Buck could physically be there—literally right downstairs—and Eddie could still feel like Buck had left him, too, as far away from him as his son. He knew how he had hurt his son; why he felt that same ache of regret about Buck was less comprehensible. When Father Brian had asked him to share what had brought him into his confession booth after decades outside its doors, Eddie’s first thought sprung to Chris, his second to Buck. But even with his skin tingling from the feeling he was being watched by God, he could only force himself to name the former.
The hand that settled on his shoulder wasn’t the familiar weight of Buck’s, though. Eddie tensed at the contact then relaxed again, marginally, relieved he would have at least a little bit of time to pull back on the mask that had started slipping before facing Buck again.
“Mind if I join you?” Bobby asked, in a tone that conveyed Eddie could say no if he wanted. He did want, maybe, but ultimately he shrugged and waved a hand towards the other ratty plastic lawn chairs scattered in a loose approximation of a circle a few feet away. Bobby clapped him on the shoulder once before withdrawing his hand, gravitating towards his typical blue and white chair that was distinguishable from the others by a dent in front leg.
Eddie had pivoted his seat away from the door to watch the sun set. Bobby pulled up next to him and dropped down, legs kicked out like Eddie’s were and hands slotted together loosely in his lap. They sat there for a few minutes, two parallel lines, before Bobby finally broke the silence.
“Couldn’t help but notice you took that call today pretty hard,” he remarked in that way Bobby sometimes did, where he made pressing on the most painful, purple bruises sound casual.
Eddie hummed noncommittally. He wished he had a coffee or cocoa or something to give his hands something to do besides flex against his armrests.
“I also couldn’t help but notice that it bore some similarities to that well call a few years ago.”
Unable to stop himself, Eddie snorted. Something about the phrasing of ‘that well call’ was both entirely accurate and completely failed to capture the actual weight of the thing. “Yeah. It did.”
“That was a difficult day. I’m glad this one wasn’t.”
A bolt of something—frustration, maybe anger—shot through Eddie. “Every day has been a difficult day,” he retorted, sounding bitter.
It was Bobby’s turn to hum, unperturbed by Eddie’s shortness. “I think that’s understandable.”
“Oh, well, if you think—” Eddie said angrily before he cut himself off, shaking his head. “Sorry, Cap. I shouldn’t take my shit out on you.”
“Any shit in particular weighing on you?” Bobby asked, making Eddie bark a laugh. Bobby did curse, but only on occasion, so it took him by surprise. When Eddie finally turned his head to look at Bobby for the first time since he’d sat down, he could see the corners of Bobby’s mouth twitching up.
Eddie sighed, deep. “I went to confession a couple of days ago,” he offered. Bobby nodded; if he were confused by the non sequitur, he didn’t show it. “I guess I thought maybe it would help if someone who knew what they were talking about told me how to fix my mess.”
“And did it?” Bobby asked, the ghost of a grin still on his face; he already knew the answer, he just wanted to prod Eddie into saying it.
“No.” Eddie directed his gaze back out, taking in the gradually darkening cotton candy clouds. “The Father just gave me—I don’t even remember now. A few Hail Marys, or something. As if sitting around with a rosary in my hands fixes…” he trailed off, gesturing to vaguely indicate the last few months.
“Confession isn’t meant to ‘fix,’ anything,” Bobby pointed out. “It’s about forgiveness.”
Eddie scoffed. “And how, exactly, do I earn forgiveness if I haven’t atoned for the thing I’m asking for forgiveness for?”
“That’s the thing, Eddie—you don’t really have to earn forgiveness. God gives that to us freely. We just have to be brave enough to ask for it.”
That didn’t elicit an eyeroll, but only just. He’d heard almost the exact same thing from Father Brian at the smoothie shop the day before, and it rang just as hollow now as it did then. “Right. Okay.”
“Can I tell you what I think, Eddie?” Bobby asked. Eddie nodded. “I think maybe you’re looking in the wrong place. The church—at least the church I know,” Bobby amended, “isn’t in the business of seeing your mistakes as a reason for condemnation. It’s about seeing them as an opportunity for growth. I think the only one hell-bent on punishing you is you.”
Eddie let out a frustrated sigh. “So, what? I can do whatever I want, hurt my son, hurt my—my girlfriend, and it’s fine? Complete impunity?”
Bobby leveled an unimpressed look at Eddie. “I think you know that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Eddie shrugged, conceding the point mulishly. After a long pause, Bobby continued. “You didn’t get what you wanted from confession because you’re stuck looking backwards, and confession is about moving forward.”
“How am I meant to do that?” Eddie snapped. “Genuinely, how? I shouldn’t get to do what I did and shrug and move on.”
For another long moment, it was quiet, outside of the rush of cars a few stories below serving as white noise. Then: “I was responsible for the deaths of 148 people. Do I not deserve Athena; my family? Do I not deserve to find happiness?”
Eddie recoiled. “Of course you do, Bobby, but that’s not the—”
Bobby cut him off with a twinkle in his eye that was half sad, half amused. “I am positive you weren’t about to tell me that having an emotional affair born out of grief is worse.”
Eddie’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times but he couldn’t seem to find the words to continue. Bobby looked back out to the skyline, giving Eddie a brief moment of reprieve. “I spent a long time thinking of atonement like a scale. If there were 148 lives on one side, then there needed to be 148 on the other. But those 148 people who died weren’t interchangeable. They were never going to come back. Their families would never hold them again. I couldn’t undo my mistake. I could save a million lives, it wouldn’t change things for those 148. There's not an equation you can plug yourself into, Eddie. Life's not that simple. Neither is God.”
It made Eddie’s skin crawl, to think how cavalier he’d been about hurling Bobby’s past against him in a moment of weakness and anger. That Bobby was still willing to speak to Eddie so candidly about it wasn’t something Eddie took lightly. “So how do you do it? How do you… move forward? Live with that?” he finally asked.
Hands interlaced, Bobby tapped his forefinger against his knuckle, considering. “I prayed a lot. Begged God for forgiveness. I finally realized that the only way I would feel God’s forgiveness was if I found a way to forgive myself, first.” Bobby laughed softly; abruptly. “It wasn’t easy. I understand where you're coming from. I also thought, what right do I have to that? I’d done something horrible, hurt so many people… I had to learn the distinction between an explanation and an excuse. I made my own choices, but I was also sick. I can have done wrongs, and those wrongs don’t have to be the only thing that defines me. Both things can be true.”
Eddie leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Head hanging below his shoulders, he picked at the cuticle of his thumb, thinking. “It’s one thing to think that. It’s another thing to believe it.”
“Yes,” Bobby agreed plainly. “It is. And I don't think it's what anyone wants to hear, but that belief is fluid. I don’t wake up every morning feeling His light, feeling like I deserve the joy I’ve found. But I do wake up every morning next to my joy. And if Athena, who I trust more than anyone else, sees me, sees all of me, and loves me? Sometimes, that has to be enough.”
“I’m glad you have that, Cap,” Eddie said quietly. “Shannon and I—I loved her, I did, but it wasn’t like that. Looking back on it, it wasn’t like that.” He let out a shuddery breath. “I wish I had that.”
“Don’t you?" Eddie’s head whipped over to Bobby, who was looking over at him with a placid smile. "When you were trapped, there was someone up here willing to do whatever it took to pull you up. No matter how deep he had to go to get to you.”
“I—I don’t—” Eddie floundered, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in discomfort.
Bobby raised both eyebrows, inclining his head slightly. Verbally, though, he didn’t push, just said “Alright, Eddie.” Untangling his hands, he put them on his knees and leveraged himself upright with a huff. Eddie blinked up at him. “You know,” he added, “sometimes the selfish thing is to cling to your guilt, let it radiate out to everyone you love. It can be so difficult to accept something as precious as joy; I think it’s an act of selflessness, actually, to put in the commitment to protect something that delicate.”
Thankfully, Bobby didn’t seem to expect a response to that. He nodded twice, seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw on Eddie's face, before ambling over to the door. “Don’t stay up here too long, Eddie,” he cautioned over his shoulder before disappearing into the stairwell.
Eddie spent the better part of two hours staring out over the horizon, watching with half-glazed eyes as an inky blanket snuffed out the last wisps of daylight.
—
When joy knocks on his door the following evening, Eddie rolls his shoulders back, runs a hand through his hair, and answers. | i am a man with a heart that offends
When Eddie heard the creak of the roof door behind him, he flinched. Buck had been less than observant, lately, but it’d be hard even for him to miss the way Eddie had stalked up the stairs to the loft and beyond after their last call. At the scene Eddie hadn’t made the connection, but in the engine on the ride back the similarities between one little boy trapped underground and another struck him hard enough to see stars.
Last time, all he’d been able to think about was Chris; what it would be like for Eddie to leave him. Him and Buck. Him with Buck. Today, he was fixated on how fucked up it was that he had been selfish enough to find himself in the inverse scenario. Chris had left him. On top of that, it made Eddie burn with shame and something else he refused to examine that Buck could physically be there—literally right downstairs—and Eddie could still feel like Buck had left him, too, as far away from him as his son. He knew how he had hurt his son; why he felt that same ache of regret about Buck was less comprehensible. When Father Brian had asked him to share what had brought him into his confession booth after decades outside its doors, Eddie’s first thought sprung to Chris, his second to Buck. But even with his skin tingling from the feeling he was being watched by God, he could only force himself to name the former.
The hand that settled on his shoulder wasn’t the familiar weight of Buck’s, though. Eddie tensed at the contact then relaxed again, marginally, relieved he would have at least a little bit of time to pull back on the mask that had started slipping before facing Buck again.
“Mind if I join you?” Bobby asked, in a tone that conveyed Eddie could say no if he wanted. He did want, maybe, but ultimately he shrugged and waved a hand towards the other ratty plastic lawn chairs scattered in a loose approximation of a circle a few feet away. Bobby clapped him on the shoulder once before withdrawing his hand, gravitating towards his typical blue and white chair that was distinguishable from the others by a dent in front leg.
Eddie had pivoted his seat away from the door to watch the sun set. Bobby pulled up next to him and dropped down, legs kicked out like Eddie’s were and hands slotted together loosely in his lap. They sat there for a few minutes, two parallel lines, before Bobby finally broke the silence.
“Couldn’t help but notice you took that call today pretty hard,” he remarked in that way Bobby sometimes did, where he made pressing on the most painful, purple bruises sound casual.
Eddie hummed noncommittally. He wished he had a coffee or cocoa or something to give his hands something to do besides flex against his armrests.
“I also couldn’t help but notice that it bore some similarities to that well call a few years ago.”
Unable to stop himself, Eddie snorted. Something about the phrasing of ‘that well call’ was both entirely accurate and completely failed to capture the actual weight of the thing. “Yeah. It did.”
“That was a difficult day. I’m glad this one wasn’t.”
A bolt of something—frustration, maybe anger—shot through Eddie. “Every day has been a difficult day,” he retorted, sounding bitter.
It was Bobby’s turn to hum, unperturbed by Eddie’s shortness. “I think that’s understandable.”
“Oh, well, if you think—” Eddie said angrily before he cut himself off, shaking his head. “Sorry, Cap. I shouldn’t take my shit out on you.”
“Any shit in particular weighing on you?” Bobby asked, making Eddie bark a laugh. Bobby did curse, but only on occasion, so it took him by surprise. When Eddie finally turned his head to look at Bobby for the first time since he’d sat down, he could see the corners of Bobby’s mouth twitching up.
Eddie sighed, deep. “I went to confession a couple of days ago,” he offered. Bobby nodded; if he were confused by the non sequitur, he didn’t show it. “I guess I thought maybe it would help if someone who knew what they were talking about told me how to fix my mess.”
“And did it?” Bobby asked, the ghost of a grin still on his face; he already knew the answer, he just wanted to prod Eddie into saying it.
“No.” Eddie directed his gaze back out, taking in the gradually darkening cotton candy clouds. “The Father just gave me—I don’t even remember now. A few Hail Marys, or something. As if sitting around with a rosary in my hands fixes…” he trailed off, gesturing to vaguely indicate the last few months.
“Confession isn’t meant to ‘fix,’ anything,” Bobby pointed out. “It’s about forgiveness.”
Eddie scoffed. “And how, exactly, do I earn forgiveness if I haven’t atoned for the thing I’m asking for forgiveness for?”
“That’s the thing, Eddie—you don’t really have to earn forgiveness. God gives that to us freely. We just have to be brave enough to ask for it.”
That didn’t elicit an eyeroll, but only just. He’d heard almost the exact same thing from Father Brian at the smoothie shop the day before, and it rang just as hollow now as it did then. “Right. Okay.”
“Can I tell you what I think, Eddie?” Bobby asked. Eddie nodded. “I think maybe you’re looking in the wrong place. The church—at least the church I know,” Bobby amended, “isn’t in the business of seeing your mistakes as a reason for condemnation. It’s about seeing them as an opportunity for growth. I think the only one hell-bent on punishing you is you.”
Eddie let out a frustrated sigh. “So, what? I can do whatever I want, hurt my son, hurt my—my girlfriend, and it’s fine? Complete impunity?”
Bobby leveled an unimpressed look at Eddie. “I think you know that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Eddie shrugged, conceding the point mulishly. After a long pause, Bobby continued. “You didn’t get what you wanted from confession because you’re stuck looking backwards, and confession is about moving forward.”
“How am I meant to do that?” Eddie snapped. “Genuinely, how? I shouldn’t get to do what I did and shrug and move on.”
For another long moment, it was quiet, outside of the rush of cars a few stories below serving as white noise. Then: “I was responsible for the deaths of 148 people. Do I not deserve Athena; my family? Do I not deserve to find happiness?”
Eddie recoiled. “Of course you do, Bobby, but that’s not the—”
Bobby cut him off with a twinkle in his eye that was half sad, half amused. “I am positive you weren’t about to tell me that having an emotional affair born out of grief is worse.”
Eddie’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times but he couldn’t seem to find the words to continue. Bobby looked back out to the skyline, giving Eddie a brief moment of reprieve. “I spent a long time thinking of atonement like a scale. If there were 148 lives on one side, then there needed to be 148 on the other. But those 148 people who died weren’t interchangeable. They were never going to come back. Their families would never hold them again. I couldn’t undo my mistake. I could save a million lives, it wouldn’t change things for those 148. There's not an equation you can plug yourself into, Eddie. Life's not that simple. Neither is God.”
It made Eddie’s skin crawl, to think how cavalier he’d been about hurling Bobby’s past against him in a moment of weakness and anger. That Bobby was still willing to speak to Eddie so candidly about it wasn’t something Eddie took lightly. “So how do you do it? How do you… move forward? Live with that?” he finally asked.
Hands interlaced, Bobby tapped his forefinger against his knuckle, considering. “I prayed a lot. Begged God for forgiveness. I finally realized that the only way I would feel God’s forgiveness was if I found a way to forgive myself, first.” Bobby laughed softly; abruptly. “It wasn’t easy. I understand where you're coming from. I also thought, what right do I have to that? I’d done something horrible, hurt so many people… I had to learn the distinction between an explanation and an excuse. I made my own choices, but I was also sick. I can have done wrongs, and those wrongs don’t have to be the only thing that defines me. Both things can be true.”
Eddie leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Head hanging below his shoulders, he picked at the cuticle of his thumb, thinking. “It’s one thing to think that. It’s another thing to believe it.”
“Yes,” Bobby agreed plainly. “It is. And I don't think it's what anyone wants to hear, but that belief is fluid. I don’t wake up every morning feeling His light, feeling like I deserve the joy I’ve found. But I do wake up every morning next to my joy. And if Athena, who I trust more than anyone else, sees me, sees all of me, and loves me? Sometimes, that has to be enough.”
“I’m glad you have that, Cap,” Eddie said quietly. “Shannon and I—I loved her, I did, but it wasn’t like that. Looking back on it, it wasn’t like that.” He let out a shuddery breath. “I wish I had that.”
“Don’t you?" Eddie’s head whipped over to Bobby, who was looking over at him with a placid smile. "When you were trapped, there was someone up here willing to do whatever it took to pull you up. No matter how deep he had to go to get to you.”
“I—I don’t—” Eddie floundered, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in discomfort.
Bobby raised both eyebrows, inclining his head slightly. Verbally, though, he didn’t push, just said “Alright, Eddie.” Untangling his hands, he put them on his knees and leveraged himself upright with a huff. Eddie blinked up at him. “You know,” he added, “sometimes the selfish thing is to cling to your guilt, let it radiate out to everyone you love. It can be so difficult to accept something as precious as joy; I think it’s an act of selflessness, actually, to put in the commitment to protect something that delicate.”
Thankfully, Bobby didn’t seem to expect a response to that. He nodded twice, seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw on Eddie's face, before ambling over to the door. “Don’t stay up here too long, Eddie,” he cautioned over his shoulder before disappearing into the stairwell.
Eddie spent the better part of two hours staring out over the horizon, watching with half-glazed eyes as an inky blanket snuffed out the last wisps of daylight.
—
When joy knocks on his door the following evening, Eddie rolls his shoulders back, runs a hand through his hair, and answers. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77345211 | {"authors": ["teaspoonmoon"], "language": "English", "title": "i am a man with a heart that offends"} |
Project Gardenview: Ichor stage! (Wait—what??)
Hii!!
This is a Dandys world x PJSK AU!!
So basically, all the PJSK characters find themselves in Gardenview, with new cartoonish bodies!!
Curious on what toons they are?
Well here you go!!
(Most design ideas come from the fandub Mikus World on tiktok! As the old owner, I would recommend checking it out!!!)
Leo/Need !
Ichika: Cactus toon
Saki: Cat toon
Shiho: Wolf toon
Honami: Apple pie toon
More More Jump !
Minori: Squirrel toon
Haruka: Penguin toon
Airi: Red Panda toon
Shizuku: Albino Deer toon
Vivid BAD SQUAD !
Kohane: Hamster toon
An: Microphone toon
Akito: Dog toon (hahahahahha made him a dog since he's scared of dogs hahahahhah)
Toya: Tea cup toon
Wonderland X Showtime !
Tsukasa: Pegasus toon
Emu: Candy (🍬 this one) toon
Nene: Bunny toon
Rui: Jellyfish toon
Nightcord @ 25:00 !
Kanade: A simplified paper cutout of herself toon (This of Terri from TAWOG but it's Kanade in chibi form !!)
Mafuyu: Snowflake toon
Ena: Paint Pallette toon
Mizuki: A pink ribbon toon
THANKS FOR READING!!
As a reward.. here's a sneak peak of Chapter 1 !!
Weird was one of the many words to describe this situation right now.
Having been passed out for who knows how long.
Waking up in some weird, colorful, rundown museum.
And now she's sat down in the back of a shop with some talking rainbow flower named 'Dandy'.
Even worse, she's not even in her own BODY.
She looks like some cartoonish cactus with limbs... and even moving felt wrong, like her body didn’t obey the rules it used to.
She still had the sting from earlier when she tried to touch her face earlier in panic and got pricked..
But... where even was she?
What was she?
How did she even get here?!
Are the others here?
If so—where were they?!
Her hands began to shake.
Her chest started to tighten, her breathing shallow and fast. Panic edged into her mind as she tried to process all of this...
Was she going to be trapped here forever?!—
"Hey! You've been awfully quiet, everything okay?"
"Whu- huh? oh, sorry! I'm just..." Ichika looked down in thought, an expression of disturbance on her face. "...Thinking."
Dandy stared at her for a few moments, before a small smile was formed on his face.
"If I'm gonna be honest, I was pretty surprised when I saw you laying there in front of my shop. For a moment I honestly thought you were dead or something, I was gonna start panicking!" He chuckled, obviously trying to lighten the mood. Yet, it didn't have much effect. | Project Gardenview: Ichor stage! (Wait—what??)
Hii!!
This is a Dandys world x PJSK AU!!
So basically, all the PJSK characters find themselves in Gardenview, with new cartoonish bodies!!
Curious on what toons they are?
Well here you go!!
(Most design ideas come from the fandub Mikus World on tiktok! As the old owner, I would recommend checking it out!!!)
Leo/Need !
Ichika: Cactus toon
Saki: Cat toon
Shiho: Wolf toon
Honami: Apple pie toon
More More Jump !
Minori: Squirrel toon
Haruka: Penguin toon
Airi: Red Panda toon
Shizuku: Albino Deer toon
Vivid BAD SQUAD !
Kohane: Hamster toon
An: Microphone toon
Akito: Dog toon (hahahahahha made him a dog since he's scared of dogs hahahahhah)
Toya: Tea cup toon
Wonderland X Showtime !
Tsukasa: Pegasus toon
Emu: Candy (🍬 this one) toon
Nene: Bunny toon
Rui: Jellyfish toon
Nightcord @ 25:00 !
Kanade: A simplified paper cutout of herself toon (This of Terri from TAWOG but it's Kanade in chibi form !!)
Mafuyu: Snowflake toon
Ena: Paint Pallette toon
Mizuki: A pink ribbon toon
THANKS FOR READING!!
As a reward.. here's a sneak peak of Chapter 1 !!
Weird was one of the many words to describe this situation right now.
Having been passed out for who knows how long.
Waking up in some weird, colorful, rundown museum.
And now she's sat down in the back of a shop with some talking rainbow flower named 'Dandy'.
Even worse, she's not even in her own BODY.
She looks like some cartoonish cactus with limbs... and even moving felt wrong, like her body didn’t obey the rules it used to.
She still had the sting from earlier when she tried to touch her face earlier in panic and got pricked..
But... where even was she?
What was she?
How did she even get here?!
Are the others here?
If so—where were they?!
Her hands began to shake.
Her chest started to tighten, her breathing shallow and fast. Panic edged into her mind as she tried to process all of this...
Was she going to be trapped here forever?!—
"Hey! You've been awfully quiet, everything okay?"
"Whu- huh? oh, sorry! I'm just..." Ichika looked down in thought, an expression of disturbance on her face. "...Thinking."
Dandy stared at her for a few moments, before a small smile was formed on his face.
"If I'm gonna be honest, I was pretty surprised when I saw you laying there in front of my shop. For a moment I honestly thought you were dead or something, I was gonna start panicking!" He chuckled, obviously trying to lighten the mood. Yet, it didn't have much effect. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77344856/chapters/202499431 | {"authors": ["yippeecats"], "language": "English", "title": "Project Gardenview: Ichor stage! (Wait—what??)"} |
Our Little Universe
The first thing Aou noticed was the weight behind his eyes - that familiar, dull pressure that came after too little sleep or a bad fall. His head pounded like someone had dropped something heavy and it landed right behind his forehead, like a hangover without the fun.
The second thing he noticed was… warmth.
Not the stale kind from a studio trailer or the blaring heat of stage lights, but a soft warmth - like sunlight filtering through curtains and the faint hum of someone making breakfast not far away.
He could smell toast.
Not burnt - not the half-charred kind he made himself when sleepwalking through a call time - but warm, real toast. Like something out of a brunch menu. It wafted through the air in waves of butter and quiet clatter.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The ceiling above him was pale cream. Not his.
He blinked.
The surface under him was soft, unfamiliar. A couch. Wide, tidy in a lived-in sort of way. A knitted blanket was draped half over him, like someone had tucked him in. Light flooded in from wide windows across the room. Late morning, probably. Golden sun filtered through thin white curtains, casting lazy rectangles across the wood floor.
Someone was humming.
Aou turned toward the sound - the open-plan kitchen across from the couch.
Boom.
Hair still sleep-mussed, wearing an oversized black sweatshirt and loose pajama pants, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, barefoot. He was moving like this was a normal morning - like he belonged here.
Aou’s heart skipped a beat, then stumbled again when another voice rang out.
“Papa? You awake now?”
Aou turned his head slowly.
There, on the floor by the coffee table, a little girl, her dark hair half-tied and already falling loose, sat cross-legged in purple pajamas covered in stars. She had a marker in one hand and was frowning very seriously at a sheet of paper. A small stuffed rabbit lay facedown beside her. She looked at him and grinned.
Bright brown eyes, a little round face, expressive eyebrows that crinkled with frustration. Familiar.
Too familiar.
He didn’t know her.
Except… he did. Somehow. Her face tugged at something too deep to place - like remembering a dream after it already started dissolving.
“Papa,” she repeated, not impatient - just waiting.
Aou stared.
The girl blinked at him. “Are you sleepy still?”
“I told you not to wake him up, sweetie.”
A moment later, Boom appeared, holding a glass of water in one hand and a pill packet in the other. He looked… domestic. Soft hair. Sleep creases on his forearm. A slight lean to his stance like he’d been up and moving for a while. Comfortable. Familiar.
Aou blinked again, slower this time.
Boom handed him the water and pills. “You okay? You looked out of it earlier. Take one now, one before dinner.”
Aou blinked. “Earlier?”
Boom smiled like it was an inside joke. “You tried to put peanut butter in the rice cooker.”
“I what?”
Boom’s smile widened, warm eyes scanning Aou’s face. “You hit your head yesterday, remember? During the shoot. Not serious - just an action scene that didn’t go quite right. Doctor said you’d probably feel foggy for a few days.”
Aou opened his mouth - but before he could find something to say, the little girl spoke again.
Boom walked over, crouched next to the girl and tapped the paper gently. “The whiskers go out, not down. That’s why your cat looks sad.”
“It’s a moody cat,” she insisted.
“Okay, moody cat. But even moody cats don’t cry like this.”
The girl sighed. “Fine. I will draw something else.”
Aou stared at them.
“Who is she?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Boom turned. His expression shifted - not confused, not upset. Just… surprised.
“What do you mean?” he asked carefully.
Aou glanced at the girl again. She looked up, like she’d sensed his voice going weird.
“I-” Aou cleared his throat. “I mean, I didn’t hear her name. What was it again?”
Boom frowned slightly but didn’t press.
“Ceri,” he said gently. “You named her. Don’t you remember?”
The world tilted.
Aou stared at him. Then at her.
Ceri.
That name shouldn’t have meant anything. But it hit like a soft blow to the chest. Ceri was a mascot. A brightly colored, star-headed mascot. Not a real child. Not… this.
“I… think I hit my head harder than I thought,” Aou said, trying to keep his voice level.
Boom came closer, kneeling slightly in front of him. He reached out, brushed a thumb along Aou’s cheekbone with familiar ease.
Aou blinked, tensed slightly, heart racing.
Everything about this was wrong. Or right. That was the problem.
Because nothing felt alarming. No one was confused. Not Boom, not the kid, not even the house. It was warm. Familiar. Like he’d been here before. Like he belonged here.
But he didn’t.
His last clear memory was - what?
The filming set. Lights. Everything after that was fuzzy. Like a part of his brain had been quietly taped over.
“Still with us?”
Aou nodded, a beat too late. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… dizzy.”
Boom studied his face with a different kind of concern now. “You sure you’re okay? You looked better earlier.”
Aou gave a noncommittal shrug. “Yeah.”
Boom didn’t push. He sat down next to him on the couch, not touching but close enough to radiate warmth.
“I’m drawing you, Papa,” Ceri piped up from the coffee table, matter-of-fact. “And Daddy. And me. But I made you too tall and now Daddy looks small. It’s okay, though. I’ll fix it later. I will make whales too.”
There were framed photos on the shelves. The three of them - smiling at the park, or eating noodles, or wearing matching T-shirts that said “Papa,” “Daddy,” and “CEO of Snacks.” Aou had never seen those shirts before in his life. But there they were. In full color.
The little girl - Ceri - held his hand in every picture.
Aou cleared his throat. “Where… are we?”
“What do you mean? We’re at home.”
“...Your…place?”
Boom tilted his head, like the question was strange, concern back on his face. “Our house. Are you messing with me?”
Aou forced a smile and hoped it looked natural. “Ha… you got me.”
Boom rolled his eyes at him. “That’s not funny. I was actually worried.”
Ceri abandoned her drawing for a moment and climbed up beside them like it was the most natural thing in the world, plopping into their laps. “You said I could have snack toast today. That still true?”
“Uh,” Aou said.
“She’s been negotiating toast since breakfast,” Boom said. “I already caved.”
“Yay!” Ceri jumped up and scurried back to her drawing.
Boom let out a laugh. “We’re raising a tiny tyrant.”
Aou swallowed. Our house. We’re raising a kid.
He watched as Boom stood up, ruffling Ceri’s hair on the way back to the kitchen.
Ceri barely looked up as she continued talking at Aou. “I drew all of us now and I did a sun and a cloud and two whales. I need one more whale.”
“That’s a lot of whales,” Aou said - automatic, uncertain, a little shellshocked.
She grinned. “You said that last time too.”
Aou fell asleep again. When he woke up the second time, he thought maybe he would wake up from this strange dream, but all that had changed was the light streaming in from the windows and Ceri watching a cartoon on low volume next to him while Boom was making himself tea.
“Hey, sleeping beauty. It’s already five.”
Aou sat up slowly, making space for Boom to drop down onto the couch next to him.
“Sorry… still tired, I guess.”
“Feeling a little better now?” Boom offered a warm smile.
Aou tried to ignore whatever gymnastics his heart was doing and nodded.
Ceri crawled over to them, wedging herself between them like she belonged there.
“What are we doing tonight?” she asked.
Boom looked at her, then at Aou. “We were supposed to meet the others for dinner. But if you’re not up for it…”
Aou tried not to flinch when Boom touched his wrist lightly - just a brush of fingers.
“We can stay in,” Boom said. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Yeah,” Aou replied, unsure why his voice was so quiet. “That’s fine.”
Ceri beamed. “Can we watch a movie?”
Boom ruffled her hair. “If Papa’s feeling up to it.”
Aou nodded automatically, trying not to panic.
“Okay. I’ll let them know. Want me to cook?”
“I can help,” Aou offered, though his voice came out weaker than intended.
Boom smiled. “Yeah? You sure?”
Aou nodded. He wasn’t. But he had no idea how else to anchor himself.
Ceri padded into the kitchen a few minutes later, dragging her plush rabbit behind her. “I want the pink pasta.”
Boom raised a brow. “You had pink pasta yesterday.”
“I know.” She blinked. “But I want it again.”
Boom turned to Aou. “What do you think, Papa?”
Aou felt that word like a punch to the ribs every single time.
“Pink pasta it is,” he said, trying his best to smile.
Boom leaned over to him and kissed his temple.
Aou nearly dropped the pot for the spaghetti.
After dinner, Boom let Ceri pick a movie. Something loud and colorful and full of talking animals. Ceri curled against Boom’s side on the couch. Aou sat at the dining table nearby, folding laundry just to keep his hands busy. He had insisted on doing it, despite Boom telling him to just leave it for him to do tomorrow.
The lights were dimmed. The warm glow of the TV flickered across their faces.
Boom glanced at him over Ceri’s head, eyes soft.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said. “Still feeling okay?”
Aou nodded. “Yeah, all fine. Just a bit off still.”
Boom smiled faintly. “You’re still cute, even when you’re a bit off.”
Aou looked down at the socks in his lap, trying not to show how hard his heart was racing.
Eventually, there was no more laundry to fold, and so Aou joined them on the couch, Ceri immediately shifting to curl up against Aou with a familiarity that made his chest ache.
Boom was settled on the other side of the couch, half-leaning into him, arm slung across the backrest - his hand brushing Aou’s shoulder every now and then.
Ceri fell asleep before the movie ended.
Boom carried her gently to her room. Aou followed. Her room was full of things. Toys. Stickers. Books stacked sideways. She had a small night light shaped like a cat and her own framed photo of the three of them on her shelf.
Boom tucked her in. Aou stood in the doorway, afraid to blink in case it all vanished.
Afterward, they sat on the couch again.
“I’ll do the dishes in the morning,” he said.
Aou sat down beside him again, hands clasped together tightly. Boom leaned in, slid an arm around him again.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, quiet now.
Aou nodded.
Boom kissed his neck - soft and unhurried.
Aou jolted slightly, barely hiding it. His heart stuttered.
Boom pulled back. “Something wrong?”
“No,” Aou said quickly. “Just… caught me off guard.”
Boom didn’t push. Just smiled again, sleepy. “You’ve been acting a little weird today. Kind of endearing, honestly.”
Aou’s heart was pounding in his chest, his thoughts racing.
How had he and Boom ended up here? Ceri being a child was one thing. A very insane, definitely crazy thing. But Boom apparently… having feelings for him? Being in love with him? Aou’s devastating, tragic, unrequited love for his on-screen partner and actual friend being reciprocated being a reality?
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Boom said softly, pulling Aou from his confused internal ramblings.
“I was scared for a second,” Boom continued. “When you didn’t remember things at the hospital.”
Aou swallowed. “Sorry.”
Boom shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. I just… I’m glad you’re here.”
And then - impossibly - Boom leaned in and kissed his lips. Quick. Familiar. Without hesitation. Just a short press of lips, as if it was something they did a million times a day, every day.
Aou’s breath caught.
Boom pulled back, smiling warmly. “I’m going to sleep. You coming?”
Aou nodded.
He lay in bed later with the sound of the movie theme still looping in his ears, Boom curled around him, Boom’s | Our Little Universe
The first thing Aou noticed was the weight behind his eyes - that familiar, dull pressure that came after too little sleep or a bad fall. His head pounded like someone had dropped something heavy and it landed right behind his forehead, like a hangover without the fun.
The second thing he noticed was… warmth.
Not the stale kind from a studio trailer or the blaring heat of stage lights, but a soft warmth - like sunlight filtering through curtains and the faint hum of someone making breakfast not far away.
He could smell toast.
Not burnt - not the half-charred kind he made himself when sleepwalking through a call time - but warm, real toast. Like something out of a brunch menu. It wafted through the air in waves of butter and quiet clatter.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The ceiling above him was pale cream. Not his.
He blinked.
The surface under him was soft, unfamiliar. A couch. Wide, tidy in a lived-in sort of way. A knitted blanket was draped half over him, like someone had tucked him in. Light flooded in from wide windows across the room. Late morning, probably. Golden sun filtered through thin white curtains, casting lazy rectangles across the wood floor.
Someone was humming.
Aou turned toward the sound - the open-plan kitchen across from the couch.
Boom.
Hair still sleep-mussed, wearing an oversized black sweatshirt and loose pajama pants, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, barefoot. He was moving like this was a normal morning - like he belonged here.
Aou’s heart skipped a beat, then stumbled again when another voice rang out.
“Papa? You awake now?”
Aou turned his head slowly.
There, on the floor by the coffee table, a little girl, her dark hair half-tied and already falling loose, sat cross-legged in purple pajamas covered in stars. She had a marker in one hand and was frowning very seriously at a sheet of paper. A small stuffed rabbit lay facedown beside her. She looked at him and grinned.
Bright brown eyes, a little round face, expressive eyebrows that crinkled with frustration. Familiar.
Too familiar.
He didn’t know her.
Except… he did. Somehow. Her face tugged at something too deep to place - like remembering a dream after it already started dissolving.
“Papa,” she repeated, not impatient - just waiting.
Aou stared.
The girl blinked at him. “Are you sleepy still?”
“I told you not to wake him up, sweetie.”
A moment later, Boom appeared, holding a glass of water in one hand and a pill packet in the other. He looked… domestic. Soft hair. Sleep creases on his forearm. A slight lean to his stance like he’d been up and moving for a while. Comfortable. Familiar.
Aou blinked again, slower this time.
Boom handed him the water and pills. “You okay? You looked out of it earlier. Take one now, one before dinner.”
Aou blinked. “Earlier?”
Boom smiled like it was an inside joke. “You tried to put peanut butter in the rice cooker.”
“I what?”
Boom’s smile widened, warm eyes scanning Aou’s face. “You hit your head yesterday, remember? During the shoot. Not serious - just an action scene that didn’t go quite right. Doctor said you’d probably feel foggy for a few days.”
Aou opened his mouth - but before he could find something to say, the little girl spoke again.
Boom walked over, crouched next to the girl and tapped the paper gently. “The whiskers go out, not down. That’s why your cat looks sad.”
“It’s a moody cat,” she insisted.
“Okay, moody cat. But even moody cats don’t cry like this.”
The girl sighed. “Fine. I will draw something else.”
Aou stared at them.
“Who is she?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Boom turned. His expression shifted - not confused, not upset. Just… surprised.
“What do you mean?” he asked carefully.
Aou glanced at the girl again. She looked up, like she’d sensed his voice going weird.
“I-” Aou cleared his throat. “I mean, I didn’t hear her name. What was it again?”
Boom frowned slightly but didn’t press.
“Ceri,” he said gently. “You named her. Don’t you remember?”
The world tilted.
Aou stared at him. Then at her.
Ceri.
That name shouldn’t have meant anything. But it hit like a soft blow to the chest. Ceri was a mascot. A brightly colored, star-headed mascot. Not a real child. Not… this.
“I… think I hit my head harder than I thought,” Aou said, trying to keep his voice level.
Boom came closer, kneeling slightly in front of him. He reached out, brushed a thumb along Aou’s cheekbone with familiar ease.
Aou blinked, tensed slightly, heart racing.
Everything about this was wrong. Or right. That was the problem.
Because nothing felt alarming. No one was confused. Not Boom, not the kid, not even the house. It was warm. Familiar. Like he’d been here before. Like he belonged here.
But he didn’t.
His last clear memory was - what?
The filming set. Lights. Everything after that was fuzzy. Like a part of his brain had been quietly taped over.
“Still with us?”
Aou nodded, a beat too late. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… dizzy.”
Boom studied his face with a different kind of concern now. “You sure you’re okay? You looked better earlier.”
Aou gave a noncommittal shrug. “Yeah.”
Boom didn’t push. He sat down next to him on the couch, not touching but close enough to radiate warmth.
“I’m drawing you, Papa,” Ceri piped up from the coffee table, matter-of-fact. “And Daddy. And me. But I made you too tall and now Daddy looks small. It’s okay, though. I’ll fix it later. I will make whales too.”
There were framed photos on the shelves. The three of them - smiling at the park, or eating noodles, or wearing matching T-shirts that said “Papa,” “Daddy,” and “CEO of Snacks.” Aou had never seen those shirts before in his life. But there they were. In full color.
The little girl - Ceri - held his hand in every picture.
Aou cleared his throat. “Where… are we?”
“What do you mean? We’re at home.”
“...Your…place?”
Boom tilted his head, like the question was strange, concern back on his face. “Our house. Are you messing with me?”
Aou forced a smile and hoped it looked natural. “Ha… you got me.”
Boom rolled his eyes at him. “That’s not funny. I was actually worried.”
Ceri abandoned her drawing for a moment and climbed up beside them like it was the most natural thing in the world, plopping into their laps. “You said I could have snack toast today. That still true?”
“Uh,” Aou said.
“She’s been negotiating toast since breakfast,” Boom said. “I already caved.”
“Yay!” Ceri jumped up and scurried back to her drawing.
Boom let out a laugh. “We’re raising a tiny tyrant.”
Aou swallowed. Our house. We’re raising a kid.
He watched as Boom stood up, ruffling Ceri’s hair on the way back to the kitchen.
Ceri barely looked up as she continued talking at Aou. “I drew all of us now and I did a sun and a cloud and two whales. I need one more whale.”
“That’s a lot of whales,” Aou said - automatic, uncertain, a little shellshocked.
She grinned. “You said that last time too.”
Aou fell asleep again. When he woke up the second time, he thought maybe he would wake up from this strange dream, but all that had changed was the light streaming in from the windows and Ceri watching a cartoon on low volume next to him while Boom was making himself tea.
“Hey, sleeping beauty. It’s already five.”
Aou sat up slowly, making space for Boom to drop down onto the couch next to him.
“Sorry… still tired, I guess.”
“Feeling a little better now?” Boom offered a warm smile.
Aou tried to ignore whatever gymnastics his heart was doing and nodded.
Ceri crawled over to them, wedging herself between them like she belonged there.
“What are we doing tonight?” she asked.
Boom looked at her, then at Aou. “We were supposed to meet the others for dinner. But if you’re not up for it…”
Aou tried not to flinch when Boom touched his wrist lightly - just a brush of fingers.
“We can stay in,” Boom said. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Yeah,” Aou replied, unsure why his voice was so quiet. “That’s fine.”
Ceri beamed. “Can we watch a movie?”
Boom ruffled her hair. “If Papa’s feeling up to it.”
Aou nodded automatically, trying not to panic.
“Okay. I’ll let them know. Want me to cook?”
“I can help,” Aou offered, though his voice came out weaker than intended.
Boom smiled. “Yeah? You sure?”
Aou nodded. He wasn’t. But he had no idea how else to anchor himself.
Ceri padded into the kitchen a few minutes later, dragging her plush rabbit behind her. “I want the pink pasta.”
Boom raised a brow. “You had pink pasta yesterday.”
“I know.” She blinked. “But I want it again.”
Boom turned to Aou. “What do you think, Papa?”
Aou felt that word like a punch to the ribs every single time.
“Pink pasta it is,” he said, trying his best to smile.
Boom leaned over to him and kissed his temple.
Aou nearly dropped the pot for the spaghetti.
After dinner, Boom let Ceri pick a movie. Something loud and colorful and full of talking animals. Ceri curled against Boom’s side on the couch. Aou sat at the dining table nearby, folding laundry just to keep his hands busy. He had insisted on doing it, despite Boom telling him to just leave it for him to do tomorrow.
The lights were dimmed. The warm glow of the TV flickered across their faces.
Boom glanced at him over Ceri’s head, eyes soft.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said. “Still feeling okay?”
Aou nodded. “Yeah, all fine. Just a bit off still.”
Boom smiled faintly. “You’re still cute, even when you’re a bit off.”
Aou looked down at the socks in his lap, trying not to show how hard his heart was racing.
Eventually, there was no more laundry to fold, and so Aou joined them on the couch, Ceri immediately shifting to curl up against Aou with a familiarity that made his chest ache.
Boom was settled on the other side of the couch, half-leaning into him, arm slung across the backrest - his hand brushing Aou’s shoulder every now and then.
Ceri fell asleep before the movie ended.
Boom carried her gently to her room. Aou followed. Her room was full of things. Toys. Stickers. Books stacked sideways. She had a small night light shaped like a cat and her own framed photo of the three of them on her shelf.
Boom tucked her in. Aou stood in the doorway, afraid to blink in case it all vanished.
Afterward, they sat on the couch again.
“I’ll do the dishes in the morning,” he said.
Aou sat down beside him again, hands clasped together tightly. Boom leaned in, slid an arm around him again.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, quiet now.
Aou nodded.
Boom kissed his neck - soft and unhurried.
Aou jolted slightly, barely hiding it. His heart stuttered.
Boom pulled back. “Something wrong?”
“No,” Aou said quickly. “Just… caught me off guard.”
Boom didn’t push. Just smiled again, sleepy. “You’ve been acting a little weird today. Kind of endearing, honestly.”
Aou’s heart was pounding in his chest, his thoughts racing.
How had he and Boom ended up here? Ceri being a child was one thing. A very insane, definitely crazy thing. But Boom apparently… having feelings for him? Being in love with him? Aou’s devastating, tragic, unrequited love for his on-screen partner and actual friend being reciprocated being a reality?
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Boom said softly, pulling Aou from his confused internal ramblings.
“I was scared for a second,” Boom continued. “When you didn’t remember things at the hospital.”
Aou swallowed. “Sorry.”
Boom shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. I just… I’m glad you’re here.”
And then - impossibly - Boom leaned in and kissed his lips. Quick. Familiar. Without hesitation. Just a short press of lips, as if it was something they did a million times a day, every day.
Aou’s breath caught.
Boom pulled back, smiling warmly. “I’m going to sleep. You coming?”
Aou nodded.
He lay in bed later with the sound of the movie theme still looping in his ears, Boom curled around him, Boom’s chest against his back, an arm slung across Aou’s waist, the warmth of something he didn’t remember building quietly in his chest.
He closed his eyes.
But sleep didn’t come easily.
Aou woke up early. Not because of an alarm, or a child jumping on him - but that kind of early where the light looked too still and the silence felt intentional. He blinked, slowly, eyes adjusting to the pale gray spilling through the bedroom window.
Boom’s arm was still slung across his stomach. The weight of it made Aou pause. It was warm. Casual. Familiar.
But not to him.
He stayed like that for a moment - not moving, not breathing much - just staring up at the ceiling and letting the quiet settle over him. He didn’t want to disturb Boom. Not just because he looked peaceful, mouth slightly parted, lashes long against his cheeks. But because Aou wasn’t sure what would happen if he saw Boom’s eyes again right now.
He needed a moment to think.
He slipped out from under the blankets with careful precision, shuffling to the edge and lifting himself out of the bed with the kind of grace that only came from years of sneaking off set mid-nap.
The floor was cool under his feet. The hallway was dim. The living room was washed in early morning blue, curtains half-closed. The house was quiet. Lived-in. Cozy.
And deeply unfamiliar.
Aou wandered.
He found himself drawn to the kitchen first. It was tidy but familiar in a personal way - the kind of clutter that meant someone actually cooked here. A coffee mug sat next to a plate of half-eaten chips from the night before. The fridge was covered in magnets - mismatched souvenirs, alphabet letters, a photo booth strip of Boom with whipped cream on his nose and Ceri clinging to his back, both of them grinning like idiots. A glossy picture of the three of them at some sort of series premiere, Ceri included, dressed to the nines.
And the drawings.
Ceri’s drawings - uneven, chaotic, colorful. Taped to the door with washi tape, layered slightly over each other. Crayon-scribbled masterpieces labeled in block letters: “Papa.” “Daddy.” “Me.” One had all three of them holding hands under a giant smiling sun, with a rainbow overhead and several questionable animals at their feet. Another showed Boom and Aou kissing - drawn with the subtlety of a six-year-old with a pink crayon obsession and an affinity for glitter. Aou stared at that one a little too long.
The fridge door opened stiffly when he pulled it. Inside were leftovers, two kinds of milk - one oat, one cow - and a container of cut-up mango. On the lid, a post-it note in Boom’s handwriting: Don’t eat this, it’s for the princess.
Aou let the fridge close and stepped back, heart thudding with something too complicated to name.
He wandered into the hallway. More photos lined the walls - candid ones. Him, Boom, and Ceri at a night market, eating grilled squid on skewers. Ceri asleep on Aou’s chest on a couch that might’ve been this one. Boom kissing Aou’s cheek while holding a sparkler. Aou smiling too hard to pretend it didn’t mean something. In one, Ceri was asleep in Boom’s arms, with Aou smiling at both of them like he was the happiest man alive.
His fingers hovered just short of the wall, like touching would make it realer.
There were more photos tucked into the edge of the mirror near the door. The three of them on a picnic blanket. One of Boom with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, Ceri climbing on his back. A blurry one of Aou and Ceri mid-laugh, cheeks squished together, looking ridiculous.
He stepped back. His reflection blinked at him.
What was this life?
And why didn’t he remember building it?
He stood for a long moment at the edge of the living room, trying to piece together what it meant that his handwriting was on the grocery list and his face was in the photo frames, but his memory was an empty hallway echoing with questions.
Eventually, he heard soft footsteps behind him.
Boom stood there, hair messy, wearing the same oversized shirt from last night.
“You’re up early” he said, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” Aou said automatically. “I just… couldn’t sleep. Guess I slept too much during the day yesterday.”
Boom walked past him into the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine. “You should’ve woken me. I would’ve made you coffee.”
Aou followed, slowly. “I thought you’d be tired.”
Boom pulled him close by the waist and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Not too tired for you.”
Aou swallowed hard and looked away.
Ten minutes later, Ceri tumbled out of her room with her rabbit in one hand and her hair a nest on her head. She grinned when she saw him sitting at the table, drinking his coffee. “Papa, you didn’t wake me!”
“You were sleeping so well,” Aou offered, unsure what else to say.
She climbed into his lap like she’d done it a thousand times. “Are we going to the store today?”
Boom, leaning against the kitchen counter, finishing the last of his own coffee, nodded. “We’re out of everything. You promised you’d pick the snacks, remember?”
Ceri lit up. “I want the jelly ones with the bears.”
Boom turned toward Aou. “You up for it? Grocery run, then maybe swing by P’Ying’s to drop off that package?”
Aou hesitated. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Great.” Boom smiled. “You good to drive?”
Aou blinked. “Who else?”
Boom raised a brow. “I mean… I can, but you always complain that I take every corner like I’m in an action movie chase scene.”
Aou coughed.
When did Boom get a driver’s license?
“I’ll drive.”
Ceri sat in the child seat of the cart, waving one of the two stuffed animals she had brought along as shopping companions and asking questions at top speed - what aisle had the good yogurt, why spaghetti wasn’t shaped like letters, if they could buy another lion plush because this one had “a bad attitude.”
Boom handled it all like a practiced magician - answering patiently, redirecting, occasionally bribing.
Aou felt like an understudy in a life that wasn’t his.
He noticed the way people looked at them as they passed. Smiling. Familiar.
The woman at the fresh produce stand said, “Oh! Back for more grapes?” and winked at Ceri.
Ceri pointed. “That’s the grape lady.”
Aou nodded politely.
A few aisles later, Boom leaned in while comparing two kinds of soy sauce and kissed Aou on the cheek. Quick. Casual.
Aou flinched. Not because it was unpleasant - it was far from unpleasant - but because it was public. Broad daylight. Fluorescent lighting. Aisle twelve.
His body went rigid, brain flashing through possibilities - had anyone seen? Were there cameras? Was this going to end up online? His instinctual panic flared like muscle memory.
Boom paused. “Sorry - too early for PDA?”
His heart spiked. “P’Boom-”
“What?”
“There are people-”
“So?” Boom stared at him like he’d just spoken a language he didn’t know. “You know the fans love us. If they see us being all… soft like this, they’ll start crying again.”
“Again?” Aou echoed, baffled.
Boom grinned and nudged him with a shoulder. “You really don’t remember the Valentine’s Day post?”
Aou opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“You posted a pic of me holding Ceri while she had chocolate all over her face, and you captioned it, ‘Two valentines, zero chill”. We were trending for, I think, three hours? You were really proud of that caption, even though it sucks.”
Aou just stared at him.
“You okay?” Boom asked again, more serious now.
Aou nodded quickly, gripping the tote bag a little too hard. “Yeah. Just… head stuff.”
Boom studied him for a second longer before kissing his temple - softer this time, almost apologetic.
They moved on, Aou pushing the cart like nothing was wrong. But inside, his thoughts were cracking down the middle. This life was not the one he remembered. This version of Boom was loving him openly, in public, in daylight - not the quiet looks and long silences of platonic friendship he was used to.
By the time they reached the checkout line, Ceri had charmed the cashier into giving her a sticker, Boom had snuck three of Aou’s favorite snack packs into the cart, and Aou was convinced he was either dreaming or losing his mind.
Outside, as they loaded groceries into the car, Aou felt like his heart was too far behind the rest of him - like he’d left it somewhere back in aisle four.
That night, dinner was fried rice with chicken. Ceri devoured it and insisted she would “grow taller than the moon” if she ate enough. Aou tried to follow the conversation. He was beginning to understand the rhythm of things - how Boom moved in the kitchen, the way Ceri insisted on three ice cubes in her juice, how the salt shaker was always in the wrong place.
It was terrifying how easily he could slip into it.
After dinner, Boom volunteered to do dishes. Aou sat on the couch with Ceri, who was curled up beside him with a book already in her lap.
“Your turn,” she said. “You promised the other day. Daddy always says you do the voice better.”
Aou looked down. The book had a glittery unicorn on the cover.
He cleared his throat. “Okay. Let’s see…”
He opened the first page and immediately stumbled.
Unicorn of the Rainbow Mountain was not a plot he was familiar with. And Ceri clearly knew it by heart.
“That’s not the voice,” she said with a frown after three lines.
“What voice?”
“The unicorn voice. You do it sparkly.”
“I… don’t remember how I did it.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Not upset. Just serious.
“You’re still my Papa, right?”
The question broke something in his chest.
“Of… course I am.”
She nodded and tucked herself to his chest, head resting against his shoulder, like that was that. “You’ll remember soon. Daddy says sometimes the brain is like a jelly jar.”
Aou blinked. “A what?”
“Sticky. But things come out eventually.”
He laughed - real, startled.
At some point, she yawned halfway through a sentence and fell asleep against him by the end of the second chapter. Aou didn’t move. Not for a while.
Boom found them like that - Ceri curled up, snoring slightly, Aou still holding the book.
“She passed out on you,” Boom said softly.
“Mid-word.”
“She does that again lately. Growth spurt incoming, probably. I can take her.”
Boom lifted her gently, with practiced ease, and Aou followed as he brought her to bed. Boom tucked the blanket around her, kissed her forehead. Aou watched, hands deep in his hoodie pockets to keep them from shaking.
They sat on the couch together. A movie played in the background, but neither was fully invested in it. Boom curled into his side like he always did. Or - apparently always had.
Aou wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.
Boom was warm against him. Head resting on his shoulder. Aou didn’t move. He couldn’t. His body wasn’t cooperating with his brain.
“You’re being really quiet today,” Boom said after a while. “Like, really, really quiet.”
Aou’s voice was low. “I’m just… overwhelmed.”
Boom shifted to look at him. “You sure you don’t want to see a doctor? Go to the hospital again and get checked out?”
Aou shook his head, searching for a truth that made sense and settling on something that at least wasn’t a lie. “I’m fine. I just have some… memory gaps.”
Boom reached up - cupped his face with one hand, soft and steady.
“It’s okay,” he said, eyes searching his. “But I’m here. We’re here. You’re okay.”
Aou nodded slowly.
“I only have a schedule in,” he paused to think about it, “three days. Four days, I think. Need to check my calendar. Other than that, I’ll be here. Ceri’s here. And you still have a couple days of rest. Hm?”
He smiled reassuringly and something warm and heavy settled in Aou’s chest.
Boom leaned in, without hurry, certain. Aou tensed for a moment when Boom’s lips met his, sure and familiar in a way Aou didn’t know how to hold.
They had kissed before, so many times, in front of the camera, between takes to get into character.
But not like this.
Boom’s hand cradled his cheek, his jaw gently, lips moving, and Aou gave in.
It was warm, slow.
And terrifying.
Aou tasted the caramel candy on Boom’s tongue he’d had after dinner, because Ceri decided she didn’t like it in the end even though she had insisted on buying it, and it almost made his brain short-circuit.
When they pulled apart, Boom was still close. He pressed another kiss to Aou’s mouth, a quick one this time, only a peck.
“Whatever’s going on,” Boom said, “it’s going to be fine.”
He smiled at him again, as if all of this was just a regular Tuesday night activity for them - and it probably was, for all Aou currently knew - and lay back down, curling into Aou’s side.
Aou’s gaze flicked to the TV screen, where a woman cried at someone’s bedside, and closed his eyes. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77344861/chapters/202499436 | {"authors": ["daisychains (cherriesuns)"], "language": "English", "title": "Our Little Universe"} |
𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔪𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰
Chino called a few days ago. The conversation was short but meaningful, and I could hear the grin in his voice.
"...Hey!" He beamed through the phone, probably messing with his hair as he spoke or something.
"Hey, Chino!" I smiled, as if we were speaking face to face, though I was too happy to realize that Chino couldn't see my expression. It was morning, the sky still pale and the sun still finding its place behind the clouds. I was making coffee, standing by the counter with my hand curled around the phone.
"Hey, so I was, like, wondering," Chino started, voice softening. "We've been with each other for a while now, right? I was wondering if you'd want to move in with me. No pressure, of course."
I grinned, almost gripping my phone too tight. I was beyond joyous, I was genuinely excited that Chino had finally brought this up, had finally asked. I felt like I might just jump up and down, out of pure excitement and joy...But, obviously, I didn't jump up and down.
"Totally! Yeah, I'd really love that. When do you want me to pack and get ready?"
"Okay, good! I was thinking I would come over and help pack your stuff...Then we can just drive over to my house."
The coffee maker chimed, and I held the phone between my shoulder and the side of my head as I poured myself a mug.
"Oh, yeah, that's perfect. When d'you think you'll be here?" I questioned, breathing in slow, letting the warm steam and smell of coffee drift into my lungs.
Chino exhaled, a simple breath, the soft sound quieted as it passed through his phone and out of mine. He sounded tired. "I'm already in town, jus' making a stop somewhere. Maybe at...Umm, one-thirty or two? Whenever you're free."
I hummed. "Yeah, two's okay! Take your time, I'm, like, free all day."
"Okay, perfect, see you then! Love you."
"Love you too, bye."
Chino hung up first, then I grinned to myself, putting my phone away. I turned my attention fully to my coffee, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic and savoring the heat.
It was about eleven right now, so I had about three hours to get chores done and get ready for company. Three hours seemed like a while, but I knew too all well how quickly it would go by if I lost track of time.
Once I finished my coffee, I set the mug into the sink and switched on the sink, preparing to do dishes. I didn't have many plates or cups since I lived alone ( that wouldn't be for much longer...! ), but I always felt more confident when the dishes were done.
. . .
The sink had been emptied, its contents now settled on the drying rack. I had my coffee mug in hand, now empty and wet, a rag in the other hand, drying it off slow. It was one of those novelty mugs, a gift from Chino, actually. It was my favorite, there was a little cat printed on the front. After drying, I set it on my shelf with the other mugs.
Now that the dishes were done, I didn't have much else to do other than shower and maybe listen to some music...I had some CDs I bought and had been meaning to listen to, I'd just been busy with work and such.
I gathered clothes for after my shower. Nothing extravagant...Old, thrifted jeans ( ones that were slightly too long, but they were comfortable ) and a black hoodie, my favorite band's logo at the front, the print slightly cracked from washing but still legible. I stepped into the bathroom, set my clothes by the sink, and shut the water on.
The shower was nice and warm, I never wanted to leave. I needed to have time for my hair to dry, though, I didn't like feeling like a wet dog. I ran my hands through my wet hair, washing out the shampoo and closing my eyes under the water.
. . .
After my shower, it was about one-twenty, about forty minutes until two. I dried my hair off with a towel, then tossed the cloth into my laundry basket. I flopped onto the couch and reached for the remote, eyes surveying all the buttons all over this dumbass remote. Half the buttons I've never touched. Ever.
I flipped through channels until I landed on some old horror movie, it was about halfway through when I'd found it. I didn't pay much attention to the movie, my eyes were closed, and I was slowly falling asleep...
. . .
Knock-knock-knock...
Shit, what was that? I sat up, running a hand over my face, still half-asleep.
Oh, nevermind...I could see Chino's silhouette through the window. I sat up and ran a hand through my messy hair, which had dried probably a while ago. I unlocked the door and pulled it open, and Chino grinned, immediately pulling me into a hug. My arms curled around him too, and I don't think either of us would've minded if the embrace was never ending.
But then it did, but it was fine. I knew we'd probably cuddle sometime later. Maybe... Anyway, Chino was still grinning, then he held out a cup of soda, BURGER KING written in round letters, a thin red straw poking out of the lid.
"Hey," he spoke softly, calm. "Brought this for you."
I took the drink from him, then offered a grateful glance. "Thank you."
His smile softened, then he stepped inside, closing the door behind us.
"Okay, so, we gotta pack."
I took a sip of the soda, then recognized the taste, cherry Coke. I loved cherry Coke. Chino knew I did.
"Oh, uh-huh...I don't gotta bring a bunch of stuff, but, yeah..."
Chino let his hand land on my forearm, and he walked us to my room. "No, yeah, that's okay, just pack whatever you need."
We both made it to my bedroom, and we settled on the floor, the cup of soda forgotten somewhere on my nightstand and an unzipped back between us.
"Okay...Clothes, uhh, what else?" Chino leaned back on his hands, looking around for anything else I might need
I sucked at packing. "Umm, I don't know. CDs? I don't have a lotta stuff."
Chino grinned.
"Yeah, just, like, pack whatever. If we forget anything, we'll just come back."
"Yeah."
I pushed myself off the floor and stepped over to my dresser, looking through a fat stack of my CDs, the ones I'd recently bought, and some I've had since, like, forever...I just grabbed the whole stack and gently tucked them into the bag.
"Okay, we got clothes and CDs."
. . .
Packing took about thirty minutes. After that, we sat in the living room for a while, sitting close, that horror movie still playing. Chino's arm was draped over the back of the couch, hand settled behind my head. He hummed, content, staring at the TV.
"What is this? This chick's been screaming for, like, five minutes."
I grabbed the remote, thumb pressing one of the arrow buttons. Nothing good was on...Either weird movies or commercial breaks. "Man, I dunno."
"Yeah, turn that shit off," Chino exhaled, pulling me closer and smiling. I settled close, too, and Chino pressed a soft kiss to my lips. I grinned against his lips, then mumbled, "you taste like grease."
"Burger King."
. . .
The afternoon deepened, and me and Chino finally got off the couch.
"All right," Chino murmured, arm slipping to curl around my back for a moment. "Go get your bag, all right? I gotta use the bathroom."
"Okay, take yer time."
Chino stepped into the restroom, and I returned to the bedroom to gather my things. I found my wallet on the nightstand, so I tucked that into my back pocket.
When I came back out, Chino was waiting at the front door, zipping his hoodie and offering a smile as he caught my gaze.
"You ready?" He pulled his sleeves down, hand brushing over some dust.
I nod, grabbing my Converse and tying them quickly. "Mm-hmm."
"Cool...Okay, let's be quiet and drive."
. . .
The car ride was calm and unrushed. The radio was on but quiet, playing some song with gentle and unintelligible lyrics. With the windows rolled down about halfway, I could feel the wind fan over my skin. It smelled crisp and clean...I felt glad I'd worn that hoodie.
Chino hummed, taking quick glances at me every once in a while, looking longer whenever there was a red light or a pause in traffic.
"So," he murmured, eyes on the road for this moment. "How's work?"
"Good, same as usual, I think..." I gazed out the window, eyes narrowing as the wind blows through the window.
He nodded, then looked over, rolling up the windows, fiddling with the seat warmers. "S'cold today."
"Yeah."
I didn't know how cold I'd actually been until I was warm, and the difference made me relax further into the passenger's seat. The warmth always made me tired.
. . .
I'd must have fallen asleep because, when I opened my eyes, the sky was deep, the car still rolling along the street. Chino looked tired, but still focused as ever as we rode along back to his house.
"Should be there soon," he breathed, hands deft but still gentle on the wheel.
Traffic slowed a few moments later, the car in front of us, a white SUV, barely moving. Chino leaned back, sighing. We looked at each other in shared silence, not awkward, just comfortable and sleepy. The car lurched forward, barely noticeable until we were at the front of the intersection. Then, we started moving again.
We turned down a smaller road, then, after some time, the lake came into view. It was prettier than I'd remembered. I'd visited before in the past, but finally moving into the lake house with Chino made everything feel different. A good different, I think. An excited different. I loved Chino, living with him was going to be amazing.
The lake glittered under the moonlight, everything was drenched in the soft violets and blues of nighttime.
"Here," Chino mumbled, voice soft in the darkness. He reached over to switch the gear to park, then he twisted the key out of the ignition. We both unbuckled our seatbelts and Chino reached for my bag in the back seat, unlocking the car. After we stepped out, he guided me to the front door.
Inside, the air was warm and inviting, and Chino finally seemed to relax as he locked the door behind us, sealing us into this soft moment.
"Welcome home," he spoke gently, setting my bag down on the counter.
I smiled, then we both untied our shoes and kicked them off by the door.
. . .
Me and Chino made dinner together, ate, then spent some time watching TV on the couch. I hadn't felt so content in, what, years? It felt amazing to finally move in with Chino and not have to leave in the morning.
Then, on the couch, Chino had his arms curled around me, breathing slowly, probably drifting off closer to sleep. I nudge him gently, coaxing a sleepy hum from him.
"Hmm?"
I let my lips brush his cheek, then his lips curled into a tired smile. "Wanna go to bed?"
Without a word, he stood and pulled me up with him.
. . .
After Chino and I changed our clothes and got ready for bed, Chino settled onto the mattress, pulling the blanket up for me to get in as well. The bed was already warm, the blankets soft against my skin, the pillows perfect and fluffy...Chino pulled me close, content and tired. The pillowcases smelled faintly of his hair gel, something that'd become comforting.
"G'night, Chino," I mumble, reaching over to turn the lamp off. The room darkened.
Chino snuggled closer, breath fanning softly over my skin, he was already half-asleep.
"Sleep well, honey." | 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔪𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰
Chino called a few days ago. The conversation was short but meaningful, and I could hear the grin in his voice.
"...Hey!" He beamed through the phone, probably messing with his hair as he spoke or something.
"Hey, Chino!" I smiled, as if we were speaking face to face, though I was too happy to realize that Chino couldn't see my expression. It was morning, the sky still pale and the sun still finding its place behind the clouds. I was making coffee, standing by the counter with my hand curled around the phone.
"Hey, so I was, like, wondering," Chino started, voice softening. "We've been with each other for a while now, right? I was wondering if you'd want to move in with me. No pressure, of course."
I grinned, almost gripping my phone too tight. I was beyond joyous, I was genuinely excited that Chino had finally brought this up, had finally asked. I felt like I might just jump up and down, out of pure excitement and joy...But, obviously, I didn't jump up and down.
"Totally! Yeah, I'd really love that. When do you want me to pack and get ready?"
"Okay, good! I was thinking I would come over and help pack your stuff...Then we can just drive over to my house."
The coffee maker chimed, and I held the phone between my shoulder and the side of my head as I poured myself a mug.
"Oh, yeah, that's perfect. When d'you think you'll be here?" I questioned, breathing in slow, letting the warm steam and smell of coffee drift into my lungs.
Chino exhaled, a simple breath, the soft sound quieted as it passed through his phone and out of mine. He sounded tired. "I'm already in town, jus' making a stop somewhere. Maybe at...Umm, one-thirty or two? Whenever you're free."
I hummed. "Yeah, two's okay! Take your time, I'm, like, free all day."
"Okay, perfect, see you then! Love you."
"Love you too, bye."
Chino hung up first, then I grinned to myself, putting my phone away. I turned my attention fully to my coffee, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic and savoring the heat.
It was about eleven right now, so I had about three hours to get chores done and get ready for company. Three hours seemed like a while, but I knew too all well how quickly it would go by if I lost track of time.
Once I finished my coffee, I set the mug into the sink and switched on the sink, preparing to do dishes. I didn't have many plates or cups since I lived alone ( that wouldn't be for much longer...! ), but I always felt more confident when the dishes were done.
. . .
The sink had been emptied, its contents now settled on the drying rack. I had my coffee mug in hand, now empty and wet, a rag in the other hand, drying it off slow. It was one of those novelty mugs, a gift from Chino, actually. It was my favorite, there was a little cat printed on the front. After drying, I set it on my shelf with the other mugs.
Now that the dishes were done, I didn't have much else to do other than shower and maybe listen to some music...I had some CDs I bought and had been meaning to listen to, I'd just been busy with work and such.
I gathered clothes for after my shower. Nothing extravagant...Old, thrifted jeans ( ones that were slightly too long, but they were comfortable ) and a black hoodie, my favorite band's logo at the front, the print slightly cracked from washing but still legible. I stepped into the bathroom, set my clothes by the sink, and shut the water on.
The shower was nice and warm, I never wanted to leave. I needed to have time for my hair to dry, though, I didn't like feeling like a wet dog. I ran my hands through my wet hair, washing out the shampoo and closing my eyes under the water.
. . .
After my shower, it was about one-twenty, about forty minutes until two. I dried my hair off with a towel, then tossed the cloth into my laundry basket. I flopped onto the couch and reached for the remote, eyes surveying all the buttons all over this dumbass remote. Half the buttons I've never touched. Ever.
I flipped through channels until I landed on some old horror movie, it was about halfway through when I'd found it. I didn't pay much attention to the movie, my eyes were closed, and I was slowly falling asleep...
. . .
Knock-knock-knock...
Shit, what was that? I sat up, running a hand over my face, still half-asleep.
Oh, nevermind...I could see Chino's silhouette through the window. I sat up and ran a hand through my messy hair, which had dried probably a while ago. I unlocked the door and pulled it open, and Chino grinned, immediately pulling me into a hug. My arms curled around him too, and I don't think either of us would've minded if the embrace was never ending.
But then it did, but it was fine. I knew we'd probably cuddle sometime later. Maybe... Anyway, Chino was still grinning, then he held out a cup of soda, BURGER KING written in round letters, a thin red straw poking out of the lid.
"Hey," he spoke softly, calm. "Brought this for you."
I took the drink from him, then offered a grateful glance. "Thank you."
His smile softened, then he stepped inside, closing the door behind us.
"Okay, so, we gotta pack."
I took a sip of the soda, then recognized the taste, cherry Coke. I loved cherry Coke. Chino knew I did.
"Oh, uh-huh...I don't gotta bring a bunch of stuff, but, yeah..."
Chino let his hand land on my forearm, and he walked us to my room. "No, yeah, that's okay, just pack whatever you need."
We both made it to my bedroom, and we settled on the floor, the cup of soda forgotten somewhere on my nightstand and an unzipped back between us.
"Okay...Clothes, uhh, what else?" Chino leaned back on his hands, looking around for anything else I might need
I sucked at packing. "Umm, I don't know. CDs? I don't have a lotta stuff."
Chino grinned.
"Yeah, just, like, pack whatever. If we forget anything, we'll just come back."
"Yeah."
I pushed myself off the floor and stepped over to my dresser, looking through a fat stack of my CDs, the ones I'd recently bought, and some I've had since, like, forever...I just grabbed the whole stack and gently tucked them into the bag.
"Okay, we got clothes and CDs."
. . .
Packing took about thirty minutes. After that, we sat in the living room for a while, sitting close, that horror movie still playing. Chino's arm was draped over the back of the couch, hand settled behind my head. He hummed, content, staring at the TV.
"What is this? This chick's been screaming for, like, five minutes."
I grabbed the remote, thumb pressing one of the arrow buttons. Nothing good was on...Either weird movies or commercial breaks. "Man, I dunno."
"Yeah, turn that shit off," Chino exhaled, pulling me closer and smiling. I settled close, too, and Chino pressed a soft kiss to my lips. I grinned against his lips, then mumbled, "you taste like grease."
"Burger King."
. . .
The afternoon deepened, and me and Chino finally got off the couch.
"All right," Chino murmured, arm slipping to curl around my back for a moment. "Go get your bag, all right? I gotta use the bathroom."
"Okay, take yer time."
Chino stepped into the restroom, and I returned to the bedroom to gather my things. I found my wallet on the nightstand, so I tucked that into my back pocket.
When I came back out, Chino was waiting at the front door, zipping his hoodie and offering a smile as he caught my gaze.
"You ready?" He pulled his sleeves down, hand brushing over some dust.
I nod, grabbing my Converse and tying them quickly. "Mm-hmm."
"Cool...Okay, let's be quiet and drive."
. . .
The car ride was calm and unrushed. The radio was on but quiet, playing some song with gentle and unintelligible lyrics. With the windows rolled down about halfway, I could feel the wind fan over my skin. It smelled crisp and clean...I felt glad I'd worn that hoodie.
Chino hummed, taking quick glances at me every once in a while, looking longer whenever there was a red light or a pause in traffic.
"So," he murmured, eyes on the road for this moment. "How's work?"
"Good, same as usual, I think..." I gazed out the window, eyes narrowing as the wind blows through the window.
He nodded, then looked over, rolling up the windows, fiddling with the seat warmers. "S'cold today."
"Yeah."
I didn't know how cold I'd actually been until I was warm, and the difference made me relax further into the passenger's seat. The warmth always made me tired.
. . .
I'd must have fallen asleep because, when I opened my eyes, the sky was deep, the car still rolling along the street. Chino looked tired, but still focused as ever as we rode along back to his house.
"Should be there soon," he breathed, hands deft but still gentle on the wheel.
Traffic slowed a few moments later, the car in front of us, a white SUV, barely moving. Chino leaned back, sighing. We looked at each other in shared silence, not awkward, just comfortable and sleepy. The car lurched forward, barely noticeable until we were at the front of the intersection. Then, we started moving again.
We turned down a smaller road, then, after some time, the lake came into view. It was prettier than I'd remembered. I'd visited before in the past, but finally moving into the lake house with Chino made everything feel different. A good different, I think. An excited different. I loved Chino, living with him was going to be amazing.
The lake glittered under the moonlight, everything was drenched in the soft violets and blues of nighttime.
"Here," Chino mumbled, voice soft in the darkness. He reached over to switch the gear to park, then he twisted the key out of the ignition. We both unbuckled our seatbelts and Chino reached for my bag in the back seat, unlocking the car. After we stepped out, he guided me to the front door.
Inside, the air was warm and inviting, and Chino finally seemed to relax as he locked the door behind us, sealing us into this soft moment.
"Welcome home," he spoke gently, setting my bag down on the counter.
I smiled, then we both untied our shoes and kicked them off by the door.
. . .
Me and Chino made dinner together, ate, then spent some time watching TV on the couch. I hadn't felt so content in, what, years? It felt amazing to finally move in with Chino and not have to leave in the morning.
Then, on the couch, Chino had his arms curled around me, breathing slowly, probably drifting off closer to sleep. I nudge him gently, coaxing a sleepy hum from him.
"Hmm?"
I let my lips brush his cheek, then his lips curled into a tired smile. "Wanna go to bed?"
Without a word, he stood and pulled me up with him.
. . .
After Chino and I changed our clothes and got ready for bed, Chino settled onto the mattress, pulling the blanket up for me to get in as well. The bed was already warm, the blankets soft against my skin, the pillows perfect and fluffy...Chino pulled me close, content and tired. The pillowcases smelled faintly of his hair gel, something that'd become comforting.
"G'night, Chino," I mumble, reaching over to turn the lamp off. The room darkened.
Chino snuggled closer, breath fanning softly over my skin, he was already half-asleep.
"Sleep well, honey." | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77348591 | {"authors": ["kevinhartlaugh57"], "language": "English", "title": "𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔪𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰"} |
Flow
It started with Kingdom. They were all terrified and excited, missing sleep to practice, to throw together ideas, to try to predict what their rivals would do. Sometimes Hyunjin felt like he was only half real. The rest of him was just music, pulling the solid parts around into a shape that fit it. But until it fit, he banged elbows and missed beats and landed on his back so wrong that Channie-hyung stopped practice to check on him.
It ruined the flow. Hyunjin was always chasing the flow. If he couldn’t do it all the way through he would throw himself at the routine until he did.
Then the whole thing came crashing down and there was no flow because there were no dances for him. Maybe not ever again. Channie hyung promised that wouldn’t happen, that they’d bring him back just like they did with Minho hyung and Lix, that he’d fight JYP barehanded if he had to. Channie hyung’s hands had gotten bigger since debut - Hyunjin couldn’t help noticing everything had gotten bigger - but he couldn’t fight the terror inside Hyunjin himself, or the thoughts that wouldn’t stop coming.
The way Lix had looked when it all came out, shocked and desolate. Back in trainee days Lix, like the little menace that he is, teamed up with Seungmin to tease the other 00liners and Hyunjin had snapped back the way he would with Han. Not the old way when they were really trying to get under each other’s skin. Just a good sharp poke back, the way boys do. Seungmin mock-gasped and laughed, but Lix froze for a second, and Hyunjin, startled, saw his eyes go big and glassy.
Channie hyung’s head came up from across the room because as every one of them knew he was literally psychic, especially when it was anything to do with Felix. But Hyunjin was already hugging Lix before he even knew he had moved, saying sorry, sorry, he didn’t mean it, he’d never say that again. Lix’s fluffy hair was so soft on his shoulder and his skinny arms came round Hyunjin’s waist with surprising strength, and he was already smiling again, his eyes crinkling even as he blinked his wet lashes.
“Why are you sorry? I was just surprised, that’s all. I’m sorry too.”
When Hyunjin saw Lix’s face as the JYP execs explained why they were putting Hyunjin on hiatus, for an awful moment Hyunjin thought he might believe them. But then Felix said, more upset than angry, “why would you believe stories like this? Why are you punishing Hyunjinnie?”
Hyunjin felt like a ghost the whole run of Kingdom, like he was there but not there. They even did a whole performance about it and then the judges made Jeonginnie cry for no goddamn reason - Hyunjin could have cried himself with anger and helplessness.
Channie hyung came over as often as possible, sitting with the legal skijigis going over the case. He was supposed to be the only one allowed to see Hyunjin, even though the others called and texted freely every evening.
But Lix was there sometimes, because of course he was. Hyunjin would meet them in his family’s driveway and as the black car door slid open he’d spot a pale little sunbeam shining out behind Hyung’s broad silhouette, and the next thing he knew he was wrapped in a fluffy hug on the couch while Channie hyung and the legal team were talking as usual.
It was one of the few things that kept the wave of thoughts and fears at bay. Lix’s head on his shoulder and the whole warm line of him, cheek to hip, as he petted and scratched Kkami on his lap (because of course Kkami adored Lix too, that fickle little brat). Bending over the phone together as they read messages from STAY full of love, faith and support. Channie hyung’s big hug enveloping both of them as they all headed out.
Hyunjin found himself reliving the day in the classroom over and over, everyone shouting. It had been weeks of little to no sleep, his body exhausted from studying, training, and all the little blows. Even the compliments he got sounded like insults. “You’re so handsome, you could be famous for that alone.” “I wish I had your face, I’d have debuted by now.” “It’s like a free ticket to the top.”
Had he said everything that they claimed he said? He couldn’t remember. He knew he had tried his best to be a good classmate but it all seemed a blur of trying to survive one hour to get to the next. He remembered shouting back but he knew he hadn’t pushed anyone, and it seemed unimaginable that he had bragged about debuting when all he thought of back then was how desperate he was to get better, how far behind he felt.
Watching Lix on the screen surrounded by adoring friends and seniors made him ache all the way to his palms and feet. Jeonginnie being adored and perpetually called cute made him laugh because of course everyone should find I.N. cute, he was obviously the most precious person on the planet. But watching Lix be petted and pinched and hugged like he was Kkami - all Hyunjin wanted was to be there to hug him first.
The sports day made him so envious he had to take Kkami for a run in the forest, but it was nothing to the envy he felt when he heard what the Mayfly dance section was doing. Even Channie hyung didn’t know what they were going to do on the day but Lix, Innie and Minho hyung had sent Hyunjin videos, because like hell were DanceRacha going to leave their center out of any practice, whether he was actually there or not.
Innie was even excited about it: Look hyung, it’s so amazing! And it was amazing, it was exactly the kind of thing Ateez would do. Hyunjin itched so bad to try it himself, wished so much that he was there too. But something more than envy caught up to him, finally.
Watching Wooyoung catch Felix on his thighs, and the way Lix clung to him after - Hyunjin dropped the phone and did a little prance around the room. He didn’t even know what he was doing. He popped and pirouetted, threw out his hands and pointed his feet, trying to shake out the feeling. It was like cramps, like pins and needles in every limb, even in his throat and chest. And that was the first of the unimaginable thoughts to appear: I want him so much.
***
And then Channie hyung fixed everything because of course he did, and Hyunjin came back and everyone cried and hugged and went back to practice like they were fighting demons. And Wolfgang came out again with Hyunjin right in the center because if there was anything Stray Kids liked it was a good slap in the face to their haters. STAY loved it and everyone was happy again, or as happy as they could be while there was a pandemic raging on.
Once he had been cleared to come back to the dorms and Hyunjin was basking in the storm of jubilant hugging that was his reward, he thought, We’ve all grown up now. Everything’s changed.
Kingdom had been a revelation. It unlocked a whirlwind of fresh energy in the group. Everyone needed to blow off steam after everything that happened, and that meant writing, music, and ideas, but it also meant they were all bouncing off the walls. Channie hyung arranged a song camp so they could do unit songs for the new comeback.
Apparently 3RACHA had been channeling their rage against JYP, MNET and Hyunjin’s haters into a full album of some of the most amazing songs Hyunjin had ever heard. Lying around on the dorm rugs and Channie hyung’s bed listening to the demos, everyone stared at each other.
“And you wrote this during Kingdom?” Minho hyung demanded. I.N. was still listening open-mouthed to Thunderous and Lix had his eyes closed, singing silently along to The View, waving his arms and wriggling like a fish because he was incapable of listening to music without dancing even when flat on his back in bed. Not that Hyunjin had room to talk.
Channie hyung was cross-legged at the head of the bed, smiling fondly at Lix and his blissed-out fish dancing. “We finished it during Kingdom, sort of. Some of the songs are older; Hannie wrote Secret Secret a while ago, and when we listened to it we just ended up writing Silent Cry right away as a response.” He reached out and brushed Lix’s hair back, and Lix opened his eyes and smiled up at him.
That pins and needles feeling prickled through Hyunjin again and he spread his hands out on his knees to avoid clenching them into fists. Channie hyung looked up and straight into his eyes because again, the man was literally psychic.
They stared at each other for a long moment while Chan continued to comb through an oblivious Lixie’s hair and everyone else grilled a suddenly shy Han about Secret Secret. Hyunjin felt his mouth go dry as Chan stared, like Hyung could see all of his feelings laid out, even the ones he wasn’t sure of, and was reading them like song lyrics and setting them to music.
Channie hyung said, “I think Hyunjin and I should write a song together.”
Lix sat up eagerly. “Are we not doing it per Racha this time? Who wants to write together?”
Everyone started talking. 3Racha would split up and lead each unit, and they’d have a song camp over several days then present the song and concepts for a music video. Hyunjin’s head was still spinning at the pace, like yesterday he came back after thinking he might have to disappear from Stray Kids forever like Woojin, and then just two seconds ago it felt like Chan had exposed all of Hyunjin’s sudden or not so sudden feelings for Felix, and it seemed almost like Chan…maybe had his own feelings? And now they were going to hole up for several days and write a song together. And then film an MV.
Well, if there was anything Stray Kids was good at it was turning raw exposed nerves into chart-topping songs. Hyunjin just hoped no one would ask him about this one. | Flow
It started with Kingdom. They were all terrified and excited, missing sleep to practice, to throw together ideas, to try to predict what their rivals would do. Sometimes Hyunjin felt like he was only half real. The rest of him was just music, pulling the solid parts around into a shape that fit it. But until it fit, he banged elbows and missed beats and landed on his back so wrong that Channie-hyung stopped practice to check on him.
It ruined the flow. Hyunjin was always chasing the flow. If he couldn’t do it all the way through he would throw himself at the routine until he did.
Then the whole thing came crashing down and there was no flow because there were no dances for him. Maybe not ever again. Channie hyung promised that wouldn’t happen, that they’d bring him back just like they did with Minho hyung and Lix, that he’d fight JYP barehanded if he had to. Channie hyung’s hands had gotten bigger since debut - Hyunjin couldn’t help noticing everything had gotten bigger - but he couldn’t fight the terror inside Hyunjin himself, or the thoughts that wouldn’t stop coming.
The way Lix had looked when it all came out, shocked and desolate. Back in trainee days Lix, like the little menace that he is, teamed up with Seungmin to tease the other 00liners and Hyunjin had snapped back the way he would with Han. Not the old way when they were really trying to get under each other’s skin. Just a good sharp poke back, the way boys do. Seungmin mock-gasped and laughed, but Lix froze for a second, and Hyunjin, startled, saw his eyes go big and glassy.
Channie hyung’s head came up from across the room because as every one of them knew he was literally psychic, especially when it was anything to do with Felix. But Hyunjin was already hugging Lix before he even knew he had moved, saying sorry, sorry, he didn’t mean it, he’d never say that again. Lix’s fluffy hair was so soft on his shoulder and his skinny arms came round Hyunjin’s waist with surprising strength, and he was already smiling again, his eyes crinkling even as he blinked his wet lashes.
“Why are you sorry? I was just surprised, that’s all. I’m sorry too.”
When Hyunjin saw Lix’s face as the JYP execs explained why they were putting Hyunjin on hiatus, for an awful moment Hyunjin thought he might believe them. But then Felix said, more upset than angry, “why would you believe stories like this? Why are you punishing Hyunjinnie?”
Hyunjin felt like a ghost the whole run of Kingdom, like he was there but not there. They even did a whole performance about it and then the judges made Jeonginnie cry for no goddamn reason - Hyunjin could have cried himself with anger and helplessness.
Channie hyung came over as often as possible, sitting with the legal skijigis going over the case. He was supposed to be the only one allowed to see Hyunjin, even though the others called and texted freely every evening.
But Lix was there sometimes, because of course he was. Hyunjin would meet them in his family’s driveway and as the black car door slid open he’d spot a pale little sunbeam shining out behind Hyung’s broad silhouette, and the next thing he knew he was wrapped in a fluffy hug on the couch while Channie hyung and the legal team were talking as usual.
It was one of the few things that kept the wave of thoughts and fears at bay. Lix’s head on his shoulder and the whole warm line of him, cheek to hip, as he petted and scratched Kkami on his lap (because of course Kkami adored Lix too, that fickle little brat). Bending over the phone together as they read messages from STAY full of love, faith and support. Channie hyung’s big hug enveloping both of them as they all headed out.
Hyunjin found himself reliving the day in the classroom over and over, everyone shouting. It had been weeks of little to no sleep, his body exhausted from studying, training, and all the little blows. Even the compliments he got sounded like insults. “You’re so handsome, you could be famous for that alone.” “I wish I had your face, I’d have debuted by now.” “It’s like a free ticket to the top.”
Had he said everything that they claimed he said? He couldn’t remember. He knew he had tried his best to be a good classmate but it all seemed a blur of trying to survive one hour to get to the next. He remembered shouting back but he knew he hadn’t pushed anyone, and it seemed unimaginable that he had bragged about debuting when all he thought of back then was how desperate he was to get better, how far behind he felt.
Watching Lix on the screen surrounded by adoring friends and seniors made him ache all the way to his palms and feet. Jeonginnie being adored and perpetually called cute made him laugh because of course everyone should find I.N. cute, he was obviously the most precious person on the planet. But watching Lix be petted and pinched and hugged like he was Kkami - all Hyunjin wanted was to be there to hug him first.
The sports day made him so envious he had to take Kkami for a run in the forest, but it was nothing to the envy he felt when he heard what the Mayfly dance section was doing. Even Channie hyung didn’t know what they were going to do on the day but Lix, Innie and Minho hyung had sent Hyunjin videos, because like hell were DanceRacha going to leave their center out of any practice, whether he was actually there or not.
Innie was even excited about it: Look hyung, it’s so amazing! And it was amazing, it was exactly the kind of thing Ateez would do. Hyunjin itched so bad to try it himself, wished so much that he was there too. But something more than envy caught up to him, finally.
Watching Wooyoung catch Felix on his thighs, and the way Lix clung to him after - Hyunjin dropped the phone and did a little prance around the room. He didn’t even know what he was doing. He popped and pirouetted, threw out his hands and pointed his feet, trying to shake out the feeling. It was like cramps, like pins and needles in every limb, even in his throat and chest. And that was the first of the unimaginable thoughts to appear: I want him so much.
***
And then Channie hyung fixed everything because of course he did, and Hyunjin came back and everyone cried and hugged and went back to practice like they were fighting demons. And Wolfgang came out again with Hyunjin right in the center because if there was anything Stray Kids liked it was a good slap in the face to their haters. STAY loved it and everyone was happy again, or as happy as they could be while there was a pandemic raging on.
Once he had been cleared to come back to the dorms and Hyunjin was basking in the storm of jubilant hugging that was his reward, he thought, We’ve all grown up now. Everything’s changed.
Kingdom had been a revelation. It unlocked a whirlwind of fresh energy in the group. Everyone needed to blow off steam after everything that happened, and that meant writing, music, and ideas, but it also meant they were all bouncing off the walls. Channie hyung arranged a song camp so they could do unit songs for the new comeback.
Apparently 3RACHA had been channeling their rage against JYP, MNET and Hyunjin’s haters into a full album of some of the most amazing songs Hyunjin had ever heard. Lying around on the dorm rugs and Channie hyung’s bed listening to the demos, everyone stared at each other.
“And you wrote this during Kingdom?” Minho hyung demanded. I.N. was still listening open-mouthed to Thunderous and Lix had his eyes closed, singing silently along to The View, waving his arms and wriggling like a fish because he was incapable of listening to music without dancing even when flat on his back in bed. Not that Hyunjin had room to talk.
Channie hyung was cross-legged at the head of the bed, smiling fondly at Lix and his blissed-out fish dancing. “We finished it during Kingdom, sort of. Some of the songs are older; Hannie wrote Secret Secret a while ago, and when we listened to it we just ended up writing Silent Cry right away as a response.” He reached out and brushed Lix’s hair back, and Lix opened his eyes and smiled up at him.
That pins and needles feeling prickled through Hyunjin again and he spread his hands out on his knees to avoid clenching them into fists. Channie hyung looked up and straight into his eyes because again, the man was literally psychic.
They stared at each other for a long moment while Chan continued to comb through an oblivious Lixie’s hair and everyone else grilled a suddenly shy Han about Secret Secret. Hyunjin felt his mouth go dry as Chan stared, like Hyung could see all of his feelings laid out, even the ones he wasn’t sure of, and was reading them like song lyrics and setting them to music.
Channie hyung said, “I think Hyunjin and I should write a song together.”
Lix sat up eagerly. “Are we not doing it per Racha this time? Who wants to write together?”
Everyone started talking. 3Racha would split up and lead each unit, and they’d have a song camp over several days then present the song and concepts for a music video. Hyunjin’s head was still spinning at the pace, like yesterday he came back after thinking he might have to disappear from Stray Kids forever like Woojin, and then just two seconds ago it felt like Chan had exposed all of Hyunjin’s sudden or not so sudden feelings for Felix, and it seemed almost like Chan…maybe had his own feelings? And now they were going to hole up for several days and write a song together. And then film an MV.
Well, if there was anything Stray Kids was good at it was turning raw exposed nerves into chart-topping songs. Hyunjin just hoped no one would ask him about this one. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77348626 | {"authors": ["perevision"], "language": "English", "title": "Flow"} |
Fate over Coffee
Selene Yan had never seen such a perfect looking human being.
Perched upright, she held a fixed gaze at her laptop with an analytical gaze, unaware of the bustle of the crowded coffee shop around her. As if in a realm of her own, she never once seemed off-put by the dull muffle of private conversations, cups clinking and sharp whispers that seemed to pierce through the cozy air.
Albeit taking small sips from her espresso and fleeting glances out the paned glass window, the muted blue haired stranger never once broke away from her straight posture.
An icy goddess. That was the impression Selene got of the woman from three months of working part-time at the coffee shop. She had initially gotten this job after a thrown-out suggestion from Megan after venting about her absurd rent, a solution that just made sense at the time.
Popular and well-known within the vicinity, the cafe boasted subservient and polite employees with splendid coffee. It was always crowded with eager employees from nearby corporates. Even Huanyu, the prestigious company, had their interns fetch coffee from there. Better yet, the cafe offered amazing pay for twenty hours a week. Three months later, upon seeing her everyday, Selene had no complaints.
She'd learned her name, gleaned from weeks of questioning her mutually unknowing coworkers, of glancing at her laptop from time to time and scouring her for any more hints.
Victoria; it was a name as velvety and decadent as the woman's expression of mirth as she settled into her favorite coffee. A name that was just as elegant as the way she carried herself effortlessly with grace.
Today, Victoria seemed stressed about something. She typed rapidly on her laptop, a furrow marring her neatly trimmed eyebrows.
Suddenly, she closed her laptop, retiring to her coffee with exasperation written all over her face. Then, her eyes met Selene's. Cold, bluish gray eyes with a hint of exhaustion locked onto Selene's own quartz stare. Recognition seemed to bloom in her slowly widening gaze before she quickly turned away, sipping on her steaming espresso while she contemplated a running squirrel outside.
Taken aback by the whole exchange, Selene nervously fidgeted with a mug. She had never seen the woman so aggrieved before. Even so, she still hadn't broken away from her esteemed complexion. Yet, Selene sensed something was not right, as if Victoria was trying to veil her troubles with an nonchalant mask.
So, she approached her with a tiramisu slice, hoping to cheer up the beautiful regular's day even if just a little bit.
Surprise flashed on Victoria's face as Selene walked closer, her lips parting but then closing again. She accepted the plate without loud objection.
"Thank you. How much will this tiramisu be?"
"On the house! Think of it as a token of appreciation for your continued patronage." Selene chirped politely all the while a jittering storm churned inside her stomach. At this rate, she might have an explosive time in the bathroom later.
The woman looked so surprised Selene couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. She was so cute when she was vulnerable.
Just as quickly as it dropped, Victoria's usual face of seriousness returned. She smiled back at Selene, upturning the edges of her lips into a delicate smile slowly in a gesture of gratitude. Selene's breath hitched in her throat as she watched it unfold.
The fragrant scent of the dignified coffee melted naturally into the cocoa powder's own rich scent as Victoria brought it to her table front, tempering the aroma around the two with a bittersweet tinge.
Selene couldn't help herself from swallowing.
"The coffee and pastries from this location is delicious," Victoria continued softly.
Her eyes eyes shifted to Selene, then to her name tag clipped slightly above her apron.
"Thank you, Miss Yan."
It had been days since the encounter, yet Selene couldn't stop thinking back to Victoria's serene smile as she dipped her head back.
Her usual air of seriousness had a charm of gentle affection that day. Her hands, although still rigid with discipline, held a hint of softness as she accepted the tiramisu with caution, careful not to tip it over on Selene.
And her face, glowing with the soft rays of the sun dipping into the skyline in the background. It was framed with loose strands that draped her already thin face to look effortlessly put together.
Selene's mind drifted to her face. Her down-turned, gray eyes and her straight nose bridge followed by her lips, expressed in a rigid line.
Her lips had a soft shine, complementing her equally sweet smile.
Was she aware that she had left a faint trail of chocolate by her lips?
Selene giggled into her pillow, amused by the thought. She had to resist herself from cupping her chin and brushing it away from her lips. She would have brought her face closer and closer, looking for a stray tissue while tilting Victoria's face to the side.
Then she would have brought her own mouth, heated and soft, and brushed over the remaining spot left in the deep crevices in the lines of her lips, drawing deeper and deeper into…
Selene's chest felt tight now, and heat rose to her throat.
She couldn't help but wander into the warm velvet of inside Victoria's mouth.
What it would feel like to lick the inside and gently tease her tongue, probing the hot mass. To lick and moisten her all over and slowly trail the roof of her mouth.
She wanted so badly to lick and suckle her lips, to encapsulate her own tongue with all the fluids and flavor of Victoria's heat. Then destroy it, betray her trust and roughly bite into the corner of her lips, rip apart the tenderness of her skin while Victoria's eyes twitch and shake in her naivete.
She would leave her marks across the pearly plains of her slender neck, then nuzzle into the crook of it and rub their bodies together. Her sensual curves would fit right into the palms of her hand. Skin against skin, massaging indulgently.
It would leave her back arching as Selene caressed with her thin, teasing fingers inching closer to Victoria's midsection, finally gripping her girdle.
Selene couldn't ignore her own heat throbbing between her legs. Slowly, she spread her legs and opened the folds with two fingers, tracing the wrinkled lines, shuddering as she did so. Her fingers neared her clitoral hood, fingers reaching for her throbbing clit. She played with it, twirling the pulsating protrusion of flesh and pressed it, hard, squeezing out a strained gasp.
As she imagined Victoria's flushed with lust, she braced herself for her probing fingers, entering the soft walls within. Her middle and index finger flicked together habitually.
It was searing against Selene's cool fingers. She twitched at the contact, rubbing warm and cold together, caressing soft dips over and over again.
A soft, muffled moan escaped from Selene as she fingered herself slowly, twirling her fingers sensually. Her hips involuntarily pressed against her hand, wanting deeper stimulation. As if on cue, her legs squeezed together, leaving even less space between her fingers and the moist walls.
Eventually, she fell into a tempo, flicking her fingers in and out as her thighs rubbed against her knuckles. Each dip of her fingers elicited a sharp breath, plunging not just forward, but curling inwards in all directions, anything Selene could think of at the moment.
But it wasn't enough.
Selene wanted more the stimulation of her own fingers. She needed something thicker, colder, and longer.
Victoria's hands came to mind. Her long, delicate fingers would do perfectly.
Inserting inside Selene as gently as she'd cupped the plate of tiramisu, she'd first reach in uncertainly. Then, with gaining confidence, probe harder against the pulsating mess.
Selene's voice pierced through her delusions with a cry, followed by a tell tale release of her fluids onto the bedsheets. The release in tension in her gut was immediate, sending tingling waves of satisfaction.
After a while, she sat upright, stretching out the slick in her hands and sighed.
It would take a while to clean up the mess. | Fate over Coffee
Selene Yan had never seen such a perfect looking human being.
Perched upright, she held a fixed gaze at her laptop with an analytical gaze, unaware of the bustle of the crowded coffee shop around her. As if in a realm of her own, she never once seemed off-put by the dull muffle of private conversations, cups clinking and sharp whispers that seemed to pierce through the cozy air.
Albeit taking small sips from her espresso and fleeting glances out the paned glass window, the muted blue haired stranger never once broke away from her straight posture.
An icy goddess. That was the impression Selene got of the woman from three months of working part-time at the coffee shop. She had initially gotten this job after a thrown-out suggestion from Megan after venting about her absurd rent, a solution that just made sense at the time.
Popular and well-known within the vicinity, the cafe boasted subservient and polite employees with splendid coffee. It was always crowded with eager employees from nearby corporates. Even Huanyu, the prestigious company, had their interns fetch coffee from there. Better yet, the cafe offered amazing pay for twenty hours a week. Three months later, upon seeing her everyday, Selene had no complaints.
She'd learned her name, gleaned from weeks of questioning her mutually unknowing coworkers, of glancing at her laptop from time to time and scouring her for any more hints.
Victoria; it was a name as velvety and decadent as the woman's expression of mirth as she settled into her favorite coffee. A name that was just as elegant as the way she carried herself effortlessly with grace.
Today, Victoria seemed stressed about something. She typed rapidly on her laptop, a furrow marring her neatly trimmed eyebrows.
Suddenly, she closed her laptop, retiring to her coffee with exasperation written all over her face. Then, her eyes met Selene's. Cold, bluish gray eyes with a hint of exhaustion locked onto Selene's own quartz stare. Recognition seemed to bloom in her slowly widening gaze before she quickly turned away, sipping on her steaming espresso while she contemplated a running squirrel outside.
Taken aback by the whole exchange, Selene nervously fidgeted with a mug. She had never seen the woman so aggrieved before. Even so, she still hadn't broken away from her esteemed complexion. Yet, Selene sensed something was not right, as if Victoria was trying to veil her troubles with an nonchalant mask.
So, she approached her with a tiramisu slice, hoping to cheer up the beautiful regular's day even if just a little bit.
Surprise flashed on Victoria's face as Selene walked closer, her lips parting but then closing again. She accepted the plate without loud objection.
"Thank you. How much will this tiramisu be?"
"On the house! Think of it as a token of appreciation for your continued patronage." Selene chirped politely all the while a jittering storm churned inside her stomach. At this rate, she might have an explosive time in the bathroom later.
The woman looked so surprised Selene couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. She was so cute when she was vulnerable.
Just as quickly as it dropped, Victoria's usual face of seriousness returned. She smiled back at Selene, upturning the edges of her lips into a delicate smile slowly in a gesture of gratitude. Selene's breath hitched in her throat as she watched it unfold.
The fragrant scent of the dignified coffee melted naturally into the cocoa powder's own rich scent as Victoria brought it to her table front, tempering the aroma around the two with a bittersweet tinge.
Selene couldn't help herself from swallowing.
"The coffee and pastries from this location is delicious," Victoria continued softly.
Her eyes eyes shifted to Selene, then to her name tag clipped slightly above her apron.
"Thank you, Miss Yan."
It had been days since the encounter, yet Selene couldn't stop thinking back to Victoria's serene smile as she dipped her head back.
Her usual air of seriousness had a charm of gentle affection that day. Her hands, although still rigid with discipline, held a hint of softness as she accepted the tiramisu with caution, careful not to tip it over on Selene.
And her face, glowing with the soft rays of the sun dipping into the skyline in the background. It was framed with loose strands that draped her already thin face to look effortlessly put together.
Selene's mind drifted to her face. Her down-turned, gray eyes and her straight nose bridge followed by her lips, expressed in a rigid line.
Her lips had a soft shine, complementing her equally sweet smile.
Was she aware that she had left a faint trail of chocolate by her lips?
Selene giggled into her pillow, amused by the thought. She had to resist herself from cupping her chin and brushing it away from her lips. She would have brought her face closer and closer, looking for a stray tissue while tilting Victoria's face to the side.
Then she would have brought her own mouth, heated and soft, and brushed over the remaining spot left in the deep crevices in the lines of her lips, drawing deeper and deeper into…
Selene's chest felt tight now, and heat rose to her throat.
She couldn't help but wander into the warm velvet of inside Victoria's mouth.
What it would feel like to lick the inside and gently tease her tongue, probing the hot mass. To lick and moisten her all over and slowly trail the roof of her mouth.
She wanted so badly to lick and suckle her lips, to encapsulate her own tongue with all the fluids and flavor of Victoria's heat. Then destroy it, betray her trust and roughly bite into the corner of her lips, rip apart the tenderness of her skin while Victoria's eyes twitch and shake in her naivete.
She would leave her marks across the pearly plains of her slender neck, then nuzzle into the crook of it and rub their bodies together. Her sensual curves would fit right into the palms of her hand. Skin against skin, massaging indulgently.
It would leave her back arching as Selene caressed with her thin, teasing fingers inching closer to Victoria's midsection, finally gripping her girdle.
Selene couldn't ignore her own heat throbbing between her legs. Slowly, she spread her legs and opened the folds with two fingers, tracing the wrinkled lines, shuddering as she did so. Her fingers neared her clitoral hood, fingers reaching for her throbbing clit. She played with it, twirling the pulsating protrusion of flesh and pressed it, hard, squeezing out a strained gasp.
As she imagined Victoria's flushed with lust, she braced herself for her probing fingers, entering the soft walls within. Her middle and index finger flicked together habitually.
It was searing against Selene's cool fingers. She twitched at the contact, rubbing warm and cold together, caressing soft dips over and over again.
A soft, muffled moan escaped from Selene as she fingered herself slowly, twirling her fingers sensually. Her hips involuntarily pressed against her hand, wanting deeper stimulation. As if on cue, her legs squeezed together, leaving even less space between her fingers and the moist walls.
Eventually, she fell into a tempo, flicking her fingers in and out as her thighs rubbed against her knuckles. Each dip of her fingers elicited a sharp breath, plunging not just forward, but curling inwards in all directions, anything Selene could think of at the moment.
But it wasn't enough.
Selene wanted more the stimulation of her own fingers. She needed something thicker, colder, and longer.
Victoria's hands came to mind. Her long, delicate fingers would do perfectly.
Inserting inside Selene as gently as she'd cupped the plate of tiramisu, she'd first reach in uncertainly. Then, with gaining confidence, probe harder against the pulsating mess.
Selene's voice pierced through her delusions with a cry, followed by a tell tale release of her fluids onto the bedsheets. The release in tension in her gut was immediate, sending tingling waves of satisfaction.
After a while, she sat upright, stretching out the slick in her hands and sighed.
It would take a while to clean up the mess. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77348606 | {"authors": ["Chocopoo"], "language": "English", "title": "Fate over Coffee"} |
The High Priestess and The Warrior
Blood covered the desecrated battlefield. The Legion had reigned victorious; Mars had favored them, if only for the day. A few of the Legion's special battle mongrels stomped over the land, guided by anxious Legionaries that were in charge of training them. Legion banners decorated the backs of the beasts, their heads held high and their ears alert as the Legion's warriors cheered into the night, thanking Mars for their victory. Several Legionaries were cheering and kicking at the bloodied bodies of those of NCR soldiers, a few of the Prime Legionaries participating in celebratory activities-- chopping heads off of the bodies and placing them on nearby pikes. A lone Centurion stood away from the rest, watching over them as if they were his own-- of course, they were, in a sense, his own. They were his kin, bathed in the same violent blood and born in the same brutal war. The Centurion lifted his head when a Veteran Decanus approached him.
"Ave," the Veteran Decanus nodded his head in respect to the Centurion. "True to Caesar. Every NCR soldier that was patrolling the area has fallen. We have won control of this land. I believe it's best to return to our camps."
The Centurion lifted his head, his long golden hair beneath the metal helmet flowing in the wind as he stared off into the distance. "Do as you wish," he replied curtly. "True to Caesar."
The Veteran Decanus hesitated before turning foot and walking back to his men, savage in their celebration. The Centurion ran the word over in his head. Savage. He repeated it aloud. It tasted strange on his lips and sounded wrong in his low voice. The same voice that had no fret in barking their cruel commands was wavering like a cowardly bitch at the sound of a mere word.
The Centurion turned away from the gory scene, his torn cape floating through the wind behind him as he made his way back to Cottonwood Cove.
The trek back to camp was arduous. The Centurion had sometimes caught sight of a pack of Night stalkers feasting on the remains of Brahmin or a group of Raiders attacking traveling merchants. He paid them no mind-- it was the natural order of things, after all. That was how the world was now. A few Legionaries greeted him at the entrance, ogling the blood stains on his armor, but he paid their looks no mind. He cared little for jealousy and envy. The Cursor Lucullus waited for him at the old dock on the shore, but the Centurion spared only a glance at the man, handing the man a small sack of Legion Denarius. The Cursor huffed in slight amusement but got back onto the boat nonetheless, expertly guiding the Centurion across the Colorado River to Caesar's Fort.
"Centurion Cassius," the Cursor spoke finally, his eyes focused on the destination far ahead, "might I ask how the fight at..."
"The Legion has claimed another victory," the Centurion, Cassius, interrupted dismissively.
The Cursor Lucullus curled his lip in annoyance, but his eyes lit up nonetheless at the mention of a Legion victory. "Excellent," he responded smoothly. "You make a fine leader, Cassius."
Cassius turned his head slightly at that, looking at the Cursor from the corner of his eye. "I appreciate that."
Soon enough, the Cursor's barge made it to the docks of the Fort. As Cassius and Lucullus stepped off of the barge, several Legion watchmen from inside the Fort shouted commands to lower the drawbridges upon seeing the Centurion Cassius and the Cursor Lucullus, earning a small 'hmph' of satisfaction from Cassius. The Cursor followed suit behind the Centurion, both nodding their respects to their fellow Legion brothers as they entered.
The Cursor soon caught up to Cassius as they walked along the trail of the Fort, leaning into his side just enough to make their close distance uncomfortable. "You know," the Cursor murmured casually, "I have heard rumors... rumors that the mighty Caesar will soon make love of the same-sex legal."
Cassius turned his head, eyeing Lucullus suspiciously. "Even if that were true," he spoke carefully and slowly, "I have already found myself a mate."
Lucullus raised an eyebrow. "A mate?" He sneered. "Surely you are not talking about a slave woman."
Cassius didn't respond, walking past the Cursor Lucullus to one of the large tents set up near the walking trail. Lucullus wrinkled his nose in disgust before turning and trudging back to the entrance of the Fort.
Cassius pushed his way past a few chatting Legionaries and Legion mongrels, ducking his head under the tent flap to enter the tent. | The High Priestess and The Warrior
Blood covered the desecrated battlefield. The Legion had reigned victorious; Mars had favored them, if only for the day. A few of the Legion's special battle mongrels stomped over the land, guided by anxious Legionaries that were in charge of training them. Legion banners decorated the backs of the beasts, their heads held high and their ears alert as the Legion's warriors cheered into the night, thanking Mars for their victory. Several Legionaries were cheering and kicking at the bloodied bodies of those of NCR soldiers, a few of the Prime Legionaries participating in celebratory activities-- chopping heads off of the bodies and placing them on nearby pikes. A lone Centurion stood away from the rest, watching over them as if they were his own-- of course, they were, in a sense, his own. They were his kin, bathed in the same violent blood and born in the same brutal war. The Centurion lifted his head when a Veteran Decanus approached him.
"Ave," the Veteran Decanus nodded his head in respect to the Centurion. "True to Caesar. Every NCR soldier that was patrolling the area has fallen. We have won control of this land. I believe it's best to return to our camps."
The Centurion lifted his head, his long golden hair beneath the metal helmet flowing in the wind as he stared off into the distance. "Do as you wish," he replied curtly. "True to Caesar."
The Veteran Decanus hesitated before turning foot and walking back to his men, savage in their celebration. The Centurion ran the word over in his head. Savage. He repeated it aloud. It tasted strange on his lips and sounded wrong in his low voice. The same voice that had no fret in barking their cruel commands was wavering like a cowardly bitch at the sound of a mere word.
The Centurion turned away from the gory scene, his torn cape floating through the wind behind him as he made his way back to Cottonwood Cove.
The trek back to camp was arduous. The Centurion had sometimes caught sight of a pack of Night stalkers feasting on the remains of Brahmin or a group of Raiders attacking traveling merchants. He paid them no mind-- it was the natural order of things, after all. That was how the world was now. A few Legionaries greeted him at the entrance, ogling the blood stains on his armor, but he paid their looks no mind. He cared little for jealousy and envy. The Cursor Lucullus waited for him at the old dock on the shore, but the Centurion spared only a glance at the man, handing the man a small sack of Legion Denarius. The Cursor huffed in slight amusement but got back onto the boat nonetheless, expertly guiding the Centurion across the Colorado River to Caesar's Fort.
"Centurion Cassius," the Cursor spoke finally, his eyes focused on the destination far ahead, "might I ask how the fight at..."
"The Legion has claimed another victory," the Centurion, Cassius, interrupted dismissively.
The Cursor Lucullus curled his lip in annoyance, but his eyes lit up nonetheless at the mention of a Legion victory. "Excellent," he responded smoothly. "You make a fine leader, Cassius."
Cassius turned his head slightly at that, looking at the Cursor from the corner of his eye. "I appreciate that."
Soon enough, the Cursor's barge made it to the docks of the Fort. As Cassius and Lucullus stepped off of the barge, several Legion watchmen from inside the Fort shouted commands to lower the drawbridges upon seeing the Centurion Cassius and the Cursor Lucullus, earning a small 'hmph' of satisfaction from Cassius. The Cursor followed suit behind the Centurion, both nodding their respects to their fellow Legion brothers as they entered.
The Cursor soon caught up to Cassius as they walked along the trail of the Fort, leaning into his side just enough to make their close distance uncomfortable. "You know," the Cursor murmured casually, "I have heard rumors... rumors that the mighty Caesar will soon make love of the same-sex legal."
Cassius turned his head, eyeing Lucullus suspiciously. "Even if that were true," he spoke carefully and slowly, "I have already found myself a mate."
Lucullus raised an eyebrow. "A mate?" He sneered. "Surely you are not talking about a slave woman."
Cassius didn't respond, walking past the Cursor Lucullus to one of the large tents set up near the walking trail. Lucullus wrinkled his nose in disgust before turning and trudging back to the entrance of the Fort.
Cassius pushed his way past a few chatting Legionaries and Legion mongrels, ducking his head under the tent flap to enter the tent. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77345456/chapters/202501196 | {"authors": ["bioscout8"], "language": "English", "title": "The High Priestess and The Warrior"} |
Bullet in the Dark
It was a time of peace. At least, it was for most drones. Once the Solver had been defeated and absorbed into Uzi, there was little to be afraid of. Khan regularly had to stop the jubilant population from dismantling the doors, frantically arguing that they may yet be needed again.
(Everyone knew the REAL reason, though. The guy was far from subtle when caressing his precious doors.)
After Uzi had discovered the backups of the other Solver hosts in her SSD and uploaded them into new bodies, the colony had even more reason to celebrate. Friends they had thought lost forever had been returned to them, and would now never need to fear anything again.
Except for one.
Strange as it may seem for a machine under constant threat, Doll actually quite enjoyed the feeling of abject terror. Or perhaps more accurately, she likes having control over the terror. With Robo-Satan and the Murder Drones gone, she had spent quite a bit of time trying to recapture that fear. This led her to where she was now, on her computer at midnight, marathoning an old classic: the Five Nights at Freddy’s series.
Honestly, she didn’t really get the hype. The first one was scary, yeah, but it wasn’t THAT bad. And the second one didn’t really give her a chance to be all that scared, thanks to the extreme difficulty.
She was bored, barely paying attention. Wind the box, check the vents, wind the box and wait for 6 AM. However, this boredom made her complacent. She was forgetting a step in her checks.
“[Ugh, any day now,]” she groaned, impatiently staring at the clock, when it happened. Foxy leapt out at her, seemingly coming right out of the screen, thanks to Uzi’s new monitor tech. Ordinarily, this would pose little issue. Doll was fairly battle-hardened after all, one little jumpscare shouldn't get to her.
Except this was no ordinary jumpscare. She did not see an animal shaped fictional robot, but a real one.
One covered not by animal skin, but human.
WARNING
CORE TEMPERATURE RISING
CPU 95℃
COOLANT 80℃
COOLANT INTAKE REQUIRED
Now reminded of her woefully inadequate cooling systems, coupled with the knowledge of how this fight went the last time, Doll made a sobering realization.
She can’t win this.
And with all the security in the bunker, escape is also unlikely. Her systems could only find one viable solution.
Don’t get found.
And so she hid under her bed, her ventilation pump running at max speed, desperately shutting down unnecessary systems to minimize noise.
Uzi was sitting in her room composing, when she suddenly heard a loud noise down the hall. She took off her headphones, trying to discern what the noise was. She was about to write it off when she heard screaming.
Wait… was that Russian?
“Doll!” Uzi yelled, jumping to her feet. She ran out the door, not even bothering to tell her dad or N where she was going. Worst case scenario, she would just message them later.
She ran to Doll’s apartment with fervor, prepared for a fight. With what, she didn’t know, but they’d surely be no match for her godly powers. However, what she found shocked her even more.
She threw open the door to Doll’s room, only to find it empty. Well, not quite empty. The sound of a pump moving like a car engine near instantly gave away Doll’s position under the bed. However, this only raised more questions. What was she doing there? And why did she seem so… scared?
“Hey, uh… you good?” Uzi asked, her voice soft. “You’re safe, there’s nothing here.”
When she got no response, Uzi sighed. “I’m coming in, okay?” She crawled under the bed, finding Doll curled up in a ball. When she got down there, Uzi made a disturbing realization. She didn’t even seem to notice me, she thought.
Well, N gets like this sometimes. I guess I just… do what works for him? Here goes nothing, Uzi thought nervously, before giving Doll a back rub.
Wrong move.
Doll immediately sprang to life, punching Uzi hard enough to crack her display. “Hey! Watch it!” Uzi cried out in pain, still stunned, as Doll continued to fight for her life like a cornered wild animal.
Okay, I’m WAY out of my depth here, Uzi realized, and beat a swift retreat to Doll’s living room. She racked her brain for anyone who could help. N? No, as good as he usually is with the… touchy-feely stuff, seeing a Disassembler would probably just make things worse. Dad? Nah, he definitely lacked the facilities to deal with something like this. Mom? Same problem as herself, no subtlety. V? HA! Yeah, right! Thad? Nice guy, but probably not. Lizzy?
Lizzy…
Uzi did NOT like Lizzy. Like, AT ALL. But, if anyone could help Doll, it would probably be her girlfriend.
“UGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” Uzi groaned as she retrieved Lizzy’s IP.
[darkXwolf17@uzi ~]$ vp -t [emailprotected]
[vp]: calling 146.70.97.127…
“Ugh. What do YOU want?”, said Lizzy, dripping with sass.
Uzi groaned. Of COURSE she was going to be like this. “Not the time, girlboss. Something’s up with Doll.”
“No backsass? Huh, must be serious, then. Okay, shoot.”
“Doll’s curled up under her bed, pump running at full speed. She’s, like, totally unresponsive.” Uzi explained. “Until I touched her, that is. That made her freak out, like she was in a fight.”
“You TOUCHED HER?!” Lizzy yelled. “WHY?! WHAT MADE YOU THINK THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA?!”
“I was just trying to help!” Uzi cried defensively. “N gets like this sometimes, and a back rub kinda brings him back, so…” she trailed off. “Sorry. I just made it worse, didn’t I?”
“Whatever, not the time. I’m coming, so just… stand by, okay? Maybe go get her some coolant.”
“Alright, see you soon.” Uzi finished.
^C
Call terminated.
Before the call even ended, Lizzy was already sprinting. Who cares if she was getting strange looks? Her girl needed her! She’s the most popular drone in the bunker, unlike the purple one, she can afford to lose some street cred.
“Where is she?!” Lizzy yelled as she threw open the door.
“Right in there, Liz. Though, I would suggest not losing your cool. She’s pretty unstable.” Uzi said calmly.
“Oh my Robo-God, I knoooowww. She’s my girlfriend, freak, you think this is the first time this has happened?”
“Ugh, whatever. This is why you were my last resort, you know. Let’s just get in there and help her out, okay?” Uzi tried to make peace.
“Ugh.” Lizzy replied in tacit agreement as they entered the room. “Alright, let me get at her terminal. I should be able to stop the panic attack manually.”
“Wait a second. Is manipulating her processes like that, y’know, ethical?” Uzi said nervously. “Sounds an awful lot like what the Solver does.”
“Again, freak, not my first rodeo. She’s given explicit consent to ME, and ONLY ME.” Lizzy shot back.
“Just asking, no need to bite my head off, Ms. Petty. And can you stop calling me that?!” Uzi retorted. “You know I’m here to help, right? I could’ve just gone home, I was busy.”
“Busy with what?” Lizzy snarked. “Brooding? Scribbling unhinged prophecies? Cuddling your genocide pet - sorry, ”boyfriend”?”
“Not the time!” Uzi cried in frustration. “Also, we’re gonna have words about what you just said later.” she snarled. “But, again, not the time! While we’re sitting here, your girlfriend’s having a panic attack, and by the looks of it, her CPU’s getting hotter by the second!”
Oh my Robo-God, I completely forgot why I came here, Lizzy realized.
should try to make nice with her.
“Ugh, whatEVER.” Lizzy sassed, pretending not to be warming up to her. “Just… give me a second.” Lizzy crawled under the bed, trying to get at Doll’s emergency access terminal.
“Wait!” Uzi yelled. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to get that close? Think I’ve still got a few dead pixels from the last time I tried that, and YOU don’t have repair nanites.”
Lizzy paused for a moment. “As much as I hate to admit it, you have a point. Okay, let’s do this the hard way.” Lizzy crawled out from under the bed and went over to Doll’s computer, opening a terminal window.
[doll@dollpc ~]$ ssh [emailprotected]
[emailprotected]’s password: ********
[lizzy@doll ~]$ sudo killall panic
[sudo] password: ********
[lizzy@doll ~]$
“Alright, done.” said Lizzy, turning around… only to see Uzi with the smuggest face ever programmed.
“So…” Uzi started, “sudo, huh? She gave you admin privileges, did she?”
“Sh-shut up!” Lizzy snapped, blush lines popping up on her display. “It’s-it’s not like that!”
“Soooooo, how was the wedding, lovebird? What, were you afraid I’d crash it if I found out?” Uzi continued, face somehow getting more smug by the second. However, her fun was interrupted by soft sobs coming out from under the bed.
Lizzy quickly ran to her girlfriend/wife’s side and wrapped her into a tight hug, whispering sweet nothings into her mic. “It’s okay, you’re safe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere”, Lizzy quietly reassured. Out of the corner of her camera’s FOV, she saw Uzi awkwardly standing there, likely feeling out of place in such an intimate moment. “Well, don’t just stand there, get her some damn coolant! She’s burning up, and it seems like she’s too low to keep discharge cooling!”
Uzi gave her a side eye, quickly materializing a jerry can out of thin air.
“Right, forgot you can do that. Stupid Robo-Jesus”, she muttered.
“[I…]” Doll started, drawing everyone’s silence. “What happened?” asked Lizzy. “I saw the game on your PC, was that what caused it?”
“[Yes. Jumpscares don’t usually affect me, but this time…]” Doll trailed off.
“What?” Lizzy asked, patiently yet concerned.
“[I saw her. Cyn. The jumpscare looked EXACTLY the same as when she…]” Doll recounted, unable to finish.
“Hit too close to home, huh?” Uzi jumped in, handing her the can of coolant, which she gulped down greedily. “I get it, I really do.” Uzi said gently. “Hell, I don’t think I can ever watch a Jurassic Park movie again after the labs.”
“[Yeah… sorry about that.]” Doll replied sheepishly.
“Don’t be. That incident was only, like, 10% your fault.The traumatic part came before you even really got involved, at least for me.”
“[Hey… Uzi?]” Doll started, looking away. “[Thanks… thanks for being here.]”
“No problem. I heard your scream from down the hall, no way I was just gonna leave you here. Who do you take me for?”
“[Yeah, but you didn’t actually have to.]” Doll retorted. “[You could have pretended it was nothing. But you didn’t, even though we’re not… on the best of terms. I hope we can change that.]”
“Me too”, replied Uzi, “though it isn’t really up to me.” She gave Lizzy a pointed look. “I don’t even really have that much against you. Lizzy, on the other hand…”
Lizzy looked between the two, mean girl instinct clashing with the desire to make her girl happy. “Ugh, fine. We can be tentatively chill, for now… Uzi.”
“There you go, was that so hard?” Uzi said. With the tension relieved, Uzi’s teasing smirk came back. “So… admin privileges? Why didn’t you tell me you got married?” The two lit up in blushes so fierce, one could confuse it for a display error.
“I SAID IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!”
“[I TAKE IT ALL BACK, GET OUT!]”
Uzi ran out, loudly cackling into the night, proud of flipping the script on the legendary Pink Devil. | Bullet in the Dark
It was a time of peace. At least, it was for most drones. Once the Solver had been defeated and absorbed into Uzi, there was little to be afraid of. Khan regularly had to stop the jubilant population from dismantling the doors, frantically arguing that they may yet be needed again.
(Everyone knew the REAL reason, though. The guy was far from subtle when caressing his precious doors.)
After Uzi had discovered the backups of the other Solver hosts in her SSD and uploaded them into new bodies, the colony had even more reason to celebrate. Friends they had thought lost forever had been returned to them, and would now never need to fear anything again.
Except for one.
Strange as it may seem for a machine under constant threat, Doll actually quite enjoyed the feeling of abject terror. Or perhaps more accurately, she likes having control over the terror. With Robo-Satan and the Murder Drones gone, she had spent quite a bit of time trying to recapture that fear. This led her to where she was now, on her computer at midnight, marathoning an old classic: the Five Nights at Freddy’s series.
Honestly, she didn’t really get the hype. The first one was scary, yeah, but it wasn’t THAT bad. And the second one didn’t really give her a chance to be all that scared, thanks to the extreme difficulty.
She was bored, barely paying attention. Wind the box, check the vents, wind the box and wait for 6 AM. However, this boredom made her complacent. She was forgetting a step in her checks.
“[Ugh, any day now,]” she groaned, impatiently staring at the clock, when it happened. Foxy leapt out at her, seemingly coming right out of the screen, thanks to Uzi’s new monitor tech. Ordinarily, this would pose little issue. Doll was fairly battle-hardened after all, one little jumpscare shouldn't get to her.
Except this was no ordinary jumpscare. She did not see an animal shaped fictional robot, but a real one.
One covered not by animal skin, but human.
WARNING
CORE TEMPERATURE RISING
CPU 95℃
COOLANT 80℃
COOLANT INTAKE REQUIRED
Now reminded of her woefully inadequate cooling systems, coupled with the knowledge of how this fight went the last time, Doll made a sobering realization.
She can’t win this.
And with all the security in the bunker, escape is also unlikely. Her systems could only find one viable solution.
Don’t get found.
And so she hid under her bed, her ventilation pump running at max speed, desperately shutting down unnecessary systems to minimize noise.
Uzi was sitting in her room composing, when she suddenly heard a loud noise down the hall. She took off her headphones, trying to discern what the noise was. She was about to write it off when she heard screaming.
Wait… was that Russian?
“Doll!” Uzi yelled, jumping to her feet. She ran out the door, not even bothering to tell her dad or N where she was going. Worst case scenario, she would just message them later.
She ran to Doll’s apartment with fervor, prepared for a fight. With what, she didn’t know, but they’d surely be no match for her godly powers. However, what she found shocked her even more.
She threw open the door to Doll’s room, only to find it empty. Well, not quite empty. The sound of a pump moving like a car engine near instantly gave away Doll’s position under the bed. However, this only raised more questions. What was she doing there? And why did she seem so… scared?
“Hey, uh… you good?” Uzi asked, her voice soft. “You’re safe, there’s nothing here.”
When she got no response, Uzi sighed. “I’m coming in, okay?” She crawled under the bed, finding Doll curled up in a ball. When she got down there, Uzi made a disturbing realization. She didn’t even seem to notice me, she thought.
Well, N gets like this sometimes. I guess I just… do what works for him? Here goes nothing, Uzi thought nervously, before giving Doll a back rub.
Wrong move.
Doll immediately sprang to life, punching Uzi hard enough to crack her display. “Hey! Watch it!” Uzi cried out in pain, still stunned, as Doll continued to fight for her life like a cornered wild animal.
Okay, I’m WAY out of my depth here, Uzi realized, and beat a swift retreat to Doll’s living room. She racked her brain for anyone who could help. N? No, as good as he usually is with the… touchy-feely stuff, seeing a Disassembler would probably just make things worse. Dad? Nah, he definitely lacked the facilities to deal with something like this. Mom? Same problem as herself, no subtlety. V? HA! Yeah, right! Thad? Nice guy, but probably not. Lizzy?
Lizzy…
Uzi did NOT like Lizzy. Like, AT ALL. But, if anyone could help Doll, it would probably be her girlfriend.
“UGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” Uzi groaned as she retrieved Lizzy’s IP.
[darkXwolf17@uzi ~]$ vp -t [emailprotected]
[vp]: calling 146.70.97.127…
“Ugh. What do YOU want?”, said Lizzy, dripping with sass.
Uzi groaned. Of COURSE she was going to be like this. “Not the time, girlboss. Something’s up with Doll.”
“No backsass? Huh, must be serious, then. Okay, shoot.”
“Doll’s curled up under her bed, pump running at full speed. She’s, like, totally unresponsive.” Uzi explained. “Until I touched her, that is. That made her freak out, like she was in a fight.”
“You TOUCHED HER?!” Lizzy yelled. “WHY?! WHAT MADE YOU THINK THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA?!”
“I was just trying to help!” Uzi cried defensively. “N gets like this sometimes, and a back rub kinda brings him back, so…” she trailed off. “Sorry. I just made it worse, didn’t I?”
“Whatever, not the time. I’m coming, so just… stand by, okay? Maybe go get her some coolant.”
“Alright, see you soon.” Uzi finished.
^C
Call terminated.
Before the call even ended, Lizzy was already sprinting. Who cares if she was getting strange looks? Her girl needed her! She’s the most popular drone in the bunker, unlike the purple one, she can afford to lose some street cred.
“Where is she?!” Lizzy yelled as she threw open the door.
“Right in there, Liz. Though, I would suggest not losing your cool. She’s pretty unstable.” Uzi said calmly.
“Oh my Robo-God, I knoooowww. She’s my girlfriend, freak, you think this is the first time this has happened?”
“Ugh, whatever. This is why you were my last resort, you know. Let’s just get in there and help her out, okay?” Uzi tried to make peace.
“Ugh.” Lizzy replied in tacit agreement as they entered the room. “Alright, let me get at her terminal. I should be able to stop the panic attack manually.”
“Wait a second. Is manipulating her processes like that, y’know, ethical?” Uzi said nervously. “Sounds an awful lot like what the Solver does.”
“Again, freak, not my first rodeo. She’s given explicit consent to ME, and ONLY ME.” Lizzy shot back.
“Just asking, no need to bite my head off, Ms. Petty. And can you stop calling me that?!” Uzi retorted. “You know I’m here to help, right? I could’ve just gone home, I was busy.”
“Busy with what?” Lizzy snarked. “Brooding? Scribbling unhinged prophecies? Cuddling your genocide pet - sorry, ”boyfriend”?”
“Not the time!” Uzi cried in frustration. “Also, we’re gonna have words about what you just said later.” she snarled. “But, again, not the time! While we’re sitting here, your girlfriend’s having a panic attack, and by the looks of it, her CPU’s getting hotter by the second!”
Oh my Robo-God, I completely forgot why I came here, Lizzy realized.
should try to make nice with her.
“Ugh, whatEVER.” Lizzy sassed, pretending not to be warming up to her. “Just… give me a second.” Lizzy crawled under the bed, trying to get at Doll’s emergency access terminal.
“Wait!” Uzi yelled. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to get that close? Think I’ve still got a few dead pixels from the last time I tried that, and YOU don’t have repair nanites.”
Lizzy paused for a moment. “As much as I hate to admit it, you have a point. Okay, let’s do this the hard way.” Lizzy crawled out from under the bed and went over to Doll’s computer, opening a terminal window.
[doll@dollpc ~]$ ssh [emailprotected]
[emailprotected]’s password: ********
[lizzy@doll ~]$ sudo killall panic
[sudo] password: ********
[lizzy@doll ~]$
“Alright, done.” said Lizzy, turning around… only to see Uzi with the smuggest face ever programmed.
“So…” Uzi started, “sudo, huh? She gave you admin privileges, did she?”
“Sh-shut up!” Lizzy snapped, blush lines popping up on her display. “It’s-it’s not like that!”
“Soooooo, how was the wedding, lovebird? What, were you afraid I’d crash it if I found out?” Uzi continued, face somehow getting more smug by the second. However, her fun was interrupted by soft sobs coming out from under the bed.
Lizzy quickly ran to her girlfriend/wife’s side and wrapped her into a tight hug, whispering sweet nothings into her mic. “It’s okay, you’re safe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere”, Lizzy quietly reassured. Out of the corner of her camera’s FOV, she saw Uzi awkwardly standing there, likely feeling out of place in such an intimate moment. “Well, don’t just stand there, get her some damn coolant! She’s burning up, and it seems like she’s too low to keep discharge cooling!”
Uzi gave her a side eye, quickly materializing a jerry can out of thin air.
“Right, forgot you can do that. Stupid Robo-Jesus”, she muttered.
“[I…]” Doll started, drawing everyone’s silence. “What happened?” asked Lizzy. “I saw the game on your PC, was that what caused it?”
“[Yes. Jumpscares don’t usually affect me, but this time…]” Doll trailed off.
“What?” Lizzy asked, patiently yet concerned.
“[I saw her. Cyn. The jumpscare looked EXACTLY the same as when she…]” Doll recounted, unable to finish.
“Hit too close to home, huh?” Uzi jumped in, handing her the can of coolant, which she gulped down greedily. “I get it, I really do.” Uzi said gently. “Hell, I don’t think I can ever watch a Jurassic Park movie again after the labs.”
“[Yeah… sorry about that.]” Doll replied sheepishly.
“Don’t be. That incident was only, like, 10% your fault.The traumatic part came before you even really got involved, at least for me.”
“[Hey… Uzi?]” Doll started, looking away. “[Thanks… thanks for being here.]”
“No problem. I heard your scream from down the hall, no way I was just gonna leave you here. Who do you take me for?”
“[Yeah, but you didn’t actually have to.]” Doll retorted. “[You could have pretended it was nothing. But you didn’t, even though we’re not… on the best of terms. I hope we can change that.]”
“Me too”, replied Uzi, “though it isn’t really up to me.” She gave Lizzy a pointed look. “I don’t even really have that much against you. Lizzy, on the other hand…”
Lizzy looked between the two, mean girl instinct clashing with the desire to make her girl happy. “Ugh, fine. We can be tentatively chill, for now… Uzi.”
“There you go, was that so hard?” Uzi said. With the tension relieved, Uzi’s teasing smirk came back. “So… admin privileges? Why didn’t you tell me you got married?” The two lit up in blushes so fierce, one could confuse it for a display error.
“I SAID IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!”
“[I TAKE IT ALL BACK, GET OUT!]”
Uzi ran out, loudly cackling into the night, proud of flipping the script on the legendary Pink Devil. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77347516 | {"authors": ["NotMe1204"], "language": "English", "title": "Bullet in the Dark"} |
Daedal Dalliance
The music was loud, so loud that every heavy beat felt like it was making your heart stutter. You didn’t make a habit of going to the shadier side of town often for stories, you preferred to take extant news and make it friendlier to the layman and your foreign readers. This however was too good to pass up, if you could break this story? That would take your little side project news blog and blow you up. You might even start getting paid for it. You were tired of being a glorified translator, you wanted to go big.
You knew the risks, villains were welcome here as any patron would be. The staff didn’t ask who was buying drinks, they only cared that said drinks were paid for. On those grounds though, villains tended to behave. There weren’t many social spaces that welcomed them, let alone social spaces where they could mingle with non-villains.
Not that you were here to mingle. You’d hear rumors that a few Pro Heroes came here to unwind. If you could prove it, you knew you would start getting taken seriously. It wasn’t optional, you would be leaving with photo evidence that Heroes came to haunt this place…unless you were at risk you suppose. This story wasn’t important enough to risk your life.
You kept to the sides, where the lights weren’t as bright and you could survey both the dance floor and the bar. So far, there were no familiar faces to you. At least not friendly ones. You recognized a few villains of course. Heroes were probably disguising themselves a little better than those with no reputation to uphold so anyone with a mask became suspect.
The hope was you’d go relatively unnoticed. Just another newcomer shy of the dancefloor and intimidated by the villains crawling around. That hope was dashed when someone stepped up real close behind you, leaning over your shoulder to speak right into your ear.
“It’s against the rules to take photos in here.”
You damn near jump out of your skin and whip round to face- your heart drops into your gut. You’re standing face to face with Dabi. His lazy grin at least gives you the impression he isn’t actually hard up about your apparent violations of the rules. You hadn’t seen any signs up, but it should have been common sense that nobody would be keen to see a phone camera up and recording.
“Didn’t know.” You try to play it off, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “The lights are just cool.”
“Yeah.” Those lights reflected off his staples, making him look like a shifting oil slick of colors. It was a little dizzying to look at, but you didn’t dare avert your gaze. “They’re neat. Did you come here by yourself?”
Despite your better judgement you nod. If he inquired any further about the friends you came with you’d be caught lying by one of the most volatile villains currently at large. That being said, one of the most volatile villains currently at large now knows you’re alone.
“My friends were too scared to come here.” You shrug. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
“Why are you here, anyway?” He’s moving closer, stepping between you and the dancefloor. Turning his back on the light made him less dazzling to look at.
“I was curious. And I heard the drinks were cheap.”
He laughs, though not wicked and heated like you’re used to hearing in clips of him posted on social media. It’s lighter, more airy. Amused. He steps in closer, invading your space. He drapes an arm around your shoulders and starts to walk, giving you very little choice but to walk with him. Were this not kinda scaring you, you’d be much more flustered about it. He was kinda pretty up close, but he was also dangerous and very close to you.
“They’re cheap enough. I don’t drink though, sensitive stomach.” He wasn’t taking you to the bar, he was steering you away from it. Towards the darker, quieter corner that everyone seemed to be avoiding. Panic started to rise in your chest. “How many have you had?”
“None.”
“Good.” Good? You step into the dark spot with him, feeling the muscles tense in your legs. You were ready to run, hell you should have tried to run but you know he’s fast. Faster than you. He’d just catch you, you’d probably get chased by the other villains here, too- his arm unwinds from around your shoulders, and instead he crowds you against the back wall. Even in the darker corner his eyes practically glow. They’re piercing, observing your every movement… but you don’t feel as threatened as you maybe should. “You shouldn’t drink alone here.”
You just nod in response, keeping your back firm to the wall behind you. His intentions become clear when he hooked his fingers into the belt loops either side of your hips, pulling them flush to his. He was crowding you, but not forcing you. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. He was dangerous, and you were here for a reason…
Your hands lift to rest on his shoulders, giving him the permission he was seeking. Curiosity had brought here just as much as your mission had, and well… you’d never been intimate with a villain before. You just hoped he had the decency to not try and do anything here.
