#very?? hesitantly tagging this with moon? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lady-lauren · 1 year

Text

Heaven in Hiding

↣ Pairing: Kyojuro Rengoku x Fem!Reader

↣ Rating: Explicit, 18+ Only

↣ Word Count: 5.7k

↣ Warnings/Tags: modern college au, step-big bro!Rengoku, stepcest, a very slight yandere tone, a bit of enemies to lovers, use of “darling” and “good girl”, cuddling and flirting, the smut comes quickly because I can’t help myself, oral (fem!receiving), facesitting, hair pulling, a little biting/marking, unprotected rough/passionate sex, small belly bulge, creampie

↣ A/N: I’m not sorry. I needed to get this out of my system. I love this man and I have been a god damn emotional rollercoaster with this series, okay? He’s such a good big brother and I can’t stand it. 😭

Kyojuro takes delight in being a big brother. He’s a protector and provider by nature. So, when his father remarried, the union bringing a darling new step-sister into the fold, he found renewed pride and purpose in acting as your big brother.

Even though you don’t need a big brother—you’ve told him this a thousand times, insisted that since you’ve always been on your own, you can handle yourself. You’re only two years younger than him, a sophomore to his senior in college.

You’re independent, which Kyojuro appreciates. But you’re so pretty and always so alone. Alone at parties, smiling in the corner, fending off boys with impure intentions. Alone at the library, working tirelessly toward your degree. Alone in your apartment, sleeping in empty sheets.

He can’t stand the thought of you being alone. You need him. You’re a moon without a sun.

So Kyojuro determines the only way for you to let him in completely is to give you what all pretty, lonely girls desire—to be fucked stupid.

“Hello!” he announces at your door late on a Saturday night. He’s not surprised that you slam the door in his face upon recognizing his golden hair and flaming voice.

Persistent, he knocks again, telling the seam of the door that he’s brought food.

It takes a few moments, but your door creaks open again, slowly, hesitantly, as if you’re afraid he’s just going to rush inside. He does.

“Finals are just around the corner and I wanted to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

As he takes purposeful steps toward your kitchen, Kyojuro takes note of your apartment. Everything is clean, cute. There are scented candles burning and he can smell the remnants of a hot shower, steam and hints of vanilla and rose swirling in the air. Your television is paused on some Netflix show, a cozy blanket half strewn over the couch. Good, you’re indulging in self-care.

“I’m doing just fine on my own, thanks.”

“And that’s the problem!” He pulls fresh, hot food from the paper bag he’s brought as he speaks, setting containers of potato miso soup—of course he would bring you his favorite, you deserve nothing less—and various other comforting snacks on your countertops. “You don’t have to do everything on your own when you have me.”

You follow him to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed. You weren’t prepared for company, only dressed in a pair of soft shorts and a tank-top with no bra. He notices how you’re covering yourself, pressing your tits down and out of sight, hiding the sight of hard nipples. You’re alluring in the soft light; all smooth, dewy skin and sensual curves that would make any man weep.

“Thanks,” you sigh, “and sorry about trying to shut you out. I’m just not used to having a…a brother, or whatever you are.”

“Well, I’m happy to show you what big brothers are for.”

Even as you both sit to eat, you eye him like you don’t trust him. The problem is that you don’t know him. Even after a few years of being family, you’ve never given him the time of day to show you who he really is, how caring he is. Which is why he’s determined to sink beneath your skin tonight, open you like a parched flower to rain.

“You really don’t have to stay,” you mumble over a spoonful, still watching him with catlike perception.

“Why? Did you have other plans?” He looks around dramatically, long hair swishing as he makes the point.

“Kyojuro…I like being alone. It’s addictive, in a way. I like being able to do whatever I want, whenever I want. And I appreciate that you want to be some heroic big bro, but I don’t need you to do that.”

“Don’t you get lonely?” he says with a heavy knife’s edge of sincerity. The words slice through the calm and make you bristle.

“Everyone gets lonely. It’s human nature.”

“Well, you don’t have to be lonely,” he stands to begin cleaning, stopping next to your chair to pat your head softly. “Not with me around.”

He keeps his palm on your head for a moment longer, making you look up at him through your lashes with a concoction of emotion. Anger is present, anger that he’s here, once again attempting to push into your life. But there’s also a hint of adoration, a welling shine that gives him hope.

For you, it’s hard not to be sucked into the gravity well that is Kyojuro Rengoku. He’s blazing warmth and heartfelt smiles, with an eccentricity that is equal parts curious and lovable. He’s the promise of comfort, an assurance of safety. He’s big and strong and far too handsome for his own good—every girl at your university wants him and it’s hard not to fall prey to his blunt charm.

But you’ve always found solace in yourself, only ever trusted yourself. It’s hard to put your trust into anyone, even someone with such a pleasing disposition.

“What movie do you wanna watch?” There’s no question as to whether you want to do such a thing and spend more time with him. It’s a given for him. You’ve let him in, so now he’s going to stay.

“I’m not picky,” you rummage around the kitchen as he slinks into the living room, “just put on whatever you want.”

When you’ve taken enough time to steel yourself, taking deep breaths to calm your shot nerves of your expected alone time being overtaken, you return to him.

Kyojuro has taken residence on your small couch, stout legs spread across the cushions. He’s big in your space, muscular and barrel-chested as one arm hangs across the back of the couch. Like you, he’s casual tonight, gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt with the Slayer University emblem on his chest.

With a beaming, almost sheepish smile, he pats his stocky thigh in invitation.

“No,” you hiss.

“Oh, come on! I bet you haven’t had a good, old-fashioned cuddle in a long time.”

The startled look on your face confirms his thoughts.

He’s perceptive, it’s what has made him a great college athlete. He knows you well enough to be aware that you’re no fumbling virgin; you prefer one-night stands, in and out sexual gratification with no messy strings of feelings wrapped around your heart. But that means when it comes to gentle, caring human contact, you’re absolutely touch-starved. He wants to give you what no one else can—the warm, comforting embrace of a brother.

Like an offering, he holds his hand out to you. Palm up, big fingers barely curved and beckoning come here.

You mumble something under your breath, some curse against god, but you take his hand anyway.

Your bodies meld together easily. Your softness melts against his muscles, your ass settling between his spread thighs and your legs draping over one of his. Enthusiastically, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and squishes your cheek against his plush chest.

“See? This is nice!” He beams, proud and loud and practically stewing in happiness.

Shifting a bit to find comfort, you settle on having your hands against his chest, his steady heart beating against your fingertips, ringing in the ear he’s trapped against him.

“Yeah,” your voice is muffled against his brawn, “it’s alright.”

It’s more than alright. Kyojuro can feel the tension in your shoulders fade as he runs his fingers along your arm, up and down, back and forth, a gentle sweeping of touch. You sink deeper into him as he scrolls aimlessly through the streaming platform, nuzzling your head against his chest. You’re quiet, but that’s alright. He just wants you to feel comfortable and realize that you’re safe with him.

He decides on something simple to watch, some nature documentary he’s already seen before as background noise. He doesn’t care what plays; all his attention is set on you.

Fingertips trail up your neck, his thumb caressing your jaw. He expected you to squirm a bit, perhaps protest, but you are content to just curl up against him and hum.

“Feel good?”

“Mhm, yeah. Guess I could get used to this.”

Kyojuro takes the initiative of pulling you in even closer, big hand dipping to your waist and shoving you against his body. His fingers spread wide, his thumb presses against the fat of your breast, his middle finger curving against the underside. His instincts tell him to squeeze, but he presses his teeth together and flexes his jaw to stop himself.

You’re not naive. Your senses are on high alert being pressed against his big, warm body, and you’re acutely aware of his touch against your breast. Instead of slithering away from him, you coil yourself against him tighter. One of your hands slides up his chest, wrinkling his soft t-shirt as your fingers come to rest on his neck, right at his pulse.

“Kyo…” you whisper, turning your cheek to look up at him. He stares down at you a little too intently, honey and ruby eyes waiting, watching. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“To be a good big brother,” he answers immediately.

“So good little sisters just get food and cuddles? Nothing else?” You’re teasing him, one of your manicured nails tapping at the side of his full lips.

He’ll give you whatever you want, whatever it takes to open you to him, let him be part of your life, part of you.

“I’ll give you anything you want. Name it, and it’s yours.”

His heart is pounding in his ribcage as you move in his lap, straddling his waist. Your tits press against his chest, your cunt nestled against the ridge of his hardening cock that he can’t keep hidden in his sweats.

You play with the long hair that frames his face, twirling red tips between your fingers.

“We really shouldn’t…”

Your lips brush against his, just out of reach, hips rocking against him.

“But we definitely should, right?”

“We tell no one,” you warn.

“Our little secret.”

He takes the initiative, running his hot hands up your sides, feeling every dip and curve as he settles his palms on your tits. Thumbs roll over your already hard nipples, bushy eyebrows pulling up in delight as you give him your first moan.

One hand drags to your face, thick fingers squishing into your cheeks as he pulls your mouth closer to his.

“Let me show you what big brothers are for, darling.”

His kiss is like fire, all consuming, powerful. He slides his tongue into your mouth without prompting, cock growing fully hard when you respond in earnest. Your hands cup his face as you moan into his mouth, tongue tangling with his as you grind into his lap. He wanted you to be enthusiastic, but this—this is heaven.

Just a few touches and you’re already melting to his flames, ready to be burned.

He knew such a pretty, lonely thing just needed to be fucked. And he’ll fuck you just right, in all the ways you’ve ever desired. That’s what he’s here for—to provide in all the ways no other man can.

“Off,” you whisper into his mouth, fingernails plucking at his shirt. “Take this off.”

He breaks away from you for just an instant, grabbing his shirt behind his neck and ripping the fabric away from his heated skin. He does the same for you, tossing your tank top over your head so your tits can spill out in front of his face.

“You’re beautiful,” he says in quick reverence, leaning forward to lick one of your nipples into his mouth. His hands are rough, one gripping into your ribs and pushing you down into the couch cushions while the other kneads into the flesh of the breast in his mouth.

You moan and squeak at his actions, making room for him to settle between your spread legs. His weight is so heavy between your thighs. He feels like passion, like a promise.

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” he asks rather sternly, spit dripping from his lips as he moves from one breast to the other.

You flush hot; he can feel how your skin reacts to him.

“Wha…what do you mean?”

As his teeth delicately scrape against your nipple, he flashes his eyes up at you over the curve of your tits. You know exactly what he means.

“I…” you trail off, suddenly bashful even as you press your pussy closer to him, finding relief by rubbing your dampening folds against the hard ridge of his cock.

Kyojuro mumbles your name into your skin, “How do you make yourself cum?”

The question is genuine. He needs to know. He wants to know how to please you, he wants to know if you really do take care of yourself.

“Oh god,” you groan and throw your arm over your eyes, whimpering as he takes your tits in both hands and squeezes. “I…fuck, I have toys.”

“Do you? What kind?” He trails his mouth lower, relishing how your hips buck one last time, searching for his cock, as he moves himself down your body.

“I—” you suck in a deep breath as he hooks his fingers in your sopping little shorts, tugging the material down your thighs. “I h-have a vibrator, but mostly I j-just use a big dildo. I…I like to feel full.”

“I’ll make you feel full, darling. I promise.”

He spreads you open, one of your legs dangling off the couch and the other propped against the back cushion. Your pussy is already sloppy, slick and wet in anticipation of him. He shoves his golden head between your thighs, using his thumbs to spread apart your folds and just look at you. You’re perfect—such a perfect little step-sister indeed.

“It’s amazing how wet you are for me.” The praise makes you mewl, hips wiggling as one of your hands tangles in his long mane of hair. He can feel your temptation to tug him closer, nails pressing into his scalp.

But the sight of your plush thighs spread wide gives him such a tempting thought, one he can’t deny.

“I want you to sit on my face.” He pulls himself away from you, big shoulders rolling as he sits up onto his knees. He rubs his drooling, aching cock through his pants at the sight of you spread naked below him.

“But you were already right there,” you huff and sit up, shooting him that angry glare he loves so much.

“I know, I know,” he grins, “but I want your thighs smothering me. So, sit on me fully, yeah? No hovering.”

You nod in agreement as he sits on the floor, laying his head back and flat against the cushions, thick neck tilted back. You don’t hesitate to throw your leg across his pretty face, letting his lips ghost along your skin as you settle your hips above him. He locks his brawny arms around your legs, eager to bring your wet cunt to his mouth.

He groans in ecstasy as your weight presses down against him, your pussy sweet against his lips as he takes his time to flatten his tongue and draw one long, hot stripe through your folds.

Immediately his eyes flare open, catching your gaze from up above.

“Fuck you’re…tasty.”

His face feels too good smothered between the flesh of your thighs, lips and tongue hungry within your folds. Strong hands are careful not to bruise your skin, pulling your weight farther down onto his face until he’s drowning in you.

Your head hangs low as jolts of white-hot heat spread from where his mouth is working at you, playing with you, tongue painting long, broad strokes up and down your pussy. Your thighs begin to shake and he takes it as a sign of triumph, eagerly eating more and more. Your cunt is syrupy and hot, dripping down onto his tongue and his cheeks.

If he suffocated here and now, he’d die a happy man between your legs.

One of his hands falls to his lap, fisting at his dripping cock, red and angry and still begging for release against the blonde, downy hair of his stomach. Sticky pre-cum leaks from his flushed head, pooling into his skin and clothes as his cock bobs and twitches at the sounds of your moans. Quickly, he lifts his hips just enough to pull his cock free, hand wrapping around his throbbing skin to pump his shaft to the rhythm of his tongue inside of you.

“Oh, oh fuck,” you press your lips together, stomach pulling tight as his tongue thrusts up inside of you, “fuck, fuck, fuck that’s so good, Kyo,” it is all a messy whisper, just hot air blown into the dimly lit room.

Your hips jerk and roll from his ministrations, bursts of pleasure spreading over your nerves like hot, rippling webs beneath your skin. His tongue presses against your tight hole, gathering the mess of your slick onto his tongue and drinking like a man parched.

His tongue soothes over you, lapping slowly and pulling you away from the churning coil within your belly. He wants you to savor this, to beg for him, beg for your big brother to let you cum on his face.

“Please,” your voice is wavering as his lips move against your folds, “p-please, suck my clit, make me cum.”

His cock twitches with every plea.

You double over in pleasure as he heads your plea, nails scraping into the couch as you cling on for dear life. His tongue swirls over your clit quickly and with fervor, tight circles to make your vision go blurry. He’s always been proud of how well he eats pussy, and he’s never enjoyed one more than yours.

He squeezes the base of his cock to keep himself from cumming, letting his dick throb and pulse in anticipation of being inside your sweet cunt.

You’re getting closer to the edge with every curl of his tongue, the tip of it fast and hurried as he licks against your swollen clit. Kyojuro feels as if he is on fire and drowning all at the same time, lungs struggling to take in just enough air to keep himself above the surface of bliss.

The noises he makes are suppressed, being soaked up by your cunt. The vibrations from his mouth only add to your building delight, making your hips become more desperate. Continuous moans of your own spill down over your bodies, whimpers and a line of “please, please, please.”

He purrs into your flesh, “Who do you want to make you cum, darling? Say my name.”

Kyojuro can feel you sinking, each purposeful lick against your pussy sending you deeper and deeper into a pleasant abyss. His tongue is far too skilled; he knows exactly how to lap and kiss at you to keep your body shaking and wanting, all his attention centered around the tight bundle of nerves that has your belly tightening over and over again.

“Kyo–Kyojuro!” you all but scream, thighs pressing in closer to his head, his long hair sticking to the sweat of your skin.

“You can do better.”

The look on your face above him is priceless, nearly fucked out already and all you’ve had of him is his tongue.

“Fuck!” You squeeze your eyes closed as pleasure overtakes you, now riding his face as you chase your high. “Oh, oh Kyo, please, big brother please.”

Your orgasm spills onto his cheeks as you find your release, ecstasy blooming from where his mouth is still relentlessly licking between your folds. Your walls clench and unclench, looking for the fat cock that should be filling your needy cunt. Your sanity momentarily slips away, mind and body overwhelmed with the feeling of him, of your fucking step-brother between your thighs.

Then, you fall, chest pressing into the couch and hips lifting so you don’t actually crush Kyojuro’s pretty face beneath you.

Kyojuro laughs triumphantly as he slips from between your legs, wrapping you in his arms so you can cling to him in your post-orgasmic high. He pulls you back into his lap, grunting as your messy cunt brushes against his still aching cock.

“You’re so good,” he kisses your forehead, hand petting over your hair as you bury your face into his neck, “you’re such a good girl, you know that?”

He keeps you engulfed in his brawn as you whimper, naked chest pressed against his.

When you pull back to look at him, your eyes are blazing, full of passion that mimics his own.

“I need you inside me, Kyo,” you whisper, pulling his lips down to yours for a sloppy kiss. You moan at the taste of yourself in his mouth, nails gripping into his muscles.

“Your wish is my command!” He beams with pride as he stands, throwing your naked body over his shoulder as he kicks off the rest of his pants and marches for your bedroom.

“Kyo!” You cough at his broad shoulder pressing into your stomach. “We could’ve just fucked on the couch.”

“Absolutely not!” He slams open your bedroom door with perhaps too much enthusiasm, the doorknob wailing against the wall. “Not when there’s a perfectly good bed to take you in.”

With his unparalleled strength, he easily manhandles you onto the bed, flipping you onto your hands and knees.

There’s no pause, no moment to breathe. Kyojuro is fast and sure with his movements, pulling you back by your hips and sinking you down onto his thick cock.

It’s hard for him not to just slam into you, his need for you seeping out of every pore and tensing every muscle. But he refrains, using you slowly, letting you sink back inch by inch on his throbbing cock.

The sound you make is divine, one of pure relief and satisfaction of finally being stuffed full. Your cunt sucks him in tightly, a wet vice clenching against the pulsing veins of his cock.

He groans as he finally bottoms out inside of you, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of your pussy spread around him. You’ve finally let him in, let him break down your barriers and open yourself up to him in the most vulnerable of ways.

There is a warm burn from the way he stretches your pussy, sending your eyes rolling back as you suck in a deep breath. He stays still. He keeps himself sheathed deep inside of you, letting you feel the thickness of his cock, the heaviness of his thighs against yours.

“Better than your toys?” he asks, hands sliding up your sides to toy with your dangling tits, plucking at your puffy nipples.

“So much better, Kyo. You feel so fucking good.”

He cants his hips gently, pulling out just a bit before bullying back inside your depths.

“Yeah? You like feeling full with my cock inside you?”

Your head nods against the pillows, your hips wiggling back for more.

Kyojuro leans over your back as he grinds into your gummy core, kissing your shoulder blades and rocking against you. The need to protect, to provide, swells in his chest as you mewl for him.

“Gonna make you feel so good, darling. Gonna take such good care of you, promise.”

Flaming hair falls into his face as he pulls back, hands anchoring to your hips. His appetite for you is raging hotter than any fire he has ever conjured in his soul; he is bewitched, the sinful arch of your back imploring him to go deeper, to forget any inhibitions and become enraptured by your body. But still yet, he wants to savor you, to etch the vision before him into his memory, to play the sweet professions your lips spoke earlier on repeat. Oh, big brother, please.

The mattress dips under his heavy weight, causing your knees to spread farther into the divots created by his wake. A strong hand steadies you, thumb petting over your backside with care. He begins a steady pace, eyes gleaming as he watches your ass cheeks bounce against the slap of his skin against yours.

Heavy balls smack against your clit, making your body twitch with little shocks of bliss with every thrust.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, “you feel so good wrapped around my cock. So fucking tight, all for me, right?”

“For you,” you choke out between plunges of his cock. “All for you, big brother.”

He knows you’re saying it just to turn him on—before tonight, you hardly ever called him brother, but now you’re far closer than two step-siblings ever should be. That thought makes him ache, heart pooling with pride.

He’s the best big brother, he can give you more happiness than anyone else.

One of his hands abandons your hip. His thick arm reaches forward and tangles in your hair, jerking your head back as he doubles down on his pace. Curses tumble out of your mouth now, free falling into the air and encouraging him to fuck you more recklessly. The fingers in your hair pull and tug gently, twisting and making you moan.

He’s rutting against you like you’re a bitch in heat, like the only thing that can bring you absolution is your step-brother’s cock. Your lust spills over into garbled moans of his name.

He pulls you up higher, leaning forward to capture your shoulder between his teeth. The bite is soft, just enough to mark you and make your body shiver from gentle pricks of pain. His body rocks against yours, over, and over, and over again. His cock rams so deep inside of you that he feels as if he’s fucking into your throat.

“You like getting fucked by big brother, yeah? Like how good I make you feel?” He growls into your neck, his hand on your hip still crushing you against him.

“Oh my god!” you cry out, hands flying to your breasts as you begin edging up the mountain of climax.

“Fuck, you’re sucking me in so tight, you gonna cum for me? Gonna cum just from my cock inside of you?”

His cock is unforgiving, plunging into you with reckless abandon as he keeps a tight pull on your hair. You feel so weak against him, so used by his massive body and hands, your cunt throbbing with every push of his cock, begging for release.

