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ryo-maybe · 1 year

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Good Pals

"Does it hurt?"

The question comes at the tail end of a particularly delicate brushstroke. A touch of worry, no larger than the hint of light now reflecting on one of the chair's steel legs. About as much as he knows she'll allow him to trouble himself with.

"Does the pope shit in the woods?"

Brooke spits her answer out, punctuating it by pressing a finger to one nostril and snorting, hard, through the other. Her irritation joins the colorful tapestry of Clarion Alley, a riotous spatter of red sprayed over a smiling sunflower beneath the words "TAX THE RICH".

"Sometimes I do wonder…" An ashen eyebrow rises, unburdened by the weight of sarcasm. The brush traces the beginning of a curve, stops before it can turn into a question mark and ruin the symmetry of the chair's back. Malcolm's rugged hand hovers the tool mere millimeters away from the canvas, dark brown drying on the bristles while seconds pass in stubborn silence.

"But there's no wondering to be done with a face that's more shades of purple than you'll see painted on these walls, is there? So let me try that again…" He nestles the brush on the easel with reverent care, rests his palms on knees covered by jeans where only few specks of blue remain in a vast ocean of dull white. When he turns to face the girl, he is not surprised to find her staring away, refusing to face the full brunt of his warm smile.

"Does it hurt?"

His voice draws her head with the same magnetism that has brought her legs to time and again slip in that magical gap between Mission and Valencia where the world becomes a cacophony of ever-changing colors. An occasional mirror of her visage, with today's being a particularly notable example of the kind of artistic violence she tends to engage into: an angry green eye surrounded by engorged black, a pale peak on the hematoma raising around a rosy cheekbone, twin streaks of crimson cascading from a miraculously uncrooked nose to join the crevice where her lower lip was split by a flailing haymaker. All of it awkwardly twisted into a teenager's bitter expression. A miserable monument to a normal day's fleeting impulses. There is but a single constant to this chaotic pastiche, which Brooke nervously picks at with her fingernail, as she's long since made a habit to.

"Not really. Assholes got it coming." Her shoulders sag a bit. Conviction sails aboard a brief huff, its job done. She can relax now, let her thoughts flow along the current set in motion by the old man. This little ritual of theirs is a pointless formality by now, but she still insists on going through with it every time, and him to spare the effort of playing along. It comforts her, knowing someone would abide by her stubbornness like so.

"Oh, I would not doubt that for a second." He always talks like this, Malcolm. He grew up holding the public library's books in one hand, and the scissors from his father's barber shop in another. The former taught him the words; it was while handling the latter, however, that he truly learned how to use them. That was in the past: the shop closed off ten years ago, and the scissors now sleep in a leather bag along with the other tools. He once told Brooke that, between them and the house, he's happy it's not the former that he lost.

"Yeah. Same suckers as last week, actually. Reckon next time it's gonna be more than fists that'll do the talking." Something tugs at the corner of Brooke's swollen lip. An invisible hook, turning her mouth into the crooked parody of a grin. A devil's delight - but perhaps, that impression only bleeds over from the thing jutting out of her right socket in lieu of an eye like her left one.

"Babygang?" A shadow falls over Malcolm's features, too fast for Brooke to dispel it with a quick headshake.

"Nah, not those posers. But a cunt does get desperate when you kick his nuts hard enough he pisses his pants, you know?"

It wraps around the right part of her face, ending in a sharp tip above and past her ear. The texture feels unevenly smooth to the touch, like varnished wood or a cockroach's wings. It disappears inside her orbit like a hook around its prey, the thickest root in a rhizome spread across her nerves and synapses. A leftover gift, memento of the time when the devil came down to her home. Unlike Malcolm's precious bag full of nostalgia, Brooke's is a reminder of things taken, a life denied, and a myriad other reasons why she picks a fight two times a week on average. By now, she has learned how to win most of them. Some, like Malcolm, would appreciate it if she made doing so without getting her own ass kicked in the process her next goal. The way she smiles at the thought of duking it out with the chumps who keep coming at her, it doesn't seem likely to make it in her list of priorities anytime soon.

"I know. And I know that your folks back home will get worried. Just like I am right now."

"Come on, Malcolm…"

She likes his name. The sounds that compose it dance on her tongue like a hard pill swimming in a dense liquid: swallowing or regurgitating them out of the tangled mess inside her head feels a tad easier than most other names. It was inspired by some pretty important guy, the kind of person his father wanted his son to grow up to match, in values if not in fame. That this Malcolm won't change the world anytime soon is only further proof to her that said world is a thoroughly messed up place.

"Hah!" Malcolm, the one without the X, slaps his knee, emitting a raspy, jovial noise. "I swear, you look like you'd rather deal with a knife than your caretakers!"

"Shit, yeah? Couple shitters with switchblades? Roz'd turn them into popsicles if she yawned at them the wrong way." She pouts. When your guardians are two of the most accomplished members of the one organization in charge of keeping San Francisco from turning into a hellscape overridden with drow gangs, mafia vampires and weed-smoking wizards, your scale of Things You'd Willing Take On In A Fight tends to be a tad skewed. Especially when your surrogate mother actually did accidentally almost turn you into a popsicle once by yawning at you the wrong way.

"So you're saying they will… hit you?" His eyebrow raises, this time tugged upwards by gravely caution.

"As if… I mean, Roz'll probably judo-throw me a couple times, and it'll hurt like shit - but no, they're not that kind of scum." Her voice, like her expression, grows sour with indignation at the mere thought. "They're not scum, period. I just… fuck. Shit."

Brooke's hand, tightened into a fist, falls weakly on her thigh. Once, twice. Instead of a third blow, her digits sink into her leg, mounting tension tightening them into a vise. It takes the warmth of Malcolm's palm to melt her grip, and his stern gaze to tell her that no, neither Roz nor Fernand will deem her scum despite her every effort to convince them otherwise.

"Just tell them you're sorry." He whispers, calmly. It's not enough to completely unfurrow her swollen brow, but the foundation is nonetheless shaken.

"And what, prommy I won't do it ever again? Cause if I'm already making their lives hell, I don't wanna add lying to the pile."

"Yes. Which is why I only recommended you tell them the truth. Isn't that right?"

Her pupil wanders around, the blackened eyelids that surround it squinting through a mounting headache. There's no escaping this defeat, however: turns out, some punks with a vengeance are no match for an old homeless man with the patience of a saint and the wisdom to sursurpass one.

"Yeah, yeah, fine, Dickinson, I'm sorry, yadda yadda. Go back to your chair, 's not gonna paint itself." She squirms on the overturned bucket she's been using as a seat, somehow making sure not to slip out of Malcolm's gentle grasp.

"Maybe after we've put the first aid kit to good use, mh?"

Leave it to a bum to be well prepared for cases like this - especially one with so rowdy an acquaintance. Brooke inhales, in preparation of a rebuttal that doesn't come, partly because a gear in the confusing mechanism of her compromised mind has gotten unstuck and let loose a deluge of painful nerve signals from all over her battered body, but mostly because Malcolm wouldn't hear it anyway.

"Fuckin' waste… could have done that at home."

But she subjects to his care without so much as making a squeal while he swabs, cleans and patches up what little he can, with the same dedication and attention to detail he puts into his paintwork.

"Say, Brooke…" He stops to pour some alcohol on another wad of cotton before pressing it to a cut on the girl's arm. "Rather than hurt… you weren't actually happy, were you?"

"Huh? Did you go senile or something? Who the fuck'd be happy if the same punks came back for a second serving after I kicked their asses once already?"

A kind old homeless man's brown eyes gaze patiently into the one good remaining eye of a teenager with a cursed omen growing out of her brain. As he notices the slightest hint of a smirk on the lips he just got done swabbing, he remembers a certain line from one of the countless books he spent hours pouring over at that public library, back when he was still around the girl's age…

Let the just smite me in the name of their Lord. May the wicked ply their cunning to my vicious torment. But fie on you! Loathsome above all! You, who deny me the succor of acknowledgement!

#wordy seeds #technically not wordy seeds actually but I might as well use it #overcome with thoughts about a certain ol' tabletop campaign

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thoughtfulnightmarepaper · 6 months

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10 Tips for Making a Good replica bags designer Even Better

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#replica bags

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mcdonough86whitfield · 2 years

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Authentic Hermes Constance,replica Hermes Constance

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blandaaen1 · 2 years

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Valentina Tereshkova

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weinsteinpollock0 · 2 years

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High Quality Replica Bags For Sale, Purchase Faux Purses; Aaa+ 1

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secondhand-trash · 4 years

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Wet Cherry

A/N: me? Getting nervous over writing smut because I haven’t written any properly in a while let alone for a new fandom? It’s more likely than you think...

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

Description: Who knew red lip gloss could be so powerful?

Warning: dirty talk, oral(giving), female masturbation

Word count: 2715

Kuroo Tetsurou had been staring at you for a good while now and he was starting to feel very, very antsy.

He wasn’t particularly familiar with all the steps you took to doll yourself up, all he knew was you had maybe a bit too much fun with it and it made you happy so he always let you do your thing no matter how long it took. He was sitting on the bed and staring at your figure in front of the vanity, his mind slowly drifting away when he heard a light pop of your lips. It was a thick layer of red gloss coating your lips, the texture looking rather gooey as you smacked them together to make sure it was all spread out nicely.

He even complimented you on it when you turned around to face him, delighting you a little as he asked if that was a new colour.

“Ah, I wasn’t expecting you to notice,” you grinned as you took his hand before standing up from the vanity, “I saw the red and just knew I have to get it.”

You were not much of a fan of flashy colours yourself but you were well aware of the sentiment that was behind his love for the bold pop of red and had slowly tried to incorporate it into your own life more and more, which he appreciated. It was a beautiful colour on you, even though he wasn’t too certain if he was all too sharp towards the difference between the many existing shades of red.

At first, he didn’t think too much about it. It was just a pretty look on you. The red sheen definitely felt fitted for the increasingly hot weather, the juiciness from the shine looking particularly refreshing for the summer time. Until he started to notice that his eyes kept drifting back to your lips as the day passed and he realised that the way the gloss made your lips looked so plump and pillowy was starting to make his mind wander to places that made his blood boil hotter than the burning sun.

The red on its own was bold enough to have his gaze glued on you, but the way the gloss stuck together as your lips moved just added a whole other layer of visual appeal. He was trying hard to concentrate on what you were saying, but all he could focus on was how the sun light reflected as your cupids bow arched. Your lips were so glassy, almost like the bead of water that glided down the red aluminum can and spread the chill from his finger tips all the way to his body.

Or when you were sucking on the straw when you stopped by the cafe at the corner to grab a drink. The sight of you with your mouth wide and your lips pressed tightly around the thin plastic made his entire body tensed up. He tried to stop himself from linking it to other activities where you also had to suck on something long and hollow your cheeks but he just couldn’t, not when your lips looked like a cherry that was just pulled out of the syrup as you let out a satisfied sigh before releasing the straw. The red mark left at the rear looking especially erotic.

Cherry, that’s what it was. Round and supple, all types of sweet and sour in his mouth if you would let him take a bite.

The worst part was that you had been denying his urge to feel it for himself the entire day, swiftly turning your head away from him every time he tried to play coy and gave you a peck on the lips. He wanted nothing more than to just press you against the nearest wall and feel that wetness on your lips smeared all over his face when you pouted, warning him not to smudge your lipstick.

That was just cruel, plain cruel. Almost as cruel as the way you were licking and sucking at the candy in your hand as you blatantly ignored your boyfriend’s hungry eyes on you.

Did you know? Did you know that right now all he could think of was how you would look with your plump lips wrapped around his cock? Or the sweet sounds that he could drew out of you when he made you suck on his long fingers? You had to be at least be somewhat aware of the effect you had on him, that he was on the verge of combusting if you sucked and licked the round piece of red candy in your mouth one more time. If you were really deliberately riling him up as he was suspecting that you were, then you sure had a lot of control on yourself to not even spare a glance his way. One hand linked to his, you twirl the white stick on the other as you pulled it out, a thin silver string of saliva connecting from your lips to the lollipop. The coat of spit on the red candy had a sharp resemblance to your own lips, your tongue darting out to press flat against the ball before eloping your lips around it again.

With the lollipop in hand and your lips jutted out in a false display of innocence, you asked if he was feeling alright, that he was being more quiet than usual. What a fucking tease, so you did knew. He had to suppress the urge to just take the candy from your hand and make you drool over something else with those lips, to just feel them somewhere, anywhere. But being a man of good patience, he swallowed the saliva that was pooling in his mouth and smiled.

He was ready to wreck you the moment he had you all alone to himself.

You pretended to be shocked when he pushed you against the wall the moment the front door was locked. You gasped as he gripped your wrists, his body towering over yours even as he bent down with the aim at your exposed neck. His teeth dragged along the soft skin, biting and sucking as he went from the curve down to the dip of your collarbone. You could feel the wetness he left as he bit down, his hand pulling your collar down roughly.

He had no intention to stop until you were adorned in all different shades of red as revenge.

“Someone had fun trying to rile me up.” His voice was low at your ear, his hot breath fanning the sensitive skin at the nap of your neck as he spoke.

You grinned, the two red valves splitting cross your face and he just wanted to see how long that cheeky smile would last when he had his way with you.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” you said, rolling your hips up and hummed when you felt the bulge that was pressing up against you.

He groaned, “Yeah, yeah, keep running that mouth of yours,”

You yelped when he pinched your waist, his laugh ringing by your ear when you slapped him in the shoulder but he didn’t even budge. The grin on your face did not falter when he yanked you by the wrist towards your bedroom, pulling you down to the mattress so that you were straddling his lap in one swift motion.

“Feel this?” he muttered when he took your hand in his and placed it on his hard on, his much larger hand completely covering yours as he guided you to palm him, “Feel what you did to me?”

“Aw,” it would be a lie if you said it was not ridiculously hot to know that you needed to do so little in order to have such an effect on him, but you both know the best fun comes from the teasing. You felt your own arousal pooling up when his cock twitched beneath the layers when you darted your tongue out to lick your lips, pushing the thick gloss around as you collected it at its tip, “is the red too much? If I knew it would get you going, I would have wear glosses way more often...”

Bringing his thumb to your face, he mused as he gently touched the glassy liquid on your lips, feeling the way it stick to his finger. “On this cute mouth? Oh yeah...” you almost gave him the pleasure of hearing you whine when he brought his thumb to the corner of his lips and swiped the bit of red onto his lips, tasting the faint scent of mint at his finger, “Got me thinking about gagging you with my cock all day long.”

His filthy words had your back tensed up. His loop-sided smirk that had your knees weak found its way to his face as he sat back with one hand pressed on the mattress, the other giving your shoulder a light push. “Be a good girl and deal with it for me?”

Your hands lingered on his torso as you slid down, settling between his legs as you kneeled in front of him. With both hands gripping his thighs, you stared right into his eyes as you dipped down to take the fly of the zipper between your teeth and pulled down. You rubbed your thighs together when his breath hitched, your hands fumbling to peel the layers away so you could get to what he was packing underneath.

His cock stood up for attention the moment it was released from its confines and he felt his chest swelling when you licked your lips at the sight. You could be a tease all you wanted but you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. The muscles at his abdomen tensed up when you took a long lick from the base of his length all the way to the tip, your tongue swirling at the slit to collect the bead of pre-cum that was leaking out. You were taking your time, like he was the piece of candy that was in your mouth just earlier, taking in the taste as it expanded in your mouth and torturing him in the process.