Plus, maybe you don't get the photo tonight, but maybe this could get you in. He might take you somewhere more private, where the Heroes were more likely to be. Both the idea of getting to see what civilians were never meant to excites you just as much as the thrill of letting Dabi have his way with you.
You tip your head to the side for him, he takes the invite to press a kiss to your neck. The rough skin of his grafts sends shivers through you, and you’re taken off guard when he drags his tongue over the length of your neck. If the kisses were shivers then that felt electric. His tongue was hotter than you anticipated, leaving a lasting tingle on your skin.
Your knees were already weak by the time he slid one hand up under your shirt. The staples were cold in harsh contrast to how warm his palms were. The sensory experience left you squirming.
“I assume you don’t want me to undress you here.” He pulls back to grin at you again, this time his eyes were wider, less relaxed. Fired up, you’d say. “Got a room out the back, if you’re so inclined.”
He leads you past the dance floor again towards a shoddy looking door, barely held on but guarded by two burly looking guys. He has an arm around your hips, his thumb dipping into the waistband of your pants possessively. You’re both regarded by the bouncers, who seem fine with Dabi but are suspicious of you. They let you by, but the side eye you get on your way past them tells you that you should probably leave the same way you came in. With Dabi.
He fishes a card out of his pocket, tapping it to a startlingly new looking card reader. The door was heavy and cracked to shit, but that card reader was nearly pristine.
Dabi pushes the door open, holding it for you to step inside. You do, hoping like hell you’re not making a mistake. You don’t know if anyone would come to help you if he decided to attack. The door closes with a heavy slam behind him once he steps into the room, which was small but not as nasty as you expected. The bed looked freshly made, the floors were clean. Hell this was actually nicer than some hotels you’d been in.
You weren’t here to admire all of that. Dabi steps up behind you, nuzzling his lips against your neck. His hands are working on doing the button and zip of your pants, you lean back against him slightly to silently tell him to keep going. You’re not sure what to do with your hands, opting to hold his forearms gently. You’re not stopping him, you just…don’t want to stand there with your arms at your sides.
Two fingers reach your lips, a silent command to open your mouth. You oblige. He presses them against your tongue, and you instinctively push up against it.
“I don’t want to go touchin’ you dry.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. You close your lips around his fingers, sucking them lightly while rolling your tongue up against them to wet them. You hear his breath catch in your ear, the first indication you’ve done something to affect him. That was extremely gratifying.
You didn’t get to feel in control for long though. He withdrew his fingers after what felt like a minute or so, not wasting any time in dipping them past the hem of your underwear. He’s back to kissing your neck, the hand not currently teasing either side of your clit with two fingers now holding around your chest. You aren’t trapped, but you are being held close enough to his chest you can feel his heartbeat through your shoulderblade.
He gave you a few seconds of teasing before his fingers came together over your clit. His touch was light at first, slow and wide circles to test the waters. You give him more access to your neck, he takes it. He nibbles, rubbing tighter and faster circles into your clit as he does, applying just a tad more pressure. It’s faster than you thought he’d take it, but coupled with the way he was nipping at your neck you were feeling your legs begin to shake already.
He dips his fingers further down occasionally to wet them. You keep expecting him to tease your hole, or push a finger in. Every time he doesn’t, you get a little more heated and frustrated… even if you do appreciate him warming you up.
“Bed.” He demands, both hands dropping away and leaving you feeling cold now you’d adjusted to his body heat. You do as you’re told, and even go a step beyond. You kick your pants and your underwear off before you even reach the bed, turning to face him before sitting at the edge of it.
He’s undoing his belt as he strides towards you, taking the bulky off and tossing it aside. His fly is open, and you can see the way his cock is straining against the front of his ridiculous skinny jeans. You were expecting him to push his jeans down, your lips were already parting in anticipation.
To your surprise he drops to his knees instead, hooking his hands under your thighs to lift them and nearly topple you backwards. You catch yourself on your hands, only for your elbows to nearly fold when he starts to lap along the full length of your cunt right off the bat. You bark out a wordless shout in surprise when his teeth graze lightly over your clit before he sucks it into his mouth, leaving you squirming and reeling.
He relents before it becomes too much, giving sweet little licks instead of going all in while you get your breath back. He’s greedy though, dipping his tongue low and almost inside. You wish he would. You rock your hips up against his mouth to try and send the message. It takes a few tries, you’re about to verbally tell him when he finally clicks. His tongue is in as deep as it can reach immediately, and fuck it’s long, and maybe pierced. You can feel something raised and rough, perfectly placed to be rubbing up on your gspot. You let yourself fall back against the bed, rolling your hips lazily against his face to encourage him to keep going.
When he does finally withdraw his tongue after a few minutes, your complaint is immediately silenced when said tongue is replaced by two fingers. He’s lapping at your clit again while fingering you open, making sure with each time his hand moves back he curls his fingers against your gspot. Your hips twitch, your back arches, and you’re not sure what sound you just made but you’re so startled by the sudden onslaught of sensation you might have even called him an asshole. Whatever it was, his low throaty laugh told you it had at least entertained him.
He doesn’t slow down until he pushes you through to your climax, and he only barely slows down during it. He’s still eager at your clit while you writhe, trying to both squirm away from the overstimulation but also push down onto his fingers to feel him deeper. His tongue was longer, and you already miss it for that. Once your muscles slacken, he withdraws his fingers and licks them clean. You don’t see it, you hear it, and you wrinkle your nose up a little.
You sit up on your elbows to look at him when you hear him stand up, half expecting him to crawl up onto the bed with you. Instead, he gestures for you to sit up and come close, hooking a thumb into his pants and boxers to tug them down. Your eyes light up. You sit up and wet your lips while he fights his jeans down far enough he can free his cock. His pubes are white, which tells you the unimportant detail that he dyes his hair. It’s an endearing look, actually.
You reach out to catch his cock in your hands as it finally springs out of those ridiculous jeans, getting revenge for his impatience by brushing your thumb over the head of it dry. It’s pierced, a frenulum ladder, and some marks on the underside that tell you he had other piercings at some point. It fits nicely in your hand, able to just touch your index and thumb together around it. You finally show mercy when he grunts in displeasure, spitting on his dick so you’re not touching it dry anymore. You spread it down the shaft with one smooth motion, giving the base a little squeeze.
“I wanna use that pretty mouth of yours.” He reaches out to pet your hair, and you let him. You also lean forward to press a kiss to the tip of his cock, because as much as you want to snark at him for still being impatient, that got you. He hums his approval, his nails working their way into your scalp to scratch it gently. It’s nice, | Daedal Dalliance
The music was loud, so loud that every heavy beat felt like it was making your heart stutter. You didn’t make a habit of going to the shadier side of town often for stories, you preferred to take extant news and make it friendlier to the layman and your foreign readers. This however was too good to pass up, if you could break this story? That would take your little side project news blog and blow you up. You might even start getting paid for it. You were tired of being a glorified translator, you wanted to go big.
You knew the risks, villains were welcome here as any patron would be. The staff didn’t ask who was buying drinks, they only cared that said drinks were paid for. On those grounds though, villains tended to behave. There weren’t many social spaces that welcomed them, let alone social spaces where they could mingle with non-villains.
Not that you were here to mingle. You’d hear rumors that a few Pro Heroes came here to unwind. If you could prove it, you knew you would start getting taken seriously. It wasn’t optional, you would be leaving with photo evidence that Heroes came to haunt this place…unless you were at risk you suppose. This story wasn’t important enough to risk your life.
You kept to the sides, where the lights weren’t as bright and you could survey both the dance floor and the bar. So far, there were no familiar faces to you. At least not friendly ones. You recognized a few villains of course. Heroes were probably disguising themselves a little better than those with no reputation to uphold so anyone with a mask became suspect.
The hope was you’d go relatively unnoticed. Just another newcomer shy of the dancefloor and intimidated by the villains crawling around. That hope was dashed when someone stepped up real close behind you, leaning over your shoulder to speak right into your ear.
“It’s against the rules to take photos in here.”
You damn near jump out of your skin and whip round to face- your heart drops into your gut. You’re standing face to face with Dabi. His lazy grin at least gives you the impression he isn’t actually hard up about your apparent violations of the rules. You hadn’t seen any signs up, but it should have been common sense that nobody would be keen to see a phone camera up and recording.
“Didn’t know.” You try to play it off, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “The lights are just cool.”
“Yeah.” Those lights reflected off his staples, making him look like a shifting oil slick of colors. It was a little dizzying to look at, but you didn’t dare avert your gaze. “They’re neat. Did you come here by yourself?”
Despite your better judgement you nod. If he inquired any further about the friends you came with you’d be caught lying by one of the most volatile villains currently at large. That being said, one of the most volatile villains currently at large now knows you’re alone.
“My friends were too scared to come here.” You shrug. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
“Why are you here, anyway?” He’s moving closer, stepping between you and the dancefloor. Turning his back on the light made him less dazzling to look at.
“I was curious. And I heard the drinks were cheap.”
He laughs, though not wicked and heated like you’re used to hearing in clips of him posted on social media. It’s lighter, more airy. Amused. He steps in closer, invading your space. He drapes an arm around your shoulders and starts to walk, giving you very little choice but to walk with him. Were this not kinda scaring you, you’d be much more flustered about it. He was kinda pretty up close, but he was also dangerous and very close to you.
“They’re cheap enough. I don’t drink though, sensitive stomach.” He wasn’t taking you to the bar, he was steering you away from it. Towards the darker, quieter corner that everyone seemed to be avoiding. Panic started to rise in your chest. “How many have you had?”
“None.”
“Good.” Good? You step into the dark spot with him, feeling the muscles tense in your legs. You were ready to run, hell you should have tried to run but you know he’s fast. Faster than you. He’d just catch you, you’d probably get chased by the other villains here, too- his arm unwinds from around your shoulders, and instead he crowds you against the back wall. Even in the darker corner his eyes practically glow. They’re piercing, observing your every movement… but you don’t feel as threatened as you maybe should. “You shouldn’t drink alone here.”
You just nod in response, keeping your back firm to the wall behind you. His intentions become clear when he hooked his fingers into the belt loops either side of your hips, pulling them flush to his. He was crowding you, but not forcing you. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. He was dangerous, and you were here for a reason…
Your hands lift to rest on his shoulders, giving him the permission he was seeking. Curiosity had brought here just as much as your mission had, and well… you’d never been intimate with a villain before. You just hoped he had the decency to not try and do anything here.
Plus, maybe you don't get the photo tonight, but maybe this could get you in. He might take you somewhere more private, where the Heroes were more likely to be. Both the idea of getting to see what civilians were never meant to excites you just as much as the thrill of letting Dabi have his way with you.
You tip your head to the side for him, he takes the invite to press a kiss to your neck. The rough skin of his grafts sends shivers through you, and you’re taken off guard when he drags his tongue over the length of your neck. If the kisses were shivers then that felt electric. His tongue was hotter than you anticipated, leaving a lasting tingle on your skin.
Your knees were already weak by the time he slid one hand up under your shirt. The staples were cold in harsh contrast to how warm his palms were. The sensory experience left you squirming.
“I assume you don’t want me to undress you here.” He pulls back to grin at you again, this time his eyes were wider, less relaxed. Fired up, you’d say. “Got a room out the back, if you’re so inclined.”
He leads you past the dance floor again towards a shoddy looking door, barely held on but guarded by two burly looking guys. He has an arm around your hips, his thumb dipping into the waistband of your pants possessively. You’re both regarded by the bouncers, who seem fine with Dabi but are suspicious of you. They let you by, but the side eye you get on your way past them tells you that you should probably leave the same way you came in. With Dabi.
He fishes a card out of his pocket, tapping it to a startlingly new looking card reader. The door was heavy and cracked to shit, but that card reader was nearly pristine.
Dabi pushes the door open, holding it for you to step inside. You do, hoping like hell you’re not making a mistake. You don’t know if anyone would come to help you if he decided to attack. The door closes with a heavy slam behind him once he steps into the room, which was small but not as nasty as you expected. The bed looked freshly made, the floors were clean. Hell this was actually nicer than some hotels you’d been in.
You weren’t here to admire all of that. Dabi steps up behind you, nuzzling his lips against your neck. His hands are working on doing the button and zip of your pants, you lean back against him slightly to silently tell him to keep going. You’re not sure what to do with your hands, opting to hold his forearms gently. You’re not stopping him, you just…don’t want to stand there with your arms at your sides.
Two fingers reach your lips, a silent command to open your mouth. You oblige. He presses them against your tongue, and you instinctively push up against it.
“I don’t want to go touchin’ you dry.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. You close your lips around his fingers, sucking them lightly while rolling your tongue up against them to wet them. You hear his breath catch in your ear, the first indication you’ve done something to affect him. That was extremely gratifying.
You didn’t get to feel in control for long though. He withdrew his fingers after what felt like a minute or so, not wasting any time in dipping them past the hem of your underwear. He’s back to kissing your neck, the hand not currently teasing either side of your clit with two fingers now holding around your chest. You aren’t trapped, but you are being held close enough to his chest you can feel his heartbeat through your shoulderblade.
He gave you a few seconds of teasing before his fingers came together over your clit. His touch was light at first, slow and wide circles to test the waters. You give him more access to your neck, he takes it. He nibbles, rubbing tighter and faster circles into your clit as he does, applying just a tad more pressure. It’s faster than you thought he’d take it, but coupled with the way he was nipping at your neck you were feeling your legs begin to shake already.
He dips his fingers further down occasionally to wet them. You keep expecting him to tease your hole, or push a finger in. Every time he doesn’t, you get a little more heated and frustrated… even if you do appreciate him warming you up.
“Bed.” He demands, both hands dropping away and leaving you feeling cold now you’d adjusted to his body heat. You do as you’re told, and even go a step beyond. You kick your pants and your underwear off before you even reach the bed, turning to face him before sitting at the edge of it.
He’s undoing his belt as he strides towards you, taking the bulky off and tossing it aside. His fly is open, and you can see the way his cock is straining against the front of his ridiculous skinny jeans. You were expecting him to push his jeans down, your lips were already parting in anticipation.
To your surprise he drops to his knees instead, hooking his hands under your thighs to lift them and nearly topple you backwards. You catch yourself on your hands, only for your elbows to nearly fold when he starts to lap along the full length of your cunt right off the bat. You bark out a wordless shout in surprise when his teeth graze lightly over your clit before he sucks it into his mouth, leaving you squirming and reeling.
He relents before it becomes too much, giving sweet little licks instead of going all in while you get your breath back. He’s greedy though, dipping his tongue low and almost inside. You wish he would. You rock your hips up against his mouth to try and send the message. It takes a few tries, you’re about to verbally tell him when he finally clicks. His tongue is in as deep as it can reach immediately, and fuck it’s long, and maybe pierced. You can feel something raised and rough, perfectly placed to be rubbing up on your gspot. You let yourself fall back against the bed, rolling your hips lazily against his face to encourage him to keep going.
When he does finally withdraw his tongue after a few minutes, your complaint is immediately silenced when said tongue is replaced by two fingers. He’s lapping at your clit again while fingering you open, making sure with each time his hand moves back he curls his fingers against your gspot. Your hips twitch, your back arches, and you’re not sure what sound you just made but you’re so startled by the sudden onslaught of sensation you might have even called him an asshole. Whatever it was, his low throaty laugh told you it had at least entertained him.
He doesn’t slow down until he pushes you through to your climax, and he only barely slows down during it. He’s still eager at your clit while you writhe, trying to both squirm away from the overstimulation but also push down onto his fingers to feel him deeper. His tongue was longer, and you already miss it for that. Once your muscles slacken, he withdraws his fingers and licks them clean. You don’t see it, you hear it, and you wrinkle your nose up a little.
You sit up on your elbows to look at him when you hear him stand up, half expecting him to crawl up onto the bed with you. Instead, he gestures for you to sit up and come close, hooking a thumb into his pants and boxers to tug them down. Your eyes light up. You sit up and wet your lips while he fights his jeans down far enough he can free his cock. His pubes are white, which tells you the unimportant detail that he dyes his hair. It’s an endearing look, actually.
You reach out to catch his cock in your hands as it finally springs out of those ridiculous jeans, getting revenge for his impatience by brushing your thumb over the head of it dry. It’s pierced, a frenulum ladder, and some marks on the underside that tell you he had other piercings at some point. It fits nicely in your hand, able to just touch your index and thumb together around it. You finally show mercy when he grunts in displeasure, spitting on his dick so you’re not touching it dry anymore. You spread it down the shaft with one smooth motion, giving the base a little squeeze.
“I wanna use that pretty mouth of yours.” He reaches out to pet your hair, and you let him. You also lean forward to press a kiss to the tip of his cock, because as much as you want to snark at him for still being impatient, that got you. He hums his approval, his nails working their way into your scalp to scratch it gently. It’s nice, surprisingly tender for somebody like him.
You kiss the tip again to warm up him before you go straight for taking the head and first inch or so into your mouth, pushing your tongue up against the underside. You hold his hips, predicting correctly his impatient ass was going to try and buck into your mouth right away. He tuts at you, but doesn’t push his luck. You do have his dick between your teeth after all.
The piercing feels good against your tongue, and by the way he’s huffing through his nose he likes your selfish pressing and poking to feel it more. You close your eyes with intent to let him just watch you while you have your fun, but as soon as you do the room gets tense and he curls his fingers into your hair a little too tight for comfort. You look up at him again and his grip relaxes, so does the energy of the room.
You keep your eyes on him. It’s a little tricky to do when you’re ready to take more of his cock into your mouth, the head starting to reach the back of your throat now. He’s big enough that if you took him to the hilt, he would push into your throat a little ways. He’s enjoying what you’re giving him, looking down at you with intense but half lidded eyes. If he gets to be impatient though, then so do you. You’re struggling to keep looking up at him but you push your head down further, moaning softly at the way the head of his cock feels in your throat. He swears under his breath, trying to buck his hips uselessly.
You swallow around him, flexing your throat to keep him fired up. He’s panting through his nose. A little shiver and a rush passes through you at affecting someone as feared and revered as Dabi like this. You only draw your head back just enough that you can take him to the base again. He closes his eyes for a second, his brow furrows while you fuck your own throat on his cock. You ease up on his hips to let him rock them forward to meet you, and he does so immediately. His eyes open again, they’ve lost that intense edge and now he just looks a little desperate.
Good for him! You’re having fun and he’s along for the ride. He’s swearing under his breath each time he fully hilts in your throat, every little huff and pant is working you up again. You sneak a hand between your thighs to touch yourself, just little circles around your clit, not quite touching it directly yet.
You already expect him to want to fuck you so you’re hardly raring to ruin your own stamina before he gets the chance.
You let him pull his hips back a little more each time, until he’s taken over. You steady yourself while he fucks into your throat, fighting to keep your eyes open. Each time the piercing passes over the back of your tongue, you shiver and moan softly for him. He doesn’t keep it up for long, pushing your head back so he can pull out of your mouth. He hasn’t finished, but the way his cock is twitching tells you that he was getting close. You still managed to get close enough to kiss the tip again.
He watches you, continuing to pet your hair. He doesn’t say anything or stop you from kissing or touching, you don’t do more than hold his cock for the half minute he’s still. You take the initiative, keeping your eyes on him while you slide back further onto the bed. He follows you on all fours, close enough your noses are nearly touching by the time you’ve stopped.
That intense look is back, you don’t break eye contact while he pushes against your chest with the heel of his palm to press you flat against the mattress.
“You’re gonna look at me while I fuck you.” He presses your foreheads together, fixing you with a stare that intimidates you as much as it’s affecting you. “Understand?”
“Eyes on you only.”
You watch a shiver pass through his body, his eyes sparkling at your compliance. “Good. You ready for me darling?”
He smirks when your breath hitches at the pet name. You nod and he’s at your neck again, nipping and biting low down to leave a few marks on you. Your arms wind around his neck, lifting your hips to meet his. He grinds the underside of his cock against you, working you back up as if you’d had any time or reason to cool off.
He leaves two marks on your neck before he’s satisfied, and based on the sting they’re going to be dark. You don’t focus on that, instead you keep your eyes on him. He’s quick to press the tip of his cock against you, first rubbing it up against your clit for a few seconds before sliding down further. You’d already said you were ready so as soon as he was aligned he pushed his hips forward. He’s impatient, but the small burn of him trying to rut half of his cock into you on the first thrust sends fire through your veins. His elbows dig into the mattress either side of you so his hands can hold your face, keeping your focus on him, solely on him.
You move one hand to hold the back of his neck, trying to return the gesture in a way. For whatever reason that excited him and he bucks his hips forward again. You gasp, your back arching up from the bed at the sudden harsh press against your cervix. He relents immediately, setting a brisk pace of short and greedy thrusts into you. The piercing is sending jolts through you each pass inward and leaving you squirming already.
“That good huh?” He teases. His eyes are locked onto yours, not letting you glance away, you swear he hasn’t even blinked yet.
“Mhn, y-yeah.” You confirm, voice breathy. “Harder, please.” His eyes blow wide open and his pupils dilate as soon as you say please. His full body shudders, and you feel his cock pulse inside you.
The hand at his neck grips his hair to ground yourself while he snaps his hips flush against yours and fuck, he’s in deep. He gives you exactly what you asked for, rutting into you harder, faster. Each stroke buries in deep instead of staying shallow, every single movement making your skin feel like livewire, and your climax builds rapidly.
“I’m-I’m-”
“It’s ok baby, you can cum.” He practically purrs the words. “Just keep your eyes on me.”
As if you could look away. You’re gasping and chanting his name on every exhale, both arms wrapping around his neck and clinging to him like your life depends on it. He looks utterly deranged while he fucks you through your orgasm, refusing to slow the punishing pace until he reaches his own peak. He finishes inside shamelessly, grinding in deep and growling low in his throat.
You’re so sure he’s saying mine, mine while he rides out the tail end of his orgasm.
You let yourself drop back against the bed, not daring to close your eyes even as his expression softens. Softens, and then twists into something you don’t recognize and don’t have time to puzzle over. He releases your face to bury his face into your neck, his shoulders starting to shake. He hasn’t pulled out yet, and you can feel his dick shiver while the blood starts to retreat from it.
He sobs into your neck. You pet his hair in an effort to comfort him, deeply confused as to why he’s currently crying. You feel… tears? Tears wet your skin, but they feel thick and unusual, maybe something to do with the damage around his eyes… He presses his chest to yours and you can feel it heaving while he sobs.
You rub his back alongside petting his hair. “You’re ok, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” You’re not sure what compels you to comfort him verbally but it seems to work. The more you talk to him in a soft voice and touch him the calmer he becomes. Until eventually the sobs stop, his breath stops hitching and he lifts his head again.
Blood. His tears are blood. You wipe a particularly large buildup of drying blood away from a staple on his left cheek, the liquid underneath pouring over your thumb. You just didn’t want it to burst later, and if you try to leave with his face bloodied up you might be questioned at the door.
“You’re going to tell people you saw this right?” His voice suddenly became cold. You shake your head.
“No. I’d never.” You cup his cheek. He nuzzles against your palm.
“And you’re gonna just leave.” His voice caught in his throat as he said leave. You’re starting to get some kind of idea about what the problem is.
“Only if you want me to. I like to cuddle after, so…”
Only then does he finally pull out. You’ll ignore the fact you’re leaking cum for the time being, because he’s dropping onto the bed beside you and is pulling at you to join him. You do so, nuzzling your head under his chin. His arms wrap around you tight, possessively. This time you are trapped by his grip, a grip that you are keenly aware could kill you.
He’s choosing not to hurt you, though. His heartbeat settles into a comforting rhythm after a few minutes, were it not for the fact you were still very much in dangerous territory you may have drifted off to sleep there. He hums occasionally, you huff through your nose in response. Every time, he lets a quiet sigh in relief. Like he needs the reassurance you’re actually there.
You don’t know how much time has passed by the time he unwinds his arms from around you and lets you sit up, and then stuffs his dick back into those stupid jeans of his. He tolerates you being out of his sight long enough for you to reach the bathroom, but you see him peeking around the door when you’re in there cleaning yourself up. You let him be, he just had his tongue, fingers and cock inside you. You didn’t feel like being ashamed of cleaning up the aftermath.
You find your underwear and pants to pull them back on, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. You offer him a warm smile over your shoulder. He seems surprised by it. You’re growing increasingly concerned that he isn’t going to let you leave, up until he handed you your phone and ushered you towards the door.
He didn’t say anything as you stepped out, to your relief he did follow you to escort you out through the guarded doors, an arm around you again to guide you through the rest of the club and to the exit.
“Come back soon.” A demand, not a request.
“I will.” You promise before you think. He’s hesitant to release you, but as soon as he does he slinks back into the club and presumably back to his room.
It’s three in the morning, you failed your mission. Instead you committed a pretty sexy act of treason and your knees still felt a little weak from it. You hurry home, zooming in on the few photos you took to see if you could spot any evidence of heroes, but everyone was either masked, unknown to you or blatantly a villain.
You look around you as you reach your door, unsure if you actually feel watched or if you’re still feeling the after effects of how Dabi had stared at you while he fucked you. You shrug the feeling off and step into your home, locking the door behind you before slumping back against it.
Next time. You tell yourself. You’ll break the story next time. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77345471/chapters/202501221 | {"authors": ["BastardBastard"], "language": "English", "title": "Daedal Dalliance"} |
stop the world i wanna get off with you
The air in Aldo’s apartment was thick with the scent of sex.
His glasses were steamed up and rested crooked on his face, half-slipped down the bridge of his nose, and yet he dared not remove them. Not when Vincent said that he looked so very pretty with them on. He let out a soft moan against Vincent’s lips as they left his own, already missing their presence, and let a hand slide up the other man’s chest to grip onto his shoulder. Vincent was looking down at him now, and Christ if he didn’t look anything short of angelic. Aldo parted his swollen lips, wanting to revere the man hovering above him, but all that escaped him was a surprised moan as Vincent ground his crotch down against his clothed cunt.
Shit.
The July sun had been setting, the humidity of New York’s summer and the golden rays that seeped through the thin curtains into Aldo’s apartment had lulled the pair into a lazy afternoon. Instead of walking down to Aldo’s favourite lunch spot after their volunteer work as they had planned, they found themselves splayed across each other on his worn leather couch in their shorts and not much else. Vincent had laid his head on Aldo’s chest and was doing his best to distract the man from the book he was reading, trailing his fingers up and down his sides with his teasing soft touch– much easier to get away with here than in the Seminary. The electric fan that Aldo had rooted out before Vincent’s arrival at his apartment whirred annoyingly from where it sat on the floor, closest to the nearest plugsocket, only barely drowned out by the hum of the radio that was crackling out ‘Drive’ by The Cars.
Aldo feigned an annoyed grunt, half-heartedly attempting to bat Vincent’s hands off of him.
He wasn’t exactly sure when he had let it get to this stage.
Vincent gently tugged at Aldo’s underwear now, the shorts he was previously wearing strewn on the floor of his living room somewhere. He could find them later.
Aldo raised his hips as soft hands pulled his boxers down, and he shivered when his thighs were given a little squeeze. Blood rushed to his cheeks, he could feel them warming, but he didn’t hide as he was laid bare in front of Vincent.
He never even felt like he had to, if he was being honest – a quiet realisation in the back of his mind that he would tuck away and ruminate over later that night, when his arms are looped loosely around Vincent’s waist as sleep finds the other man and not him.
A small whine that sounded more desperate than Aldo wanted it to bubbled up out of his lips at his small revelation, and after a momentary pause he reached out to brush his fingertips against the button on Vincent’s shorts.
“I don’t think this is fair,” Aldo murmured, his breathing getting heavier by the second as his need for Vincent, his Vinnie, rapidly grew.
His heart fluttered when a chuckle from the man above him blessed his ears. A gentle hand came down to cup Aldo’s cheek as the other one made its way to the button that he was so unimpressed with.
“Patience,” Vincent spoke sweetly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Aldo’s lips. He made sure to avoid knocking Aldo’s still skewed glasses any further than he had before, whilst shimmying out of his shorts and underwear.
Aldo let his eyes flutter shut in a few seconds of bliss, basking in the affection before focussing his gaze on where Vincent was now bare. His hips bucked up a little, subconsciously. He felt his cheeks heat up again as the sound of another quiet chuckle enveloped him.
“I’ve been patient enough,”
“You have, darling Aldo,” Vincent agreed easily. “Tell me what you need.”
Aldo cursed quietly under his breath. He could feel himself growing wetter by the moment, barely able to think as his mind clouded over with need. Vincent, Vinnie, my Vinnie.
He wrapped his arms around the back of Vincent’s neck clumsily and pulled him closer.
“Kiss me again,” He mumbled breathily, “Like before?”
Vincent’s face was in the same easy, small smile that it always was when he slotted their lips together. It was the one that Vincent kept reserved for when he had Aldo to himself. The smile reserved for him and him only. Something precious and for nobody else. It drove him a little mad.
Aldo hummed needily into their kiss, parting his lips slightly to make way for Vincent’s tongue to tangle with his own. His tongue was always so warm and slow and methodical as they kissed, moving in the way that Vincent knew would rile Aldo up further, and Aldo couldn’t help but shiver as he felt a little spit run down from the side of his mouth. One of Vincent’s hands trailed down Aldo’s thigh, squeezing to tease the man before he glided his palm around the back of the muscle. Carefully, he lifted Aldo’s leg and hooked it over one of his shoulders.
Their kiss ended abruptly as Aldo’s head fell back onto the worn brown leather of his couch, a sweet moan ripping itself from his throat as Vincent’s soaked core grinded against his own. Aldo’s vision went a little hazy when their clits rubbed against each other; his head was swimming as he raised one of his arms to cover his eyes, knocking his glasses off in the process. He was a mess already, he thought as his hips bucked upwards, eagerly chasing the friction of Vincent’s cunt against his own.
Vincent responded in kind, lowering himself down into a more comfortable position to grind against his lover’s aching cunt. His own moans fell from his lips often, airy and sweet, and he had an arm wrapped around Aldo’s calf for stability. His other hand moved to rest against Aldo’s cheek again and he couldn’t help but caress it gently every time Aldo let a noise escape him. Their cunts leaked against each other and formed a slick mess, wetting their thighs and the soft curls between them – Vincent had to bite his lip as their clits caught particularly hard against one another to stifle a whine. Aldo let out a shamelessly loud moan.
“F–Fuck, Vin, a—ah,” A few words managed to tumble from Aldo’s lips inbetween his pleasured noises, his hips still rutting his cunt against Vincent’s, “Mo– oh, fu– More? Fff– Faster, please,”
And oh, Aldo had been so sweet to him and he looked so pretty, all flustered and good, his legs spread wide and helpless for Vincent. How could Vincent even think of not giving him what he wanted?
Vincent dragged his slick folds against Aldo’s faster, making sure to increase the pressure just right, their clits rubbing over each other the way they both needed. Aldo cursed, eyes fluttering in pleasure under the arm that was still draped over his face before he jerkily moved it, reaching out to grope at one of Vincent’s soft pecs. He felt perverted as he squeezed at the flesh just to make Vincent whine and rock his hips down harder against him, and Aldo took in the sight of the man through eyes that fought to stay open under such pleasure.
Vincent was always gorgeous, but above him with his angelic moans, his supple chest swaying slightly with his movements, the soft round of his tummy and the happy trail that led to the dark curls of his pubes, with small beads of sweat forming at his temples from exertion? Fuck, Aldo wanted to worship him like nothing else, pray at his feet and wash them, sanctify Vincent and show him how holy he was in Aldo’s eyes. Vincent was sent to be his shepherd, and Aldo believed that he would follow him until he was no longer able to.
His mind was brought back down to earth by Vincent calling out his name, something akin to reverence laced in his voice, and Aldo shuddered.
“Aldo– Darling Aldo,” Vincent was panting quietly, his hips not relenting as he spoke.
Aldo squeezed at Vincent’s chest again, bucking his hips up to chase his rapidly mounting pleasure. That familiar knot somewhere deep in him was tightening, his face a mess of drool and blissed tears as he choked out a response.
“You’re divine, Vinnie– shit, y-you’re beautiful.”
Vincent’s eyes flickered with something that Aldo, in his fucked out state, couldn’t quite grasp. He didn’t linger too long on this, though, because Vincent’s hips twitched and his thighs lost their rhythm and their cunts thrust together just enough—
Blunt nails dug into worn leather, and a breathless ‘oh, fuck’ echoed through the humid air as Aldo’s thighs trembled. His chest heaved and his hips twitched as Vincent fucked them both through the aftershocks of their climaxes, the mess between them both growing tenfold. Vincent was a squirter; Aldo loved it.
He wasn’t sure exactly how many minutes had passed from their climax when Vincent laid back down on top of him and pressed chaste kisses onto Aldo’s jawline, but he was grateful that Vincent was slowly bringing him out of whatever trance he was in. He carded his fingers through Vincent’s hair, much longer and thicker than his own, and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Okay?” Vincent murmured against his jaw hoarsely, lips pressing one final kiss there before he buried his face against Aldo’s neck.
Aldo nodded. “.. Thankyou,”
He felt Vincent’s lips curl into a small smile against the skin of his neck, and Aldo let out a content sigh as his eyes slowly fell shut. | stop the world i wanna get off with you
The air in Aldo’s apartment was thick with the scent of sex.
His glasses were steamed up and rested crooked on his face, half-slipped down the bridge of his nose, and yet he dared not remove them. Not when Vincent said that he looked so very pretty with them on. He let out a soft moan against Vincent’s lips as they left his own, already missing their presence, and let a hand slide up the other man’s chest to grip onto his shoulder. Vincent was looking down at him now, and Christ if he didn’t look anything short of angelic. Aldo parted his swollen lips, wanting to revere the man hovering above him, but all that escaped him was a surprised moan as Vincent ground his crotch down against his clothed cunt.
Shit.
The July sun had been setting, the humidity of New York’s summer and the golden rays that seeped through the thin curtains into Aldo’s apartment had lulled the pair into a lazy afternoon. Instead of walking down to Aldo’s favourite lunch spot after their volunteer work as they had planned, they found themselves splayed across each other on his worn leather couch in their shorts and not much else. Vincent had laid his head on Aldo’s chest and was doing his best to distract the man from the book he was reading, trailing his fingers up and down his sides with his teasing soft touch– much easier to get away with here than in the Seminary. The electric fan that Aldo had rooted out before Vincent’s arrival at his apartment whirred annoyingly from where it sat on the floor, closest to the nearest plugsocket, only barely drowned out by the hum of the radio that was crackling out ‘Drive’ by The Cars.
Aldo feigned an annoyed grunt, half-heartedly attempting to bat Vincent’s hands off of him.
He wasn’t exactly sure when he had let it get to this stage.
Vincent gently tugged at Aldo’s underwear now, the shorts he was previously wearing strewn on the floor of his living room somewhere. He could find them later.
Aldo raised his hips as soft hands pulled his boxers down, and he shivered when his thighs were given a little squeeze. Blood rushed to his cheeks, he could feel them warming, but he didn’t hide as he was laid bare in front of Vincent.
He never even felt like he had to, if he was being honest – a quiet realisation in the back of his mind that he would tuck away and ruminate over later that night, when his arms are looped loosely around Vincent’s waist as sleep finds the other man and not him.
A small whine that sounded more desperate than Aldo wanted it to bubbled up out of his lips at his small revelation, and after a momentary pause he reached out to brush his fingertips against the button on Vincent’s shorts.
“I don’t think this is fair,” Aldo murmured, his breathing getting heavier by the second as his need for Vincent, his Vinnie, rapidly grew.
His heart fluttered when a chuckle from the man above him blessed his ears. A gentle hand came down to cup Aldo’s cheek as the other one made its way to the button that he was so unimpressed with.
“Patience,” Vincent spoke sweetly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Aldo’s lips. He made sure to avoid knocking Aldo’s still skewed glasses any further than he had before, whilst shimmying out of his shorts and underwear.
Aldo let his eyes flutter shut in a few seconds of bliss, basking in the affection before focussing his gaze on where Vincent was now bare. His hips bucked up a little, subconsciously. He felt his cheeks heat up again as the sound of another quiet chuckle enveloped him.
“I’ve been patient enough,”
“You have, darling Aldo,” Vincent agreed easily. “Tell me what you need.”
Aldo cursed quietly under his breath. He could feel himself growing wetter by the moment, barely able to think as his mind clouded over with need. Vincent, Vinnie, my Vinnie.
He wrapped his arms around the back of Vincent’s neck clumsily and pulled him closer.
“Kiss me again,” He mumbled breathily, “Like before?”
Vincent’s face was in the same easy, small smile that it always was when he slotted their lips together. It was the one that Vincent kept reserved for when he had Aldo to himself. The smile reserved for him and him only. Something precious and for nobody else. It drove him a little mad.
Aldo hummed needily into their kiss, parting his lips slightly to make way for Vincent’s tongue to tangle with his own. His tongue was always so warm and slow and methodical as they kissed, moving in the way that Vincent knew would rile Aldo up further, and Aldo couldn’t help but shiver as he felt a little spit run down from the side of his mouth. One of Vincent’s hands trailed down Aldo’s thigh, squeezing to tease the man before he glided his palm around the back of the muscle. Carefully, he lifted Aldo’s leg and hooked it over one of his shoulders.
Their kiss ended abruptly as Aldo’s head fell back onto the worn brown leather of his couch, a sweet moan ripping itself from his throat as Vincent’s soaked core grinded against his own. Aldo’s vision went a little hazy when their clits rubbed against each other; his head was swimming as he raised one of his arms to cover his eyes, knocking his glasses off in the process. He was a mess already, he thought as his hips bucked upwards, eagerly chasing the friction of Vincent’s cunt against his own.
Vincent responded in kind, lowering himself down into a more comfortable position to grind against his lover’s aching cunt. His own moans fell from his lips often, airy and sweet, and he had an arm wrapped around Aldo’s calf for stability. His other hand moved to rest against Aldo’s cheek again and he couldn’t help but caress it gently every time Aldo let a noise escape him. Their cunts leaked against each other and formed a slick mess, wetting their thighs and the soft curls between them – Vincent had to bite his lip as their clits caught particularly hard against one another to stifle a whine. Aldo let out a shamelessly loud moan.
“F–Fuck, Vin, a—ah,” A few words managed to tumble from Aldo’s lips inbetween his pleasured noises, his hips still rutting his cunt against Vincent’s, “Mo– oh, fu– More? Fff– Faster, please,”
And oh, Aldo had been so sweet to him and he looked so pretty, all flustered and good, his legs spread wide and helpless for Vincent. How could Vincent even think of not giving him what he wanted?
Vincent dragged his slick folds against Aldo’s faster, making sure to increase the pressure just right, their clits rubbing over each other the way they both needed. Aldo cursed, eyes fluttering in pleasure under the arm that was still draped over his face before he jerkily moved it, reaching out to grope at one of Vincent’s soft pecs. He felt perverted as he squeezed at the flesh just to make Vincent whine and rock his hips down harder against him, and Aldo took in the sight of the man through eyes that fought to stay open under such pleasure.
Vincent was always gorgeous, but above him with his angelic moans, his supple chest swaying slightly with his movements, the soft round of his tummy and the happy trail that led to the dark curls of his pubes, with small beads of sweat forming at his temples from exertion? Fuck, Aldo wanted to worship him like nothing else, pray at his feet and wash them, sanctify Vincent and show him how holy he was in Aldo’s eyes. Vincent was sent to be his shepherd, and Aldo believed that he would follow him until he was no longer able to.
His mind was brought back down to earth by Vincent calling out his name, something akin to reverence laced in his voice, and Aldo shuddered.
“Aldo– Darling Aldo,” Vincent was panting quietly, his hips not relenting as he spoke.
Aldo squeezed at Vincent’s chest again, bucking his hips up to chase his rapidly mounting pleasure. That familiar knot somewhere deep in him was tightening, his face a mess of drool and blissed tears as he choked out a response.
“You’re divine, Vinnie– shit, y-you’re beautiful.”
Vincent’s eyes flickered with something that Aldo, in his fucked out state, couldn’t quite grasp. He didn’t linger too long on this, though, because Vincent’s hips twitched and his thighs lost their rhythm and their cunts thrust together just enough—
Blunt nails dug into worn leather, and a breathless ‘oh, fuck’ echoed through the humid air as Aldo’s thighs trembled. His chest heaved and his hips twitched as Vincent fucked them both through the aftershocks of their climaxes, the mess between them both growing tenfold. Vincent was a squirter; Aldo loved it.
He wasn’t sure exactly how many minutes had passed from their climax when Vincent laid back down on top of him and pressed chaste kisses onto Aldo’s jawline, but he was grateful that Vincent was slowly bringing him out of whatever trance he was in. He carded his fingers through Vincent’s hair, much longer and thicker than his own, and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Okay?” Vincent murmured against his jaw hoarsely, lips pressing one final kiss there before he buried his face against Aldo’s neck.
Aldo nodded. “.. Thankyou,”
He felt Vincent’s lips curl into a small smile against the skin of his neck, and Aldo let out a content sigh as his eyes slowly fell shut. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77348201 | {"authors": ["anasuisgf"], "language": "English", "title": "stop the world i wanna get off with you"} |
Carved
Red splattered the floor.
Sebastian's claws dragged through the skin, teeth parting in desperation as he bowed low, lure bright and burning as he sank into muscle.
It was a filthy thing he was doing- disgusting, horrid, awful. So many things screamed in protest but the snarl of his stomach urged his hands forever.
It burned with the first swallow.
Foul.
A gasp clawed up from his throat as it stuck between his teeth.
Foul.
The human beneath him had been a young woman. She had freckled skin and curly, dirty blonde hair. Her eyes had been a deep brown and nails the color of the sky. She couldn't have stood even half a chance beyond a body clearly built for agility.
Skin ripped and flesh tore.
She had been slaughtered by gunfire, the bullet holes piercing her shape, and the wounds served as great places to begin the task of feasting.
Sebastian hadn't even thought to drag her into the vents like he usually did. Really, it didn't even occur to him it might be wise. He was too caught up in the burning of blood in his mouth and the weight of flesh on his tongue. He hadn't even taken note of whatever research or items she may have on her person.
He was just- just hungry.
God, how long had it been since he had last eaten, to be acting like this?
Sebastian was disgusted by his own growling stomach. He was sure he'd wind up throwing all of this up, if it kept up, but he refused to let himself, just curling his claws around the expendable's arm.
Pull.
Stretch.
Until the damned thing ripped, her shoulder pinned by one hand while the other two tore the limb from it. Blood poured and a greedy tongue stretched outwards as he lifted it high.
Crunch.
Sebastian hated it.
He hated how easily his jaw fell, stretching past what should be possible. How his teeth pierced through the damn thing until the bones cracked under the pressure. How he didn't stop. How he dropped what didn't fit in his mouth, so he could drag the bone away, nearly forgetting that such a thing existed.
But it didn't matter.
Sebastian could eat around it.
His teeth scraped against the obstacle as he tore the skin off of it, and he sincerely hated how the blood stained his clothes. He just couldn't dwell on it. He instead pressed a hand to the rest of the arm, curling, waiting until he had nothing left and could start on that.
It didn't take long.
Shameful.
Sebastian shuddered when he switched his attention. It tasted like heaven, when he brought it up to his lips and let his teeth sink in, and that fact made him sick.
But he ate.
He survived.
He feasted.
The monster did not stop until he was finished with that limb, turning his attention to the desecrated corpse that lay dead, and it made his eternally empty stomach churn at the sight.
He wasn't sure if he was going to rid himself of what he had already ate or consume even more of it.
…his body made the decision for him.
Sebastian surged forward, snarling lowly, teeth sinking into the throat to rip the soft flesh away- all a taste of liquid gold. It encompassed him and coaxed him forward.
Just swallow. He didn't even need to chew, not for such a small morsel of a bite, and he pressed his third arm to her chin to give himself better access to the expanse, and he didn't stop until it couldn't go back any further.
Then he just put his energy into pulling off the head itself.
It was blissful, how easy that was.
Almost hilarious- if Sebastian was able to think straight enough to find humor at all, he would surely think it the funniest joke to be told. It didn't have that dramatic flair he always thought decapitation would hold.
There weren't any dramatic swings of an ax, or sword, and he had not strained. There was no wrestling. There was no surging music.
All it had now was the sound of creaking pipes and distant water, accompanied by the heavy breathing of a starved beast.
Crack.
Sebastian curled his claws into the skin of the corpse's chest after the heavy bone beneath gave way, ripping through the muscle and shoving it between his teeth.
It was disgusting.
It was delightful.
He was almost dizzy with it as he ducked his head, claws prying the ribcage apart, forcing flesh aside so he could get at the still heart. It was horribly fragile when he sank his teeth.
It tasted like iron.
But Sebastian ate anyway.
Ate, until he was forced to start prying flesh from the ribs. When had he been rid of her other arm? When had he snapped her spine, just to get at a specific piece of meat that he wanted?
He didn't know. He really, really didn't know. Sebastian hated that fact.
He missed his mom.
He survived.
He ate.
He ate, until his stomach stopped screaming, and yet he still could not see beyond the red and the quiet halls.
Oh…
Sebastian dragged a thumb over his lips to wipe away the mess. It was useless, he felt silly, even if he doubted anyone was still here. Painter never stayed when he did this. He was glad for that at least.
He grunted instead, forcing himself to pry away from the carcass, with its fleeting warmth and long-cold skin. He didn't even want to deal with the rest.
Something else would eat it.
Something else would always eat it.
Sebastian hated that fact.
He grimaced at it, even- even when he retreated to the vents, all too aware of the blood sticky to his scales, and he'd have to find a way to wash his clothes. He sincerely hated how it was drying. He sincerely hated everything about how it felt.
He could still taste the blood on his tongue and he desperately tried to ignore it.
He spat nothing out onto the ground before he fully retreated, but it didn't do much, and he felt like a fool.
Some sad, starved, hungry fool. Pathetic and weak. Sebastian could only force himself to move. His satiated mind longed to sleep, but he didn't dare do it… here.
Not here.
It wasn't safe, his instincts reasoned, even when he knew nowhere was fully safe. Nothing here was safe. This entire place was horrible for it. Sebastian despised how it made his eyes sting, but he didn't cry.
He didn't cry anymore. That's what he told himself.
Sebastian didn't cry.
He only retreated.
He wound through metal confines until he could slide down pipes, listening to how they creaked and groaned, and Sebastian wondered if this would be the impossible day where they gave. Wouldn't that be a fine ending to the day?
What a headache he'd have, though.
Sebastian wasn't even sure how he wound up back in his shop. It wasn't home but it was all he had even vaguely similar to that.
…okay.
Sebastian felt fuzzy. His head was stuffed full of cotton and his skin was dry and sticky. He felt cold. He kinda missed it.
I want my mom.
But Sebastian didn't get to have his mom anymore.
So, defeated, the monster dragged himself upwards, hauling his tail into the barren bedding atop the alcove. It was more like scraps of spare uniforms and scavenged towels from those old communal showers. He vaguely recalled them.
He'd have to go there, even if the pipes had long since burst in that section. Maybe he could find some leftover soap that had yet to be lost or used. Maybe it'd be able to clean off the blood. He hoped so.
Okay.
Sebastian didn't have to do any of that now, though, just dragging himself along, and he was fine with just shedding the pouches and jacket and scarf and shirt and all the bullcrap. Just so it'd stop sticking to his skin. It was driving him mad.
Okay.
Okay.
…he wished he had a blanket, but something so simple wouldn't be down here. Sebastian doubted they'd even have some squirreled away. Urbanshade never cared about comfort.
Blanket-less, Sebastian coiled his tail over itself, dragging his claws over it until it was satisfactory.
He survived.
He mourned.
He survived.
Exhausted.
So he let himself close his eyes.
He let himself sleep, just for now.
Just for now. | Carved
Red splattered the floor.
Sebastian's claws dragged through the skin, teeth parting in desperation as he bowed low, lure bright and burning as he sank into muscle.
It was a filthy thing he was doing- disgusting, horrid, awful. So many things screamed in protest but the snarl of his stomach urged his hands forever.
It burned with the first swallow.
Foul.
A gasp clawed up from his throat as it stuck between his teeth.
Foul.
The human beneath him had been a young woman. She had freckled skin and curly, dirty blonde hair. Her eyes had been a deep brown and nails the color of the sky. She couldn't have stood even half a chance beyond a body clearly built for agility.
Skin ripped and flesh tore.
She had been slaughtered by gunfire, the bullet holes piercing her shape, and the wounds served as great places to begin the task of feasting.
Sebastian hadn't even thought to drag her into the vents like he usually did. Really, it didn't even occur to him it might be wise. He was too caught up in the burning of blood in his mouth and the weight of flesh on his tongue. He hadn't even taken note of whatever research or items she may have on her person.
He was just- just hungry.
God, how long had it been since he had last eaten, to be acting like this?
Sebastian was disgusted by his own growling stomach. He was sure he'd wind up throwing all of this up, if it kept up, but he refused to let himself, just curling his claws around the expendable's arm.
Pull.
Stretch.
Until the damned thing ripped, her shoulder pinned by one hand while the other two tore the limb from it. Blood poured and a greedy tongue stretched outwards as he lifted it high.
Crunch.
Sebastian hated it.
He hated how easily his jaw fell, stretching past what should be possible. How his teeth pierced through the damn thing until the bones cracked under the pressure. How he didn't stop. How he dropped what didn't fit in his mouth, so he could drag the bone away, nearly forgetting that such a thing existed.
But it didn't matter.
Sebastian could eat around it.
His teeth scraped against the obstacle as he tore the skin off of it, and he sincerely hated how the blood stained his clothes. He just couldn't dwell on it. He instead pressed a hand to the rest of the arm, curling, waiting until he had nothing left and could start on that.
It didn't take long.
Shameful.
Sebastian shuddered when he switched his attention. It tasted like heaven, when he brought it up to his lips and let his teeth sink in, and that fact made him sick.
But he ate.
He survived.
He feasted.
The monster did not stop until he was finished with that limb, turning his attention to the desecrated corpse that lay dead, and it made his eternally empty stomach churn at the sight.
He wasn't sure if he was going to rid himself of what he had already ate or consume even more of it.
…his body made the decision for him.
Sebastian surged forward, snarling lowly, teeth sinking into the throat to rip the soft flesh away- all a taste of liquid gold. It encompassed him and coaxed him forward.
Just swallow. He didn't even need to chew, not for such a small morsel of a bite, and he pressed his third arm to her chin to give himself better access to the expanse, and he didn't stop until it couldn't go back any further.
Then he just put his energy into pulling off the head itself.
It was blissful, how easy that was.
Almost hilarious- if Sebastian was able to think straight enough to find humor at all, he would surely think it the funniest joke to be told. It didn't have that dramatic flair he always thought decapitation would hold.
There weren't any dramatic swings of an ax, or sword, and he had not strained. There was no wrestling. There was no surging music.
All it had now was the sound of creaking pipes and distant water, accompanied by the heavy breathing of a starved beast.
Crack.
Sebastian curled his claws into the skin of the corpse's chest after the heavy bone beneath gave way, ripping through the muscle and shoving it between his teeth.
It was disgusting.
It was delightful.
He was almost dizzy with it as he ducked his head, claws prying the ribcage apart, forcing flesh aside so he could get at the still heart. It was horribly fragile when he sank his teeth.
It tasted like iron.
But Sebastian ate anyway.
Ate, until he was forced to start prying flesh from the ribs. When had he been rid of her other arm? When had he snapped her spine, just to get at a specific piece of meat that he wanted?
He didn't know. He really, really didn't know. Sebastian hated that fact.
He missed his mom.
He survived.
He ate.
He ate, until his stomach stopped screaming, and yet he still could not see beyond the red and the quiet halls.
Oh…
Sebastian dragged a thumb over his lips to wipe away the mess. It was useless, he felt silly, even if he doubted anyone was still here. Painter never stayed when he did this. He was glad for that at least.
He grunted instead, forcing himself to pry away from the carcass, with its fleeting warmth and long-cold skin. He didn't even want to deal with the rest.
Something else would eat it.
Something else would always eat it.
Sebastian hated that fact.
He grimaced at it, even- even when he retreated to the vents, all too aware of the blood sticky to his scales, and he'd have to find a way to wash his clothes. He sincerely hated how it was drying. He sincerely hated everything about how it felt.
He could still taste the blood on his tongue and he desperately tried to ignore it.
He spat nothing out onto the ground before he fully retreated, but it didn't do much, and he felt like a fool.
Some sad, starved, hungry fool. Pathetic and weak. Sebastian could only force himself to move. His satiated mind longed to sleep, but he didn't dare do it… here.
Not here.
It wasn't safe, his instincts reasoned, even when he knew nowhere was fully safe. Nothing here was safe. This entire place was horrible for it. Sebastian despised how it made his eyes sting, but he didn't cry.
He didn't cry anymore. That's what he told himself.
Sebastian didn't cry.
He only retreated.
He wound through metal confines until he could slide down pipes, listening to how they creaked and groaned, and Sebastian wondered if this would be the impossible day where they gave. Wouldn't that be a fine ending to the day?
What a headache he'd have, though.
Sebastian wasn't even sure how he wound up back in his shop. It wasn't home but it was all he had even vaguely similar to that.
…okay.
Sebastian felt fuzzy. His head was stuffed full of cotton and his skin was dry and sticky. He felt cold. He kinda missed it.
I want my mom.
But Sebastian didn't get to have his mom anymore.
So, defeated, the monster dragged himself upwards, hauling his tail into the barren bedding atop the alcove. It was more like scraps of spare uniforms and scavenged towels from those old communal showers. He vaguely recalled them.
He'd have to go there, even if the pipes had long since burst in that section. Maybe he could find some leftover soap that had yet to be lost or used. Maybe it'd be able to clean off the blood. He hoped so.
Okay.
Sebastian didn't have to do any of that now, though, just dragging himself along, and he was fine with just shedding the pouches and jacket and scarf and shirt and all the bullcrap. Just so it'd stop sticking to his skin. It was driving him mad.
Okay.
Okay.
…he wished he had a blanket, but something so simple wouldn't be down here. Sebastian doubted they'd even have some squirreled away. Urbanshade never cared about comfort.
Blanket-less, Sebastian coiled his tail over itself, dragging his claws over it until it was satisfactory.
He survived.
He mourned.
He survived.
Exhausted.
So he let himself close his eyes.
He let himself sleep, just for now.
Just for now. | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77348191 | {"authors": ["Acid0ffical"], "language": "English", "title": "Carved"} |
Good Luck, Mike!
"Well, um... this is my boyfriend. Carlton," Will introduced the boy beside him shortly after the rest of the party all greeted each other, shyly gesturing towards him as he did.
Mike felt his eyes narrowing. This guy, Carlton, was already managing to irritate him. The way he stood there, right next to Will, smiling like he had any right to be happy, just got under Mike's skin in a way he couldn't explain.
Mike didn't really have any reason behind the distaste he already held for Carlton besides the fact the other guy was dating Will. And even that was stupid, Mike had already known that Will got a boyfriend while away at college.
But meeting said boyfriend in person felt different than just knowing about his existence. It made Mike a lot more bitter, actually seeing him.
"Does he have to be here?" Mike asked curtly. It must've came out a bit more bluntly than he'd intended for it to, because Lucas sharply elbowed him in the side after the words came out, and he could hear Dustin snorting.
"Mike, man, chill." Lucas muttered. Mike could've scoffed. He didn't want to chill. He didn't think he could chill, not when he was finally meeting the lucky son of a bitch, right in front of him, who got to end up with exactly what Mike had always secretly longed for.
Will.
Carlton either didn't notice Mike's annoyance, or was simply choosing to ignore it, either of which just made Mike loathe him even more. "It's really nice to finally meet you guys!" He began with a smile. A friendly smile.
Oh, that was even worse, somehow. Carlton seemed nice.
"Will's told me a lot about you," Carlton shrugged, glancing between the party, Mike, Lucas, Max, and Dustin.
Mike almost perked up at that bit. That meant Will still talked about the party. Which meant Will still talked about him, right? Right?
But then Carlton continued speaking, and Mike's mood dampened once more. Not because he said anything bad. Mike just hated his voice.
"So, you're..." Carlton pointed hesitantly at Lucas.
"Lucas." Lucas finished for him, giving a nod of encouragement.
"Lucas. Dustin, Max, and..." Carlton glanced at each of them accordingly as he spoke their names.
"Mike." Mike cut in flatly when it got to him, folding his arms over his chest.
"Mike. Right. Got it,"
"I mean, I've known Will longer than the rest of them. And you. Since kindergarten. I'm, like, his best friend. So.." Mike couldn't help but feel the need to be in competition with Will's boyfriend. Like he had to prove himself. Had to prove he was just as much of--- no, more of an important part of Will's life than him.
Carlton lifted an eyebrow at Mike, nodding slowly. Mike hated the way he was being looked at. Like he had just mentioned something irrelevant. It was relevant!
"That's... cool." Carlton muttered. Then he looked to Will, beside him. For backup, or help continuing the conservation, or something. Mike thought he was a pussy.
"So, how many paintings has he made you?" Mike suddenly inquired. That was one thing he had leverage on against Carlton, and he was sure of it. Will had made him that painting a while ago, of him as the paladin. Called him the heart. Mike still cherished it, to this day. He's been keeping it on the wall of his bedroom since it was first given to him.
He was sure Carlton didn't have anything like that. A handmade gift from Will, with the memory of a tender moment connected to it. A twisted sense of pride blossomed from the realization.
Mike shrugged with an innocence that was so clearly feigned, obviously sarcastic. Mocking. "I mean, you're his boyfriend, right? He had to made you something. If he cares about you." That last sentence was pointed, petty emphasis on the word if.
"Well, he actually hasn't f---"
"Wow! Really? He hasn't? None?" Mike interrupted with a faux-amused scoff. "That's funny! He actually made me one when we were fifteen."
Carlton's eyes narrowed. "He hasn't finished it yet," he finished his earlier attempt at response. "But he's working on one for me right now."
Mike didn't like that. "Oh, really." He mumbled distastefully. Will was working on one for Carlton. Great. Mike just loved knowing that the kind of thing Will had done for him was now gonna be done for Carlton. Not.
"Dude, what's your problem?" Dustin whispered incredulously to Mike.
"I don't have a problem!" Mike retorted. But he did. The problem was Carlton. The problem was that Will had a boyfriend who wasn't him.
Even Will seemed to have taken notice to Mike's irritability, as he was looking at him with slightly raised eyebrows and an incredulous gaze. Like Mike was acting ridiculous. Unreasonable. Unnecessarily rude. And really, Mike knew that from Will's perspective, it probably looked that way.
Will didn't know about Mike's feelings. He didn't know that Mike had been so hopelessly enamored with him since they were just little kids. He didn't know that Mike couldn't stand seeing Will with someone else, that Mike felt sick just looking at Carlton.
"Mike," Will's voice wasn't soft when it addressed him; it was more defensive. Defensive over Carlton. "Be nice." Mike's eyes snapped down to Will's hand as he watched it migrate to Carlton's shoulder, taking a protective, yet tender, grip on it. A grip that should've been reserved for Mike. Mike was bitter, but he knew he didn't have a right to be. After all, it was his own fault that Will had entered a relationship with somebody else.
Mike had already had his chancewith Will. He'd known Will was in love with him. He knew that. And yet, he'd never done anything about it. He'd never built up the nerve it took to admit he returned those same tender feelings. Because what would people think? What would his parents think? Or what would Nancy think?
Mike had always known he was different. And not in a good way. Not in the way that was encouraged. Not unique. He was different in a way that earned him a reprimanding slap on the wrist during dinner. Different in a way that made him look at boys the way he should've been looking at girls, at Will the way he should've been looking at El.
Mike had never been willing to spill it. Never been able to tell Will how devoted he was to him. And now, he had to watch Will move on. He had to watch Will be with Carlton instead.
A disgusting feeling of regret clawed at Mike's chest. But he said nothing else. What was there to say? | Good Luck, Mike!
"Well, um... this is my boyfriend. Carlton," Will introduced the boy beside him shortly after the rest of the party all greeted each other, shyly gesturing towards him as he did.
Mike felt his eyes narrowing. This guy, Carlton, was already managing to irritate him. The way he stood there, right next to Will, smiling like he had any right to be happy, just got under Mike's skin in a way he couldn't explain.
Mike didn't really have any reason behind the distaste he already held for Carlton besides the fact the other guy was dating Will. And even that was stupid, Mike had already known that Will got a boyfriend while away at college.
But meeting said boyfriend in person felt different than just knowing about his existence. It made Mike a lot more bitter, actually seeing him.
"Does he have to be here?" Mike asked curtly. It must've came out a bit more bluntly than he'd intended for it to, because Lucas sharply elbowed him in the side after the words came out, and he could hear Dustin snorting.
"Mike, man, chill." Lucas muttered. Mike could've scoffed. He didn't want to chill. He didn't think he could chill, not when he was finally meeting the lucky son of a bitch, right in front of him, who got to end up with exactly what Mike had always secretly longed for.
Will.
Carlton either didn't notice Mike's annoyance, or was simply choosing to ignore it, either of which just made Mike loathe him even more. "It's really nice to finally meet you guys!" He began with a smile. A friendly smile.
Oh, that was even worse, somehow. Carlton seemed nice.
"Will's told me a lot about you," Carlton shrugged, glancing between the party, Mike, Lucas, Max, and Dustin.
Mike almost perked up at that bit. That meant Will still talked about the party. Which meant Will still talked about him, right? Right?
But then Carlton continued speaking, and Mike's mood dampened once more. Not because he said anything bad. Mike just hated his voice.
"So, you're..." Carlton pointed hesitantly at Lucas.
"Lucas." Lucas finished for him, giving a nod of encouragement.
"Lucas. Dustin, Max, and..." Carlton glanced at each of them accordingly as he spoke their names.
"Mike." Mike cut in flatly when it got to him, folding his arms over his chest.
"Mike. Right. Got it,"
"I mean, I've known Will longer than the rest of them. And you. Since kindergarten. I'm, like, his best friend. So.." Mike couldn't help but feel the need to be in competition with Will's boyfriend. Like he had to prove himself. Had to prove he was just as much of--- no, more of an important part of Will's life than him.
Carlton lifted an eyebrow at Mike, nodding slowly. Mike hated the way he was being looked at. Like he had just mentioned something irrelevant. It was relevant!
"That's... cool." Carlton muttered. Then he looked to Will, beside him. For backup, or help continuing the conservation, or something. Mike thought he was a pussy.
"So, how many paintings has he made you?" Mike suddenly inquired. That was one thing he had leverage on against Carlton, and he was sure of it. Will had made him that painting a while ago, of him as the paladin. Called him the heart. Mike still cherished it, to this day. He's been keeping it on the wall of his bedroom since it was first given to him.
He was sure Carlton didn't have anything like that. A handmade gift from Will, with the memory of a tender moment connected to it. A twisted sense of pride blossomed from the realization.
Mike shrugged with an innocence that was so clearly feigned, obviously sarcastic. Mocking. "I mean, you're his boyfriend, right? He had to made you something. If he cares about you." That last sentence was pointed, petty emphasis on the word if.
"Well, he actually hasn't f---"
"Wow! Really? He hasn't? None?" Mike interrupted with a faux-amused scoff. "That's funny! He actually made me one when we were fifteen."
Carlton's eyes narrowed. "He hasn't finished it yet," he finished his earlier attempt at response. "But he's working on one for me right now."
Mike didn't like that. "Oh, really." He mumbled distastefully. Will was working on one for Carlton. Great. Mike just loved knowing that the kind of thing Will had done for him was now gonna be done for Carlton. Not.
"Dude, what's your problem?" Dustin whispered incredulously to Mike.
"I don't have a problem!" Mike retorted. But he did. The problem was Carlton. The problem was that Will had a boyfriend who wasn't him.
Even Will seemed to have taken notice to Mike's irritability, as he was looking at him with slightly raised eyebrows and an incredulous gaze. Like Mike was acting ridiculous. Unreasonable. Unnecessarily rude. And really, Mike knew that from Will's perspective, it probably looked that way.
Will didn't know about Mike's feelings. He didn't know that Mike had been so hopelessly enamored with him since they were just little kids. He didn't know that Mike couldn't stand seeing Will with someone else, that Mike felt sick just looking at Carlton.
"Mike," Will's voice wasn't soft when it addressed him; it was more defensive. Defensive over Carlton. "Be nice." Mike's eyes snapped down to Will's hand as he watched it migrate to Carlton's shoulder, taking a protective, yet tender, grip on it. A grip that should've been reserved for Mike. Mike was bitter, but he knew he didn't have a right to be. After all, it was his own fault that Will had entered a relationship with somebody else.
Mike had already had his chancewith Will. He'd known Will was in love with him. He knew that. And yet, he'd never done anything about it. He'd never built up the nerve it took to admit he returned those same tender feelings. Because what would people think? What would his parents think? Or what would Nancy think?
Mike had always known he was different. And not in a good way. Not in the way that was encouraged. Not unique. He was different in a way that earned him a reprimanding slap on the wrist during dinner. Different in a way that made him look at boys the way he should've been looking at girls, at Will the way he should've been looking at El.
Mike had never been willing to spill it. Never been able to tell Will how devoted he was to him. And now, he had to watch Will move on. He had to watch Will be with Carlton instead.
A disgusting feeling of regret clawed at Mike's chest. But he said nothing else. What was there to say? | ao3_english | 2026-01-09T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77348211 | {"authors": ["butterscotchbycrs"], "language": "English", "title": "Good Luck, Mike!"} |
I Can't Lose Him
Paul hated bringing extra attention to himself, it was bad enough that over half the female population was dying to get in his pants and at least a third of men wanted to be him.
But really the only attention he wanted was from John, except in classic Macca fashion he hardly ever wanted John to see him as soft.
*
Paul and John were friends, sometimes tension thought Paul could hope for more. He was never too sure to know, so he never made any moves. John on the other hand had been in love with Paul for years, but similarly never knew if Paul reciprocated those feelings.
Paul wanted John's acceptance, and because John was always the tough guy, he had to make sure he could meet at his level. Though, after knowing John for a little while they grew tender with each other, sometimes so much so it began to blur the line of friendship. Neither had admitted to each other about that just yet.
*
As Paul tried his hardest to remain calm and normal, he was still not completely all there. John had noticed this.
-"Yea, I'm alright," he said softly, replying to John's concern, giving a warm smile; his eyes were doing a bad job at hiding the truth. Paul's eyes fluttered downward—couldn’t quite hold his gaze.
John always saw through him, even when he wore his best brave face. He tilted his head slightly, that crooked smirk fading into something quieter.
"Y’look like a damp pudding, Macca."
He leaned in just an inch—close enough the others wouldn’t catch the hush in his voice.
“Stomach actin’ up again?”
And there it was, the way he knew. Not just guessing. Paying attention. Always paying attention to him. Even with cameras flashing and girls screaming two rooms over.
Paul couldn't begin to fathom how much he loved the way John paid attention to him. But right now, with everyone around, Paul was too afraid that if Lennon got too close someone might say something; and with how much he got called a degrading name already just by looking pretty, he didn't need extra shade.
Paul did his best to act his toughest in the public eye, though when it came to John he couldn't bear to push him away, he just had to do it subtly. He tried to shuffle away just a little, hoping the gap would leave room for John to go back to the questions at hand.
Furthermore, his stomach * was* playing up and he was in no mood for anything or anyone right now
John saw the strain, the way Paul bit his lip, how his eyes kept darting everywhere. He knew he was trying to brush it all off—be tough when everyone else was around. But John was too damn observant. And, most frustratingly, he wasn't the type to back off just ’cause you said so’. If anything, that made him wanna stick to your side more.
"I can see right through ya, ya know." He leaned in even closer, voice dipping low like a conspirator or a promise.
"I know John, I know. Just pay attention to the reporter before they start asking questions".
Paul was doing his best to keep still but pain was creeping through him, waiting till the interview was over to deal with it.
John's eyes stayed glued to Paul, reading the signs on his face like a damn book. He knew he wasn't fine, not really. But he'd say he was until the bloody day was done. So, with a deep sigh, John relented, stepping back to give some breathing room. For now.
The interview dragged through the typical mundane questions. The boys made their usual jokes. But John? He kept glancing back, his eyes always finding Paul as his face grew more and more pale….
John didn’t say another word. Just reached behind and gently pressed the small of Paul’s back—steady, warm—holding him up without anyone else seeing.
And then it ended, lights dimmed a little, microphones lowered. The reporter stepped back with a grin, “That’s a wrap!”.
The boys would have to make their way around to talk to more people , on a usual day. But Paul, without another word, was already making his way to the dressing rooms, away from the crowd. As the boys stuck together, John following close behind Paul like a hawk, they made their way from the stage to the back.
The corridor was dim, the buzz of fans and cameras fading behind him. Paul moved fast, too fast for someone feeling like death, but he just wanted out. Air. Quiet. Maybe a lie-down before the world came knocking again.
But no matter how quick he was, John was quicker.
He caught up without a word, matching his pace, then slowing it with a gentle hand on arm.
"Hey...". His voice wasn't loud, just soft enough to make Paul stop.
Paul turned, jaw tight, eyes tired. He didn’t want to worry him. But John wasn’t asking if something was wrong he already knew.
Paul went to open his mouth, to argue he was okay- “Don’t ‘I’m fine’ me, Macca… not this time.”
He searched Paul’s face, so pale, eyes unfocused. Raw and real McCartney, one he only ever got to see when nobody else was looking,-but in so much pain. His voice dropped lower, “I don't like seeing you like this, I'm taking you to get checked this isn't right”.
Paul's mind was buzzing, there was a slight ringing in his ears. John was right there but he couldn't focus.
It was quieter now, and Brian and Mal were making their way over to direct the boys.
But something felt strange, Paul needed air? Water? A sudden surge of pain had spiked. His jaw tightened and his brow narrowed. He felt John touch his arm again, but he was soon in a near sprint.
Meanwhile John had for a second turned his attention to Brian as he heard him approach, ready to get his attention to Paul for help.
Paul had walked away, not really having an idea where to go but the world began to spin, head dizzy, stomach screaming with pain. Then there it was, a warm feeling rising in his throat, rushing to find the nearest bin.
John felt it, a chill, a shift in the air before he even saw it. Then, there he was, sprinting down the corridor to find something to throw up in. He reacted without thinking, pushing past Brian and Mal.
"Paul!"
The hallway seemed to tilt sideways. Paul felt a hand on your back, then another steadying his shoulders. The world was spinning, the room fading, and John was all you could see.
"Easy-easy... I got you...". His words sounded muffled, distant, but something was wrong. Paul fell to his knees, usually vomit was relieving but this time it felt wrong.
A metallic taste was in his mouth and he couldn't see through blurry eyes, but he heard John gasp suddenly.
Paul wasn't vomiting food, it was blood.
It was like time stood still.
John's body went cold. This really wasn't right. Paul's face was pale, body slumped on the floor, and then there it was. The blood.
"No no no. Paul! Paul-Paul, look at me...".
He crouched beside him, his fingers shaking as they lifted his chin. Paul's eyes were dazed, tears streaming down his face. He looked scared—really scared.
John began yelling for help as Brian and the rest rushed over.
The world still blurry for Paul as time slowed down. Paul remained slumped on the floor, unaware of what was happening.
Brian had seen the blood and Paul's figure, telling Mal to call the ambulance immediately.
John comforted Paul and consistently tried to talk to him, but Paul was in too much haze and pain to respond.
For a moment he laid there, until that warm feeling came back up his throat again, quickly moving himself away from the people around him.
It was like a nightmare.
Paul had never felt this sick, not ever. Every breath felt like knives in his stomach, head spinning, world tilting.
John was right there, touching his face, holding his shoulders, comforting him.
Then the pain came again, a wave of nausea. Paul turned his head, trying to sit up, but could hardly move.
"Hey, hey... It's okay—shh... stay still, just breathe... deep breaths, Paulie....", John still holding Paul in a frantic way.
Paul quickly got up and vomited again into the trash, there it was again, the metallic taste, the remains of God knows what covered in red.
John's concern grew more as he wanted nothing more for his Partner, his best friend, his world- to be okay.
Paul’s body convulsed. Trembling hands, cold sweat on his brow, tense figure.
John didn't let go. He stayed by his side, holding him steady, as Brian tried to intervene, telling John he needed to give Paul space to breathe. Paul’s head spun, vision hazy—not able to make out his face. Cheeks pale, John looked scared. And that was wrong. John never looked scared. Slowly Paul began to pass out.
"Paulie, can you hear me? Look at me... I need you to look at me..."
He held his chin, lifting his gaze, forcing the sweet hazel eyes he fell for- to meet his, trying to keep Paul’s attention…
Paul forced out a struggled "what's happening to me?".
As his body slumped back down, supported by John.
Brian also began to question, as he was also in a state of panic and trying to control chaos.
That question hit hard.
John could only hold him tighter. He was pale, trembling—and those damn tears kept streaming down your face. He wanted to say "I don't know..." or "You'll be fine" but he couldn't make those words leave his lips.
After a moment John managed "We're—the ambulance is coming... you'll be fine...".
His voice was steady, like a promise. But he didn't even believe his own bullshit.
"It hurts," Paul said softly, groaning and struggling for air.
George and Ringo stood by in disbelief, stressing in their own ways, Brian there trying to reassure everyone.
Eventually paramedics arrived on scene.
The world snapped back into focus.
Paramedics swarmed in, hands all over, asking questions, checking vital signs. John stepped back to give them space... but he couldn't look away. He could barely breathe.
Paul was barely coherent, looking small, fragile. A million thoughts raced through John's mind.
What the hell *was* happening?
John wouldn't leave his side even on the way to the hospital.
Mal was organized to drive the rest of the boys to the hospital while Brain joined John in the ambulance.
The paramedics began to ask questions, "Has he had anything to eat or drink tonight. Has he taken anything we should be aware of? Does he have any allergies to anything".
Brian promptly replied back "They've only had champagne as far as I know, John do you know if he's taken anything?!".
John's brain was still catching up to everything.
He could hardly remember what they had eaten or drank. All the questions were making him dizzy, but he tried to stay focused.
"Just-uh... champagne... nothing else, I don't think... he's not on anything...".
John reached for Paul's slender hand, fingers intertwining. Paul’s grip was limp, barely there. And it scared him.
The ride was silent. All John could hear was the whirring of sirens and beeping of machines. Hand still in his, so still, so fragile.
John leaned in closer, feeling his breath—shallow, shaky, wrong, wrong wrong wrong all of it.
He whispered, needing him to hear, needing anything to show him that his Paul was still alive "Just... stay with me, okay? You have to stay with me. I can't-". How could everything go so badly so fast??
Brian reassured John that everything was okay, that the paramedics would stabilize him now and the hospital would treat him.
Paul however had entered a state of bliss, where nothing made sense. He couldn't feel anything anymore, but revisit memories.
All memories of him and John. Reliving such precious times, going back and forth between years.
He began to realize the love he had for John. Although he was incapable of doing anything in this moment he was fighting hard not to give in, but to hang on for him. If he was to make it out of whatever was happening to him he would show up for John somehow, show him that time isn't always promised and DO something about it. Maybe just maybe confess his deepest secret he had been holding for far too long.
The ride was long, time stretched.
John was still holding his hand, thumb tracing circles on his skin. The silence was making him go insane, he couldn't think straight.
And, the way Paul laid there, pale, quiet. It didn't feel real. None of this felt real. John wanted to shake him awake, to see his beautiful doe eyes—just look at him.
"Paulie... just hold on, okay? Please..."
His hand was so cold.
The paramedics rushed him through the hospital. | I Can't Lose Him
Paul hated bringing extra attention to himself, it was bad enough that over half the female population was dying to get in his pants and at least a third of men wanted to be him.
But really the only attention he wanted was from John, except in classic Macca fashion he hardly ever wanted John to see him as soft.
*
Paul and John were friends, sometimes tension thought Paul could hope for more. He was never too sure to know, so he never made any moves. John on the other hand had been in love with Paul for years, but similarly never knew if Paul reciprocated those feelings.
Paul wanted John's acceptance, and because John was always the tough guy, he had to make sure he could meet at his level. Though, after knowing John for a little while they grew tender with each other, sometimes so much so it began to blur the line of friendship. Neither had admitted to each other about that just yet.
*
As Paul tried his hardest to remain calm and normal, he was still not completely all there. John had noticed this.
-"Yea, I'm alright," he said softly, replying to John's concern, giving a warm smile; his eyes were doing a bad job at hiding the truth. Paul's eyes fluttered downward—couldn’t quite hold his gaze.
John always saw through him, even when he wore his best brave face. He tilted his head slightly, that crooked smirk fading into something quieter.
"Y’look like a damp pudding, Macca."
He leaned in just an inch—close enough the others wouldn’t catch the hush in his voice.
“Stomach actin’ up again?”
And there it was, the way he knew. Not just guessing. Paying attention. Always paying attention to him. Even with cameras flashing and girls screaming two rooms over.
Paul couldn't begin to fathom how much he loved the way John paid attention to him. But right now, with everyone around, Paul was too afraid that if Lennon got too close someone might say something; and with how much he got called a degrading name already just by looking pretty, he didn't need extra shade.
Paul did his best to act his toughest in the public eye, though when it came to John he couldn't bear to push him away, he just had to do it subtly. He tried to shuffle away just a little, hoping the gap would leave room for John to go back to the questions at hand.
Furthermore, his stomach * was* playing up and he was in no mood for anything or anyone right now
John saw the strain, the way Paul bit his lip, how his eyes kept darting everywhere. He knew he was trying to brush it all off—be tough when everyone else was around. But John was too damn observant. And, most frustratingly, he wasn't the type to back off just ’cause you said so’. If anything, that made him wanna stick to your side more.
"I can see right through ya, ya know." He leaned in even closer, voice dipping low like a conspirator or a promise.
"I know John, I know. Just pay attention to the reporter before they start asking questions".
Paul was doing his best to keep still but pain was creeping through him, waiting till the interview was over to deal with it.
John's eyes stayed glued to Paul, reading the signs on his face like a damn book. He knew he wasn't fine, not really. But he'd say he was until the bloody day was done. So, with a deep sigh, John relented, stepping back to give some breathing room. For now.
The interview dragged through the typical mundane questions. The boys made their usual jokes. But John? He kept glancing back, his eyes always finding Paul as his face grew more and more pale….
John didn’t say another word. Just reached behind and gently pressed the small of Paul’s back—steady, warm—holding him up without anyone else seeing.
And then it ended, lights dimmed a little, microphones lowered. The reporter stepped back with a grin, “That’s a wrap!”.
The boys would have to make their way around to talk to more people , on a usual day. But Paul, without another word, was already making his way to the dressing rooms, away from the crowd. As the boys stuck together, John following close behind Paul like a hawk, they made their way from the stage to the back.
The corridor was dim, the buzz of fans and cameras fading behind him. Paul moved fast, too fast for someone feeling like death, but he just wanted out. Air. Quiet. Maybe a lie-down before the world came knocking again.
But no matter how quick he was, John was quicker.
He caught up without a word, matching his pace, then slowing it with a gentle hand on arm.
"Hey...". His voice wasn't loud, just soft enough to make Paul stop.
Paul turned, jaw tight, eyes tired. He didn’t want to worry him. But John wasn’t asking if something was wrong he already knew.
Paul went to open his mouth, to argue he was okay- “Don’t ‘I’m fine’ me, Macca… not this time.”
He searched Paul’s face, so pale, eyes unfocused. Raw and real McCartney, one he only ever got to see when nobody else was looking,-but in so much pain. His voice dropped lower, “I don't like seeing you like this, I'm taking you to get checked this isn't right”.
Paul's mind was buzzing, there was a slight ringing in his ears. John was right there but he couldn't focus.
It was quieter now, and Brian and Mal were making their way over to direct the boys.
But something felt strange, Paul needed air? Water? A sudden surge of pain had spiked. His jaw tightened and his brow narrowed. He felt John touch his arm again, but he was soon in a near sprint.
Meanwhile John had for a second turned his attention to Brian as he heard him approach, ready to get his attention to Paul for help.
Paul had walked away, not really having an idea where to go but the world began to spin, head dizzy, stomach screaming with pain. Then there it was, a warm feeling rising in his throat, rushing to find the nearest bin.
John felt it, a chill, a shift in the air before he even saw it. Then, there he was, sprinting down the corridor to find something to throw up in. He reacted without thinking, pushing past Brian and Mal.
"Paul!"
The hallway seemed to tilt sideways. Paul felt a hand on your back, then another steadying his shoulders. The world was spinning, the room fading, and John was all you could see.
"Easy-easy... I got you...". His words sounded muffled, distant, but something was wrong. Paul fell to his knees, usually vomit was relieving but this time it felt wrong.
A metallic taste was in his mouth and he couldn't see through blurry eyes, but he heard John gasp suddenly.
Paul wasn't vomiting food, it was blood.
It was like time stood still.
John's body went cold. This really wasn't right. Paul's face was pale, body slumped on the floor, and then there it was. The blood.
"No no no. Paul! Paul-Paul, look at me...".
He crouched beside him, his fingers shaking as they lifted his chin. Paul's eyes were dazed, tears streaming down his face. He looked scared—really scared.
John began yelling for help as Brian and the rest rushed over.
The world still blurry for Paul as time slowed down. Paul remained slumped on the floor, unaware of what was happening.
Brian had seen the blood and Paul's figure, telling Mal to call the ambulance immediately.
John comforted Paul and consistently tried to talk to him, but Paul was in too much haze and pain to respond.
For a moment he laid there, until that warm feeling came back up his throat again, quickly moving himself away from the people around him.
It was like a nightmare.
Paul had never felt this sick, not ever. Every breath felt like knives in his stomach, head spinning, world tilting.
John was right there, touching his face, holding his shoulders, comforting him.
Then the pain came again, a wave of nausea. Paul turned his head, trying to sit up, but could hardly move.
"Hey, hey... It's okay—shh... stay still, just breathe... deep breaths, Paulie....", John still holding Paul in a frantic way.
Paul quickly got up and vomited again into the trash, there it was again, the metallic taste, the remains of God knows what covered in red.
John's concern grew more as he wanted nothing more for his Partner, his best friend, his world- to be okay.
Paul’s body convulsed. Trembling hands, cold sweat on his brow, tense figure.
John didn't let go. He stayed by his side, holding him steady, as Brian tried to intervene, telling John he needed to give Paul space to breathe. Paul’s head spun, vision hazy—not able to make out his face. Cheeks pale, John looked scared. And that was wrong. John never looked scared. Slowly Paul began to pass out.
"Paulie, can you hear me? Look at me... I need you to look at me..."
He held his chin, lifting his gaze, forcing the sweet hazel eyes he fell for- to meet his, trying to keep Paul’s attention…
Paul forced out a struggled "what's happening to me?".
As his body slumped back down, supported by John.
Brian also began to question, as he was also in a state of panic and trying to control chaos.
That question hit hard.
John could only hold him tighter. He was pale, trembling—and those damn tears kept streaming down your face. He wanted to say "I don't know..." or "You'll be fine" but he couldn't make those words leave his lips.
After a moment John managed "We're—the ambulance is coming... you'll be fine...".
His voice was steady, like a promise. But he didn't even believe his own bullshit.
"It hurts," Paul said softly, groaning and struggling for air.
George and Ringo stood by in disbelief, stressing in their own ways, Brian there trying to reassure everyone.
Eventually paramedics arrived on scene.
The world snapped back into focus.
Paramedics swarmed in, hands all over, asking questions, checking vital signs. John stepped back to give them space... but he couldn't look away. He could barely breathe.
Paul was barely coherent, looking small, fragile. A million thoughts raced through John's mind.
What the hell *was* happening?
John wouldn't leave his side even on the way to the hospital.
Mal was organized to drive the rest of the boys to the hospital while Brain joined John in the ambulance.
The paramedics began to ask questions, "Has he had anything to eat or drink tonight. Has he taken anything we should be aware of? Does he have any allergies to anything".
Brian promptly replied back "They've only had champagne as far as I know, John do you know if he's taken anything?!".
John's brain was still catching up to everything.
He could hardly remember what they had eaten or drank. All the questions were making him dizzy, but he tried to stay focused.
"Just-uh... champagne... nothing else, I don't think... he's not on anything...".
John reached for Paul's slender hand, fingers intertwining. Paul’s grip was limp, barely there. And it scared him.
The ride was silent. All John could hear was the whirring of sirens and beeping of machines. Hand still in his, so still, so fragile.
John leaned in closer, feeling his breath—shallow, shaky, wrong, wrong wrong wrong all of it.
He whispered, needing him to hear, needing anything to show him that his Paul was still alive "Just... stay with me, okay? You have to stay with me. I can't-". How could everything go so badly so fast??
Brian reassured John that everything was okay, that the paramedics would stabilize him now and the hospital would treat him.
Paul however had entered a state of bliss, where nothing made sense. He couldn't feel anything anymore, but revisit memories.
All memories of him and John. Reliving such precious times, going back and forth between years.
He began to realize the love he had for John. Although he was incapable of doing anything in this moment he was fighting hard not to give in, but to hang on for him. If he was to make it out of whatever was happening to him he would show up for John somehow, show him that time isn't always promised and DO something about it. Maybe just maybe confess his deepest secret he had been holding for far too long.
The ride was long, time stretched.
John was still holding his hand, thumb tracing circles on his skin. The silence was making him go insane, he couldn't think straight.
And, the way Paul laid there, pale, quiet. It didn't feel real. None of this felt real. John wanted to shake him awake, to see his beautiful doe eyes—just look at him.
"Paulie... just hold on, okay? Please..."
His hand was so cold.
The paramedics rushed him through the hospital. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77347511/chapters/202506866 | {"authors": ["UnknownTwatDEADDOVE"], "language": "English", "title": "I Can't Lose Him"} |
Saviour
TW: Brief mention of self harm!
~Scarlett~
As I ran through the dark, towering forest, I could hear the men chasing after me, the thunderous sound of their boots slamming against the forest floor. I knew I had to get away, and get away fast. Thankfully, I knew these woods like the back of my hand, and I was quickly approaching a hideout built specifically for something like this.
The sharp snap of branches behind me echoed louder now, voices rising and falling in urgent shouts. Adrenaline surged like wildfire through my veins, and my heart felt as if it might leap from my chest at any moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a carving I had made in a tree just months before, my signal to others that safety was near. My sanctuary was just ahead, camouflaged by fallen leaves and thick underbrush. The hideout was nothing more than a shallow burrow dug beneath a rotted tree trunk, completely invisible unless you knew where to look. I dropped to my knees, peeled back the disguise and slipped inside.
The footsteps became louder and louder with each passing second thudding like war drums but was even louder than their footsteps was the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. One of the men cursed, a sharp, guttural sound followed by a barked command I couldn't make out. They were close, too close. I pressed deeper into the shadows, every muscle coiled like a spring.
Then came the pause. A held breath. Boots stopped. The forest seemed to lean in. "Keep moving," one finally said. "She couldn't have vanished." I dared not exhale until their voices faded, swallowed by the vast, breathing wild. The forest had protected me once again.
I stayed hidden in that spot for what seemed like hours, even though I knew the men chasing me had retreated by now I couldn't move. I was absolutely paralyzed by fear, the thought of even slightly moving an inch and having someone see me was unbearable. Each rustle of wind through the trees mimicked footsteps, each distant cry of a night bird made me nauseous. My mind ran wild with possibilities, had they doubled back? Were they waiting silently, watching, testing my nerve?
Eventually, instinct overruled fear. I shifted just enough to peek through the layered veil of moss and root. The forest outside was still, drenched in moonlight and heavy silence. If I moved now, I could put more distance between myself and the shadows chasing me. I knew there was only about 15 kilometers more into the woods until I would reach Rosemary Cove, a place that would keep me safe. No one could enter the cove unless you passed inspection by the elders of the coven but once you did you were safe from the outside. Priests and Knights knew of a sanctuary for witches somewhere in the woods but where always unable to find it.
But Rosemary Cove wasn't just hidden by distance and terrain. It was protected by enchantment. Trees shifted subtly to guard its paths, shadows lengthened or shortened to mislead those who meant harm, and even sound bent away from its borders, leaving no clue for those who didn't belong.
After running for what felt like forever i saw it. A faint shimmer between the trees, like moonlight caught in a curtain of mist. My lungs burned, my legs trembled, but the sight pulled me forward. I came to a stop as I reached the front of the barrier, I took a moment to catch my breath before I could do what came next.
I pulled a small dagger from boot and took another deep breath before I cut a small line in my wrist. I winced at the pain but knew it would be worth it. With the blood seeping from me I placed some on my finger and began to trace the rune for protection in the air.
The air changed instantly. Warmer. Softer. The scent of rosemary and wild mint drifted toward me, carried by a breeze that didn't exist outside the barrier. Suddenly before my eyes I was greeted by the sight of s mall cottages carved into the hillside glowed with light, and the distant sound of running water echoed like a lullaby. As well as, lanterns that floated lazily above winding paths, their flames glowing with a gentle blue hue.
I stepped through, and the barrier sealed behind me with a whisper.
Safe. For now. | Saviour
TW: Brief mention of self harm!
~Scarlett~
As I ran through the dark, towering forest, I could hear the men chasing after me, the thunderous sound of their boots slamming against the forest floor. I knew I had to get away, and get away fast. Thankfully, I knew these woods like the back of my hand, and I was quickly approaching a hideout built specifically for something like this.
The sharp snap of branches behind me echoed louder now, voices rising and falling in urgent shouts. Adrenaline surged like wildfire through my veins, and my heart felt as if it might leap from my chest at any moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a carving I had made in a tree just months before, my signal to others that safety was near. My sanctuary was just ahead, camouflaged by fallen leaves and thick underbrush. The hideout was nothing more than a shallow burrow dug beneath a rotted tree trunk, completely invisible unless you knew where to look. I dropped to my knees, peeled back the disguise and slipped inside.
The footsteps became louder and louder with each passing second thudding like war drums but was even louder than their footsteps was the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. One of the men cursed, a sharp, guttural sound followed by a barked command I couldn't make out. They were close, too close. I pressed deeper into the shadows, every muscle coiled like a spring.
Then came the pause. A held breath. Boots stopped. The forest seemed to lean in. "Keep moving," one finally said. "She couldn't have vanished." I dared not exhale until their voices faded, swallowed by the vast, breathing wild. The forest had protected me once again.
I stayed hidden in that spot for what seemed like hours, even though I knew the men chasing me had retreated by now I couldn't move. I was absolutely paralyzed by fear, the thought of even slightly moving an inch and having someone see me was unbearable. Each rustle of wind through the trees mimicked footsteps, each distant cry of a night bird made me nauseous. My mind ran wild with possibilities, had they doubled back? Were they waiting silently, watching, testing my nerve?
Eventually, instinct overruled fear. I shifted just enough to peek through the layered veil of moss and root. The forest outside was still, drenched in moonlight and heavy silence. If I moved now, I could put more distance between myself and the shadows chasing me. I knew there was only about 15 kilometers more into the woods until I would reach Rosemary Cove, a place that would keep me safe. No one could enter the cove unless you passed inspection by the elders of the coven but once you did you were safe from the outside. Priests and Knights knew of a sanctuary for witches somewhere in the woods but where always unable to find it.
But Rosemary Cove wasn't just hidden by distance and terrain. It was protected by enchantment. Trees shifted subtly to guard its paths, shadows lengthened or shortened to mislead those who meant harm, and even sound bent away from its borders, leaving no clue for those who didn't belong.
After running for what felt like forever i saw it. A faint shimmer between the trees, like moonlight caught in a curtain of mist. My lungs burned, my legs trembled, but the sight pulled me forward. I came to a stop as I reached the front of the barrier, I took a moment to catch my breath before I could do what came next.
I pulled a small dagger from boot and took another deep breath before I cut a small line in my wrist. I winced at the pain but knew it would be worth it. With the blood seeping from me I placed some on my finger and began to trace the rune for protection in the air.
The air changed instantly. Warmer. Softer. The scent of rosemary and wild mint drifted toward me, carried by a breeze that didn't exist outside the barrier. Suddenly before my eyes I was greeted by the sight of s mall cottages carved into the hillside glowed with light, and the distant sound of running water echoed like a lullaby. As well as, lanterns that floated lazily above winding paths, their flames glowing with a gentle blue hue.
I stepped through, and the barrier sealed behind me with a whisper.
Safe. For now. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77348181/chapters/202508506 | {"authors": ["GothageFarms"], "language": "English", "title": "Saviour"} |
Swap
It’s an accident at first.
There’s a rush to leave in the morning, and in the chaos of the campsite Gustave ends up grabbing a pair of gloves that don’t quite fit. He’s still half-asleep as he pulls the worn leather over one palm and then blinks blearily at the other, extra glove clutched in his metal hand. He doesn’t usually bother trying to wear one over the mechanical arm - so his sleep-addled mind is still trying to piece together the clues as his thoughts slowly revive, one-by-one.
Ah.
These aren’t his gloves, are they?
He looks down and flexes his hand: it’s a black glove, no cut-out in the back. If he hadn’t been in such a sleepy rush he would have noticed right away.
To the side, he hears the familiar huff of air that signals Verso’s amusement. “Bit of a mix-up?” Verso suggests. “Don’t worry about it.” He snatches Gustave’s actual glove from where it’s sitting on the ground. “We can swap for the day.”
Without further comment, he slips Gustave’s glove onto his hand and starts to walk off as if there’s nothing further to be done.
In the confusion, Gustave’s mind finishes waking up to find a stream of baffled question marks crawling around the inside of his skull.
Throughout the day, he finds Verso staring at his gloved hand whenever it moves. There’s something strange in his gaze, something thoughtful.
And Gustave finds himself staring right back.
The next time it happens, it’s not accidental at all.
His arm has been aching all day, the after-effects of the recoil on his gun: he’d held it wrong during a fight, and these are the consequences. It’ll fade. He tells himself to just put up with it. Don’t make a fuss.
“Give me your arm,” Verso sighs at him while they’re walking together. When Gustave hesitates, Verso sighs a second time - and Gustave wants to tell himself there’s something fond about it. “You’ve been rubbing it all day. It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“... A little.”
“So give me your arm.”
When he gives in, as cautiously as a dog with a burr in its paw, Verso doesn’t waste a moment. Like he's been waiting for the opportunity, he abruptly attaches his bracer to Gustave’s forearm, his hands firm but not rough.
The solid wood holds his arm steady as Verso carefully ties the bindings. The wooden pieces hold Gustave’s arm carefully in place: the red gestral markings scrawled on the outside looked natural on Verso, but look utterly wrong on Gustave instead.
“Verso- ”
“Don’t mention it,” Verso cuts him off before he can even voice the protest. “You need this more than I do right now.”
He finishes attaching it to Gustave’s arm, and his hands linger on the brace, soft and delicate. Checking the fit, Gustave tells himself stubbornly.
The pain doesn’t fade, not right away, but something else joins it.
It feels like warmth.
Gustave catches Verso again just outside camp, glaring down at the pile of their things with his arms crossed over his chest.
Gustave’s arm is feeling better, but the guard is still lashed tightly to it. Days have passed, but Verso hasn’t asked for it back; Gustave hasn’t offered. There’s something about the way that Verso watches him wearing it, something about the intensity of the way Verso stares at it.
It’s something Gustave isn’t ready to examine.
“Everything alri-”
“Can I use this?” Verso asks as soon as Gustave joins him.
Gustave has to look down to work out what ‘this’ is. Verso nudges it with his foot for good measure. ‘It’ is Gustave’s small black backpack, sitting harmlessly by a log near the fire. “My bag?” he checks.
It’s an old-fashioned quirk. With their pictos, he doesn’t really need to carry anything around like an old explorer - but he can’t help himself. It feels more real to carry his journal on his back, right beside him, not simply entrusted to their chroma.
“I want to go gathering supplies,” Verso clarifies. “This would be ideal.”
“Uh…”
“Call it a trade,” Verso suggests. There’s a smile starting to lick at the side of his mouth, and Gustave finds that he likes the sight of it more than he should. “Your bag for my bracer. You can get it back when you’re ready to swap.”
Gustave doesn’t mean to smile back, but it happens all the same. His metal fingers brush against the wooden back of the arm guard, tracing the gestral designs. It feels familiar on his arm already, like the ever-present warmth of a pair of hands.
“Fine,” he agrees. “A swap. A temporary swap.”
His bag is on Verso’s back almost before he’s finished speaking. Verso places it carefully and adjusts the straps - and, quietly, he looks delighted with himself for it, like a young boy who’s successfully negotiated for more sweets. He settles it onto his shoulders and tucks his thumbs against the straps to hold the bag in place.
“Temporary!” Gustave calls after him as Verso starts to depart.
All he receives is an absent-minded wave of acknowledgement.
He gets the strangest feeling he isn’t going to get that bag back after all.
He gets the even stranger feeling that he doesn’t really mind.
The fire flickers in front of them, but it’s a dying ember against the night’s cold. The wind rushes around their camp; the girls have wisely already slunk away to bed, sleeping under blanket after blanket after blanket, while Monoco and Esquie are curled together in a particularly peculiar pile for warmth. Gustave can’t say he blames them.
He should call it a night himself, really. He would, but Verso is still up: staring into the fire, watching the flames, seeking the warmth. There’s a distant, troubled look on his face, a kaleidoscope of horrors he won’t name. Gustave knows better than to ask, really, but there’s a problem about ignoring it entirely too: he can see Verso’s hands shaking from the cold.
Knowing it’ll be rejected, knowing he’s going to do it anyway, Gustave pulls the wrap from around his neck. Tendrils of cold reach for him instantly, but he ignores it all to reach out.
Before Verso can react, just as fast as Verso had been with his arm guard, Gustave manages to throw the scarf over the top of Verso’s head and pull it down: his residual warmth soaks through into Verso’s neck, the dark grey scarf almost blending in with the darkness of his hair.
“Gustave,” Verso protests with a laugh, startled out of his thoughts. “What- ”
“You looked cold,” Gustave says. Not a lie. “And I’m going to bed soon anyway.” Also not a lie. “So I thought you needed it more than me.”
Verso’s hand brushes against the soft fabric around his neck. It settles into place like it’s always been there.
Gustave’s heart jumps in his throat. “... And it looks better on you anyway,” he adds.
Also not a lie.
Also absolutely terrifying.
Verso looks up at him with eyes sharp enough to cut glass. He looks less like a man that’s just received a compliment, and more like someone contemplating a new and unexpected stab wound.
“Um,” Gustave adds. He swallows and feels the loss of his scarf more than ever. The night is cold but his face feels warm. “Well. I’d better go and get some sleep. Good night, Verso.”
As he retreats into the night, he only dares to look back once.
In the firelight, heat dancing over his face, he sees Verso burying deeper into the grey infinity scarf wrapped around his neck - he sees him breathing deeply, eyes closed, like the scent is warmer than the fire itself.
The higher they go in the mountains the colder it gets. Before long, Gustave is left feeling the absence of the wrap around his neck and shoulders as the cold sinks in.
He hasn’t asked for it back from Verso.
And Verso hasn’t offered.
Still, as they’re trudging through the snow and Gustave’s hands are shoved deep into his pockets, there is a very, very small part of him that might be glaring at the back of Verso’s neck: the back of Verso’s very warm, very scarfed, very wrapped-up neck.
Gustave’s teeth want to start chattering. He clenches his jaw in a firm attempt to get that under control.
Up ahead, Lune floats effortlessly over the thickening snow, and Maelle and Sciel seem to be bounding through it like they hardly notice the cold. Just Gustave, then. Maybe they should have checked if the Manor had a secret stash of heavy, warm, abundant coats.
Verso glances over his shoulder at Gustave, a light in his eyes like he’s about to make a joke - but the joke dies on his lips before it makes it out. It transforms somewhere between thought and action into the roll of his eyes instead.
“You’re freezing,” he states.
And even if the fingers on Gustave’s remaining hand might be in danger of falling off, he makes an attempt at a shrug anyway. “It’s not too bad,” he promises. “You should see Lumière in winter.”
“I’ve lived in Lumière in winter,” Verso reminds him. “It’s nothing like this.”
Before they can argue any more, Verso drops back a few steps until they’re walking beside each other. His hands start to fiddle with the clothing clasps near his neck and shoulders.
“It’s fine - I don’t want the scarf back, Verso,” Gustave sighs at him. “It’s-”
But it isn’t the scarf that settles around his shoulders. Verso throws his short cape around Gustave instead, deftly starting to fasten the buckles before Gustave can raise an objection.
It’s warm.
The ragged, ripped fabric drapes down his freezing back, and the shoulders and collar are even warmer with some fur - or bristles? - that Gustave genuinely thinks might have come from Monoco. The cape still retains so much of Verso’s warmth that, for a brief moment, it feels like sinking into a steady, firm hug.
He swallows hard and breathes through his nose. The cloak smells of Verso too.
“No arguments,” Verso insists, too close, too warm, too sweet. His voice is low and there’s something in his eyes, a glint of something far more dangerous than mischief. “Besides,” he adds after he finishes closing the cloak’s buckles, and he brushes imaginary snow from the frozen line of Gustave’s cheekbone, “It looks better on you anyway.”
The echo of his own fumbled compliment sinks into the snow.
If Gustave is left struggling for words, if he’s left obsessing over the streak of heat left behind by Verso’s fingertips, if he’s left desperately wondering if Verso’s lips are as warm as the rest of him…
Well.
He’s going to blame it on the frostbite when he decides to seek out that warmth: a snow-dappled kiss in the low winter sun.
+1. Wardrobe
When the Continent is a distant memory and they’re back in Lumiere, Gustave tries to catch up on every second of missed sleep.
Lazy weekends and long lie-ins, he discovers the luxury of time now he actually has so much of it to waste: the Monolith no longer looms on the horizon, perilously counting down their days.
On a sleepy weekend, he’s lying on his front under crumpled white sheets. His body aches in all the most exquisite ways - it tells him whispering stories of their adventures the night before, a sweet memory of searching hands in every throb of his muscles.
But the other half of the bed is starting to go cold. Gustave reaches out for the heat, already knowing that it’s gone by the sound of rustling from the other side of the room.
“Gustave,” Verso calls, distracted. “Is this mine or yours?”
With a sleepy hum, Gustave pokes his head out from under the covers. He finds Verso standing in front of their shared wardrobe, contemplating a white shirt that’s still on its hanger.
As Verso hasn’t got dressed yet, that means that Gustave has a chance to stare at his boyfriend in the morning sun: shirtless, bare-skinned and fresh from the shower. The appreciative groan that tumbles out of him is entirely accidental.
The smirk that it gets from Verso is more than worth the embarrassment.
“Focus,” Verso reminds him. “We’re meeting Sciel and Lune in twenty minutes.”
“We are?” Gustave glances at the clock on the wall, and groans again. This groan is less appreciative. “We are.”
“So: is this shirt mine or yours?” Verso repeats gently. “I can’t remember.”
Gustave props his head up on his hand to take a proper look at the item. They’re roughly the same size, and a white shirt is a white shirt - and over the past | Swap
It’s an accident at first.
There’s a rush to leave in the morning, and in the chaos of the campsite Gustave ends up grabbing a pair of gloves that don’t quite fit. He’s still half-asleep as he pulls the worn leather over one palm and then blinks blearily at the other, extra glove clutched in his metal hand. He doesn’t usually bother trying to wear one over the mechanical arm - so his sleep-addled mind is still trying to piece together the clues as his thoughts slowly revive, one-by-one.
Ah.
These aren’t his gloves, are they?
He looks down and flexes his hand: it’s a black glove, no cut-out in the back. If he hadn’t been in such a sleepy rush he would have noticed right away.
To the side, he hears the familiar huff of air that signals Verso’s amusement. “Bit of a mix-up?” Verso suggests. “Don’t worry about it.” He snatches Gustave’s actual glove from where it’s sitting on the ground. “We can swap for the day.”
Without further comment, he slips Gustave’s glove onto his hand and starts to walk off as if there’s nothing further to be done.
In the confusion, Gustave’s mind finishes waking up to find a stream of baffled question marks crawling around the inside of his skull.
Throughout the day, he finds Verso staring at his gloved hand whenever it moves. There’s something strange in his gaze, something thoughtful.
And Gustave finds himself staring right back.
The next time it happens, it’s not accidental at all.
His arm has been aching all day, the after-effects of the recoil on his gun: he’d held it wrong during a fight, and these are the consequences. It’ll fade. He tells himself to just put up with it. Don’t make a fuss.
“Give me your arm,” Verso sighs at him while they’re walking together. When Gustave hesitates, Verso sighs a second time - and Gustave wants to tell himself there’s something fond about it. “You’ve been rubbing it all day. It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“... A little.”
“So give me your arm.”
When he gives in, as cautiously as a dog with a burr in its paw, Verso doesn’t waste a moment. Like he's been waiting for the opportunity, he abruptly attaches his bracer to Gustave’s forearm, his hands firm but not rough.
The solid wood holds his arm steady as Verso carefully ties the bindings. The wooden pieces hold Gustave’s arm carefully in place: the red gestral markings scrawled on the outside looked natural on Verso, but look utterly wrong on Gustave instead.
“Verso- ”
“Don’t mention it,” Verso cuts him off before he can even voice the protest. “You need this more than I do right now.”
He finishes attaching it to Gustave’s arm, and his hands linger on the brace, soft and delicate. Checking the fit, Gustave tells himself stubbornly.
The pain doesn’t fade, not right away, but something else joins it.
It feels like warmth.
Gustave catches Verso again just outside camp, glaring down at the pile of their things with his arms crossed over his chest.
Gustave’s arm is feeling better, but the guard is still lashed tightly to it. Days have passed, but Verso hasn’t asked for it back; Gustave hasn’t offered. There’s something about the way that Verso watches him wearing it, something about the intensity of the way Verso stares at it.
It’s something Gustave isn’t ready to examine.
“Everything alri-”
“Can I use this?” Verso asks as soon as Gustave joins him.
Gustave has to look down to work out what ‘this’ is. Verso nudges it with his foot for good measure. ‘It’ is Gustave’s small black backpack, sitting harmlessly by a log near the fire. “My bag?” he checks.
It’s an old-fashioned quirk. With their pictos, he doesn’t really need to carry anything around like an old explorer - but he can’t help himself. It feels more real to carry his journal on his back, right beside him, not simply entrusted to their chroma.
“I want to go gathering supplies,” Verso clarifies. “This would be ideal.”
“Uh…”
“Call it a trade,” Verso suggests. There’s a smile starting to lick at the side of his mouth, and Gustave finds that he likes the sight of it more than he should. “Your bag for my bracer. You can get it back when you’re ready to swap.”
Gustave doesn’t mean to smile back, but it happens all the same. His metal fingers brush against the wooden back of the arm guard, tracing the gestral designs. It feels familiar on his arm already, like the ever-present warmth of a pair of hands.
“Fine,” he agrees. “A swap. A temporary swap.”
His bag is on Verso’s back almost before he’s finished speaking. Verso places it carefully and adjusts the straps - and, quietly, he looks delighted with himself for it, like a young boy who’s successfully negotiated for more sweets. He settles it onto his shoulders and tucks his thumbs against the straps to hold the bag in place.
“Temporary!” Gustave calls after him as Verso starts to depart.
All he receives is an absent-minded wave of acknowledgement.
He gets the strangest feeling he isn’t going to get that bag back after all.
He gets the even stranger feeling that he doesn’t really mind.
The fire flickers in front of them, but it’s a dying ember against the night’s cold. The wind rushes around their camp; the girls have wisely already slunk away to bed, sleeping under blanket after blanket after blanket, while Monoco and Esquie are curled together in a particularly peculiar pile for warmth. Gustave can’t say he blames them.
He should call it a night himself, really. He would, but Verso is still up: staring into the fire, watching the flames, seeking the warmth. There’s a distant, troubled look on his face, a kaleidoscope of horrors he won’t name. Gustave knows better than to ask, really, but there’s a problem about ignoring it entirely too: he can see Verso’s hands shaking from the cold.
Knowing it’ll be rejected, knowing he’s going to do it anyway, Gustave pulls the wrap from around his neck. Tendrils of cold reach for him instantly, but he ignores it all to reach out.
Before Verso can react, just as fast as Verso had been with his arm guard, Gustave manages to throw the scarf over the top of Verso’s head and pull it down: his residual warmth soaks through into Verso’s neck, the dark grey scarf almost blending in with the darkness of his hair.
“Gustave,” Verso protests with a laugh, startled out of his thoughts. “What- ”
“You looked cold,” Gustave says. Not a lie. “And I’m going to bed soon anyway.” Also not a lie. “So I thought you needed it more than me.”
Verso’s hand brushes against the soft fabric around his neck. It settles into place like it’s always been there.
Gustave’s heart jumps in his throat. “... And it looks better on you anyway,” he adds.
Also not a lie.
Also absolutely terrifying.
Verso looks up at him with eyes sharp enough to cut glass. He looks less like a man that’s just received a compliment, and more like someone contemplating a new and unexpected stab wound.
“Um,” Gustave adds. He swallows and feels the loss of his scarf more than ever. The night is cold but his face feels warm. “Well. I’d better go and get some sleep. Good night, Verso.”
As he retreats into the night, he only dares to look back once.
In the firelight, heat dancing over his face, he sees Verso burying deeper into the grey infinity scarf wrapped around his neck - he sees him breathing deeply, eyes closed, like the scent is warmer than the fire itself.
The higher they go in the mountains the colder it gets. Before long, Gustave is left feeling the absence of the wrap around his neck and shoulders as the cold sinks in.
He hasn’t asked for it back from Verso.
And Verso hasn’t offered.
Still, as they’re trudging through the snow and Gustave’s hands are shoved deep into his pockets, there is a very, very small part of him that might be glaring at the back of Verso’s neck: the back of Verso’s very warm, very scarfed, very wrapped-up neck.
Gustave’s teeth want to start chattering. He clenches his jaw in a firm attempt to get that under control.
Up ahead, Lune floats effortlessly over the thickening snow, and Maelle and Sciel seem to be bounding through it like they hardly notice the cold. Just Gustave, then. Maybe they should have checked if the Manor had a secret stash of heavy, warm, abundant coats.
Verso glances over his shoulder at Gustave, a light in his eyes like he’s about to make a joke - but the joke dies on his lips before it makes it out. It transforms somewhere between thought and action into the roll of his eyes instead.
“You’re freezing,” he states.
And even if the fingers on Gustave’s remaining hand might be in danger of falling off, he makes an attempt at a shrug anyway. “It’s not too bad,” he promises. “You should see Lumière in winter.”
“I’ve lived in Lumière in winter,” Verso reminds him. “It’s nothing like this.”
Before they can argue any more, Verso drops back a few steps until they’re walking beside each other. His hands start to fiddle with the clothing clasps near his neck and shoulders.
“It’s fine - I don’t want the scarf back, Verso,” Gustave sighs at him. “It’s-”
But it isn’t the scarf that settles around his shoulders. Verso throws his short cape around Gustave instead, deftly starting to fasten the buckles before Gustave can raise an objection.
It’s warm.
The ragged, ripped fabric drapes down his freezing back, and the shoulders and collar are even warmer with some fur - or bristles? - that Gustave genuinely thinks might have come from Monoco. The cape still retains so much of Verso’s warmth that, for a brief moment, it feels like sinking into a steady, firm hug.
He swallows hard and breathes through his nose. The cloak smells of Verso too.
“No arguments,” Verso insists, too close, too warm, too sweet. His voice is low and there’s something in his eyes, a glint of something far more dangerous than mischief. “Besides,” he adds after he finishes closing the cloak’s buckles, and he brushes imaginary snow from the frozen line of Gustave’s cheekbone, “It looks better on you anyway.”
The echo of his own fumbled compliment sinks into the snow.
If Gustave is left struggling for words, if he’s left obsessing over the streak of heat left behind by Verso’s fingertips, if he’s left desperately wondering if Verso’s lips are as warm as the rest of him…
Well.
He’s going to blame it on the frostbite when he decides to seek out that warmth: a snow-dappled kiss in the low winter sun.
+1. Wardrobe
When the Continent is a distant memory and they’re back in Lumiere, Gustave tries to catch up on every second of missed sleep.
Lazy weekends and long lie-ins, he discovers the luxury of time now he actually has so much of it to waste: the Monolith no longer looms on the horizon, perilously counting down their days.
On a sleepy weekend, he’s lying on his front under crumpled white sheets. His body aches in all the most exquisite ways - it tells him whispering stories of their adventures the night before, a sweet memory of searching hands in every throb of his muscles.
But the other half of the bed is starting to go cold. Gustave reaches out for the heat, already knowing that it’s gone by the sound of rustling from the other side of the room.
“Gustave,” Verso calls, distracted. “Is this mine or yours?”
With a sleepy hum, Gustave pokes his head out from under the covers. He finds Verso standing in front of their shared wardrobe, contemplating a white shirt that’s still on its hanger.
As Verso hasn’t got dressed yet, that means that Gustave has a chance to stare at his boyfriend in the morning sun: shirtless, bare-skinned and fresh from the shower. The appreciative groan that tumbles out of him is entirely accidental.
The smirk that it gets from Verso is more than worth the embarrassment.
“Focus,” Verso reminds him. “We’re meeting Sciel and Lune in twenty minutes.”
“We are?” Gustave glances at the clock on the wall, and groans again. This groan is less appreciative. “We are.”
“So: is this shirt mine or yours?” Verso repeats gently. “I can’t remember.”
Gustave props his head up on his hand to take a proper look at the item. They’re roughly the same size, and a white shirt is a white shirt - and over the past few months they’ve been easing into one another’s lives, a slow and accidental sprawl. A few socks and a toothbrush at one another’s apartments, followed by an overnight bag, followed by the kind of blending sprawl that leaves distinctions like ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ feeling meaningless.
After all they’ve been through together, Gustave never quite got around to asking Verso to move in with him. It’s never felt necessary; when you’ve saved the world and your own messy family together, stressing about keys to a shared apartment never really makes it back onto the agenda.
“Gustave,” Verso calls again - but he’s crawling onto the end of the bed, white shirt in hand, and Gustave’s fairly sure that means he’s winning. “Wake up, mon chéri. The shirt. Yours or mine?”
Trying not to get distracted by the admittedly very distracting dip of Verso’s collarbone, Gustave sits up and reaches for the shirt instead. He pretends to evaluate it for a moment, taking in the soft fabric and well-made stitching, before he shrugs and slides one arm through a sleeve. He follows it up with the other and leaves the shirt draped open in the front, an accidental frame for his own bare torso.
Verso’s the one staring at his collarbones this time.
Gustave’s absolutely winning whatever this non-competition might be.
“Yours or mine,” he repeats thoughtfully, while Verso’s crawling closer up the bed to get a better look. “Is there a difference any more?”
He gets a distracted hum in return - and that’s his only warning before Verso pounces, apparently deciding that they can brawl it out to work out whose shirt it can be for the day.
They’re late to their coffee date with Sciel and Lune.
Their shared wardrobe might be the start of a whole new problem.
.fin | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77341041 | {"authors": ["walrusface"], "language": "English", "title": "Swap"} |
this is lily
If you call again I will answer.
Ilya sent the text before he could think better of it, then stared blankly at his phone. He couldn’t answer Jackie’s call. Not without giving himself away.
His phone rang, and Ilya stared at the caller ID.
Call from: Jackie Pike
Ilya glanced up at the door, hoping a doctor or Yuna or someone would come in and distract him from this, but no. He’d barely been allowed to ride with Shane in the ambulance, and was only able to because Yuna practically hauled him in next to her and no one could say no to her. Once they got to the hospital it was a different story, as Ilya was not on the list of people allowed to know about Shane in a medical emergency, so he was stuck waiting in a private “grieving room” for answers. Once Shane woke up, Ilya was sure he’d be allowed in, but Shane hadn’t yet been coherent enough.
Ilya was alone.
He answered the call.
“Lily? Hon, are you okay?” Jackie sounded so concerned, and Ilya wondered if she would still sound that way when she learned who he was. There were muffled noises beyond her voice, like she was shut in a room away from a party.
“Hello,” Ilya managed to get out, his voice rough from unshed tears. He hadn’t cried yet—wasn’t going to cry, because he wasn’t the one who got injured.
There was a pause, and a rustle on the other end of the line, like Jackie was making sure she called the right number.
“Lily?” Jackie asked, sounding skeptical, and Ilya didn’t blame her.
“Yes. Well, no, not really. But, yes.” There was another pause, longer than the last time, and Ilya could practically hear her thinking it through. He hoped she wouldn’t hang up on him. He already felt alone.
“Rozanov?” Jackie said, and Ilya for the life of him could not read her tone.
“Yes,” he said simply, because he didn’t know what else to say, and anything more complex than one word answers would break him.
“Oh, hon,” Jackie said, sounding so sad for him that he could no longer hold back the sob building in his chest and it escaped him. He buried his face in his free hand and just cried for a moment, while Jackie continued saying vague platitudes that Ilya didn’t have the energy to understand.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say through the tears once he calmed down. “I do not know why-”
“It’s okay,” Jackie said gently. “It’s really hard to see someone you care about get hurt like that. But you’re with him now, right?” His tears had started to calm down, but they welled up again at the question.
“No, no I- I am not allowed in.” He’d never given much thought to how the secrecy of their relationship would affect things. They knew, and Shane’s parents knew—and Hayden Pike knew, because he caught them that one time—but that was all they needed. Until Ilya discovered very suddenly what it meant to not have their relationship be official.
“But you’re at the hospital, right?”
“Yes.” He initially wasn’t going to go with Shane—there had been less than five minutes left on the clock, and as far as most people knew, Ilya and Shane were rivals. But Pike got in his face under the cover of getting in a fight, and told him in no uncertain terms that Ilya was going with Shane. So he went. “I am at hospital, but I am not… I do not know.”
“It’s okay, I’ll stay on the line until you can see him, okay?” Her sympathy made his throat close up, and he once again found himself blinking back tears.
“You do not need to-”
“I want to. WAGs watch each other’s backs.” Ilya smiled to himself. He liked being a WAG.
“Thank you.” | this is lily
If you call again I will answer.
Ilya sent the text before he could think better of it, then stared blankly at his phone. He couldn’t answer Jackie’s call. Not without giving himself away.
His phone rang, and Ilya stared at the caller ID.
Call from: Jackie Pike
Ilya glanced up at the door, hoping a doctor or Yuna or someone would come in and distract him from this, but no. He’d barely been allowed to ride with Shane in the ambulance, and was only able to because Yuna practically hauled him in next to her and no one could say no to her. Once they got to the hospital it was a different story, as Ilya was not on the list of people allowed to know about Shane in a medical emergency, so he was stuck waiting in a private “grieving room” for answers. Once Shane woke up, Ilya was sure he’d be allowed in, but Shane hadn’t yet been coherent enough.
Ilya was alone.
He answered the call.
“Lily? Hon, are you okay?” Jackie sounded so concerned, and Ilya wondered if she would still sound that way when she learned who he was. There were muffled noises beyond her voice, like she was shut in a room away from a party.
“Hello,” Ilya managed to get out, his voice rough from unshed tears. He hadn’t cried yet—wasn’t going to cry, because he wasn’t the one who got injured.
There was a pause, and a rustle on the other end of the line, like Jackie was making sure she called the right number.
“Lily?” Jackie asked, sounding skeptical, and Ilya didn’t blame her.
“Yes. Well, no, not really. But, yes.” There was another pause, longer than the last time, and Ilya could practically hear her thinking it through. He hoped she wouldn’t hang up on him. He already felt alone.
“Rozanov?” Jackie said, and Ilya for the life of him could not read her tone.
“Yes,” he said simply, because he didn’t know what else to say, and anything more complex than one word answers would break him.
“Oh, hon,” Jackie said, sounding so sad for him that he could no longer hold back the sob building in his chest and it escaped him. He buried his face in his free hand and just cried for a moment, while Jackie continued saying vague platitudes that Ilya didn’t have the energy to understand.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say through the tears once he calmed down. “I do not know why-”
“It’s okay,” Jackie said gently. “It’s really hard to see someone you care about get hurt like that. But you’re with him now, right?” His tears had started to calm down, but they welled up again at the question.
“No, no I- I am not allowed in.” He’d never given much thought to how the secrecy of their relationship would affect things. They knew, and Shane’s parents knew—and Hayden Pike knew, because he caught them that one time—but that was all they needed. Until Ilya discovered very suddenly what it meant to not have their relationship be official.
“But you’re at the hospital, right?”
“Yes.” He initially wasn’t going to go with Shane—there had been less than five minutes left on the clock, and as far as most people knew, Ilya and Shane were rivals. But Pike got in his face under the cover of getting in a fight, and told him in no uncertain terms that Ilya was going with Shane. So he went. “I am at hospital, but I am not… I do not know.”
“It’s okay, I’ll stay on the line until you can see him, okay?” Her sympathy made his throat close up, and he once again found himself blinking back tears.
“You do not need to-”
“I want to. WAGs watch each other’s backs.” Ilya smiled to himself. He liked being a WAG.
“Thank you.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77341046 | {"authors": ["idkimoutofideas"], "language": "English", "title": "this is lily"} |
Devore's
Devore's
NYT Critic's Pick
Devore's is named for famous Rat Pack suitmaker Sy Devore, and like its namesake, it has a great sense of style. I was delighted to see that the substance is there as well.
I was welcomed to a small but beautifully designed space. Tablecloths and carpets on the floor kept conversation to a comfortable buzz rather than the din so common today. Despite the jewelbox-sized location, the tables didn't feel crammed together. Some well-chosen New York streetscapes, apparently painted by the head chef/owner, added warmth to the space.
I was seated to the left of a family who, it quickly became clear, were related to the owner and happy to brag about his skills to a diner eating alone. Head chef/Owner Dan Burke-- his friends inexplicably call him "Neal"-- has been laboring in the kitchens of New York for about a decade after a mid-career shift. This is the first restaurant he's owned. The wife of the family told me that I should try the halibut, but the husband insisted that I should let Chef do his trick, and refused to clarify further.
Burke came out with the plates for my neighbors-- halibut for the wife, scallops for the preteen son, and what I'm pretty sure was an off-menu steak for the husband. Then he turned to me and smiled. "You're the New York Times reviewer," he said.
The New York Times no longer has a policy of anonymity-- it's basically impossible nowadays-- but it's rare we're so directly called out. "Guilty as charged," I said.
Burke looked amused. "I've been thinking about what I'd serve you if you came here, and I think I have it. Do you want to know, or would you rather be surprised?"
I chose to be surprised, and Burke disappeared back into the kitchen. I then had a fascinating discussion about my palate with the sommelier, a true New York character known only as "Mozzie." (We both remain unconvinced by orange wines.)
A perfect baguette arrived, and lightly salted French butter. Burke soon presented me with my plate, a very simple-looking lentil salad. "I notice you order the vegetarian option whenever possible," he said, "and you like a classic French presentation. I hope you enjoy."
Reader, I did enjoy. It was a perfectly balanced salad, elegantly studded with jewels of carrot and cauliflower, the dressing complementing without overwhelming the expertly selected German riesling. It felt healthful and restorative-- always a challenge for the busy restaurant reviewer-- and there was enough left over to make an excellent lunch. I would be remiss to omit how lovely the plate was-- and trust me, it's hard to make lentils look pretty.
I wondered whether Chef would be able to read any diner as well as he did me. But then I saw Burke do the same trick with the woman seated to my left, who I later learned was a well-known retired cabaret singer named June Ellington. June seemed delighted with her scallops.
After my salad, the family to my right, still idling over their coffee, urged me to try Burke's take on a Gooey Butter Cake, a treat native to his hometown of St. Louis. It was delicious, but there was far too much of it for me to eat alone, so I somehow ended up sharing it with Burke's relatives and Ellington, and Mozzie the som, who brought over an open bottle of Yquem and glasses for everyone but the preteen boy.
As the arrival of new customers slowed, Burke, some of the kitchen staff, and a few other straggling diners joined us, and, over some excellent cappuccinos, we all engaged in a wide-ranging discussion about restaurants and what they do for a community. Burke explained that he likes to hire people with challenging backgrounds, even felons, because everyone deserves a second chance.
Clearly Burke's doing something right. As I left Devore's a shocking four hours after my arrival, I felt less like I'd gone to a restaurant and more like I'd been to an outstanding dinner party with some new and fascinating friends.
Highly recommended. | Devore's
Devore's
NYT Critic's Pick
Devore's is named for famous Rat Pack suitmaker Sy Devore, and like its namesake, it has a great sense of style. I was delighted to see that the substance is there as well.
I was welcomed to a small but beautifully designed space. Tablecloths and carpets on the floor kept conversation to a comfortable buzz rather than the din so common today. Despite the jewelbox-sized location, the tables didn't feel crammed together. Some well-chosen New York streetscapes, apparently painted by the head chef/owner, added warmth to the space.
I was seated to the left of a family who, it quickly became clear, were related to the owner and happy to brag about his skills to a diner eating alone. Head chef/Owner Dan Burke-- his friends inexplicably call him "Neal"-- has been laboring in the kitchens of New York for about a decade after a mid-career shift. This is the first restaurant he's owned. The wife of the family told me that I should try the halibut, but the husband insisted that I should let Chef do his trick, and refused to clarify further.
Burke came out with the plates for my neighbors-- halibut for the wife, scallops for the preteen son, and what I'm pretty sure was an off-menu steak for the husband. Then he turned to me and smiled. "You're the New York Times reviewer," he said.
The New York Times no longer has a policy of anonymity-- it's basically impossible nowadays-- but it's rare we're so directly called out. "Guilty as charged," I said.
Burke looked amused. "I've been thinking about what I'd serve you if you came here, and I think I have it. Do you want to know, or would you rather be surprised?"
I chose to be surprised, and Burke disappeared back into the kitchen. I then had a fascinating discussion about my palate with the sommelier, a true New York character known only as "Mozzie." (We both remain unconvinced by orange wines.)
A perfect baguette arrived, and lightly salted French butter. Burke soon presented me with my plate, a very simple-looking lentil salad. "I notice you order the vegetarian option whenever possible," he said, "and you like a classic French presentation. I hope you enjoy."
Reader, I did enjoy. It was a perfectly balanced salad, elegantly studded with jewels of carrot and cauliflower, the dressing complementing without overwhelming the expertly selected German riesling. It felt healthful and restorative-- always a challenge for the busy restaurant reviewer-- and there was enough left over to make an excellent lunch. I would be remiss to omit how lovely the plate was-- and trust me, it's hard to make lentils look pretty.
I wondered whether Chef would be able to read any diner as well as he did me. But then I saw Burke do the same trick with the woman seated to my left, who I later learned was a well-known retired cabaret singer named June Ellington. June seemed delighted with her scallops.
After my salad, the family to my right, still idling over their coffee, urged me to try Burke's take on a Gooey Butter Cake, a treat native to his hometown of St. Louis. It was delicious, but there was far too much of it for me to eat alone, so I somehow ended up sharing it with Burke's relatives and Ellington, and Mozzie the som, who brought over an open bottle of Yquem and glasses for everyone but the preteen boy.
As the arrival of new customers slowed, Burke, some of the kitchen staff, and a few other straggling diners joined us, and, over some excellent cappuccinos, we all engaged in a wide-ranging discussion about restaurants and what they do for a community. Burke explained that he likes to hire people with challenging backgrounds, even felons, because everyone deserves a second chance.
Clearly Burke's doing something right. As I left Devore's a shocking four hours after my arrival, I felt less like I'd gone to a restaurant and more like I'd been to an outstanding dinner party with some new and fascinating friends.
Highly recommended. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77341051 | {"authors": ["franticyoohooing"], "language": "English", "title": "Devore's"} |
lifeline
Fleur Delacour is sitting by the radio pretending to read an old book, waiting for a break in the static when she feels the dreadfully familiar electric charge in the atmosphere that accompanies nearby Apparition. Her fingers tighten around the edges of the frayed paperback but she remains in her seat, even as Bill’s hurried, rapid footsteps descend the staircase and he flies to the window to peek through the curtains for the friend or foe inevitably making their way towards the safehouse. She is, of course, equally as concerned with who (or what) just landed on the beach, however she is unlike Bill in the way he frantically throws himself into every oncoming disaster– instead, she closes her eyes for half a moment and breathes deeply. She prefers to calm her mind before the storm comes raging.
For all her preference to remain calm, Fleur’s white knuckles betray her as they blend with the pages of her book, nails threatening to tear the flimsy paper. She watches Bill’s face for a sign of what’s out there, gauges his expression for confrontation or relief.
She finds neither.
She finds panic.
“Oh, Merlin,” she hears him hiss before he’s ripping the door open and rushing into the pale light of dusk. Knowing he wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t safe for her to follow, she’s on his heels immediately, eyes adjusting quickly to the light change as she spots their unexpected guests, a few yards ahead just as Bill reaches them. Her breath catches and despite thinking she had mentally prepared for any scenario, she is stopped in her tracks as she takes them in.
Harry Potter and Bill’s younger brother are trudging up the sandy dunes, both a sight for sore eyes but a perfect picture of health compared to Hermione Granger, whose limp form they drag between them in a breathless struggle. Her clothes are tattered and bloodied– as is just about every part of her body, covered in slices and bruises and dirt. She lets out a pathetic, unconscious groan as Bill relieves an exhausted Ron, and the sound snaps Fleur back into action. She rushes to take Harry’s place, and only upon getting closer does she notice the house-elf trailing behind them, a haunted, horrified expression frozen on its face.
“What the fuck happened?” Bill asks, looking between Ron and Harry as they hauled her inside, Ron holding the door.
“We don’t– we don’t even know– we got caught, taken to Malfoy Manor–” Ron starts, words spilling out, tumbling over each other.
“Bellatrix Lestrange had her alone for… they stuck us in the cellar. Dobby just got us to her, got us all out– here. Like Ron said, we… we don’t know what all happened, exactly,” Harry cuts in for him and Fleur can tell he is willing his voice not to break. For a moment she sees the terrified young boy she competed against in the Triwizard Tournament, but his jaw sets and he wipes his eyes, banishing the ghost.
“We will get her to the upstairs bedroom. One of you, go in the supply closet and grab the potions and herbs kit. Bandages too,” Fleur orders gently. Harry nods once, running to complete his task. Ron slowly lowers himself into the chair Fleur was previously occupying, his face an open book of his helplessness.
“Let’s take the stairs one at a time, on my count,” Bill says, and Fleur turns away from the boys to nod and focus. Now holding Hermione, she can see more clearly the angry, already purpling bruises blooming on her neck and arms, the slices on her cheeks, the concerning amount of blood drying on her right forearm. She can tell there are more injuries marring the young woman’s legs, but they’re harder to see through the mess of her torn, bloody jeans.
Every muscle in Fleur’s face tightens, a cold fury alight in her belly. She dutifully follows Bill’s counts of one, two, three, each step until they finally reach the top of the staircase and into the bedroom. Bill releases his hold first, allowing Fleur to situate Hermione on the bed as comfortably as possible. As she is lifting her legs onto the bed, Harry and Ron come charging up the stairs with jars of potions, herbs and bandages, as well as a large bowl of warm, clean water, rag on the rim.
“Set those down on the table here, boys,” Bill gestures at the nightstand to Fleur’s right. They do so, then mutely shuffle themselves to the corner of the room, silent, lanky pillars of support for their best friend. Bill gives her a knowing look before taking his leave. She glances over at the pair’s sullen, worried faces with a sigh– she appreciates their sentiment; she’s sorry she can’t accept it. Especially not with Hermione unconscious.
Fleur grabs the rag from the rim of the bowl, dips it in the water and begins cleaning the coagulated bloody dirt off Hermione’s face and neck to appraise the bruises and cuts there, a gentle hold on her chin to turn her head this way and that. Does her best to ignore the pained whimpers that escape Hermione’s lips as she's moved. The process gives the boys at least a minute more as Fleur chooses her words carefully so as not to upset them. “Harry, Ronald… I know you wish to stay and be certain she is alright, but I must remove her clothes to check for and assess further injuries. It would be inappropriate for you to remain. I am sure you don’t want to see her like this, either.”
It is of course Ron who immediately protests. “Obviously we won’t look, we just want to– we–”
“What Ron’s trying to say is that we were kept locked away from her for the better part of six hours while–while this was happening,” Harry saves Ron from his stuttering again, “we’d rather not leave her side again.”
Fleur sighs again as she turns to face them fully. “I understand, trust me, I do; but this is not about you. It is about Hermione’s privacy. She is safe with me, and you know that. I’m afraid I cannot truly begin treating her until you leave the room. There’s no exception to this.”
“But-”
“You both can wait right downstairs and I will come down and get you when it’s okay to come back up.”
After a short standoff of eye contact, Harry relents and casts his gaze to the floor as he makes his way out of the room, stopping only when he fails to hear Ron’s footsteps behind him. He exhales in a huff, leaning back to grab Ron’s wrist, whose eyes dart wildly from Fleur to Hermione and back again, pleading.
“Come on. She’s right. It won’t do any of us any good to be here. Let’s go talk to Bill,” Harry grumbles, tugging at Ron’s wrist until he acquiesces and allows himself to be pulled down the stairs. Knowing Bill, he has tea waiting for them– hopefully it settles their nerves somewhat. After watching their forms disappear down the staircase, Fleur moves to shut the door then turns her full attention to Hermione Granger.
Last Fleur had seen this girl, she was glowing prettily in a flowery red dress, dancing and laughing in dim candlelight with her friends at Fleur’s sham of a wedding, before it all went to shit. She much preferred that sight to this.
Her first order of business is absolutely whatever has happened to Hermione’s right forearm. She picks up the rag again and begins to wipe away the seemingly endless smattering of crimson- which is alarming, to say the least. As she gently works at the dried blood, slowly clearing it off, the wound comes into full view and it nearly makes the rag slip from her fingers. Fleur gasps, freezing her ministrations and bringing Hermione’s forearm closer to her face to make sure she’s seeing this right. It makes her stomach drop violently, her muscles tighten.
Carved into Hermione’s skin, the jagged, angry red letters MUDBLOOD scream back up at her.
Fleur glances quickly to Hermione’s face, making sure she remains out cold so as not to see this, (and she is, despite the occasional quiet groan when the rag grazes over open cuts; incoherent, broken murmurs, a tear down a cheek) then she clears her throat to steel herself and quickly wraps the wound after applying a generous coating of Dittany. She blots it across her face and neck as well, having already cleaned there, hating the way Hermione’s brow is furrowed deeply, the way her jaw keeps flexing.
Fleur fights to keep her breathing calm and even, but her blood is boiling. Her vision is blurring red and all she can see is that disgusting word mutilating delicate skin.
She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, holds it for a second, exhales, opens. She needs to focus. Her righteous anger towards Bellatrix Lestrange is secondary to ensuring Hermione’s well-being. Now that the most pressing injury has been addressed, she finally allows herself to fully take in the grim sight in her entirety, all the details.
Hermione’s faded plaid shirt is stained completely red at the sleeves, ripped, tattered and buttoned unevenly, even missing a few. Casting her eyes down, Fleur notices more blood seeping through the thighs of her jeans in blotted patterns, how the jeans are also situated hastily on her frame. There are little cuts, harsh bruises littering every inch of bare skin. Her wrists and ankles are raw from something having bound them. Fleur’s hands shake slightly as she brings them up to begin unbuttoning the shirt. Bill was right– what the fuck happened?
She gets Hermione’s shirt open then sets to work on trying to gently shimmy her out of her jeans; best to get all of this out of the way rather than going in sections. She tugs the legs of the jeans down first, so they easily slide off when she hooks her fingers in the belt loops and gently pulls.
