Warnings/Tags: Established relationship, slight angst? Pet names, fluffy at the end, happy ending, injury, my interpretation of the knocker, stalking, yandere tendencies calls reader pretty once.
Words: 2k
A/N: Hellooooo!! I've recently became infatuated with the knocker for some odd reason. Thus this fic was created, enjoy! ♡
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Your trip to the mines was unsuccessful, to say the least. With the knocker breathing down your back and him standing by watching you kill mobs yourself despite him being able to help. Well, needless to say, you were annoyed, not just a little annoyed either, the kind that made you want to rip someone's head off.
Sometimes if you went to the mines alone, with him lurking around, of course. You'd bring him back a gift, placing it in the chest you made just for him. It was always expected, but this time, after you got home, you didn't even so much as glance at his chest and ignored him entirely.
Walking past the chest to place the 3 pieces of iron and 20 pieces of coal you were still grateful enough to find. Knocker watches through your window. You didn't need to look back to remember that he was the reason the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. It was always because of him. The only difference is he’s made his presence painfully aware.
The same goes for your relationship.
After his odd attempts to court you succeeded, you’ve been seeing a lot more of him. He was a part of your routine, your daily life. Despite your relationship, you weren't hesitant to swing your sword in his direction if he got a bit too playful.
Today was one of those days. Stripping off your armor that desperately needed to be repaired, then placing it onto the armor stand, a frustrated sigh escapes you.
Then the knocking at the door happened.
You didn't need to say anything for him to let himself in. He claimed your house as his own the moment he knew it was yours.
“Hello, Sunshine.” The knocker purred, closing the door behind him as if he couldn't feel the waves of annoyance emanating from you.
He comes closer, trying to wrap himself around your middle, searching for heat his body lacks. But you shrug him off, staying quiet to avoid saying something you’ll regret.
Knocker lets out a scoff, a little hurt you didn't reciprocate his affection, but you were known for being a bit feisty even after developing a bond with him. He took this as a challenge.
“Sunshine, come here.” His tone was firm, but you ignored him. As you move about your house, placing things where they need to be—iron in the smelter, cobblestone in chests—his eyes never leave your body. He notices the way you maneuver around him as if he weren't there, just a pillar getting in the way of your tasks.
“Let me help.”
He places a hand on yours. Slowly you turn your face to him. He could see the fury that was brewing in your eyes. The knocker wasn't afraid of anything, but seeing his beloved so angry—no, furious… Scared him just a tiny bit, even more so when you started to reach for your sword.
“Help?” Your voice starts off small, as if you were trying to find the proper words to put together so they wouldn’t flow out without thought.
“You want to help?” Too bad the words already started flowing out of you before you were able to stop it, your mouth moving faster than your brain, anger clouding your thoughts.
“You almost made me DIE trying to find iron. You watched me fighting for my life, pushing myself to exhaustion, yet now you’re talking about HELPING ME?!”
Your body reacted on its own, your sword coming down, tearing a hole in his jacket. Knocker stumbled back, his hand holding onto the wound you’ve given him. It wasn't the first time you'd clashed weapons. He just didn't expect you to actually land a real blow on him after so long. Sure, he's put you in predicaments that made you respawn. However, this was different.
This wasn't just a playful spar.
“You were doing just fine on your own. Besides, I did help.” Knocker retorts, his voice unwavering. You didn't want a discussion about whether he actually helped or not. You just wanted him gone.
“When I needed you, you sat there lollygagging in your own world. You know what…” You place the tip of your blade to his chest, forcing him to move backwards in an attempt to avoid being pierced, one of his worst fears now being realized.
His back now against the door, with your other hand you open the door then kick him in the stomach, making him stumble onto the ground in the dead of night.
“Leave me the fuck alone, knocker. You've pissed me off for the last time. I never want to see you or feel your stupid presence again. You’re no longer welcome in MY house.”
The nail in the coffin was you slamming the door in his face. The knocker lies there, confused at where he messed up. Wasn't that the dynamic of your relationship? Annoying each other? The stalking? The playful banter and spars? There's no way he messed up that badly he didn't even notice.
Were you really pissed at him? Well, the gash in his arm says otherwise. If you were lying, your eyes would’ve shown signs of betrayal, and in a matter of seconds you would’ve tended to his wounds, giving him some snide remarks along the way.
This was different.
Similar to when you two first met.
All that adrenaline, fear, and paranoia that eventually became something more that he clung onto desperately were so easily shattered in a matter of hours.
Still.
He knows his presence will be missed. He's seen the way you become when you leave your beloved dogs for days, how you spoil them, smother them with kisses and extra treats… He wondered if you’d feel the same about him.
Will you look around trying to find his face somewhere staring back at you in the distance? Will you turn around, ready to push him away if you think you feel him breathing down your neck? Will you shift in bed, trying to find his body to move him closer to you?
He's already missing you deeply.
Inside your house, you remain by the door. Part of you wants Knocker to return, but once you hear his footsteps growing distant, your shoulders slump. Out of habit, you look towards your windows, fully expecting him to stare back at you. There is no sign of him anywhere.
You told him to leave, and for once he actually listened…
You climb into your side of the bed. You were so used to him dipping his side of the bed that sleeping alone felt wrong. You wanted to be alone, and now you were.
Not a wink of sleep was had.