The moan he let out when you finally sank down on his cock was nothing less than sinful and you couldn’t help but whined, the vibration from your lips hitting him in full force. Your mouth on its own was enough to have him losing his mind, but the stickiness that was from the gloss on your lips added a whole other layer of pleasure to his senses. His hand instinctively went to the back of your head when you started bobbing up and down on his shaft, each drag of your mouth spreading the red stain around. The friction that was added from the layer of gloss had his hand clutching at the sheets and he felt the shivers running down his spine when the tingling of the mint slowly seeped through his skin.

You looked up at him, hollowing your cheeks as you took him in your mouth, your hand gripping what could not fit. You made it a challenge to get as much of a reaction out of him every time you are in this position, and nothing could turn you on more when you glanced at him through your lashes to see his head threw back, his eyebrows locking together with his lips parted. He was sitting back and the muscle of his body spasmed under the pleasure, his arms flexing as he tried to remain control.

His pupils were blown out when he looked down at you again, a choked laugh leaking from his lips as he gripped your hair in his hand and gave it a light tug. You had red smeared all over your chin, his cock glistening with the mixture of your spit and the gloss.

“Come on, I know you can take my cock better than that,” he said, the light pain from your sculp egging you on as you took all of him with one smooth movement. He groaned at the feeling your throat tightening around him, his tip hitting the back before you pulled away. Drool leaked from the corner of your lips but you did not pay it much mind as you turned your attention back to him. “That’s a good girl, sucking me off so well... so good for me...”

Your eyes were glassy from the tears that was starting to pool up from the gag and he moved his hand to wipe away the drop that was threatening to roll down your face. Praises fell from his lips as you continued to move and the way your hips were rolling against nothing from a desperate need of friction did not escape his sharp eyes. “Go on, touch yourself,” his voice was breathy as he commanded, “play with that pussy while you slobber all over my cock.”

The unruly piece of his bangs were matted to his forehead as he looked down at you, the lazy smile tugging at his face together with his flushed cheeks. As he sat back against his arm and the other holding tight against the back of your head, that was pure sexuality oozing off of him and you couldn’t help but feel the rush of heat in between your legs as you took him deep inside your cavity once again. Your hand digging into the tensed muscle of his thigh as the other found its way into your panties. Spreading your wetness from the tip of your finger to the side of your cunt, you could not hold yourself back when you slid those digits and stretch out your walls.

He groaned at the sight of you shamelessly grinding against your hand, you muffled moans on his cock making him drag your head along him at an even faster pace. You could feel him twitch within your lips, the knot at his throat bobbing up and down as he tried to control himself from snapping up into your throat.

“I’m close-” he choked, his breath getting heavier as he approached his high. About to pull out as he cum, breath hitched at the back of his throat when you gripped him tight at the thigh as if you were warning him to better stay where he was. “You want my cum down your throat, is that what this is?”

He chuckled when you let out a muffled hum, your eagerness to please pushing him off the edge as he fisted your hair tightly, holding your still whilst spilling his load down your mouth. Your finger was circling your clit when he released you, watching as you panted right after swallowing the salty liquid pooling in your mouth. You lips were stained with red, the gloss leaving a thin film around your chin. Trail of white leaked from the corner of your lips from the cum that you couldn’t swallow and together with your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, the whole sight made him feel the similar itch once again.

His arms were strong as he leaned down to scoop you up, pulling you up to his chest as he captured your lips in a heated kiss. He could still taste some of the mint that was left together with his release. He groaned into your lips when you went to weave your fingers into his jet black hair.

Flipping you over with ease, you giggled as he peppered kisses down from your lips all the way down your neck as he crawled off of you. A hint of dangerous amusement glowing in his eyes as he whispered against your skin.

“Stay here while I go clean up the mess you made on me,” he fisted his cock in hand, feeling the stickiness from the red marks you left on him, “and when I come back, I better see you all naked and spread out for me.”

You shuddered at the gravel in his tone, letting out a soft squeal when he pressed his hand against the dark patch at the cotton of your panties.

“I’m not done with my payback just yet.”

#kuroo x reader #kuroo imagine #kuroo smut #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu smut

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everafterkeiji · 3 years

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Song: Car Window by Thomas Headon

Summary: After the memorable defeat of Aoba Johsai to Karasuno, Iwaizumi meets his lover at an uncanny moment.

Pairings: Hajime Iwaizumi x fem! reader

Word count: 3.7k

Genre: fluff

A/N: PART 2 IS COMING FOR THE KATSUKI ONE MY MIND IS JUST HELLA CONFUSED AND IWA HAS BEEN INVADING MY THOUGHTS

It's quite hilarious how life can reward your dullest moments with an unexpected blessing. A few people have experienced such a thing, sometimes the blessing comes in success or a present from somebody you longed for.

Usually, 60 seconds were easy to endure and its a time you'd like to pass by too quickly knowing what magic or milestone was bound to happen in such a short time anyway? Though there are times where it feels like it holds much more seconds especially when you're working out or either in a really long meeting you hated.

Then again, who are you to underestimate the endless possibilities that were to happen in that time span? Maybe you'd receive a random lottery ticket and you know, you can win or even have the chance to meet a celebrity.

But what could have possibly prepared Iwaizumi for the best 60 seconds of his life?

Here he was, sulking in the sorrow that was brought to his team by the defeat of the match between them and Karasuno, the ticket to nationals slipped away from their fingers. Who was to deny the tears they've shed once they entered the bus, it was their safe space to lean on each other and they spent the rest of the ride comforting each other. All throughout the bus you could hear sniffles and Oikawa trying to hold his team together.

Iwaizumi was seated next to the open window as he listens to Oikawa being the encouraging captain he is, the setter grasps the heart of the team feeling comfort in a while, even Iwa admitted that his friend brought him back to the light.

He had his earphones in, enough of the silly comments his seatmate, Oikawa, has made. He has his arm leaned on the little edge of the window, with his chin resting on his forearm. His eyes desperately wanted to close from his previous crying but he fears once he closes his eyes he'd be brought back to the moment where the ball wasn't saved, to the doubt that floods his mind wondering if he even deserves to be their ace. Gladly with the help of Tooru, this thought was dismissed and now all that Iwaizumi was doing was staring at the sight in front of him.

He takes this time to reflect on what he could do to enhance what he lacked during that match. He wonders if his reaction time was too slow or the power in each spike was unbalanced. Did he even trust himself completely when he played? If he didn't, why did he think it was the right time to question his abilities when there was something at stake?

He sighs to himself as he removes his earphones, knowing not even music was helping him ease his mind. Oikawa has fallen asleep beside him, the setters head leaning on Iwaizumis back. Even if he wanted to push away the boys head, he knew Oikawa was tired of putting on his composed captain facade, so he let the poor boy rest.

Then he hears blaring music from the car opposite to him making his head come upward a bit as he glares at the car, disturbing his triumph at peace. A red light comes on and he rolls his eyes thinking of how he was going to sustain the noise.

But then, that's where he wished 60 seconds lasted forever.

Right before him was the noisy car with one window open revealing a sight that makes his heart flutter and his mind frantically running in circles. He sees a girl with her eyes closed singing her lungs out while she finishes the note with a smile and a giggle, once she opens them, the afternoon light beaming down on her delightful orbs enhancing it's hues, even giving her skin a glass like finish with how healthy it looked, her cheeks painted a shade of pink that were like the flowers that reminded him of Valentine's.

And then these stunning pair of eyes, landed on his love struck ones.

He feels the way his heart registers how lucky he was to gaze at such beauty, like a sunset with all the delightful colors or the overall atmosphere of spring, the feeling of it being so foreign to him but nevertheless, he accepts this new found giddy feeling. He watches how she leans her cheek on her hand and maybe then he should've felt the way cupid's bows ran through him so easily.

Unfortunately, the panic sets in.

With such grace was ahead of him, he worried about his own sake. He wonders if his hair looked presentable, and didn't portray how stressed he was because of the game. He wished he didn't look shiny from all the sweat and tears. He suddenly feels the urge to rummage through his bag and comb his hair and fix his appearance, Oikawa would've teased him for acting so foolish for the girl. But what else can he do?

Admiration and relationships wasn't included in his dictionary since the only thing he looked forwards to was volleyball and his studies. Being in a situation where he wasn't able to act quickly with how flustered he was, brought him down completely. He knew in his games that whatever he did would affect the team in multiple ways but he counted on his teammates so that every action would be returned with a positive outcome.

Now is the opposite.

This could have so many outcomes. Maybe one second there'd be a guy beside her wrapping his arm around her and flipping him off for looking, then theres rejection lingering in the air. Maybe she wasn't into guys? Maybe she has a specific standard and that he wasn't hitting her expectations? Possibly just gotten of a relationship and wasn't interested in dating right away?

Oh god, you've got to stop. He thinks to himself.

A tiny encounter made his mind collapse with so many ideas. He couldn't even mutter a word to her, then his mind leads him to think it'd quickly lead to dating, god maybe even a relationship. He's had zero idea on what her name is so how can he come to conclusions so quickly? He knows he needed to stop asking these unanswerable questions before he could mess up his first attempt to converse with her.

Then with a gentle smile from this gorgeous stranger, he feels the warmth that surrounds him as he returns the smile to her as if it was an instinct. After that he settles for a tiny breakdown, confused to why he did that.

He turns his head to the light noticing how 15 seconds were only left out of this encounter. Hastily, he wanted to ask for her name or at least build up the courage to shout what he wanted to say, though he was left utterly speechless. He couldn't possibly gain that high of an esteem to just speak out to a stranger without blurting out how attractive he found her to be.

But he needed to try or else this moment was bound to be something he'd regret.

"Iwa-chan!"

Oikawas voice surprised him as the setter stretches with a smile on his lips, from the movement he lets his arm rest on the aces shoulder making Iwaizumi panic and irritated at the loss of time.

Meanwhile the young girl continues to stare at the man who has held his gaze the entire time they were there. You see the way his features were all amazingly sculpted, every crevice, every inch, to say that he was handsome was an understatement. Judging from his attire, you could tell he was an athlete, also with how the bags from behind him was shown. You also saw his reaction to meeting you and you wished he didn't see yours.

You felt embarassed when he saw you sing, you weren't ready to face a boy like that and to think that you gave off such a random first impression. You hated the way the sun was shining on you making you think it showed the harsh texture of your skin, not to mention how blinded your eyes were after it. You were flustered to say the least but your eyes couldn't dare to leave his.

Something about him was so pleasing. It makes you come up with dozens of scenarios to who this boy was. Is a girlfriend involved? Is he the type of boy you'd read on a novel? You smile to yourself at how silly the idea was. Usually in novels, movies or books, each meeting was distinct than the other. There are always the unique encounters, then there are the completely weird ones but for you this was somewhat the sweetest thing you've stumbled upon.

Although maybe falling in love under a red light wasn't always the ideal, to the two of you it seemed to fit.

You see brown locks behind him and this makes the pretty boy show a shocked reaction. Shit, is that his boyfriend? You thought. Your eyes lock with this new figure and he happily waves at you catching you off guard. You wave awkwardly, anxious of who this man was.

"Gosh you are incredibly pretty but alas this man likes you, his name is Iwa-"

The vehicle speeds off before he could even finish his sentence. Iwaizumi turns to the setter as Oikawa trembles in fear as he feels flames surround him, the anger irradiating from the spiker. Oikawa lets out a scream as Iwa leaves a smack to the boys head as Tooru whines caressing his throbbing head from the pain. Iwaizumi sinks in his seat, letting the emotions course through him making his lips form a line.

Too many things happened all at once. Oikawa basically hitting on her but suddenly half introducing him? How did he even know? She's gone, he thinks. He lets out a displeased sigh shaking his head while biting his lip, disliking how embarassment and regret was mixing perfectly. He hated how Oikawa had the chance to even talk to her before their chances were dust. Oikawa even managed to let out a compliment he wanted to say but the words were taken from him.

"I'm sorry okay! Don't hit me again please!" Oikawa begs as Iwaizumi lets out a scoff as the setter takes in his expressions. Slumped in his chair with arms crossed at his chest, eyebrows furrowed, and a familiar twist to his lips when he was frustrated in a game. Oikawa chuckles slightly connecting the pieces from the previous events.

"So what? You've lost the love of your life, Iwa-chan?" Oikawa teases making Iwaizumi raise a hand as Oikawa dodges it using his bag as a shield. He thought it was just a coincidence before. He woke up when Iwaizumi was plotting his approach and he happened to catch a glimpse of the two staring at each other like nothing else mattered. He questions if Iwaizumi was actually serious of his feelings for a stranger but when he sees the genuine smile that he gives her, he was surprised.

With an unforgiven action, he just chose to try to introduce him knowing Iwa would've never done it as fast as he could. Although in Iwaizumis eyes, Oikawa flirted with her but in reality he just wanted to help knowing maybe someday, this encounter would bring him happiness. Even if the girl would be miles away, he knew that the impact of them meeting was something that would cloud Iwaizumis thoughts on a daily.

Oikawa notices how Iwaizumi would inspect every face in the street or crowd just to find the girl his eyes have fallen in love with. There were many unsuccessful times where he's mistaken her for someone else and he despises it. Oikawa thinks about how he can help his poor teammate and a bulb appears above his head as he continuously taps the spikers shoulder.

"Have you ever considered a dating app, Iwa-chan?" Iwaizumi blushes at the question but he shakes his head as Tooru takes Iwa's phone and ran to a corner unlocking it. Iwaizumi rushes to find him as Oikawa lets out a gasp and a cackle. The spiker finds him and immediately grabs him by the collar of his shirt yet the setter couldn't careless.

"WHAT IS IT YOU DINGBAT."

"Seems like you're the one who's a step ahead of me, Iwa-chan!" Oikawa exclaims making Iwaizumi furrow his eyebrows but once his eyes settle on the dating app that was open from his phone, heat rushes to his cheeks shading it pink. He puts down Oikawa with a shove before pulling his phone away from the boy.

"So what.." He whispers as Oikawa lets out another laugh, wiping his eyes. Iwaizumi hids the phone in his pocket, locking it. He continues to walk leaving a sigh as Oikawa runs to catch up with him.

"Well don't be shy now. Any success?" Oikawa asks, trying to ease down his playful tone. Iwaizumi turns his head to him, before huffing in defeat.

"Nothing. No one can ever come close to her."

"Maybe she's trying to find you too?" Iwaizumi lets out a scoff. He wished it was true. He didn't think he was the type to be memorable, the guy you'd find yourself dreaming of. He thought he was a mere average boy and that there was always going to be someone better. He desperately wants to meet you but are you really putting effort like he is?

Was it just him who felt a connection?

They weren't put in a universe where it was easy to find your soulmate. The moment where everything fits perfectly wasn't always guaranteed in their situation. Why did they have to meet at a red light? They could've met at a cafe after his practice so he didn't need to worry about the time or how he was going to approach her. He swore if ever he met her properly again, there'd be no hesitation.

For you, you've also searched for this boy. Only hearing a fraction of his name so you couldn't really play detective with a tiny lead. Although the boy that complimented looked familiar, but maybe you were just mistaken? You've downloaded multiple dating apps like him but whenever there was a match, they never looked like the pretty boy you saw. You would recognize him from anywhere knowing his features were very much embedded in your memory. If only their bus hadn't sped off too quickly, maybe then you would've gotten his name. Although his name might just be a crumb in your way to find him.

"He can't be any better than me, that I'm sure of." Your little brother exclaims as he flips the magazine page. You sighed resting your cheek and chin on the palm of your hand as you watch your brother curse the man on the magazine. You tilt your head, curious to the envy he had. Your brother was well into volleyball and he usually asks for you to buy him the latest volleyball magazine so he could look up to whoever was on it but his overconfident comments had you laughing every time.

Once your eyes landed on the page, you sat up immediately grabbing the magazine and holding it close to yourself.

Oikawa Tooru. You read.