Hermione is laid bare in only her undergarments, shivering and twitching in her fitful sleep, and Fleur feels bile rise up in her throat, her blood freeze in her veins.
It’s so, so much worse than she imagined.
The cuts and bruises aren’t shocking after seeing the state of her arms and face, albeit they are deeper and darker on her toned stomach, along her hips– what threatens vomit are the several bite marks that sink into Hermione’s breasts and shoulders and thighs, the sickeningly long, raised red lines dotted with blood, undoubtedly produced by sharp human nails that track across her body. Blackening bruises that resemble fingers, some whole hands, all over. With a sharper eye on her neck, she sees that same abhorrent outline. She sees it in almost every bruise she had looked over before.
Fleur has to tear her gaze away, a hand flying to her mouth, unregistering the tears spilling down her cheeks. There is no question in her mind what happened now.
That fucking demented monstress Bellatrix Lestrange had–
Gods. Fleur doesn’t even want to think about the repulsive, repugnant, barbaric acts Bellatrix Lestrange could have possibly performed to produce the result lying before her.
Harry said she was away from them for six hours.
Remembering this actually does force vomit up into her mouth, and she swallows it back down painfully. Removing her hands from her mouth, she quickly wipes tears away from her cheeks, blinks rapidly to get rid of the last of them. She can hear the boys’ voices murmuring indistinctly downstairs; she needs to fix as much of this as she can as quickly as possible so they can return to Hermione’s side. Fleur breathes deeply once more, steadying herself; erasing (or attempting to) her mind of the horrendous possibilities that could have caused these injuries, and sharpens her concentration on the task of mending them. She decides she should start with Hermione’s legs first. The sooner she can get the shivering girl somewhat warm under the comforter, the better.
Fleur begins with her ankles, spreading Murtlap Essence along the rings of raw skin around them, and heaves a relieved sigh when she sees the marks immediately begin to fade to a paler pink. She lightly rubs bruise removal paste up her shins, and then hesitates when she reaches the first bite mark, just above Hermione’s knee. Fleur leans slightly forward to get a better look, fighting to keep her reprehension in check. It looks like there’s an unnerving amount of nicks and bites retreating to her inner thighs, though Fleur can’t see them very well with Hermione lying the way she is, legs almost clamped shut. Fleur does not know when she stopped breathing, but she finally remembers to as she brings her hands up to Hermione’s knees, releasing a long, unsteady breath. Bury the rage, focus.
She gingerly grips her knees and starts to slowly push Hermione’s legs apart, opening her up for a more clear view of the thigh wounds. It is when her legs are spread, when cold air assaults the assuredly stinging fresh bites, that Hermione wakes with a choking gasp. Fleur instantly removes her hands as Hermione snaps her legs shut again, crying out when her wounded thighs smack against each other.
Her eyes are open, but they are not seeing, not yet. “Please– no more–” her voice is hoarse and broken around the only words she can make out, kicking, pushing at the bed | lifeline
Fleur Delacour is sitting by the radio pretending to read an old book, waiting for a break in the static when she feels the dreadfully familiar electric charge in the atmosphere that accompanies nearby Apparition. Her fingers tighten around the edges of the frayed paperback but she remains in her seat, even as Bill’s hurried, rapid footsteps descend the staircase and he flies to the window to peek through the curtains for the friend or foe inevitably making their way towards the safehouse. She is, of course, equally as concerned with who (or what) just landed on the beach, however she is unlike Bill in the way he frantically throws himself into every oncoming disaster– instead, she closes her eyes for half a moment and breathes deeply. She prefers to calm her mind before the storm comes raging.
For all her preference to remain calm, Fleur’s white knuckles betray her as they blend with the pages of her book, nails threatening to tear the flimsy paper. She watches Bill’s face for a sign of what’s out there, gauges his expression for confrontation or relief.
She finds neither.
She finds panic.
“Oh, Merlin,” she hears him hiss before he’s ripping the door open and rushing into the pale light of dusk. Knowing he wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t safe for her to follow, she’s on his heels immediately, eyes adjusting quickly to the light change as she spots their unexpected guests, a few yards ahead just as Bill reaches them. Her breath catches and despite thinking she had mentally prepared for any scenario, she is stopped in her tracks as she takes them in.
Harry Potter and Bill’s younger brother are trudging up the sandy dunes, both a sight for sore eyes but a perfect picture of health compared to Hermione Granger, whose limp form they drag between them in a breathless struggle. Her clothes are tattered and bloodied– as is just about every part of her body, covered in slices and bruises and dirt. She lets out a pathetic, unconscious groan as Bill relieves an exhausted Ron, and the sound snaps Fleur back into action. She rushes to take Harry’s place, and only upon getting closer does she notice the house-elf trailing behind them, a haunted, horrified expression frozen on its face.
“What the fuck happened?” Bill asks, looking between Ron and Harry as they hauled her inside, Ron holding the door.
“We don’t– we don’t even know– we got caught, taken to Malfoy Manor–” Ron starts, words spilling out, tumbling over each other.
“Bellatrix Lestrange had her alone for… they stuck us in the cellar. Dobby just got us to her, got us all out– here. Like Ron said, we… we don’t know what all happened, exactly,” Harry cuts in for him and Fleur can tell he is willing his voice not to break. For a moment she sees the terrified young boy she competed against in the Triwizard Tournament, but his jaw sets and he wipes his eyes, banishing the ghost.
“We will get her to the upstairs bedroom. One of you, go in the supply closet and grab the potions and herbs kit. Bandages too,” Fleur orders gently. Harry nods once, running to complete his task. Ron slowly lowers himself into the chair Fleur was previously occupying, his face an open book of his helplessness.
“Let’s take the stairs one at a time, on my count,” Bill says, and Fleur turns away from the boys to nod and focus. Now holding Hermione, she can see more clearly the angry, already purpling bruises blooming on her neck and arms, the slices on her cheeks, the concerning amount of blood drying on her right forearm. She can tell there are more injuries marring the young woman’s legs, but they’re harder to see through the mess of her torn, bloody jeans.
Every muscle in Fleur’s face tightens, a cold fury alight in her belly. She dutifully follows Bill’s counts of one, two, three, each step until they finally reach the top of the staircase and into the bedroom. Bill releases his hold first, allowing Fleur to situate Hermione on the bed as comfortably as possible. As she is lifting her legs onto the bed, Harry and Ron come charging up the stairs with jars of potions, herbs and bandages, as well as a large bowl of warm, clean water, rag on the rim.
“Set those down on the table here, boys,” Bill gestures at the nightstand to Fleur’s right. They do so, then mutely shuffle themselves to the corner of the room, silent, lanky pillars of support for their best friend. Bill gives her a knowing look before taking his leave. She glances over at the pair’s sullen, worried faces with a sigh– she appreciates their sentiment; she’s sorry she can’t accept it. Especially not with Hermione unconscious.
Fleur grabs the rag from the rim of the bowl, dips it in the water and begins cleaning the coagulated bloody dirt off Hermione’s face and neck to appraise the bruises and cuts there, a gentle hold on her chin to turn her head this way and that. Does her best to ignore the pained whimpers that escape Hermione’s lips as she's moved. The process gives the boys at least a minute more as Fleur chooses her words carefully so as not to upset them. “Harry, Ronald… I know you wish to stay and be certain she is alright, but I must remove her clothes to check for and assess further injuries. It would be inappropriate for you to remain. I am sure you don’t want to see her like this, either.”
It is of course Ron who immediately protests. “Obviously we won’t look, we just want to– we–”
“What Ron’s trying to say is that we were kept locked away from her for the better part of six hours while–while this was happening,” Harry saves Ron from his stuttering again, “we’d rather not leave her side again.”
Fleur sighs again as she turns to face them fully. “I understand, trust me, I do; but this is not about you. It is about Hermione’s privacy. She is safe with me, and you know that. I’m afraid I cannot truly begin treating her until you leave the room. There’s no exception to this.”
“But-”
“You both can wait right downstairs and I will come down and get you when it’s okay to come back up.”
After a short standoff of eye contact, Harry relents and casts his gaze to the floor as he makes his way out of the room, stopping only when he fails to hear Ron’s footsteps behind him. He exhales in a huff, leaning back to grab Ron’s wrist, whose eyes dart wildly from Fleur to Hermione and back again, pleading.
“Come on. She’s right. It won’t do any of us any good to be here. Let’s go talk to Bill,” Harry grumbles, tugging at Ron’s wrist until he acquiesces and allows himself to be pulled down the stairs. Knowing Bill, he has tea waiting for them– hopefully it settles their nerves somewhat. After watching their forms disappear down the staircase, Fleur moves to shut the door then turns her full attention to Hermione Granger.
Last Fleur had seen this girl, she was glowing prettily in a flowery red dress, dancing and laughing in dim candlelight with her friends at Fleur’s sham of a wedding, before it all went to shit. She much preferred that sight to this.
Her first order of business is absolutely whatever has happened to Hermione’s right forearm. She picks up the rag again and begins to wipe away the seemingly endless smattering of crimson- which is alarming, to say the least. As she gently works at the dried blood, slowly clearing it off, the wound comes into full view and it nearly makes the rag slip from her fingers. Fleur gasps, freezing her ministrations and bringing Hermione’s forearm closer to her face to make sure she’s seeing this right. It makes her stomach drop violently, her muscles tighten.
Carved into Hermione’s skin, the jagged, angry red letters MUDBLOOD scream back up at her.
Fleur glances quickly to Hermione’s face, making sure she remains out cold so as not to see this, (and she is, despite the occasional quiet groan when the rag grazes over open cuts; incoherent, broken murmurs, a tear down a cheek) then she clears her throat to steel herself and quickly wraps the wound after applying a generous coating of Dittany. She blots it across her face and neck as well, having already cleaned there, hating the way Hermione’s brow is furrowed deeply, the way her jaw keeps flexing.
Fleur fights to keep her breathing calm and even, but her blood is boiling. Her vision is blurring red and all she can see is that disgusting word mutilating delicate skin.
She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, holds it for a second, exhales, opens. She needs to focus. Her righteous anger towards Bellatrix Lestrange is secondary to ensuring Hermione’s well-being. Now that the most pressing injury has been addressed, she finally allows herself to fully take in the grim sight in her entirety, all the details.
Hermione’s faded plaid shirt is stained completely red at the sleeves, ripped, tattered and buttoned unevenly, even missing a few. Casting her eyes down, Fleur notices more blood seeping through the thighs of her jeans in blotted patterns, how the jeans are also situated hastily on her frame. There are little cuts, harsh bruises littering every inch of bare skin. Her wrists and ankles are raw from something having bound them. Fleur’s hands shake slightly as she brings them up to begin unbuttoning the shirt. Bill was right– what the fuck happened?
She gets Hermione’s shirt open then sets to work on trying to gently shimmy her out of her jeans; best to get all of this out of the way rather than going in sections. She tugs the legs of the jeans down first, so they easily slide off when she hooks her fingers in the belt loops and gently pulls.
Hermione is laid bare in only her undergarments, shivering and twitching in her fitful sleep, and Fleur feels bile rise up in her throat, her blood freeze in her veins.
It’s so, so much worse than she imagined.
The cuts and bruises aren’t shocking after seeing the state of her arms and face, albeit they are deeper and darker on her toned stomach, along her hips– what threatens vomit are the several bite marks that sink into Hermione’s breasts and shoulders and thighs, the sickeningly long, raised red lines dotted with blood, undoubtedly produced by sharp human nails that track across her body. Blackening bruises that resemble fingers, some whole hands, all over. With a sharper eye on her neck, she sees that same abhorrent outline. She sees it in almost every bruise she had looked over before.
Fleur has to tear her gaze away, a hand flying to her mouth, unregistering the tears spilling down her cheeks. There is no question in her mind what happened now.
That fucking demented monstress Bellatrix Lestrange had–
Gods. Fleur doesn’t even want to think about the repulsive, repugnant, barbaric acts Bellatrix Lestrange could have possibly performed to produce the result lying before her.
Harry said she was away from them for six hours.
Remembering this actually does force vomit up into her mouth, and she swallows it back down painfully. Removing her hands from her mouth, she quickly wipes tears away from her cheeks, blinks rapidly to get rid of the last of them. She can hear the boys’ voices murmuring indistinctly downstairs; she needs to fix as much of this as she can as quickly as possible so they can return to Hermione’s side. Fleur breathes deeply once more, steadying herself; erasing (or attempting to) her mind of the horrendous possibilities that could have caused these injuries, and sharpens her concentration on the task of mending them. She decides she should start with Hermione’s legs first. The sooner she can get the shivering girl somewhat warm under the comforter, the better.
Fleur begins with her ankles, spreading Murtlap Essence along the rings of raw skin around them, and heaves a relieved sigh when she sees the marks immediately begin to fade to a paler pink. She lightly rubs bruise removal paste up her shins, and then hesitates when she reaches the first bite mark, just above Hermione’s knee. Fleur leans slightly forward to get a better look, fighting to keep her reprehension in check. It looks like there’s an unnerving amount of nicks and bites retreating to her inner thighs, though Fleur can’t see them very well with Hermione lying the way she is, legs almost clamped shut. Fleur does not know when she stopped breathing, but she finally remembers to as she brings her hands up to Hermione’s knees, releasing a long, unsteady breath. Bury the rage, focus.
She gingerly grips her knees and starts to slowly push Hermione’s legs apart, opening her up for a more clear view of the thigh wounds. It is when her legs are spread, when cold air assaults the assuredly stinging fresh bites, that Hermione wakes with a choking gasp. Fleur instantly removes her hands as Hermione snaps her legs shut again, crying out when her wounded thighs smack against each other.
Her eyes are open, but they are not seeing, not yet. “Please– no more–” her voice is hoarse and broken around the only words she can make out, kicking, pushing at the bed to put as much distance between herself and Fleur, banging her skull against the headboard.
“Hermione, you are safe,” Fleur starts gently, just as Hermione cracks out the whisper, “I didn’t take anything.” The words are strained, manifesting as a harsh wheeze. Fleur’s hands fidget in her lap, knowing she shouldn’t touch but needing to do something to calm the now hyperventilating girl down. She goes for the most neutral, comforting action she can think of– she reaches for her hand, which Hermione just now seems to be realizing is no longer bound away from her person. She gives it a disbelieving look, like she has just registered that she had been hiding her face behind it. Fleur envelops it between her own.
“Hermione, look at me. It’s Fleur. You’re okay. You’re at our safehouse now; I’ve been tending to your injuries best I can. I was just trying to get a better look at those… at your legs, see what needs to be done.” It’s not the greatest explanation, but it seems to do the trick as Hermione’s deep brown eyes meet her own, and the terror in them disintegrates to pain and exhaustion. She slumps forward, and Fleur has to lean in quickly to catch her head in the crook of her shoulder. She wraps one arm around Hermione’s back, holding her gently by the shoulders as she cries. Hermione is still gripping her other hand tightly, the sound of her violent sobs ringing through the previously quiet bedroom. They remain this way for some time, Fleur having wordlessly cast an Imperturbable Charm so as to keep the downstairs occupants of the house deaf to the noise. She holds Hermione with her jaw set, still struggling to keep her mind clear of flashes of disgusting possibility. Bellatrix Lestrange will certainly be dead if she ever appears in Fleur’s eyeline again.
Hermione jerks her head up to speak, finally, her eyes darting around the room as she manages, “Harry… Ron– are– did they–”
“They are downstairs, waiting for me to finish treating you. Dobby, as well. I assumed you would prefer privacy while– incapacitated.”
Hermione lowers her head again, and Fleur barely catches the whisper, “Thank you.” Her grip on Fleur’s hand is tight, as though it’s a lifeline. She makes no attempt to move, keeping herself tucked away in the safety of Fleur’s warmth.
“Of course,” is the faint response, “Would you like me to go get them now or finish up first?” The grip on her hand grows impossibly tighter.
“No. Don’t–don’t leave. I– finish, please,” Hermione croaks out the broken, hasty reply before Fleur has fully finished her question, pressing her face deeper into her neck. Fleur can feel hot tears pooling in the dip of her collarbone. She moves her hand from Hermione’s shoulder to stroke her hair.
“As you wish. Of course, for me to do that, you might need to let go of me, non?” she prompts softly after another good minute of sitting together, and Hermione releases a wry chuckle that sounds utterly painful as it rips from her throat.
“Right.”
“Here, before you lay back,” Fleur starts, moving her hand from Hermione’s shoulder to back for support as she leans over to grab a vial from the nightstand, “drink this. A general healing potion; it should take care of the swelling and bruising on your throat in no time, get your voice back to normal.” Hermione uses both shaking hands to raise the vial to her lips; she tips her head back, the whole contents emptied in no time. Fleur readjusts the pillows so that Hermione can sit up a little more before she helps lower her into as comfortable a position as possible. Hermione’s eyes dart from Fleur to the ceiling in a refusal to look at herself. Tears still relentlessly pour down her face and she flinches every time they roll off her chin, dripping salt into the cuts and bites on her chest.
“What… where would you rather me start?” Fleur asks, careful not to resume her attempt at working on the legs, or even bring her hands forth without permission. She doesn’t want to do a single thing that would harm instead of help. Hermione is awake; Fleur is no longer in charge.
“I don’t… I can’t think- Just… Keep doing what you were before I… woke up,” Hermione answers quietly, her voice already sounding clearer. Her muscles seem to have relaxed slightly, as well; the healing potion is working its magic, relieving at least some pain.
“If you want, I can give you a mild sleeping potion, wake you when I am done.”
An immediate head shake is her answer.
“Just… cover everything up. As quick as you can. Please.” Her voice is so small. Fleur hates to call anything about Hermione pathetic, as she has known this witch to be anything but; it’s simply the only way to describe the way her words force themselves from her mouth. Her tone sounds far away, mind elsewhere. Fleur is certain she wouldn’t like where it’s ended up. She clears her throat again and grasps at her lap for the rag, only to eventually find the bloody fabric strewn on the floor. It had been knocked aside in Hermione’s hysterical waking. She slowly begins to stand and Hermione’s hand shoots out to her wrist, halting her. Fleur briefly notices blood dotting on her forearm bandage, seeping through, before blue eyes meet frightened brown and Fleur can’t stop herself from bringing a hand to Hermione’s face to lightly graze her thumb across her cheekbone– a thankfully soothing gesture, judging from the way Hermione’s brow smooths out, the way her eyelids flutter shut for a moment, how she turns slightly into the touch.
“I’m just shouting down to Bill for a fresh rag. He’ll hand it to me through the door; I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry, I…” Hermione starts, trailing off, releasing her hold, eyes still flitting open and closed as the soft pad of Fleur’s thumb continues to stroke her cheek.
“I understand.” It’s a lie, at its core; Fleur can’t possibly imagine what the younger witch must be feeling or thinking right now, but it’s obvious that her presence alone is bringing some form of solace, alleviation. Comfort. “Just one moment, I'll be right back.”
She’s at the door an instant after pushing off the bed, cracking it so her voice travels clear through the charm as she calls out, “Bill! Fresh rag!” Only a few seconds go by before Bill’s rapid footsteps are approaching and he’s in front of the door, arm outstretched, cloth in hand. One thing about this man; if she needs something, there he is with it.
“How is she?” He asks in a breath, “Those two are worried sick. From what Harry tells me, they got to her only a minute before Dobby Apparated them here, but they could hear h-” Fleur cuts him off quickly by snatching the rag out of his hand with a sharp look. Whatever he was going to say, she didn’t want Hermione to hear it.
“She’s okay– well, she’s awake,” is her quiet answer to his first words, barely a whisper. The corners of Bill’s mouth quirk up at the news and he immediately shifts his body, drawing in a breath to call to the boys. Fleur catches his arm harshly, swinging him back around. His brow furrows as he meets her eyes, finding a cold, blue glare. “I said before, I will get them when it’s okay to come up.” It comes out a hiss. He nods, and she lets go of his arm as he brings his hand up to run it through long, greasy red hair. On a better day, she needs to yell at him about a shower.
“Anything I can tell them? Settle their nerves?” Fleur closes her eyes and purses her lips at the question. She’s certain that the boys learning what she knows– which is barely anything, only what she’s seen– would do the opposite of settle nerves. It must show on her face, because when she looks at him again, Bill’s reluctant half-smile has dropped to a deep frown.
“Just… she’s awake.” With that, she retreats fully back into the bedroom and closes the door before he can reply.
She’s back across the room, lowering herself into the chair beside the bed once more, dipping the rag in the water. When she looks over at Hermione again, she sees the girl studying her face, probably looking for a hint of the hushed discussion with Bill.
“I was just telling him you’re awake, and I’ll let Ron and Harry know when they can come up,” she explains softly; Hermione nods in understanding. Fleur clears her throat for the third time, truly an undignified habit, cringing at the sound when it’s louder than intended. “I, ah… I was going to start cleaning up your thighs, before you woke up. Do you still want me to–”
“Might as well get the worst part over with,” Hermione interjects as she wipes her face clear of snot and tears (Murtlap has done its work– the cuts along her cheeks, mouth and brow are all but gone, as are the bruises on her neck), then pushes herself up to sit straighter. Her jaw tenses and she squeezes her eyes shut before slowly peeling her legs back open.
Fleur forces herself to suppress the nauseated gag that kicks at her throat. She didn’t get a good look earlier, and Hermione was definitely right; this is by far the worst part. The bites begin, like she saw, just above the knees, but they grow deeper, harsher, more concentrated towards her inner thighs until there’s almost no skin unmarred. They intersect each other, blood leaking through deep puncture wounds blooming tooth shaped bruises. There are deep scratches on her hips that run through her underwear and into the bites. Purpling fingerprints, hands everywhere. Fleur blinks hard before wringing the cloth out in the bowl and setting to work. Hermione hisses as the wet rag makes contact with her ripped flesh, eyes still shut tightly, lips pursed, knees twitching.
After wiping away the dirt and dried blood, Fleur returns the rag to the rim of the bowl and grabs an assortment of vials to mix up a more powerful salve. She stirs them all in the lid of one of the bottles, coats two fingers in her concoction and begins applying it. Hermione’s eyes remain closed but her expression relaxes slightly as the magic, well.
Fleur is not sure what possesses her to break the silence, especially not in the way she does, so it’s needless to say that she surprises herself when she asks, “Would you like to hear a secret? That no one in the world knows?”
Hermione cracks an eye open to look at her, one brow raised. “I’ll never say no to valuable knowledge.” I’ll gladly take the distraction.
A corner of Fleur’s mouth twitches up at that, and she says as steadily as she can, “Bill and I aren’t married,” before realizing that was the worst way to word it.
Or maybe the best, because it earns an eye roll and genuine (albeit small) laugh from Hermione, who replies, “You’ve got to come up with something better than that. I was literally at your wedding.”
Fleur tips her head back slightly in mild frustration at herself before returning her eyes to Hermione’s, which are now fully open and focused on her– good. “I should say it better. I mean, we are not together. Not really. We never have been– we married so I could stay in the UK and aid the Order through my connections to the French ministry without having to keep up with or evade those insane part-creature citizenship laws. And to get his mother off his back.”
She knows they promised, she’s already said too much, and she definitely shouldn’t be sharing this next part; this secret between she and Bill, bound so tightly between them that they’ve only spoken aloud about it as many times as she has fingers on one hand– and only to each other– but despite having surprised herself when she began she knows why she’s doing this. Hermione is unwillingly and completely exposed to her; the horrors etched into her body leave nothing to be imagined in the ways Bellatrix Lestrange had violated her. She did not have to speak a word for Fleur to know at least some of what she endured, and she imagines Hermione wants no one to know. Fleur feels it almost necessary to extend that exposure both ways, to share something with Hermione that she would prefer to keep hidden, a part of herself that stays locked up and unknown to all but one soul. It seems only fair.
“I am… how do you English say… a beard for him. And he for me,” she adds, almost a whisper. She forces herself to watch as the gears turn quickly in Hermione’s mind and her eyes widen in realization, lips parting in surprise.
“You mean you’re both gay?” Fleur recoils at the way she speaks it so plainly, and busies herself by continuing to apply the salve to Hermione’s thighs. After the one closest to her is sufficiently coated, she grabs the long spool of bandage and gently guides Hermione’s leg to bend up at the knee so she can wrap it.
“I don’t… say that out loud. We don’t. I have never told anyone other than him of my… commet dire… desires,” the English language is escaping her as she tries to form sentences she’s never thought to structure, “until this moment. I say we married for the law et… pour maîtriser la colère de Madame Weasley, mais… but it was also to, ah, dissuade unwanted men from attempting to make their move. A public wedding with as many guests as possible was perfect to achieve all of these ends.”
“But you looked so…” Hermione waves her hands in the air in a mimicry of dance, “... in love. Sounded so in love. I kept watching you thinking I can’t wait to have someone to love like that.” As she’s talking, Fleur is moving to the other side of the bed for a better angle on her other thigh. She repeats the same process as before, applying the salve then lifting the leg to wrap it.
Fleur smiles at Hermione’s words. “Eh bien, oui...We do love each other very much. He is my closest friend in the world, donc c’est… not very hard to pretend. Knowing we do it for each other makes it easy.”
“Why pretend at all? Surely the Order would understand the logistics of the law, at least,” Hermione reasons.
“They would, but then would come the questions as to why our relationship is not… authentique.” Fleur’s face is getting hot, color blooming on her cheeks. She never imagined she would ever be speaking about this part of her life with anyone other than Bill– she had even elected to stamp down every inkling of yearning or hunger for other women, keep every adjacent feeling securely under lock and key, never to be acted upon, even as private opportunities presented themselves. The mere thought of anyone from her family, her tribe finding out the truth of her… It sends cold, icy stabs down her spine. That can never happen. She can never risk it. So Bill it is. “It is best for both of us this way. We’ll have to come up with an excuse as to why we can’t have children once this war is won, though,” she adds with a hint of laughter in her voice, hoping Hermione latches onto the joke and decides not to press further.
She should know better than that. If there’s one thing Hermione Granger will always do, it’s press further.
“So you just plan to live this… this lie? Your whole life?” she asks incredulously. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head slightly at her own tone. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude, that just seems… incredibly bleak. And unnecessary. The world is only getting more accepting as time goes on. I guess I just don’t understand the point.”
When Fleur finishes wrapping Hermione’s thigh, she gestures for her to lift both her legs so she can untuck the comforter, allowing Hermione to slip under into its warmth. Hermione obliges with thanks, though still with questions in her eyes as Fleur returns to her original side of the bed to wet and wring out the rag again. She smooths Hermione’s hair out of the way and begins cleaning the bites and scratches on her shoulder. She can’t think of the words necessary to answer. She knows her reasons; she just can’t voice them.
“Why are you even telling me this?” Hermione adds when she receives no response. This, Fleur can try to answer.
“I… You are being made to… merde, je ne peux pas parler…” a quick mutter under her breath as she searches for the words to continue, “I assume you would not want me to know what happened to you in Malfoy Manor. But seeing… It is impossible for me not to. Je viens de sentir que je…. should even out the exchange, du mieux que je pouvais. I am sorry for the French.”
Hermione’s eyes cast down to her hands, brow furrowing once more at the verbal reminder of her last six hours, which had gone unspoken between them until now.
“It’s alright,” she whispers, cheeks turning rosy, “I took classes in primary school, I understand enough.” Her voice is suddenly raspy and hoarse. “Thank you. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” A breath of words.
Fleur only nods, continuing her care in silence. She mixes up more of the salve and coats it along Hermione’s shoulder, collarbone, then covers the wounds in gauze and tape, unable to wrap. The enchanted medicine should work so that Hermione can take off these bandages by tonight; in fact, they should already be fading, but Fleur remembers Hermione’s words– they ring clear in her mind. Cover everything up.
She casts a quick spell to remove the grime from the cloth before wetting it again and allowing her eyes to settle on the swell of Hermione’s breasts. The bite marks along the exposed skin pushing out of her bra are already turning sick yellows and greens around the tears in flesh, the harsh crescent moons from nails digging in already scabbing over. Fleur can tell the wounds travel below the fabric, but she refuses to ask if she can remove this last piece of privacy Hermione has to her person. Especially given what Fleur has just confessed to her. She elects to simply clean what she can see, and carefully blots at the injuries.
She can feel her face heating up again, anxiety skittering to her nerve endings. She’s treated injured women before, but never like this. Never this close. She considers for a moment asking Hermione if she would rather do this part herself, but quickly dismisses the thought. No one should have to do that. But would it be right to ask? Merlin, she should’ve done this part before telling Hermione of her desires for other women. (She should’ve never told Hermione at all. Instant regret is sinking in.) Her hands hesitate, hovering as her mind begins to whirl with what Hermione must be thinking, how her friends are not taking care of her and Fleur has gotten her alone and naked. How there might be ulterior motives to her kindness. Her hands shake. Her goal was to make Hermione feel as safe and comfortable as possible, and she’s gone and done the exact opposite with her confession.
It’s when she hears, “Are you alright?” and looks up to find nothing but concern in Hermione’s eyes, concern for her, that Fleur realizes her train of thought is completely irrational. “I mean it, I won’t say anything to anyone.”
She shakes her head slightly, mustering a small smile. “Désolée… I’m fine. You should not be worrying about me. I am just trying to consider the most respectful way to deal with…” she waves a hand vaguely over Hermione’s chest, “... this. I don’t want to cause you any discomfort.”
At this, Hermione releases a loud, bitter laugh. It fills the room and makes Fleur’s chest tighten. “Fleur, nothing about this is comfortable. Here,” she pushes herself up with grunting effort, reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra, throwing it to the side, “just do what needs to be done.” She leans back, shoving her hands under her thighs, wincing as her bandaged forearm rubs against her leg (Fleur will definitely have to come back to that wound, it seems), keeping her eyes trained on the ceiling. Fleur thinks she’s acting awfully put together about all this, definitely more than she herself would be, and it’s more than mildly concerning.
When Fleur allows her gaze to focus, she inhales sharply at the sight. She was right, of course; the marks are littered all across her breasts, harsh around raw, irritated nipples- a bite on the underside of her left breast now dripping blood down her stomach. She quickly cleans that one first, tunneling her vision to the injury, deft fingers working gently as she wipes and applies the cream. Hermione hisses as Fleur disinfects the deep nail punctures, and again when she rubs the salve into the bites around her nipples. Fleur is steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the reality of what she’s doing, where she’s touching, because now is so totally and completely not the time or place.
She finishes with the last bite, one to the side of Hermione’s right breast, having coated it thickly with her Murtlap-Dittany-Something-Else concoction, and runs her eyes over her body once more for anything she missed. This is a tedious process. Bellatrix was certainly… thorough in her sickening methods. She notices another bite on Hermione’s hip, on the bone disappearing beneath her underwear, and carefully pulls the garment to the side just as necessary to quickly treat it. Having done so, she hurries her gaze back up, relieved to see that her concoction has indeed been effective. The marks on her breasts and stomach are fading quickly; they aren’t as deep as the ones on her legs. They will be mere scabs by tonight, most bruises gone.
“I think… I think I’ve gotten everything,” Fleur says softly into the silence, tears her lingering eyes away and stands to move to the wardrobe behind her. She pulls an old Beauxbatons sweater from a drawer and brings it over to Hermione. “Here, while we clean your clothes.”
“You can go ahead and burn those,” she replies without hesitation as she pulls the sweater over her head. Fleur chuckles before she can stop it.
“Of course. I don’t know why I hadn’t already thought of that.” She watches as Hermione flips her hair out of the neck of the sweater and carefully leans back into her most comfortable position against the pillows. Her face has completely cleared up by this point, and so has her neck save for the one dark purple handprint wrapping around it. Fleur can only hope the harsher bruise fades quickly. She rocks back on her heels, holding the back of the chair she was in to stabilize. “Shall I go and send the boys up, now?”
Hermione sighs heavily, then meets her gaze again, and her eyes are so empty, so tired. They are red and puffy and seem to have expelled every tear from her body. “I… I don’t think I can see them right now. They’ll ask questions, and I…”
Fleur purses her lips. It makes sense. “Compris. I do need to at least update them on your status, though. Just let them know that you are not actively dying,” she adds in a rush, to clarify that she has no intention of telling Harry and Ron anything about what she had seen. She just knows the worry and uncertainty they are feeling must be unbearable; she wants to quell that as best she can. Hermione nods. Fleur takes this as her sign and pushes off the back of her chair, heading towards the door. She halts just before reaching it, and they speak at the same time.
“Wait–”
“I’ll get you–”
Fleur gives her a small smile. “You first.”
Hermione ducks her head, eyes focused on her fidgeting hands. “I’m sorry. I thought I… I just… I really don’t want to be alone right now. I can’t be. I know I’ll just start thinking– more than I already am, I can’t–” her voice is shattering on almost every syllable as she speaks, shoulders heaving in the beginnings of hyperventilation. Fleur is back across the room in a second, taking Hermione’s hands in her own again; she just can’t bear the unbelievable pain the younger woman is in. The violation she must be feeling. It’s like Fleur can feel it, a snake constricting around her heart, her very soul. She can’t possibly fathom how Hermione is managing to be as lucid as she is.
“Regarde-moi, ‘Ermione.” The French escapes her in a desperate breath, but Hermione understands and slowly meets her eyes, that pretty blush ghosting her cheeks again. “You will have me by your side for as long as you want me to be here. I won’t go anywhere– Harry and Ron can wait.”
Hermione nods, freeing one of her hands from Fleur’s to wipe her face of tears, then returning it. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, ma belle. We are banishing those words from your vocabulary.”
This earns a watery chuckle, a ghost of a smile. “That seems fair.” A slight pause, and then, “What were you going to say, though?”
“Ah, oui. I was going to get you some food and water while downstairs, I’m sure Bill has cooked something by now. But if you are not hungry it can wait, just like the boys.” As if on cue, Hermione’s stomach snarls angrily. “Or I can shout to Bill to bring something up.”
Hermione sighs heavily, releasing Fleur’s hands to wrap her arms around herself. “I really could use a meal. But it does make more sense for you to go down, tell them I’m not actively dying.” In her eyes, Fleur can see the panic bubbling up before it’s stamped down. “Just please don’t be gone long.”
Fleur gives her a resolute nod, and squeezes her hand before standing again. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”
Then she’s out the door, doing her best to not sprint down the stairs. Harry, Ron and Bill hear her footsteps and are gathered at the foot of the steps by the time she gets there.
“How is she? Can we see her? What the hell happened? Bill said she’s awake–” Ron starts, his tall, hulking body immediately trying to push past Fleur to get up the stairs, and she places a firm hand on his shoulder to back him up. She briefly notices Harry’s hand on his other.
“She… she will be okay. She is still awake and talking, my potions are working well. She just needs to rest and regain her strength. I–”
“Okay, so we can see her. Can you move?” Ron is trying to get past her again, and this time Harry yanks him back.
“Alright, mate, calm down. Let her finish talking.”
Fleur takes a deep, steadying breath, very much not looking forward to Ron’s reaction to her next words, although she understands his actions completely. “I’ve just come down to tell you both that you don’t need to worry about her well-being anymore,” she looks to Bill, “and to fetch some dinner for Hermione and myself. I assume you’ve made something?”
Bill shoots her a quick grin and replies, “You know it. I’ll make your plates.” Then he’s off to the kitchen, leaving Fleur alone with Ron’s reddening face and Harry’s haggard posture, his hands retaining their firm grip on Ron’s shoulders.
“So you’re saying we can’t see her? What the hell, Fleur, you can’t just–”
“Ron, think, mate. Fleur isn’t the one saying we can’t see her,” Harry cuts off his friend’s angry barrage, and he sounds so tired. Ron is still looking up the stairs like he wants to shrug Harry’s hands off, shove Fleur out of the way and run up there, but she can see the realization hit as Harry’s words sink in, and he snaps his eyes to hers.
“She doesn’t want to see us? Why? What happened?” There’s no anger in his voice, just confusion and sadness and desperation. Harry, upon confirmation that he won’t be allowed upstairs, slumps into the chair Ron first collapsed in and buries his face in his hands.
Fleur really doesn’t know how to answer tactfully. She’s trying to find a way that won’t make them feel horrible, won’t get her cursed at, and coming up empty. She clears her throat, purses her lips.
“It is not my place to tell you what happened, she will do so when she wants to– when she can. I asked her if I should send you two up with the food, and she said no. She will see you when she’s ready. Until then, please just trust me. Trust that she is in good hands.”
Ron is spluttering in front of her, but his shoulders sag and the intensity in his eyes is fading to exhaustion. Harry finds words first, as Bill reenters the room with two steaming plates of some creamy pasta and chicken and glasses of water. In another life, he’d make an exceptional waiter.
“I’m sorry about him, Fleur, you just have to understand– we were stuck in that cellar for so long, just listening to her screams. We didn’t know what was happening to her, still don’t know what happened. We couldn’t do anything. We-we just had to listen. Ron only wants to–”
“I only want to help her, to see her alright, that’s all. And I’m not sorry.” Ron is still speaking like it’s Fleur’s decision not to let him upstairs, and she has to take a deep breath to maintain composure. Getting angry at him won’t do anything, but she can feel it bubbling up even though she empathizes. He’s being dense and selfish, focused on his own feelings as opposed to those of the friend that’s just been tortured, and it’s starting to grate on her frayed nerves.
“I think the best way to help Hermione right now is to do what she asks, little brother. Just be patient; she’s safe now, you all are. Like Fleur said, she’ll see you when she’s ready to.” Bill passes off the food and water to Fleur, who balances everything a lot less gracefully, then he eyes up the stairs as he takes Ron by the shoulders and turns him around with little effort. Fleur mouths a thank you just before he focuses on his brother and keeps talking. She makes her way back up. “I know it’s hard, but what she’s going through is harder, so just keep…”
The rest of Bill’s words are drowned out as Fleur crosses the threshold of her silencing charm and closes the door behind her, gaze immediately landing on Hermione–
Hermione sitting fully up in the bed, quilt thrown to the floor, staring down at her bandaged thighs, eyes vacant, glassed over. Her face is white as the gauze all over her body, expressionless, her frame eerily still. Fleur feels the hair on the back of her neck rise at the sight. She’s never seen anyone look so haunted, so out of their own body. She slowly moves forward, setting their dinner down on the nightstand, then bends to pick up the quilt. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77342486/chapters/202492556 | {"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "lifeline"} |
Alive at Times
The moans racked the body in front of me; and to think; I don’t even know her name. I kissed her neck; tracing the marks left on her face thighs with my finger.
“Mh- ANTHONY- God please- mhm-“ she whimpered below me. I know; it’s not the best way to get money; but drug money doesn’t come from no where. You can’t always do what you want or get what you want.
As the night grew dark; she was lying there; sleeping and out cold. I stepped out onto my apartment’s balcony. I pulled a cigarette out of my pack and lit it; puffing the deep smoke with a sigh. Well the night was still young. I might as well do the rest of my job.
I walked back in; tossing the blunt off the side of the balcony. I walked to the dresser; clasping the blade in my hands.
“Hon…what are you doing with…ANTHONY-“ She screamed. I stuck a rolled up sock in her mouth; muffling her. I looked at the tears in her eyes; makeup running. I sat over her; straddling her with the knife above my head.
“It was a pleasure doing business~!” I laughed before plunging the knife deep into the breast tissue right above the heart. I grinned as the blood poured out of her chest, the beautiful shine in her eyes vanished as the life left her eyes. I grinned; licking the knife and blood. Sour.
I tossed the sock out of her mouth into the trash. I took the blood soaked woman off my bed; kissing her once before putting her in a black trash bag. I picked the phone up; picking it up. I immediately hung up. That was the sign. All they needed from me. I got my payment and the job done. Now I could sleep.
I popped some pills into my mouth; grinning. The headache I had was brutal. I switched the tv on: waiting for the drugs to kick in. Some model was there; not my type. They had black hair and dark eyes; Euna…. I dropped my thoughts out as the drugs took over; grinning.
I fell asleep to the sounds of tragic news stories and the world spinning that night. | Alive at Times
The moans racked the body in front of me; and to think; I don’t even know her name. I kissed her neck; tracing the marks left on her face thighs with my finger.
“Mh- ANTHONY- God please- mhm-“ she whimpered below me. I know; it’s not the best way to get money; but drug money doesn’t come from no where. You can’t always do what you want or get what you want.
As the night grew dark; she was lying there; sleeping and out cold. I stepped out onto my apartment’s balcony. I pulled a cigarette out of my pack and lit it; puffing the deep smoke with a sigh. Well the night was still young. I might as well do the rest of my job.
I walked back in; tossing the blunt off the side of the balcony. I walked to the dresser; clasping the blade in my hands.
“Hon…what are you doing with…ANTHONY-“ She screamed. I stuck a rolled up sock in her mouth; muffling her. I looked at the tears in her eyes; makeup running. I sat over her; straddling her with the knife above my head.
“It was a pleasure doing business~!” I laughed before plunging the knife deep into the breast tissue right above the heart. I grinned as the blood poured out of her chest, the beautiful shine in her eyes vanished as the life left her eyes. I grinned; licking the knife and blood. Sour.
I tossed the sock out of her mouth into the trash. I took the blood soaked woman off my bed; kissing her once before putting her in a black trash bag. I picked the phone up; picking it up. I immediately hung up. That was the sign. All they needed from me. I got my payment and the job done. Now I could sleep.
I popped some pills into my mouth; grinning. The headache I had was brutal. I switched the tv on: waiting for the drugs to kick in. Some model was there; not my type. They had black hair and dark eyes; Euna…. I dropped my thoughts out as the drugs took over; grinning.
I fell asleep to the sounds of tragic news stories and the world spinning that night. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77340606/chapters/202487196 | {"authors": ["Bug_Drink"], "language": "English", "title": "Alive at Times"} |
In The Castle's Halls
"Attention everyone!" called Zelda out softly, ringing a spoon against a golden chalice. "As you can see, I have brought you all here today to discuss the future of the Kingdom of Hyrule now that the Calamity has been taken care of. I am Zelda, Princess of Hyrule. This," she indicaded with one hand to her right. "Is my knight Link." Going around the table, we have Yunobo, here on behalf of Chief Bludo as representative for the Goro Clan; Prince Sidon, on behalf of King Dorephan as representative of the Zora Clan; Paya, on behalf of Lady Impa as representative of the Sheikah Clan; Miss Purah, director of the Hateno Ancient Tech Lab; Buliara?" Zelda looked puzzled at the Gerudo captain.
"Lady Riju has left the castle for a brief wander of the surroundings. She is not used to such a climate and needs some time to adjust."
"Thank you, this is Buliara, Lady Riju's guard-in-chief — both representatives for the Gerudo Clan; and finally Teba, on behalf of Chieftain Kaneli, representative for the Rito Clan. While the Great Deku Tree could, for reasons I hope you can all understand, not come here himself, he did not send any representatives, like I suggested. For this reason we will not discuss any actions regarding the Lost Woods, Korok Forest, or any of its inhabitants today. At some point in the next week, myself and Link shall travel to Korok Forest to discuss the matter with the Great Deku Tree. If there are no notices from any of the representatives," she glanced around the room. "Let us begin. Now then," she began reaching around, looking for something to no avail.
"Link, it appears I have left my notebook in my study. Could you go and collect it for me?" she demanded as she smiled down to her knight, who nodded as she stood up and paced hastily out of the room. "In the meantime," announced Zelda to the room. "We can start our meeting and I can write up a summary when Link returns."
Link's boots echoed in the tall corridor leading out of the dining hall. The representatives' discussion gradually got dimmer and dimmer as she walked away, becoming inaudible by the time she was at the doorway to the reception. She turned the large oak door slowly and, as she entered, was startled to hear-
"Link! Good to see ya!" It was Riju. She was stood, hand on her hips, in the middle of the room. "They really weren't lying when they said you're a girl now huh?" Link looked at her vacantly for a few seconds before eyeing herself up and down. She realised that her figure had become quite noticeably different from how it was before the transformation, and moreover, that her old blue tunic did very much not fit her anymore.
Riju strode brazenly towards Link and pressed him against a wall. "I can see why Zellie likes you so much," she said, running her hands through Link's messy, unkempt hair. "You're such a sweet beautiful girl. I wanna just—" she leaned in and lay her teal lips over Link's and pushed her wet, slippery tongue into Link's mouth, licking the knight's tongue with her own. Riju seized Link by the wrists with one hand and held them effortlessly over the helpless knight's head. "You're blushing so much," she giggled. "Does the Princess' knight enjoy being overpowered by the Chief of the Gerudo? You like it, don't you?" she pressed her lips back onto Link's, pouring her warm saliva into the struggling Hylian. With her other hand she reached down to Link's hips and slid her arm up her tunic, groping her soft breasts.
In a swift motion, Riju dropped to her knees, unfastened Link's belt, and pulled her trousers and underwear down. "I knew it wouldn't be as big as Zelda's," she remarked, eyeing up Link's half-erect dick. "Such a prettty cock." she chirped before sealing her lips around its tip. Her mouth felt warm and slippery around the Hylian's pulsing dick, climbing her leps up and down the length of the shaft. As she started to move her head forwards and backwards, she put her arms around Link's soft, round butt, pushing her slightly into the wall.
"Link!" the door beside them swung open. Paya wandered absentmindedly into the reception before turning to see Riju sucking Link off. "Lady Riju!" she blurted, "What do you think you are doing with Link?"
Riju slowly loosened her lips from around Link's stiff dick and, stroking the swordswoman's cock in one hand, turned her head to face Paya. "Well Paya," she began. "I had just got back to the castle when Link came into the room, and as soon as I saw her, I just couldn't resist having a play with her. I mean, how could you not?"
Paya watched shyly at Link, moaning quietly to herself as the Gerudo chief teased her dick slowly. She flung off her kimono, revealing a tight navy halter top underneath, and ambled timidly towards them, placing her hands on Link's chest and playing with her boobs through the tunic. "Lady Riju," she asked nervously. "Is it ok if I join in?"
"Gladly." smiled Riju, inviting the Sheikah girl to sit on the other side of Link's cock. The two began stroking the knight's body and licking at her shaft. The two warm tongues swirling around the Hylian's dick was intoxicating her brain. Riju grabbed Paya by the hand and placed it on Link's bare butt, groping it softly. "Kiss me Paya," she sugested, moving her lips to Link's tip. Paya, obeying the Gerudo, sealed her lips around hers, envelopping the helpless Link between their lips. Riju twisted her tongue forcefully around, coating Paya's insides, as well as Link's dick, in her slippery saliva.
Riju, giggling to herself slightly, lay a hand on Link's other buttock and, without any warning, plunged two fingers into Link's anus, rubbing her fingertips at the knight's prostate. "Miss Riju, Miss Paya," moaned Link, feebly. "I'm going to-"
"That's ok," giggled Riju, moving her lips from Link's throbbing dick. "Let it out. All over us." she commanded, squeezing slightly as she energetically stroked the length of her cock with her free hand.
Link wailed as a shower of her white semen poured from her dick and over the two girls, covering their faces and hair with streaks of hot cum.
"Holy fuck," grinned Riju. "That was so good! You're such a damn good girl!" she praised, stroking Link giddily. "You too," she added turning to face Paya and kissing the dazed girl on the lips. "That was so good!"
Riju stood herself up and brushed the dust off her skirt. "Let's find somewhere more comfortable, shall we?", she proposed.
Before giving them a chance to respond, she took the two of them by the hand and trotted through a corridor into the observation room, continuing up the stairs before stopping at a small decorative couch overlooking the balcony. From outside, a gentle, refreshing breeze blew past them. The three stood, looking at the breathtaking view, seeing all the way to Lake Hylia.
Paya took her shoes off and sat herself down on the couch and reached her arms behind her, unfastening her top and revealing her breasts, larger than either Link's or Riju's. Riju, without hesitation, unclipped her top and skirt, and threw them on the floor along with her underwear and sandals. She sat down on the other side of the couch, gazing at Paya. Following the chieftain, Paya pulled off her leggings and underwear, leaving her completely nude.
The two nodded to each other before grabbing Link by the arms and pulling her down onto the couch. Riju pulled the knight's tunic over her head and fondled the Hylian's breasts passionately. Paya, meanwhile, stripped Link's lower half and wrapped her hand around the erect dick. She stood herself onto her knees, straddling Link, and angled the penis at her vagina. She slowly lowered herself onto it, taking her virginity away.
"Oh, my. Link!" she moaned, starting to move herself up and down on Link's cock. "I always wanted to do it with you, but I didnt expect it to be so fucking good." She placed one hand on Link's stomach and rubbed her pussy with the other, stroking her white bush, neatly trimmed into a triangle. The dick was pushing against her insides with every motion, the warm shaft drowning her in ecstasy.
Relishing the spectacle before her, Riju started pleasuring herself, playing slowly with her pussy. "Oh Link," she teased. "Want a taste of my cunt don't you." She sat her hips onto Link's face, pressing her vulva against the Hylian's lips. "Make it feel good, won't you." she demanded. "It's a knight's job to follow commands." She gave Link's chest a light slap before groping Paya's breasts. She pulled Paya in to the point where their nipples were rubbing against each other.
"Can we kiss?", requested the Sheikah woman, looking Riju in the eyes as she spoke.
"Go on," retorted Riju, with a smirk on her face as the two sealed their lips together. Riju pushed her tongue deep into Paya's mouth, pressing her tongue against the Sheikah woman's, weaving them together passionately.
Paya, crying out in muffled moans, started bobbing herself up and down on Link's thick cock. Her brain felt empty as her cunt was being stretched out by Link's beautiful dick as her mouth was being played with by Chief Riju. "Fill me up, Link!" she wailed, leaking saliva all over the knight as she moved her mouth away from Riju's. "Fill my hole with your cum!"
Having lost all control to the two girls fucking her, Link's hips started slamming rhythmically against Paya's pussy. She whimpered feebly into Riju's cunt as she shot her load out into Paya. Thick cum surged out of the Sheikah lady as Link withdrew herself slowly from the girl.
Paya stood herself on the ground again and started dressing herself quickly, the other two joining her. "We really should get back to the dining hall before Miss Zelda gets worried about us," chirped Paya.
Once the three were all dressed again, they walked back together into the Dining Hall, only to find Princess Zelda stood alone at the end of the table.
"Miss Zelda," began Paya. "I'm sorry we took so long. I went to find Link an-"
"It's ok, Paya," affirmed the Princess. "I know what happened. I suggested it to Riju. This was my idea." She giggled to herself. "How was it?"
The three's faces all turned red in unison, caught off-guard by Zelda's query. Link stammered. "I-it w-wa-"
"It was so fucking good, Zelda," interrupted Riju boldly. "I hadn't had good dick since we did it last, and that was before the Calamity."
Zelda laughed to herself. "Oh, Riju," she added. "Buliara is waiting for you outside. I wish you a safe travel home. The same goes to you Paya" she said, running towards them and giving them each a kiss on the cheek. | In The Castle's Halls
"Attention everyone!" called Zelda out softly, ringing a spoon against a golden chalice. "As you can see, I have brought you all here today to discuss the future of the Kingdom of Hyrule now that the Calamity has been taken care of. I am Zelda, Princess of Hyrule. This," she indicaded with one hand to her right. "Is my knight Link." Going around the table, we have Yunobo, here on behalf of Chief Bludo as representative for the Goro Clan; Prince Sidon, on behalf of King Dorephan as representative of the Zora Clan; Paya, on behalf of Lady Impa as representative of the Sheikah Clan; Miss Purah, director of the Hateno Ancient Tech Lab; Buliara?" Zelda looked puzzled at the Gerudo captain.
"Lady Riju has left the castle for a brief wander of the surroundings. She is not used to such a climate and needs some time to adjust."
"Thank you, this is Buliara, Lady Riju's guard-in-chief — both representatives for the Gerudo Clan; and finally Teba, on behalf of Chieftain Kaneli, representative for the Rito Clan. While the Great Deku Tree could, for reasons I hope you can all understand, not come here himself, he did not send any representatives, like I suggested. For this reason we will not discuss any actions regarding the Lost Woods, Korok Forest, or any of its inhabitants today. At some point in the next week, myself and Link shall travel to Korok Forest to discuss the matter with the Great Deku Tree. If there are no notices from any of the representatives," she glanced around the room. "Let us begin. Now then," she began reaching around, looking for something to no avail.
"Link, it appears I have left my notebook in my study. Could you go and collect it for me?" she demanded as she smiled down to her knight, who nodded as she stood up and paced hastily out of the room. "In the meantime," announced Zelda to the room. "We can start our meeting and I can write up a summary when Link returns."
Link's boots echoed in the tall corridor leading out of the dining hall. The representatives' discussion gradually got dimmer and dimmer as she walked away, becoming inaudible by the time she was at the doorway to the reception. She turned the large oak door slowly and, as she entered, was startled to hear-
"Link! Good to see ya!" It was Riju. She was stood, hand on her hips, in the middle of the room. "They really weren't lying when they said you're a girl now huh?" Link looked at her vacantly for a few seconds before eyeing herself up and down. She realised that her figure had become quite noticeably different from how it was before the transformation, and moreover, that her old blue tunic did very much not fit her anymore.
Riju strode brazenly towards Link and pressed him against a wall. "I can see why Zellie likes you so much," she said, running her hands through Link's messy, unkempt hair. "You're such a sweet beautiful girl. I wanna just—" she leaned in and lay her teal lips over Link's and pushed her wet, slippery tongue into Link's mouth, licking the knight's tongue with her own. Riju seized Link by the wrists with one hand and held them effortlessly over the helpless knight's head. "You're blushing so much," she giggled. "Does the Princess' knight enjoy being overpowered by the Chief of the Gerudo? You like it, don't you?" she pressed her lips back onto Link's, pouring her warm saliva into the struggling Hylian. With her other hand she reached down to Link's hips and slid her arm up her tunic, groping her soft breasts.
In a swift motion, Riju dropped to her knees, unfastened Link's belt, and pulled her trousers and underwear down. "I knew it wouldn't be as big as Zelda's," she remarked, eyeing up Link's half-erect dick. "Such a prettty cock." she chirped before sealing her lips around its tip. Her mouth felt warm and slippery around the Hylian's pulsing dick, climbing her leps up and down the length of the shaft. As she started to move her head forwards and backwards, she put her arms around Link's soft, round butt, pushing her slightly into the wall.
"Link!" the door beside them swung open. Paya wandered absentmindedly into the reception before turning to see Riju sucking Link off. "Lady Riju!" she blurted, "What do you think you are doing with Link?"
Riju slowly loosened her lips from around Link's stiff dick and, stroking the swordswoman's cock in one hand, turned her head to face Paya. "Well Paya," she began. "I had just got back to the castle when Link came into the room, and as soon as I saw her, I just couldn't resist having a play with her. I mean, how could you not?"
Paya watched shyly at Link, moaning quietly to herself as the Gerudo chief teased her dick slowly. She flung off her kimono, revealing a tight navy halter top underneath, and ambled timidly towards them, placing her hands on Link's chest and playing with her boobs through the tunic. "Lady Riju," she asked nervously. "Is it ok if I join in?"
"Gladly." smiled Riju, inviting the Sheikah girl to sit on the other side of Link's cock. The two began stroking the knight's body and licking at her shaft. The two warm tongues swirling around the Hylian's dick was intoxicating her brain. Riju grabbed Paya by the hand and placed it on Link's bare butt, groping it softly. "Kiss me Paya," she sugested, moving her lips to Link's tip. Paya, obeying the Gerudo, sealed her lips around hers, envelopping the helpless Link between their lips. Riju twisted her tongue forcefully around, coating Paya's insides, as well as Link's dick, in her slippery saliva.
Riju, giggling to herself slightly, lay a hand on Link's other buttock and, without any warning, plunged two fingers into Link's anus, rubbing her fingertips at the knight's prostate. "Miss Riju, Miss Paya," moaned Link, feebly. "I'm going to-"
"That's ok," giggled Riju, moving her lips from Link's throbbing dick. "Let it out. All over us." she commanded, squeezing slightly as she energetically stroked the length of her cock with her free hand.
Link wailed as a shower of her white semen poured from her dick and over the two girls, covering their faces and hair with streaks of hot cum.
"Holy fuck," grinned Riju. "That was so good! You're such a damn good girl!" she praised, stroking Link giddily. "You too," she added turning to face Paya and kissing the dazed girl on the lips. "That was so good!"
Riju stood herself up and brushed the dust off her skirt. "Let's find somewhere more comfortable, shall we?", she proposed.
Before giving them a chance to respond, she took the two of them by the hand and trotted through a corridor into the observation room, continuing up the stairs before stopping at a small decorative couch overlooking the balcony. From outside, a gentle, refreshing breeze blew past them. The three stood, looking at the breathtaking view, seeing all the way to Lake Hylia.
Paya took her shoes off and sat herself down on the couch and reached her arms behind her, unfastening her top and revealing her breasts, larger than either Link's or Riju's. Riju, without hesitation, unclipped her top and skirt, and threw them on the floor along with her underwear and sandals. She sat down on the other side of the couch, gazing at Paya. Following the chieftain, Paya pulled off her leggings and underwear, leaving her completely nude.
The two nodded to each other before grabbing Link by the arms and pulling her down onto the couch. Riju pulled the knight's tunic over her head and fondled the Hylian's breasts passionately. Paya, meanwhile, stripped Link's lower half and wrapped her hand around the erect dick. She stood herself onto her knees, straddling Link, and angled the penis at her vagina. She slowly lowered herself onto it, taking her virginity away.
"Oh, my. Link!" she moaned, starting to move herself up and down on Link's cock. "I always wanted to do it with you, but I didnt expect it to be so fucking good." She placed one hand on Link's stomach and rubbed her pussy with the other, stroking her white bush, neatly trimmed into a triangle. The dick was pushing against her insides with every motion, the warm shaft drowning her in ecstasy.
Relishing the spectacle before her, Riju started pleasuring herself, playing slowly with her pussy. "Oh Link," she teased. "Want a taste of my cunt don't you." She sat her hips onto Link's face, pressing her vulva against the Hylian's lips. "Make it feel good, won't you." she demanded. "It's a knight's job to follow commands." She gave Link's chest a light slap before groping Paya's breasts. She pulled Paya in to the point where their nipples were rubbing against each other.
"Can we kiss?", requested the Sheikah woman, looking Riju in the eyes as she spoke.
"Go on," retorted Riju, with a smirk on her face as the two sealed their lips together. Riju pushed her tongue deep into Paya's mouth, pressing her tongue against the Sheikah woman's, weaving them together passionately.
Paya, crying out in muffled moans, started bobbing herself up and down on Link's thick cock. Her brain felt empty as her cunt was being stretched out by Link's beautiful dick as her mouth was being played with by Chief Riju. "Fill me up, Link!" she wailed, leaking saliva all over the knight as she moved her mouth away from Riju's. "Fill my hole with your cum!"
Having lost all control to the two girls fucking her, Link's hips started slamming rhythmically against Paya's pussy. She whimpered feebly into Riju's cunt as she shot her load out into Paya. Thick cum surged out of the Sheikah lady as Link withdrew herself slowly from the girl.
Paya stood herself on the ground again and started dressing herself quickly, the other two joining her. "We really should get back to the dining hall before Miss Zelda gets worried about us," chirped Paya.
Once the three were all dressed again, they walked back together into the Dining Hall, only to find Princess Zelda stood alone at the end of the table.
"Miss Zelda," began Paya. "I'm sorry we took so long. I went to find Link an-"
"It's ok, Paya," affirmed the Princess. "I know what happened. I suggested it to Riju. This was my idea." She giggled to herself. "How was it?"
The three's faces all turned red in unison, caught off-guard by Zelda's query. Link stammered. "I-it w-wa-"
"It was so fucking good, Zelda," interrupted Riju boldly. "I hadn't had good dick since we did it last, and that was before the Calamity."
Zelda laughed to herself. "Oh, Riju," she added. "Buliara is waiting for you outside. I wish you a safe travel home. The same goes to you Paya" she said, running towards them and giving them each a kiss on the cheek. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77340816 | {"authors": ["mothgirl_clitoris"], "language": "English", "title": "In The Castle's Halls"} |
Duckies
Prompt::Lucifer finds duck eggs and figures out how to hatch them.
Lucifer was giggling. Which was a BAD sound in Alastor’s world. Especially because he happened to be giggling behind the closed door of their closet. “Lucifer,” he lilted, “My love, my morning star…what in the world are you doing?” “Nothing!” frantic shuffling noises, “I’m looking for…cleaning!” “Well,” Alastor drawled, “You will find neither of those things in the closet. Come out now please. Your secrecy is unsettling, and you know how I feel about being left out of the loop…” Lucifer slid out through a crack in the door, “There we go! Got my shoes organized!” He froze at the stupid excuse. He had one pair of shoes and he was wearing them. Crap. Alastor threw his hands up, muttering about not wanting to know, he needed to fix dinner anyway. Lucifer heaved a huge sigh of relief. His secret was safe!
For days now he’d been going in and out of the closet. Sometimes Alastor would stand there, looking at the beam of red light under the crack in the door, the sounds of Lucifer cooing and singing nonsense songs. It was almost enough to make him think that his husband was having an affair. But if he was he was only doing so inside of their closet. Which would be just stupid. The radio demon tried not to let it bother him. It’s not like he thought there was anything nefarious going on. But there was something afoot in their bedroom, and he would not allow himself the luxury of ignorance. So, when Lucifer was off on a lunch date with Charlie, Alastor peeked. He sent his shadow in under the door, Rotsala returning with a grin and mimed flapping wings and rocking motions with his arms. ‘Birds’ It whispered ‘Little. Fluffy. Peep peep qua qua.’ Birds?! Lucifer was hiding BIRDS, risking Ornithosis, Cryptosporidiosis, psittacosis?! No. Absolutely the FUCK not.
He flung the door open, looking at the little heathens in their nest of socks and feathers Lucifer had probably gotten from one of Nifty’s feather dusters. Half shells, pieces that were going to get stuck in their clothes. He snarled, contemplated just throwing the damn things into his bayou, let them test their survival. If they died, food for the alligators. If they lived, pets for Lucifer in the pond. Hell’s Sake. He’d gone soft. A year ago he would have swallowed the damned things whole. Deciding he didn’t want to touch them, he shut the door, took a deep breath. He channeled his voice through hotel radios, “Lucifer, if you are home, please meet me in our office.” If he said ‘in the bedroom’ Angel Dust would have a field day. His husband popped up in a whirl of golden sparkles, “I’m heeeeeere, love! What did…oh no…” Lucifer looked at the open door, the blank look on the Radio Demons’ face. “Now Al,” he started to explain, “You don’t understand! I had to take them. Their mother was killed by a car on earth and the eggs were so close to hatching anyway-” “Just-” Alastor cut him off, sighing through his teeth, trying to keep his voice patient, “Get them out of the hotel. Please. You can keep them in the garden, but keeping ducks in the house is just asking for a mess of sickness.” Lucifer pouted, but made his way to the closet anyway. It made sense. But it made him sad too.
“C’mon guys,” he sighed, “I’ll show you the lily pads in the garden!” He started toward the door but he paused, noting the ducks didn’t follow him all the way. “No no,” he waved his hands, “This way! There’s a nice pond for you!”
Now Lucifer considered himself a patient man. He was rarely possessive, he kept a pretty even temper. But this…betrayal was unexpected…
Instead of following him, the ducklings had gathered around ALASTOR’S FEET, peeping and climbing all over his shoes. “Well done Lucifer,” Alastor drawled, gently pushing one of the little yellow fluffballs off of him with the tip of his cane, “I’ll not have them messing on my shoes. Just get them out.” “I’m TRYING but they’re-” Lucifer froze, hands up by his head, finally deciphering the little peeps and quacks coming from his beloved hatchlings. “Mama Mama Hungry Up Tall Mama” (1)
“ABSOLUTELY NOT, THAT IS ALASTOR, NOT MAMA!” Lucifer’s eye twitched as Alastor looked nearly terrified, “I…beg your pardon??”
“GREAT,” Lucifer pulled his own hair in frustration, “I saved them, sang to them, rotated the eggs, you find them for two minutes and they imprint on YOU?! You’re such an asshole!”
“ME?” Alastor sputtered, “All I did was open the door and ask you to clean up YOUR mess! I had no intention of stealing your little...Bêtes canards!”
Lucifer gasped, “You take that back!” The ducklings got louder, crowding around Alastor as the two argued. He scowled, “Just take the damn things,” he grit through his teeth, “And put them in the pond…”
“I can’t,” Lucifer suddenly looked smug, crossing his arms and leaning on the door, “They’re you’re problem now, y’see…you’re they’re mama now!” Alastor blinked, looking like he’d swallowed a live bee. “I…what the hell are you talking about!” “Oh, you must know something about ducklings from earth,” Lucifer said with false sweetness, “You were the first person they saw…so they think you’re their mama! And that’s exactly what they’re calling you too! So they’re your problem now. You want ‘em in the pond, take them there yourself.”
Alastor looked like he wanted to spit glass in his eye. “Nan tout moun ki pè... ANFÈ (2). Follow me, small ducklings,” he said with false sweetness, looking down as they ran little circles around and between his feet, “To the nice pond we go, far away from my clothing, as you please.” He sounded like a school teacher, herding his students along in a neat little row. Lucifer tried to stay angry but…something about hearing Alastor say “Now now, be careful you’ll fall down the stairs”, watching the radio demon take smaller steps so the little things could keep up… It made his heart swell with fondness. “God I love that cradle-robbing deer,” he sighed.
“Uh boss,” Husker’s voice traveled up the stairs, “Did you know there’s-”
“Not. One. Word.”
Angel snickered, “About the ducks or the fact that they’re following you like you’re their moth-ouch!” Lucifer pretended he hadn’t just thrown a shoe at Angels’ head.
1: I read a fanfic that the Morningstar family can talk to and understand animals. I’ve adopted this.
2: Of all the stupid…FINE. (French creole. Google translate.) | Duckies
Prompt::Lucifer finds duck eggs and figures out how to hatch them.
Lucifer was giggling. Which was a BAD sound in Alastor’s world. Especially because he happened to be giggling behind the closed door of their closet. “Lucifer,” he lilted, “My love, my morning star…what in the world are you doing?” “Nothing!” frantic shuffling noises, “I’m looking for…cleaning!” “Well,” Alastor drawled, “You will find neither of those things in the closet. Come out now please. Your secrecy is unsettling, and you know how I feel about being left out of the loop…” Lucifer slid out through a crack in the door, “There we go! Got my shoes organized!” He froze at the stupid excuse. He had one pair of shoes and he was wearing them. Crap. Alastor threw his hands up, muttering about not wanting to know, he needed to fix dinner anyway. Lucifer heaved a huge sigh of relief. His secret was safe!
For days now he’d been going in and out of the closet. Sometimes Alastor would stand there, looking at the beam of red light under the crack in the door, the sounds of Lucifer cooing and singing nonsense songs. It was almost enough to make him think that his husband was having an affair. But if he was he was only doing so inside of their closet. Which would be just stupid. The radio demon tried not to let it bother him. It’s not like he thought there was anything nefarious going on. But there was something afoot in their bedroom, and he would not allow himself the luxury of ignorance. So, when Lucifer was off on a lunch date with Charlie, Alastor peeked. He sent his shadow in under the door, Rotsala returning with a grin and mimed flapping wings and rocking motions with his arms. ‘Birds’ It whispered ‘Little. Fluffy. Peep peep qua qua.’ Birds?! Lucifer was hiding BIRDS, risking Ornithosis, Cryptosporidiosis, psittacosis?! No. Absolutely the FUCK not.
He flung the door open, looking at the little heathens in their nest of socks and feathers Lucifer had probably gotten from one of Nifty’s feather dusters. Half shells, pieces that were going to get stuck in their clothes. He snarled, contemplated just throwing the damn things into his bayou, let them test their survival. If they died, food for the alligators. If they lived, pets for Lucifer in the pond. Hell’s Sake. He’d gone soft. A year ago he would have swallowed the damned things whole. Deciding he didn’t want to touch them, he shut the door, took a deep breath. He channeled his voice through hotel radios, “Lucifer, if you are home, please meet me in our office.” If he said ‘in the bedroom’ Angel Dust would have a field day. His husband popped up in a whirl of golden sparkles, “I’m heeeeeere, love! What did…oh no…” Lucifer looked at the open door, the blank look on the Radio Demons’ face. “Now Al,” he started to explain, “You don’t understand! I had to take them. Their mother was killed by a car on earth and the eggs were so close to hatching anyway-” “Just-” Alastor cut him off, sighing through his teeth, trying to keep his voice patient, “Get them out of the hotel. Please. You can keep them in the garden, but keeping ducks in the house is just asking for a mess of sickness.” Lucifer pouted, but made his way to the closet anyway. It made sense. But it made him sad too.
“C’mon guys,” he sighed, “I’ll show you the lily pads in the garden!” He started toward the door but he paused, noting the ducks didn’t follow him all the way. “No no,” he waved his hands, “This way! There’s a nice pond for you!”
Now Lucifer considered himself a patient man. He was rarely possessive, he kept a pretty even temper. But this…betrayal was unexpected…
Instead of following him, the ducklings had gathered around ALASTOR’S FEET, peeping and climbing all over his shoes. “Well done Lucifer,” Alastor drawled, gently pushing one of the little yellow fluffballs off of him with the tip of his cane, “I’ll not have them messing on my shoes. Just get them out.” “I’m TRYING but they’re-” Lucifer froze, hands up by his head, finally deciphering the little peeps and quacks coming from his beloved hatchlings. “Mama Mama Hungry Up Tall Mama” (1)
“ABSOLUTELY NOT, THAT IS ALASTOR, NOT MAMA!” Lucifer’s eye twitched as Alastor looked nearly terrified, “I…beg your pardon??”
“GREAT,” Lucifer pulled his own hair in frustration, “I saved them, sang to them, rotated the eggs, you find them for two minutes and they imprint on YOU?! You’re such an asshole!”
“ME?” Alastor sputtered, “All I did was open the door and ask you to clean up YOUR mess! I had no intention of stealing your little...Bêtes canards!”
Lucifer gasped, “You take that back!” The ducklings got louder, crowding around Alastor as the two argued. He scowled, “Just take the damn things,” he grit through his teeth, “And put them in the pond…”
“I can’t,” Lucifer suddenly looked smug, crossing his arms and leaning on the door, “They’re you’re problem now, y’see…you’re they’re mama now!” Alastor blinked, looking like he’d swallowed a live bee. “I…what the hell are you talking about!” “Oh, you must know something about ducklings from earth,” Lucifer said with false sweetness, “You were the first person they saw…so they think you’re their mama! And that’s exactly what they’re calling you too! So they’re your problem now. You want ‘em in the pond, take them there yourself.”
Alastor looked like he wanted to spit glass in his eye. “Nan tout moun ki pè... ANFÈ (2). Follow me, small ducklings,” he said with false sweetness, looking down as they ran little circles around and between his feet, “To the nice pond we go, far away from my clothing, as you please.” He sounded like a school teacher, herding his students along in a neat little row. Lucifer tried to stay angry but…something about hearing Alastor say “Now now, be careful you’ll fall down the stairs”, watching the radio demon take smaller steps so the little things could keep up… It made his heart swell with fondness. “God I love that cradle-robbing deer,” he sighed.
“Uh boss,” Husker’s voice traveled up the stairs, “Did you know there’s-”
“Not. One. Word.”
Angel snickered, “About the ducks or the fact that they’re following you like you’re their moth-ouch!” Lucifer pretended he hadn’t just thrown a shoe at Angels’ head.
1: I read a fanfic that the Morningstar family can talk to and understand animals. I’ve adopted this.
2: Of all the stupid…FINE. (French creole. Google translate.) | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77343851 | {"authors": ["WordsBeyondTheVeil"], "language": "English", "title": "Duckies"} |
Special
You'd think that in the relationship, Chuck wouldn't be the one to initiate sex. However, since the time he found out his liking for "reciving" from his partner, he'd been less of a prude than he ever had. In the end, they were rather vanilla with it, no toys, no clothes, missionary nine times out of ten.
Till the day he found out that lingerie existed for men as well. A site he found one afternoon, out of total boredom, brought to his attention how much Byron had done to satisfy him in each and every one of their intimate meet-ups. The question came up by itself: How could he repay all that?
In the end, he bought a lingerie.
The same red as the wine he poured during that calm dinner date, as his partner ate «so...» started Chuck «ever hade relations involving lingerie?» he asked, hoping not to sound like a maniac. Byron looked up at him and smiled slightly «I have, few times, but very intense. Lingerie does something that I can't quite explain...» he said, and then his eyes widened, and his tone got softer «but, obviously, you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable» he proclaimed softly, finishing his meal.
Chuck sighed at that sentence. He had already tried it on. It looked odd, wore by him, at best. Nevertheless, he wanted to give Byron an experience he could enjoy. «And... per say, have you realized, perhaps, the color of clothing you prefer on a partner?» he asked, trying to sound less specific, still wanting it to be a surprise.
«Well, black is always an elegant option, but if I must be honest, red just does things to my being I cannot explain, nor control» he said calmly, and Chuck held back a smirk. To go safe, he went for a red lingerie, color of passion and love, by coincidence, it was also a color Byron appreaciated on a partner.
The dinner went ahead, mostly silent, pleasantly silent, and in the end, Chuck got up.
No, it's not a typo.
Having dinner in the Ghost Train might be tricky, but not impossible, and keeping away all the other spirits is easy if you are the train's spirit. On that train, Chuck was indeed able to walk. There was enough ghost energy for his lower body to work properly, and that was part of having that specific date night on the train.
He got up, fixed his clothes, and excused himself. Reached the bedroom, he had very little time to do numerous important things:
1. Lighting up candles around the room.
2. Putting the condoms on the nightstand. (even if they were not going to use them for reasons)
3. Undress and put on the lingerie.
4. Find a seductive position on the king-sized bed.
Ready!
With that, ten minutes had passed, and Byron was surely already heading for the bedroom, since Chuck wasn't anywhere else. «Chuck, are you in there?» he asked, and when he walked in, the train conductor felt all color draining from his face, and at the same time his cheeks became as colored as they never were.
Two words
Instant boner
Was it the lingerie? With the red lace covering Chuck's abdomen and part of his chest, leaving very visible the outline of his ribs? The suspenders holding up red fishnet stockings he assumed would have looked good along with the red fabric? The lace covering yet not hiding his entire masculinity, but staying open and baring his skeletal ass? Each and every bone of his spine visible through the fabric as two thin strings passed over his barely existing cheeks?
Or maybe the pose? He was just sitting there, knees spread on the sheets beside his hips, the fishnet stockings hiding nothing of his skeletal legs, purposely shaved. One hand was between his thighs, setting a see / not-see kind of effect, while the other was on his own chest, rising and falling with deep sighs.
(I'm being brutally honest, sue me)
The next two minutes were pure silence.
Then, Chuck, out of total confusion, spoke up «Byron... dear... are you okay?» he asked, almost fearing he might have broken him. Byron nodded slowly, and walked to the bed with slow, steady steps, before stopping there, and asking «is this another one of my dreams, or are you real?».
Chuck blushed more at the thought of being in Byron's dreams, Byron's wet dreams, below the belt his body reacted by itself as he answered to his lover «I am real, sweetheart» he said, trying to sound soft.
The scientist bit his lower lip, and started undoing his clothes «I gotta make sure of that» he said, before jumping on the bed shirtless, and his hands started roaming all over Chuck's body.
Byron groaned deeply at the feel of the fabric under his fingers, and nibbled on Chuck's neck «fuck yes you're real...» he said, kissing and torturing Chuck's shoulders through the lace.
To Chuck's misfortune, Byron was not interested in being gentle, so nibbles and kisses quickly became bites and hickeys, left all over Chuck's pale skin. One of Byron's hands drifted down to the conductor's hip, and then his ass.
In a second, Chuck had gone from empty and tight to two fingers spread and Byron's fingertips torturing his prostate. It felt intense and blissful, and then, able to, Chuck wrapped his legs around Byron's waist.
«I wanted to make up to you all the attention you give me» he said between pants and moans, as Byron kept torturing his insides with pleasant yet not orgasm-level flickers of his fingertips. «You couldn't have done it better» answered Byron, his voice laced with barely contained lust and desire.
Those fingers were quickly on their way to be replaced, but Chuck grabbed Byron's hands «wait» he said «I want to make this special». With that, their positions switched, and Chuck looked down at his white-haired lover «let me figure this out» he whispered, not used to have functioning legs.
In the end, facing away from him, Chuck lined up with Byron's head, and started to slowly lower down. The stretch sent numerous tingles of pain up Chuck's spine, and Byron couldn't fathom how blissfully pleasant it was to see his lover's spine trembling, delicate and thin.
He placed his hand on the lumbar part of his back, and caressed gently each and every vertebrae. He shivered in pure sensitivity, but couldn't deny the thrill of Byron's hand tracing lines along his trembling spine. It was intoxicating.
He ended up sitting down, and he legs shook violently when he did. Byron's shaft was pressing all the right spots, and Chuck just felt so full. That was something he absolutely adored, the sensation of being completely filled with his lover.
With humid thighs and arching back, Chuck started rising a couple inches, before dropping back down. Both of them moaned loudly, and Byron couldn't prevent himself from grabbing Chuck's hip, and holding firmly on it «fuck» he murmured.
The train conductor kept rising and dropping back down for a few minutes, until the paid had completely dissipated. After that, he let out a deep sigh, and looked at Byron over his own shoulder. The bioengineer couldn't help but sit up, and hug his lover from behind, gyrating his hips into his beloved.
With a high-pitched yelp, Chuck found on his shoulder a bite mark, but it only made everything sweeter, and great lord. Byron surely knew what he was doing while pistoning his shaft in and out of Chuck's ass, enjoying the delicious sounds coming out of him.
«Cry for me, honey» whispered Byron, and Chuck let himself go, letting his head fall back onto the other's shoulder. A few tears traced down his cheeks, but his eyes were rolled back and crossed, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
He was very honestly trying to look like that, hoping it'd please his lover. It did. Byron started pounding into him, grabbing his lime-green hair and pulling his head back. He was becoming a savage, chasing after his own orgasm, using his partner as a tool for it.
The peak of pleasure came for both, Chuck first, who released all over himself, his abdomen, chest, and over the fabric of the lingerie. The tight squeeze brought Byron to his own orgasm, and he released deep into his lover, thrusting his hips, and pumping him full of his load.
They sat there, exhausted, one of them ravaged, the other, semi-hard «...still?» asked Chuck, breathless. Byron sighed, and kissed his neck «you're just too much in this lingerie for me» he admitted, and bucked his hips a few inches ahead: both of them moaned.
«Shit– calm down–» said Chuck «no one's taking my ass away from you tonight» he added, and chuckled to put a period to that sentence. The request that came right after was odd, instead «yeah? So I can I keep filling it for the whole night?» groaned Byron, dragging Chuck down on the bed with him.
The white haired man spooned his lover, keeping his now once again hard member nestled deep inside him. To Chuck's surprise, the sensation was actually rather soothing, so he accepted that odd predicament.
That night, Chuck's ass was never empty. | Special
You'd think that in the relationship, Chuck wouldn't be the one to initiate sex. However, since the time he found out his liking for "reciving" from his partner, he'd been less of a prude than he ever had. In the end, they were rather vanilla with it, no toys, no clothes, missionary nine times out of ten.
Till the day he found out that lingerie existed for men as well. A site he found one afternoon, out of total boredom, brought to his attention how much Byron had done to satisfy him in each and every one of their intimate meet-ups. The question came up by itself: How could he repay all that?
In the end, he bought a lingerie.
The same red as the wine he poured during that calm dinner date, as his partner ate «so...» started Chuck «ever hade relations involving lingerie?» he asked, hoping not to sound like a maniac. Byron looked up at him and smiled slightly «I have, few times, but very intense. Lingerie does something that I can't quite explain...» he said, and then his eyes widened, and his tone got softer «but, obviously, you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable» he proclaimed softly, finishing his meal.
Chuck sighed at that sentence. He had already tried it on. It looked odd, wore by him, at best. Nevertheless, he wanted to give Byron an experience he could enjoy. «And... per say, have you realized, perhaps, the color of clothing you prefer on a partner?» he asked, trying to sound less specific, still wanting it to be a surprise.
«Well, black is always an elegant option, but if I must be honest, red just does things to my being I cannot explain, nor control» he said calmly, and Chuck held back a smirk. To go safe, he went for a red lingerie, color of passion and love, by coincidence, it was also a color Byron appreaciated on a partner.
The dinner went ahead, mostly silent, pleasantly silent, and in the end, Chuck got up.
No, it's not a typo.
Having dinner in the Ghost Train might be tricky, but not impossible, and keeping away all the other spirits is easy if you are the train's spirit. On that train, Chuck was indeed able to walk. There was enough ghost energy for his lower body to work properly, and that was part of having that specific date night on the train.
He got up, fixed his clothes, and excused himself. Reached the bedroom, he had very little time to do numerous important things:
1. Lighting up candles around the room.
2. Putting the condoms on the nightstand. (even if they were not going to use them for reasons)
3. Undress and put on the lingerie.
4. Find a seductive position on the king-sized bed.
Ready!
With that, ten minutes had passed, and Byron was surely already heading for the bedroom, since Chuck wasn't anywhere else. «Chuck, are you in there?» he asked, and when he walked in, the train conductor felt all color draining from his face, and at the same time his cheeks became as colored as they never were.
Two words
Instant boner
Was it the lingerie? With the red lace covering Chuck's abdomen and part of his chest, leaving very visible the outline of his ribs? The suspenders holding up red fishnet stockings he assumed would have looked good along with the red fabric? The lace covering yet not hiding his entire masculinity, but staying open and baring his skeletal ass? Each and every bone of his spine visible through the fabric as two thin strings passed over his barely existing cheeks?
Or maybe the pose? He was just sitting there, knees spread on the sheets beside his hips, the fishnet stockings hiding nothing of his skeletal legs, purposely shaved. One hand was between his thighs, setting a see / not-see kind of effect, while the other was on his own chest, rising and falling with deep sighs.
(I'm being brutally honest, sue me)
The next two minutes were pure silence.
Then, Chuck, out of total confusion, spoke up «Byron... dear... are you okay?» he asked, almost fearing he might have broken him. Byron nodded slowly, and walked to the bed with slow, steady steps, before stopping there, and asking «is this another one of my dreams, or are you real?».
Chuck blushed more at the thought of being in Byron's dreams, Byron's wet dreams, below the belt his body reacted by itself as he answered to his lover «I am real, sweetheart» he said, trying to sound soft.
The scientist bit his lower lip, and started undoing his clothes «I gotta make sure of that» he said, before jumping on the bed shirtless, and his hands started roaming all over Chuck's body.
Byron groaned deeply at the feel of the fabric under his fingers, and nibbled on Chuck's neck «fuck yes you're real...» he said, kissing and torturing Chuck's shoulders through the lace.
To Chuck's misfortune, Byron was not interested in being gentle, so nibbles and kisses quickly became bites and hickeys, left all over Chuck's pale skin. One of Byron's hands drifted down to the conductor's hip, and then his ass.
In a second, Chuck had gone from empty and tight to two fingers spread and Byron's fingertips torturing his prostate. It felt intense and blissful, and then, able to, Chuck wrapped his legs around Byron's waist.
«I wanted to make up to you all the attention you give me» he said between pants and moans, as Byron kept torturing his insides with pleasant yet not orgasm-level flickers of his fingertips. «You couldn't have done it better» answered Byron, his voice laced with barely contained lust and desire.
Those fingers were quickly on their way to be replaced, but Chuck grabbed Byron's hands «wait» he said «I want to make this special». With that, their positions switched, and Chuck looked down at his white-haired lover «let me figure this out» he whispered, not used to have functioning legs.
In the end, facing away from him, Chuck lined up with Byron's head, and started to slowly lower down. The stretch sent numerous tingles of pain up Chuck's spine, and Byron couldn't fathom how blissfully pleasant it was to see his lover's spine trembling, delicate and thin.
He placed his hand on the lumbar part of his back, and caressed gently each and every vertebrae. He shivered in pure sensitivity, but couldn't deny the thrill of Byron's hand tracing lines along his trembling spine. It was intoxicating.
He ended up sitting down, and he legs shook violently when he did. Byron's shaft was pressing all the right spots, and Chuck just felt so full. That was something he absolutely adored, the sensation of being completely filled with his lover.
With humid thighs and arching back, Chuck started rising a couple inches, before dropping back down. Both of them moaned loudly, and Byron couldn't prevent himself from grabbing Chuck's hip, and holding firmly on it «fuck» he murmured.
The train conductor kept rising and dropping back down for a few minutes, until the paid had completely dissipated. After that, he let out a deep sigh, and looked at Byron over his own shoulder. The bioengineer couldn't help but sit up, and hug his lover from behind, gyrating his hips into his beloved.
With a high-pitched yelp, Chuck found on his shoulder a bite mark, but it only made everything sweeter, and great lord. Byron surely knew what he was doing while pistoning his shaft in and out of Chuck's ass, enjoying the delicious sounds coming out of him.
«Cry for me, honey» whispered Byron, and Chuck let himself go, letting his head fall back onto the other's shoulder. A few tears traced down his cheeks, but his eyes were rolled back and crossed, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
He was very honestly trying to look like that, hoping it'd please his lover. It did. Byron started pounding into him, grabbing his lime-green hair and pulling his head back. He was becoming a savage, chasing after his own orgasm, using his partner as a tool for it.
The peak of pleasure came for both, Chuck first, who released all over himself, his abdomen, chest, and over the fabric of the lingerie. The tight squeeze brought Byron to his own orgasm, and he released deep into his lover, thrusting his hips, and pumping him full of his load.
They sat there, exhausted, one of them ravaged, the other, semi-hard «...still?» asked Chuck, breathless. Byron sighed, and kissed his neck «you're just too much in this lingerie for me» he admitted, and bucked his hips a few inches ahead: both of them moaned.
«Shit– calm down–» said Chuck «no one's taking my ass away from you tonight» he added, and chuckled to put a period to that sentence. The request that came right after was odd, instead «yeah? So I can I keep filling it for the whole night?» groaned Byron, dragging Chuck down on the bed with him.
The white haired man spooned his lover, keeping his now once again hard member nestled deep inside him. To Chuck's surprise, the sensation was actually rather soothing, so he accepted that odd predicament.
That night, Chuck's ass was never empty. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77339416 | {"authors": ["Abyss_1511"], "language": "English", "title": "Special"} |
Total Drama Smut Shots
Lindsey was so excited. She had been selected to move on to the second part of the audition process to appear on the new show Total Drama Island. And now she found herself in L.A. Waiting in the office of Richard Powers, the show's casting agent.
“Hello, dear. As my assistant mentioned on her call with you, we're looking for a variety of personalities to fill our cast. So why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?” Richard said, smiling at the blonde woman.
“Um… My name is Lindsay. I'm blonde, and I wear a bandana, and …” Lindsay droned on until Richard interrupted.
“Yes, yes. All that is in your file or clearly visible to me. I'm looking for something more substantial.” Richard explained.
“Substantial?” Lindsey asked dumbly.
“Yes. Something about you that will make the audience want to tune in to see you.” He said simply.
Lindsey stayed silent for a moment as if deep in thought. After a few moments she finally spoke, “Like my boobs?” Lindsey asked hopefully.
Richard took a moment to openly ogle the young woman's chest. Her top did very little to contain her J-cup breasts. Lindsey excitedly leaned in, awaiting Richard's response, which only made her breast pop out more. “Hmm, I can definitely see those being very popular with our male demographic. But it won't do our ratings any good if you're shy. So what do you think? Do you think you can handle bearing it all for the camera?” Richard asked with a perverted grin.
Lindsey looked back at him blankly. “I don't get it.”
Richard sighed at the dimwitted woman. “I'll put it simply for you. Strip for me.” He ordered.
Lindsey stared at him for a moment before letting out a playful giggle. “Oh, that's what you mean. Why didn't you say that? That's super easy.” She smiled at him before she slowly peeled off her top, revealing (as Richard expected) that she wasn't wearing a bra. She bounces and shimmies after she discards her top, much to Richard's enjoyment. Next she bent over and gave him a great view of her ass as she dropped her skirt. Richard's mouth watered at the brief peek he got of her pink pussy. After stripping nude, she stood confidently in front of Richard's desk.
“Amazing, Lindsey. I especially like the lack of any underwear.” Richard praised.
“Thanks. My sorority sisters told me guys keep tricking me into positions so they look up my skirt or down my shirt and see my underwear. So I decided to stop them by not wearing any. Smart, huh?” Lindsey beamed proudly.
“Definitely a unique solution.” Richard said with a smirk.
“Uh huh. So am I on the show?” She asked excitedly.
Richard thought about his answer. He had already decided that he was going to cast the airhead, but he didn't see the harm in allowing her to convince him some more. “I don't know, Lindsey. We have a lot of pretty girls trying out for the show. Do you have something that would help you stand out? A special talent or something?” he asked.
Lindsey thought for a moment before breaking out into a big smile. “Oh yeah. All the guys on the football team say I give the best blowjobs. Does that count?” She asked.
“Absolutely. But I can't just take your word for it.” Richard said.
“Oh, did you want me to give you the guys’ numbers so they can tell you?” Lindsey asked as she began reaching for her phone.
Richard held out a hand to stop her. “That won't be necessary. I'd simply like you to show me your talent right here and now.” Richard said as he motioned her to walk around his desk. As she stood around in front of him, he motioned her to drop to her knees, which she did obediently. “Now Lindsey, why don't you take out my cock and show me how skilled you are?”
Lindsey nodded happily as she unzipped his pants and began to slowly lower his underwear. Without warning, Richard's hardened cock sprang out, slapping the ditzy blonde across the face.
Lindsey simply giggled in response as she began stroking the thick seven-inch cock in front of her. As she stroked, she drooled onto Richard's cock, much to Richard's delight. After warming him up the appropriate amount, the dumb blonde finally began the blowjob.
Richard expected her to begin slowly. Maybe just licking his cock or sucking on the head. But it was made abundantly clear that Lindsey wasn't lying when she claimed to be a very gifted and talented cocksucker. In one fluid motion Lindsey had managed to push herself at least six inches down his cock without so much as a gag. That alone caused Richard to moan in pleasure, but Lindsey was far from done showing off.
After a few moments she began pumping her throat up and down his cock as fast as she could. Richard could only watch in astonishment and arousal as Lindsey basically fucked her own face using his cock. It was sloppy and desperate. The room filled with the sounds of slurping and sucking.
It didn't take long before Richard started feeling the urge to cum, but before he could do that, he pulled a very disappointed Lindsey off his cock.
“Huh, what's wrong?” Asked a very confused Lindsey.
“Nothing's wrong. I just didn't want to cum till I got a chance to fuck you.” Richard said as he picked her up and bent her over his desk. He smiled at the view of the blonde's perky ass bent over his desk as he rummaged through his desk in search of a condom. Unfortunately for him, after a moment of searching, he realized he was out of condoms. “Damn it, I'm out of rubbers,” Richard exclaimed.
“Oh, that's okay. My ex told me you can't get pregnant if you do anal. So we can just do that.” Lindsey offered with an airheaded smile.
Richard simply chuckled at the girl's stupidity as he lined up his cock with her asshole. “Well, if you insist.” He said as he slowly pushed himself inside.
Lindsey moaned in pleasure and pain as her tight asshole stretched around Richard's girthy cock.
“Fuck, Daddy, you're so big,” Lindsey moaned/screamed as he began to thrust deeper into her.
Richard didn't bother saying a word, simply letting himself lose himself to the pleasure of fucking the airheaded coed. He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair to pull as he started fucking her harder. Every moan and cry of pleasure only encouraged him to fuck her harder.
“Fuck, I'm so close. Ready for my cum slut?”
“Yes, Daddy. Please. Please cum for me. Fill my slutty ass with your cum. Please, I want it so much.” Lindsey begged between moans.
Her begging was all he needed to push him over the edge. With one final deep thrust, he came. Much to the delight and pleasure of Lindsey. She let out one last piercing cry as she came onto Richard's desk.
After a few moments of enjoying the afterglow of such a fine fuck. Richard and Lindsey got dressed and continued their interview.
“Well, Lindsey, you convinced me. Welcome to the cast of Total Drama Island.” Richard said with a big smile.
Lindsey let out a loud squeal and jumped with joy. She was so excited she didn't notice her tits literally bouncing out of her shirt. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You're the best, Mr. Prowler.”
Richard simply smiled and didn't bother correcting her on his last name. Nor did she inform her about the fact her tits were visible as she left his office. | Total Drama Smut Shots
Lindsey was so excited. She had been selected to move on to the second part of the audition process to appear on the new show Total Drama Island. And now she found herself in L.A. Waiting in the office of Richard Powers, the show's casting agent.
“Hello, dear. As my assistant mentioned on her call with you, we're looking for a variety of personalities to fill our cast. So why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?” Richard said, smiling at the blonde woman.
“Um… My name is Lindsay. I'm blonde, and I wear a bandana, and …” Lindsay droned on until Richard interrupted.
“Yes, yes. All that is in your file or clearly visible to me. I'm looking for something more substantial.” Richard explained.
“Substantial?” Lindsey asked dumbly.
“Yes. Something about you that will make the audience want to tune in to see you.” He said simply.
Lindsey stayed silent for a moment as if deep in thought. After a few moments she finally spoke, “Like my boobs?” Lindsey asked hopefully.
Richard took a moment to openly ogle the young woman's chest. Her top did very little to contain her J-cup breasts. Lindsey excitedly leaned in, awaiting Richard's response, which only made her breast pop out more. “Hmm, I can definitely see those being very popular with our male demographic. But it won't do our ratings any good if you're shy. So what do you think? Do you think you can handle bearing it all for the camera?” Richard asked with a perverted grin.
Lindsey looked back at him blankly. “I don't get it.”
Richard sighed at the dimwitted woman. “I'll put it simply for you. Strip for me.” He ordered.
Lindsey stared at him for a moment before letting out a playful giggle. “Oh, that's what you mean. Why didn't you say that? That's super easy.” She smiled at him before she slowly peeled off her top, revealing (as Richard expected) that she wasn't wearing a bra. She bounces and shimmies after she discards her top, much to Richard's enjoyment. Next she bent over and gave him a great view of her ass as she dropped her skirt. Richard's mouth watered at the brief peek he got of her pink pussy. After stripping nude, she stood confidently in front of Richard's desk.
“Amazing, Lindsey. I especially like the lack of any underwear.” Richard praised.
“Thanks. My sorority sisters told me guys keep tricking me into positions so they look up my skirt or down my shirt and see my underwear. So I decided to stop them by not wearing any. Smart, huh?” Lindsey beamed proudly.
“Definitely a unique solution.” Richard said with a smirk.
“Uh huh. So am I on the show?” She asked excitedly.
Richard thought about his answer. He had already decided that he was going to cast the airhead, but he didn't see the harm in allowing her to convince him some more. “I don't know, Lindsey. We have a lot of pretty girls trying out for the show. Do you have something that would help you stand out? A special talent or something?” he asked.
Lindsey thought for a moment before breaking out into a big smile. “Oh yeah. All the guys on the football team say I give the best blowjobs. Does that count?” She asked.
“Absolutely. But I can't just take your word for it.” Richard said.
“Oh, did you want me to give you the guys’ numbers so they can tell you?” Lindsey asked as she began reaching for her phone.
Richard held out a hand to stop her. “That won't be necessary. I'd simply like you to show me your talent right here and now.” Richard said as he motioned her to walk around his desk. As she stood around in front of him, he motioned her to drop to her knees, which she did obediently. “Now Lindsey, why don't you take out my cock and show me how skilled you are?”
Lindsey nodded happily as she unzipped his pants and began to slowly lower his underwear. Without warning, Richard's hardened cock sprang out, slapping the ditzy blonde across the face.
Lindsey simply giggled in response as she began stroking the thick seven-inch cock in front of her. As she stroked, she drooled onto Richard's cock, much to Richard's delight. After warming him up the appropriate amount, the dumb blonde finally began the blowjob.
Richard expected her to begin slowly. Maybe just licking his cock or sucking on the head. But it was made abundantly clear that Lindsey wasn't lying when she claimed to be a very gifted and talented cocksucker. In one fluid motion Lindsey had managed to push herself at least six inches down his cock without so much as a gag. That alone caused Richard to moan in pleasure, but Lindsey was far from done showing off.
After a few moments she began pumping her throat up and down his cock as fast as she could. Richard could only watch in astonishment and arousal as Lindsey basically fucked her own face using his cock. It was sloppy and desperate. The room filled with the sounds of slurping and sucking.
It didn't take long before Richard started feeling the urge to cum, but before he could do that, he pulled a very disappointed Lindsey off his cock.
“Huh, what's wrong?” Asked a very confused Lindsey.
“Nothing's wrong. I just didn't want to cum till I got a chance to fuck you.” Richard said as he picked her up and bent her over his desk. He smiled at the view of the blonde's perky ass bent over his desk as he rummaged through his desk in search of a condom. Unfortunately for him, after a moment of searching, he realized he was out of condoms. “Damn it, I'm out of rubbers,” Richard exclaimed.
“Oh, that's okay. My ex told me you can't get pregnant if you do anal. So we can just do that.” Lindsey offered with an airheaded smile.
Richard simply chuckled at the girl's stupidity as he lined up his cock with her asshole. “Well, if you insist.” He said as he slowly pushed himself inside.
Lindsey moaned in pleasure and pain as her tight asshole stretched around Richard's girthy cock.
“Fuck, Daddy, you're so big,” Lindsey moaned/screamed as he began to thrust deeper into her.
Richard didn't bother saying a word, simply letting himself lose himself to the pleasure of fucking the airheaded coed. He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair to pull as he started fucking her harder. Every moan and cry of pleasure only encouraged him to fuck her harder.
“Fuck, I'm so close. Ready for my cum slut?”
“Yes, Daddy. Please. Please cum for me. Fill my slutty ass with your cum. Please, I want it so much.” Lindsey begged between moans.
Her begging was all he needed to push him over the edge. With one final deep thrust, he came. Much to the delight and pleasure of Lindsey. She let out one last piercing cry as she came onto Richard's desk.
After a few moments of enjoying the afterglow of such a fine fuck. Richard and Lindsey got dressed and continued their interview.
“Well, Lindsey, you convinced me. Welcome to the cast of Total Drama Island.” Richard said with a big smile.
Lindsey let out a loud squeal and jumped with joy. She was so excited she didn't notice her tits literally bouncing out of her shirt. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You're the best, Mr. Prowler.”
Richard simply smiled and didn't bother correcting her on his last name. Nor did she inform her about the fact her tits were visible as she left his office. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77341081/chapters/202488566 | {"authors": ["MindlessCorruption"], "language": "English", "title": "Total Drama Smut Shots"} |
In the Greys
She loves the sounds he makes when he’s pinned beneath her. The choked, desperate, whimpers punctuated by ragged gasps. How he can only manage the first syllable of her name—Cait—because he doesn’t have the voice or the breath for more. He rattles the headboard, the nylon ropes pulling taut as he bucks between her thighs. His arms flex with the strain, the shift of muscles under his sweat-sheened skin almost hypnotic. She has to taste it. Needs to mark it. He cries out “Fuck!” when she sinks her teeth into his bicep but he doesn’t say to stop.
Mitch started having nightmares after Faye shot Devin, associating being zip-tied with his memories of being trapped underground. Both experiences suffocating, killing him slowly, dragging him to his death. His ears reddened when he confessed it in the locker room one night. How he realized he’s afraid of dying. He doesn’t know that she’s already dancing on that edge. That she grinds against that devil every night just like she’s grinding down on his dick. Dick. She’s usually more clinical about it. It’s a penis. A tool to be used for gratification. The person attached to it secondary to its function. But it matters that it’s Mitch deep inside her, vital that she’s inside him, under his skin. His whole body is flushed now, not just his ears, and his life is in her hands.
He doesn’t beg to be released. Not this time. He doesn’t ask to be let go. Because this is letting go. Her knees girding his hips. His chest heaving under her palms. Her permission to ride his anxiety and fear while she rides him. Bare. She’s reckless, not stupid, and every bar bathroom and back alley fuck has been with a condom. It’s different with him and he didn’t question why when she first guided his dick inside her. He just hissed and swore and told her it was like losing his virginity all over again. His only bare pussy. “Jesus, you’re hot. You’re so wet and hot.” Another thing she’s given him along with reprieve and relief.
Caitlin’s been fucked by genetics, by fate. She is not worried about fucking Mitch with no barriers. Besides, there are no real barriers left once you’ve lied about a piece of shit’s well-deserved execution. Once you’ve sealed a pact in a suburban basement.
Her nails have left red crescents all along his shoulders. His mouth is pink from kisses, bottom lip bitten and swollen. His eyes are dilated, pupils blown wide, the irises not quite green and not quite blue. Grey. Of course the two of them would meet in the grey. Mitch is objectively handsome when he’s upright and clothed. Like this, when he’s hers to take, he’s something else entirely. Vibrant. Real. Ripped open. Hers to put back together. He doesn’t fight in this room, in this bed. He doesn’t flout authority or make rash choices. Every single one of his decisions belong to her. He is the only thing that’s wholly in her hands, within her power, and there is no place he’d rather be.
She’ll let him come eventually. He’ll whisper “thank you” against her throat as he makes a mess of them both. He’ll say it again while licking her clean. Caitlin’s own gratitude, she’ll keep to herself. She’ll hold tight to it long after the ropes are untied and the sheets are changed and he’s gone home. So that when her demons come to dance, to claim their due, she’ll be ready. Thankful that Mitch Ripley once made her feel alive. | In the Greys
She loves the sounds he makes when he’s pinned beneath her. The choked, desperate, whimpers punctuated by ragged gasps. How he can only manage the first syllable of her name—Cait—because he doesn’t have the voice or the breath for more. He rattles the headboard, the nylon ropes pulling taut as he bucks between her thighs. His arms flex with the strain, the shift of muscles under his sweat-sheened skin almost hypnotic. She has to taste it. Needs to mark it. He cries out “Fuck!” when she sinks her teeth into his bicep but he doesn’t say to stop.
Mitch started having nightmares after Faye shot Devin, associating being zip-tied with his memories of being trapped underground. Both experiences suffocating, killing him slowly, dragging him to his death. His ears reddened when he confessed it in the locker room one night. How he realized he’s afraid of dying. He doesn’t know that she’s already dancing on that edge. That she grinds against that devil every night just like she’s grinding down on his dick. Dick. She’s usually more clinical about it. It’s a penis. A tool to be used for gratification. The person attached to it secondary to its function. But it matters that it’s Mitch deep inside her, vital that she’s inside him, under his skin. His whole body is flushed now, not just his ears, and his life is in her hands.
He doesn’t beg to be released. Not this time. He doesn’t ask to be let go. Because this is letting go. Her knees girding his hips. His chest heaving under her palms. Her permission to ride his anxiety and fear while she rides him. Bare. She’s reckless, not stupid, and every bar bathroom and back alley fuck has been with a condom. It’s different with him and he didn’t question why when she first guided his dick inside her. He just hissed and swore and told her it was like losing his virginity all over again. His only bare pussy. “Jesus, you’re hot. You’re so wet and hot.” Another thing she’s given him along with reprieve and relief.
Caitlin’s been fucked by genetics, by fate. She is not worried about fucking Mitch with no barriers. Besides, there are no real barriers left once you’ve lied about a piece of shit’s well-deserved execution. Once you’ve sealed a pact in a suburban basement.
Her nails have left red crescents all along his shoulders. His mouth is pink from kisses, bottom lip bitten and swollen. His eyes are dilated, pupils blown wide, the irises not quite green and not quite blue. Grey. Of course the two of them would meet in the grey. Mitch is objectively handsome when he’s upright and clothed. Like this, when he’s hers to take, he’s something else entirely. Vibrant. Real. Ripped open. Hers to put back together. He doesn’t fight in this room, in this bed. He doesn’t flout authority or make rash choices. Every single one of his decisions belong to her. He is the only thing that’s wholly in her hands, within her power, and there is no place he’d rather be.
She’ll let him come eventually. He’ll whisper “thank you” against her throat as he makes a mess of them both. He’ll say it again while licking her clean. Caitlin’s own gratitude, she’ll keep to herself. She’ll hold tight to it long after the ropes are untied and the sheets are changed and he’s gone home. So that when her demons come to dance, to claim their due, she’ll be ready. Thankful that Mitch Ripley once made her feel alive. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77336441 | {"authors": ["maleikha"], "language": "English", "title": "In the Greys"} |
Homeostasis.
“Let’s clean you up,” Yura suggests, after they get back to the building Hishaku’s been using as their homebase. He has no reason to deny him: it’s been a long day, he’s covered in blood, he’d regained his body only recently and his lips feel incredibly dry. He’s starving, dehydrated, and looking worse for wear - far from the image of a perfect hero, probably. And while looks aren’t his primary concern right now, a bath after 18 years spent in captivity does sound appealing.
So he follows after Yura, into the cozy bathroom up on the second floor, shedding the stolen clothes to reveal pale skin beneath. He melts into the grey-white tiles over the bathroom; his eyes haven’t seen the sun in so long his body might as well have forgotten color. Bones, once covered by a layer of muscle, protrude awkwardly, sharp as blades. Yura turns on the water, and he glances over at the spacious bathtub, placed close to the wall - with just enough space around it for Yura to maneuver easily. He shrugs off his suit, rolls up his sleeves, and when the tub is full of hot water, motions for Soga to get in.
“Your body has deteriorated, hasn’t it?” He muses, watching him cautiously, still in the process of figuring out whether Soga’s friend or foe.
Friend, for now, Soga thinks. Whatever Yura’s been pushed to do after the war isn’t exactly his fault; people must adapt to survive, that’s simple evolution, and Akemura’s never been a god-fearing man. If his cause is noble, then ends justify the means - and the cruelties he’d witnessed and the loss he experienced would warp any man. It’s of no consequence to him right now.
“I don’t think I grew since the seal,” he hums, like he’s had a lot of growing years left. How old was he, back then? Not even 20, he thinks. Well… maybe some.
“Feeling any atrophy?”
“Not much,” though that’s really just thanks to Magatsumi feeding him what spare energy it managed to leech at the Rakuzaichi and in Yura’s hands. Once that wears off, he’s sure he’ll feel it more. For now, he’s content to sit down in the tub, wrinkling his nose at the hot water, and letting Yura gather his hair back gently, head tilting back along with his touch. He uses a small dish to collect some water, then pours it over Akemura’s head to wet his hair, watching it turn dark as it runs down the strands.
“What did you think about, when you were down there?” Yura asks, suddenly, somewhere between pouring the shampoo over his palm and rubbing his hands together to spread it.
What did he think about?
Before the Magatsumi was unsealed, life in the dungeon felt like a dream. His mind was aware, sure, but it’s difficult to call that state “living”, exactly. He remembers, now, that Yura’s was the first spark of life he felt once the seal was broken, and the sword had started supplying him again: not completely, as the distance between them was too great, but enough to move, enough to regain coherence.
He didn’t think, exactly. For the most part, he remembered. Bits and pieces of his past, of the events that led to his imprisonment, of the feeling of his fingers slipping from the Magatsumi’s tsuka. The severed connection was more painful than he had originally anticipated it to be - but once everything drifted into that strange, lifeless stasis, it no longer really mattered. The void had wrapped around him like a cocoon; in there, he didn’t eat, didn’t move, didn’t sleep. They had robbed him of all physical functions, and he knows, full-well, they would’ve executed him if the other bearers weren’t bound to his heart.
When he’d close his eyes, he’d see the Soga estate, spread wide across a hill overlooking Kyoto. He’d be 10 again, there, small feet stomping out tracks in the fresh snow, seeking the prints of another. She’d be standing in the vast backyard, by the entrance to the bare gardens, now dead and covered in white, cradling something small in her hands - and he’d peek at it, curiously, noting the stain of red on its’ small body.
“I found it by the pond,” she frets, “it must’ve hit something and fell, poor thing.”
“Just leave it. Father’s going to scold you for skipping out on your studies to play outside, nee-san,” he notes, and she raises her free hand to smack him upside the head, prompting a small, whiny hiss. “Hey! What was that for?!”
“My studies can wait! We have to save it, dummy!”
“Why?”
“Because it can’t save itself.”
His eyes snap open, again, covered by dark spirit energy, as Yura pours warm water over his head, gently tilting it back until he can reach even the frontmost strands. He’s obedient and malleable in the other’s hands; it feels strange, to be touched again, after so long. He’s never taken a wife and never bothered to entertain his parents’ propositions: there was a war to care about, and training, and if being married off was in the cards, he figured he’d think about it after the world was safe again. Raising kids among the chaos of war seemed too dangerous a prospect; he remembers the cold dread that gripped him, upon learning his sister was pregnant, the war nowhere near the end.
The point is: affection is alien. He found enough camaraderie among his peers in the dojo, among the bearers during the war, with his sister and her boisterous husband, eternally scorned by their father. It all feels so silly, now; distant, and not nearly enough, strange hunger gnawing at his bones. Not for food, but for life; for energy, for vitality, for whatever kept others going, so that he and Magatsumi can move on, too.
Yura’s long fingers reach around his face; press to his chin, tipping his head to the side, ears filling with water as he rinses off the remnants of that prison. He seems content to let Akemura stay quiet for longer periods of time; seems to understand he needs to gather his thoughts to give any meaningful answers, or choose not to give any at all.
“Weather, mostly,” he speaks, finally, voice still a little hoarse. “That’s why I asked if it’s cold.”
Yura snorts, amused. “Right. The Saint’s main concern.”
He tugs on a stray strand of hair, after that, prompting Akemura to tip his head to the other side, and pours more shampoo atop his head.
“Winter brings death,” he answers, like the conjecture is obvious. If the trees and plants are dead, Magatsumi will eat less. Yura seems to understand immediately.
“Yes. This winter will bring you.”
They don’t talk much after that. Yura finishes washing his hair, then helps him out of the bathtub, the corner of his lips twitching up at the sight of Akemura standing there like a wet animal. He helps him dry off, hair first, then shoulders and below, touch perfectly clinical. He must’ve done this before, Akemura thinks - taken care of someone. His wife? Does he have children? His memories were pretty scattered, and the images he’d seen probably didn’t cover even one percent of what Yura’s been through.
He supposes they will have plenty of chances to discuss the past, though - once they’re done securing the future.
There’s a robe wrapped around his shoulders, and Yura ushers him back to the living room, to sit on the tatami floor and brush his hair. It’s been behaving, more or less, despite having no care for so long - but it feels nice to be looked after, regardless. Those are the small comforts humans succumb to, though; a kind hand isn’t something a beast can handle well.
Magatsumi is propped up in the corner, where a small patch of flowers has bloomed, sapping spirit energy from its’ surroundings; still, he feels famished. Yura can cook, and has already fed him, but regular food seems to sate him very little, and the Magatsumi doesn’t benefit from it, either. They’ve both got 18 years to make up for, in terms of life; it’ll take far more than some rice and meat to recover his strength in full. Killing the villains staining this society will be a satisfying meal, to be sure - he will reap as many souls as it’ll take to purge and reset the political climate of the country. Yura can take care of the rest.
The other man’s fingers tangle in his hair, running through it with something akin to affection.
“It’s so soft now,” he muses, clearly pleased with his work. Soga scoffs.
“My sister liked to braid it. Do you want to try?”
“I wouldn't be any good at it. I’ve got two boys, you know,” one of which always keeps his hair short, and the other would never sit still long enough for braiding. And still, Yura can’t seem to keep his hands away - like an unstoppable force is drawing them together, stained black like the Magatsumi; like the merging of the souls invoked the need to merge bodies, too. Soga seems aware of it as well - he doesn’t flinch or turn away, doesn’t escape, despite his aloof nature.
On the contrary, he feels… curious.
Love, or any sort of romantic affection, isn’t something he ever got to explore, after all.
He watched his sister sneak out of the estate, one night, her hair bathed in the red glow of the Hunter’s moon, fingers entwined with Kunishige’s. She didn't look back, but he did, eyes alight; he waved, even, to the lonesome figure standing in the window, and Akemura thought about it, for a while - how nice it must feel to split a soul in two. But, even then, the act of joining has turned into the act of tearing, inside of his head - love was savagery; feeding on another, mentally and physically, his eyes wide as he watched his sister deteriorate during her pregnancy.
The child she birthed was as precious as the sun, of course - but, again, to someone like him, who could only ever destroy, the creation of life seemed ethereal, miraculous. When he cradled the child in his hands, he gained conviction, as opposed to Kunishige, who seemed to only falter - another wall to separate him from the rest. Love was weakness; it turned war-hardened men into cowards, support into questions, certainty into confusion.
And though not many are able to sacrifice all for love, he always was. Always will be.
The next time his fingers wrap around the Magatsumi, he will do it all again, for good this time.
For love. | Homeostasis.
“Let’s clean you up,” Yura suggests, after they get back to the building Hishaku’s been using as their homebase. He has no reason to deny him: it’s been a long day, he’s covered in blood, he’d regained his body only recently and his lips feel incredibly dry. He’s starving, dehydrated, and looking worse for wear - far from the image of a perfect hero, probably. And while looks aren’t his primary concern right now, a bath after 18 years spent in captivity does sound appealing.
So he follows after Yura, into the cozy bathroom up on the second floor, shedding the stolen clothes to reveal pale skin beneath. He melts into the grey-white tiles over the bathroom; his eyes haven’t seen the sun in so long his body might as well have forgotten color. Bones, once covered by a layer of muscle, protrude awkwardly, sharp as blades. Yura turns on the water, and he glances over at the spacious bathtub, placed close to the wall - with just enough space around it for Yura to maneuver easily. He shrugs off his suit, rolls up his sleeves, and when the tub is full of hot water, motions for Soga to get in.
“Your body has deteriorated, hasn’t it?” He muses, watching him cautiously, still in the process of figuring out whether Soga’s friend or foe.
Friend, for now, Soga thinks. Whatever Yura’s been pushed to do after the war isn’t exactly his fault; people must adapt to survive, that’s simple evolution, and Akemura’s never been a god-fearing man. If his cause is noble, then ends justify the means - and the cruelties he’d witnessed and the loss he experienced would warp any man. It’s of no consequence to him right now.
“I don’t think I grew since the seal,” he hums, like he’s had a lot of growing years left. How old was he, back then? Not even 20, he thinks. Well… maybe some.
“Feeling any atrophy?”
“Not much,” though that’s really just thanks to Magatsumi feeding him what spare energy it managed to leech at the Rakuzaichi and in Yura’s hands. Once that wears off, he’s sure he’ll feel it more. For now, he’s content to sit down in the tub, wrinkling his nose at the hot water, and letting Yura gather his hair back gently, head tilting back along with his touch. He uses a small dish to collect some water, then pours it over Akemura’s head to wet his hair, watching it turn dark as it runs down the strands.
“What did you think about, when you were down there?” Yura asks, suddenly, somewhere between pouring the shampoo over his palm and rubbing his hands together to spread it.
What did he think about?
Before the Magatsumi was unsealed, life in the dungeon felt like a dream. His mind was aware, sure, but it’s difficult to call that state “living”, exactly. He remembers, now, that Yura’s was the first spark of life he felt once the seal was broken, and the sword had started supplying him again: not completely, as the distance between them was too great, but enough to move, enough to regain coherence.
He didn’t think, exactly. For the most part, he remembered. Bits and pieces of his past, of the events that led to his imprisonment, of the feeling of his fingers slipping from the Magatsumi’s tsuka. The severed connection was more painful than he had originally anticipated it to be - but once everything drifted into that strange, lifeless stasis, it no longer really mattered. The void had wrapped around him like a cocoon; in there, he didn’t eat, didn’t move, didn’t sleep. They had robbed him of all physical functions, and he knows, full-well, they would’ve executed him if the other bearers weren’t bound to his heart.
When he’d close his eyes, he’d see the Soga estate, spread wide across a hill overlooking Kyoto. He’d be 10 again, there, small feet stomping out tracks in the fresh snow, seeking the prints of another. She’d be standing in the vast backyard, by the entrance to the bare gardens, now dead and covered in white, cradling something small in her hands - and he’d peek at it, curiously, noting the stain of red on its’ small body.
“I found it by the pond,” she frets, “it must’ve hit something and fell, poor thing.”
“Just leave it. Father’s going to scold you for skipping out on your studies to play outside, nee-san,” he notes, and she raises her free hand to smack him upside the head, prompting a small, whiny hiss. “Hey! What was that for?!”
“My studies can wait! We have to save it, dummy!”
“Why?”
“Because it can’t save itself.”
His eyes snap open, again, covered by dark spirit energy, as Yura pours warm water over his head, gently tilting it back until he can reach even the frontmost strands. He’s obedient and malleable in the other’s hands; it feels strange, to be touched again, after so long. He’s never taken a wife and never bothered to entertain his parents’ propositions: there was a war to care about, and training, and if being married off was in the cards, he figured he’d think about it after the world was safe again. Raising kids among the chaos of war seemed too dangerous a prospect; he remembers the cold dread that gripped him, upon learning his sister was pregnant, the war nowhere near the end.
The point is: affection is alien. He found enough camaraderie among his peers in the dojo, among the bearers during the war, with his sister and her boisterous husband, eternally scorned by their father. It all feels so silly, now; distant, and not nearly enough, strange hunger gnawing at his bones. Not for food, but for life; for energy, for vitality, for whatever kept others going, so that he and Magatsumi can move on, too.
Yura’s long fingers reach around his face; press to his chin, tipping his head to the side, ears filling with water as he rinses off the remnants of that prison. He seems content to let Akemura stay quiet for longer periods of time; seems to understand he needs to gather his thoughts to give any meaningful answers, or choose not to give any at all.
“Weather, mostly,” he speaks, finally, voice still a little hoarse. “That’s why I asked if it’s cold.”
Yura snorts, amused. “Right. The Saint’s main concern.”
He tugs on a stray strand of hair, after that, prompting Akemura to tip his head to the other side, and pours more shampoo atop his head.
“Winter brings death,” he answers, like the conjecture is obvious. If the trees and plants are dead, Magatsumi will eat less. Yura seems to understand immediately.
“Yes. This winter will bring you.”
They don’t talk much after that. Yura finishes washing his hair, then helps him out of the bathtub, the corner of his lips twitching up at the sight of Akemura standing there like a wet animal. He helps him dry off, hair first, then shoulders and below, touch perfectly clinical. He must’ve done this before, Akemura thinks - taken care of someone. His wife? Does he have children? His memories were pretty scattered, and the images he’d seen probably didn’t cover even one percent of what Yura’s been through.
He supposes they will have plenty of chances to discuss the past, though - once they’re done securing the future.
There’s a robe wrapped around his shoulders, and Yura ushers him back to the living room, to sit on the tatami floor and brush his hair. It’s been behaving, more or less, despite having no care for so long - but it feels nice to be looked after, regardless. Those are the small comforts humans succumb to, though; a kind hand isn’t something a beast can handle well.
Magatsumi is propped up in the corner, where a small patch of flowers has bloomed, sapping spirit energy from its’ surroundings; still, he feels famished. Yura can cook, and has already fed him, but regular food seems to sate him very little, and the Magatsumi doesn’t benefit from it, either. They’ve both got 18 years to make up for, in terms of life; it’ll take far more than some rice and meat to recover his strength in full. Killing the villains staining this society will be a satisfying meal, to be sure - he will reap as many souls as it’ll take to purge and reset the political climate of the country. Yura can take care of the rest.
The other man’s fingers tangle in his hair, running through it with something akin to affection.
“It’s so soft now,” he muses, clearly pleased with his work. Soga scoffs.
“My sister liked to braid it. Do you want to try?”
“I wouldn't be any good at it. I’ve got two boys, you know,” one of which always keeps his hair short, and the other would never sit still long enough for braiding. And still, Yura can’t seem to keep his hands away - like an unstoppable force is drawing them together, stained black like the Magatsumi; like the merging of the souls invoked the need to merge bodies, too. Soga seems aware of it as well - he doesn’t flinch or turn away, doesn’t escape, despite his aloof nature.
On the contrary, he feels… curious.
Love, or any sort of romantic affection, isn’t something he ever got to explore, after all.
He watched his sister sneak out of the estate, one night, her hair bathed in the red glow of the Hunter’s moon, fingers entwined with Kunishige’s. She didn't look back, but he did, eyes alight; he waved, even, to the lonesome figure standing in the window, and Akemura thought about it, for a while - how nice it must feel to split a soul in two. But, even then, the act of joining has turned into the act of tearing, inside of his head - love was savagery; feeding on another, mentally and physically, his eyes wide as he watched his sister deteriorate during her pregnancy.
The child she birthed was as precious as the sun, of course - but, again, to someone like him, who could only ever destroy, the creation of life seemed ethereal, miraculous. When he cradled the child in his hands, he gained conviction, as opposed to Kunishige, who seemed to only falter - another wall to separate him from the rest. Love was weakness; it turned war-hardened men into cowards, support into questions, certainty into confusion.
And though not many are able to sacrifice all for love, he always was. Always will be.
The next time his fingers wrap around the Magatsumi, he will do it all again, for good this time.
For love. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77337671 | {"authors": ["hamletism"], "language": "English", "title": "Homeostasis."} |
I want to belong to you
Jihoonshould'veknocked. Hedidn'tknow why hedidn't;he'swalked in on others jerking off and has been walked in on himself. He knew better.
He shut the door right away without making a commotion.
Jihoon went straight to his room and sat. However awkward, he was okay with walking in onWonwootouching himself. What gave him pause was the toysWonwoowas using.
Wonwoowas using Jihoon's clothes.
Jihoon knew they werehis,he recognized them. His underwear aroundWonwoo'scock as he pumped himself, his shirt acrossWonwoo'schest as he rubbed his nipple over it. And Jihoon already knewWonwooliked him like that;they'veplayed together before.They'veplayed a lot. Enough to be comfortable with each other's kinks.
Because of that, Jihoon wanted to know whyWonwoohadn'ttold him about this. He was stealing Jihoon's things, after all. Ormaybe hewanted to be caught like this. Wanted to be teased and made fun of for liking Jihoon so much he used his clothes to jerk off.
That sounded good to Jihoon.
He let it simmer for a few days. He acted mostly normal aroundWonwoo, except for the occasional once-over or calculating stare.Wonwoowould shy away from him every time.
OnceWonwoocould barely make eye contact with him, Jihoon caught him in his room. He closed the door behind him, leaning on it and subtly locking it.
"I want them back." Jihoonstated. His voice was even; hewasn'tmad.
Wonwooslowly sat up. Jihoon saw him struggle with a response, then he silently got off the bed, his head down. He began to dig in his hamper.
"Oh, baby,you haven'twashed them yet? Gross." Jihoon said, disappointed.
Wonwoosat and fidgeted with his fingers in his lap.
Jihoon pushed off the door and stood in front of him. He tiltedWonwoo'shead up with a finger under his chin.Wonwooglanced around Jihoon's face, not making eye contact. Jihoon grabbed his face, squeezing his cheeks, andWonwoofinally looked at him.
"You could've told me. I don't like you taking my things, no matter how cute you are." Jihoon said.
"I'm sorry."Wonwooreplied, but it was extremely slurred with how Jihoon was holding him.
Jihoon grinned. "You're not. You'd do it again in a heartbeat."
Wonwoopouted butdidn'tsay anything, and that's how Jihoon knew he was right. Jihoon let go of him and gestured forWonwooto lay down.Wonwoodid, on his back in the middle of the bed. Jihoonstraddledhim.Wonwoowas wearing loose shorts to sleep in, allowing Jihoon to easily slide his hands up his thighs.Wonwoobit hislip.
"I want you to tell me why you did it." Jihoon said. He massagedWonwoo'sinner thighs.
Wonwoodidn'tanswer right away. Jihoon waited. His fingers dipped intoWonwoo'sboxers, but he never got too close to his cock.
"I missed you."Wonwoomurmured.
Jihoon smiled. He feltwarm, butdidn'tlike that answer. "Then you could've come to me. Why did you jerk off with my clothes,Wonwoo?"
Wonwoopursed his lips and squeezed his eyes shut. Jihoon's smile widened.
"It felt good. I wanted… I wanted the smell of you. I took them before you could wash them. I wanted to cum on them."Wonwooconfessed.
Jihoon's tummy bloomed with heat, his cock filling up. He scooted closer and moved his hands fromWonwoo'slegs to his belly. He was in awe.
"You've done this before, haven't you?" Jihoon asked.
Wonwoonodded.
"With others, or just me?"
"Just you."Wonwoosaid quietly.
Jihoonwas ecstatic. It felt so good to hear all this, though hewasn'tentirely sure why. It wasprobably theworshipof andobsession over him. Jihoon liked that from his subs.
"Tell me again, baby. Why did you doit?"Jihoon asked. Hecouldn'thide the eagerness in his voice.
Wonwooeitherdidn'thear his tone ormisinterpretedit. He covered his face with his hands, whining in complaint. He answered after a few moments, moving his hands from his mouth but keeping them over his eyes.
"It feels good.FeelslikeI'mmarking you. It lets me be close to you if I don't have the energy for something else."
Jihoon's hands slipped insideWonwoo'sshirt and stopped on his pecs. Hethumbed athis nipples. One ofWonwoo'shands went back to his mouth.
"Marking me, huh?" Jihoon asked. "You think you can mark me?"
Wonwoowhined and shook his head. "No, no.It'slike… markingI'myours. That I belong toyouandyou'rethe only one I ever want to touch or think about. Everything I do revolves around you. Idon'tknow, Jihoon, it just feels good. I'm sorry, I won't do it again." He rambled.
Jihoon could barelycontainhis excitement. He was gladWonwoo'seyes were closed. He pinchedWonwoo'snipples, making him groan.
"Don't be sorry.That'sa lie, baby, I knowyou'lldo it again, andthat'sokay. How about next time you film so you can show me what a good boy you are?" Jihoonsuggested.
Wonwooslowly removedhis hands and looked at him. "Really?"heasked quietly.
"Yes, sweetie. Why? Youdon'twantto?"Jihoon replied.
Wonwooshook his head and began tospeak, butwas cut off by a moan when Jihoon tweaked his nipples. "I want to." He said weakly.
Jihoon grinned. He sat directly onWonwoo'scock and leaned down to kiss him.Wonwoograbbed his face, keeping him close as he sucked on and licked at him. Jihoon smiled at his enthusiasm. He pushedWonwoo'sshirt up and off.Wonwookissed him again, then had to break away when Jihoon took off his own shirt, then yanked Jihoon back to him. Jihoon laughed into the kiss.Wonwoosat up so Jihoon was in his lap.
"You want it so bad."Jihoonchuckled.
Wonwoohummed and nodded, no longer shy. He gripped Jihoon's hips tightly. His kisses moved to Jihoon's neck, evenrougherthan before. Jihoon closed his eyes, his jaw dropping and letting out a sigh.
Jihoon made a fist inWonwoo'shair, using it to pull him away, saying, "Let me see you, baby."
Wonwootentatively pulled his cock out of his clothes. Jihoon rubbed his tip and grinned when he felt precum.
"Cute. Tell me what you think about when you jerk yourself off with my clothes." Jihoon said.
Wonwoomade apainednoise. Jihoon wrapped his hand around him and began to stroke slowly.
"I… just you. Everything about you."Wonwooanswered.
"No, baby, you know you'll have to do better than that.Tryagain." Jihoon told him. He thumbed atWonwoo'sslit, painting his head with his precum.Wonwoo'scock twitched.
"Everything, Jihoon, I promise. I—I like your hands. How you fuck me. When you kiss me and bite me. When you… talk down to me."Wonwootold him.
Jihoon smiled. He grabbed the back ofWonwoo'snecksothey'dlook at each other.Wonwoo'seyes werewideand Jihoon was sure their hearts were beating at the same, fast pace. Jihoon moved his hand fromWonwoo'scock to his face, grabbing his jaw. He dragged his thumb acrossWonwoo'sbottom lip. Jihoon realized he spreadWonwoo'sprecum with that action, and it made him smile.
"Hands, yeah? Like this?" Jihoon questioned, pushing two fingers intoWonwoo'smouth.
Wonwooimmediatelyclosed his eyes and wrapped his lips around him. Jihoon kept holding his neck. He loved seeingWonwoolike this, eager for anything Jihoon offered and dumb enough to do anything Jihoon told him to.
"What do you want me to do, sweet boy?" Jihoon murmured. "You've been goodforme. What should I reward you with?"
Wonwoogasped around his fingers, not breathing until now. He whined, just making noises instead of answering. Jihooncouldn'thelp but adore him at that moment.
"Fuck me."Wonwooeventually got out.
Jihoon plungedhis fingers back in.Wonwoochoked. He took Jihoon's hand and pulled away aninch, butkept Jihoon's fingers inside. Jihoon squeezed the back of his neck, proud.
"I was going to. You sure you just want that?" Jihoon asked.
Wonwoowhined again. He licked up the length of Jihoon'sfingers,his eyes crossed as he watched himself. Jihoon held back a groan, fightingvery hardfrom fuckingWonwoo'smouth with his fingers.
"Eat me out."Wonwoosaid.
"Okay." Jihoon grinned. He tugged on the waistband ofWonwoo'spants and said, "Then take these off."
Wonwooshuffled away and did what he was told. Jihoon kept his eyes onWonwoo'scock the whole time. He watched it bounce asWonwoomoved. He wanted his mouth onit, butcould settle for his ass. Jihoon gestured forWonwooto turn around with a finger.
Wonwoogot on his hands and knees. Jihoondidn'tget his mouth on him right away. He massaged his cheeks for a moment, then dragged a finger between them, over his hole and making him twitch. Jihoon smiled. He gave him a small lick.Wonwoomoaned.
"If you're noisy just from that, baby, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. Do you want everybody else to hear?" Jihoonquestioned.
"No, no, I'll be quiet."Wonwootold him.
Jihoondidn'tbelieve him. He licked him again, tongue broad.Wonwoomoaned, muffled this time,though,his mouth closed. Jihoon teased his hole with a pointed tongue. After earning a whine, he pushed inside.Wonwoomoaned Jihoon's name.
Jihoon adoredWonwooand how shameless he was.He'dbeen embarrassed at the start of all this (rightfully so), but now his obsession was out in the open. Jihoon liked being obsessed over. He liked how eagerWonwoowas.Wonwoowas the most fun to play with, in Jihoon's opinion, for exactly this. None of the others were thisvocal. They never said what theywanted,they just went through the motions.Wonwooknew what hewantedand he was going to let you know.
Jihoon kissed down his taint to his balls. His lips landed lightly.Wonwooshuddered under him. Jihoon sucked one of his balls into his mouth, makingWonwoogroan, then moved his cock to get it in his mouth.Wonwooarched his back for him. He whimpered when Jihoon sucked on his cockhead.
Jihoon poppedoff ofhim and kissed his hole before saying, "I want you to tell me something else, baby."
Wonwoohummed in response.
"Am I your favorite to play with?"
Wonwoohesitated, only for a second, but he said yes.
"Are you lying?"
Wonwoowhined incomplaint. Helowered tohis elbows and hid his face.
Jihoonchuckled. Hedidn'tnecessarily care ifWonwoowaslying,he knew he was one of many to choose from. He just wanted validation by hearing it.
"I'm not, promise.You'remy favorite. I told you. I told you I've onlyusedyour clothes."Wonwooassured him.
Jihoon grinned as he licked over him.Maybe hewasjust beinghopeful, but he believed him. Jihoon grabbed his hips and shoved his tongue inside.Wonwoomoaned loudly, and Jihoonwasn'teven mad. He wanted more sounds. MoreWonwoo.
Jihoon pushedWonwooto his side, | I want to belong to you
Jihoonshould'veknocked. Hedidn'tknow why hedidn't;he'swalked in on others jerking off and has been walked in on himself. He knew better.
He shut the door right away without making a commotion.
Jihoon went straight to his room and sat. However awkward, he was okay with walking in onWonwootouching himself. What gave him pause was the toysWonwoowas using.
Wonwoowas using Jihoon's clothes.
Jihoon knew they werehis,he recognized them. His underwear aroundWonwoo'scock as he pumped himself, his shirt acrossWonwoo'schest as he rubbed his nipple over it. And Jihoon already knewWonwooliked him like that;they'veplayed together before.They'veplayed a lot. Enough to be comfortable with each other's kinks.
Because of that, Jihoon wanted to know whyWonwoohadn'ttold him about this. He was stealing Jihoon's things, after all. Ormaybe hewanted to be caught like this. Wanted to be teased and made fun of for liking Jihoon so much he used his clothes to jerk off.
That sounded good to Jihoon.
He let it simmer for a few days. He acted mostly normal aroundWonwoo, except for the occasional once-over or calculating stare.Wonwoowould shy away from him every time.
OnceWonwoocould barely make eye contact with him, Jihoon caught him in his room. He closed the door behind him, leaning on it and subtly locking it.
"I want them back." Jihoonstated. His voice was even; hewasn'tmad.
Wonwooslowly sat up. Jihoon saw him struggle with a response, then he silently got off the bed, his head down. He began to dig in his hamper.
"Oh, baby,you haven'twashed them yet? Gross." Jihoon said, disappointed.
Wonwoosat and fidgeted with his fingers in his lap.
Jihoon pushed off the door and stood in front of him. He tiltedWonwoo'shead up with a finger under his chin.Wonwooglanced around Jihoon's face, not making eye contact. Jihoon grabbed his face, squeezing his cheeks, andWonwoofinally looked at him.
"You could've told me. I don't like you taking my things, no matter how cute you are." Jihoon said.
"I'm sorry."Wonwooreplied, but it was extremely slurred with how Jihoon was holding him.
Jihoon grinned. "You're not. You'd do it again in a heartbeat."
Wonwoopouted butdidn'tsay anything, and that's how Jihoon knew he was right. Jihoon let go of him and gestured forWonwooto lay down.Wonwoodid, on his back in the middle of the bed. Jihoonstraddledhim.Wonwoowas wearing loose shorts to sleep in, allowing Jihoon to easily slide his hands up his thighs.Wonwoobit hislip.
"I want you to tell me why you did it." Jihoon said. He massagedWonwoo'sinner thighs.
Wonwoodidn'tanswer right away. Jihoon waited. His fingers dipped intoWonwoo'sboxers, but he never got too close to his cock.
"I missed you."Wonwoomurmured.
Jihoon smiled. He feltwarm, butdidn'tlike that answer. "Then you could've come to me. Why did you jerk off with my clothes,Wonwoo?"
Wonwoopursed his lips and squeezed his eyes shut. Jihoon's smile widened.
"It felt good. I wanted… I wanted the smell of you. I took them before you could wash them. I wanted to cum on them."Wonwooconfessed.
Jihoon's tummy bloomed with heat, his cock filling up. He scooted closer and moved his hands fromWonwoo'slegs to his belly. He was in awe.
"You've done this before, haven't you?" Jihoon asked.
Wonwoonodded.
"With others, or just me?"
"Just you."Wonwoosaid quietly.
Jihoonwas ecstatic. It felt so good to hear all this, though hewasn'tentirely sure why. It wasprobably theworshipof andobsession over him. Jihoon liked that from his subs.
"Tell me again, baby. Why did you doit?"Jihoon asked. Hecouldn'thide the eagerness in his voice.
Wonwooeitherdidn'thear his tone ormisinterpretedit. He covered his face with his hands, whining in complaint. He answered after a few moments, moving his hands from his mouth but keeping them over his eyes.
"It feels good.FeelslikeI'mmarking you. It lets me be close to you if I don't have the energy for something else."
Jihoon's hands slipped insideWonwoo'sshirt and stopped on his pecs. Hethumbed athis nipples. One ofWonwoo'shands went back to his mouth.