A few days go by, still no sign of Knocker anywhere, his presence unfelt, and the extra chest that became his remained untouched. Just like how things were before you met him.
You had your pets, the villagers, yet still felt lonely. In the village, you busy yourself with trading. As you're talking to the trader, you can feel eyes watching you in the distance. You glance past the trader, a part of you hoping to see The Knocker smiling at you in the distance.
The feeling vanished as quickly as it came. Your mind was playing tricks on you.
The sun was beginning to set. You decided to stay in the village for the night. You were too far from home and would be fighting your way to your door.
You begin to prepare yourself for bed in the spare little house the villagers allowed you to use. Until there was a knock on the door that made you perk up.
“Knocker?”
You rushed to the door faster than you liked, ready to be greeted by the annoying entity. But alas, it wasn't him. The iron golem stands infront of the door. He was too tall to see his face from where you stood. He gives you a poppy flower, carefully petting your head, then stomping away.
You hold the poppy flower in your hand. Somehow it reminded you of Knocker, how he used to watch as you decorated your small garden.
He thought it was trivial, making a small space look pretty when you’d barely visit it anyway. Every time you went back to your little garden, you noticed there were a few more flowers than when you left it.
No, no, you didn't miss him.
And now, with that thought still fresh in your mind, it made you irritable. Gently you place the poppy flower onto the bed and suit up. You needed to let off some steam, get your mind off of him.
The mines near the village were perfect for that.
He seemed to be better off anyway. He didn't care to stalk you. Maybe he's moved on already…
Something within you didn't like that thought.
You were in the mines for hours. Your trip was successful, even finding diamonds. You were content with your finds. You returned to the surface just as the sun was rising. Its golden rays are blinding you.
“I should head home now…” You yawn into your hand. Quickly you rush to the spare house, grab your belongings, say your goodbyes, and begin the long journey home. If you were lucky, you’d be there by sunset.
You thought of investing in a horse before. That would be so much easier.
On your walk home, you notice how peaceful it was—no creepers, no spiders, no zombies or skeletons hiding in the shade waiting to catch you unguarded. The forest was beautiful when you weren't in constant danger.
“Weird.” You muttered once you realized there wasn't any danger at all. It really was just you in the forest.
You took your time getting home, soaking in the scenery in a way you couldn't before. Slowing down cost you the whole day. Before you knew it, the moon was rising and you were still miles away from home.
Much to your dismay, you begin to hear the gurgling of zombies and rattling of skeletons heading your way.
The full moon was high and bright, yet it didn't illuminate the forest you were trapped in. Not only were you lost, but you also couldn't see where they were coming from. You swing your sword at sounds in the darkness, but they still manage to grab onto you, scratch you, and bite you. An arrow whizzed by your ear. You were lucky enough to be out of range for that, but you couldn't fight them all, and your body was beginning to fail you. You were pushing your body to the limits again.
“Knocker, help!”
The words escaped your lips. The pain became unbearable. You knew if you died, you’d just respawn in bed but risk losing everything.
“Knocker.” You use the last of your breath to call for him again. Your body stiffens and then goes limp.
There was a smell of freshly baked bread and something burnt in the air that made you stir under the covers. Your body aches awake. You didn't remember making it home, yet here you were, asleep in your bed, fireplace crackling, and in a fresh set of comfortable clothes. There was a sharp pain on your neck. Touching the tender area, you could feel something cloth-like. It was poorly wrapped.
“Bandages?”
You whispered.
Something wasn't right.
Pulling yourself out of bed, you wince in pain. The outside world was still dark. You could’ve slept the night away until you fully recovered, but your stubbornness forced you out of bed.
You poke your head out of the room, inspecting the main area of the house just to be safe.
Crouched near the furnace poking its fire with a stick was none other than the said 'something that didn't feel right,' The Knocker.
He was busy in his own world making something. Clearing your throat, he shoots up. For a second he hesitates. Unsure if you were still mad at him.
You felt a little guilty when you saw the hole in his jacket you so kindly left him. Your eyes fall onto your ground. You were remorseful, which made him feel secure in his decision to walk towards you.
You didn't want to look at him, but he loves when you do, even if there's tension. He brings a finger to your chin and moves your gaze to him. You couldn't help but give him a weak smile as you became flustered.
“I’m sorry.” “I made you soup.”
You both spoke at the same time.
Rolling your shoulders, you both stand there awkwardly unsure of what to even say in the moment. He turns to head back to the furnace, but you use what little strength you have to pull him back. Slowly you wrap yourself around him and nuzzle into his chest. He smelled like the forest, fresh pine and dirt.
“I’m sorry, Knocker. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that.” You say it again. Knocker strokes your head gently. He wishes he could pull you closer into his chest until you become one, keeping you safe where you belong, with him.
“I cleared out most of the horde that day. There was a spawner nearby, and I tried to protect you while you were busy. I thought you had the rest under control.”
“W-what?” You look at him, confused.
Knocker presses your cheek to his chest again, his fingers messing with your hair, getting lost in your strands. There was a faint grumble in his chest.
“The day in the mines, I wasn't sitting around. I was helping from the source, which failed miserably.” He sighs. Part of him felt stupid. He almost failed to protect you, but seeing you like this, so docile for him, so clingy. It drove him insane.
“I was always nearby, just not as close. I made sure your trip home was safe. That's how I was able to find you so quickly. Good thing I did.” He lifts your chin up to meet his gaze again, his cold lips gently falling onto yours.