You take in the way he looks and then you specifically remembered a certain face. Your eyes widen in realization that this was the man who complimented you. The man that could lead you to him. Your eyes scan all the trivia about the well known player and finally finding the team and school he was on. Aoba Johsai.

You immediately grab your phone, typing furiously searching for the said school. You click on their website seeing the latest news about the school. There was a certain article that had an eye catching picture.

It was a group photo of their volleyball team and your eyes landed on Oikawa himself, founding out that he was the captain of this successful team also being a setter. As your eyes scanned through every member, your heart nearly dropped when you saw him. There he was stood next to two other members, smirking at the camera. Like a fool, you let out a squeal, exhilarated that you've found him. You scrolled further finally knowing the names of each member.

Iwaizumi Hajime.

You smile to yourself as you read his name, finding it pretty the way it suited him. You read that he was a spiker and so called ace in the team. With this found information, your heart was jumping in different directions. Your mind was bringing up multiple scenarios of seeing him in his element and that makes heart bubbles appear behind you.

How perfect. You think.

You knew the location of the school and you wonder if it was right to visit. You tried to push back the idea of rejection but maybe it was a sign for you to stop assuming and acting all stalkery. You let go of your phone, pacing around the room deciding on the better option. Visit him and get your hopes up when he doesn't even miss you or visit him and end up having the chance you both missed. Too many what ifs and what abouts rushed through your mind, but trying isn't a bad thing to do.

"I'm so fucking dumb, I can't believe myself."

You groan to yourself as you walk around. You gained the courage to finally visit Aoba Johsai, where your little volleyball prince was attended at. Unfortunately, your lack of understanding directions brought you to this poor situation making you look like a lost puppy, desperate to call for help but the thought of people judging you just because you were lost haunts you.

You grew more and more impatient as time passes, counting on your phone as a GPS but honestly nothing was working when your brain couldn't comprehend how you got lost when you followed the directions. You sigh in annoyance.

You took the time today to look as good as you can make yourself, ready to face him. Yet when everything was all set for you, it went downhill just because of some directions. You shut your phone off, frustrated the way the voice kept repeating where to turn. So you run your fingers through your soft hair as you decided to move on your own.

"So where do you wanna eat?" Oikawa asks as he stretches while walking. Iwaizumi lets out a yawn as he gives the boy a shrug as a response. Oikawa checks on his phone scrolling to look at some places they've yet to eat at. Iwaizumi inspects his bags if he's packed everything. He notices his water bottle was missing and he mutters that he would be right back, going back to the gym to retrieve his bottle. Oikawa hears nothing though as he giggles at the compliments his fans have left him.

You bend down tying your shoes as a stranger passes by. You stood right up dusting off the dirt in your knees. As the universe gasps, realizing that the person who went pass you was Iwaizumi himself. Yet they didn't bother to make ends meet as you two walk in different directions.

Oikawa raised his cellphone trying to get a decent angle as he checks himself through it. The lighting was perfect for him and once he was about to snap the photo he notices a person behind him. His eyes widen as his looks at you as you fiddle with your bag. Oikawa sets down the phone as he turns to you with his mouth open. His head turns frantically, trying to search for Iwaizumi. It's her. Oikawa thinks. He takes a good look at you once more just so he can confirm his thoughts if you were truly the girl Iwaizumi was talking about. He found himself familiar at your features as you took a turn, escaping his presence not even knowing Oikawa was stood a few inches away from you.

Oikawa couldn't hold himself together as he lets out a laugh. After it, he turns to the sky with an amused smile before speaking.

"Ah, you're too funny. I'll let them find themselves."

Out of all the chances they gave you, the two of you were at the same place but was running around each other.

You let out a whine as you see a figure walking with his back facing you, seeing the jacket that the team had on one of the pictures you browsed. You let out a sigh before wiping away the sweat you had on your face, freshening up your appearance. Giving up and finally allowing people to help you, you approach this tall figure, tapping them gently on the shoulder.

"Hello! I-I'm sorry, I just wanted to ask where the Aoba Johsai gym is? I got pretty lost." You says with a light chuckle as the person turns around, revealing the man you've endlessly searched for.

Both of your eyes enlarged at the sight of each other, such at a close proximity as you both scan each others faces, making sure if this was finally the reality they longed for.

It's you.

"H-hajime Iwaizumi?"

Iwaizumi eyebrows furrow, curious to how you found out but this leaves a smile on his lips loving the way it escaped through your mouth. His eyes gave out a soft glance before nodding and extending his hand out.

Your eyes dragged down as you stare at his hand that was deeply waiting for yours. You look up at him once more before smiling with tinted cheeks.

"That's me, and you are?"

"I'm Y/N."

"Nice to finally meet you, pretty red light girl." You blush even more as Iwaizumi lets out a chuckle before you shook his hand, both hearts meeting, as fate was sealed once your hands met. Some might say that Cupid stared at the two of you, relieved you both found your way to each other.

Oikawa turns to look at the two of them as he leans on the wall, shaking his head with a sly smirk.

"Fate huh?"

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cakelanguage · 3 years

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This took much longer than I thought it would, but work has been absolutely exhausting lately. I'm honestly just excited that I get to share this with you all because I really wanted to participate in Hurt!Noct Week. This is a combination of day 1 prompts: buried alive and captured by Nifleheim (at least sort of?). This is just the 1st chapter, but I figured I’d share at least this bit for now. I hope you enjoy this!

You can also read this on AO3

He should’ve called Ignis. Or texted Gladio that he was going to be ten minutes late to their training session. Or Astrals, accepted Prompto’s offer to walk home with him even though his house was in the opposite direction.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he’d strolled down the bustling streets, thinking about the planned King’s Knight session later that night. He scrolled idly through the mission details, trying to formulate a plan of attack. The last time Noctis had attempted this mission he’d been severely outclassed and had to abandon the mission lest he lose what little loot he’d been able to pilfer from the dungeon. With Gladio’s character acting as their tank, he could have Ignis on range attacks and healing. Prompto had the best stealth stats so they could have Prompto looting the place while the rest of them took care of the bigger monsters. Noctis fancied himself an all-around player so he could assist wherever needed the most help.

Caught up in his mini strategy session, he didn’t realize he was on a collision course with someone until he ran right into them. He stumbled, juggling his phone between his hands in an attempt to save it from meeting its demise on the pavement below.

“Watch where you’re going,” the man he ran into grumbled, brushing imaginary dirt off his jacket.

The man was dressed lavishly in a wide variety of patterns and textures. His coat looked sturdy and thick like it would keep out even the harshest of cold winds. The scarf around his neck was the brightest piece of clothing he wore—the reddish-orange silk oddly complementing the man's red-violet hair. Not a sliver of the man’s skin was visible besides the tip of the man’s fingers and his face under the shade of his fedora.

He had a right to be upset even if half of him wanted to insist that the man could have moved too. He shoved that thought down and instead nodded his head, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry about that,” Noctis apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

“Yes, I figured as much.” The man squinted at him, his head cocking to the side. “Hold on a moment, don’t I know you?”

Not for the first time, he was thankful for his privacy. His father had done a remarkable job at keeping him much out of the public eye. People knew who he was, but because he wasn’t in any of the newspapers or rag magazines that most celebrities appeared in he could go through life like normal. He didn’t have to think about paparazzi waiting outside his school or people approaching him asking for something or other.

“Probably not,” Noctis said, “maybe you’ve seen me walking home before? I go to the high school three blocks away.”

Shaking his head, the man inspected his face more thoroughly. “No that’s not it. I’ve definitely seen you before.” He felt as if the man could count his pores, and Noctis shuffled backward away from the man’s heavy stare. “Have you got an uncle that works at the palace? I used to work there.”

The man gave Noctis a private quirk of his lips like he was privy to some hidden joke that only he knew.

“Oh that’s… nice?”

The man nodded absentmindedly gaze still heavy on Noctis. “Hm, you really do look familiar,” he commented. “Quite handsome too.”

“Thanks?” Noctis looked down at his uniform and his loosened tie and wondered if there was a polite way to excuse himself from the conversation. He didn’t want to be rude by walking away from the man but he really did need to get going or he was going to be later than he thought to Gladio’s training session. “Well, I’m sorry for walking into you like that, but I gotta get going.”

“Right, right, of course.” The man swept a hand through his hair sheepishly. “It’s not like I can keep the prince from his important tasks just to talk with me.”

Ice filled Noctis’ veins as his title was casually thrown out by the man who claimed he couldn’t place his face. He stared at the man, uncomprehendingly. This was starting to look like the beginning of one of Ignis’ crime drama shows. Why did the man lie? What was his angle? What was going on?

“Who are you?” Noctis asked, channeling his calm façade to the max.

“A man of no consequence, I assure you.” The man waved him off with a few shooing gestures. “Off you go, your highness.”

Noctis gave him a wary look and an awkward bob of his head. He needed to get out of here. Ready to put this whole interaction behind him, he stepped to the side of the man to continue his route. Except he didn’t get very far before a hand latched onto his wrist with surprising force.

A violent tug had him wrenching himself back around, his shoulder twinging at the sudden jerk. Face-to-face with the man once more, Noctis saw how the man’s expression was colder, harsh in the afternoon sun. His teeth were bared in a sneer—looking for all the world like a coeurl.

“Let go,” Noctis ordered, now glaring at the man who wouldn’t leave him alone. “Didn’t you just tell me to go?”

A taunting smile peaked through the man’s sneer. “Now why would I do that?” He asked.

Noctis clenched his fists and bit out another order. “Let go of me, now.” He grabbed his phone with his free hand and quickly dialed the palace’s emergency numbers. It would be mildly embarrassing if Gladio found out he’d called the Crownsguard on a regular citizen, but his SAS kidnap training was blaring in his ears. “I’m warning you, I can have you arrested.”

A soft tsk came from the man who shook his head at Noctis’ threat. “We can’t have that now, can we?”

He opened his mouth to demand his release again, but all that came out was a choked-off yelp as something heavy struck his head. His knees refused to hold up his body and he collapsed to the concrete. The skin of his palms was torn in his attempt to catch himself, but he couldn’t feel it; the sharp pain by his temple shadowed the pain in his palms.

He turned his gaze back to the blurry figure of the man, who had been joined by another figure. His brain felt sluggish, his thoughts thick in his mouth as he tried to string a sentence together. “W-what—“

“Shh,” The man shushed, ignoring Noctis’ flinch as he tenderly ran a hand through Noctis’ hair. “Good night, sweet prince.”

The last thing he saw was a fist coming at his face.

Then nothing.

He regained consciousness with a choked-off groan. He felt like he’d gone through one of Gladio’s marathon training sessions and lost miserably.

Laying still, he took stock of his body. His lip was swollen and tender as he wet his dry, split lips. The right side of his face throbbed in-tune with his heartbeat and Noctis could barely get that eye to open more than a crack. What was he supposed to do? He’d been trained on how to handle a kidnapping situation; Cor had made it abundantly clear the variations in which people would try to snatch him up. But this wasn’t just a ‘what if.’ He’d been kidnapped not even four blocks away from his school.

It was a matter of figuring out what he could do to get out of here. He still had his magic though admittedly his connection to the Crystal felt like he was trying to pull at the energy through a strainer. Like sifting through a pile of hay for the needle—all of his abilities being the needle and the presence of his magic being the hay.

But that didn’t mean he was helpless. He just needed to approach the situation the right way and he could escape. He tried to remain calm, limiting his breathing to shallow breaths to keep up his ruse. This became a fruitless act when he heard someone or something step up behind him.

A familiar voice came from behind him. “It appears our guest of honor is awake,” the man cooed. Some of the man’s nonchalance had vanished, replaced by cruel giddiness. “And how are you, your majesty?”

Like hell he was going to go along with this guy’s fake care. His pride wouldn’t let him bite out a pleasantry, instead choosing to press his steely gaze on the eccentric man. His stare didn’t deter the man’s delight in his situation which only served to make his blood simmer in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to punch the smug look off that face.

“I think you’ll find, Noctis,” the man loomed over him, nudging him lightly in the ribs with his boots, “that I have the upper hand.”

He didn’t. Noctis refused to believe it. He may not have had any weapons on him, but Noctis had dialed the emergency response number for the palace. By dialing the number he had ensured back-up would be on their way to his location in less than five minutes. Well, the location of where the call took place. He couldn’t feel the shape of his phone in his pockets, but the Crownsguard would be able to pick up on any trail his kidnapper had left behind.

All he needed to do was wait.

“What do you want?” Noctis asked, shifting his position on the floor to try and alleviate the pressure on his lower back. He could already feel the scar tissue there begin to burn and ache.

“Already wanting me to reveal my dastardly plan?” The man questioned. “How cliché.” Noctis’ face must’ve given away his annoyance because the guy clucked his tongue at his expression.

“I realize this isn’t one of your silver-spoon soirees, but it’ll serve as a good setting for the video.” He straightened and made his way over to the small set-up of… camera equipment? “We need you to put on your best performance, your highness.” He looked up with a cold smile that sent a shiver running down Noctis’ spine. “Though do save some for the main event.”

“So you’re gonna, what? Ransom me or something?” Noctis squirmed in his binds. “Is that your plan?”

Humming noncommittally, the man continued setting up his equipment. “Or something.”

“Not much of a talker huh?” He was banking on being able to get some info out of the guy so he could shout it over what was sure to be his ransom video.

The waiting was bizarre. Despite the discomfort, he didn’t feel like he was all there—though the main contributor to this was the head injury—the quiet sounds of rustling cables and footsteps gave him peace of mind amongst the simmering unrest and anxiety as the experience faded into less immediate danger. If only he could concentrate on his armiger and summon the knife he stored there—then he’d be able to warp out of his binds and escape.

A quiet huff of laughter broke through the silence; it took him a few moments to realize the laugh came from him . It wasn’t funny, not by a long-shot. He was being stupidly optimistic, especially since his vision still wavered between doubled and covered in black splotches. He probably had one hell of a shiner too.

He wished he’d called someone to get him.

The derelict state of his mind was brushed away as a triumphant cry echoed slightly around him. He squinted at the man who looked at him expectantly.

“What?” Noctis asked, tiredly. He had no desire to give the man the reactions he was hoping for. Actually, the other being put off by his apathy made him feel better. “Did you finally get your whole… set-up ready?”

The man had the audacity to pout at him. “Now you’re just no fun,” he complained. “Aren’t you curious as to why I’ve brought you here?”

Noctis shrugged. “Not really?” The motion caused his chains to rattle in the tight space. “Most of the guys I’ve been kidnapped by all want the same thing: revenge or money.”

“I can assure you that my reason is definitely not for any monetary reason.” The man took a step towards him. “I suppose you could call it revenge, though I admit you are simply unlucky—to be chosen by the gods.” He cupped Noctis’ cheek with surprising tenderness, brushing his thumb along his cheekbones. “You do bear a striking resemblance to him.”

A nail dug it the flesh underneath his eye and Noctis hissed, attempting to turn his face out of the man’s grip. “What a pity,” the man said, releasing his hold on Noctis. “Before we begin, I think it’s only fair that you finally be able to put a name to your captor.”

“Oh now you want to introduce yourself?” Noctis grumbled—because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life apparently.

Fortunately, the man seemed amused by his comment. “Do forgive me for my rudeness, your highness .” The mocking emphasis he placed on the title was not lost to Noctis, but he didn’t dignify him with an answer. “I’ve been reduced to the moniker ‘Adagium,’ by the royal line of Lucis.”

It sounded familiar, but Noctis couldn’t place where he’d heard it. Had the name come up in his studies? Was it a political thing?

Adagium sighed and shook his head. “I’m not surprised you don’t know of me. Your dear father is desperately trying to keep you in the dark.”