"Marking me, huh?" Jihoon asked. "You think you can mark me?"
Wonwoowhined and shook his head. "No, no.It'slike… markingI'myours. That I belong toyouandyou'rethe only one I ever want to touch or think about. Everything I do revolves around you. Idon'tknow, Jihoon, it just feels good. I'm sorry, I won't do it again." He rambled.
Jihoon could barelycontainhis excitement. He was gladWonwoo'seyes were closed. He pinchedWonwoo'snipples, making him groan.
"Don't be sorry.That'sa lie, baby, I knowyou'lldo it again, andthat'sokay. How about next time you film so you can show me what a good boy you are?" Jihoonsuggested.
Wonwooslowly removedhis hands and looked at him. "Really?"heasked quietly.
"Yes, sweetie. Why? Youdon'twantto?"Jihoon replied.
Wonwooshook his head and began tospeak, butwas cut off by a moan when Jihoon tweaked his nipples. "I want to." He said weakly.
Jihoon grinned. He sat directly onWonwoo'scock and leaned down to kiss him.Wonwoograbbed his face, keeping him close as he sucked on and licked at him. Jihoon smiled at his enthusiasm. He pushedWonwoo'sshirt up and off.Wonwookissed him again, then had to break away when Jihoon took off his own shirt, then yanked Jihoon back to him. Jihoon laughed into the kiss.Wonwoosat up so Jihoon was in his lap.
"You want it so bad."Jihoonchuckled.
Wonwoohummed and nodded, no longer shy. He gripped Jihoon's hips tightly. His kisses moved to Jihoon's neck, evenrougherthan before. Jihoon closed his eyes, his jaw dropping and letting out a sigh.
Jihoon made a fist inWonwoo'shair, using it to pull him away, saying, "Let me see you, baby."
Wonwootentatively pulled his cock out of his clothes. Jihoon rubbed his tip and grinned when he felt precum.
"Cute. Tell me what you think about when you jerk yourself off with my clothes." Jihoon said.
Wonwoomade apainednoise. Jihoon wrapped his hand around him and began to stroke slowly.
"I… just you. Everything about you."Wonwooanswered.
"No, baby, you know you'll have to do better than that.Tryagain." Jihoon told him. He thumbed atWonwoo'sslit, painting his head with his precum.Wonwoo'scock twitched.
"Everything, Jihoon, I promise. I—I like your hands. How you fuck me. When you kiss me and bite me. When you… talk down to me."Wonwootold him.
Jihoon smiled. He grabbed the back ofWonwoo'snecksothey'dlook at each other.Wonwoo'seyes werewideand Jihoon was sure their hearts were beating at the same, fast pace. Jihoon moved his hand fromWonwoo'scock to his face, grabbing his jaw. He dragged his thumb acrossWonwoo'sbottom lip. Jihoon realized he spreadWonwoo'sprecum with that action, and it made him smile.
"Hands, yeah? Like this?" Jihoon questioned, pushing two fingers intoWonwoo'smouth.
Wonwooimmediatelyclosed his eyes and wrapped his lips around him. Jihoon kept holding his neck. He loved seeingWonwoolike this, eager for anything Jihoon offered and dumb enough to do anything Jihoon told him to.
"What do you want me to do, sweet boy?" Jihoon murmured. "You've been goodforme. What should I reward you with?"
Wonwoogasped around his fingers, not breathing until now. He whined, just making noises instead of answering. Jihooncouldn'thelp but adore him at that moment.
"Fuck me."Wonwooeventually got out.
Jihoon plungedhis fingers back in.Wonwoochoked. He took Jihoon's hand and pulled away aninch, butkept Jihoon's fingers inside. Jihoon squeezed the back of his neck, proud.
"I was going to. You sure you just want that?" Jihoon asked.
Wonwoowhined again. He licked up the length of Jihoon'sfingers,his eyes crossed as he watched himself. Jihoon held back a groan, fightingvery hardfrom fuckingWonwoo'smouth with his fingers.
"Eat me out."Wonwoosaid.
"Okay." Jihoon grinned. He tugged on the waistband ofWonwoo'spants and said, "Then take these off."
Wonwooshuffled away and did what he was told. Jihoon kept his eyes onWonwoo'scock the whole time. He watched it bounce asWonwoomoved. He wanted his mouth onit, butcould settle for his ass. Jihoon gestured forWonwooto turn around with a finger.
Wonwoogot on his hands and knees. Jihoondidn'tget his mouth on him right away. He massaged his cheeks for a moment, then dragged a finger between them, over his hole and making him twitch. Jihoon smiled. He gave him a small lick.Wonwoomoaned.
"If you're noisy just from that, baby, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. Do you want everybody else to hear?" Jihoonquestioned.
"No, no, I'll be quiet."Wonwootold him.
Jihoondidn'tbelieve him. He licked him again, tongue broad.Wonwoomoaned, muffled this time,though,his mouth closed. Jihoon teased his hole with a pointed tongue. After earning a whine, he pushed inside.Wonwoomoaned Jihoon's name.
Jihoon adoredWonwooand how shameless he was.He'dbeen embarrassed at the start of all this (rightfully so), but now his obsession was out in the open. Jihoon liked being obsessed over. He liked how eagerWonwoowas.Wonwoowas the most fun to play with, in Jihoon's opinion, for exactly this. None of the others were thisvocal. They never said what theywanted,they just went through the motions.Wonwooknew what hewantedand he was going to let you know.
Jihoon kissed down his taint to his balls. His lips landed lightly.Wonwooshuddered under him. Jihoon sucked one of his balls into his mouth, makingWonwoogroan, then moved his cock to get it in his mouth.Wonwooarched his back for him. He whimpered when Jihoon sucked on his cockhead.
Jihoon poppedoff ofhim and kissed his hole before saying, "I want you to tell me something else, baby."
Wonwoohummed in response.
"Am I your favorite to play with?"
Wonwoohesitated, only for a second, but he said yes.
"Are you lying?"
Wonwoowhined incomplaint. Helowered tohis elbows and hid his face.
Jihoonchuckled. Hedidn'tnecessarily care ifWonwoowaslying,he knew he was one of many to choose from. He just wanted validation by hearing it.
"I'm not, promise.You'remy favorite. I told you. I told you I've onlyusedyour clothes."Wonwooassured him.
Jihoon grinned as he licked over him.Maybe hewasjust beinghopeful, but he believed him. Jihoon grabbed his hips and shoved his tongue inside.Wonwoomoaned loudly, and Jihoonwasn'teven mad. He wanted more sounds. MoreWonwoo.
Jihoon pushedWonwooto his side, andWonwoorolled to his back. Jihoonstraddledhim. He peppered kisses aroundWonwoo'sface.Wonwootried to catch him a few times, but Jihoon never let him. Then, Jihoon grabbed his face,squishinghis cheeks andmakinghis lips pouty. Jihoon licked over his lips.
"You're so cute.I'myour favorite, huh?" Jihoon said. He dragged his thumb overWonwoo'slips.Wonwoowas looking at him with wide, eager eyes, but Jihoon never made eye contact.
"You have a little crush on me?"Jihooncontinued.
Wonwoowhined, his brow furrowing. Jihoon laughed. He wantedWonwooso bad, bad enough hedidn'teven want to finger him before fucking him, wanted to bend him in half right now and fuck him without taking his pants off, butdidn'tneedWonwooto know that. He sat onWonwoo'ships and grinded on him.Wonwooyelped at the fabric on his bare cock.
"Oh, sorry, baby. Did I hurt you?" Jihoon asked, fake sympathetic. He sat back and strokedWonwoo'sdick.
Wonwooshook his head, his lips pursed, watching Jihoon touch him. Jihoon pulled his cock out of his pants and pumped them together.Wonwoo'sjaw dropped.
Jihoon grabbedWonwoo'shand and set it on his cock. He tookboth of themlike Jihoon had, but Jihoon moved himtoonly his.Wonwoodidn'tcomplain. Jihoon had a small smile as he watchedWonwoofrequentlylook up at him to see if he was doinga good job.
"You're so cute." Jihoon said again.
Wonwoobit hislip. Jihoon rested back on his hands and closed his eyes, tilting his head back.Wonwoopumped him faster. Jihoon rolled his hips into his hand.
"Fuck.Fuck, Jihoon. Fuck me."Wonwoogroaned, his free hand gripping Jihoon's waist.
"Oh, that's no way a good boyacts. Especially my good boy. Sayitnicer." Jihoon said.
Wonwoofollowed directions after a pause. "Please, Jihoon? Please fuck me." He tried.
Jihoonsmirked. His tummy was deliciously warm. "One more time."
Wonwoopouted. "Please fuck me, baby. I need you. I need you sobad."
Jihoon bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, his heart swelling withWonwoo'swords. He got off the bed and yanked openWonwoo'sdresser drawer his lube was in, got it, then crawled back on the bed and pushedWonwoo'sknees to his chest.Wonwoogrunted at the suddenness. Jihoon made eye contact before entering a lubed finger.
"Tell me as soon as you're ready." Jihoon ordered. He then realized that might come off aspressuring, so he added, "When you'reready. Don't you dare ask for it before you can take it."
Wonwoonodded. His eyes darted between Jihoon's face and his hand. Jihoon grinned and began to thrust his finger.Wonwoorelaxed into the bed, closing his eyes and resting his head. Jihoonimmediatelyaimed for his prostate. He found it soon enough.Wonwootensed on him, letting out a groan. Jihoon grinned andpethis thigh.
Jihoon gave him a second finger before too long. He fucked him fast.Wonwoocovered his mouth with a hand to quiet himself. His other hand slid down his front to his cock, just barely rubbing his tip. He bucked into the feeling.
"You're so cute." Jihoon said once more. Hewasn'tsure ifWonwooheard him, but that was okay. Jihoon watchedWonwoo'slong, slender fingers run up and down his slick, flushed cock. Jihoon bit his lip and palmed himself over his clothes.
"Ready, Jihoon. Ready."Wonwoomoved his hand to say, then put it right back before a moan could escape.
Jihoon smiled. He removed his fingers, and before moving away, pressed kisses toWonwoo'sdick.Wonwoowhined at the feeling.
Jihoon got off the bed to undress. He set his clothes on the bed, though, having thoughts of what to do with them. He found a condom before getting next toWonwooagain.Wonwoostayed in the same position, so Jihoon added lube and lined up. He paused to make eye contact, andWonwooscooted closer to him.Jihoonchuckled.
Jihoonentered incentimeters. He watchedWonwoo'sface the whole time, seeing him go from a wince to pleasure to euphoria.Wonwoorelaxed again,almost fullylimp. Jihoon took that as a compliment.
Apparently, allofWonwoo'senergy went into his moans. He was whiny,musical almost, his noises only pausing when he breathed.It seemed hewasn'tdoing much of that, though.
"What did I say, baby? Do you want everyone to hear?" Jihoon asked, slowing his movements.
Wonwoowhimpered. Jihooncouldn'tbe mad at him when he looked like this. Hair messy, lips parted, face serene.Wonwoolicked his lips,most likely justtowet them, and Jihoon almost broke. But he knew nobody would be happy with either of them if they heard.
Jihoon grabbed his shirt. He leaned down toWonwooand licked up his neck, kissing his lips and ending with a bite.Wonwoomewled, and it was muffled when Jihoon filled his mouth with his shirt.Wonwoogroaned and his eyes fluttered closed.
Jihoon smiled. "There. Is that good, honey? Do you like that?"
Wonwoowhined and nodded. Jihoon went back to thrusting. He grabbedWonwoo'sthighs and returned to fuckinghard and fast. Jihoon could still hear him, thankfully, but hopefully he was quiet enough that nobody else could.
Wonwoobegan to pump his cock. Jihoon stopped him, wrapping his hand aroundWonwoo's, and leaned down to ask, "Are you close? Baby's close?"
Wonwoonodded quickly. Jihoon sat back up but kept his hand onWonwoo's. He found his boxers and replacedWonwoo'shand with them.Wonwoo'seyes rolled back in his head.
Jihoon smiled as he stroked him with his underwear.Wonwootrembled on him, grinding on Jihoon's cock. Jihoon was thrusting slow and calm,all ofhis attention onWonwoo.Wonwoo'seyes squeezing shut, his drool on Jihoon's shirt, the way his arms flexed as he clenched and unclenched his fists, how hard his cock was. Jihoondidn'twant to miss any of it.
Wonwoocame quickly. He shook, making Jihoon grunt as he clenched on his dick, his eyes rolling back in his head and his legs wavering. After his high died down, Jihoon peeled his underwearoff ofWonwoo'scock. It was covered in his cum. Jihoon grinned, belly warm, and dropped it. He let it stay onWonwoo'sdick.Wonwoowas throbbing, and so was Jihoon.
Wonwoowhimpered when he kept fucking. Jihoon leaned on his elbows. He tore his shirt fromWonwoo'smouth to kiss him, eating up his overstimulated whines.Wonwoocould takeit,Jihoon knew he could. Even so, he tried to cum as quickly as he could.Wonwoodidn'tdeserve tohurt.
"Ji… Jihoon,"Wonwoomewled.
"Almost there, baby. You're doing so well." Jihoon breathed. He sucked on his neck, and he was there when he reached his climax, and he sunk his teeth intoWonwoo'sshoulder.Wonwoowhimpered,maybe inpain. Jihoon sat up, panting and giving a few more thrusts to ride himself out of his high, then pulled out.
Jihoon sat back and stared atWonwoo.Wonwoo'shand fluttered over his cock,seemingly justrealizing the underwear was still there, but hedidn'tmove it. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He brushed his fingers through his hair. He licked his lips.
The urge to fuck him again was strong, Jihoon wanted to see his pretty expressions and hear his beautiful noisesagain and again, butWonwoolooked tired. Jihoon moved tolaybeside him.
"You okay, sweetie?" Jihoon murmured, takingWonwoo'shand tohold,his palm against the back of his hand.
Wonwoohummed. "Yeah. You?"
"I'm perfect." Jihoon said. He peckedWonwoo'scheek.
Wonwooturned to face him. They kissed softly. "Do you think I'm weird?"hemumbled.
Jihoon almost gasped. "No, baby, of course not. I likeit,it'scute. I love it."
Wonwoopecked his lips and whispered "okay."
"Iwannasee when you do it alone." Jihoon said. He peeled his underwearoff ofWonwoo'scock again, this time setting it between them so he could rub his cockhead.Wonwootwitched.
"I can do that."Wonwoobreathed.
Jihoon smiled. They were looking down, but Jihoon tiltedWonwoo'shead to kiss him. "Good boy." He murmured.
"Can you help me clean up?Please?"Wonwooasked.
Jihoon automatically agreed. In the shower, Jihoon touchedWonwoomore than necessary, his neck and his waist and thighs, just to seeWonwoo'sface andmaybe heara moan or two.
Wonwoolet Jihoon cum on hiscockand he let Jihoon lick itoff ofhim. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77337716 | {"authors": ["nervouscity"], "language": "English", "title": "I want to belong to you"} |
You're doing this on purpose
Sakusa Kiyoomi prided himself on efficiency.
Efficiency meant packing exactly what he needed for a weekend training camp and not a sock more. It meant arriving early enough to disinfect his room before anyone else could contaminate it. It meant ignoring distractions–loud ones specifically.
Unfortunately, efficiency had not prepared him for Miya Atsumu.
“Oi, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu drawled, leaning far too comfortably against the doorframe of Sakusa’s assigned room. “Ya gonna let me in, or are you plannin’ to stare at me like I’m a particularly ugly germ?”
Sakusa tightened his grip on the disinfectant wipe in his hand. “You’re blocking the doorway.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It is,” Sakusa said flatly.
Atsumu grinned, all sharp mischief and unapologetic confidence, and leaned closer instead of moving away. Sakusa could see the faint sheen of sweat on Atsumu’s temple, smell the citrusy detergent on his jacket. Too close. Entirely too close.
“Relac,” Atsumu said. “I ain’t touchin’ anythin’.”
“You’re breathing on my space.”
“Wow. Didn’t know ya owned oxygen.”
Sakusa glared. Atsumu beamed.
They’d been like this for years—ever since the national training camps had thrown them together, two incompatible personalities orbiting each other with irritating inevitability. Sakusa had hoped adulthood would fix it.
Adulthood, it turned out, only gave Atsumu better timing.
“I heard we’re roommates,” Atsumu continued, sing-song.
Sakusa froze. “That’s incorrect.”
“Is it?” Atsumu lifted his phone, scrolling. “Because my message from the coordinator says otherwise.”
Sakusa checked his own phone. The confirmation email stared back at him, merciless and undeniable.
Room 304 — Sakusa Kiyoomi / Miya Atsumu.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “We’ll set boundaries.”
“Already plannin’ rules?” Atsumu stepped inside without waiting for permission, flopping dramatically onto the bed closest to the window. “I like it. Very bossy of ya.”
“That’s my bed.”
Atsumu blinked. Then he grinned wider. “Oh? Didn’t see your name on it.”
Sakusa’s eye twitched. “Get up.”
“Make me.”
The silence stretched.
Atsumu’s grin faltered just a fraction when Sakusa stepped closer, gaze sharp and unblinking. Sakusa wasn’t tall like Bokuto or broad like Ushijima, but there was something about the way he held himself—controlled, precise, coiled.
Atsumu swallowed, then laughed. “Relax, I’m kiddin’.”
He rolled off the bed and stood far too close again, head tilted. “But seriously, Kiyoomi. This’ll be fun.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
—
If there was one thing Atsumu enjoyed more than winning, it was getting under Sakusa’s skin.
Not in a mean way—never cruel. Just enough to make Sakusa’s composure crack at the edges. Enough to see the reactions Sakusa tried so hard to hide.
Like now.
They were halfway through the first day of camp, and Sakusa was stretching meticulously near the sidelines while Atsumu leaned against the wall, spinning a volleyball on one finger.
“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu called.
Sakusa ignored him.
“Kiyoooooomi.”
Ignored.
Atsumu walked over and crouched directly in Sakusa’s line of sight. “If ya keep pretendin’ I don’t exist, I’m gonna start feelin’ rejected.”
“Try harder,” Sakusa said, eyes closed, holding a deep stretch.
Atsumu leaned in. “Ya know, when ya close your eyes like that, it kinda looks like you’re trustin’ me.”
Sakusa opened one eye. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t read into things that aren’t there.”
Atsumu’s expression softened—just for a moment. Then the grin was back. “Sure, sure. Whatever ya say.”
He stood and sauntered away, but Sakusa’s pulse was already a fraction faster.
Annoying.
Later, during scrimmage, Atsumu set exclusively to Sakusa for three rotations straight.
“Oi, Kiyoomi!” he called cheerfully. “Think fast!”
Sakusa spiked each set cleanly, lethal and precise. He didn’t look at Atsumu once.
After the third point, Atsumu jogged uo beside him. “Damn. Almost like ya like my tosses.”
“They’re acceptable.”
“Wow,” Atsumu said, placing a hand over his heart. “High praise.”
Sakusa wiped sweat from his jaw. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
—
That night, the room felt smaller than it should have.
Sakusa lay rigid on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to Atsumu hum softly as he scrolled on his phone. Every shift of the mattress, every breath, felt amplified.
“You always this quiet?” Atsumu asked.
“Yes.”
“Even when you’re alone?”
“...Yes.”
Atsumu rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “Liar.”
Sakusa turned his head despite himself. “What?”
“People ain’t that quiet when nobody’s watchin.”
Sakusa stared back. Atsumu’s gaze was sharp but curious, teasing stripped down to something more earnest.
“I don’t perform,” Sakusa said finally.
Atsumu smiled, softer now. “Yeah. I know.”
The silence settled again, heavier this time.
Atsumu broke it by kicking his feet playfully. “So. You gonna tell me why ya tense up every time I get close?”
Sakusa’s breath caught. “I don’t.”
Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “Kiyoomi. C’mon.”
Sakusa turned away. “You invade personal space on purpose.”
Atsumu laughed quietly. “Guilty.”
“Why?”
The question slipped out before Sakusa could stop it.
Atsumu went still.
“...Because you react,” he said after a moment. “And you don’t react to anyone else.”
Sakusa said nothing.
Atsumu chuckled, a little nervous this time. “Relax. I ain’t gonna cross lines you don’t want crossed.”
Sakusa closed his eyes. “You already do.”
Atsumu blinked. Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Good to know.”
—
The teasing got worse after that.
Not louder—quieter. More deliberate.
A brush of fingers when handing Sakusa a towel. Standing just close enough during drills that Sakusa could feel body heat. Calling his name softly instead of shouting it.
Sakusa hated that it worked.
They were alone in the gym one evening, cleaning up stray balls. Atsumu tossed one lazily toward Sakusa.
“Nice catch,” Atsumu said when Sakusa snagged it without looking.
“I didn’t drop it,” Sakusa replied.
“That’s not what I said.”
Atsumu stepped closer. Sakusa didn’t move away.
“You ever gonna admit you like this?” Atsumu asked lightly.
“Like what?”
“This.” Atsumu gestured vaguely between them.
Sakusa met his gaze, eyes dark and steady. “You’re infuriating.”
Atsumu grinned. “Yeah.”
Sakusa took a step forward, closing the gap to inches. Atsumu’s grin faltered this time.
“You enjoy pushing,” Sakusa said quietly. “So do I.”
Atsumu swallowed. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a warning.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Atsumu laughed, breathless. “Damn. Guess we’re even.”
They went back to cleaning up, but the air between them crackled—charged, unfinished.
—
The night before camp ended, Atsumu lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
“Kiyoomi,” he whispered.
Sakusa hummed in response.
“...I’m not jokin’, y’know.”
Sakusa was quiet for a long moment. Then “I know.”
Atsumu smiled into the dark.
That was enough.
For now. | You're doing this on purpose
Sakusa Kiyoomi prided himself on efficiency.
Efficiency meant packing exactly what he needed for a weekend training camp and not a sock more. It meant arriving early enough to disinfect his room before anyone else could contaminate it. It meant ignoring distractions–loud ones specifically.
Unfortunately, efficiency had not prepared him for Miya Atsumu.
“Oi, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu drawled, leaning far too comfortably against the doorframe of Sakusa’s assigned room. “Ya gonna let me in, or are you plannin’ to stare at me like I’m a particularly ugly germ?”
Sakusa tightened his grip on the disinfectant wipe in his hand. “You’re blocking the doorway.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It is,” Sakusa said flatly.
Atsumu grinned, all sharp mischief and unapologetic confidence, and leaned closer instead of moving away. Sakusa could see the faint sheen of sweat on Atsumu’s temple, smell the citrusy detergent on his jacket. Too close. Entirely too close.
“Relac,” Atsumu said. “I ain’t touchin’ anythin’.”
“You’re breathing on my space.”
“Wow. Didn’t know ya owned oxygen.”
Sakusa glared. Atsumu beamed.
They’d been like this for years—ever since the national training camps had thrown them together, two incompatible personalities orbiting each other with irritating inevitability. Sakusa had hoped adulthood would fix it.
Adulthood, it turned out, only gave Atsumu better timing.
“I heard we’re roommates,” Atsumu continued, sing-song.
Sakusa froze. “That’s incorrect.”
“Is it?” Atsumu lifted his phone, scrolling. “Because my message from the coordinator says otherwise.”
Sakusa checked his own phone. The confirmation email stared back at him, merciless and undeniable.
Room 304 — Sakusa Kiyoomi / Miya Atsumu.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “We’ll set boundaries.”
“Already plannin’ rules?” Atsumu stepped inside without waiting for permission, flopping dramatically onto the bed closest to the window. “I like it. Very bossy of ya.”
“That’s my bed.”
Atsumu blinked. Then he grinned wider. “Oh? Didn’t see your name on it.”
Sakusa’s eye twitched. “Get up.”
“Make me.”
The silence stretched.
Atsumu’s grin faltered just a fraction when Sakusa stepped closer, gaze sharp and unblinking. Sakusa wasn’t tall like Bokuto or broad like Ushijima, but there was something about the way he held himself—controlled, precise, coiled.
Atsumu swallowed, then laughed. “Relax, I’m kiddin’.”
He rolled off the bed and stood far too close again, head tilted. “But seriously, Kiyoomi. This’ll be fun.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
—
If there was one thing Atsumu enjoyed more than winning, it was getting under Sakusa’s skin.
Not in a mean way—never cruel. Just enough to make Sakusa’s composure crack at the edges. Enough to see the reactions Sakusa tried so hard to hide.
Like now.
They were halfway through the first day of camp, and Sakusa was stretching meticulously near the sidelines while Atsumu leaned against the wall, spinning a volleyball on one finger.
“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu called.
Sakusa ignored him.
“Kiyoooooomi.”
Ignored.
Atsumu walked over and crouched directly in Sakusa’s line of sight. “If ya keep pretendin’ I don’t exist, I’m gonna start feelin’ rejected.”
“Try harder,” Sakusa said, eyes closed, holding a deep stretch.
Atsumu leaned in. “Ya know, when ya close your eyes like that, it kinda looks like you’re trustin’ me.”
Sakusa opened one eye. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t read into things that aren’t there.”
Atsumu’s expression softened—just for a moment. Then the grin was back. “Sure, sure. Whatever ya say.”
He stood and sauntered away, but Sakusa’s pulse was already a fraction faster.
Annoying.
Later, during scrimmage, Atsumu set exclusively to Sakusa for three rotations straight.
“Oi, Kiyoomi!” he called cheerfully. “Think fast!”
Sakusa spiked each set cleanly, lethal and precise. He didn’t look at Atsumu once.
After the third point, Atsumu jogged uo beside him. “Damn. Almost like ya like my tosses.”
“They’re acceptable.”
“Wow,” Atsumu said, placing a hand over his heart. “High praise.”
Sakusa wiped sweat from his jaw. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
—
That night, the room felt smaller than it should have.
Sakusa lay rigid on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to Atsumu hum softly as he scrolled on his phone. Every shift of the mattress, every breath, felt amplified.
“You always this quiet?” Atsumu asked.
“Yes.”
“Even when you’re alone?”
“...Yes.”
Atsumu rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “Liar.”
Sakusa turned his head despite himself. “What?”
“People ain’t that quiet when nobody’s watchin.”
Sakusa stared back. Atsumu’s gaze was sharp but curious, teasing stripped down to something more earnest.
“I don’t perform,” Sakusa said finally.
Atsumu smiled, softer now. “Yeah. I know.”
The silence settled again, heavier this time.
Atsumu broke it by kicking his feet playfully. “So. You gonna tell me why ya tense up every time I get close?”
Sakusa’s breath caught. “I don’t.”
Atsumu raised an eyebrow. “Kiyoomi. C’mon.”
Sakusa turned away. “You invade personal space on purpose.”
Atsumu laughed quietly. “Guilty.”
“Why?”
The question slipped out before Sakusa could stop it.
Atsumu went still.
“...Because you react,” he said after a moment. “And you don’t react to anyone else.”
Sakusa said nothing.
Atsumu chuckled, a little nervous this time. “Relax. I ain’t gonna cross lines you don’t want crossed.”
Sakusa closed his eyes. “You already do.”
Atsumu blinked. Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Good to know.”
—
The teasing got worse after that.
Not louder—quieter. More deliberate.
A brush of fingers when handing Sakusa a towel. Standing just close enough during drills that Sakusa could feel body heat. Calling his name softly instead of shouting it.
Sakusa hated that it worked.
They were alone in the gym one evening, cleaning up stray balls. Atsumu tossed one lazily toward Sakusa.
“Nice catch,” Atsumu said when Sakusa snagged it without looking.
“I didn’t drop it,” Sakusa replied.
“That’s not what I said.”
Atsumu stepped closer. Sakusa didn’t move away.
“You ever gonna admit you like this?” Atsumu asked lightly.
“Like what?”
“This.” Atsumu gestured vaguely between them.
Sakusa met his gaze, eyes dark and steady. “You’re infuriating.”
Atsumu grinned. “Yeah.”
Sakusa took a step forward, closing the gap to inches. Atsumu’s grin faltered this time.
“You enjoy pushing,” Sakusa said quietly. “So do I.”
Atsumu swallowed. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a warning.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Atsumu laughed, breathless. “Damn. Guess we’re even.”
They went back to cleaning up, but the air between them crackled—charged, unfinished.
—
The night before camp ended, Atsumu lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
“Kiyoomi,” he whispered.
Sakusa hummed in response.
“...I’m not jokin’, y’know.”
Sakusa was quiet for a long moment. Then “I know.”
Atsumu smiled into the dark.
That was enough.
For now. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77343166/chapters/202494426 | {"authors": ["crybabyl1mit3d"], "language": "English", "title": "You're doing this on purpose"} |
the map of you
The house is quiet in the way it only ever is late at night, filled with the low hum of the bedside lamp, the distant passing of a car, and the slow, shared rhythm of two people just breathing together after a long day.
In bed, Jisung lies on his back, phone held loosely in one hand, the low glow lighting his face. Minho is tucked into his side, settled there by habit, head resting against Jisung's shoulder, one leg draped over his thighs in a way that feels natural, familiar, rather than inherently possessive. They fit together easily, bodies close in the quiet, end-of-day way that comes from doing this every night. Under Jisung's worn cotton shirt, Minho's hand rests against his skin, warm and steady, fingers spread comfortably as if they've found their place without needing to think about it. For a while, nothing happens. The hand is just there, part of the weight between them, part of the quiet, until it isn't, until the fingers shift and begin to move.
They walk a slow, meandering path along his ribs, fingers tracing slow, idle lines beneath the fabric, and Jisung scrolls through a post on his phone, skimming the words without much attention. He pauses when Minho's thumb presses a little more firmly into his side, going back to reread the same sentence, then the one above it, still not quite registering what it says. The hand drifts lower, unhurried, settling at his waist; Jisung's eyes linger on an image, then slide past it, his focus slipping. When Minho's palm reaches his belly and his nails drag lightly there, the screen finally loses all meaning. The text blurs, his grip loosens, and he exhales, aware only of the touch pulling him away.
Not from the moment, but back through the familiar trail of memories it always seems to open.
He still remembers it as if it were yesterday — the first time something like this happened, years and years ago, hesitant and unexpected. They had all been huddled in the living room after practice, a few of them on the floor, the others squeezed on the dorm couch, limbs heavy with exhaustion, an action movie playing on the screen and steadily losing their attention. Minho had claimed the corner, resting back against the arm of the couch and legs stretched out, and Jisung had ended up between his legs, leaning back into Minho's chest, without really thinking about the action.
It was one of the first times they had ever sat like that, close enough to feel Minho's chest rise and fall behind him, close enough that the warmth at his back felt new and quietly overwhelming. Jisung had been hyper-aware of every point of contact, the solid line of Minho's thighs bracketing his own, the weight of his presence anchoring him there.
At some point, Minho's hand had drifted down, unthinking, coming to rest where Jisung's shirt had ridden up. His thumb traced a single, slow circle against bare skin. The touch, combined with the closeness and the unfamiliar comfort of being held like this, had short-circuited something — still unknown at the time — in Jisung all at once. He'd gone completely still, not out of discomfort, but with a sudden, dizzy rush of something sweet and strange. He'd held his breath, pretended to doze not long after, heart pounding hard enough that he was sure Minho must have felt it and known he wasn't really asleep. The hand never moved again, but the question it asked lingered. One Jisung didn't yet know how to answer.
As the years passed and their friendship solidified into something unbreakable, the touches became a sure, quiet punctuation to their closeness. A hand slipping beneath his shirt during movie-and-cuddles nights, settling on the dip of his waist. A pause while Jisung was talking, Minho's gaze dropping from his eyes to where his lips tilted with happiness, his look soft and focused. A quick, tender span of Minho's palm along his waist as they passed in a hallway. They were touches that carried a new, unnamable weight, making Jisung blush with a warmth he still couldn't explain. It felt possessive, but in a way that made him feel seen, not owned.
Then came the confession, the quiet, terrifying step from best friends into something that Jisung could finally name and explain. Everything shifted after that. Their closeness took on new shapes, their intimacy deepening in ways both obvious and subtle. They learned each other's bodies quickly, hungrily, touching often, easily, as if making up for lost time. It was good. It was real. It was everything Jisung had imagined and so, so much more.
And yet, through all of it, this one thing never went away.
If anything, it sharpened. The attention Minho paid to his torso, and to his stomach in particular, remained constant, almost stubbornly so. It found him everywhere. In the flurry of a crowded stage, not quite hidden behind others, Minho's hand would settle there, steady and familiar. In the privacy of a dressing room, a glance would linger a second too long, Minho's eyes tracking the slow rise and fall of Jisung's bare pecs or abs, when his gym sessions proved particularly effective. In their new kitchen, steam still clinging to their skin after a long shower, Minho would pass behind him and press a brief kiss to his sternum, like punctuation, like habit.
There was nothing hurried about it. Nothing that asked for more, or even acknowledged itself. Just the constancy of it, of the way Minho always seemed to come back to that one place, as if drawn by instinct rather than desire. A look held while Jisung pulled on a shirt, fingers brushing his middle in passing, grounding and sure. It was as if, even surrounded by everything else they now shared, Minho could never quite get enough of this one, specific part of him.
Jisung found himself unraveling, slowly and silently, year after year, under the weight of it. The attention was quiet, almost gentle, but it built over time, layering itself into his chest until it ached. It made him feel cherished in a way he couldn't fully articulate even after all this time together and that unsettled him, too, by the question it kept asking without ever providing an answer. A strange heat lived there now, threaded through with tenderness and confusion.
Why here, of all places?
The present snaps him back into sharp focus. Minho's hand has drifted lower at some point, Jisung not quite sure when it happened, only aware of it now with his palm settled firmly over his lower belly, fingers spread, pressing slow, deliberate circles into the skin as if looking for a secret hidden beneath. Something about the touch has shifted. It's no longer half-asleep, no longer the absent comfort of habit. There's intention in it now, a quiet weight that anchors him in place.
Jisung draws in a breath that sounds too loud in this intimate stillness, his chest rising under Minho's arm. His phone tilts uselessly in his hand, forgotten and gone dark, and he sets it aside on the nightstand without really looking or thinking about it. The rest of the world fades. All he can feel is that warmth and weight, the steady pressure, the way his body seems to orient itself around that single point of contact.
"Hyung?"
"Yeah?" Minho murmurs, his voice a sleepy rumble against Jisung's shoulder.
Jisung hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"
Minho's fingers still. A small pause stretches between them. "Okay."
"Why do you–" Jisung exhales, the words slipping out rougher and much more uncertain than he expects. "Why here? You always touch… yeah, you always– here."
Minho goes very still. His hand remains splayed over Jisung's skin, thumb resting just below his ribs. For a long moment, there is only the sound of their breathing, uneven now, a little too fast.
"Here?" Minho repeats softly. His thumb shifts, brushing a slow line as if confirming the place.
"My stomach," Jisung says quietly. "My–yeah, here." He gestures, awkward and uncertain, fingers hovering over his own skin, brushing the edge of Minho's hand before he pulls back and lets it fall to the sheets. "You're always touching it," he goes on, voice uneven now. "And looking. Holding it." He swallows. "It's been like that for years. Even before–" he stops, shakes his head slightly. His ears burn. "I kept thinking I was imagining it, but you always come back to it. Like…" he exhales, frustrated, searching. "Like you can't help yourself. And I don't know what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it."
Minho shifts, lifting his head. In the dim light seeping from the bedside lamp, his eyes are dark, unreadable, fixed entirely on Jisung's face.
He doesn't answer with words.
Instead, he moves with sudden, fluid decisiveness that steals the air right from Jisung's lungs. In one smooth motion, he throws the duvet off their bodies, adjusts his weight, rolling halfway on top of him, and his fingers find the hem of Jisung's shirt. He doesn't pull it off completely, just hikes it up to his collarbones, bunching the fabric there. Cool air kisses Jisung's exposed torso, and he gasps at the immediacy of it, the way the exposure feels less like being undressed and more like being revealed.
He lies open beneath Minho's gaze now, nowhere to hide, every inch of him caught in that focused attention.
Minho bends his head.
The first kiss is a soft, closed-mouth press to the frantic pulse at the base of Jisung's throat, lingering there before Minho lets it drift lower, tracing the ridge of his clavicle, the design of his tattoo.He follows the line down slowly, unhurried, mouth mapping a continuous descent along the center of Jisung's body. He kisses the sensitive tension of his chest, the softer flesh at the sides, along the lines of ink, then nuzzles into the smooth skin over his ribs, breath warm and damp. Each kiss blends into the next, deliberate and reverent, a silent sentence Jisung can feel being written into him one gentle touch at a time.
When Minho reaches the flat plane of his stomach, he exhales a deep, contented sound, and lets his cheek rest there for a moment. Jisung feels the faint brush of his eyelashes, the strong warmth of him, the pause stretching just long enough to settle. Then Minho sinks into it.
He maps the exposed stretch with his mouth, soft, open kisses warming Jisung's skin, broken now and then by sharper nips that make him gasp, whine and twitch under him. Minho follows the lines of muscle with his tongue, slow and languid, the wet drag of it pulling a helpless clutch from Jisung's fingers against the sheets. He doesn't rush, but he doesn't relent either, murmuring wordless praises into Jisung's skin — so soft, perfect, mine — his breath coming hotter, faster with each passing second. His hands frame Jisung's waist, steady and careful, holding him as if he's something worth protecting, even as his mouth grows more insistent, need bleeding through every movement. There's a tension in it that makes Jisung dizzy and the duality is intoxicating: the tenderness of the touch, the hunger behind it, both existing at once, impossible to separate.
As the intensity builds, Jisung becomes aware of a new movement. Minho's body, now cradled between his legs, has grown restless. At first it's just a shift of weight, a slow roll of his hips against the mattress that Jisung almost misses, too caught in the pull of Minho's mouth to register it properly. Then it happens again. And again. Minho is grinding down now, erratic and unguarded, the movement shallow but persistent, brushing along Jisung's inner thigh as his mouth keeps working at his stomach.
Jisung feels it register all at once, a hot, blinding wildfire that makes his breath stutter. The motion isn't careful or planned, it's so clearly instinctive, driven and exposed by the way Minho's breathing has gone rough, by the way his jaw tightens as he kisses and licks, pouring himself into Jisung's skin without holding anything back, by the rhythm growing heavier, less restrained, Minho's hips moving in time with his breath. His groans come muffled and broken against Jisung's belly, each one sending a sharp flare of want through him. Jisung can feel the damp heat of Minho's forehead, the faint tremor in the hands gripping his hips, as if Minho is holding on simply to stay there just a little longer.
It doesn't embarrass him. It hits him low and hard, the sight and the sensation tangling together until they're impossible to separate. Minho like this — open, undone, driven by him and him alone — makes something fierce bloom in Jisung's chest. His hunger sharpens, tightening through his body until it aches. His own arousal throbs inside his pants, immediate and overwhelming, the kind that steals his breath with how quickly it takes hold. It startles him—how fast Minho has gotten under his skin, how completely his | the map of you
The house is quiet in the way it only ever is late at night, filled with the low hum of the bedside lamp, the distant passing of a car, and the slow, shared rhythm of two people just breathing together after a long day.
In bed, Jisung lies on his back, phone held loosely in one hand, the low glow lighting his face. Minho is tucked into his side, settled there by habit, head resting against Jisung's shoulder, one leg draped over his thighs in a way that feels natural, familiar, rather than inherently possessive. They fit together easily, bodies close in the quiet, end-of-day way that comes from doing this every night. Under Jisung's worn cotton shirt, Minho's hand rests against his skin, warm and steady, fingers spread comfortably as if they've found their place without needing to think about it. For a while, nothing happens. The hand is just there, part of the weight between them, part of the quiet, until it isn't, until the fingers shift and begin to move.
They walk a slow, meandering path along his ribs, fingers tracing slow, idle lines beneath the fabric, and Jisung scrolls through a post on his phone, skimming the words without much attention. He pauses when Minho's thumb presses a little more firmly into his side, going back to reread the same sentence, then the one above it, still not quite registering what it says. The hand drifts lower, unhurried, settling at his waist; Jisung's eyes linger on an image, then slide past it, his focus slipping. When Minho's palm reaches his belly and his nails drag lightly there, the screen finally loses all meaning. The text blurs, his grip loosens, and he exhales, aware only of the touch pulling him away.
Not from the moment, but back through the familiar trail of memories it always seems to open.
He still remembers it as if it were yesterday — the first time something like this happened, years and years ago, hesitant and unexpected. They had all been huddled in the living room after practice, a few of them on the floor, the others squeezed on the dorm couch, limbs heavy with exhaustion, an action movie playing on the screen and steadily losing their attention. Minho had claimed the corner, resting back against the arm of the couch and legs stretched out, and Jisung had ended up between his legs, leaning back into Minho's chest, without really thinking about the action.
It was one of the first times they had ever sat like that, close enough to feel Minho's chest rise and fall behind him, close enough that the warmth at his back felt new and quietly overwhelming. Jisung had been hyper-aware of every point of contact, the solid line of Minho's thighs bracketing his own, the weight of his presence anchoring him there.
At some point, Minho's hand had drifted down, unthinking, coming to rest where Jisung's shirt had ridden up. His thumb traced a single, slow circle against bare skin. The touch, combined with the closeness and the unfamiliar comfort of being held like this, had short-circuited something — still unknown at the time — in Jisung all at once. He'd gone completely still, not out of discomfort, but with a sudden, dizzy rush of something sweet and strange. He'd held his breath, pretended to doze not long after, heart pounding hard enough that he was sure Minho must have felt it and known he wasn't really asleep. The hand never moved again, but the question it asked lingered. One Jisung didn't yet know how to answer.
As the years passed and their friendship solidified into something unbreakable, the touches became a sure, quiet punctuation to their closeness. A hand slipping beneath his shirt during movie-and-cuddles nights, settling on the dip of his waist. A pause while Jisung was talking, Minho's gaze dropping from his eyes to where his lips tilted with happiness, his look soft and focused. A quick, tender span of Minho's palm along his waist as they passed in a hallway. They were touches that carried a new, unnamable weight, making Jisung blush with a warmth he still couldn't explain. It felt possessive, but in a way that made him feel seen, not owned.
Then came the confession, the quiet, terrifying step from best friends into something that Jisung could finally name and explain. Everything shifted after that. Their closeness took on new shapes, their intimacy deepening in ways both obvious and subtle. They learned each other's bodies quickly, hungrily, touching often, easily, as if making up for lost time. It was good. It was real. It was everything Jisung had imagined and so, so much more.
And yet, through all of it, this one thing never went away.
If anything, it sharpened. The attention Minho paid to his torso, and to his stomach in particular, remained constant, almost stubbornly so. It found him everywhere. In the flurry of a crowded stage, not quite hidden behind others, Minho's hand would settle there, steady and familiar. In the privacy of a dressing room, a glance would linger a second too long, Minho's eyes tracking the slow rise and fall of Jisung's bare pecs or abs, when his gym sessions proved particularly effective. In their new kitchen, steam still clinging to their skin after a long shower, Minho would pass behind him and press a brief kiss to his sternum, like punctuation, like habit.
There was nothing hurried about it. Nothing that asked for more, or even acknowledged itself. Just the constancy of it, of the way Minho always seemed to come back to that one place, as if drawn by instinct rather than desire. A look held while Jisung pulled on a shirt, fingers brushing his middle in passing, grounding and sure. It was as if, even surrounded by everything else they now shared, Minho could never quite get enough of this one, specific part of him.
Jisung found himself unraveling, slowly and silently, year after year, under the weight of it. The attention was quiet, almost gentle, but it built over time, layering itself into his chest until it ached. It made him feel cherished in a way he couldn't fully articulate even after all this time together and that unsettled him, too, by the question it kept asking without ever providing an answer. A strange heat lived there now, threaded through with tenderness and confusion.
Why here, of all places?
The present snaps him back into sharp focus. Minho's hand has drifted lower at some point, Jisung not quite sure when it happened, only aware of it now with his palm settled firmly over his lower belly, fingers spread, pressing slow, deliberate circles into the skin as if looking for a secret hidden beneath. Something about the touch has shifted. It's no longer half-asleep, no longer the absent comfort of habit. There's intention in it now, a quiet weight that anchors him in place.
Jisung draws in a breath that sounds too loud in this intimate stillness, his chest rising under Minho's arm. His phone tilts uselessly in his hand, forgotten and gone dark, and he sets it aside on the nightstand without really looking or thinking about it. The rest of the world fades. All he can feel is that warmth and weight, the steady pressure, the way his body seems to orient itself around that single point of contact.
"Hyung?"
"Yeah?" Minho murmurs, his voice a sleepy rumble against Jisung's shoulder.
Jisung hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"
Minho's fingers still. A small pause stretches between them. "Okay."
"Why do you–" Jisung exhales, the words slipping out rougher and much more uncertain than he expects. "Why here? You always touch… yeah, you always– here."
Minho goes very still. His hand remains splayed over Jisung's skin, thumb resting just below his ribs. For a long moment, there is only the sound of their breathing, uneven now, a little too fast.
"Here?" Minho repeats softly. His thumb shifts, brushing a slow line as if confirming the place.
"My stomach," Jisung says quietly. "My–yeah, here." He gestures, awkward and uncertain, fingers hovering over his own skin, brushing the edge of Minho's hand before he pulls back and lets it fall to the sheets. "You're always touching it," he goes on, voice uneven now. "And looking. Holding it." He swallows. "It's been like that for years. Even before–" he stops, shakes his head slightly. His ears burn. "I kept thinking I was imagining it, but you always come back to it. Like…" he exhales, frustrated, searching. "Like you can't help yourself. And I don't know what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it."
Minho shifts, lifting his head. In the dim light seeping from the bedside lamp, his eyes are dark, unreadable, fixed entirely on Jisung's face.
He doesn't answer with words.
Instead, he moves with sudden, fluid decisiveness that steals the air right from Jisung's lungs. In one smooth motion, he throws the duvet off their bodies, adjusts his weight, rolling halfway on top of him, and his fingers find the hem of Jisung's shirt. He doesn't pull it off completely, just hikes it up to his collarbones, bunching the fabric there. Cool air kisses Jisung's exposed torso, and he gasps at the immediacy of it, the way the exposure feels less like being undressed and more like being revealed.
He lies open beneath Minho's gaze now, nowhere to hide, every inch of him caught in that focused attention.
Minho bends his head.
The first kiss is a soft, closed-mouth press to the frantic pulse at the base of Jisung's throat, lingering there before Minho lets it drift lower, tracing the ridge of his clavicle, the design of his tattoo.He follows the line down slowly, unhurried, mouth mapping a continuous descent along the center of Jisung's body. He kisses the sensitive tension of his chest, the softer flesh at the sides, along the lines of ink, then nuzzles into the smooth skin over his ribs, breath warm and damp. Each kiss blends into the next, deliberate and reverent, a silent sentence Jisung can feel being written into him one gentle touch at a time.
When Minho reaches the flat plane of his stomach, he exhales a deep, contented sound, and lets his cheek rest there for a moment. Jisung feels the faint brush of his eyelashes, the strong warmth of him, the pause stretching just long enough to settle. Then Minho sinks into it.
He maps the exposed stretch with his mouth, soft, open kisses warming Jisung's skin, broken now and then by sharper nips that make him gasp, whine and twitch under him. Minho follows the lines of muscle with his tongue, slow and languid, the wet drag of it pulling a helpless clutch from Jisung's fingers against the sheets. He doesn't rush, but he doesn't relent either, murmuring wordless praises into Jisung's skin — so soft, perfect, mine — his breath coming hotter, faster with each passing second. His hands frame Jisung's waist, steady and careful, holding him as if he's something worth protecting, even as his mouth grows more insistent, need bleeding through every movement. There's a tension in it that makes Jisung dizzy and the duality is intoxicating: the tenderness of the touch, the hunger behind it, both existing at once, impossible to separate.
As the intensity builds, Jisung becomes aware of a new movement. Minho's body, now cradled between his legs, has grown restless. At first it's just a shift of weight, a slow roll of his hips against the mattress that Jisung almost misses, too caught in the pull of Minho's mouth to register it properly. Then it happens again. And again. Minho is grinding down now, erratic and unguarded, the movement shallow but persistent, brushing along Jisung's inner thigh as his mouth keeps working at his stomach.
Jisung feels it register all at once, a hot, blinding wildfire that makes his breath stutter. The motion isn't careful or planned, it's so clearly instinctive, driven and exposed by the way Minho's breathing has gone rough, by the way his jaw tightens as he kisses and licks, pouring himself into Jisung's skin without holding anything back, by the rhythm growing heavier, less restrained, Minho's hips moving in time with his breath. His groans come muffled and broken against Jisung's belly, each one sending a sharp flare of want through him. Jisung can feel the damp heat of Minho's forehead, the faint tremor in the hands gripping his hips, as if Minho is holding on simply to stay there just a little longer.
It doesn't embarrass him. It hits him low and hard, the sight and the sensation tangling together until they're impossible to separate. Minho like this — open, undone, driven by him and him alone — makes something fierce bloom in Jisung's chest. His hunger sharpens, tightening through his body until it aches. His own arousal throbs inside his pants, immediate and overwhelming, the kind that steals his breath with how quickly it takes hold. It startles him—how fast Minho has gotten under his skin, how completely his body has folded around the want before he's had a chance to catch up.
"Hyung–" Jisung breaks off, breath hitching. "Minho. Wait–"
Minho glances up, lips swollen, eyes black with a dazed hunger. A soft, questioning hum vibrates against Jisung's skin.
"No–don't stop," Jisung clarifies in a rush, cheeks burning. "I just–" he swallows, the words forming like a secret in the dark. "Don't… don't use the mattress."
Minho goes still. He lifts his head, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes.
Jisung's voice drops to a whisper, raw and brave. "Do it here. On me."
For a heartbeat, Minho only stares. Then understanding sparks, deep and electric, and his mouth curves into a slow, devastating smile. He searches Jisung's face, his gaze sweeping over the flushed skin, the parted lips, the eyes wide with boldness and just a touch of apprehension for the unknown. "You sure?" He breathes, the words a rough caress.
Jisung nods, barely breathing. "Yes. Please."
"Okay," Minho murmurs, his smile softening into something unbearably fond, fierce, and so incredibly familiar it makes Jisung's heart tighten. "Okay."
Minho shifts back, settling between Jisung's legs, pushing his pajama pants down just far enough to free himself. He wraps a hand around his length and gives it a single, rough stroke, breath hitching as a low groan tears from his throat. With a small, impatient sound, he takes his hand back to spit into his palm, then closes it around himself again, slick this time, the movement firmer, easier. Jisung can't look away. The sight of Minho like this — flushed, breathing hard, need written plainly across his face — hits him low and sharp, a pull that tightens in his gut and makes his mouth go dry. Minho's eyes never leave him, dark and intent, as if daring him to break away, to let any of this go. Jisung's pulse stutters under the weight of that gaze, his hunger sizzling and every nerve straining toward what's coming.
Then Minho leans forward, bracing himself on one elbow beside Jisung's head, crowding close. The hot, slick head of his cock presses against Jisung's stomach, just below his navel, and Jisung cries out, a sharp, punched-out sound.
The contact is electric. It's hotter, wetter than he's prepared for, the obscene slide stealing the breath right from his lungs. Minho's gaze finally drops, fixing on the point where they meet, watching himself move, watching the way Jisung's muscles jump and tighten beneath him. There's something rapt and almost pained in his expression, like the sight alone is too much.
He sets a steady pace, each stroke painting a glistening trail across Jisung's abs. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin fills the room, a filthy, beautiful cadence that beats in time with Jisung's racing heart. He's transfixed, watching Minho unravel above him, his brows drawn tight with strain, lips parted on ragged breaths that seem to pull the air straight from Jisung's own lungs.
Then something shifts. A deeper itch comes into Minho's gaze, raw and unguarded, clenching his jaw as it takes over his features. He stills abruptly, his whole body tensing with the effort of stopping.
"No," he pants, the word rough and scraped thin in the otherwise silence. "Not like this… Fuck–not enough."
Before Jisung can even process it, Minho's hands are at his waistband, fingers hooking into the fabric of his pajama pants and underwear. He tugs them down in one impatient, decisive pull, just far enough — to his thigh, enough to free him and no more. Cool air hits Jisung's overheated skin for a shocking second as his cock springs free, flushed and aching, before Minho shifts close again.
This time it's really skin to skin, nothing else standing between them. Minho's hard length instantly slides alongside Jisung's with a wet, intimate drag that pulls a shattered moan from them both, the sound shared and breathless, heavy with relief.
"Fuck, yes–" Minho breathes, his hips stuttering with the new, splintering contact. He tries to wrap a hand around them both, but his short fingers can't quite manage it — shorter than Jisung's, and for a split second his brain derails on it, warm and stupid and fond: God, I love his tiny hands — before a frustrated groan tears from Minho's throat, rough and needy, wrenching him right back to the moment. Minho looks up, eyes dark and pleading now, whatever control he had slipping away.
"Jisungie," he pants. "Your hand, please."
Understanding cuts through Jisung's haze, sharp and immediate. He lifts a trembling hand, and Minho meets him halfway, guiding his longer fingers into place until they're wrapped around both of them together. The fit is tight and hot and startling in how right it feels. Minho's hand closes over Jisung's, moving with him as he starts to rock again, his eyes focused entirely on the shared motion, on the sight of them joined like this.
He fucks down into their joined grip, the movement breaking whatever rhythm he had set before, thrusts turning fast and rough, driven by something that feels closer to panic than control. The slide is slick and overwhelming, heat smearing everywhere they touch, sensations stacking too quickly for him to separate one from the next. Jisung cries out, the sound torn loose as his hips lift helplessly off the mattress, chasing every drive. His body arches into it without thought, into Minho, into the grip around them both, into the dizzy, breathless realization that this want, this unraveling, started here, under Minho's mouth and hands, because of him. Because of his stomach, offered and held and wanted until it brought them both to this moment.
"You feel that?" Minho breathes, his voice shattering on the words as he chases his pleasure, fucking into the tight, wet circle they've made together. "God–Jisung. You ruin me. You're all I ever…" the sentence fractures, cut off by a deep, jarring stroke that steals the rest of his breath. What's left unsaid hangs between them, raw and exposed, and it finishes what his mouth started. Jisung's composure collapses under it. Tears sting hot at the corners of his eyes, born from a tenderness so overwhelming it hurts, from a need so far past endurance.
Minho's movements grow frantic, less a rhythm than a desperate search. His control is a frayed thread, his gorgeous, gorgeous everything shuddering with the force of holding on.
"Jagi," he chokes, a warning wrapped in a plea. "Look at me. Please."
With Herculean effort, Jisung forces his gaze up from the mesmerizing sight of their bodies joined in his hand. He meets Minho's eyes. They’re dark and blown wide, reflecting his own desperation back at him, but there’s more there, too. Something vast and unguarded, pressing close enough to feel solid. It steals the scant air between them, leaves no room for anything else but this moment, this pull that has nowhere else to go but their very veins and marrow.
It seems to undo him completely. Minho comes with a broken, breathless sound, more a mewl than a groan, torn from him as his body draws tight, muscles shaking with the effort of holding on and failing all at once. Suddenly, hot stripes are painting Jisung's skin, a searing, overpowering brand that marks him for everything he is to Minho: the cause, the canvas, the beloved recipient.
Minho shudders through it, a series of helpless, jerking thrusts that smear himself across Jisung’s trembling stomach in a release that feels both raw and strangely tender. The motion falters as it runs out of him, the thrusts dwindling into tiny, uneven, half-finished rolls of his hips that don’t quite go anywhere, until even those fade as well and his body finally stills. For a suspended beat, he stays there, caught and shaking, before he finally collapses, sagging forward until his weight settles over Jisung, his breath coming out in soft, unsteady puffs against Jisung’s chest.
Jisung can feel the frantic, rabbit-quick beat of Minho's heart where their skin meets. Sensation washes over him in overlapping waves: the hot, sticky slick on his stomach, the air thick with the scent of sex and salt and Minho, the heavy, spent weight of the man he loves anchoring him in place. His own need, sharp and insistent at the base of his spine, a pulsing ache left untouched and screaming into the sudden quiet.
Minho senses it. He always does. He lifts his head, eyes soft with satisfaction but sharpened by a new, focused intent. His gaze drops briefly to the mess spread across Jisung’s stomach, something dark and approving flickering there, before he slides down the length of the bed with clear purpose. No rush, no hesitation, just the easy grace of someone who knows exactly where he’s going and what he wants.
His mouth is on Jisung in an instant, heat and damp pressure closing around him so suddenly it tears a ragged moan from deep in his chest. Minho doesn’t ease him into it, he takes with a silent ferocity that makes Jisung’s vision blur, working him immediately with a focus that feels almost reverent in its intensity. One hand stays splayed right above Jisung’s stomach, firm and steady over the place that started all of this, holding him down as if to keep him tethered to the moment, while the other grips his hip with bruising clarity. Minho’s mouth doesn’t let up. The hold on him keeps him pinned, keeps him aware, in the most unavoidable way, of his body and the way it’s being kept exactly where Minho wants, until everything narrows down to nothing but movement and burning and the way his own breath just won’t steady.
The pleasure builds too fast, too full, climbing in irregular waves that leave Jisung shaking, tipping toward the edge with a speed that feels both terrifying and unbearably beautiful.
Just as the world narrows to a white-hot point, just as a quick, incoherent warning gathers on his tongue, Minho pulls off with a wet, obscene pop.
"Here," Minho gasps, his voice utterly wrecked, his eyes black and deranged with love. He’s a vision of depravity and art, beautiful and untamed. "With me."
His hand replaces his mouth, stroking Jisung fast and rough, and Jisung is gone. He comes with a ruined sob, his release spilling hot and thick across his own stomach, mixing obscenely, perfectly, with Minho's. The sight of it, lewd and so on display, hits him with a dizzying intensity, overwhelming yet in a way that feels unbearably right.
Panting, spent, and delirious, Jisung can only watch through hazy eyes as Minho, looking utterly ravished, lowers his head. He doesn't hesitate. He licks through the mess on Jisung’s stomach in one broad, unthinking sweep, then again, slower this time, cleaning him with a focus that’s hungry and open and achingly gentle all at once. There’s nothing careful about it, nothing performative. Just Minho, mouth warm, open and wet against his skin, intent on taking it all in. Each pass of his tongue makes Jisung shudder, soft, helpless sounds slipping from him before he can stop them.
When Minho finally lifts his head, his lips and chin are glistening in the low light. He doesn’t bother to wipe them clean. Instead, he surges up and captures Jisung’s mouth in a deep, desperate kiss. The taste that blooms on his tongue is salty, musky, staggering and unmistakably theirs. They kiss for a long time, longer than it takes for the flavor to disappear down their throats, until there is nothing left but the heated taste of each other’s spit and the familiarity of teeth scraping on oversensitive tongues. It's messy, claiming, the final, wordless lyric of the confession they've been writing all night.
I see you. I’m here with you. I love all of you.
The kiss eventually slows, but they stay tangled together for a while after that, breathing each other in, the urgency draining slowly from their bodies and giving way to a boneless warmth. Minho presses soft, mindless pecks to Jisung’s mouth, his jaw, his shoulders, hands brushing absent patterns on his skin, absurdly gentle now where moments ago they were vices with a single-minded focus. Jisung feels himself coming back into his body bit by bit, the rush ebbing into something warm and heavy and safe, held there and held together by Minho’s quiet and well-known familiarity.
Later, cleaned with a damp towel Minho fetched himself — accompanied by a soft, put-upon huff that Jisung knows better than to take seriously — they end up tangled together again under the duvet. Lights off, two fresh pairs of boxers and very little space between them. The room has settled back into its deep quiet, while Minho’s hand has found its way back to Jisung’s stomach without any hesitance, spreading there as naturally as breath, his thumb moving in lazy arcs over the heated skin. Jisung shifts closer, instinctively, unwilling to let any space in after everything they’d just shared.
He’s drifting in the warm aftermath when Minho's voice rumbles softly into his neck.
"When we were trainees," Minho begins, his words slow and languid, as if he’s pulling them from a deep, private well. "You were so nervous. All the time. Your hands would shake, your voice would get thin whenever your confidence took a hit." His thumb pauses, then presses lightly into the spot, as if checking that Jisung — this Jisung, his Jisung — is really there. "But here..." A small breath. "Here, you were always steady. Warm. It felt like if I just kept my hand right here, I'd always know you were okay."
Silence stretches between them, easy. Minho’s breathing evens out.
"It's the first place I learned you," he murmurs, finally, so obviously floating into drowsiness. "And the place I never want to forget."
Jisung doesn't open his eyes again. He lets the words settle him the same way Minho’s hand does. Slowly, completely. After a moment, he turns his head, finding Minho's temple in the dark, and presses a soft kiss there. Nothing elaborate, nothing meant to be anything more than what it is.
And in the silent exchange of their shared breath, Minho’s hand stays warm and steady on Jisung’s stomach, right where it’s always rested and holding everything it remembers. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77338366 | {"authors": ["peachbel_hani"], "language": "English", "title": "the map of you"} |
The Result of Death
Steve watched his teammates as they sat around the common room that King T’challa provided for them.
It had been a two long weeks since what happened at the Hydra bunker, and they were all starting to get restless.
Clint wanted to go back to his kids, and Natasha was seemingly following his lead.
Scott had been anxious about violating his parole.
Sam was worried about his patients, as well as the consequences of stealing the wings.
And Bucky had rarely said a thing since they got here, obviously feeling guilty about Tony.
Which Steve understands, he does, but Tony tried to kill him!! Even though it wasn’t Bucky’s fault!
Which is exactly why he didn’t tell Tony in the first place! Not that it changed the outcome.
Tony had still found out.
And he still attacked Bucky.
Steve knew the man was selfish, right from their very first meeting when he said he would “Cut the line”. He was an arrogant prick, and Steve refused to regret leaving him with a broken suit. He probably called F.R.I.D.A.Y. for a new suit immediately, and huddled in the bunker till it arrived.
Steve scoffed as he shook his head, discarding every thought of Tony, and focused on the news reporter as they talked about the Accords.
[“- is scheduled for July 1st. Make sure to tune in at two pm to wat- Wait, this just in,”]
Steve glimpsed the rest of his team turn towards the TV in his peripheral vision, everyone hearing the urgency in the reporter’s voice.
He watched on with a sudden dread when the reporter closed her eyes for a second as she sighed, before she looked back to the camera.
[“America’s beloved Billionaire Superhero, Tony Stark, who was reportedly missing for the past two weeks, was just found dead.”]
The air in the room seemed to freeze, everyone in disbelief at what the reporter said.
“Wh- what?” Sam rasped in shock, somehow putting into a word what they were all thinking.
[“He was found frozen to death next to a Hydra base in Siberia. His Arc Reactor, which is reported to be the power source of the Iron Man suit, was brutally destroyed by a blunt force object, seemingly trapping Mr. Stark in the dead weight of his suit. His suit, reportedly being two hundred and fifty pounds, had an emergency release that failed to trigger from mechanical issues due to the damage in the area around the Arc Reactor. It is estimated that he suffered between thirty and fifty minutes, in minus fifty eight degrees Fahrenheit, before he succumbed to hypothermia. This is a sorrowful reminder that even superheroes aren’t invincible. Let’s all take a moment of silence to mourn this terrible loss-“]
Steve startled out of his shock when the screen suddenly went black, he turned to see Bucky clenching the remote so tightly, that Steve is sure it would shatter into a thousand pieces if it wasn’t made of vibranium.
Bucky’s shoulders were shaking and his head was turned downwards, his hair blocking his face from view.
“I…I did this.” He spoke so quietly, Steve was sure the only reason he could hear him was because of the serum.
“Bucky-“ Steve reached out as he shook off his shock, Bucky was always more important than anything else, even if that thing was Tony being dead.
“No!!” Bucky flinched back, raising his eyes, filled with self loathing and grief, to meet Steve’s own.
“I killed Howard! Even after everything he did for us! And then I killed his wife! And now-“ He choked before he continued, “-his son’s blood is on my hands too! I… I killed them all…”
Steve wracked his mind for any way to help him, any way to alleviate some of Bucky’s apparent self-hatred.
“And you….! You told me he was okay! That he had someone picking him up! How could you lie to me like that!”
Steve watched in dismay as Bucky backed away and fled from the room. His instincts told him to chase after Bucky, but he didn’t think it would be appreciated.
He turned to his other teammates, about to ask one of them to speak to Bucky for him, before he stopped at the horror still coating their faces.
“You… You two killed Tony Stark?” Scott stepped forward, his voice strained with confused disbelief.
Sam buried his face in his hands as he started shaking. “I told him to go alone, and as a friend.. This is all my fault..!”
Clint stepped forward and said, “He might’ve been a huge asshole, but he didn’t deserve that.” before he left the room.
Steve turned towards Nat, hoping at least one person understood his choice, and jolted in surprise when he saw she was no longer in the room.
Sighing, Steve turned to leave the room as well, reminding himself that it was all for Bucky, so that meant it was the correct choice.
Right?
~
AC/DC blasted in the dim garage, Highway to Hell played so loud it rattled the table that Harley worked at.
Ever since Tony–or, as Harley likes to refer to him, The Mechanic–shared his favorite bands he works while listening to during one of their calls, Harley only ever tinkers when he has them playing.
After what happened back in Christmas of 2012, Tony checks in on him every month through video call, asking how he is doing, and his progress on improving his potato gun and such.
Since today is check-in day, Harley is attempting to finish some last minute touches on his potato gun Mark VI before he presents it to Tony.
Absorbed in his work, Harley doesn’t notice his sister waving at him as she tried to get his attention.
The girl sighed exasperatedly and moved to the speaker.
The sudden absence of sound made Harley’s ears pop, and he spun to look at his sister, frustrated at the interruption when he only has a few minutes till the scheduled call.
“What do you want!? I’m busy right now, I gotta finish this before Tony-“
Harley stops short when he spies the look on her face. It’s sad, but not the normal kinda sad when you yourself are sad, more like the kinda sad when you have to tell someone bad news.
“What is it?”
She held out her phone to him, a StarkPhone Tony sent for her birthday last month after Harley mentioned how much she wanted one during a call, already unlocked and open to an article.
Harley raised an eyebrow at her, but took the phone when she said nothing.
The phone slipped out of his hand when he read the headline, clattering on the wooden floor.
The fourteen year old stood shocked still, his brain still processing the words.
[TONY STARK FOUND DEAD!]
He stared blankly as a single tear dripped down his face and fell on the screen by his feet, the awful headline still shining up at him.
Harley felt his sister’s arms gently wrap around his waist, and his face crumbled when he started to sob.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered into his shoulder, and Harley lifted his hands to clutch her tightly, an ache in his chest making it harder to breathe.
“He- He was gonna call today,” The teen choked out, the realization that Tony would never call him ever again twists in his heart like a knife. “I was gonna sh- show him my improvements..”
Harley looks at the spot in his garage where he first saw Tony, the memory so vivid he can see it clearly even though his vision is blurred by tears.
“I- He- The funeral… It- It’ll be in New York. I- I won’t be able to go..” The thought makes him clench his eyes shut, the grief that much harder to bear.
Harley had never felt like this before.
When his dad left when Harley was six, he was just missing. There one day, and gone the next. But Harley knew he wasn’t dead, he was just a selfish piece of shit who abandoned his family.
But Tony was different.
He might’ve only called once a month, but he never missed a call.
Though he did call to reschedule the video call ‘cause a mission came up a few times, but he never left Harley hanging. He was more of a father than Harley’s Sperm Donor ever was, and now… Now he’s gone.
He won’t be able to ask Tony for advice with his first girlfriend, or college, or invite him to his future wedding, or any number of other things!
He… He will never have the chance to call Tony Dad.
~
Peter paced in the living room, biting his nails nervously.
“He’s gotta be okay, right? I know it’s been two weeks, but he’sTony Stark! He’s Iron Man! He hasto be okay!”
May stood just outside the room, watching, her heart sinking with dread at the possibility that she’d soon be comforting Peter through another unbearable loss.
I pray he doesn’t blame himself for this one too, he doesn’t deserve this pain…
[“Wait, this just in,”]
Here we go…
[“America’s beloved Billionaire Superhero, Tony Stark, who was reportedly missing for the past two weeks, was just found dead.”]
May’s heart broke at Peter’s pain filled keen as she crossed the room and wrapped him up in her arms.
[“He was found frozen to death next to a Hydra base in Siberia. His Arc Reactor, which is reported to be the power source of the Iron Man suit, was brutally destroyed by a blunt force object, seemingly trapping Mr. Stark in the dead weight of his suit. His suit, reportedly being two hundred and fifty pounds, had an emergency release that failed to trigger from mechanical issues due to the damage in the area around the Arc Reactor. It is estimated that he suffered between thirty and fifty minutes, in minus fifty eight degrees Fahrenheit, before he succumbed to hypothermia. This is a sorrowful reminder that even superheroes aren’t invincible. Let’s all take a moment of silence to mourn this terrible loss-“]
“N-no! No no no!”
May held on tightly as Peter broke into sobs, cursing Stark for dying and making hew nephew feel this awful despair yet again.
“He- He was supposed to- *hiccup* to-“
May shushed him gently, rubbing her hand down his back. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”
She staggered when Peter’s knees gave out, not just from the sudden weight, but from the ache of time slipping past unnoticed.
When did my baby grow so much? Where did all the time go?
Minutes drifted by as peter clung to her, his sobs tapering off gradually into silence.
May pressed a gentle kiss against the crown of his head, and smoothed down the errant strands.
“I’m so sorry Peter. I know the grief feels unbearable right now, but it’ll settle. We both, sadly, know that well. The sun will continue to shine tomorrow, come what may.”
~
Pepper is much too professional to bite her fingernails nervously, but that does not mean she doesn’t have the urge to.
She has been waiting on news from the search party all week, and they just reported they found the HYDRA bunker half an hour ago.
Hence why she cancelled her meeting and is currently pacing her office.
F.R.I.D.A.Y had informed her the moment she lost connection to Tony’s suit, and was concerned when she couldn’t provide an exact location due to a snowstorm that scrambled the GPS coordinates before she lost contact.
Pepper immediately assembled a search party and gave them the rough estimate of Tony’s location. After which she prepared a press statement regarding Tony’s missing status.
And she will also need to prepare a press conference, the contents of which depending on what the search party finds.
Pepper knows Tony is resourceful, and has survived things most people wouldn’t be able to, but this time she doesn’t have a lot of hope.
It was minus fifty-eight degrees in that area of Siberia when F.R.I.D.A.Y lost contact, and she told Pepper that Rogers destroyed his reactor.
Unless the bunker was stocked, as well as heated, she can’t see how he could survive. Especially if he is stuck in his suit, like F.R.I.D.A.Y suspects.
The thought reminds her of why he might be stuck, and Pepper seethes.
After everything Tony did for Rogers and the others,thisis how they repay him!? Tony has spent hundreds of millions in rebuilding New York after Loki, Sokovia after Ultron,(which the blamedoes notlie solely with Tony for that incident, no matter what the others say), and every single mission that caused property damage and casualties. Even cleaned up the aftermath of the S.H.E.I.L.D/HYDRA thing!
He built their gear, gave them cards to buy anything they wanted, and renovated the Tower so they could have their own floors.
And yet. And yet!
They break his ARC Reactor and leave him for dead.
Pepper should’ve worked harder to convince Tony to not join their “team”.
She should’ve done something.
Now…
Now she’s just waiting for confirmation that Tony is… That Tony is dead.
Pepper snatched her phone off the desk when it started to ring, only barely glancing at the caller I.D before she accepted it.
“This is Miss Potts speaking.”
The person on the other side takes a deep breath, andhesitates.
Pepper closes her eyes, the grief hitting full force at the implication of whythey might would hesitate.
“We, we found him, Miss Potts.”
The small crack in the man’s voice sounds as loud as thunder in the silent room.
“He passed a while ago, probably within an | The Result of Death
Steve watched his teammates as they sat around the common room that King T’challa provided for them.
It had been a two long weeks since what happened at the Hydra bunker, and they were all starting to get restless.
Clint wanted to go back to his kids, and Natasha was seemingly following his lead.
Scott had been anxious about violating his parole.
Sam was worried about his patients, as well as the consequences of stealing the wings.
And Bucky had rarely said a thing since they got here, obviously feeling guilty about Tony.
Which Steve understands, he does, but Tony tried to kill him!! Even though it wasn’t Bucky’s fault!
Which is exactly why he didn’t tell Tony in the first place! Not that it changed the outcome.
Tony had still found out.
And he still attacked Bucky.
Steve knew the man was selfish, right from their very first meeting when he said he would “Cut the line”. He was an arrogant prick, and Steve refused to regret leaving him with a broken suit. He probably called F.R.I.D.A.Y. for a new suit immediately, and huddled in the bunker till it arrived.
Steve scoffed as he shook his head, discarding every thought of Tony, and focused on the news reporter as they talked about the Accords.
[“- is scheduled for July 1st. Make sure to tune in at two pm to wat- Wait, this just in,”]
Steve glimpsed the rest of his team turn towards the TV in his peripheral vision, everyone hearing the urgency in the reporter’s voice.
He watched on with a sudden dread when the reporter closed her eyes for a second as she sighed, before she looked back to the camera.
[“America’s beloved Billionaire Superhero, Tony Stark, who was reportedly missing for the past two weeks, was just found dead.”]
The air in the room seemed to freeze, everyone in disbelief at what the reporter said.
“Wh- what?” Sam rasped in shock, somehow putting into a word what they were all thinking.
[“He was found frozen to death next to a Hydra base in Siberia. His Arc Reactor, which is reported to be the power source of the Iron Man suit, was brutally destroyed by a blunt force object, seemingly trapping Mr. Stark in the dead weight of his suit. His suit, reportedly being two hundred and fifty pounds, had an emergency release that failed to trigger from mechanical issues due to the damage in the area around the Arc Reactor. It is estimated that he suffered between thirty and fifty minutes, in minus fifty eight degrees Fahrenheit, before he succumbed to hypothermia. This is a sorrowful reminder that even superheroes aren’t invincible. Let’s all take a moment of silence to mourn this terrible loss-“]
Steve startled out of his shock when the screen suddenly went black, he turned to see Bucky clenching the remote so tightly, that Steve is sure it would shatter into a thousand pieces if it wasn’t made of vibranium.
Bucky’s shoulders were shaking and his head was turned downwards, his hair blocking his face from view.
“I…I did this.” He spoke so quietly, Steve was sure the only reason he could hear him was because of the serum.
“Bucky-“ Steve reached out as he shook off his shock, Bucky was always more important than anything else, even if that thing was Tony being dead.
“No!!” Bucky flinched back, raising his eyes, filled with self loathing and grief, to meet Steve’s own.
“I killed Howard! Even after everything he did for us! And then I killed his wife! And now-“ He choked before he continued, “-his son’s blood is on my hands too! I… I killed them all…”
Steve wracked his mind for any way to help him, any way to alleviate some of Bucky’s apparent self-hatred.
“And you….! You told me he was okay! That he had someone picking him up! How could you lie to me like that!”
Steve watched in dismay as Bucky backed away and fled from the room. His instincts told him to chase after Bucky, but he didn’t think it would be appreciated.
He turned to his other teammates, about to ask one of them to speak to Bucky for him, before he stopped at the horror still coating their faces.
“You… You two killed Tony Stark?” Scott stepped forward, his voice strained with confused disbelief.
Sam buried his face in his hands as he started shaking. “I told him to go alone, and as a friend.. This is all my fault..!”
Clint stepped forward and said, “He might’ve been a huge asshole, but he didn’t deserve that.” before he left the room.
Steve turned towards Nat, hoping at least one person understood his choice, and jolted in surprise when he saw she was no longer in the room.
Sighing, Steve turned to leave the room as well, reminding himself that it was all for Bucky, so that meant it was the correct choice.
Right?
~
AC/DC blasted in the dim garage, Highway to Hell played so loud it rattled the table that Harley worked at.
Ever since Tony–or, as Harley likes to refer to him, The Mechanic–shared his favorite bands he works while listening to during one of their calls, Harley only ever tinkers when he has them playing.
After what happened back in Christmas of 2012, Tony checks in on him every month through video call, asking how he is doing, and his progress on improving his potato gun and such.
Since today is check-in day, Harley is attempting to finish some last minute touches on his potato gun Mark VI before he presents it to Tony.
Absorbed in his work, Harley doesn’t notice his sister waving at him as she tried to get his attention.
The girl sighed exasperatedly and moved to the speaker.
The sudden absence of sound made Harley’s ears pop, and he spun to look at his sister, frustrated at the interruption when he only has a few minutes till the scheduled call.
“What do you want!? I’m busy right now, I gotta finish this before Tony-“
Harley stops short when he spies the look on her face. It’s sad, but not the normal kinda sad when you yourself are sad, more like the kinda sad when you have to tell someone bad news.
“What is it?”
She held out her phone to him, a StarkPhone Tony sent for her birthday last month after Harley mentioned how much she wanted one during a call, already unlocked and open to an article.
Harley raised an eyebrow at her, but took the phone when she said nothing.
The phone slipped out of his hand when he read the headline, clattering on the wooden floor.
The fourteen year old stood shocked still, his brain still processing the words.
[TONY STARK FOUND DEAD!]
He stared blankly as a single tear dripped down his face and fell on the screen by his feet, the awful headline still shining up at him.
Harley felt his sister’s arms gently wrap around his waist, and his face crumbled when he started to sob.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered into his shoulder, and Harley lifted his hands to clutch her tightly, an ache in his chest making it harder to breathe.
“He- He was gonna call today,” The teen choked out, the realization that Tony would never call him ever again twists in his heart like a knife. “I was gonna sh- show him my improvements..”
Harley looks at the spot in his garage where he first saw Tony, the memory so vivid he can see it clearly even though his vision is blurred by tears.
“I- He- The funeral… It- It’ll be in New York. I- I won’t be able to go..” The thought makes him clench his eyes shut, the grief that much harder to bear.
Harley had never felt like this before.
When his dad left when Harley was six, he was just missing. There one day, and gone the next. But Harley knew he wasn’t dead, he was just a selfish piece of shit who abandoned his family.
But Tony was different.
He might’ve only called once a month, but he never missed a call.
Though he did call to reschedule the video call ‘cause a mission came up a few times, but he never left Harley hanging. He was more of a father than Harley’s Sperm Donor ever was, and now… Now he’s gone.
He won’t be able to ask Tony for advice with his first girlfriend, or college, or invite him to his future wedding, or any number of other things!
He… He will never have the chance to call Tony Dad.
~
Peter paced in the living room, biting his nails nervously.
“He’s gotta be okay, right? I know it’s been two weeks, but he’sTony Stark! He’s Iron Man! He hasto be okay!”
May stood just outside the room, watching, her heart sinking with dread at the possibility that she’d soon be comforting Peter through another unbearable loss.
I pray he doesn’t blame himself for this one too, he doesn’t deserve this pain…
[“Wait, this just in,”]
Here we go…
[“America’s beloved Billionaire Superhero, Tony Stark, who was reportedly missing for the past two weeks, was just found dead.”]
May’s heart broke at Peter’s pain filled keen as she crossed the room and wrapped him up in her arms.
[“He was found frozen to death next to a Hydra base in Siberia. His Arc Reactor, which is reported to be the power source of the Iron Man suit, was brutally destroyed by a blunt force object, seemingly trapping Mr. Stark in the dead weight of his suit. His suit, reportedly being two hundred and fifty pounds, had an emergency release that failed to trigger from mechanical issues due to the damage in the area around the Arc Reactor. It is estimated that he suffered between thirty and fifty minutes, in minus fifty eight degrees Fahrenheit, before he succumbed to hypothermia. This is a sorrowful reminder that even superheroes aren’t invincible. Let’s all take a moment of silence to mourn this terrible loss-“]
“N-no! No no no!”
May held on tightly as Peter broke into sobs, cursing Stark for dying and making hew nephew feel this awful despair yet again.
“He- He was supposed to- *hiccup* to-“
May shushed him gently, rubbing her hand down his back. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”
She staggered when Peter’s knees gave out, not just from the sudden weight, but from the ache of time slipping past unnoticed.
When did my baby grow so much? Where did all the time go?
Minutes drifted by as peter clung to her, his sobs tapering off gradually into silence.
May pressed a gentle kiss against the crown of his head, and smoothed down the errant strands.
“I’m so sorry Peter. I know the grief feels unbearable right now, but it’ll settle. We both, sadly, know that well. The sun will continue to shine tomorrow, come what may.”
~
Pepper is much too professional to bite her fingernails nervously, but that does not mean she doesn’t have the urge to.
She has been waiting on news from the search party all week, and they just reported they found the HYDRA bunker half an hour ago.
Hence why she cancelled her meeting and is currently pacing her office.
F.R.I.D.A.Y had informed her the moment she lost connection to Tony’s suit, and was concerned when she couldn’t provide an exact location due to a snowstorm that scrambled the GPS coordinates before she lost contact.
Pepper immediately assembled a search party and gave them the rough estimate of Tony’s location. After which she prepared a press statement regarding Tony’s missing status.
And she will also need to prepare a press conference, the contents of which depending on what the search party finds.
Pepper knows Tony is resourceful, and has survived things most people wouldn’t be able to, but this time she doesn’t have a lot of hope.
It was minus fifty-eight degrees in that area of Siberia when F.R.I.D.A.Y lost contact, and she told Pepper that Rogers destroyed his reactor.
Unless the bunker was stocked, as well as heated, she can’t see how he could survive. Especially if he is stuck in his suit, like F.R.I.D.A.Y suspects.
The thought reminds her of why he might be stuck, and Pepper seethes.
After everything Tony did for Rogers and the others,thisis how they repay him!? Tony has spent hundreds of millions in rebuilding New York after Loki, Sokovia after Ultron,(which the blamedoes notlie solely with Tony for that incident, no matter what the others say), and every single mission that caused property damage and casualties. Even cleaned up the aftermath of the S.H.E.I.L.D/HYDRA thing!
He built their gear, gave them cards to buy anything they wanted, and renovated the Tower so they could have their own floors.
And yet. And yet!
They break his ARC Reactor and leave him for dead.
Pepper should’ve worked harder to convince Tony to not join their “team”.
She should’ve done something.
Now…
Now she’s just waiting for confirmation that Tony is… That Tony is dead.
Pepper snatched her phone off the desk when it started to ring, only barely glancing at the caller I.D before she accepted it.
“This is Miss Potts speaking.”
The person on the other side takes a deep breath, andhesitates.
Pepper closes her eyes, the grief hitting full force at the implication of whythey might would hesitate.
“We, we found him, Miss Potts.”
The small crack in the man’s voice sounds as loud as thunder in the silent room.
“He passed a while ago, probably within an hour of his suit being broken. His body has been well preserved due to the cold. They are loading him up as we speak, and we’ll be on our way home shortly.”
Home.
It was probably just a slip of the tongue, but the word stabs at her heart, and a sudden ache infuses her body.
Clips of every time Tony called the Tower their “home” passed through her mind.
Pepper’s and Tony’s… And now just her’s.
She bites her lip to stifle a sob as her eyes well up, and digs crescents into her free palm with her nails.
Not until this call is over.
“Very good sir. You know where to bring him, correct? I will.. make the arrangements for his funeral. Is that all?”
The man huffs, seemingly debating on whether to say something.
“He.. has a gouge where the blue thing usually sits. It, it looks like the edge of something was forcefully bashed into it. Something round. Like.. a shield.”
He whispers the last word, a horrified note in his voice, and Pepper knows he has realized what caused the damage.
“Just bring him home, sir.” Her voice cracks on the word home, despite her best efforts.
“I will, ma’am.”
~
[Random base out in the middle of nowhere.]
Fury sighed in disappointment, wearily watching the news report. This wasn’t how he planned it to go. They were bothsupposed to make it out of there alive, even if they were still somewhat enemies after the revelation about the Starks.
Stark was not supposed to die in that bunker. He had underestimated Rogers attachment to Barnes, and Stark payed the price.
[“He was found frozen to death next to a Hydra base in Siberia. His Arc Reactor, which is reported to be the power source of the Iron Man suit, was brutally destroyed by a blunt force object, seemingly trapping Mr. Stark in the dead weight of his suit-“]
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.” Fury said, clicking the television off as he turned his chair around.
The door opened and Agent Smith stepped into the room.
“Director Fury. The president wants to talk to you regarding.. The um,” The man gestured vaguely. “The incident?”
Fury sighed heavily in response and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
He waited till the agent left the room before he bent down and pulled out a bottle of whiskey from under his desk.
Todayisgonna be a long day.
~
Nora Harten couldn’t believe her luck.
As a new Intern, Nora has never covered a press conference before. She only started at the New York Bulletin a week ago, and had only been trusted to fetch coffee before today.
So why was she here at a very important press conference?
The day before there had been a party for the retirement of one of the elder supervisors. This supervisor was apparently so popular that everyone attended their party.
Except for the brand new Intern that had only been there for a week and was not invited.
She was kinda sad at being left out at the time, but man was that lucky!
Apparently one of the main dishes at the party caused severe food poisoning, enough so that no one could move a few feet without throwing up.
So, they had no choice but to send Nora.
And now here she was, somehow sat in the front rowof her very first press conference!
The room the conference was held in is large, with floor to ceiling windows, and a beautiful chandelier.
They were seated in several rows, with some men manning cameras behind and to the sides of the chairs, all faced toward the podium.
Nora is glad she had pulled out her nice black interview suit for this, because most everyone is wearing black. Besides that one blonde lady that is.
Is her name Christine Everhart?
Nora isn’t quite sure.
She looks nice, but her outfit just doesn’t seem very… appropriate, especially since this conference is about someone’s death, but hey, she shouldn’t judge.
Maybe it was the only thing the girl had to wear?
Focus Nora.
The room is quiet, an almost uneasy quiet, and Nora isn’t sure if this is normal, or if it’s just ‘cause of the topic.
She gulps nervously when she accidentally catches the eye of one of the security guards, and shyly waves.
The man raises an eyebrow at her, and she blushes and averts her eyes.
This is so awkward.
Nora fiddles with her notebook and pen, attempting to calm her nerves by twirling her pen through her fingers like a baton.
It works well, and she starts feeling more settled, when she drops it like a moron.
The pen hits the ground and bounces twice, the sound almost thunderous in the dead silent conference room.
Nora cringes as she sees everyone turn to her, dropping her gaze and sinking into her seat as her ears turn red.
Ground, please I beg you! Open up and swallow me!
Heeled footsteps sound from the open side door, and Nora hurriedly picks up her pen when she notices the crowd is sufficiently distracted.
When she sits up, she can see the moment The Virginia Potts steps through the doorway.
Her red hair is slicked back into a tasteful bun, black pantsuit perfectly tailored, and she is adorned with simple but expensive jewelry.
Wow. She is so cool!
The woman steps onto the stage and over to the podium. She moves like she belongs in the spotlight.
“Thank you all for coming. I am Virginia Potts, CEO of Stark Industries. It is with a heavy heart that I stand before you today to announce the passing of Anthony Edward Stark, the hero known as Iron Man.”
Nora doesn’t know much about Tony Stark, she was always more interested in surviving school than in superheroes, but there is not a soul she’s met that hasn’t seen the video of him flying the nuke into the alien portal and then falling back out. The man had almost died to save New York, and that is worthy of respect from anyone, even those who don’t like him.
And now he is dead.
”He died on the twenty first of May at the age of 46. Mr. Stark had been directed to meet with a contact at a HYDRA base in Siberia by information from a currently unknown source, where he was attacked by two assailants. One of them used a blunt object to break the ARC reactor powering the Iron Man suit, trapping Anthony in approximately two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight. There was an emergency release failsafe, however it failed to trigger due to the extensive damage to the mechanics.”
So he had been led into a trap? That’s… not good. Who could have possibly done it?
“It is estimated that he was trapped between 30 and 50 minutes in -58°F before he succumbed to hypothermia.”
Nora’s eyes widened in horror, the grip on her pen loosened, and it dropped again, however she caught it with her notebook.
She let out a relieved breath, before returning to her thoughts.
That.. that’s horrible. I can’t even fathom how painful that must’ve been, both the physical pain, and the hopelessness as time dragged on and he got colder and colder until he couldn’t feel it anymore. So cold he would’ve become numb to it.
Numb to his death.
“There was no sign of the assailants when the rescue team arrived. We are doing everything in our power to bring the perpetrators to justice. Whether or not we will succeed, I cannot say.”
Nora’s heart went out for the woman when she caught the slightest waver to her voice at the end.
Weren’t they together? She had heard they had an off and on relationship, but Nora isn’t certain whether they were on or not when he died.
“A public memorial service will be held in Central Park on June 20th, where a statue of Iron Man, commissioned by the president, will be displayed in honor of Mr. Stark for his heroic service to this country.”
She makes a note to attend. Even if she’s not allowed to in a official capacity after today, due to the other reporters having recovered from the food poisoning, it isa public event.
Maybe she should purposely give them more food poisoning when the time comes? Eh, that’s probably illegal and would count as intentionally poisoning someone.
Hmm… She should research the laws on that.
“The official funeral will be a private affair carried out in accordance to the will of the deceased. In lieu of flowers, the will asks that donations be made to the Maria Stark Foundation, to aid the humanitarian and educational support Mr. Stark advocated for, even in the wake of his passing. We will provide further updates as they become available, and will not be taking questions at this time. Thank you.”
The flashes from the many cameras was blinding following the ending statement, and Nora was still blinking spots out of her vision when Miss Potts left the stage.
The room erupts into conversation the moment she leaves through the side door, and Nora cringes at the sudden volume.
They are way too loud.
She glances down at her notebook, scanning over the words before she flips the cover closed.
Even if this is the only story the New York Bulletin ever lets her publish, at least its one worth remembering.
The End | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77337016 | {"authors": ["Vheh_orar"], "language": "English", "title": "The Result of Death"} |
14,000,606
Peter was cold, so unbelievably cold.
…….eter………
Why was he cold? He used to never get cold but that all changed on that faithful field trip to Osborn. What had happened on that field trip again?
… open … Eyes …
Someone was shouting at him. Why were they shouting? Couldn’t they see that he wanted to be alone. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what he was thinking about.
…….ke up………
Oh yeah, He was cold, but that wasn’t the only thing he was feeling. Everything hurt, he was in so much pain. Especially his entire left side. What was up with that?
….iddo plea…
It was dark. Why was it dark? Oh yeah, he had his eyes closed. Why did he close them again? He should probably open them. And ask the person to stop screaming. Jesus.
….sombody he…
He couldn’t take this anymore. Someone was telling him to open his eyes. That would probably help him with his darkness problem. It should be easy, it's something you do every day without even thinking about it. He could do this. He would do this for May. So he did
….at me…
Peter opened his eyes. | 14,000,606
Peter was cold, so unbelievably cold.
…….eter………
Why was he cold? He used to never get cold but that all changed on that faithful field trip to Osborn. What had happened on that field trip again?
… open … Eyes …
Someone was shouting at him. Why were they shouting? Couldn’t they see that he wanted to be alone. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what he was thinking about.
…….ke up………
Oh yeah, He was cold, but that wasn’t the only thing he was feeling. Everything hurt, he was in so much pain. Especially his entire left side. What was up with that?
….iddo plea…
It was dark. Why was it dark? Oh yeah, he had his eyes closed. Why did he close them again? He should probably open them. And ask the person to stop screaming. Jesus.
….sombody he…
He couldn’t take this anymore. Someone was telling him to open his eyes. That would probably help him with his darkness problem. It should be easy, it's something you do every day without even thinking about it. He could do this. He would do this for May. So he did
….at me…
Peter opened his eyes. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77337686/chapters/202478606 | {"authors": ["koffie_cappuchino"], "language": "English", "title": "14,000,606"} |
A Life Lived at Court
CHAPTER 1
NOVEMBER, 1716
Chateau de Marly
The ticking sound of the mantel clock filled the silence of the salon. The dull winter daylight filtered through the heavy draperies into the room. She shifted slightly, resting her back against the settee, careful enough not to disturb the little creature curled upon her lap. Minette. She sighed internally, adjusting the dark silk shawl around her shoulders, smoothing its folds.
She found herself muttering. An upholder of propriety but not of punctuality. As her gaze moved from the glowing hearth to the frozen fountains in the courtyard, to the leafless trees, she thought, something must have delayed his journey. The road to Versailles…Her thoughts faltered as she saw her reflection in the window glass. She paused. Her eyes fell on the gold band on her ring finger. Her fingers were numb from the cold. Things were no longer the same. That time is lost. Paris. The Palais-Royal. She corrected herself.
Deeply lost in her reflections, she gently caressed Minette, barely aware of her own actions. Minette looked back at her with her wide, big eyes, as if trying to decipher her mistress’s thoughts. Then, tilting her head a little, she sprang from the lap to the intricate motifs of the woven Persian carpet before playfully rolling on the warm, soft surface.
Cecilia stirred out of her thoughts at the soft purr of the kitten. She silently observed the little creature’s movements for a while, amused by her antics, and then rose. Carefully grasping the arm of the settee for support, she felt her legs stiffen as she stood upright. Time. I used to run wild in the corridors to catch Mimi. She remembered her first little companion, her days of youth, and, of course, the ease of movement. Minette had the exact likeness of Mimi. No wonder this little stray kitten immediately became her favorite companion. A spoiled little troublemaker.
Cecilia took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Before she reached down, unable to bend her knees fully, she stretched her arms carefully, beckoning Minette to her, who, to no surprise, playfully batted her paws at the outstretched arms.
“Come here, you little devil,” she called out, amused, gathering little Minette into her arms.
She sat down on the settee, adjusting her skirts, relaxed with Minette settled in her lap. She allowed herself a little smile. “Such a lovely little companion you are, Minette.” Time had made her accustomed to solitude. This felt peaceful now. She quietly slipped Minette a tiny piece of leftover chicken from the plate nearby. “Only a little.” Seems like even my appetite has vanished these days.
“It feels like we shall be left waiting forever,” she murmured gently, feeding the unbothered cat, who purred again as if agreeing with her.
Her head snapped up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Two different footsteps. She could easily recognize one of them: Henri, the junior footman, a youth, same age as her eldest grandson. But the other… it too sounded familiar. She tried to focus. In the past I could do this so easily. It feels as though I have lost my skills as well.
But before she could recognize the owners of those footsteps, a light rap at the door, and the salon’s door opened wide. The said footman appeared, dressed in perfect uniform, looking sharp. He always looked so impeccable. He bowed his head slightly before announcing in a polite and measured tone:
“Monsieur le Duc de Saint-Simon. Madame.”
“Seems like our visitor is finally here,” she muttered to herself, putting the plate of leftover food aside as the footman moved to the side to let the Duke enter, before himself taking his leave and closing the door.
The Duke of Saint-Simon. A middle-aged man. A sharp-eyed courtier of short stature but great confidence and even greater disapproval. He bowed his head before his eyes moved to Cecilia’s hand as she wiped it on her dark velvet skirts. Ever judging. She acknowledged him by inclining her head a little. A firm little smile would do.
“Monsieur le Duc” she spoke gently, trying not to show her disapproval at the visitor’s lack of punctuality. “Forgive me. But as you can see for yourself, I can’t move at all right now. My age makes movement difficult for me, but Minette, she makes it impossible.” She gestured toward the kitten soundly sleeping in her lap.
Much to her surprise, he gave her a quiet nod. She extended her hand for him to kiss, which he accepted. He is a decorous man, but his punctuality is of a rather flexible nature. “Please make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the armchair facing opposite her. “Even the daylight feels cold today.”
“Indeed, Madame, it’s bitterly cold outside today,” he agreed in a high-pitched voice.
She looked at him, looking for any changes in his physique or body language since she had met him last. She still remembered his arrival at court more than two decades ago. He’s a curious young man. She could hear Alexandre’s opinion of him after he introduced the youth to her.
“It has been far too long, Monsieur.”
“A year to be exact,” he spoke up sharply. She couldn’t voice disagreement because he was right.
“I visited Madame d’Orléans last week.” His eyes shot up in surprise as she tried to hide her self-imposed isolation. “Saint-Cloud?” She nodded in agreement.
“You have been absent from court for so long. We barely see you in Paris. Almost isolated from everyone. Even the Regent asks about you often. He complains that while you visit his mother regularly, he himself has barely seen you in a while.”
Her eyes finally met his. I knew it, of course he would ask this. Taking a deep breath, she spoke. “This is a new reign, a new era. A new king. Things have changed so much in the last one year. Everything seems unrecognizable. I’m scared of intruding, worse...overstepping where I am no longer required to. I am not even sure of my place in this reign.”
He shook his head in disagreement. “Madame, you are a grand lady of the court. One who is still greatly admired and respected. I assure you, your presence will be greatly appreciated by everyone.”
She stayed silent, not wanting to discuss this topic anymore. What good would come out of having such a depressing conversation? But he looked at her face as if wanting her to say something, or thinking of another argument to convince her.
“How are your children these days?” she asked, clearly trying to divert his attention in another direction.
His expression changed to that of annoyance, as if finding the question not good enough to answer. “All children are a bit of a disappointment, I feel strongly. Mine are just too dull.” He sighed loudly. He even disapproves of his own children. I thought there would be some exception to his critical nature.
“I inquired about you from your elder son, and he informed me that you have not visited him and his family in Paris for a few months.” His curious eyes bored into hers.
“Monsieur, I assure you that I love all of my children very much, and my children love me too,” she answered, trying to shut down his questioning of her self-imposed isolation. “My children and my grandchildren...they all visit me often. As do I. I’m not a lonely widow, I assure you.”
“But is staying away from your loved ones and from social life a healthy way to live?”
She stared deeply into the low flames in the fireplace. “I prefer solitude. They all know that. With age, I have learned how to let go of many things.” Taking a little pause, as if remembering, she continued. “When my husband passed away, I found it very difficult to continue living without him, despite my courtly duties, family, and friends. I had to build a new life for myself as a widow, to have more reasons to live for. Here in Marly, I did it, and in that process I’ve grown more independent.”
“Your late husband was always so kind to me,” he spoke, his voice full of respect.
“How is your wife these days?” He smiled a little before answering. “She is doing well. She convinced me to visit you. I was too hesitant.”
“She is perfect for you. She holds the reins on calming you down,” Cecilia answered, her voice full of approval. It is a wonder how she puts up with you. You are too destructive for your own good.
The conversation was cut short by the arrival of the footman, who served hot chocolate in porcelain cups along with almond cake to the visitor and the host silently. After the footman left, Cecilia turned to him.
“How is the court these days?” Her voice was curious, her expression attentive.
“Nothing seems sacred these days, Madame. No respect for traditions and hierarchies. Just loud and foolish. I sometimes find myself missing Versailles, to my own surprise.” His voice was tinged with disappointment.
“I miss Versailles too every day. It is frighteningly empty now. I could not help but feel melancholic there on my last visit.”
The Palace of Versailles. The centre of political and social life for so many decades. With the change in power, the court and the government moved to Paris. It has been abandoned. Silent and damp. It is quieter now. The residence of the Sun King...a place that felt it could only exist in stories and dreams...has become a victim of neglect in this new era.
“The Regent prefers Paris. The staff has been greatly reduced. The maintenance and renovation are not being done as required. Versailles without a king feels like a lifeless body without a soul. Hopefully, once His Majesty comes of age, we can expect something to change for Versailles.”
Braggart of crimes, the late king used to call his nephew, the Regent.
Cecilia hummed in agreement, sipping what was left of the hot chocolate in her cup, gripping its handle tight. “His Majesty is a mere child. It was unexpected that the Duke of Orléans would be Regent. All we can do for him is pray for the well-being of His Majesty.”
“The suppers are just mere gossip fests, with everyone’s past and present examined in detail. The Regent actively indulges this behaviour, but still insists that he doesn’t care for it,” the Duke complained, satisfied at having someone who had lived her life in the last reign as his attentive listener.
“What’s wrong with a bit of gossip? Even His late Majesty was an avid gossiper,” she inquired curiously.
“He was,” he agreed. “His vanity could be overwhelming to many. As magnificent as he was, it was exhaustive.”
“I feel gossip is informative. It was one of the greatest commodities in Versailles,” Cecilia said, as if trying to prove her point on the importance of gossip in court life.
“Feminine gossip can be a great source of information,” he began, placing his cup on the table. “Forgive me, but I’m curious about your life and experiences at court. You were there for so long before I arrived,” he continued, as if trying not to offend her.
This is the reason for his visit. That’s why he seems hesitant today to be here. I almost thought he lost his sharp tongue...or, fortunately, his wife was successful in putting some better sense into him.
Carefully choosing her words, she replied, “If you are hoping to learn some secrets of the late king and the court, then let me assure you I know no better than anyone else. And my late husband was a loyal and discreet man. Any personal secrets or information were not shared with me.”
“Monsieur Bontemps served faithfully for such a long time. Any other man in such a position of power and intimacy would have been spoiled by it all, but not him. No one can question his discreetness.”
“I am grateful that you remember him with such kind words.” Her smile was genuine and soft on hearing his words. “I was born in His Majesty’s reign. I have lived and served most of my life. My husband passed away. Most of my contemporaries are gone, except Madame d’Orléans. Even His Majesty is gone now. I can’t help but feel like a ghost now,” she confessed.
He looked at her as if about to present another argument to convince her, but she continued speaking. “And as our views and temperaments differ, I can’t,” she said, politely trying to highlight their differences. “I can put up with disagreement, but my days of debating are beyond me now.” I would not be wasting my energy on debating my morals with you.
“I am very much aware of it. But I am willing to be an attentive listener this time,” he spoke, knowing his own habits.
“My memory is no longer as sharp as it used to be,” she argued back.
“Still sharper than most of our Regent’s advisers, respectfully,” he interjected sharply.
The crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace and the sound of the cold wind blowing outside seemed far clearer now. The ticking of the clock even louder. Cecilia became even more aware of her own breathing. He will not be giving up. Her gaze moved quietly from the expectant expression of her visitor waiting for her answer to the snow that had begun falling outside.
“I have come to terms with my own mortality. I have made my peace with the changes,” she began, her eyes meeting his. “You are such a stubborn man. You don’t even understand how scary and depressing it is for me to remember what my life used to be.” She paused, collecting herself as her voice filled with deep emotion. He remained silent, waiting for her to continue, choosing not to interrupt her this time.
“Most of the people I knew are dead. Everyone is gone, but I’m still here. That life...that world...feels like a distant dream. Versailles itself remains a fever dream.” Her voice cracked a bit as she spoke.
“Please forgive my impudence, Madame. I forgot myself. I speak of etiquette, morality, and traditions, but here I am like this with you,” he spoke, his voice full of guilt, as if he were truly sorry for his behaviour. But then he continued, “I just feel it would be better to remember and reminisce about those times.”
Cecilia shook her head in disapproval with a heavy sigh.
I cannot understand this man… I don’t think I ever will…He’s stubborn… but for once, he might be right. | A Life Lived at Court
CHAPTER 1
NOVEMBER, 1716
Chateau de Marly
The ticking sound of the mantel clock filled the silence of the salon. The dull winter daylight filtered through the heavy draperies into the room. She shifted slightly, resting her back against the settee, careful enough not to disturb the little creature curled upon her lap. Minette. She sighed internally, adjusting the dark silk shawl around her shoulders, smoothing its folds.
She found herself muttering. An upholder of propriety but not of punctuality. As her gaze moved from the glowing hearth to the frozen fountains in the courtyard, to the leafless trees, she thought, something must have delayed his journey. The road to Versailles…Her thoughts faltered as she saw her reflection in the window glass. She paused. Her eyes fell on the gold band on her ring finger. Her fingers were numb from the cold. Things were no longer the same. That time is lost. Paris. The Palais-Royal. She corrected herself.
Deeply lost in her reflections, she gently caressed Minette, barely aware of her own actions. Minette looked back at her with her wide, big eyes, as if trying to decipher her mistress’s thoughts. Then, tilting her head a little, she sprang from the lap to the intricate motifs of the woven Persian carpet before playfully rolling on the warm, soft surface.
Cecilia stirred out of her thoughts at the soft purr of the kitten. She silently observed the little creature’s movements for a while, amused by her antics, and then rose. Carefully grasping the arm of the settee for support, she felt her legs stiffen as she stood upright. Time. I used to run wild in the corridors to catch Mimi. She remembered her first little companion, her days of youth, and, of course, the ease of movement. Minette had the exact likeness of Mimi. No wonder this little stray kitten immediately became her favorite companion. A spoiled little troublemaker.
Cecilia took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Before she reached down, unable to bend her knees fully, she stretched her arms carefully, beckoning Minette to her, who, to no surprise, playfully batted her paws at the outstretched arms.
“Come here, you little devil,” she called out, amused, gathering little Minette into her arms.
She sat down on the settee, adjusting her skirts, relaxed with Minette settled in her lap. She allowed herself a little smile. “Such a lovely little companion you are, Minette.” Time had made her accustomed to solitude. This felt peaceful now. She quietly slipped Minette a tiny piece of leftover chicken from the plate nearby. “Only a little.” Seems like even my appetite has vanished these days.
“It feels like we shall be left waiting forever,” she murmured gently, feeding the unbothered cat, who purred again as if agreeing with her.
Her head snapped up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Two different footsteps. She could easily recognize one of them: Henri, the junior footman, a youth, same age as her eldest grandson. But the other… it too sounded familiar. She tried to focus. In the past I could do this so easily. It feels as though I have lost my skills as well.
But before she could recognize the owners of those footsteps, a light rap at the door, and the salon’s door opened wide. The said footman appeared, dressed in perfect uniform, looking sharp. He always looked so impeccable. He bowed his head slightly before announcing in a polite and measured tone:
“Monsieur le Duc de Saint-Simon. Madame.”
“Seems like our visitor is finally here,” she muttered to herself, putting the plate of leftover food aside as the footman moved to the side to let the Duke enter, before himself taking his leave and closing the door.
The Duke of Saint-Simon. A middle-aged man. A sharp-eyed courtier of short stature but great confidence and even greater disapproval. He bowed his head before his eyes moved to Cecilia’s hand as she wiped it on her dark velvet skirts. Ever judging. She acknowledged him by inclining her head a little. A firm little smile would do.
“Monsieur le Duc” she spoke gently, trying not to show her disapproval at the visitor’s lack of punctuality. “Forgive me. But as you can see for yourself, I can’t move at all right now. My age makes movement difficult for me, but Minette, she makes it impossible.” She gestured toward the kitten soundly sleeping in her lap.
Much to her surprise, he gave her a quiet nod. She extended her hand for him to kiss, which he accepted. He is a decorous man, but his punctuality is of a rather flexible nature. “Please make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the armchair facing opposite her. “Even the daylight feels cold today.”
“Indeed, Madame, it’s bitterly cold outside today,” he agreed in a high-pitched voice.
She looked at him, looking for any changes in his physique or body language since she had met him last. She still remembered his arrival at court more than two decades ago. He’s a curious young man. She could hear Alexandre’s opinion of him after he introduced the youth to her.
“It has been far too long, Monsieur.”
“A year to be exact,” he spoke up sharply. She couldn’t voice disagreement because he was right.
“I visited Madame d’Orléans last week.” His eyes shot up in surprise as she tried to hide her self-imposed isolation. “Saint-Cloud?” She nodded in agreement.
“You have been absent from court for so long. We barely see you in Paris. Almost isolated from everyone. Even the Regent asks about you often. He complains that while you visit his mother regularly, he himself has barely seen you in a while.”
Her eyes finally met his. I knew it, of course he would ask this. Taking a deep breath, she spoke. “This is a new reign, a new era. A new king. Things have changed so much in the last one year. Everything seems unrecognizable. I’m scared of intruding, worse...overstepping where I am no longer required to. I am not even sure of my place in this reign.”
He shook his head in disagreement. “Madame, you are a grand lady of the court. One who is still greatly admired and respected. I assure you, your presence will be greatly appreciated by everyone.”
She stayed silent, not wanting to discuss this topic anymore. What good would come out of having such a depressing conversation? But he looked at her face as if wanting her to say something, or thinking of another argument to convince her.
“How are your children these days?” she asked, clearly trying to divert his attention in another direction.
His expression changed to that of annoyance, as if finding the question not good enough to answer. “All children are a bit of a disappointment, I feel strongly. Mine are just too dull.” He sighed loudly. He even disapproves of his own children. I thought there would be some exception to his critical nature.
“I inquired about you from your elder son, and he informed me that you have not visited him and his family in Paris for a few months.” His curious eyes bored into hers.
“Monsieur, I assure you that I love all of my children very much, and my children love me too,” she answered, trying to shut down his questioning of her self-imposed isolation. “My children and my grandchildren...they all visit me often. As do I. I’m not a lonely widow, I assure you.”
“But is staying away from your loved ones and from social life a healthy way to live?”
She stared deeply into the low flames in the fireplace. “I prefer solitude. They all know that. With age, I have learned how to let go of many things.” Taking a little pause, as if remembering, she continued. “When my husband passed away, I found it very difficult to continue living without him, despite my courtly duties, family, and friends. I had to build a new life for myself as a widow, to have more reasons to live for. Here in Marly, I did it, and in that process I’ve grown more independent.”
“Your late husband was always so kind to me,” he spoke, his voice full of respect.
“How is your wife these days?” He smiled a little before answering. “She is doing well. She convinced me to visit you. I was too hesitant.”
“She is perfect for you. She holds the reins on calming you down,” Cecilia answered, her voice full of approval. It is a wonder how she puts up with you. You are too destructive for your own good.
The conversation was cut short by the arrival of the footman, who served hot chocolate in porcelain cups along with almond cake to the visitor and the host silently. After the footman left, Cecilia turned to him.
“How is the court these days?” Her voice was curious, her expression attentive.
“Nothing seems sacred these days, Madame. No respect for traditions and hierarchies. Just loud and foolish. I sometimes find myself missing Versailles, to my own surprise.” His voice was tinged with disappointment.
“I miss Versailles too every day. It is frighteningly empty now. I could not help but feel melancholic there on my last visit.”
The Palace of Versailles. The centre of political and social life for so many decades. With the change in power, the court and the government moved to Paris. It has been abandoned. Silent and damp. It is quieter now. The residence of the Sun King...a place that felt it could only exist in stories and dreams...has become a victim of neglect in this new era.
“The Regent prefers Paris. The staff has been greatly reduced. The maintenance and renovation are not being done as required. Versailles without a king feels like a lifeless body without a soul. Hopefully, once His Majesty comes of age, we can expect something to change for Versailles.”
Braggart of crimes, the late king used to call his nephew, the Regent.
Cecilia hummed in agreement, sipping what was left of the hot chocolate in her cup, gripping its handle tight. “His Majesty is a mere child. It was unexpected that the Duke of Orléans would be Regent. All we can do for him is pray for the well-being of His Majesty.”
“The suppers are just mere gossip fests, with everyone’s past and present examined in detail. The Regent actively indulges this behaviour, but still insists that he doesn’t care for it,” the Duke complained, satisfied at having someone who had lived her life in the last reign as his attentive listener.
“What’s wrong with a bit of gossip? Even His late Majesty was an avid gossiper,” she inquired curiously.
“He was,” he agreed. “His vanity could be overwhelming to many. As magnificent as he was, it was exhaustive.”
“I feel gossip is informative. It was one of the greatest commodities in Versailles,” Cecilia said, as if trying to prove her point on the importance of gossip in court life.
“Feminine gossip can be a great source of information,” he began, placing his cup on the table. “Forgive me, but I’m curious about your life and experiences at court. You were there for so long before I arrived,” he continued, as if trying not to offend her.
This is the reason for his visit. That’s why he seems hesitant today to be here. I almost thought he lost his sharp tongue...or, fortunately, his wife was successful in putting some better sense into him.
Carefully choosing her words, she replied, “If you are hoping to learn some secrets of the late king and the court, then let me assure you I know no better than anyone else. And my late husband was a loyal and discreet man. Any personal secrets or information were not shared with me.”
“Monsieur Bontemps served faithfully for such a long time. Any other man in such a position of power and intimacy would have been spoiled by it all, but not him. No one can question his discreetness.”
“I am grateful that you remember him with such kind words.” Her smile was genuine and soft on hearing his words. “I was born in His Majesty’s reign. I have lived and served most of my life. My husband passed away. Most of my contemporaries are gone, except Madame d’Orléans. Even His Majesty is gone now. I can’t help but feel like a ghost now,” she confessed.
He looked at her as if about to present another argument to convince her, but she continued speaking. “And as our views and temperaments differ, I can’t,” she said, politely trying to highlight their differences. “I can put up with disagreement, but my days of debating are beyond me now.” I would not be wasting my energy on debating my morals with you.
“I am very much aware of it. But I am willing to be an attentive listener this time,” he spoke, knowing his own habits.
“My memory is no longer as sharp as it used to be,” she argued back.
“Still sharper than most of our Regent’s advisers, respectfully,” he interjected sharply.
The crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace and the sound of the cold wind blowing outside seemed far clearer now. The ticking of the clock even louder. Cecilia became even more aware of her own breathing. He will not be giving up. Her gaze moved quietly from the expectant expression of her visitor waiting for her answer to the snow that had begun falling outside.
“I have come to terms with my own mortality. I have made my peace with the changes,” she began, her eyes meeting his. “You are such a stubborn man. You don’t even understand how scary and depressing it is for me to remember what my life used to be.” She paused, collecting herself as her voice filled with deep emotion. He remained silent, waiting for her to continue, choosing not to interrupt her this time.
“Most of the people I knew are dead. Everyone is gone, but I’m still here. That life...that world...feels like a distant dream. Versailles itself remains a fever dream.” Her voice cracked a bit as she spoke.
“Please forgive my impudence, Madame. I forgot myself. I speak of etiquette, morality, and traditions, but here I am like this with you,” he spoke, his voice full of guilt, as if he were truly sorry for his behaviour. But then he continued, “I just feel it would be better to remember and reminisce about those times.”
Cecilia shook her head in disapproval with a heavy sigh.
I cannot understand this man… I don’t think I ever will…He’s stubborn… but for once, he might be right. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77336841 | {"authors": ["VICTORIA2REGINA"], "language": "English", "title": "A Life Lived at Court"} |
Omega On The Surface, Bitch Underneath
Greg gasped, hot tears welling up quickly in his eyes as his body shook when his big brother thrusted into his pussy roughly with no care for the younger boy.
This wasnt supposed to happen, he just wanted to scare his brother while he slept and now hes getting raped and no one will want him anymore, not Holly and defiantly not anyone else now that hes useless and a defective omega.
Greg shut his eyes shut refusing to look at rodrick, his pussy betrayed him as his cunt tightened around rodricks cock, it was too much, too big, too thick. He felt broken.
Greg didn't understand why his big brother would do this...he was just trying to get revenge on rodrick for getting him in trouble their dad. Greg yelped with pain as rodrick covered gregs mouth with his hand and thrustsd in even harder, greg felt like his pussy was going to break.
Gregs tears ran down his cheeks, his pussy milking his big brothers cock. The pain was immense and greg felt no pleasure, those sex ed classes didn't teach him about this, he didn't know what to do and now hes going to be a useless good for nothing omega and people will think he's a slut, and he cant even push rodrick away, he was too big and a alpha, what could a little omega do to a alpha?
His eyes stinged and his cunt felt like it was on fire, greg shouted through rodricks hand as he felt something tear. The blood staining rodricks bed sheets and rodricks cock, his big brother didn't seem to care and chased the pleasure not caring that he was raping his little brother or that greg was bleeding. One of rodricks hand gripped gregs thigh hard as the other was still clasped on Greg's mouth.
Rodrick came in gregs cunt, before biting the small boys bare neck, gregs blood mixing in with rodricks cum. | Omega On The Surface, Bitch Underneath
Greg gasped, hot tears welling up quickly in his eyes as his body shook when his big brother thrusted into his pussy roughly with no care for the younger boy.
This wasnt supposed to happen, he just wanted to scare his brother while he slept and now hes getting raped and no one will want him anymore, not Holly and defiantly not anyone else now that hes useless and a defective omega.
Greg shut his eyes shut refusing to look at rodrick, his pussy betrayed him as his cunt tightened around rodricks cock, it was too much, too big, too thick. He felt broken.
Greg didn't understand why his big brother would do this...he was just trying to get revenge on rodrick for getting him in trouble their dad. Greg yelped with pain as rodrick covered gregs mouth with his hand and thrustsd in even harder, greg felt like his pussy was going to break.
Gregs tears ran down his cheeks, his pussy milking his big brothers cock. The pain was immense and greg felt no pleasure, those sex ed classes didn't teach him about this, he didn't know what to do and now hes going to be a useless good for nothing omega and people will think he's a slut, and he cant even push rodrick away, he was too big and a alpha, what could a little omega do to a alpha?
His eyes stinged and his cunt felt like it was on fire, greg shouted through rodricks hand as he felt something tear. The blood staining rodricks bed sheets and rodricks cock, his big brother didn't seem to care and chased the pleasure not caring that he was raping his little brother or that greg was bleeding. One of rodricks hand gripped gregs thigh hard as the other was still clasped on Greg's mouth.
Rodrick came in gregs cunt, before biting the small boys bare neck, gregs blood mixing in with rodricks cum. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77336856 | {"authors": ["Knnibrown"], "language": "English", "title": "Omega On The Surface, Bitch Underneath"} |
Maedhros: captured
Maedhros glared at the dark lord from where he had been forced to kneel in the massive throneroom. The orcs holding him down had stripped him of both armor and clothing and bound him hand and foot but he held his head high defiantly. The chill of the frozen north sunk into his bones as sharp wind whistled through high windows.
He spat on the ground at the dark lord’s feet.
Morgoth rose and towered over him, taller than any ellon. In a voice that sounded of grinding rock and icy shards, he ordered the orcs to “show him a taste of Angband’s hospitality.”
The orcs hauled Maedhros up, only to throw him bodily against the obsidian floor. It was cold as ice. A rope was tied to the bonds on the Elf’s wrists, then looped through the bonds around his ankles. His captors pulled it tight, forcing his body to arc in an agonizing position.
An orc grabbed him then by his hair and hauled him up by it. A vicious dagger was drawn. Maedhros’s eyes widened. Would they cut his throat? It would be better to die here. To die sooner than late.
Shnick!
The blade sliced through his long coppery locks and he fell hard to the floor.
Some of the orcs then removed cruel whips from their belts as they surrounded him. They began to rain down blows, covering Maedhros’s body with cuts and bruises. Others began to kick him, mocking and jeering. Hogtied as he was, he could not protect himself from any blows. His body convulsed, trying to curl in on himself, to preserve his warmth and hide from the abuse. He gritted his teeth and prayed to Eru they would lose control and kill him. The blows continued to rain down until darkness deeper than any he had yet known took him.
He woke in a filthy cell, still bound cruelly. Morgoth would not grant him the mercy of death. | Maedhros: captured
Maedhros glared at the dark lord from where he had been forced to kneel in the massive throneroom. The orcs holding him down had stripped him of both armor and clothing and bound him hand and foot but he held his head high defiantly. The chill of the frozen north sunk into his bones as sharp wind whistled through high windows.
He spat on the ground at the dark lord’s feet.
Morgoth rose and towered over him, taller than any ellon. In a voice that sounded of grinding rock and icy shards, he ordered the orcs to “show him a taste of Angband’s hospitality.”
The orcs hauled Maedhros up, only to throw him bodily against the obsidian floor. It was cold as ice. A rope was tied to the bonds on the Elf’s wrists, then looped through the bonds around his ankles. His captors pulled it tight, forcing his body to arc in an agonizing position.
An orc grabbed him then by his hair and hauled him up by it. A vicious dagger was drawn. Maedhros’s eyes widened. Would they cut his throat? It would be better to die here. To die sooner than late.
Shnick!
The blade sliced through his long coppery locks and he fell hard to the floor.
Some of the orcs then removed cruel whips from their belts as they surrounded him. They began to rain down blows, covering Maedhros’s body with cuts and bruises. Others began to kick him, mocking and jeering. Hogtied as he was, he could not protect himself from any blows. His body convulsed, trying to curl in on himself, to preserve his warmth and hide from the abuse. He gritted his teeth and prayed to Eru they would lose control and kill him. The blows continued to rain down until darkness deeper than any he had yet known took him.
He woke in a filthy cell, still bound cruelly. Morgoth would not grant him the mercy of death. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77335146 | {"authors": ["NerdyLizard5"], "language": "English", "title": "Maedhros: captured"} |
Enemy or something more?
Everyone didn't know how or when the rivalry between the two men had arisen, as they had been living in that house for quite some time, and their contact worsened every day. Whenever Alessio was painting a picture, Ted would sneak into the middle of his landscape, ruining his roommate's work and frustrating the Italian. Conversely, when Ted was relaxing or playing the guitar, Alessio would turn up the volume of his Italian music to distract the poker player and drive him crazy. What they didn't know was that their roommates were also affected by these interruptions, as every time they argued, they often disrupted each other's free time. The straw that broke the camel's back were the challenges, they no longer knew how many tests had been sabotaged by the two of them but they were tired of losing resources every week just because of their games or having some people eliminated at their expense since, according to the information they had received about the public, that duo caused intrigue in the program's audience, they wanted to see more of their plays and see what could cause that rivalry. Because of this, their housemates avoided getting together with them except for several people and that kept them distracted because they were not aware of what they were doing regarding coexistence, they only cared about bothering and annoying each other.
Another Friday had begun, and those left in the house knew what it meant. Another day of bickering, another day of losing resources just because of two adults with a teenage rivalry, and another day in which Ted was planning the biggest sabotage he'd ever committed. He also wanted to get more resources for his team after losing so many last week. Alessio, on the other hand, was calm and relaxed. He was even trying to paint a picture. He felt at peace after hitting the jackpot last week, and he knew his dear teammate was preparing revenge, but he wanted to relax for the rest of the day. The dark-skinned man continued his painting without looking, letting his hand dominate the brush and letting the brushstrokes speak for themselves. Each trace of paint was soft and delicate, yet full of determination and resolve. The colors used were a contrast between cool and warm tones, seeking harmony between the two. Once the painting was finished, Alessio saw how the brushstrokes danced with each other. There were strokes where the cool tones sought to dominate the warm tones, other brushstrokes where it was the other way around, and finally, the center of the painting was about the fusion of both, how they blurred together, creating a harmony between them. The Italian was aware that his art often spoke about himself and knew that those brushstrokes were trying to speak, to express a feeling he had been silencing for days. He swallowed hard; his heart knew what the painting before him was about, but his mind refused to accept that truth. He knew that those strokes captured on the canvas wanted to tell him a truth he refused to accept. They were telling him a story that was living in his bones, but the raw rivalry refused to accept any other feeling than competitiveness and pride.
Alessio sighed and covered the painting, trying to forget what he had painted. He knew full well that his thoughts could cloud his judgment, and he also knew the actions the other was taking against him. Although the Italian didn't want to accept it, Ted always showed him that he wanted his attention, that he enjoyed watching him lose in the tests, and that made Alessio's heart flutter and fill him with rage, which he later expressed in his creative revenge. They both knew they were affecting the others' lives, but they only cared that the other saw them, that the other focused their attention on him and vice versa. It might sound selfish, but they cared little; these were two people whose lips couldn't express words or sentences indicating what each of them felt inside for the other.
After his brief reflection, he got up, grabbing the painting to hide it somewhere in his room, along with all the crafts he had made for the owner of his thoughts, but which he would never discover. Once everything was covered, he headed anywhere but there. He wanted to clear his head and concentrate on the test he would have to complete shortly. Although he thought no one had seen him, two women were talking behind some trees in the courtyard, where the European had previously been painting.
"I don't understand anything between these two." A woman with mid-length blonde hair and greenish eyes sat with her legs crossed on the grass, hiding her head behind the tree behind her.
"It's clear what's going on here, Lynda." The second woman, with pink hair and dark skin, watched expectantly as her companion headed toward the interior of the house.
"What do you think is going on? I've only seen the Italian make a painting that could have been done by a six-year-old." Lynda answered without hesitation; she had no shame in criticizing the work of others.
The other day we saw Ted looking at a poker deck with an artistic design, it looked like a collector's item. Today we saw Alessio create something similar to the design on one of the cards in that deck. There's more than just a rivalry going on here, I can sense it. He clasped his hands together, gently rubbing them together, but his gaze was sharp.
"I hope you're not planning anything, Natalia. I don't want to get involved in whatever it is these two have going on. We depend on the audience, and it's clear they like Ted and Alessio's rivalry. I think we should focus on winning and not letting those two bother us. I'm not going to let myself be defeated by two adults behaving like children." Lynda was serious; she didn't care much about the other players; she cared about winning and making good plays.
"Oh, Lynda, just think if we figure out what's wrong with them, it'll be easier to win the tests, especially if we make the audience care less about what they do or don't do." The brunette had a point; they could have eliminated both of them from the competition.
With that in mind, Natalia and Lynda looked at each other, nodding their heads in unspoken agreement. They left their hiding place and, careful not to be seen, went their separate ways to meet up with the two men in question.
In Lynda's case, finding Ted was easy. He was always at a table trying to teach Logan and Richard how to play poker, but both were somewhat reluctant to play. The woman seized the opportunity to join the game. She wasn't bad at games, although she didn't like the betting aspect. It wasn't as if they had enough money to lose or win anything of value. The poker expert didn't object to Lynda's presence; he wasn't keen on doing activities with her in his free time, but he didn't complain about her presence either. After dealing the cards, Ted began to explain the dynamics of the game again, hoping that this time the two men would remember the rules and how the game worked. Since that didn't happen, the game ended sooner rather than later, leaving only the game creator and the blonde-haired woman in the room. Ted was muttering some swear words under his breath, probably complaining about how poorly his companions were playing. Lynda sat back and realized it was her time to flirt with the poker player.
"I heard Alessio has a new plan to sabotage your test today..." She said with a disdainful air, pretending her didn't care about the subject.
"What? Are you trying to pull a fast one on me today? I thought it would be my turn to answer for what you did last week." Annoyed, he put away his deck in disarray, something that never happened to him.
"You're so dramatic. What happened last week wasn't that bad." The woman complained as she picked up the letters that had fallen to the floor.
"Wasn't it that bad!? He humiliated me by putting a centipede in my clothes during the balance test. I'm sure there are tons of videos of me "dancing" around in a centipede in my pants."
Lynda couldn't suppress a small laugh. The truth is, Alessio's revenge was always quite creative, doing justice to his talent as an artist. However, these revenges made the mustachioed man's blood boil and made him perform at his best in every event. Both of them had even come out badly on a few occasions, even sustaining the odd injury or wounded pride. That's why Ted was annoyed by Lynda's laughter and her previous comment. He didn't like it when people messed with his pride, and he was one of those winning men, one for whom losing isn't part of his vocabulary. On the other hand, he liked having a rival as good as the Italian. Gordon secretly admired his opponent's techniques. He would never admit it, but he loves to search for and create plans to sabotage him, to see how he could ruin his events because he knew that the more extravagant or elaborate the sabotage, the more surprised the man with the small glasses would be and the more satisfied Ted would feel. He would always deny this but he paid close attention to Alessio's reactions to his failed tests, how he would frown, his brown orbs searching the gaze of the perpetrator, his gaze burning but full of respect for the work... Simply put, he looked very attractive in the eyes of the American although his reverie was interrupted by an older woman who stood in front of him moving her hand up and down. Ted came back to his senses observing Lynda who was intrigued to know what her partner was thinking although she received no answer to her intrigue because the poker player chose to go somewhere in the house trying to get rid of the older blonde before she noticed the small blush that Gordon had adorning his cheeks after remembering Alessio's laughter or the grimaces he made when he was indignant. Yes, he noticed him more than he'd like to avoid, but it was inevitable. He was like a magnet to him. He felt that looking at him was the same emotion as when he was dealt aces in a poker game or when he won after fighting for victory. Ted didn't notice men beyond their capabilities for certain skills like mental agility or the strategies they could execute, but with the Italian it was different. It was as if he were his equal, his ace in the pair, and at the same time they seemed to be like water and oil, like salt and sand, completely different.
Both men would often sigh secretly, thinking about each other. One didn't doubt what he felt, while the other refused to accept reality. He preferred to hide in the manliness of the moment and his actions rather than letting himself go, or perhaps even thinking about continuing something when it was all over. Even so, the two women closest to them were beginning to realize the ulterior motives of the thwarted trials. They weren't simple exploits to annoy them; they were wake-up calls. One day, like any other at the beginning of the program, they started a small argument, one that left a bittersweet feeling in their mouths, a sensation they both liked. From then on, they wanted more of that feeling; they wanted to know how far they could go, what they could discover about themselves. They both wanted to experience those sensations they'd never had before, and, as the days passed, they were taking it to the extreme. That bittersweet taste in their mouths began to turn into a sensation that was starting to tire them out. They only wanted to feel the sweet part of everything they had experienced. They wanted to be able to put aside the calls for attention and enjoy the sweetness of the moment, but neither of them thought the other was even remotely interested in the other. Alessio never thought anyone could notice him; he always thought he was too eloquent for anyone to understand that personality, so he refused to love despite wanting to live his own love story and capture the feeling in his works. On the other hand, Ted did think that everyone could love him, that there was no one who couldn't notice him, but when it comes to reciprocated love, things change. He never thought that someone he loved could reciprocate his love. He hadn't had much luck with his previous relationships because they didn't trust a poker player, no matter how good they were at the game.
After the situations of both men, neither of them accepted reality, they preferred to live in denial of the moment and continue with the disputes they had, it was the only thing left for them to remain clinging to the idea that they would not separate until the public wanted it.
Isolated from the others, Alessio had used the excuse that inspiration had come to him to go and reflect and sigh, thinking about his beloved. He liked to enjoy his free time to pursue artistic activities, but after completing the painting, he was afraid to pick up a paintbrush in case he got carried away by his feelings again and ended up creating a more obvious painting about his feelings. He was wandering around the grounds, enjoying the architecture of the house.
"Someday, Alessio. Someday." He sighed as he tried to relax before the announcement of Friday's test.
"One day, what will happen?" Natalia appeared next to Alessio, scaring the brown-haired boy.
"Natalia!? Are you ready to scare me to death today?" When Alessio got upset, his Italian accent became more pronounced than usual.
"Oh, I just want to make sure you're okay, that's all." She was trying to hide his true motives for being there.
"Why would it be wrong?" He tried to make excuses.
"You've literally distanced yourself from everyone to be alone, sighing sadly. Honey, you can fool others, but not me. I know something's wrong with you. Don't worry, you can trust me." The pink-haired girl always tried to appear friendly. She liked it when people trusted her and being able to help others, especially if it was someone she cared about or cared about.
"I'm fine, I'm just…Triste per | Enemy or something more?
Everyone didn't know how or when the rivalry between the two men had arisen, as they had been living in that house for quite some time, and their contact worsened every day. Whenever Alessio was painting a picture, Ted would sneak into the middle of his landscape, ruining his roommate's work and frustrating the Italian. Conversely, when Ted was relaxing or playing the guitar, Alessio would turn up the volume of his Italian music to distract the poker player and drive him crazy. What they didn't know was that their roommates were also affected by these interruptions, as every time they argued, they often disrupted each other's free time. The straw that broke the camel's back were the challenges, they no longer knew how many tests had been sabotaged by the two of them but they were tired of losing resources every week just because of their games or having some people eliminated at their expense since, according to the information they had received about the public, that duo caused intrigue in the program's audience, they wanted to see more of their plays and see what could cause that rivalry. Because of this, their housemates avoided getting together with them except for several people and that kept them distracted because they were not aware of what they were doing regarding coexistence, they only cared about bothering and annoying each other.
Another Friday had begun, and those left in the house knew what it meant. Another day of bickering, another day of losing resources just because of two adults with a teenage rivalry, and another day in which Ted was planning the biggest sabotage he'd ever committed. He also wanted to get more resources for his team after losing so many last week. Alessio, on the other hand, was calm and relaxed. He was even trying to paint a picture. He felt at peace after hitting the jackpot last week, and he knew his dear teammate was preparing revenge, but he wanted to relax for the rest of the day. The dark-skinned man continued his painting without looking, letting his hand dominate the brush and letting the brushstrokes speak for themselves. Each trace of paint was soft and delicate, yet full of determination and resolve. The colors used were a contrast between cool and warm tones, seeking harmony between the two. Once the painting was finished, Alessio saw how the brushstrokes danced with each other. There were strokes where the cool tones sought to dominate the warm tones, other brushstrokes where it was the other way around, and finally, the center of the painting was about the fusion of both, how they blurred together, creating a harmony between them. The Italian was aware that his art often spoke about himself and knew that those brushstrokes were trying to speak, to express a feeling he had been silencing for days. He swallowed hard; his heart knew what the painting before him was about, but his mind refused to accept that truth. He knew that those strokes captured on the canvas wanted to tell him a truth he refused to accept. They were telling him a story that was living in his bones, but the raw rivalry refused to accept any other feeling than competitiveness and pride.
Alessio sighed and covered the painting, trying to forget what he had painted. He knew full well that his thoughts could cloud his judgment, and he also knew the actions the other was taking against him. Although the Italian didn't want to accept it, Ted always showed him that he wanted his attention, that he enjoyed watching him lose in the tests, and that made Alessio's heart flutter and fill him with rage, which he later expressed in his creative revenge. They both knew they were affecting the others' lives, but they only cared that the other saw them, that the other focused their attention on him and vice versa. It might sound selfish, but they cared little; these were two people whose lips couldn't express words or sentences indicating what each of them felt inside for the other.
After his brief reflection, he got up, grabbing the painting to hide it somewhere in his room, along with all the crafts he had made for the owner of his thoughts, but which he would never discover. Once everything was covered, he headed anywhere but there. He wanted to clear his head and concentrate on the test he would have to complete shortly. Although he thought no one had seen him, two women were talking behind some trees in the courtyard, where the European had previously been painting.
"I don't understand anything between these two." A woman with mid-length blonde hair and greenish eyes sat with her legs crossed on the grass, hiding her head behind the tree behind her.
"It's clear what's going on here, Lynda." The second woman, with pink hair and dark skin, watched expectantly as her companion headed toward the interior of the house.
"What do you think is going on? I've only seen the Italian make a painting that could have been done by a six-year-old." Lynda answered without hesitation; she had no shame in criticizing the work of others.
The other day we saw Ted looking at a poker deck with an artistic design, it looked like a collector's item. Today we saw Alessio create something similar to the design on one of the cards in that deck. There's more than just a rivalry going on here, I can sense it. He clasped his hands together, gently rubbing them together, but his gaze was sharp.
"I hope you're not planning anything, Natalia. I don't want to get involved in whatever it is these two have going on. We depend on the audience, and it's clear they like Ted and Alessio's rivalry. I think we should focus on winning and not letting those two bother us. I'm not going to let myself be defeated by two adults behaving like children." Lynda was serious; she didn't care much about the other players; she cared about winning and making good plays.
"Oh, Lynda, just think if we figure out what's wrong with them, it'll be easier to win the tests, especially if we make the audience care less about what they do or don't do." The brunette had a point; they could have eliminated both of them from the competition.
With that in mind, Natalia and Lynda looked at each other, nodding their heads in unspoken agreement. They left their hiding place and, careful not to be seen, went their separate ways to meet up with the two men in question.
In Lynda's case, finding Ted was easy. He was always at a table trying to teach Logan and Richard how to play poker, but both were somewhat reluctant to play. The woman seized the opportunity to join the game. She wasn't bad at games, although she didn't like the betting aspect. It wasn't as if they had enough money to lose or win anything of value. The poker expert didn't object to Lynda's presence; he wasn't keen on doing activities with her in his free time, but he didn't complain about her presence either. After dealing the cards, Ted began to explain the dynamics of the game again, hoping that this time the two men would remember the rules and how the game worked. Since that didn't happen, the game ended sooner rather than later, leaving only the game creator and the blonde-haired woman in the room. Ted was muttering some swear words under his breath, probably complaining about how poorly his companions were playing. Lynda sat back and realized it was her time to flirt with the poker player.