“I’ll always find you no matter how much you try to push me away. You belong to me.” "Humans just say they're sorry, you know." You roll your eyes, playfully hitting his shoulder before pushing him away. You forgot how sore your body was. Your arms felt like they were about to fall off.
“Shit still hurts though.”
He says, pointing to the tear in his jacket, You caught a glimpse at the poorly bandaged wound in his arm. He wasn't so great at taking care of himself, yet still wanted to take care of you.
“Yeah, that was a bit much... I’m sorry. Sometimes you annoy the shit out of me though!”
Knocker hums, ignoring the rest of what you said.
“You have a nasty scratch on your neck. I took care of it. I made you mushroom stew.” He says, grinning. He was proud that he was able to cook for you for once.
“Where did you learn to cook?”
He went quiet for a minute before confessing.
“Village.”
“So… that day with the trader…”
“Me.”
You tried to stifle your laugh. It was honestly ridiculous how you still managed to cross paths unintentionally.
“So you mean to tell me you were at the village to learn how to cook for me? Not to stalk me?”
You laughed, and Knocker rolled his eyes, a faint blush on his pale face. He was easy to tease.
“Two things can be true at once.”
Your banter continues to the small table near the window. Knocker serves you the stew. You didn't expect it to be so flavorful in the best way possible. He watches you like a puppy, waiting to see your reaction to his dish.
“This is… decent.”
In other words, it was good, but his ego was already through the roof.
“I’ll make it for you whenever you want.” He places a soft kiss at your temple. You hum, leaning into him.
“What about the bread you made earlier?” you asked, making Knocker freeze, clearing his throat.
“I… think I should let you handle the bread making.”
“But it smelled good earlier. What do you mean?”
He was silent and just smiled at you like a man who knew he fucked up.
"There were... attempts." He admits.
“You didn't use up all my wheat, though, right?”
He looks to the side, then back at you. Still smiling.
“Knocker, you didn’t use up all my wheat, right?” You asked again firmly. Knocker puts a cold hand to your cheek, rubbing circles on your warm skin.
“Don't worry your pretty head, darling. You just rest up while your boyfriend spoils you.” He adored reminding you who he was to you. Not just the entity who lurks in this world, in your home, in your bed. No, he was your boyfriend. The same boyfriend who terrorizes innocent souls who so much as breathe in your direction.
“I’m not letting you leave my sight until you recover.”
“Don't change the subject, you idiot.”
“You wound me, literally.”
You couldn't be too mad. He was trying, still learning how to communicate with humans, something he's long forgotten. But he so desperately wanted to be what you needed. You honestly didn't care much about the wheat, you wanted to pull his leg.
He was going to spoil you and keep you all to himself for as long as possible. You were his warmth after all, the very reason he's driven himself mad with infatuation. He refuses to have his beloved leave him ever again.
A/N: Thank you for reading! I'm not exactly sure how the knocker managed to wrap me around his finger but just know it wasn't cause of the fanart 😭Hes so cute and annoying i adore him free me guys.
୨♡୧ — 𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒑 of his index finger before he would turn the page of his book—it was a rundown copy of Pride and Prejudice you’d noticed he had been reading for the past week.
The fragile paper spine was withered, the cover crinkled and faded, the brown spotted pages folded over and over and wrinkled through; these were all the tell tale signs of his illustrious dedication and patience.
Ever since the beginning of the semester you’d seen traces of that same book sprinkled throughout his classroom in various, random places—laid on the corner of his mahogany desk, poking out of his brown leather bag, sometimes discarded in the middle of his work load tousled into a pile of papers with the pages spread open.
Alas, these were all just subtle cues to how late and boring the silence must be after class is finished, after the fog has laid heavy on campus, and the buzz of coffee still thrummed in his veins.
It was In the quiet evenings of midnight when he had nothing to do but read.
His blatant admiration for the novel always made you curious.
Why that book specifically?
You personally never enjoyed it. The writing was too pretentious for your modern recollection of the human language to register properly; you could never start a new page without rereading the last one for some semblance of understanding.
Books as confusing and political as that one never served of any interest to you.
However, you also figured that his position and esteemed title as the Romanticism course professor inspired him to find value in old, venerable, sickly romantic books like that. It was part of his job description to pick apart romantic literature from that era and somehow find a way to incorporate it into his lessons.
Even then, how much free time would allow him to reread the same book over and over again like he couldn’t be bothered to do anything else?
Then, that thought made you all the more curiouser, all the more intrigued, as it compelled you to fall down a grandeur rabbit hole of valid, distinguished possibilities.
Did he not go on dates?
Surely he had a wife—a man that handsome and poised wouldn’t be kept off a leash for too long… but there wasn’t a ring on his finger, an observation shamelessly made on your first day in class.
A girlfriend maybe?
It was a more subtle, private alternative that you wouldn’t be privy to unless he specifically mentioned her, something easily kept in secret with no telling ring to give it away.
Surely…
God, you hoped not, you really hoped not. You’d feel too guilty fantasizing about another woman’s man, a man that didn’t belong to you.
Well…
He certainly didn’t belong to you in the more modern, realistic sense yet you could also argue that fictional scenarios in your head were better than the morbid reality; in your mind he was yours.