Noctis furrowed his brow. “What do you mean he’s keeping me in the dark?”

With a shake of his head, Adagium stepped back over to his equipment. “I’ve talked enough for now, it’s time we get the show started lest the party be stopped before it’s even begun.” Adagium grinned at him. “The stage is yours, prince Noctis.”

A red light blinked to life on the camera as Noctis stared into the lens. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Did Adagium want him to beg? To show whoever was watching the video that he was scared? He wasn’t. Scared that it is. Unnerved? Yes, how could he not be when he was kidnapped and tied up in some unknown location.

His captor sighed tilting his hat to cover his face and—

Adagium changed. No longer was he wearing the extravagant, pattern-clashing, textile collage of an outfit. He was in a set of armor, his face masked and hair tucked away under the rigid helmet. Noctis had only seen the armor in person once before on that fateful escape from Tenebrae as he reached desperately for Luna’s hand.

Magitek armor.

To see the man stripped of his individualism did more to bother Noctis than he expected. Something about the metal, placid expression staring at him had his stomach clenching nervously. How had Adagium done it? An illusion? But how? To his knowledge, illusion magic was typically only used by the messengers of the gods; he figured he’d already met all of them at this point with his connection to Luna.

With four jerky steps, Adagium stood beside him, a hand painfully clasping his shoulder. Noctis side-eyed the man as if he could glean some sort of direction for what he wanted Noctis to do.

Once again, Adadgium broke the silence. “Salutations, Your Majesty, Regis Lucis Caelum,” Adagium said, “113th monarch in the long line of Lucis.”

He’d somehow managed to project his voice to see like he was behind the camera again. Another impossibility Noctis didn’t know how to find an answer to.

“As you can see, I have an auspicious guest with me, one I know you’re well-acquainted with. Won’t you say hello to your dear father, Noct?” Adagium asked.

Gritting his teeth, Noctis glared at a spot on the wall. He wasn’t going to give the other what he wanted, not when he could still deny him of his game. If he could weaponize his silence, he would.

With an angry tut from Adagium, Noctis’ hair was yanked with a merciless tug, pulling his head backward and exposing his throat. He could feel the handful of hair desperately trying to cling to his scalp as he let out a small whimper at the rough treatment.

“What a difficult boy,” Adagium commented, “he must’ve been quite the child to raise. To think he’d forget his manners at a time like this.”

“Shut up,” Noctis growled.

“Oh he speaks! Splendid! Now while I’ve broken through that stony exterior, we can commence the show.”

Suddenly, a knife was pressed against Noctis’ neck. He flinched back into Adagium’s hold on his hair, but the knife followed, the edge of the blade making a small, shallow cut on the delicate skin of his neck. He was helpless, tied up, and at the mercy of his captor. And it didn’t seem like Adagium had any qualms against hurting him.

The blood that lazily oozed from the wound dripped down his neck and settled into his jugular notch like a morbid jewel. Noctis heard Adagium’s hum of approval and could feel the pressure of the knife increase slightly as if Adagium had lapsed in his awareness that he was the one holding the knife and thus in control of how far the blade entered Noctis’ flesh.

“Now, I understand why Lucis values black as a special color—it goes amazingly with blood red, wouldn’t you agree?”

He said it so off-handedly that Noctis wasn’t sure who he was talking to: Noctis, Regis, or himself. What was clear, was that Adagium had a deep-seated grudge against Lucis—the royal line in particular. But why? Was he from one of the outer nations that had been left behind when his father had to pull back the wall to just the city of Lucis?

Adagium broke out of his musings, finally pulling the knife back enough that it was just resting against the cut. “Never mind that,” he said. “I expect you’re waiting for some kind of demand from me. Money? Some impossible wish for power? Recognition?” Noctis could hear the smirk in his voice, that deceptively playful quirk of his lips. “No, I don’t want any of those, not explicitly at least.”

What do you want? Noctis didn’t voice no matter how much he wanted to. This little video of Adagium’s seemed to be going nowhere which could be good if this was a live broadcast, build the tension maybe.

“My reason for kidnapping Noct is very simple: because I could.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that Noctis’ brain stumbled to a halt. That’s it? Because he could? That didn’t make any sense, not when Adagium had brought up some kind of revenge. “What happened to your revenge?” Noctis asked. “You mentioned your reasons could be considered revenge and the gods.” He remembered the forlorn look in Adagium’s eyes before the rage had trickled back in. “You said I resembled someone, Adagium.”

He knew he was being bold, foolhardy more accurately, but his captor hadn’t revealed his name and Noctis was hoping if he brought up his aforementioned desire for revenge on film he’d reveal more of his reasoning. If the heroes in movies could get a villain to reveal their schemes, Noctis should be able to do it to Adagium.

Adagium’s grip on his hair tightened, Noctis crying out as several strands were tugged out of his scalp. “Oh Noct,” he purred, “I see you’ve decided to join the conversation.”

Noctis felt his skin crawl at the contemptuous pride in Adagium’s voice. He’d overstepped with his nosy questions.

“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” Adagium said. “You remember Adagium, do you not Your Majesty? The mythical monster locked away in the dark depths of Angelgard for ages, lost to time amongst the words of false kings and fraudulent nations.”

Who was Adagium? Noctis wondered, a stray tear slipping down the side of his face towards his hairline. “Why?” Noctis whispered, afraid of the answer he’d receive but unwilling to let his question lie.

The magitek disguise rippled ominously, a black miasma seeping through the gaps of armor. Quickly, the figure of Adagium was being overshadowed by the mist. The tiny glints of gold light within the consuming shadows was what gave away the nature of the mist: Starscourge.

Eyes wide, Noctis struggled in the man’s grip. He remembered when the Starscourge had infected him as a child when the Marilith had sliced his back open and nearly severed his spinal cord. The burning agony of the scourge ravaging his body, when not even his coma brought him relief from its infection. The hushed cries of similarly infected at the edges of his mind like a web of anguish, ever-growing with each infected. Get away getawaygetaway.

His struggling was for naught as the black mirage leaned closer to him. “Why?” Adagium asked the hand that held the knife lazily dragged to the center of his chest. “Because I was saving people. Because that first false king was jealous and power-hungry, over-eager to be the one to wear the crown. And the rest,” he spat the word, “never bothered to question any of their forebears, convinced that they had always done what was best for the kingdom of Lucis.”

Noctis shook his head as best he could. “But why would they—“

“Because the gods didn’t stop them.” The knife in his hand pressed harder against Noctis’ chest and hissed at the sting of the blade. “But the time of reckoning is steadily approaching!”

With a flourish of his hand, the knife was sent away. Noctis thought it was eerily similar to accessing the armiger. “While all the pieces aren’t in their proper place just yet, a bit of ‘divine retribution’ soothes the soul.”

“What do you mean by divine retribution?” Noctis asked, his voice far quieter than he expected.

The miasma cloud seemed to grin impossibly wide, though he couldn’t discern an actual face. “I thought it would be perfect for you to atone on behalf of your forebears, Noct. And to have your father helplessly watch as he struggles to find you.”

Adagium stood behind him once more and wrapped his arms loosely around Noctis’ shoulders. “Let’s have the chosen, King of Light spend some time in the dark,” he purred, black ichor dripping onto his shirt. Onto his head. Onto his face. It was everywhere and Noctis couldn’t focus on anything else.

And then there was nothing.

#HurtNoctWeek2021 #hurt/comfort #Noctis Lucis Caelum #ardyn izunia #ffxv #ffxv fic #fanfic #final fantasy xv #noctis I'm sorry baby but I like seeing my fav characters getting hurt?#ardyn being well himself #we can all just blame somnus tbh #that's what i like doing

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eurosong · 3 years

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Undo my ESC 2021 - Semi-final 1

Good afternoon, folks! Every year, I take a look at each semi-final and share what feasible change I would make – as small as changing a few lines of the song or an element of staging, or as big as a different song completely winning a national final – to make it even better (just in my own opinion of course!) This year will be harder than usual, but I’ll try to set aside my conviction that every 2020 artist should have been able to return to see how different SF1 might look. Let’s go!

🇱🇹 Lithuania: PiN was in the Roop's hands, and whilst I fell in love with some of the underdog songs they were up again, most notably Home and Never fall for you again I wouldn't take away the chance away from the Roop. There's nothing I'd change about Discoteque, and I love their nod to On fire, but the way that they also took things in a different direction to last time.

🇸🇮 Slovenia: I may be in a small minority, but I absolutely love Amen and I loved Voda too! Ana Soklič has so much presence and stunning vocals with so much texture and depth; she can sell me pretty much everything. My only change would be to insert Slovenian language lyrics!

🇷🇺 Russia: I was initially really disappointed that we wouldn't see the iconic Little Big on the ESC stage - but I commend the way they wanted to share the limelight with other artists. The unexpected Russian mini-NF ended up being a revelation and very diverse for its size. I liked all three songs, but I think that the best hands down won. There is nothing I have to change to Russian woman, one of the most powerful propositions of the season for me. I just hope juries will value it and we won't see a Telemóveis style situation!

🇸🇪 Sweden: After a year of being happy with the result in Sweden - I was always in Dotter's corner, but who can't love the Mamas? - we return to more familiar terrain of an MF result disgruntling me. Tusse has charisma and talent, but his song is lacklustre at best for me. My fav was, once again, Dotter, and I wish that either she'd taken the win or that the Mamas got their shot at ESC as main artists.

🇦🇺 Australia: I really enjoy Technicolour, one of the more out-of-left-field entries from Oz. I am so intrigued as to what the Diane Warren song offered to Montaigne was like, as I'm certain that this isn't it, but I'm glad she trusted her gut and went for something so distinctive. My one change would be to get rid of the unnecessary key change at the end.

🇲🇰 Macedonia: When there was a nationalistic furore with attempts to stop Vasil from representing MK, I was entirely on his side even though his song for me is one of the least appealing of the edition. I'd still want him to get his chance at ESC - but his Sudbina would have been such a more compelling entry for my taste.

🇮🇪 Ireland: Lesley Roy served nostalgic pop wonderment for the second year in a row, and another song that has etched itself already onto my life's soundtrack. I don't know what I'd change, except perhaps translate one of the choruses into Irish Gaelic - it'd make the message of a return to home even more resonant for me.

🇨🇾 Cyprus: Cyprus and I haven't seen eye to eye for several years now, and it's a shame as they were one of my favourite countries of the 90s. I do enjoy El diablo more than their last trio of songs, but I find it leans too heavy on a clear inspiration from Gaga, which takes away from some of the more original elements of the song. So, I'd rework the chorus, and also change some of the lyrics elsewhere because some lines just flat out make me cringe.

🇳🇴 Norway: I seem to have been in the minority of people delighted at MGP's final results! I had bigger favourites - the rambunctious sea shanty that is Vi er Norge, the kickass empowering Witch woods or the pulsating groove of Playing with fire - but I wouldn't take Tix' win away from him given how meaningful it was for him and what the guy has been through. My change? Revert partially or entirely to the Norwegian version, Ut av mørket; for me, it hits my heart harder.

🇭🇷 Croatia: Sincerely, my biggest disappointment of the NF season potentially - I wish Damir had been internally selected, not just because of my wish to see all ESC'20 alumni return, but because his was the best Croatian song for me since Moja štikla. Tick-tock is harmless but if we can't get a Damir return in this hypothesis, then I'd go for Rijeka, which captivated me with its epicness on first listen and has just risen in my estimation since. Though, given Nina's histrionics after coming second, maybe I'd have Albina perform the song instead.

🇧🇪 Belgium: I was prepared to not be on board with Belgium this year despite my long-lived love for the country - I found Release me, whilst orchestrated beautifully, entirely lacking in dynamism; and I really couldn't stand the way the band dumped Luka unceremoniously. And yet... this lush piece of art is one of my favs of the entire season. And there's something different and singular in Geike's voice. So the only thing I'm changing here are the dudes' attitudes to ESC so that they can value it more, especially Alex.

🇮🇱 Israël: As one of the most naturally charismatic performers of 2020, I had high hopes for Eden's return and the original idea of a mega-NF for her seemed really promising. Instead, we ended up with an uninspired strewing of songs, of which the best didn't even get the chance to be recorded by her. Set me free was my favourite of the three that got to the final, but I feel they've really worsened it with the revamp, in between the hail mary pass of the whistle vote and the extra emphasis on "I'mma". I would have Eden perform Shoulders instead - I don't know how it NQd and think it would allow her to showcase her personality a lot more.

🇷🇴 Romania: I really enjoyed Roxen's selection last year - small but quite diverse, and I felt the best song won. My change would be to have seen a similar national final with 3 or 4 other songs of hers this time, because I'm not convinced in Amnesia anywhere near as much as I was of Alcohol you.

🇦🇿 Azerbaijan: I wish they had gone with something at least a bit different rather than this cut, smudge and paste from last year that is so on the nose with its "you loved Cleopatra, so you will love this, won't you?" feel that it even namechecks the previous song. Efendi has a lot of talent and could have shown more diversity here.

🇺🇦 Ukraine: I'm getting used to the surprise revamp of Šum by now, but the question still remains for me, why did they do it? They needed to cut about a minute off the duration of the track, but to me, that doesn't explain why they also had to change the melody in large parts of the song. I'd be tempted to revert to a shortened form version of Šum version 1.

🇲🇹 Malta: Another unpopular opinion, but I'm just not that into the Maltese song this year. The lyrics are great and Destiny has poise and presence and PIPES and I'm sure she'll do well, but the style - a glammed up Electro-Velvet, essentially - doesn't heat me up, and I feel like the different parts of the composition are too dissonant from each other, like we have 2 or 3 songs in one here. My change would be for her to have gone with something more soul-ish in its sound, like AOML was.

And the AQs of this semi

🇩🇪 Germany: How did juries decide upon this, especially when there seems to have been many promising artists in the German selection? No shade against Jendrick who seems like a lovely chap, but the song sounds like the cheerful four chords on a ukulele you hear repeated as royalty free background music on Youtube tutorials, merged with a post-chorus breakdown taken from a Stefan Raab b-side. I would have gotten out my phone book and given Lilly among clouds a call - she gives me the vibes of being able to create something totally show-stopping.

🇳🇱 Netherlands: My original slight disappointment at this was more because of how high I have Grow than any fault of its own. It's another gorgeous composition from Jeangu, with probably the best set of lyrics of the year, and this is going to be a moment. I change nothing.

🇮🇹 Italy: I like Måneskin and their performances at Sanremo were brilliant - but they were far from being at the top of my favourites list. I would have given the win to Madame with Voce, or Ermal with Un milione di cose da dirti. Both would have been my #1 of the entire year, both move me deeply. Madame showcases contemporary Italian style with classic songwriting, whilst Ermal almost created a companion piece to Fai rumore - Diodato wanted to hear the sound of his loved one, whilst Ermal struggles to make a noise and say what he feels about his love.

Join me soon as I take a look at SF2 and its songs (and France, Spain and the UK, the auto-qualifiers from that semi!)

#eurovision 2021 #esc #eurovision #eurovison song contest #opinion #esc 2021

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sepublic · 3 years

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Ant-Watching

Y’all ever watch ants?

That’s what I just did. I came back from running an errand for someone else, and I decided to go visit my local gas station, right near where I live, just to see if there was anything I wanted to pick up. But, my attention was quickly piqued by a long line of ants, strewn across the sidewalk surrounding the gas station. I was of course intrigued, and tracked them from one end up the brick wall of the gas station, and into the tiniest possible hole there. I’m not sure where the hole led, it seemed so tiny, and I’m not sure how such a small, precise little tunnel could form in the seams between the bricks, leading all the way into wherever it was, within the gas station.