Every fresh plunge of his cock inside of you is wet, sloppy, squelching out into the darkness of your room.

Your bodies are passionate flames burning against each other, skin against skin and flesh into flesh. He’s mesmerized by you, how soft you are when you’re vulnerable, how your hands reach back for him and your nails scrape against his skin like you need him.

Kyojuro begins thrusting harder, more erratic than before. The lewd sound of your slick coating his cock gushes with every plunge. God, he feels so good, so full of passion above you, taking you like you truly belong to him, like he’s spoiling you rotten like every little sister deserves.

He lets go of your hair, your upper body falling back against the mattress. Your fingers twist in the sheets, your hips finding his rhythm and bouncing back against him with every thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, Kyo, fuck don’t stop, please, wanna cum on your cock!” Your pleas are muffled by the pillows in your face.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers pressing against the delicate sides of your throat. You groan into the sheets at the feeling of his thick fingers pressing against your pulse. He can feel the power within his thighs as he slams into you, his cock buried so deep that he’s sure you will feel its ghost lingering within you for weeks to come.

Your sensitive clit aches from his balls barreling against you, your legs nearly crumpling from his weight behind you. He is wavering, coming close to the edge. His movements are slowing, finding that perfect pace to finally feel you come undone around him.

And then he finally feels it, the intoxicating suction of your cunt as you orgasm. The world stops for you as you scream his name over and over again, the milking compression of your pussy nearly enough to have him bursting his load inside of you. But he holds himself back, not ready to be done with you.

“You alright, darling?” He runs his fingers down your back tenderly, smiling as he feels the aftershocks of pleasure racing down your spine.

Your cunt flexes around him, clamping down like you’re sucking the last thread of orgasm into your body.

“God you’re so thick, Kyo. You h-have no idea how good you feel inside me, holy shit.”

He chuckles, slowly pulling his cock out of you, only to slam back in to hear you scream.

“Wanna watch your face as I fuck you,” he groans, pulling at your body and slipping out of you for only a moment before sliding back in again.

Your face is blissed out, lashes wet and lips swollen. He brushes his thumb over the apple of your cheek as he begins a new pace, softer and deeper as he curls one of your legs against your chest.

“You still feel good? Cause you’re so fucking pretty like this, love watching you take my cock.”

He knows you’re a little too full, too fucked out to answer, cunt stuffed so snugly around his cock he can feel every drag of your inner muscles. Keen, multicolored eyes admire how your flesh parts for him, drags along his length, coats his heavy cock with fresh cream with every push.

He won’t last long like this. Not with you whimpering, your hands pulling at his hair, bringing him down to kiss you like the world will end if you don’t taste him right this second.

“You’re mine to take care of you, know that, right?” he mumbles against your wet lips as you nod in earnest.

“God,” you groan as he pushes in deep, “you can take care of me any time, please god, as long as you make me feel this fucking good.”

Kyjuro sits back and hooks both of your knees over his strong arms, practically folding you in half as your hips roll back on the bed to take the power of his thrusts.

“No more shutting the door on me, yeah? Big brother can have you whenever he wants.”

“Yes, promise, promise.”

“Good girl. Can I cum inside you, darling?”

For a moment you look fearful, like the realization has just slapped in the face that your step-brother is just moments away from creaming inside your tight cunt. But quickly your attitude shifts, your hands moving to the backs of your thighs to help keep yourself spread for him.

“Please, Kyo, fuck wanna you feel you cum inside me. It’s all I want.”

Your affirmation makes his chest burn, like the sun is getting ready to burst within him.

He has you. You’ll never be alone again, you’ll always have your big brother beside you, inside you.

He finds the perfect pace, the one that has your walls sucking him just right, the tip of his cock curving against the spongy spot inside you that feels so fucking good. Your tits are bouncing with every push of his hips, your head thrown back against the pillows and his name on your lips like a permanent stain.

You’ve been his heaven in hiding, haven’t you? So close but just out of reach. But now he has you, and he’s never letting go.

From this angle, he can see his length inside you, just barely. He can see his cockhead deep in your belly, bulging every time he plunges deep inside you. Fuck, he’s inside you, making your cunt his, pleasing you so well you can barely speak.

Something primal kicks in his chest, in his brain, and he lets out a final, long groan as he comes undone inside of you. Hot streams of cum fill your tight cunt, spurting down the sides of his cock where your pussy clings to him. His thick cock twitches and throbs at the sight. You moan into the sheets, back arching at feeling so fucking full, so satisfied to have his cum spilling out down your thighs.

After a few moments of shameless staring, he pulls out of you with a hefty sigh.

You whine as you finally get to release your own legs, body stiff from being curled against his.

He falls to the crumpled bed beside you, glorious arms stretching above his head as the swirls of lust finally dissipate. He can hear his own heart thumping in his chest, a steady pitter-patter of hot rain cooling inside of him.

“Mhm, you’ve made quite a mess, Kyo.”

But you don’t seem to mind it, looping one of your legs around his even as cum continues to drool against your skin, sinking into your sheets.

“This isn’t a one-time thing,” he states bluntly, blowing hair out of his face. “You’re far too tasty not to eat again.”

You giggle, leaning over to where you can kiss him lazily, taking the time to really taste him.

“I wouldn’t think so. Family is for life, I suppose.”

His ears burn as you call him family, that prideful, protective feeling welling in his chest again.

“Any time you want me to take care of you, you just call me, okay?”

“I promise, Kyo.”

And he was right. All pretty, lonely girls desire to be fucked until they lose their minds. Even you. You start to call him just about every day, let him walk you to class, even smile when he teases and praises you instead of glowering. You’re his now, his perfect little-step sister, his best kept secret.

Kyojuro couldn’t be prouder to be your big brother.

#rengoku smut #kyojuro smut #kyojuro x reader #rengoku x reader #tw stepcest #kyojuro rengoku #kyojuro rengoku x reader #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #demon slayer kyojuro #demon slayer fanfic #kny fanfic #demon slayer #kyojuro #rengoku

712 notes · View notes

ghouljams · 11 months

Note

I wish to hear more about Murphy the feed store guy who is apparently getting freaked out by König paying full price

Murphy is like 70 years old and owns the feed store. The store has a name but nobody uses it because the sign is so old and the paint is so worn that everyone just calls it by the owner's name. "Murphy's" easy. The only thing that's really of note about Murphy or the store is that Murphy loves to haggle.

See every item in the store is slapped with a hilariously high price tag, so high that any farmer with half a brain would look at it and go, "Now hold on, that don't look right to me." But this is Murphy's design. Everyone in town knows that if you go to the feed store you gotta be prepared to haggle, gotta be prepared to stick to your guns and not wilt under Murphy's overgrown catapillar brows and eager grin. It's Goose's favorite part of shopping, and the rest of the 141 find out on their first trip to Murphy's what is expected and why.

One man in town has not gotten the memo. One man is trying to be polite and just pay Murphy for his wares. One man is 7 feet tall and stares Murphy down in a way that makes his stomach churn when he tells him he is happy to pay full price.

"You're sure I can't interest you in a discount?" Murphy asks hesitantly. König tips his head forward looking at the neatly notated order list and the prices. He looks back at Murphy, eyes boring holes into him, expression unreadable behind the bandana mask.

"Nein, I am sure you are asking what is fair." Murphy feels his stomach drop, is this guy trying to intimidate him? Is he trying to say something about his pricing practices? Murphy dabs his forehead with a handkerchief.

"You're a loyal customer, a discount would be-" König holds up a hand to stop him.

"You are very kind, but I am sure you need the money more than I do." Jesus christ. Murphy is starting to sweat. Is this guy trying to say the store is in disrepair? That he thinks business is bad?

"Hey buddy, you a fuckin' moron or what?" Moon asks behind König. Murphy sweats more watching König turn to face her. His eyes sweeping high and then tipping his head down to look at her. König's eyes narrow.

"Ah, hello sister." König says pleasantly, Moon stares up at him with all the patience of a woman parked next to a fire hydrant, "I did not know nuns were allowed to swear."

Murphy tries to motion for Moon to absolutely not respond to that. She blows a bubble with her gum and snaps it at König. "I'll say a Hail Mary later," she tells him, "Who are you supposed to be? Zorro?"

Murphy says a quick prayer: please dear God do not let your disciple start another fight in his store, not with this giant man.

"König, and you are?" The giant asks, tipping his head to the side, his fingers twitching too close to his holster for Murphy's liking.

"You like moonshine König?" Moon pulls a flip phone from her pocket, ignoring König's question.

"I do not know what that is."

"Fantastic." Murphy motions again, desperately, for Moon to maybe stop with the sales pitch. Just for his own health. König turns to look at him mid gesture.

"This is very rude," he tells him, mimicking the gestures Murphy had made, "we are trying to have a conversation."

"Of course," Murphy tells him, holding his hands up placatingly, "don't mind me." König nods, Moon raises a brow at Murphy. It's weird seeing him like this, he's usually so commanding. She looks up at König who is waiting patiently for her to continue their conversation.

Oh she is going to upcharge the hell out of this dumbass.

#oc: Murphy #oc: Moon #cowboy!König #why did you want this? what do you care about Murphy #König is big and twitchy and doesnt blink a lot it freaks Murphy out #why the fuck are you comfortable paying 200% markup dude?#Moon does absolutely extort this man #texting Goose about the giant weirdo freaking Murphy out and paying full price #goose: lol dumbass how much are you gonna charge him for corn?#moon: sends along upcharged number #goose: that might actually be more illegal than the fact that youre distilling in the woods. dont do that #ghoul speaks

353 notes · View notes

writingforstraykids · 7 months

Text

Only joking

Pairing: Minho x Chan x fem!reader / Minchan x fem!reader

Word Count: 961

Summary: After dance practice Chan and Minho get into a small fight, and one of Chan's jokes crosses a line.

Warnings/Tags: angst, fluff, small fight, comfort

A/N: I hope you like it😊~Moon🌙

You’ve noticed the weird mood the moment your boyfriends returned from their dance practice. Chan seemed pissed, Minho seemed agitated, and they haven’t spoken a word since they got here. You’ve finished dinner, deciding to give them time to work it out on themselves. When nothing happens, you finally speak up. “So…what happened at dance practice?” Minho keeps staring at his phone but stops scrolling as if he’s waiting for Chan to start. Chan looks at you from his place at the kitchen island and huffs softly. “Hello?” you ask, starting to get irritated.

“Chan messed up some steps and got pissed that I told him in front of everyone else,” Minho speaks up, not looking into Chan’s direction on purpose.

“Wow, thanks,” Chan comments darkly.

“I thought you do that with everyone, being the main dancer and all?” you ask gently, trying to get to the bottom of this.

“Mhm, I thought so too,” Minho tells you, getting up as he notices you starting to set the table. He takes the plates from your hands and shakes his head at you. “Let me do that.”

“Alright, darling,” you nod, flashing him a soft smile. “And that pissed you off?” you ask Chan who watches the two of you.

“Apparently,” Minho nods.

“She didn’t ask you, Min,” Chan tells him.

“You didn’t seem so keen on answering just seconds ago, Chan,” he rolls his eyes.

Chan turns in his chair to face him and shoots him a glare. “Listen up, I have no issue with you telling me I mess stuff up, but you don’t have to point out the same mistake five times.”

“Well, then, don’t make it five times,” he mutters, but Chan hears it.

You sigh softly and sit down at the table with Minho, filling their plates. Now, they were starting to be ridiculous. Chan laughs weakly and rolls his eyes playfully. "You know, sometimes I'm really not surprised people out there think you're a sassy ass,"

Minho laughs it off, but you see the confusion and anxiety clouding his soft brown eyes. "Chan, stop sulking now, that’s ridiculous," you tell him, patting the chair next to you. Your boyfriend rolls his eyes again and sits down next to you, finally starting to eat. You watch Minho observantly, stubbornly keeping his eyes down on his food. "So, how was your day besides that practice?" you ask hesitantly. You can tell Minho didn’t take that last comment well and wonder what’s going on in his head now.

"As long as Min didn't act like he knows everything, it was fine," Chan says, clearly joking now, but there's no reaction from your shared boyfriend.

"And for you, Min?" you ask gently.

Minho clears his throat and nods. "It was alright," he simply says.

"Are you?" you ask and gently nudge his leg with your foot beneath the table.

Minho looks up and smiles bravely. "Sure, I'm home. Why wouldn't I be?" he asks, but you can tell how insecure he currently is.

Chan looks up and frowns softly. "What's wrong?" he asks confused. “You’re mad now?”

"Nothing, of course, I’m not," Minho says before swallowing hard and looking back down at his food. He blinks a few times as if he was fighting back tears.

You nudge Chan gently, who's already putting down his spoon. Chan reaches out for him over the table, gently taking his hand. "Min, baby," he says softly.

Minho lets him and very hesitantly intertwines their fingers. "Am I?" he asks timidly.

"What?" Chan asks, confused.

"I'm sorry if I was an ass today, Channie, I didn't mean to," he says and finally looks up. The desperation in his eyes to hear he wasn't was undeniable and hurt you.

Chan shakes his head and lets go of his hand. Minho's face falls at the loss of physical contact, and he watches him timidly as Chan gets up. Chan walks around the table, steps behind him, and wraps him into a strong hug. "The only ass here is me. I wasn't thinking. I should've known that joke would hurt you," he says, and Minho leans back into him, resting his hands on Chan's arms.

"I was only joking too, you know," he says gently.

"I know you were," Chan nods and plants a kiss on his cheek. "I'm tired, that's all."

"Okay," Minho nods and gently squeezes his arm. "You know I can still show you the steps here later?" he suggests.

"You would?" Chan asks, surprised.

Minho turns in his hold and blinks at him. "Obviously? You wouldn't be the first one who needs a bit of extra time," he tells him.

"I'd like that," he nods with a soft smile, his dimples showing.

Minho smiles back at him before looking at you. "Is that alright with you? We'd have to start the movie a little later then."

"Of course, that's alright," you nod encouragingly. "We'll have plenty of time afterward." Your boys smile at you appreciatively.

"The food's amazing, by the way," Minho tells you with a sweet smile.

"Thank you, love," you say softly and watch Chan with a fond smile as he sits down next to Minho, handing him his plate.

Chan places his hand on Minho's thigh beneath the table, squeezing it soothingly. Minho reaches down, resting his hand on his, and seems at ease again.

Once you're all done, you gather all of your plates even as they start protesting. "Off you go, my loves, you still have work to do," you send them off, giggling. They kiss your cheeks at the same time, making you laugh before leaving. You smile softly, knowing your boys are alright and happy. Sometimes, all it took was a little talk to fix things.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)

@soullostinspaceandtime @brownieloved @rebecca-johnson-28 @euphoric-univers @hyunniebunni @mal-lunar-28 @malfoygalaxies

149 notes · View notes

celestialomnipotence · 10 months

Text

Sun & Moon X Child! Reader

TWs: Hints of abuse/Child neglect (if I need to add more, I will later on)

Note from Kyo- I made this so people can see an idea of how I write! This is my first time properly doing this so please dont be too harsh on me, I mostly do this in hopes of bringing comfort to those who get them from reading stories with things the go through.

Sypnosis: A (NB) child is left at the daycare and all the kids seem to not want to be around them. Which causes the kid to become more and more distressed and lonely, until the daycare attendant approaches them!

Your parents had dropped you off at the daycare very early today… Your father had already gone off to work and your mother was grumpily dragging you into the cursed place.. Well it wasnt exactly cursed, you very much enjoyed being at the daycare when your parents were at work! You only protested against it though because of the other kids ‘being mean’. To which you only earned eye rolls and were told to just deal with it… And what soon shut you up about the whole ordeal was when your mother snapped at you, yelling at you to shut up about the kids there and just deal with it, you were getting dropped off there whether you liked it or not.

So here you were.. In such a giant and colorful play area. Kids were running around, screaming, playing, coloring… Yet you were just standing there awkwardly. Should you try to play with the other kids? Would it hurt again if you tried?

You only took a shaky breath as you went to where some kids were playing tag. You wanted to join in quite a lot so you quickly ran to a kid and asked, “Hey can I join?-“ To which the kid immediately laughed at you. “You again?? No! Leave us alone freak!” The kid giggled as he ran off and you only stood their dumbfounded. You seriously ran into the rudest kid on your first try. After a few seconds you moved to the wall, should you try again?

Well you did. This time you ran to kids playing hide and seek. They had just started a game too which was perfect! “Hey can I join?” This little girl gave you a curious look but you noticed how distant her eyes looked at the same time. “Oh yea sure-.. Um- Ill count an extra… 20 seconds for you-“ You had nodded excitedly at that and already ran off. Going straight into the play structure and hiding in your favorite spot.

And there you sat for what felt like forever… And ever.. And ever… They werent looking for you.. Were they?

Thats when you felt tears well up in your eyes as you buried your head in your knees…

Then you heard someone coming near you in the structure. Oh great now another kid would call you a cry baby.

That was until you heard the voice. “Oh my goodness! Why are you crying little one?” You looked up at the cheery sun that some how fit inside the structure. “O-oh!- I-im- Im ok-“ You stuttered in a hurry as you wiped your tears away. Even though the Suns face was a constant smile, he approached you a little cautiously until he managed to sit right in front of you. Sure he was meant to be happy and entertain kids while the lights were on, but there was a little bit of code in him that told him what to do with upset kids. Plus he has already experienced seeing kids who had gotten abused before!

“Would you like to tell me whats wrong little one?” Sun had asked while letting his head rotate some to one side, maybe a bit more than he intended. You debated telling him.. Would he get upset like your parents did..? No, he was such a happy Sun! But still, should you trust him…?

You hesitantly spoke up. “W-well.. I tried to play with all the other kids again… They just left me out again and said mean things.” Sun left out a gasp that you could determine if it was real or for dramatics. “How rude of them! Well what did you want to play little one?” “.. Tag-.. And hide and seek-… But now I just want someone to play with me. That wont just leave me alone.” Sun seemed to think for a moment, tapping hid non-existent chin. “How about we play together then! Ill give you all the special attention you deserve! We can finger paint, play with crafts, or with glitter glue! Whatever you want!”

You couldnt help but giggle a bit at his enthusiasm.. And at the idea of getting all his attention.

And well, if Sun could have grinned wider, he would have. “Can we play with the paints?” You asked to which the Sun immediately, somehow, nodded. “Of course! Lets go now little one!” He held his hand out to you which you immediately took.

Then there you were, finger painting, putting googley eyes on each other, and having so much fun. You almost completely forgot about what had happened early. Soon enough, Sun told you he would have to go away soon and Moon would come out to put all the kids to bed.

You nodded at that and let out a small yawn. Maybe you would nap this time.. You had so much fun so of course you would be tired.

And when Moon finally came out, all of the kids hurried to bed while you were quickly finishing your fingerpainting you were working on some how behind Suns back.

Moon soon enough went up to you. “Naughty naughty.. You know you shouldnt be painting, its nap time.” You were quick to nod at him but then you held on your painting.. Which was one of you, Sun and Moon holding hands. Moon stared at the painting.. Or what you assumed was staring before he slowly grabbed it. He hadnt had any special experiences with you yet you still added him..?

“Thank you little one but you still have to sleep.” You nodded as he continued to speak. “Ill hang this up in our room and then help you to bed, ok?”

You nodded and then Moon… Floated? Flied away? It was too dark for you to tell anyways so you went right over to an area where you could cuddle up…

And soon Moon got over to you, only to find you already passed out under your blanket. Moon watched you for a few seconds before pulling the blanket all the way up and moving some hair out of your face.

Kyo- Well… This was my first attempt at something, hope you enjoyed :)

Id like to think Sun has kept you in his database and whenever your there, you get a special bit of attention to make sure you arent too lonely or left out!

#fnaf security breach #fnaf #fnaf sb x child reader #fnaf x child reader #fnaf sun x child reader #nb reader #fnaf moon x child reader #security breach daycare attendant #fnaf daycare attendant

200 notes · View notes

outtoshatter · 4 months

Text

Author spotlight for today is @sugareey-makes-stuff ! They joined the sterek/teen wolf fandom in 2022 and already have so much stuff to choose from!!

Bite sized stories:

Dancing Shadows from Behind | T | 500 tags: urban legends, demons, spark Stiles, alpha Derek Summary: Derek pulls Stiles closer to his chest as more shadows appear. Stalking, taunting and dancing around them. Ready to strike again at any moment.

[Or: Derek has no idea what to do when the Pack is trapped by daevas. But something ignites a Spark, and that's enough.]

Pink Lemonade | T | 600 tags: road trips, adventure, slice of life, established relationship Summary: “Stiles?” Derek murmurs, watching him closely. Almost hesitantly, as if Stiles might bolt at any second.

“Holy fucking—oh my God,” Stiles blurts out instead. He most definitely flails while staring at Derek in awe. “Why have you never told me about this place before?”

[Or: Derek surprises Stiles by taking him to one of his favorite spots for an early morning picnic.]