It was his hands lingering on your waist and his lips tainting your skin, unabashed and unashamed, fervorous and passionate as he’d ravenously take you on his desk after a day of hard restraint.
Of course you’d be afraid that someone would walk in, peek their head in the small rectangular window on his door and witness the filthy consequence of an attraction gone long unfilled between two desperately wanting individuals.
But that was the allure of it all to begin with wasn’t it?
That forbidden desire to be seen and touched by someone that was wrong for you, by someone you knew you weren’t supposed to have as you both would continue to consensually break every moral standing in the rule book anyway.
It was the tantalizing thought of danger and sex combined that made it all the more exciting… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for someone to walk in, maybe you’d want them to.
It was the charming theory of someone knowing that they could risk their own career, their own life, just for a merciful moment of being with who they truly wanted; the cataclysmic object of their desires that could so easily destroy everything they worked so hard to get yet simultaneously give them everything they ever wanted.
It was romantic (contradictory), the idea of embracing the possible dangers that came with giving in yet doing it anyway with the one person you truly cared about.
It was a strange juxtaposition between right and wrong, selfishness or selflessness, do I or don’t I?
You too wished to have him feel that way about you, to crave you so badly he’d willingly endanger his own livelihood to have you.
It was that level of being wanted, of being needed, of being utterly desired by someone that truly drove you insane, that truly drove you to fantasize about him in such a wrongful way in the first place.
You slouched in your seat with a somber sigh at the salacious thoughts, pushing them away from your mind as your eyes steadily bore into your professors figure to distract yourself from yourself.
He was the only thing worth looking at anyway it seemed.
You sighed dejectedly… even a little ashamed.
Only you could be wondering about your professor’s love life while he was innocently enjoying his favorite book, naive to your curious eyes and lustful gaze.
As you stared a feeling of unexpected contentment settled through your blood like heavy syrup, sweet but leaving you with the bitterness of shame for overindulgence; No, you really didn’t feel guilty no matter what his relationship status was.
That made you feel conflicted with your own feelings and sense of morality—did this make you a bad person?
You’ve never been one to chase something that wasn’t yours, but you also guessed your professor, whether he belonged to another woman or not, most certainly belonged to you in a much kinder universe.
One where he noticed you on the street during a windy day in the midst of autumn, where the leaves were hues of oranges and reds and the air smelt of cinnamon sticks and rain.
He’d greet you with a gentle smile and a crinkle in his pale hazel colored eyes, having bumped into your shoulder rather less than conspicuously but you were too awestruck to be mad at him.
It was a universe where you weren’t his student and your relationship had genuine promise, one where he took you for coffee and you’d both laugh over something silly with wide smiles and twinkling eyes; giddy and blushing like you two were a pair of inexperienced teenagers on a first date.
It was a universe where you both acted like you didn’t feel the tension brewing between you amidst the coffee steam, hot and heavy and thick like the smog settling on the street outside. 
But then, the time would come to acknowledge said attraction only a mere three dates later during a nightcap he had so generously offered you.
A night spent tangled in silken sheets, wrapped between strong arms as you both indulged in the greed and want and pleasure only the other person could satisfy.
A night of frantic touches and hazy kisses snuck into the blurs of sweet moans and breathy gasps, passionate and tender as you both finally succumbed to your deepest desires in the deepest, most intimate parts of yourselves.
Although, this was not your universe, and he was no handsome stranger wearing a black coat on the sidewalk of a busy, rain smelling street.
No, he was not taking you in his bed with the fervor of a distraught, sex deprived man who had been without the touch of a woman for so so long, wanting to give you indescribable pleasure in the warmth found between his chest and yours.
You were in this universe, this cruel, unkind, uncaring universe where all you could do was watch and yearn. A universe with no coffee date, no laughter, no sweet smiles. A universe where his cock wouldn’t be stuffed inside you and his fingers wouldn’t be stuck knuckle deep inside your mouth.
In this universe, he belonged to the forbidden temptation of wanting something you couldn’t have.
He belonged to the frowned upon school policy of sleeping with your teacher, the one that could result in an immediate expulsion of both student and employee.
He belonged to wisdom and ethics, books and academia and surely a lucky girl on the side… you were better off sticking to your side of the dull blue wall with your head in a textbook, unbothered and unseen, with nothing but your fantasies about you.
Your eyes narrowed on him as a certain sadness pulled at your chest with that final thought.
You focused intently on the intricate beauty of his face, his body, his aura and structure. He was golden, golden light, warmth and sun rays that soothed your achey soul with just a smile.
He had blood of ichor and a body of pure, perfect aurum like only a god could’ve carved him with the most skilled of hands and the most pristine of tools.
Each stroke careful and precise as to not ruin him, each carving delicate and lovely as to prove their affection for him.
It took pure dedication and utter devotion to create such a remarkable creature, such tender love and care poured into every vein and artery and he was the result of it. 
You were just thankful to the god patient enough to grant you this magnificent masterpiece, a blessing in a poor disguise as his worth blatantly shined through.
Every muscle adorning his form was sharp and smooth, clothes tailored perfectly to his size in the finest of silks and cashmere.
He was a deity himself deserving to be pampered with the most lavish of riches and fabrics. You were nothing if not a loyal concubine bound to satisfy his every desire—there were certainly worser fates.
Alright… maybe you were being dramatic.
A small, amused smile graced your lips at your own odd humor.