Tracing the other end of the line, I saw the familiarly-textured dirt of an ant colony, nestled within beneath the local, obligatory bush placed next to the parking spaces. I’ve gotta admit, I have to hand it to whichever Queen Ant established this colony, she chose the perfect spot… Or not. Being directly next to a gas station, in the patch of dirt and shrubbery as close as possible to it, that’s an amazing source of endless, reliable food right for this colony, so close and convenient!

On the other hand, I could see the proximity to the gas station leading to the colony having an exterminator called upon it. I’d be sad to see it go, but alas, such is life. Ants keep making do regardless. I wonder what happens to ants who survive the destruction of their colony, the eradication of their queen- Do they just blindly wander until they starve to death? If you introduced an ant to a new colony, would that colony accept, or instead reject and kill, the poor little creature?

I went inside the gas station, did some snooping. I couldn’t find where the ants were, but if I had to guess, directly on the other side of the wall they were crawling into; There was a countertop with a trash area underneath. Is this where the ants were getting their loot- Some small tunnel outside, leading directly into the inside of this dark cubby where all of the trash and food was dumped? Either way, it was such a jackpot for them, I felt weirdly proud of them despite having nothing to do with it.

I went back outside, and I noticed on my way back to the line, bristling and bustling with ants crossing by one another in opposite directions, that there was a dead bug. Quite a bit away from the line of ants, it was the dessicated corpse of… A cockroach? A beetle? I wasn’t sure what. Regardless, I wondered if the ants could make use of it; Or if they already had, the corpse seemed not much more than empty, chitinous shell, which might’ve been too hardy for the ants to break apart. Or, maybe they hadn’t bothered because it was too far away…

To test my theory –because I honestly didn’t care if people were watching, I was allowed to do what I wanted, and as corny as it may sound, I think Dana Terrace and The Owl House helped me develop the bravery to be as weird as I wanted in public, and it’s enriched my day greatly for it- I skidded and lightly kicked the dead bug, all the way to the ant line. And, success! They seemed attracted to it, and next thing I knew the bug was bristling with shiny little ants; I’d accidentally overturned it while moving the dead bug, and exposed its much softer underbelly, ripe for the taking and picking! Now I felt proud, and this time it felt earned because I DID contribute, I did help with something the ants couldn’t have done on their own! I did good.

So, I’m getting a bit existential about the life of ants. How it’s all long, thankless, endless work, as they drag food back, go on an arduous trek that for us giants, is just a few steps. Rinse, repeat, help feed the young, and so forth; Survive, but for what purpose? There is no downtime. Such is life, it’s interesting how we developed from just basic propagation, to really enjoying the fruit of existence; But only after we ensured it’d last, that we had reliable stuff to keep going on through. In the meantime, I decided to go back to the brick wall. There was another, tiny little hole, and I could see what looked like the tiniest little… egg shell? It was a shell of some sorts, gradually being dragged through, as if unclogging this second hole.

I was half-tempted to help the ants with it, but I decided not to interfere, in case I did something wrong, or if I misunderstood what they were getting at. But, I later checked, and indeed they had dislodged it, and were now moving down the length of the wall with it! It was a roly-poly shell, I wonder what killed it- The ants, its own natural lifespan? But as I checked, I noticed this one particular ant, hauling a crumb of food bigger than the others I’d seen. While other ants returned from the gas station with tiny little beadlets of food, this ant had a larger, misshapen, yellow-ish grain of something. I wasn’t sure what, but it seemed an arduous and difficult task to handle it, to get it down the side of a vertical brick face.

But, when I checked on the ant again- It succeeded! It was on the ground, scooting the grain, one gradual, agonizing millimeter at a time. I turned back to the dead bug, thought about helping the ants by pushing it all the way, right next to their nest; I grabbed a dead stick nearby that seemed sufficient, and for a moment I reveled in the power I had. I was no longer a child who’d be grabbed along by my parent and told not to mess around- I had the freedom and autonomy to observe insects, however I wanted! So I used the dead chip of wood to try and scoot the dead bug along…

Alas, the wind came and it scooted it past the ant line, back upright. I tried again to scoot the dead bug back to its trajectory, but then some ants crawled up the stick, and onto my hand! I panicked for a bit, I think one might’ve bit me… But I brushed them aside. Eventually I settled for righting my previous wrong, by overturning the bug and returning it back to the line; I’d just settle for that, for now. No time for ambitious projects on behalf of the ants…

Though, I DID consider buying just a little bit of food, and maybe scattering a piece or two by their nest, to see what the ants did with it! Ant feeding… Imagine that, like throwing bread crumbs to the pigeons, except I’m throwing tiny scraps of food to ants, diligently tearing apart and working, hauling, etc. Breaking it down bit by bit to divide the work, the power of infinitesimal hands amounting to something huge! I ultimately didn’t buy anything, alas, but it’s a fun thought, and I might try it another day and opportunity.

Anyhow, I watched the ant struggle with its lone yellow grain; Somehow, likely because of the wind, it had gotten separated from the line, its grain moved away. I felt some compassion, and I grabbed another tiny dead stick-chip, and pushed it back to the line; This was much more successful, and the ant began moving the grain along the line, once more. I kept watching, and got tired of crouching upon the balls of my feet, so I just went F it, and sat down onto the concrete.

THAT was much more relaxing, and for a while I enjoyed and watched and marveled, mesmerized at the coordination and moving patterns of it all, the shiny ants, how some had tiny little beads in their mandibles, etc. At one point I looked back along the line, closer to the nest, and I saw a tiny roly-poly, a living one; Nearby, stumbling across. In morbid fascination, I checked to see what would happen; Would the ants pursue and harass it, or was the reliable source of inanimate food, more preferable than taking on live prey?

Thankfully, despite bumping into the ants at the line, the roly-poly was unscathed and ignored. It departed from the line, and headed elsewhere along the patch of dirt where the shrubs grew, the patch where on the edge dwelled the ant colony. I turned my attention back to the ant with its large grain. By this point, I was used to the hot sun beating down on me, but it wasn’t unbearable, and I felt gratitude for the brief periods of cloudiness and shade. Agonizingly, I watched the ant make its progress…

At one point, it actually veered off-course, as these ants seem wanton to do, for some reason. I couldn’t let that happen again, so I grabbed another of my dead, discarded sticks –the ants ignored the cellulose they seemed unable to work with- and pushed it back on course. To my delight, the ant kept working, and I internally cheered as it pushed the grain up the slope of the driveway, surprisingly more easily than I’d anticipated, and much faster too! At one point, a kind passerby asked if I had a flat tire; To him, it must’ve looked like I was staring at the tire of the car parked in the space right next to the colony, as the ant line passed nearby. I said no, and he went on his way.

The whole time, some other people went on their way, passing near me. Nobody stopped to look or notice, at least as far as I could tell; I was much too engrossed in these ants. I’m glad nobody stopped to bother or harass me for it. Eventually, the lone ant began transporting the grain into the final stretch, in the seams between the blocks of concrete, right before the colony itself! There were points where it seemed like other ants were helping with the burden, perhaps other ants took over for the original. I thought about how this lone ant likely went through all of this effort, took it upon itself without any thought, and would get no recognition for it.

It didn’t think about it, it just did it; It saw something to be carried and worked with it, no thought about how hard it was, no consideration of letting someone else do it. It found something and grabbed it and moved! Marvelous. The ants kept moving the grain, at one point I lost it beneath a wood chip wedged in the concrete, but the ants succeeded in moving the grain past the chip, beneath and over as needed. Finally, right before the grain reached the colony, right before it arrived at the entrance to be dropped down, I hastily took a photo;

And at the last possible second! I’d fumbled with the perspective, zoomed in, tried to figure out where my camera was looking at, before re-orienting and focusing on where the ant and its grain were, and finding it. I’d planned this for a while, a victory photo for when the grain had reached the colony, and I’d barely snapped my picture before the grain dropped in, out of view! I felt oddly triumphant; But then again, I HAD contributed, hadn’t I? I felt proud of these ants, of the ant- They’d finally done it! This long, agonizing work… The grain would make good feeding for the young and everyone else.

And then, likely- The ants just went on! They went right back to work, always focused in the now. Never wondering, never questioning, such a simple existence. No higher thought nor reason besides doing what needed to be done, no particular selfishness, no shirking of the work, they just did it. It was almost robotic, although I knew that ants didn’t have any actual hive minds; They merely coordinated well. As one person said, if a giant watched us humans work and collaborate together, WE’d look like the hive mind! I’d sat and watched for a while, taking different positions, sitting and crouching and kneeling in various ways; But after faithfully, diligently watching this one particular task and its undertaking, more or less the whole way through, until it was finally finished…

Well, I felt finished myself! And so I headed inside the nearby dollar store to cool down with its AC, near the frozen section, before getting back into my car, and heading home- Where I’ve since sat down to type this all out. I dunno, something about watching the ants in nature… It just gets to me, I think I ended up kinning a couple of ants along the way. Very wondrous stuff, and time really passed by; It was so much more fun, engaging, and unique, than what I usually did to pass the day along, whenever I drove out. 10/10, would do it again, Ants are wonderful and would recommend!

#ants #ant colony #ant #ramblings #anecdote #story time

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asrasotherbottom · 4 years

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Hi! Just found your blog and it's amazing! Thanks for your works! ❤️ It's first time when i ask about HC, but i hope everything is okay (i couldn't find the request's rules :c) How will main 6 react if MC surprised them with really sexy lingerie (for some holiday or just to cheer them up)? And what type of lingerie would each of them consider the sexiest (colour and structure)? Wish you have a great day! ✨ P.S.: My english is not really good, sorry for grammar mistakes

you dont need to be sorry at all about grammar ever

Main 6 x Surprise Sexy Lingerie MC (w/ Preferences)

Asra

Asra would have is Wow face and then his Knifecat face and also Blush.

“MC you look…amazing. Is this all just for me? You’re stunning…”

After the initial shock passes and the overwhelming wave of emotions about how hot he thinks MC is becomes a manageable amount of emotions, he starts getting playful.

Asking them to spin around so he can get a good look, asking them to come ~closer~ so he can get a..better…look.

He loves anything that MC loves, if they feel amazing in it, then thats what he really loves.

He’s partial to whites and purples and anything with shiny bits though, or if it compliments MC’s eyes.

Nadia

Whatever thoughts she was having (good or bad) suddenly are gone, one thought and it is MC in lingerie.

She’d get up and slowly, deliberately, circle MC with an inscrutable smirk on her lips. She says she just wants to get a good look, but she doesn’t say if its at their outfit or MC’s ass in it.

Maybe even gently running her nails along any straps, just to watch MC get goosebumps.

She appreciates MC’s dedication to her mood and lets them know how dazzling they look.

In her opinion the sexiest lingerie they could possibly wear is something she picks out for them, esp if they like to feel a little owned, as a treat.

Otherwise she loves anything sparkly and intricate and revealing.

Julian

His whole jaw hits the floor and his poor brain cell packs up and takes the rest of the day off.

Some string of “wow” “ah” “um” “er” “uh” while he sits there absolutely awestruck by how hot MC looks in their new lingerie.

With any luck he recovers his bravado before he gets a boner, and he hits MC with an “Oh ho ho, do you come here often?” or “All dressed up with nowhere to go, eh? May I offer you a seat? *points to his lap*”

He’s genuinely touched that MC was willing to go so far out of their way as to buy a new lingerie outfit solely for his benefit.

He gets up and spins them around like they’re dancing, admiring the way they look in their new getup.

Scarlet red, true black, lace, leather, buckles, chains. Any of those on MC’s lingerie will drive him absolutely wild.

MURIEL, PORTIA, LUCIO UNDER THE CUT

Muriel

He cycles through the 12 shades of red his cheeks turn that MC has become oh so familiar with whenever he’s flustered.

He tries to get a full sentence out but only really manages a “Wow…”

Tries to make conversation and asks if the outfit is new, and being told that it is and its all for him only renders him speechless again.

Lets his fingers trace gently over the straps of fabric and its textures, not being able to exactly bring himself to /say/ how he’s feeling, but MC gets the picture very clearly.

He barely lets himself have opinions about scarves, the thought of having opinions on what lingerie he thinks looks sexiest on his partner is a little out of his depth.

….but he likes things that feels soft or interesting (like lace) to the touch.

Portia

Knifecat.jpg

MC did this all for her?? Got all new lingerie just to make her happy? Well, it worked. And she’s flattered and delighted.

Immediately tells them how hot they look, Asks them to turn around in a circle so she can see the whole thing. Her wide grin never leaving her face, whatever her mood was before, she feels EXCELLENT now.

She gets up close, wraps her arms around them and gives them a few kisses before suggesting that they don’t waste any more time and go put the lingerie to good use. (Her pants are already off)

She loves anything that looks fancy, lace or lace-up or lots of straps or fun patterns.

(Though she’s a sucker for seeing MC in crotchless underwear)

Lucio

He’d bite his lip and ask MC what they’re celebrating to warrant such an exceptional gift like this.

He wastes no time in pulling MC down onto the bed with him, marveling at how they always know just what to do to cheer him up, and how incredible they look doing it.

Briefly asks where MC got the lingerie, if for no other reason than to make a mental note to go there and pick something up for himself too.

“The only thing better than seeing you in this lingerie is seeing you out of it.” wink wink, nudge nudge.

(If they tease him about it, saying it comes off only if he’s good, he turns to putty in MC’s hands.)

Gold, red, white, anything overly extravagant. Pleather is a favorite. Nothing with actual laces though, its gotta be easy-on-and-off. He doesn’t have the patience to actually unlace someone from something when he’s horny.

#Anonymous #main 6 #asra #nadia #julian #portia #muriel #lucio #mine #lemon #asra alnazar #nadia satrinava #julian devorak #portia devorak #lucio morgasson #muriel the arcana #the arcana

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pigtownchronicles · 3 years

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Chapter 1.11 - Shadow’s Den

Whether it was morning or night now, Marlon didn’t know. One moment, he’d been on the sidewalk with Jimmy, talking about the streetlights or the shadows or something, and the next, he’d stepped into the dark and everything had disappeared around him--and now he was here. It wasn’t that he was falling, or at least, it didn’t feel like falling. There was nothing to fall relative to, so he could have just as easily been floating. He called out to Jimmy, but his voice wouldn’t cut through the vacuum. After some amount of time, it was difficult to say whether it was minutes or seconds, a figure had appeared in the dark with him. It was the man who had stepped from the shadows, before he’d fallen in. He called out to him, asking him for help. The man came close, and perspectives shifted. He became larger, and swaddled Marlon somehow, there in the dark. Cupped him in the darkness itself, and he felt it crush against him, even though there was nothing there. It was like drowning, like he was seven in his cousin’s pool again when hadn’t quite mastered swimming enough for the deep end. He was certain he should have died, at some point. Perhaps, he told himself, he had. But the darkness ebbed away, or pulled back from him, replaced with a deep red light.

There was space again. The colored light was disorienting, but he could make out that he was in what looked like a basement, or at least, a room with no windows--or doors, he realized after that. The floor was concrete, and the walls were adorned with what he could only really describe as a dungeon, though he’d never been one for fetish porn on the internet. He himself, he realized, was in a cage--thick metal bars, not tall enough for him to stand up inside. There was a sound behind him, and he managed to twist around. There on the wall were two figures hanging from a pair of wooden crosses, their limbs in steel manacles and pulled tight. Their faces were hooded, they were naked, and Marlon realized that he was naked as well. There were no clothes anywhere that he could see in the room.

He was aware of the darkness in the room somehow solidifying, and the man from the street stepped out of what should have been a wall, just appeared with no way to explain how. Marlon scrambled back, banged his head on the metal of the cage, his vision bursting with stars. The man chuckled, strode over to the cage in the middle of the room, and squatted down. “A shame, the two of you would have been fun together, but this will be just as nice, and more filling.”