Memories Bring Back You | G | 200 tags: developing relationship, reunions, fix-it, post-movie Summary: It’s surreal to see Stiles flipping through the pages of his precious journal, soaking in every single word and drawing he’s documented over the years.

“You’re a dumbass, Derek,” Stiles declares plainly.

[Or: Derek tells Stiles how he really feels about him after all these years apart from each other. Because it's written down on paper now, and it's about damn time.]

It's Enough for Now | G | 300 tags: autumn, cold weather, sharing body heat, monster of the week Summary: “You know, I could get another blanket,” Stiles points out, breaking the silence. “Or let me grab my hoodie from the couch—”

“It’s fine,” Derek interjects in a low voice. He tugs the blanket gently, pulling Stiles closer. “Stiles…”

[Or, Stiles and Derek end up sharing a blanket after coming back from the pack's latest supernatural adventure.]

Over 1k:

[Art]Molten | E | 27K with Wolfspurr tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, mutual pining Summary: "Stiles, is that you?"

He recognizes that voice. He doesn’t know why he’s hearing it here though, in whatever cold, dark cave he’s found himself in. The owner of that voice is supposed to be miles away, back home in Beacon Hills. Unless Stiles is the one that’s ended up further from home than he could possibly have predicted.

"Derek?!"

[Art]Brewin' up Love | E | 30k with wanderingeyre tags: alternating POV, getting together, fluff & angst, the pack ships it Summary: The Pack runs Moon Tower Fermentarium, a popular brewery in Beacon Hills, and they are a refuge for supernaturals that need it. Stiles is happy to be Scott's Emissary and loves being the head brewer. His life is great. If only he could get over his feelings for Derek.

Derek finally feels like the Pack is settled and he is proud of what they've built. He doesn't need anything else. He has Stiles in his life as his friend and that's more than he deserves. If he wishes for more in the dark of night, that is between him and the moon.

OR The one where the Pack owns a brewery and Stiles is on fire with the puns. Also, there is angst.

The Walls Came Crashing Down | T | 4k tags: canon divergence, hurt Stiles Stilinski, hopeful ending Summary: “Stop thinking so hard, or you’re going to bleed.”

Surely it couldn’t be—wasn’t his Pack supposed to be duking things out with vampires right now? But a very solid and reassuring hand squeezed his own. Grounding him. Holding on, as if to drain away his pain.

There was only one person who always did this whenever he got hurt.

“Derek?” Stiles whispered, his voice raw and scratchy.

[Or: A mission goes horribly wrong, and Stiles finally figures out where he stands with Derek.]

Feel You Breathing | E | 8k | 3 chapters tags: porn with feelings, unresolved sexual tension, writer Derek, bartender Stiles Summary: Derek: So, you need a distraction.

Stiles: Maybe Stiles: It’d be better if you were here to help me with that. Stiles: ;D

[Or: Sexy things start late one night when Derek gets a text from Stiles and escalate from there. A few secrets are revealed along the way.]

Made from Scratch | T | 2k tags: alpha Derek, spark Stiles, family feels, fluff & angst, teasing Summary: Derek missed Stiles. He hadn’t realized how much…until now. Something had to change. But where did he even start?

[Or: That one time Derek makes dinner for Stiles, thanks to inspiration from a family recipe and some nudging from Cora.]

Go check out all of sugareey's fics on their AO3 page! Don't forget to mind the tags, leave a kudos, and maybe even drop a comment!

#sterek #sterek fandom #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #derek hale #author spotlight #sugareey #spotlight saturday

70 notes · View notes

damn-stark · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1 Who’s that girl?

Chapter 1 of Stargirl

A/N- I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT!!!

Warning- Swearing, angst, fluff! SLOWBURN, long chapter.

Pairing- Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Episode- 2x01

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

————

“What do you think?” He asks as he takes a bite from his burger.

What do I think? Well…dearest father, it’s the most rural place we’ve stayed at, it reeks like cow manure, there’s only one high school here for the entire town so if the desire to change schools occurs it can’t happen unless you are willing to drive me like an hour out of town…

Then again you’ve never actually went to an actual school with people your age. Since you move around a lot you’ve always been homeschooled with either your father or grandmother as your teacher, so there’s little you think you’ll complain about…maybe just lack of friends, or uh…overpopulation of assholes. Yeah, that’d be a deal breaker.

“Well,” you sigh and put your burger down. “It’s something. Uh, grandma was right, it does stink. But,” you pause and shrug whilst you meet his brown eyes. “It’s cozy. It’s quaint.”

Your dad chuckles and looks out the car window. “Quaint? Yeah, yeah. But it’s home,” he grumbles with low enthusiasm. He also wasn’t a fan of...Hawkins? Yeah that’s it, Hawkins—Even if he was the one that grew up here.

You hum and lower your sunglasses to the bridge of your nose to take a better look at all the greenery that lays ahead of you. At least that’s one of the pros of moving out here, this place is green, there’s trees everywhere, you even live by a lake! You’re used to city landscapes so trees, lake houses and small towns are like blue moons; Rare and quite beautiful.

“Are you gonna go see uncle Jim?” You ask your father and throw a fry in your mouth.

Your dad hums for a moment before he lets out a deep breath. “Yeah,” he answers hesitantly. “I’ll surprise him at work.”

You drift your gaze to the corner of your eyes and see him with his jaw clenched which never means anything good, so you don't press on that touchy subject and put away your food. “I’m too nauseous to keep eating.” You throw your head back on the headrest and groan. “Maybe I can go with you, or go organize the house?”

Your father had people go move everything in and organize everything before you got here, but going to school with so many people is upsetting your stomach, and making your heart and mind all panicky and fast moving.

“House is organized, and I’m going to work,” your dad says and blinks to meet your gaze.

“Yeah,” you huff, “a job which consists of sneaking around and talking to people.”

“Today,” he corrects you. “But still, after all that sneaking,” he mocks you. “Then it’s a lot of talking on the phone, computer shit, and filling out paper. You hate that stuff. So, you go to school, make some friends, see if any of the teachers remember me—”

“They can’t remember you if they’re dead,” you grumble and bounce your eyebrows. “You are ancient.”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Just…have fun,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

You roll your eyes and groan out dramatically so he knows you’re bugged. You then proceed to rest your arms over the open window, and rest your chin on your clasped hands to pout.

And it’s at that very moment that you look through the rear view mirror, that you catch the gleaming brown eyes of a guy with the best brown styled hair you’ve seen a guy wear. He has nice thin pink lips, he’s tall from what you can notice, and slim but not super scrawny, he’s like, perfectly built, like Tom cruise! Yeah, that’s right, he’s like a Tom cruise type, only this guy is a lot cuter.

You shouldn't have been able to notice so much in that little time he passes by, but the funniest thing is that time seemed to slow down a bit.

Albeit he was walking around with some brunette girl so he didn’t care about you.

“So you ready then?”

Maybe now that you’ll be in somewhat of a stable living condition you’ll get a boyfriend! Maybe a guy as nice looking as that guy that passed by.

“Kid?” Your dad calls out again and nudges your arm.

You snap your eyes over to him and quirk a quizzical brow. “Huh?”

He snickers. “Ready to go in? I have shit to do.”

You sigh and lift your chin off your hands to take your sunglasses off your face and put them away, even if it goes with the mini black dress, and the black knee high boots over the tights. It may be a lot for school, but…what do girls wear to school?

“Let’s go,” you mumble and hide your nerves.

Once you get inside the school it’s when the stares all direct at you, no one is shy to look away especially because your dad is walking at your side, and well you are the new girl. It makes you feel like you’re under a spotlight, or like you just got in trouble and have to be escorted to the principal. You try to ignore the wandering stares as best as you can, but they do make that knot in your stomach only feel worse.

You would’ve hooked your arm around your fathers, but you were already getting talked about and stared at so you just dig your nails on your palms and stick by your dads side the entire way to the front office. When you do reach that office, just as your dad is going to open the door for you, some guy with a blond mullet, a denim over denim outfit, and a creepy smirk holds the door open for you.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

The guy shoots you a wink and then looks you up and down before you walk past, making you scrunch your nose in disgust, and then look back at your dad with a teasing smile once the guy is gone.

“That is a guy you wanna stay away from,” your dad whispers to you.

“Were you one of those guys daddy?” You ask him.

Your dad shakes his head. “Nah, I was nerdy back then. I was picked on by the guys that looked like that. Your uncle always got in trouble ‘cause he stepped in to protect me.”

You smile softly since this is one of the rare times he talked good about his half older brother; same dad but they had different moms.

“I wonder if those same guys would pick on you now,” you retort with a smirk.

Your dad scoffs softly. “I’d like to see em try.”

“How can I help you two?” The front office lady asks, cutting off your conversation with your dad.

“Yeah,” your dad agrees and turns to face the young red head—or well she isn’t young, but she is younger than the other lady across from her. “Actually, it’s my daughter's first day of school today, I came to sign some papers.”

The lady’s eyebrows lift as she now realizes who you are. “Oh, the new senior, okay. Just a moment let me grab those papers for you now.” The lady gets out of her seat and walks to the cabinet at the other end of the room.

“Here,” your dad directs at you and turns to hand you your backpack he had been carrying. “Remember I’ll pick you up after school so don’t try to sneak off somewhere,” he says with a feigned stern tone since he really doesn’t mean it. He just likes to sound authoritative with you in front of other adults.

You playfully roll your eyes and nod stiffly. “Sure, sure.” You swing your backpack over your shoulder, but now, hoping he’d change his mind and let you stay home now, you part your lips to ask, but then the door opens and that brunette girl that was with the cute guy walks into the office alone.

She’s very pretty, and has a very prominent jaw, like the kind the celebrities have. Is she senior too?

“Here they are,” the lady returns and presses the papers on the counter for your dad to sign. “Will you be the main parent to contact, or will it be the mother?”

You look at the red headed women and then glance at your dad.

“No, no,” he chuckles and begins to fill out what was highlighted on the sheets. “It’s just me. No mom.”

The lady lowers her glasses to check out your dad and slowly sits back on her chair. “If it’s just you and her then why move all the way out in the middle of nowhere.”

Your dad shrugs. “Just wanted to give my girl a calm life, we’ve been around a lot so I, uh, wanted to give her a more simple life like how I had back in my prime.”

The lady smiles and leans forward to bat her eyelashes and show more of her cleavage to your father—She wouldn’t be the first. It’s weird, women hear that he’s a single and caring father and the ladies swoon.

He doesn’t fail to notice it either, he always likes to flirt with women this way because he says it’s the simplest trick in the book; showing he cares about his family, and showing off that he was a caring single dad. He also says that when you were a baby women would swoon and flock around him.

Do you believe that? Hardly.

“We encourage every student to take an extracular,” the lady says but keeps looking at your dad. “Here’s what we have open.” She places another piece of paper on the table and points to the top labeled ‘activities’, and then drags her pen down to mark the women’s sport section.

When you look at what they have for sports though, all the shit is lame for women.

“You should give band a try,” your dad suggests. “Play the trumpet like your old man.”

You hum and shrug. “Eh, how about women’s soccer?” You look up at him to meet his gaze. “I could try that considering there’s, like no boxing or you know stuff like that.”

“Did you come to Hawkins?” The lady interjects and pulls your fathers attention away.

“Yeah, I did, a long time ago it seems like now. I’m Rowan Hopper.” He reveals.

The lady’s eyes go wide and she has to take off her glasses to…look better?

“You’re related to Chief Hopper?” She probes with a curious look.

Your dad nods stiffly. “Yeah, he’s my older brother. Half-brother. Did you go to Hawkins?”

You roll your eyes and circle the sport you want to enter and slide the paper back to the lady. “Here,” you cut her off to continue this progress before you last here all day.

The lady blinks and drags her eyes to you and sighs before taking the paper. “Okay, I’ll tell the coach. Practice is every Tuesday and Thursday after school.”

You hum in agreement and push yourself back from the counter since you’re done.

“Here’s your schedule,” the lady says and shows off a sheet of paper with all your classes on it.

When you take it she gets up and walks around the counter to reach the same brunette girl. “This here is Nancy Wheeler, she’ll be your chaperone for the day. She’ll show you to your classes.” She feigns a smile, and you meet Nancy’s gaze to shoot her an awkward tightlipped smile.

“That’s all we need, you’re free to go, thank you,” the lady continues and now gets closer to your dad to actually grin. “Come back whenever you want, I can show you around if you’d like.”

You stifle your teasing laugh, and catch Nancy’s amused look that matches yours at the sound of the lady being so bold with your father.

“I might have to take you up on that offer,” your dad retorts with a small smile before he turns to meet your gaze. “I’ll see you later kid.”

You let out a deep breath and nod stiffly. “Okay.”

He begins to back away, but first pulls his finger close to the corner of his lips, and then curves it upward to motion you to smile.

You scoff at his speechless message and offer him a tightlipped smile.

He doesn’t like that response though, so he repeats himself, causing you to sigh and offer him a sweet smile.

“Good, good,” he says and reaches the door. “I’ll see you later my dear, have a good first day.”

You offer him a small goodbye wave and a sadder look. “Bye daddy.”

Said man shoots you a smile before he turns and walks out of the office, leaving you with your guide Nancy now.

“Okay,” she cuts in and walks over to you. “I can show you to your locker, it’s right by mine.”

You look over at her and nod in comprehension before she leads you out.

It’s quiet between you and her for a few seconds. You haven’t really had many friends, or had the time to talk to anyone your age, so it’s hard to know what to talk about, but you try.

“Are you senior too?” You ask her.

Nancy steals a quick glance and shakes her head. “No, I'm a junior, but we share a lot of the same classes. And well, we don’t get many new kids here but when we do, helping them is extra credit.”

Ah a big shot. Your dad told you about people like her. He was once like her too, so you can’t say they’re terrible people, actually she's the kind of person you should be friends with.

“Ah, well, thanks anyway,” you exhale and look around at all the gawkers watching you like if you’re their next meal. “This is my first day at an actual school, so I,” you giggle nervously. “Would be completely lost.”

“Actual school,” Nancy quotes with a curios gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” you pause and avert your gaze. “I’ve been homeschooled almost my whole life until now.”

Nancy’s already big eyes go even wider, and her lips spread to a faint amused smile. “Wow, that’s interesting. Why the sudden change? I mean you’re a senior, you’re almost done with school.”

To avoid exposing what little you do know about your dads mission here at Hawkins, you shorten your short version. “Well…my dad came here so I said why not give it a try? Get the high school experience before I can’t.”

Nancy hums softly and nods along. “Nice. Well I really hope you like it, even if coming here isn’t so exciting.”

You laugh softly, and slow down to a stop alongside her as she walks to a pair of lockers. “Well, you know I’m actually looking towards the slow boring days,” you share with her, and surprise yourself because you are sharing.

You aren’t shy, or you don’t think you are, but you also didn’t think you’d be diving so deep with someone yet. “My dad and I move around a lot, in and out of the country for his work, never too long anywhere so I’m actually excited for the mundane stuff that Hawkins has to offer.” You add.

Nancy blinks and peers back to meet your gaze with a spark of interest that twinkles in her eyes and shows off a small smile. “Well you put it that way,” she mumbles and turns to open her own locker. “Then it’s hard to argue.”

You hum and look at your paper to read the number of your combination. You do know how to do that so you open it with ease, but as you do, from the corner of your eye you catch the cute guy from before sneaking up on Nancy from behind. He catches her by surprise and wraps his arm around her neck before pressing a kiss on her cheek.

Nancy giggles and squirms away from his touch, letting you shove nothing in your locker since you actually don’t know what you need yet, it’s just awkward to watch them, so you just look at the empty and small locker.

“Hey, y/n,” Nancy calls.

You shut the locker door and slowly turn to face her and him.

“This is Steve…”

So that’s his name? He looks like a Steve.

“Steve, this is the new girl, Y/N, she just transferred from homeschool, she’s actually a senior too.” Nancy introduces and plasters a small smile on her face.

The guy throws his hand up for a stiff greeting, and then lifts his chin. “Hey.”

You draw in a deep breath and smile softly. “Hey,” you exhale, and find yourself holding his gaze for a moment before you pull your eyes away and look at your schedule. Unbeknownst to you he keeps his gaze on you for another lingering second.

“Well, I’ll catch you later Nance,” Steve interjects. “I need to grab something from my locker. I just came to say hi.”

Nancy gives him a comprehensive response before he presses a kiss on her lips, letting you know the status of their relationship. He in fact is not single….

“Come on,” Nancy directs at you now and points her head down the hall. “I’ll show you to your first class.”

The walk there is short but is now filled with silence. You would have tried to fill it, but one, you are very much disappointed by him being taken, even if you weren’t going to try something either way. And two, you also can’t speak because of your never ending set of racing nerves that riddle your body. It’s why when you reach your class you step just to the door, and then pull your head back to watch Nancy get out of sight before you rush to the bathroom just down the hall from the class.

Thankfully no one else is inside so you face the window and exhale deeply.

Today shouldn’t be so hard, you tell yourself—it’s like another day at your dads office…those rare times he gets to go—

Only these aren’t adults but kids your own age, judgy kids who haven’t stopped looking at you.

You stick out like a sore thumb here! It’s awful—but you’ll get over it, it’ll be okay. You’ll make friends, go to class and blend in.

You’ll live a normal life for however long you last here.

Isn’t that what you’ve wanted, what wished for afterall? Stability? An ounce of normal in your hectic life?

Well this can be it, stability.

You exhale again, and pull out your lipgloss to apply one more coat before you walk out and head back to class just as the bell rings in the somewhat empty hall. The only one also walking the hall is Steve, and he seems to be walking to the end of the hall where your class is.

Does he have the same class? Hm?

And just as you think about him he looks back and finds you, but he then looks back ahead quickly. A couple seconds pass and he looks back again; does he have something to say or what?

You’d move but you have the same class so you stay and keep walking behind him.

Steve peers back once more, so you scoff this time and throw him a comment. “I’m not following you if that’s what you’re thinking.” You open your schedule and point to the first class. “See, same class.”

Steve turns around to walk back and face you. “Never thought that, but now that you are showing me, did homeschooling not teach you how to hold a paper right? Aren’t you people supposed to be wicked smart?”

You blink rapidly in disbelief and scoff as you turn the paper around the right away. “Did homeschooling not teach you how to hold a paper right?” You mock him.

Steve narrows his gaze on you before he rolls his eyes and feigns a dry laugh. “Real mature. Guess you just proved me wrong.” He teases with a playful smirk.

You shoot him an unamused glare and quip back. “You started it, now I’m heading to class.” You huff out and pick up your pace to walk past him.

“Yeah?” He scoffs. “Well me too.” He picks up his own pace to beat you to the same class.

You roll your eyes in annoyance, but you also can’t help but smile faintly at the ground before you walk in your first class.

——

*LATER*

Lunch, a break between classes before the rest of the day. It’s not as different as home, albeit usually you did eat lunch with your grandmother or your father, and the food was…uh…way more appetizing than whatever slob they give here.

Regardless, pushing that plate aside, Nancy. You asked if she’d like to have lunch with you so you wouldn’t sit alone in the cafeteria in the middle of all the other students with clics of their own, but, well she isn’t here. Nor is her boyfriend. It’s been 10 minutes now too. Perhaps she’s just running late.

Or she just doesn’t want to talk to you and pretended to be interested in what you had to say between classes….

Yeah….that sounds right—but! You’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and keep waiting.

Eat? No, you’ll bring your own food next time.

Think about going to, “Tina’s Halloween bash.” And get “sheet faced”? Yeah, it sounds promising. Cool. You've never been to a high school party so it should be cool, especially because it’s a costume party!

Maybe you can be—well that’s still up for debate, but it should be cool. Maybe you can even make more friends, considering the one you wanted to be with isn’t showing up. Great.

Maybe being outside will make you seem less like the new girl. At least you won’t be gawked at as much anyway.

Thus you push yourself off the bench and pick up your tray. Yet just before you can turn away from the chair a plate slams on the spot across from you.

You slowly lift your eyes and notice a guy with long brown hair, a leather jacket over a band shirt, and kind brown eyes.

“Hello, new girl and welcome to Hawkins high!” He greets with a wide welcoming grin.

You slowly sit back down and offer him a small smile. “Hi…” you mumble.

The guy rests his elbows on the table and then rests his chin on his hands before leaning in. “I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours.”

You squint your eyes and feel your lips tug to a wider smile. “Y/N?”

He narrows his gaze and picks on that. “Is it y/n? Or are you messing with me? Or are you just not sure, I’ve heard you’re homeschooled.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head. “I was homeschooled, not kept from learning. I’m just….unsure.”

“Unsure?” He quotes and picks his head off his chin. “About what? Me?” He points at his chest.

You shrug. “You know you just come here, leather coat, long hair like Ozzy Osborne, I just need to be cautious.”

The guy's eyes go wide and his smile widens. “Don’t shit me girl, you know Ozzy Osbourne?”

You narrow your gaze and furrow your brows in confusion at his question. “Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”

The guy looks you up and down and then points at your dress. “Because you’re dressed like that?”

You chuckle and nod. “Yeah, I guess lookwise I kind of give a different perspective, but, that’s why you can’t really judge me based on my looks.” You shrug playfully.