Perhaps his lessons on romance had finally imprinted into your brain unknowingly in the form of blabbered poetry and similes.
Or maybe you just liked him that much, enough to write poems.
But, in your own defense, you swore you had never seen a man as pretty as him before. He was the type of pretty that made every girl swoon and crack their necks trying to get a good look at him. 
The type of handsome found in the essence of those old timey sepia toned photos where you couldn’t believe the man in the picture with the slicked back hair and smile ever existed in the first place.
He was nostalgic yet all too new, a kind of beauty only found in the rarest of forms on the rarest of faces.
He was the type of handsome that encapsulated light academia and sweet love notes, black coffee stains on crinkled paper and warm sunsets on a quiet evening.
He was cozy and familiar, like the burning flame of a candle wick during a dreary, stormy night you could seek solace in.
He was comfortable yet overwhelming, with light hazel eyes and ruffled brown hair—a middle part, stopping just at the crown of his ears in gentle waves. He was constantly running his fingers through it that gave him a post sex appearance, like it had been your fingers running through the chocolate colored strands.
He was so pretty that he had everyone feeding into the palm of his hand even if he didn’t know it, willing to do whatever he wanted for a modicum of his attention (and you were no better, but at least you had the dignity to admit it).
He had brown scruff spread across his strong jaw and on top of his pink lip, tattoos painted under those sweaters of his you rarely ever saw in totality—he often favored collared, long sleeved shirts and warm sweaters.
He had a dazzling wide smile that showed his rows of white teeth and a laugh that shook through your bones and made your legs weak.
He was too fine, too timeless and ethereal like a haunted red rose protected in the sturdy confines of tempered glass.
Only the purest of hearts could touch him, hold him, have him, and with your dark thoughts alone you were most definitely too corrupted to be considered one of them.
He was just too pretty for his own good and it made you sick.
Your eyes now ran over his legs, the thickness of his thighs that were clothed in gray slacks as you imagined yourself straddling them.
Running your eager hands over wherever they wanted to go, exploring and feeling, taking your time to feel every dip and curve of muscle and tendon that shuddered pleasurably under your soft touch.
It would be just you and him, alone with your burning lust, able to freely do as you pleased to each other. Unafraid of the hate and judgment society would cast on you for doing so. It’d be a freeing, mutual experience where you both delved headfirst into untamed shores, into those same dangerous temptations you only ever dreamed about.
You tilted your head at the unrealistic thought, mouth drying at the need for it.
You saw him raise his hand to his mouth, zoned in at the way he raised his finger up again and quickly licked the pad of it, the tip of his tongue darting out and leaving just as fast as it came… basically taunting you with the motion.
Your brow flicked in interest as you titled your head once more, releasing a deep sigh as a stinging heat stirred in your lower belly.
You tensed in your seat, legs crossed together and jaw clenched as you thought about everything his tongue could do to you if he wanted to, if society would allow him to.
You wondered how his tongue would feel like as it tangled with yours during a nasty kiss you wouldn’t dare initiate—always so shy when the situation called for it.
You imagined how good it would feel as he’d trace intricate kisses down your neck, down your chest, tasting the salt on your soft skin and leaving pink spots of possessiveness in his eager trail.
You were sure you’d explode if he ever did.
The softness of his lips caressing your skin like goose feathers, soft and dainty yet poignant and staining.
You’d remember the feel of his lips on you for days after, the sensation of his sweet, featherlight kisses pressing onto your warm skin. You were sure he’d smile at the way your pulse jumped when he’d lay a doting peck at the base of your jaw.
Just like many of his writings and essays your skin would be the paper and his hands and lips the ink at the end of a quill, every touch but synonymous with desire as he’d grip and squeeze and caress every bit of bare flesh he touched.
His lips but all the words he wanted to say, leaving his signature on your delicate pages and writing his endless devotion all over you in imprinted, unending novels.
You wanted him to treat you as he treated his books, as he treated his mind; with the utmost care and love only a scholar could devote to such things.
You wanted him to leave his own poems in the empty spaces of air not swallowed by your lungs, whisper his sweet nothings in the crevices of your heart only his love could fill.
You wanted to be marked by him, have him leave shameless bruises on the fragilest spots of your skin. Leave deeply rooted purple marks in the places only he was allowed to see, the places only you were allowed to know about.
You wanted his big hands gripping your waist as his lithe tongue hungrily circled around your exposed breasts. Unable to stop tasting you and soaking in the limitless knowledge of your beauty; like you truly were an artwork to be admired, a centuries old text to be cherished, precious and perfect as he’d kiss you so hard it hurt.
You found yourself lawlessly delving into your own fantasies once more, a familiar tingling sensation buzzing in your pelvis that had your heart beating frantically in your ears and your skin growing hot.
You swallowed thickly, clearing your throat shyly as you sat up in your seat. You were suddenly all too aware of your classmates around you, still in your hard seat next to your blue wall surrounded by your unsuspecting peers.
You felt hot waves of shame and embarrassment wash over you, but it wasn’t like anyone could really know what you were thinking about just then anyway. You felt anxious despite that fact, like someone could crack open your mind and take a front row seat to your dirtiest thoughts and desires. It was impossible of course, but the thought made you nauseous.
You couldn’t bare the idea of someone other than yourself knowing what you were truly thinking about during class hours, when you were supposed to be doing your assignments and actually paying attention to the lesson you were being taught (maybe you’d have a better grade if you did).