“Who...who are you? Let me out of here, please, I’m not into this shit!”

“You’re not?” the man said, pushing his face closer to the bars. The light in the room was strong enough that Marlon knew he should have been able to see the stranger’s face through the shadow of his cap, but it was made of the same inky darkness that had surrounded him before. “How do you know, little one? Have you ever tried any of it? Did you ever ask your shadow what he might like to try?” his mouth gave a little smile, “I asked him for you, by the way. He was more than a little curious.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Later, little one. I’m famished.”

“Wait! Don’t leave me here.”

“I’m not going anywhere little one, I have my meal right here,” he said, and walked over to where the two figures were strung up against the wall. The man made a little motion with his hands, and the hoods that were covering the faces of the prisoners melted away--Marlon realized that what he’d thought had been leather had been more shadow. A moment later, one of them gasped, his eyes opening wide, followed by the other, looking around, before staring at the leatherman in front of them. “You--you’re not a puppet, you’re Shadow! But you’re in the fucking jail, how did you get out?”

“Oh, it was harder than I thought it would be, I’ll admit that. Almost gave up a time or two, but why give up when I had such good reason to get out again, and see all you officers of the law again, after where you put me?” he said, gripping their faces with his hands. “One thing is for sure though, I am absolutely starving.”

Their eyes went wide. “No! Wait, we...we’ll get you the commander, that’s who you really want, right?” one said, “Please, Shadow, don’t!”

Marlon watched what happened next, from just a few feet away, and when it was done, he still couldn’t convince himself that he hadn’t dreamt it. Shadow, or at least, that’s what he assumed was the leatherman’s name, pulled one hand away from a face, and his fingers started to wriggle, and then extend. The way they slid across the man’s face, they were somehow flat, and yet retained all of their texture, then divided into even more tendrils, and began to dig their way into his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his ears. The man choked and shuddered as Shadow did his work, thrusting in deeper into the man’s mind, and then there was light--or a kind of light. It pumped it’s way backwards, drawn from the man down the tendrils of shadow and into Shadow’s arm, and when it reached his body, he gave a contented sigh. “Oh yes, quite delectable.”

After a few minutes of pulling whatever that light was from the man, he retracted the tendrils and the man’s face sagged forward. The last thing Marlon saw was the man’s eyes, which were now hollow sockets, as it dropped. He wondered if he was dead, but when Shadow unhooked the man’s manacles and the body slumped to the floor, he could see that he was still breathing, though it was shallow. His face had landed facing him, and Marlon stared into the hollowness, but the eyes were still there. They were just pitch black. Then the man’s own shadow rose up from the floor, spreading up around him, drawing his body in and holding it in something that looked like a cocoon. As soon as it was sealed, it shuddered and there was a scream from within--muffled, but obvious. The other man was shaking and pleading, but Shadow did the same to him, and when he was finished with his meal, there were two blobs of shadow there on the floor of the dungeon, quivering occasionally, mumbling and shouting and yelling. He drew down some darkness from the ceiling, strung the two cocoons up and left them to hang, while he turned his attention to Marlon again.

He was pressed up against the bars of the cage, trying to reach something that he could use to fight back, but there was nothing near him. Shadow squatted down in front of the cage again. “Much better, little one--now where were we?”

“What did you do to them?”

“I ate some of them, and left the rest of them for their own shadows. They’ll be ready in a while. You don’t need to worry about that just yet.”

“Are...you gonna eat me?”

“I don’t know, are you delicious?” Shadow said, and Marlon gulped. After letting the silence hang for a moment, Shadow laughed, “No, I don’t think I’ll be eating you. I already promised your shadow that we’d play for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

Marlon felt something come unstuck from him, something he didn’t even know could come away, and there, standing outside the cage, was a silhouette. His silhouette. He looked down, and underneath him where no light should have been, his shadow had simply disappeared--or rather, left him somehow. Shadow stood up, and embraced Marlon’s shadow, pulled it close, and he felt the embrace there in the cage, and shuddered, felt Shadow’s tongue press into his silhouette’s mouth.

“Oh yes, I do like you, very much. I think I will keep you,” Shadow said, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Marlon objected, but realized that Shadow had not been talking to him--he had been addressing his silhouette, who nodded vigorously, and then looked to Marlon there in the cage.

“Don’t worry about that--come now, I want to play, little darkness. Here, taste this,” Shadow said, put a finger to the silhouette’s lips and a bit of the light that had come from the two men before slid into it--and Marlon watched as his shadow shuddered, and popped. For a moment, it had definition, depth, presence. And when it had, Marlon gasped, and felt a moment of weakness wash through him.

“See? Doesn’t that taste good? He’ll never be able to give you that, but I can. I can give you so much. All you have to do is let me guide you. There’s so much I can show you--pleasure, pain, power. Isn’t that what you want?”

Marlon’s silhouette nodded, and Shadow embraced it again, then bent it over a bench, and fucked it--and Marlon, there in the cage, felt every thrust--but he felt something else too. Delight. Ecstasy. They weren’t his feelings though. It was his silhouette thinking and feeling all on its own, and realizing it was thinking and feeling on its own, and delighting in the sensation of the world around it. Marlon begged, when they finished. Begged Shadow to let him go, but Shadow never addressed him again, directly. He was no longer important. In the darkness, shades ruled, and Shadow ruled the shades of Pigtown--and Shadow was back at last.

***

Want more Pigtown Chronicles? Support me over on my Patreon, and you can get early access to new chapters, along with loads of other content!

#shadow #pigtown #strange #monster #eldrich #body horror

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walkerismychoice · 4 years

Text

Unwritten - Chapter 2

Book: Platinum

Pairing: M!Raleigh X MC

Rating: This series will contain mature themes. Any necessary warnings will be listed before each chapter, but the overall series rating is 18+

Series Summary: Newly discovered talent Aria Campbell get unknowingly assigned to help write Raleigh Carerra’s latest album and rehabilitate his image in the process.

Summary: Aria and Raleigh start settling into the beach house. Things could be going better.

Word Count: 1868

Master List

Kidz Bop?! Aria can't decide if she's more mortified or pissed off at Raleigh's response to the prospect of writing his album with her. At 22, she can't be more than 5 years younger than him, maybe less, but she hasn't kept up with his personal details other than catching an occasional tabloid headline. And sure, she might be from a small Midwestern town, but between her outfit, an off the shoulder royal blue top and distressed black jeans, and her long, wavy black hair, she thinks she comes off as cool but not trying too hard. But what if the fact that she thinks that means she's not cool at all? Whatever. Maybe she should just slap a big snake tattoo on her neck and then Raleigh would respect her. Does he think all those dumb tattoos make him edgy? His tattoos are kind of hot though....No, scrub that thought. Raleigh Carerra is proving to be nothing more than the arrogant bad boy the media makes him out to be.

"Okay then..." Aria mutters under her breath, more of a question than a statement.

Fiona glares towards the Escalade. "Just hold on." She charges forward and tries to open Raleigh's door, but of course it's locked. "Hank!" she calls out but he's already anticipating what she wants, unlocking the doors before she asks, and she flings the door open. "Raleigh, get out of the car."

Raleigh scoffs, "I'd rather quit making music than write this sell-out album just to make the label more money. I don't need any of this."

"Have you forgotten that Ellis and the legal team at Overknight Records helped keep you out of jail? It's not too late for charges to be filed. This was the deal. You make this last record, redeem your image, and then you can do whatever the hell you want. Until then, you are going to apologize to this very talented young woman, and then get your ass in that house and start writing with her. Unless you want a felony on your record. You wouldn't look so bad in orange I suppose..."

"Oh, fuck off, Fiona," Raleigh grumbles as he gets back out of the car.

"I'd be glad to, but if you remember our contract, I don't get my bonus until you finish this album. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can be rid of me nagging you all the time. So like I said, get a move on. Oh! Before I forget..." Fiona reaches in her pocket and hands Aria a key and and an archaic looking cell phone and then does the same for Raleigh.

"The fuck is this? I didn't know they still made these." Raleigh pries open the basic flip phone, navigating the limited features. He attempts to key in a number before frustration sets in and he seems about ready to chuck the phone into the ocean. "This piece of shit doesn't text or dial out."

Fiona smiles smugly as the scene unfolds. "Oh it works perfectly fine...but only for approved, pre-programmed numbers."

Curious as to who's in her list, Aria powers up her phone and checks the contacts. Her mom, dad, and sister, as expected, along with some professional contacts including Hank and Fiona. She's pleasantly surprised they included Shane as well. Aria had put him as one of her emergency contacts, so they must trust her judgement as far as he's concerned. Her nerves start to settle ever so slightly with this lifeline.

Looking at his list, Raleigh scoffs and snaps the phone shut. "Is this a joke?" His hardened features are a bit disconcerting, piquing Aria's curiosity.

"I can assure you each of your lists was carefully selected to facilitate your creative process. Now, I'll leave you both to it." Fiona turns and heads in the opposite direction of the beach house.

"Where are you going?" Aria asks, concern creeping into her voice. Normally she doesn't need someone to hold her hand, but these aren't normal circumstances, and she's not quite ready for Fiona to leave her alone. She kind of feels like a kindergartner being dropped off for her first day of school to be honest.

"To the guest house. Where Frank and I are staying," Fiona replies.

"I knew there was something going on between you two." Raleigh chimes in with a devilish grin.

Hank coughs. "That would be unprofessional."

"There are two bedrooms," Fiona adds, rolling her eyes.

Now Aria's panicking a little inside. Or maybe a lot. She's expected to stay alone with this very intimidating celebrity who very well may hate her already?

"Wouldn't it make more sense for us all to stay together? The main house is more than big enough," she suggests .

Fiona lets out a terse laugh. "No. Absolutely not. It's enough that Hank and I have to stay and babysit to ensure this project gets done. We can't be bothered by singing and music playing at all hours. Think of it as a gift that you won't have to consider our sleeping habits while you work."

"I don't care who stays where, but I just need to know where my bed is at. It's 11am, and I should still be sleeping for at least a few more hours yet." Raleigh tilts his head towards the back of the truck, directing Hank. "You can bring my bags to my room." He takes off, the scent of alcohol hanging in the air as he passes.

Must be nice to order people around like that, Aria thinks as she reaches for the bags in the trunk. She's not too good to carry her own luggage.

"Ms. Campbell," Hank places a hand on her arm to stop her. "That's not necessary. Why don't you go inside and start settling in while I bring in your things."

Well, he is offering. It would be rude to turn him down, wouldn't it? Aria follows Raleigh into the house, and not wanting to ruffle any feathers more than she has merely just for existing in his space, she stands back and allows him to select his room first.

While she waits, Aria takes a look around. Although the exterior style of the home hints at its age, the inner design is exactly as modern and kept up as Aria would expect at a place where celebrities stay, with lots of white, shades of blue and blue-green accents, and nautical themed decor scattered about.

In the great room stands a gorgeous white baby grand piano that probably, no definitely, costs more than everything Aria owns combined. Aria steps over, gently striking a key, and for the first time since she signed the contract, begins to allow herself to get excited about making music here.

"Ms. Campbell?" Hank breaks Aria's chain of thought. "Where would you like me to put your things?"

"Oh...I need to pick out my room." She jogs up the stairs ans Hank follows. There are 6 rooms total, three on either side of the corridor. The first two are a bit smaller with bunk beds, so Aria counts them out, but the next two have promise.

As she approaches the last pair, one door is slightly, ajar and she notices Raleigh passed out face down and snoring on the bed already. Of course he would choose the master bedroom for himself, but as Aria looks at the remaining bedroom, she doesn't really mind. Although she considers taking one of the bunk bed rooms just to be as far from him as possible, she cant resist the spacious yet cozy space with a king-size bed and seaside view.

"I'll take this one." Aria directs Frank and he gently places her suitcases on the floor before excusing himself.

Aria kicks of her sandals and plops on the bed, staring up at the textured ceiling. Now that she's alone, she has no idea what to do with herself. Obviously getting straight to work with Raleigh is out of the question but that doesn't mean she cant try to get started. Pulling out her song journal, she stares at a blank page and laughs because if she doesn't laugh, she might cry. To say she's overwhelmed would he an understatement, and if she hadn't signed a contract, she might be calling her mom to come pick her up, proving to be a failure once again. At least their's a binding piece of paper to keep her from quitting this time. Maybe a walk on the beach is what she needs to pull herself together.

It's a typical June day, warm and sunny but not scorchingly hot, and a light breeze brings gentle waves rolling ashore, not quite reaching the hem of her rolled up jeans as Aria dips her toes in. She closes her eyes, taking in the smell of the salty sea air. The only sounds to be heard on the deserted stretch of private beach are the water crashing against the sand and some seagulls chattering in the distance. If not quite inspiration yet, the ocean is at least bringing a sense of calm, an escape she'll have when she needs it.

Aria wades around, walks up and down the oceanfront a few times before deciding she should probably go face reality. That or at least go get some food since her stomach is grumbling, and it's likely well past lunch time. She meanders to the kitchen and opens up the refrigerator, delighted to see its been fully stocked, and settles on some sandwich fixings.

"Ahh!" She let's out a startled yelp as she whirls around to place her items on the kitchen island only to be stopped short as she crashes into a tall figure.

"Easy there, Chiquita," Raleigh grasps Aria's arms to steady her. "You might want to watch where you're going."

Momentarily mesmerized by his firm grip and the sparkle in his eyes, Aria shakes free and comes to her senses. She's too annoyed at the moment to be intimidated by his star status or won over by his charms. "You could clearly see me here and anticipate where I'd be headed. And my name is Aria." She plunks the food down on the counter with a thud for emphasis.

"But you're so small." Raleigh pats her on the head.

There's a time and a place for cutesy nicknames, but this is so not it. "Again, my name is Aria, and as your colleague, I ask you to refer to me by my given name." She should stop there but she can't help herself. "And for your information, I'm average height."

Raleigh shrugs. "Well you're still shorter than me...Anyway, what's for breakfast? I'm famished."

Aria rolls her eyes with a huff, already mid preparation. "I'm making myself a sandwich for lunch. What you decide to make yourself isn't really my concern."

Raleigh chuckles. "You're feistier than I thought. I like it."

Her cheeks are burning and she lies to herself that it's all out of anger. Without another word she finishes up and scurries upstairs to eat and stew in her room in peace. Raleigh Carrera won't get the best of her today. At least not that she'll let him see.

#playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #raleigh x mc #raleigh carrera #platinum #my fic

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overdrivels · 3 years

Text

The Way to a Heart (20)

<<Chapter 19

When Hanzo wakes, he almost punches himself in the face trying to rub the sand from his eyes, body refusing to cooperate with any amount of finesse. When he is able to focus, he recognizes the interior of one of the medical bay rooms at Gibraltar. The significance of it doesn’t sink in until he sees his bandaged hands where the phantom feeling of his punches still linger.

Disappointment and anguish overpowers the ache and grogginess—he slams his fists against legs—the pain that shoots through him and renders his vision spotty does little to deter him from doing it again.

Reaper left him alive even though he had all the ability in the world to just shoot himself and Genji dead. It was humiliating.

Only the good die young, and he is none of those things.

“You’re awake!”

Dr. Ziegler walks into the room with Genji right at her heels. She approaches, but Genji is faster, interrupting her path.

Genji’s usual mask is off, allowing Hanzo to see the entirety of his face. It is first shocked, then twists into something like rage; it’s strangely assuring. What truly strikes him is not the scars on his face, no, but that his thick eyebrows, so similar to his own but more pronounced, are still intact.