"I heard Alessio has a new plan to sabotage your test today..." She said with a disdainful air, pretending her didn't care about the subject.
"What? Are you trying to pull a fast one on me today? I thought it would be my turn to answer for what you did last week." Annoyed, he put away his deck in disarray, something that never happened to him.
"You're so dramatic. What happened last week wasn't that bad." The woman complained as she picked up the letters that had fallen to the floor.
"Wasn't it that bad!? He humiliated me by putting a centipede in my clothes during the balance test. I'm sure there are tons of videos of me "dancing" around in a centipede in my pants."
Lynda couldn't suppress a small laugh. The truth is, Alessio's revenge was always quite creative, doing justice to his talent as an artist. However, these revenges made the mustachioed man's blood boil and made him perform at his best in every event. Both of them had even come out badly on a few occasions, even sustaining the odd injury or wounded pride. That's why Ted was annoyed by Lynda's laughter and her previous comment. He didn't like it when people messed with his pride, and he was one of those winning men, one for whom losing isn't part of his vocabulary. On the other hand, he liked having a rival as good as the Italian. Gordon secretly admired his opponent's techniques. He would never admit it, but he loves to search for and create plans to sabotage him, to see how he could ruin his events because he knew that the more extravagant or elaborate the sabotage, the more surprised the man with the small glasses would be and the more satisfied Ted would feel. He would always deny this but he paid close attention to Alessio's reactions to his failed tests, how he would frown, his brown orbs searching the gaze of the perpetrator, his gaze burning but full of respect for the work... Simply put, he looked very attractive in the eyes of the American although his reverie was interrupted by an older woman who stood in front of him moving her hand up and down. Ted came back to his senses observing Lynda who was intrigued to know what her partner was thinking although she received no answer to her intrigue because the poker player chose to go somewhere in the house trying to get rid of the older blonde before she noticed the small blush that Gordon had adorning his cheeks after remembering Alessio's laughter or the grimaces he made when he was indignant. Yes, he noticed him more than he'd like to avoid, but it was inevitable. He was like a magnet to him. He felt that looking at him was the same emotion as when he was dealt aces in a poker game or when he won after fighting for victory. Ted didn't notice men beyond their capabilities for certain skills like mental agility or the strategies they could execute, but with the Italian it was different. It was as if he were his equal, his ace in the pair, and at the same time they seemed to be like water and oil, like salt and sand, completely different.
Both men would often sigh secretly, thinking about each other. One didn't doubt what he felt, while the other refused to accept reality. He preferred to hide in the manliness of the moment and his actions rather than letting himself go, or perhaps even thinking about continuing something when it was all over. Even so, the two women closest to them were beginning to realize the ulterior motives of the thwarted trials. They weren't simple exploits to annoy them; they were wake-up calls. One day, like any other at the beginning of the program, they started a small argument, one that left a bittersweet feeling in their mouths, a sensation they both liked. From then on, they wanted more of that feeling; they wanted to know how far they could go, what they could discover about themselves. They both wanted to experience those sensations they'd never had before, and, as the days passed, they were taking it to the extreme. That bittersweet taste in their mouths began to turn into a sensation that was starting to tire them out. They only wanted to feel the sweet part of everything they had experienced. They wanted to be able to put aside the calls for attention and enjoy the sweetness of the moment, but neither of them thought the other was even remotely interested in the other. Alessio never thought anyone could notice him; he always thought he was too eloquent for anyone to understand that personality, so he refused to love despite wanting to live his own love story and capture the feeling in his works. On the other hand, Ted did think that everyone could love him, that there was no one who couldn't notice him, but when it comes to reciprocated love, things change. He never thought that someone he loved could reciprocate his love. He hadn't had much luck with his previous relationships because they didn't trust a poker player, no matter how good they were at the game.
After the situations of both men, neither of them accepted reality, they preferred to live in denial of the moment and continue with the disputes they had, it was the only thing left for them to remain clinging to the idea that they would not separate until the public wanted it.
Isolated from the others, Alessio had used the excuse that inspiration had come to him to go and reflect and sigh, thinking about his beloved. He liked to enjoy his free time to pursue artistic activities, but after completing the painting, he was afraid to pick up a paintbrush in case he got carried away by his feelings again and ended up creating a more obvious painting about his feelings. He was wandering around the grounds, enjoying the architecture of the house.
"Someday, Alessio. Someday." He sighed as he tried to relax before the announcement of Friday's test.
"One day, what will happen?" Natalia appeared next to Alessio, scaring the brown-haired boy.
"Natalia!? Are you ready to scare me to death today?" When Alessio got upset, his Italian accent became more pronounced than usual.
"Oh, I just want to make sure you're okay, that's all." She was trying to hide his true motives for being there.
"Why would it be wrong?" He tried to make excuses.
"You've literally distanced yourself from everyone to be alone, sighing sadly. Honey, you can fool others, but not me. I know something's wrong with you. Don't worry, you can trust me." The pink-haired girl always tried to appear friendly. She liked it when people trusted her and being able to help others, especially if it was someone she cared about or cared about.
"I'm fine, I'm just…Triste per amore." He wasn't ashamed to admit it if he said it in his native language, where everything sounded slightly more romantic.
"I'm guessing you're trying to say you're lovesick, so... Tell me, who's the lucky one, and why is it Ted Gordon?" A mischievous smile spread across her lips; her theory was correct.
"Well, it's about Te- How did you know? Didn't mia madre teach me to hide i miei sentimenti?" He loved speaking in Italian to dramatize his sentences at these moments, he felt that this way he could take the weight off the matter.
“Don’t believe it, it took me a while to see through your intentions. At first, I thought you did hate Mr. Poker, but seeing how you’ve progressed, I started to think that maybe you were just getting his attention, and I guessed right?” She smiled victoriously, placing her hand on the dark-haired man’s shoulder. “I know Italians are very romantic, but if you need help, you can ask me.”
Alessio didn't answer; he was absorbed in his thoughts due to the fact that someone had been able to sense him and know his intentions with the mustachioed American. Nervousness and fear invaded his body, along with thousands of thoughts he didn't want to accept until that moment. He wondered if anyone else had noticed, if he had noticed, or if everything he was doing was too childish. However, remembering some facts he knew about Ted, he began to relax, knowing that it was very difficult for him to have realized the truth behind his actions. It wasn't that he was insulting him or calling him not very smart, but rather that Ted didn't usually notice what others did unless it benefited him, and in this case, romantic feelings went largely unnoticed. He had never heard the two of them talk about love; rather, he had heard him complain about it or speak ill of couples in love. For Alessio, Ted Gordon was not synonymous with romance. What he didn't know was that Gordon didn't have much experience in love because he wasn't a man who could easily trust others. The game had taught him that, so he didn't know much about love. In fact, he had a hard time trusting people in general, and that had been evident throughout the game. Alessio sighed again and looked at the Puerto Rican girl longingly.
"Il mio amore It's not reciprocated, I don't think you can do anything, and I don't want you to try either. I'm fine with the rivalry we have right now." He wanted to excuse himself, but her eyes expressed pure love, the longing to be reciprocated, the passion to live a love story on par with the greatest in Italy.
"You don't know if it's reciprocated or not, you haven't tried to say anything or make a truce. Look, I think you should do something as soon as possible, we don't know how long we'll be here and then you'll regret it if you can't say it when you have the chance. You have my full support." He placed his hand on her shoulder and said goodbye with a tender smile.
Alessio just nodded in gratitude. It's true that the Italian didn't get along with many people in the group, but he was grateful to have someone like Natalia in his life. Now, he felt a strong determination to clearly express what he felt, as if it were a work of art. He wanted to be able to paint his own canvas without complications, without fear, letting the colors flow and the story of the painting create itself. He didn't care if there were more dark tones than light ones; he knew he could find light even in the darkest tone. With that determination in mind, he prepared for the day's challenge, which was similar to another they had done previously.
After a while, all the house residents were called for the weekly test, and in this case, it wasn't very complicated at first glance. An obstacle course lay before them. They had several hurdles to jump over, thin wires to walk over, physical endurance tests... It was an exhausting course for many upon seeing it, and they knew they would fail as soon as they reached the third level of the circuit, but they didn't count on one thing. All the obstacles featured a couple of the sabotage schemes that both players, famous for their exploits in the tests, had devised. After hearing various conversations about sabotage plans, they had come true, but without either man taking any action. The objective of the test was simple: finish the circuit by taking turns. The last person on the circuit had to obtain an object from someone in the group and break it in order to win. Evidently, this was rigged so that the objects broken weren't real, or they knew they would end up being lynched by a player if they put in the real objects, although, unfortunately for them, there was a real object.
They split into two large groups, leaving the mustachioed American in one group and the Italian in the other so they wouldn't kill each other with sabotage, but what no one knew was that one of them had already sabotaged the test. At the end of Ted's team's route, there was a rectangular figure covered by a thin shawl, and in Alessio's team, there was a small object on a table that couldn't be seen from so far away.
Once organized, the race began with Alessio's team ahead, waiting at the end of the course. In the first obstacle, Lynda and Natalia had to jump or go under several hurdles until they reached their teammates, Richard and Logan. Despite Logan's physical advantage, Richard had better balance on the rope, having trained in his free time in case there were more events like the one they were taking.
The tour continued without a hitch until it was time to face the show's two best saboteurs. Some of their teammates had been injured during the tests, nothing serious, obviously, but some would have a large bruise the next day or perhaps muscle aches from physical exertion. The important thing was that they were about to begin the race to reach the objects they had left in the location so they could break it. Ted was the first to arrive, making Alessio stumble and lose his balance, causing him to kneel with one leg on the ground, losing his advantage. Upon reaching the object, he didn't hesitate to remove the rectangular cover, revealing it and leaving the Italian speechless, knowing his work had been stolen. As an artist, he felt flattered; he felt his work was worthy of being stolen by someone, but on the other hand, his heart sank when he knew what was coming next. Seeking the gaze of his teammates, Alessio met the gaze of the organizers and understood, from their expressions, that the painting had not been placed there on purpose; it was a real theft and a genuine exchange. Distressed, he turned to look at the brown-haired man and swallowed hard, as his opponent's expression conveyed nothing that could have pleased the Italian. There was no happiness, no emotion, only a look of pure revenge, hatred, and satisfaction. Without any shame, he took the painting in his hands and, raising his knee, remained in that position.
"I've decided that with this last gesture, this whole game between us is over. I can't take it anymore." Without warning, he quickly brought the painting closer to his leg.
"No! Wait!" Despite Alessio's shout, it was too late.
The sound of the wooden frame breaking and the canvas tearing made Alessio's world fall silent. He had never before witnessed with his own eyes someone destroy a work of his own making, in this case, made for the man whose hands had destroyed it. The Italian's heart ached; something inside him had snapped at the sight of the shattered painting on the floor, and he clenched his fists, ready to fight. His decision to confess faded after this reaction, giving way to anger as he stood up and looked into the eyes of the man whose heart was at war with whether to continue loving him or not.
"Che diavolo ti prende!? Are you stupid or did you fall at birth!?" Annoyed, he quickly approached the man with the mustache.
"Come on, Alessio, this is the game we have, isn't it? I just wanted to finish it, I'm tired of it." He tried to excuse himself by making light of the matter.
"Game? Game!? As far as I know, I haven't broken anything of yours." He took off the glasses he always wore so they could look each other in the eyes better.
"You were probably about to do it. There seems to be a poker table on your side, so you would have had to break a deck or something. Don't tell me you wouldn't have done it." He pointed at the table as he spoke, hoping he was right.
"I wouldn't have done it stupido"I value your things so much because I value you." He admitted without any shame, letting himself be carried away by the moment.
"You're probably blackmailing me to make me feel bad, very clever Alessio, I admit it." He was starting to get nervous, he felt everyone's gaze watching them and he looked away at the painting.
"Blackmail? Do you really think this is blackmail? Do you think my art is a merda? Art that deserves to be on the floor?" He felt a pang in his heart as he asked those questions.
"What? You're exaggerating, it's just another of your paintings. Paint another one and that's it-
"That's not just any painting! That painting reflected my feelings!" His voice trailed off as he spoke, and he tried to keep her gaze fixed on the other man's brown eyes.
"Feelings about what? Look, I don't really understand artists, but I feel like you're exaggerating... As always." He looked at him firmly, but inside, he was starting to feel sick.
"Exaggerated!? You've broken the work I made with all my heart!"
"But why is it so important to you!?" Ted couldn't stand the firmness any longer.
"Because it was about my feelings for someone, stupido!" He admitted, raising his voice in the face of the eldest of the two.
"Oh yeah? Are you in love? And with whom? With Juliet?" Despite not knowing which area Alessio was from, Ted didn't miss the opportunity to make a joke about the famous Verona story.
"Juliet!? Is her last name Gordon? No, right!?" The question left his lips faster than Alessio would have liked.
"Did you say Gordon? But... That's my last name..." He was stunned by such a revelation that he could only stare into the eyes of the dark-skinned man.
"Yes! Merda Ted, you're missing the point! The blood was beginning to rush to his head, pooling in his cheeks.
"Well, explain it to me, don't just yell at me in Italian!" Agitated, he bowed his head and leaned closer to the Italian.
"I'm in love with you stupido! He approached equally, being just a few centimeters away from the other.
"Oh, really? If you love me so much, explain to me why you've done everything you've done!" Ted didn't want to accept what was happening, but on the other hand, he had a small hope that it was all true.
"Well, to get your attention, I've been doing it all this time, but it seems you haven't really noticed!" His cheeks burned, he didn't know if it was from anger or from the embarrassment
he was beginning to feel.
"That's what I've been doing all along!" Now Ted felt like he was in a competition.
"What? I've been doing everything to get your attention!" He moved closer to the other side.
"No, no, no! That's what I did!" He leaned closer.
"Oh my God, stai zitto idiota!" Driven by adrenaline, he grabbed his face firmly and closed the distance, joining their lips in a firm kiss.
Ted didn't know how to react; his heart was racing, his pulse as fast as if he'd just run a marathon. His face turned slightly red, and it took him a while to process what was happening, so long that Alessio had already cut off contact. Ted searched his opponent's gaze, hoping to find some kind of confirmation that what had happened was real, that it had actually happened. Alessio was slightly disappointed; he had hoped the kiss would be reciprocated, but after a few seconds, he saw that Ted wasn't showing any kind of reaction; he just stood there, motionless. The disappointment grew more and more, to the point that a sigh escaped his lips and he muttered a few inaudible things. Slowly, he turned around, ready to leave the place; he'd made enough of a fool of himself, but before he could reach his group, he felt a hand grab his arm and turn him around. In the blink of an eye, their lips were back in contact with each other, and the quality of the kiss flooded her body. Ted's lips were rough and dry, but they had a certain freshness, the equivalent of having chewed mint gum moments before; in contrast, Alessio's lips were soft and moisturized. It was clear he took care of his face, because not only did his lips have a sweet and soft taste, but his face also had a light scent. They stayed together, enjoying each time their lips touched, creating a magical moment. Both of them let themselves be carried away by their emotions, making the kiss deeper and deeper, but without losing the romantic aspect.
"Long live the bride and groom!" A voice was suddenly heard along with several claps.
"You're finally getting it!" Spencer couldn't help but give his opinion on what was happening; he was one of the first to be tired of the whole game they were playing.
Alessio and Ted laughed in the middle of the kiss, forced to separate, yet they didn't break contact, looking into each other's eyes and laughing. They both felt a little stupid for thinking differently about each other when they both felt the same way at the same time. With each passing day, they felt more for each other, and their revenge grew stronger because, deep down, they both wanted to start that revolt.
After a while, Ted revealed that it had all been a plan with Lynda's help. They had switched the real painting for a fake one, leaving the real one where its creator had originally left it. At this revelation, Alessio felt joy and happiness rush through him, so much so that he threw himself into his beloved's arms and kissed his lips several times in small kisses.
Despite the passing of time, they still found it hard to believe what had happened. In fact, Ted occasionally asked Alessio if it was all true, if it was true that they were together, something the Italian found both endearing and stressful. Even though they were a couple, they still played little jokes on each other, and instead of sabotaging each other's trials, they helped each other out to gain benefits. The other players didn't know if the change was better or worse, since they were now more unbearable, but they found it more pleasant to put up with them as a couple than as enemies eager to kill each other. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77340046 | {"authors": ["Ninu_BK", "TheNightKnight"], "language": "English", "title": "Enemy or something more?"} |
The Bitter Gift Of Ogygia
Laying on the ground, I feel the waves underneath the planks crash against the wooden boat. I struggle against the ropes against my wrists and ankles, my cheek pushed against the deck's floorboards as I watch Eurymachus struggle against a few of the sailors untying him from the mast I was wrapped against prior. I rolls my eyes and a scoff leaves my mouth, but then a kick gets me in the abdomen - causing me to cough out a pained grunt.
I glare intensly at the man who kicked me, paying close attention to my body. There is no point in fighting back anyways - Odysseus already won, and i'd rather be sent to exile than dying infront of my father. But if he does something stupid thanks to this, he better not get himself killed. Or i'll kill him, again when I meet him down below in Hades.
Moving away from the thoughts of my father - I look back at Eurymachus, who is physically as pissed off as I feel inside. Clearly he hasn't given up his fight, I thought that i'd be the last one to do that - but he clearly is just dumb to not acknowledge that. Unless... I try to hold back a smirk, it's clear now. It isn't stupidity, he has a plan. He definitely does. He did when we teamed up as suitors, and it was a good plan. That's my buddy up there, i just need to help him out.
Before i even struggle again, i'm lifted up by the rope and shoved forwards. "Watch it!" I hiss out, before the back of my knees are kicked in and I bend forwards - collapsing onto wet sand. Quickly after, Eurymachus falls with me. We turn on our backs as we watch them begin to sail off, waving us off with a dismissive gesture. I spit out in anger, and try to fight against the tight ropes.
"Stay still!-" Eurymachus scoffs, scooting up to me. Then his hands come free from behind him, a dagger in hand. I stop struggling as I see it, quickly turning over so he can cut me out. I hear the rope struggle now against the roughed out metal, but no friction. I try to look over and I see he is already walking off. "Malaka! Don't forget me!" He only cut himself out and already started walking away!
He spins the dagger, looking back at me hogtied on the ground. He smirks at me, making me remember how irritating he used to get when I showed vulnerability. "Forget you? No, never." He walks closer and crouches infront of me. "You think I would ever do that?" He cocks his head at me, and so in return I spit out at him. "Yeah, you would. Now get me out of these before I strangle you!"
He snorts, still delaying it. "Strangle me, how?" And I begin to try bite him, causing him to jump back slightly. "Wow, fiesty aren't you?" Yet finally he begins to cut me free, so right as I see him lowed his ground I tackle him down into a lock - arm around his neck as I press down on him. He grunts, hitting the ground besides us. The sand shoots up like ashes from a volcanoe.
As he groans against my advances as I cackle, I pause as I see an eagle fly ahead - making me let go and stand up. "Could've helped me up, Malaka!" Eurymachus scoffs, yet doesn't expect a response as he rolls his shoulder back as we both stare at the lush forest ahead of us. I look over at Eurymachus as he looks back at me, before looking back once more. A silent agreement to start heading into the foliage.
As we enter, all that lingers on my mind is Odysseus. Odysseus staring at me with a disgusted gaze, so differently from when he fed me by his own hands when I was a child. He pointed at me, and instead of declairing my death - he merely ordered me to be tied up and thrown on deck. I surely thought he was chosing me to meet Hades, unless this is worst than what awaits me in the Underworld.
I felt pathetic when I was manhandled like that, made me want to bite those sailors fingers off. Or atleast, the ones who had them. Bet then they'd of backed off, or atleast only tied my wrists. Yet again, they would've tied my mouth shut with rope at a flick of the wrist: servants of Odysseus are more devoted to him than any other king's servant even in his lengthy absence. It's infuriating.
"Wait, Antinous." Eurymachus speaks up, which I tilt my head. "Think you can collect some wood and palm leaves? We'd need a shelter if this is our exile." I huff in response - who does he think I am? His doulos? "Whatever." I scoff as i turn heel to look around, so far just seeing long grass, sand, and oak trees. He passes his dagger to me, like when we sat in Odysseus' palace walls cutting some of his pollo. He expects me to do labouring work? I suppose if this wild forest is our exile, we'd have to do something.
But i'm not letting him use this moment to take advantage. I kick a small rock ahead of me, letting out some of the anger that built up. I halt, then look behind me and notice I don't see him anymore thanks to how far ahead I walked. I hadn't even asked him what he was going to do, I swear if that Malaka is doing nothing but sitting on his arse I will make him work. I'd rather be a misithos first than doing work for free.
Luckily for me, it isn't much longer before I see palm leaves and pull out Eurymachus' dagger. I grab the leaves and cut from the stems, then arrange them to carry. I believe two armfulls will be enough for him to not nag me on doing more work. So I begin to huddle them under my armpits and begin walking.
I take a double check as I walk past a huge tree, vines hanging, thick enough to make ropes. That'd be good to use. I grin as I set aside the palm leaves and grab at the vines, but when I begin to pull I surprisingly struggle. I get annoyed and take the dagger to slice the vines as long as I could reach with a bounce. Then I hear the palm leaves rustling and I turn to them, seeing that a gust of wind had spread them out.
I groan and begin aligning them again to pick up easier, then hold tightly onto the vines and begun my journey back. Atleast I believe it was this way. I keep travelling and kicking at the tripping vines and roots. Thinking back to that eagle... what sign was that? Are we being watch? Was this divine intervention? Or are we lucky? Damn it, Hermes, your bird is not enough of a sign.
As I thought of that, I heard one screech from the left and quickly turn that direction - just to find that I had nearly walked past where Eurymachus is setting up a fire. I grimace to myself before fixing my face to a cocky smirk and strut over. "Look at what I got!" As Eurymachus stops what he is doing to look, he instantly looks unamused. He gestures to the palm leaves and vines, palm upright as his other hand holds a stick with a rock.
"So you arrived with the palm leaves that I asked for, but not the wood." I freeze, realising what I had just forgotten. How could I of messed this up? Now i'll have to go back and do more work, are you kidding me? "Knew you'd do that, but atleast you got rope for us." What? I raise a brow at him, dropping the items nearby.
"Take this axe and collect some wood for the tent," he hands me the stick with the rock - looking more like a hammer than an axe - and turns heel, "i'll teach you how to make one later." I roll my eyes and snatch the makeshift axe, turning my back against him also as I begin to move.
Can't believe he is actually bossing me around right now, that can't be right. And what does he mean he'll teach me? Does he think i'm too dense to figure it out? That Malaka! I'll show him i'm smarter, and more manly than he thinks he is. | The Bitter Gift Of Ogygia
Laying on the ground, I feel the waves underneath the planks crash against the wooden boat. I struggle against the ropes against my wrists and ankles, my cheek pushed against the deck's floorboards as I watch Eurymachus struggle against a few of the sailors untying him from the mast I was wrapped against prior. I rolls my eyes and a scoff leaves my mouth, but then a kick gets me in the abdomen - causing me to cough out a pained grunt.
I glare intensly at the man who kicked me, paying close attention to my body. There is no point in fighting back anyways - Odysseus already won, and i'd rather be sent to exile than dying infront of my father. But if he does something stupid thanks to this, he better not get himself killed. Or i'll kill him, again when I meet him down below in Hades.
Moving away from the thoughts of my father - I look back at Eurymachus, who is physically as pissed off as I feel inside. Clearly he hasn't given up his fight, I thought that i'd be the last one to do that - but he clearly is just dumb to not acknowledge that. Unless... I try to hold back a smirk, it's clear now. It isn't stupidity, he has a plan. He definitely does. He did when we teamed up as suitors, and it was a good plan. That's my buddy up there, i just need to help him out.
Before i even struggle again, i'm lifted up by the rope and shoved forwards. "Watch it!" I hiss out, before the back of my knees are kicked in and I bend forwards - collapsing onto wet sand. Quickly after, Eurymachus falls with me. We turn on our backs as we watch them begin to sail off, waving us off with a dismissive gesture. I spit out in anger, and try to fight against the tight ropes.
"Stay still!-" Eurymachus scoffs, scooting up to me. Then his hands come free from behind him, a dagger in hand. I stop struggling as I see it, quickly turning over so he can cut me out. I hear the rope struggle now against the roughed out metal, but no friction. I try to look over and I see he is already walking off. "Malaka! Don't forget me!" He only cut himself out and already started walking away!
He spins the dagger, looking back at me hogtied on the ground. He smirks at me, making me remember how irritating he used to get when I showed vulnerability. "Forget you? No, never." He walks closer and crouches infront of me. "You think I would ever do that?" He cocks his head at me, and so in return I spit out at him. "Yeah, you would. Now get me out of these before I strangle you!"
He snorts, still delaying it. "Strangle me, how?" And I begin to try bite him, causing him to jump back slightly. "Wow, fiesty aren't you?" Yet finally he begins to cut me free, so right as I see him lowed his ground I tackle him down into a lock - arm around his neck as I press down on him. He grunts, hitting the ground besides us. The sand shoots up like ashes from a volcanoe.
As he groans against my advances as I cackle, I pause as I see an eagle fly ahead - making me let go and stand up. "Could've helped me up, Malaka!" Eurymachus scoffs, yet doesn't expect a response as he rolls his shoulder back as we both stare at the lush forest ahead of us. I look over at Eurymachus as he looks back at me, before looking back once more. A silent agreement to start heading into the foliage.
As we enter, all that lingers on my mind is Odysseus. Odysseus staring at me with a disgusted gaze, so differently from when he fed me by his own hands when I was a child. He pointed at me, and instead of declairing my death - he merely ordered me to be tied up and thrown on deck. I surely thought he was chosing me to meet Hades, unless this is worst than what awaits me in the Underworld.
I felt pathetic when I was manhandled like that, made me want to bite those sailors fingers off. Or atleast, the ones who had them. Bet then they'd of backed off, or atleast only tied my wrists. Yet again, they would've tied my mouth shut with rope at a flick of the wrist: servants of Odysseus are more devoted to him than any other king's servant even in his lengthy absence. It's infuriating.
"Wait, Antinous." Eurymachus speaks up, which I tilt my head. "Think you can collect some wood and palm leaves? We'd need a shelter if this is our exile." I huff in response - who does he think I am? His doulos? "Whatever." I scoff as i turn heel to look around, so far just seeing long grass, sand, and oak trees. He passes his dagger to me, like when we sat in Odysseus' palace walls cutting some of his pollo. He expects me to do labouring work? I suppose if this wild forest is our exile, we'd have to do something.
But i'm not letting him use this moment to take advantage. I kick a small rock ahead of me, letting out some of the anger that built up. I halt, then look behind me and notice I don't see him anymore thanks to how far ahead I walked. I hadn't even asked him what he was going to do, I swear if that Malaka is doing nothing but sitting on his arse I will make him work. I'd rather be a misithos first than doing work for free.
Luckily for me, it isn't much longer before I see palm leaves and pull out Eurymachus' dagger. I grab the leaves and cut from the stems, then arrange them to carry. I believe two armfulls will be enough for him to not nag me on doing more work. So I begin to huddle them under my armpits and begin walking.
I take a double check as I walk past a huge tree, vines hanging, thick enough to make ropes. That'd be good to use. I grin as I set aside the palm leaves and grab at the vines, but when I begin to pull I surprisingly struggle. I get annoyed and take the dagger to slice the vines as long as I could reach with a bounce. Then I hear the palm leaves rustling and I turn to them, seeing that a gust of wind had spread them out.
I groan and begin aligning them again to pick up easier, then hold tightly onto the vines and begun my journey back. Atleast I believe it was this way. I keep travelling and kicking at the tripping vines and roots. Thinking back to that eagle... what sign was that? Are we being watch? Was this divine intervention? Or are we lucky? Damn it, Hermes, your bird is not enough of a sign.
As I thought of that, I heard one screech from the left and quickly turn that direction - just to find that I had nearly walked past where Eurymachus is setting up a fire. I grimace to myself before fixing my face to a cocky smirk and strut over. "Look at what I got!" As Eurymachus stops what he is doing to look, he instantly looks unamused. He gestures to the palm leaves and vines, palm upright as his other hand holds a stick with a rock.
"So you arrived with the palm leaves that I asked for, but not the wood." I freeze, realising what I had just forgotten. How could I of messed this up? Now i'll have to go back and do more work, are you kidding me? "Knew you'd do that, but atleast you got rope for us." What? I raise a brow at him, dropping the items nearby.
"Take this axe and collect some wood for the tent," he hands me the stick with the rock - looking more like a hammer than an axe - and turns heel, "i'll teach you how to make one later." I roll my eyes and snatch the makeshift axe, turning my back against him also as I begin to move.
Can't believe he is actually bossing me around right now, that can't be right. And what does he mean he'll teach me? Does he think i'm too dense to figure it out? That Malaka! I'll show him i'm smarter, and more manly than he thinks he is. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77340051 | {"authors": ["RiverTalez"], "language": "English", "title": "The Bitter Gift Of Ogygia"} |
With Love,
Subject: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Thursday, October 8th, 1998
Dear Jackie,
Hi. It’s been a very long time since we last spoke. How are you?
Life at Brown has been busy. I’ll be a senior next spring. I guess you’re going to be a senior too.
Well, in case you’re wondering how I found your email (or maybe you just don’t care anymore) I don’t really know you anymore. I don’t know you the way I did before. But in case you are wondering, it’s kind of embarrassing, and I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but I asked Jeff if he had it. Apparently he didn’t, but he asked around, and one of his dumb friends is going to college with you? Is that fun?
I don’t really have a good reason for writing this to you. I just wanted to check in. It’s been a while. I don’t know if you’re still mad. What I did was very stupid, and very immature, but we were just kids. And I hope we can reconnect after all this time.
I hope you’re well, and please don’t feel pressured to answer this.
All my love,
Shauna
-
Subject: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Sunday, October 11th, 1998
Shauna,
Wowza, Shipman. It really has been a while. The last thing I heard, you were having your baby boy in the hospital. How is he? How are you? Tell me all about Brown. Is it everything you imagined?
My life here has been amazing. I really like Rutgers. I joined a sorority my freshman and sophomore year, but I ended up not really loving it — though I do have a ton of really stupid stories. I’m still playing soccer, and I think I have a chance of becoming captain next year.
I’ve been really working on myself these past couple of years, because, you know, if your best friend and your (ex) boyfriend end up having a baby, you surely must have done something wrong for that to happen. I tried fitting into this mold my whole life, even here in the fucking sorority, which did keep me “sane” for a while, but I wasn’t really all that happy. Which is why I left, and also why I never go back to Wiskayok. Not like I miss my family or anything.
Although my mom and dad do come visit sometimes. Oh my god, how’s your mom? Does she come visit you? I miss her.
Also, are you and Jeff still together?
Okay, I have to go. But answer me whenever. Thank you for reaching out, although that subject line scared the shit out of me.
Jackie
-
Subject: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Sunday, October 11th, 1998
Dear Jackie,
I’m glad you’re doing well. It actually seems like you’ve been having the time of your life at Rutgers. I’m happy for you. I would love to hear your sorority stories anytime (mainly to make fun of them).
I did have a baby. His name is Jamie. He was born in March of last year. He’s well. My mom helps take care of him when I’m in Rhode Island, which is quite a lot, actually. She’s doing good, thanks for asking. I’m sure she misses you.
Brown has been going as well as one would expect. It’s hard. It was especially harder when you’re eight months pregnant and your water breaks in front of your entire lit class.
My days are very hectic most of the time. I haven’t really gone partying much. I spent almost all of my freshman year pregnant, and almost all of my sophomore year breastfeeding. My mom rented an apartment near campus so I could have Jamie close during his first year of life. They moved back to Wiskayok in June, I believe. I helped move some of their stuff later in July and stayed there all summer break.
Junior year has had a lot of firsts for me. For once, I actually did go out for a drink with this group of girls I met at a writing workshop two weeks ago. I got kind of wasted really fast and ended up back in my room not even two hours in.
Jeff and I are not together anymore, we never really were. It was a mistake that led to me making stupid choices and saying stupid things, and I want you to know I regret everything I said to you or about you deeply. That fight was stupid of me to pick, and I’ve learned to choose my battles, believe me.
He does help with some baby stuff when he’s around, and his parents do send my mom money and diapers, I think.
This email is becoming quite long, so I’ll leave it here.
You have no idea how happy it made me to finally hear from you again.
With love,
Shauna
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Thursday, October 15th, 1998
Shauna,
Gosh, your life seems exhausting (in the best way possible :) ).
I can’t believe you’re a mom. Wow. Do you remember how we always thought I was going to be the one who had kids first? Funny. I’m glad everything went well with your pregnancy and the birth, and that now you have a healthy little boy at home. Oh my god. I’m also glad your mom is there to support you, I really admire her. And I’m glad Jeff didn’t turn out to be a complete imbecile and is at least helping a bit.
Also, you don’t have to keep apologizing for something that happened more than two years ago. It did have repercussions in both of our lives, but everything turned out exactly how it needed to. I don’t have a grudge against you. We spent so much of our lives together just to let a single act of teen girl dumbness ruin what we had. We already let it ruin almost all of our college experience.
Since you told me about your first time getting drunk in college, I guess you deserve to hear mine.
It was freshman introduction week, and I had tried so hard to get an invite to this sorority party. I’d been on my best behavior all week. It was Friday morning and I still hadn’t gotten my invitation, which was supposed to be slid under my dorm door. So I woke up super early and basically sat on the floor waiting for someone to slide it under or knock. Just when I was about to give up and go to class, someone finally did, and I felt like I was on top of the world.
I spent the whole day feeling this insane sense of happiness and belonging. Then it was finally time. I wore my yellow dress (the one I used for the awards ceremony at nationals, I don’t know if you remember it). All the girls were being so nice, and kind of fake, but still nice. They were taking shots, getting drunk. So I did what everyone trying to get into Greek life does and started accepting shots from pretty much everyone, because I wanted them to like me.
I ended up vomiting in their overly expensive bathroom. It was gross, and I pretty much ruined all my chances of getting in, until my mom made a very generous donation. Nothing a little Taylor money can’t fix.
Ugh, I have to go do this dumb homework for my analytics class. I really don’t know what I’m doing there half the time. It sucks.
Well, my email was longer than yours. So I’ll take that as a win.
Just kidding.
Jackie
P.S. Are you dating anyone? I miss gossiping about boys with you.
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Friday, October 16th, 1998
Jackie,
It’s really late. I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, although I’m sure you’re out, getting as drunk as you did in the story you told me.
Remember when we got drunk on our first away game and Coach Scott pretended he had food poisoning so we could still play the next day? Good times.
I guess life really does end up happening how it needed to. Although what people need isn’t always what people want. I’m glad yours is.
My life is indeed very exhausting. You don’t need to pretend it’s in a good way. I’m just pushing through these last couple of years so I can go back home and be with Jamie. I’m his mom. I know I’m supposed to be with him. He’s growing up so fast. My mom called me yesterday and he’s already saying “mama.” It just sucks that I’m not there with him. And apparently he’s running now?
I just wish I could pause time at home so I could see him hit every milestone.
I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I’m writing all of this. I know you’re probably busy with your own things.
But to answer your question, I’m not dating anyone. Some boy hit on me back when my pregnant belly wasn’t as noticeable, but I think he got scared when he realized I was eighteen and pregnant.
I also haven’t really been focusing on boys — or anyone, really. I may have had a crush on an exchange student, but I was a month postpartum and probably severely sleep-deprived, so it’s not like he even looked at me that way.
I’m sorry to hear you don’t like your analytics class. What is your major again? I think it might’ve been Marketing, but I don’t really remember.
I think your email was bigger than mine, so you win.
Love,
Shauna
P.S. Are you dating anyone?
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Saturday, October 17th, 1998
Shauna,
What do you mean Jamie is already talking and running?! I can’t wait to meet him someday, he sounds so adorable.
I get what you mean about wanting to pause life at home. I wish we had one of those remotes with all the options: pause, rewind, fast-forward. I’d definitely rewind a few moments in my life and change some things I’ve done or said. But still, you shouldn’t feel guilty about leaving him with your mom. Your mom rocks. She’s amazing. She raised you. He’s in such good hands. And I’m sure when he grows up, he’ll understand you were working hard for him, for his future. Not because you’re a mom does it mean you stop chasing your dreams.
Believe me, mine did, and she resents me for it. So you keep pushing. You’re amazing.
Also, don’t apologize for writing to me about your life or your feelings. I mean, we’re friends, right? That’s what we’re here for.
I can’t believe that dude bailed when he found out you were pregnant. You probably looked so hot anyway. Ugh. I hate men.
I also haven’t been focusing much on boys, but I did date someone for a while. He was a junior when I was a freshman, and we had our fun. I didn’t even like him that much, so I got so mad when he broke up with me after he graduated. I was supposed to dump his ass.
And you were right, I am a Marketing major! Yay. I like my classes ninety percent of the time, I swear. It’s just that writing essays takes so much time. But I guess you already know that, you’re an English major, right?
This email was much smaller than yours, so you win this round.
Jackieeeee
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Monday, October 19th, 1998
Jackie,
I also can’t wait for you to meet him. Although Jeff’s genes did win on that one, so you might get scared when you first see him. He’s blonde and has blue eyes. His nose does look like mine, though, and my mom says the shape of his lips is similar to mine too. I do have pictures of him, but I’m not sure how, or if, I can send them through here.
Thank you for your kind words. They really mean a lot to me. But also, your mom does not resent you, she just resents the world in general. That’s why she takes so many downers. Haha.
I did not look as hot while pregnant as you imagine. My face kind of swallowed itself, but it’s back to normal now. But I agree, I also hate men.
How did you meet this new boy? And if you don’t mind me asking, how did he dump you? Is he crazy? He’s never going to get someone as hot as you.
I was right! I’m glad you like your major. I like mine too, which is not English, but Literary Arts. It’s fun.
Love,
Shauna
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Monday, October 26th, 1998
Shipman,
I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t respond to your email. I completely forgot. God, I’m so, so dumb.
I can’t believe he looks so much like Jeff. That’s so unfair. You were the one who carried him for nine months and he has the audacity to look like him? I’m sure he’s way cuter than Jeff, though.
I also don’t know if you can send pictures through here, but if you can, forget about Jamie. I already have time to meet him. Send me a picture of you pregnant. And I mean really pregnant. Like about to explode pregnant. I’m sure your mom took some. You probably looked so cute. Like those baby | With Love,
Subject: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Thursday, October 8th, 1998
Dear Jackie,
Hi. It’s been a very long time since we last spoke. How are you?
Life at Brown has been busy. I’ll be a senior next spring. I guess you’re going to be a senior too.
Well, in case you’re wondering how I found your email (or maybe you just don’t care anymore) I don’t really know you anymore. I don’t know you the way I did before. But in case you are wondering, it’s kind of embarrassing, and I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but I asked Jeff if he had it. Apparently he didn’t, but he asked around, and one of his dumb friends is going to college with you? Is that fun?
I don’t really have a good reason for writing this to you. I just wanted to check in. It’s been a while. I don’t know if you’re still mad. What I did was very stupid, and very immature, but we were just kids. And I hope we can reconnect after all this time.
I hope you’re well, and please don’t feel pressured to answer this.
All my love,
Shauna
-
Subject: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Sunday, October 11th, 1998
Shauna,
Wowza, Shipman. It really has been a while. The last thing I heard, you were having your baby boy in the hospital. How is he? How are you? Tell me all about Brown. Is it everything you imagined?
My life here has been amazing. I really like Rutgers. I joined a sorority my freshman and sophomore year, but I ended up not really loving it — though I do have a ton of really stupid stories. I’m still playing soccer, and I think I have a chance of becoming captain next year.
I’ve been really working on myself these past couple of years, because, you know, if your best friend and your (ex) boyfriend end up having a baby, you surely must have done something wrong for that to happen. I tried fitting into this mold my whole life, even here in the fucking sorority, which did keep me “sane” for a while, but I wasn’t really all that happy. Which is why I left, and also why I never go back to Wiskayok. Not like I miss my family or anything.
Although my mom and dad do come visit sometimes. Oh my god, how’s your mom? Does she come visit you? I miss her.
Also, are you and Jeff still together?
Okay, I have to go. But answer me whenever. Thank you for reaching out, although that subject line scared the shit out of me.
Jackie
-
Subject: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Sunday, October 11th, 1998
Dear Jackie,
I’m glad you’re doing well. It actually seems like you’ve been having the time of your life at Rutgers. I’m happy for you. I would love to hear your sorority stories anytime (mainly to make fun of them).
I did have a baby. His name is Jamie. He was born in March of last year. He’s well. My mom helps take care of him when I’m in Rhode Island, which is quite a lot, actually. She’s doing good, thanks for asking. I’m sure she misses you.
Brown has been going as well as one would expect. It’s hard. It was especially harder when you’re eight months pregnant and your water breaks in front of your entire lit class.
My days are very hectic most of the time. I haven’t really gone partying much. I spent almost all of my freshman year pregnant, and almost all of my sophomore year breastfeeding. My mom rented an apartment near campus so I could have Jamie close during his first year of life. They moved back to Wiskayok in June, I believe. I helped move some of their stuff later in July and stayed there all summer break.
Junior year has had a lot of firsts for me. For once, I actually did go out for a drink with this group of girls I met at a writing workshop two weeks ago. I got kind of wasted really fast and ended up back in my room not even two hours in.
Jeff and I are not together anymore, we never really were. It was a mistake that led to me making stupid choices and saying stupid things, and I want you to know I regret everything I said to you or about you deeply. That fight was stupid of me to pick, and I’ve learned to choose my battles, believe me.
He does help with some baby stuff when he’s around, and his parents do send my mom money and diapers, I think.
This email is becoming quite long, so I’ll leave it here.
You have no idea how happy it made me to finally hear from you again.
With love,
Shauna
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Thursday, October 15th, 1998
Shauna,
Gosh, your life seems exhausting (in the best way possible :) ).
I can’t believe you’re a mom. Wow. Do you remember how we always thought I was going to be the one who had kids first? Funny. I’m glad everything went well with your pregnancy and the birth, and that now you have a healthy little boy at home. Oh my god. I’m also glad your mom is there to support you, I really admire her. And I’m glad Jeff didn’t turn out to be a complete imbecile and is at least helping a bit.
Also, you don’t have to keep apologizing for something that happened more than two years ago. It did have repercussions in both of our lives, but everything turned out exactly how it needed to. I don’t have a grudge against you. We spent so much of our lives together just to let a single act of teen girl dumbness ruin what we had. We already let it ruin almost all of our college experience.
Since you told me about your first time getting drunk in college, I guess you deserve to hear mine.
It was freshman introduction week, and I had tried so hard to get an invite to this sorority party. I’d been on my best behavior all week. It was Friday morning and I still hadn’t gotten my invitation, which was supposed to be slid under my dorm door. So I woke up super early and basically sat on the floor waiting for someone to slide it under or knock. Just when I was about to give up and go to class, someone finally did, and I felt like I was on top of the world.
I spent the whole day feeling this insane sense of happiness and belonging. Then it was finally time. I wore my yellow dress (the one I used for the awards ceremony at nationals, I don’t know if you remember it). All the girls were being so nice, and kind of fake, but still nice. They were taking shots, getting drunk. So I did what everyone trying to get into Greek life does and started accepting shots from pretty much everyone, because I wanted them to like me.
I ended up vomiting in their overly expensive bathroom. It was gross, and I pretty much ruined all my chances of getting in, until my mom made a very generous donation. Nothing a little Taylor money can’t fix.
Ugh, I have to go do this dumb homework for my analytics class. I really don’t know what I’m doing there half the time. It sucks.
Well, my email was longer than yours. So I’ll take that as a win.
Just kidding.
Jackie
P.S. Are you dating anyone? I miss gossiping about boys with you.
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Friday, October 16th, 1998
Jackie,
It’s really late. I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, although I’m sure you’re out, getting as drunk as you did in the story you told me.
Remember when we got drunk on our first away game and Coach Scott pretended he had food poisoning so we could still play the next day? Good times.
I guess life really does end up happening how it needed to. Although what people need isn’t always what people want. I’m glad yours is.
My life is indeed very exhausting. You don’t need to pretend it’s in a good way. I’m just pushing through these last couple of years so I can go back home and be with Jamie. I’m his mom. I know I’m supposed to be with him. He’s growing up so fast. My mom called me yesterday and he’s already saying “mama.” It just sucks that I’m not there with him. And apparently he’s running now?
I just wish I could pause time at home so I could see him hit every milestone.
I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I’m writing all of this. I know you’re probably busy with your own things.
But to answer your question, I’m not dating anyone. Some boy hit on me back when my pregnant belly wasn’t as noticeable, but I think he got scared when he realized I was eighteen and pregnant.
I also haven’t really been focusing on boys — or anyone, really. I may have had a crush on an exchange student, but I was a month postpartum and probably severely sleep-deprived, so it’s not like he even looked at me that way.
I’m sorry to hear you don’t like your analytics class. What is your major again? I think it might’ve been Marketing, but I don’t really remember.
I think your email was bigger than mine, so you win.
Love,
Shauna
P.S. Are you dating anyone?
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Saturday, October 17th, 1998
Shauna,
What do you mean Jamie is already talking and running?! I can’t wait to meet him someday, he sounds so adorable.
I get what you mean about wanting to pause life at home. I wish we had one of those remotes with all the options: pause, rewind, fast-forward. I’d definitely rewind a few moments in my life and change some things I’ve done or said. But still, you shouldn’t feel guilty about leaving him with your mom. Your mom rocks. She’s amazing. She raised you. He’s in such good hands. And I’m sure when he grows up, he’ll understand you were working hard for him, for his future. Not because you’re a mom does it mean you stop chasing your dreams.
Believe me, mine did, and she resents me for it. So you keep pushing. You’re amazing.
Also, don’t apologize for writing to me about your life or your feelings. I mean, we’re friends, right? That’s what we’re here for.
I can’t believe that dude bailed when he found out you were pregnant. You probably looked so hot anyway. Ugh. I hate men.
I also haven’t been focusing much on boys, but I did date someone for a while. He was a junior when I was a freshman, and we had our fun. I didn’t even like him that much, so I got so mad when he broke up with me after he graduated. I was supposed to dump his ass.
And you were right, I am a Marketing major! Yay. I like my classes ninety percent of the time, I swear. It’s just that writing essays takes so much time. But I guess you already know that, you’re an English major, right?
This email was much smaller than yours, so you win this round.
Jackieeeee
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Monday, October 19th, 1998
Jackie,
I also can’t wait for you to meet him. Although Jeff’s genes did win on that one, so you might get scared when you first see him. He’s blonde and has blue eyes. His nose does look like mine, though, and my mom says the shape of his lips is similar to mine too. I do have pictures of him, but I’m not sure how, or if, I can send them through here.
Thank you for your kind words. They really mean a lot to me. But also, your mom does not resent you, she just resents the world in general. That’s why she takes so many downers. Haha.
I did not look as hot while pregnant as you imagine. My face kind of swallowed itself, but it’s back to normal now. But I agree, I also hate men.
How did you meet this new boy? And if you don’t mind me asking, how did he dump you? Is he crazy? He’s never going to get someone as hot as you.
I was right! I’m glad you like your major. I like mine too, which is not English, but Literary Arts. It’s fun.
Love,
Shauna
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Monday, October 26th, 1998
Shipman,
I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t respond to your email. I completely forgot. God, I’m so, so dumb.
I can’t believe he looks so much like Jeff. That’s so unfair. You were the one who carried him for nine months and he has the audacity to look like him? I’m sure he’s way cuter than Jeff, though.
I also don’t know if you can send pictures through here, but if you can, forget about Jamie. I already have time to meet him. Send me a picture of you pregnant. And I mean really pregnant. Like about to explode pregnant. I’m sure your mom took some. You probably looked so cute. Like those baby pictures your mom used to keep on the fridge, the one where you’re searching for your belly button. Sometimes when I’m bored, that image just pops into my head and I start laughing. You were such a cute baby.
Okay. His name is Trevor, and I have no idea what he’s doing now. He was a business major and lived in one of the frat houses, so that was kind of fun. And before you ask all secretly in your next email, yes, we had sex. And no, I didn’t like it. It was not at all what I expected. So we’re just going to ignore the fact that I’m no longer a virgin.
Again, please forgive me for accidentally ignoring you. I just had a really busy week.
I’ll give you this win as an apology.
Jax
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Tuesday, October 27th, 1998
Jax,
Don’t worry about it. For a minute there, I thought you were mad at me. I’m glad your life is busy, that just means it’s interesting.
I’m not sending you a picture of myself pregnant. Those were burned the moment Jamie was born. (I’m sure my mom has some saved, but I don’t have any of them in my possession.)
We keep talking about you meeting him, and I actually would really like it if you did. I know you mentioned you don’t go back to Wiskayok, but I’m going there for Thanksgiving break next month. Maybe you could come too? No pressure, though, I totally get the feeling of leaving home and never wanting to go back.
In other news: Jackie Taylor is no longer a virgin. Wow. Thank God you used protection.
Okay, I’m not going to take any more time out of your Rutgers life.
All my love,
Shipman
-
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Found your email.
TO: [emailprotected]
Wednesday, October 28th, 1998
Shipman,
I really do things for you that I would never do for anyone else. But I guess Thanksgiving break can work. Let me talk to my parents, and I’ll send you my schedule details later.
I can’t believe we’re actually going to see each other after all this time.
Yay!
Jax | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77336851/chapters/202476036 | {"authors": ["redwhiteroses"], "language": "English", "title": "With Love,"} |
From an Omega to an Omega
Ever since Enjin remembered, he was always hiding his second gender to the best of his abilities.
He used scent maskers, strong, musky colognes, told everyone that he had ruts whenever he had to hide himself for the period of his heats, and more.
Honestly, he thought he was doing quite well! No one suspected him, and everyone thought he was an alpha like he claimed to be - other than of course Semiu and Corvus who knew the truth. Logically, he knew that being an omega wasn't anything bad. He respected omegas, many of his fellow cleaners were ones, but he simply did not want to be one. It was easier for everyone to see him as an alpha. Besides, he didn't even look like an omega - everything about him screamed alpha or at least beta.
But let's focus on his current dilemma.
Since he always suppressed his urges, ever since he presented, it was only natural that he wasn't good in all that omega stuff. He didn't know how to properly use his pheromones, since he always wore scent patches and masked his natural scent. He always ignored his urges and instincts, and today was the day it finally came to bite him in the ass.
As shameful as it was to admit, Enjin always avoided nesting. Even if it could physically hurt him for days to deny his inner omega this one thing. And then, even if he did nest, it was always made poorly. Just enough for his instincts to not scream at him every single minute of the day. So his nest (if you could even call it one) was mostly just a blanket, two pillows and at max 3 shirts thrown onto his bed.
And today was one of the days when the urge to nest was so annoyingly loud he couldn't ignore it. It persisted through the entire day, and when Enjin realized it wasn't disappearing, he begrudgingly decided to indulge himself, even if just a little. So the second he was back at the HQ after finishing a mission, he hurried towards his room, blindly passing by people who tried to talk to him but in the end decided not to upon seeing his bad mood.
In his rush to reach his room, he didn't bother closing the door behind him fully. He simply went straight to his bed and started frantically throwing stuff around, adding hoodies and shirts that he didn't wear that frequently. Yet no matter how much he rearranged everything, he couldn't help but feel like something was missing, like he was doing it wrong, like everything was in the wrong place. It only made him even more frustrated.
He cursed under his breath, changing positions of the pillows on his bed for the 4th time, and yet it still didn't feel right. He was just about to throw everything to the floor in pure annoyance when he suddenly heard his door creek open and a soft voice that he knew too well reached his ears.
"Enjin? Are you having trouble with your nest?"
To say that he was spooked would be an understatement. He was frozen, pure terror filling his veins as he slowly turned his head to see Tamsy peak from behind his door. He looked unbothered with his discovery, as if finding out Enjin, who always presented himself as an alpha, was an omega was nothing surprising - as if he knew from the beginning and simply didn't care.
"I-"
"Do you need help?"
.
.
.
Help?
Tamsy was asking him if he needed help with making his own nest? (Well, he did.)
Enjin couldn't believe his own ears for a good minute. Only when Tamsy slowly slid into his room, finally closing the door behind himself, did he snap out of it.
"You… aren't shocked?" he asked, staring at Tamsy with wide eyes and a tense body.
The other omega only smiled kindly, getting even closer to him and Enjin smelled the calming pheromones Tamsy was releasing to relax him. Almost instantly he felt his body go lax and he could focus only on the other blonde. Perhaps he should've felt more outraged that someone he wasn't particularly close with entered his room and was this close to his nest, but Tamsy's scent was so refreshing and nice he simply couldn't focus on being angry and protective over his nest. Besides, Tamsy was an omega like him, not an alpha. And he wasn't aggressive or anything, simply wanted to help him, considering Enjin's visible incompetence (the fact that Tamsy was strikingly beautiful - the most beautiful omega he has ever seen - was simply an added bonus).
"Not really. I had my suspicions before, you weren't as subtle as you might think you were, and I'm quite perceptive myself," Tamsy purred out, bending down a little to be somewhat face to face with Enjin, who was sitting in the middle of his bed. "Besides, I only want to help a fellow omega in need. Is that a crime?"
Now, here's one more thing that always bugged Enjin. No matter the fact that he was an omega that should be attracted to alphas, he always preferred omegas. He never really saw alphas in a romantical or sexual sense. If he went to a bar, his gaze would always focus on an omega rather than a beta or an alpha. He especially liked strong, independent and beautiful omegas. Just like-
"Tamsy… I- Yes. Yes, please. I'd like help…"
Tamsy's smile only widened, even if just slightly, and his knees finally hit the edge of Enjin's bed. He slowly crawled onto it, sitting down next to Enjin who felt his breath stop and his heart beat loudly in his chest. To be perfectly honest Enjin always liked Tamsy a bit more than professionally acceptable. His gaze always lingered a little too long on him whenever he entered the room and he always found himself subconsciously chasing his scent - vanilla and something soft Enjin could never quite name.
"Give me that," Tamsy said, taking the pillow Enjin has been holding and started working his own magic.
Enjin could only watch as Tamsy placed everything down. At some point, he even got up and went to get more blankets and pillows, and when he came back Enjin shockingly realized that he must've taken them from his own room (they had Tamsy's scent all over them). It didn't take long before his nest actually resembled a proper, comfortable space worthy of a true omega. Enjin almost couldn't recognize it.
"Do you like it?"
Enjin almost jumped when he heard Tamsy's voice right next to his ear. He turned his head as quickly as humanly possible and was met with the other omega's face right next to his own. If he leaned in just a tiny bit, their lips could meet. He could already feel Tamsy's warm breath against his face and it made his entire body grow warm.
"I do…"
His voice was so quiet Enjin almost didn't recognize it as his own. The only thing he could focus on was Tamsy - his scent, his presence, his captivating, beautiful eyes that seemed to stare deep into his soul. He wanted to say something but found himself frozen. Tamsy only chuckled, grabbing his chin gently with his left hand (an action that made shivers go down Enjin's spine). He leaned in even more but to Enjin's dismay, he titled his head and instead whispered into his ear.
"I'm glad."
Those words were almost purred out, forcing Enjin to squeeze his thighs together as he flushed red like an embarrassed teenager. Enjin let out a faint gasp as he felt Tamsy bite his ear before finally pulling away from him, retracting from him fully as he abruptly stood up from the bed.
"Well, I'll be taking my leave now. I was happy to help. If you'll need any advice in the future, don't be afraid to come to me, okay?" He spoke in his usual calm manner while slowly making his way towards the door.
Enjin could only let out a faint 'okay' before Tamsy was gone, closing the door behind himself without any sound.
It was long after Tamsy disappeared when Enjin finally moved, tearing his gaze away from the door and instead focusing on his freshly remade nest. He stared at it for a good moment as the reality of his current situation finally settled in. Tamsy knew he was an omega, just like him, and he helped him with making his nest be a comfortable, and safe space. And now, Enjin could smell Tamsy's scent so clearly. He could fall asleep surrounded by it, surrounded by the other omega. Carefully and slowly, as if afraid he would damage anything, he laid down in his nest and buried himself in the many pillows and blankets all around him.
Like that, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was actually with Tamsy, considering he could smell him so clearly. At first, he was rather tense but the longer he laid there, he felt himself relax, burying his nose in a nearby blanket and inhaling the fresh scent. He barely registered a low, vibrating noise, and when he opened his eyes again he realized that it was him, purring.
He huffed, feeling himself flush from embarrassment again. It has been so long since he let his inner omega out like that that it felt strange, almost alien. Though, there was no one here to judge him, was there? So if he spent the rest of his day laying in his nest, letting Tamsy's scent fill his entire room and soak into his own body as well, it was only for him alone to know about it.
It was around two weeks later when Enjin had an encounter with Tamsy again. He just got back from a rather tiring and annoying mission - his team was sent to deal with trash beasts like usual. Which alone would never be a problem, especially since they had to clean up some slow and weak ones, but on their way back to the HQ they bumped into raiders and a simple mission turned into an annoying task that lasted twice, if not thrice, longer than intended and with some injuries sustained by Rudo and Zanka as well.
So all in all, he had a very shitty day. It didn't help that Enjin didn't really have a good night's sleep for a few past days too. The moment Tamsy's scent was gone from his nest, Enjin would wake up in the middle of the night and toss around the bed. His inner omega screamed for the calming, addicting smell of the other omega, yet Enjin's pride prevented him from going to the other man to ask for more of his clothes to add into his nest.
Once they all got back to the HQ, with Semiu briefly looking them over before sending Rudo and Zanka to see Eishia, Enjin slowly made his way to his room. His steps were slow, legs feeling like lead and each step was a nightmare. All he really wanted was to lock himself in his room and sleep, yet he knew he wouldn't be sleeping well tonight again anyway.
That's when he bumped into Tamsy, who was going the opposite direction as him.
"Ah, Enjin. You're back from your mission? You seem rather tired." Oh, believe him. He was. Though the moment he saw the other blonde his mood seemed to lighten up.
"Yeah. We had to deal with Raiders on our way back."
"I know, Semiu already told me when I asked her about your late arrival," Tamsy said, taking a few steps towards Enjin and closing the distance between them.
For a moment, silence fell between them and Enjin watched as Tamsy's sharp eyes studied him, from his posture to his face. Enjin stared at him as well, feeling his inner omega sing happily as Tamsy's smell filled his nostrils.
"I've noticed you've been rather tired these past few days as well… is something troubling you?" The other said softly, taking a small step towards Enjin.
"I've been having some troubles sleeping lately. Nothing serious-"
"Nothing serious? Oh, my dear Enjin. But sleeping problems are serious. We can't have you going on missions with a tired mind, can we?" Suddenly, Tamsy was all up in Enjin's space. He felt Tamsy's hand take a hold of his own, gently caressing it with his thumb. "Though, I think I might have a solution for your little problem."
Tamsy smiled, squinting his eyes just a little, making Enjin's heart skip a beat. He didn't give him any time to respond before he was tugging on his hand and leading him somewhere.
"Solution..?"
"Yes. What would you say about spending tonight in my nest? I'm sure you'll have a delightful rest there…" At Tamsy's words, Enjin felt goosebumps rise on his skin. A night? In Tamsy's nest?
"I- Wait- You're for real?" The other man only chuckled, already leading him to his own room.
"I am very much serious, Enjin. Or are you declining my offer?" Oh, he wasn't declining. Never even thought about it.
"I'm not! I'm not…"
Tamsy smiled even wider, now tugging him a long without a care if Enjin was able to follow his quick footsteps or not. Soon enough, they stopped before Tamsy's room. Enjin simply watched as Tamsy opened the door, practically shoving him inside and closing the door behind them. Enjin heard a soft click as Tamsy turned they key and locked them in his bedroom, but he didn't turn around to look at the other omega. His gaze was fixed on Tamsy's nest - it looked so soft and comfortable. Filled with blankets, pillows and, which made Enjin raise his brows a little, also some plushies that looked rather new and well kept.
He felt a hand push his back gently, guiding him towards the bed, and he blindly obliged. | From an Omega to an Omega
Ever since Enjin remembered, he was always hiding his second gender to the best of his abilities.
He used scent maskers, strong, musky colognes, told everyone that he had ruts whenever he had to hide himself for the period of his heats, and more.
Honestly, he thought he was doing quite well! No one suspected him, and everyone thought he was an alpha like he claimed to be - other than of course Semiu and Corvus who knew the truth. Logically, he knew that being an omega wasn't anything bad. He respected omegas, many of his fellow cleaners were ones, but he simply did not want to be one. It was easier for everyone to see him as an alpha. Besides, he didn't even look like an omega - everything about him screamed alpha or at least beta.
But let's focus on his current dilemma.
Since he always suppressed his urges, ever since he presented, it was only natural that he wasn't good in all that omega stuff. He didn't know how to properly use his pheromones, since he always wore scent patches and masked his natural scent. He always ignored his urges and instincts, and today was the day it finally came to bite him in the ass.
As shameful as it was to admit, Enjin always avoided nesting. Even if it could physically hurt him for days to deny his inner omega this one thing. And then, even if he did nest, it was always made poorly. Just enough for his instincts to not scream at him every single minute of the day. So his nest (if you could even call it one) was mostly just a blanket, two pillows and at max 3 shirts thrown onto his bed.
And today was one of the days when the urge to nest was so annoyingly loud he couldn't ignore it. It persisted through the entire day, and when Enjin realized it wasn't disappearing, he begrudgingly decided to indulge himself, even if just a little. So the second he was back at the HQ after finishing a mission, he hurried towards his room, blindly passing by people who tried to talk to him but in the end decided not to upon seeing his bad mood.
In his rush to reach his room, he didn't bother closing the door behind him fully. He simply went straight to his bed and started frantically throwing stuff around, adding hoodies and shirts that he didn't wear that frequently. Yet no matter how much he rearranged everything, he couldn't help but feel like something was missing, like he was doing it wrong, like everything was in the wrong place. It only made him even more frustrated.
He cursed under his breath, changing positions of the pillows on his bed for the 4th time, and yet it still didn't feel right. He was just about to throw everything to the floor in pure annoyance when he suddenly heard his door creek open and a soft voice that he knew too well reached his ears.
"Enjin? Are you having trouble with your nest?"
To say that he was spooked would be an understatement. He was frozen, pure terror filling his veins as he slowly turned his head to see Tamsy peak from behind his door. He looked unbothered with his discovery, as if finding out Enjin, who always presented himself as an alpha, was an omega was nothing surprising - as if he knew from the beginning and simply didn't care.
"I-"
"Do you need help?"
.
.
.
Help?
Tamsy was asking him if he needed help with making his own nest? (Well, he did.)
Enjin couldn't believe his own ears for a good minute. Only when Tamsy slowly slid into his room, finally closing the door behind himself, did he snap out of it.
"You… aren't shocked?" he asked, staring at Tamsy with wide eyes and a tense body.
The other omega only smiled kindly, getting even closer to him and Enjin smelled the calming pheromones Tamsy was releasing to relax him. Almost instantly he felt his body go lax and he could focus only on the other blonde. Perhaps he should've felt more outraged that someone he wasn't particularly close with entered his room and was this close to his nest, but Tamsy's scent was so refreshing and nice he simply couldn't focus on being angry and protective over his nest. Besides, Tamsy was an omega like him, not an alpha. And he wasn't aggressive or anything, simply wanted to help him, considering Enjin's visible incompetence (the fact that Tamsy was strikingly beautiful - the most beautiful omega he has ever seen - was simply an added bonus).
"Not really. I had my suspicions before, you weren't as subtle as you might think you were, and I'm quite perceptive myself," Tamsy purred out, bending down a little to be somewhat face to face with Enjin, who was sitting in the middle of his bed. "Besides, I only want to help a fellow omega in need. Is that a crime?"
Now, here's one more thing that always bugged Enjin. No matter the fact that he was an omega that should be attracted to alphas, he always preferred omegas. He never really saw alphas in a romantical or sexual sense. If he went to a bar, his gaze would always focus on an omega rather than a beta or an alpha. He especially liked strong, independent and beautiful omegas. Just like-
"Tamsy… I- Yes. Yes, please. I'd like help…"
Tamsy's smile only widened, even if just slightly, and his knees finally hit the edge of Enjin's bed. He slowly crawled onto it, sitting down next to Enjin who felt his breath stop and his heart beat loudly in his chest. To be perfectly honest Enjin always liked Tamsy a bit more than professionally acceptable. His gaze always lingered a little too long on him whenever he entered the room and he always found himself subconsciously chasing his scent - vanilla and something soft Enjin could never quite name.
"Give me that," Tamsy said, taking the pillow Enjin has been holding and started working his own magic.
Enjin could only watch as Tamsy placed everything down. At some point, he even got up and went to get more blankets and pillows, and when he came back Enjin shockingly realized that he must've taken them from his own room (they had Tamsy's scent all over them). It didn't take long before his nest actually resembled a proper, comfortable space worthy of a true omega. Enjin almost couldn't recognize it.
"Do you like it?"
Enjin almost jumped when he heard Tamsy's voice right next to his ear. He turned his head as quickly as humanly possible and was met with the other omega's face right next to his own. If he leaned in just a tiny bit, their lips could meet. He could already feel Tamsy's warm breath against his face and it made his entire body grow warm.
"I do…"
His voice was so quiet Enjin almost didn't recognize it as his own. The only thing he could focus on was Tamsy - his scent, his presence, his captivating, beautiful eyes that seemed to stare deep into his soul. He wanted to say something but found himself frozen. Tamsy only chuckled, grabbing his chin gently with his left hand (an action that made shivers go down Enjin's spine). He leaned in even more but to Enjin's dismay, he titled his head and instead whispered into his ear.
"I'm glad."
Those words were almost purred out, forcing Enjin to squeeze his thighs together as he flushed red like an embarrassed teenager. Enjin let out a faint gasp as he felt Tamsy bite his ear before finally pulling away from him, retracting from him fully as he abruptly stood up from the bed.
"Well, I'll be taking my leave now. I was happy to help. If you'll need any advice in the future, don't be afraid to come to me, okay?" He spoke in his usual calm manner while slowly making his way towards the door.
Enjin could only let out a faint 'okay' before Tamsy was gone, closing the door behind himself without any sound.
It was long after Tamsy disappeared when Enjin finally moved, tearing his gaze away from the door and instead focusing on his freshly remade nest. He stared at it for a good moment as the reality of his current situation finally settled in. Tamsy knew he was an omega, just like him, and he helped him with making his nest be a comfortable, and safe space. And now, Enjin could smell Tamsy's scent so clearly. He could fall asleep surrounded by it, surrounded by the other omega. Carefully and slowly, as if afraid he would damage anything, he laid down in his nest and buried himself in the many pillows and blankets all around him.
Like that, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was actually with Tamsy, considering he could smell him so clearly. At first, he was rather tense but the longer he laid there, he felt himself relax, burying his nose in a nearby blanket and inhaling the fresh scent. He barely registered a low, vibrating noise, and when he opened his eyes again he realized that it was him, purring.
He huffed, feeling himself flush from embarrassment again. It has been so long since he let his inner omega out like that that it felt strange, almost alien. Though, there was no one here to judge him, was there? So if he spent the rest of his day laying in his nest, letting Tamsy's scent fill his entire room and soak into his own body as well, it was only for him alone to know about it.
It was around two weeks later when Enjin had an encounter with Tamsy again. He just got back from a rather tiring and annoying mission - his team was sent to deal with trash beasts like usual. Which alone would never be a problem, especially since they had to clean up some slow and weak ones, but on their way back to the HQ they bumped into raiders and a simple mission turned into an annoying task that lasted twice, if not thrice, longer than intended and with some injuries sustained by Rudo and Zanka as well.
So all in all, he had a very shitty day. It didn't help that Enjin didn't really have a good night's sleep for a few past days too. The moment Tamsy's scent was gone from his nest, Enjin would wake up in the middle of the night and toss around the bed. His inner omega screamed for the calming, addicting smell of the other omega, yet Enjin's pride prevented him from going to the other man to ask for more of his clothes to add into his nest.
Once they all got back to the HQ, with Semiu briefly looking them over before sending Rudo and Zanka to see Eishia, Enjin slowly made his way to his room. His steps were slow, legs feeling like lead and each step was a nightmare. All he really wanted was to lock himself in his room and sleep, yet he knew he wouldn't be sleeping well tonight again anyway.
That's when he bumped into Tamsy, who was going the opposite direction as him.
"Ah, Enjin. You're back from your mission? You seem rather tired." Oh, believe him. He was. Though the moment he saw the other blonde his mood seemed to lighten up.
"Yeah. We had to deal with Raiders on our way back."
"I know, Semiu already told me when I asked her about your late arrival," Tamsy said, taking a few steps towards Enjin and closing the distance between them.
For a moment, silence fell between them and Enjin watched as Tamsy's sharp eyes studied him, from his posture to his face. Enjin stared at him as well, feeling his inner omega sing happily as Tamsy's smell filled his nostrils.
"I've noticed you've been rather tired these past few days as well… is something troubling you?" The other said softly, taking a small step towards Enjin.
"I've been having some troubles sleeping lately. Nothing serious-"
"Nothing serious? Oh, my dear Enjin. But sleeping problems are serious. We can't have you going on missions with a tired mind, can we?" Suddenly, Tamsy was all up in Enjin's space. He felt Tamsy's hand take a hold of his own, gently caressing it with his thumb. "Though, I think I might have a solution for your little problem."
Tamsy smiled, squinting his eyes just a little, making Enjin's heart skip a beat. He didn't give him any time to respond before he was tugging on his hand and leading him somewhere.
"Solution..?"
"Yes. What would you say about spending tonight in my nest? I'm sure you'll have a delightful rest there…" At Tamsy's words, Enjin felt goosebumps rise on his skin. A night? In Tamsy's nest?
"I- Wait- You're for real?" The other man only chuckled, already leading him to his own room.
"I am very much serious, Enjin. Or are you declining my offer?" Oh, he wasn't declining. Never even thought about it.
"I'm not! I'm not…"
Tamsy smiled even wider, now tugging him a long without a care if Enjin was able to follow his quick footsteps or not. Soon enough, they stopped before Tamsy's room. Enjin simply watched as Tamsy opened the door, practically shoving him inside and closing the door behind them. Enjin heard a soft click as Tamsy turned they key and locked them in his bedroom, but he didn't turn around to look at the other omega. His gaze was fixed on Tamsy's nest - it looked so soft and comfortable. Filled with blankets, pillows and, which made Enjin raise his brows a little, also some plushies that looked rather new and well kept.
He felt a hand push his back gently, guiding him towards the bed, and he blindly obliged. His knees soon hit the soft mattress and before he knew it, he was laying down on his back. Tamsy's scent was even more potent here (no wonder, it was his nest after all) and Enjin relaxed almost instantly the moment he laid down. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them up rather quickly again when he felt a weight settle on top of him out of nowhere.
He was greeted with the sight of Tamsy hanging above him. His hair down from it's usual bun and falling down, forming a curtain that shielded them both from the outside world. Tamsy's eyes stared deep into his own and Enjin couldn't look away, almost as if he was hypnotized.
"Do you feel comfortable?"
Enjin could only nod weakly, feeling himself grow hotter with every second spent in this position. Thought it seemed that Tamsy didn't care about his weak emotions, as he simply straightened up, just to sit down on Enjin's hips and start taking off his coat shamelessly. Honestly, Enjin felt like he was about to explode. He was damn sure his whole face was beet red right about now, and his underwear was growing uncomfortably wet and tight.
If Tamsy felt or smelled anything, he didn't show it. He simply folded and threw his coat on his bedside table and got up from Enjin's hips to lay down next to him.
"You should take off some of your clothes as well. You're not planning on sleeping with your coat and shoes on, are you?" Right. He was still in his uniform.
Enjin swore he never undressed so far in his entire life. His coat was thrown on the ground and his shoes landed next to it. He was so occupied by this task that when he looked back at Tamsy, he realized the other was offering him a clean shirt and some pants.
"Wear this. You can change in the bathroom." Tamsy said calmly, dropping the clothes into his hands as he grabbed something for himself to wear as well.
"Right! Thanks Tamsy."
He rushed to the bathroom connected to Tamsy's room and began to change. Yet when he was finally wearing what Tamsy offered him and stared at himself in the mirror, he came to a rather… embarrassing conclusion. In hindsight, it was to be expected that Tamsy's clothes would be too small for him. But it didn't occur to him before he actually changed into them. As he stared at himself he realized that the shirt was very tight around his chest, showing off his nipples as well, and the pants were uncomfortably hugging his crotch. He didn't even want to look down because he was sure he would notice a fucking bulge.
…
Maybe Tamsy has something bigger he could wear?
Stepping out of the bathroom was a task that took Enjin longer than he would like to admit. And when he finally did leave it, he felt as exposed as a newborn, even if he was actually wearing clothes.
"Hey, uh- Do you maybe have anything… Bigger, that I could wear? These clothes are a bit too… small." He asked, rubbing his nape in a nervous manner.
Though when Tamsy looked at him, he could swear he saw the other omega's eyes shine brighter at the sight. And he certainly saw him smile a tiny bit as his gaze trailed the curves of his body. Wait. Was Tamsy checking him out?
"Ah, I'm so sorry but I'm afraid those are the biggest things I have." Ah, shit.
"Well, no worries! I can sleep in this just fine." Enjin replied, slowly making his way towards the nest.
He stopped before the bed, bending down to leave his clothes on top of his coat. He was sure he heard a sharp inhale, yet when he turned around to see if Tamsy perhaps needed anything he saw the other simply staring at him with one of his usual, kind smiles. He huffed, crawling onto the bed again as he made himself comfortable next to the other blonde. Enjin tried to calm himself as his heart beat so loudly he was almost afraid that Tamsy could hear it. He was quite sure his hands were sweating like crazy as well. Tamsy was so close to him that their breaths mingled and their legs touched.
He cleared his throat, maybe too loudly, and spoke, "So… Goodnight Tam-"
Enjin didn't get the chance to finish his sentence as a pair of soft, warm lips pressed gently against his. It was quick, lasting maybe a few seconds, before they pulled away, but it was enough to completely shatter all confidence Enjin still had left.
"Goodnight Enjin. Sleep well…" Tamsy said, as if kissing Enjin wasn't a big deal.
And to add into Enjin's current heart attack, he moved closer to him and put his head underneath his chin, cuddling into his chest. His arms also found their way around Enjin's torso, squeezing him weakly. Oh fuck, what was happening? Well, Enjin wasn't complaining. In fact, he was having a crisis over there!
With the way Tamsy was so tightly pressed against him, he was sure he could hear how nervous he was and how fast his heart was beating. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! He truly didn't expect his evening to go this way, but oh man was he happy that it did. He was in Tamsy's nest, having the other cleaner cuddling into his chest, right in his arms. He was in heaven and Tamsy was an angel sent from above.
Slowly, he wrapped his own arms around the other omega and right as he did, he heard a soft sound escape the other. Tamsy was… purring. Could this day get even better?!
His breath hitched but after a few moments of awkwardness (from Enjin only), he started purring as well, finally letting his body relax and hold Tamsy more naturally. He closed his eyes, hiding his face in Tamsy's hair and inhaling his scent shamelessly. He hoped that once he wakes up, he will find that it wasn't all just a dream…
Wrapping Enjin around his finger was quite easy, if Tamsy was being honest. He knew the other was an omega way before he found him trying to pathetically fix what he called his 'nest' (yet in Tamsy's opinion calling it one would be an insult to every existing omega both on the Sphere and on the Ground). Honestly, he was surprised Enjin could go on for so long with his instincts never being truly taken care off and his needs being neglected.
But well, that only made seducing him easier. He only needed to release a bit of his pheromones, give him a soft look here and there and smile once or twice and boom! Enjin was whipped.
The other omega's unique tastes made the whole situation even easier, though Tamsy was sure that even if Enjin didn't prefer omegas he could make him fall for him anyway. So all in all, his plan was going perfectly. It was even better that he could take some pleasure from it all too. Enjin had some assets worth looking at, and who was Tamsy if not an opportunist! If he had a beautiful omega in front of himself, with a beautiful body, who could judge him for ogling him a little?
Especially since he knew Enjin would ogle him as well. It was no secret to him that, even long before he started this plan of his, Enjin was already 'subtly' looking him up and down with every chance he got. He also saw how he subconsciously tried to chase his smell. He knew his scent was rather pleasant, so he didn't fault him for that at all.
But back to the present - he was currently laying in bed, watching as Enjin slumbered peacefully, unaware of Tamsy's future plans for him. He chuckled, grabbing his chin and gently rubbing his lower lip with his thumb. As he found out, Enjin was a really heave sleeper once he truly fell asleep.
He sighed, finally getting up and stretching himself. Well, Enjin will have to wait for now. Semiu notified him he had to go on a mission rather soon, so he would have to leave his poor little prey alone for now. He quickly got ready, dressing up in his uniform and doing his hair in his usual style before he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote a short note for the other omega.
He left it on his clothes, knowing that for sure he would see it once he woke up and, not before taking a one last quick glance at Enjin, left the room. His plan was truly going almost too perfect…
When Enjin awoke it was to the disappointment of not feeling another warm body next to his own. The only comforting thing was Tamsy's scent that filled the entire room, yet there was no sign of the man himself being anywhere around. Enjin begrudgingly opened his eyes, scanning the room and noticing that he's truly alone. He grumbled as he sat up, running a hand through his hair as his brain slowly turned on.
He realized that Tamsy must've already gotten up and went either to grab something to eat or Semiu gave him a mission. Either way, Tamsy must've been gone for quite a bit of time since his side of the nest was growing colder. He should be getting up and ready himself anyway…
As he got up though, ready to grab his clothes and dress up, he noticed a small piece of paper laying on his coat. He picked it up and happily noticed that it must've been written by Tamsy. He left a note for him(!). He chirped cheerfully, not caring about how embarrassing he was being and read the note.
'I had to go on a mission. Semiu called me first thing in the morning. You can leave my clothes on the bed, I'll take care of them later. I hope you slept well. You can visit me anytime you're having trouble sleeping <3'
Tamsy told him he could sleep with him anytime. He could go and sleep in his nest whenever he wanted. Oh he was definitely going to bust. Not only did he have a wonderful sleep in a few days, but he also got to cuddle with Tamsy - the most beautiful omega he ever laid his eyes upon, and now said omega was offering him practically a free access to his room and his nest!
Some traitorous part of Enjin's brain whispered to him that maybe, just maybe, Tamsy was interested in him just the same way he was interested in him himself. He purred happily, quickly getting up and dressing himself. He slipped the note into his pocket but even after he was ready, he lingered in Tamsy's room for a moment. His cologne wore off, so he was currently smelling like… well, himself. His true scent filling the room and mixing with Tamsy's own perfectly. Almost like they were meant together.
A sudden thought filled his mind and before Enjin could rationally rethink it, he was bending down again and scenting some of Tamsy's blankets and pillows, leaving his scent in the other omega's nest.
Once he realized what he did, he froze and jumped away from the nest as if burned. Of course, his scent would be in Tamsy's room and his nest anyway, considering he slept there, but it wouldn't be as prominent or as lasting as scenting. Once Tamsy got back from his mission he would no doubt realize what Enjin did. Scenting was reserved for pack members or for mates only.
"Fuck… What did I do?" He cursed, finally out of his trance.
He quickly turned around and rushed towards the door. The sooner he gets to his own room, the better.
Though a small part of him hoped that Tamsy wouldn't mind what he just did. And maybe, just maybe he'd even be happy.
…
He was totally whipped, wasn't he? | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77339656 | {"authors": ["Sheinhe"], "language": "English", "title": "From an Omega to an Omega"} |
No Sisterly Love Lost
“This is boring,” Amy sighed, as her sister Samey glanced up from petting her Cattiva. “What?”
“So, simply surviving instead of competing not to be kicked off the island is boring?” Samey asked.
“There has to be some kind of catch,” Amy rolled her eyes, then looked at her Pal Sphere, not at all interested in capturing cute-looking Pals, but then an idea crossed her mind. She tossed the sphere at her sister, grinning when her sister disappeared and then became her fist pal, while the Cattiva also became hers. “Now, this? This isn’t boring.”
She summoned her sister, who stared, then screamed. “What did you do! Amy, what did you do!”
“I think I made this exciting,” Amy said. “But Samey?”
“What?”
“Remove your top for me?”
“Are you a perve!” Samey squeaked out, pulling her top over her head, revealing her bosum, and then she stared at it in horror.
“Completely strip,” Amy said.
“But Amy,” Samey said.
“Don’t whine. Shut up with the complaints. You live for your big sis now, but I’ve plans for you.”
Amy didn’t care that she brought her own sister to tears. | No Sisterly Love Lost
“This is boring,” Amy sighed, as her sister Samey glanced up from petting her Cattiva. “What?”
“So, simply surviving instead of competing not to be kicked off the island is boring?” Samey asked.
“There has to be some kind of catch,” Amy rolled her eyes, then looked at her Pal Sphere, not at all interested in capturing cute-looking Pals, but then an idea crossed her mind. She tossed the sphere at her sister, grinning when her sister disappeared and then became her fist pal, while the Cattiva also became hers. “Now, this? This isn’t boring.”
She summoned her sister, who stared, then screamed. “What did you do! Amy, what did you do!”
“I think I made this exciting,” Amy said. “But Samey?”
“What?”
“Remove your top for me?”
“Are you a perve!” Samey squeaked out, pulling her top over her head, revealing her bosum, and then she stared at it in horror.
“Completely strip,” Amy said.
“But Amy,” Samey said.
“Don’t whine. Shut up with the complaints. You live for your big sis now, but I’ve plans for you.”
Amy didn’t care that she brought her own sister to tears. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77339051 | {"authors": ["Yemi Hikari (Yemi_Hikari)"], "language": "English", "title": "No Sisterly Love Lost"} |
The Surveyor
It always takes them so fucking long to answer the door. She wouldn’t mind, but it’s dark and it’s absolutely freezing and she didn’t wear her big coat because Legolas’s house is really close to the bus stop and honestly, she can see her breath and all the lights are on (like, all of them) and she can smell something Italian, and she is just about to knock again when Legolas’s father opens the door and stares at her as though he has never met her before.
He says ‘Katherine’ and she wishes he wouldn’t, but she doesn’t say anything. Partly because she’s pretty sure there is no point, and partly because he looks really… she gazes up at him and wow, she knows she’s little but fuck, that man is tall, and he looks… interesting today. She has seen him plenty of times since she met Legolas on the first day of sixth form, and he always looks so fancy, so refined, like someone has put him together in a fashion studio. Like, even when he’s in jeans with his hair all tied up, he looks like he is being messy on purpose. Right now, though, his hair is sort of for-real messy, and only one of his jumper sleeves is rolled up.
“Are you alright?” he asks, and she decides to stop staring at him.
“No, I’m freezing,” she says, and he gives her a little sort-of smile before he steps back and lets her in.
The house is warm and inviting and she basks in it. Mum hardly ever puts the heating on at home, and she knows why, but she still hates the cold air. When Legolas emerges from the kitchen, he hugs her and she presses her face into his soft sweater. He smells really nice and he rests his head on top of hers, whispering “you are so tiny” as though she won’t hear it and holding on when she wriggles and tries to kick his shins with her new boots. He squeezes her tighter and she struggles.
“Stop it, I need a wee!”
Legolas laughs and releases her. He looks happy. His face is a bit flushed and he seems to sparkle a little bit as he turns her around and nudges her towards the stairs. Maybe he has been talking to his Old Man, she thinks, trying not to roll her eyes. At least thirty, he said, and god, she loves him, but he has lost his damn mind.
“Where am I going?”
“The downstairs toilet is condemned,” Legolas’s father says, the drama queen. “If you could use the one on the first floor, that would be appreciated.”
Condemned? she thinks, and then decides not to ask. Instead, she picks her way up their weird seagrass stairs (is it seagrass? It catches in her heels, whatever it is) and trails her fingers along the balustrade. Their house is so cool and fancy, and it has three whole floors. She has always lived in a flat and she loves the idea of an upstairs. She supposes that technically, they have an upstairs, but it’s just Mrs Malik and her cat who always escapes and sits on Kate’s bedroom window. She cannot imagine Mr Oropherion with a cat. She can’t imagine him with, like, anything. Anyone. He’s too cool and perfect to let anyone touch him.
She pauses at the end of the hallway, trying to remember which door is the bathroom and which is somewhere she isn’t supposed to be. When she looks back, both Legolas and his father have disappeared and her bladder is really making a fuss so she grabs a handle at random and pulls. It is immediately clear that she isn’t in the bathroom, but she doesn’t close the door because, let’s be honest, she is nosy, and she is pretty sure that she is looking at Mr Oropherion’s actual bedroom. She glances over her shoulder for a moment and then steps inside, just a tiny bit, and hesitates just for a second before having a Proper Look.
It’s nice, of course it is, with white walls and pretty floorboards and the biggest, fluffiest rug she has ever seen, so fluffy that she wants to take her shoes off and walk around on it. He has so many books, all lined up neatly on shelves that reach from the floor to the ceiling, and there are trophies and awards and things, shiny doo-dads that he must have won for designing buildings. She sees a picture of all three of them, Legolas, his father and his mother, and she bites her lip.
He doesn’t really talk about her but she knows he misses her. She can’t imagine being without her mum, but then again, she hasn’t seen her birth dad in years and Legolas has, according to him, the best dad in the world. There is another picture, one of just the two of them. It’s newer; she can see his painted nails and the little tiny lines around his father’s eyes. They look happy.
It’s funny, she would have bet her whole weekend’s wages that Mr Oropherion was the sort of man who would make his bed perfectly every day, but the quilts and blankets are all rumpled, as though he has leapt out of them in a hurry. She doesn’t think she has ever seen him do anything in a hurry, because he… she frowns, because the bed is crumpled up on both sides, like two people have slept in it. She chews on her nail and revises the idea that Legolas’s father doesn’t ever touch anyone, because both bedside cabinets have stuff on them. One side is neat, with a stack of notepads and an enormous cup, and the other is slightly chaotic, piled with books and cables and half-finished bottles of water. There are three nail polishes and two apples, and the drawer is hanging open.
Interesting. She is just thinking about sneaking a little bit further into the room when she hears laughter from downstairs and remembers that she is supposed to be using the bathroom, not gathering intel on her friend’s father’s… new partner. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever. Silently, she closes the door and finds the bathroom. When she joins them in the kitchen, they are both standing at the stove and peering into a steaming pan. She stands in the doorway for a moment, watching as Legolas dips a spoon into something red and holds it out to his father, cupping his hand underneath to catch the drips.
She is surprised when Mr Oropherion leans in close and tastes the sauce. It seems so… ordinary, so intimate a thing to do, and he is so… well, the way he is. She is more surprised that he closes his eyes, that he smiles, that sauce drips on his jumper anyway, and he just sighs and shrugs. Maybe she doesn’t understand him at all.
“Hey, congratulations, Mr Oropherion,” she calls out impulsively, and they both turn to her so fast, like they had forgotten she was there. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
Legolas glares daggers at her. “Kate.”
“What? You said not to mention your boyfriend, not his. If it’s a boyfriend. Whatever, babe, I think it’s cool,” she says, shrugging. “What’s for dinner?”
“Katherine, please do not call me Mr Oropherion,” his father says, and he sounds calm but he looks worried.
“Please don’t call me Katherine,” she counters.
“Apologies. And thank you. He is… very special,” he says, and she wants to smile at him, but she can’t take her eyes off Legolas. He looks as though he’s going to be sick.
“Are you alright, babe?”
“Yep,” he says, and she doesn’t believe him, but he turns away and starts messing with the pasta as though that’s the end of the matter, and she will see about that.
She’s never been good at letting things go. Her mum says she’s like a dog with a pig’s ear, and she thinks that’s disgusting, but mums can be like that sometimes. She steps into the kitchen and leans against the fridge.
“Hey, isn’t it weird that you’re going out with an older man, and your dad is going out with a younger man?” she asks, gazing at the back of Legolas’s head. His little braids are all ruffled up as though someone has been playing with them. “You two are so weird.”
Legolas looks at her, eyes narrowed. “What makes you think he’s seeing a younger man?”
Kate laughs. She points at his father. “Look at him. He’s a distinguished older guy. That’s what they do.”
“Is that so?” Mr Oropherion asks. He frowns. “Older? Older than what?”
“Come on,” Kate says, folding her arms. “You’re exactly the type that would… what?”
She stops, catching sight of her friend’s expression. If he looked like he was going to be sick before, he now looks as though he is seconds away from passing out. He is standing very still with a steaming colander in his hands, eyes fixed on the floor as though he is hoping not to be seen. Slowly, she turns her gaze back to his father. He lets out a careful breath as their eyes meet, and realisation slams into her so hard that she almost loses her balance. Mr Oropherion’s eyes are so bright, so afraid, and he looks at her as though he’s pleading, though she’s not sure what for.
“Oh, god,” she whispers, pressing a hand over her mouth. “I’m such an idiot. Holy fuck.”
“You are not an idiot,” he says softly.
“How did you know?” Legolas whispers, still staring into the colander.
“I saw your bedroom,” she says. “I didn’t mean to, but I… and then I saw you together, and then you just looked so scared, and I… babe… this is your Old Man?”
“I don’t call you that,” Legolas says hurriedly, and he turns to his father, eyes so wide, and it’s so obvious, so right there in front of her that she can’t believe she never put it together before.
“No, that’s what I call you,” she says. “I didn’t know it was you, just that he was seeing someone older, and I didn’t mean old, but… is this really happening? Are the two of you really…?”
Legolas takes a deep breath and turns around to face her. He reaches out a hand and his father takes it, gripping his fingers tightly.
“Yeah,” he admits. “We’re together. Please don’t… I know this is weird, Kate, but please don’t get us in trouble. We’re not hurting anyone. We love each other.”
“Fuck,” she whispers, folding her arms over her chest and hugging herself as though she might contain the weird swirly feeling that’s trying to tangle up her insides.
She can’t stop looking at them. At their terrified faces. At the way they are clinging to each other’s hands, and the way Legolas’s father has stepped closer to her, like he’s trying to stand between Kate and his son. She didn’t know a person could look petrified and fierce as fuck at the same time, but he’s doing it, and she doesn’t know if she wants to run away or just stand here and watch them hold each other. They are beautiful, both of them, there’s no doubt about that, but this man is his father, and it’s… she doesn’t know what it is.
She knows that her friend is the happiest she has ever seen him. She knows that he has loved someone desperately for a very long time, and that finally being loved by that person has made him shine with contentment every single day. She knows that Mr Oropherion adores his son, apparently in more ways than one. And that’s… that’s so messed up, isn’t it?
“Please, Kate.”
Her friend’s voice is rough with terror and she looks at him. His face is white and stupidly fucking handsome, just like his father’s. They both just stare at her, and she can’t breathe.
“I’ve got to go,” she says, running for the front door and tripping over her own feet. “I won’t say anything. I’ve just got to go. I’m sorry, babe. Thanks for having me,” she adds, because her mother would be furious if she didn’t.
He hears Legolas call her name, but he doesn’t follow her when she stumbles out into the street. The cold air shocks her after the warmth of the house, and she holds onto it. She needs something to clear her thoughts. When the bus comes, she sits right at the front and watches the streets shift from fancy Victorian terraces to ex-council houses and then high-rises, at which point she gets off and walks slowly up to her building, barely noticing when the wind whips her chaotic coils into madness.
It doesn’t seem to matter what she tries, all she can think about is their faces. Their hands clinging tight. Her stomach pulls tight at the memory, and then her head fills with the image of Mr Oropherion leaning in to try the sauce, and that sauce had smelled really fucking good and she thinks she might be hungry but it’s hard to tell. And of course, the nail varnishes, and the rumpled sheets, and the fact that she doesn’t ever remember seeing Legolas finish a bottle of water.
She sighs, slapping at the lift button until it becomes clear that she might as well start climbing the stairs. Halfway up, she finds Mrs Malik’s cat and scoops it up, hugging it to her chest as she walks.
“He was so happy,” she tells him, and her voice echoes in the empty stairwell. “He’s been | The Surveyor
It always takes them so fucking long to answer the door. She wouldn’t mind, but it’s dark and it’s absolutely freezing and she didn’t wear her big coat because Legolas’s house is really close to the bus stop and honestly, she can see her breath and all the lights are on (like, all of them) and she can smell something Italian, and she is just about to knock again when Legolas’s father opens the door and stares at her as though he has never met her before.
He says ‘Katherine’ and she wishes he wouldn’t, but she doesn’t say anything. Partly because she’s pretty sure there is no point, and partly because he looks really… she gazes up at him and wow, she knows she’s little but fuck, that man is tall, and he looks… interesting today. She has seen him plenty of times since she met Legolas on the first day of sixth form, and he always looks so fancy, so refined, like someone has put him together in a fashion studio. Like, even when he’s in jeans with his hair all tied up, he looks like he is being messy on purpose. Right now, though, his hair is sort of for-real messy, and only one of his jumper sleeves is rolled up.
“Are you alright?” he asks, and she decides to stop staring at him.
“No, I’m freezing,” she says, and he gives her a little sort-of smile before he steps back and lets her in.
The house is warm and inviting and she basks in it. Mum hardly ever puts the heating on at home, and she knows why, but she still hates the cold air. When Legolas emerges from the kitchen, he hugs her and she presses her face into his soft sweater. He smells really nice and he rests his head on top of hers, whispering “you are so tiny” as though she won’t hear it and holding on when she wriggles and tries to kick his shins with her new boots. He squeezes her tighter and she struggles.
“Stop it, I need a wee!”
Legolas laughs and releases her. He looks happy. His face is a bit flushed and he seems to sparkle a little bit as he turns her around and nudges her towards the stairs. Maybe he has been talking to his Old Man, she thinks, trying not to roll her eyes. At least thirty, he said, and god, she loves him, but he has lost his damn mind.
“Where am I going?”
“The downstairs toilet is condemned,” Legolas’s father says, the drama queen. “If you could use the one on the first floor, that would be appreciated.”
Condemned? she thinks, and then decides not to ask. Instead, she picks her way up their weird seagrass stairs (is it seagrass? It catches in her heels, whatever it is) and trails her fingers along the balustrade. Their house is so cool and fancy, and it has three whole floors. She has always lived in a flat and she loves the idea of an upstairs. She supposes that technically, they have an upstairs, but it’s just Mrs Malik and her cat who always escapes and sits on Kate’s bedroom window. She cannot imagine Mr Oropherion with a cat. She can’t imagine him with, like, anything. Anyone. He’s too cool and perfect to let anyone touch him.
She pauses at the end of the hallway, trying to remember which door is the bathroom and which is somewhere she isn’t supposed to be. When she looks back, both Legolas and his father have disappeared and her bladder is really making a fuss so she grabs a handle at random and pulls. It is immediately clear that she isn’t in the bathroom, but she doesn’t close the door because, let’s be honest, she is nosy, and she is pretty sure that she is looking at Mr Oropherion’s actual bedroom. She glances over her shoulder for a moment and then steps inside, just a tiny bit, and hesitates just for a second before having a Proper Look.
It’s nice, of course it is, with white walls and pretty floorboards and the biggest, fluffiest rug she has ever seen, so fluffy that she wants to take her shoes off and walk around on it. He has so many books, all lined up neatly on shelves that reach from the floor to the ceiling, and there are trophies and awards and things, shiny doo-dads that he must have won for designing buildings. She sees a picture of all three of them, Legolas, his father and his mother, and she bites her lip.
He doesn’t really talk about her but she knows he misses her. She can’t imagine being without her mum, but then again, she hasn’t seen her birth dad in years and Legolas has, according to him, the best dad in the world. There is another picture, one of just the two of them. It’s newer; she can see his painted nails and the little tiny lines around his father’s eyes. They look happy.
It’s funny, she would have bet her whole weekend’s wages that Mr Oropherion was the sort of man who would make his bed perfectly every day, but the quilts and blankets are all rumpled, as though he has leapt out of them in a hurry. She doesn’t think she has ever seen him do anything in a hurry, because he… she frowns, because the bed is crumpled up on both sides, like two people have slept in it. She chews on her nail and revises the idea that Legolas’s father doesn’t ever touch anyone, because both bedside cabinets have stuff on them. One side is neat, with a stack of notepads and an enormous cup, and the other is slightly chaotic, piled with books and cables and half-finished bottles of water. There are three nail polishes and two apples, and the drawer is hanging open.
Interesting. She is just thinking about sneaking a little bit further into the room when she hears laughter from downstairs and remembers that she is supposed to be using the bathroom, not gathering intel on her friend’s father’s… new partner. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever. Silently, she closes the door and finds the bathroom. When she joins them in the kitchen, they are both standing at the stove and peering into a steaming pan. She stands in the doorway for a moment, watching as Legolas dips a spoon into something red and holds it out to his father, cupping his hand underneath to catch the drips.
She is surprised when Mr Oropherion leans in close and tastes the sauce. It seems so… ordinary, so intimate a thing to do, and he is so… well, the way he is. She is more surprised that he closes his eyes, that he smiles, that sauce drips on his jumper anyway, and he just sighs and shrugs. Maybe she doesn’t understand him at all.
“Hey, congratulations, Mr Oropherion,” she calls out impulsively, and they both turn to her so fast, like they had forgotten she was there. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
Legolas glares daggers at her. “Kate.”
“What? You said not to mention your boyfriend, not his. If it’s a boyfriend. Whatever, babe, I think it’s cool,” she says, shrugging. “What’s for dinner?”
“Katherine, please do not call me Mr Oropherion,” his father says, and he sounds calm but he looks worried.
“Please don’t call me Katherine,” she counters.
“Apologies. And thank you. He is… very special,” he says, and she wants to smile at him, but she can’t take her eyes off Legolas. He looks as though he’s going to be sick.
“Are you alright, babe?”
“Yep,” he says, and she doesn’t believe him, but he turns away and starts messing with the pasta as though that’s the end of the matter, and she will see about that.
She’s never been good at letting things go. Her mum says she’s like a dog with a pig’s ear, and she thinks that’s disgusting, but mums can be like that sometimes. She steps into the kitchen and leans against the fridge.
“Hey, isn’t it weird that you’re going out with an older man, and your dad is going out with a younger man?” she asks, gazing at the back of Legolas’s head. His little braids are all ruffled up as though someone has been playing with them. “You two are so weird.”
Legolas looks at her, eyes narrowed. “What makes you think he’s seeing a younger man?”
Kate laughs. She points at his father. “Look at him. He’s a distinguished older guy. That’s what they do.”
“Is that so?” Mr Oropherion asks. He frowns. “Older? Older than what?”
“Come on,” Kate says, folding her arms. “You’re exactly the type that would… what?”
She stops, catching sight of her friend’s expression. If he looked like he was going to be sick before, he now looks as though he is seconds away from passing out. He is standing very still with a steaming colander in his hands, eyes fixed on the floor as though he is hoping not to be seen. Slowly, she turns her gaze back to his father. He lets out a careful breath as their eyes meet, and realisation slams into her so hard that she almost loses her balance. Mr Oropherion’s eyes are so bright, so afraid, and he looks at her as though he’s pleading, though she’s not sure what for.
“Oh, god,” she whispers, pressing a hand over her mouth. “I’m such an idiot. Holy fuck.”
“You are not an idiot,” he says softly.
“How did you know?” Legolas whispers, still staring into the colander.
“I saw your bedroom,” she says. “I didn’t mean to, but I… and then I saw you together, and then you just looked so scared, and I… babe… this is your Old Man?”
“I don’t call you that,” Legolas says hurriedly, and he turns to his father, eyes so wide, and it’s so obvious, so right there in front of her that she can’t believe she never put it together before.
“No, that’s what I call you,” she says. “I didn’t know it was you, just that he was seeing someone older, and I didn’t mean old, but… is this really happening? Are the two of you really…?”
Legolas takes a deep breath and turns around to face her. He reaches out a hand and his father takes it, gripping his fingers tightly.
“Yeah,” he admits. “We’re together. Please don’t… I know this is weird, Kate, but please don’t get us in trouble. We’re not hurting anyone. We love each other.”
“Fuck,” she whispers, folding her arms over her chest and hugging herself as though she might contain the weird swirly feeling that’s trying to tangle up her insides.
She can’t stop looking at them. At their terrified faces. At the way they are clinging to each other’s hands, and the way Legolas’s father has stepped closer to her, like he’s trying to stand between Kate and his son. She didn’t know a person could look petrified and fierce as fuck at the same time, but he’s doing it, and she doesn’t know if she wants to run away or just stand here and watch them hold each other. They are beautiful, both of them, there’s no doubt about that, but this man is his father, and it’s… she doesn’t know what it is.
She knows that her friend is the happiest she has ever seen him. She knows that he has loved someone desperately for a very long time, and that finally being loved by that person has made him shine with contentment every single day. She knows that Mr Oropherion adores his son, apparently in more ways than one. And that’s… that’s so messed up, isn’t it?
“Please, Kate.”
Her friend’s voice is rough with terror and she looks at him. His face is white and stupidly fucking handsome, just like his father’s. They both just stare at her, and she can’t breathe.
“I’ve got to go,” she says, running for the front door and tripping over her own feet. “I won’t say anything. I’ve just got to go. I’m sorry, babe. Thanks for having me,” she adds, because her mother would be furious if she didn’t.
He hears Legolas call her name, but he doesn’t follow her when she stumbles out into the street. The cold air shocks her after the warmth of the house, and she holds onto it. She needs something to clear her thoughts. When the bus comes, she sits right at the front and watches the streets shift from fancy Victorian terraces to ex-council houses and then high-rises, at which point she gets off and walks slowly up to her building, barely noticing when the wind whips her chaotic coils into madness.
It doesn’t seem to matter what she tries, all she can think about is their faces. Their hands clinging tight. Her stomach pulls tight at the memory, and then her head fills with the image of Mr Oropherion leaning in to try the sauce, and that sauce had smelled really fucking good and she thinks she might be hungry but it’s hard to tell. And of course, the nail varnishes, and the rumpled sheets, and the fact that she doesn’t ever remember seeing Legolas finish a bottle of water.
She sighs, slapping at the lift button until it becomes clear that she might as well start climbing the stairs. Halfway up, she finds Mrs Malik’s cat and scoops it up, hugging it to her chest as she walks.
“He was so happy,” she tells him, and her voice echoes in the empty stairwell. “He’s been talking about him for so long, you know? All this time, and he wanted to fuck his own dad? And then he did?”
Mr Mandarin flicks a ginger ear and purrs. Kate sighs. She’s pretty sure that cats fuck their relatives all the time. At least Legolas and his father aren’t going to have any children together. She wrinkles her nose and deposits him outside Mrs Malik’s flat, knocks on the door and leaves him there, trudging down the stairs to her own floor. When she opens the door, she finds two of her siblings apparently trying to kill each other in the hallway, and she steps over them without a word. Her mother is in the kitchen, feeding her youngest brother and attempting to have a conversation with her stepdad while her remaining brothers sort of put the dishes away and sort of pretend to be Professor X and Magneto.
“I thought you were out for dinner,” her mother says, frowning.
Kate shrugs. She sticks out a hand to catch her middle brother just before he trips over his own imaginary cape.
“Something came up.”
“Everything alright?”
She shrugs again and sits down at the table. “Mum?”
“Yeah?”
“If someone is doing something that’s… like, you’ve always been told it’s wrong, but they’re happy, and you can’t see that anyone is getting hurt…” She pauses. “Is it still wrong?”
“Kate, is Legolas doing drugs?” her mother asks, hands on hips.
“No,” she says, and she almost wants to laugh at the idea.
“Because if it’s a little bit of weed, that’s one thing, but anything else—”
“Mum,” she interrupts. “Legolas isn’t taking drugs. And this isn’t about Legolas. It’s about another friend.”
She fixes Kate with her ‘Mmhm, really?’ look and then sighs.
“Do you think it’s wrong? What this other friend is doing?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know what I think.”
“Trust your judgement,” her stepdad says, and offers her a piece of his chocolate bar. Green Aero, his favourite.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” her mother sighs.
Kate takes the chocolate piece and smiles at her mother. She feels loved. Like Legolas. Well, not exactly like Legolas. She doesn’t want to… His own father. His own son. And they had looked so strong, so protective of each other, so completely comfortable. She groans, closes her eyes, and eats her chocolate. When the tea is ready, she takes her cup and shuts herself in her bedroom, kicking off her boots and thinking about Mr Oropherion’s soft rug. They sleep together and cook together and fuck together, she thinks, covering her face when the thought of it makes her skin heat.
Something thumps in the hallway. There is a scream, and then a small voice yells, “Find all the mutants!”
Kate rolls her eyes and puts Aretha Franklin on. She would know what to do.
Maybe. The thing is, Legolas is pretty smart. She could see that right away, even though the main thing in her head on the day she met him was fuck me, that boy is BEAUTIFUL, and even though she never really stopped thinking it, even when she found out he was Really Gay and even when they became best friends. He always has great advice about boys and clothes and what to eat to make your skin do that glowy thing, and the only time he has ever seemed stupid was when he talked about his Old Man.
Who is actually his old man. Kate groans and gets into bed, waiting until she is warm to shimmy out of her clothes and into her pyjamas. She checks her phone and then pulls the covers right up to her nose. Idly, she wonders if they are thinking about her as much as she is thinking about them. Or if they’ve gone to bed, too. And then she stops thinking about that because they sleep in the same bed, and they…
“No,” she mumbles, and pulls her blanket over her head.
She wakes up to three texts from Legolas, and Mr Mandarin pressing his daft paws up against her window. She lets him in and allows him to curl on the bed while she reads.
Kate, I’m really sorry. You weren’t supposed to find out like that. Can we talk?
I love him so much. Everything I told you before is true. He is everything to me. He really is the most wonderful person. I know it must seem crazy but I promise I know what I’m doing. This is right for me.
You are my best friend. Please don’t be mad at me. Xx
She stares at her phone and sighs, unhelpfully reminded of a dream in which Legolas and his father had sat her on the edge of their bed and made her watch. She shivers and Mr Mandarin looks at her accusingly.
“How’s that ethical dilemma this morning?” her stepdad asks, wandering out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and letting her in quickly before someone smaller and faster can jump the queue.
“I think I need more information,” she says, closing the door just as something small and solid hits the wood and muffles a noisy swear.
She doesn’t text Legolas back, partly because she doesn’t know what to say and partly because she has the strangest feeling that when she sees his face, she’ll know. Despite the cold, she puts on sensible shoes and her big coat and makes the journey on foot. The freezing wind helps her think, and there’s nothing she can do about her hair right now, so she just winds it into a springy knot on the top of her head. She takes a short cut that brings her around the back of the house, and she stops at the gate when she sees that both of them are in the frosty garden and Mr Oropherion has tied his long hair up just like hers.
What really grabs her attention, though, is the way they are standing, intimately close and completely lost in one another. Legolas gazes up at his father with complete adoration, and she realises that she has seen that face before—when, and only when, he talks about the man he has loved for so long. He is smiling, a soft smile that is reflected right back to him as his father gently touches his face and eases him close. She means to shut her eyes, but finds herself watching them kiss with her hands wrapped around the top of the gate and her breath caught in her chest.
It’s a soft kiss, an eyes-closed, unhurried, you-are-my-entire-world sort of kiss, the sort of thing you see on television but not in real life. Her friend seems to smile against his father’s lips, stretching up on tiptoes to press their mouths together and sliding gentle fingers into his tied up hair, easing it free until it cascades down his father’s back.
Mr Oropherion laughs softly and pulls back to stare at his son. “Must you?”
“Yes,” Legolas says. “I literally cannot help it. What can you do?”
“This,” his father says, and Kate has to suppress a gasp as he hoists Legolas into the air as though he’s made of paper.
Holy fuck, he’s strong. And the way the sun makes his hair glow is pretty cool, too.
Her friend laughs and wraps his arms and legs around his father, dissolving into helpless giggles when he is spun around and has to cling on for dear life, long hair whipping out around him. As they slow, his eyes meet Kate’s, and his delighted grin fades, but he doesn’t let go of his father. He, too, turns to look at her, and she hates the way that the sight of her seems to have shattered their joy so abruptly.
She feels like an intruder. She also feels like they are completely insane because anyone could come to the back gate and see them like that. But it doesn’t matter, really, does it? She has seen them and the truth of it is really fucking obvious. It’s crazy, and they love each other. It’s a bit weird, and they love each other. Legolas is her best friend, and they love each other.
“Hi,” she says, trying to smile like a normal person.
Legolas slides down to his feet and smiles back. It’s a little smile, like he’s still scared to death, and he doesn’t let go of his father, one hand still wrapped around a forearm that is actually really… she shakes herself.
“Hi,” he says. “You came back.”
It’s not a question, but it sounds like one. She nods. “Yeah.”
“I’m really sorry about last night,” he says, and his father frowns.
“We are sorry if you are upset, but we are not sorry about how we feel,” Mr Oropherion says, and Kate can see the way Legolas’s smile lights up his whole face, even when he looks at the ground and turns pink.
“Don’t apologise, babe, I just needed a minute,” she says to Legolas’s father, and then bites the inside of her mouth when he raises an eyebrow at her. “Sorry.”
“Are you?” he asks, and she shrugs.
“Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”
Legolas looks up and scans her face with his pretty eyes. They both have pretty eyes, icy blue and ocean blue, and they are both staring at her. It’s quite something.
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Yeah,” Kate says, and she lets herself into the yard.
Amused, she watches as Legolas tears himself away from his father and walks into the house. For a moment, she and Mr Oropherion look at each other. She feels as though he’s trying to stare her down, and how fucking ridiculous. She is eighteen years old and five foot two on a good day, and he is wow-so-tall and handsome and an actual architect and he looks a tiny bit scared of her. She stands up straight and folds her arms.
“If I find out you’ve hurt him in any way, pressured him into anything, I will fucking end you. Sir,” she says, and then stalks past him into the kitchen, where Legolas is putting teabags into cups with the air of someone who is about to take an exam completely naked. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” she says.
“Really?”
“I promise.”
Legolas lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Don’t thank me. I would never do anything to hurt you. You’re my…” she stops because her throat feels tight and then she can’t speak because Legolas is squeezing her really, really tight and she thinks she might suffocate but that doesn’t stop her from hugging him back.
“I love you,” he says when he lets her go.
“And you love him, don’t you?”
He smiles. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” his father says, hesitating in the doorway for a moment and then stepping past Kate to kiss Legolas on the cheek.
She watches him walk away and then turns back to her friend, who is gazing after his father with such a lovestruck expression that she wants to roll her eyes. So she does, and he laughs.
“All that time, you were obsessing over him?” she says, as they take their tea into the living room.
“Yes.”
“And you really want this? He isn’t… manipulating you or anything?” she presses.
“He would never do that,” Legolas says, and his eyes are so big and serious when he looks at her. “I’m mad about him. All those things I told you before you knew who he was, all of that was true. He’s everything, Kate. He’s… I’m just…” He shrugs and she rolls her eyes again, she can’t help it.
“I believe you,” she sighs. “It’s still a bit weird, but I want… I want you to be happy, babe, and love is love, right?”
Legolas seems to sag with relief. He leans back on the sofa, legs tucked up, and smiles at her.
“I know it seems crazy, but…”
“It seems very crazy. I think you’ve both lost your minds. I think you’re going to have to live with a lot of secrets. But… I also don’t see how it would help you to focus on that,” she says. “Like, you’re going to do it anyway and I feel better knowing that I’m… I don’t know. ‘Involved’ sounds weird. I just want to be there for you.”
“I know. I wanted to tell you so many times,” he says, and she finds herself thinking of all the times they have talked about Legolas’s secret crush, how he had pined and suffered, how he had seemed to light up inside when they finally found each other.
She leans beside him, tucking her feet underneath her and clasping her cup in both hands.
“I’ve got to admit, he is gorgeous,” she confides.
Legolas grins. “I know.”
She nudges his knee with her own. “Is he good in bed?”
He snorts. “I think I’ve already told you plenty about that.”
“I know, but it’s different now,” she says, glancing at the door as though his father might burst in at any moment. “Now I know what I’m picturing.”
“Oh, god,” Legolas groans, covering his face with his hands. “Please don’t picture it. I don’t picture you having sex.”
“You can if you want,” she shrugs. “I mean, I’m not, but I don’t care if you do. Not with my dad, though. We aren’t all blessed like you.”
“Your dad or your stepdad?” Legolas asks, all innocence, and Kate screws up her face. She kicks him.
“Neither. Neither, neither, neither, and there is something really wrong with you, babe.”
“I know,” he sighs, and he looks pretty happy about it.
“Okay,” she says, sipping her tea. “Tell me about how it actually happened. You owe me for that… image.”
Legolas turns to face her on the sofa. “Shall I start with the first time I kissed him or the first time he kissed me? Or the time I came home from archery all sticky and I’m pretty sure he ran off to the bathroom to have a wank about it?”
Kate looks back at the door one more time and then gets comfortable. “Start at the beginning.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77332026 | {"authors": ["Arcane Charisma (Saras_Girl)"], "language": "English", "title": "The Surveyor"} |
Character Concept [156]: RN Lorenzo il Magnifico (U.P.41 Battleship)
Faction:
Sardegna Empire
Class:
U.P.41 Design Battleship
Background:
In an alternate timeline…
The story of Lorenzo il Magnifico, the first of what can be considered to be the second generation of U.P.41 battleships (also known as the Marco Polo-class or Conte Verde-class Battleships depending on the source) could be traced back to the prior generation. Developed by Gio Ansaldo & Co., the battleships were meant to help develop Soviet shipbuilding, which was left lacking as many of their shipwrights fled following the Bolshevik’s victory in the Russian Civil War. Based on the Vittorio Veneto-class Battleships, the U.P.41’s were intended to be follow ons to the Soviet’s Gangut-class Battleships from the First World War era, and as such were not originally built with the vaunted Pugliese System in mind. This defense system, developed by naval engineer Umberto Pugliese, was intended to defend the battleship from torpedoes (something that would prove ineffective as shown by Littorio, who was fitted with that system, suffered more than expected damage from British torpedoes in their air attack on Taranto harbor in 1940), instead, intending to utilize a multiple-torpedo bulkhead system instead. Ultimately, the Soviets would reject U.P.41 in favor of a different design for what would become the Sovetsky Soyuz-class battleships, ironically fitted with the Pugliese system after details were acquired by Soviet spies.
Despite this, and with the second pair of Littorio’s, Roma and Impero, completed ahead of schedule, the U.P.41’s would be constructed as a follow on, a further development of their predecessors. Two such battleships, Conte Verde and Marco Polo, would be built during Italy’s involvement in World War II, entering service in 1942. A third battleship, Giuseppe Verdi was still under construction following Italy’s armistice in September 1943. However, the fall of Mussolini’s fascist regime would ignite the Italian Campaign and concurrent Italian Civil War between forces loyal to Mussolini (the Italian Social Republic, nicknamed the Republic of Salò) and the forces loyal to, at first Vittorio Emanuele III, and following a talking down by his family, his son and successor Umberto II on 10 April 1944. [1] (officially the Kingdom of Italy, but would come to be known during and in the post-war period as “Regno del Sud,” the Kingdom of the South) Ironically, one could consider this move as what would save the monarchy in the long-term.
Another such move that would inadvertently save the Kingdom of Italy would be the unfortunate failure of Operation Overlord, intended to open up a new front that would see to the liberation of France from Nazi German occupation while relieving pressure on the Eastern Front. [2] This failure would seriously delay the subsequent Operation Dragoon, a similar amphibious invasion of Southern France in order to analyze the failures of the Battle of Normandy. This also put pressure to continue the slog on the Italian mainland, having started their offensives against the Gothic Line at the same time. As a result, the Soviets would continue their advance, taking numerous casualties as they did. Stalin’s Ten Blows, as the 1944 campaign would come to be known, would see the successful liberation Leningrad and Karelia, destroying the Finnish Army in an uncharacteristically fluid fashion [3] and contributing towards staying towards the goal of unconditional Finnish surrender [4] achieved in 1946, the reconquest of Bessarabia and flipping of Romania into the Allies, the liberation of the Belarussian SSR and conquest of former Polish Belarus and pushing the frontline to East Prussia following the reconquest of the Baltic States.
This would follow into 1945 with the launch of Operation Dragoon after nearly a year’s delay, corresponding with continued offensives into Italy, while the Soviets, in an ironic twist of fate, blitz through the East, liberating the Balkans in its entirety (and supporting the Communist partisans in defeating Greek White Forces, ensuring they would remain in exile for the foreseeable future), and pushing into Hungary and occupied Czechoslovakia. It was becoming clear that the Soviets would successfully secure the capitals of the remaining Axis Powers in Budapest and Berlin, all while the Western Allies were continuing to slug it out in France and Italy. Thus, the Spring of 1945 would begin the “Race to Paris” as the two competing factions sought to secure their control over Europe. Despite the rapid successes of the Soviets and they overran Germany and even pushed into the Benelux and Denmark, it would be the Western Allies who would successfully liberate Paris, the two sides meeting along the Rhine.
As a result of this lopsided success on the part of the Soviet forces, the peace would see much of Europe fall into Communist regimes propped up by the occupying Soviet forces, with many of its original leaders that weren’t aligned with the Axis or switched sides later going into exile in Western Europe, some, like the Dutch Royal Family, would exile themselves to their South American colony of Dutch Guiana, or the Belgian Royal Family in the Belgian Congo.
For Italy, whose liberation came almost entirely by the Western Allies, the breakdown between the Communists and the Monarchists came about as a result of the 1946 referendum on the status of the monarchy. Republicans, Socialists and Communists championed the idea of abolishing the monarchy, with the latter’s case being that its abolishment would help pave the way for Communist rule over the peninsula. However, the unintended consequence of Umberto taking the throne when he did in 1944 meant that a lot of the misgivings of Vittorio Emanuele III, whose later reign was condemned for bringing Mussolini to power and the situation that came as a result, was left behind in the fog of war. Umberto, who proved to be a more popular figure than his father, would prove enough to sway the vote in favor of retaining the institution, 53%-46%. This move would be condemned by the Communists, who to this day felt that the vote was rigged in favor of monarchy as a consequence of American meddling, and through Soviet support (including the filtering of Soviet troops into Northeastern Italy, would declare the establishment of the Italian People’s Soviet Republic in 1948, a move that would nearly lead to a second Italian Civil War, before the superpowers ultimately agreed to let the situation slide, a move that would cause no less consternation by the two Italian states, divided along the Northern Apennines.
This division would also influence the fate of the Italian Co-Belligerent Navy, the de-facto successor to the Regia Marina of the Fascist era. The 1947 Treaty of Paris that defined peace between Italy and the Allies initially stipulated that the reestablished Italian Royal Navy would be barred from owning battleships, aircraft carriers, submarines and amphibious assault units. But the drastic national situation, coupled with the changing international situation that would start the Cold War, would put an end to these restrictions. Though a number of battleships were already transferred to the powers as war reparations, including the first two Littorios (Littorio, later renamed Italia being transferred to the United States and Vittorio Veneto to the United Kingdom, later being the only captured Battleship put into service by a foreign power), the second Conte di Cavour-class, Giulio Cesare (famously transferred to the Soviet Union, becoming Novorossiysk, with the lead ship being chosen to be scrapped on site), and Conte Verde, the lead ship of her class (becoming Odessa). [5] However, four battleships would remain in the hands of the Italian powers, with North Italy retaining the fourth and final Littorio, Impero (which would later be renamed Antonio Gramsci, after the once-head of the Italian Communist Party who died in prison during the fascist era), while South Italy would retain both Andrea Doria-class Battleships as well as the incomplete Giuseppe Verdi, the planned third U.P.41.
As it became clear of the Soviet’s position of strength in Europe, with the Baltic and Eastern Mediterranean largely dominated by them, the decision was made by the Italian Government of Alcide de Gaspari to begin plans of rebuilding the Regia Marina, both through modernizing their older warships and purchasing excess American warships. But one of the largest projects undertaken was the modernization of Giuseppe Verdi and starting construction of the three originally canceled Conte Verde-class Battleships. These battleships, the final such ships ever built by the Kingdom of Italy and one of the last completed for any navy, would see some changes based on wartime lessons, such as the return to the torpedo bulkhead system. While the ship’s three triple 406mm main guns and four triple 152mm secondaries were retained, her smaller 135mm guns and 90mm Anti-Air guns were replaced with the 5”/38 guns utilized by the Americans in twin turrets. While the guns were overall not as powerful as the 135mm guns used in the earlier Conte Verde and Marco Polo, they made up for it by being built on Dual Purpose mounts, giving the battleship a greater anti-air punch. Their smaller AA armaments would also be replaced with the Bofors 40mm gun in various configurations for a more uniform role.
RN Lorenzo il Magnifico would be the fourth of the Conte Verde-class ships, and the first to be built entirely to the slightly updated design (as Giuseppe Verdi was largely modified but many of the features remained the same from the first group). She was laid down at the Regio Cantiere di Castellammare di Stabia in Castellammare di Stabia, Campania, South Italy on 8 April 1953, launched on 2 December 1955 and commissioned into the Regia Marina on 1 January 1957. She would be joined by her sister ships in the second group (sometimes referred to as the Il Magnifico-class) in Raffaello in 1959 and Matilde di Canossa in 1960.
The commissioning of such battleships in the age of the aircraft carrier was met with some degree of controversy, as very few nations still operated big gun warships. Britain had retired HMS Vanguard in 1960, which left besides Italy, the French with the Richelieu-class Battleships (with considerations to convert them into guided missile battleships), the United States with the Iowa-class, and the Soviets with Odessa and the Sovetsky Soyuz-class. Furthermore, while Soviet battleships would remain a credible threat, it was believed that it would be far better to simply build up the Army, especially if a war with the Communists would mean a war along the inter-Italian border. Nonetheless, Lorenzo il Magnifico would play a role as flagship of the Regia Marina as a whole, oftentimes shadowing ships in the People’s Military Navy, and the Navies of Yugoslavia, Albania and the Soviet Union. She participated in numerous exercises with the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, particularly with the United States, United Kingdom and France in the Western Mediterranean. Lorenzo il Magnifico would also receive dignitaries from numerous Mediterranean states, such as Crown Prince Mustafa Bey of Tunisia in 1966 and U.S. President Nelson Rockefeller in 1968.
This last gasp of the U.P.41’s would last until the 1980s, when South Italy started construction of its first aircraft carrier, Giuseppe Garibaldi. Lorenzo il Magnifico would be the first of the completed post-war Conte Verde’s to be retired, being decommissioned in 1981, the year Giuseppe Garibaldi was laid down, and would be sent to a shipbreaking firm in Damietta, Egypt in 1984.
[1]: Historically, while Prince Umberto would gain the power of the Kingdom, in part in April and in full by 4 June as Lieutenant General of the Realm, Victor Emmanuel would remain King of Italy until finally abdicating the throne in May 1946 in a last-ditch, and ultimately futile effort to save the monarchy as an institution.
[2]: Obviously, in our timeline, Operation Overlord did not fail.
[3]: Historically the Finnish Army survived intact, despite losing Karelia, but the defeat nonetheless led to the Moscow Armistice and Finland joining the Allies in what would become the Lappland War.
[4]: Which was the historically planned objective as revealed in files discovered from the Foreign Ministry Archive in 1993. It was numerous failures in achieving objectives despite their victory in Karelia that led to the OTL peace between the two.
[5]: All this was explained in CC#85: RN Conte Verde.
—
Lorenzo il Magnifico is my second take on the U.P.41 battleship design developed by Gio Ansaldo & C. Company. The design was developed as a design proposal for the Soviet Navy on 14 July 1939. U.P. 41 was a ship derived from the Littorio-class, a 42,000t (41,000 long tons or 46,000 short tons) battleship equipped with nine 406mm (16”) main guns in three triple turrets. Unlike the Littorios, the U.P. 41 design was not | Character Concept [156]: RN Lorenzo il Magnifico (U.P.41 Battleship)
Faction:
Sardegna Empire
Class:
U.P.41 Design Battleship
Background:
In an alternate timeline…
The story of Lorenzo il Magnifico, the first of what can be considered to be the second generation of U.P.41 battleships (also known as the Marco Polo-class or Conte Verde-class Battleships depending on the source) could be traced back to the prior generation. Developed by Gio Ansaldo & Co., the battleships were meant to help develop Soviet shipbuilding, which was left lacking as many of their shipwrights fled following the Bolshevik’s victory in the Russian Civil War. Based on the Vittorio Veneto-class Battleships, the U.P.41’s were intended to be follow ons to the Soviet’s Gangut-class Battleships from the First World War era, and as such were not originally built with the vaunted Pugliese System in mind. This defense system, developed by naval engineer Umberto Pugliese, was intended to defend the battleship from torpedoes (something that would prove ineffective as shown by Littorio, who was fitted with that system, suffered more than expected damage from British torpedoes in their air attack on Taranto harbor in 1940), instead, intending to utilize a multiple-torpedo bulkhead system instead. Ultimately, the Soviets would reject U.P.41 in favor of a different design for what would become the Sovetsky Soyuz-class battleships, ironically fitted with the Pugliese system after details were acquired by Soviet spies.
Despite this, and with the second pair of Littorio’s, Roma and Impero, completed ahead of schedule, the U.P.41’s would be constructed as a follow on, a further development of their predecessors. Two such battleships, Conte Verde and Marco Polo, would be built during Italy’s involvement in World War II, entering service in 1942. A third battleship, Giuseppe Verdi was still under construction following Italy’s armistice in September 1943. However, the fall of Mussolini’s fascist regime would ignite the Italian Campaign and concurrent Italian Civil War between forces loyal to Mussolini (the Italian Social Republic, nicknamed the Republic of Salò) and the forces loyal to, at first Vittorio Emanuele III, and following a talking down by his family, his son and successor Umberto II on 10 April 1944. [1] (officially the Kingdom of Italy, but would come to be known during and in the post-war period as “Regno del Sud,” the Kingdom of the South) Ironically, one could consider this move as what would save the monarchy in the long-term.
Another such move that would inadvertently save the Kingdom of Italy would be the unfortunate failure of Operation Overlord, intended to open up a new front that would see to the liberation of France from Nazi German occupation while relieving pressure on the Eastern Front. [2] This failure would seriously delay the subsequent Operation Dragoon, a similar amphibious invasion of Southern France in order to analyze the failures of the Battle of Normandy. This also put pressure to continue the slog on the Italian mainland, having started their offensives against the Gothic Line at the same time. As a result, the Soviets would continue their advance, taking numerous casualties as they did. Stalin’s Ten Blows, as the 1944 campaign would come to be known, would see the successful liberation Leningrad and Karelia, destroying the Finnish Army in an uncharacteristically fluid fashion [3] and contributing towards staying towards the goal of unconditional Finnish surrender [4] achieved in 1946, the reconquest of Bessarabia and flipping of Romania into the Allies, the liberation of the Belarussian SSR and conquest of former Polish Belarus and pushing the frontline to East Prussia following the reconquest of the Baltic States.
This would follow into 1945 with the launch of Operation Dragoon after nearly a year’s delay, corresponding with continued offensives into Italy, while the Soviets, in an ironic twist of fate, blitz through the East, liberating the Balkans in its entirety (and supporting the Communist partisans in defeating Greek White Forces, ensuring they would remain in exile for the foreseeable future), and pushing into Hungary and occupied Czechoslovakia. It was becoming clear that the Soviets would successfully secure the capitals of the remaining Axis Powers in Budapest and Berlin, all while the Western Allies were continuing to slug it out in France and Italy. Thus, the Spring of 1945 would begin the “Race to Paris” as the two competing factions sought to secure their control over Europe. Despite the rapid successes of the Soviets and they overran Germany and even pushed into the Benelux and Denmark, it would be the Western Allies who would successfully liberate Paris, the two sides meeting along the Rhine.
As a result of this lopsided success on the part of the Soviet forces, the peace would see much of Europe fall into Communist regimes propped up by the occupying Soviet forces, with many of its original leaders that weren’t aligned with the Axis or switched sides later going into exile in Western Europe, some, like the Dutch Royal Family, would exile themselves to their South American colony of Dutch Guiana, or the Belgian Royal Family in the Belgian Congo.
For Italy, whose liberation came almost entirely by the Western Allies, the breakdown between the Communists and the Monarchists came about as a result of the 1946 referendum on the status of the monarchy. Republicans, Socialists and Communists championed the idea of abolishing the monarchy, with the latter’s case being that its abolishment would help pave the way for Communist rule over the peninsula. However, the unintended consequence of Umberto taking the throne when he did in 1944 meant that a lot of the misgivings of Vittorio Emanuele III, whose later reign was condemned for bringing Mussolini to power and the situation that came as a result, was left behind in the fog of war. Umberto, who proved to be a more popular figure than his father, would prove enough to sway the vote in favor of retaining the institution, 53%-46%. This move would be condemned by the Communists, who to this day felt that the vote was rigged in favor of monarchy as a consequence of American meddling, and through Soviet support (including the filtering of Soviet troops into Northeastern Italy, would declare the establishment of the Italian People’s Soviet Republic in 1948, a move that would nearly lead to a second Italian Civil War, before the superpowers ultimately agreed to let the situation slide, a move that would cause no less consternation by the two Italian states, divided along the Northern Apennines.
This division would also influence the fate of the Italian Co-Belligerent Navy, the de-facto successor to the Regia Marina of the Fascist era. The 1947 Treaty of Paris that defined peace between Italy and the Allies initially stipulated that the reestablished Italian Royal Navy would be barred from owning battleships, aircraft carriers, submarines and amphibious assault units. But the drastic national situation, coupled with the changing international situation that would start the Cold War, would put an end to these restrictions. Though a number of battleships were already transferred to the powers as war reparations, including the first two Littorios (Littorio, later renamed Italia being transferred to the United States and Vittorio Veneto to the United Kingdom, later being the only captured Battleship put into service by a foreign power), the second Conte di Cavour-class, Giulio Cesare (famously transferred to the Soviet Union, becoming Novorossiysk, with the lead ship being chosen to be scrapped on site), and Conte Verde, the lead ship of her class (becoming Odessa). [5] However, four battleships would remain in the hands of the Italian powers, with North Italy retaining the fourth and final Littorio, Impero (which would later be renamed Antonio Gramsci, after the once-head of the Italian Communist Party who died in prison during the fascist era), while South Italy would retain both Andrea Doria-class Battleships as well as the incomplete Giuseppe Verdi, the planned third U.P.41.
As it became clear of the Soviet’s position of strength in Europe, with the Baltic and Eastern Mediterranean largely dominated by them, the decision was made by the Italian Government of Alcide de Gaspari to begin plans of rebuilding the Regia Marina, both through modernizing their older warships and purchasing excess American warships. But one of the largest projects undertaken was the modernization of Giuseppe Verdi and starting construction of the three originally canceled Conte Verde-class Battleships. These battleships, the final such ships ever built by the Kingdom of Italy and one of the last completed for any navy, would see some changes based on wartime lessons, such as the return to the torpedo bulkhead system. While the ship’s three triple 406mm main guns and four triple 152mm secondaries were retained, her smaller 135mm guns and 90mm Anti-Air guns were replaced with the 5”/38 guns utilized by the Americans in twin turrets. While the guns were overall not as powerful as the 135mm guns used in the earlier Conte Verde and Marco Polo, they made up for it by being built on Dual Purpose mounts, giving the battleship a greater anti-air punch. Their smaller AA armaments would also be replaced with the Bofors 40mm gun in various configurations for a more uniform role.
RN Lorenzo il Magnifico would be the fourth of the Conte Verde-class ships, and the first to be built entirely to the slightly updated design (as Giuseppe Verdi was largely modified but many of the features remained the same from the first group). She was laid down at the Regio Cantiere di Castellammare di Stabia in Castellammare di Stabia, Campania, South Italy on 8 April 1953, launched on 2 December 1955 and commissioned into the Regia Marina on 1 January 1957. She would be joined by her sister ships in the second group (sometimes referred to as the Il Magnifico-class) in Raffaello in 1959 and Matilde di Canossa in 1960.
The commissioning of such battleships in the age of the aircraft carrier was met with some degree of controversy, as very few nations still operated big gun warships. Britain had retired HMS Vanguard in 1960, which left besides Italy, the French with the Richelieu-class Battleships (with considerations to convert them into guided missile battleships), the United States with the Iowa-class, and the Soviets with Odessa and the Sovetsky Soyuz-class. Furthermore, while Soviet battleships would remain a credible threat, it was believed that it would be far better to simply build up the Army, especially if a war with the Communists would mean a war along the inter-Italian border. Nonetheless, Lorenzo il Magnifico would play a role as flagship of the Regia Marina as a whole, oftentimes shadowing ships in the People’s Military Navy, and the Navies of Yugoslavia, Albania and the Soviet Union. She participated in numerous exercises with the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, particularly with the United States, United Kingdom and France in the Western Mediterranean. Lorenzo il Magnifico would also receive dignitaries from numerous Mediterranean states, such as Crown Prince Mustafa Bey of Tunisia in 1966 and U.S. President Nelson Rockefeller in 1968.
This last gasp of the U.P.41’s would last until the 1980s, when South Italy started construction of its first aircraft carrier, Giuseppe Garibaldi. Lorenzo il Magnifico would be the first of the completed post-war Conte Verde’s to be retired, being decommissioned in 1981, the year Giuseppe Garibaldi was laid down, and would be sent to a shipbreaking firm in Damietta, Egypt in 1984.
[1]: Historically, while Prince Umberto would gain the power of the Kingdom, in part in April and in full by 4 June as Lieutenant General of the Realm, Victor Emmanuel would remain King of Italy until finally abdicating the throne in May 1946 in a last-ditch, and ultimately futile effort to save the monarchy as an institution.
[2]: Obviously, in our timeline, Operation Overlord did not fail.
[3]: Historically the Finnish Army survived intact, despite losing Karelia, but the defeat nonetheless led to the Moscow Armistice and Finland joining the Allies in what would become the Lappland War.
[4]: Which was the historically planned objective as revealed in files discovered from the Foreign Ministry Archive in 1993. It was numerous failures in achieving objectives despite their victory in Karelia that led to the OTL peace between the two.
[5]: All this was explained in CC#85: RN Conte Verde.
—
Lorenzo il Magnifico is my second take on the U.P.41 battleship design developed by Gio Ansaldo & C. Company. The design was developed as a design proposal for the Soviet Navy on 14 July 1939. U.P. 41 was a ship derived from the Littorio-class, a 42,000t (41,000 long tons or 46,000 short tons) battleship equipped with nine 406mm (16”) main guns in three triple turrets. Unlike the Littorios, the U.P. 41 design was not built with the Pugliese system, instead using a multiple-torpedo bulkhead system. Ultimately the design would not be used by the Soviet Navy for the ships that would become the Sovetsky Soyuz-class, however the latter would be built with the Pugliese system, acquired via Soviet espionage.
Unlike with the first take, RN Conte Verde, Lorenzo il Magnifico represents a what-if modernization largely inspired by ships of the post-WWII-era Marina Militare (the republican Italian successor to the monarchist Regia Marina) in the 1950s.