You couldn’t imagine the horror on the Dean’s face as he’d expel you from school, the shame and humiliation you’d feel if your professor himself were made aware of your affections towards him.
You’d be ridiculed, humiliated, sentenced to a life in prison for audacious lust towards an authority figure you had no business wanting… it was so frightfully taboo, a fragile reality that kept you nervous and wary of any prying eyes.
Still, the idea was so damn tempting and your own wicked, imaginative mind only made it more so, romanticizing something that was otherwise a sin in the eyes of the world. You should’ve seen it that way, and you did, yet it was doing nothing but encouraging you further.
There was no sense to it, no semblance of caution.
You wanted him.
You wanted him so fucking badly that the desire to have him had become so violent it consumed your entire being. It consumed you in the same fashion a wildfire hungrily swallowed a forest; it was passionate, loud, hot.
Every inch of you burned and ached for him, from your fingertips to your loins you craved him. It was all consuming and all encompassing and you almost felt entirely irrational for feeling so passionately about it in the first place.
Unfortunately, you were frequently left to rot in the black stained ashes of a need gone unrequited, of a hunger gone unsatisfied, of a fire left burning. You wanted so badly for him to see you, to acknowledge your flame, relinquish your fire and give you what you so badly fucking craved.
You wanted him to familiarize himself with the inner workings of your language, body and metaphorically. Have his fingers trace over your skin gentle and soft, really taking his time to feel you and carefully memorize every curve and dip carved into your being; he’d hopefully be able to mold his own in big heart shaped prints you’d never blemish.
He’d touch you and patiently listen to what your body had to say to him; soaking in the salacious statements whispered in the buzz of needy fingertips and the tremor of kiss stained lips.
You wanted him to become fluent in the synopsis’ of everything you wanted him to do to you that was blatantly written all over your body; so he could become well adept in the knowledge of your endlessly complex amorous epics.
Your thighs clenched together, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as your eyes slowly ran over his glistening lips and his concentrated expression. He was leaned back in his big brown leather chair with his beige sweater sleeves rolled up to his pointed elbows. You could see the inky black designs of tattoos you couldn’t specifically make out the image of.
It was almost odd to see him with the markings because you so rarely ever did. However that only seemed to aid in your delusion for you so badly wished to see them up close, run your manicured nail over the inked black lines and feel his skin tremor felicitously.
Upon first glance he didn’t seem like the type of man that would have such a wild, rebellious side to him (as tattoos were so stereotypically typecasted as). But that was the allure of him really, all of his charming intricacies layered under his skin in stubborn folds you wanted so badly to peel back and understand.
Have his skin and tendons and muscles all neatly laid back until he was nothing but white bone and molecule, laid bare for you and you alone so not a single inch of him wouldn’t go admired and understood.
His skeleton the map that lead to every treasure his mortal flesh buried, his secrets and dreams and hellish nightmares; you wanted to unearth it all, nothing but a devote worshipper to what you so passionately believed deserved great worshipping.
Not too far from a god and his Christian, although nothing that you wanted nor prayed for was holy.
You wanted to know him beyond the anatomical flesh and delve into the crevices of his character. To explore every cell and nerve ending that made him him, hear every thought he produced and feel every heavy sigh as it shook through his ribcage and echoed through every fiber of your bones.
You wanted to share the same lustrous spirit and have every silly little whim and intense desire intertwined together like vines, bursting with beauty and knowledge into pretty little flowers the stars would pluck for constellations.
It would be certainly just as beautiful and organic like the flow of a lovesick sonnet confessed from the lips of a lovelorn man, something only he and you would understand.
In the eyes of a stranger, and to you as well that first day you saw him—Professor Ambrose—he was sweet, caring, almost nerdy in the passion he spoke of for literature and the written media. No one would assume the image of black lines etched onto his skin in wicked designs and shapes would be just underneath those misleading soft sweaters of his.
It was startling like the harshness of black ink on a white canvas… it intrigued you further, latching onto your brain like a parasite and feeding off your own beguiled curiosity.
It was no matter because he was still the same distinguished, polished, and professional man you always knew him as. The epitome of class and rugged beauty, a proper man of poetry and romance that was so seldom ever found in modern society.
He had thick arms bundled with pure muscle that bled into veined arms and hands. It was a wonderfully invigorating sight. So much so that you couldn’t help the sharp breath you inhaled upon your gaze following a vein that trailed up his lower arm.
So strong.
His golden rimmed glasses sat at the bridge of his straight nose as he looked down at the pages of his tired book, completely uninterested and unperturbed in the bustling class around him. He was in his own world similar to how you were, except his was one filled with 1800s-esque love affairs and confessions, of romance and timeless beauty.
Yours carried the same theme just much much more vulgar and corrupt. Perhaps that’s why you two were in your own worlds, for such organic animosity like yours could never collide with the genuine enchantment of his own.
He was a gentlemen sheltered in a place with clear blue shores and cloudless skies. You were but a horny fool delving into black waters under the erroneous guise of a full moon, suffering from the effects of its power just as the ebony tides did.
Crashing and weaving and drifting so far out to sea that you’d never be free of its temptations, drowning in your own ignominious lust until you were choking on the consequence of it.