The guy chuckles and then smiles softly. “You’re right. So y/n—”

“First,” you cut him off. “I gave you mine, now give me yours.”

The guy holds your gaze and shares what you ask for. “Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

You shoot him a sweet grin. “Well thanks Eddie for taking time from your lunch to talk to me.”

“Well,” he says and picks up his plastic spork. “You looked lonely so I came out of pity.” He smirks.

You feign a laugh, but then go serious. “You are joking right? Because if you aren’t, this makes things weird.”

Eddie snickers and nods. “I’m messing with you, but really I came because you did look lonely.”

You mess with your food and sigh. “I was waiting for my guide who agreed to lunch but she bailed.”

He hums and then takes the orange flier from the table. “You got invited to this thing?”

You hum in agreement. “Yep. This girl was just handing them out so I took it.”

Eddie’s eyebrows begin to knit together out of cursoity. “You goin’?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, depends if I can come up with a last minute costume. Are you?”

Eddie slams the paper down and shoves food in his mouth. “I’m too much of a loser to be invited to one of those parties.”

“What?” You quip. “Loser? Really? I don’t see it.”

“You,” my friend he says and swallows his food. “Haven’t been here long, so let me tell you, me and my friends. The band geeks, some of the school newspaper people, and you know all that stuff, are considered losers here by the jocks and everyone who has enough of daddy’s money to buy themselves some friends.”

You set your utensil down and look around at everyone having lunch before you look back at Eddie. “I can’t say I agree with you, I’ve been homeschooled my whole life up until now. All my school experience comes from tv and my dads stories. If I go to that Halloween party it will be my first highschool party ever, but from what I’m experiencing now, I think you’re cool. I mean besides Nancy, you’re the first person who’s bothered to have an actual conversation with me.”

Eddie’s offers you a half smile and nods slowly. “Thanks. You’re cool too, especially because you know Ozzy Osbourne. But I don’t want to taint you, you’re new, pretty, you can have cool friends.”

You nod. “Yeah, but will they actually be genuine if all they care about is my looks, and my daddy's money, as you say?”

“Guess that depends.”

You hum softly and take the flier from the table to shove it in your backpack.

“But can we rewind and touch on the fact that you haven’t gone to a high school party before?” Eddie points out, making you cover your face and grow hot out of embarrassment.

“I told you,” you remind him. “I’ve been homeschooled. My dad moves around a lot for work, so as to not keep moving schools, he just chose to teach me, and let my very strict grandma teach me. I can’t really make friends and go out if I’m hopping on a plane every other month.”

Eddie leans over and slams his hands on the table. “Well you my friend are going to crash that party with me.”

You put your hand down and slowly begin to smile with joy. “Really? That sounds like fun. I'm down.”

——

*LATER*

Much of the second half of school was quite boring, a lot of stuff that the teachers talked about is stuff you already learned so it serves mostly as a reminder. Which…can be useful for tests…

That girl Nancy, showed up after stranding you at lunch and did not forget to throw apologies, saying that she forgot she was going to help her boyfriend study, and that she literally forgot about lunch. It doesn’t make a good impression to you’re already cautious mind, but you ignore the warning and let it slide.

It’s not like you have much options anyway.

And now home. Your dad got home and went off to report, type, and write about his mystery day. He has failed to come out of his office, so you’re left to your own devices. Which consists of staying in your living room watching tv and doing homework, you’re just not used to so much space, it all feels…forbidden. It just doesn’t feel like it’s yours yet. You’ll give it time though, soon your mind will come to terms that your current house is more than just a square.

Albeit there is one aspect that does make you grasp how big your house is, and that’s how lonely it all makes you feel. Usually you’re content knowing that your dad is in the room next to yours, but now you’re in the living room and he’s upstairs, far, and closed off in his office.

He didn’t even come down for dinner.

Maybe you should pay him a visit. Cure yourself from this loneliness.

“Hey,” you call softly. “Dad.” You tap your fist on the door again and press your ear against the door.

A few seconds pass before his voice travels out. “Come in.”

You slowly open the door and first peak your head inside. “You missed dinner,” you say as you watch him spin around on his chair to face you cautiously stepping in his office. “So I brought it for you.” You walk in fully and show off the plate.

The corner of his lips tug upward slightly. “Thanks,” he mutters while he watches you walk in.

“How was your day?” You query whilst you study his office and look out for anything that will clue you as to what he’s been doing today.

Your dad takes the plate from your hand and actually redirects your question. “How was yours?”

You narrow your gaze and stay quiet for a few seconds, finding his avoidance off, but not questioning it too much yet. “It was…” You sigh and shrug. “Cool. It’s weird.” You smile. “Going to class. Being around so many people my age. I mean some classes are quite boring because I already know what they were teaching, but…I think I like it. I like school.”

Your dad hums softly. “That’s good baby. Wh-what about that chaperone girl?” He wonders. “You make friends with her? She seemed nice.”

“Yeah,” you agree and lean against the wall. “She was nice but she was kind of…weird…she was in and out. At times it feels like she does wanna be my friend, but she then pulls away. Is that normal?”

As your dad takes a bite from his sandwich he drops his gaze and blinks slowly. “Well you're basically strangers, give her some time. Get to know her. Invite her over, or I don’t know, hang out.”

Yeah he is right, you can’t have her be your bestest friend in a day. Maybe you’ll see her at the party, or-or maybe you can hang out the day after! That’d be nice.

“Get this though,” you add excitedly and dig in your sweaters pocket to pull out the party invite. “I got invited to a halloween party!” You hand your dad the paper so he can look at it, and then fiddle with your fingers. “Could I go?”

“Hm,” he hums and then swallows back his food and scoffs in amusement. “Sheet-faced. That’s…funny.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Not so creative, but can I? I met a guy, he said he’d accompany me. He’d even pick me up.”

Your dads gaze lifts at the mention and rather than picking on the fact that you mentioned a boy, he begins to smirk. “Sure, you can go.”

You beam and clap. “Yay.” You run over to him and wrap your arms around his neck. “I thought of my costume already…drum roll please!”

Your dad puts the plate down and pats his hands on the handles of his chair.

You skip back away from him, making him follow you with his eyes.

“David Bowie!” You announce. “More specifically, a costume he wore in his The 1980 Floor Show. The one with the nets and fake hands.”

Your dad grabs his plate again and smirks. “I’ll like to see how you pull that off for tomorrow.”

“Don’t doubt me, I can do it. I’ll be the best dressed one there!” You clasp your hands together and swing them down. “Now my keys! Please.”

Your dad sighs deeply before spinning around and swiping your car keys off his desk. “Just be careful, okay? No drinkin’, or you know pumping music to loud.”

Just as you’re about to snatch your keys from his hand you look at him with a growing smile. “Pumping music?” You repeat as you begin to giggle. “Dad?” You shoot him a playful glare.

He throws his hands up and finds nothing wrong with it. “What? I heard someone say it!”

You burst out laughing harder and swipe your keys from him. “I’m gonna go pump music in my room now,” you tease him and laugh louder as you begin to stride out of his office.

Rather than staying in his office your father follows after you whilst he eats his sandwich. “Mhm, I love tomato stems in my sandwich.”

You peer back and click your tongue. “Shoulda made dinner than. Besides vitamins…can’t having you lacking at work. Who’ll keep up with my expensive taste then?”

“College fund,” he muffles with his mouth full of food. “Or drugs. It’s a growing business.”

You giggle and walk into your open room, and throw your keys on your bedside table before you stop by your bed and just look at it.

With all the moving around for his work you’ve actually never had a bed of your own. Never one you can pick out pretty covers for, never one to say “yeah that’s my bed”. You can’t complain about motel beds, or rented homes, but they don’t compare to this, this was yours, your own.

“Now,” you whisper and take your slippers off to jump on your bed. “Tell me,” you add with a grin. “How was your day?” You drag yourself further on the bed and cross your legs to bounce on the bed.

It’s so soft and bouncy, not hard whatsoever. It smells new too, not used and washed by cheap soaps.

“I met with Jim,” he finally shares. “It was…uh…awkward at first, but it was…nice I suppose.”

You scoff and pat the empty space beside you. He doesn’t fret, he puts his plate down and takes the seat beside yours.

However he then gets up and runs to the entrance. You’re about to question him, but he then turns the light off and hurries back to his spot. “Lay back,” he orders.

Your eyebrows furrow, but you don’t question him and do as he asks, seeing he lays back too. Yet seeing him do it only confuses you more.

“So, we—”

“Look up,” he cuts you off.

You draw in a deep breath and flicker your eyes up to the ceiling. That’s when you gasp as you see glowing stars slowly brighten.

“I just thought I’d make this feel like home,” he whispers and turns his head to look at you.

The gesture wasn’t big, they were silly stars that glow in the dark, something for kids, but it means a lot to you that he remembers.

“Do you like them? Or are they embarrassing now?”

You smile in awe and tilt your head down to meet his gaze. “I love them daddy.” You grin happily and look up at the glowing stars again. “Maybe we should have dinner with uncle Jim. Mend what’s broken?”

“I offered,” your dad says with a sigh. “He shut me down, but I did meet up with an old friend, Bob Neeby.”

Oh, right, his nerdy best friend.

“He invited me for lunch tomorrow.”

You hum softly in comprehension, “that’s good. You won’t have to hang out with me all the time now.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It is weird.” He jokes.

You laugh softly, and then let a comfortable silence take over but only for a little while.

“So,” he breaks the short silence in a more serious tone this time. “I think this will be my big break.”

Your smile falters as you hear him share what you’ve been after.

“You remember the lab I told you about?”

You nod slowly.

“Well,” he continues. “This lab it’s crazier than I was told. It’s more than just experiments. Get this…a boy is presumed dead, there’s a body and everything, but a few days later he comes out alive and it’s like nothing happened. And a few days after he disappeared, a girl disappeared too around the same area, but she didn't come back,” he sighs.

“I spoke with the parents and they say that she was caught up in something that leaked from the lab. Or that’s what Jim told ‘em. But the weird thing is that there’s no body. She just disappeared close to the lab,” he says almost excitedly.

You let out a shaky breath and slowly look at him with a scared frown. “You believe the leak is true?” You ask in a frightful voice.

Your dad sighs and shakes his head. “No. There’s something more going on. There’s unexplained deaths, missing files…unsolved calls. Someone’s covering shit up,” he deadpans. “I’m here to take it all down though. End it all. There’s evil in that lab. I’ll set things right.”

“And after?” You bring up with hope. “Do we get to settle down?”

Your dad lets out a deep breath and nods. “Yeah. After this we stop moving. I go back to Washington, we find a good home there and we just live.”

You turn your gaze back to the stars and can’t help your hopeful smile. “Promise?” You ask.

“I promise,” he assures you.

181 notes · View notes

trickstarbrave · 8 months

Text

wip whenever

i got tagged by @boethiahspillowbook so here are some wips. art and writing are both okay!!! idk who hasnt been tagged yet so. anyone who reads this and wants to can consider it a tag

first up:

i started shading azura!!! still needs some more work and tweaking. but i rly like her expression (again pardon the nerevar gore he is kinda dead)

also a lil bit of writing!! its not much but. heres from moon and star

moraelyn is such a weird figure. most of the stuff we get is a novel from daggerfall. what the fuck is a witch-king. why are they riding on akatosh. whatever im just gonna make his shit up myself

Of course word would get back to Almalexia. Of course it would. Nerevar hadn’t expected anything less, though he was a bit surprised at how quickly she summoned him.

At least this time it wasn’t in front of her throne in chains. That he didn’t enjoy whatsoever.

Ayem gave him a beaming smile the moment he walked into the meeting room. She wasn’t alone--there were several guards present, as well as a chimer in armor emblazoned with a rose motif, alongside a few guards wearing armor that definitely did not belong to House Indoril.

“My, I see you really were named hortator of House Dagoth.” She referred to the necklace he was wearing, the collar emblazoned with the seal of House Dagoth. When Voryn first showed it to Nerevar he honestly thought it was a… Personal gift of sorts, until he revealed it was the necklace House Dagoth presented to all of their hortators.

“I am.” Nerevar answered. “If you want to talk more about that though, Voryn should probably be present.” A few guards looked flustered seeing how casually Nerevar called a noble by his first name. The man in the rose armor also shifted slightly, gasping as though offended. Almalexia, however, continued to smile politely.

“It isn’t for that.” She remarked, motioning for Nerevar to take a seat. Hesitantly Nerevar did so, sitting across from her.

“What did you need then, your Majesty?”

She hummed softly, closing her eyes as she seemed to be thinking over how to say it, the smile never leaving her lips.

“You are quite the asset in war, Nerevar Mora.” She began. “You were able to rescue the head of House Dagoth with very few men. Not to mention I know just how well you can handle yourself in combat from experience…”

“Is there another mission you wish to send me on?” He asked, keeping his face neutral. At his question her lips curled up into a polite, politician’s smile.

“House Mora has once again requested the liberation of their home city, Ebonheart.” Ebonheart… A city that as the nerevarine he never got a chance to visit. Honestly he wanted to; it had a rich history, not just from the first era either. At that, the man in the rose armor removed his helmet, revealing long, flowing white hair and a serious expression. Honestly, he looked like he’d rather not be there at all.

“I am Moraelyn Ra’athim.” He said, his eyes looking over Nerevar skeptically. “The nords ousted my clan from our ancestral home, the seat of power for the Mora clan.” He then cleared his throat slightly. “If you are truly the man who her Majesty claims you are…” Nerevar’s eyebrow twitched at the doubt in his voice. “... I would like to ask for assistance from you and your men to liberate my home.”

Moraelyn looked like he was being degraded having to ask Nerevar for help. If Almalexia wasn’t present, he would have rolled his eyes. He didn’t need to act like asking was just as painful as pulling teeth.

Instead, Nerevar turned his attention to Almalexia. She wouldn’t have called this meeting without good reason; Ebonheart hadn’t been liberated yet, for good reason. It was the current seat of power for the nords. It would be a risky move attacking them where they would be the strongest. Then again, based on what Voryn has been saying, Wulfharth hasn’t been staying in Ebonheart much at all. Three of his sons have instead taken up residence in the large, nordic style manor that was constructed, and were managing supplies and soldiers.

Almalexia’s polite smile had shifted to one laced with danger. Almost snake-like and cunning, venom behind her teeth. Not directed towards Nerevar--not this time. Unlike so many times in his past life, he knew this one was not meant for him. Instead she looked eager for battle, forced to stay behind.

“If you can do this,” Almalexia began, “House Indoril will also name you Hortator.”

There it was.

The rest of the room went deathly silent. No one had been Hortator of more than one house--but she wasn’t asking him to throw aside his position with House Dagoth. Instead she was giving him even more power, now the backing of two Great Houses. It was already bold enough that he was named Hortator of House Dagoth without being a proper member of the house; but Hortator of two major powers?

Nerevar steeled himself, his facade not cracking.

“If this is what you will ask of me,” Nerevar gave a polite smile back. “How could I refuse?”

#my writing #my art #wip #azura #indoril nerevar #nerevar #moon and star spoilers

31 notes · View notes

idolatrybarbie · 4 months

Text

series masterlist | main masterlist

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader, marcus pike & f!reader

word count: 7.8k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You can finally put a name to the feeling that’s overtaken your gut.

tags: heavy dubious consent - kissing, lies and manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse, discussion of canon acts of violence, obsessive behaviour, controlling behaviour, misogyny, allusions to stalking. dead dove; do not eat.

notes: the behaviours of marcus pike are based upon the misogynistic and predatory philosophies of pick-up artists (link) and personal experiences with stalking. i would like to emphasize that these are bad people doing bad things. thanks to @wannab-urs for the beta and for being my revisionist history expert.

You drive to the car rental business housed in a hovelling little building next to the runway. The airport itself is huge for such a small place devoid of anything else, though you figure things worked out that way for that very reason. Lubbock Preston Smith treats you just fine, and your short flight to Dallas is distinctly unmemorable. The layover lasts a little over an hour before Southwest Airlines is herding you back onto another airplane.

It’s been a day and a half. You haven’t called Marcus back yet. What are you supposed to tell him?

Hey, I’ve decided that I want to help this criminal because…it’s what I want to do?

Terrible.

You wonder what Frankie’s life would look like, now that you’ve been in it for all of one week, if you weren’t in contact. Probably the same as it has been for the last eight months: quiet. Blow-your-brains-out quiet, solemnity trapping him inside his busted trailer. Seriously, that thing needs a bath.

The moon keeps you up. Truly, you let it. One slide of a curtain and you could fall asleep in half darkness, dead to the world. But you can’t. You don’t want to. Growing back into having that word—want—after years of doing what’s best is about as strange as Francisco is.

Somewhere between twinkling stars, your phone buzzes next to you on the nightstand. It usually stays silent, your alarm the first thing to wake you right before sunrise. When you pick it up, an unknown number is scrawled across the screen. You can’t quite place the area code.

“Hello?” you ask hesitantly.

“Hey.” Frankie.

“How did you get this number?”

“Luck?” he asks. When you don’t say anything, he gives you a real answer. “Aren’t too many of you in this digital copy of the New York City phone book.”

Setting that aside, you say, “It’s late, Frankie.”

“I know that.”

“Why are you calling?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“That’s what television is for,” you say. “Or…porn.”

“Trust me, you’re a last resort,” he says. Then he asks, “Is it weird for you?”

You resign yourself to having this phone call. “Is what weird?”

“Knowing I’m guilty.”

Is it? Surprisingly, no. In the eyes of the law, you’re just about as bad as him. Just about.

“What answer will make you sleep better?” you ask instead.

“I don’t know,” Frankie says. “Honestly, I had no clue what was goin’ on. Will told us to lay low for a while—”

You want him to continue, but you have to stop him. For both of your sakes. “Stop.”

“What?”

“You have to stop. Might not want to incriminate yourself over the phone. It’d be better if you—”

“Stop? Yeah,” Frankie agrees.

“What else can I do?” you ask him.

“Well, if you can’t listen,” he says, “…stay. On the line. Just like this.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

For an hour, you listen to Frankie Morales breathing. You can tell when he slips unconscious, exhaustion winning out. Your heart beats a little faster when you hang up, tempted to re-dial only to hear him pick up. You don’t, of course; doing that would wake him. When you fall asleep, you picture Frankie dreaming. It’s peaceful.

In the morning, you gather your notes on Frankie Morales together. Here is what you know so far:

The government is planning to extradite him and his retired special operations team members and friends, Will and Benny Miller, and Santiago Garcia for their illegal actions in an unsanctioned operation in Colombia. Their travel spanned into the Peruvian Andes, leaving jurisdictional territory a little murky without legal help.

Frankie Morales is single, fourty-two, living (or hiding out) in Lubbock, Texas. He’s lived there for eight months after having his pilot’s license revoked a second time for an apparent relapse using substances. So far, you haven’t noted any signs of addiction or using, but he could be hiding it. God knows his closet is crammed full of skeletons already.

He grew up in Texas, just like you did. He had a little brother (status and whereabouts unknown) and a mother (deceased). He was in the flight academy straight out of basic training, finishing his degree in mechanical engineering at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. Frankie’s mother died two months after he got home from a second tour in Iraq.

He’s guilty: of the espionage, the theft, the murder. All of it. The government has photos, surveillance footage, and probably a haul of eyewitness testimonies. The odds are unequivocally stacked against you—against him. Yet for some reason, you still want to try and save him.

This is it. You’ve officially gone insane. You’re going against everything Marcus has ever told you, any reason you’ve ever learned or logic that has managed to worm its way into your head. All on a whim. What? Because he’s nice to you sometimes? Anyone can whip out a pitcher of fucking lemonade!

No, this is something else. A pull, a fascination. The darker parts of you are drawn to him. You are so sick and tired of everyone else saving you. You want to be good because you are good. Not because Marcus tells you so. Not because your mother can finally bear to flash you a smile at annual family dinners these days. Because of something you have done; earned and given to you by yourself.

A text from Marcus interrupts your thoughts.

Are you still alive?

Rolling your eyes, you pick up the phone and call him. It starts to ring. For some reason, you seem to be able to hear both ends: your dialing, and his obnoxious Mick Jagger ringtone. The song is muffled, sketchy pop beats stowed away by the limits of sound travel.

A knock at your front door surprises you. Getting up, you tie your robe at your waist, unlatching the deadbolt before unlocking the door.

“Marcus?”

"Would it kill you to answer your phone?" he asks.

"What are you doing here?"

"You didn't call me back."

"I was getting to it."

"I thought you were dead," Marcus says. "You hang up on me, and you were still at that Francis guy's place..."

"Frankie," you correct him.

"Yeah, him. Whatever." You don’t know why the dismissal in his tone irks you so much.

"I can't talk about this right now."

Marcus huffs out your name, staring out at your kitchen before facing you. Him in his work suit and you in pajamas, you rest on uneven footing. “I told you he’s bad news. Get yourself out of this.”

“Can we reconvene for this lecture later? I have to go to work.”

“I’ll come with.”