Namesake:
Lorenzo il Magnifico is the name chosen for my second U.P.41 design, and is named after Lorenzo de’ Medici, the de facto Lord of the Florentine Republic. Lorenzo di Piero de’ Medici was the son of Piero de’ Medici, otherwise known as Piero il Gottoso (the Gouty) and grandson of Cosimo, the first member of the Medici family to run both the Medici Banking system and rule as Lord of Florence. Under Lorenzo’s lordship in 1469, Florence would be home to numerous artists that would come under his patronage, including figures such as Michaelangelo, Botticelli & Leonardo da Vinci, among others. His patronage efforts would earn him the epitaph of “the Magnificent.” (il Magnifico) In terms of politics, Lorenzo sought to maintain a balance of power and peace in the Italian Peninsula through the maintenance of the Italic League. However, he would be subject to intrigue by rivals and figures jealous of the Medici’s dominance in Florentine and Italian affairs, leading to numerous incidents such as the 1478 Pazzi Conspiracy and the subsequent war between Florence and a coalition of Naples, Urbino & the Papacy. His financial situation would also suffer, seeing several branches of the Medici bank collapse due to bad loans, and was even forced to misappropriating trust and state funds to stay afloat.
Despite this, Lorenzo’s foreign policies would prove the bedrock for Medici rule of his heirs. In spite of his eldest son, Piero (who succeeded Lorenzo after his death in 1492) losing Florence to Girolamo Savonarola and later Piero Soderini, Lorenzo’s second son, Giovanni (the future Pope Leo X) retook the city in 1512 with the aid of a Spanish Army. In 1531, Lorenzo’s nephew Giulio, whom the former raised as if he was his own son, and who in 1523, became pope of his own accord (Clemens VII) formalized Medici rule over Florence by installing his cousin and Lorenzo’s grandson, Alessandro, as the first Duke of the Republic of Florence, becoming confirmed hereditary rulers of the city (and later over all of Tuscany) until the family’s extinction in 1737.
No warships in Italian Navy service ever bore the name of Lorenzo il Magnifico.
Rarity:
UR
Stat Spread:
Lorenzo il Magnifico’s stat spread is largely similar to other U.P.41 designs, including sister ships Rafaello (Azur Lane’s take on the design) and Marco Polo (Wargaming’s take). Lorenzo’s firepower and HP pool is top of the line (both S-ranks) while her speed is still fairly sluggish (D). The only difference between her sisters come in her AA which is notably a rank higher (B).
Abilities:
Personality:
Lorenzo il Magnifico is a woman who likes to see the beauty of the world. She is someone who celebrates life in all its facets, while recognizing and acknowledging with melancholy the fragility and instability of the human condition. Like her namesake, she is talented in her skills in finance and banking, and is knowledgeable in both philosophy and poetry. She is someone who greatly emulates the Renaissance culture that her namesake often sponsored.
Quotes:
Design:
Lorenzo il Magnifico is depicted as a woman in her mid-twenties with upper leg-length long Fern Green-colored hair that is tied in a long spiral. Like her sister Raffaello, she sports golden yellow eyes, though unlike her sister’s “X” shaped irises, Lorenzo’s is more normal looking by comparison. Her attire consists of an austere white robe with gold trim, with a fancier robe over her shoulders, coming down to her chest. Around her neck is a necklace that contains the Arms of the House of Medici (which would later be adopted by Tuscany as a whole), with a wider set of jewels that wrap around her shoulders and down to her chest area. White stockings and black high heel shoes round out her attire.
Lorenzo’s rigging is largely similar to that of sister ship Raffaello, with an ornate split-hull design with her main guns protruding from each side of her hull. What separates il Magnifico however is that she sports smaller Bofors and American-made 5” guns along the top and horn-like spirals, replacing the smaller triple turreted secondaries Raffaello uses. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77332036 | {"authors": ["NoblesseOblige449"], "language": "English", "title": "Character Concept [156]: RN Lorenzo il Magnifico (U.P.41 Battleship)"} |
Their Place ~ Beyond The Aurora ~
Disclaimer
Beyond the Aurora: Their Place is an independent work of fanfiction created solely for artistic expression and enjoyment within the fan community.
All primary characters, settings, and core concepts from Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha are the intellectual property of Masaki Tsuzuki, Seven Arcs, King Records, and their respective rights holders. Elements, characters, and thematic material from Silent Möbius (Attacked Mystification Police) are the creations of Kia Asamiya and Studio Tron. Ownership of the Gundam franchise—including mobile suit concepts and the specific models Gundam Astraea II and Gundam Exia—remains with Bandai Namco Filmworks, Sunrise, and Hajime Yatate.
This work is entirely non-commercial and transformative in nature. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, and no monetary profit is sought or derived from its creation or distribution.
Beyond the Aurora: Their Place is a crossover story set within the broader Beyond the Aurora continuity. It takes place three months after Einhard Stratos’ love confession, as depicted in Colour of the Sky and the World, and functions as a self-contained narrative focusing on the evolving bond between Ave and Einhard. The story explores their unique synchronicity as partners within a polyamorous household, set against the backdrop of the TSAB’s “Golden Age.” Within this context, the narrative depicts a pivotal incident that accelerates and deepens their emotional connection, solidifying trust and mutual understanding.
All original elements—including the overarching continuity, the immortal polycule, the portrayal of Ave as an isekai-born Gundam Meister with Innovator/Time Diver potential, the integration of GN Drive systems with TSAB magical mechanics, the original narrative arc Beyond the Aurora, the dimensional cyberpunk demon setting, the characterizations and relationships developed herein, and the central themes of love as freedom, emotional maturity, and strength through vulnerability—are unique creations developed specifically for this fan-made universe and are not part of any official canon.
This story explores themes of unwavering partnership amidst crisis, the courage to claim one’s feelings, the meaning of home and found family across dimensions, and the quiet strength forged in vulnerability. It is intended to deepen character development and emotional resonance within the larger narrative while honouring the intricate relationships and continuity of the Beyond the Aurora universe.
Thank you sincerely for reading.
Andou Masaki
OP Theme Song:
Brave Shine (Performed By: Aimer)
ED Theme Song:
Voice ~ The Place I Will Reach ~ (Performed By: Sachi Tainaka)
The cockpit of Gundam Astraea II thrummed with raw, barely contained power, the vibrations crawling up Ave’s arms as his fingers tightened around the control handles. Every pulse of the Double Drive System sent a shudder through the frame, as though the mobile suit itself were straining against invisible restraints. Warning lights erupted across the console in frantic patterns, bathing his determined features in a relentless strobing red that painted the cramped cockpit in urgency and danger.
“Ave-kun, the Double Drive System is overloading,” Einhard Stratos’ voice came through the comm, edged with static but steady all the same. On her end, her mismatched eyes—one deep violet, the other an icy blue—flicked rapidly between cascading readouts, tracking every spike, every fluctuation, every alarming deviation. Despite the chaos flooding the data streams, her tone remained measured and precise, the calm of disciplined analysis anchoring her words.
“Damn it,” Ave muttered under his breath, sweat beading along his forehead as another warning chime screamed through the cockpit. “I’m trying to stabilize the particle oscillation, but it’s like the system’s gone haywire.” He twisted the energy dampeners, forcing them to reroute the feedback and bleed off excess output—but instead of easing, the response intensified. A shrill, high-pitched whine cut through the cockpit, sharp enough to set his teeth on edge and rattle his nerves.
Einhard’s expression tightened as she absorbed the new data. “If we keep pushing,” she warned, voice firm now, “it could trigger a chain reaction.” The implication hung heavy between them—catastrophic failure, not just of the system, but also of everything surrounding it.
“We’ve come this far,” Ave shot back, frustration sharpening his words as his grip clenched even harder around the controls. His eyes burned with stubborn resolve as he stared at the flickering displays. “I’m not giving up now.”
Not when turning back would mean losing every bit of progress we’ve fought to achieve.
Asteion, the tiny snow leopard plushie resting in Einhard’s lap, let out an anxious mew, its small body trembling as though it could feel the instability rippling through the cockpit. Its wide, expressive eyes flicked rapidly between Einhard’s face and the flickering console, reflecting the mounting tension in every frantic movement.
“Tio says we’re in trouble,” Einhard said quietly, translating as she gently ran her hand over the plushie’s head, her touch careful and reassuring. “We have to shut it down, Ave-kun.”
Ave stiffened, his breath catching for just a fraction of a second as his thoughts raced. Months of effort—of sleepless nights, endless calculations, and painstaking trial and error—had been poured into the Double Drive System. Aborting now felt like admitting failure. Like throwing all of that work away.
She’s right. He admitted silently, his jaw tightening as the realization settled in. If the spike keeps climbing, Astraea II won’t survive it.
“…Fine,” he said at last, the word forced out through clenched teeth as he gave a sharp nod. “Initiating shutdown sequence.”
His hand moved toward the command panel—
And then the cockpit lurched violently.
The entire frame shuddered as if struck by a massive blow, throwing Ave back into his seat. Blue arcs of electricity crawled wildly along the cockpit walls, snapping and crackling like living things. The high-pitched whine surged past its previous limit, rising into a piercing, almost unbearable scream that drowned out every warning alarm at once.
“Ave-kun!” Einhard’s voice cut sharply through the chaos, the edge of panic in her tone unmistakable and rare.
“Hold on!” he shouted back, muscles locking as he braced himself and the Gundam’s systems spiralled into an uncontrollable frenzy.
The space around them began to distort, twisting and folding in ways that defied reason. Colors bled into one another, light and shadow dissolving as a kaleidoscopic vortex formed, swelling outward until it seemed ready to swallow the cockpit whole.
Is this it? Is this the end? Ave’s chest tightened as a second, heavier realization followed close behind. Did I push us too far?
Einhard reached out, her hand closing around his arm, grounding him amid the violent storm of light and force. “Stay with me, Ave-kun,” she urged, her voice steady despite the tremor visible in her mismatched purple and blue eyes.
Their gazes locked, a silent promise passing between them. No matter what awaited them beyond the swirling distortion, they would face it together.
Asteion’s meows rose in volume, sharp and urgent, the tiny plushie trembling as its distress grew. Einhard pulled it closer to her chest, instinctively tightening her hold. “Tio, shield us if you can,” she commanded, her voice firm despite the fear threading through it.
The plushie shimmered in response, a gentle, luminous glow spilling outward. The light wrapped around them like a fragile cocoon, thin yet resolute. The cockpit lurched again as the vortex’s pull intensified, air and light warping under the strain, bending and stretching as though space itself were being twisted.
“We’re being dragged somewhere,” Ave realized aloud, his voice rough with effort as he fought to keep his bearings.
“Where?” Einhard asked, her breath catching as she scanned the distortion beyond the cockpit.
“No idea,” he admitted without hesitation. “Just hold on.”
The radiance around them surged, ballooning into a blinding intensity that devoured all shape and shadow. A deafening roar crashed over them, erasing alarms, voices—every sound at once. Ave felt a sensation that transcended the physical, a profound unmooring, as though something essential within him had torn free and reality itself was slipping out of alignment.
Then, without warning, it all stopped.
Silence.
Darkness pressed in around them, thick and absolute, broken only by the faint, steady hum of lingering energy. Ave’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. “Haru? Are you all right?”
“I’m here,” Einhard said, her voice calm yet strained as she stayed close to his side. She released Asteion, allowing the plushie to land softly on the cockpit floor, its glow fading to a gentle shimmer.
“Tio did well,” she murmured, running a careful hand over the plushie’s head.
Ave engaged the external sensors, but the readings were a chaotic jumble—digits flickering nonsensically, signals spiking and vanishing. “Sensors are shot,” he muttered grimly. “Can you see anything outside?”
Einhard leaned closer to the viewport, her heterochromatic eyes widening with a mixture of awe and unease. “Ave-kun… you need to see this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He followed her gaze, his heart catching in his chest as the sight before them stole his breath.
The city stretched before them like a nightmare rendered in steel and shadow. Skyscrapers clawed at the blood-pale moon, jagged monoliths of cracked glass and twisted metal, their once-pristine facades scarred and broken. Rain fell in heavy sheets, bouncing off streets slick with water and grime, each drop hissing as it met exposed electrical lines. Neon lights flickered in erratic bursts, bleeding sickly reds, purples, and blues across the wet asphalt, creating warped reflections that danced like restless spirits.
The pale moon hung low in the sky, its crimson-tinged glow filtered through thick clouds of smog. Its light painted the city in a surreal, almost grotesque palette—steel towers glimmering in streaks of red, puddles turning molten with reflected neon, and shadows deep enough to hide the movement of unseen horrors.
The air was heavy with ozone and the metallic tang of rain, sharp against the wet concrete. Silence ruled the streets, oppressive and absolute, broken only by the occasional hiss of overtaxed machinery or the distant rumble of a derelict transport. Alleyways pooled with darkness, broken by the occasional flare of flickering neon, creating the illusion of veins running through the city—alive, watching, and waiting.
Raindrops clung to fractured glass like tiny blood beads, each reflecting the pale red of the moon above. Even the neon seemed conscious, throbbing and warping in the reflections, distorting the cityscape as if it were breathing. The sky itself seemed heavy, pressing down with a suffocating weight, the clouds swirling sluggishly as though reluctant to part, forever tainted by the moon’s unnatural hue.
Every surface gleamed wet and menacing, every shadow a potential threat, and every flicker of neon felt like a warning. The city did not sleep. It waited, silent but alive, a living maze of steel and sorrow, ready to swallow anything—and anyone—that dared move through its blood-streaked veins.
“Where the hell are we?” Ave whispered, his voice barely rising above the hum of residual energy.
Einhard’s fingers clenched the edge of her console, knuckles whitening. “Not home,” she said softly, the usual calm in her tone threaded with a rare, uneasy tension.
Asteion’s meows had quieted now, almost reverent, as though the tiny plushie sensed the gravity of their situation.
“We need to get out and assess the damage,” Ave decided, drawing a slow, steadying breath. “Stay close, Haru.”
“Always, Ave-kun,” she replied, her grip tightening just enough to be felt—a quiet anchor against the unknown.
As they prepared to step into the unfamiliar city, a shared, unspoken thought lingered between them: they had crossed a threshold, one from which returning to the world they knew might no longer be possible.
The hiss of decompressing air echoed as Gundam Astraea II’s cockpit hatch opened. Ave was the first to climb out, his boots striking the Gundam’s shoulder plating with a sharp metallic clang. Beneath them, the city stretched like a wounded leviathan, its arteries glowing with dying neon veins that cast ghostly light across the fractured streets.
Einhard followed, her movements deliberate and fluid despite the weight of their predicament. Asteion perched lightly on her shoulder, ears flicking as it | Their Place ~ Beyond The Aurora ~
Disclaimer
Beyond the Aurora: Their Place is an independent work of fanfiction created solely for artistic expression and enjoyment within the fan community.
All primary characters, settings, and core concepts from Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha are the intellectual property of Masaki Tsuzuki, Seven Arcs, King Records, and their respective rights holders. Elements, characters, and thematic material from Silent Möbius (Attacked Mystification Police) are the creations of Kia Asamiya and Studio Tron. Ownership of the Gundam franchise—including mobile suit concepts and the specific models Gundam Astraea II and Gundam Exia—remains with Bandai Namco Filmworks, Sunrise, and Hajime Yatate.
This work is entirely non-commercial and transformative in nature. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, and no monetary profit is sought or derived from its creation or distribution.
Beyond the Aurora: Their Place is a crossover story set within the broader Beyond the Aurora continuity. It takes place three months after Einhard Stratos’ love confession, as depicted in Colour of the Sky and the World, and functions as a self-contained narrative focusing on the evolving bond between Ave and Einhard. The story explores their unique synchronicity as partners within a polyamorous household, set against the backdrop of the TSAB’s “Golden Age.” Within this context, the narrative depicts a pivotal incident that accelerates and deepens their emotional connection, solidifying trust and mutual understanding.
All original elements—including the overarching continuity, the immortal polycule, the portrayal of Ave as an isekai-born Gundam Meister with Innovator/Time Diver potential, the integration of GN Drive systems with TSAB magical mechanics, the original narrative arc Beyond the Aurora, the dimensional cyberpunk demon setting, the characterizations and relationships developed herein, and the central themes of love as freedom, emotional maturity, and strength through vulnerability—are unique creations developed specifically for this fan-made universe and are not part of any official canon.
This story explores themes of unwavering partnership amidst crisis, the courage to claim one’s feelings, the meaning of home and found family across dimensions, and the quiet strength forged in vulnerability. It is intended to deepen character development and emotional resonance within the larger narrative while honouring the intricate relationships and continuity of the Beyond the Aurora universe.
Thank you sincerely for reading.
Andou Masaki
OP Theme Song:
Brave Shine (Performed By: Aimer)
ED Theme Song:
Voice ~ The Place I Will Reach ~ (Performed By: Sachi Tainaka)
The cockpit of Gundam Astraea II thrummed with raw, barely contained power, the vibrations crawling up Ave’s arms as his fingers tightened around the control handles. Every pulse of the Double Drive System sent a shudder through the frame, as though the mobile suit itself were straining against invisible restraints. Warning lights erupted across the console in frantic patterns, bathing his determined features in a relentless strobing red that painted the cramped cockpit in urgency and danger.
“Ave-kun, the Double Drive System is overloading,” Einhard Stratos’ voice came through the comm, edged with static but steady all the same. On her end, her mismatched eyes—one deep violet, the other an icy blue—flicked rapidly between cascading readouts, tracking every spike, every fluctuation, every alarming deviation. Despite the chaos flooding the data streams, her tone remained measured and precise, the calm of disciplined analysis anchoring her words.
“Damn it,” Ave muttered under his breath, sweat beading along his forehead as another warning chime screamed through the cockpit. “I’m trying to stabilize the particle oscillation, but it’s like the system’s gone haywire.” He twisted the energy dampeners, forcing them to reroute the feedback and bleed off excess output—but instead of easing, the response intensified. A shrill, high-pitched whine cut through the cockpit, sharp enough to set his teeth on edge and rattle his nerves.
Einhard’s expression tightened as she absorbed the new data. “If we keep pushing,” she warned, voice firm now, “it could trigger a chain reaction.” The implication hung heavy between them—catastrophic failure, not just of the system, but also of everything surrounding it.
“We’ve come this far,” Ave shot back, frustration sharpening his words as his grip clenched even harder around the controls. His eyes burned with stubborn resolve as he stared at the flickering displays. “I’m not giving up now.”
Not when turning back would mean losing every bit of progress we’ve fought to achieve.
Asteion, the tiny snow leopard plushie resting in Einhard’s lap, let out an anxious mew, its small body trembling as though it could feel the instability rippling through the cockpit. Its wide, expressive eyes flicked rapidly between Einhard’s face and the flickering console, reflecting the mounting tension in every frantic movement.
“Tio says we’re in trouble,” Einhard said quietly, translating as she gently ran her hand over the plushie’s head, her touch careful and reassuring. “We have to shut it down, Ave-kun.”
Ave stiffened, his breath catching for just a fraction of a second as his thoughts raced. Months of effort—of sleepless nights, endless calculations, and painstaking trial and error—had been poured into the Double Drive System. Aborting now felt like admitting failure. Like throwing all of that work away.
She’s right. He admitted silently, his jaw tightening as the realization settled in. If the spike keeps climbing, Astraea II won’t survive it.
“…Fine,” he said at last, the word forced out through clenched teeth as he gave a sharp nod. “Initiating shutdown sequence.”
His hand moved toward the command panel—
And then the cockpit lurched violently.
The entire frame shuddered as if struck by a massive blow, throwing Ave back into his seat. Blue arcs of electricity crawled wildly along the cockpit walls, snapping and crackling like living things. The high-pitched whine surged past its previous limit, rising into a piercing, almost unbearable scream that drowned out every warning alarm at once.
“Ave-kun!” Einhard’s voice cut sharply through the chaos, the edge of panic in her tone unmistakable and rare.
“Hold on!” he shouted back, muscles locking as he braced himself and the Gundam’s systems spiralled into an uncontrollable frenzy.
The space around them began to distort, twisting and folding in ways that defied reason. Colors bled into one another, light and shadow dissolving as a kaleidoscopic vortex formed, swelling outward until it seemed ready to swallow the cockpit whole.
Is this it? Is this the end? Ave’s chest tightened as a second, heavier realization followed close behind. Did I push us too far?
Einhard reached out, her hand closing around his arm, grounding him amid the violent storm of light and force. “Stay with me, Ave-kun,” she urged, her voice steady despite the tremor visible in her mismatched purple and blue eyes.
Their gazes locked, a silent promise passing between them. No matter what awaited them beyond the swirling distortion, they would face it together.
Asteion’s meows rose in volume, sharp and urgent, the tiny plushie trembling as its distress grew. Einhard pulled it closer to her chest, instinctively tightening her hold. “Tio, shield us if you can,” she commanded, her voice firm despite the fear threading through it.
The plushie shimmered in response, a gentle, luminous glow spilling outward. The light wrapped around them like a fragile cocoon, thin yet resolute. The cockpit lurched again as the vortex’s pull intensified, air and light warping under the strain, bending and stretching as though space itself were being twisted.
“We’re being dragged somewhere,” Ave realized aloud, his voice rough with effort as he fought to keep his bearings.
“Where?” Einhard asked, her breath catching as she scanned the distortion beyond the cockpit.
“No idea,” he admitted without hesitation. “Just hold on.”
The radiance around them surged, ballooning into a blinding intensity that devoured all shape and shadow. A deafening roar crashed over them, erasing alarms, voices—every sound at once. Ave felt a sensation that transcended the physical, a profound unmooring, as though something essential within him had torn free and reality itself was slipping out of alignment.
Then, without warning, it all stopped.
Silence.
Darkness pressed in around them, thick and absolute, broken only by the faint, steady hum of lingering energy. Ave’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. “Haru? Are you all right?”
“I’m here,” Einhard said, her voice calm yet strained as she stayed close to his side. She released Asteion, allowing the plushie to land softly on the cockpit floor, its glow fading to a gentle shimmer.
“Tio did well,” she murmured, running a careful hand over the plushie’s head.
Ave engaged the external sensors, but the readings were a chaotic jumble—digits flickering nonsensically, signals spiking and vanishing. “Sensors are shot,” he muttered grimly. “Can you see anything outside?”
Einhard leaned closer to the viewport, her heterochromatic eyes widening with a mixture of awe and unease. “Ave-kun… you need to see this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He followed her gaze, his heart catching in his chest as the sight before them stole his breath.
The city stretched before them like a nightmare rendered in steel and shadow. Skyscrapers clawed at the blood-pale moon, jagged monoliths of cracked glass and twisted metal, their once-pristine facades scarred and broken. Rain fell in heavy sheets, bouncing off streets slick with water and grime, each drop hissing as it met exposed electrical lines. Neon lights flickered in erratic bursts, bleeding sickly reds, purples, and blues across the wet asphalt, creating warped reflections that danced like restless spirits.
The pale moon hung low in the sky, its crimson-tinged glow filtered through thick clouds of smog. Its light painted the city in a surreal, almost grotesque palette—steel towers glimmering in streaks of red, puddles turning molten with reflected neon, and shadows deep enough to hide the movement of unseen horrors.
The air was heavy with ozone and the metallic tang of rain, sharp against the wet concrete. Silence ruled the streets, oppressive and absolute, broken only by the occasional hiss of overtaxed machinery or the distant rumble of a derelict transport. Alleyways pooled with darkness, broken by the occasional flare of flickering neon, creating the illusion of veins running through the city—alive, watching, and waiting.
Raindrops clung to fractured glass like tiny blood beads, each reflecting the pale red of the moon above. Even the neon seemed conscious, throbbing and warping in the reflections, distorting the cityscape as if it were breathing. The sky itself seemed heavy, pressing down with a suffocating weight, the clouds swirling sluggishly as though reluctant to part, forever tainted by the moon’s unnatural hue.
Every surface gleamed wet and menacing, every shadow a potential threat, and every flicker of neon felt like a warning. The city did not sleep. It waited, silent but alive, a living maze of steel and sorrow, ready to swallow anything—and anyone—that dared move through its blood-streaked veins.
“Where the hell are we?” Ave whispered, his voice barely rising above the hum of residual energy.
Einhard’s fingers clenched the edge of her console, knuckles whitening. “Not home,” she said softly, the usual calm in her tone threaded with a rare, uneasy tension.
Asteion’s meows had quieted now, almost reverent, as though the tiny plushie sensed the gravity of their situation.
“We need to get out and assess the damage,” Ave decided, drawing a slow, steadying breath. “Stay close, Haru.”
“Always, Ave-kun,” she replied, her grip tightening just enough to be felt—a quiet anchor against the unknown.
As they prepared to step into the unfamiliar city, a shared, unspoken thought lingered between them: they had crossed a threshold, one from which returning to the world they knew might no longer be possible.
The hiss of decompressing air echoed as Gundam Astraea II’s cockpit hatch opened. Ave was the first to climb out, his boots striking the Gundam’s shoulder plating with a sharp metallic clang. Beneath them, the city stretched like a wounded leviathan, its arteries glowing with dying neon veins that cast ghostly light across the fractured streets.
Einhard followed, her movements deliberate and fluid despite the weight of their predicament. Asteion perched lightly on her shoulder, ears flicking as it surveyed the alien, desolate landscape with careful curiosity.
“This place feels… wrong,” Einhard murmured, her gaze sweeping across the crumbling streets and twisted architecture. “It’s like time just forgot it.”
Ave nodded, jaw set, inhaling the heavy, acrid tang of smoke and decay that hung in the air. “We need to figure out where we are… and whether there’s any danger,” he said, eyes scanning the eerie cityscape with guarded intensity.
Einhard’s eyes—one a stormy violet, the other a piercing sapphire—glimmered with quiet steel. “Then let’s get down there and see for ourselves,” she said, her tone calm yet unwavering.
As they descended from Astraea II, Ave couldn’t help but notice the calm assurance in her posture. Even surrounded by the city’s alien chaos, she moved with a quiet confidence that grounded him, steadying his own racing thoughts.
“Stay close,” he said, his voice protective yet measured.
“I’ll be fine, Ave-kun,” she replied with a small, reassuring smile, her hand brushing briefly against his arm. “But I do appreciate your concern.”
The streets below lay in eerie silence, broken only by the occasional flicker of malfunctioning holographic billboards and the sharp crunch of debris beneath their boots. Shattered glass, twisted metal, and the charred remnants of buildings that had once thrummed with life littered the ground. Rust and blood mingled with the acrid stench of burned circuitry, forming a scent that clawed at their senses.
Asteion let out a soft, cautious meow, drawing their attention to a faint, wavering shimmer hovering in the air. Einhard’s brow furrowed. “Tio senses something… off,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Ave’s hand moved instinctively to the sidearm at his hip. “Stay alert,” he warned, eyes scanning the shadows that clung to the streets like living things.
Their footsteps echoed in the desolation, a tense, unnerving rhythm that seemed to emphasize the emptiness around them. The oppressive silence weighed on Ave, but Einhard’s steady presence grounded him, a quiet anchor amid the unknown.
“Do you think we’re still in our own universe?” Einhard asked thoughtfully, her gaze sweeping the horizon for any sign of movement.
“I’m not sure,” admitted Ave, his jaw tight as he surveyed the desolate streets. “Wherever we are, it doesn’t feel welcoming.”
Suddenly, a guttural screech tore through the stillness, reverberating off the crumbling buildings. Shadows writhed at the edges of their vision, contorting into shapes that defied comprehension, twisting and undulating as if alive with their own malevolent will.
Einhard clutched Asteion tighter, her voice a sharp whisper. “Ave-kun…”
“I see it,” Ave replied grimly, drawing his sidearm with practiced precision. “Get ready.”
The eldritch forms lunged forward, grotesque and otherworldly, their twisted flesh shimmering with an eerie, iridescent sheen. Their appendages contorted and spiralled in unnatural ways, every movement exuding a palpable sense of menace.
Einhard’s eyes narrowed, determination hardening every line of her face. “Tio, onegai,” she murmured, her voice steady, yet threaded with fierce intent. Asteion responded immediately, a soft, resolute glow pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
A subtle shimmer of mana swirled around Einhard, tendrils of light curling like liquid silver. Her St. Hilde school uniform—the crisp white blouse with its vivid red bow, the pleated dark green skirt edged with white trim, and her polished brown boots rising just below the knee—began to dissolve, fibres unravelling as if pulled by some invisible hand. The process was instantaneous yet graceful; the familiar garments evaporated into a faint wisp of sparkling light, leaving no trace of their prior form.
In their place, a radiant aura solidified, coalescing into the sleek elegance of her Barrier Jacket. The white fabric moulded perfectly to her figure, accented with deep forest-green trim and black line details that traced the sharp, precise contours of the ensemble. Gold-embellished clasps and belts crossed her torso, marrying ceremonial refinement with combat functionality. Her pleated green miniskirt, cut for unrestrained movement, fluttered lightly with the energy coursing around her, while thigh-high reinforced stockings and black combat boots anchored her presence with solid authority. Fingerless gloves with polished golden knuckle guards completed the ensemble, reflecting both discipline and readiness for battle.
Her long silvery-green twin tails rippled in the sudden rush of mana, the left bound by a vivid crimson ribbon that danced like a living spark. Her mismatched eyes—one deep violet, the other crystalline blue—caught the ambient light, gleaming with an almost ethereal radiance. Every movement exuded a balance of adolescent grace and martial precision, her presence commanding yet effortlessly elegant.
Einhard leapt forward, her motions fluid and powerful, a perfect blend of speed and poise. The Barrier Jacket’s asymmetric tails streamed behind her like banners, each step carrying the subtle poetry of grace intertwined with lethal intent.
“I’ll handle this!” she declared, her voice ringing with unshakable resolve. Asteion floated beside her, the plushie’s glow amplifying the protective field that radiated from her, ready to bolster her every strike.
Ave’s eyes widened as he watched Einhard strike the first creature. A concentrated burst of energy erupted from her palm, tearing through its writhing form. Her speed was mesmerizing—each movement fluid, precise, and devastating in its impact.
“Damn,” Ave breathed, a mix of awe and tension threading his voice. “You’re amazing, Haru.”
“Focus, Ave-kun!” she called back, her tone sharp yet warm, a tether to steady him amid the chaos.
Einhard ducked beneath a swipe from a clawed appendage, spinning into a punishing uppercut that sent another creature reeling. Her knuckles connected with a sickening crack, pulverizing grotesque, skull-like protrusions. Black ichor hissed as it splattered across the pavement, sizzling on contact.
Asteion mewed sharply, its radiant light flaring in response. The plushie’s energy augmented her strikes, amplifying the force and precision, turning each blow into a lethal, almost unstoppable force.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed they held the upper hand.
But the creatures adapted with unnerving speed, contorting into ever more grotesque shapes. Tendrils lashed violently, one striking Einhard and sending her crashing into a crumbling wall.
“Gah!” she cried out.
“Haru!” Ave shouted, panic flaring in his chest as he surged forward.
“I’m fine!” she ground out, forcing herself upright. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, a fresh gash opening above her brow. Her mana flared, illuminating her Barrier Jacket as she hurled herself back into the fight, each strike precise and punishing. One creature disintegrated beneath the force of her blows, but more pressed in from all sides, relentless.
I can’t stop now… Ave-kun’s counting on me, she thought. Resolve hardening despite the pain, determination radiating from every movement.
A tendril coiled tightly around her arm, squeezing with cruel, unrelenting force. Bones creaked under the pressure, and Einhard winced, but she refused to give in.
“Ngh!” she gritted out, her palm flaring with magic. A blinding burst of energy severed the appendage, leaving a faint scorch mark scorched into the asphalt. The strain, however, left its mark on her body.
“Damn it!” Ave barked, surging forward. He fired with deadly precision, taking down one creature in a hail of bullets—its head exploding, bone and cartilage scattering across the pavement. Grabbing her wrist, he hauled her back to safety. “We’re retreating—no arguments.”
Einhard clenched her teeth, but finally relented. “Fine. But we’ll come back for them.”
“Deal,” Ave said firmly, keeping her steady. “Let’s move.”
They ran through the twisted, fractured streets. Einhard’s breathing was ragged, yet her spirit remained unbroken. Blood trickled from a deep gash on her leg, leaving a grim, vivid trail behind them as they pressed on through the desolation.
At last, they found a temporary refuge inside the shell of a crumbling building. Ave’s jaw tightened as he scanned their surroundings, taking in the debris-strewn floor and fractured walls. “We need a better plan,” he said, voice low but firm.
Einhard nodded, her expression fierce even through the fatigue and injuries marring her face. “Next time… we end them,” she replied, determination still burning in her mismatched eyes.
Ave’s gaze softened, the tension in his chest easing slightly as worry gave way to quiet relief. “Just don’t scare me like that again, Haru,” he said, voice tinged with both exasperation and care.
She offered a faint, blood-streaked smile. “I’ll try, Ave-kun,” she murmured, a small comfort in the oppressive darkness.
Asteion mewed softly, its tiny, radiant form glowing like a beacon amid the shadows, a gentle reassurance that they were not alone.
Despite the chaos, the alien horrors, and the pain etched into their bodies, their bond had only grown stronger. Side by side, they braced themselves, ready to face whatever this hostile world might hurl at them next.
The oppressive darkness of their shelter bore down on them, thick and unrelenting. Shadows crept and shifted along the cracked walls, cast by the erratic flicker of a broken holographic panel that sputtered weakly nearby. Every corner seemed to breathe with potential danger, yet Ave’s eyes never stopped moving, sharp and vigilant as he searched for any sign of threat. His thoughts churned relentlessly—escape routes, contingencies, and battle plans—while his body rested against a rusted support beam, using it to steady his fatigue.
A short distance away, Einhard sat on the cold floor with her knees pulled tightly to her chest, both arms wrapped around her legs. Her Barrier Jacket shimmered faintly as it maintained its defensive field, soft motes of mana catching and reflecting the fractured light around her. Resting in her lap, Asteion—the palm-sized snow leopard plushie—lay curled and still, its wide, expressive eyes fixed on her as if quietly attuned to the pain she was trying so hard to conceal.
“You okay, Haru?” Ave finally asked, his voice cutting through the tension. It was quieter than usual, gentle in a way that felt almost foreign amid the ruined silence.
“I’ve been better,” admitted Einhard, a small wince crossing her face as she carefully flexed her arm. The dark bruise blooming along her forearm stood as a stark reminder of the tendril’s crushing grip during their escape. “…But I’ll manage.”
Ave moved at once, dropping to one knee beside her. “Let me see,” he said gently. The softness in his voice made her hesitate, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around Asteion.
“You don’t need to fuss,” she murmured, but after a brief pause, she relented and held out her arm.
“I’m your partner,” he replied softly. “Worrying about you is part of the job.” He checked her injury with practiced care, his touch light and precise, careful not to cause her pain. Even so, gentle warmth flowed from his fingertips, soothing the ache more than she had expected.
When he finished, he let out a slow breath. “It’s not broken,” he said with visible relief. “But you need rest.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Einhard protested, her voice steadier than the tremor she felt beneath it. “Those things… they’re still out there.”
“And if you push yourself and collapse, we won’t stand a chance,” Ave shot back, his tone firm but threaded with unmistakable concern. His gaze held hers. “I need you at full strength, Haru. No arguments.”
Einhard let out a slow breath and leaned back against the wall. Even in the dimness, a faint smile curved her lips. “You always know how to make your point, Ave-kun,” she said, a trace of warmth weaving through her voice.
He returned it with the barest hint of a smile. “One of my few talents,” he replied lightly, the teasing edge in his tone easing the oppressive weight of the room, if only a little.
Asteion gave a soft, approving meow and nudged against her hand. Einhard absentmindedly stroked the plushie’s head, drawing comfort from the small, living warmth resting in her lap.
“Tio’s worried about me too,” she said quietly, her words touched with fondness, almost reverence.
“Smart little guy,” Ave said with a nod. “We’re all worried about you.”
Her mismatched eyes—one deep purple, the other vivid blue—lifted to meet his, gratitude shimmering within them. “Thanks, Ave-kun. For… always being here.”
“Where else would I be?” he murmured, his gaze steady and unflinching. The quiet sincerity in his voice lingered in the darkened space, stirring an ache in her chest she hadn’t quite expected.
For a brief moment, the distant echoes of danger receded into little more than background noise, replaced by the quiet intimacy of the small space they shared. Ave’s hand hovered near hers, lingering as if guided by an invisible pull he neither questioned nor resisted.
“We’ll get through this,” he said at last, his voice calm and measured, carrying a quiet certainty that stood in sharp contrast to the threats waiting beyond their shelter.
“Together,” Einhard replied without hesitation. Her resolve solidified as she met his gaze head-on. Their fingers brushed for an instant—a fleeting, electric contact that conveyed far more than words ever could.
Asteion meowed softly, its small, luminous presence cutting through the darkness as if affirming the bond between them.
As they gathered themselves for the battles certain to come, Ave and Einhard shared an unspoken understanding. No matter what awaited them, they would face it side by side. Their trust—born in chaos and tempered in moments of quiet like this—had become something unshakable, a strength that would carry them forward against whatever this hostile world dared to unleash.
An oppressive silence smothered the ruined city, clinging to the streets like a poisonous fog that seeped into every cracked avenue and hollowed-out tower. Above them, broken holo-signs flickered in erratic pulses of neon—sickly blues and bleeding reds—casting warped reflections across rain-slick pavement. Ave and Einhard moved with care through the skeletal remains of civilization, their footsteps echoing too loudly in the emptiness. The air reeked of scorched metal and burned circuitry, underscored by the faint, coppery tang of blood—a lingering testament to the violence that had already claimed this place.
Einhard kept pace at Ave’s side, her Barrier Jacket shimmering softly as it sustained its protective field. The sharply tailored white fabric traced a clean, disciplined silhouette, accented by deep forest-green trim and fine black lines that caught the fractured neon light. Gold-embellished clasps and belts glinted dully at her torso, while the long, asymmetric tails of the coat swayed behind her in measured, graceful arcs. Beneath it, her pleated green miniskirt and reinforced thigh-high stockings moved fluidly with each step, and her black combat boots rang softly against the broken street, grounding her amid the alien stillness.
A dark bruise marked her cheek, and a thin line of dried blood ran from her temple, stark against her pale skin. Even so, her stride remained steady, her posture composed—unyielding despite the pain she carried. Her long silvery-green twin tails rippled faintly as she walked, the crimson ribbon at her left side a quiet, vivid accent amid the city’s decay. Her mismatched eyes—one violet, one sapphire—reflected the fractured glow around them, alert and searching.
Perched lightly on her shoulder, Asteion’s snow-leopard plush form emitted a gentle radiance, its bright eyes tracking the shadows between alleyways and collapsed structures with quiet vigilance. Together, the three of them moved through the eerie, neon-stained ruins, figures of living resolve against a city that felt less abandoned than watchful—waiting, as if the darkness itself were holding its breath.
Ave glanced toward her, concern tightening in his chest. She’s pushing herself again, he realized. Always trying to shoulder everything on her own.
“Haru,” he said quietly, breaking the oppressive silence. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Einhard met his gaze, her mismatched eyes—one violet, one blue—steady despite the fatigue shadowing her features. “I’ve been through worse,” she replied, offering a faint, reassuring smile. “You worry too much, Ave-kun.”
“Someone has to,” he murmured, his tone carrying a blend of gentle teasing and unmistakable protectiveness. “You’re not invincible, Haru.”
Her lips parted, a lighthearted reply just about to escape—when a low, guttural growl ripped through the air, brutally cutting the moment short. The change was immediate: the silence thickened, turning heavy and predatory, as a palpable sense of menace coiled around them.
“Tio?” Einhard whispered, her voice taut with focus.
Asteion answered with a sharp meow, fur bristling as it sprang from her shoulder. A protective aura rippled around the plushie, shimmering with warning as it sensed the danger closing in.
Ave drew his sidearm, the sleek metal glinting faintly in the broken light. His voice remained calm, edged with resolve. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
From the surrounding shadows, grotesque shapes began to emerge—warped amalgamations of metal and flesh, their eyes burning with hostile intent. They lurched forward in jerky, uneven motions, as though their bodies were struggling against the corruption that bound them together.
Einhard’s Barrier Jacket flared brighter, mana gathering around her hands in concentrated waves. “We can’t let them box us in,” she said evenly, her composure unshaken even as the tension thickened the air.
“Understood,” Ave replied, sharp and precise. “I’ve got your back.”
The first creature lunged, its serrated limbs slicing through the stagnant air. Ave’s shot struck perfectly, tearing through the twisted skull as black ichor hissed upon contact with the cracked pavement.
Einhard moved with practiced fluidity, a controlled blur of motion. Her fist ignited with concentrated mana, striking another creature squarely in the chest and sending it smashing into a crumbling wall. The form shattered into fragments that disintegrated instantly into ash.
“Nice hit,” Ave called, admiration threading through his voice.
“Focus, Ave-kun!” Einhard shot back, though a faint smile tugged at her lips despite the chaos.
From the shadows, more of the twisted monstrosities surged forward, tendrils writhing hungrily as they sought to ensnare their prey. Their numbers seemed endless, and the air grew dense with the acrid tang of ozone, tension crackling like static around them.
Einhard’s eyes narrowed, a fierce determination igniting within them. She spun and kicked with fluid precision, each strike striking true and devastating. Every blow sent arcs of energy coursing into the grotesque forms, shattering them in bursts of light and debris.
Ave moved in perfect sync, his shots deliberate and exact, the recoil of his weapon a steady, grounding rhythm amid the chaos. “On your left!” he called, voice sharp with focus.
Einhard pivoted gracefully, her elbow crashing into a creature’s face. Bone and sinew cracked audibly under the force, and dark blood splattered across the grimy pavement.
Even with their skill and coordination, the horde showed no signs of relenting. Ave’s heart pounded, sweat slicking his brow. We can’t keep this up forever.
Her breathing grew heavier, but she refused to yield. Her heterochromatic eyes blazed with unshakable resolve. I won’t let Ave-kun get hurt. Not here. Not ever.
A writhing tendril lashed out with brutal force, slamming into Einhard’s chest. She cried out sharply, skidding across the cracked pavement and collapsing hard. Pain flared through her ribs, each breath a stabbing reminder of the strike’s impact.
“Haru!” Ave’s voice cracked, raw with panic. He surged forward, firing rapid, precise shots that tore through the advancing horde, each discharge punctuating the chaos as he covered her retreat.
Einhard groaned, struggling to push herself upright. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, streaking her chin, while her Barrier Jacket flickered violently under the strain, its protective field quivering with each pulse of energy. Asteion mewed frantically, the plushie’s faint, glowing aura flowing into her like a lifeline, stabilizing her faltering defenses.
“I’m fine,” she grit out through clenched teeth, though the ache lancing through her body betrayed her words.
“Like hell you are,” Ave snapped, seizing her arm and dragging her behind the nearest wrecked vehicle. “We need to regroup—now.”
“No,” Einhard countered, forcing herself upright despite the pain, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “We have to finish this.”
Ave’s jaw tightened, his voice low but unwavering. “Not at the cost of your life, Haru.”
Einhard’s shoulders tensed as she steadied herself, muscles trembling from the blow, yet her resolve remained unbroken. Every scar, every bruise, only sharpened the determination burning in her heterochromatic gaze—she would not falter, not while Ave was beside her.
Their eyes locked, the air between them charged with a palpable tension. Even amid the looming threat, an unspoken honesty passed between them—an understanding tempered by countless battles and narrowly survived encounters.
“You always have to be the hero,” Einhard murmured, a faint edge of exasperation threading her words.
“Only because you keep dragging me into these messes,” Ave shot back, lips curving into a wry, half-smile.
The moment shattered as a surge of blinding energy erupted across the battlefield. The creatures shrieked and recoiled, shadows twisting as the light washed over them.
Asteion floated beside Einhard, its aura flaring brilliantly. Its eyes shimmered with an otherworldly radiance that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat.
“Tio…?” Einhard whispered, awe and gratitude lacing her voice.
The radiant energy amplified her mana conversion efficiency to unprecedented levels. Silvery-green streams of power coursed through her veins, and her Barrier Jacket glowed fiercely, almost alive with raw, magical energy.
“It’s now or never,” Einhard muttered under her breath, fists clenched tightly. “Tio, let’s finish this.”
Asteion let out a sharp, resolute meow, its tone unwavering.
Einhard moved in a blur, her fist glowing with raw, concentrated power. Her voice rang across the shattered battlefield:
“HAŌ DANKŪ KEN!”
Her strike—her Hegemon Sky-severing Knuckle—smote the largest monstrosity, the towering amalgamation that had dominated the fray. The impact obliterated it entirely, shockwaves rippling through the ruined streets. The creature disintegrated, its death throes swallowed in the blinding brilliance of Einhard’s attack.
Silence fell, punctuated only by the faint crackle of dissipating energy.
Ave and Einhard stood among the remnants, chests heaving, hearts pounding. Asteion landed gently on Einhard’s shoulder, meowing with quiet satisfaction.
Ave exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. “Remind me to give that plushie a raise,” he said, a weak grin tugging at his lips.
Einhard let out a tired, soft laugh. “Tio’s definitely earned it.”
Ave’s hands lingered on her cheeks, gentle and steady. His thumb brushed away a smear of blood, and his voice trembled with emotion. “You scared me back there. Don’t ever do that again.”
Einhard’s legs wobbled beneath her, fatigue and adrenaline catching up with her. Ave shifted closer, letting her lean against his shoulder until she could find her balance, the solid support grounding her. She felt the familiar warmth of his presence pressing against her, a reminder of something deeper, a quiet truth she had always known: she loved him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice fragile but sincere. Her fingers brushed against his hand, a fleeting connection that felt like an anchor in the midst of chaos. “But I couldn’t let you face that alone.”
Ave’s chest tightened at her words, a mix of pride and worry twisting together. “We’re a team, Haru. Always.”
Einhard’s heterochromatic eyes shimmered, gratitude and something more flickering in their depths. “Always,” she echoed softly, the word heavier than any battle cry.
As her legs steadied and she could stand on her own, they lingered in the fragile stillness, surrounded by ruin yet bound by an unbreakable connection. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it side by side, hearts aligned, anchored by the certainty of each other’s presence. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77339651/chapters/202484306 | {"authors": ["AndouMasaki"], "language": "English", "title": "Their Place ~ Beyond The Aurora ~"} |
Napkins
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Goshiki grumbled as his arm felt around for his phone, as he groggily stared at the screen with sleep filled eyes that could barely make out the numbers on the screen. 5:00…he couldn’t help the groan that escaped his throat.
Despite his rude awakening his morning actually went on without a hitch! He finished his morning routine–in record time, might he add–and got out of his apartment without waking the neighbors dog! This was quite the unusual happenstance mind you. The bus was less crowded than usual and he actually was able to sit down! Goshiki thanked whichever higher being that was watching over him.
He entered the café and was promptly welcomed with an enthusiastic “TSUM-TSUM!”. He jumped slightly at the sudden shout but promptly returned with his own greeting “Good morning Tendou-senpai!”
“Would you help your poor old senpai and get a bag of coffee beans from the back~?”
“Of course Tendou-senpai!” Goshiki replied cheerily.
His shift continued as it usually would, with the corporate drones coming in with their heavy eyebags, the university students seeming a little more dead inside than usual, and a stunning man with beautiful brown eyes that looked at him with barely concealed annoyance–
“Sorry! What was that again?” Goshiki asked, embarrassed.
The (stunning) man rolled his eyes as he repeated his order in a deadpan tone “Give me a medium latte with a cinnamon roll.”
Goshiki had to physically shake his head to stop staring at the person in front of him
“Got it! That will be eight-hundred yen, what’s the name?” Goshiki once again thanked the same higher being for not stumbling over his words, especially since he already flubbed the greeting–yes! The same one he says a thousand times a day.
“It’s Shirabu”
“Great!” The man-Shirabu sat down at a table near the entrance and Goshiki got to work making his drink when Tendou came out.
“Shirabu!?”
Shirabu flinched at Tendou’s shout and glared harshly at him from his seat “Don’t shout!”
“What are you doing here? On a Wednesday no less!”
“I have a presentation today and need to make sure I’m awake for it.” he stated in the same bland tone as before.
Goshiki came out with his order in hand “Tendou-senpai you know eachother?” he inquired as he set Shirabu’s order down on the table.
“Ah! Tsum-Tsum, this is my kohai from high school Shirabu! I have been begging him to come here for the better part of a year, but as you can see he’s a very busy and successful medical student! He has me to thank for that.” Tendou said in a matter-of-factly tone.
“As if!” Shirabu’s glare returned and if Goshiki didn’t know any better he’d say it was slightly murderous.
“Shirabu! This is my employee Goshiki! He’s been with me for about seven months, isn’t he adorable!” He started squishing and pinching Goshiki’s cheeks.
Goshiki pried Tendou’s hands off his cheeks and rubbed at the assaulted areas as he whined “Ooowww~”
He chanced a glance at Shirabu to see him getting up to leave.
“Oh are you leaving already?” he wondered aloud.
“Yeah I have a class I need to get to”
“Ok… good luck on your presentation Shirabu-san!” Goshiki tried to not to sound too disappointed and started to return to the counter when he heard the entrance bell ding and saw the back of the medical student heading in the direction of the university.
_________________________
Goshiki didn’t see Shirabu again–much to his chagrin– until two weeks later while he was on the evening shift.
The only people who came in during the evening shift were people working the graveyard shift, that one weird girl who for some reason needs about a hundred cups of coffee a day–Goshiki wondered how she hasn’t gone to the hospital yet– and students who were planning an all nighter.
That is to say it was a relatively slow night with only two teenage boys trying to cram in a study session for a test they have tomorrow.
Goshiki was listening to one of his audiobooks as he wiped down the counter when he heard the familiar DING! Of the door.
“Welcome to Shiritorizawa café! What can I get for you” he asked as he looked at the customer.
“One hot chocolate with a chocolate croissant” Came the voice that Goshiki had thought about more than he’d like to admit.
“Ah! Shirabu-san! What brings you here today?” he questioned.
“I’m picking up Tendou for a game night with our high school friends”
“Do you need me to get him for you? He’s just in the back.”
Shirabu shook his head “No just get me my order he should be out by the time you’re done.”
“You got it! That will be one thousand yen!”
Shirabu was right. Just as Goshiki gave him his order Tendou came running out of the back looking particularly excited as he came up to Shirabu.
“Let’s go Shira! We can’t be late! Unless you want Semi-semi to chop our heads off for worrying him.”
“You're the one who just came out.” Shirabu stated as he stood up with his order in hand.
Goshiki said his goodbyes and despite Tendou’s invitation to come with them (“Who’ll look after the shop Tendou-senpai?”) Goshiki went back to work. As he closed the café that night his thoughts wandered back to Shirabu.
_________________________
Since then Shirabu had come sem-reguarly, and Goshiki learned more about him each time. That he didn’t particularly like coffee and preferred sweet drinks such as the hot chocolate he ordered frequently, that he was twenty-three and in his fifth year of medical school, which made him a year older than Goshiki. But the thing that Goshiki kept on learning over and over again…
Is that he has a stupid big crush on the guy.
And if the winks and sly smiles he gets from Tendou anytime Shirabu comes in can say anything, it’s that he’s not good at hiding it.
Today though Goshiki was gathering his courage, he was going to ask Shirabu out!
Just as he was mulling over what he was going to say he heard the chime. He shot up from his seat as he locked eyes with the man of the hour.
“Shirabu-san! What can I get you today?”
“I’ll just take a piece of strawberry cake.” Shirabu seemed a little off today almost like he was nervous about something,
“Is something wrong?” Goshiki asked worriedly.
Shirabu seemed startled and quickly replied with “Of course not!”, paid and sat down at his usual spot.
Goshiki felt the courage he had taken all day to build seeping out. Was Shirabu stressed about something? Maybe today wasn’t a good day to ask…
He placed the cake in front of Shirabu along with a couple of mints that Shirabu seemed to enjoy. Shirabu looked at him questioningly.
“Well you seem kinda stressed so i thought you might need a pick-me-up!” Goshiki was sweating bullets as Shirabu flicked his eyes between the mints and back up at Goshiki until he smiled slightly.
“Thank you…”
Goshiki felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he stuttered out a "You're welcome” and went back to the cash register.
Shirabu stayed for far longer than usual, Goshiki was going to go over and ask if he needed anything when he saw Shirabu rip a napkin out of the dispenser in front of him and furiously write something down. He then quickly packed his things and left with stiff shoulders.
Confused at the actions of the other Goshiki checked his table and picked up the napkin left behind.
‘xxx-xxx-xxxx, text me if you want to head to dinner sometime - Shirabu’
Goshiki stared at the napkin like it was going to fly away if he dared to so much as blink. He quickly turned his head to the retreating figure then back to the message scrawled on the napkin.
He smiled to himself and put the number in his phone, quickly sending a text-
‘Hey! It’s Goshiki! When are you free?’ | Napkins
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Goshiki grumbled as his arm felt around for his phone, as he groggily stared at the screen with sleep filled eyes that could barely make out the numbers on the screen. 5:00…he couldn’t help the groan that escaped his throat.
Despite his rude awakening his morning actually went on without a hitch! He finished his morning routine–in record time, might he add–and got out of his apartment without waking the neighbors dog! This was quite the unusual happenstance mind you. The bus was less crowded than usual and he actually was able to sit down! Goshiki thanked whichever higher being that was watching over him.
He entered the café and was promptly welcomed with an enthusiastic “TSUM-TSUM!”. He jumped slightly at the sudden shout but promptly returned with his own greeting “Good morning Tendou-senpai!”
“Would you help your poor old senpai and get a bag of coffee beans from the back~?”
“Of course Tendou-senpai!” Goshiki replied cheerily.
His shift continued as it usually would, with the corporate drones coming in with their heavy eyebags, the university students seeming a little more dead inside than usual, and a stunning man with beautiful brown eyes that looked at him with barely concealed annoyance–
“Sorry! What was that again?” Goshiki asked, embarrassed.
The (stunning) man rolled his eyes as he repeated his order in a deadpan tone “Give me a medium latte with a cinnamon roll.”
Goshiki had to physically shake his head to stop staring at the person in front of him
“Got it! That will be eight-hundred yen, what’s the name?” Goshiki once again thanked the same higher being for not stumbling over his words, especially since he already flubbed the greeting–yes! The same one he says a thousand times a day.
“It’s Shirabu”
“Great!” The man-Shirabu sat down at a table near the entrance and Goshiki got to work making his drink when Tendou came out.
“Shirabu!?”
Shirabu flinched at Tendou’s shout and glared harshly at him from his seat “Don’t shout!”
“What are you doing here? On a Wednesday no less!”
“I have a presentation today and need to make sure I’m awake for it.” he stated in the same bland tone as before.
Goshiki came out with his order in hand “Tendou-senpai you know eachother?” he inquired as he set Shirabu’s order down on the table.
“Ah! Tsum-Tsum, this is my kohai from high school Shirabu! I have been begging him to come here for the better part of a year, but as you can see he’s a very busy and successful medical student! He has me to thank for that.” Tendou said in a matter-of-factly tone.
“As if!” Shirabu’s glare returned and if Goshiki didn’t know any better he’d say it was slightly murderous.
“Shirabu! This is my employee Goshiki! He’s been with me for about seven months, isn’t he adorable!” He started squishing and pinching Goshiki’s cheeks.
Goshiki pried Tendou’s hands off his cheeks and rubbed at the assaulted areas as he whined “Ooowww~”
He chanced a glance at Shirabu to see him getting up to leave.
“Oh are you leaving already?” he wondered aloud.
“Yeah I have a class I need to get to”
“Ok… good luck on your presentation Shirabu-san!” Goshiki tried to not to sound too disappointed and started to return to the counter when he heard the entrance bell ding and saw the back of the medical student heading in the direction of the university.
_________________________
Goshiki didn’t see Shirabu again–much to his chagrin– until two weeks later while he was on the evening shift.
The only people who came in during the evening shift were people working the graveyard shift, that one weird girl who for some reason needs about a hundred cups of coffee a day–Goshiki wondered how she hasn’t gone to the hospital yet– and students who were planning an all nighter.
That is to say it was a relatively slow night with only two teenage boys trying to cram in a study session for a test they have tomorrow.
Goshiki was listening to one of his audiobooks as he wiped down the counter when he heard the familiar DING! Of the door.
“Welcome to Shiritorizawa café! What can I get for you” he asked as he looked at the customer.
“One hot chocolate with a chocolate croissant” Came the voice that Goshiki had thought about more than he’d like to admit.
“Ah! Shirabu-san! What brings you here today?” he questioned.
“I’m picking up Tendou for a game night with our high school friends”
“Do you need me to get him for you? He’s just in the back.”
Shirabu shook his head “No just get me my order he should be out by the time you’re done.”
“You got it! That will be one thousand yen!”
Shirabu was right. Just as Goshiki gave him his order Tendou came running out of the back looking particularly excited as he came up to Shirabu.
“Let’s go Shira! We can’t be late! Unless you want Semi-semi to chop our heads off for worrying him.”
“You're the one who just came out.” Shirabu stated as he stood up with his order in hand.
Goshiki said his goodbyes and despite Tendou’s invitation to come with them (“Who’ll look after the shop Tendou-senpai?”) Goshiki went back to work. As he closed the café that night his thoughts wandered back to Shirabu.
_________________________
Since then Shirabu had come sem-reguarly, and Goshiki learned more about him each time. That he didn’t particularly like coffee and preferred sweet drinks such as the hot chocolate he ordered frequently, that he was twenty-three and in his fifth year of medical school, which made him a year older than Goshiki. But the thing that Goshiki kept on learning over and over again…
Is that he has a stupid big crush on the guy.
And if the winks and sly smiles he gets from Tendou anytime Shirabu comes in can say anything, it’s that he’s not good at hiding it.
Today though Goshiki was gathering his courage, he was going to ask Shirabu out!
Just as he was mulling over what he was going to say he heard the chime. He shot up from his seat as he locked eyes with the man of the hour.
“Shirabu-san! What can I get you today?”
“I’ll just take a piece of strawberry cake.” Shirabu seemed a little off today almost like he was nervous about something,
“Is something wrong?” Goshiki asked worriedly.
Shirabu seemed startled and quickly replied with “Of course not!”, paid and sat down at his usual spot.
Goshiki felt the courage he had taken all day to build seeping out. Was Shirabu stressed about something? Maybe today wasn’t a good day to ask…
He placed the cake in front of Shirabu along with a couple of mints that Shirabu seemed to enjoy. Shirabu looked at him questioningly.
“Well you seem kinda stressed so i thought you might need a pick-me-up!” Goshiki was sweating bullets as Shirabu flicked his eyes between the mints and back up at Goshiki until he smiled slightly.
“Thank you…”
Goshiki felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he stuttered out a "You're welcome” and went back to the cash register.
Shirabu stayed for far longer than usual, Goshiki was going to go over and ask if he needed anything when he saw Shirabu rip a napkin out of the dispenser in front of him and furiously write something down. He then quickly packed his things and left with stiff shoulders.
Confused at the actions of the other Goshiki checked his table and picked up the napkin left behind.
‘xxx-xxx-xxxx, text me if you want to head to dinner sometime - Shirabu’
Goshiki stared at the napkin like it was going to fly away if he dared to so much as blink. He quickly turned his head to the retreating figure then back to the message scrawled on the napkin.
He smiled to himself and put the number in his phone, quickly sending a text-
‘Hey! It’s Goshiki! When are you free?’ | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77334066 | {"authors": ["Multi_Fandom_Gal75"], "language": "English", "title": "Napkins"} |
L'amour n'est pas un péché
"It is a great sin, but when I am with you, I have no need for God."
In autumn, London acquired a unique charm. The fogs and drizzling rain filled the streets with coolness and a certain unspoken mystery. Objects and people lost their clarity; everything became hazy, semi-real. The air, though full of moisture, was breathed easily and had a pleasant freshness.
The greatest detective of our time, Sherlock Holmes, adored London in this season, easily becoming a part of it. While others might complain of the eternal dampness and sniffles, Holmes was made for these streets, these fogs, appearing for a moment as a tall, mysterious figure, only to vanish again.
As if switching on a beacon amidst the grey mirage, Holmes lit a cigarette on the go and, after a few drags, for contrast, took a deep breath of the cool air, blissfully closing his eyes. Almost perfect. Almost.
A pity only that he could not share the enchanting beauty of this day with his dear neighbour. Watson was likely currently in the company of some young lady he had had the pleasure of meeting quite recently. In the morning, he had scrutinized himself very meticulously in the mirror and calculatedly chosen which cologne he would wear today. Then he had taken his leave of the detective and said he was expected for dinner, but might be delayed.
Indeed, even without Watson's company, Holmes did not waste time. He was strolling on foot through the city streets, heading to an unremarkable little place in Covent Garden. His destination was known to few, yet it held a certain reputation in narrow circles. To know of this establishment, one needed a specific interest and connections; otherwise, guessing its location was simply impossible. Holmes had those connections. As a detective, he greatly valued such places—they were a good opportunity to gather the most necessary, and sometimes compromising, information, applied with great success in absolutely various cases.
The detective had plenty of informants. And besides the street urchins, this network included employees of such establishments. Holmes noted to himself that the most diligent and devoted of them worked precisely at Covent Garden. The detective had once done him a service—saved the youth from a lengthy prison term, replacing it with a substantially minor one, when he provided an irrefutable alibi and proved that during a brutal murder, he had been in the molly-house where he now worked, having a splendid time with two men.
Full of gratitude, this lad now frequently helped the detective with information. Sometimes it held no value, but in rare cases, it carried great, sometimes fate-deciding, weight.
Twenty minutes after his cigarette had gone out, Holmes' hand rested on the handle of the entrance door. The staff knew and remembered him—despite his last visit being long ago—so they let him in without further questions.
The ground floor of the premises was a small but cosy bar, which, besides the counter, had several tables where gentlemen of various sorts sat and conversed. The clientele of this establishment was exclusively male. The young bartender recognized the newcomer immediately, smiled a greeting, and even began waving:
— Hello, Mr. Ho... — he didn't have time to finish, because the detective put his index finger to his lips, indicating he should remain silent.
As soon as the detective approached the bar counter, the lad leaned on it, elbows propped, ready to listen attentively to the visitor.
— Hello, sir, — the youth greeted again, even more joyfully than the first time, but more quietly now. So that only Holmes could hear him.
— No need to say my name so loudly, Jonathan, — the detective smiled in return, — here, take this. I believe I haven't repaid you for your help. Thank you, — the detective handed over several banknotes, and the lad immediately hid them in his pocket.
— Thank you, sir, — his eyes sparkled with pleasure that communicating with Holmes brought him. The youth found this man extremely attractive, intelligent, and very noble. This honest man had granted him freedom, and now he was even paying him for observing some of the establishment's guests. — Do you need to learn something, or did you come only for this?
— Yes, I came only to settle with you, — Holmes nodded affirmatively.
— Don't leave us so quickly, — the lad straightened up and spread his hands, — allow me to treat you. What will you have? Whisky and soda? — he immediately began retrieving all the necessary ingredients, not taking his eyes off the detective, who agreed with just a nod.
Holmes surveyed the hall, noting some patrons and practising his deduction. From the guests, it was immediately clear who was here for the first time and who was a regular.
— You know, Mr. Holmes, — the lad looked at the detective intriguingly and handed him a glass with the drink, — a rather attractive gentleman drops in, but not too often. And he's here today. I think you might like him. Care to make a new acquaintance? — he smiled even wider, noticing the change in Holmes' expression.
The detective took a sharp gulp and coughed.
— Thank you, Jonathan, but I haven't engaged in such pursuits for a long time, — he shook his head and hid his gaze at the bottom of the glass. Holmes had stopped visiting molly-houses after moving in with John Watson, though he retained acquaintances in this sphere who sometimes came to his aid.
— Have you found a sweetheart? — Jonathan looked at the detective with sympathy and great interest, and when he remained silent, the lad drew his own conclusions. — Oh, how interesting! I am very happy for you!
Several minutes passed in deep silence, broken only by the chatter of the other patrons. Jonathan wiped already-clean glasses to create an appearance of active work and to occupy himself somehow.
— Sir, — Jonathan began again, — that gentleman there. You should at least appraise him and say if I was right that he might have appealed to you, — the lad nodded his head towards the stairs leading to the upper rooms intended for privacy.
Solely to avoid offending the bartender, Holmes turned and looked at the man he so recommended. The detective never considered it possible that one's heart could sink into one's boots, as some people say. But that was the only way he could now describe the feeling he experienced in all its glory. He was deeply shaken. He—the most calculating and observant of all people on earth, prepared for anything—had in no way expected to see this man here: John Watson, smiling and conversing casually with some gentleman, was heading towards the bar's exit. All of Holmes' attention was now focused on his respectable neighbour and the man he was talking to. This man bore some resemblance to the detective himself.
Holmes deliberately held his gaze on Watson for a long time, until Watson noticed. Their eyes met, and the joy with which Watson had just descended from the upper floor instantly vanished from his face. He was in turmoil. The doctor said something to his companion, shook his hand, and they parted. The man who had been with him left the building, while Watson remained standing motionless, looking awkwardly in his friend's direction and nervously rocking from heel to toe.
— I think he's taken an interest in you too, — the bartender giggled, watching the scene. — Maybe you should approach him after all?
Holmes silently took several pound sterling from his pocket and placed them on the bar counter, thanking him for the drink and hospitality. He rose, ready to leave. Jonathan bid him farewell:
— What are you doing, sir, it wasn't necessary! You've already paid generously for my work, — the lad was genuinely surprised and pushed the coins aside, unwilling to accept them.
— That's not just for the drink, lad. You've provided me with very, very valuable information, — Holmes indicated with his gaze towards Watson, who seemed to be patiently waiting but appeared ready to bolt and leave London forever at any moment.
— Is that so, — the triumphant smile returned to the lad's face, and now he did not hesitate to take the money. — Then—have a pleasant evening, sir! — he winked at the detective and returned to his daily tasks, especially as a client had just approached. But, taking the order and preparing the drink, he occasionally glanced at the two men.
Holmes hid his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, feeling a vague excitement. Watson merely gave a greeting nod as they drew level and moved towards the exit. Holmes followed.
Once outside, both immediately took out cigars and smoked in awkward silence. The doctor was the first to break the silence:
— Truly, I did not expect to meet you here, — he narrowed his eyes, releasing streams of smoke, and began walking deliberately slowly, anticipating an unpleasant conversation.
— Likewise, — Holmes frowned, — But I am here solely due to business interests. I have an informant here, if you're interested.
Watson was unquestionably interested. People usually came to such places only out of a desire to make a pleasant acquaintance, which might later turn into a pleasant evening. Holmes hardly fell into that category, and Watson did not doubt his words for a moment.
The detective was no less interested in the purposes of the doctor's visit to such a place but decided not to embarrass his neighbour with uncomfortable questions. He was ready to explain himself.
— You've surely already deduced why you met me here today, hm? — Watson pursed his lips with a touch of irritation in his voice.
— There are some conclusions, — Holmes confirmed.
— And I think—the most correct ones. You are never mistaken, Holmes, — the doctor averted his gaze and stretched out his arm to hail a cab. Transport was found quickly.
The journey was long due to the slush on the streets and the awkwardness between the passengers. Each of them thought about what had happened and felt an equal sense of defeat.
Watson knew that someday all his secrets would be revealed to his housemate. But he guarded this particular inclination with greater trepidation because he could not guess his friend's reaction. This knowledge might cause Holmes disgust, anger, or something of the sort. And then Watson would never see Baker Street or his companion again. But the detective was suspiciously silent for a long time, unwilling to express his opinion or evaluate the doctor's actions. This was both calming and alarming simultaneously. But Watson was glad he wasn't bombarded with questions and was given time to think and weigh everything.
Holmes remained silent precisely for this reason: because he did not consider it necessary to pester his friend, who was obviously already in the most awkward position. Watson always made contact himself, and the detective hoped that in time, he would tell him everything. And if not—so be it. Everyone had a right to their secrets. However, the doctor did not suspect that Holmes, too, had in his time been a not infrequent visitor to Covent Garden. And while they rode home in silence, the detective could think his own thoughts and draw some conclusions.
'You are never mistaken, Holmes'—echoed in the detective's head.
Of course, this was an indisputable fact. But today he was utterly defeated. His neighbour, always fascinated by the fair sex and even once married, had very clearly solidified his position as a ladies' man. Holmes had never questioned his preferences. Nor had Watson given cause for doubt.
Now, however, Holmes looked at his neighbour completely differently. Through the prism of a new secret, which had opened to him by pure chance. And this secret turned out to be one of the most interesting he had ever known. He had never thought of Watson in such a light. At least, he had never allowed himself to think about it. But Watson—the darling of ladies, a connoisseur of women from three continents—did not shun the company of other men. Moreover, he sought out meetings with them himself. This did not seem like a fleeting fancy or an experiment; that was certainly not in Watson's character. And it stirred Holmes.
He could say that his housemate was decidedly attractive and charming to any gender. And to him as well. Reddish hair and grey eyes that looked at Holmes time and again with admiration; an athletic build which the detective had the pleasure of appraising in Turkish baths; strong, yet very gentle hands—this could not but evoke sympathy. But it was nothing compared to Watson's inner qualities and traits of character, which Holmes especially valued. Openness, friendliness, honesty were not so common in this world. Nor were loyalty, calmness in the most difficult situations, coupled with readiness to defend what was dear to him. Only this man had awakened in the detective a need for communication, approval, and advice. This man meant too much to Holmes, as the most devoted and sincere friend. But now everything seemed to have changed. Even the air between them became special.
Returning to the familiar sitting room at Baker Street, Holmes immediately sat in his armchair and lit his favourite pipe. Watson followed his example and spoke:
— Holmes, — he called his friend, looking somewhere at the wall, — I would very much like what you learned today to remain a secret.
— Surely there are doubts? I shall guard your secret as my own, — the detective agreed, sitting up a little straighter in his chair, — and I shall not ask unnecessary questions if you so wish. Allow me only to ask—why did you decide to hide this from me? Have I not earned your trust?
— You are, unquestionably, the person I trust most, — Watson began, now looking at his interlocutor, | L'amour n'est pas un péché
"It is a great sin, but when I am with you, I have no need for God."
In autumn, London acquired a unique charm. The fogs and drizzling rain filled the streets with coolness and a certain unspoken mystery. Objects and people lost their clarity; everything became hazy, semi-real. The air, though full of moisture, was breathed easily and had a pleasant freshness.
The greatest detective of our time, Sherlock Holmes, adored London in this season, easily becoming a part of it. While others might complain of the eternal dampness and sniffles, Holmes was made for these streets, these fogs, appearing for a moment as a tall, mysterious figure, only to vanish again.
As if switching on a beacon amidst the grey mirage, Holmes lit a cigarette on the go and, after a few drags, for contrast, took a deep breath of the cool air, blissfully closing his eyes. Almost perfect. Almost.
A pity only that he could not share the enchanting beauty of this day with his dear neighbour. Watson was likely currently in the company of some young lady he had had the pleasure of meeting quite recently. In the morning, he had scrutinized himself very meticulously in the mirror and calculatedly chosen which cologne he would wear today. Then he had taken his leave of the detective and said he was expected for dinner, but might be delayed.
Indeed, even without Watson's company, Holmes did not waste time. He was strolling on foot through the city streets, heading to an unremarkable little place in Covent Garden. His destination was known to few, yet it held a certain reputation in narrow circles. To know of this establishment, one needed a specific interest and connections; otherwise, guessing its location was simply impossible. Holmes had those connections. As a detective, he greatly valued such places—they were a good opportunity to gather the most necessary, and sometimes compromising, information, applied with great success in absolutely various cases.
The detective had plenty of informants. And besides the street urchins, this network included employees of such establishments. Holmes noted to himself that the most diligent and devoted of them worked precisely at Covent Garden. The detective had once done him a service—saved the youth from a lengthy prison term, replacing it with a substantially minor one, when he provided an irrefutable alibi and proved that during a brutal murder, he had been in the molly-house where he now worked, having a splendid time with two men.
Full of gratitude, this lad now frequently helped the detective with information. Sometimes it held no value, but in rare cases, it carried great, sometimes fate-deciding, weight.
Twenty minutes after his cigarette had gone out, Holmes' hand rested on the handle of the entrance door. The staff knew and remembered him—despite his last visit being long ago—so they let him in without further questions.
The ground floor of the premises was a small but cosy bar, which, besides the counter, had several tables where gentlemen of various sorts sat and conversed. The clientele of this establishment was exclusively male. The young bartender recognized the newcomer immediately, smiled a greeting, and even began waving:
— Hello, Mr. Ho... — he didn't have time to finish, because the detective put his index finger to his lips, indicating he should remain silent.
As soon as the detective approached the bar counter, the lad leaned on it, elbows propped, ready to listen attentively to the visitor.
— Hello, sir, — the youth greeted again, even more joyfully than the first time, but more quietly now. So that only Holmes could hear him.
— No need to say my name so loudly, Jonathan, — the detective smiled in return, — here, take this. I believe I haven't repaid you for your help. Thank you, — the detective handed over several banknotes, and the lad immediately hid them in his pocket.
— Thank you, sir, — his eyes sparkled with pleasure that communicating with Holmes brought him. The youth found this man extremely attractive, intelligent, and very noble. This honest man had granted him freedom, and now he was even paying him for observing some of the establishment's guests. — Do you need to learn something, or did you come only for this?
— Yes, I came only to settle with you, — Holmes nodded affirmatively.
— Don't leave us so quickly, — the lad straightened up and spread his hands, — allow me to treat you. What will you have? Whisky and soda? — he immediately began retrieving all the necessary ingredients, not taking his eyes off the detective, who agreed with just a nod.
Holmes surveyed the hall, noting some patrons and practising his deduction. From the guests, it was immediately clear who was here for the first time and who was a regular.
— You know, Mr. Holmes, — the lad looked at the detective intriguingly and handed him a glass with the drink, — a rather attractive gentleman drops in, but not too often. And he's here today. I think you might like him. Care to make a new acquaintance? — he smiled even wider, noticing the change in Holmes' expression.
The detective took a sharp gulp and coughed.
— Thank you, Jonathan, but I haven't engaged in such pursuits for a long time, — he shook his head and hid his gaze at the bottom of the glass. Holmes had stopped visiting molly-houses after moving in with John Watson, though he retained acquaintances in this sphere who sometimes came to his aid.
— Have you found a sweetheart? — Jonathan looked at the detective with sympathy and great interest, and when he remained silent, the lad drew his own conclusions. — Oh, how interesting! I am very happy for you!
Several minutes passed in deep silence, broken only by the chatter of the other patrons. Jonathan wiped already-clean glasses to create an appearance of active work and to occupy himself somehow.
— Sir, — Jonathan began again, — that gentleman there. You should at least appraise him and say if I was right that he might have appealed to you, — the lad nodded his head towards the stairs leading to the upper rooms intended for privacy.
Solely to avoid offending the bartender, Holmes turned and looked at the man he so recommended. The detective never considered it possible that one's heart could sink into one's boots, as some people say. But that was the only way he could now describe the feeling he experienced in all its glory. He was deeply shaken. He—the most calculating and observant of all people on earth, prepared for anything—had in no way expected to see this man here: John Watson, smiling and conversing casually with some gentleman, was heading towards the bar's exit. All of Holmes' attention was now focused on his respectable neighbour and the man he was talking to. This man bore some resemblance to the detective himself.
Holmes deliberately held his gaze on Watson for a long time, until Watson noticed. Their eyes met, and the joy with which Watson had just descended from the upper floor instantly vanished from his face. He was in turmoil. The doctor said something to his companion, shook his hand, and they parted. The man who had been with him left the building, while Watson remained standing motionless, looking awkwardly in his friend's direction and nervously rocking from heel to toe.
— I think he's taken an interest in you too, — the bartender giggled, watching the scene. — Maybe you should approach him after all?
Holmes silently took several pound sterling from his pocket and placed them on the bar counter, thanking him for the drink and hospitality. He rose, ready to leave. Jonathan bid him farewell:
— What are you doing, sir, it wasn't necessary! You've already paid generously for my work, — the lad was genuinely surprised and pushed the coins aside, unwilling to accept them.
— That's not just for the drink, lad. You've provided me with very, very valuable information, — Holmes indicated with his gaze towards Watson, who seemed to be patiently waiting but appeared ready to bolt and leave London forever at any moment.
— Is that so, — the triumphant smile returned to the lad's face, and now he did not hesitate to take the money. — Then—have a pleasant evening, sir! — he winked at the detective and returned to his daily tasks, especially as a client had just approached. But, taking the order and preparing the drink, he occasionally glanced at the two men.
Holmes hid his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, feeling a vague excitement. Watson merely gave a greeting nod as they drew level and moved towards the exit. Holmes followed.
Once outside, both immediately took out cigars and smoked in awkward silence. The doctor was the first to break the silence:
— Truly, I did not expect to meet you here, — he narrowed his eyes, releasing streams of smoke, and began walking deliberately slowly, anticipating an unpleasant conversation.
— Likewise, — Holmes frowned, — But I am here solely due to business interests. I have an informant here, if you're interested.
Watson was unquestionably interested. People usually came to such places only out of a desire to make a pleasant acquaintance, which might later turn into a pleasant evening. Holmes hardly fell into that category, and Watson did not doubt his words for a moment.
The detective was no less interested in the purposes of the doctor's visit to such a place but decided not to embarrass his neighbour with uncomfortable questions. He was ready to explain himself.
— You've surely already deduced why you met me here today, hm? — Watson pursed his lips with a touch of irritation in his voice.
— There are some conclusions, — Holmes confirmed.
— And I think—the most correct ones. You are never mistaken, Holmes, — the doctor averted his gaze and stretched out his arm to hail a cab. Transport was found quickly.
The journey was long due to the slush on the streets and the awkwardness between the passengers. Each of them thought about what had happened and felt an equal sense of defeat.
Watson knew that someday all his secrets would be revealed to his housemate. But he guarded this particular inclination with greater trepidation because he could not guess his friend's reaction. This knowledge might cause Holmes disgust, anger, or something of the sort. And then Watson would never see Baker Street or his companion again. But the detective was suspiciously silent for a long time, unwilling to express his opinion or evaluate the doctor's actions. This was both calming and alarming simultaneously. But Watson was glad he wasn't bombarded with questions and was given time to think and weigh everything.
Holmes remained silent precisely for this reason: because he did not consider it necessary to pester his friend, who was obviously already in the most awkward position. Watson always made contact himself, and the detective hoped that in time, he would tell him everything. And if not—so be it. Everyone had a right to their secrets. However, the doctor did not suspect that Holmes, too, had in his time been a not infrequent visitor to Covent Garden. And while they rode home in silence, the detective could think his own thoughts and draw some conclusions.
'You are never mistaken, Holmes'—echoed in the detective's head.
Of course, this was an indisputable fact. But today he was utterly defeated. His neighbour, always fascinated by the fair sex and even once married, had very clearly solidified his position as a ladies' man. Holmes had never questioned his preferences. Nor had Watson given cause for doubt.
Now, however, Holmes looked at his neighbour completely differently. Through the prism of a new secret, which had opened to him by pure chance. And this secret turned out to be one of the most interesting he had ever known. He had never thought of Watson in such a light. At least, he had never allowed himself to think about it. But Watson—the darling of ladies, a connoisseur of women from three continents—did not shun the company of other men. Moreover, he sought out meetings with them himself. This did not seem like a fleeting fancy or an experiment; that was certainly not in Watson's character. And it stirred Holmes.
He could say that his housemate was decidedly attractive and charming to any gender. And to him as well. Reddish hair and grey eyes that looked at Holmes time and again with admiration; an athletic build which the detective had the pleasure of appraising in Turkish baths; strong, yet very gentle hands—this could not but evoke sympathy. But it was nothing compared to Watson's inner qualities and traits of character, which Holmes especially valued. Openness, friendliness, honesty were not so common in this world. Nor were loyalty, calmness in the most difficult situations, coupled with readiness to defend what was dear to him. Only this man had awakened in the detective a need for communication, approval, and advice. This man meant too much to Holmes, as the most devoted and sincere friend. But now everything seemed to have changed. Even the air between them became special.
Returning to the familiar sitting room at Baker Street, Holmes immediately sat in his armchair and lit his favourite pipe. Watson followed his example and spoke:
— Holmes, — he called his friend, looking somewhere at the wall, — I would very much like what you learned today to remain a secret.
— Surely there are doubts? I shall guard your secret as my own, — the detective agreed, sitting up a little straighter in his chair, — and I shall not ask unnecessary questions if you so wish. Allow me only to ask—why did you decide to hide this from me? Have I not earned your trust?
— You are, unquestionably, the person I trust most, — Watson began, now looking at his interlocutor, — but I could not predict your reaction. Like any person in such a situation, I thought you might laugh at me, or perhaps not even wish to live with me in the same house anymore. It is a great sin and against the law. But I was confident you would not hand me over to the courts, and I was not afraid of them. More frightening than the court was your subsequent attitude towards me. Do you respect me less for this? How do you look at me now?
— With even greater respect, my dear, — Holmes smiled, and Watson felt relief, — you have led me by the nose for so long. That is worthy of all praise. As for your inversion—it does not disturb me in the least. Tell me, do you like me less because I prefer brandy to red wine? — the detective hinted very subtly and watched his friend's reaction. He frowned slightly and answered immediately.
— Not in the least, Holmes. Your tastes are your own affair. Especially since—in most respects, they coincide with mine, — a calm smile touched Watson's lips. He was clearly pleased with the outcome of their dialogue.
— And I am of the same mind, Watson. I respect you and your choice and shall never judge you. Love is not a crime. And now I invite you to drink to mutual respect, — Holmes rose and went to fetch the drinks.
— And to love? — Watson chuckled, peeking out from behind the armchair. He had noticeably relaxed.
— And to love, — Holmes confirmed.
After a couple of toasts, the men conversed on abstract topics, not returning to the original one. Ringing laughter filled the walls of the sitting room. Holmes and Watson felt absolute relaxation, which they usually experienced being at home, in each other's company. Time flew by unnoticed, and the alcohol had practically evaporated. The doctor left for his room briefly to fetch another novel to read in the warmth and cosiness of the sitting room while his neighbour pondered something.
And while Watson was up to his ears engrossed in an extraordinary book plot, Holmes unsuccessfully tried to drive away thoughts that swarmed incessantly in his head. It was like a new case, the solution of which required more details and precision in everything. And the detective knew he would not rest until he learned all he needed.
One of the main questions occupying the detective was whether Watson considered him an attractive man and a potential partner? And would the doctor desire closer contact with him? Holmes, as he had recently discovered himself, did, but did not consider it possible. He did not think secret desires would so torment his brain after today's revelation. Emerging from his thoughts, Holmes did not hesitate to ask:
— Allow me to inquire, my dear...
Hearing his neighbour's voice, Watson was slightly frightened—he thought the detective was in his Mind Palace and would not return for the next hour, so he was reading his book peacefully.
— ...the question will be somewhat frank.
— What interests you? — the doctor carefully folded the corner of the page so as not to lose his place later and removed his reading glasses.
— These meetings, are they purely... for relieving tension, or is there a man you love? I mean, a constant partner, — Holmes folded his hands in his favourite prayer-like gesture, pressing his fingertips to his lips and looking attentively at Watson, who was slightly taken aback. — If there is, you need not hide him anymore. I would be glad to meet your chosen one. And you could meet here. I have nothing against it, — the detective felt some pangs of jealousy but accepted that Watson would never be faithful only to him. Even though nothing but strong friendship bound them.
— No, Holmes, what are you saying, — the doctor laughed awkwardly, — but I am pleased by your approval and concern. Very. Truly, I scarcely hoped for a neutral reaction, and I did not dream of support from you. And as for your question... I have no constant partner. But you also asked if there is a man I love? Here the answer is 'yes,' — he even nodded and looked away intriguingly, clearly not intending to reveal this man's identity, — but he will never be mine.
— Is that so? — Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise and sat a little straighter in his chair. He tensed slightly. — I would never have thought there was someone who might not reciprocate your feelings. Are you speaking of the man I saw you with? — the detective narrowed his eyes.
— Oh, no! — the doctor laughed more cheerfully now. — Lewis and I are connected by very little, if you understand my meaning. And that man has my heart and soul—not my body. But he likely does not know it, — having finished speaking, the doctor awkwardly lowered his gaze, realizing he might have said too much. — And you know, it is rather late. I think I shall retire, — he rose and hastened to depart to avoid impending discomfort but froze at the exit when Holmes said:
— Is this man married? — Holmes was not looking at the doctor, leaving his gaze on the armchair he had just vacated.
Silence lasted too long, and the detective no longer hoped for an answer—he had touched a nerve. But still, he heard Watson's quiet voice:
— Only to his work, — after these words, the doctor almost fled the sitting room, leaving Holmes alone with a realization that pierced his entire body, like a thousand arrows.
It was too obvious a hint that put everything in its place, and the puzzle in Holmes' head instantly formed into one complete picture.
He felt an absolute fool, realizing that for many years he had not noticed such inclinations in Watson, especially towards himself. And moreover, he had not noticed it by his own whim—he had immediately classified such thoughts as something not to be returned to and did not allow himself to doubt, refute, or verify his suspicions. Now he had only one way to atone—to surrender himself to Watson completely. Good God, he could not have thought that Watson's heart and soul had been in his hands all this time, and he had handled them so carelessly, unknowingly.
For a month, Holmes nurtured a plan on how to bring perfect order to his relationship with Watson. For the first time in his life, he called himself a coward and decided to take action not with words, but with deeds.
Under a false name, he telegraphed Watson a message that he was expected at Covent Garden that evening. Holmes was afraid to speak directly, despite Watson's reciprocation. This was not just another experiment in self-knowledge, of one's feelings, reactions, and body, not simply a need to relieve tension—this was something completely new, unexplored, and beyond reason. These were the most thrilling feelings that Holmes, like many other things, had realized only with the help of his sensitive biographer. As if these feelings had earlier been encased in impenetrable arctic ice, but a thaw had come, and that thaw was Watson.
But when the doctor received the telegram, he experienced terrible confusion. Now he felt complete aversion and a lack of desire to appear in such places. Especially not after having almost directly confessed his feelings to Holmes, on the day this man learned that the doctor visited molly-houses to be intimate with barely acquainted men. It was shameful. Since he had promised Holmes—who didn't even suspect it—his soul and heart, he would not allow anyone to touch his body. It was perverse and vulgar.
Most likely, the telegram was sent by Lewis—this man was more interested in their communication than Watson himself. And the doctor thought that the level of their relationship allowed him to simply break off all ties without saying goodbye.
Watson stayed home, waiting for his neighbour for dinner. But he was delayed somewhere, and the doctor began his meal alone.
Meanwhile, Holmes sat calmly on the bed, gazing emptily out the window. From the outside, he looked calm as a boa constrictor, but inside raged a barely contained storm of emotions. The room was stuffy, and Holmes removed his jacket and waistcoat, remaining in his shirt, on which he unbuttoned the top buttons. An unpleasant tremor ran through him, and he decided to get rid of it by means of a bottle of wine he had brought with him, along with two glasses. Filling only one, Holmes immediately drained it, standing opposite the window, tremblingly hoping to see a familiar figure heading towards him. But Watson did not come. Not in an hour, not in two.
After waiting for his friend for a total of three hours, Holmes came to the thought that he had either not received his invitation or was not home at all. So there was no point in waiting. He needed to return home.
The weather was terrible: as soon as Holmes left the bar, the rain poured down. Everything was against the detective today. It further undermined his already nervous mood, and he set off back to Baker Street somewhat inebriated and upset.
Already home, Holmes got rid of his soaked outer clothing. He had walked the whole way bareheaded, and his hair was also wet. It was irritating, but the detective anticipated the warmth of the sitting room, especially since his head felt light from the bottle of wine, and he felt capable of anything. But the former melancholy, which had washed over him along with the acceptance that Watson would not come, returned when Holmes crossed paths with his friend in the sitting room. He sat in his armchair reading a book but, hearing shuffling steps, turned.
— You are late today, — the doctor remarked, setting the book aside, and with it, his glasses.
— Why did you not come? — Holmes frowned, freezing in place.
— Where did you want to see me today? — the doctor also frowned, rising from his seat and standing opposite the detective.
— I telegraphed you, — the man ran a hand through his damp hair.
— It was you who summoned me to Covent Garden? — the doctor tilted his head, peering into the detective's shining blue eyes.
— Yes. I wanted our meeting in a more... candid setting. There you would have immediately understood what I wished to propose to you, — Holmes said challengingly, puffing out his chest slightly. He went straight to the frank essence of the matter—he had nothing to lose, and the wine simmering in his blood gave him fervour and self-assurance.
— I cannot understand you, — Watson rubbed his eyes, tired from reading, and exhaled. — You wanted to propose to me, — he traced the silhouette of the detective with his finger, — yourself?
Holmes nodded several times and placed his hands on the doctor's shoulders.
— You do not object? — Holmes looked at his face expectantly. Watson shook his head slightly.
— Not in the least, — the doctor continued to let his eyes roam over the detective's concentrated face, unable to take the first step.
Holmes took that step for him. He leaned down a little—Watson was slightly shorter, and now this difference was palpable—and touched the doctor's lips with his own, at first uncertainly, but then, feeling a responsive reaction, deepened the long-awaited kiss and drew the doctor closer, pressing against his tense body.
The detective's lips were sweet and tart from the wine he had drunk, while Watson tasted precisely of honey. After a few blissful seconds, the doctor's hand rested on Holmes' chest. He pushed the detective away and looked into his blue eyes. Watson's gaze was that of a man who did not believe in the authenticity of what was happening. As if he could not be kissed with such ardour by a man who had not noticed his feelings for many years. As if such tenderness and reciprocation could not exist. But Holmes, as always, dispelled all his doubts and kissed him again—with all the tenderness and desire that had only grown stronger from long waiting.
— You've been drinking, have you? — the doctor chuckled.
— I planned to share that bottle of wine with you, but you did not appear, — Holmes blurted out, slightly offended, and tried to kiss Watson again, but he stopped him:
— Understand me correctly, my dear—I did not go not because I did not want your company. I thought one of my old acquaintances wanted to see me. But I made myself a promise not to set foot in molly-houses again. After you learned about me what I had hidden... You understood almost immediately that the man for whom I feel deep affection, which I thought was unrequited—is you?
— Alas, I began to realize it only after your words about your beloved being married to his work, — the detective confessed.
— And until this moment, I had not guessed that everything was not as futile as I initially imagined, — Watson smiled tenderly, taking Holmes' chin with his fingers. — How long we have been blind, — he bestowed another kiss on Holmes, feeling the detective's body tremble from the hot touches.
The detective began to unbutton his neighbour's waistcoat, but he interrupted him again:
— Let's go up to my room. We might be caught here, — Watson said, breathing heavily. — Only, I beg you, do not delay. I think I cannot bear any more waiting.
— Nor I, Watson. Nor I, — Holmes replied and followed the doctor.
The time spent on the way to the room was enough to, as they say, add fuel to the fire and inflame the newly-minted lovers even more.
And yet, clothes were removed playfully slowly, kisses were sweetly languid but quickly replaced by impatient and insistent ones. Everything was as Holmes had imagined: Watson possessed him like a skilled lover, while touching his soul with his tenderest words.
The doctor was impossibly handsome and neat. Beneath the once-velvety skin, now damp and sticky with sweat, taut muscles played. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and several strands of his reddish hair escaped the hairstyle that had been neater than neat just recently. Skilful hands teased, squeezed, grabbed, stroked, and caressed, went everywhere, and everywhere delivered pleasure that perhaps could be compared to nothing. Lips reddened and damp from kisses whispered things into Holmes' ear that made his blood boil. The detective arched, gasped, and covered his mouth with his hand—a moan might now escape unacceptably loud. He lay pampered and covered in kisses on rumpled sheets and with each movement of Watson crumpled them further, clutching with his magnificent fingers.
And afterwards, Holmes embraced Watson with the trepidation with which one holds the dearest thing on earth. Watson was indeed a treasure. His treasure. He did not wish to let the doctor go and held him tightly to himself with one arm—with the other, he stroked the unruly, slightly damp hair.
— We have sinned enough for several lifetimes ahead, — Watson's voice sounded after he regained the ability to speak.
— Love is not a sin, — Holmes said, closing his eyes. Such active physical exertion had made him breathe heavily, and he tried to steady his breathing.
— May I consider this a reciprocal confession? — Watson rose and hovered over Holmes' face to kiss the tip of his nose.
— No, — the detective frowned, — but you may consider this one, — he grabbed Watson by the shoulders and turned him over, changing their positions—now he was on top, kissed him deeply and wetly, and almost suffocated from his own ardour. — Henceforth, my heart, body, mind—all you desire, my soul. All.
Watson's eyes glistened with oncoming tears.
— No tears, my dear, — Holmes said. — Otherwise, I shall not hold back either, — he felt a lump rising in his throat and tried to swallow it.
— Yes, perhaps. That would not be the best end to the evening, — the doctor agreed and wiped his eyes with his fingers. Then he softly kissed the detective's cheek, — do you still wish to share that bottle of wine with me?
— Do you wish to drink? — Holmes rose and stood, naked, not covering himself with a blanket or anything, walked to his chest of drawers, and opened the bottommost drawer. — I have something here, — he retrieved a dark green bottle of Burgundy wine.
— I would recommend you put something on, otherwise we shall have to forget about the wine, — the doctor smiled and averted his gaze, giving Holmes a chance to put something on. The detective quickly picked up his shirt from the floor, which was long enough to slightly cover the beauty of his body. Or rather—to slightly drape it.
— You know, Holmes, — a minute later, Watson said, watching as his beloved stubbornly searched for something, having left the wine bottle on the bedside table, — I shall go to Covent Garden tomorrow and ask Jonathan to inform my past acquaintances that we shall not see each other again.
— The lad will be very glad if you tell him the reason is Sherlock Holmes, — the detective chuckled, ceasing to rummage through boxes and turning to Watson.
— Really? And why is that?
— Jonathan was very agitated when you did not appear last night. I warned him of your visit and asked him to give me the keys to the needed room as soon as you entered the bar, and I even think he awaited you more than I did.
— Is he an old acquaintance of yours?
— One could say so. I helped him in court, and now he helps me. That lad is the informant I spoke of. He is somewhat aware that I am a bachelor uninterested in anyone and, learning that I awaited our meeting, was happy and gladly took it upon himself to direct you to the right room. And let's be honest—on the day I met you there, it was he who drew my attention to you, saying that a rather attractive gentleman frequented them, with whom he could acquaint me. Quite a coincidence, yes? — Holmes did not stop smiling, looking at the astonished Watson.
— Indeed, — the doctor smiled in return. — You are right—tomorrow I shall mention you, delight the lad. And thank him for the compliment. Don't look at me like that, Holmes; I shall still have time to thank you for all the compliments you have already paid me.
— I shall hold you to your word, my dear. And what do you think, has Mrs. Hudson retired for the night? I do not wish to dress again, but I need to fetch glasses, — the question was rhetorical, and when Watson shrugged, the detective moved towards the door.
A few minutes later, he returned with the coveted trophy in his hands. He climbed under the covers with Watson and sat up, making him hold the glasses while he opened the bottle. The grails were filled quickly.
— I always dreamt of drinking wine lying in bed, — Watson confessed and raised his glass. — But I could not even imagine I would share it with you. To love?
— To love, — Holmes smiled, — and to us!
The clink of glasses sounded in the quiet of the room. And a little later, quiet, happy laughter, and another toast:
— To the best man on earth, Watson. To you.
— That is my line, Holmes. You are right about many things, but do not argue here, alright?
— I shall not. Then—to the two of us?
— In love, each is the best for the other. And I think that is the only manifestation of pride that is not considered sinful. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77332476 | {"authors": ["nebrassska"], "language": "English", "title": "L'amour n'est pas un péché"} |
A dream too real to be true
"No, no, no, no" Hair slipping through his fingers in a desperate cry.
"You can't do this to me." Not again
"Please don't leave.." Hopeless whisper. However the body was already empty. A husk that once held life that was so dear to him.
"Please, wake up Ka-!" Throat tightening, almost like he didn't want the name to leave his mouth. Nearly choking he pulled it closer, leaning over with tears falling down at the wound that could not be fixed. He couldn't bring himself to call out the name that brought him so much joy. Would it all be gone once it's said out loud?
"Please..." It was pointless. He knew how it ended, no amount of screams would bring the soul back.
It hurt every time.
It hurt so much to feel the warm blood staining his hands. Hands that once held the boy so close to his chest. He didn't want to let go. He couldn't.
"I won't leave you, so please... Don't leave me" Desperate plea, a request that could not be fulfilled.
Jotaro held his breath, pulling the head up to look into those eyes once more, just to be sure. As if he didn't trust that bloody hole in the chest, he had to make sure once more. Hoping for a small spark, anything that would say it's gonna be alright.
Naive hope met with a vacant stare, dispelling all doubts. Those full of life lavender eyes that made his days brighter were now replaced with a blank and emotionless stare. It felt cold, nothing like he was before.
"Kakyoin, I need you.." Nothing could bring him back, and calling the name felt like he just gave up on him. He let the words vanish into thin air, forgotten and never to return.
Jotaro jumped up from the bed as if scalded, dry throat, breath heavy and uneven, trying to make out what was happening. Sweat imitating a feeling he hated, especially on his hands. This unpleasant warmth reminded him of the red liquid from that dream-
"KAKYOIN!!"
He turned just to see an empty bed beside him, it looked as if nobody slept there. Bedding folded and ready for a new guest. Without a second thought Jotaro jumped out, stumbling over the sheets that were wrapped around his feet, the thoughts spinning with the world around him. There was no sound except the buzzing in his ears, which grew louder and louder with each passing second that Kakyoin was not around.
Where the fuck was he?! Rushing to the door, and almost breaking them, he ran out into the corridor. What was he supposed to do, where should he go? He couldn't even remember the number of the room his grandfather slept in, not with the headache he had from the thoughts gathering under his skull. He just ran straight ahead. A red curl of hair, that's all he needed to find and everything would go back to normal. As soon as he sees those purple, soulful eyes, everything will be alright. It couldn't be that hard to find him.
"The hell was that noise?" A familiar voice, Jotaro immediately turned around, vision still kinda blurry but he could make out a muscular silhouette with whitish, unnaturally standing hair right at the doorstep of another room. Polnareff.
Brunette stood still for a moment before running up, panting heavily like he just ran a marathon from his room to this point.
"Woah." Confused, Polnareff pulled his hands up, as if defending himself from whatever was wrong with the teenager.
"Where is he?!" He didn't care how harsh it sounded, Jotaro just needed to know he was safe.
"Jojo?" Another voice from behind Polnareff. He recognised it immediately, raising his head like a disturbed animal. A red lock of hair.
Swallowing he pushed the french man aside and ran into the room, focused only on the vibrant colour. It was like a radar showing him the way, and he decided to trust it. Everything else didn't matter, background merging into one as he stopped right in front of those violet eyes, gazing at him with worry.
Hands still trembling, resting on the shoulders of confused teenager. He could feel the warmth of his body through the uniform, the movement, muscles tensing up. He was here.
"You... Promise you won't leave me." Jotaro mumbled loud enough just for Kakyoin to hear.
"Huh? Jotaro are you okay-"
"PROMISE ME." That was enough to make Kakyoin realise Jotaro was in a bad state, and talking to him right now was out of question. He needed comfort like never before.
"...I promise, I won't leave." Tone calm, enough to make Jotaro relax his grip. However the expression Kakyoin made was rather troubling, as if unsure of what he just said. There was a hint of sorrow underneath those eyes.
It didn't matter, licking his lips Jotaro exhaled loudly, pulling Kakyoin into a tight hug. Warm body merging into his, alive and with him, and this time the hug was reciprocated. Gentle caress on the back calming him down enough to make the background noise more clear.
"Jotaro...?" Polnareff's gentle voice finally got through to him. It was clear the man was worried to death from how Jotaro behaved.
"Jotaro." Polnareff repeated as the hand that caressed his back moved to his shoulder. Jotaro didn't mind, he just kept a tight grip on Kakyoin, burying the head in his shoulder, not letting go. The feeling was comforting, sweet cherry scent going through his body, it was reassuring enough to believe it wasn't one of those bad dreams, again.
Then another scent, metallic, unpleasant. With a frown Jotaro felt another hand on his back, this time it seemed weird, too real. Completely different from what he felt when he hugged Kakyoin. Those hands pulled him back to reality alongside with that awful smell. The soft fragrance gone, replaced by a sharp bloody one.
Jotaro turned to face him, not understanding what he wanted.
"It's okay, Jotaro." The sadness in his tone was unnatural, worrying even. However Jotaro didn't move an inch, tightening his hold on red head that kept quiet.
"Everything will be fine..." A whisper, a promise that was hard to fulfil.
"What are you talking about? Don't look at me like that, it's not like you" A low dismissing gruff, trying to push away the reality that Polnareff carried with his presence.
Polnareff didn't break the eye contact, focused entirely on Jotaro who clung tightly to the stained uniform of their dead friend. It even had a hole in the back, blood long dried, killing the sweet scent it had before. The effects of the journey were slowly settling in, revealing the wounds it had brought. It seemed that the teenager was the one who was most affected by all this, not accepting the reality, rejecting memories that kept coming back as a bad dream until he accepts what he lost. | A dream too real to be true
"No, no, no, no" Hair slipping through his fingers in a desperate cry.
"You can't do this to me." Not again
"Please don't leave.." Hopeless whisper. However the body was already empty. A husk that once held life that was so dear to him.
"Please, wake up Ka-!" Throat tightening, almost like he didn't want the name to leave his mouth. Nearly choking he pulled it closer, leaning over with tears falling down at the wound that could not be fixed. He couldn't bring himself to call out the name that brought him so much joy. Would it all be gone once it's said out loud?
"Please..." It was pointless. He knew how it ended, no amount of screams would bring the soul back.
It hurt every time.
It hurt so much to feel the warm blood staining his hands. Hands that once held the boy so close to his chest. He didn't want to let go. He couldn't.
"I won't leave you, so please... Don't leave me" Desperate plea, a request that could not be fulfilled.
Jotaro held his breath, pulling the head up to look into those eyes once more, just to be sure. As if he didn't trust that bloody hole in the chest, he had to make sure once more. Hoping for a small spark, anything that would say it's gonna be alright.
Naive hope met with a vacant stare, dispelling all doubts. Those full of life lavender eyes that made his days brighter were now replaced with a blank and emotionless stare. It felt cold, nothing like he was before.
"Kakyoin, I need you.." Nothing could bring him back, and calling the name felt like he just gave up on him. He let the words vanish into thin air, forgotten and never to return.
Jotaro jumped up from the bed as if scalded, dry throat, breath heavy and uneven, trying to make out what was happening. Sweat imitating a feeling he hated, especially on his hands. This unpleasant warmth reminded him of the red liquid from that dream-
"KAKYOIN!!"
He turned just to see an empty bed beside him, it looked as if nobody slept there. Bedding folded and ready for a new guest. Without a second thought Jotaro jumped out, stumbling over the sheets that were wrapped around his feet, the thoughts spinning with the world around him. There was no sound except the buzzing in his ears, which grew louder and louder with each passing second that Kakyoin was not around.
Where the fuck was he?! Rushing to the door, and almost breaking them, he ran out into the corridor. What was he supposed to do, where should he go? He couldn't even remember the number of the room his grandfather slept in, not with the headache he had from the thoughts gathering under his skull. He just ran straight ahead. A red curl of hair, that's all he needed to find and everything would go back to normal. As soon as he sees those purple, soulful eyes, everything will be alright. It couldn't be that hard to find him.
"The hell was that noise?" A familiar voice, Jotaro immediately turned around, vision still kinda blurry but he could make out a muscular silhouette with whitish, unnaturally standing hair right at the doorstep of another room. Polnareff.
Brunette stood still for a moment before running up, panting heavily like he just ran a marathon from his room to this point.
"Woah." Confused, Polnareff pulled his hands up, as if defending himself from whatever was wrong with the teenager.
"Where is he?!" He didn't care how harsh it sounded, Jotaro just needed to know he was safe.
"Jojo?" Another voice from behind Polnareff. He recognised it immediately, raising his head like a disturbed animal. A red lock of hair.
Swallowing he pushed the french man aside and ran into the room, focused only on the vibrant colour. It was like a radar showing him the way, and he decided to trust it. Everything else didn't matter, background merging into one as he stopped right in front of those violet eyes, gazing at him with worry.
Hands still trembling, resting on the shoulders of confused teenager. He could feel the warmth of his body through the uniform, the movement, muscles tensing up. He was here.
"You... Promise you won't leave me." Jotaro mumbled loud enough just for Kakyoin to hear.
"Huh? Jotaro are you okay-"
"PROMISE ME." That was enough to make Kakyoin realise Jotaro was in a bad state, and talking to him right now was out of question. He needed comfort like never before.
"...I promise, I won't leave." Tone calm, enough to make Jotaro relax his grip. However the expression Kakyoin made was rather troubling, as if unsure of what he just said. There was a hint of sorrow underneath those eyes.
It didn't matter, licking his lips Jotaro exhaled loudly, pulling Kakyoin into a tight hug. Warm body merging into his, alive and with him, and this time the hug was reciprocated. Gentle caress on the back calming him down enough to make the background noise more clear.
"Jotaro...?" Polnareff's gentle voice finally got through to him. It was clear the man was worried to death from how Jotaro behaved.
"Jotaro." Polnareff repeated as the hand that caressed his back moved to his shoulder. Jotaro didn't mind, he just kept a tight grip on Kakyoin, burying the head in his shoulder, not letting go. The feeling was comforting, sweet cherry scent going through his body, it was reassuring enough to believe it wasn't one of those bad dreams, again.
Then another scent, metallic, unpleasant. With a frown Jotaro felt another hand on his back, this time it seemed weird, too real. Completely different from what he felt when he hugged Kakyoin. Those hands pulled him back to reality alongside with that awful smell. The soft fragrance gone, replaced by a sharp bloody one.
Jotaro turned to face him, not understanding what he wanted.
"It's okay, Jotaro." The sadness in his tone was unnatural, worrying even. However Jotaro didn't move an inch, tightening his hold on red head that kept quiet.
"Everything will be fine..." A whisper, a promise that was hard to fulfil.
"What are you talking about? Don't look at me like that, it's not like you" A low dismissing gruff, trying to push away the reality that Polnareff carried with his presence.
Polnareff didn't break the eye contact, focused entirely on Jotaro who clung tightly to the stained uniform of their dead friend. It even had a hole in the back, blood long dried, killing the sweet scent it had before. The effects of the journey were slowly settling in, revealing the wounds it had brought. It seemed that the teenager was the one who was most affected by all this, not accepting the reality, rejecting memories that kept coming back as a bad dream until he accepts what he lost. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77332486 | {"authors": ["Asterioon"], "language": "English", "title": "A dream too real to be true"} |
Oc’s lore
Aslan,a trans ma,half British and Chinese,whoes the son of Lucifer,Aslan’s mother is a demigod of feelings or emotions,specifically trauma.She helps people who faces trauma and help them cope through it.
Aslan has red eyes like ruby,light brown hair,red demon horns and slightly have stumbles.
Aslan is happily married to his wife,Clover Rogers whos an angel, shes a trans woman.She was born in Germany to her lovely angel parents.She works as a spy for an unknown business.
She’s a ginger with green eyes,gorgeous looking woman she has many man stare at her and confess to her but shes only loyal to Aslan although she may be the dominant one in the bed and the one who impregnates Aslan shes gentle with him and their five children.
The eldest son is Phoebe,his 14 years old and he doesn’t show any demonic or angelic traits yet unlike his younger siblings he doesn’t care about it though.Phoebe inherited his mother’s ginger hair and her green eyes.
He has a rather nonchalant attitude he doesn’t care about what people think of them at all he doesn’t show emotions to the people his close with but to strangers he just thinks showing emotions isn’t really necessary.
The twins,Noah and Hestia,the two younglings are around 6 years old and are in kindergarten.Hestia is five minutes older then Noah she had already develop demon horns but she’s an angel to people despite her appearance.
Noah on the other hand has an halo and wings like an angel but his quite the troublemarker.he won’t go out of his way to make people feel misery he just causes trouble alot. | Oc’s lore
Aslan,a trans ma,half British and Chinese,whoes the son of Lucifer,Aslan’s mother is a demigod of feelings or emotions,specifically trauma.She helps people who faces trauma and help them cope through it.
Aslan has red eyes like ruby,light brown hair,red demon horns and slightly have stumbles.
Aslan is happily married to his wife,Clover Rogers whos an angel, shes a trans woman.She was born in Germany to her lovely angel parents.She works as a spy for an unknown business.
She’s a ginger with green eyes,gorgeous looking woman she has many man stare at her and confess to her but shes only loyal to Aslan although she may be the dominant one in the bed and the one who impregnates Aslan shes gentle with him and their five children.
The eldest son is Phoebe,his 14 years old and he doesn’t show any demonic or angelic traits yet unlike his younger siblings he doesn’t care about it though.Phoebe inherited his mother’s ginger hair and her green eyes.
He has a rather nonchalant attitude he doesn’t care about what people think of them at all he doesn’t show emotions to the people his close with but to strangers he just thinks showing emotions isn’t really necessary.
The twins,Noah and Hestia,the two younglings are around 6 years old and are in kindergarten.Hestia is five minutes older then Noah she had already develop demon horns but she’s an angel to people despite her appearance.
Noah on the other hand has an halo and wings like an angel but his quite the troublemarker.he won’t go out of his way to make people feel misery he just causes trouble alot. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77332491 | {"authors": ["Sincerley_Will"], "language": "English", "title": "Oc’s lore"} |
Forgive Me, Father
It was 10:03 pm.
Andrew’s eyes were glued to the clock, tracking the second hand as it teased its way from 12 to 1. 1 to 2. 2 to 3. A quarter of the way there, painstakingly slow.
Had he known when he had signed his contract that his responsibilities would involve babysitting his pet asshole as he stretched practice over till beyond 10 at night, he would’ve ripped it in two on the spot. Perhaps held a lighter to it for good measure. Alas, the world and its constituents had it out for him, and the best he could do was remain pointedly aloof. The pet asshole in question, of course, found this exceptionally irritating. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
6 to 7. 7 to 8. 8 to 9.
There was nothing to count down to; they would leave when Kevin so pleased. Fuck Kevin and fuck that clock. Fuck this team. He wanted to sleep.
10 to 11. 11 to 12. 10:04 pm. Everyone cheered.
And because Andrew could have nothing good, ever, the minute hand refused to move.
“Coach,” he said. Kevin turned to him, bristling. Apparently, Andrew had interrupted a monologue. Small victories. He let his lips curve into a smile, and said in his best sing-song voice, “Your clock’s not working. It’s all wrong.”
Wymack blinked from him to the clock, then back. “Looks just fine to me.”
“Look again.”
Wymack did not look again. Instead, he gestured for Kevin to continue; the others, craning to see what was wrong with the clock, sat back. Andrew was still for a moment, then kicked his chair back and walked out the door. The chorus of half-dismayed, all-irritated intonations of his name that followed in his wake was muffled to silence as the door clicked shut behind him.
He wanted to sleep.
“Do you believe in Hell?”
Betsy Dobson paused, then returned to tinkering at the counter behind her desk. “Is that something you’re afraid of? Going to Hell?”
“No. Do you believe in Hell?”
“I’d be very interested in hearing about where this question is coming from.”
“Do you believe in Hell?”
She turned, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in each hand. Setting one down before him, she resumed her seat behind the desk. “Fire and brimstone? Not really. Sure, it’s easy to see how the idea could have emerged, and why it stuck, but it always felt a little far-fetched to me. What would—”
“I believe in Hell.”
“Oh?”
Andrew reached for the mug. “No. I was lying.”
“I see.”
“But Nicky does.”
“And what—”
“Nicky’s stupid. Nicky thinks he’s going to Hell.”
“I see.”
“He’s never tried to convince me it’s real, though. See, he thinks I’m going to Hell too.”
Dobson’s head was tilted ever so slightly to one side. “What makes you say that?”
“That he thinks he’s going to Hell? Well, he’s a fag.” She opened her mouth to respond, but Andrew plowed onward. “Special Hell for fags. I’m just a killer, so normal Hell for me.” He took a sip of his hot chocolate.
“I don’t know if I would—”
“I lied again. I do believe in Hell.” He wondered if Dobson knew what he was doing: toeing the line, pushing her to break. Pushing her to give up, perhaps run screaming. 13th time was rarely the charm.
But she just nodded. “And how would you define Hell?”
“Any room with Kevin in it.” The image of brilliantly green, brilliantly exasperated eyes flashed before him. At least they were pretty enough to give him something more or less pleasant to focus on, but he kept that to himself.
“Did he say something again? You know you can—”
“I killed my mother.” He took another sip. “Would’ve killed those heaps of wasted air outside the club if they’d let me.” Another sip. “I like hot chocolate.”
“Oh?” Dobson smiled. “I’m glad.”
Andrew paused. “It could be sweeter.”
“I’ll make a note of that.”
“I took the wheel and rammed us into a truck. Time of death was 10 pm.”
“Whose?”
“My mother. Try to keep up.”
“Oh, sorry. Continue.”
“Aren’t you glad for rigor mortis? Better than flopping around. Like a fish.” He laughed.
“I’ve never thought about it like that. Is there any—”
“Doctor Dobson. Doctor Dobby dearest. I do not want to die.”
“That’s good, Andrew. Why do you—”
“Except when I do. Which is every time Kevin opens his idiotic mouth.” He laughed again. He laughed and laughed. He hated laughing.
“You bring up Kevin quite often.” Dobson was undeterred. Maybe they were on the same meds. Maybe she was just as crazy as him.
A timer rang out, and Dobson leaned over to shut it. Five minutes left.
Andrew laughed and laughed and laughed.
There was a kind of quiet, a kind of stillness, that only ever hung over a rooftop. Andrew had gained access to this particular rooftop just a few weeks back, and was too content to dwell on how. He was sitting now with his legs dangling over the side of the building, cigarette smoke spilling from between his parted lips. A clump of ash fell from the cigarette dangling between his fingers and disappeared into the bushes below. From up here, the world was his ashtray. His cheeks hurt from smiling. A new kind of pain; an unwelcome kind of pain. He wished the sun would explode. It would be funny if it happened at night. If the world ended when they weren’t looking.
A gust of wind peeled off from the night sky and smacked into him, and his cigarette loosened dangerously in his grip. He brought it up to his mouth, took a long drag. Closed his eyes.
And then he was acutely aware that he was no longer alone.
Kevin, or perhaps Nicky, had finally discovered where he fucked off to when they overstepped the limits of his endurance. He refused to turn around to grace them with his attention; they’d make themselves known sooner or later.
Five minutes passed, and his patience wore thin. He blinked up at the stars through a halo of smoke, and they blinked back. He whipped around, glaring. “What.”
It wasn’t Kevin, or Nicky. The roof was just as empty as before, inhabited only by him and the night.
“What,” he said again, louder. “Fuck you.”
A leaf skittered a few paces in response. Andrew scowled, then dropped his eyes to his cigarette, smoked to the filter. He tossed it over his shoulder, crushing it beneath his heel on his way back indoors.
The day Andrew almost killed his brother, Nicky went alone to Sunday mass for the first time.
Aaron had begged him not to leave. He did not want to be home alone with Andrew. He hated Andrew. Hated hated hated. Nicky suggested he come along, but apparently he did not want to leave Andrew home alone with Andrew either. He seemed to think the car crash that killed his mother was a suicide attempt, which it was not. Collateral damage was often an acceptable outcome, but it was not a goal.
Andrew had never seen the appeal of believing in God. Of groveling for the approval of a vanished parent, the uncaring divine. Of insisting beyond reason that your father only hurt you because he cared, that the scars his touch left on your body were somehow a sign of his love.
The line between fear and adulation was thicker than people claimed.
Andrew knew what it was like to live in expectation of punishment. So did Aaron. So did Nicky. It was just that the first two weren’t stupid enough to choose to do so for the rest of their lives.
Well, Aaron was. Andrew just wasn’t going to let him.
When he locked the bathroom door, catching one last glimpse of one of him in the mirror and another on the floor, he reasoned that this was not punishment. It was also not redemption. It was a hatchet biting rock. He was handing Aaron a weapon to help him fight his way out, and if he turned it around and poked himself with the pointy end, that was on him.
Given no context, Nicky would argue this made Andrew God. That was what was wrong with religion. Anything could be anything. Aaron could be saved. Nicky could be loved. Andrew could be good.
Gradually, he became aware that he was awake.
Usually, waking from a nightmare was quick, sudden. Reaching breaths, a flared pulse. But this time, he came slowly to his senses, noticing first the weight of his blanket around his shoulders, the texture of his pillow against his cheek. The only indication that he’d had a nightmare at all—because he couldn’t remember what it was that he had dreamed—was the wrongness creeping through his fingers and up his spine. He blinked his eyes open, then batted at his nightstand, feeling around for his phone. His fingers folded around it, and he flicked it open, squinting in the sudden brightness. The top right corner read 3:10.
Wonderful.
He pushed himself upright, back against the wall, and pulled his knees to his chest. He sat that way for a few minutes, trying to pinpoint what was wrong.
For one thing, he was nearly sober. This was the primary upside to having nightmares—he woke up with his meds having worn off and his mind full of empty. This in itself was not a bad thing: the bad part was knowing that it was temporary. A reprieve offered as a salve for having suffered again what he had suffered already. The taut dryness of his throat and the heat behind his eyes were worth the quiet they accompanied. This, then, was not what was wrong.
The next on the list was that he could not remember what he had dreamt. This was not unusual for dreams in general, but was deeply, hauntingly so for a nightmare. He did not have ordinary nightmares, and if he did, they did not leave him feeling like he was missing a vital organ. His nightmares were born of memories whose blueprints were permanently etched across his eyelids. Forgetting was out of bounds. It was denied to him.
And finally, he could not for the life of him shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He swallowed, then crawled back over to his nightstand to reach for a glass of water. In the process, he knocked his phone to the ground with a muffled thunk.
Of course.
He leaned over the bed, half-heartedly trying to assess the damage. It was too dark for that to be of any use—he could only tell that the impact had flipped his phone open, and the time shown in big, bold numbers in the centre of the screen.
3:10.
He blinked. No. 3:17. Wonderful: on top of everything, he was also going blind. He rubbed his eyes and flopped onto his back. “Fuck you,” he announced. The darkness gave no reply.
The drugs did not “addle his brain”. They just made him laugh. Laugh and laugh. The doctors were idiots, because he could still beat grown men half to death, lock his brother in a bathroom to speedrun rehab, take a knife to his skin and carve out whatever feeling he could muster. The drugs couldn’t change his mind. They just tired it out.
“Rise and shine, sunshine!”
Nicky. Leave me alone.
“There are waffles for breakfast! Can’t remember the last time I had waffles for breakfast. You know, they usually have them on Saturdays and Saturday mornings we’re in Columbia so we never end up getting any.”
Go away.
A tug on his blanket. “Wake up!”
Go away.
“Come on! We need to get some food in you so you can take—”
Andrew shoved the pillow over his head, muffling Nicky’s voice. A juvenile tactic, but an effective one.
A sigh. “Andrew.”
Ple—
Leave me alone.
He laughed and laughed and laughed.
Kevin met his eyes from across the room. “You have to stop disappearing.” | Forgive Me, Father
It was 10:03 pm.
Andrew’s eyes were glued to the clock, tracking the second hand as it teased its way from 12 to 1. 1 to 2. 2 to 3. A quarter of the way there, painstakingly slow.
Had he known when he had signed his contract that his responsibilities would involve babysitting his pet asshole as he stretched practice over till beyond 10 at night, he would’ve ripped it in two on the spot. Perhaps held a lighter to it for good measure. Alas, the world and its constituents had it out for him, and the best he could do was remain pointedly aloof. The pet asshole in question, of course, found this exceptionally irritating. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
6 to 7. 7 to 8. 8 to 9.
There was nothing to count down to; they would leave when Kevin so pleased. Fuck Kevin and fuck that clock. Fuck this team. He wanted to sleep.
10 to 11. 11 to 12. 10:04 pm. Everyone cheered.
And because Andrew could have nothing good, ever, the minute hand refused to move.
“Coach,” he said. Kevin turned to him, bristling. Apparently, Andrew had interrupted a monologue. Small victories. He let his lips curve into a smile, and said in his best sing-song voice, “Your clock’s not working. It’s all wrong.”
Wymack blinked from him to the clock, then back. “Looks just fine to me.”
“Look again.”
Wymack did not look again. Instead, he gestured for Kevin to continue; the others, craning to see what was wrong with the clock, sat back. Andrew was still for a moment, then kicked his chair back and walked out the door. The chorus of half-dismayed, all-irritated intonations of his name that followed in his wake was muffled to silence as the door clicked shut behind him.
He wanted to sleep.
“Do you believe in Hell?”
Betsy Dobson paused, then returned to tinkering at the counter behind her desk. “Is that something you’re afraid of? Going to Hell?”
“No. Do you believe in Hell?”
“I’d be very interested in hearing about where this question is coming from.”
“Do you believe in Hell?”
She turned, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in each hand. Setting one down before him, she resumed her seat behind the desk. “Fire and brimstone? Not really. Sure, it’s easy to see how the idea could have emerged, and why it stuck, but it always felt a little far-fetched to me. What would—”
“I believe in Hell.”
“Oh?”
Andrew reached for the mug. “No. I was lying.”
“I see.”
“But Nicky does.”
“And what—”
“Nicky’s stupid. Nicky thinks he’s going to Hell.”
“I see.”
“He’s never tried to convince me it’s real, though. See, he thinks I’m going to Hell too.”
Dobson’s head was tilted ever so slightly to one side. “What makes you say that?”
“That he thinks he’s going to Hell? Well, he’s a fag.” She opened her mouth to respond, but Andrew plowed onward. “Special Hell for fags. I’m just a killer, so normal Hell for me.” He took a sip of his hot chocolate.
“I don’t know if I would—”
“I lied again. I do believe in Hell.” He wondered if Dobson knew what he was doing: toeing the line, pushing her to break. Pushing her to give up, perhaps run screaming. 13th time was rarely the charm.
But she just nodded. “And how would you define Hell?”
“Any room with Kevin in it.” The image of brilliantly green, brilliantly exasperated eyes flashed before him. At least they were pretty enough to give him something more or less pleasant to focus on, but he kept that to himself.
“Did he say something again? You know you can—”
“I killed my mother.” He took another sip. “Would’ve killed those heaps of wasted air outside the club if they’d let me.” Another sip. “I like hot chocolate.”
“Oh?” Dobson smiled. “I’m glad.”
Andrew paused. “It could be sweeter.”
“I’ll make a note of that.”
“I took the wheel and rammed us into a truck. Time of death was 10 pm.”
“Whose?”
“My mother. Try to keep up.”
“Oh, sorry. Continue.”
“Aren’t you glad for rigor mortis? Better than flopping around. Like a fish.” He laughed.
“I’ve never thought about it like that. Is there any—”
“Doctor Dobson. Doctor Dobby dearest. I do not want to die.”
“That’s good, Andrew. Why do you—”
“Except when I do. Which is every time Kevin opens his idiotic mouth.” He laughed again. He laughed and laughed. He hated laughing.
“You bring up Kevin quite often.” Dobson was undeterred. Maybe they were on the same meds. Maybe she was just as crazy as him.
A timer rang out, and Dobson leaned over to shut it. Five minutes left.
Andrew laughed and laughed and laughed.
There was a kind of quiet, a kind of stillness, that only ever hung over a rooftop. Andrew had gained access to this particular rooftop just a few weeks back, and was too content to dwell on how. He was sitting now with his legs dangling over the side of the building, cigarette smoke spilling from between his parted lips. A clump of ash fell from the cigarette dangling between his fingers and disappeared into the bushes below. From up here, the world was his ashtray. His cheeks hurt from smiling. A new kind of pain; an unwelcome kind of pain. He wished the sun would explode. It would be funny if it happened at night. If the world ended when they weren’t looking.
A gust of wind peeled off from the night sky and smacked into him, and his cigarette loosened dangerously in his grip. He brought it up to his mouth, took a long drag. Closed his eyes.
And then he was acutely aware that he was no longer alone.
Kevin, or perhaps Nicky, had finally discovered where he fucked off to when they overstepped the limits of his endurance. He refused to turn around to grace them with his attention; they’d make themselves known sooner or later.
Five minutes passed, and his patience wore thin. He blinked up at the stars through a halo of smoke, and they blinked back. He whipped around, glaring. “What.”
It wasn’t Kevin, or Nicky. The roof was just as empty as before, inhabited only by him and the night.
“What,” he said again, louder. “Fuck you.”
A leaf skittered a few paces in response. Andrew scowled, then dropped his eyes to his cigarette, smoked to the filter. He tossed it over his shoulder, crushing it beneath his heel on his way back indoors.
The day Andrew almost killed his brother, Nicky went alone to Sunday mass for the first time.
Aaron had begged him not to leave. He did not want to be home alone with Andrew. He hated Andrew. Hated hated hated. Nicky suggested he come along, but apparently he did not want to leave Andrew home alone with Andrew either. He seemed to think the car crash that killed his mother was a suicide attempt, which it was not. Collateral damage was often an acceptable outcome, but it was not a goal.
Andrew had never seen the appeal of believing in God. Of groveling for the approval of a vanished parent, the uncaring divine. Of insisting beyond reason that your father only hurt you because he cared, that the scars his touch left on your body were somehow a sign of his love.
The line between fear and adulation was thicker than people claimed.
Andrew knew what it was like to live in expectation of punishment. So did Aaron. So did Nicky. It was just that the first two weren’t stupid enough to choose to do so for the rest of their lives.
Well, Aaron was. Andrew just wasn’t going to let him.
When he locked the bathroom door, catching one last glimpse of one of him in the mirror and another on the floor, he reasoned that this was not punishment. It was also not redemption. It was a hatchet biting rock. He was handing Aaron a weapon to help him fight his way out, and if he turned it around and poked himself with the pointy end, that was on him.
Given no context, Nicky would argue this made Andrew God. That was what was wrong with religion. Anything could be anything. Aaron could be saved. Nicky could be loved. Andrew could be good.
Gradually, he became aware that he was awake.
Usually, waking from a nightmare was quick, sudden. Reaching breaths, a flared pulse. But this time, he came slowly to his senses, noticing first the weight of his blanket around his shoulders, the texture of his pillow against his cheek. The only indication that he’d had a nightmare at all—because he couldn’t remember what it was that he had dreamed—was the wrongness creeping through his fingers and up his spine. He blinked his eyes open, then batted at his nightstand, feeling around for his phone. His fingers folded around it, and he flicked it open, squinting in the sudden brightness. The top right corner read 3:10.
Wonderful.
He pushed himself upright, back against the wall, and pulled his knees to his chest. He sat that way for a few minutes, trying to pinpoint what was wrong.
For one thing, he was nearly sober. This was the primary upside to having nightmares—he woke up with his meds having worn off and his mind full of empty. This in itself was not a bad thing: the bad part was knowing that it was temporary. A reprieve offered as a salve for having suffered again what he had suffered already. The taut dryness of his throat and the heat behind his eyes were worth the quiet they accompanied. This, then, was not what was wrong.
The next on the list was that he could not remember what he had dreamt. This was not unusual for dreams in general, but was deeply, hauntingly so for a nightmare. He did not have ordinary nightmares, and if he did, they did not leave him feeling like he was missing a vital organ. His nightmares were born of memories whose blueprints were permanently etched across his eyelids. Forgetting was out of bounds. It was denied to him.
And finally, he could not for the life of him shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He swallowed, then crawled back over to his nightstand to reach for a glass of water. In the process, he knocked his phone to the ground with a muffled thunk.
Of course.
He leaned over the bed, half-heartedly trying to assess the damage. It was too dark for that to be of any use—he could only tell that the impact had flipped his phone open, and the time shown in big, bold numbers in the centre of the screen.
3:10.
He blinked. No. 3:17. Wonderful: on top of everything, he was also going blind. He rubbed his eyes and flopped onto his back. “Fuck you,” he announced. The darkness gave no reply.
The drugs did not “addle his brain”. They just made him laugh. Laugh and laugh. The doctors were idiots, because he could still beat grown men half to death, lock his brother in a bathroom to speedrun rehab, take a knife to his skin and carve out whatever feeling he could muster. The drugs couldn’t change his mind. They just tired it out.
“Rise and shine, sunshine!”
Nicky. Leave me alone.
“There are waffles for breakfast! Can’t remember the last time I had waffles for breakfast. You know, they usually have them on Saturdays and Saturday mornings we’re in Columbia so we never end up getting any.”
Go away.
A tug on his blanket. “Wake up!”
Go away.
“Come on! We need to get some food in you so you can take—”
Andrew shoved the pillow over his head, muffling Nicky’s voice. A juvenile tactic, but an effective one.
A sigh. “Andrew.”
Ple—
Leave me alone.
He laughed and laughed and laughed.
Kevin met his eyes from across the room. “You have to stop disappearing.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77334081/chapters/202468481 | {"authors": ["madnorthnorthwest"], "language": "English", "title": "Forgive Me, Father"} |
Pacify Him
It was an awfully quiet night in Marie Geoise and the streets were empty except for a dark figure clad in a long robe rushing through the shadows. Shamrock avoided the lights of the street lamps to remain unseen, if his father had taught him one good thing it was staying hidden to surprise his enemies. Only tonight, he wasn’t seeking out a battle — he was craving something just as strong and potent as the ecstasy of bloodshed, but gentler.
The young knight ran across the brightly-lit street before he reached his destination. It was a mansion like all the other houses in this part of the city, but unlike the tall buildings cut from marble with their high ceilings and large, double-winged doors, it almost resembled a luxurious lodge. The candles at the door radiated a warmth Shamrock had been desperate for, he saw the flames flicker as he found the courage to knock on the door. Once. Twice. Thrice.
He let go of the golden handle hanging inside the lion’s maw and stepped back to wait, his head bowed deeply just in case someone could pass by. At last, relief washed over Shamrock as the door opened and more of that delicious warmth greeted him.
"Shamrock?" Sommers asked and adjusted his glasses as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then his initial surprise turned into a frown as he noticed the younger man was gazing longingly over his shoulder. "Does your father know you’re here?"
Shamrock shook his head, before Sommers could lecture him, he squeezed past him and into the house. He heard the other knight sigh, yet he closed the door and locked it, not intending to send Shamrock back out.
"I snuck out of my room to come here," the redhead admitted as he pulled his hood down to reveal his disheveled hair. "I didn’t know where else to go."
Sommers crossed his arms and walked him to the spacious living room. He was wearing nothing but a white undershirt and a pair of red boxers, it was obvious he hadn’t been expecting a late night visitor. Under the chandelier stood a group of cushioned chairs and a large couch all circled around a fireplace. Like a moth drawn to a flame Shamrock let himself fall onto the sofa and closed his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around one of the many silken pillows.
"Hey, at least take off your cloak before you sit down," Sommers reminded him and received a groan in protest. "Fine then, have it your way, brat."
The older man bent down and grabbed Shamrock by the collar, he ignored the boy’s curses and took the dirty cloth off, then he sat him back on the couch and hung the cloak up. As he walked back to the living room he wondered why Shams had come to him like a lost puppy, it wasn’t the first time, but he had never seen him this needy for comfort before. By the time he joined Shamrock on the couch, the boy was shivering, still hunched over and burying his face in pillows.
They sat in silence for a bit, Sommers watched the fire dance and occasionally glanced over at Shamrock to make sure he was still breathing. It wasn’t until he let out a somber whine, that Sommers dared to place his hand on the boy’s back. He hissed sharply and slapped his hand away, red eyes sparkling with anger.
"If you don‘t tell me what happened, I’m afraid I can’t help you," Sommers pointed out, stroking his beard in thought.
Shamrock sat up slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as if he was in pain every time his muscles moved. He couldn’t meet Sommer’s eyes, the shame ran too deep.
"Father … he …," the redhead fell quiet, but those words had been enough for the older knight to understand.
Sommers took Shamrock by the wrist and pulled him into his lap. He let the boy adjust before grabbing his chin and forcing those angry slits to look at him. He saw the tears threatening to burst out, Shamrock fought them bravely just like he had been taught, but his strength was wavering with every second he felt Sommers’ gentle touch.
"How many?" He asked, his hand slowly creeping closer to his back.
"Twenty," Shamrock admitted and let out a painful yelp as his mentor pressed his palm against his clothed back. "Stop!"
"There, there, I just wanted to make sure you aren’t lying to worm your way into my lap," Sommers chuckled and let his hands rest on Shamrock’s waist instead.
"As if I have ever needed to do that, old man," he murmured, but was quickly silenced by having his hair pulled.
"Twenty whip lashes from your dear old father and you still have the energy to be feisty. Admirable." Sommers loosened his grip and Shamrock relaxed a bit. "Take your shirt off and let me see."
Shamrock bit his tongue as he crossed his arms over his head and pulled his shirt off, he allowed Sommers to help with getting it over his head, the collars were always so tight on these garments. The soft fabric felt like sandpaper scratching over his open wounds, what was once a beautiful white gown had been dyed red. The older man hummed as he leaned over his shoulder to take a closer look at the damage Garling had done.
There were indeed twenty cuts spread over the knight’s pale back in a zig-zag line, all deep enough to bleed, but shallow enough that the scars would vanish in a month. No one was allowed to damage the cherished heir of the Figarland family, not even Garling himself. He wanted, no, needed him to be pristine and pure. The epitome of strength and discipline. What his father had failed to see was that Shamrock’s facade was crumbing with every harsh beating and punishment he received. Only Sommers knew, he was the one soul Shamrock had chosen to confess to.
An honor? A burden?
Sommers didn’t know. And he couldn’t be bothered to answer that question when he had a young boy shivering in his lap who needed nothing more than a firm hand to guide him through his sorrow. He caressed Shamrock’s neck with his fingers, distracting him from the aching wounds.
"Tell me what you want from me, Shams," he whispered, brushing those messy red curls behind his ear.
"The same thing as always," he said reluctantly, impatient for his treatment to start. Why did the old man always have to make such a big deal out of this?
Sommers sighed. "I’m beginning to understand why Garling beats you."
Shamrock growled and made a move to get up, but Sommers tutted him like a misbehaving child and pulled him back down with a tight grip. "I’m asking you one last time, boy. What do you need?"
"Please take care of me," Shamrock confessed with quivering lips, his head pressed against Sommers’ chest.
"As you wish, young master," he replied with a tired grin on his face, he gave Shamrock a good head scratch and didn’t stop until the knight moaned in delight. "Who’s my good boy?"
Shamrock perked up upon hearing those simple words, something deep inside him was stirred awake by that comforting authority and praise. He tried to hide how deeply relieved he felt, as much as he trusted the older knight with the secret of his vulnerability, he still held onto his pride as a Godknight.
"I am," he answered in a shaky voice.
"Well, well, my good boy has to let his old man get up so I can fetch you some medicine to tend to your wounds," Sommers explained and Shamrock climbed out of his lap with a few gentle spanks to his butt to encourage him.
He lay back down on his stomach and clutched a pillow for comfort, he couldn’t bear to think of the consequences of running away now. His entire world shrunk until it became nothing but the crackling of the fireplace and the heavy steps of the older knight slowly fading out as he went upstairs to the bathroom. Now that it was quiet, his father’s voice boomed in his mind again, reminding him of how much of a failure he was. Shamrock bit hard into the pillow, chewing on it like a bone to soothe himself.