You almost found it silly, the very loud and blaring contradictions and scenarios battling out in your own mind while your professor seemed nothing of the sort; peaceful, content, happy in his own little world reading his fancy little book for the umpteenth time, unaware of you and your wandering eyes just as it should be.
He was such the opposite of you in almost every way.
Your gaze softened on him, muscles just a little less tense as you admired his calm silence and his nonchalance.
Besides your damning attraction towards him you could always agree that he was a great teacher no matter how biased you may seem.
Really, that was another reason why you liked him so much in the first place.
He was easy-going, always so understanding, never too hard on his students no matter what grievance they seemed to commit.
He was lenient and passive, maybe too much so; he never came down too hard on failing students and always smiled in amusement at the ones who interrupted him during lectures or lessons.
He was far more forgiving than you in that sense because you’d more often than not glare at the guilty party responsible for distracting him in the first place.
He was always encouraging and charming, smiling that wide smile and laughing that loud laugh you’d recognize anywhere. The same one that made your spine shiver and lips part for a whimsical, longing sigh.
The students loved him, respected him, and you didn’t doubt many lusted after him in the same fruitless way you did.
The thought had certainly crossed your mind several times during the semester, you’d be silly not to acknowledge it. Sadly, no matter your pride, it even made you a little jealous. You weren’t blind to the women in your shared class you believed you couldn’t ever compare yourself to.
You weren’t judging these women of course, you knew that if you had the confidence and self assurance they did you’d be just like them.
You’d smile sweetly at your professor and pronounce your hips every time you walked by him, wear those cropped shirts and short skirts too and hope to god he was staring at you in the same way you did him.
But you weren’t like that, you’d be too embarrassed to appear so easy, so obvious. It was out of character for you to be so… blunt about it.
Honestly, you were just jealous you didn’t have the gall they did to try and seduce him.
They were beautiful, the ones who fluttered their long pretty lashes at him and leaned over his mahogany desk in those short cropped shirts of theirs, waiting until the bells rung and the class was mostly empty to push their tits in his face and see if he’d spare them a glance.
He never did you noticed, something you respected him for; it even made him seem more attractive to you.
He wasn’t a creep, didn’t objectify his female students like some of the staff most certainty did. He’d act oblivious to their obvious advances, offer them a pleasant smile, answer their ridiculous question they used as an excuse to talk to him, and then go about his day like nothing had interrupted him in the first place.
The girls would pout or grumble, stomping their feet out the door with a frown or a sad pull to their glossy lips as their efforts were proved futile.
You’d witness this by lingering behind in your row, meticulously placing your notebook and pens in your bag after the class has mostly filed out.
You couldn’t help it; you wanted to see if he’d crack, spare a glance at them even, rip your heart out into a million fragmented pieces right in front you like your affections didn’t even matter in the first place... yes, you were in so deep.
But, again, he never did.
Which, if you thought about it hard enough, also meant that you most definitely didn’t have a chance with him either. You weren’t anything particularly extraordinary like those girls were; didn’t put yourself out there enough like they did or fawn around him enough like they did for him to notice you beyond what you were.
A student.
Off limits.
He didn’t subject his students to specific groups or prejudiced assortments based on their personalities or beliefs like other teachers might have; just a singular shared mass of people all younger than him he didn’t want to bother risking the loss of his career to touch.
It was admirable on his part, but incredibly frustrating on yours because you spent all of your free time thinking about him in ways he’d never spare you.
Another fact you rarely spoke to fruition in hopes of avoiding it altogether; happily being able to continue living in your own ignorant, blissful fantasies where miracles frequented and reality itself bended, a place where reality wasn’t real.
Besides all that, as you said he really was such a great guy. So open-minded, nonjudgmental, sweet and kind and oh so handsome.
He always said there was no such thing as stupid questions, but you were sure that if you asked him to fuck you like there was no tomorrow you wouldn’t get the answer you wanted.
You licked your dry lips, all too aware that the time was dwindling down and suddenly 15 minutes left of class had quickly turned to three. You didn’t have much time left with him now, too wrapped up in your own thoughts to realize how seamlessly time seemed to pass.
You took a quick glance around the room, seeing no one’s eyes on you as you leaned forward in your seat and put your chin in the palm of your hand.
You sighed, the noise silent as the uproar of laughter and chatter from your peers seemed to overshadow any sound you made.
As your shoulders slumped and your body relaxed, you found your gaze being drawn back to him in a much less subtle way as you saw his arm move.
The muscles flexed as he raised his hand under his chin, veins popping under his skin as he rested his elbow on the chair handle.
You were two rows away from him, but you could clearly see the way his veins twitched and muscles tightened at the action and the simple motion seemed to encapsulate you in his orbit entirely once more.
You could feel how aroused you were in the strained tenseness of your thighs and the way your pussy seemed to clench wantonly around nothing. Your mouth was dry and lips chapped, eyes slightly hooded and breaths slow and heavy in your ears.
Your lustful eyes lingered on his big arm, moving down until you saw the book in his lap held seamlessly by his other hand. He spread the pages open with long, lithe fingers, pinkie and thumb stretched across the pages to keep them separated.
You could feel yourself throbbing, wanting that same hand stuffed knuckle deep in the warmest, wettest part of you. Two fingers circling inside your plushy walls, already so big you couldn’t help but moan and writhe as wetness smacked into his palm, desperately gripping the fabric of his brown sweater in your own needy hands.