“Marcus—” You already know he won't budge. “Okay. Fine,” you say. “But you have to behave.”

“Me? Always,” he says.

You roll your eyes, shooing him to the couch as you start to get ready.

There are two sides to your identity as a journalist now: what you’ve been sanctioned to do, and everything else that you haven’t. The job you fill at the Post is pretty mindless. You’re a staff writer, barely entry-level enough to get you acknowledged by upper management. You write up quick stories pulled from blind lead wires about how the economy isn’t doing well, or submit story ideas on housing that always get shot down. All of this means it lets you focus way more time on Frankie than you should.

When you're ready, Marcus takes your purse from you, freeing up your arm. He leads you to the street, hailing a cab. When the vehicle rolls up to the curb and sloshes a mix of rainwater and slush onto his shoes, Marcus doesn’t even blink. He opens the door for you, letting you get in first. Chivalrous, gentlemanly. Laying it on a bit thick, but when is he not?

The ride is quiet. You watch slick streets pass by from your window, listening to the cab’s tires rolling through dirty snow and pools of water. When you glance over, Marcus is doing the same. You're dreading the conversation waiting for you, but you can't bring yourself to regret the decision made. Marcus was right about your gut. You believe that Frankie deserves a shot at redemption. Each piece of the puzzle pulls you closer to him. He reminds you of yourself. The road ahead won’t be easy, but with the help of people like you and Marcus, maybe he can rebuild a life after all this—whatever is to come.

You get out of the car first, leading the way inside the statuesque building as you shake off the soggy snow that’s settled over your jacket. Taking the stairs two at a time in your shoes is a struggle.

“Here,” Marcus says. He offers you his hand halfway up to the second floor.

Seven flights of stairs later, you welcome him to the Post’s offices. The floor is barren of another living soul, just as you’d predicted.

Marcus stops short, standing next to the Tetris maze of cubicles. You shake your head, beckoning him around a shadowy corner to your cozy nook of the building.

“An office?” he asks.

“You're surprised?”

“Is it bad if I say yes?”

You put on an exaggerated frown, unable to keep a straight face when he holds his hands up in surrender. “They seem to like me around here.”

“You make that part easy.”

“For now,” you say. Taking a seat in your plush rolling chair, Marcus sits down across from you. “I have a feeling the story ideas I push aren’t exactly winning me any favours.”

“‘Cause you want to write about something real?”

“Exactly,” you say. “I’m sick of business puff pieces and reports on the next Amazon stock shift. I want to write about the people. What’s going on, what they’re going through? I’m working at the fuckin’...diet Financial Times.”

“When what you want is full sugar Wall Street Journal,” Marcus says.

You sigh. “A pipe dream.”

“Not for you.” Fixing him with a hard stare doesn’t stop him. “Look at what you’ve done with only a couple years under your belt. In another five? Ten? You’ll be running this place, babe.”

You let air punch out from your nose, ignoring the pet name. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Marcus says.

He sounds so confident, unshaken in his sureness. But you don’t live in Marcus’ world. You don’t get the things you want. You work for them. Not that he doesn’t, but of course Pike’s the guy to get a promotion that seemingly falls from the sky.

“Alright, Mr. Agent Man. Enough optimism from you,” you say.

The next hour is all but silent as you open up a spreadsheet, scrolling through digital receipts stored in your work email. You continuously switch between the two browser tabs, reading numbers and typing them in. The expenses of your White House trip trickle into their appropriate boxes as software organizes everything automatically. Marcus sits with you, eyes caught on something through the glass side wall of your office. He gets up and leaves, returning moments later with red licorice vines.

“Want some?” he asks, offering you the bag.

You bite your tongue between your teeth, dialed into your task. “Pass.”

“More for me.”

When your neck starts to hurt from hunching your spine, you sit back, shoulders stretching wide. You don't know if Marcus has been watching you this whole time, or if the movement caught his attention. The intensity of his gaze has your heart jumping to your throat. The moment you take notice, the force in his stare melts away.

"What?" you probe.

"You ditched the case, right?”

"Seriously? Right now?" Marcus doesn't speak, waiting for an answer. "I didn't. We can’t just give up on him.”

"You never listen to me."

“Since when have you been my boss?” you ask.

A beat of silence. “Since when have I not?” Marcus retorts.

You scoff. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“It’s always—Marcus, I don’t know what to do. Marcus, please help me. And it’s fine—”

“Sounds like it isn’t. I thought we were friends,” you say.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“This is my wheelhouse. You don’t want to hear it, but I’ll say it anyway. On this, I know better,” Marcus says. “And honestly? You know it too.”

You know what I’m talking about.

“That’s low,” you say.

“But it’s true.”

You stand up, walking away from your desk—from him. He follows you out of the office, his dress shoes catching on the carpet tile. Marcus won't let up that easily.

“I want to make it all go away,” you say. “The indictment, the investigation. All of it. And if we can’t do that—”

“We can’t,” Marcus interrupts you.

“Then I want to make sure that Frankie stays here. In America. No extradition.”

"I don't think you know how this works," he says.

"I've worked in this business just as long as you have.”

"As a journalist. You are not a political animal. You are not a monster. You can't rip this apart for yourself. For him."

"And you?" you ask.

"This favour stopped being for me the moment you stepped on his porch," Marcus says. "You are not one of them—you are not a senator, you are not the District Attorney. Most importantly, you are not a lawyer. The girl who gets the congressman of Rhode Island's coffee every morning has more political clout than you do."

"Well I'm glad to see you have so much faith in me," you say.

"This isn't about faith! You think this is about belief? It's about not getting yourself fucked over in the process. You are not the thing that goes bump in the night, or makes a phone call to execute a cell block over in Oklahoma. You play the game. I play the game. Frankie played, too. And then he stopped playing, and he went against their rules which is why we're standing here, discussing whether or not we can save him when that's not for us to decide!"

You've never seen Marcus this angry. You've never seen him this anything. His emotions never really leave gift box range: happy, nicely wrapped, and convenient when you need them.

"You imagine yourself as the immovable object to the unstoppable force. You're not. You're a little girl who has no clue what she's doing."

"And you do?" you spit back. "You did? Didn't we all learn our lesson the first time? Or is your memory so short that you've forgotten sitting at that table with me."

He remembers. That temper of his liquifies, Marcus' eyes soft before he coaches his face into a hard mask once again. "An innocent man doesn't run."

"Bullshit. Innocent men run all the time. It's how they get shot in the back," you say. "Just because you have made up your mind about what he is doesn't mean that I have to."

"You should. It's all laid out there in front of us both."

"You are the one who led me to this case."

"I didn't have all the facts then. Going to San Antonio was rash. I wasn't thinking," he says.

"You were thinking. You were thinking that these men didn't deserve extradition. You were thinking that I owed you a favour, and it was the perfect time to call in. And now what? Now that you know they're not cookie-cutter American patriots, what? This is what they're owed?"

"Yes."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"It's what he deserves. All four of them. It's what's right. What's fair."

"When has anything we've ever done been right or fair? You think what I do here is saving lives? Feeding the public articles about how billionaires fucking the everyman is a good thing?" you demand. "And you? Is sending another crime boss for a cushy plea stint at club fed saving the day? We aren't in the business of right or fair, Marcus. I thought you knew that."

"So what, you and this pilot? You think saving him is gonna right all your wrongs?" There's an edge creeping into his tone. He's hedging too close into the territory of implication.

"I never said stopping that extradition order was the right thing to do," you say.

"It's selfish," Marcus says.

"And so what?" you ask. "We're already here, aren't we?"

The two of you in this room, you're both shiny and candy lacquered to hide the filth on the inside. Sometimes you used to wonder if Marcus was the exception to that rule, but you know better now. Good people don't do what you do. They never make it this far.

Marcus is simply better at hiding it.

He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Roles reversed, you would do the exact same thing."

"Hell would freeze over first." He spits your name out with an edge that's not an edge, but a tender hint of concern—no, pity. A dichotomy only Marcus Pike could manage. "You're not a fixer. You can't fix this."

"And you're not my keeper. I'm not asking you to save me this time, Marcus. I'm asking for your help."

"What if I say no?"

"You don't want to do that. You don't want to make me do that."

Marcus scoffs, walking towards you. He's in your space in an instant. Instinctively, you step back. He meets you there despite it. Marcus is so close now; you've never seen him like this. You don't want to.

"So you're all big and scary now?" he asks. His whispered breath over your lips makes your skin crawl.

He takes your jaw between two fingers, forcing you to look at him. The touch prods at that empty part of you, dark and deep, exposing you. When Marcus kisses you, a ghost of connection, you let him. It feels wrong; your stomach churns in the two seconds between its start and end. Marcus doesn't kiss you like he wants you—at least, not in the traditional sense. This isn't about love. It's for power.

He lets you go, walking away without another word. You hear the door to the stairwell swing open with a whine. You can only breathe again when it clicks shut.

You stay frozen in time for the next twenty days. Every blink has you reliving that moment. Your dreams are precariously empty. Marcus is gone again.

Hot breath chafes at the back of your neck, a delusion your mind has concocted to justify the fear that pumps through your blood at a constant. You can finally put a name to the feeling that’s overtaken your gut, swaying every thought and decision you make. Marcus has you, but not in any way that’s comforting.

He doesn’t call. Frankie does. A lot. Twice one week grows to twice a day. The worst starts when he grows bolder, leaving messages. He sounds about as scared as you are, more desperate with each voicemail. You start to really worry when he stops calling altogether.

You find a little bit of wiggle room in your vacation days, flying back to Lubbock close to Presidents’ Day. Texas has taken on uncharacteristically moody weather, the sky swampy and grey as rain drowns out any hope for sunshine. You get the same truck to rent, filling it at a Gas n’ Sip on the way out of town.

The backroads flood with rainwater, puddles gathering into small ravines on the scarred asphalt. You splash through them at sixty miles an hour, racing in the rain. After taking your sweet time to get here, a sense of urgency floods you. Scraping together the last minute trip, your mind filled itself with nightmare scenarios. Maybe he’s gone even further off the grid; maybe you’ll never find him again. Or worse, maybe he’s taken up all of that mindblowing quiet literally.

The trailer park is about as flooded as the roads, if not worse. The sea of gravel has been swallowed up by water. All you can see in pretty much every direction is a gathering of murky liquid. The truck is absolutely drenched by the time you park in front of Frankie’s home. His own truck is there too, a weak flicker of hope.

Stepping out of the truck, your shoes are immediately submerged. It soaks through to your socks, but you can’t muster up enough care to notice. Trying to dodge the wind, you rush up the steps of the trailer and pry the screen door open. You knock five times in quick succession, then step back and wait. Air blows violently against the right side of your face. Squeezing your eyes shut only does so much; you’d rather press your face against grimy siding and get out of its path entirely.

When the wooden door behind the busted screen opens, Frankie’s face goes on a journey. Moody to shocked in a millisecond, and shocked to something you can’t quite parse in the next. He’s still in his pajamas.

“Hi,” you say. His eye has recovered, for the most part. The last remnants of a yellow-green bruise smear his skin.

“You’re back,” he returns.

“Can I come inside?”

Frankie seems to think about it, giving you a onceover. You almost think he’ll tell you no. When his eyes land on your sopping wet shoes, he frowns. Leaning forward, he opens the screen door towards you.

Inside, you take your shoes and socks off.

Frankie says, “I guess you got my messages.”

“You stopped calling.”

“You stopped answering.” Touché.

“I got worried,” you say.

The words make Frankie freeze, pausing his ambling through the kitchenette. Facing the broad expanse of his back, you watch his shoulders relax. He turns to you. His jaw ticks before he sighs.

“If you don’t wanna help me, you could just say that. Not hearing from you—”

He worried. Well, you knew that. But this is different. Nothing selfish here, it’s not anxiety over the situation at hand. Just you. Frankie worried about you.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “Things got complicated.”

“In New York?” Frankie asks. “City girl too busy for a poor old country bumpkin, eh?”

It’s a joke, you realize, a laugh hiccuping from your chest. “Something like that.”

Frankie smiles then, mustache hiking his lip up to show you a flash of teeth. “I was just about to make lunch,” he says. An offer.

“Sure,” is all you give him.

You sit at his table once again, flipping through notes stuck together with raindrops. Frankie silently cuts up part of a head of iceberg lettuce right against the peeling surface of his countertop, the thick noise of chopping lulling you into focus. You haven’t looked at any of this in a while; time to play catch up.

A light clatter distracts you. By the time you look up, Frankie’s already standing at the sink, water running. A plated sandwich sits in front of you, lettuce and lunch meat jutting out at each side. Frankie finishes up in the kitchen, wiping his hands off on his jeans as he finds you staring.

“What?”

“You didn’t make one for yourself?” you ask.

“I’m not that hungry,” he says.

Disregarding any manners, you pick up the sandwich—already sliced in half—and take a bite. It’s a little more leafy greens than anything else, but you aren’t one to complain. Frankie sits across from you, waiting.

You say, “I wanted to circle back to what you said on the phone,” with bread still in your mouth.

Frankie shakes his head. “Don’t chew with your mouth open,” he says.

All you do is blink at him, swallowing the bite before you speak again. “You mentioned something about Will Miller a few weeks ago.”

“Right. Will, he told me to get outta dodge for a while. All of us to go dark. I’m living my stupid fuckin’ life, and then a few hours later my sergeant is giving me orders again.” Frankie prods his tongue into the side of his cheek, silent in thought. “I did it. Of course I did it. You get an order, you take it.”

“Even if you’ve been retired from Special Forces for almost a decade?” you ask.

“It’s not an if,” he says. “It’s an always.”

“And why is that? William Miller hasn’t been your army sergeant in—”

“Look, I’ll level with you. I get that you don’t understand. It’s not something I can explain for you to understand,” Frankie says.

You like a challenge. “Try me.”

“The training…it’s like a switch. Once you turn it on, you can’t—The people, your team. They’re family. They’re more than family. Your mother isn’t operating an AR-15 to save your life or dragging you to safety from a frag. I owe that man my life. That’s never going to change. They are the men that will always have you, no matter what. So when he asks you to do something, you do it.” He pulls at the whiskers of his moustache. “There’s no turning that off.”

Hot pants of breath beat down the stretch of your neck, your eyes stuck wide as you try to reign in the flood of sick crawling up your esophagus. Frankie looks confused as the quiet draws on longer than socially appropriate. Clicking your pen once, twice, three times, the beast at your back disappears.

“Could I use your bathroom?”

“Uh, sure,” Frankie says. “First door that way.”

He points further into the mobile home, down what’s barely a hall with two doors on either side. Spotted wood flooring turning to chipped tile as you step inside, the door pulled shut behind you. Your knee knocks against the lip of the sink, oddly low to the ground; you have to hunch to reach the tap. Cool water pours over your hand after a moment of anticipation.

The cold flow relieves some of the burning in your body, splashes of it against your eyelids running to your lips and tongue. Your mind is scattered, heartbeat in your ears. You can only grasp one thought through all the noise. This is what it feels like to be haunted.

Marcus owns you. You aren’t sure when exactly that happened. When you let that happen. So many moons ago, back in Austin? Or that diner, maybe, when he got you back after years of interim silence.

He was right. You are not a monster. He is. The world of politics is an ugly one, full of ugly people. Still, you don’t like to get acquainted with things that go bump in the night. You never noticed there was already something under your bed.

The door opens again with a creak. Frankie slouches in his seat, chin resting against the heel of his hand that’s propped against the table. You watch him, spotting the way he shakes out his shoulders. His arms let the fabric of his t-shirt loose before pulling it taut again. You want to trace your hand along the line of his spine.

Frankie refuses the rest of your sandwich, so you finish it alone. You ask him to recount the whole story, beat by beat: how he got involved, when, what the original plan was. He says that after the recce, they were supposed to hand off their gathered intel to Colombian authorities, but Santiago—Pope, he calls him—had other ideas. They went into Lorea’s estate expecting your average narcos cash stash, and wound up with a mansion spilling American dollars from the drywall.

You can see the anger in his eyes when he talks about the helicopter, the crash. Frankie slips in a mention of some pretty Colombian girl, but she’s gone from his story as quickly as she appears. The helicopter was overweight, sending them into a tailspin over the grassy plains of Peru.

“There were people there—villagers. We, uh… They were scared. A bunch of big Americans drop down from the sky with guns yellin’ English at them.” Frankie takes a long pause, staring at his hand. “I don’t know if Tom shot first, or if I—”

Oh god.

“There were a few of them dead. Pope worked out a deal with their leader. Gave him some money. We took a pack of mules, and we were on our way.” Frankie looks up at you. “I thought I’d never think about it again, I thought… I don’t know what I thought. And then Tom died. It all just went to shit.”

“Your friend died. You killed some people. In the process of all this, you broke some laws. From the sounds of it, that’s been your whole life. So what makes this different?” you ask.

“We didn’t…” he trails off. “There was no flag on our shoulder this time.”

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s not it,” you say. “That’s the reason the government is after you. That’s not why you are the way you are about it.”

A well of anger and loneliness. Self-pity has stained the man known as Francisco Morales.

Frankie bristles. “Maybe it’s just sad, hey? Maybe I wish I’d done better. Been better. Maybe Redfly wouldn’t be dead.”

Redfly. Tom Davis. From what you could unearth of the man all those months ago, you don’t think it would have mattered. He seemed more likely to stick a shotgun in his mouth than Frankie, probably in one of those shit condos he was trying to sell. Better to die in those mountains.

“What happened to the money?” you ask.

Frankie shakes his head again. A silent no.

“You know I could just find it. Make this easy.”

“We gave it to his kids. Two daughters.”

“Offshore accounts?”

Frankie gives you a look: what do you think?

You hold his gaze, half challenge and half fascination. Abruptly, you switch gears. “I’ve got one rule.”

“A rule?” Frankie asks.

"I don't give a shit what you tell the D.A., or your lawyer, whoever. But you don't lie to me. If this is going to work, it's because you're honest. And I'll be honest too."

"Fine," Frankie says. "But I have some terms of my own.”

“Such as?”

“I show you mine, you show me yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“You haven't told me a thing about you and this case," Frankie says.

“There is no me and this case, Frankie. I didn’t do anything illegal here.”

“But you know about it,” he says. “If the government was going to move on me right now, I’d already be in a cell somewhere…which means they haven’t. And yet, here you are.”

You wish he was as stupid as he looks.

“And?”

“How do you know about this case?”

“I know someone at the Justice Department. He brought the case to my attention,” you say.

“Brought it to your attention,” he says flatly.

“Yes, Frankie. He brought it to my attention.”

“Bullshit.”

“Frankie—”

“I think that your friend went looking for something he shouldn’t have. And fuck, did he find it,” he says. “The only thing that doesn’t make sense to me is how you’re the one sitting here, not him.”

“It’s complicated,” you say.

“Don’t lie. You’re bad at it.”

Fuck. Fuck. You’ve painted yourself into a corner here, no way out.

You deflate, tired of keeping up the brave face. “Everyone’s got their marching orders.”

Anything left of that unsure sense of judgement in your chest melts away as Frankie’s face falls. He’s a good little soldier. So are you.

“Marcus Pike…he wanted me to drop this. You. He thinks you deserve jail, that you aren't any better now than the man you were in Colombia. Probably worse. He says it’s the right thing.”

“And what do you think?” Frankie asks.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

You don't want to see him go away for it. The Colombian government will demand to see him rot, but that's never sat right with you. Now the thought makes you sick, gut rolling whenever it crosses your mind. But like it or not, Marcus has gotten into your head. You need something to drown him out.

Frankie takes your empty plate and puts it in the sink. He pulls a bowl out of his cupboards. You grab your phone, tapping at the screen to wake it up. No messages, no missed phone calls.

“I should go,” you mumble, already reaching for your shoes. A warped water line has formed on the canvas upper, like brown and grey watercolour paint. You shove your damp socks in your pocket.

Frankie stops what he’s doing, pouring milk into floating bits of instant oatmeal.

He says, “It’s still raining like hell out there.”

“I’m not made of sugar.” Frankie doesn’t have a pithy comeback for you, simply standing by. “I’ll be back tomorrow—early. So be up this time.”

Frankie nods wordlessly, putting his bowl of brown sludge into the microwave. He stands in the kitchenette, watching it spin and spin behind glass. You head for the door, looking down into your purse in search of the truck’s keys. When you look up again a few steps from the exit, Frankie is there too.

His nose is inches from yours now. Frankie looks at you with something—a feeling you can’t quite grasp. It rolls off him in waves, overwhelming. He’s standing just out of reach. He is always standing just out of your reach.

When you stretch a hand up to his jaw, it feels normal. Natural. Like you were meant to hold him, like he was meant to be held. His stubble is prickly against the skin of your palm.

Frankie leans into your touch, his hand moving to hold your own in place. With your fingers splayed across his cheekbone, you can feel the fine lines around his eyes. Up close you can see the tiniest of sun spots along the column of his throat. The loose collar of his shirt creeps up and back down again with every rise and fall of his chest.