"I haven’t raised and trained you to become a disobedient imp, I expect better from a future Godknight! Now bent over and take your punishment with your head raised high, it is the least you can do to quell my disappointment," Garling spoke to him with the whip already in hand.
"Twenty lashes for embarrassing me today, you will be counting them as usual, if you miss one-," he clicked his tongue and cracked the whip in the air, the sound alone made Shamrock flinch.
Sommers returned from upstairs with a box full of ointment, bandages, cotton balls and a white piece of cloth. He sighed upon noting how quickly Shamrock had turned into a curled up ball of misery, this really was just like nursing a stray back to health.
"Now, this will only hurt a bit," the older knight told his wounded puppy as he sat down behind him, naturally that was a lie.
A proper connoisseur of pain not only knew how to inflict wounds upon their victim, but also how to mend them so that their precious plaything would survive until the next day to begin their torture again.
Sommers cooed at Shamrock to keep him from jumping off the couch when he pressed a cotton ball drenched with oil against the first cut, right across the middle of his spine. It didn’t help much to keep the boy from squirming and screaming into the pillows, his stupid fangs tearing at the fabric — if only Garling would pay for the replacements.
"Liar!" Shamrock hissed through clenched teeth, spitting out of pure anger like a kitten.
How amusing. His father was truly missing out by letting his son slip through his fingers each time he beat him a little too hard. How could anyone not wish to see the great Figarland heir reduced to a feral puppy, so desperate for comfort that he rolled over and begged? What a lucky man Sommers was.
Pillows were easily replaced, this view wasn’t.
"Shh, it'll help you heal a little faster. Or would you prefer it if I called your father?" He asked him with feigned sweetness, each syllable laced in a threat.
Shamrock violently shook his head, almost eagerly pressing back against the cotton so the oil could seep into his fresh cuts, he couldn’t hide how uncomfortable he was, but anything, anything was better than father finding out he had run into Sommers' lap again. He had lost count of how often he ran away, what had started out as a onetime mistake had grown into a habit.
"That's what I thought," Sommers grumbled and continued, purposely prodding and rubbing a little too harshly to hear Shams yelp — this was still a transactional affair.
Shamrock's mind began to slip away through the pain. His eyes kept falling shut and his surroundings turned into a blurred mess, he opened his mouth and moved his lips but no words would come out. Just pathetic wheezing and the occasional groan that seemed to entertain the old bastard. Oh, he knew who he had chosen as his place of comfort.
A sadist of the worst kind, indulging in terrors far worse than what other nobles considered entertaining. He was famous for his lavish dinners serving freshly slaughtered and cooked slave meat, naked maids tended to the guests in every way they desired and humans used for waste disposal. It was sickening, even to a young knight who had seen and smelled the death and decay of thousands.
Then why, why did Shamrock keep crawling back into the lap of a man who held no morals?
Because Sommers was his only option.
"Are you still there, Shams?" The old man's voice tore him from his train of thoughts.
"Hm? Yeah- I'm just …," Shamrock's tongue felt heavy, so did his eyelids, though only a certain part of him was tired.
The other part, the one he kept locked up in the deepest, darkest corners of his subconscious was stirring awake thanks to Sommers' not-so-gentle touches. He desperately tried to keep it from slipping out, a vulnerability so great and exploitable that Shamrock would be unable to defend himself.
"Shamrock?" Sommers asked again, caressing the boy's reddened cheeks, when he didn’t reply he put the cotton down and patted his shoulders.
Shamrock fought to stay in control, it's what Garling had drilled into him from the day he had learned how to walk. He tried sitting up only to feel Sommers' big hand on his back, pushing him down. It was becoming clear to him that giving up was so much easier, so tempting, in the blink of an eye he could escape this reality. If only for a little bit.
So the Figarland heir, the most promising child prodigy in all of the holy land, surrendered. Not to the enemy, but to himself.
His mind went eerily quiet, someone had put all the lights out. It was terrifying for a moment, but in the next he embraced the darkness and disappeared.
[ … ]
"Shams," Sommers whistled, but when he saw the light leaving the brat's eyes he knew that something was wrong.
Well, not wrong, if anything, this was exactly where Sommers needed him to be. To prove his assumptions correct, he brushed through Shamrock's messy curls with his fingers.
"Shammy."
Finally, Shamrock blinked | Pacify Him
It was an awfully quiet night in Marie Geoise and the streets were empty except for a dark figure clad in a long robe rushing through the shadows. Shamrock avoided the lights of the street lamps to remain unseen, if his father had taught him one good thing it was staying hidden to surprise his enemies. Only tonight, he wasn’t seeking out a battle — he was craving something just as strong and potent as the ecstasy of bloodshed, but gentler.
The young knight ran across the brightly-lit street before he reached his destination. It was a mansion like all the other houses in this part of the city, but unlike the tall buildings cut from marble with their high ceilings and large, double-winged doors, it almost resembled a luxurious lodge. The candles at the door radiated a warmth Shamrock had been desperate for, he saw the flames flicker as he found the courage to knock on the door. Once. Twice. Thrice.
He let go of the golden handle hanging inside the lion’s maw and stepped back to wait, his head bowed deeply just in case someone could pass by. At last, relief washed over Shamrock as the door opened and more of that delicious warmth greeted him.
"Shamrock?" Sommers asked and adjusted his glasses as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then his initial surprise turned into a frown as he noticed the younger man was gazing longingly over his shoulder. "Does your father know you’re here?"
Shamrock shook his head, before Sommers could lecture him, he squeezed past him and into the house. He heard the other knight sigh, yet he closed the door and locked it, not intending to send Shamrock back out.
"I snuck out of my room to come here," the redhead admitted as he pulled his hood down to reveal his disheveled hair. "I didn’t know where else to go."
Sommers crossed his arms and walked him to the spacious living room. He was wearing nothing but a white undershirt and a pair of red boxers, it was obvious he hadn’t been expecting a late night visitor. Under the chandelier stood a group of cushioned chairs and a large couch all circled around a fireplace. Like a moth drawn to a flame Shamrock let himself fall onto the sofa and closed his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around one of the many silken pillows.
"Hey, at least take off your cloak before you sit down," Sommers reminded him and received a groan in protest. "Fine then, have it your way, brat."
The older man bent down and grabbed Shamrock by the collar, he ignored the boy’s curses and took the dirty cloth off, then he sat him back on the couch and hung the cloak up. As he walked back to the living room he wondered why Shams had come to him like a lost puppy, it wasn’t the first time, but he had never seen him this needy for comfort before. By the time he joined Shamrock on the couch, the boy was shivering, still hunched over and burying his face in pillows.
They sat in silence for a bit, Sommers watched the fire dance and occasionally glanced over at Shamrock to make sure he was still breathing. It wasn’t until he let out a somber whine, that Sommers dared to place his hand on the boy’s back. He hissed sharply and slapped his hand away, red eyes sparkling with anger.
"If you don‘t tell me what happened, I’m afraid I can’t help you," Sommers pointed out, stroking his beard in thought.
Shamrock sat up slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as if he was in pain every time his muscles moved. He couldn’t meet Sommer’s eyes, the shame ran too deep.
"Father … he …," the redhead fell quiet, but those words had been enough for the older knight to understand.
Sommers took Shamrock by the wrist and pulled him into his lap. He let the boy adjust before grabbing his chin and forcing those angry slits to look at him. He saw the tears threatening to burst out, Shamrock fought them bravely just like he had been taught, but his strength was wavering with every second he felt Sommers’ gentle touch.
"How many?" He asked, his hand slowly creeping closer to his back.
"Twenty," Shamrock admitted and let out a painful yelp as his mentor pressed his palm against his clothed back. "Stop!"
"There, there, I just wanted to make sure you aren’t lying to worm your way into my lap," Sommers chuckled and let his hands rest on Shamrock’s waist instead.
"As if I have ever needed to do that, old man," he murmured, but was quickly silenced by having his hair pulled.
"Twenty whip lashes from your dear old father and you still have the energy to be feisty. Admirable." Sommers loosened his grip and Shamrock relaxed a bit. "Take your shirt off and let me see."
Shamrock bit his tongue as he crossed his arms over his head and pulled his shirt off, he allowed Sommers to help with getting it over his head, the collars were always so tight on these garments. The soft fabric felt like sandpaper scratching over his open wounds, what was once a beautiful white gown had been dyed red. The older man hummed as he leaned over his shoulder to take a closer look at the damage Garling had done.
There were indeed twenty cuts spread over the knight’s pale back in a zig-zag line, all deep enough to bleed, but shallow enough that the scars would vanish in a month. No one was allowed to damage the cherished heir of the Figarland family, not even Garling himself. He wanted, no, needed him to be pristine and pure. The epitome of strength and discipline. What his father had failed to see was that Shamrock’s facade was crumbing with every harsh beating and punishment he received. Only Sommers knew, he was the one soul Shamrock had chosen to confess to.
An honor? A burden?
Sommers didn’t know. And he couldn’t be bothered to answer that question when he had a young boy shivering in his lap who needed nothing more than a firm hand to guide him through his sorrow. He caressed Shamrock’s neck with his fingers, distracting him from the aching wounds.
"Tell me what you want from me, Shams," he whispered, brushing those messy red curls behind his ear.
"The same thing as always," he said reluctantly, impatient for his treatment to start. Why did the old man always have to make such a big deal out of this?
Sommers sighed. "I’m beginning to understand why Garling beats you."
Shamrock growled and made a move to get up, but Sommers tutted him like a misbehaving child and pulled him back down with a tight grip. "I’m asking you one last time, boy. What do you need?"
"Please take care of me," Shamrock confessed with quivering lips, his head pressed against Sommers’ chest.
"As you wish, young master," he replied with a tired grin on his face, he gave Shamrock a good head scratch and didn’t stop until the knight moaned in delight. "Who’s my good boy?"
Shamrock perked up upon hearing those simple words, something deep inside him was stirred awake by that comforting authority and praise. He tried to hide how deeply relieved he felt, as much as he trusted the older knight with the secret of his vulnerability, he still held onto his pride as a Godknight.
"I am," he answered in a shaky voice.
"Well, well, my good boy has to let his old man get up so I can fetch you some medicine to tend to your wounds," Sommers explained and Shamrock climbed out of his lap with a few gentle spanks to his butt to encourage him.
He lay back down on his stomach and clutched a pillow for comfort, he couldn’t bear to think of the consequences of running away now. His entire world shrunk until it became nothing but the crackling of the fireplace and the heavy steps of the older knight slowly fading out as he went upstairs to the bathroom. Now that it was quiet, his father’s voice boomed in his mind again, reminding him of how much of a failure he was. Shamrock bit hard into the pillow, chewing on it like a bone to soothe himself.
"I haven’t raised and trained you to become a disobedient imp, I expect better from a future Godknight! Now bent over and take your punishment with your head raised high, it is the least you can do to quell my disappointment," Garling spoke to him with the whip already in hand.
"Twenty lashes for embarrassing me today, you will be counting them as usual, if you miss one-," he clicked his tongue and cracked the whip in the air, the sound alone made Shamrock flinch.
Sommers returned from upstairs with a box full of ointment, bandages, cotton balls and a white piece of cloth. He sighed upon noting how quickly Shamrock had turned into a curled up ball of misery, this really was just like nursing a stray back to health.
"Now, this will only hurt a bit," the older knight told his wounded puppy as he sat down behind him, naturally that was a lie.
A proper connoisseur of pain not only knew how to inflict wounds upon their victim, but also how to mend them so that their precious plaything would survive until the next day to begin their torture again.
Sommers cooed at Shamrock to keep him from jumping off the couch when he pressed a cotton ball drenched with oil against the first cut, right across the middle of his spine. It didn’t help much to keep the boy from squirming and screaming into the pillows, his stupid fangs tearing at the fabric — if only Garling would pay for the replacements.
"Liar!" Shamrock hissed through clenched teeth, spitting out of pure anger like a kitten.
How amusing. His father was truly missing out by letting his son slip through his fingers each time he beat him a little too hard. How could anyone not wish to see the great Figarland heir reduced to a feral puppy, so desperate for comfort that he rolled over and begged? What a lucky man Sommers was.
Pillows were easily replaced, this view wasn’t.
"Shh, it'll help you heal a little faster. Or would you prefer it if I called your father?" He asked him with feigned sweetness, each syllable laced in a threat.
Shamrock violently shook his head, almost eagerly pressing back against the cotton so the oil could seep into his fresh cuts, he couldn’t hide how uncomfortable he was, but anything, anything was better than father finding out he had run into Sommers' lap again. He had lost count of how often he ran away, what had started out as a onetime mistake had grown into a habit.
"That's what I thought," Sommers grumbled and continued, purposely prodding and rubbing a little too harshly to hear Shams yelp — this was still a transactional affair.
Shamrock's mind began to slip away through the pain. His eyes kept falling shut and his surroundings turned into a blurred mess, he opened his mouth and moved his lips but no words would come out. Just pathetic wheezing and the occasional groan that seemed to entertain the old bastard. Oh, he knew who he had chosen as his place of comfort.
A sadist of the worst kind, indulging in terrors far worse than what other nobles considered entertaining. He was famous for his lavish dinners serving freshly slaughtered and cooked slave meat, naked maids tended to the guests in every way they desired and humans used for waste disposal. It was sickening, even to a young knight who had seen and smelled the death and decay of thousands.
Then why, why did Shamrock keep crawling back into the lap of a man who held no morals?
Because Sommers was his only option.
"Are you still there, Shams?" The old man's voice tore him from his train of thoughts.
"Hm? Yeah- I'm just …," Shamrock's tongue felt heavy, so did his eyelids, though only a certain part of him was tired.
The other part, the one he kept locked up in the deepest, darkest corners of his subconscious was stirring awake thanks to Sommers' not-so-gentle touches. He desperately tried to keep it from slipping out, a vulnerability so great and exploitable that Shamrock would be unable to defend himself.
"Shamrock?" Sommers asked again, caressing the boy's reddened cheeks, when he didn’t reply he put the cotton down and patted his shoulders.
Shamrock fought to stay in control, it's what Garling had drilled into him from the day he had learned how to walk. He tried sitting up only to feel Sommers' big hand on his back, pushing him down. It was becoming clear to him that giving up was so much easier, so tempting, in the blink of an eye he could escape this reality. If only for a little bit.
So the Figarland heir, the most promising child prodigy in all of the holy land, surrendered. Not to the enemy, but to himself.
His mind went eerily quiet, someone had put all the lights out. It was terrifying for a moment, but in the next he embraced the darkness and disappeared.
[ … ]
"Shams," Sommers whistled, but when he saw the light leaving the brat's eyes he knew that something was wrong.
Well, not wrong, if anything, this was exactly where Sommers needed him to be. To prove his assumptions correct, he brushed through Shamrock's messy curls with his fingers.
"Shammy."
Finally, Shamrock blinked again and looked up at him, slowly lifting his head off the pillow.
Instead of cursing Sommers out for using the nickname he despised so much, the one the older knight would holler when he was taunting him in their duels, Shamrock babbled. Like a small child. And while Sommers watched the boy's mind regress until all the pain he experienced was forgotten, he couldn’t help but grin.
Shamrock slipped his thumb between his lips and began to suckle on it, staring mindlessly into the fireplace, not a single thought going through his head.
Sommers grabbed his waist and helped him sit up, he whined and pouted, but the best thing about little Shammy was the fact he didn’t know his own strength. The worst he could do now was throw a tantrum, something the old man thoroughly enjoyed.
"Do you remember who I am, hm? Does my big boy know who his Uncle is?" He asked him, pinching his cheek since he couldn’t resist the urge to hurt him.
Shamrock tried slapping his hand away, but his movements lacked any coordination or strength, he was just a baby in a an overgrown body.
"I'm taking that as a yes," he hummed, "Be good for me and sit still, I have to wrap you up before we play."
At the word 'play' Shams stopped throwing his hand around and sucked his thumb a little faster. The little bastard was excited, couldn’t wait to be rewarded for being a spoiled brat who came crying to the sworn rival of his father. Garling had raised Shamrock to become the spitting image of him, always demanding and ungrateful.
"Yes that's right, that’s what you came here for, no?" Sommers bounced Shams in his lap and he showed him the faintest of smiles. "But before that, we need to cover your wounds."
Shams tilted his head like a confused puppy — Ah, right, of course he didn’t recall ever being hurt.
Sommers wrapped the bandages all around Shamrock's torso. While doing so, he noted how thin the boy was. All his ribs were poking through his skin, there was barely any soft baby fat left for the old knight to squeeze, a strict diet and too much exercise had burned it all. He was all veins and muscles now, the only curves which had prevailed Garling's efforts to starve his son were his thighs.
Sweet heavens, they were deliciously fat for a boy his age, almost womanly in shape and definitely fit for birthing a few perfectly bred heirs. Or bastards, if Shamrock turned out anything like his dear old man.
"Pretty," he purred and gave his thighs a good squeeze after finishing up with the bandages. They covered his back and chest without restricting his movements, Sommers still wanted him to crawl around or bend over — depending on the situation.
Sommers was forced to sit the boy down on the couch again so he could gather a few more supplies to get his small, red-haired problem ready for a fun night at his ever so loving uncle's house.
"I won’t be gone for long, don’t fall down or hit your head," he warned him, knowing how futile it was to speak sense into a boy who couldn’t remember his own name or rank.
Sommers needed to be quick. He hurried to the slave quarters where one of his maids, dressed appropriately in a tight latex dress and uncomfortably high heels already waited for her master and greeted him with a bow.
"Young master Figarland is here, you know what to do," he instructed her with a yawn and gave her quick spank to see if she'd trip and fall over as she walked off. Sadly not, maybe it was due time to replace her.
It had been no longer than a few minutes while Sommers waited for the slave to bring him the basket he kept hidden in his trophy room somewhere deep in the dungeons underneath the house. He heard Shamrock crying, something he knew the boy hadn’t been allowed to do so freely and loud since Garling had held him in his arms for the first time after God Valley.
Eventually the maid returned, Sommers snatched the basket from her hands and at last, she lost her balance and fell to the floor. The old knight laughed, adding insult to injury with a strong kick to her butt. He would have loved to humiliate her a little longer, if Shams hadn’t been wailing his lungs out.
"I'm coming!" He yelled, but that did nothing to get him to quieten down.
Cursing under his breath about how patience had never been a virtue in the Figarland household, he walked back into the living room to find Shamrock throwing all the pillows from the sofa to the floor.
When he saw Sommers he abruptly stopped and began shaking. He pressed his back against the couch, cowering as if he was a newborn fawn facing a predator. Such a lovely sight, this was a lot more fitting for a spoiled, sniveling brat than his usual prideful attitude.
"Ah, you know I don’t beat you," he tutted and put the basket down, "So tell me, what's wrong?"
Shamrock sniffled and tugged on his pants, giving up pretty quickly since he couldn’t figure out how to undress. Poor thing, Sommers thought to himself and kindly offered his help.
He knelt between Shamrock's legs and opened his belt, the boy wouldn’t stop squirming and quietly sobbing, but that was a problem that'd soon fix itself. Sommers stripped him of his boots and pants, underneath those he wore tight black briefs, squeezing his tiny cock — well, tiny compared to his father.
In a few years he might grow a little and rival Garling, that man always had more blood flowing between his legs than through his brain.
"There, better?"
Shamrock nodded, putting his thumb back in his mouth.
This quiet moment of content lasted precisely two seconds before the boy was whining about something again. As much as he hated Garling for being the worst father anyone could curse their lineage with, he clearly wasn’t putting enough effort in his disciplinary measures.
Sommers pulled a knitted sweater from the basket, it was old and the burgundy color slightly washed, but as soon as it entered little Shammy's field of view, he was making grabby hands at the old thing. It wasn’t easy putting it on him since he wouldn’t sit still, once it fell over his head, his small body was drowning in the sweater.
"If only your daddy could see you now," he chuckled darkly and ruffled Shamrock's hair, who innocently smiled at him.
"Mommy!" The boy suddenly squeaked, Sommers hadn’t expected him to speak at all, considering he often went nonverbal for the entire night.
"I'm afraid your daddy took care of her, no mommy for you," Sommers mocked him, which clearly flew over Shammy's head, "Who needs some boring old whore anyways? You got me now."
Shamrock stared at him with his thumb still buried between his lips.
"Mommy …," he whined lowly and Sommers let out a deep sigh.
Garling hadn’t possessed the decency to buy a slave as a replacement for Shamrock's mother, instead the all-knowing and glorious Captain of the Knights of God decided he was above such trivial things as nature! Hah! And now behold where his choices had let him …
Not that Sommers minded mending Shamrock's broken heart before it'd be shattered again.
To distract the boy from his pathetic attempts to call for a mother who had died many years ago, he handed Shamrock his favorite toy. A small, red plush dog who also happened to be his first toy. He immediately grabbed it and hugged it tight, afraid that it'd be stolen from him any moment now.
"It's all yours, Shams, you can keep it," he whispered and Shammy began anxiously chewing on the dog's ear. " … ah, right, almost forgot-"
Under a small blanket, a few other toys and a book he found a pacifier at the bottom of the basket. He pulled Shamrock's thumb from his mouth which sent him straight into another screaming fit, but his voice fell silence when his lips wrapped around the strong latex.
After a tentative first suckle, Shamrock's eyes closed for a moment and he let out a pleased hum.
Sommers wiped the sweat from his forehead. At least he could marvel at his own creation. The once proud Blade of God, future Commander of the Knights, had descended and become a being of pure innocence, perfectly malleable and vulnerable. Blissfully unaware of who his caretaker truly was.
"Good boy, you’re so well behaved today, Shammy," he told him and rubbed his cheeks, ignoring Shamrock's weak protest. "Are you hungry?"
Shammy nodded and kicked his feet, hitting Sommers' crotch and nearly making him slap the boy. He held back though, sooner or later he'd let Shamrock feel a pain far worse than anything his father had ever put him through.
Yes.
Sommers soothed his anger with the promise of being paid back for all his free labor, if not by the boy's arrogant father, then Shamrock himself. Who could have blamed him? Celestial Dragons weren’t known for their acts of selflessness.
In an effort to keep the brat entertained, Sommers clapped his hands together and summoned a maid who was dressed identical to the first, albeit a few years younger. She seemed a bit confused at Shamrock's presence, but knew better than to comment on it. Slaves did not think, they served.
"My guest is hungry, tell the chefs to prepare something special," he explained and was already waving her off, "Oh, and bring me my projector snail!"
The slave brought the snail and set it up on the table in front of the fireplace. She struggled with the settings and buttons on the shell, Sommers would have lost it if he didn’t have Shamrock’s thighs to squeeze like stress balls. Once the dumb harlot had figured it out, the snail's eyes lit up and projected a flashy children’s cartoon onto the wall. With that, she hurried away to the kitchen.
Shamrock perked up when he heard the animated wolf laughing with his silly little group of friends consisting of a fox, deer and plenty of other animals Sommers only considered entertaining when he was hunting them. The boy however, was instantly hooked. He was so transfixed on the show, that he didn’t squirm when Sommers sat with him on the couch and cuddled him.
He pulled him close to his chest, Shamrock craned his neck so he could get a good view. It was a simple show, created with the purpose to entertain and educate the youngest Celestials who could barely speak. They quickly needed to learn of their divinity and the privileges that came with such a prestigious position. The wolf talked about everything, from societal rules Sommers largely ignored to the purpose slaves served.
How unfortunate that the dumb critter forgot all about the most wonderful aspects of slavery — an endless supply of pleasure! Ah, perhaps that wasn’t very appropriate for children.
Speaking of children, Shamrock was pointing at the cartoon and eagerly babbling through his pacifier. Sommers patted his head and nodded, pretending that he understood anything Shams was trying to tell him.
His hands crept down between Shamrock's legs, the kid was too lost in his own world to notice Sommers' advances. He rubbed his tiny dick and although it didn’t grow hard, there was a wet patch seeping through the fabric after a few good strokes. The scent of virgin pre-cum was bittersweet, Sommers' own cock twitched when the smell hit his nostrils.
Shammy suddenly turned his head and looked at him with wide eyes. For a moment Sommers thought that perhaps the real Shamrock had returned, but the moment of consciousness was short lived. All it took were a few gentle touches on his thighs and ass, which was also pretty soft for a boy, and he fell back into his headspace.
"You’re alright, boy, keep watching your show," he whispered into his ear, lips brushing against his neck.
Right there, above his shoulder blade, was a faded bite mark. It was almost impossible to see if one didn’t know it was there, ensuring that neither Garling nor anyone else picked up on it. It was a reminder to Sommers that he'd always own a part of Shamrock, no matter how small and secretive it might've been.
Sommers kissed his throat while groping his bandages chest, not that there was much to grab and hold onto, but when the knight closed his eyes he could at least imagine his tits were a bit fuller. It was a good thing he was feeding him tonight, he needed some fat on his bones, what use were all these muscles if he still couldn’t beat him during training?
Shamrock wasn’t born to fight. It was a cruel joke of mother nature to curse him with a dick between his thighs. His face was soft, his jaw hardly pronounced, not a single hair grew on his face and Sommers doubted it ever would. He deserved to be a woman, someone's loyal and obedient bride. Oh, how badly the knight wished to see Garling's face when he'd ask for his son's hand.
Lost in thought and the comforting warmth of Shamrock's body, he hadn’t seen the maids walking into the room before they were blocking Shammy's view of the screen. As expected, the spoiled prince slammed his fists down on the sofa and threatened to throw his plushie at one of the slaves.
"Calm down, that's my property, you can throw stuff at your own slaves at home," he corrected him as gently as he could, but even those few words were too much for Shamrock and he began to cry.
"The special dinner for Lord Shamrock, as you requested," one of the maids dared to step forward with a silver platter in her hands, the dish covered by a cloche.
The other women carried a high chair and placed it near the couch, it was painted in garishly bright colors and custom built for Shamrock's height. He recognized the chair and, as with anything Sommers presented him with, he threw a fit over it.
"I ought to drown you in the well one day," he mumbled to himself as he lifted the boy into his arms and placed him in the high chair, he fought with all the might of a malnourished kitten before his legs were trapped and he could only slam his hands down.
To prevent Shamrock from injuring himself or the slaves, Sommers summoned vines which grew out of the colorful wood and tied Shams' hands and thighs down. Fortunately he cared more about his oral fixation than screaming at Sommers, so all his whines were muffled by that convenient silencer in his mouth.
The food was placed in front of him and when the bell cloche was lifted, Shamrock was greeted by the familiar sight and smell of chicken nuggets shaped like dragons, served with mashed potatoes and peas. For the first time he genuinely seemed pleased with something.
He was so thrilled to eat, that he allowed Sommers to remove his pacifier and his crying ceased to a complete halt.
"Mama?" Shamrock babbled at the maid who was just about to turn away and leave this grotesque scene.
"Pardon, master?" She squeaked back, unsure how to respond to such a question from a knight's apprentice sitting in a chair meant for toddlers.
Sommers laughed and messed up the boy's hair.
"Ay, that's not your mother, Shammy," he told him, flashing a cruel grin at the slave. "That's just a dumb cow bringing you food because that's all she's good for!"
Shamrock stared at her for a bit longer, Sommers couldn’t tell if he was looking deep into her soul or ogling her chest. What surprised him was to hear him moo at her in a playful tone.
"Moo!" Shamrock said and turned his head to Sommers for approval of his highly intelligent remark.
"That's right, what a clever boy you are," he praised him, eliciting a shy giggle from Shammy.
The 'cow' didn’t seem to find Sommers' joke funny, she forced the ugliest smile on her lips and left alongside the other slaves with a hurry to her step. She'd be punished for that … eventually. Whenever he wasn’t babysitting Garling's boy.
Sommers began feeding Shamrock, he cut up every nugget into two pieces before rubbing the mushed-up, deep-fried meat against his lips until the boy finally understood and opened up for him. He hardly paid attention to his caretaker at all, eyes glued to the projector, that stupid wolf was more captivating to his regressed brain.
For many Celestial children eating their dinner in such a way was a daily ritual. They were spoonfed by their slaves or parents, gorging themselves on all sorts of sweets and fatty delicacies, it was no surprise most of them turned into lazy, overweight swine by the time they reached adulthood. Fat and comfortable, that's what most young nobles were, and who could blame them?
They had no responsibilities outside of breeding and flaunting their wealth, they had sworn no oath and received no mark. The weight they carried on their shoulders was entirely made up of calories, not high expectations that would cripple even the most capable men.
On nights like these Sommers allowed Shamrock to pretend he was one of those slobs.
"Does it taste good?" He cooed at the boy after stuffing his mouth so full with mashed potatoes that he was close to choking.
An enthusiastic nod was the only answer he'd receive and Sommers promptly fed him another spoonful. Shammy's lips were shiny with grease after finishing up the nuggets, it was hard not to grab him by the chin and kiss him. Not just hard, but impossible.
The older knight put the spoon down, the next time Shamrock opened his mouth to be fed, he was surprised by Sommers' tongue invading him instead. Sure, he struggled in his bindings and the high chair scratched over the wooden flooring, but the vines wouldn’t allow him to fight. Sommers found him adorable like this, strapped up and forced to take all that was given to him.
Sommers broke the sloppy kiss, a string of saliva hung from Shammy's mouth and the old man was so kind to wipe it off, only to be bitten by the boy's fangs. He hissed sharply, raised his hand and the brat duck his head in near instantaneous submission.
" … next time you’ll be muzzled like a rabid dog," he growled.
Sommers walked back to the sofa to fetch some bandages for the bite wound. Figarland genetics be cursed, those fangs bit deep enough for the healing abilities of the Abyss mark to take a while to recover the destroyed flesh. Suddenly the bright colors from the projected image on the wall disappeared, he turned around to see that the program had switched to another show. Equally as obnoxious, but Shamrock clearly knew the difference … and hated it.
Jumping straight into the worst and hopefully last tantrum, Shammy managed to push his half-full plate to the floor using his head, where it shattered into a thousand pieces and the sound scared him. Sometimes in life Sommers asked himself if being a God was truly worth putting up with all these assholes and idiots surrounding him. From arrogant blond pricks who thought the world orbited around them to their constantly furious, insecure bastard sons!
Sommers clenched his fists. Hearing Shamrock cry and growl was only entertaining for a certain while before he decided enough was enough.
"Time for bed!" He announced, trying his best not to let his wavering patience get the better of him.
A maid came to clean up the mess on the floor while the knight freed Shammy from his high chair and shoved his pacifier between his lips in the faint hope that he'd quieten down. It helped, thank the heavens. He sobbed, wetting Sommers' undershirt with his tears as he cuddled up to his chest without needing to be coerced into it. He was desperate for warmth as soon as he wasn’t sitting in front of the fireplace anymore.
Sommers managed to snag Shammy's red dog without dropping the boy on the floor, then he carried him upstairs like his newly wed bride. Their honeymoon was just as sweet if not more delicious because the knight could relive that illusive first night again and again.
Shamrock would be just as clueless as he had been many years ago when this strange tango of theirs had begun after Garling introduced the nine-tailed whip as a punishment and broken his son's spirit. Similar to tonight, he had been a crying mess at his doorstep, a stray puppy begging for some scraps of love. Sommers had been waiting for that moment of weakness.
Tonight Shamrock was his more or less willing doll to play with, tomorrow morning he'd wake up and remember none of it.
Sommers shoved the bedroom door open with his shoulder. It was quite spacious. The walls were decorated with shelves displaying all the trophies and medals he had won during hunts and missions, covering nearly the entirety of the tapestry. All the furniture was old and had been used for generations within the Shepherd family. While other families were quick to throw everything out when a new season rolled around, they held onto objects they had grown sentimental towards.
The soft light emitted by the candles standing on the bedside tables highlighted all the cuts and dents in the antique wooden pieces. It was proof that they had been adored by his ancestors, he couldn’t help but think of all the slaves and wives who had been tied to these bedposts! … ah, where was he?
Right, the point was— to be loved was to be changed.
The boy kneeling on his bed, holding onto his plushie with big, watery eyes that knew nothing and saw so little, was more than ready to be changed by Sommers.
"You know, when I was your age, my father would have thrown me out the window if I had been sitting in his bed," he chuckled as he pulled his shirt over his head and revealed his hairy chest, "You’re lucky I'm nothing like the old geezer."
Shamrock tried to crawl away when Sommers bent down to tug on the sleeves of his sweater. No matter how he tried to grab him, he managed to slip away and flashed his teeth at the older knight.
"Alright, alright, keep the old thing on then," he resigned with a heavy sigh, "But your socks are coming off."
After a few dodged kicks, Sommers relished in the small victory of having taken his socks off.
Once his glasses were neatly placed on the bedside table, he blew out the candles and a comforting silence filled the room. Sommers helped Shammy get tucked in under the blanket, an action he didn’t protest against for once. He must have been too exhausted from all the crying.
"Did you have fun tonight, Shammy?" Sommers asked him, hands slipping underneath the blanket to keep Shamrock close.
When he spooned him his body almost disappeared, while Shams had been lanky and tall compared to his peers, he looked malnourished nuzzling Sommers' broad shoulders. Pacifier still buried inside him, Shamrock babbled into his ear.
"Mama," he mewled.
Sommers tugged on the boy's hair with sinking disappointment.
"Is that all you can say? Not even a 'dada' or perhaps a 'my beloved and endlessly patient Uncle Sommers who doesn’t beat me even when I'm begging for it?"
Shamrock squirmed around at that, but Sommers refused to loosen his tight embrace. Having him cuddled up to his chest was nice, knowing that all his curly hair was tickling Shams' babyface and irritating him was even more satisfying. Eventually he wanted more than a whiny puppy wiggling around like a worm. It was due time for Sommers to reap what he had sown.
The old knight sat up, his back propped up against a few pillows. Shamrock eagerly used this opportunity to crawl to the other side of the bed only to be pulled back by his sleeve and sit next to Sommers.
"We’re going to play one more game before we sleep, got that?" He flicked his fingers against Shamrock's forehead which only elicited a small cry from him.
Sommers pulled the blanket down and then his boxers. His stiff cock had been waiting for attention long enough, it was fat and had a good weight to it, not the longest but certainly making up for that with enough girth to make any virgin bleed. His balls were draped in a thick bush, a happy trail went from his belly down to his groin. He palmed his cock, thanks to how pent up he was from staring at his prey all night without sinking his teeth into it, pre-cum oozed from the tip soon after.
"Want to help your Uncle out? After all, it's only fair, you’re the one who's been teasing me," he purred at him in a thinly veiled threat.
Naturally, Shamrock backed away, this time he wouldn’t get the chance to throw a fit or stomp his feet. His pacifier was swiftly tugged from his lips, before he could breathe in to gather his strength for an ear piercing scream, Sommers pushed Shammy's head down. His nose ended up buried in the old man's pubes, then his entire face was embraced by the heat between Sommers' legs.
Oh, how badly little Shammy fought, it was both amusing and pathetic to watch. Sommers pulled him up by the scruff of his neck, catching the boy glaring at him.
"Stupid thing, that's not how this game works! Did your papa never show you how to properly suck cock?" Sommers teased him, grabbing his angry little face so he could squeeze his cheeks, "What a shame, if you ask me, because this is really all you’re good for."
Sommers pried Shamrock's lips open with one hand and maneuvered him right above his cock, he drooled right down on the tip when he attempted to angrily babble nonsense at his loving Uncle. Thankfully all the fussiness found an early demise as soon as the old knight sunk Shamrock's mouth down on his cock. All that followed was a quick spasm coursing through his body, his legs twitched and an ugly choking noise left him.
"Beautiful, you look so much better like this," Sommers complimented him, enjoying both the view and the feeling of Shammy's tongue darting across his length as if he was sucking a lollipop.
Shamrock's usually neatly braided and brushed hair was a mess of sweat and red curls spilling over his shoulders. Sommers had to brush a few strands to the side so he could continue to marvel at the twisted expression on his face. His nose wrinkled in displeasure, eyes rolling to the back of his head and his lips quivered more intensely the longer he suckled on his cock.
"What do you say, Shams? Is that better than your dumb ol' pacifier? Not that I care what you have to say." He leered at him, knowing full well he didn’t understand a word he said.
Sommers knew simply cutting off the brat's tongue would have never sufficed to make him more pleasant to be around. A lobotomy however … yes, that would have truly changed things.
Shamrock continued to suckle Sommer's dick in an attempt to soothe himself, when his jaw had grown used to being spread out, he even enjoyed it a little. Small, messy kitten licks with the occasional scratch of his fangs across his veins pushed Sommers quickly over the edge.
"Ready for some warm milk?" He laughed, followed by a hiss and Shamrock's eyes widening in shock.
The salty fluid violated Shams' tastebuds, tears ran down his face as he sobbed through being forcefed cum down his throat. Just when he thought it was over, Sommers grabbed the base of his cock and gave it a good squeeze so another load would be dumped straight into the boy's greedy hole. Once it reached his stomach, his belly looked swollen from all the food and semen he had swallowed.
"Atta boy, Shammy," Sommers mumbled, his chest still heaving from his first orgasm.
He let go of Shams' hair, who simply fell to his side and coughed up all the cum he couldn’t choke down. Not a moment where the spoiled brat didn’t make a mess of himself or his surroundings.
"I'm starting to think you’re more like a pig than a God, got too greedy again, didn’t you? Shoveled all that food in your tiny belly and now you want to throw it up and ruin my bed sheets? Stupid," Sommers' voice became more condescending, he ended his scolding with a slap on Shams' ass.
Shamrock howled in pain, nearly loud enough for all of Marie Geoise to be woken up from their peaceful slumber. It was certainly enough to make Sommers lose his last sliver of patience and begin to view this arrangement as less of an act of goodwill and more for what it truly was — revenge.
Ignoring his fat crocodile tears, Sommers flipped the brat on his side and slid his cock between his plush thighs so he could fuck that perfectly sized thigh gap. It's not like Shamrock understood anything he did, to him this was all just a cruel game that hurt a little, but if he had really been suffering … surely he could have fought back.
Yes. Yes, Sommers assured himself that Shammy was enjoying this just as much if not more. And in case those tears were genuine and he was truly bothered by his Uncle's cock using his thighs as fuckmeat, then tough shit! Shamrock should have stayed home with his dear old man and waited in his room for another whipping.
Sommers felt something wet on his dick, with a fat grin he leaned over Shammy's shoulder in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his tiny erect cock, spilling a laughable amount of cum … and he certainly saw that! And more.
Shamrock had pissed himself, wether it was out of fear or a poor attempt at an orgasm, it didn’t matter, he had soiled the bed like a badly behaved toddler and he deserved to be punished like one.
"Mama!" Shammy screamed in panic, frantically clawing at the bed sheets as Sommers tried to force him to bend over his lap, his eyes burned from how much he had cried, there was still some spirit left inside him.
"How many times do I have to tell you-," Sommers' voice darkened, with another strong pull Shamrock lay spread out across his thighs, dry heaving and shaking, "- your whore of a mother is dead!"
Sommers spanked the boy relentlessly, over and over again he smacked his bare hand down on his ass, painting it in all shades of blue and green. He squealed like a stuck pig, if the maids didn’t know any better, they must have thought their master was killing the Figarland heir.
By all accounts, Sommers should have put this poorly bred half-celestial pup out of his misery. It would have been merciful to put his large hands around his neck, twist it and break his spine. He imagined that it'd sound just as satisfying as putting down a rabbit. At least he would’ve died doing what he loved — being an annoying little cunt.
"Stop!" Shammy yelped through his sniffles, slamming his fist down on the mattress as he lay across Sommers' lap.
"Ah, so you can talk!" He mocked him, pausing his onslaught on Shams' ass cheeks to rub them and remind him of every wound blossoming underneath his skin. "How about you use that filthy mouth to apologize?"
Shammy gazed up at him, his lips moving to express the single clear thought which had seeped out of containment. Sommers raised a brow and waited, counting down the seconds from one to ten, that was plenty of time for the brat to decide if he wanted to obey or test his luck.
"Ah …," Shammy mumbled, too regressed to argue with Sommers.
"What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?" The knight pulled another cry from him with a brutal slap across his back, right where Garling had cut his skin open beneath the bandages. "I'm getting tired of this, there's only one more thing you can do for me …"
It was laughably easy to maneuver Shamrock's body around, he seemed to be a little too preoccupied with figuring out why he couldn’t speak or make his muscles obey. Judging by the light in his eyes slowly creeping out of the darkness, there wasn’t much time left for Sommers to violate him before he'd regain consciousness.
Once Sommers threw Shamrock on the bed, face first into the pillows, he pulled on his hips and lifted his ass up high enough that the older knight didn’t have to break his spine. His eyes flickered over to the cupboard hiding a bottle of lube, but when Shamrock kept crying for his mother, he decided he didn’t deserve kindness.
"It's Uncle Sommers, you stupid brat!" He scolded him.
Sommers climbed over Shams' body, bandaged and bruised, his tear stricken face covered by red hair, an image worthy only of the Gods. All efforts to squirm away were swiftly made futile by Sommers grabbing Shams' wrists and pinning them above his head. His fat cock slapped against the boy's ass, knocking on his tight hole, begging to be let in.
The old knight did not wait for an answer. He fed Shamrock's asshole the first inch of his cock, his puckered hole wouldn’t quite budge or stretch out for him to push any further though. As Sommers thrusted his hips forward, the brat sobbed into the pillows, his cries muffled by the fabric.
Sommers fisted his hair and pulled his head out of the pillows so he could watch his face contort in pain and agony from the pressure building up inside his teenage hole. At least the older knight could be sure that no other man had succumbed to the urge to pull Shams aside and molest him, he would be his first! How wonderful. Almost … romantic.
If only Shamrock wasn’t crying through all of it. Luckily Sommers was born and raised a sadist, he didn’t bother soothing Shams' pain, no, he wanted more of it. He wanted to bask and drown in it. To mock him, he licked his tears away, careful not to get bitten by those sharp fangs lunging at him whenever Sommers attempted to kiss him.
"Go on, keep whining. You can cry all you want, no one's coming to save you, why would they?" Sommers' voice dripped with venom, putting emphasis to his taunts when his cock ripped apart Shams' butthole, drawing enough blood to be used as lube. "Wanna know a little secret, Shams? Everyone hates you and your father and your entire bloodline!"
If someone had told Sommers that Shamrock could somehow make even more pathetic noises than before, he wouldn’t have believed it until now. The brat had screamed his lungs out, all that left his lips were a few meager wheezes and a hardly threatening growl.
And despite all the pain and taunts, Shamrock still hadn’t clawed his way out of the corner of his mind in which Shammy had hidden him. The older boy would have gone straight for his throat and maimed him if he had ever done so much as rub his cock against Shamrock. Not Shammy though, no, Shammy was a prisoner of his own flesh.
"Aw, can’t even scream anymore? Or are you enjoying your Uncle's dick?" Sommers chuckled, slowly feeling out of breath from squeezing his massive length into a bitch more unwilling than most of the prey he fucked during hunts.
"M- mo-," his voice was hoarse from screeching, his eyes were unfocused and hardly stayed open, his mind was clearly trying to get away from the pain his body felt.
Shamrock managed to move his arm, Sommers kept fucking him and was curious to see if he would fight. Instead of punching his abuser, he reached for his dog plushie and squeezed it tight, burying his face in it to hide his tears.
It was such a relief to see Garling's boy with his brains fucked out that Sommers couldn’t control himself anymore and pulled out with a nasty wet plop thanks to the fresh blood. Shammy whined, but it was nothing compared to the pained moans he let out when Sommers shot his semen across his back. He hastily tore Shams' bandages open and covered his fresh wounds with his cum.
In his ecstasy, Sommers crawled over Shamrock and rubbed the tip of his cock into the cut right above his ass. The boy's entire body convulsed in a pain too strong to be put into screams or tears, there was nothing left inside Shamrock by the time Sommers' seed infested his wounds.
" … mo- mommy?" It was the only sound that slipped past Shamrock's lips before he fell unconscious.
"What a mess," he mumbled to himself as he tried to roll Shams over and cuddle him, but when he felt the stickiness of his own cum mixed with the blood touching his chest, he pushed him away and decided it was best to clean him up before sunrise.
Sommers bathed Shamrock's unmoving body, he was limp like a corpse but still warm, was there a more perfect combination in this world? He used this moment to dunk Shams under the water a few times without his body reacting at all, if he hadn’t pinched his nostrils shut he would have surely died.
After washing away all the dried up cum and scooping some of it, not all, out of his asshole, he dumped Shamrock back into the bed.
"Good night, sweet boy," he whispered and placed his pacifier back where it belonged.
[ … ]
The first rays of morning light flooded the room and kissed Shamrock awake. His eyelids felt dry, so crusty that it pained him to open them. A quiet sigh escaped him when he noticed that he was lying in a warm bed, comfortable and clean, but his voice sounded … strange. Almost unfamiliar.
He tried making another sound but his vocal cords screamed at him to stop. Great, so he was likely getting sick and his father would still force him to train early! Speaking of … why had none of his slaves woken him up before sunrise?
A shock went through his body when he tried to sit up, he whined and fell back down on the mattress like a fish out of water. In that brief moment he saw someone right behind him, in his bed — no, this wasn’t his bed, nor was it anywhere near his home.
Panic overtook him, as much as he had been taught to keep a cool mind in these situations, he always lost his patience as quickly as his father.
"Good morning, Shams!" A voice shouted at him, it was painfully loud and Shamrock immediately curled up under the blanket to block out all noises. "Huh, not in a good mood?"
Right there, under the blanket, he caught sight of a pacifier and a red dog lying next to him … who did they belong to?
Shamrock could only remember making the mistake of running into Sommers' lap again after Garling punished him, but everything after that moment was a hazy blur. A thick fog clouded his brain, he rubbed his temples but it wouldn’t clear up. So he was left with only one choice — he needed to leave. Now.
When Shamrock finally managed to get up and sit on the edge of the bed, he felt a strong pain between his legs. He felt around for a bruise and only found a few on his ass, surely from father's whipping … and more concerningly, his hole burned.
A single tear ran across Shamrock’s face.
"Did you have a bad dream, Shams?" | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77330711 | {"authors": ["rottensharkz"], "language": "English", "title": "Pacify Him"} |
Everything to Know about the Number Two Hero (By an arsonist)
Dabi couldn't really put a finger on what intrigued him so much in the Number 2 Hero.
At first, he thought it was only because everything in him screamed fake. His smile, his attitude, his cockiness. Maybe he was able to fool everyone, but Dabi was an expert in the whole faux-semblant thing. Lying was second nature to him, etched in his bone marrow, running in his blood. So, it was just obvious to him that Hawks was the epitome of fakeness.
Initially, he just didn't really care. So what? The man's a liar. But, which hero was not?(Endeavor was definitely the worst of them all.)
Then, one day, the bastard approached him, and, for an unknown reason, it struck Dabi's nerves. Did the hero really think he was this dumb? That he couldn't see through all his shit?
Because of the whole recruiter thing, Dabi had no choice but to start texting the hero. At first it was just some locations to meet. Very short messages. Nothing more than a word or two. A time, an alley, an abandoned house. Everything that could scare off the man. (Okay, maybe Dabi was a bit delusional thinking the number two hero would back off just because Dabi chose shitty hours or dark places.) After a few exchanges, insults made their way into the discussion. Nicknames such as “Birdbrain” “Birdie” “Hotstuff” (One day, late at night, he’d let slip a “pretty bird”. He’d never dare say it again.) would also paint their discussion. What started off as a chore, ended up being… less insufferable than expected. Fake information would also slide - not all of them were really lies. He didn't know why he let slip real information. But it never backfired. So he continued.-, The hero would in return, give him more reasons to hate the hero commission. Nothing too valuable, never. They would exchange fake pick up lines too. Just for the fun of it.
There again, the same freaking word -fake-.
Occasionally, Dabi felt a glimpse of truth between two texts, between two stupid jokes. Sometimes, when they stayed a little longer than what was necessary, in a warehouse Dabi had chosen -Hawks always let him pick the place-, his façade would break a little. His smile would tear just a bit. He would let the arsonist see the exhaustion on his face. Huge bags under his eyes, the proof of his strength waning; shoulders tensed, the only clue of what his day must have been like. Nonetheless, his lips curved into a thin line. Making Dabi believe he was relieved to be there, -enjoying- the company of a pyromaniac.
Why would, the number 2 hero, lie this much? Why was he faking arrogance, false-confidence? Happiness? Why, WHY, weren’t all of these true? He had every right to be overconfident, full of himself.
He was wealthy (at least he guessed), pretty (handsome, hot. Dabi never liked that line of thought. He could never stop anyway.), smart (he would NEVER say it to his face.)
Then, he understood that it was not the whole fake-thing that intrigued him anymore. It became more than that.
It was all the things Hawks would give away.
When he finally let the bird meet the rest of the League, Dabi thought “that's it, he's going to tell everything to the commission, he’s going to report everything. We're fucked. I fucked everything up, again.”
Months went by. Nothing happened. They were still all safe, wanted, sure, but safe. Perhaps the hero wasn’t so bad. Not trustworthy, duh, but, worthy of some kind of trust. Just a peek. The thing is, Dabi was not the kind to rely on people, so he certainly did not like the feeling of being… Safe (hell??) when being next to the blond. This kind of thing never ends well.
Turns out, Hawks had a lot of bird habits he hid very well. Which, like every time he landed up learning something new about the guy, surprised the villain. He would never have guessed that his quirk was more than those pretty feathers of his. (Why would he be ashamed of it? of himself?)
His wings, when he was not trying to keep them still,(something he’d do more and more often, a witness of the faith he had in the League. What a dangerous path to head on) would show everything he was feeling. Pride? They would extend. Tired? They would cover most of his body. Sadness? They'd lower a little. Sometimes, when he was discovering something new -Games mostly, TV shows, food (and what the f-ck? Did the man even have a childhood?) - they'd puff a little bit. His golden eyes would finally have some kind of light that was missing on a daily basis, (It would instantly disappear the moment he would receive a text or a call.) When he was leaving the hideout, it was always with his mask on. With the “I'm perfect and I know it”, that Dabi quickly learnt, was also very fake. The hero didn't know that, he really was perfect, and the villain did not understand how he could not.
Nobody ever mentioned it. The whole bird thing. The late patrol. The absence of days off. They were, he thought, all amazed by seeing a hero spend so much time with them. (Wasting time on them, kept unsaid in his mind). It felt like discovering that the hero had a true personality after all.
He'd let Toga bite him, stab him, drink his blood. She could do so many things with it. He did it anyway. Spinner and him would share heteromorph discrimination. (Is this why he tried to cover his chirping ? His little coos?) Who knew Hawks couldn't handle the cold very well? Now the league knew. The media definitely did not.
Kurogiri was always keeping an eye on him. Like some sort of mother. As if he was not already taking care of them all.
The last straw was when Hawks came back at the front door of the League’s hideout, in the middle of the night, hesitating to come inside.
If Dabi hadn't gone out for a smoke break, he wondered if the hero would have entered at all. How long would he have waited, standing there, in the pouring rain?
He was soaked, head to toe. His hero jacket was missing, which left only his bodysuit, skin tight, almost choking on his abs. His bare arms streaked more purple and blue than his natural tan.The man was trembling, bleeding. Wings barely visible, as if someone had taken them off one by one. Pretty eyes covered with dark circles.
And he fell.
Just like that. He fell into Dabi's arms.
No warnings. No words. No “Hotstuff please catch me”
Like he was just giving up. Dabi could have done anything to him. Maybe try to burn him, kill him. Just for the fun of it. To prove some kind of points nobody gives a damn about. That he was not going soft on an enemy. It felt like the blond wouldn’t have minded. He was at the mercy of a villain, and he didn’t mind. The man was so crazy, no wonders he fit so well with the rest of them.
Hawks never said anything about it. Did not explain what happened to him. Just absent-mindedly letting the black haired man lead him to his bed.
There was no cocky remark. No fake smile. Just pure emptiness. It was, for the first time, the real Hawks. An empty man. Blank face, in his eyes, -bare of any light. Never a light inhabiting his gaze- he felt a whole tale was told. Unfortunately, Dabi couldn’t make out the sense behind any of it. Like it was some sort of a new language, peculiar to the bird. Slipping through his fingers: the chance to unravel Hawks. He loathed the way he was missing a whole story and the idea of it let a bitter taste on his tongue.
Hawks said things that didn't make sense. At least, for the villain. Talked about drugs. Being starved. Exhausted (and maybe this one was kinda obvious). Something about not knowing why he was not dead yet. Didn't know where else to go. (Where were his hero friends?).
Finally, Dabi realized. THAT was what intrigued him the most about the man. Why was he and the hero so much alike? Why did he feel like looking into a mirror?
He knew that, in another universe, they would have been on the same side.
But why?
Oh boy, Dabi was intrigued, and was ready to discover everything to know about Hawks.
***
This is how, dear reader, Dabi started to pay extra attention to absolutely every move Hawks would make. Blue eyes always lingering on the phantom of a man. Every itchy breath. Every wavering. The way he would flinch on a Tuesday evening when grabbing the drink Mr Compress handed him. Freeze, day and night, when someone mentioned his lack of knowledge on mundane subjects. How he would turn his gaze away during movie nights, when kissing scenes appeared on screen, shades of pink coloring his cheeks.
Hawks, Dabi realized, was living like he was expendable. It was barely noticeable. Hardly living, and simply the ghost of a human being. The villain never witnessed it directly. As a matter of fact, the black haired man only saw it when watching the TV (because surprisingly enough, his schedule allowed it.) On the screen, when it was not his shitty of a genitor being broadcasted, the number two hero would appear quite a lot too. Dabi was amazed (wait no-) by the speed of the bird. The title of the fastest man was definitely not stolen. He’d cut the sky with those razor-sharp wings of his.
Similar to a ray of sunshine, whilst he crossed the blue sky, he gleamed so brightly as to whiten the daylight. His silhouette cleaved the clouds in half, and the steam would follow his trail, echoing the beauty of a falling star. That day, Dabi almost made a wish.
The point was, he saw countless times Hawks throwing himself into unnecessary danger, over and over again, with the sole purpose of lessening the number of casualties. Obviously, Dabi understood that the blond was here to save people. It was his job after all. But why not use his fierce feathers? Why would he counter a blast with his own body, as he wasn’t a man, but a shield? Why (g-d, there again, the same fucking question on a loop.) the lack of use of his quirk and just taking it on the chin? He’d always smile after that. Dabi knew he was not fine.
It stirred something in Dabi he wasn’t ready yet to dig up. The villain hated feelings. Indeed, according to him, if it was not anger, then it was bullshit. Some ember of his past, that was not buried deep enough.
The only important part here is that, yes, Dabi became hyper aware of Hawks' whole existence. Even while bleeding all over the hero couch.
“ -The fuck you’re doing here ?? (Oh.. Hawks seemed angry… and, worried? It was not the first time the villain would see this expression on the man’s face. He just had a hard time getting used to it. Mainly when he was on the receiving hand of this look.) Why aren’t you at the base ? Shit hotstuff, do you even have blood left on what remains of your soon to be corpse ?
- Okay first, f-ck you. Second… Wait, what did you say again?” His question ended up in a coughing fit, spilling blood on the fabric of the hero’s tank top in the process.
Talking felt like drowning. In the same way water could slowly fill his lungs, which, he was pretty sure, were in fact fine. (Indeed, they were probably the only thing properly functioning.) But who knew if he could trust his body at the moment? (Dabi could never trust his body, he learned that the hard way. His staples were always on the verge of breaking. Every time he’d open his mouth, he’d feel his jaw stretching in an uncomfortable way, and his flesh, about to snap open.). However, he did not miss the way Hawks face went from disoriented to a close but firm look. He could nearly see the gears run full speed. Trying to assess the lousy situation he was put into.
“ Okay, Okay…” The blond took a steady breath. One of his hands slid from his hair to the back of his neck. His contemplative expression still on. “Questions later, being your personal nurse first “
Dabi’s mind must have drifted away, somewhere between watching Hawks leaving the living room and him waking the villain up by snapping his fingers a few inches from Dabi's nose.
“Dammit birdbrain, I'm not a dog. He said, hoarse voice.
-Sometimes I feel like it would be easier if you were.
-Do you want me to bark?”
Maybe, just maybe, Dabi was going delirious. So what ? Let a man reveal his inner thoughts when being on death’s door. (He knew he wasn’t going to die, unfortunately, but he was still flirting with the idea to close his eyes and praying that they’d never open again.)
Ah, there again the sound of fingers trying to keep him awake.
What a drag.
“Woof. he blurted out, because no smarty comments came to his mind.
-Did you just… -Hawks' brows furrowed deeper. His nose did a little wrinkling, and Dabi tried really hard not thinking it was cute.- Did you just bark?”
Right, he was still bleeding on a very expensive sofa, while being taken care of by one of the most famous (if not the most) people in Japan.
“Maybe I did. Maybe I did not”
He got a huff from | Everything to Know about the Number Two Hero (By an arsonist)
Dabi couldn't really put a finger on what intrigued him so much in the Number 2 Hero.
At first, he thought it was only because everything in him screamed fake. His smile, his attitude, his cockiness. Maybe he was able to fool everyone, but Dabi was an expert in the whole faux-semblant thing. Lying was second nature to him, etched in his bone marrow, running in his blood. So, it was just obvious to him that Hawks was the epitome of fakeness.
Initially, he just didn't really care. So what? The man's a liar. But, which hero was not?(Endeavor was definitely the worst of them all.)
Then, one day, the bastard approached him, and, for an unknown reason, it struck Dabi's nerves. Did the hero really think he was this dumb? That he couldn't see through all his shit?
Because of the whole recruiter thing, Dabi had no choice but to start texting the hero. At first it was just some locations to meet. Very short messages. Nothing more than a word or two. A time, an alley, an abandoned house. Everything that could scare off the man. (Okay, maybe Dabi was a bit delusional thinking the number two hero would back off just because Dabi chose shitty hours or dark places.) After a few exchanges, insults made their way into the discussion. Nicknames such as “Birdbrain” “Birdie” “Hotstuff” (One day, late at night, he’d let slip a “pretty bird”. He’d never dare say it again.) would also paint their discussion. What started off as a chore, ended up being… less insufferable than expected. Fake information would also slide - not all of them were really lies. He didn't know why he let slip real information. But it never backfired. So he continued.-, The hero would in return, give him more reasons to hate the hero commission. Nothing too valuable, never. They would exchange fake pick up lines too. Just for the fun of it.
There again, the same freaking word -fake-.
Occasionally, Dabi felt a glimpse of truth between two texts, between two stupid jokes. Sometimes, when they stayed a little longer than what was necessary, in a warehouse Dabi had chosen -Hawks always let him pick the place-, his façade would break a little. His smile would tear just a bit. He would let the arsonist see the exhaustion on his face. Huge bags under his eyes, the proof of his strength waning; shoulders tensed, the only clue of what his day must have been like. Nonetheless, his lips curved into a thin line. Making Dabi believe he was relieved to be there, -enjoying- the company of a pyromaniac.
Why would, the number 2 hero, lie this much? Why was he faking arrogance, false-confidence? Happiness? Why, WHY, weren’t all of these true? He had every right to be overconfident, full of himself.
He was wealthy (at least he guessed), pretty (handsome, hot. Dabi never liked that line of thought. He could never stop anyway.), smart (he would NEVER say it to his face.)
Then, he understood that it was not the whole fake-thing that intrigued him anymore. It became more than that.
It was all the things Hawks would give away.
When he finally let the bird meet the rest of the League, Dabi thought “that's it, he's going to tell everything to the commission, he’s going to report everything. We're fucked. I fucked everything up, again.”
Months went by. Nothing happened. They were still all safe, wanted, sure, but safe. Perhaps the hero wasn’t so bad. Not trustworthy, duh, but, worthy of some kind of trust. Just a peek. The thing is, Dabi was not the kind to rely on people, so he certainly did not like the feeling of being… Safe (hell??) when being next to the blond. This kind of thing never ends well.
Turns out, Hawks had a lot of bird habits he hid very well. Which, like every time he landed up learning something new about the guy, surprised the villain. He would never have guessed that his quirk was more than those pretty feathers of his. (Why would he be ashamed of it? of himself?)
His wings, when he was not trying to keep them still,(something he’d do more and more often, a witness of the faith he had in the League. What a dangerous path to head on) would show everything he was feeling. Pride? They would extend. Tired? They would cover most of his body. Sadness? They'd lower a little. Sometimes, when he was discovering something new -Games mostly, TV shows, food (and what the f-ck? Did the man even have a childhood?) - they'd puff a little bit. His golden eyes would finally have some kind of light that was missing on a daily basis, (It would instantly disappear the moment he would receive a text or a call.) When he was leaving the hideout, it was always with his mask on. With the “I'm perfect and I know it”, that Dabi quickly learnt, was also very fake. The hero didn't know that, he really was perfect, and the villain did not understand how he could not.
Nobody ever mentioned it. The whole bird thing. The late patrol. The absence of days off. They were, he thought, all amazed by seeing a hero spend so much time with them. (Wasting time on them, kept unsaid in his mind). It felt like discovering that the hero had a true personality after all.
He'd let Toga bite him, stab him, drink his blood. She could do so many things with it. He did it anyway. Spinner and him would share heteromorph discrimination. (Is this why he tried to cover his chirping ? His little coos?) Who knew Hawks couldn't handle the cold very well? Now the league knew. The media definitely did not.
Kurogiri was always keeping an eye on him. Like some sort of mother. As if he was not already taking care of them all.
The last straw was when Hawks came back at the front door of the League’s hideout, in the middle of the night, hesitating to come inside.
If Dabi hadn't gone out for a smoke break, he wondered if the hero would have entered at all. How long would he have waited, standing there, in the pouring rain?
He was soaked, head to toe. His hero jacket was missing, which left only his bodysuit, skin tight, almost choking on his abs. His bare arms streaked more purple and blue than his natural tan.The man was trembling, bleeding. Wings barely visible, as if someone had taken them off one by one. Pretty eyes covered with dark circles.
And he fell.
Just like that. He fell into Dabi's arms.
No warnings. No words. No “Hotstuff please catch me”
Like he was just giving up. Dabi could have done anything to him. Maybe try to burn him, kill him. Just for the fun of it. To prove some kind of points nobody gives a damn about. That he was not going soft on an enemy. It felt like the blond wouldn’t have minded. He was at the mercy of a villain, and he didn’t mind. The man was so crazy, no wonders he fit so well with the rest of them.
Hawks never said anything about it. Did not explain what happened to him. Just absent-mindedly letting the black haired man lead him to his bed.
There was no cocky remark. No fake smile. Just pure emptiness. It was, for the first time, the real Hawks. An empty man. Blank face, in his eyes, -bare of any light. Never a light inhabiting his gaze- he felt a whole tale was told. Unfortunately, Dabi couldn’t make out the sense behind any of it. Like it was some sort of a new language, peculiar to the bird. Slipping through his fingers: the chance to unravel Hawks. He loathed the way he was missing a whole story and the idea of it let a bitter taste on his tongue.
Hawks said things that didn't make sense. At least, for the villain. Talked about drugs. Being starved. Exhausted (and maybe this one was kinda obvious). Something about not knowing why he was not dead yet. Didn't know where else to go. (Where were his hero friends?).
Finally, Dabi realized. THAT was what intrigued him the most about the man. Why was he and the hero so much alike? Why did he feel like looking into a mirror?
He knew that, in another universe, they would have been on the same side.
But why?
Oh boy, Dabi was intrigued, and was ready to discover everything to know about Hawks.
***
This is how, dear reader, Dabi started to pay extra attention to absolutely every move Hawks would make. Blue eyes always lingering on the phantom of a man. Every itchy breath. Every wavering. The way he would flinch on a Tuesday evening when grabbing the drink Mr Compress handed him. Freeze, day and night, when someone mentioned his lack of knowledge on mundane subjects. How he would turn his gaze away during movie nights, when kissing scenes appeared on screen, shades of pink coloring his cheeks.
Hawks, Dabi realized, was living like he was expendable. It was barely noticeable. Hardly living, and simply the ghost of a human being. The villain never witnessed it directly. As a matter of fact, the black haired man only saw it when watching the TV (because surprisingly enough, his schedule allowed it.) On the screen, when it was not his shitty of a genitor being broadcasted, the number two hero would appear quite a lot too. Dabi was amazed (wait no-) by the speed of the bird. The title of the fastest man was definitely not stolen. He’d cut the sky with those razor-sharp wings of his.
Similar to a ray of sunshine, whilst he crossed the blue sky, he gleamed so brightly as to whiten the daylight. His silhouette cleaved the clouds in half, and the steam would follow his trail, echoing the beauty of a falling star. That day, Dabi almost made a wish.
The point was, he saw countless times Hawks throwing himself into unnecessary danger, over and over again, with the sole purpose of lessening the number of casualties. Obviously, Dabi understood that the blond was here to save people. It was his job after all. But why not use his fierce feathers? Why would he counter a blast with his own body, as he wasn’t a man, but a shield? Why (g-d, there again, the same fucking question on a loop.) the lack of use of his quirk and just taking it on the chin? He’d always smile after that. Dabi knew he was not fine.
It stirred something in Dabi he wasn’t ready yet to dig up. The villain hated feelings. Indeed, according to him, if it was not anger, then it was bullshit. Some ember of his past, that was not buried deep enough.
The only important part here is that, yes, Dabi became hyper aware of Hawks' whole existence. Even while bleeding all over the hero couch.
“ -The fuck you’re doing here ?? (Oh.. Hawks seemed angry… and, worried? It was not the first time the villain would see this expression on the man’s face. He just had a hard time getting used to it. Mainly when he was on the receiving hand of this look.) Why aren’t you at the base ? Shit hotstuff, do you even have blood left on what remains of your soon to be corpse ?
- Okay first, f-ck you. Second… Wait, what did you say again?” His question ended up in a coughing fit, spilling blood on the fabric of the hero’s tank top in the process.
Talking felt like drowning. In the same way water could slowly fill his lungs, which, he was pretty sure, were in fact fine. (Indeed, they were probably the only thing properly functioning.) But who knew if he could trust his body at the moment? (Dabi could never trust his body, he learned that the hard way. His staples were always on the verge of breaking. Every time he’d open his mouth, he’d feel his jaw stretching in an uncomfortable way, and his flesh, about to snap open.). However, he did not miss the way Hawks face went from disoriented to a close but firm look. He could nearly see the gears run full speed. Trying to assess the lousy situation he was put into.
“ Okay, Okay…” The blond took a steady breath. One of his hands slid from his hair to the back of his neck. His contemplative expression still on. “Questions later, being your personal nurse first “
Dabi’s mind must have drifted away, somewhere between watching Hawks leaving the living room and him waking the villain up by snapping his fingers a few inches from Dabi's nose.
“Dammit birdbrain, I'm not a dog. He said, hoarse voice.
-Sometimes I feel like it would be easier if you were.
-Do you want me to bark?”
Maybe, just maybe, Dabi was going delirious. So what ? Let a man reveal his inner thoughts when being on death’s door. (He knew he wasn’t going to die, unfortunately, but he was still flirting with the idea to close his eyes and praying that they’d never open again.)
Ah, there again the sound of fingers trying to keep him awake.
What a drag.
“Woof. he blurted out, because no smarty comments came to his mind.
-Did you just… -Hawks' brows furrowed deeper. His nose did a little wrinkling, and Dabi tried really hard not thinking it was cute.- Did you just bark?”
Right, he was still bleeding on a very expensive sofa, while being taken care of by one of the most famous (if not the most) people in Japan.
“Maybe I did. Maybe I did not”
He got a huff from the hero.
“Do you even feel my hands on your wounds?”
The dark haired man glanced at his abdomen. Still very red, very much bloody. Toga would love the view. She’d probably also be a bit worried. (Why were so many people worrying over Dabi?). Small hands were apparently patching him and trying to slow down the bleeding. They were cold from all the flying he guessed. Dabi wasn’t used to the cold. He liked the way the fingers were contrasting with his natural burning skin. It felt almost nice. Dabi wanted the touch to never stop. He wanted the hero to draw around all the marks on Dabi’s skin; to learn every parcel of his body, the memory of how frail he was.
Golden eyes were still on him, and he remembered what he was asked.
“Yes?
- That didn’t sound very convincing.
- No.”
At this point, Dabi was just high. Or it was a close match. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop him from gauging Hawks.
The man was focused on his new task also known as closing Dabi’s wound or whatever. He thinks there was a needle involved. The tingling, hint of something piercing his skin (the non-burnt one, obviously) was confirmation that he was not entirely numb yet, so he guessed it was a good sign.
Eventually, some hair fell down the hero’s face, and Dabi suppressed the urge to pull it behind his ear.
Or so he thought.
Seeing the way Hawks’ gaze snapped at him, he must have failed somewhere.
Ah. He did it. His hand was next to the hero’s ear. In a gentle brush of a golden lock, he realized it was very soft. He’d never wanted to take his fingers off.
A genuine expression made his way to the hero’s face. Painted with a joyless smile, but his eyes were tainted with misery. In this light, while taking Dabi’s hand in his own to put it back on the couch, he reminded Dabi of the delicacy of a flower. Like a simple caress could break the petals. A wrong move, and he’d make irreparable damage.
And now he earned -again- a concerned look from his nurse.
“Okay, now I’m really getting a bit scared. You’re acting weird.
- You’re weird
- Figured you’d try to have some kind of snaky come-backs. This one was very bad though.”
Dabi rolled his eyes.
A bad idea since his vision went blurry for a few seconds.
“I-(…)Ab(…)”
Okay, maybe more than just a few seconds he guessed because he felt like he was being screamed at.
Whatever. He couldn’t care less. His body was floating, losing any kind of strings to the current reality. There was a quick taste of freedom in the back of his mouth. The feeling was everything he ever dreamed of. He was not ready to let go of it.
Then he was slapped, very violently.
Ouch ?
“FUCK! This is how you treat every injured person? He squealed, because now, he was wide awake and could remember why he hated his body so much.
- Only the one breaking into my apartment to ruin my couch and being a pain in the ass. Also, you were unconscious.
- I was not.
- Riiight.”
He was being made fun of. He didn’t like that very much.
His eyes couldn’t stay focused. Even though he really wanted to keep watching Hawks, the villain just wasn’t in condition to do so. In the dire need to occupy his slipping mind, and to entertain himself, he opted for random questions.
“What’s your favorite color? The arsonist uttered.
- What? The hero's hands stopped their motion for a quick instant. Then, they’d go back to closing his wound. Still, Dabi was able to feel the blooming tension on the hero muscles.
- Are you being dense on purpose ? I asked for your favorite color.”
A long pause. For a moment, Dabi wondered if he didn’t fall back asleep. Then, he saw the blond jaw opened and closed several times, before speaking again:
“I think.. (he bit his lips. Thinking. Everyone would have taken it as him trying to figure out his favorite color. Dabi wasn’t everyone, though. He knew Hawks was trying to justify the fact that he had none.) I don’t know. He finally admitted
- How is that even possible? Dabi retorted almost immediately.
- It was never relevant before.
- I’m a wanted man. Nobody gives a damn about my favorite color. I still have one though.”
Hawks pouted. Dabi hated that he was not able to fully analyse the face above him. His vision fazed somewhere during the process of being put back into one living piece. He felt like missing everything he was trying to decipher for the past few months.
“Is it black ? Hawks inquired.
-Just because my clothes are black (and my hair) doesn’t mean this is my favorite color. It’s quite the opposite actually.
-White ?” (Hawks sounded surprised)
Dabi didn’t think twice before saying:
“It reminds me of my mother's hair” (Why was he even justifying himself?)
Oups.
This one wasn’t supposed to leave his lips. Or even leave his mind. Or he was not supposed to think about it in the first place.
“Okay, I’ll just act as if you never slipped a glimpse of your past okay?” The blond said in a secure voice.
The lack of emotions began to irritate Dabi.
“Why? He hissed.
-Because then you’re going to hide for weeks just so you can keep your bad boy image, and I really am too tired to look for you for days because you’re ashamed of having feelings.”
Dabi was not in the right state of mind to highlight the fact that Hawks would have been looking for him.
Acting as if nothing happened, the villain could do that. Actually, he was really good at that.
“What about your favorite movie?”
Then again, he was met by silence.
“You don’t know either? He said, dumbfounded
- Besides movie nights, I don’t have time for watching movies, or series.
- You’re boring. You’re a reaaalllyyyy boring Birdie. Listen, I’m even snoring right now because you’re BO-RING”
He expected the man to laugh at least a little bit, maybe not to the point of throwing his head back like he does when something was really funny. (According to the hero. Most of the time, the joke was really bad, but Hawks was the perfect audience for Spinner.), but still, at least a quick cheer. He was not prepared to see a pained expression on his face. His mask failed him for a moment. The villain could guess the main emotions emanating from him the way his traits stressed out immediately. Broken.
Dabi hated the fact that he was the cause of it.
But Hawks immediately suppressed any of it. Putting everything back in a mental box, something the villain was very familiar with. His façade back on his face, and with it, the fake smile, the one never reaching his eyes, that Dabi loathed so much.
“Yeah. Maybe I am," he admitted.
They stayed silent for the rest of the night. Their shadows, animated with the light reverberating on the room, dressed the ceiling. Dabi’s eyes followed the dark shape of their bodies, waiting for someone to finally speak.
None of them ever did.
Once he was stabilized, and the hero looked satisfied with his work of art, he left the room to go pick his phone.
Dabi didn’t have time to ask him why he’d call someone this late in the middle of the night, or who would be crazy enough to answer, that a dark mist, which he recognized as a portal, appeared two feet from him.
Ah. Kurogiri it was.
Dabi wanted to say something. Anything. So he could stay a bit more by Hawks’ side. Try to unravel all the feelings the blond wanted to suppress so hard.
Hawks didn’t let anyone, not him, get too close to him.
He acknowledged the need to push everyone away. To keep them in stand-off range.
Dabi did the same. Or he used to. The League kind of wormed his way into his heart. Maybe they didn’t know all the truths about him. But they knew enough to see he was torn in a million pieces, that he knew nothing but anger, and they still put up with him.
Dabi, that day, learnt that Hawks was indeed a falling star. Meant to fall, and accepting his fate all the way in. The beauty, but mainly the loneliness of one.
Hawks may not have been falling physically, but surely metaphorically. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77334096/chapters/202468496 | {"authors": ["Didouic"], "language": "English", "title": "Everything to Know about the Number Two Hero (By an arsonist)"} |
Everybody Scream
Rupert was drunk again. Jenny had foolishly hoped that the worst of it would be over by now, but it seemed like he fell apart a little more every day.
The first evening after Buffy’s death, Rupert had curled up into her side in their bed and just sobbed. He rarely cried. Jenny remembered thinking that this must be the worst of it.
It hadn’t been. And she didn’t know how to fix it.
With every passing day, Rupert further retreated into himself. He almost never left the house, and when they were together, he seemed to only want to hold her close. Jenny held him back. She comforted him when he sobbed, she helped him up to bed when he had drunk so much that he could barely stand, and she made sure there was always a nice cup of tea within his reach. Rupert was falling apart, so Jenny couldn’t.
Things had always been a little tense between her and Buffy. That granted Jenny a distance, preventing her from losing herself to the grief she was witnessing the others endure - because it wasn’t only Rupert who was at a loss. Dawn was spending a concerning amount of time with the Buffybot while Willow, Xander, Tara, and Anya sequestered themselves away whenever they could. No one was doing as badly as Rupert, however, so she focused solely on him. Though he would deny such a bond, Jenny knew he had a father’s love for Buffy, something that likely made his grief worse.
She had just maneuvered Rupert into bed when the doorbell rang. Rupert had pressed a sloppy kiss to her lips as she laid him down; the smell of his favored scotch lingering. Before, Rupert always kissed her slowly and deliberately, leaving a taste of Earl Grey tea on her lips. Jenny missed that desperately.
Walking quietly down the stairs to the living room, Jenny opened the door.
“Willow! Is everything alright?”
Willow was smiling at her, a bright, almost manic thing. Despite the smile, Jenny could see an uncertainty in her eyes.
“Jenny, I did it! Or, well, we did it! But it was mostly me,” Willow was saying as she moved into the living room, an almost frenzied edge to her voice.
“What did you do?”
“Buffy! She’s back! We resurrected her!”
Jenny felt a chill run down her spine. That was the kind of magic you did not mess with - the kind of magic that corrupted or killed. But if it worked, then that meant Buffy - bright and wonderful Buffy - was back.
“What?”
Oblivious to Jenny’s internal struggle, Willow continued.
“She’s at home right now.. She seems a little disoriented, but of course, she would be since, y’know, who knows where she was? Maybe she was in a hell dimension, like Angel was?” Willow’s crazed smile had slowly faded as she went on. Jenny felt like she might be sick.
“How long have you been planning this?”
“Months! We finally got the last item we needed today, or well, technically it was yesterday, but you know what I mean.” Willow still hadn’t fully picked up on Jenny’s tumultuous feelings. In all honesty, Jenny herself didn’t know where to begin in terms of dissecting her conflicted emotions. Happy that Buffy was back? Horrified at the manner in which she had returned to them? Wanting to compliment Willow’s talent but whack her upside the head for messing with such dangerous magic?
Was Jenny even entitled to feel any certain way for a girl she had hardly been close to? Her thoughts went to Rupert, sleeping through his drunken stupor upstairs.
“When were you going to tell us?”
Willow rushed to explain. “We didn’t want to give anyone false hope in case it didn’t work. We obviously didn’t tell Dawn, and Giles has been a bit, well, down… and you have been so busy taking care of them!.”
Jenny had tried her best to shield the kids from the worst of Rupert’s downward spiral, but it was hard to hide the fact that he rarely left the house anymore.
“Okay, I'll tell Rupert and we’ll come by tomorrow. We can figure stuff out then.”
There was nothing left to say after that so they bid each other goodnight. As Jenny closed the door on Willow, she felt like she was on the verge of collapse and wanted to scream. But she couldn’t afford to break down now.
Only making her torment worse was how she had no idea how to tell Rupert. Nor could she get a sense of how he would react. Easing herself up the stairs, Jenny undressed and crawled into bed beside him. He curled into her instinctively. He still smelled like scotch.
Jenny awoke still dreading what was to come. She had to have a talk with Willow and the others regarding their incredibly foolish resurrection. Then there was Dawn, and making sure that she was dealing. Incredible as it was to have her back, she needed to check on Buffy to see how she was feeling about this whole thing. Worst of all, Jenny needed to tell Rupert all that had happened.
Stretching out with her eyes still closed, Jenny’s hand searched for Rupert. His side of the bed was cold. Jenny hoped that he hadn’t started drinking already.
She found him sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing. Jenny hated how this had become a common occurrence.
“Good morning, Rupert,” Jenny said while sitting down next to him. He immediately reached for her, almost pulling her into his lap. Jenny couldn’t do this, but she had to.
“Rupert, I need to talk to you.”
He raised his head and looked at her. Where once he would have shot her a questioning glance with a small smile, there was now nothing behind his eyes.
“Buffy is back. Willow and the others resurrected her. We are meeting at The Magic Box later today. She will be there,” Jenny softly said while stroking his cheek.
For one moment, Jenny could finally see something resembling the man she had married. Hope and relief filled his eyes, and he had an almost wondrous smile. Then it was gone.
“I suppose I'd better go and get dressed then.”
Rupert slowly untangled Jenny from his arms and then rose, heading towards the bedroom.
“Rupert–” Jenny abruptly stopped herself. She didn’t know what she had wanted him to say, nor how she wanted him to react, but it wasn’t like this.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Rupert answered, sending a small smile her way.
That gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, Rupert would start to come back to himself.
The tension was thick in the Magic Box when Jenny and Rupert entered. Anya was behind the cash register, while Willow, Xander, and Tara were seated around the table, multiple books spread between them. Jenny barely had time to notice Dawn before she came up and wrapped her in a tight hug.
“Jenny!”
Jenny didn’t know what to say, so she just held her until she felt Dawn loosen her grip.
“Hey Dawnie,” she whispered and then pulled away.
Jenny glanced up again when she felt Rupert stiffen next to her. Buffy was standing at the entrance of the training room, looking tired.
“Buffy, you’re really…” Rupert began, but trailed off.
“Alive. Not quite kicking yet, but I’ll get there.” The words, while they sounded like Buffy, lacked her usual energy.
“Yes, I imagine you will,” came Rupert’s response, slightly detached. Not too dissimilar to how he used to speak to Buffy back in high school.
Buffy wrapped her arms around herself, seemingly having noticed Rupert’s apparent detachment and feeling hurt by it. Jenny, despite everything which had come before, couldn’t stand it. In a few swift steps she stood before Buffy, placing a careful hand on her shoulder.
“We missed you.” Jenny pointedly said ‘we’ to try and make up for Rupert.
Buffy relaxed slightly and shot her a small smile.
“I hate to break up the reunion party, but we have a problem,” Xander said.
Of course we did, thought Jenny, nothing can ever stay calm in this godforsaken town.
The brainstorming that followed proved unfruitful. No one had any idea what had possessed Anya, or how. It wasn’t broken up until Buffy insisted that she go out and patrol alone.
Jenny had expected Rupert to object, or at least notice how withdrawn Buffy seemed, but he just nodded in agreement.
In the end, both Jenny and Rupert were pretty useless. Tara and Willow made the demon solid, then Buffy killed it. Jenny wondered when this sort of evening had become commonplace to her.
After making sure that everyone was okay, Jenny and Rupert made their way home. Jenny thought about bringing up the distance Rupert was deliberately putting between him and Buffy, but decided not to. After all, it had only been a day since Buffy’s resurrection. It was a lot to get used to, regardless of how happy they were to have her back; and considering all Rupert had contended with during the five months in which he had grieved, he wasn’t going to be immediately okay.
Snuggling up against Rupert on the couch, Jenny thought that the situation might become better on its own, once it became clear to Rupert that Buffy truly was back. The following weeks proved just how wrong she was.
Rupert stopped drinking, and he started coming back to the Magic Box, but the detachment remained. It was as if he withdrew more from the kids each day. He acted somewhat normally with Jenny, but he categorically refused to discuss anything to do with the children.
Jenny had tried to bring up Buffy one evening. Though Rupert had helped her out financially, she felt they should do more to reacquaint her with living, especially after the confirmation that she had been in hell. All she had gotten in response was ‘Buffy is quite capable of taking care of herself.’ She didn’t know how to reach him anymore.
She tried to support both Dawn and Buffy, despite Rupert’s belief they were capable of doing so themselves. The distance he had put between himself and the kids was starting to come between them too, and though she was often around the Summers’ girls, she felt incredibly alone.
Every morning, Jenny went to Revello Drive to make sure they ate breakfast and that Dawn got to school on time. She would have tried actually making them breakfast, except the first and last time she attempted to do so, she nearly burnt the house down.
After her visits to the Summers' house, Jenny would go to the Magic Box and Rupert would pretend that everything was okay, as if Buffy wasn’t falling apart in front of them. She was trying to be mindful of the fact that Rupert was still grieving and processing his feelings, but she was so tired.
At least Xander and Anya’s engagement news and subsequent party provided some momentary relief… until it became clear that Dawn was god knows where. Of course, it ended up being Jenny who had to have a talk with Dawn about her recent activities, as if she didn’t have enough on her plate already! However, Buffy clearly didn’t possess the emotional bandwidth to handle that conversation, and Rupert outright refused. Jenny was worn out from being understanding.
As soon as they made it home, Jenny decided that they had to talk.
“You couldn’t have helped me out there, huh Rupert?” She thought about playing it off as a joke, but the time for that had passed, so she allowed it to sound as angry as she was.
Rupert regarded her for a moment.
“I think we should move to England.”
Jenny’s anger deflated, becoming replaced with confusion.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes. Buffy needs to learn how to take care of her own problems. As long as we are here, she won’t do that. We are standing in her way.” It was the way he said it that reignited Jenny’s anger, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and she was stupid for not seeing it.
“So you just want to abandon her? She needs help!” She could hear her own voice growing louder with each word. “And what about Dawn? And the others-”
“What about them? Come on, Jenny. They don’t need us, and honestly? I am surprised that you do not see that. They are overly reliant upon us, and newfound your emotional attachment is blinding you to the fact-”
Without raising his voice he had managed to infuriate her even more. How dared he minimize five years of getting to know those kids to some novelty? She interrupted him before he could finish.
“As opposed to the past five years of you being too involved with those kids?”
“Yes! And that is precisely why Buffy died! If I had not gotten involved, if you had not pushed for me to get involved, then perhaps I could have been a better watcher, prepared Buffy better, and then she wouldn’t have died!” Jenny could see the moment Rupert realised what he had just said, his face contorting slightly with guilt.
“So it's my fault that Buffy died?” Rupert looked momentarily horrified.
“Jenny, of course I did not–” Jenny didn’t let him finish, didn’t want him to finish.
“Whatever. You can sleep on the couch tonight.”
Jenny left before he could answer her. Hastily making her way up the stairs, she collapsed as soon as she reached the bed, and buried her face into the pillow so that Rupert wouldn’t hear her crying.
It wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but Jenny spent the rest of the week | Everybody Scream
Rupert was drunk again. Jenny had foolishly hoped that the worst of it would be over by now, but it seemed like he fell apart a little more every day.
The first evening after Buffy’s death, Rupert had curled up into her side in their bed and just sobbed. He rarely cried. Jenny remembered thinking that this must be the worst of it.
It hadn’t been. And she didn’t know how to fix it.
With every passing day, Rupert further retreated into himself. He almost never left the house, and when they were together, he seemed to only want to hold her close. Jenny held him back. She comforted him when he sobbed, she helped him up to bed when he had drunk so much that he could barely stand, and she made sure there was always a nice cup of tea within his reach. Rupert was falling apart, so Jenny couldn’t.
Things had always been a little tense between her and Buffy. That granted Jenny a distance, preventing her from losing herself to the grief she was witnessing the others endure - because it wasn’t only Rupert who was at a loss. Dawn was spending a concerning amount of time with the Buffybot while Willow, Xander, Tara, and Anya sequestered themselves away whenever they could. No one was doing as badly as Rupert, however, so she focused solely on him. Though he would deny such a bond, Jenny knew he had a father’s love for Buffy, something that likely made his grief worse.
She had just maneuvered Rupert into bed when the doorbell rang. Rupert had pressed a sloppy kiss to her lips as she laid him down; the smell of his favored scotch lingering. Before, Rupert always kissed her slowly and deliberately, leaving a taste of Earl Grey tea on her lips. Jenny missed that desperately.
Walking quietly down the stairs to the living room, Jenny opened the door.
“Willow! Is everything alright?”
Willow was smiling at her, a bright, almost manic thing. Despite the smile, Jenny could see an uncertainty in her eyes.
“Jenny, I did it! Or, well, we did it! But it was mostly me,” Willow was saying as she moved into the living room, an almost frenzied edge to her voice.
“What did you do?”
“Buffy! She’s back! We resurrected her!”
Jenny felt a chill run down her spine. That was the kind of magic you did not mess with - the kind of magic that corrupted or killed. But if it worked, then that meant Buffy - bright and wonderful Buffy - was back.
“What?”
Oblivious to Jenny’s internal struggle, Willow continued.
“She’s at home right now.. She seems a little disoriented, but of course, she would be since, y’know, who knows where she was? Maybe she was in a hell dimension, like Angel was?” Willow’s crazed smile had slowly faded as she went on. Jenny felt like she might be sick.
“How long have you been planning this?”
“Months! We finally got the last item we needed today, or well, technically it was yesterday, but you know what I mean.” Willow still hadn’t fully picked up on Jenny’s tumultuous feelings. In all honesty, Jenny herself didn’t know where to begin in terms of dissecting her conflicted emotions. Happy that Buffy was back? Horrified at the manner in which she had returned to them? Wanting to compliment Willow’s talent but whack her upside the head for messing with such dangerous magic?
Was Jenny even entitled to feel any certain way for a girl she had hardly been close to? Her thoughts went to Rupert, sleeping through his drunken stupor upstairs.
“When were you going to tell us?”
Willow rushed to explain. “We didn’t want to give anyone false hope in case it didn’t work. We obviously didn’t tell Dawn, and Giles has been a bit, well, down… and you have been so busy taking care of them!.”
Jenny had tried her best to shield the kids from the worst of Rupert’s downward spiral, but it was hard to hide the fact that he rarely left the house anymore.
“Okay, I'll tell Rupert and we’ll come by tomorrow. We can figure stuff out then.”
There was nothing left to say after that so they bid each other goodnight. As Jenny closed the door on Willow, she felt like she was on the verge of collapse and wanted to scream. But she couldn’t afford to break down now.
Only making her torment worse was how she had no idea how to tell Rupert. Nor could she get a sense of how he would react. Easing herself up the stairs, Jenny undressed and crawled into bed beside him. He curled into her instinctively. He still smelled like scotch.
Jenny awoke still dreading what was to come. She had to have a talk with Willow and the others regarding their incredibly foolish resurrection. Then there was Dawn, and making sure that she was dealing. Incredible as it was to have her back, she needed to check on Buffy to see how she was feeling about this whole thing. Worst of all, Jenny needed to tell Rupert all that had happened.
Stretching out with her eyes still closed, Jenny’s hand searched for Rupert. His side of the bed was cold. Jenny hoped that he hadn’t started drinking already.
She found him sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing. Jenny hated how this had become a common occurrence.
“Good morning, Rupert,” Jenny said while sitting down next to him. He immediately reached for her, almost pulling her into his lap. Jenny couldn’t do this, but she had to.
“Rupert, I need to talk to you.”
He raised his head and looked at her. Where once he would have shot her a questioning glance with a small smile, there was now nothing behind his eyes.
“Buffy is back. Willow and the others resurrected her. We are meeting at The Magic Box later today. She will be there,” Jenny softly said while stroking his cheek.
For one moment, Jenny could finally see something resembling the man she had married. Hope and relief filled his eyes, and he had an almost wondrous smile. Then it was gone.
“I suppose I'd better go and get dressed then.”
Rupert slowly untangled Jenny from his arms and then rose, heading towards the bedroom.
“Rupert–” Jenny abruptly stopped herself. She didn’t know what she had wanted him to say, nor how she wanted him to react, but it wasn’t like this.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Rupert answered, sending a small smile her way.
That gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, Rupert would start to come back to himself.
The tension was thick in the Magic Box when Jenny and Rupert entered. Anya was behind the cash register, while Willow, Xander, and Tara were seated around the table, multiple books spread between them. Jenny barely had time to notice Dawn before she came up and wrapped her in a tight hug.
“Jenny!”
Jenny didn’t know what to say, so she just held her until she felt Dawn loosen her grip.
“Hey Dawnie,” she whispered and then pulled away.
Jenny glanced up again when she felt Rupert stiffen next to her. Buffy was standing at the entrance of the training room, looking tired.
“Buffy, you’re really…” Rupert began, but trailed off.
“Alive. Not quite kicking yet, but I’ll get there.” The words, while they sounded like Buffy, lacked her usual energy.
“Yes, I imagine you will,” came Rupert’s response, slightly detached. Not too dissimilar to how he used to speak to Buffy back in high school.
Buffy wrapped her arms around herself, seemingly having noticed Rupert’s apparent detachment and feeling hurt by it. Jenny, despite everything which had come before, couldn’t stand it. In a few swift steps she stood before Buffy, placing a careful hand on her shoulder.
“We missed you.” Jenny pointedly said ‘we’ to try and make up for Rupert.
Buffy relaxed slightly and shot her a small smile.
“I hate to break up the reunion party, but we have a problem,” Xander said.
Of course we did, thought Jenny, nothing can ever stay calm in this godforsaken town.
The brainstorming that followed proved unfruitful. No one had any idea what had possessed Anya, or how. It wasn’t broken up until Buffy insisted that she go out and patrol alone.
Jenny had expected Rupert to object, or at least notice how withdrawn Buffy seemed, but he just nodded in agreement.
In the end, both Jenny and Rupert were pretty useless. Tara and Willow made the demon solid, then Buffy killed it. Jenny wondered when this sort of evening had become commonplace to her.
After making sure that everyone was okay, Jenny and Rupert made their way home. Jenny thought about bringing up the distance Rupert was deliberately putting between him and Buffy, but decided not to. After all, it had only been a day since Buffy’s resurrection. It was a lot to get used to, regardless of how happy they were to have her back; and considering all Rupert had contended with during the five months in which he had grieved, he wasn’t going to be immediately okay.
Snuggling up against Rupert on the couch, Jenny thought that the situation might become better on its own, once it became clear to Rupert that Buffy truly was back. The following weeks proved just how wrong she was.
Rupert stopped drinking, and he started coming back to the Magic Box, but the detachment remained. It was as if he withdrew more from the kids each day. He acted somewhat normally with Jenny, but he categorically refused to discuss anything to do with the children.
Jenny had tried to bring up Buffy one evening. Though Rupert had helped her out financially, she felt they should do more to reacquaint her with living, especially after the confirmation that she had been in hell. All she had gotten in response was ‘Buffy is quite capable of taking care of herself.’ She didn’t know how to reach him anymore.
She tried to support both Dawn and Buffy, despite Rupert’s belief they were capable of doing so themselves. The distance he had put between himself and the kids was starting to come between them too, and though she was often around the Summers’ girls, she felt incredibly alone.
Every morning, Jenny went to Revello Drive to make sure they ate breakfast and that Dawn got to school on time. She would have tried actually making them breakfast, except the first and last time she attempted to do so, she nearly burnt the house down.
After her visits to the Summers' house, Jenny would go to the Magic Box and Rupert would pretend that everything was okay, as if Buffy wasn’t falling apart in front of them. She was trying to be mindful of the fact that Rupert was still grieving and processing his feelings, but she was so tired.
At least Xander and Anya’s engagement news and subsequent party provided some momentary relief… until it became clear that Dawn was god knows where. Of course, it ended up being Jenny who had to have a talk with Dawn about her recent activities, as if she didn’t have enough on her plate already! However, Buffy clearly didn’t possess the emotional bandwidth to handle that conversation, and Rupert outright refused. Jenny was worn out from being understanding.
As soon as they made it home, Jenny decided that they had to talk.
“You couldn’t have helped me out there, huh Rupert?” She thought about playing it off as a joke, but the time for that had passed, so she allowed it to sound as angry as she was.
Rupert regarded her for a moment.
“I think we should move to England.”
Jenny’s anger deflated, becoming replaced with confusion.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes. Buffy needs to learn how to take care of her own problems. As long as we are here, she won’t do that. We are standing in her way.” It was the way he said it that reignited Jenny’s anger, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and she was stupid for not seeing it.
“So you just want to abandon her? She needs help!” She could hear her own voice growing louder with each word. “And what about Dawn? And the others-”
“What about them? Come on, Jenny. They don’t need us, and honestly? I am surprised that you do not see that. They are overly reliant upon us, and newfound your emotional attachment is blinding you to the fact-”
Without raising his voice he had managed to infuriate her even more. How dared he minimize five years of getting to know those kids to some novelty? She interrupted him before he could finish.
“As opposed to the past five years of you being too involved with those kids?”
“Yes! And that is precisely why Buffy died! If I had not gotten involved, if you had not pushed for me to get involved, then perhaps I could have been a better watcher, prepared Buffy better, and then she wouldn’t have died!” Jenny could see the moment Rupert realised what he had just said, his face contorting slightly with guilt.
“So it's my fault that Buffy died?” Rupert looked momentarily horrified.
“Jenny, of course I did not–” Jenny didn’t let him finish, didn’t want him to finish.
“Whatever. You can sleep on the couch tonight.”
Jenny left before he could answer her. Hastily making her way up the stairs, she collapsed as soon as she reached the bed, and buried her face into the pillow so that Rupert wouldn’t hear her crying.
It wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but Jenny spent the rest of the week avoiding Rupert. Although he also did not seem particularly inclined to continue their argument.
Most of her time was spent either at the Summers' house or at the Magic Box, busying herself with helping Dawn with her homework or going over inventory reports.
Maybe that was why she was the only one who hadn’t had a musical moment; there simply wasn’t any time for it.
Hours of research did not bring anything useful, and after Tara and Willow left, Jenny thought she might suffocate. She hadn’t spent this much time in close proximity to Rupert since their argument. It didn’t help that Rupert kept on glancing up at her.
“Okay, we’re not getting anywhere here. I think I’m gonna head home and see if there's anything in the books there.” It was a pretty flimsy excuse, but at least no one called her out on it.
Jenny had almost made it to the door when Rupert piped up.
“I think I shall accompany Jenny to– to help her with research, and so forth.”
The last thing that Jenny wanted to do was to make the children aware of their relationship problems, so she reluctantly agreed.
They said nothing to each other on the walk to their apartment, but Jenny could feel that something was coming.
As soon as they had made it through the front door, Rupert began to sing with an invisible orchestra backing him up. She used to love hearing him sing, but now it just made her mad. There was something about him needing support, needing her by his side. Had he not noticed all that she had done for him after Buffy died?
Jenny started to feel the urge to sing. Her line in this duet was coming up, but she wanted no part in it. For months she had pushed her feelings down, refusing to acknowledge them and reverting to the persona she had inhabited before Sunnydale. This would not be how they came out. She called to whatever latent magical ability that remained within her, and mercifully, she stayed silent.
The music stopped abruptly, as if pausing a movie. It was jarring. They stared at each other for a moment, with Jenny trying to figure out what he was thinking. Previously, she could look at him and she would just know, always in sync with him. That was long gone.
They said nothing to each other for the rest of the evening, and Rupert was already gone by the time Jenny woke up the next morning. He had left a pot of coffee on for her in the kitchen. She wondered if it was some attempt at an apology.
She considered heading to the Magic Box, but decided against it. She couldn’t focus around Rupert, so would be of no help in the research department. Instead, she went to her computer to try and figure out what was going on.
Jenny stayed there until her eyes started to go blurry. Finally deciding to brave seeing Rupert, she left the apartment, hoping that there had been some sort of breakthrough at the Magic Box.
Still, she took the long way there to gather her thoughts.
Reaching the store, she spotted Rupert by the door to the training room. Jenny pointedly refused to look at him, choosing to start leafing through some of the books instead.
They didn’t get any answers until after the others appeared. Spike made his usual brash entrance, tugging a Pinocchio lookalike in with him.
Dawn was in danger, of course. Jenny wanted to bang her head against a wall.
“So, Dawn’s in trouble. Must be Tuesday.” It wasn’t what Buffy said, but rather how she said it that worried Jenny. It sounded resigned.
Jenny was barely following the conversation, occupied by the running list of things that concerned her. Tara’s emphatic rejection of Willow’s idea to use magic brought her back to the moment. Something was going on there, and Jenny had no idea where it came from. How much had she missed, spending all of her energy on Rupert?
She didn’t have much time to contemplate that until the man of the moment was asking to be throttled.
“Wait, Rupert, are you serious? You’re really not going to help her?” He had the nerve to look surprised at her outburst.
“Buffy is perfectly well-equipped to deal with this herself.”
“Just because she can doesn’t mean she should. I’ll come with you, Buffy, if you want me to?” She deliberately turned her back on Rupert when she asked.
Buffy answered her in a small voice that Jenny hadn’t heard since she was a teenager.
“Okay.”
Jenny was the only one who walked out with Buffy. She felt the urge to sing again as they made their way towards the Bronze. This time, she didn’t stop it. She was so tired of holding everything in.
It wasn’t until they reached the factory that Jenny realised how foolish she had been. She didn’t regret supporting Buffy, but she was probably the least useful person to her right now. Jenny couldn’t do magic, and she couldn’t fight; she was decent with a sword, but she hadn’t thought to bring one.
Buffy seemed to have had the same realization as her. “Go towards the edge of the room and see if you can get to Dawn while I occupy the henchmen.”
Not for the first time, Jenny felt useless. At least the rest of the gang seemed to have regained some of their common sense, Jenny thought, as they burst into the Bronze. There might be hope for them - for Rupert - yet.
Then Buffy began to sing. Jenny could feel dread pooling in her stomach the longer the song went on. The pessimism, the loneliness… Jenny wished she didn’t relate to it.
“I think I was in heaven.”
Jenny froze. She had suspected that there was something she wasn’t telling them, but this? This was something else entirely. She glanced towards Rupert, trying to gauge his reaction. All she could see in his face was shock.
Everything was tense after Buffy’s reveal. Not just between Jenny and Rupert, but also between the kids. They hadn’t said anything outright to Jenny, but it was hard not to notice the newfound awkwardness and the guilt they seemed to carry.
At least Rupert had not brought up the England thing again. Jenny hoped that the realisation that Buffy had been in heaven had knocked some sense into his thick skull.
Sitting down on the sofa, Jenny was sifting through some computer parts that she planned to use for a project. It was nice to get her mind off things.
“Jenny, there’s something I need to tell you,” Rupert said, emerging from the kitchen. Of course, he would interrupt the only time she’d had to herself in weeks. Foregoing an answer, Jenny just looked up at him expectantly. For once, he took the hint.
“I have booked plane tickets to England. I am leaving in two days. There is one for you as well, should you wish to join me.” It was as if he had slapped her in the face. After everything that had happened, he still wished to leave?
“You have got to be fucking kidding me, Rupert.” Jenny had intended anger, but her words only sounded resigned. She hated how the last few months had changed her.
“I– I still believe that this is the right course of action. The children are relying on us too much. They will never progress as long as we are here,” Rupert said, at least having enough sense to look a little guilty.
“Well, maybe they don’t need to progress right now. Did you think about that, huh, Rupert? Buffy has been ripped from heaven by her best friends, and they are all dealing with an insane amount of guilt. Willow is clearly having issues with magic, and Dawn is just fifteen, and you just want to leave? Jet off to another continent? That is the most selfish thing you could do right now,” Jenny shouted at him. He had the nerve to appear surprised at what she said.
“It is not selfish if it is the right thing to do. It is for their own good, Jenny, how can you not see that?” Rupert yelled back. It was the most emotion she had seen from him since Buffy returned.
“I think things just got too hard for you, and instead of facing it, you want an out!”
“Well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you? Tell me, how many times have you considered leaving, Janna?” She had seen Rupert’s cruel side before, but never had it been directed at her.
“You know what? Fine, leave! You can tell the kids tomorrow, but I want no part in this.”
Jenny didn’t wait for his response; she just turned and walked towards the door, grabbing her car keys on her way out. Quickly, so that Rupert wouldn’t follow her, Jenny got into her car and drove away.
It didn’t occur to her until she was three blocks away that she had no idea where she was heading. She couldn’t go to the Summers’ house or to Xander’s apartment without the risk of running into Rupert, and he was the last person she wanted to be around right now. The only other option was to get a room at the one shitty motel that Sunnydale had.
Unsurprisingly, there were plenty of beds available at the motel. Jenny just told them to give her any room they wanted; she was too exhausted to care at this point. Once she had made it to the room they gave her, Jenny just laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling. All of the anger that had carried her to the motel left her, leaving her just feeling empty. Great fucking job, Janna, was all she could think.
After what might have been hours, Jenny realised that she probably should call the Summers’ household just to inform them that she wouldn’t be coming around the next morning. In a town like Sunnydale, their thoughts were more likely to go to murder rather than ‘ran away from an argument with her husband.’
“The Summers’ household, this is Dawn speaking.”
“Hey Dawn, it's Jenny. I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be coming tomorrow morning. Are you okay getting to school on your own?”
“Is everything okay?” Dawn asked her. Jenny really hadn’t thought this one through.
“Oh yeah, I just needed to get out of town to find this thing for the Magic Box. I should be back tomorrow, though!” Jenny deliberately tried to keep her tone light, but she was not sure if she managed to.
“Okay! But you’ll come by the next morning, right?” Dawn asked with just a hint of worry in her voice.
“Of course! Bye!” Jenny rushed to say before hanging up. The less the kids knew about this mess between her and Rupert, the better.
Jenny spent the rest of the night drifting in and out of sleep. She kept dreaming of Rupert. She hated his stupid, beautiful face.
She had hoped that she would wake up the next morning with some clarity on how to approach the situation, but she had no such luck. Deciding to get a cup of coffee or two instead of thinking about Rupert, she made her way to the coffee machine in the lobby. It had the same acrid taste that the coffee in Sunnydale High had.
Returning to her room, she pondered going back to the apartment to try and reason with Rupert before he broke the news to the kids. But the months of taking care of Rupert had taken their toll, and she didn’t have the energy to deal with another one of his crises. It was unfair to the kids, she knew that, but at the moment she couldn’t find it in herself to care. She would be there for them, later, once Rupert was gone. With that in mind, she went back to bed.
The next time Jenny woke up, it was already dark outside. Her back was hurting from the motel bed, and she felt grimy from having slept in her clothes. She didn’t want to spend another night in the same outfit, but also wasn’t ready to face Rupert. Thankfully, she kept some spare clothes at the Magic Box after an unfortunate incident where Xander had spilled a jar of Eye of Newt all over her.
It was probably late enough that Rupert had left the store by now. Regardless, the risk of running into him was much lower at the Magic Box than at their apartment. Jenny grabbed her keys and went to her car.
She parked a bit away from the shop, deciding that some fresh air might do her good. Definitely reckless at this hour in Sunnydale, but Jenny found herself not caring in the slightest.
Jenny was a block away from the Magic Box when she saw a familiar figure rushing towards her. Tara didn’t seem to have noticed her, moving with a sense of urgency that Jenny hadn’t seen from her before. Once she was close enough, Jenny could see the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Tara! Tara, hey, what happened?” Jenny said right as Tara was about to collide with her. Tara noticed her only then and seemed to try and gather herself.
“I– um, Willow and I we– we had an argument and she tried to erase mine and Buffy’s memories, but something went wrong and we all lost our memories. It’s fine now, but I need to go and get my things from the house. I can’t stay there right now,” Tara said, the words pouring out of her. Jenny stood frozen for a moment. She had noticed that something was going on with Willow and her magic, but a memory spell was beyond what she had imagined Willow capable of. That wasn’t just overreliance on magic; it was a violation of magic.
“Tara, you shouldn’t go there alone, okay? My car is two blocks from here. Why don’t I drive you, and we can talk some more about this on the way?”
Tara didn’t say anything in response; she just nodded while the tears continued to stream down her cheeks.
It didn’t take too long to get Tara’s stuff, and Jenny found out more about what had happened from Dawn. Jenny cursed herself for her selfishness. If she hadn’t been so focused on avoiding Rupert, she would have been there, and then maybe it wouldn’t have happened.
Jenny asked Tara if she had anywhere to stay once they were back in the car. Tara directed her to an apartment building where a friend of hers from college lived. Before Jenny left, she pulled Tara in for a hug.
“If you need anything, I’ll be there, okay?”
“Thank you, Ms. Calendar,” Tara whispered into her hair.
Pulling away from the hug, Jenny regarded Tara with a smile. “You know you can call me Jenny, right?”
“Okay, Ms. Cal– I mean Jenny,” Tara answered, returning her smile.
Once back in her car, Jenny had a decision to make. She could either return to the motel or she could go back home. Jenny was done avoiding Rupert.
Rupert was already in bed by the time Jenny got home. She padded up the stairs to their bedroom and finally changed out of her clothes. Crawling into bed, she laid down beside him.
“I’m really mad at you.”
“I know,” was all Rupert said.
“Good,” Jenny said as she turned towards Rupert and cuddled into his side. He held her back.
Jenny kept her gaze on Rupert the next morning as he packed the last of his things.
“It’s not too late for you to come with me, Jenny.”
“We both know that is not going to happen.”
A few hours after Rupert had left, Jenny found herself sitting on the couch staring at old photos. Her favourite was of them on the porch at Revello Drive, arms wrapped around each other. Jenny was in the middle of saying something and Rupert was looking at her with a bright smile, eyes crinkling at the edges. She tried to remember what she had said, but came up empty.
They had worked so hard to reach a point where they could talk about their problems, but now it was all gone. Jenny desperately missed Rupert, but she didn't know how to forgive him.
Just as Jenny was about to head up to bed, there was a knock on the door. For one moment, Jenny hoped that it was Rupert, that he had changed his mind and was back. Jenny had never allowed herself to miss someone this much before, and she hated herself a little for it.
It wasn’t Rupert.
“Buffy, hey. Is something wrong?” Buffy did not answer her; instead, she just stared at Jenny. Jenny moved aside, extending a silent invitation for Buffy to enter.
Unsteadily, Buffy made her way towards the couch with Jenny following suit. It seemed like Buffy had been drinking. As was typical for their interactions since Angelus, there was an air of awkwardness between them as they sat side by side. Then Jenny tried again, speaking as softly as she could:
“Buffy, is everything okay?”
It made her cringe; she had never been good at this kind of stuff. Rupert was always the go-to. But then again, Rupert wasn't there anymore.
“Why didn’t you leave with Giles? I mean, you married him and everything.”
Jenny took a deep breath. She had no idea how to approach this, how honest she should be.
“All my life, I have run as soon as things got tough. I never knew how to deal with hard stuff, so I just didn’t.” Jenny glanced at Buffy, trying to sense how she was taking this. Her eyes were a little unfocused, but she was looking at Jenny, clearly paying attention.
“Then I came to Sunnydale, and I met Rupert and you kids. I got involved, I started caring. I thought about leaving, after Eyghon and after Angelus, but then I would look at all of you guys and I would think about what it would do to you if I left without a word, without an explanation. I couldn’t do that to you. I wanted to stay, no matter how hard it was. It’s the same now.” Jenny had to take a moment to collect herself before she continued. She had never told anyone this, not even Rupert.
“This is my home. I don’t want to leave, even if it is difficult.” Jenny had never really had a home, just a place to sleep and to keep her things. She hadn’t even realised that is what Sunnydale had become until she said it out loud.
Suddenly, Buffy burst into tears. “I’m so sorry!”
Too surprised to remember that they didn’t even know each other that well, Jenny pulled Buffy into a hug. It felt a little awkward. “What do you have to be sorry about?”
“I– all this time I thought that you were just here because– because Giles was here. I didn’t know that you cared! I always thought that if things got too hard, you would just go. I didn’t expect you to stay and Giles to leave.”
Jenny didn’t know what to say to that, so she just continued holding her.
“Why did he leave?” Buffy said it like a small child would, frightened and searching for comfort. Jenny found herself, for the first time, hating Rupert a little.
“I think that losing a child, it– it changes you. Rupert loves you. I just don’t think he knows how to deal with all of this right now.”
Buffy didn’t say anything in response, but she continued letting Jenny hold her. She supposed that that was a good sign.
Jenny wasn’t sure how long they stayed on the couch, but eventually she heard Buffy’s breathing even out. Slowly, she untangled herself from Buffy, so as not to wake her. She rose from the couch and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around Buffy and then heading upstairs. As she laid down in bed, she tried not to think about the empty space next to her.
Buffy was still asleep by the time that Jenny got up the next morning. She almost started making a cup of tea before she remembered Rupert wasn’t there anymore. Moving towards the lump under the blanket that was Buffy, Jenny put her hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, Buffy,” the girl in question startled a bit at Jenny’s touch. “I need to go to the Magic Box soon. You can stay here for as long as you want. There’s coffee available.”
“Coffee sounds nice,” said Buffy, sounding only slightly more awake than she was a second ago.
Jenny poured a cup for both herself and Buffy, making sure to put copious amounts of milk and sugar in Buffy’s cup. She may not be (have been?) particularly close with Buffy, but she had known the girl long enough to know that she had a sweet tooth.
Walking towards the kitchen table where Buffy sat, Jenny placed the sugary cup next to her.
“Thanks,” Buffy said as she brought the mug to her lips. There was a look of surprise on her face as she took her first sip of the coffee, “I didn’t know that you knew how I take my coffee.”
“I pay attention,” was all Jenny said in return. The silence that followed was no longer awkward, it was companionable. It reminded Jenny of Rupert.
Nothing more was said before their goodbyes as Jenny left to get to the Magic Box. She hoped that Anya wouldn’t say anything about Rupert when she got there, but then again, knowing Anya that might be too big an ask.
“Jenny! I thought you would be in England!” Anya exclaimed, crushing all of Jenny’s hopes with that bright smile of hers. Had it been anyone else, Jenny would have lied. Anya, however, had always seemed to have an aversion to the constraints that politeness imposed on society.
“I really don’t want to talk about this today.”
Anya’s answer just reinforced Jenny’s previous thoughts. “Okay,” she said, still with that brilliant smile.
The rest of the day, and the week, continued in a similar manner. Buffy didn’t come to her apartment again, Jenny wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. They had, after all, been the ones closest to Rupert. Maybe they could have shared their grievances regarding him or something. Anya, thankfully, never made any more references to Rupert after Jenny had asked her not to.
The monotony broke one evening when Jenny came home to a message on her answering machine.
“Hey Jenny, it’s Tara. Um– you said that if I needed someone– someone to talk to that you would be there. Do you have time to get coffee or something tomorrow?”
Jenny didn’t even hesitate before she called Tara back, informing her that they could get lunch at the Espresso Pump the next day. Thus, Jenny found herself sitting opposite a very nervous Tara.
“Have you seen Willow since– since everything went down?” Tara asked after a few minutes of silence.
“Yeah, but we haven’t had the time to talk much,” answered Jenny while chewing on her sandwich. Rupert would be so annoyed with me now, thought Jenny. He had always hated it when she spoke with her mouth full. It brought her a petty sense of satisfaction.
“Do you think she has realised what she’s done yet?” That comment left Jenny feeling disoriented. She took a moment to consider it.
“Like I said, we haven’t talked much yet. But, no, I don’t think so.” Jenny thought about the magic that Willow had used without a second thought earlier that day. “What exactly happened Tara? I know the bare bones of it all, but I feel like there’s more to all of this.”
“She erased my memories, twice, rather than face a difficult conversation. That’s bad enough on its own but after everything with Glory last spring…” Tara trailed off. “I just– I love her so much and she did almost the same thing to me that Glory did. She couldn’t even accept that she had hurt me, she just wanted me to support her no matter what. And she was so upset about bringing Buffy back, she wanted me to comfort her. But, I did the same thing as she did. I felt like I couldn’t be upset because she had more reason than me, you know?”
Jenny wished that she didn’t understand everything that Tara had said as deeply as she did. She had always seen a bit of herself in Willow. The curiosity, the thirst for knowledge, and the approval seeking, that was all Janna. Now she just saw Rupert.
“I get it,” was all Jenny said in response, reaching to hold Tara’s hand. Tara just smiled a little sadly, like she understood all that Jenny had left unsaid.
As they parted and Jenny went back to the Magic Box, she thought that she had to have a conversation with Willow. This couldn’t go unchecked for much longer.
It was Dawn who opened the door.
“Jenny, hey!” she exclaimed.
“Dawn, is Willow home? I need to talk to her,” Jenny said. Dawn seemed to deflate a little at her answer.
“Yeah, she is upstairs, probably doing magic with Amy.”
“Wait, Amy? Amy as in Amy Madison?”
“Mhm, Willow figured out how to turn her into a human again.” Dawn did not seem to find this as shocking as Jenny did. Although, this might be old news to her by this point.
Jenny walked upstairs and could hear two voices laughing behind the door leading to the master bedroom. Opening the door, she saw Willow and a very human Amy sitting on the bed.
“Oh Jenny, look! Amy is all not a rat again!” Willow exclaimed as she saw her.
“I can see that. How are you doing Amy?” Jenny asked, doing her best to keep her expression neutral.
“Besides a craving for rat food? Pretty okay,” Amy answered. Jenny had no idea how to respond to that, so she got to the point instead.
“Could we talk somewhere in private?”
Amy took the hint. She hopped off the bed and made some excuse about being hungry, quickly exiting the room.
“Look Willow, I talked to Tara yesterday,” Jenny said, not having the energy to hedge around the subject. Willow looked hurt, as if Jenny had betrayed her. Jenny continued, “I agree with her. The way you are dealing with magic right now, it can’t be good for you.”
Willow’s hurt look gave way to something darker. “Oh, not you too Jenny. I mean you were the one who taught me magic, you know that I am good at it.”
“It’s not about being good at magic or not, it’s about how you are using it. I know you are very powerful, but you have been crossing some lines recently that should not be crossed.” Jenny tried to remain calm, but it was difficult when Willow clearly did not want to see the problem.
“Well, I think it is about my power. You used to be my teacher, but now I have surpassed you and you can’t deal with that.” Willow’s voice took on an almost petulant tone as she spoke. It reminded Jenny of the way that children argue with each other on the playground.
“Willow, I already told you that is not what I think. I made my peace with my lack of power years ago, I’m not about to take it out on you now,” Jenny said, trying to use her no-nonsense teacher voice that she once was so good at.
“Maybe it’s about Giles then. You have nothing better to do than sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong now that he’s not around to entertain you. Maybe you should get a life that doesn’t revolve around him or us.”
That one hurt. Was she trying harder now that Rupert wasn’t here? Had her loneliness made her desperate for someone to need her? Jenny did not want to know the answer to that.
“Okay, fine. Avoid the issue all you want but don’t come crawling to me once someone gets hurt.” Jenny did not wait for a reaction, instead she rushed out of the house and to her car. At least the car ride home calmed her somewhat.
She knew she had not handled that in the best way, but she had no idea how she could make Willow see what she was doing; especially since Willow clearly did not hold her in high regard anymore.
A few days passed and Jenny couldn’t help but mull over her argument with Willow. She really wished that she hadn’t let her emotions get the best of her, but it was as though the girl had gone out of her way to push her buttons. Trying to be the adult in the situation, Jenny was considering reaching out to resolve the matter when the phone began to ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, um– Dawn is at the hospital. Could you come?” Buffy simultaneously sounded very young and very old.
“Of course. I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Jenny answered, already grabbing her car keys.
She kept running through different scenarios on her way to the hospital. Had Dawn been hurt in a vampire attack? Had she been kidnapped by some sort of demon again? Each scenario she came up with was worse than the last.
Buffy was waiting for her at the entrance. Jenny pulled her into a hug.
“Buffy, what happened?”
“Willow happened. She was getting high off of magic and brought Dawn to her dealer. Things escalated from there.” Jenny felt her stomach drop at Buffy’s answer.
“Oh, god,” was all Jenny managed to say in response.
If she had just continued her talk with Willow instead of running off when things got too personal, then maybe she would have gotten through to her. Maybe Dawn wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Had Rupert been here, he would have handled this much better than Jenny ever could have. Painfully it occurred to her that it would have been better if she had left and he had stayed.
He had always known what to do, what to say. Even in her best moments, Jenny could only ever stumble through emotional intimacy. She had gotten better with Rupert over the years, but not so much with the kids. She doubted there was any way that she could handle their problems without making them worse.
They reached Dawn’s room before Jenny could spiral further. She was sleeping. Jenny had been in the hospital often enough with Rupert to recognize the effect of pain killers.
“Could you stay here with her? I need to go and check on Willow and I don’t want Dawn to be alone if she wakes up while I’m gone,” Buffy said, breaking up Jenny’s thoughts.
“I’ll be here for as long as you need me to be,” Jenny forced out, giving a strained smile.
Buffy paused in the doorway on her way out. “Jenny? I’m really happy that you are here.”
She left before Jenny could say something in return.
Dawn woke up not long after. They ended up having a pretty pleasant evening in the hospital. Jenny stole some jello for them and they watched shitty reality TV until Buffy came back. She left, giving the sisters some privacy. Unfortunately, that meant Jenny was alone with thoughts of her failure once again
Jenny hovered outside of Willow’s door the next day. For so long, Willow had always come to Jenny when she was uncertain of something. She still remembered the awkward talk they had in the living room when Willow had first brought up Tara. The hesitation, the fear, Jenny intimately knew all of that and could stumble her way through a supportive conversation. With magic though, if the last time she touched on the subject had taught her anything, it was that Jenny should not be the one to handle this.
In the end, Jenny realised that she wasn’t making much of a difference at all just standing outside of the door. Willow laid on the bed with dark circles under her eyes. She appeared younger than she was. When Willow noticed her, she just looked at Jenny with a guilty expression; opening her mouth as if to say something and then abruptly closing it again.
Foregoing words, Jenny sat down on the bed next to her and put her hand on Willow’s shoulder. Whatever was holding Willow back seemed to disappear. “I’m so sorry,” Willow said, tears gathering in her eyes.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not! I hurt Dawn! I drove Tara away… and I was so mean to you! How can that be okay?” Jenny’s lingering anger dissipated at how small Willow’s voice sounded. It was hard to stay mad at someone when they were so clearly full of self-loathing.
“Yeah, that was kinda bad,” Jenny said, trying to be lighthearted in order to mask the enduring hurt she felt. “But, you know that it was wrong now and Buffy said that you want to quit. That is a great first step to actually making things right.”
Willow did not say anything in response, she just laid her head down on Jenny’s lap. Maybe Jenny was being too forgiving, but she couldn’t help but blame herself for this. She had been her teacher, she should have noticed the signs and tried to steer Willow in a better direction. Instead, Jenny had put most of her attention on Rupert, leaving the children to drown. Perhaps she was no better than him. It was dawning on Jenny that she may have been physically present, but not emotionally so. That was ending now.
“Buffy said you wanted to remove all of your witch stuff from the house,” Jenny said, pausing for a second until she felt Willow nod. “Then I’ll take it. And maybe I can start teaching you some programming again, go back to the basics and all that.”
“I’d like that,” Willow mumbled into Jenny’s lap.
“Then we’ll do that.”
Things were calm for a while after that. Jonathan, Warren, and Tucker’s brother were up to something, but they were really more of a nuisance than an actual threat. Instead of the usual mortal danger, Jenny’s days were now filled with listening to Anya’s wedding plans, helping Buffy with taking care of Dawn, and teaching Willow computer science. For so long, Jenny had felt that she existed on the periphery of the Scoobies, more of a Scooby-in-law than an actual member. Now, she felt like she actually had a place among them.
Never had she felt that more clearly than at Buffy’s birthday party. Before, Jenny would have mostly hung out in the background with Anya and Tara, occasionally speaking to the rest. So far, Jenny had played poker with Xander, laughed with Buffy about Anya and Xander’s futile matchmaking attempt, and shared smiles with Willow as she tried to bridge the gap with Tara. Jenny never wanted to leave.
As she was moving into the kitchen to get some more snacks, she was cornered by Spike.
“So, you and the slayer seem to have gotten close recently.” Ignoring Jenny’s glare, Spike continued. “Has she said anything about me? C’mon, we used to be flatmates!” Spike’s attempt at nonchalance was laughably bad.
“First of all, you weren’t our roommate, you were our hostage. Second of all, if she had I wouldn’t tell you,” Jenny said, trying to sound stern.
“We had some great times! You, me, and the watcher. Please, give a starving man some food.”
“You stole all of Rupert’s scotch.”
“Like the alcoholic bastard needed it anyway,” Spike answered with a scoff, infuriating Jenny. He had always tried to undermine Rupert. While Spike wasn’t necessarily wrong, Jenny still felt the urge to defend her husband. She may have been angry with Rupert, but she wasn’t about to allow Spike to drag him through the mud. That was for she and she alone to do.
“This conversation is over,” Jenny said, walking back into the living room. She had almost considered leaving, until she remembered the previous camaraderie felt. The night was still young after all.
She really should have figured it out there and then...
By the time it dawned on everyone that they couldn’t leave, Jenny was inwardly cursing herself. It was so obvious that something was happening, and once again Jenny had been so focused on her own emotions that she had missed it.
Jenny busied herself with trying to sense what sort of magic might be keeping them there when she heard Dawn scream. She nearly ran into a sheepish looking Buffy on her way up the stairs to check on Dawn. Jenny shot her a questioning glance.
With a sigh, Buffy answered her silent question. “Dawn was acting shifty earlier, we thought she might have done something. She didn’t take it too well.”
“I could hear that. Do you want me to try and talk to her?”
“Please do,” Buffy said.
Dawn was laying face down on her bed when Jenny entered. It reminded Jenny of herself at that age after fights with Enyos. No one had bothered to check in on Janna.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Jenny asked, sitting down on the edge of Dawn’s bed.
“Like you would listen,” Dawn said with the kind of anger that only a teenage girl could feel.
“You can always talk to me.” Dawn scoffed at that.
“Sure, when you’re not busy with Giles, or Willow, or Buffy. Most of the time you don’t even remember that I exist,” Dawn shot back. It felt like a punch in the gut. Out of all the kids, she thought that she had done best with Dawn. Apparently she had not.
“Dawn–”
“Just go!”
Jenny’s presence clearly wasn’t helping, so she left. Sitting down on the stairs, she let her head drop into her hands. It seemed she could do nothing right.
The floor behind her creaked and she could feel someone sitting down next to her. The familiar scent of cigarettes enveloped her.
“Is the little bit not happy with you?” Spike asked. Jenny lifted her head slightly to glare at him. “I know, stupid question.”
Had it been anyone else, Jenny would have pretended nothing was wrong. But Spike, for all of his faults, had never judged her. Besides, if he did judge her, Jenny did not value his opinion highly enough for it to truly hurt.
“Every time I think I have managed to help one of the kids, it becomes clear that I have neglected another one. I’m not enough; they need more than I can give,” Jenny said.
“Well, you shouldn’t be doing this alone now, should you?” He did not have to spell it out, Jenny knew exactly what he meant. The worst part was that he was right. She didn’t know how to respond to that.
“For what it's worth, I think you are doing fine.” Jenny looked up at Spike, searching for some trace of mockery. She found none.
“Thanks.”
Later, once Halfrek’s spell had been lifted, Jenny kept on thinking about what Dawn had said about feeling alone even when surrounded by people. It put to words exactly what Jenny had felt since Rupert left. Suddenly, she knew what to do, for it was what she wished someone would have done for her.
“How do you guys feel about Chinese for dinner?” Jenny said to Buffy and Dawn once everyone had filtered out of the house.
“I think it sounds yummy,” Dawn answered with a bright smile on her face.
Jenny was on the couch, reading one of Rupert’s Forster books. He had asked her to mail it to him as it hadn’t fit in his luggage. She hadn’t. Petty revenge was all she had against Rupert at the moment and she wasn’t about to give it up.
Suddenly, the front door burst open, startling Jenny.
“Riley is married.”
“Well, hello to you too, Buffy,” Jenny said wryly.
“He just shows up here, looking all married, hunts down a demon and then leaves with his super gorgeous wife,” Buffy exclaimed.
“And?” Jenny asked, prompting Buffy to continue.
Buffy paused for a moment before she answered. “I know you didn’t like Riley–”
“You knew that?” Jenny had thought she had done a good job of hiding her feelings on the matter, especially since she didn’t think it was her place to disapprove of Buffy’s boyfriends.
“You called him Corn Boy,” Buffy shot back. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”
Deciding that she was not getting out of that one, Jenny returned to the subject at hand. “So, Riley is married. I get that he is your ex, but why is it bothering you so much?”
“It’s not that he is married,” Buffy answered with a sigh. “It’s the fact that his life seems so perfect and my life is so… meh.”
“Your life doesn’t seem ‘meh’ to me.”
“That’s because you don’t know everything.”
Jenny looked at her expectantly. She couldn’t help but wonder what other things the kids were dealing with that she had missed.
Buffy took a deep breath. “I applied to continue college at UC Sunnydale. They rejected me. And uh… I’ve been sleeping with Spike.” She glanced away before she said the last part, clearly not wanting to see Jenny’s reaction.
Jenny didn’t know how to feel about it. Spike had shown an ability for compassion in recent years, but she wondered if he was capable of loving Buffy in the way that she deserved, considering he was without his soul. But Buffy was an adult, and after everything she had been through, Jenny would not judge her for where she sought comfort. After all, Jenny herself hadn’t always made the best choice in partner.
“And?” Jenny repeated.
“What do you mean ‘and’? Didn’t you hear? I have been sleeping with Spike. We have been violent with each other. I’ve– I’ve been using him. Aren’t you gonna be mad at me? Call me a skank or something?” Buffy exclaimed.
“Buffy, no. After what you have been through, it's normal to try and get some sort of connection. The only thing that worries me is the violence part,” Jenny said, trying to not say the wrong thing.
“That’s not important,” Buffy answered, not nearly convincing enough.
“I think it is. Look, if you want to sleep with Spike then that is your business. All I am asking is; does he make you happy? Does he make you feel better?”
“No,” Buffy said in a small voice. “I don’t know what to do Jenny.”
Privately, Jenny thought that Buffy probably needed to learn how to be comfortable with herself before embarking on a relationship, whether only sexual or romantic. But that was a realisation she had to come to on her own. Jenny wondered whether that was where she and Rupert had gone wrong. She had never truly learned to accept herself, and she doubted he had either.
“I can’t tell you what to do. That’s for you to decide,” Jenny finally said after a long pause. “However, I’ll support you, no matter what you do.”
Buffy got a determined look, an expression Jenny hadn’t seen on her face since her death. “I think I need to end things with Spike.”
Jenny felt her heart break as she watched Anya walk down the altar with tears streaming down her cheeks, like some sort of sick reversal of the blushing bride. She had hoped that Xander would still go through with the wedding after the demon’s scheme had been revealed. Clearly, Jenny should stop hoping.
The anger she felt when she realised that Xander had left Anya to break the news alone threatened to consume her. Out of all the ways he could have handled it, this might be the worst.
Jenny left her spot by the bridesmaids, meeting Anya in the aisle. “You don’t have to do this, we can leave,” she whispered in her ear.
Anya just stared at her and nodded. She looked like a shell of her former self. Gone were her enthusiasm and her brightness. It made Jenny wonder what she had looked like after Rupert left.
She led Anya away from the altar, steering her towards the room where she had gotten dressed. As soon as the doors closed, she started gasping, as if the act of trying to keep herself composed had starved her of oxygen. Jenny went forward and held her.
After what might have been hours, Anya finally spoke. “How– how did you handle Giles leaving? How could you stand feeling like this?”
The question caught Jenny off guard. She tried to think of what she had done to feel better, but she came up empty. For the first time, it occurred to Jenny that she had not allowed herself to feel anything since Buffy’s death. After Buffy jumped from the tower, Jenny had immersed herself in taking care of Rupert so there was never any time to grieve. Similarly, things had been so chaotic in the months since Rupert left. Any time she started to feel Rupert’s absence, there was always some crisis to attend to, whether demon or scooby related. She doubted that was very healthy, but Jenny had always been the kind of person who avoided thinking too deeply about her emotions.
“I don’t know,” Jenny finally said. She could have tried to come up with some stupid coping mechanism, such as ‘talking about it with friends really helped’, but Anya had always had the uncanny ability to see through whatever bullshit people threw her way.
“I think I need to be alone now,” Anya said.
No one remained at the venue so Jenny had no choice but to go home. The pit in her stomach seemed to grow the closer she got to the apartment until finally it burst. For the first time since Buffy’s death, Jenny allowed herself to grieve. She wept for her marriage, for the loneliness she had felt; and for the fact that every time Jenny thought she was finally happy, life threw a curveball.
She couldn’t face the empty bed after that, so she slept on the couch.
Jenny stood outside Xander’s door with a kind of self-righteous anger she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager. Even with all of that anger coursing through her veins, Jenny still couldn’t bring herself to knock on the door.
Eventually, she managed. Xander looked awful. Dark circles marred his eyes and he clearly had not shaved since the wedding-that-wasn’t. He didn’t say a word to Jenny, he simply stood aside, extending a silent invitation for her to enter.
“You’re here to talk about Anya,” Xander said once Jenny had entered the apartment. There was a resigned note to the statement, as if he had been expecting her.
“Of course I am,” Jenny responded somewhat testily. “Xander, how could you do that to her?”
“I didn’t want to hurt her.”
“Yeah, well you did,” Jenny shot back. “You don’t just walk out on someone you love like that. If marriage wasn’t right for you, that’s fine! But then talk to your partner about it. You don’t just leave without a conversation, letting her tell everyone.”
“Don’t make this about Giles,” Xander said in response.
“It’s not about Rupert, it's about you.”
“Really? Can you honestly say that you would be this mad if Giles also hadn’t left you?” The question knocked the anger out of Jenny. She had no idea what answer he wanted her to give. Luckily, Xander continued.
“I called off the wedding because I don’t want to be the kind of husband that my dad is. But I always looked at you and Giles and thought ‘that’s a couple that makes marriage work’. Then Giles left. He really screwed you over Jenny, did you honestly think I didn’t notice that?”
Jenny had actually thought that she had managed to hide how badly she had been dealing. Xander took Jenny’s silence for the answer that it was.
“You were running yourself into the ground taking care of him after Buffy died. The others may not have noticed, but I did. After he left, you threw yourself into caring for all of us. I don’t want to be the kind of husband that my dad and Giles are, but I don’t know any other way to be a husband.”
Out of everyone, Xander was the person that Jenny had least expected to pick up on her inner turmoil. And yet, here he was: able to pinpoint the issues that Jenny hadn’t let herself think about until recently.
It pushed her over the edge and Jenny collapsed into sobs on Xander’s couch. Perhaps she was still raw from her breakdown after the wedding and Xander’s comment was akin to picking at a scab until it started bleeding again.
Xander stood in front of her awkwardly for a while, obviously uncertain about what to do. It occurred to Jenny that she had never once cried in front of the kids. Eventually, he sat down next to her. He hugged her until she stopped crying.
“You need to tell Anya what you told me,” Jenny said before she left.
“I know.”
During the days after her confrontation with Xander, Jenny wanted to bury herself under the covers and not come out until she felt better. Per usual, however, life went on regardless of her feelings and Jenny had things to do.
Anya had yet to reemerge after the wedding, having only called Jenny to inform her that she would need a few days off. This left Jenny as the sole person in charge of the Magic Box. More importantly, Buffy seemed to have finally gotten out of the dark place that her resurrection had left her in and Dawn was opening up again. Jenny could not leave them to wallow in self-pity.
She did allow herself to reflect on the state of her relationship with Rupert during the afternoon lull at the Magic Box. They’d had next to no contact with each other for months now. The exception was the flowers Rupert had sent for Valentine’s Day. Jenny had burned them, along with the card, too angry to do anything else.
She still loved him, she knew that. Jenny didn’t think that she had it in her to stop loving him at this point, no matter how much he messed up. Beyond the love, there was a complicated swirl of emotions that Jenny couldn’t untangle. Some of it was due to the fact that Jenny had categorically refused to think about it since he left. That unfortunately meant that now that she was somewhat ready to process it, her emotions had merged, making it impossible to discern one from the other.
There was anger, certainly, and some antipathy. Definitely some hurt and grief as well. Jenny had no idea how to move on from them. She knew that if she called Rupert he would answer, but there was an all more present fear that he wanted nothing to do with her. He was the one who had left her, after all.
Jenny wished they could be more like Tara and Willow, who had finally started talking about their issues and who Jenny suspected were close to working through them as well. But then again, Jenny and Rupert had never been that great at communicating, even at their best.
The Summers’ house was eerily empty, especially for this time of day. Jenny wondered if they had forgotten the standing dinner plans they had started having after Buffy’s birthday. Considering the town that they lived in, Jenny feared that it was more likely that something bad had happened.
“Buffy? Dawn?” Jenny called out, hoping someone was home. Everything in Jenny was screaming that something was wrong. She had no idea what.
Carefully, Jenny began to go through the house to try and figure out what was going on. Nothing noteworthy stood out to Jenny until she made it to Willow’s bedroom. What she found there made her want to throw up.
Spread out on the floor was Tara with a large red stain across her shirt. She wasn’t breathing. Dawn was sitting in the corner, staring at the body with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Dawn,” Jenny said, moving so that she was crouched next to her. She tucked Dawn’s hair behind her ears.
“I found her like this. I didn’t want her to be alone.” That nearly made Jenny break down, but she couldn’t now. Not when Dawn so clearly needed someone to be an adult.
“Come on, let’s go downstairs and call Buffy.” At Dawn’s wide-eyed look Jenny added, “I’ll take care of this.”