“Genj—”

He is barely able to react—he later blames the drugs being pumped into him at the time—and thanks his lifelong training for teaching him how to shut his mouth.

The punch to the face nearly knocks out his teeth and consciousness. He could've sworn he heard the good doctor curse loudly. Before he is able to recover and give him a piece of his addled mind, his cheeks are enveloped in cool synthetic leather, and Genji's forehead meets his own.

The contrast in temperature is oddly comforting.

"I thought I almost lost you, brother," Genji whispers. The ringing in his ears is not loud enough to drown out the pain in his brother's synthetic voice.

Any protest or words he has dies pathetically in his throat. There is a click of something in the back of his heart, a spark in the depths of his mind.

Instead, all he can do is grab his brother by the shoulders and say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

---

After all the excitement dies down and everyone is ushered out of his room, he’s subject to a battery of tests (including another one for concussion because Genji really doesn’t know how to hold back) that pass by in a blur. Dr. Ziegler mercifully does not bog him down with the details of his injuries or what happened, simply inferring that Winston will update him when he is feeling more like a person and less of a ragdoll.

Left alone in the room, he finds the quiet to be peaceful instead of distressing. For the first time in a very long time, there is a reign of silence in his heart and a strange clarity to his muddled thoughts that he has never found before. He supposes almost dying would do that to a person, and perhaps that’s the reason why Genji is the way he is now.

Or maybe he really is concussed from Genji’s punch.

He watches sunlight filter in through the narrow windows, the way scarce bits of dust dance and twirl in the spotlight. Time passes by just like that with nary a thought.

Sunlight eventually gives way to twilight. Demons that would normally take advantage of the encroaching dark ready to stab him with past memories and sharpened ‘what if’s are not around. This quiet is peaceful, comfortingly so. Even the pain he should be feeling is dulled by anesthesia and the feeling of cotton stuffed beneath his skin.

It’s only when there’s a quiet knock on his door does he realize the whole day has passed him by. Was he awake the whole time or has he been drifting between sleep and consciousness?

When another knock comes, he realizes he hasn’t answered and the room is a shade darker than before.

“Come in.”

Surprise comes to him slowly and with less intensity than he expected.

"Chef. Why are you here?"

It's strange to see you on the other side of the bed now considering your roles were reversed not too long ago. But something about your appearance tugs at him—there’s a sense of weariness and exhaustion that seems to eclipse his own that he can’t place. He just knows.

You smile weakly, lifting the tray in your hands for him to see.

"I thought I'd bring you some food. Something easy on the stomach?"

Hunger isn’t very high on his list of needs or wants at the moment, but he waves you in with his non-IV-tethered hand anyway. He doesn’t have the heart to turn you or your good will away. The door closes quiet as a whisper as you tiptoe into the room, the lights coming on in slow intervals. Like an angel or a main character coming onto the stage, he thinks.

On the tray, there’s a cream colored ‘soup’ with chopped green spring onions on top and some bread on the side. It is a far cry from the meals he’s expected from you and reminds him of the earlier days when ingredients were clearly scarce and he didn’t know you were a person.

“This is…?”

“Artichoke soup.”

The side of his mouth twitches downward. Whatever little appetite he may have had dissipates. “Have you eaten yet, Chef?” he asks instead.

“Oh. Uh.” Your eyes shift away from him, a sure sign you’re lying. “I will. After this.”

He gives you the flattest look he can manage as he pushes the tray back toward you. He may not be in full control of his facilities, but even he can see that you’re tired and probably in more need of nutrition than he is.

“Yes. You will. Now.”

“This is for you, I can’t—”

“Sit.”

Even as you’re protesting, you still blindly grab at the chair beside you to sit down in. "I can't eat in front of my customers. We can’t eat until—"

He rolls his eyes and doesn't care how undignified that it is or that you see it. "And I am not your customer now, am I? Or is that all I am to you?"

"What, no! You're not, you're—you're not just a customer, you're…” You wave a hand vaguely at him, searching for the words, the anticipation makes his stomach tight. "Hanzo.”

“Hanzo.”

The label, if it could even be called that, amuses him more than he could ever say. Not a customer, not a friend, but Hanzo. As cliché as it sounds, there is a warm and fuzzy feeling that settles into his stomach.

"It’s not as though I haven’t seen you eat before.” As a matter of fact, he liked watching you eat. There was something charming about the way your eyes light up and the single mindedness in which you clear your plate. He has no plans to tell you that, however. “If it makes you uncomfortable, should I close my eyes?”

You grumble something beneath your breath about how this food isn’t yours and some other manner of complaints that just seem childish at this point. It’s with great reluctance that you pick up the spoon and bowl meant for him. But there is something different. Your eyes don’t light up, and you just put spoonful after spoonful in your mouth in quick succession without pausing to savor.

“You don’t like your own cooking?” is the unbelievable conclusion he comes to.

“Not really,” you mumble.

“So you’ve been feeding us mediocre work?”

“No!” It almost startles him how vehemently you protest, and maybe it startles you, too because you immediately back down. “No, I just—look. Sometimes,” you start slowly, eyes searching for the words across the half-finished soup, “sometimes you just get tired of your own flavor. Of your own cooking.”

He wouldn’t know anything about that. Of course there are times he’s tired of eating just onigiri while on the run, but that’s just one dish. There’s also something else underneath your words, too. Uncertainty and doubt.

Irritation bubbles up in his chest, and before he can even stop himself, he snatches the spoon out of your hand with a brief, “Excuse me,” before shoveling the soup into his mouth.

The richness of the artichokes is immediately apparent, mild and full-bodied, made thicker with added texture from potatoes. Yet, despite that, the soup isn’t particularly heavy, its richness cut by the zest of lemon which is tempered by the other ingredients. It’s easy to eat and despite his lack of appetite, he thinks he can eat more.

It would sound stupid to anyone he tells it to, but the soup feels like...a hug.

When he raises his eyes, your mouth is agape.

“I could never get tired of your cooking,” he says. The ease at which the words come to him must be from the anesthesia or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Of all the things that would make you flush. He smiles wide and slow, delighted at your reaction.

This is fun. Enjoyable. It makes him want to tease you more.

“Tha-thanks?”

“No, I should be thanking you.”

For so many things. For introducing him to new foods. For sacrificing so much for Overwatch. For...

The memory of Reaper with the tamale tugs at the back of his mind. He could wave it away, but that he lives because of you and he doesn’t say anything about it would burden him. Being saved by a civilian who wasn’t even there from a foe far stronger than he wounds him, but not showing appreciation for it would wound him further.

He puts down the spoon, and quietly confesses, “Chef. Thank you. Your cooking has…saved me.”

“Oh.” Surprise freezes your expression in place but it quickly melts into a warm smile, one that made you seem to sparkle and come to life. “You’re welcome.”

There’s no way for you to know just how much he meant those words, but he can’t bring himself to elaborate. It’ll be the closest he’ll be able to admit to himself that it was not his own strength that saved him at the end of the day.

---

Apparently Reaper is less violent than his actions and rumors would have everyone believe. Dr. Ziegler prescribes him less bedrest than expected and the green light to leave and return to his routine (barring actual missions) in a few days. Most of his injuries were superficial, and none of the shotgun blasts seem to have damaged anything too permanent beyond repair.

It’s Soldier: 76 who seems most put off by this news, grumbling about how Reaper is an unfair bastard. Winston is ever apologetic, still feeling responsible that they were led right into an ambush after hearing Hanzo’s report. According to Dr. Ziegler, the team was lucky Reaper was carrying normal shotgun clips.

Yes. Lucky.

It’s just been a series of lucky circumstances, hasn’t it? That they were all able to leave with their lives and tell the tale is beyond what most could have hoped for, and Winston apparently did not want to look that gift horse in the mouth.

"We will be leaving the moment we are finished with repairs to this Watchpoint. We never know when we'll have to return. I just wanted to prepare you for that eventuality.” Winston is distractingly huge in this little room as he shuffles on his feet, trying not to knock into any sensitive equipment.

“I understand.”

“That being said, Dr. Ziegler would like you to remain here until you are flight-ready. You will be a part of the last group to leave.”

“Has my new post been decided?”

“You will be informed when you make a full recovery and are back in service. In the meantime, we are trying to keep the number of people who know our next destination to a minimum. Security reasons; I hope you understand.”

The decision comes as no surprise to him.

It isn’t ideal to house Overwatch in a single place where the very country they’re stationed in is pitted against them. It’s even less ideal to have all their forces in one place at this time where the line of Overwatch succession has not been properly established. So far, it’s been a struggle between Winston, the de facto but still inexperienced leader, and Soldier: 76 who was the Strike Commander but claims he has no desire to hold such a title anymore while still meddling in Winston’s decisions. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

However, if the whole of Overwatch is leaving, then where does that leave you?

It’s unreasonable to drag you along, and it's too dangerous to remain here in Gibraltar by yourself, waiting for agents that may never return. Your restaurant has booted you out and by

Maybe you’ll go back to your restaurant and reclaim it for yourself.

Maybe he could be selfish and ask you to remain.

It’s silly, but he’s already gotten used to your meals, spoiled by the attention.

He presses his lips together, refusing to sigh no matter how much he wanted to. The future is yours to take hold of. Whether you decide to take the difficult path of following them or whether you decide to leave and do something else is entirely out of his hands.

As much as he wants to know, he can't bring himself, unwilling to hear the answer. He’ll have to wait for you to tell him—if you ever tell him.

Some more logistics are discussed, but Winston keeps the conversation superficial. Apparently the Junkers are obstinately refusing to leave and he’s had his hands full even without their opposition.

Hanzo has already tuned him out, thoughts wandering to you and what you plan to do.

Surprisingly, McCree visits him soon after. He’s also wearing the standard hospital gown, but doesn’t seem to be as well-wrapped as Hanzo. It somehow annoys Hanzo that the person who nearly led himself and Genji to their dooms is in better shape than he is.

“I saw how it went down,” McCree starts as soon as he sits down with a heavy grunt. “The tamale. You tell Winston?”

“Who was he?”

“I asked first.”

There’s a silent stare-down between them.

A short bark of a laugh tears out of McCree, loud and sudden. He leans back in his chair before changing his mind to lean forward, the hair hanging in front of his face does nothing to obscure the pointed look in his eyes.

“Gabriel Reyes.”

The name takes a moment to sink in, for the veil to lift and the name to become a face.

Hanzo sucks in a breath.

“I suppose Overwatch has some secret to immortality that they plan to impart to us when we reach tenure?” It comes out more critical than he has any right to be, but McCree would have to excuse him—he did almost die, after all, along with Genji and the remainder of his pride.

“If it’s tenure, I’d better be first.” Even McCree seems bitter about it. He supposed it was just as well, McCree was much closer to them and personally knew all three. It must have been a much bigger betrayal to him than it was to Hanzo who only knew of the three from news reports and word of mouth.

He heard bits and pieces of how Genji was a part of Blackwatch and Gabriel, in a sense, saved him from himself.

“...did Genij know?”

McCree pauses, face scrunching up and chewing his lips like he wished for a smoke. “...yeah. I told ‘im so he wouldn’t have to break my kneecaps.”

That’s probably why they didn’t stick to the plan. Genji knew, too. How is he taking the news, Hanzo wonders.

“And you? You tell Winston or what?”

“...yes.” It wasn’t a detail that he could have left out; it was the reason they’re alive and it’s such a stupid reason, too. He thought Winston would react in disbelief, but to his surprise—which now seems so obvious—the gorilla just sighed and moved on.

McCree lets out a breath, slumping into his chair. “Cat's outta that bag, I guess. Gonna have to get him to keep his mouth shut 'bout that 'round Chef. And you'd better do, too "

“And what reason do I have to do that?"

"'m serious. If Chef knew about Reaper, who knows what might happen."

McCree sounds tired. It wasn't his intent to speak to you about that anyway, but now McCree's piqued his curiosity.

“Elaborate.”

"....Reyes was considered one of them. When he wasn’t doing shit like sewing up costumes or drilling us, he was in the kitchens. They were family to each other.” Hanzo breathes in deep through his nose and presses his lips together. "Talon's already done Chef dirty enough and things aren't gonna get much easier either, so we should cut the chef some slack where we can spare, y'hear?"

It doesn’t take him long to answer.

"I hear you."

---

“Please let us know your decision by the end of this week, Chef. I know it won’t be easy, but I can assure you, we will support you regardless of your choice.”

Packing up the kitchen for departure was one thing, but asking you what you wanted to do with your life is another. It’d just be so much easier if Winston told you “Come with us” or “Stay here”. If it were the Head Chef, he’d probably insist on staying because this, for many agents, is home, though he would be just as likely to say anywhere his customers go, he goes.

—”What do you want to do?”—

Hanzo’s question bounces incessantly in your head, burrowing under your skin until they begin to eat at the core of your being.

Again, you’re struck with the ever-persistent reminder that you are not Head Chef Richard. You’re not an expert at managing restaurants. You’re not a world-class chef. You have no idea what you’re doing or what you should do next.

The kitchen is deafeningly quiet and devoid of answers except for your scrubbing, but even that is just out of habit; your mind is elsewhere.

Why couldn’t everything just be the way they were before?

You know what you want to do. You want to return to the past, to the days when the kitchen was the kitchen and when you didn’t have to be responsible for so many things or have to worry about the ever-growing uncertainty that couldn’t even be called a ‘future’. You want to go back to simpler times, to happier times when you weren’t alone and you weren’t given a responsibility that you weren’t prepared to handle long term.

But if you went back to the past, you wouldn’t be able to talk to the agents like you have been. Everyone was nice to you and they didn’t demand things or pick fights like the agents of the past. You were even able to have fun with them unlike before when your only friends were the rest of the kitchen staff.

You wouldn’t be able to go on shopping trips like you did with Hanzo. It was nice. It was the closest thing to normal you’ve felt in a long time. No expectations, no pressures, just freedom. How long has it been since you didn’t have to care about anything except for what was in front of you? How long has it been since you were able to just enjoy yourself? You had fun for once and with an agent, no less.

But what cost did that come at?

Overwatch would now be mobile, traveling all over the world, fighting bad guys and setting things right. There isn’t much that you could do as a cook especially with everyone scattered. You’d just be another body to protect or another factor for them to account for.

On the other hand, this kitchen only has you. From all of its intricacies to its idiosyncrasies, you were the only one here who knew them. Or rather, you only had the kitchen. The plan was always to keep this place afloat until the Head Chef came back. Once he was found and came back, then everything would go back to the way it used to be.

If he came back. What if he didn’t want to come back? Then all you would have done would have been for nothing. Hell, leaving now when he hasn’t returned may as well have been for nothing. If your work was going to be for nothing, then you would’ve never left Cœur d’Artichaut and then at least maybe you’d have a place to belong.

— “I could never get tired of your cooking.”—

—“A chef’s purpose iz to serve their customers. Without them, we are nothing.”—

You groan. You don’t know what to do.

Giving yourself a moment to mourn what should have been and what could have been, you throw your cleaning rag into the sanitization bucket and dump yourself onto the floor. From your pocket, you pull out your communicator, clasping it tight between both hands as though an answer would appear. It doesn’t, and you’re not sure if the many names you have recorded might have an answer either.

The kitchen doesn’t have room for crying or for the weary or the weak—all those should go to the break room. Everyone will have to forgive you if you don’t know what to do and don’t want to move.

A hiss from the direction of the Cellar makes you and your heart rate jump. Out of sheer habit, you grab and brandish the closest thing to you: a spatula.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize who is standing there, and you could only laugh. The drain of adrenaline immediately leaves you weak and cold, and you have to step back and lean both hands back against a counter. The area where you were shot throbs, and all at once, exhaustion tumbles relentlessly into you as though you were an empty vessel to be filled.