He turns his face, still in your grasp, and presses his lips to the skin of your wrist. Immediately, you yank the limb back to your own body. Like a jolt of sparking electricity, his face flashes through your mind. Marcus and his ugly, docile kiss. The scent of his cologne, eyes so close they could burn through flesh.

The memory of him this close, closer… It holds you in a tight grip, overtaking the present and launching you into the past. Back to the cost of doing business. The price of helping Frankie. But you cannot do this—this with Francisco Morales. Neither of you get that luxury.

You say, “Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”

Then you watch him expectantly, waiting for Frankie to step aside. The trailer door squeaks open at your pull, whining when it slams shut again. You feel eyes at your back crossing the short distance to the truck. Whether they belong to Frankie or Marcus, you aren’t quite sure.

You eat again at a place called Taqueria Jalisco. The chicharron en salsa feels like an undeserved treat. You eat half of the food, washing it down with two strawberry mojitos.

Your waitress—Carla—comes back around to your table in the middle of a staring contest with the remnants of dinner. You order a Long Island Iced Tea for dessert, smiling politely as she clears your dishes. The alcohol settles a hum in your body. You feel like a live wire, unrestrained in your power to damage and destroy. So far, you seem to be your only target.

The Palm Tree Lodge happily accepts your business again, even giving you the same room as your last stay. Wrapping yourself in bedsheets, you close your eyes. The first thing that appears behind them is Frankie’s face, soft and careful as you held him. You feel a whisper of touch where his lips had been against your skin, rubbing over the spot with your thumb.

You should be scrolling through your phone, dredging your mind for any of your old classmates that went on to law school and owe you a favour. You should be thinking about any lawyer at all, but you aren’t. You can only think of him. Sweet brown eyes staring out from that despairing face. The look that makes you want him.

He is failure, primed and bottled. That makes you want him more.

Focusing, you find a place for his trailer in your mind. You’re standing by the steps, but it isn’t raining here. The sun-mottled sky shines blue and canary yellow as a glass of something cool sweats in your hand. You urge yourself to advance, taking careful steps up to the door. Before you can pull it open, you slip inside all on your own. Frankie sits at the kitchen table with his back to you, shoulders stretched beneath the thin fabric of an undershirt.

You go to him, taking a sip of the drink you’re carrying before you set it down on the table. Candied cranberries wash onto your tongue, fizzing up in your mouth. Hands empty, you rest them over each one of Frankie’s shoulders. He leans into the touch, the whiskers of his moustache brushing against your fingers as he sets a kiss to your skin.

You’re chasing a disaster. You shouldn’t want him. Wanting has only ever brought you bad things. You get the sense that if you told him to, Francisco would do it, no matter the ask. It’s hard to tell if that is a scare or a solace.

You and Frankie are the same in the exact way that you and Marcus are two of a kind. Fair is foul and foul is fair.

It continues to rain, worse today than before. You make good on your promise, knocking on Frankie’s door again at nine o’clock sharp. The door opens two seconds later. Frankie is dressed, just like you’d told him to be; a pink button up that’s been through the wringer, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest as it reveals a white undershirt like the one haunting your imagination. He lets you in without much fanfare, offering you something hot and warm from the brewing pot of coffee.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Frankie says. “I don’t have any creamer, only sugar. It went bad a few days ago.”

“No worries. I like it black.” You do not, but you’re not about to tell him that.

You and Frankie continue this stilted little dance as he sets down the mug on the table, not even trying to hand it to you lest your fingers touch. He seems to sit a little further out from the table today.

From your bag, you produce a scribbled list of twenty names you could scrape up on the drive here, eyes dividing their time between the paper and the splashy roads ahead.

“What hoop am I jumping through today?” Frankie asks you.

“No circus tricks for you. It’s all on me right now.”

“That’s a relief.”

Typing out the first name to locate them in your contacts, you say, “I’m sure it won’t stop you from being a clown.” You hit dial as a snicker wriggles its way out of him. Let’s hope you can find Chuckles a lawyer.

By the fifth phone call, neither of you are laughing. Pacing across the stretch of floor between the kitchen and the living room, you listen to another one of your peers professionally shoot you down.

“No, Alex. I get it. Thought I’d try anyway, right?” you ask. “Thanks. Yeah, bye.” You hang up, hand sliding from your forehead to your jaw. “Fuck.”

Frankie’s crossing out the names on the list for you, drawing a squiggly line through the name of your old friend from Rice.

“Who’s next?” you ask.

“Aditi Patel. Oregon area code,” he says. Frankie feeds you the numbers as you type them in, both of you waiting on the dial tone. She doesn’t even pick up, sending you straight to voicemail.

This cycle continues for the better part of two hours: another phone call, a rejection or an answering machine, followed by another line on the page.

Hanging up again, you ask Frankie who follows Ryan Treho on the list.

“No one,” he says. “That’s it. That’s all of ‘em.”

“Let me see.”

He hands it to you, gazing up as you look it over. Frankie is right. Every name on this list has been called, every one giving you some variation of no. The hum you thought was Frankie’s ancient-looking fridge ratchets up an octave in your ears, noise crowding around you as you stare at the piece of paper.

You can barely hear Frankie’s question of, “What do we do now?” as the rattle reaches a peak, squealing like static. You’re drawing a complete blank, breath halting as you will yourself to fix this.

Frankie grabbing your hand pulls you out. You’re standing beside his seated form, facing forward while he slouches in his chair at an angle.

“I’ll figure something out. Call some people. Don’t worry about it.”

“A little difficult, don’t you think?” Frankie asks. “What are you going to do?”

Call Marcus.

You don’t want to tell him that, though. You know your eyes are glossy, hot tears threatening to spill at any time as you try to put on a brave face. Cool, calm, and collected; that’s who you are supposed to be. Strong in the face of an adversary. So why do Frankie’s brows knit together, his face coloured in concern?

“I don’t know.”

The chair drags loudly against the floor when he kicks it out, nodding at you to take a seat. You do, folding yourself in half the moment your ass hits the chair as you duck and hide from him. Saltwater streaks down your cheeks, never making it past your lips as you wipe harshly at your skin.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“Everything is gonna be fine,” Frankie says. It feels warped for him to be comforting you.

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I don’t know, I just—”

You can call him. He could help you. You already know he would.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Him.”

Living in this blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nightmare has turned your life inside-out. There’s nowhere to run, no one to go home to. There is no home anymore.

You try to backpedal, mumbling a quick, “I’m being dramatic,” as Frankie takes in your broken face. “It’s fine. I’ll have to call Marcus. Figure out a new game plan.” The very last thing you ever want to do. More likely than not, you’ll have to see him; he’ll want to see you.

“I never told you why I punched out my neighbour’s grandson,” Frankie says.

“You didn’t. What does that matter?”

“Can you just—?” Frankie purses his lips, restarting his story. “He was talking about…you. Calling you names and—it was offensive.”

“So you beat the shit out of him,” you say. “That’s great, Frankie. I can’t pummel the fact that no one wants to represent you.”

“This isn’t about that. I’m saying, if your friend at that fancy Justice Department ever did anything to you…y’know.”

“You’d go to prison for assault on a federal officer,” you say.

“Seems like I’m headed there regardless,” Frankie says. He waits on you for an answer.

“I’m fine. The stress is fucking with my head.” Lie. You know it, and Frankie knows it too, judging by the scowl on his face. “I’ll be okay.”

You grab your things, making for the door.

“What happened to being honest with each other?” Frankie asks.

“This is me being honest. And the truth is, I’m going to be alright. Okay?” He doesn’t anything. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Rushing to the truck, you yank open the door to get out of the rain. Settling yourself, you put the keys in the ignition. You reach to turn them…and then you don’t. Nothing you want is at the other side of this truck’s engine rumbling to life. You don’t want to think. You don’t want to leave. You don’t.

Time passes blindly, the rain and the sky staying the same as water beats against metal. It seems almost everflowing, like it has always rained and it always will. The sound of precipitation lulls you into a dead stare, the upholstering of the steering wheel suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. You don’t notice Frankie at the opposite window until he pulls the passenger side door open, scooting in along the leather bench seat.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Frankie runs a hand through his hair, dotted with wet drops as he smooths it over. This is the closest you two have been physically since yesterday, heat from his thigh radiating against yours. With the crown of your head against the headrest, you watch water through the windshield.

“I have a wife. And a kid.” The words appear from nowhere.

“Oh.”

Frankie clears his throat. “Well, had. I’m sure they think I drove off to shoot myself, wash away on the beach. We lived in Florida…Miami. Not great for the recovering addict.”

“Okay…”

“I thought I’d tell you because of the whole honesty deal. You know, and not to say—fuck.”

You start to ask him if he’s alright.

“Are you a friend?” he blurts out.

“Uh…” You fix your gaze on the dashboard.

“Sorry. Thought I’d ask.”

“I don’t know what I am. To you or to anyone else.” Dragging your eyes to his face, you meet Frankie’s baby browns. “Do you want me to be that? A friend?”

“I want to turn back time and never have to meet you like this,” Frankie says.

The sky continues to pelt the truck with rain at all sides, heavy drops sounding off against the roof. Reaching up, you smooth out a crease in his forehead with your thumb. Worry ages him.

Your ring and middle finger cradle the ridge of his jaw. “You smoke?”

A curt nod. “They’re back inside.”

Next thing you know, Frankie’s jogging to the trailer as you wait under the short overhang, out of the wet. He comes out with a carton of Camel Lights. You take it from him, along with the butane lighter he offers. There are no chairs on his tiny porch. You opt for sitting right in front of the screen door, spine sliding against the mesh.

Frankie joins you on the ground. It doesn’t really surprise you. Keeping a cigarette pinched between your lips, you hold it between a peace sign and light it with an inhale. Then you put the lighter back in Frankie’s hand. After the first few drags, Frankie takes it from your lips with careful fingers. You watch him smoke, lips wrapping around the stains of your saliva. Instead of handing it back to you, he slips the cigarette back into your mouth.

When he lays on his side, head falling softly into your lap, you don’t even blink. A puff of white smoke leaves your lungs, the slow wind taking it up into the clouds. Frankie’s coarse curls slot easily between your fingers.

I want to turn back time and never have to meet you like this.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

#frankie morales #marcus pike #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #the mentalist #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #pedrostories #fic: revisionist history

14 notes · View notes

criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year

Text

Fic: Surprise

Read on Ao3

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Ship: Joel Miller x you (cishet f reader)

Tags/warnings: Soft!Joel, Acts Of Service Joel, (female) nudity, implied sexual content.

Summary: Joel has prepared a surprise for you.

Words: 1,809

A/N: Shoutout to @missredherring for the soft!Joel thoughts.

You knew something was up but you couldn't put your finger on it. The extra supply runs that yielded nothing, the comings and goings all by himself which made you extra nervous because he usually always went out with Tess. He eluded your questions elegantly, often with very satisfying results, but in your post-orgasmic slumber you were always aware of the fact that he had once again not answered your questions about what was going on.

"Everything's good," he'd tell you when you insisted, and you began to feel like the nagging girlfriend in one of those old TV shows you would watch back when TVs still were a thing. And that's the last thing that you wanted to be. Besides, you weren't Joel's girlfriend. He didn't do that. You just shared a bed sometimes. You took care of each other. This wasn't a world where you dated. You barely knew how to, anyway: you hadn't been doing a lot of that when the world went to shit, and the time you were supposed to plow through heaps of boyfriends had been spent learning how to survive in this new world order.

Still, you wondered, and you worried. You asked Tess about it, but she was as vague as Joel, which somehow hurt more than you thought it would. You and Tess were good, you trusted her with your life, and now she was clearly in on something with Joel.

You're expecting him home from a run one night, always a little on edge when he's out. When there is a knock on the door, you jump up from the couch. Your skin is crawling with nerves when you open the door just a crack, the safety chain still on.

It's Tess. You let her in, dread filling your belly with ice.

"What's up?" you ask as soon as the door has clicked shut behind her. Tess shakes her head and gives you a reassuring smile.

"Everything's fine, but you have to come with me."

"Where?"

"Joel needs you."

"What is going on, Tess?" you exclaim, frustration making your voice sharp. "You and Joel have been doing this for weeks, keeping me in the dark, coming and going without telling me anything - "

"You'll see soon enough," Tess cuts you off, as collected as ever. You've always admired her strength, her composure, the way she just takes command in the diciest of situations. It's difficult to understand that yours is the bed Joel wants to share at night, at least carnally.

You put on your jacket and follow Tess out. She takes you down the dark alleys to a tunnel leading out of the QZ. You've sneaked out before with her and Joel, but it's still nerve-racking: you're not really meant for that kind of life. Still, you follow Tess, confident that she's more than capable of protecting you if the need should arise.

It's a three hour hike through abandoned streets, and the moon rises over the treetops as you walk in a direction that leads out of the unregulated city.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask Tess in a whisper when climbing over a fence. "Where is Joel?"

"You'll see," is the only answer she offers you, and you don't know if you should be worried. If Joel was in trouble, she would have told you, right?

Finally, when your feet have started to hurt, you arrive at a small two storey house, its walls covered in ivy. Tess walks briskly across the overgrown little front garden, and you follow hesitantly.

"Come on," she tells you, "he's waiting."

She opens the door and steps in, calling Joel's name. You get in behind her, slowly closing the door.

The house is like any other derelict dwelling, long since abandoned, looted, forgotten. You look around you, expecting trouble, but all you see is Joel coming down the stairs.

"About time," he gruffs, but he looks pleased. "Thank you, Tess."

"Sure. I'll be next door. See you tomorrow."

With that, Tess gives you a pat on the back, and leaves. You look at the door that she closed behind her, then at Joel.

"What the hell is going on?" you finally snap. "Joel, why am I here?"

"Come with me." He extends his hand to you, but you don't move. You are tired of this.

"I just walked three hours in the middle of the night through infected areas without any idea of where I was going, where you were, and if you were okay," you remind him, crossing your arms over your chest. "I think you owe me a very good explanation!"

He leans his weight onto one leg and tilts his head slightly. "I'll show you. Just please come with me, baby."

You stand your ground, staring him down - which is no easy thing to do, because nobody can look at menacing as Joel Miller. You have a feeling that you mostly resemble a puppy mad about not being allowed treats at the table, and that he's just humoring you.

"It's a surprise," he now adds to placate you, and you release your arms.

"What kind of a surprise?" you demand to know, but you're beginning to crack. Joel smiles a little, his dark countenance lightening a smidge.

"A good one."

You finally climb the stairs with him to the second floor, where he guides you through the hallway to a closed door.

"Close your eyes," he asks you, but you shake your head.

"Absolutely not."

He chuckles low at that, opens the door, and your jaw drops.

It's a bathroom, and it's clean. You can tell, because it's lit up by dozens of candles and their flames are reflected on the tile walls. Some of the candles are clearly of the cheap, scented kind, but it's been a very long time since you last smelled anything but dirt, death, and unwashed clothes.

At the opposite wall is a tub, and it's filled with water, and it's steaming.

"Joel," you breathe, point at the tub, "is that..."

"A hot bath, yes," he acknowledges in a husky whisper. His hand comes to a rest on your lower back and you hope that he's ready to catch you in case you faint because it is now a very real fear. You blink, trying to wrap your head around what it is you see. What it means. What Joel feels.

"You with me?" he asks, forefinger landing under your chin to lift your face up to his. You want to avert your eyes so that he won't see that there are tears in them, but you can't. You meet his dark brown eyes where you find the comfort and strength to press a smile.

"Is this for me?" you murmur thickly, blinking away a tear that runs down your cheek. Joel quickly catches it on his fingertip before cupping your cheek, and nodding.

"How did you know?" you ask, your voice trembling. He frowns, like he doesn't understand the question.

"You told me once."

Now it's your turn to look confused, and Joel smiles gently.

"You remember the first night we slept together?"

You nod, yes, of course you do.

"You said you could've used a shower after but didn't want to leave the warm bed for a cold shower. And you said... that you would do anything for a hot, scented bath."

He takes a step back and gestures towards the tub. "And here it is. Took me a while to put it all together, and the whole day to heat the water over fire."

"But... why?"

"Because you deserve it."

You swallow hard and throw yourself into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you, Joel. This is... thank you."

"You're welcome," he murmurs against your hair, big, strong hand caressing your back before running up your side to your neck, warm big palm against the sensitive skin. You tip your head back a little, and he lowers his so that your lips can meet. The kiss is slow and sweet, but as he starts to undress you, it grows deeper. You seek out the buttons of his flannel, undoing them one by one, but he takes a tender hold of your wrists.

"No, sweet girl," he breathes into your ear, "this is just for you."

"I want you with me."

"I'll be right here, but the hot water is for you."

He helps you out of your clothes. The air is warm from all the candles, but your nipples knot as Joel rakes his eyes over your body in appreciation. He leads you to the tub and helps you into it. You hiss as you sink down into its hot wet embrace, but once you are seated and reclined, you quickly relax, your eyes falling shut. The scent of lavender rises along with the warmth, unwinding you even more.

"God, Joel," you sigh, unable to say anything else.

"You like it?"

"Mmhmm..."

You enjoy the silence, Joel's breathing next to the tub, the peace, the warmth not only from the water but also from his gesture; this beautiful, kind expression of his feelings for you. The world, with all its toil and struggles, is far away, and you don't want to go back to it. But time is mercilessly moving forward, and for every minute the water cools down. You sigh heavily, and blink your eyes open. The first thing you see is Joel, but it isn't Joel: he looks so different from what you are used to. The candlelight casts deep shadows on his face, the lines etched into it are prominent, but there is something serene over his features.

It is the face of a man who has lost everything, including a part of his own soul, but found redemption.

You smile and lift your hand out of the water. Joel takes it immediately and brings it to his lips.

"You fell asleep." He kisses your palm, inhales the smell of lavender.

"I had forgotten how sleepy warm water makes me."

"If you're done, the bed is waiting," he tells you, fingers running up your arm to your shoulder, then dipping into the water to curve down your breast. "And I've set up the water boiler. You can have a hot shower tomorrow. A very quick one, but it'll be hot."

"Are we safe here?" you ask, knowing that Joel would never risk it if he wasn't sure.

"We are safe here," he nods. Slowly, you get up from the water, and he stands up as well, reaching for a towel. Wrapping it around you, he lifts you out of the tub, and carries you to bed. You have no idea where he got fresh, clean linen from, but you don't care as his lips slowly worship your wet skin, all the way down between your legs.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #my fic

126 notes · View notes

dangans-ur-ronpas · 24 days

Text

Chapter 21

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BYAKUYA ok i said i would be going on hiatus but i got really inspired and also it's my guy's birthday today so surprise update. going on hiatus fr now tho

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

trust ended with makoto and never really started with kyoko now celeste is my new conversation partner

cant believe hes 31. and blond

@digitaldollsworld roman my friend romannn !!!

Content warning tags: description of depression/PTSD, mention of suicide, description of eating disorder

< previous - from start - next >

“Your hand.”

It’s the first thing Byakuya says to her as they leave the bathhouse. Kirigiri pauses mid-step, already halfway to the stairs, and turns over her shoulder.

“What of it?”

He gives her a pointed look. WIth her gloves on, he can’t tell the extent of the damage, but remembering how hard he’d tried to shut that door, he can imagine it’s not exactly pretty. “Is it broken?”

In response, she raises the hand in question, flexing it in front of him with the soft creak of well-worn leather. “It’s fine.”

Like hell it is. The fingers of her left hand hadn’t even been moving when she was typing, curled into a half-moon that skittered clumsily over the keys. But if she doesn’t want to admit it, there’s no point in him pointing it out. He has other questions, anyway. “Did you already know?”

He doesn’t mention Alter Ego out loud, but he doesn’t need to; there’s nothing else he could be referring to. She lowers her hand slowly. “Why do you think so?”

Of course, she would answer with another question. It was nothing but ambiguities and obstructions with her. “You didn’t seem surprised at all. You opened up the locker without any trouble. And you were very quick to volunteer yourself to take full responsibility.” It had been a thought in the back of his mind since the possibility of having to reveal Alter Ego to the others was brought up. She was the one who gave the computer to Chihiro, after all. He lowers his voice: “Considering how you were the one who passed that computer off to Chihiro, I can’t imagine that you weren’t aware of what he was up to.”

She doesn’t reply immediately, instead glancing around the ceiling for any wayward cameras, then behind Byakuya for any stray ears. But everyone else was still gathered around the bathhouse entrance, preoccupied with discussing their next move. Hiro was at the head of it, voice loud and excessively optimistic. “I’m curious as to how you perceived me as being unsurprised, all things considered.” She says flatly, and he feels a muscle twitch in his cheek. “And it wasn’t as if there was any lock on the locker itself. And it was the most logical thing to do, considering our room assignments.”

It doesn’t escape him how she hasn’t bothered to respond to his last statement, and it was too risky to make her answer it out loud, and especially not here or now. He hated having to concede, and especially not to her of all people, but the risk outweighed his pride. “Fine.” He grits out. Let her keep her secrets. “And where are you going now?”

He can probably guess, but he wants to hear it from her anyways. “The third floor was recently opened to us.” She replies coolly. “I am going to investigate.”