Keeping her arm around Dawn, they walked downstairs. Once they had reached the bottom, the front door opened.
“Buffy, Tara is–” Jenny started to say.
“Dead. I know.”
Some part of Jenny wished that she could be mad at Willow for the path she had taken, but Jenny was only worried. Vengeance was a thing that tore someone apart. She did not want that for Willow. Based on what she had seen so far this evening, Jenny feared that it might already be too late.
She couldn’t fault Willow for killing Warren. Maybe that made her a bad person, but Jenny had always preferred not to dwell on such thoughts. The onslaught that she was currently watching though? That changed everything. The Willow that Jenny knew and loved would never attack Buffy like this. But then again, grief changes someone.
Jenny went back to focusing on the spell she was helping Anya with, not having the stomach to watch the fight anymore. Suddenly, Jenny was thrown against a wall. Willow was standing in front of her and Anya. For a moment Jenny thought, this is how I die.
As suddenly as she had appeared, Willow was yanked towards the other end of the shop. Looking for the source of whatever had managed to subdue Willow, Jenny saw him. Rupert.
The world seemed to fade around her, leaving only her and Rupert. For months, Jenny had been rotating between anger, sadness, and numbness because of him and now he was back.
He seemed different from the last time she had seen him. Not physically, but his demeanor. There was a lightness to him that had been absent since Buffy had died. As he hugged Buffy and Anya, Jenny also noticed that the distance he had cultivated seemed to have dissipated. There was a pang of self-loathing when Jenny realised that Rupert had begun to heal away from her. Had she been the one holding him back all this time?
Rupert noticed her then, and a guilty expression crossed his face. “Jenny,” he said, staring at her.
Knowing that it was not the time to express months of confusion, Jenny responded in kind. “Rupert.”
Jenny tried to listen as Rupert explained how he knew what was going on and how he had gotten magic, but it felt as if she was being pulled in and out of consciousness. She briefly wondered if she had a concussion or if it was the stress of the day catching up to her.
Eventually, Rupert and Buffy went to the training room, leaving Jenny and Anya alone with Willow. For lack of anything else to do, Jenny began trying to clean up what remained of the Magic Box.
There was a moment where Jenny thought she had heard Anya’s voice, but as she turned to look at her, there was no indication that Anya had said anything. Strange.
Jenny dismissed it for an illusion: a combination of stress and getting thrown into walls taking its toll, perhaps? Returning to her work, Jenny had little time to make sense of what followed. A dark flash, a heavy blow upon her head, and then there was nothing…
Jenny woke up with a pounding headache, unsure of where she was for a moment. Blinking slowly, she took in the state that the Magic Box was in. No doubt that it was Willow’s work.
That was when she spotted them. Anya was kneeling over Rupert, who laid limp on the steps leading to the entrance. For a horrible moment, Jenny thought that he was dead. Then she saw the slow rise of his chest.
Ignoring the pain she was in, Jenny pushed herself to her feet. Anya noticed her first.
“Jenny, you’re awake!”
“Anya, what’s going on?” Jenny asked.
“I don’t have time to explain, I need to warn Buffy. Will you stay with him? I didn’t want to leave him alone.”
“Of course,” Jenny responded. She replaced Anya at Rupert’s side after she had teleported away. Rupert’s breathing was ragged.
“I’m here Rupert,” was all Jenny could think of to say.
“Jenny,” he rasped out, “I don’t think I have much time left.”
“No! You can’t show up here after months of silence and then die!” Jenny said, feeling tears start to well up in her eyes. “There’s so much I need to say to you,” she quietly added.
Rupert took her hand, a silent invitation to tell him. But how could she express all of her hurt and anger in what were likely going to be his last moments?
“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” Jenny asked instead, hoping some part of Rupert had gained insight.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do. It killed me to watch you fall apart after Buffy. I needed you but I was fine with taking care of you because I love you. And then you left, you didn’t even properly talk to me about it. So I was left alone trying to help all of the kids.” Jenny had to pause to catch her breath and to try and stop the tears from falling. “Do you have any idea how lonely it’s been? How tired I have been? I didn’t even know if you still wanted to be with me.”
Rupert looked surprised at the last part. “Jenny, how could you possibly think that I did not want to be with you?” He asked.
“Then what the hell was I supposed to think?”
“I have been a fool. I realised my mistake as soon as I landed in England,” Rupert said, not answering her question.
“Why didn’t you come back?”
“I was too scared.” Jenny hated him a little bit then. For months Jenny had been hoping that Rupert would come back and apologise, but he hadn’t out of fear. As if Jenny hadn’t been scared of messing up every single day.
She wouldn’t tell him that, not now. Instead, she held his hand as the world shook around them and his breathing got worse. Eventually, the ground beneath them calmed. She looked over at Rupert, who was slowly easing himself off the floor.
“It worked,” he breathed out.
“You’re not dead.” A stupid statement, no doubt, but that was all Jenny could think about.
“It appears I am not.”
Giving in to her impulses, Jenny leaned down and pulled him in for a kiss. It was the first time they properly kissed since Buffy died, and Jenny wanted to savour it. Rupert broke the kiss with a hiss.
“I may not be dead, but I am still quite injured,” he said.
“Come on, let’s get you home,” Jenny said, pulling him up to his feet. He leaned heavily on her as they left the ruined Magic Box behind them.
Afterwards, when both Jenny and Rupert were spent and tangled up in their sheets, Jenny knew what she had to do, how to move forward. She couldn’t live in this in-between forever.
“Rupert? I think I want a divorce.”
Rupert just looked at her with understanding.
“I will call my solicitor tomorrow.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77332796/chapters/202464531 | {"authors": ["lilyelisabeth"], "language": "English", "title": "Everybody Scream"} |
Great Expectations
"A C? Really?"
Daisuke stared at the floor, hands in his pockets, as his mother peered over the paper.
"Daisuke, what happened? You're smarter than this," she muttered, waving out the paper with a sharpflapas she readjusted her reading glasses. "I know you are. So did you not just try? Did you not study?"
"I studied," Daisuke mumbled, continuing to avoid her eyes.Just not nearly as much as I probably should have.
His mother let out a slow hiss of displeasure, and handed the paper back to him. "We'll see what your father thinks of this when he gets home. Now, go study. You clearly need it."
Daisuke took the paper and shuffled away to his room, feeling for all the world like he was six again- even though he was almost three times that now. Dread still curled in his stomach at the thought of his father's gaze joining his mother's in harmonious disapproval.
He certainly wouldn't miss this when he graduated.
"No."
Swansea's groan drifted through the air, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Daisuke knelt by one of the breaker panels, clumsily reattaching one of the wires. "Uh- this one, then? The red one?"
"No."
"This one? Blue?"
There was a beat of silence, and when Daisuke looked up, Swansea had folded his arms again. "Try it and see, teenybopper."
Daisuke swallowed-that couldn't mean anything good, could it?- and disconnected the blue wire.
From down the hall where the doors to the Medbay were, a short scream. Daisuke stiffened, fumbling to put it back. "Ack- what'd I do?!"
Swansea snorted and leaned around the corner, listening to a faint crash from inside the infirmary. “Disconnected electricity in Medbay, is what ya did.”
“Shit, shit-“ Daisuke swallowed, finally reconnecting it as the Medbay doors hissed open and Anya stumbled out of the pitch-black room. “Sorry, I’m sorry, Anya!”
Anya blinked and looked over at him, evidently putting the pieces together, and sighed. “Maybe a warning next time, Daisuke.”
“I will, sorry…” the lights flickered back on in the Medbay, and Daisuke sighed with relief.
“For yer information, kid, it’s the white wire right there,” Swansea muttered, leaning down to point at it. “That’s what yer looking for.”
“Right…” Daisuke’s shoulders slumped.Of course it’s that one, stupid.
He would never stop feeling like a foolish child, would he?
He couldn’t wait for the day he was like Swansea. Smart and strong- though he’d definitely have a better sense of style than the old man.
It’d come one of these days. | Great Expectations
"A C? Really?"
Daisuke stared at the floor, hands in his pockets, as his mother peered over the paper.
"Daisuke, what happened? You're smarter than this," she muttered, waving out the paper with a sharpflapas she readjusted her reading glasses. "I know you are. So did you not just try? Did you not study?"
"I studied," Daisuke mumbled, continuing to avoid her eyes.Just not nearly as much as I probably should have.
His mother let out a slow hiss of displeasure, and handed the paper back to him. "We'll see what your father thinks of this when he gets home. Now, go study. You clearly need it."
Daisuke took the paper and shuffled away to his room, feeling for all the world like he was six again- even though he was almost three times that now. Dread still curled in his stomach at the thought of his father's gaze joining his mother's in harmonious disapproval.
He certainly wouldn't miss this when he graduated.
"No."
Swansea's groan drifted through the air, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Daisuke knelt by one of the breaker panels, clumsily reattaching one of the wires. "Uh- this one, then? The red one?"
"No."
"This one? Blue?"
There was a beat of silence, and when Daisuke looked up, Swansea had folded his arms again. "Try it and see, teenybopper."
Daisuke swallowed-that couldn't mean anything good, could it?- and disconnected the blue wire.
From down the hall where the doors to the Medbay were, a short scream. Daisuke stiffened, fumbling to put it back. "Ack- what'd I do?!"
Swansea snorted and leaned around the corner, listening to a faint crash from inside the infirmary. “Disconnected electricity in Medbay, is what ya did.”
“Shit, shit-“ Daisuke swallowed, finally reconnecting it as the Medbay doors hissed open and Anya stumbled out of the pitch-black room. “Sorry, I’m sorry, Anya!”
Anya blinked and looked over at him, evidently putting the pieces together, and sighed. “Maybe a warning next time, Daisuke.”
“I will, sorry…” the lights flickered back on in the Medbay, and Daisuke sighed with relief.
“For yer information, kid, it’s the white wire right there,” Swansea muttered, leaning down to point at it. “That’s what yer looking for.”
“Right…” Daisuke’s shoulders slumped.Of course it’s that one, stupid.
He would never stop feeling like a foolish child, would he?
He couldn’t wait for the day he was like Swansea. Smart and strong- though he’d definitely have a better sense of style than the old man.
It’d come one of these days. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77335401 | {"authors": ["witless_winion1"], "language": "English", "title": "Great Expectations"} |
Conflict of Interest
The plan was simple. Or so it should have been.
It was hard to say no either way. Judy’s already exceptionally hard to refuse, even more so now that she was hunched over the bathtub where her best friend lied dead, her hair draping down and weaving through the blood. A reminder that death leaves a mark deeper than flesh. V had seen a fair share of crime scenes in her life, often being on the wrong side of the gun, but this image was truly something that bound itself to every part of her cyberware.
“You’ll break into the NCPD building after dark when the badges are gone, through the back.” Judy muttered, her voice urgent and colourless. “I’ll hack the terminals for you. Sneak through until you reach the offices. Find everything you can on Evelyn. Documents, files, jack in to everything and anything. I know they have something. I know they knew about Ev and didn’t do anything.”
“And if I don’t find anything?” V asked, worried about the gravity of the mission she was involving herself in. She hated badges, of course, but part of her believed Judy wasn’t looking for the truth so much as someone to blame, and right now, didn’t care who it was.
“Then you look harder. Ev wouldn’t do this, she wouldn’t, she-“
“I know, Judy.” V’s voice softened. “It’s okay. We’ll find something.”
V was worrying her lips were making empty promises she couldn’t keep. She thought back to Jackie, how desperate she was to blame anyone but herself for involving them in that mess. She thought of how much she wanted someone to help her then.
She pushed herself from the bathtub with a newfound strength. She couldn’t save Evelyn, but she could make sure no doll would be at the hands of Woodman again.
11:34pm. Still a lively time for the city that never slept, but just the right time that nobody was on duty at the precinct. V’s footsteps were silent under the hum of the amber street lamps and distant buzz of cheap entertainment. Judy’s breath quivered slightly on comms; worried about not finding anything, but even more worried about finding something.
V got through easier than she expected. Clearly they didn’t give a shit about security, she thought to herself. Or maybe that was Johnny. She was trying desperately hard to ignore that part of her life for now.
She rummaged through the file cabinets, the documents withered with neglect. She reached the file with Evelyn’s name stamped on it carelessly, the ink barely visible. Nothing, just as she feared. No reports. No attachments. Like she didn’t exist.
V barely reached the terminal before the echo of the door slamming open ricocheted from every corner of the room. Shit, V panicked, killing the screen and hiding under the table, scanning the room with her optics, desperately trying to quick hack something, anything. Something had cut off Judy’s connection. Something, no, someone, intercepted.
“Get the fuck up from there, I’m not pulling you out.”
The voice was low and cold, far more controlled and professional than she was used to, which somehow made it worse. V emerged from under the table with her hands in the air, yet her gaze lingered on her gun. Any sudden movement and she’d shoot them dead. She’d done it before.
“Care to explain what you’re doing here?” The voice rung out.
V’s eyes lifted from her side and up to the voice in front of her. She stayed silent.
“I just asked you a question.” The man repeated, walking closer. His broad frame swallowed any lingering light from the agape door behind him, yet lingered just enough to light the NCPD logo stamped on his arm. A badge, she groaned. Least she wouldn’t feel bad killing this one.
“Weird. Didn’t ask me how I got past your high tech security. Oh wait, I didn’t. I did fuck all.” V spat, crossing her arms in an attempt to intimidate him.
“Found you anyway though, didn’t I, smartass?”
V heard a distant “he got you there, dickweed” from Johnny that she did her best to ignore. One asshole at a time, she thought.
She scoffed at the man and narrowed her eyes down his large frame, studying him now, the way his hand hadn’t moved from his holster but wasn’t touching it either. She could tell he was used to criminals squabbling in fear in his presence, but that wasn’t her.
“You here to just talk out of your ass or are you gonna do something?” V taunted. She could just about make out the name on his uniform. Officer River Ward.
River’s eyes darted over to the open cabinets, then back to V. “Sticking your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. Unsuccessfully I assume, as you’re empty handed, and you’re not running.”
“Evelyn Parker.” V said calmly. River’s face dropped.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s confidential.”
“Then how do I know about it?”
River stepped even closer now. His large frame engulfed hers, his shadow eclipsing over her. V attempted to meet his eyes amongst the darkness and noticed his cybereye. He scanned her face, organically. Like he was searching for something his cyberware couldn’t detect.
“You don’t.” River replied, looking down his nose at her. “Best it stays that way too. Official police business, none of your gonk concern.”
“Funny,” V scoffed. “Here I was thinking the case is closed. Gone cold due to lack of evidence. But here we are. Is there something you’re not telling us, Detective?”
River’s jaw tightened. “It’s Officer, and I suggest you walk out of this precinct, before I-“
“Before what? You zero me and cover it up, like everyone else in this fucking city? Like Evelyn?” V interjected without thinking.
Suddenly River’s hands moved from his waist up to V’s wrist, grasping it tight, his fingers practically overlapping each other.
“You have no fucking clue what you’re doing, do you?” River raised his voice now, not caring who could hear. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know Evelyn. Do you have any idea who you’re protecting?”
“I think the better question is do you?” V spat, attempting to free herself from his grip.
“You think this is a fucking game? Trespassing? Opening confidential documents on an active investigation?”
“Active!” V laughed. “That’s hilarious. You took one look at Evelyn, saw she was a doll, not one of your own, ruled her death an “unfortunate suicide” and erased it. How can I open confidential documents that aren’t even there?”
“That’s quite enough.” River growled. “I’m taking you in.”
River flipped V around like she weighed nothing, his grip tightening on her wrist just enough to remind her of his leverage. He unhooked his cuffs from his waistband and snapped them tight around V’s wrists. His body was pressed firm against her back, so much so that his breath sprouted hairs on her neck.
He guided her over to an empty office room, negating every one of her attempts to wiggle free. He’d dealt with criminals as strong as V before, but not quite as smart-mouthed. River shoved her into the office, locking the door behind him, despite it still being the dead of night and nobody else was around.
He turned the light on and turned around to face V again. He hadn’t noticed how young she looked, yet not naive in the slightest. Her eyes had visibly grown weak and tired, like something other than cyberware was messing with her body. Lips that looked like they had learned to beg before they learned to threaten. It saddened him slightly to think that way.
“Fuck are you looking at?” V hissed, breaking River’s scan of her. He sighed and signalled for her to sit down. She didn’t.
“What’s your name?”
“Fuck you.”
“Just work with me here and I’ll let you go.”
V groaned. “V. Just V. Can I go now?”
“Well, Just V, I should arrest you for breaking into this precinct. But you didn’t actually steal anything, which makes me believe you’re not actually a criminal. Just someone who doesn’t know where to stop.”
“Nothing for me to steal.” V responded. “Evelyn was my friend, and I know what happened to her. Think you do too. Just needed something to prove it.”
River reached over to V’s hands to undo the cuffs. “I’m letting you go, under the condition I never find you here again, and you stay away from Evelyn Parker.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then next time, I’m not stopping at cuffs.”
V stared at River for a second, his stern face hardening in place. She could tell this wasn’t a bluff. Something heavy had set in the room suddenly. She promptly left without a word. Without a clue on where to go.
He felt the same. | Conflict of Interest
The plan was simple. Or so it should have been.
It was hard to say no either way. Judy’s already exceptionally hard to refuse, even more so now that she was hunched over the bathtub where her best friend lied dead, her hair draping down and weaving through the blood. A reminder that death leaves a mark deeper than flesh. V had seen a fair share of crime scenes in her life, often being on the wrong side of the gun, but this image was truly something that bound itself to every part of her cyberware.
“You’ll break into the NCPD building after dark when the badges are gone, through the back.” Judy muttered, her voice urgent and colourless. “I’ll hack the terminals for you. Sneak through until you reach the offices. Find everything you can on Evelyn. Documents, files, jack in to everything and anything. I know they have something. I know they knew about Ev and didn’t do anything.”
“And if I don’t find anything?” V asked, worried about the gravity of the mission she was involving herself in. She hated badges, of course, but part of her believed Judy wasn’t looking for the truth so much as someone to blame, and right now, didn’t care who it was.
“Then you look harder. Ev wouldn’t do this, she wouldn’t, she-“
“I know, Judy.” V’s voice softened. “It’s okay. We’ll find something.”
V was worrying her lips were making empty promises she couldn’t keep. She thought back to Jackie, how desperate she was to blame anyone but herself for involving them in that mess. She thought of how much she wanted someone to help her then.
She pushed herself from the bathtub with a newfound strength. She couldn’t save Evelyn, but she could make sure no doll would be at the hands of Woodman again.
11:34pm. Still a lively time for the city that never slept, but just the right time that nobody was on duty at the precinct. V’s footsteps were silent under the hum of the amber street lamps and distant buzz of cheap entertainment. Judy’s breath quivered slightly on comms; worried about not finding anything, but even more worried about finding something.
V got through easier than she expected. Clearly they didn’t give a shit about security, she thought to herself. Or maybe that was Johnny. She was trying desperately hard to ignore that part of her life for now.
She rummaged through the file cabinets, the documents withered with neglect. She reached the file with Evelyn’s name stamped on it carelessly, the ink barely visible. Nothing, just as she feared. No reports. No attachments. Like she didn’t exist.
V barely reached the terminal before the echo of the door slamming open ricocheted from every corner of the room. Shit, V panicked, killing the screen and hiding under the table, scanning the room with her optics, desperately trying to quick hack something, anything. Something had cut off Judy’s connection. Something, no, someone, intercepted.
“Get the fuck up from there, I’m not pulling you out.”
The voice was low and cold, far more controlled and professional than she was used to, which somehow made it worse. V emerged from under the table with her hands in the air, yet her gaze lingered on her gun. Any sudden movement and she’d shoot them dead. She’d done it before.
“Care to explain what you’re doing here?” The voice rung out.
V’s eyes lifted from her side and up to the voice in front of her. She stayed silent.
“I just asked you a question.” The man repeated, walking closer. His broad frame swallowed any lingering light from the agape door behind him, yet lingered just enough to light the NCPD logo stamped on his arm. A badge, she groaned. Least she wouldn’t feel bad killing this one.
“Weird. Didn’t ask me how I got past your high tech security. Oh wait, I didn’t. I did fuck all.” V spat, crossing her arms in an attempt to intimidate him.
“Found you anyway though, didn’t I, smartass?”
V heard a distant “he got you there, dickweed” from Johnny that she did her best to ignore. One asshole at a time, she thought.
She scoffed at the man and narrowed her eyes down his large frame, studying him now, the way his hand hadn’t moved from his holster but wasn’t touching it either. She could tell he was used to criminals squabbling in fear in his presence, but that wasn’t her.
“You here to just talk out of your ass or are you gonna do something?” V taunted. She could just about make out the name on his uniform. Officer River Ward.
River’s eyes darted over to the open cabinets, then back to V. “Sticking your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. Unsuccessfully I assume, as you’re empty handed, and you’re not running.”
“Evelyn Parker.” V said calmly. River’s face dropped.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s confidential.”
“Then how do I know about it?”
River stepped even closer now. His large frame engulfed hers, his shadow eclipsing over her. V attempted to meet his eyes amongst the darkness and noticed his cybereye. He scanned her face, organically. Like he was searching for something his cyberware couldn’t detect.
“You don’t.” River replied, looking down his nose at her. “Best it stays that way too. Official police business, none of your gonk concern.”
“Funny,” V scoffed. “Here I was thinking the case is closed. Gone cold due to lack of evidence. But here we are. Is there something you’re not telling us, Detective?”
River’s jaw tightened. “It’s Officer, and I suggest you walk out of this precinct, before I-“
“Before what? You zero me and cover it up, like everyone else in this fucking city? Like Evelyn?” V interjected without thinking.
Suddenly River’s hands moved from his waist up to V’s wrist, grasping it tight, his fingers practically overlapping each other.
“You have no fucking clue what you’re doing, do you?” River raised his voice now, not caring who could hear. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know Evelyn. Do you have any idea who you’re protecting?”
“I think the better question is do you?” V spat, attempting to free herself from his grip.
“You think this is a fucking game? Trespassing? Opening confidential documents on an active investigation?”
“Active!” V laughed. “That’s hilarious. You took one look at Evelyn, saw she was a doll, not one of your own, ruled her death an “unfortunate suicide” and erased it. How can I open confidential documents that aren’t even there?”
“That’s quite enough.” River growled. “I’m taking you in.”
River flipped V around like she weighed nothing, his grip tightening on her wrist just enough to remind her of his leverage. He unhooked his cuffs from his waistband and snapped them tight around V’s wrists. His body was pressed firm against her back, so much so that his breath sprouted hairs on her neck.
He guided her over to an empty office room, negating every one of her attempts to wiggle free. He’d dealt with criminals as strong as V before, but not quite as smart-mouthed. River shoved her into the office, locking the door behind him, despite it still being the dead of night and nobody else was around.
He turned the light on and turned around to face V again. He hadn’t noticed how young she looked, yet not naive in the slightest. Her eyes had visibly grown weak and tired, like something other than cyberware was messing with her body. Lips that looked like they had learned to beg before they learned to threaten. It saddened him slightly to think that way.
“Fuck are you looking at?” V hissed, breaking River’s scan of her. He sighed and signalled for her to sit down. She didn’t.
“What’s your name?”
“Fuck you.”
“Just work with me here and I’ll let you go.”
V groaned. “V. Just V. Can I go now?”
“Well, Just V, I should arrest you for breaking into this precinct. But you didn’t actually steal anything, which makes me believe you’re not actually a criminal. Just someone who doesn’t know where to stop.”
“Nothing for me to steal.” V responded. “Evelyn was my friend, and I know what happened to her. Think you do too. Just needed something to prove it.”
River reached over to V’s hands to undo the cuffs. “I’m letting you go, under the condition I never find you here again, and you stay away from Evelyn Parker.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then next time, I’m not stopping at cuffs.”
V stared at River for a second, his stern face hardening in place. She could tell this wasn’t a bluff. Something heavy had set in the room suddenly. She promptly left without a word. Without a clue on where to go.
He felt the same. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77332251 | {"authors": ["samuraival"], "language": "English", "title": "Conflict of Interest"} |
Trust No One.
They hide in plain sight. They earn our trust, our sympathy. They make us like them. And when you hesitate, they strike. If we are to survive, we must learn to strike first.
Victoria Hand understood where the younger agent was coming from. Really, she did. All day she had watched respected agents at the Hub turn on S.H.I.E.L.D and reveal themselves as Nazis. All day, she had been testing people, people she thought were allies. She found only five she could trust.
Until those two agents in that room.
Now she had seven.
Jemma Simmons -- Ally.
Antoine Triplett -- Ally.
It was a miracle, really, that Simmons hadn’t been swayed to Hydra while working with Coulson on that plane. On a different day, Hand might’ve been inclined to dock that as evidence towards Coulson’s innocence.
But not today.
Not with friends dead, and her life’s work in shambles.
She couldn’t afford to trust anyone. Least of all him. Especially considering his specialist had shot the wrong man, most likely on purpose.
No, she thought, quelling all emotions before they could be exploited.
She would trust no one.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Any other day, she might’ve allowed herself to feel a bit of pride for how well she’d handled and controlled the situation at the Hub. Pride clouds judgement, however, so instead she simply listened carefully as the traitors conspired in the control room.
And as she listened, the real enemy was quickly revealed.
Hand heavily disapproved of Agent Coulson’s recent actions. He was disorderly.
But seeing him defend the values of S.H.I.E.L.D as Garrett only got more and more bloodthirsty, for her own blood? Watching him get so excited at the thought of killing her that he got sloppy and revealed himself?
Watching all three, ready to die before serving Hydra?
She could be sure.
Phil Coulson -- Ally.
Melinda May -- Ally.
Leo Fitz -- Ally.
Now to go save them before Garrett eliminated more of the only people willing to fight for this.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Hydra ran deep.
More proof, to Hand. Trust no one.
The initial troops she sent to take them in had moles in them. So, as usual, she had to get things done herself.
With Garrett taken into custody and the Hub secure, anyone else may have relaxed. But it ran too deep.
She pulled Agent Coulson aside shortly before heading to the Fridge to put the Clairvoyant away for good.
“He really had you fooled, didn’t he.”
Coulson sighed. “I gave him everything he wanted. He was a friend. Didn’t suspect a thing.”
“He’s going away for good. But we have another problem.”
Coulson’s eyebrows furrowed, then he nodded.
“He was Trip’s SO.”
“Ward’s too. I’ve been testing my agents today, Coulson. It’s been the only way to know who I could trust. Trip was prepared to die before serving Hydra. Ward and Skye have yet to prove themselves.”
“Well Skye was recruited by me. No one could have indoctrinated her into Hydra. And Ward’s been protecting her this whole time, Hand. He almost died.”
“Ward was her SO. Hydra runs deep. You can’t trust anyone.” It sounded cold even to Hand’s own ears, but she couldn’t afford weakness. She couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.
Coulson hesitated. He knew, deep down, that Hand was right, but this was Ward.
“You really think it’s possible?”
“I thought Ward was acting under your orders, when he killed Nash. But he’s Garrett’s man too. And now he’s volunteered to stay very close to him as we head to the Fridge. It’s a possibility we cannot ignore.”
Coulson glanced at Ward, saying goodbye to Skye before takeoff. He looked grim.
“So what do we do?”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Course is locked, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Hand was watching Ward closely. He looked betrayed. Furious.
“I’ve been thinking the Fridge is too comfortable for you, Garrett. Maybe we bury you a little deeper underground.”
Garrett looked too cocky for her tastes. She really was tempted, too. But she had to be smart.
One last test.
“What do you think, Agent Ward? You shot the wrong clairvoyant before. Care to shoot the right one?”
He looked determined. Almost excited, at the prospect of it. As he stood up, Hand thought maybe she was wrong. Coulson would never let that go if she was-
Ward shot at the agent on Garrett’s left, then pointed the gun at the other agent before realizing something was very wrong.
“What-” Ward looked at his gun in confusion, then growing horror.
The agent that had been “shot” recovered quite well, drawing his gun and pointing it at Ward along with the other agent. For the very first time, Garrett looked scared.
Traitor. Hand allowed herself a single, metaphorical pat on the back for her insight before pulling an ICER (she would have to commission Fitz sometime) and pointing.
“It was a blank. One final test of loyalty. Sorry to say, you failed.” She shot him twice and he slumped.
She looked at Garrett again.
“No more cockiness, John?”
He scowled.
She shot him too, for the promise of a quiet ride and for calling her Vic. She wasn’t "Vic."
She was Agent Hand. She wasn’t fun. She was orderly, and smart, and a survivor. She singlehandedly saved the Hub and exposed more than one rat.
She trusted no one.
But the rest of Coulson’s team (with the possible exception of Skye) had proven themselves. When this was all over, perhaps she could start to trust them.
Maybe.
“Cuff the other traitor. Watch them both carefully. I want no more surprises before we reach the Fridge.” She went back to the cockpit to page Agent Coulson and let him know.
She couldn’t wait to put both traitors in tiny boxes where they belonged. | Trust No One.
They hide in plain sight. They earn our trust, our sympathy. They make us like them. And when you hesitate, they strike. If we are to survive, we must learn to strike first.
Victoria Hand understood where the younger agent was coming from. Really, she did. All day she had watched respected agents at the Hub turn on S.H.I.E.L.D and reveal themselves as Nazis. All day, she had been testing people, people she thought were allies. She found only five she could trust.
Until those two agents in that room.
Now she had seven.
Jemma Simmons -- Ally.
Antoine Triplett -- Ally.
It was a miracle, really, that Simmons hadn’t been swayed to Hydra while working with Coulson on that plane. On a different day, Hand might’ve been inclined to dock that as evidence towards Coulson’s innocence.
But not today.
Not with friends dead, and her life’s work in shambles.
She couldn’t afford to trust anyone. Least of all him. Especially considering his specialist had shot the wrong man, most likely on purpose.
No, she thought, quelling all emotions before they could be exploited.
She would trust no one.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Any other day, she might’ve allowed herself to feel a bit of pride for how well she’d handled and controlled the situation at the Hub. Pride clouds judgement, however, so instead she simply listened carefully as the traitors conspired in the control room.
And as she listened, the real enemy was quickly revealed.
Hand heavily disapproved of Agent Coulson’s recent actions. He was disorderly.
But seeing him defend the values of S.H.I.E.L.D as Garrett only got more and more bloodthirsty, for her own blood? Watching him get so excited at the thought of killing her that he got sloppy and revealed himself?
Watching all three, ready to die before serving Hydra?
She could be sure.
Phil Coulson -- Ally.
Melinda May -- Ally.
Leo Fitz -- Ally.
Now to go save them before Garrett eliminated more of the only people willing to fight for this.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Hydra ran deep.
More proof, to Hand. Trust no one.
The initial troops she sent to take them in had moles in them. So, as usual, she had to get things done herself.
With Garrett taken into custody and the Hub secure, anyone else may have relaxed. But it ran too deep.
She pulled Agent Coulson aside shortly before heading to the Fridge to put the Clairvoyant away for good.
“He really had you fooled, didn’t he.”
Coulson sighed. “I gave him everything he wanted. He was a friend. Didn’t suspect a thing.”
“He’s going away for good. But we have another problem.”
Coulson’s eyebrows furrowed, then he nodded.
“He was Trip’s SO.”
“Ward’s too. I’ve been testing my agents today, Coulson. It’s been the only way to know who I could trust. Trip was prepared to die before serving Hydra. Ward and Skye have yet to prove themselves.”
“Well Skye was recruited by me. No one could have indoctrinated her into Hydra. And Ward’s been protecting her this whole time, Hand. He almost died.”
“Ward was her SO. Hydra runs deep. You can’t trust anyone.” It sounded cold even to Hand’s own ears, but she couldn’t afford weakness. She couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.
Coulson hesitated. He knew, deep down, that Hand was right, but this was Ward.
“You really think it’s possible?”
“I thought Ward was acting under your orders, when he killed Nash. But he’s Garrett’s man too. And now he’s volunteered to stay very close to him as we head to the Fridge. It’s a possibility we cannot ignore.”
Coulson glanced at Ward, saying goodbye to Skye before takeoff. He looked grim.
“So what do we do?”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Course is locked, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Hand was watching Ward closely. He looked betrayed. Furious.
“I’ve been thinking the Fridge is too comfortable for you, Garrett. Maybe we bury you a little deeper underground.”
Garrett looked too cocky for her tastes. She really was tempted, too. But she had to be smart.
One last test.
“What do you think, Agent Ward? You shot the wrong clairvoyant before. Care to shoot the right one?”
He looked determined. Almost excited, at the prospect of it. As he stood up, Hand thought maybe she was wrong. Coulson would never let that go if she was-
Ward shot at the agent on Garrett’s left, then pointed the gun at the other agent before realizing something was very wrong.
“What-” Ward looked at his gun in confusion, then growing horror.
The agent that had been “shot” recovered quite well, drawing his gun and pointing it at Ward along with the other agent. For the very first time, Garrett looked scared.
Traitor. Hand allowed herself a single, metaphorical pat on the back for her insight before pulling an ICER (she would have to commission Fitz sometime) and pointing.
“It was a blank. One final test of loyalty. Sorry to say, you failed.” She shot him twice and he slumped.
She looked at Garrett again.
“No more cockiness, John?”
He scowled.
She shot him too, for the promise of a quiet ride and for calling her Vic. She wasn’t "Vic."
She was Agent Hand. She wasn’t fun. She was orderly, and smart, and a survivor. She singlehandedly saved the Hub and exposed more than one rat.
She trusted no one.
But the rest of Coulson’s team (with the possible exception of Skye) had proven themselves. When this was all over, perhaps she could start to trust them.
Maybe.
“Cuff the other traitor. Watch them both carefully. I want no more surprises before we reach the Fridge.” She went back to the cockpit to page Agent Coulson and let him know.
She couldn’t wait to put both traitors in tiny boxes where they belonged. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77334756 | {"authors": ["snowy_bookworm"], "language": "English", "title": "Trust No One."} |
I only paint in red now
Key:
Bold - exaggeration/emphasis
Italics - personal internal thoughts
Underlined - outer internal thoughts
Crossed out - confused/discarded thoughts
[xxx] - character of the POV
(if this doesn’t make sense, just continue reading…)
———
[JOHN]
JOHN COULDN’T SEE ANYTHING. It was all dark.
BAM!
“Augh!” John coughed up blood, and the force of it made him fall to one knee. He had a fit of coughing as he stared at the dark space in front of him.
How many of them are there?
John panted out due to the pain on his side flaring up again, but he ignored it. Hehadto.
Keep going!he told himself.Take down as many as possible! Send them all to hell!
He felt the auras of three soldiers trying to jump him. He quickly dodged and used lasers to break the floor and send them down to floor below.
His mind felt dizzy, and he couldn’t think straight. Then he felt a giant searing on his hurt side, and he collapsed to the ground, coughing. John tried to stand up but could only manage to get up on his hands.
This is it…it all ends here!
Sera…mom…dad…This is for you! For all the suffering they caused us!
John summoned all the willpower and used up the last dredges of his aura to fry all the nearby soldiers with his lightning.
John panted.
Sylvia, you bitch!
He ran forward and thought,I may be going down today BUT YOU’RE COMING WITH ME!
Multicoloured shields protected the seemingly straightforward path to her.
Why isn’t she moving? What is she thinking? WHY IS SHE SMILING?
”FUCK! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”
SPLASH!
Time seemed to slow down. John barely registered anything anymore, just the burning fire that seemed to spread out from his stomach. He faintly realized that something had pierced it.
Shit,he thought.There were…even more of them…
He coughed.
[Flashback]
If you ever feel yourself starting to slip…
Think about all the things you want to accomplish…
Things you want to do in the future, big or small!
[End flashback]
Long term, John thought. I want the world to know what the Bureau did to my dad. | I only paint in red now
Key:
Bold - exaggeration/emphasis
Italics - personal internal thoughts
Underlined - outer internal thoughts
Crossed out - confused/discarded thoughts
[xxx] - character of the POV
(if this doesn’t make sense, just continue reading…)
———
[JOHN]
JOHN COULDN’T SEE ANYTHING. It was all dark.
BAM!
“Augh!” John coughed up blood, and the force of it made him fall to one knee. He had a fit of coughing as he stared at the dark space in front of him.
How many of them are there?
John panted out due to the pain on his side flaring up again, but he ignored it. Hehadto.
Keep going!he told himself.Take down as many as possible! Send them all to hell!
He felt the auras of three soldiers trying to jump him. He quickly dodged and used lasers to break the floor and send them down to floor below.
His mind felt dizzy, and he couldn’t think straight. Then he felt a giant searing on his hurt side, and he collapsed to the ground, coughing. John tried to stand up but could only manage to get up on his hands.
This is it…it all ends here!
Sera…mom…dad…This is for you! For all the suffering they caused us!
John summoned all the willpower and used up the last dredges of his aura to fry all the nearby soldiers with his lightning.
John panted.
Sylvia, you bitch!
He ran forward and thought,I may be going down today BUT YOU’RE COMING WITH ME!
Multicoloured shields protected the seemingly straightforward path to her.
Why isn’t she moving? What is she thinking? WHY IS SHE SMILING?
”FUCK! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”
SPLASH!
Time seemed to slow down. John barely registered anything anymore, just the burning fire that seemed to spread out from his stomach. He faintly realized that something had pierced it.
Shit,he thought.There were…even more of them…
He coughed.
[Flashback]
If you ever feel yourself starting to slip…
Think about all the things you want to accomplish…
Things you want to do in the future, big or small!
[End flashback]
Long term, John thought. I want the world to know what the Bureau did to my dad. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77330716/chapters/202459016 | {"authors": ["RandomUserHere7"], "language": "English", "title": "I only paint in red now"} |
Maybe It's The Getting By
Part I, Mike
He’snot exactly thinking clearly when he does it.
The plan wassimple: go to the roof, clear his head, try not to feel likehe’sdying.Mike hasspent a lot of time up here sincemoving in.Usuallythe ground below is filled withstudents, butseeing asheis backfromChristmasbreak a few days early,the strip ofcobblestone sidewalkbelow him is empty. Even with the city noise,it’squiet enough that Mike canthink.
Itisgood to be back, at least in regards to not being in his parents’ house anymore. After the Demogorgon attack, it was like the passive misery his parents had lived in had been broken. No matter how much he, his parents, Holly, or Nancy try, something is broken in their family and they're never getting what they had back. By the time he moved out here to attend Boston U, Nancy had already dropped out of Emerson to work at the Herald. Her apartment is twenty minutes away, but it might as well be on Mars with the amount of times they’ve seen each other. It makes sense, they only ever really hung out when the world was ending.
The sun is nearly set, and the streetlights are just starting to flicker on for the night. It’s early January in Boston, which means it’s pretty fucking cold. His breath mists in the air as he takes in the sounds of the wind, the cars.
It’s only when his hands find the metal railing that lines the perimeter of the roof that he realizes he’s forgotten his gloves. Whatever. He won’t stay up here that long anyway. Or maybe he should. Maybe he should let the hypothermia take over. God knows there’s worse ways to go, he’s seen pretty much all of them. The cold helps ground him from whatever spiral is trying to cling to him, force his mouth open and claw its way in, break him down from the inside out.
For some reason, that makes him laugh. It comes out strangled, like a sob, but it feels fucking hilarious. He hasn’t even been back from Christmas break for twenty-four hours and he’s already falling apart. It hadn’t been easy going home. Seeing all the places he’d nearly died, nearly lost people. Places he did lose people. Not to mention the glassy-eyed stares of residents who think the military really was just concerned for their safety. Hawkins has changed, but it turns out he hasn’t. He was the same Mike who’d left in the fall.
Will, Lucas, and Max got into collage in New York City, only three hours away. Dustin is at Caltech, and even though he’s called them as often as possible, life got busy and they’d never been able to meet up. He’d thought, maybe naively, that with them all going home it would be like it was before they all separated. And seeing them would be a relief from the crushing weight he's felt building over the past few months. He’d get to complain about his shitty roommate, and mean professors, or even just revel in how much he’s missed them.
Exceptbeing all together again,he’dgotten toreally hear about their lives. The way they talked, laughed, the excitementthey all shared about their newworld.It was so beautiful, andhe’sso happy forthem. It was arelief, almost. Theydon’tneed him anymore.His job is done.
He’d left Hawkins with a bone-deep knowledge that somewhere along the way, something in him had cracked. It was simple, there was no moving forward. His hands find their way into his hair and pull, a meager attempt to ground himself as the dull ache in his chest splits wide open.
Boston was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to try and find a normal life.
AndallMike hasdone iswasteit.He hates his classes—failed most of them. Andno,hehasn’tmade anyfriends. What he hasmadeismore than a few enemies. He is exactly who he was back in Hawkins,except nowhe’salone.Who did he even think hewas,coming outhere?
Ever since Nancy dropped him backon campus, all he canseem to do is look back over all the shitthey’veall been through,andwonderwhatthe hellwas even the point?What were they even fighting for? What hadhebeen fighting for?Nothing about this had been worth all that pain.
Mike gazes outat the skyline andtries to picture a way to fix the messhe’sgotten himselfinto. Hecan’tgo home. Notto hismomandher scarsorHolly with her nightmares. Nancy’s at work, and even if shewasn’t, how could she even help him with this feeling? And his friends have all found a way to move on.The least he can do is let them.
Everything would have been a whole loteasier ifhe’djumped off thatcliffwhen he was twelve. IfElhadn’tsaved him,maybe itwould haveprotectedhimand everyone who loves himfroma whole lot of pain.
Deja-vu hits himsuddenlyas hefinds himselfclimbing over therailing, his chest tight andhishandsnumb. Hisstomachdrops as hegazesdown at the cobblestonefarbelow andwondersif fourstoriesishighenough.It might not exactly be a canyon, butit’lldo.
Part II,Nancy
It'sbeen a long day.Her boss hasbeen riding her ass about a deadline for a fluff piece about a fucking power outage in aresidentialarea due toakid’ssoccer ball ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All she wants is a hot bath and a crossword puzzle. What she getsinsteadisa sprung leak in her sink and aplumber inherhome.
“Yeah, I think it could be a problem with calcium build up, maybe?”saysMelven, the building’srepairman.
“Okay, wellcan you fix it?”
Hedoesn’tlook up from where his body is half buried under her kitchen sink. “I can come backto fix it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Nancy groans.“Whatam I supposed to do until then?”
Melven stands up, giving her an apologetic smile. “Keep the water shut off, maybe grab a mop?”
They set up a time for tomorrow, and Nancy thanks him, keeping her face polite until the door closes behind him.Then she grabs a mop.
Onlyhalfofthe kitchen is done when the phone rings.ProbablyJonathan,or hermom,ormaybe evenRobin. They all know her schedulewellby now.She’sabout to let it ringwhen sherealizesthatifit’sher mom she might have a better solution than waiting forsome stupid repair man.
“Hello?”Shewipes sweat from her brow.
“Hi, is this Nancy Wheeler?”
“Yes,” Nancy frowns, “sorry,who is this?”
“I’ma nursecallingfromMassachusettsGeneralHospital, we have you labeled asyour brotherMichaelWheeler’s emergency contact.”
A stone drops in her stomach.“Emergency contact? Is he okay?”
She’salready stretching the phone cord to grabher pursewhen the lady on the phone keeps talking. “Your brotherhashad a nasty fall. He hassome internal bleeding,along with some other injuries.He’sstable rightnow, butis being prepared for surgery.”
“Fall?” Shestartspullingon hershoes,phonepinched between her head and shoulder. “What kind of fall?”
“It’s better we explain in person if that’s alright with you.”
“No,” she says stubbornly.“What kind of fall.”
Thenursesighs.“Miss Wheeler, we think your brother attempted suicide.”
She stops, laces half tied.The nurse musthaveexpectedher shock because her voice is gentle through the phone.
“Like I said,it’s best we talk in person.”
Her hands shake when she locks the door behind her.Itisn’tuntilshe’son the subway that she realizes shedidn’teven put the phone back on the hook.
Part III, Mike
Letting go of the railing was hardest part. The swooping sensation of vertigo goes against every survival instinct screaming at him to stop.
But taking his final step into open air is surprisingly just as effortless as it was when he was twelve. Last time, it was because he was saving Dustin. Not quite as impressive as saving the world, but just as important in Mike’s book.
This time?It’sjust about him.
Fallingfeels the sametoo.His bodyfighting for orientation, a desperate plea for controlasopen air slipsbetween his fingers.He’dscream if thebreathwasn’tbeing pulled from his lungs faster than hecaninhale.The city is a blur of sunset, streetlight, andcobblestone.Was this how she felt?hethinks dizzily.Whenthe world wascollapsing around her?
Finally, he thinks of Will’s laugh. Of Dustin rolling his eyes, and Lucas smirking in victory. Of Max, who could always see right through him.
Mike closes his eyes and braces for impact.
Part IV, Nancy
Mass. Hospitalis nothing like the hospital in Hawkins.It’sall sleek floorsand wall-to-wall windows.The doctors have an air about them. Pride. Theyhavethemoney,the resources, the prestige. Nancydoesn’ttrusta singleoneof them.But thereceptionist, Esther, gives her a sympatheticsmile when shegives herbrother’sname.
“He’sin surgery right now, love. Whydon’tyou take a seat in the waitingroomandI’llpage his doctor to come give you an update.”
“Thank you,” she manages, teeth still chattering a little from the cold, ormaybe theshock. The nurse's voice is still ringing in her head.We think your brother attempted suicide.
She walks to the waiting room in a daze.It’scrowded,people bustle by, sit in chairs, and pace the halls. Children are crying, hell,most oftheadults are crying too.
The last time she was inahospitalMike was next to her. Holly was missing,andtheir parents were bleeding out,but she had Mike.She’salways had Mike.Ever since that day--the one where she realizedhewas involved in all the craziness back inHawkins,it felt like theycould start to be closer, to talk--really talk. Likesiblingsare meant to.But they were nevergood atthat sort of thing.She’sonly seen him a handful of times since moving out here, and they wereallawkwardlunchesorbrief meetingsto pass their shared car back and forth.
It’snot a question of how she could miss something like this,it’swhydid sheletherself. Work is insane, sure, but she’s had free time. It’s not like she’s made many friends since moving here either. She could have stuck with him, sat with him in the library, or asked him about his stupid classes. She doesn’t even know if he has friends she should call. Were there people nearby who would want to know he was in the hospital? Who would worry if he doesn’t show up for a coffee date or a study session? Does she even know what he’s majoring in? English—or was it history? How could she let her little brother slip so far under that he just--he’d think it was okay to--
Nancy chokes back a sob, rocking in her chair a little andputtingher head in her hands. Mike needs to wake up, she realizes,if only so she can tell himhe’san asshole.
The doctorcomes byhalf an hour later. A tall woman with sharp bangs and a thin mouth. “Nancy Wheeler?” She looks up from her clipboard and gazes around the room.
Nancy is up and movingbefore her heartevenhas time to lurch.
“I’m Doctor Walsh,” shesaysformally,likethis is a speechshe’sgiven a thousand times. “I’ve been working onMichaelsince he arrived herethree hoursago.”
“Is Mike okay?”
“Your brother sustainedsomesevere injuries fromtheinitialimpact, aswellashypothermiafrom his exposureto the cold before he was found.His left arm and leg are broken in multiple places, and his collarbone is shattered.However, the worst istheheadand spinaltrauma.He has a depressedfracturein his skull, whichled to a brain bleed.This is the surgeryhe’shaving right now.It’scalled Craniectomy,andit’sgoal is tostopthe bleed and repair the fracture.He also has something we call a hangman's fracture.It’sa cervical spineinjuryandwe’restill assessing how serious it is.
“Cervical spine?” Nancy swallows, “his--his neck is broken?”
“It's complicated,” the doctor explains. “When Mike hit the ground, his neck snapped backwards from the force. This fractured the C2 vertebrae--now, it’s not a complete fracture,” she adds hastily when she sees the look of panic on Nancy’s face. “But I think I want to put him in a Halo brace, which immobilizes his neck and torso completely and allows it to heal without surgical intervention. I’m confident in our ability to treat your brother, and | Maybe It's The Getting By
Part I, Mike
He’snot exactly thinking clearly when he does it.
The plan wassimple: go to the roof, clear his head, try not to feel likehe’sdying.Mike hasspent a lot of time up here sincemoving in.Usuallythe ground below is filled withstudents, butseeing asheis backfromChristmasbreak a few days early,the strip ofcobblestone sidewalkbelow him is empty. Even with the city noise,it’squiet enough that Mike canthink.
Itisgood to be back, at least in regards to not being in his parents’ house anymore. After the Demogorgon attack, it was like the passive misery his parents had lived in had been broken. No matter how much he, his parents, Holly, or Nancy try, something is broken in their family and they're never getting what they had back. By the time he moved out here to attend Boston U, Nancy had already dropped out of Emerson to work at the Herald. Her apartment is twenty minutes away, but it might as well be on Mars with the amount of times they’ve seen each other. It makes sense, they only ever really hung out when the world was ending.
The sun is nearly set, and the streetlights are just starting to flicker on for the night. It’s early January in Boston, which means it’s pretty fucking cold. His breath mists in the air as he takes in the sounds of the wind, the cars.
It’s only when his hands find the metal railing that lines the perimeter of the roof that he realizes he’s forgotten his gloves. Whatever. He won’t stay up here that long anyway. Or maybe he should. Maybe he should let the hypothermia take over. God knows there’s worse ways to go, he’s seen pretty much all of them. The cold helps ground him from whatever spiral is trying to cling to him, force his mouth open and claw its way in, break him down from the inside out.
For some reason, that makes him laugh. It comes out strangled, like a sob, but it feels fucking hilarious. He hasn’t even been back from Christmas break for twenty-four hours and he’s already falling apart. It hadn’t been easy going home. Seeing all the places he’d nearly died, nearly lost people. Places he did lose people. Not to mention the glassy-eyed stares of residents who think the military really was just concerned for their safety. Hawkins has changed, but it turns out he hasn’t. He was the same Mike who’d left in the fall.
Will, Lucas, and Max got into collage in New York City, only three hours away. Dustin is at Caltech, and even though he’s called them as often as possible, life got busy and they’d never been able to meet up. He’d thought, maybe naively, that with them all going home it would be like it was before they all separated. And seeing them would be a relief from the crushing weight he's felt building over the past few months. He’d get to complain about his shitty roommate, and mean professors, or even just revel in how much he’s missed them.
Exceptbeing all together again,he’dgotten toreally hear about their lives. The way they talked, laughed, the excitementthey all shared about their newworld.It was so beautiful, andhe’sso happy forthem. It was arelief, almost. Theydon’tneed him anymore.His job is done.
He’d left Hawkins with a bone-deep knowledge that somewhere along the way, something in him had cracked. It was simple, there was no moving forward. His hands find their way into his hair and pull, a meager attempt to ground himself as the dull ache in his chest splits wide open.
Boston was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to try and find a normal life.
AndallMike hasdone iswasteit.He hates his classes—failed most of them. Andno,hehasn’tmade anyfriends. What he hasmadeismore than a few enemies. He is exactly who he was back in Hawkins,except nowhe’salone.Who did he even think hewas,coming outhere?
Ever since Nancy dropped him backon campus, all he canseem to do is look back over all the shitthey’veall been through,andwonderwhatthe hellwas even the point?What were they even fighting for? What hadhebeen fighting for?Nothing about this had been worth all that pain.
Mike gazes outat the skyline andtries to picture a way to fix the messhe’sgotten himselfinto. Hecan’tgo home. Notto hismomandher scarsorHolly with her nightmares. Nancy’s at work, and even if shewasn’t, how could she even help him with this feeling? And his friends have all found a way to move on.The least he can do is let them.
Everything would have been a whole loteasier ifhe’djumped off thatcliffwhen he was twelve. IfElhadn’tsaved him,maybe itwould haveprotectedhimand everyone who loves himfroma whole lot of pain.
Deja-vu hits himsuddenlyas hefinds himselfclimbing over therailing, his chest tight andhishandsnumb. Hisstomachdrops as hegazesdown at the cobblestonefarbelow andwondersif fourstoriesishighenough.It might not exactly be a canyon, butit’lldo.
Part II,Nancy
It'sbeen a long day.Her boss hasbeen riding her ass about a deadline for a fluff piece about a fucking power outage in aresidentialarea due toakid’ssoccer ball ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All she wants is a hot bath and a crossword puzzle. What she getsinsteadisa sprung leak in her sink and aplumber inherhome.
“Yeah, I think it could be a problem with calcium build up, maybe?”saysMelven, the building’srepairman.
“Okay, wellcan you fix it?”
Hedoesn’tlook up from where his body is half buried under her kitchen sink. “I can come backto fix it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Nancy groans.“Whatam I supposed to do until then?”
Melven stands up, giving her an apologetic smile. “Keep the water shut off, maybe grab a mop?”
They set up a time for tomorrow, and Nancy thanks him, keeping her face polite until the door closes behind him.Then she grabs a mop.
Onlyhalfofthe kitchen is done when the phone rings.ProbablyJonathan,or hermom,ormaybe evenRobin. They all know her schedulewellby now.She’sabout to let it ringwhen sherealizesthatifit’sher mom she might have a better solution than waiting forsome stupid repair man.
“Hello?”Shewipes sweat from her brow.
“Hi, is this Nancy Wheeler?”
“Yes,” Nancy frowns, “sorry,who is this?”
“I’ma nursecallingfromMassachusettsGeneralHospital, we have you labeled asyour brotherMichaelWheeler’s emergency contact.”
A stone drops in her stomach.“Emergency contact? Is he okay?”
She’salready stretching the phone cord to grabher pursewhen the lady on the phone keeps talking. “Your brotherhashad a nasty fall. He hassome internal bleeding,along with some other injuries.He’sstable rightnow, butis being prepared for surgery.”
“Fall?” Shestartspullingon hershoes,phonepinched between her head and shoulder. “What kind of fall?”
“It’s better we explain in person if that’s alright with you.”
“No,” she says stubbornly.“What kind of fall.”
Thenursesighs.“Miss Wheeler, we think your brother attempted suicide.”
She stops, laces half tied.The nurse musthaveexpectedher shock because her voice is gentle through the phone.
“Like I said,it’s best we talk in person.”
Her hands shake when she locks the door behind her.Itisn’tuntilshe’son the subway that she realizes shedidn’teven put the phone back on the hook.
Part III, Mike
Letting go of the railing was hardest part. The swooping sensation of vertigo goes against every survival instinct screaming at him to stop.
But taking his final step into open air is surprisingly just as effortless as it was when he was twelve. Last time, it was because he was saving Dustin. Not quite as impressive as saving the world, but just as important in Mike’s book.
This time?It’sjust about him.
Fallingfeels the sametoo.His bodyfighting for orientation, a desperate plea for controlasopen air slipsbetween his fingers.He’dscream if thebreathwasn’tbeing pulled from his lungs faster than hecaninhale.The city is a blur of sunset, streetlight, andcobblestone.Was this how she felt?hethinks dizzily.Whenthe world wascollapsing around her?
Finally, he thinks of Will’s laugh. Of Dustin rolling his eyes, and Lucas smirking in victory. Of Max, who could always see right through him.
Mike closes his eyes and braces for impact.
Part IV, Nancy
Mass. Hospitalis nothing like the hospital in Hawkins.It’sall sleek floorsand wall-to-wall windows.The doctors have an air about them. Pride. Theyhavethemoney,the resources, the prestige. Nancydoesn’ttrusta singleoneof them.But thereceptionist, Esther, gives her a sympatheticsmile when shegives herbrother’sname.
“He’sin surgery right now, love. Whydon’tyou take a seat in the waitingroomandI’llpage his doctor to come give you an update.”
“Thank you,” she manages, teeth still chattering a little from the cold, ormaybe theshock. The nurse's voice is still ringing in her head.We think your brother attempted suicide.
She walks to the waiting room in a daze.It’scrowded,people bustle by, sit in chairs, and pace the halls. Children are crying, hell,most oftheadults are crying too.
The last time she was inahospitalMike was next to her. Holly was missing,andtheir parents were bleeding out,but she had Mike.She’salways had Mike.Ever since that day--the one where she realizedhewas involved in all the craziness back inHawkins,it felt like theycould start to be closer, to talk--really talk. Likesiblingsare meant to.But they were nevergood atthat sort of thing.She’sonly seen him a handful of times since moving out here, and they wereallawkwardlunchesorbrief meetingsto pass their shared car back and forth.
It’snot a question of how she could miss something like this,it’swhydid sheletherself. Work is insane, sure, but she’s had free time. It’s not like she’s made many friends since moving here either. She could have stuck with him, sat with him in the library, or asked him about his stupid classes. She doesn’t even know if he has friends she should call. Were there people nearby who would want to know he was in the hospital? Who would worry if he doesn’t show up for a coffee date or a study session? Does she even know what he’s majoring in? English—or was it history? How could she let her little brother slip so far under that he just--he’d think it was okay to--
Nancy chokes back a sob, rocking in her chair a little andputtingher head in her hands. Mike needs to wake up, she realizes,if only so she can tell himhe’san asshole.
The doctorcomes byhalf an hour later. A tall woman with sharp bangs and a thin mouth. “Nancy Wheeler?” She looks up from her clipboard and gazes around the room.
Nancy is up and movingbefore her heartevenhas time to lurch.
“I’m Doctor Walsh,” shesaysformally,likethis is a speechshe’sgiven a thousand times. “I’ve been working onMichaelsince he arrived herethree hoursago.”
“Is Mike okay?”
“Your brother sustainedsomesevere injuries fromtheinitialimpact, aswellashypothermiafrom his exposureto the cold before he was found.His left arm and leg are broken in multiple places, and his collarbone is shattered.However, the worst istheheadand spinaltrauma.He has a depressedfracturein his skull, whichled to a brain bleed.This is the surgeryhe’shaving right now.It’scalled Craniectomy,andit’sgoal is tostopthe bleed and repair the fracture.He also has something we call a hangman's fracture.It’sa cervical spineinjuryandwe’restill assessing how serious it is.
“Cervical spine?” Nancy swallows, “his--his neck is broken?”
“It's complicated,” the doctor explains. “When Mike hit the ground, his neck snapped backwards from the force. This fractured the C2 vertebrae--now, it’s not a complete fracture,” she adds hastily when she sees the look of panic on Nancy’s face. “But I think I want to put him in a Halo brace, which immobilizes his neck and torso completely and allows it to heal without surgical intervention. I’m confident in our ability to treat your brother, and in his recovery, but head injuries are complicated. We won’t know how severe the neurological damage will be until he wakes up.”
“Okay.”Shewrings her hands together. “How--how long will he be insurgery?”
The woman's eyes soften a fraction. “Aboutfourmore hours.Do you...have anyone you can call?”
When Nancy just stares at her, Dr. Walsh continues. “After his surgery,we’regoing to be placing him into a medically induced comaso his body can heal as much as possible as quickly as possible. It could beafew daysbeforewe know anything, and even longer before he wakes up.”
“But he will, right? Wake up.”
“Like I said, we are optimistic. Head trauma is...a guessing game. You can never really know until--”
“Yeah,” Nancy interrupts. “Yeah, I understand.”
Dr. Walsh fidgets with her clipboard, like she wants to say more about it, but instead she changes the subject. “There’s a phone down the hall if you want to contact anyone.” She gestures down a short hallway to her left.
Nancythanksheragain before making her way to the phone. Shehesitates beforepicking up thereceiver. She should call her mom.Or at least it feels like she should want to. But the thought of hearing her mother’s voice on the other end, the way it will breakwhenshe tells her what happened.And what is she going to do if Holly picks up?Before she can think too long,she’styping out the number to theByershouse.
“Hello?” comes the groggy voice of Hopper.It’sonly nineo’clockat night, butit’spossiblehe’dbeen asleep.
“Hi, um,it’sNancy. IsJonathanthere?”
“Yeah,he’sjust in the kitchen.” She can almost hear the frown in his voice. “Is everythingalright?”
“Um,” she sniffs, clenching thehandnot holding the phone. “Idon’tknow, I just...I need to talk to him.”
There’sa few moments of quiet, thenJonathan’svoice comes through.“Hey Nance,everythingalright? Hopper looked a bit--”
“It’s Mike,” she cuts him off. “I’m--I’mat a hospital. Mike’s hurt.”
“Shit.”She hearsJonathanshuffle a little on the other line, his attention narrowing to her.“What happened?”
“They said he--he took a fall.Jonathan, they think he tried to--” shecan’tget the words out, a harsh sob escaping instead.
“Hey,”Jonathan’svoice is soft,and it makes it so much harder,“I’m here, tell me what happened.”
“I just—I’vebeen so busy at work and he—he never fucking calls, and Ididn’tcall either. But I just saw him. I saw hima few hours ago.Wedrove back together, and he wasfine.”
“Okay, I...I’ma little lost Nancy, is Mike okay?”
She takes a deep breath.“He’sin surgery.He’s--he’sstable butit’sreallybad,Jonathan.It’sreally,reallybad.”
“Mike isstrongNance, whatever happenedhe’sgonnabe okay.”
“No--you don’t understand,” she cries, “they said--he jumped. Hedidn’tfall,he jumped.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she wipes her eyes, “I mean, after everything...” she trails off. Monsters she can deal with. Interdimensional portals, whatever. But this? “Maybe they’rewrong, you know?It’sMike. He does stupid shit all the time.”
“Yeah, maybe. And you can ask him when he wakes up.Wecan ask him.”
Nancy shakes her head, is tempted to press it against the wall,blockout the bright lights of the hallway.“They’reputting him in an induced coma,he’s--fuck, his skull is fractured and—andthere’sa brain bleed.You--youdon’thave to come all the way out hereright now.You’remeant to leave forNew Yorkin the morning. Will’s counting on you to--”
“It’s Mike, Nance,”Jonathansays softly. “I need to be there. Will needs to be there.”
“I haven't even told our mom yet,”she confesses.“I don’t even think he’d--I mean, would he want me to?”
“Idon’tknow,”Jonathan answershonestly.“But she needs to knoweitherway, I think.Becauseit’sserious.”
“You’re right, fuck, you’re right.” Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “What are you going to say to Will?”
“I have no idea. Honestly, Idon’t--Ican’tevenbelieve this is happening. After everything, these kidscan’tcatch a fucking break.”
Nancy hums.“It feels like it’ll never end.”
There’sa bit of noise in the background on Jonathan's end of the line. ThenJonathan speaks, turned away from the phone speaker, leaving his voice a bit muffled. “Hey Will.”
“I should let you go.” Nancy grimaces.“I mean--I should go. Wait for news.”
“Okay,” he says in that veryJonathanway. A bit of worry, a bit of love. “We’ll be there soon, alright?”
“Yeah,” her voice cracks,“thanksfor...well, all of it.”
“Bye Nance.”
She hangs up the phone.She does not fall to the floor.She does not call their mom.There is a seat for her in a waiting room, andat least four hours to figure out what the fuckshe’sgoing to do.
PartV,Will
Willpullsopen the fridge.“Was that Nancy on the phone?”
WhenJonathandoesn’tanswer right away,helooks up from hisrummaging.Jonathan’sface is pale,likehe’sabout to pass out. Forgetting all about his hunger,Willcloses the fridge door.
“Is everything okay?”
“Um...”Jonathan scratches the back of his neck, then gestures to their small kitchen table. “Let’ssit for a second, okay?”
“Okay...” Willtrailsoff, pulling out a chair. “Is Nancy alright?”
“Yeah,” Jonathan nods, “she’s--she’s fine. Um, it’s Mike.”
He might as well have electrocuted him with the way Will’s body reacts. Like a cold hand has been wrapped around his heart
“He’sin the hospital,”Jonathancontinues, face tight. “Nancy said he had a fall.”
“A fall? Did he like, break his leg or something?”
“It’s a bit more serious than that.”
“How serious?”
“He’shavingsurgery right now to repair a bleed inside his brain.”
“Oh.”The word punches out of him. His throat feels too tight, and hecan’tbreatheas easily as he could a second ago. “Buthe'sgoing to be okay, right?
Jonathangives him a thin smile,and in lieu ofansweringsays,“we can leave as soon as you’re packed.”
-`♡´-
His mom andHopper had wanted tocome withthembutJonathanshut themdown, sayingit’sprobably bestifMikeisn’toverwhelmed by everyone.Besides, Will can just catch atraintofrom Boston to New Yorkonce Mike is okay, andJonathancan stay with Nancy until he figures out how to re-schedulehis film shoot.
He’dalready been packed,seeing asJonathanwas supposed to drop him off at the airport first thing in the morning, soit’sjust a matter of shovinghissuitcase in the car.
“What else did Nancy say?” Will finallyasks, the words barely audible to his own ears.They’reon the highway now, darkness stretching aheadofand behind them.
AtJonathan’shesitation,panic spikesinWill’sgutand he fights the urge to press his hand to his chest to ease his breathing.
“Jonathan, it’s Mike,” Will says firmly. “Tell me what Nancy said.”
“Okay, I just—I don’t really know how to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
Jonathanglances away from the road briefly to look at him.“They think he did it on purpose.”
Hisbody knows before his mind does. The worldturnsonitsaxis.He feels likehe’sgoing to be sick. He blinks rapidly,reachingout to grab thedashboardwith one handashe’sovercome withsuffocatingvertigo.
“Did what on purpose?”
“Jumped,”Jonathansays, careful and quiet. “Thedoctorsthink he jumped.”
Willdoesn’tknow what his face does, but it has his brother swerving the car to the side of the road.
The doctors think he jumped.
His hands go numb, his ears ring, andthere’sa distinct feeling that the world hasendedandhe’sdying in the ruins.
Jonathanputs theblinkersonand grabs Wills face between his hands.Thereareblack spots in hisvision,his chest constrictstight enough to leave him gasping.
“Hey, hey, Will, you have to breathe.”
The doctors think he jumped.
“No,” Willchokesout. “No, he—hewouldn’tdo that.”
“Will--”
“Hewouldn’tdo that. He—it'sMike.It’sMike.”
Mikewhoissolid and sureand strong enough to hold the world on his shoulders.Mikewhohas been thewallWillhas braced himselfagainst through everything.Mike, who is the fucking heart.
Jonathanshakeshimout of his panic.“Wedon’thave allthefactsyet,it’sjusta theory.It’sjust what Nancy was told they think happened.”
His face is wet with tears andit’sall coming apart.All he can do is keep saying it.“Hedidn’tdothat,hewouldn’tdo that.”
“Okay,”Jonathanmurmurs. “Let’sjust keep going,alright? By the time we gettherehe’llbe out of surgery, and you can see him.”
The thought of it, Mike in an OR somewhere. People standing over him, cutting into him. This isn’t real, his brain screams. But it is. He has gotten very good at distinguishing between real, and not real. This is happening. And if Mike--if Mike goes, it’s going to break him.
Will gives a quick jerk of a nod.“He’s going to be okay,” his voice cracks, “he’s okay.”
“Yeah,”Jonathanstarts the caragain. “He’salive,that’swhat matters. We can figure out the rest later.It’sgonnabe okay, Will.”
Will can’t shake the feeling that Jonathan is wrong. That if--if Mike did this, then nothing is ever going to be okay again.
PartVI, Nancy
After five hours in the waiting room, Nancy is going insane. People have come and gone, and no one has talked to her about Mike. Any other time, she’d go looking. She’d find the OR herself if she had to. Shame crawls up her throat as she admits that part of her just doesn’t want to know. She can’t go looking because he could be dead, and if he’s dead it’s because Nancy has put him there. She will have failed as an older sister, as someone who loves him, and as someone who is right here. Everyone else moved away, moved on with their lives, but she felt like he wasn’t so she stayed close. Got a job at the Hareld and an apartment a stone’s throw from Boston's campus. All of that to end up in this fucking waiting room.
Thedoctorhad beenso fuckingnice about ittoo.ButNancy knowswhen someone’s sugar coatingbad news.In this building somewhere,people are fighting to keep her little brotherbreathing, and Nancycan’teven imagine a world in whichhe’dtry to stop it on his own.
WhenDr. Walshcallher name again, she almost misses it.When she finally hears herand looks up,it’shard to readtheexpressionon her face. It could have gone a milliondifferentways, but when she meets Nancy’s eye,it'swith a tilt of her headmeaning ‘follow me,’ and Nancyscrambles up to do just that.
“So,” Dr. Walsh starts whenshecatches up, “the rest of his surgery went according toplanandhe’sbeen moved to the ICU. The bleed was slightly more extensive than weexpected,but we got it under control. AnOrthopedic surgeoncame inbrieflyto do a screw placement in Mike’s forearm, andwe’vesecured a halo brace around his head. This will help make sure his boneshealcorrectly.”
“Okay.” Nancy nods, following along blindly as they move through the halls.
They finally stop, and Dr. Walsh turns to face her. “I want to prepare you, because it can be quite alarming to see a loved one like this. We have a tube down yourbrother’sthroat to help him breathe, and hisbrokenarm is positioned in a slingandstabilizersto makesure thatthere’sno movement thatcoulddamagethebreak further. Hisbrokenleg is elevated and in a cast.There is quite a lot of bruising on his face,butit’smostly superficial.The halo brace is screwed directly into his skull, but I promise this is a safe and verynecessaryprocedure.They look scary, butthey’rehelping.”
"I understand,” Nancy replies.Her tone must give somethingaway, becauseDr. Walsh purses her lips slightly. A knowing look.
Still, when she pushes open the door tothesmallroom,there really is nothing that can prepare her for this.
For a second, her eyes play a trick on her.It’snot hereighteen year oldbrother in that bed.It’sthat annoying kid who used to steal her pocket money, and narc on her to their parents. And then it's Mike who was in her car a few hours ago. Who complained about her music taste, and didn't want to talk about anything important at all.
She steps closer, eying the bruises on his face, the intubation tube breathing for him, and the halo brace drilled into his skull. A metal band wraps around his head and attaches to his lower chest. It looks uncomfortable and foreign and Nancy hates it. There’s blood on his ear and she wants to wipe it away, but she’s too scared to touch him. His life is hanging by a thread, and she can feel it tugging, trying to break away.
Hedoesn’tlook like Max did in her coma. Before they found out the truth behind it, Nancy always had the impression she wasjustresting peacefully. Nothing about this is peaceful.
She wishesthatJonathanwashere.Shedoesn’tregret their breakup, but nothing will change the fact thatthey’retwo halves of a whole.He’dknow what to do, what to ask.There’s so much futile relief in knowinghe’son his way.
“Can he...hear me?”Shefinds herselfasking.
“Wedon’treally know, butI’vealways thoughtit’sgood to assume they can.”
All she can really do is give the doctor aquiet thanksas she enters the room, gingerly taking the seat next to Mike’s bed.
“Hi, Mike,”she startsquietly, “um,I’mhere, and—andyou’regoing to beokay.We’regoing to figure this out.”
Dr. Walsh hovers by the door for a moment before coming to take a seat near Nancy. “Has someone spoken to you about the cause of yourbrother’sinjuries?”
“The nurse,” she says tightly, not looking away from Mike. “On the phone, she saidyou guysthought he jumped.”
She feels a hand on her shoulder that hasherturning to face the doctor. “Your brother fell fromthe roof ofa several story talluniversityresidencewithsafetyrailingssurrounding the perimeter.A fellowstudentidentifiedhimon the scene.His body temperature wasas low as it wasbecause he was only wearing a light sweater and jeans, which tells us that hedidn’tgo outside in a clear state of mind.”
Nancy’s face crumples against her will, and she leans over, head in her hands as she chokes down a sob.
Dr. Walshdoesn’ttake her hand off her shoulder as she continues. “It’s...highly likely that this was a suicide attempt.I’msorry.”
“I don't understand,” Nancy chokes out,“I--Ijust saw him.I dropped himoffat his residence hours ago.” She looks up at Dr. Walsh.“Idon’tunderstand how I missed this.”
Dr. Walsh looks down briefly, then gives Nancy a small smile.“We’rehuman. We miss things, and unless people tell us howthey’refeeling, we justcan’tknow.”
Dr. Walsh explains howshe’sgoing to have someone from their psych department come sit with Nancy for a little while,asksome questions about Mike’s history. At that, she almost laughs. Howexactlyis she meant to explain hishistory?
Yeah, sorry, years of monster fighting and death haveprobably caughtup with him.God knows they caught up with her.Thesecondthe doorto herfreshmancollegedormshutshe was callingJonathanin tearsabouthow shecouldn’tdo this. Shecouldn’tbe away from home, her mom,Holly,Mike.Eventually she figured it out, andshe’dthought Mike would too. That his distance was a reach for independence.She’dneeded thetime,and space. Naively, it was the easiest route to give that to him too.
Anyone would thinkthatliving a normal lifeis a cake walkafter the thingsthey’vebeen through. But sitting alone now, by Mike’s bed, trying to musterupthe courage to hold his hand,it makesthe mind flayer seem like child’s play. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77335396/chapters/202472046 | {"authors": ["twisted_tales_told"], "language": "English", "title": "Maybe It's The Getting By"} |
Melt Me
“Shane, get in here. You burned the tuna melts again,” Ilya yelled from the kitchen. “You have to watch it if you’re going to broil. Or use the toaster oven.”
“It takes too long,” Shane responded, not even looking up from his "New Yorker."
“You take too long,” Ilya grumbled under his breath. He’d been in a foul mood all day and taking it out on Shane. “I don’t know if I can eat this. But it’s a shame to throw it out.”
“I think we can afford it,” Shane laughed, though he sympathized with Ilya, whose nutritional needs as a child were rarely met.
It was also better for the environment to avoid food waste, but he wasn’t going to tell Ilya any of that. “You could be grateful, you know,” Shane yelled from the next room instead. “I made you a sandwich.”
“Yeah, a disgusting one,” Ilya huffed.
“A burned tuna melt is better than not eating lunch at all like you did yesterday,” Shane helpfully pointed out.
“Did you really make me a sandwich, when I’m the one in here?” Ilya grumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Shane to hear over the clank of plates and silverware.
“I can hear you frump frumping from here,” Shane said as he got up and went to the kitchen. The briny scent of pickles and fish wafted through the air. The tuna melts had a crust of bubbly golden brown cheddar, barely a shade darker than perfectly toasted.
“Wait—” Shane sputtered. Oh. Oh. Ilya was baiting him. The little brat wanted to piss him off. Shane felt his dick twitch.
Ilya stood on the far side of the kitchen, facing away, pulling glasses out of the cabinet. He’d chosen the highest shelf and was up on his toes, which did magical things to his calves and ass. Shane walked up behind him until Ilya was pinned against the lower cabinets and then leaned in so Ilya had to brace his hands on the counter for balance.
“Ilya,” he let his voice take on a hint of warning as he gripped Ilya’s wrists. “These tuna melts are perfect.”
“No thanks to you, asshole,” Ilya growled as he pushed his ass back into Shane, a feeble attempt to escape his embrace which just made Shane grip him tighter.
A heartfelt exchange would be the mature thing to do, but Shane had other uses for Ilya’s mouth at that moment and his instincts said this was what Ilya actually wanted.
“You’re the asshole,” Shane breathed against Ilya’s neck. “Now shut the fuck up and kiss me.”
“Fucking make me, Hollander.”
Shane whipped him around and pushed him against the fridge door, kissing him hard. Shane’s hands roam Ilya’s muscled arms and chest. Ilya groaned.
Shane’s dick was fully hard as their bodies pressed together, and Shane could feel Ilya’s erection straining against the thin track suit fabric of his pants. Ilya tried to reach for Shane’s face but Shane pushed his hands away and took Ilya’s chin firmly in hand.
“It’s my turn to call the shots,” Shane spoke the words just far enough from Ilya’s mouth that he could watch Ilya glance at his lips. Shane slid two fingers into Ilya’s mouth, enjoying the wet heat.
“Shane,” Ilya tried to pull his lips off Shane’s fingers but Shane caught his mouth.
“Did I say you could speak?” Shane gave Ilya what he hoped was a stern look. “I think I’ve heard enough from you. I’ve got big plans for this hole,” Shane continued as he slid fingers against Ilya’s perfect lips. “You’re going to be too busy to run your mouth.”
Ilya’s eyes rolled back in his head and a feeling of relief passed over his features. Shane felt the tension in his shoulders loosen. He must get tired of English, always having to fight with his brain to say half of what he felt.
It was enough to melt Shane, but he schooled his features in a mask of indifference. He wanted to give Ilya what he wanted, which apparently was to be silenced and pushed around.
“Your first job is to catch every drop of my cum,” Shane said. “We’re not going to make a mess in my nice clean kitchen. Do you agree? You may speak.”
Shane slid his fingers out and Ilya gasped. “Fuck, Hollander. Yes. I want you to fuck my face.”
Ilya was pleading, strong and vulnerable at the same time, asking to come undone for him.
“We’ll see,” Shane responded. “But no more words. Tap three times if you want me to stop.”
Ilya nodded and renewed his suction on Shane’s fingers.
“Встаньте на колени,” Shane switched to Russian. “Get on your knees.” | Melt Me
“Shane, get in here. You burned the tuna melts again,” Ilya yelled from the kitchen. “You have to watch it if you’re going to broil. Or use the toaster oven.”
“It takes too long,” Shane responded, not even looking up from his "New Yorker."
“You take too long,” Ilya grumbled under his breath. He’d been in a foul mood all day and taking it out on Shane. “I don’t know if I can eat this. But it’s a shame to throw it out.”
“I think we can afford it,” Shane laughed, though he sympathized with Ilya, whose nutritional needs as a child were rarely met.
It was also better for the environment to avoid food waste, but he wasn’t going to tell Ilya any of that. “You could be grateful, you know,” Shane yelled from the next room instead. “I made you a sandwich.”
“Yeah, a disgusting one,” Ilya huffed.
“A burned tuna melt is better than not eating lunch at all like you did yesterday,” Shane helpfully pointed out.
“Did you really make me a sandwich, when I’m the one in here?” Ilya grumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Shane to hear over the clank of plates and silverware.
“I can hear you frump frumping from here,” Shane said as he got up and went to the kitchen. The briny scent of pickles and fish wafted through the air. The tuna melts had a crust of bubbly golden brown cheddar, barely a shade darker than perfectly toasted.
“Wait—” Shane sputtered. Oh. Oh. Ilya was baiting him. The little brat wanted to piss him off. Shane felt his dick twitch.
Ilya stood on the far side of the kitchen, facing away, pulling glasses out of the cabinet. He’d chosen the highest shelf and was up on his toes, which did magical things to his calves and ass. Shane walked up behind him until Ilya was pinned against the lower cabinets and then leaned in so Ilya had to brace his hands on the counter for balance.
“Ilya,” he let his voice take on a hint of warning as he gripped Ilya’s wrists. “These tuna melts are perfect.”
“No thanks to you, asshole,” Ilya growled as he pushed his ass back into Shane, a feeble attempt to escape his embrace which just made Shane grip him tighter.
A heartfelt exchange would be the mature thing to do, but Shane had other uses for Ilya’s mouth at that moment and his instincts said this was what Ilya actually wanted.
“You’re the asshole,” Shane breathed against Ilya’s neck. “Now shut the fuck up and kiss me.”
“Fucking make me, Hollander.”
Shane whipped him around and pushed him against the fridge door, kissing him hard. Shane’s hands roam Ilya’s muscled arms and chest. Ilya groaned.
Shane’s dick was fully hard as their bodies pressed together, and Shane could feel Ilya’s erection straining against the thin track suit fabric of his pants. Ilya tried to reach for Shane’s face but Shane pushed his hands away and took Ilya’s chin firmly in hand.
“It’s my turn to call the shots,” Shane spoke the words just far enough from Ilya’s mouth that he could watch Ilya glance at his lips. Shane slid two fingers into Ilya’s mouth, enjoying the wet heat.
“Shane,” Ilya tried to pull his lips off Shane’s fingers but Shane caught his mouth.
“Did I say you could speak?” Shane gave Ilya what he hoped was a stern look. “I think I’ve heard enough from you. I’ve got big plans for this hole,” Shane continued as he slid fingers against Ilya’s perfect lips. “You’re going to be too busy to run your mouth.”
Ilya’s eyes rolled back in his head and a feeling of relief passed over his features. Shane felt the tension in his shoulders loosen. He must get tired of English, always having to fight with his brain to say half of what he felt.
It was enough to melt Shane, but he schooled his features in a mask of indifference. He wanted to give Ilya what he wanted, which apparently was to be silenced and pushed around.
“Your first job is to catch every drop of my cum,” Shane said. “We’re not going to make a mess in my nice clean kitchen. Do you agree? You may speak.”
Shane slid his fingers out and Ilya gasped. “Fuck, Hollander. Yes. I want you to fuck my face.”
Ilya was pleading, strong and vulnerable at the same time, asking to come undone for him.
“We’ll see,” Shane responded. “But no more words. Tap three times if you want me to stop.”
Ilya nodded and renewed his suction on Shane’s fingers.
“Встаньте на колени,” Shane switched to Russian. “Get on your knees.” | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77335381/chapters/202472021 | {"authors": ["DevinAmbrosia"], "language": "English", "title": "Melt Me"} |
Where Love Counts Down Twice
December 31st had barely started, yet Zee and NuNew were already running on muscle memory, adrenaline, and each other.
The clock hadn’t even hit its first honest hour, and their bodies already knew the routine by heart—stretch, warm up, breathe, repeat. Practice had been relentless. Days blurred into nights, meals eaten between rehearsals, voices hoarse from singing the same lines over and over until they felt carved into their bones. Two massive countdown events loomed ahead of them—ICONSIAM Amazing Thailand Countdown 2026 and CentralWorld Bangkok Countdown 2026—and there was no room for mistakes.
They were booked, busy, exhausted.
Yet somehow, whenever they stood side by side, the fatigue softened. It always did.
“You okay?” Zee asked quietly as they waited backstage, adjusting the cuff of NuNew’s sleeve without even thinking about it.
NuNew nodded, lips curling into a smile that said more than words ever could. “As long as you don’t get distracted of me again.”
Zee scoffed, offended on principle. “Excuse me? I am always focused.”
“You almost tripped because you keep on staring at me on the rehearsal,” NuNew teased, eyes sparkling.
“Almost,” Zee corrected, leaning in. “Key word.”
--
Their first stop was ICONSIAM.
Backstage buzzed with life—staff rushing past with clipboards, stylists calling names, the distant thrum of the crowd seeping through walls like a heartbeat. Lights flashed, voices overlapped, but once Zee and NuNew stepped out in their matching brown outfits paired with jeans, the chaos faded into something manageable. Familiar. Comfortable.
The moment music hit, everything locked into place.
Seven performances.
Vocals melted seamlessly into dance, choreography sharp and confident, their bodies moving like they’d been built to share the same space. They fed off each other—energy bouncing back and forth, smiles growing brighter with every cheer.
They were glowing.
“Look at them,” someone whispered from the side of the stage.
Every move carried intention. Every glance lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. Zee’s hand brushed NuNew’s wrist during a turn. NuNew leaned just a little closer during a harmony. They were touchy, flirty, and completely unapologetic about it.
Fans screamed before the beat even dropped.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” NuNew murmured during a quick transition, barely audible over the music.
Zee grinned. “You love it.”
NuNew’s laugh slipped out mid-step, breathless and bright.
Love threaded through every performance—unmistakable and warm. It sat in the way Zee always positioned himself half a step behind NuNew, steady and protective. It lived in the way NuNew’s eyes always searched for Zee first after a spin, grounding himself in that familiar presence.
The final pose came.
The crowd held its breath.
They stood close—too close—bodies aligned, tension crackling like electricity in the air. They were supposed to be staring at each other, holding the moment, letting it simmer. Zee did exactly that.
NuNew didn’t.
At the last second, NuNew faltered, eyes drifting toward the audience instead, smile stretching wide as he fought the one threatening to break across his face.
Zee didn’t look away.
He watched NuNew like the rest of the world had vanished—gaze soft, fond, openly adoring, as if committing the moment to memory. It made the pose stronger. Made it real.
The cheers exploded.
Backstage afterward, NuNew groaned dramatically, bending forward with his hands on his knees. “I almost laughed.”
“You did laugh,” Zee said, handing him water.
NuNew shot him a look. “I smiled.”
Zee smiled back. “Cute either way.”
They went all out on the sexier numbers too—confidence sharp, controlled, deliberate. Zee’s movements were precise, grounded. NuNew’s were fluid, expressive. Between songs, between cues, Zee’s hand found NuNew’s back, his waist, a quiet check-in that never failed to earn a softer smile in return.
“You good?” Zee asked every time.
“Mm,” NuNew replied, always. “With you.”
The audience noticed. They always did.
--
From ICONSIAM, they were whisked straight to the ferry that would take them to their next venue.
Brown outfits were traded for black. Denim for black leather pants. The air shifted—cooler, calmer—as the ferry pulled away, city lights reflecting off the water in scattered golds and silvers.
The ride was brief but precious.
NuNew leaned naturally against Zee’s shoulder as makeup artists retouched them, hands quick and practiced, completely unsurprised by their closeness. Zee tilted his head slightly so NuNew could rest more comfortably, his chin brushing against soft hair.
“This is the only quiet we’re getting tonight,” NuNew murmured.
Zee hummed in agreement. “Then stay.”
Once the MUAs stepped away, the quiet truly settled.
Zee turned slightly, eyes dragging slowly over NuNew with a low hum of appreciation. “You know, I gotta admit” he said softly, fingers coming to rest against NuNew’s thigh, “you were insanely distracting earlier.”
NuNew smiled—small, content, the kind meant just for him. “Oh?”
“That tight long-sleeve,” Zee continued, voice warm and teasing. “Every move. Your body line. Your waist.” His thumb traced a gentle, unhurried line. “I almost forgot my steps.”
NuNew lifted his head, eyes bright, and leaned in to press a quick, soft peck to Zee’s lips. “Good thing you can’t read minds,” he whispered. “Because if you could read mine… you’d freeze on stage.”
Zee laughed, the sound easy and fond, leaning forward like he might bite NuNew’s nose. NuNew giggled and pulled back just in time, laughter lingering between them like warmth.
They didn’t get long.
A staff member cleared their throat apologetically. “P'Zee, Nhu—standby, please.”
Reality rushed back in.
Zee squeezed NuNew’s hand once before letting go. “Round two.”
NuNew straightened, eyes shining. “Let's enjoy, Hia!”
Together, they followed the staff toward CentralWorld Bangkok Countdown 2026, hearts steady, steps in sync, ready to light up the night all over again.
--
The second stage felt even bigger—vast in a way that made the air buzz before they even stepped out.
The lights came up in a blinding wash of white and gold, heat settling on their skin instantly. Zee adjusted the hem of his cropped jacket as they took their places, black leather pants hugging tight, the different cuts and textures of their outfits catching the light with every small movement. NuNew’s inner shimmered when he breathed, subtle but impossible to miss if you were looking—and Zee was always looking.
Seven more performances followed, each one sharper than the last. Their vocals soared effortlessly despite the hours already spent onstage, harmonies locking in like muscle memory. Every beat landed clean. Every move was precise. If there had been exhaustion earlier, it had vanished somewhere between the first chorus and the roar of the crowd.
They fed off each other shamelessly.
NuNew shot Zee a playful glance mid-choreo, eyebrows lifting just a little. Zee responded by stepping closer than necessary, fingers brushing NuNew’s wrist as they passed. The touch lingered—intentional, teasing—and NuNew nearly missed his cue, laughing under his breath before pulling himself back in.
“Focus,” Zee mouthed, smirk unapologetic.
“You’re the problem,” NuNew shot back, still smiling as he sang.
By the time the final song hit, flirting was no longer subtle. Zee’s hand settled at NuNew’s waist for half a second too long. NuNew leaned into it, shoulder brushing Zee’s chest as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The crowd screamed louder with every shared glance, every soft laugh exchanged between verses.
Their final pose was electric.
They stood close—too close—faces inches apart, chests rising and falling in sync. NuNew’s eyes flicked down to Zee’s lips before darting back up, cheeks already warm. Zee took one slow step forward, deliberate, eyes never leaving NuNew’s.
“Hia—” NuNew started, voice breaking into laughter.
Zee leaned in more, crowd howling now, and NuNew cracked—stepping back with a breathless laugh before turning and running offstage, giggling as Zee laughed after him, shaking his head like he’d won something.
“Come back here!” Zee called, playful and fond.
It was playful. It was intimate. It was unmistakably them.
Then the countdown began.
They returned to the stage side by side as the massive screen started ticking down. Ten. Nine. Eight. The crowd joined in, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus. NuNew stood close enough that Zee could feel the warmth from his arm.
“Did you see the fireworks test earlier?” NuNew asked softly.
Zee hummed. “Didn’t look as good as you just now.”
NuNew scoffed, elbowing him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“True,” Zee said easily.
Three. Two. One.
The moment the clock hit 12:00 AM, fireworks burst across the Bangkok sky—gold, red, blue, blooming endlessly above them. The crowd erupted, cheers mixing with the thunder of explosions. NuNew’s mouth fell open in awe.
“Wow…” he breathed.
Zee turned to him instead of the sky. “Happy New Year, baby” he said quietly.
NuNew looked up, eyes bright, reflecting fireworks and stage lights. “Happy New Year, Hia.”
They leaned closer, foreheads nearly touching as they whispered wishes meant only for each other—too soft, too personal to be heard over the noise. Then, smiling, they turned to greet the other artists and staff, exchanging hugs and laughter as confetti rained down.
--
By the time everything finally wound down, exhaustion hit all at once.
They changed into comfier clothes—hoodies, loose pants, sneakers—and collapsed into the van with the rest of the team. The ride was filled with overlapping conversations, laughter cutting through yawns. NuNew leaned his head back, eyes closed.
“Tired?” Zee asked, nudging him gently.
“A lot,” NuNew admitted. “But happy.”
Zee smiled. “Good.”
At the shabu-shabu restaurant, steam fogged the air and warmth settled into their bones. The table was crowded with plates and bubbling broth, voices loud despite drooping shoulders. Zee passed NuNew slices of meat without even asking.
“Eat more,” he said. “You worked hard.”
“You too,” NuNew replied, pushing food back toward him.
Zee only laughed and refilled NuNew’s drink instead, pulling his chair closer when it drifted away. Staff watched fondly, teasing them openly.
“2026 better give you two even more projects,” someone said.
NuNew groaned. “Yes, but please, let us sleep first.”
Zee chuckled. “After one more bowl.”
They ate until they were full—too full—but no one complained.
--
By the time they stood up from the table, it was already past three in the morning. Plates were empty, broth nearly gone, and everyone moved with that slow, boneless exhaustion that only came after a long, successful night.
NuNew stretched, arms over his head. “I’m so full,” he complained, dragging the words.
“You said that ten minutes ago,” Zee teased, already reaching for his jacket. “And then you ate more.”
“That was necessary,” NuNew defended. “For recovery.”
The staff laughed, gathering their things, one of them checking the time on their phone. “Okay, last call. Vans are outside.”
NuNew hummed absentmindedly, slipping his phone into his pocket. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he said, “I’ll ride with Hia.”
The words barely settled before the table went dead silent.
Then—
“OHHHH.”
“Riding with Hia?”
“At this hour?”
“Seems like they will light their own fireworks”
NuNew froze.
“What— no— I mean—” His ears turned red instantly.
Zee didn’t help. He leaned casually against the table, arms crossed, lips twitching. “What?” he asked innocently. “Didn’t know that was a problem.”
The teasing escalated immediately.
“Wow, starting the year strong, huh?”
“Adult decisions already?”
“Don’t forget protection— sleep protection!”
NuNew gasped. “P’—! You’re all so—!”
He tried to scold them, but his face was fully pink now, cheeks burning. He waved | Where Love Counts Down Twice
December 31st had barely started, yet Zee and NuNew were already running on muscle memory, adrenaline, and each other.
The clock hadn’t even hit its first honest hour, and their bodies already knew the routine by heart—stretch, warm up, breathe, repeat. Practice had been relentless. Days blurred into nights, meals eaten between rehearsals, voices hoarse from singing the same lines over and over until they felt carved into their bones. Two massive countdown events loomed ahead of them—ICONSIAM Amazing Thailand Countdown 2026 and CentralWorld Bangkok Countdown 2026—and there was no room for mistakes.
They were booked, busy, exhausted.
Yet somehow, whenever they stood side by side, the fatigue softened. It always did.
“You okay?” Zee asked quietly as they waited backstage, adjusting the cuff of NuNew’s sleeve without even thinking about it.
NuNew nodded, lips curling into a smile that said more than words ever could. “As long as you don’t get distracted of me again.”
Zee scoffed, offended on principle. “Excuse me? I am always focused.”
“You almost tripped because you keep on staring at me on the rehearsal,” NuNew teased, eyes sparkling.
“Almost,” Zee corrected, leaning in. “Key word.”
--
Their first stop was ICONSIAM.
Backstage buzzed with life—staff rushing past with clipboards, stylists calling names, the distant thrum of the crowd seeping through walls like a heartbeat. Lights flashed, voices overlapped, but once Zee and NuNew stepped out in their matching brown outfits paired with jeans, the chaos faded into something manageable. Familiar. Comfortable.
The moment music hit, everything locked into place.
Seven performances.
Vocals melted seamlessly into dance, choreography sharp and confident, their bodies moving like they’d been built to share the same space. They fed off each other—energy bouncing back and forth, smiles growing brighter with every cheer.
They were glowing.
“Look at them,” someone whispered from the side of the stage.
Every move carried intention. Every glance lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. Zee’s hand brushed NuNew’s wrist during a turn. NuNew leaned just a little closer during a harmony. They were touchy, flirty, and completely unapologetic about it.
Fans screamed before the beat even dropped.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” NuNew murmured during a quick transition, barely audible over the music.
Zee grinned. “You love it.”
NuNew’s laugh slipped out mid-step, breathless and bright.
Love threaded through every performance—unmistakable and warm. It sat in the way Zee always positioned himself half a step behind NuNew, steady and protective. It lived in the way NuNew’s eyes always searched for Zee first after a spin, grounding himself in that familiar presence.
The final pose came.
The crowd held its breath.
They stood close—too close—bodies aligned, tension crackling like electricity in the air. They were supposed to be staring at each other, holding the moment, letting it simmer. Zee did exactly that.
NuNew didn’t.
At the last second, NuNew faltered, eyes drifting toward the audience instead, smile stretching wide as he fought the one threatening to break across his face.
Zee didn’t look away.
He watched NuNew like the rest of the world had vanished—gaze soft, fond, openly adoring, as if committing the moment to memory. It made the pose stronger. Made it real.
The cheers exploded.
Backstage afterward, NuNew groaned dramatically, bending forward with his hands on his knees. “I almost laughed.”
“You did laugh,” Zee said, handing him water.
NuNew shot him a look. “I smiled.”
Zee smiled back. “Cute either way.”
They went all out on the sexier numbers too—confidence sharp, controlled, deliberate. Zee’s movements were precise, grounded. NuNew’s were fluid, expressive. Between songs, between cues, Zee’s hand found NuNew’s back, his waist, a quiet check-in that never failed to earn a softer smile in return.
“You good?” Zee asked every time.
“Mm,” NuNew replied, always. “With you.”
The audience noticed. They always did.
--
From ICONSIAM, they were whisked straight to the ferry that would take them to their next venue.
Brown outfits were traded for black. Denim for black leather pants. The air shifted—cooler, calmer—as the ferry pulled away, city lights reflecting off the water in scattered golds and silvers.
The ride was brief but precious.
NuNew leaned naturally against Zee’s shoulder as makeup artists retouched them, hands quick and practiced, completely unsurprised by their closeness. Zee tilted his head slightly so NuNew could rest more comfortably, his chin brushing against soft hair.
“This is the only quiet we’re getting tonight,” NuNew murmured.
Zee hummed in agreement. “Then stay.”
Once the MUAs stepped away, the quiet truly settled.
Zee turned slightly, eyes dragging slowly over NuNew with a low hum of appreciation. “You know, I gotta admit” he said softly, fingers coming to rest against NuNew’s thigh, “you were insanely distracting earlier.”
NuNew smiled—small, content, the kind meant just for him. “Oh?”
“That tight long-sleeve,” Zee continued, voice warm and teasing. “Every move. Your body line. Your waist.” His thumb traced a gentle, unhurried line. “I almost forgot my steps.”
NuNew lifted his head, eyes bright, and leaned in to press a quick, soft peck to Zee’s lips. “Good thing you can’t read minds,” he whispered. “Because if you could read mine… you’d freeze on stage.”
Zee laughed, the sound easy and fond, leaning forward like he might bite NuNew’s nose. NuNew giggled and pulled back just in time, laughter lingering between them like warmth.
They didn’t get long.
A staff member cleared their throat apologetically. “P'Zee, Nhu—standby, please.”
Reality rushed back in.
Zee squeezed NuNew’s hand once before letting go. “Round two.”
NuNew straightened, eyes shining. “Let's enjoy, Hia!”
Together, they followed the staff toward CentralWorld Bangkok Countdown 2026, hearts steady, steps in sync, ready to light up the night all over again.
--
The second stage felt even bigger—vast in a way that made the air buzz before they even stepped out.
The lights came up in a blinding wash of white and gold, heat settling on their skin instantly. Zee adjusted the hem of his cropped jacket as they took their places, black leather pants hugging tight, the different cuts and textures of their outfits catching the light with every small movement. NuNew’s inner shimmered when he breathed, subtle but impossible to miss if you were looking—and Zee was always looking.
Seven more performances followed, each one sharper than the last. Their vocals soared effortlessly despite the hours already spent onstage, harmonies locking in like muscle memory. Every beat landed clean. Every move was precise. If there had been exhaustion earlier, it had vanished somewhere between the first chorus and the roar of the crowd.
They fed off each other shamelessly.
NuNew shot Zee a playful glance mid-choreo, eyebrows lifting just a little. Zee responded by stepping closer than necessary, fingers brushing NuNew’s wrist as they passed. The touch lingered—intentional, teasing—and NuNew nearly missed his cue, laughing under his breath before pulling himself back in.
“Focus,” Zee mouthed, smirk unapologetic.
“You’re the problem,” NuNew shot back, still smiling as he sang.
By the time the final song hit, flirting was no longer subtle. Zee’s hand settled at NuNew’s waist for half a second too long. NuNew leaned into it, shoulder brushing Zee’s chest as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The crowd screamed louder with every shared glance, every soft laugh exchanged between verses.
Their final pose was electric.
They stood close—too close—faces inches apart, chests rising and falling in sync. NuNew’s eyes flicked down to Zee’s lips before darting back up, cheeks already warm. Zee took one slow step forward, deliberate, eyes never leaving NuNew’s.
“Hia—” NuNew started, voice breaking into laughter.
Zee leaned in more, crowd howling now, and NuNew cracked—stepping back with a breathless laugh before turning and running offstage, giggling as Zee laughed after him, shaking his head like he’d won something.
“Come back here!” Zee called, playful and fond.
It was playful. It was intimate. It was unmistakably them.
Then the countdown began.
They returned to the stage side by side as the massive screen started ticking down. Ten. Nine. Eight. The crowd joined in, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus. NuNew stood close enough that Zee could feel the warmth from his arm.
“Did you see the fireworks test earlier?” NuNew asked softly.
Zee hummed. “Didn’t look as good as you just now.”
NuNew scoffed, elbowing him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“True,” Zee said easily.
Three. Two. One.
The moment the clock hit 12:00 AM, fireworks burst across the Bangkok sky—gold, red, blue, blooming endlessly above them. The crowd erupted, cheers mixing with the thunder of explosions. NuNew’s mouth fell open in awe.
“Wow…” he breathed.
Zee turned to him instead of the sky. “Happy New Year, baby” he said quietly.
NuNew looked up, eyes bright, reflecting fireworks and stage lights. “Happy New Year, Hia.”
They leaned closer, foreheads nearly touching as they whispered wishes meant only for each other—too soft, too personal to be heard over the noise. Then, smiling, they turned to greet the other artists and staff, exchanging hugs and laughter as confetti rained down.
--
By the time everything finally wound down, exhaustion hit all at once.
They changed into comfier clothes—hoodies, loose pants, sneakers—and collapsed into the van with the rest of the team. The ride was filled with overlapping conversations, laughter cutting through yawns. NuNew leaned his head back, eyes closed.
“Tired?” Zee asked, nudging him gently.
“A lot,” NuNew admitted. “But happy.”
Zee smiled. “Good.”
At the shabu-shabu restaurant, steam fogged the air and warmth settled into their bones. The table was crowded with plates and bubbling broth, voices loud despite drooping shoulders. Zee passed NuNew slices of meat without even asking.
“Eat more,” he said. “You worked hard.”
“You too,” NuNew replied, pushing food back toward him.
Zee only laughed and refilled NuNew’s drink instead, pulling his chair closer when it drifted away. Staff watched fondly, teasing them openly.
“2026 better give you two even more projects,” someone said.
NuNew groaned. “Yes, but please, let us sleep first.”
Zee chuckled. “After one more bowl.”
They ate until they were full—too full—but no one complained.
--
By the time they stood up from the table, it was already past three in the morning. Plates were empty, broth nearly gone, and everyone moved with that slow, boneless exhaustion that only came after a long, successful night.
NuNew stretched, arms over his head. “I’m so full,” he complained, dragging the words.
“You said that ten minutes ago,” Zee teased, already reaching for his jacket. “And then you ate more.”
“That was necessary,” NuNew defended. “For recovery.”
The staff laughed, gathering their things, one of them checking the time on their phone. “Okay, last call. Vans are outside.”
NuNew hummed absentmindedly, slipping his phone into his pocket. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he said, “I’ll ride with Hia.”
The words barely settled before the table went dead silent.
Then—
“OHHHH.”
“Riding with Hia?”
“At this hour?”
“Seems like they will light their own fireworks”
NuNew froze.
“What— no— I mean—” His ears turned red instantly.
Zee didn’t help. He leaned casually against the table, arms crossed, lips twitching. “What?” he asked innocently. “Didn’t know that was a problem.”
The teasing escalated immediately.
“Wow, starting the year strong, huh?”
“Adult decisions already?”
“Don’t forget protection— sleep protection!”
NuNew gasped. “P’—! You’re all so—!”
He tried to scold them, but his face was fully pink now, cheeks burning. He waved his hands helplessly. “It’s just— I just— it’s late!”
“Exactly,” one staff member nodded seriously. “Very late.”
Zee laughed openly now, reaching out to pat NuNew’s head. “Relax. They’re just jealous.”
NuNew swatted his hand away, flustered, then suddenly straightened up.
“Hmph.”
He lifted his chin, flipped his hair dramatically, and hooked his arm around Zee’s like he was owning the moment. “That’s right,” he said, voice proud. “I’m riding with him.”
The table lost it.
Zee burst out laughing, head tipping back. “You’re impossible.”
NuNew shot him a smug look. “You love it.”
“I really do.”
Still laughing, they waved goodbye to the staff, who continued calling out jokes and exaggerated goodbyes.
“Drive safe and enjoy your celebration!”
“Happy New Year, lovebirds!”
NuNew groaned but waved anyway, fingers curling into a small peace sign. “Happy New Year!”
Zee unlocked his Porsche, the soft beep sounding absurdly loud in the quiet street. NuNew climbed in, settling into the passenger seat with a satisfied hum.
As Zee slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, he glanced over. “Comfortable, princess?”
NuNew buckled up, smiling to himself. “Very.”
The car pulled away smoothly, city lights stretching ahead as they headed toward Zee’s condo—quiet now, just the two of them, the night finally theirs.
--
The moment the door closed behind them, the tension they’d been holding all night finally snapped.
They collapsed onto the couch in perfect sync, shoulders bumping, knees knocking, the force of it making the cushions dip under their combined weight.
And then—laughter.
Unrestrained, breathless, the kind that bubbled up from deep in the chest. Zee let his head fall back against the couch first, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.
“I swear,” he laughed, voice hoarse, “my face is still stuck in idol mode.”
NuNew snorted, sliding down until his neck rested against the back of the couch too. “You were smiling like this,” he said, stretching his lips wide with his fingers. “For, like, ten straight hours.”
“That’s because you kept doing this,” Zee turned his head just enough to look at him, eyes fond, “every time I looked your way.”
NuNew hummed innocently. “Not my fault you’re hot.”
Their laughter softened, fading into quiet breaths. The room felt different now—warm, dim, safe. Outside, the world was already moving on to the next thing, but here, time seemed to slow just for them.
Zee reached out without looking, his fingers finding NuNew’s hand easily, like muscle memory. He lifted it, turning it over, thumb brushing over familiar knuckles before pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it.
“I’m proud of you,” he said softly.
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.
NuNew turned toward him, eyes shining in that way that always made Zee’s chest tighten. “You always say that,” he murmured.
“Because it’s always true.”
NuNew didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, knees bracketing Zee’s hips as he straddled him easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Zee laughed again, hands instinctively coming up to steady him.
“Hey—”
Too late.
NuNew leaned down, pressing quick kisses everywhere—Zee’s cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. “You were amazing tonight, Hia.” he whispered between kisses. “Did you hear them? They were so loud.” Kiss. “And the way you held my hand before going onstage?” Kiss. “That’s my favorite part.”
Zee tried to protest, but every time he opened his mouth, another kiss landed, stealing the words right off his tongue.
“You’re unfair,” Zee laughed breathlessly.
NuNew grinned. “You love it.”
“I really do.”
That was all it took.
Zee’s hands slid to NuNew’s waist, fingers curling into fabric as he pulled him closer. The teasing kisses slowed, deepened, until their mouths met properly—soft at first, then lingering, then heated in that familiar, unspoken way that said we’re home now.
NuNew tilted his head, letting out a mischievous hum against Zee’s lips. “I’ve been thinking about what 'exclusive performance' we're going to do to celebrate the new year.”
Zee froze for half a second, eyes wide, jaw slack. “Nhu… you’re terrible,” he muttered, though his hands tightened around NuNew’s waist anyway.
NuNew grinned against him, teeth grazing Zee’s bottom lip. “Terrible? Please… you love it, Hia. Admit it—you’ve been picturing it too, haven’t you? The first kiss of the year… yours and mine… in ways we shouldn’t be thinking about in public.”
Zee’s lips curved into a wicked smirk. “Oh? You really want to play naughty on the first night of 2026?”
NuNew’s hands slid over Zee’s chest, teasing, caressing. “Come on, Hia. I know you don’t plan on letting me dominate the year alone.”
Zee’s hands tightened, growling low. “Oh, you better be ready then.”
Their kiss deepened, tongues tracing, teasing, pulling each other closer, bodies pressed tight, hearts racing like fireworks outside. Every brush of teeth, every low laugh, every whispered promise made the moment hotter, sweeter, darker… until the whole condo felt like their private stage. Somewhere between gentle laughter and quiet sighs, clothes became less important—shirts tugged off, fingers tracing skin they knew by heart. Zee kissed along NuNew’s jaw, down his neck, smiling when NuNew’s breath hitched.
“Hia,” NuNew breathed against his lips, “Remember, we’re in the living room.”
Zee chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of NuNew’s neck. “Then we should not be too loud,” he whispered, a playful edge in his voice.
NuNew laughed softly, forehead dropping to Zee’s. “You’re impossible.”
“You started this, baby.”
Their movements were unhurried, instinctive—hands exploring, bodies shifting closer, fitting together like they always did. Nunew was bouncing on top of Zee, with Zee’s hands guiding him gently, fingers pressing into his waist, grounding him even as NuNew moved with a rhythm all his own.
NuNew leaned forward, resting his forehead against Zee’s shoulder, breath warm and uneven, lost in the dizzying mix of pleasure and affection. He rode Zee harder, while Zee’s eyes stayed locked on him, drinking in the sight of the person he loved more than anything.
The room filled with their moans, groans, murmured names, shared breaths, the occasional soft laugh when someone bumped an elbow or nearly slipped off the couch.
It wasn’t rushed. It never was.
--
By the time they finally stilled, the world felt far away.
Later, spent but glowing, they lay tangled together on the sofa, NuNew half on top of Zee, limbs wrapped tight like neither planned on letting go anytime soon. Zee pressed a kiss into NuNew’s hair.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
NuNew hummed, tracing lazy patterns on Zee’s chest. “Very. Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
They stole kisses between lazy smiles, soft and slow, like punctuation marks between comfortable silences.
--
NuNew was the first to break the silence.
“…So,” he said thoughtfully, voice still a little breathless, fingers lazily drawing shapes on Zee’s chest, “on a scale of one to we’re never allowed on that couch again—”
Zee laughed, the sound vibrating under NuNew’s cheek. “Absolutely never allowed.”
“Good,” NuNew nodded seriously. “Because I think we traumatized it.”
Zee snorted. “You’re the one who kept whispering don’t stop like it was a challenge.”
NuNew tilted his head up, eyes bright with mischief. “I was motivating you.”
“Oh, you were motivating me?” Zee raised a brow. “Because I distinctly remember you saying—”
“HEY.” NuNew clamped a hand over Zee’s mouth, laughing. “That is classified information.”
Zee kissed his palm. “Too late. It’s already etched into my brain.”
NuNew groaned dramatically, then dissolved into giggles, hiding his face against Zee’s neck. “This is what I get for trusting you.”
“You trust me every time,” Zee teased softly. “Especially when you say things like—”
“HIA!”
They both laughed, the kind that left them breathless all over again. Zee wrapped his arms tighter around NuNew, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “if anyone asks how we welcomed the new year—”
“We partied,” NuNew said immediately, without even looking up.
Zee let out a soft laugh, chest vibrating beneath him. “Wow. Not suspicious at all.”
NuNew lifted his head then, chin propped on Zee’s chest, eyes bright and mischievous in a way that still caught Zee off guard sometimes. “I know,” he said proudly.
Zee arched a brow. “So… we partied, drank, ate—”
“Each other,” NuNew finished smoothly, clearly pleased with himself.
Zee broke into laughter, the sound filling the quiet room. He shook his head, one hand coming up to cradle the back of NuNew’s neck. “You’re unbelievable.”
NuNew smiled sweetly, the picture of innocence ruined entirely by the way his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on Zee’s skin. “And yet,” he said, scooting closer, voice turning soft, “you look very satisfied.”
Zee hummed, eyes half-lidded as he squeezed him gently. “Extremely.”
There was a brief pause—just long enough for Zee to really look at him. This version of NuNew. Relaxed. Confident. Bold in a way that had been quietly growing over time.
“You know,” Zee added, tone teasing now, “I remember when you used to hide your face every time I said something even remotely suggestive.”
NuNew laughed, ducking his head but not denying it. “That was a long time ago.”
“Mm,” Zee said thoughtfully. “Now look at you. Riding the moment like you own it.”
NuNew’s ears reddened instantly. “HIA!”
Zee grinned, clearly entertained. “What? I’m just saying. You’ve changed.”
NuNew pretended to think about it, then shrugged lightly, eyes glinting. “Maybe I just learned from a very bad influence.”
Zee gasped dramatically. “Excuse you?”
“You,” NuNew said, poking his chest. “You taught me everything.”
Zee laughed again, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. “I don’t know whether to be proud or worried.”
“You should be proud,” NuNew said softly, pressing a quick kiss to Zee’s lips. “I only act like this with you.”
That did it. Zee’s expression softened immediately, teasing melting into something tender. He kissed NuNew again, slow and unhurried, just enough to steal his breath.
“Dangerous,” Zee murmured afterward. “Very dangerous.”
NuNew smiled and settled back against him, completely at ease. “Good. Keeps things exciting.”
They fell into a comfortable silence after that—smiles lingering, breaths syncing, the room filled with that easy intimacy that came from knowing each other too well and loving every version they’d grown into. Zee’s thumb traced lazy patterns on NuNew’s arm while NuNew listened to Zee’s heartbeat, steady and familiar.
--
Eventually, they showered together—more laughter, shared shampoo, gentle touches under warm water. Then they crawled into bed, bodies still warm, sheets cool against their skin.
“Happy New Year, Hia” NuNew whispered, already half-asleep.
Zee smiled into his hair. “Happy New Year, my love.”
One last lingering kiss, soft and unguarded, and sleep came easily.
--
Hours later, sunlight crept in through the curtains.
At 9 a.m., NuNew woke first.
Careful not to wake Zee, he reached for his phone. He scrolled until he found the photo he’d taken earlier—the quiet one. The two of them curled together on the sofa, only the tops of their heads visible, eyes closed, peaceful.
Intentional. Intimate.
A gift. A statement.
NuNew smiled to himself and posted it without hesitation.
Loud. Unapologetic. Full of love.
Then he slipped the phone away, turned, and tucked himself back into Zee’s arms. Zee stirred just enough to pull him closer, mumbling something unintelligible.
NuNew smiled, eyes closing again.
Ready for whatever 2026 had waiting for them. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77326856 | {"authors": ["Nunununna_23"], "language": "English", "title": "Where Love Counts Down Twice"} |
sex on the bridge
The bridge was quiet.
Not the usual controlled chaos that accompanied Captain Kirk’s command ship no shouted reports, no frantic recalculations, no near-disasters.. Just the steady hum of the Enterprise cutting through deep space, systems breathing evenly, lights low and calm.
Spock stood at his science station, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture impeccable. His eyes moved across the readings with precision, dark lashes lowering and lifting as data scrolled past. To anyone watching, he was composed as always.
Captain James T. Kirk sat back in the command chair, relaxed in a way only he could be when everything was under control. His attention should have been on the viewscreen, on the trajectory ahead but instead, it kept drifting.
To Spock.
He stole glances in that way everyone pretended not to notice.
It was a well-known secret. An open one, really. They tried to keep it private, but Kirk had been making doe eyes at Spock since the first day Uhura had introduced them at the bar back when it had been laughter and curiosity and something electric neither of them had named yet.
Captain James T. Kirk sat back in the command chair, relaxed in a way only he could be when everything was under control. His attention should have been on the viewscreen, on the trajectory ahead—but instead, it kept drifting.
Jim, when he wasn’t busy being a captain, daydreamed about Spock constantly.
The feel of him. The weight of him. The way Spock’s breath would hitch when Jim pressed just right, the soft, broken sounds that escaped despite Vulcan discipline when control slipped for half a second. Spock was nothing like the rigid, restrained man the crew thought they knew. He was heat beneath restraint, sharp edges softened only in the dark.
And yet
Jim always felt like Spock was holding back.
Like there was something Spock refused to give him fully. Jim wanted him undone, wanted him reckless, wanted him loud the way Jim had made all his previous lovers, moaning, writhing, unashamed. But with Spock, every sound felt earned. Every whimper was a victory. Every breathy gasp felt like he’d crossed a finish line no one else had ever reached.
Those moments when Spock lost control, when a moan slipped free or his lips curved into that sinful, knowing smirk were rare. Devastating. Enough to drive Jim half-mad.
He’d once mentioned it to Uhura. Not the details but the feeling. The inadequacy. The fear that he wasn’t enough, that Spock didn’t want to let go with him. Uhura had only laughed softly, told him Vulcans hated losing control more than anything that he shouldnt think too hard about it.
So Jim had turned it into a game.
Still, part of him wondered.
But he was a captain first.
He dragged his attention back to the bridge, straightening slightly in his chair.
“Sulu. Everything good?”
“Yes, sir,” Sulu replied easily. “We’ll be taking us out of this sector in a few hours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sulu.” Jim’s gaze flicked briefly to Spock still composed, still unreadable before shifting again. “Uhura, all clear?”
“Yes, sir. Everything functioning perfectly, Captain.”
There was a pause.
Then Uhura frowned.
“Wait Captain. We’re receiving a communication.”
Jim leaned forward. “On screen, Lieutenant.”
The viewscreen flickered.
Just for a moment.
A stutter of static. A brief, ugly glitch that made Spock’s shoulders go rigid before anyone else noticed.
Then the image shifted.
And Spock froze.
Jim straightened in his chair.
The screen resolved into a dim room low light, shadows pooling along the walls. A bed dominated the center of the image, large and unmistakably intimate.
Jim recognised the room immediately, it was the captaisn quarters, his current room.
Movement flickered across it. Bodies, close together. Skin against skin.
The sound hit first.
A low, breathy noise. Broken. Unmistakably a moan.
Uhura’s hand flew over her console. “Captain there’s something overriding the visual feed. I’m trying to shut it down.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Jim demanded.
“I don’t know, sir. I can’t see something overriding my controls.”
“We're watching porn now, Captain” joked Sulu
Then the image sharpened.
And the bridge stopped breathing.
Two bodies, tangled together. Bare skin. A powerful silhouette above broad shoulders, strong back, hips moving in a slow, unmistakable rhythm. A man who carried authority even like this.
A familiar profile.
Everyone in the bridge recognised him immediately
Former captain of the Enterprise.
Fleet Captain Christopher Pike.
His body was unmistakably strong, sculpted, and confident in a way that spoke of a man who took pride in himself.
And beneath him…
Spock.
Spock, laid bare in a way the bridge had never seen. His head thrown back, throat exposed, lips parted and eyes half lidded in something that was not Vulcan composure. Something raw, vulnerable and obscene.
Jim felt the blood drain from his face.
The bridge was silent. No one moved. No one dared breathe.
And Spock
Spock couldn’t move.
He stood there, frozen at his station, every carefully built wall torn down in an instant. Exposed. His most private self dragged into the harsh light of the bridge, before his crew, before his captain, before the man who loved him and he loved in turn .
Humiliation burned through him like acid.
This wasn’t scandal.
This was annihilation.
Jim didn’t know this version of Spock.
Or maybe more terrifyingly he did.
It felt like watching a stranger wear the face of the man he loved. A version of Spock stripped of logic and restraint, of Vulcan discipline, reduced to nothing but sensation and need. There was no careful control in the movements on the screen. No precision or reserve.
Only pleasure
The room on the viewscreen was dim, the sound harsh and muffled, as if the walls themselves were trying to contain what was happening inside them. Pike’s breathing was deep, rough, unmistakably human.
Beneath it Spock.
Small sounds. Broken sounds.
Soft, involuntary breaths that slipped free before he could stop them.
On a particularly brutal movement, Spock’s breath hitched sharply. A choked sound tore out of him a strained, desperate noise that could have been Pike’s name, could have been a plea. Pike groaned in response, the sound low and satisfied, as if rewarded.
The rhythm was relentless.
Bodies meeting again and again, the cadence obscene in its intimacy. The camera caught expressions Jim had never seen Spock wear before eyes unfocused, lips parted, face slack with something dangerously close to surrender.
Pike murmured something Jim couldn’t quite hear. A low encouragement.
And Spock answered.
A quiet, breathless “yes,” dragged out and broken, repeated again and again, his body moving without hesitation, hips lifting instinctively as if chasing sensation rather than resisting it.
He looked wrecked.
Utterly undone.
Pike’s pace quickened.
And Spock Spock cried out.
A sound torn from him, loud enough to echo through the bridge. It rang out over the speakers, intimate and unguarded, and Jim’s chest constricted violently.
God.Jim had never seen anything more devastatingly beautiful.
And it shattered him.
Jealousy hit first. Sharp and ugly. Followed immediately by grief.
Spock was never like that with him. Never so uncontrolled. Never so openly lost. Was it because Jim couldn’t give him this? Was it because Pike, fleet captain Pike, former captain, authority incarnate could reach parts of Spock Jim never could?
An uglier thought followed, unbidden and cruel: Did Spock do this with all his captains?
Jim recoiled from it instantly, ashamed of himself. He loved Spock. He trusted him. But the thought lingered anyway, poisonous and unwanted.
He couldn’t speak.
No one could.
The bridge reacted in fragments, like a wave breaking unevenly.
Sulu’s eyes were wide, his face flushed a deep, unmistakable red.
Chekov let out a tiny, horrified sound before clapping a hand over his mouth.
Uhura stood frozen, one hand covering her lips, eyes locked helplessly on the screen.
Scotty stared resolutely at the floor, muttering, “Oh, laddie…” under his breath though his gaze flicked up despite himself, unable to fully look away.
Then came the moment that broke Spock.
He remembered it instantly, even as it happened again before his eyes.
Pike shifted slightly just a subtle change in angle and suddenly Spock’s entire body reacted. His back arched sharply, a silent gasp tearing through him as if his nerves had been struck raw. His head fell back, mouth open, a low, shaking sound spilling free.
The Spock on the screen panting, desperate lifted his hand to his mouth.
Index and middle fingers pressed between his lips.
Slow.
Instinctive.
Reverent.
He sucked on them, eyes fluttering shut as his body shuddered.
Tiny, involuntary sounds escaped him, fragile and helpless, carried through the speakers.
Jim felt the world tilt.
Spock had never done that with him.
The thought landed like a blow to the chest hot and ugly and aching all at once. Because it was hot. Devastatingly so. There was no denying it. Spock looked beautiful in a way Jim couldn’t look away from, all sharp lines and parted lips and something painfully alive beneath the Vulcan restraint.
And Jim hated that he noticed.
Hated that a part of him burned with want even as jealousy coiled tight in his gut. Because Spock was never like this with him. Never this unguarded. Never this openly undone. Had Jim failed to take him there? Had he been too careful? Too afraid of pushing? Was this what Spock looked like when he truly let go and was Jim simply not enough to earn it?
Spock, standing rigid at his station, felt something far worse than exposure.
That one action small, instinctive, unmistakable was more humiliating than anything else on the screen.
More than the sounds.
More than the loss of control.
More than the nakedness.
Because it wasn’t accidental.
It was memory.
Pike had found it filthy. Intimate. Irresistible.
It had taken time. It had taken trust. It had taken long, careful encouragement for him to allow himself that indulgence at all to touch his own fingers to his mouth, to let sensation overwhelm him instead of mastering it. Vulcan fingers were sensitive, disastrously so, and surrendering to that had felt like failure even then.
And now it was here.
Broadcast.
Frozen in light.
Stripped of context, stripped of privacy, reduced to spectacle.
Spock felt the humiliation like a physical weight pressing down on his chest. His ears burned violently green, his breath turning shallow as he watched himself commit the ultimate Vulcan transgression: want without restraint.
Jim didn’t know why that moment shattered him most.
Spock knew.
Because it had been chosen.
Because it had been intimate.
Because it had once felt good.
And now it was unforgivable.
Around the bridge, people tried not to look.
They failed.
Because no one had ever seen Spock like this. Vulcans were meant to be unreadable. Controlled. Untouchable.
The man on the screen was none of those things.
He was overwhelmed. Consumed. Giving in.
And Spock was watching himself.
His face remained perfectly blank marble-smooth, disciplined but his ears burned a deep, violent green, betraying everything his expression refused to show.
“Lieutenant Uhura,” Spock said, voice nearly steady, though something sharp trembled beneath it. “Turn it off.”
“I…I’m trying,” she whispered, fingers flying, breath unsteady.
For one last, unbearable second, the Spock on the screen made a broken sound half-formed, intimate, almost a plea. Pike responded instantly, and Spock’s body reacted violently, fingers slipping from his mouth as a helpless sound tore out of him.
It was obvious.
He was on the edge.
Everyone knew it.
The real Spock inhaled sharply through his nose, control fracturing for just a heartbeat. His shoulders drew inward, as if he could make himself smaller, invisible. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped beneath his skin.
This this was unforgivable.
The bridge was about to watch him completely unravel.
He would never recover from it.
Was it only them? Or was the whole ship seeing this too?
His thoughts spiraled dangerously.
He could not look at anyone.
Jim stood.
Slowly.
Spock refused to meet his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see disgust there. Or pity. Or worse hurt.
“Uhura,” Jim said, his voice suddenly sharp, commanding, nothing like the man he usually was. “Turn it off.”
The video continued for a few agonizing seconds more Pike gripping Spock’s hip, Spock arching helplessly into him, face contorted with pleasure so raw it bordered on something sacred.
The power of it.
The surrender.
Jim knew, with terrifying certainty, that he would never forget that expression.
Then the screen snapped back to stars.
Silence crushed the bridge.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Spock stood perfectly straight, hands trembling where they were hidden behind his back, eyes fixed forward empty, shattered, as if something vital had been ripped out of him and displayed.
Finally, in a voice that by some miracle held steady, he said,
“Permission to leave the bridge, Captain.”
Jim’s heart broke cleanly in two.
“Granted,” he said softly. | sex on the bridge
The bridge was quiet.
Not the usual controlled chaos that accompanied Captain Kirk’s command ship no shouted reports, no frantic recalculations, no near-disasters.. Just the steady hum of the Enterprise cutting through deep space, systems breathing evenly, lights low and calm.
Spock stood at his science station, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture impeccable. His eyes moved across the readings with precision, dark lashes lowering and lifting as data scrolled past. To anyone watching, he was composed as always.
Captain James T. Kirk sat back in the command chair, relaxed in a way only he could be when everything was under control. His attention should have been on the viewscreen, on the trajectory ahead but instead, it kept drifting.
To Spock.
He stole glances in that way everyone pretended not to notice.
It was a well-known secret. An open one, really. They tried to keep it private, but Kirk had been making doe eyes at Spock since the first day Uhura had introduced them at the bar back when it had been laughter and curiosity and something electric neither of them had named yet.
Captain James T. Kirk sat back in the command chair, relaxed in a way only he could be when everything was under control. His attention should have been on the viewscreen, on the trajectory ahead—but instead, it kept drifting.
Jim, when he wasn’t busy being a captain, daydreamed about Spock constantly.
The feel of him. The weight of him. The way Spock’s breath would hitch when Jim pressed just right, the soft, broken sounds that escaped despite Vulcan discipline when control slipped for half a second. Spock was nothing like the rigid, restrained man the crew thought they knew. He was heat beneath restraint, sharp edges softened only in the dark.
And yet
Jim always felt like Spock was holding back.
Like there was something Spock refused to give him fully. Jim wanted him undone, wanted him reckless, wanted him loud the way Jim had made all his previous lovers, moaning, writhing, unashamed. But with Spock, every sound felt earned. Every whimper was a victory. Every breathy gasp felt like he’d crossed a finish line no one else had ever reached.
Those moments when Spock lost control, when a moan slipped free or his lips curved into that sinful, knowing smirk were rare. Devastating. Enough to drive Jim half-mad.
He’d once mentioned it to Uhura. Not the details but the feeling. The inadequacy. The fear that he wasn’t enough, that Spock didn’t want to let go with him. Uhura had only laughed softly, told him Vulcans hated losing control more than anything that he shouldnt think too hard about it.
So Jim had turned it into a game.
Still, part of him wondered.
But he was a captain first.
He dragged his attention back to the bridge, straightening slightly in his chair.
“Sulu. Everything good?”
“Yes, sir,” Sulu replied easily. “We’ll be taking us out of this sector in a few hours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sulu.” Jim’s gaze flicked briefly to Spock still composed, still unreadable before shifting again. “Uhura, all clear?”
“Yes, sir. Everything functioning perfectly, Captain.”
There was a pause.
Then Uhura frowned.
“Wait Captain. We’re receiving a communication.”
Jim leaned forward. “On screen, Lieutenant.”
The viewscreen flickered.
Just for a moment.
A stutter of static. A brief, ugly glitch that made Spock’s shoulders go rigid before anyone else noticed.
Then the image shifted.
And Spock froze.
Jim straightened in his chair.
The screen resolved into a dim room low light, shadows pooling along the walls. A bed dominated the center of the image, large and unmistakably intimate.
Jim recognised the room immediately, it was the captaisn quarters, his current room.
Movement flickered across it. Bodies, close together. Skin against skin.
The sound hit first.
A low, breathy noise. Broken. Unmistakably a moan.
Uhura’s hand flew over her console. “Captain there’s something overriding the visual feed. I’m trying to shut it down.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Jim demanded.
“I don’t know, sir. I can’t see something overriding my controls.”
“We're watching porn now, Captain” joked Sulu
Then the image sharpened.
And the bridge stopped breathing.
Two bodies, tangled together. Bare skin. A powerful silhouette above broad shoulders, strong back, hips moving in a slow, unmistakable rhythm. A man who carried authority even like this.
A familiar profile.
Everyone in the bridge recognised him immediately
Former captain of the Enterprise.
Fleet Captain Christopher Pike.
His body was unmistakably strong, sculpted, and confident in a way that spoke of a man who took pride in himself.
And beneath him…
Spock.
Spock, laid bare in a way the bridge had never seen. His head thrown back, throat exposed, lips parted and eyes half lidded in something that was not Vulcan composure. Something raw, vulnerable and obscene.
Jim felt the blood drain from his face.
The bridge was silent. No one moved. No one dared breathe.
And Spock
Spock couldn’t move.
He stood there, frozen at his station, every carefully built wall torn down in an instant. Exposed. His most private self dragged into the harsh light of the bridge, before his crew, before his captain, before the man who loved him and he loved in turn .
Humiliation burned through him like acid.
This wasn’t scandal.
This was annihilation.
Jim didn’t know this version of Spock.
Or maybe more terrifyingly he did.
It felt like watching a stranger wear the face of the man he loved. A version of Spock stripped of logic and restraint, of Vulcan discipline, reduced to nothing but sensation and need. There was no careful control in the movements on the screen. No precision or reserve.
Only pleasure
The room on the viewscreen was dim, the sound harsh and muffled, as if the walls themselves were trying to contain what was happening inside them. Pike’s breathing was deep, rough, unmistakably human.
Beneath it Spock.
Small sounds. Broken sounds.
Soft, involuntary breaths that slipped free before he could stop them.
On a particularly brutal movement, Spock’s breath hitched sharply. A choked sound tore out of him a strained, desperate noise that could have been Pike’s name, could have been a plea. Pike groaned in response, the sound low and satisfied, as if rewarded.
The rhythm was relentless.
Bodies meeting again and again, the cadence obscene in its intimacy. The camera caught expressions Jim had never seen Spock wear before eyes unfocused, lips parted, face slack with something dangerously close to surrender.
Pike murmured something Jim couldn’t quite hear. A low encouragement.
And Spock answered.
A quiet, breathless “yes,” dragged out and broken, repeated again and again, his body moving without hesitation, hips lifting instinctively as if chasing sensation rather than resisting it.
He looked wrecked.
Utterly undone.
Pike’s pace quickened.
And Spock Spock cried out.
A sound torn from him, loud enough to echo through the bridge. It rang out over the speakers, intimate and unguarded, and Jim’s chest constricted violently.
God.Jim had never seen anything more devastatingly beautiful.
And it shattered him.
Jealousy hit first. Sharp and ugly. Followed immediately by grief.
Spock was never like that with him. Never so uncontrolled. Never so openly lost. Was it because Jim couldn’t give him this? Was it because Pike, fleet captain Pike, former captain, authority incarnate could reach parts of Spock Jim never could?
An uglier thought followed, unbidden and cruel: Did Spock do this with all his captains?
Jim recoiled from it instantly, ashamed of himself. He loved Spock. He trusted him. But the thought lingered anyway, poisonous and unwanted.
He couldn’t speak.
No one could.
The bridge reacted in fragments, like a wave breaking unevenly.
Sulu’s eyes were wide, his face flushed a deep, unmistakable red.
Chekov let out a tiny, horrified sound before clapping a hand over his mouth.
Uhura stood frozen, one hand covering her lips, eyes locked helplessly on the screen.
Scotty stared resolutely at the floor, muttering, “Oh, laddie…” under his breath though his gaze flicked up despite himself, unable to fully look away.
Then came the moment that broke Spock.
He remembered it instantly, even as it happened again before his eyes.
Pike shifted slightly just a subtle change in angle and suddenly Spock’s entire body reacted. His back arched sharply, a silent gasp tearing through him as if his nerves had been struck raw. His head fell back, mouth open, a low, shaking sound spilling free.
The Spock on the screen panting, desperate lifted his hand to his mouth.
Index and middle fingers pressed between his lips.
Slow.
Instinctive.
Reverent.
He sucked on them, eyes fluttering shut as his body shuddered.
Tiny, involuntary sounds escaped him, fragile and helpless, carried through the speakers.
Jim felt the world tilt.
Spock had never done that with him.
The thought landed like a blow to the chest hot and ugly and aching all at once. Because it was hot. Devastatingly so. There was no denying it. Spock looked beautiful in a way Jim couldn’t look away from, all sharp lines and parted lips and something painfully alive beneath the Vulcan restraint.
And Jim hated that he noticed.
Hated that a part of him burned with want even as jealousy coiled tight in his gut. Because Spock was never like this with him. Never this unguarded. Never this openly undone. Had Jim failed to take him there? Had he been too careful? Too afraid of pushing? Was this what Spock looked like when he truly let go and was Jim simply not enough to earn it?
Spock, standing rigid at his station, felt something far worse than exposure.
That one action small, instinctive, unmistakable was more humiliating than anything else on the screen.
More than the sounds.
More than the loss of control.
More than the nakedness.
Because it wasn’t accidental.
It was memory.
Pike had found it filthy. Intimate. Irresistible.
It had taken time. It had taken trust. It had taken long, careful encouragement for him to allow himself that indulgence at all to touch his own fingers to his mouth, to let sensation overwhelm him instead of mastering it. Vulcan fingers were sensitive, disastrously so, and surrendering to that had felt like failure even then.
And now it was here.
Broadcast.
Frozen in light.
Stripped of context, stripped of privacy, reduced to spectacle.
Spock felt the humiliation like a physical weight pressing down on his chest. His ears burned violently green, his breath turning shallow as he watched himself commit the ultimate Vulcan transgression: want without restraint.
Jim didn’t know why that moment shattered him most.
Spock knew.
Because it had been chosen.
Because it had been intimate.
Because it had once felt good.
And now it was unforgivable.
Around the bridge, people tried not to look.
They failed.
Because no one had ever seen Spock like this. Vulcans were meant to be unreadable. Controlled. Untouchable.
The man on the screen was none of those things.
He was overwhelmed. Consumed. Giving in.
And Spock was watching himself.
His face remained perfectly blank marble-smooth, disciplined but his ears burned a deep, violent green, betraying everything his expression refused to show.
“Lieutenant Uhura,” Spock said, voice nearly steady, though something sharp trembled beneath it. “Turn it off.”
“I…I’m trying,” she whispered, fingers flying, breath unsteady.
For one last, unbearable second, the Spock on the screen made a broken sound half-formed, intimate, almost a plea. Pike responded instantly, and Spock’s body reacted violently, fingers slipping from his mouth as a helpless sound tore out of him.
It was obvious.
He was on the edge.
Everyone knew it.
The real Spock inhaled sharply through his nose, control fracturing for just a heartbeat. His shoulders drew inward, as if he could make himself smaller, invisible. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped beneath his skin.
This this was unforgivable.
The bridge was about to watch him completely unravel.
He would never recover from it.
Was it only them? Or was the whole ship seeing this too?
His thoughts spiraled dangerously.
He could not look at anyone.
Jim stood.
Slowly.
Spock refused to meet his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see disgust there. Or pity. Or worse hurt.
“Uhura,” Jim said, his voice suddenly sharp, commanding, nothing like the man he usually was. “Turn it off.”
The video continued for a few agonizing seconds more Pike gripping Spock’s hip, Spock arching helplessly into him, face contorted with pleasure so raw it bordered on something sacred.
The power of it.
The surrender.
Jim knew, with terrifying certainty, that he would never forget that expression.
Then the screen snapped back to stars.
Silence crushed the bridge.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Spock stood perfectly straight, hands trembling where they were hidden behind his back, eyes fixed forward empty, shattered, as if something vital had been ripped out of him and displayed.
Finally, in a voice that by some miracle held steady, he said,
“Permission to leave the bridge, Captain.”
Jim’s heart broke cleanly in two.
“Granted,” he said softly. | ao3_english | 2026-01-08T00:00:00Z | https://archiveofourown.gay/works/77329421 | {"authors": ["Pandora333"], "language": "English", "title": "sex on the bridge"} |
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