“Sorry about that, Agent Roadhog.”

“Mm.”

Roadhog ducks his head, stepping in sideways through the Cellar entryway. The door to the Cellar was originally designed to allow the kitchen carts to fit through with ease, but Agent Roadhog’s sheer girth makes that design choice seem inadequate.

You hurriedly wipe your face with your sleeves, and clear your throat, shoving your communicator back into your pockets.

“What can I do for you? Lemon lime bitters or lemon barley water? It’ll take a little bit since we don’t have anything premixed—”

Roadhog shoves a basket at you, cutting your speech short. Unwittingly, you take it from his hands. It’s a medley of vegetables and herbs.

“Oh, did you want me to make something with this?” you ask, sifting through the bounty. Spinach; radishes that look like they’re heirloom; arugula; kale; scallions; peppers. “They’re really good quality, I haven’t seen these in the market before…”

Your words fade from your mouth as a slow, creeping realization strangles them clean out of your mind. All of these look too familiar in terms of breed. Digging deeper into the basket, you happen upon a batch of mint. The leaf shape, the deep green color are all reminiscent of a different time. You pick a leaf off and put it in your mouth, chewing it slowly. The leaves are an even balance of crisp and soft. It is minty, of course, but there are no harsh or bitter notes that one would expect to find after chewing on peppermint. Instead, it’s sweet and soothing with a hint of fruit. It’s a nostalgic flavor, one you haven’t thought of in years.

“Where’d you get this…?” you ask slowly, trying to see past the mask he wears. There’s no way—

Agent Roadhog grunts and turns, leading you back into the tunnel from which he came. Clutching the basket, disbelief and anticipation running through your veins, you follow.

—-

Walking is a little more difficult than he remembers. There's a persistent pain in his legs from his injuries, but as long as he's not bleeding through his pants, he’s not too concerned. One of the first pit stops he makes is the cafeteria, and to his surprise, there’s already people.

Ana waves at him, gesturing at the seat between herself and Brigitte who nods at him as she tries to choke down whatever she’s stuffed into her cheeks.

“Have a seat, Shimada. Party’s starting without you.”

It seems that while he wasn’t looking, afternoon tea had resumed. In addition to the usual butter cookies, there’s a wider assortment of sweets as though someone were trying their hand at opening a store or someone robbed a bakery.

“...Chef made all this?”

“Sure did. Help yourself. Chef—mmph—makes awesome desserts,” Brigitte says between mouthfuls. She pauses her chewing to clench her fists, a full body shiver on display. “Mm! This is good, too.”

“Of course,” he replies automatically with a swell of pride.

How she managed to convince you to make so many is beyond him. Unconsciously, he looks toward the service window where the lights are on and there is movement inside. You’re definitely working too much. While he can admire a dedicated person, even he knows there are limits to how far one can push themselves before they break.

“What are you waiting for? Have a seat.” Hanzo hurriedly sits down, his lips thinning as he catches sight of Ana’s knowing smile. He ignores her, focusing instead on the selection of goods available.

It’s hard to even know where to start.

The usual butter cookies are a given and Ana seems to be happy monopolizing them. There are trays of flaky twists, sliced roll cakes of different flavors, white round balls of something covered with coconut shavings topped with a single red dot, white rectangles with a texture between sponge cake and mochi.

He goes for a tart-like pastry with yellow custard in the middle that he recognizes as egg tarts first.

The crimped pastry is perfectly flaky, the outer layers crisp and the inner layers toward the tart are moist and soft. The custard is still the slightest bit warm and jiggly, smooth, and tasting of lightly sweetened eggs. It’s almost reminiscent of Japanese pudding except it’s warm instead of cold.

Beside him, Brigitte leans in. “How’s it? Good? I haven’t tried that one yet.”

“It’s good,” he replies as he licks his lips. It’s different from what you’d normally make, but it’s delicious nevertheless. He pours himself a cup of tea

The tea is dark and astringent, almost unpleasantly so alone but pairs well with remnants of his snack with a cleansing aftertaste that reminds him of fruit. It’s not a tea he’s had before and is certainly not one he remembers Ana ever ordering.

He spots his favorite: pan-fried red bean cake and wastes no time snatching three for himself. If anyone accuses him of being greedy, he can just say he needs more sustenance for healing.

Pockets of time carved out like this makes it easy to forget everything that has happened, but given the nature of Overwatch, conversation eventually steers face first into business.

“When we arrived, we thought the worst,” Ana says rather lightly. “Both you and your brother were on the ground and McCree was missing.”

Hanzo grunts. Reaper just left them there after ordering the retreat without any answers as to why and how they were there in the first place.

“Do we know where the leak happened?”

Ana shrugs. “We have a few ideas and Fareeha is busy investigating right now. She’s missing out.”

Hanzo takes one of the white balls of coconut covered mochi, almost choking on an explosion of finely chopped peanuts and sugar that was hiding beneath the surprisingly thin exterior.

“We can ask Chef to save some for her,” Brigitte suggests, oblivious or ignoring Hanzo’s silent struggle. “I’m sure we have enough for that.”

When Hanzo regains control of his windpipe again, he asks, “Do we know anything about their motive? Other than the hostages.”

“We suspect the hostages were just an excuse as you may have guessed. All the shots—except the ones from Reaper—were non-lethal rounds, so they must have wanted to talk.”

“Any suspicions as to why?”

Ana scoffs. “Who knows what that fool is thinking.” She takes a ginger sip of her tea before glaring at the reflection. “He's always had a flair for dramatics, that one. Brilliant in ways I wished he wasn't."

“...you know Reaper?”

“I know him better than I’d like.” She sips her tea and lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, it’s a good thing there were no casualties.” He gives her a look, trying to convey that his current state of being is a casualty. The look is wasted on her because she just reaches for another cookie, skillfully ignoring his gaze.

“Especially with you, Shimada. It would have been bad if Talon could spin the story that Overwatch came back and used lethal force against people equipped with ‘non-lethal’ weapons.” Again, he tries to give her a look and again it’s rebuffed. “I think you’ve been changing. You’re an assassin by trade, yes?”

“Yes,” he answers hesitantly. “Family trade.”

“And killing your enemies is your default.”

“...yes.”

“But no one died on the mission.”

“Not that I was informed, no.”

“You held back. Sure, you hurt them enough to make them wish they died, but you didn’t exactly slaughter them outright, now did you?”

“I…” He doesn’t really remember. As soon as each enemy was felled, he stopped caring. But he remembers having put his hands on people, thrown them to the ground, hit their vitals with his fists, but he can’t recall having to confirm any kills—there was no need.

“It changes nothing. Killing wasn’t a requirement in that mission.”

“But we never said not to. You made the choice for yourself.”

“It was implied. Overwatch is not that sort of organization.”

“And you’re fitting in just perfectly,” Ana says cheerfully. “You have changed, Shimada. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

There’s nothing he can say to that, and he drinks another cup of tea.

He has changed, he knows this, but whether it’s for the better or not is something only the future would know.

The snacks dwindle as more people slowly join the group. D.Va and Winston join them at some point while Brigitte leaves with a whole handful (and mouthful) of pastries. Even Soldier makes an appearance, only to leave after suffering ridicule from the combined forces of Ana and D.Va.

It’s not until late in the afternoon that he finds his opening to get up and leave, but not before stopping by the service window.

For old time’s sake, he rings the bell.

Almost just as quickly, your torso appears at the service window.

“Hello Hanzo. What would you like to order today?”

A warm, molten feeling fills his stomach and rises into his cheeks, forcing a smile out of him. It’s innocuous, but it’s the first time you’ve called his name without a prefix while working. Hanzo has seen some of the world’s splendors in his youth but none of them has made him feel anything like this.

Despite not being able to see your face, you seem more spirited than before, practically rocking on your feet.

“I came to compliment the chef on the buffet. It was delectable.”

“Actually, I only made the cookies and red bean cakes. Patisserie Woo sent everything else through same day delivery.”

“They were all delicious.”

“I’ll let her know.” He doesn’t have to see behind the partition to know you’re pleased. “We should also be getting some meals from a few others.” He can’t imagine these are being sent the conventional way; part of the reason why you had to use the restaurant as a cover was because regular shipments couldn’t be sent here lest the Gibraltar police knows Overwatch is back again.

“Does this mean you’re now in contact with your colleagues?”

You take a moment before answering, hands float between the partition hesitantly and then rest on top of the other. “...yes.”

Inexplicably, his stomach drops at the soft tone of your voice, concern filling the void.

“Did it go well?”

“Yeah, it did.” You laugh sheepishly and the sound instantly makes his worries disappear. Your hands gesture at the group and the treat covered table. “As you can see. Everyone suddenly called and was mad that I was doing these things without telling them, but we’re getting somewhere.”

“I can’t imagine that Soldier approves of it.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

“You’ve gotten cheekier.” Realizing you may not take that the right way, he hurriedly adds, “It’s a good thing.”

“Well, this cheeky person got permission to hold a final farewell dinner.” You hold your fists at your waist, probably puffing out your chest. “Do you have any requests?”

“I thought you didn’t take requests.”

“Well…we’re leaving Watchpoint: Gibraltar and I thought ‘enough rules have been broken, what’s another one’?”

He entertains the idea of asking you for the treasure of the Cellar if only to confirm his suspicions, but that wouldn’t be fair. He then remembers something he saw not too long ago and comes to his decision.

“Miso soup.”

“That’s it?”

“Should I ask for a ten-course meal?”

“Please, no.”

He couldn’t help the sly smile that forms on his face or the burst of mischief. “What if I insist?”

“No.”

“If I say ‘please’?”

“Keep this up and I won’t make anything for you.”

“Three course meal.”

“One.”

“One course and a snack.”

“One item and a snack.”

“Done.” He holds out his hand for you to shake on it which you do with a laugh. Just as he grips your hand however, he adds in just as quickly, “Snack is one whole cake.”

“Are you kidding me—!?”

“We shook on it, Chef.”

“You’re bad.” And then in a more teasing tone, “Are you sure you’re a hero? You should be a villain."

“Why does everyone think I'm a villain? Is it the goatee?” He pauses, stroking his facial hair despite the fact you likely can’t see him. “It's the goatee, isn't it?”

It draws a burst of laughter out of you.

“I like the goatee, you look distinguished.”

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased with this development or your compliments, allowing himself to savor your words a little more, rubbing his goatee between his fingers.

Grinning to himself, he leans in as close as he can to the wall. “Is that all you like, Chef?”

To his delight, you begin to splutter, clearly at loss as to how to answer. He presses himself closer to the partition, ducking his head slightly so he might catch your answer.

Hanzo whirls around suddenly, a thorny presence behind him. Just as he does, a movement catches his eye and his hands rush in before he can even think.

He barely catches the falling teapot by the handle. It’s thankfully empty and he holds onto it with both hands, looking back at Ana who stands a little too close with a funny smile.

“Go on, I can wait.”

---

Dr. Ziegler finally gave him permission to help out with packing up the Watchpoint, warning him not to lift heavy objects.

“No climbing. No jumping around. No backflips or frontflips. Nothing faster than a light jog. And you are not to lift or carry anything over 15kg,” she stresses with a pen in his face. “I know how your wounds look, but you are far from fully healed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She has to belabor the point a few more times, and he suspects it isn’t really him she’s talking to. When he finally gets free, Winston directs him to you, citing that while the kitchen is mostly packed up, there are other things that require attention.

You tell him as much with a secretive but exasperated smile on your face. The kitchen itself seems more barren than before, its shelves and hangers mostly empty, highlighting the hastily put-together repairs that were attempted after Talon’s attack. It’s a little sad, if he were to be honest.

You lead him into the Cellar, explaining that the past few days were spent clearing out storage spaces and the like. There’s one final thing you wanted help with, and you lead him straight through the winding tunnels and to the imposing wall of the vault.

Standing in front of it now, a door separating him between what is likely the Cellar’s treasure, he finds that he is not as excited about this as he thought he’d be. It isn’t exactly how he had envisioned getting inside, either, but he supposes with so little time left here, he cannot complain.

You knock on the door, now welded on one side like a proper door, but the singe marks make it perfectly clear that it was anything but.

“Password?”

“Golden faerie bread.”

'Faerie bread?'

He didn't have time to ask as the door creaks open. The light that comes out of the room forces him to hide his eyes behind his hand. Even before he’s able to see, the smell of fresh dirt and humid air gushes out, briefly choking his senses. Slowly, he lowers his hand, taking his first steps inside.

The room is slightly humid and pleasantly warm in a way that reminds him of late spring in Hanamura. The room is cavernous and its walls are all dyed in white; it looks like a miniature version of the cafeteria. Instead of tables, lines and lines of shelves stack on top of each other, reaching up toward the ceiling where dozens of lights hang. Meters with shaking needles and crudely put together charts hang between curtains of tubing. These shelves look like they’ve seen better days, some parts frankensteined together with mismatched pipes and tape.

Within each of these shelves, lush leaves of different shapes and sizes spill out in neat rows.

It’s a garden.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Happy to have you here! You can look, but touching’s gonna cost ya—hurKK!” Junkrat is immediately grabbed by Roadhog who gives you the briefest of nods and him the hardest of stares before lumbering off toward the far end of the room.

Awkward moment aside, you waste no time launching into a spiel and introducing him to the space. “Welcome to the Cellar Garden. When I first got back, all the plants were already dead and lots of the infrastructure was rusted or broken, and I didn’t have the time to fix it. But Agent Junkrat and Agent Roadhog fixed it up and converted this from an N.F.T. system to a Drip Recovery system so that there’s less maintenance needed when we're not here, but it does take up more space so we can't grow the bigger vegetables—”

The words blend together and become incoherent. Instead, this world of whistles and greens narrow until only you remain. You’re like a child in a candy store, similar to when you both went out shopping, pointing out everything with excitement and wonder and without any of the worries or cares that always held you down.

Freedom and happiness is a good look for you.

And it’s at this moment he is able to confirm something he had thought ever since you first brought him into the Cellar.

“—so these are ready for harvesting. Agent Roadhog and Agent Junkrat will dismantle that section for parts so don’t worry about picking anything from there.”

He watches you roll up your sleeves, weaving between wall after wall of greenery with a spring in your step. Wryly, he smiles to himself as he remembers McCree’s hints.

The treasure is meant to sustain Overwatch and without it, the organization cannot survive. One would indeed think it’s alcohol, enough alcohol to numb the nagging voices and doubts of every agent as they carry out their increasingly morally dubious activities while the world burns around them.

Seeing the walls and walls of vegetation around him, this could also be the correct answer. Even your own hints, that the treasure won’t be of interest to anyone but the chefs, point to this garden.

Perhaps you aren’t aware of it yourself, but this hidden garden is likely a red herring.

No one ever said that the treasure was in this vault-like room. The clues simply said the treasure was in the Cellar. Beyond the Cellar door not only laid the garden, but the office, storage rooms, and break rooms.

More importantly, he caught a glimpse of the first room you entered when you both went on your escapade: a spartan, but well-used dorm room. He could easily imagine a dozen or so people in there, resting after a long shift or sitting in their bunks, playing cards and laughing and joking around, waiting to get caught staying up late like a bunch of school children, but also ready to throw on their uniforms if hungry customers demand for it.

A romanticist like your Head Chef could only have been thinking one thing, and perhaps he was one too for thinking it.

The real treasure is none other than the chefs (and you).

Chapter 21>>

#the way to a heart #my writing #oh my fucking god it took 20 chapters but here we are #the treasure is revealed and i am almost free #just 1 more chapter and an epilogue goddamnit #there's so much i want to say especially about the development of this fic but i need to wait until the very end

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