“Alone.” He doesn’t say it like a question. “You’re not bringing Makoto?”

“I always investigate alone. Anyone else…would get in the way.” She says that last part hesitantly, as if she’s not sure of her own reasoning. “I doubt he’d want to go with me regardless. Not after yesterday.”

Yesterday? He tries to think, if there was anything that happened yesterday that could have affected their relationship, but all he comes up with are the worst parts of the trial, the body discovery, the confrontation with Fukawa. The memories of everything else had blurred, melting together to become indiscernible.

She’s answering before he can even open his mouth to ask further. “I was the one who told Makoto to out you in the trial.” She says, monotone and unreadable, and then stands there, almost expectantly, as understanding sinks in.

He tries to feel angry, that familiar rush of fury, but there’s nothing, and it leaves him feeling jarringly cold in its absence. At his silence, she continues: “Let me be clear, Makoto did not want to betray you to begin with. I told him that it would be unavoidable, and the only way to clear you of all suspicion.”

“The two of you made me into a bigger target.” He points out, bitterly. A person who would be of no help in investigations or otherwise, who was helpless enough on his own to be an appealing victim who couldn’t retaliate.

“There’s only ten of us left, in an enclosed space. With smaller numbers, it’s less likely for any one person to be willing to kill. Or get away with it, at least.” If she was trying to reassure him, she was failing miserably.

“Why Makoto? If you were aware, why couldn’t you have told them instead?”

She takes a step closer, and he barely keeps himself from stepping back. “Would they have been as ready to believe me?” She asks quietly. “You said it yourself: I’m someone who you all know nothing about. If I was the one who did it, would they be as quick to accept it? Or would they have started wrongly accusing me as well? Where would we be then?” She reaches out and grabs his lapels - in her left hand - and pulls him close, just enough to whisper: “I am the only one who can get us out of here. I’m sure you know that well.”

He feels his hands clenching into fists at his sides, but she’s right. Of course she is. Out of everyone here, she was the only one who was actively searching, trying to escape, and probably the closest to succeeding. That was the most frustrating part; that he couldn’t even properly argue back.

She releases him and retreats, tucking her hair behind her shoulders. “I will admit. If I had been the one to absolve you, then maybe you wouldn’t have had to be betrayed.” She says simply, and it’s probably the closest thing he’ll get to an apology. An offhanded acknowledgement of his miserable state.

He’s heard enough. He turns on his heel, but hasn’t made even a step when she grabs his arm so suddenly that he almost stumbles. “What?” He demands. Her fingers are tight around his forearm, and he can feel her leather glove, smooth and creased at the knuckles, digging through the fabric of his jacket.

There’s another pause, as she opens her mouth, but she’s silent long enough for him to wonder if there was something wrong with her. Then she releases him. “Nothing. Go eat.”

He was already planning to head to the cafeteria to do just that, but her tone irks him so much that he’s almost tempted to turn around and stomp back to his room. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Starve, then. But don’t wear yourself out.” She was already brushing past him, hair streaming behind her like a ghost. “You still have some use yet.”

He watches her go, a little stunned and more than a little scandalized. For her to belittle him, patronize him, and mock him, after he tried to help her - demonstrated concern, even - he clenches his fists to stop them from trembling, and smothers down the insult that she was already too far away to hear.

What an-! Insufferable little-! He sputters silently. To go from blatantly labeling him as ‘useless’ just a few days ago to saying this now, when his most fatal flaw had been laid bare to everyone…even more frustrating, was how underneath the anger, a smallest shred of pride had curled to life in his chest, undaunted by the disgust that immediately followed. As if he were a dog easily placated by nice words.

…The hunger must have started to interfere with my thoughts. He shakes his head, and turns back to the cafeteria. Behind him, he can hear the squeak of sneakered footsteps, pattering to catch up with him, and starts walking a little faster, knowing full well who it could be. And sure enough:

“Byakuya!”

It was just one after another. Makoto’s hand pinches onto his elbow sleeve, and Byakuya jerks out of his grasp with enough force that he almost stumbles, staggering awkwardly to maintain his balance. Makoto steps back, one hand still raised hesitantly, and his breath stutters slightly as he freezes, unsure what to do.

There’s a lot that Byakuya can say here. He’s envisioned this interaction a thousand times, in between chess and shogi games with Alter Ego, as he showered, as he rested his exhausted, sightless eyes. But the vitriol he prepared doesn’t come; the very act of trying to come up with something to hurl at him just leaves him feeling drained. Hollowed out.

Luckily, he’s saved from having to say anything at all. Seemingly out of nowhere, with only a sudden rustle of velvet to announce her arrival, Celeste appears by his side, placing one hand delicately on his elbow.

“Oh, excuse me,” She hums serenely, entirely ignoring the strange, tense air between the other two. “I pray I am not intruding. Byakuya, won’t you please join me for tea?”

She’d never shown interest in him before. He scowls, instantly wary. “What for?”

“There’s no need for such frightening looks. I have no ulterior motives.” She’s probably smiling, though he can’t make out her mouth on her pale face. Just her eyes, pinpricks of an artificial, unsettling red. “But you have not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast, no? Hifumi’s milk tea is almost passable, and I would appreciate it if you could offer your refined opinion on it.”

He doesn’t move, arm held at an awkward position away from himself to keep her at a distance. Makoto is still there, watching them, hesitating. “Um, Byakuya-”

“And…I would like to apologize for my actions during the trial.” Byakuya’s eyes snap back to her. Her posture has relaxed somewhat, and she speaks slowly, as if every word was pushing against her pride. “I spoke rather callously, and…shed some rather insulting suggestions of your relation with Chihiro. At the time, I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing, but it seems I should not have been so rash.” The hand on his elbow slackens, just enough to be in danger of sliding off his arm entirely. “I can’t imagine how you are feeling now. It’s clear now, you were one of the people closest to him, if he was able to entrust you with something so precious.”

He feels his lip curling with disgust, at her shamelessness. It was unsurprising that someone such as the Ultimate Gambler would use words like cards, and know exactly how to play them. But even despite knowing that she wasn’t likely to be genuine, the stifling, uncomfortable pressure on his chest dissipates, just a little.

And he was hungry. And he has no desire to be face-to-face with Makoto at all, and he doubts Celeste’s intentions to kill him. And there was no motive, nor had he slighted her in any way - and besides. Prepositioning him here, in the middle of the hallway with Makoto to witness it, meant that it would be very difficult for her to free herself of suspicion if he were to turn up dead.

“Fine.” He forces his posture to relax. At that, her hand twines around his arm with the grace of a snake, much like how a lady might be led by a gentleman, resting there lightly.

She radiates smugness, and the self-satisfaction of a pampered cat as she leans into him. “Then, shall we go?”

He doesn’t really want to. But sometimes sacrifices were a means for a better end, and he only spares a single glance at Makoto as he leaves, standing ignored and alone in the middle of the hallway.

___

“Ah, Princess!” Yamada calls as they enter. And then, slightly panicked: “And - M-Mister Togami-?”

Byakuya scoffs, disgusted, but Celeste tugs him along. “Yes, I am aware of the nature of the company that I keep.” She sounds almost apologetic about it, as she half-guides, half-steers him towards a two-person table near the far end of the cafeteria. “But I assure you, he has his uses. He’s loyal where it counts, and accomplishes things decently well.” She pats his arm, a gesture that feels far too familiar for his comfort. “I’m sure you understand?”

He makes no comment, seating himself with a scowl, and eyeing Celeste warily from across the table, a graceful shape of black and white before him. The girl had always been an enigma - much like Kirigiri in her careful, conniving ways - but he hasn’t forgiven her for how she so carelessly dropped the mention of his meeting with Chihiro. It hadn’t been to clear anything up either; he was sure that her intentions were for her own self-satisfaction, and nothing more.

Yamada waddles out of the kitchen, a large, silver tray balanced between his hands. He sets it on the table with a flourish, its contents rattling slightly - an intricate porcelain tea set decorated with a swirling black design, with a plate full of small teacakes, cookies, and other such deserts - and begins pouring out two cups of tea. He’s surprisingly graceful about it, making a show of pouring the milk in a large arc and stirring it all with a tiny silver spoon, before he sets one down in front of both of them.

Celeste lifts her cup to her lips, taking a careful sip. “Hm. Better,” She praises, and Yamada swells with pride, his chest puffing out. “Thank you. You may go.”

He deflates immediately. “Ah, but-” He clutches the empty tray to his chest like a shield. “Er, to sit alone w-with another man-!”

“Now, please.” There’s a firmness behind her gentle politeness, and after a moment’s hesitation, Yamada retreats to the kitchen with a quiet grumble.

There’s some sound near the entrance of the cafeteria, and when Byakuya looks up he sees Hagakure leading Owada towards a table, talking jovially about the importance of health and food, asking about any preferred dishes, and launching into some inane story about a hamburger and aliens.

“He’s been like that since this morning.” Celeste comments, and he turns back to her. She sets her teacup down with a gentle click, and laces her fingers beneath her chin as she leans forward, her voice lowered to an exaggeratedly conspiratorial degree. “You were not there, but Hiro declared himself the de facto leader in Taka’s absence. He stated that he has rights by age, but thus far he’s only taken responsibility for Owada.”

De facto leader…as if they had such a thing. “Good. Someone has to.” Byakuya grunts, as he lifts the cup to his lips. Owada was the farthest thing from stable at the moment, and he would rather avoid having to participate in another trial so soon. The tea Yamada made is passable, though too sweet for his tastes and richer than he would like.

“Hm, quite right.” She sighs. “I have no interest in repeating yesterday’s events for as long as I live.”

She says what he was thinking out loud, and somehow, that bothers him deeply. He didn’t like how similar the two of them were, how similar she was perceiving them to be. How similar they already were.

“But let’s not waste time on depressing things.” She claps her hands lightly. “I am curious. How is your relationship with Makoto now?”

He chokes on the teacake he had just taken a bite of, crumbling into crumbs and dust into his throat, and takes a hasty gulp of tea. It’s too hot and scalds his tongue, and the raw, healing wounds on his inner cheek. He almost doubles over with the pain, just barely managing to keep his posture. This whole time, he was painfully aware of Celeste watching him over her crossed hands.

“Are you alright?” She asks, offering him a handkerchief. He ignores it and takes another sip of tea, ignoring the burns.

“M’ f-ine.” He spits. He has the feeling his eyes are watering, though there’s not exactly a clear difference in his vision to suggest if that’s the case, and counts himself lucky for not choking. He tries to blink the tears inconspicuously away, and clears his throat. “Why - why do you ask about him?”

She tilts her head as if his question is the odd one. “You underestimate how much attention you drew when you accepted Makoto’s company. In the course of just a few short weeks, we’ve seen you two develop a sudden companionship, then a sudden lull, and then rekindle that relationship as if nothing had happened at all.” He has the feeling she’s smiling, though he can’t make out the gleam of her teeth compared to her chalk-white face. “Would you like to hear some of the rumors that have been spread?”

“Not in the slightest.” He can imagine what tasteless things have been whispered already. “The truth is nothing as scandalous as you’re hoping to hear. He was the first person who discovered my blindness, and was simply assisting me. Though-”

He grimaces inwardly now, at the memory of the trial. The earth-shattering feeling of betrayal. The quiet, hesitant way that Makoto had reached out to him afterwards, guilty as a thief. “Though, I have no need for people that can’t obey orders.”

That’s not the exact reason for his avoidance of Makoto, but he’s not interested in analyzing exactly why the other boy was bothering him so, and especially not now. It’s also not the sort of answer he would expect Celeste to be satisfied with, but to his surprise, she simply shrugs, and nods as if she understands it completely.

“I am the same. Though given our situation…I have had to be a little accommodating.” She flicks a hand carelessly in the direction of the kitchen. “I am surprised, however. Given your nature, I hadn’t expected you to be so merciful. You seemed to let Makoto off very kindly compared to the injustice he did you.” She leans forward slightly, staring at him. “You’ve changed, it seems.”

“Excuse me?”

“It is not an insult.” She says, with the same, gentle tone as a nanny with a displeased child. “If anything, it is praise. You’re far more open now, when compared to before.” She taps at her face. “You’ve stopped wearing your glasses, which you didn’t need in the first place. It’s a sign that you have become less shut off, no?”

“It’s not a sign of anything. My glasses broke when Owada punched me.” Never mind the fact that he has several spare pairs in his room. Trying to wear them now when everyone knew they were pointless would be more humiliating than anything, though he still has to consciously refrain from reaching up to touch his temples, fighting the habit to adjust something that wasn’t there.

“But even so, my point still stands.” Her eyes narrow as she smiles. “Before, you seemed very distant, but now it is more obvious that you are of flesh and blood.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. That was what he was afraid of, becoming more human, more like those around him. His glasses had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, even before there was a real need for him to wear them; they made him look older, Pennyworth had told him, and more mature. Less like a boy, more like a proper heir. Less like his mother, and more like a Togami.

He notices the pale, spindly shape of Celeste’s hand reaching for his face just in time, jerking backwards and out of her reach. If she’s surprised, she gives no sign, and simply retreats slowly. “I apologize. It seems I’ve said something insensitive once more.”

“...You said nothing of the sort.” He lies. Has he become that easy to read? He presses his lips into a thin line. “Even if I still had them, there’s no point in wearing them anymore. Not when everyone knows they’re pointless.”

“I see…if it is any consolation, I do find your appearance appealing now.” She says this hesitantly, shyly, hiding her face demurely behind her cup. But either she had layered on enough makeup to completely conceal her face, or she was an exceptionally skilled liar, or most likely both, because not the barest hint of a blush is visible on her at all. “You were uncomfortably perfect before, more like a little porcelain doll than anything. I rather enjoy this new, human side to you. Even the…imperfections, if you will forgive the term, are quite endearing.”

He can feel her gaze, bright red eyes, roaming his face. “Save your flattery.” He mutters. The burn on the roof of his mouth was making itself known again, and as he glances down at his plate at the remains of his earlier pastry, all he sees is an unappealing, sand-coloured blur. “Asides from the change in supposed ‘leadership’, what else happened when I wasn’t around?”

Thankfully, Celeste doesn’t push the topic, and instead launches into a detailed recount. Monokuma opened up the third floor as a reward for a successful trial, which included new amenities: an art room with just about everything needed for any medium, from sculpting to calligraphy; a very robust physics lab with a very large and elaborate air purifier; an equipment room without anything particularly noticeable; and a recreation room with a pool table, darts, board games, and a weekly magazine rack.

Byakuya raises his eyebrows at this last mention. “Weekly magazines?”

“Yes, but unfortunately, Monokuma has no intention of providing us with any new issues.” She sighs. “I asked him myself.”

He clicks his tongue, disappointed again but unsurprised, and leans back in his chair, taking a biscuit. Everything that Yamada had brought out was too sweet for his tastes, and tasted cheap, with the chemical-ly staleness of preservatives. It was killing his appetite, and he was ready to retreat back to his room.

“It seems that our school life has gained more opportunities to become enjoyable, however.” Celeste continues, ignoring his apparent sourness. “Won’t you join me for a game of Othello, sometime? I’m sure someone of your caliber is familiar with the rules.”

“I’ll pass. I have no need for a partner.” He doubts that she would be a better opponent than Alter Ego, in any case. Especially if he couldn’t see the board.

“A shame. But it was worth asking.” She doesn’t sound surprised by his blunt rejection. “I’m sure I could not compare to the games you have witnessed among the aristocracy?”

He hesitates for a moment. Her intentions were clear, full of the subtle eagerness of a child trying to wheedle out a prize for good behavior. “Witnessed, and participated. But I have to disappoint you, they’re more or less just like the gambling games that the commoners play, blackjack and roulette and such. The only difference is the wagers.”

“Very high wagers, I presume?”

“Yes, but not in money. Most of the time, all the participants have enough money to their name that mere cash becomes meaningless. So they place their stakes in other things- properties, businesses, liquid assets and even people. A family castle, their favored butler. Things that have more value to them than just monetary.” She leans forward on her elbows, listening intently, and after another moment’s pause, he continues. “I’ve only played once, and wagered a genuine second-generation [Delafoy] portrait bust. I won the original copy of the opponent’s family records.”

“A rather underwhelming prize.”

“Not at all. There’s nothing more valuable than information - especially when it’s limited.” He replies, smugly. That book of records was the only copy to exist, and the stupid, sheltered boy who had wagered it had gone nearly catatonic when he lost. He was outright disowned when his family discovered what he’d done, and the family head offered a fortune for the return of it - but Byakuya had kept it, both out of spite and necessity. That book ended up being a precious bargaining token later, when the game of inheritance found him and he needed a place to lie low.

Celeste is captivated, leaning as far as she can over the table with her chin tucked on her laced hands, eyes so wide that the red of her irises - contact lenses, surely - are twin, bloody suns on her milk-white face. Like a vampire bite, he notes distantly, with a hint of snide amusement. “It has always been a dream of mine to sit among those tables.” She says, and her voice is hushed and passionate, eager, expectant; a demand hidden in plain sight.

“It would never happen. Someone of your status would never be afforded the chance.” He scoffs immediately, matter-of-factly.

“Do the wealthy not recognize the value of skill? I’m sure I can provide a stimulating enough game for them.”

“And I don’t doubt that you could. But that wouldn’t matter.” She was certainly clever, but if she was still dreaming such foolish things, then he suspected that she would not last much longer in the mastermind’s game. He leans forward, fixing her with a stare. “The only reason why I could participate at all is because of my lineage; the Togami name is the only reason that family offered to buy back their precious records, rather than simply assassinate me and pick it off my corpse. Someone like you wouldn’t even be allowed to leave that table alive.” Those esteemed elderly with nothing to do and those spoiled brats with lofty ideals would let her join their table, for the novelty of having a member of the peasantry try her luck, but the moment she humiliated them would have marked her end.

That answer seems to discourage her, and she sits back, plucking another cookie from the tray and turning it in her hands. “Such a violent reaction…it seems that the nobility are much less civilized than given credit.”

“Do you think yourself uncivilized for shooing away an insect? Like I said before, do not flatter yourself into thinking that we are on the same level.”

They’re quiet for a moment, sipping their tea and nibbling at the deserts. Hagakure was trying to coax Owada into eating a bowl of rice porridge, pressing a spoon into his listless hand. Byakuya watches with a strange, uncomfortable feeling growing over him, and suddenly wants nothing more than to leave.

“Ah, speaking of being human,” Celeste says suddenly, as if remembering something. “Makoto found a particularly interesting photo in the third-floor maintenance closet. And a very odd one, at that.” She pauses to take a delicate bite of a pastry, making him wait as she chews. “One of Mondo, Leon, and Chihiro laughing together in a classroom setting.”

“What?” He frowns. Were the three of them that close? He hadn’t noted them having any particular interactions between them to suggest such a thing. “When was the photo taken?”

“That, I cannot say. Monokuma seized the photo, so the only one who saw it was Makoto.” She shrugs, an elegant lift and fall of one shoulder. “But from what he said, they couldn’t have been much younger than they were when we first arrived.”

Perhaps they knew each other before enrolling here. It would be the most logical explanation, and it wouldn’t be impossible based on what he knew of them. He says as much aloud, and Celeste simply shrugs again.

“Perhaps.” She agrees, and takes another bite. “But if they did, they gave no indication of it, and certainly did not act like they knew each other at all. Though, I am inclined to believe it was nothing more than one of Monokuma’s pranks, intended to shake us.”

That wasn’t an unlikely possibility either. Byakuya certainly didn’t doubt that the bear might do such a thing. But for some reason it bothers him, sitting stubbornly in the back of his mind and refusing to be brushed away. Like a conspicuously empty patch of dust in an old room, marking the place where something unnamed once occupied and was now gone. Was it really just a prank, and nothing more?

From the kitchen, Yamada was humming, accompanied by the sound of pans and sizzling oil, hissing steam. Hagakure was still coaxing Owada into eating, while regaling him with another long-winded, far-fetched story. Despite everything, everyone was still going about their lives, domestic and carefree.

He thinks about Kirigiri, who never seemed to stop moving. Always thinking, always searching, always leagues ahead of him. She was similar to the girl in front of him now, clever and scheming and concealing everything behind an unreadable face. But different as well; Celeste speaks in an elegant, lilting cadence that reminded Byakuya of the children of the nobility that he had bumped elbows with before, and he can’t imagine himself having tea and small talk with Kirigiri in a similar setting.

“What will you do now,” He finds himself asking. “In regards to the killing game?”

Celeste tilts her head as if this were an obvious question. “I have no interest in dying. Nor do I have the stomach in me to imagine taking another person’s life.” She shudders slightly, as if the very thought of it was horrifying. “But all our amenities have been accounted for here, and I imagine we have all the provisions to live very comfortable lives. I can be content with this, so long as it ends the pointless tragedies.”

As he thought. Despite all her secretive, careful ways, the way she took to lying like a second skin; she was nothing like Kirigiri. Kirigiri had spine, at least.

He stands up suddenly with a screech of his chair, and she makes a noise of surprise. “You are leaving?”

“I have exhausted your company,” He says bluntly. “So there is no reason for me to stay.”

“Is that so…” There’s a sharp click as she raps her fingers against the patina. “In that case, thank you for the conversation. It was very insightful.”

He has no doubts about that. This was not a simple excuse to have a leisurely chat, but an exchange of information. She gave him what he wanted to know about the third floor, and he gave her a story to stave off boredom. Something to daydream about while they waited to escape.

He doesn’t bother deigning her with a proper goodbye as he turns to go. On his way out, he catches sight of Owada, sitting across from Hagakure, spoon still unmoving, watching him. Faceless and blank.

< previous - from start - next >

#thpff #byakuya togami #thpff chapters #danganronpa fanfiction #happy birthday to you...happy birthday to youu........#hbd byakuya!! enjoy your birthday meal of. overflavored black tea and storebought cookies. on an empty stomach #dude stop stomping away dramaticallly when u get mad. you need to eat like an actual meal you're gonna get scurvy #celeste hitting him with sticks in her head every time he says something stupid but just smiling and saying nothing #makoto in his kicked wet dog era #hiro taking care of his homies. hiro trying to take responsibility for everyone else. if u dont think hes the coolest ever u r wrong

17 notes · View notes

missterious-figure · 1 month

Note

(If it's okay, I kinda adding Iris in now.)

Iris was a bit bored, sure the kelpie was interesting at first but now they were just sitting in between Eclipse and Moon.

Iris glanced toward were the fouls and fawns were playing as well as a little fox, she smile finding it cute watching the young ones play. Even if she was small them them by a few inches at least.

She felt a bit too nervous to play so she hesitantly walks up to where Sun is before laying down next to him watching as the kids play around covered in paw prints from the fox tagging them playfully.

(Iris probably looks very small compared to Sun)

"Why hello there, Irish! It's nice to see you!"

Sun's smile was bright. He glanced up. He saw something and furrowed his brows.

"Hey, Iris, I just told Stella this-"

He gestured to the small fawn doing his hair on his back.

"But I might need to go check something out real quick. Would you keep an eye on the kiddos for me if I do?"

#dca au #celestial herd au #answered

7 notes · View notes

writingforstraykids · 7 months

Text

Safe space

Pairing: Minho x Chan x fem!Reader / Minchan x fem!Reader

Word Count: 3857

Summary: Minho has always been the strongest, never showing when he's upset to never worry Chan and you. When he comes home hurt one night, that starts to change.

Warnings/Tags: angst, mention of blood, mention of choking, mention of potential kidnapping, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, mention of nightmares, fluff, cuddles

A/N: I didn't plan on making it as angsty as it turned out to be, but somehow it seemed fitting. I hope you enjoy the angsty comfort and fluff🤭~Moon🌙

Thinking back, Minho has always been both Chan’s and your rock when things got tough. You both knew how soft and vulnerable he was behind his facade and built up walls that were quite easy to break through actually. Chan often watched with admiration but worried about how Minho pushed himself through dance practices, interviews, or performances, no matter how he felt. Sometimes, after a long day, you found yourself on the sofa or in bed with Minho curled up against you, the only sign of exhaustion he was willing to show you. Only then, there in your arms, with Chan fondling his hair, he felt like the youngest. Somehow, the urge to be there for the two of you and make you feel better was always stronger than giving up. Stronger than showing you that he was upset as well, that he was feeling sick, or couldn’t deal with something.

In Minho’s eyes, you and Chan were the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he intended to keep it that way. By now, there was nothing he cared more about than you two, and he made sure to show you that as often as he could. Nevertheless, Chan and you wondered how long it would take him to open up and give room to his feelings finally.

You don't expect that something bad has to happen for him to do so. You're cooking dinner in the kitchen, knowing that Minho will be back from the company soon. Chan's upstairs already, taking a shower and changing clothes before dinner. You glance at your watch, a little confused about Min running late. The front door opens, and you relax, knowing he's back. "Welcome home, baby," you say cheerfully, finishing up. You hear him taking a few steps forward, and you turn around, frowning as it sounds like he's still wearing his shoes. "Min, you know we said no shoes around the -," Your voice gets caught in your throat as you see him.

He stares back at you with wide, wet eyes, almost looking a little scared. There's a heavy bruise forming on his right cheek, just below the eye. A little blood is smeared across his lips and chin, coming from a cut on his lower lip. His chest heaves beneath one of Chan's signature black sweaters he borrowed this morning. "Right, sorry," he stammers, quickly slipping out of his sneakers.

Your eyes widen in shock as you quickly take a few steps forward, reaching out for him. Minho flinches back, and you stop yourself immediately. "What happened?" you whisper and very hesitantly reach out for him again.

"Uhm," he swallows hard and blinks a few times as if he was holding back tears. "Is-Is Channie home?" he asks timidly.

"Yeah," you nod and search his eyes observantly. Minho opens his mouth as if he wants to say something before contorting his face. You know him well enough by now to know he doesn't know how to put it into words. You carefully take his hand, swallowing at how hard it's trembling. Looking down, you see his knuckles are covered in blood. Did he get into a fight? "Channie, angel?" you call out for him.

"Yeah?" he shouts back downstairs, currently drying his hair with a towel.

"Can you come down here for a second?" you ask. "Something's wrong."

Chan frowns and walks down the stairs shirtless, still drying his hair. In any other situation, both Min and you would've found that incredibly attractive. "What's up, babe?" he asks and stops in his tracks as Minho slowly turns toward him. "Bloody hell," he presses out in shock and drops his towel, rushing down the rest of the stairs. He cups Minho's face, making the younger one wince at his touch. "Who did that?" he asks firmly.

"Chan, please," Minho breathes out.

"Min, I'm not gonna ask again," he says, eyes darkening as he takes in the damage.

"I don't know," he shakes his head. "I don't know, okay?"

"What happened? Where did it happen?" he asks firmly, and Minho stares at him blankly for a moment, looking completely overwhelmed.

You rest your hand on Chan's shoulder and squeeze it gently. "Let me clean him up first?" you ask very gently.

Chan stares back at Minho for another moment before letting go of him again. "Okay," he nods, grabbing the sweater he took off earlier and left on the sofa. You take Minho's hand, but he's not moving.

"Min?" you ask gently.

"I was on my way to the car when someone wrapped his arm around my neck and pulled me into an alley," he suddenly starts talking. "He wasn't alone; there were two of them, and I don't know what they wanted. I don't know if they wanted money, if they tried kidnapping me, or if it were some fucked up haters," he tells you before looking at Chan. "I know I should've parked in the garage, but I was running late and forgot my ticket. I-I know you told me not to," he says, breathing quickening.

"It's okay," Chan assures him gently. "It's not your fault."

Minho's eyes flicker back and forth between the two of you. "This isn't only my blood," he tells you, lifting his hand shakily. "I just - I panicked."

"What happened?" you ask quietly at his haunted look.

"I fought them off," he says, eyes darkening a little. "If you think this is bad, you should've seen the other two," he tells you, inhaling shakily. "I didn't want to hurt them, that's not me, I swear."

"I know," Chan tells him soothingly.

"I-I was just trying to get back home," he says, lips trembling as he sees the worry in Chan's and your eyes.

"It's okay," you say softly.

"I would never - I just -," he turns away from you when tears shoot to his eyes. Minho closes his eyes and makes a pained, frustrated sound as he tries to get himself together.

Chan reacts before you do, stepping in front of him and pulling him against his chest. He buries one hand in his hair and kisses his head. "I told you to hit back in case something like that would happen," he says, and Minho nods, hands gripping Chan's sweater.

You swallow hard as you watch them. You had no idea that there had been an agreement like that between the two of them. Once more, you realize how different their life is from yours and how careful they have to be sometimes.

"You did good, Min," Chan says quietly, and Minho pulls back enough to look at him.

"Yeah?" he whispers.

"Yeah, kitten," he whispers and softly kisses his forehead. Minho's eyes flutter closed, and Chan cups his cheek, kissing him very gently. "It's okay, you're home now."

"Not completely," Minho says and turns his head, looking at you and stretching his hand out for you. "Honey?"

Your face softens at the simple gesture, and you take his hand, stepping closer. He intertwines your fingers, and you can still feel his hand shaking in yours, but not as much as before. You plant a soft kiss on his temple. "Can I help you clean up?"

"Okay," he nods gently.

Not much later, Chan's sitting on the sofa, Minho on his lap, arms loosely wrapped around his stomach. His chin's resting on Minho's shoulder as you carefully wipe the blood from his face. Minho instinctively grabs Chan's hands as you get closer to the cut and hisses softly.

"I'll be done in a moment, sorry," you say, and Minho flashes you a short smile. You get up after, walking to the kitchen sink and pouring warm water on the towel you used. Coming back, you smile at the sight of Minho leaning his face against Chan's and mindlessly playing with his hands. You sit down next to them again, placing your hands on top of theirs. "May I?" you ask, and Minho nods, gently pulling his hands from Chan's. You wipe them clean as well, kissing his hurt knuckles after you're done.

Minho looks at you fondly before cupping your face and pulling you closer. He presses your foreheads together, closing his eyes as your noses brush against each other. You know it's his way to thank you for taking care of him.

"I'll warm up dinner, alright? Why don't you go take a shower and join us again after?" you suggest, knowing that Minho hated not being able to shower after a dance practice.

Minho nods, agreeing before getting upstairs and leaving you and Chan alone.

Chan meets your eyes, and you're surprised at the guilt in them. "This isn't your fault. Don't make it yours," you tell him.

"I'm worried about him, that's all," he says, grabbing your hand. "He was scared and confused, but…he didn't shed a tear. He just got pulled into an alley and goes on like before."

"He's in shock," you tell him gently. "Once the adrenaline subsides, he may allow himself to do so. You know how he gets, staying strong for us all the time."

"I wish he'd stop doing that," Chan sighs.

"Give him time," you say and kiss him reassuringly. "We need to be patient with him."

You both don't know that Minho's breaking down right now. His hand covers his mouth, stifling the sobs that shake his body. He curses himself as he tries to calm down again, hoping the warm water hitting his body will soothe him. None of you can tell what happened only minutes ago when he joins you downstairs. He even makes a joke or two, compliments you for dinner, and tells Chan how sweet he looks with his damp curls. If it weren't for the bruise on his cheek and the cut on his lip, you'd almost think it was an evening like any other.

A week passes, and nothing happens. Minho continues like nothing happened, driving to work and back home himself. He's back to his old self, teasing the two of you and making sure you know how much he loves you. You and Chan almost believe he's okay. Almost.

This morning, Minho had gone to the company, saying something about practicing a dance with Felix and Jisung. Chan, who had a day off, decided to stay home with you for a change, and you’ve spent it on the sofa watching movies. As the fading sunlight dances across Chan’s soft brown curls, illuminating the whole room in hues of pink and orange, you start to wonder where your boyfriend is. You soon realize you aren’t the only one as Chan checks his phone for the fifth time in only two minutes. You turn to look at him and search his eyes for a moment. “You think he’s alright?”

“I have no idea,” Chan admits quietly, chewing on his lower lip. “He’s been gone for the whole day.”

“Should we try calling him?” you suggest.

“Already did that,” he sighs. “I could try reaching Felix or Hannie.”

“Okay,” you nod, agreeing, and watch Chan curiously as he talks to Felix. Chan glances at you worriedly, and your stomach sinks. “What is it?” you ask him as soon as he ends the call.

“Felix and Hannie left three hours ago. Min said he’d just stay for another bit,” he tells you and gets up. “I’ll go and check up on him.”

“Can I come?” you ask, getting up as Chan nods and grabs his car keys. Just as Chan is about to open the door, his phone rings and you both flinch at the sound of Minho’s personalized ringtone. Chan signals you to be quiet and puts him on speaker.

“Channie, hyung?” Minho asks tiredly, almost sounding a little whiny.

Chan frowns at you softly; he can’t remember the last time Minho called him hyung besides teasing him fondly. “Yeah?”

“Can you come pick me up?” he asks, sniffling softly. He's currently sitting on the floor in the practice room, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him.

“Of course, I can,” Chan assures him calmly. “I was actually about to drive to the company to do that.”

“Yeah?” Minho asks, chuckling weakly. “That’s really sweet," he presses out, wiping his cheek messily with his sleeve.

Chan opens the door, letting you outside first, before pulling it close behind himself again. “Rough day?” he asks gently.

“Rough week,” Minho says and exhales shakily.

"One more day to go, then you have the weekend off," he encourages him, and Minho's weak chuckle tugs at your heartstrings. "We can do whatever you need tonight to feel better again, alright?"

"Even if I'll just cuddle you close and won't say a word for the rest of the night?" he asks, trying to swallow down the lump forming in his throat.

"Did I ever say no to cuddles?" Chan chuckles and starts the car, handing you his phone.

"Channie?" he asks, sniffling softly, and Chan hums. "I love you, you know that, right?"

"Of course I do," he answers gently. "I love you too, Min."

"Tell Y/N I love her too, okay?" he asks timidly.

"I love you too, baby," you say softly, and Minho chuckles in response.

"We'll be there in a bit, kitten," Chan promises, and Minho hums softly before ending the call, trying his hardest not to break down. Chan exchanges a worried look with you before focusing back on the street. "That didn't sound good…"

"You think something happened?" you ask.

Chan shakes his head. "What Minho needs is a good cry."

You giggle softly and fondly roll your eyes at him. "Would be the first time I see that."

Chan looks at you, a little bewildered. "Wait, what? We've been in a relationship for three years now, are you kidding?"

"I wish I were," you tell him. "Maybe he just doesn't feel comfortable crying around me."

"Probably has more to do with our group dynamics. I've always been the only one he allowed himself to do that around. Which also changed once our bond deepened," he soothes you.

You can tell Chan is worried as he repeatedly presses the button of the elevator and practically jogs down the hallway to their practice room. You have trouble keeping up and bump right into him as he suddenly stops in front of a door. Once he opens it, your heart sinks seeing your boyfriend. Minho's sitting on the floor, knees tucked up to his chest, clutching his phone. He looks exhausted; his hair frames his face completely untamed, and his eyes show a suspicious shimmer.

"Oh, thank God, Channie love," Minho scrambles to his feet as Chan steps inside, dropping his phone in the process. His eyes fill with tears, his lips tremble, and he desperately grips Chan the moment he's close enough. "I'm sorry," is all he gets out before a broken sob leaves his lips.

You close the door and timidly step closer, unsure if they'd need you right now. Minho's face is buried in Chan's chest as sobs shake his body. Chan holds him tight, one hand buried in his hair, and whispers soothingly. You exchange an unsure look with Chan, who nods at you, and you hesitantly reach out for Minho. Your hand only lingers above his shoulder, you're too overwhelmed seeing him like that. "Minnie?" you ask softly.

Minho pulls back a little and looks at you with teary eyes. "I'm so sorry. I-I never - I d-didn't want-," he stammers before huffing, frustrated at himself.

You shake your head, smiling at him compassionately and cupping his face. "Don't be. It's okay to let it out," you tell him, and he closes his eyes as you kiss his forehead.

Minho reaches out for you, taking a step forward and hiding his face in your shoulder. He sniffles softly as he shakes in your arms and makes a soft sound as Chan steps behind him and hugs the both of you. He hasn't felt that safe in a while, trapped between your bodies.

Chan plants a few soft kisses on the back of his neck. "What's going on, kitten?" he asks softly.

"I'm just having a really shitty day," he answers quietly.

"Want to tell us what happened?" you ask, gently running your hand through his hair.

"I couldn't sleep last night," he sighs softly.

"You could've told me," Chan says.

"Not when you were sleeping for once," Minho snorts, making you all chuckle. "Then there was traffic this morning, I spilled coffee all over my sweater, I messed up this one step a thousand times, I forgot my headphones, and - fucks sake, this isn't even important," he groans. "Nothing major, just lots of bullshit."

You giggle softly and kiss his hair. "My beautiful baby, things like that happen. You're right you had a shitty day, and that frustrated you. And that's alright."

Chan hums gently before chiming in. "Why did you want me to pick you up? Not that I mind, it's just…what about your car?"

Minho groans softly and pulls back from your chest. "I…This is stupid."

"I'm sure it isn't," you tell him encouragingly.

"I got paranoid since it's already dark outside," he confesses after a long moment of silence. "I know it's dumb, and I shouldn't have called you for some shit like that."

"Oh, kitten," Chan whispers, and Minho turns in your mutual hold on him a little. "I'll pick you up as often as you want if that means you're feeling safe."

Minho smiles, very sweetly at that, gazing at him. It shows you once more how fond he was of Chan. "You're so cute." Chan smiles brightly, his dimples showing. Minho pinches his cheek and looks at you. "Isn't our Channie cute?"

You playfully pinch his other cheek. "The cutest."

"Stop that, you two," Chan grumbles, playfully offended. You all know he loves it.

"You know I can pick you up too in case Chan's busy," you offer, and Minho's face softens.

"Thank you, honey," he smiles softly and kisses your cheek. He sighs softly before taking Chan's and your hand. "Fuck this day, let's go home."

"That's the spirit," Chan giggles and bends down to pick up Minho's phone. Minho exchanges a quick, mischievous glance with you before slapping his ass. Chan shoots up straight and rolls his eyes playfully. "Unbelievable," he says before grabbing his chin and pulling him in. Chan raises his brow at him and smirks as Minho's eyes widen a little. "Careful, or I might take you up on that offer, kitten," he says, voice dropping a little.

"Stop making empty promises, you know I have a solo performance tomorrow," he gives back smoothly.

"And why would I care if you're doing that sore from tonight or not, huh?" Chan asks.

"I represent your leading skills, Mr.," Minho smirks, knowing he won.

"Just kiss already so we can get out of here," you say, playfully annoyed. Your boyfriends crack up, and you chuckle at them.

Minho captures your lips in a soft kiss and bops your nose adoringly as he pulls back. "Is our sweet girl feeling left out?"

"Maybe a little, you two love birds," you tease them.

"Well, come here then," Chan says and leans close, kissing you. He also turns and kisses Minho before grinning at both of you. "Happy now?"

"Yes," Minho and you nod in unison, smiling brightly.

"Gosh, you two," Chan snorts before grabbing both of your hands and walking you all the way back to his car.

Minho watches you as the moonlight dances across your face, highlighting all your finest features. You look so peaceful he doesn't dare to brush back that loose strand of hair hanging into your face. Sometimes, he still can't believe you're actually his. That Chan is actually his. He can't believe that out of everyone, the two of you could've ended up with it had been him. It still feels surreal being allowed to see you like this, beautiful in your sleep. Or seeing Chan in the morning with his messed-up curls and cute, tired face. Also, to know the way both of your lips feel against his, to know the sounds he can pull from you if he wants to. Minho really fucking loved you both.

He sighs softly and turns onto his back, still unable to sleep. Glancing at the empty space on your other side, he knows that Chan's probably struggling with the same thing. He checks the time and bites back a groan before quietly slipping out of bed. Minho tiredly rubs his face, runs his hand through his hair, and makes his way downstairs.

Chan looks up from his book and frowns, seeing him. "Can't sleep?"

Minho shakes his head and plops down on his lap with a dramatic sigh. "No chance."

Chan puts the book aside and wraps his arms around him. "Any reason?"

"I dream about what happened," Minho admits and chews on his lower lip. "Then I wake up, not knowing where I am, and panic momentarily."

Chan gently rubs his thighs, Minho's bare, warm skin beneath his palms. "You should sleep in the middle, then. So you can reach out for us and remind yourself you're safe."

"Aw, come on, we both know how much she loves sleeping in the middle," Minho frowns.

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind for a while," Chan giggles and softly kisses the back of his neck. "Sometimes you have to think about yourself a little as well."

"Ugh, fine," he gives in and stares down as Chan's hands travel up and down his thighs. He turns and straddles his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. Chan looks up at him with a sweet smile that makes his heart melt. Minho lovingly brushes back his curls and sinks deep into his eyes. "I love you, Channie."

"I love you too, Min," Chan smiles and kisses him lovingly.

"Minnie?" your drowsy voice pulls them back to reality.

"Yes, honey?" he asks and gets up as he sees you walking over barefoot. He picks you up smoothly and smiles as you bury your face in his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Come back, it's cold," you complain, making him giggle. "Not funny," you protest.

"Maybe a little," Minho smirks before looking back at Chan. "You're coming, Channie love?"

"I'll be there in a moment," he promises.

Minho carries you back to bed and puts you down in his previous spot, covering you with the blanket. He gets comfortable next to you and chuckles softly as you cuddle close. "I love you, honey," he whispers, soothingly fondling your hair.

"Love you too, baby," you mumble sleepily.

The mattress behind him dips at Chan's weight, and only a moment later, he feels his body pressing against his. Chan wraps an arm around his waist and slips his hand beneath his shirt, resting against his skin. "Night, kitten," he says quietly.

"Night, love," he gives back and relaxes into the warmth and comfort you two spend. You and Chan would always be his safe space.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)

@soullostinspaceandtime @brownieloved @rebecca-johnson-28 @euphoric-univers @hyunniebunni @mal-lunar-28 @malfoygalaxies

142 notes · View notes