Those same fingers, rubbing your pulsing clit so soft and precise in all the right ways only a book could teach him to do. He’d take his time with you no matter the circumstance, spread your slippery folds open and rub your wetness around your glistening hole until it was gaping for him, begging to be filled and leaking over whatever surface he had haphazardly laid you on.
He’d be consumed with ferocious need, bestial hunger, especially when seeing your trembling legs spread wide for him and his hand soaked in your creamy white juices he had lovingly coaxed out of you.
His hazel eyes, unusually darkened and lustful, would gaze upon your flushed face and pretty pussy, feel only pity that he made you wait so long for him, feel only carnivorous as he’d bow his head down and lick a confident path up the valley of your spread folds, from your sopping hole to your throbbing clit and gather your sweet wetness on the hollow of his tongue.
Your hands would fist in his dark hair, pulling the strands senselessly, as he’d slip his thick fingers back inside you and suck your clit into his warm mouth.
He’d relish in the bitter sweetness of your arousal on his tongue, dripping down the corners of his mouth so perversely you couldn’t look at him directly—especially when he’d look up at you to see how much of a mess you were for him.
He’d shamelessly watch you moan and gasp and plead for him to make you cum, that he was making you feel so good, that his mouth was perfect and his fingers were too much.
He’d watch you take it though, take his fingers rapidly pushing in and out of your tightness like a good girl would as his sharp tongue explored every inch of your pussy he wanted, tasting and sucking and licking every drop of you exposed to him while your cum dribbled over his fingers in lewd wet noises you’d blush at.
He’d love your sounds, the sounds you made for him. The squelching sounds your pussy made as it mashed with his palm, the wet sounds he’d provoke as he drank your cum into his greedy mouth, cheeks and lips covered in a shiny film you’d kiss off him soon after.
Unfortunately, you didn’t have time to dwell on the matter as the bell rung and you found yourself startled at the shrill sound, cheeks a warm hue and breaths just a little staggered.
The room erupted into suddenly standing figures and even louder ruckus as everyone gathered their bags and headed down the stairs towards the double doors on each side.
You swallowed dryly, lower regions knotted up in such a tight ball it ached for the tension to be loosened in whatever way it could be. You had no choice but to skillfully ignore it, lingering behind the rest of the crowd as your movements seemed slower, more tense, your pussy throbbing painfully as you managed to gather your own bag.
As you stumbled your way out of your row, to the midsection of dirt stained stairs, you gripped your bag tightly in your hand as you planned on enjoying an evening of fingering yourself to relieve the pain you had so naively self inflicted.
You looked up as your foot hit the last step and found yourself looking into a brightly familiar pair of hazel eyes that almost made you stumble over your own shoes.
You faltered for a moment like a fumbling deer, then quickly looked away and scurried out the doors like you hadn’t felt lightning shoot down your back at the innocent, fleeting contact.
You needed to get over yourself.
all dividers made by me (not sparkle divider tho, I just cropped it) maybe a pt. 2? - the truth is that this has been in my drafts for almost two years… YES TWO! So I’m trying to clean out my drafts. The synopsis is a little misleading Ik but a part two is possible <3
not posting all chapters here since it's already finished, but thought i'd add the first!!! read the full 16 chapters on ao3 here
"You're insufferable."
Usually, you would've been more keen on your wording around men -- customers. Not this time around, though, as the man before you sneers with a reprehensible school girl giggle. His name is Alastor, as you'd come to know him, the (in)famous radio host of New Orleans! New Orleans' prized treasure and sanctity.
In your eyes? A hard-headed, outcast, fool.
One very, very, unfortunate day, he called. And now you're stuck with this dolt.
You cross your arms in disdain. This was the third appointment of the week scheduled with him. There are two others. It's Wednesday. Doesn't he have something to do, his own popular radio show to host? Simply.. annoying. There was no other word to describe this situation, you thought, but then you realized there were. Nasty, annoying, annoying, insolent, crabby, maddening. It was like he wanted you to himself. There are a million other call girls, flappers, prostitutes.. whatever, to please his mindlessness. His apparent 'loneliness' he once dramatically declared he had.
"Are you done playing with your food yet?" You ask with a frown, groaning when his smile only widens. The ends of his golden eyes crinkle in satisfaction. Did he want a reaction for his insulting behavior? Well, he's about to damn get it!
He tilts his head to the side, acting all dollish and ditzy. Raising one brow, he starts his blabbering. Again. "Hm?" He jumps with a start, straightening back up. "Are you implying something with that retort of yours, my dear?" Of course. This f- "Why, I'd adore to eat that cute face of yours up," Grabbing your cheek with one hand and pinching it, he talks in that freakishly demeaning baby voice he does when he wants the total control he already has with his status, 'back'. "But I'm afraid I might get poisoned, my dear!" You grimace. Is he serious?
He already has you under his thumb, whether you like it or not. You both already know this- It's implied with your profession, and that stupid influential persona of his. He smiles. Terribly.
Leaning in, so close your plush lips graze over his- and Alastor, your most excruciating client, swipes a bite with his sharp teeth to your lower lip.
You play into his sick idea of a game, teasingly squinting your eyes, urging him to press harder.
Your bottom lip is surely losing color by now, but it quickly comes back when you feel a familiar copper taste linger on your tongue. Your lip starts to sting, and just when you think he's done, he slips his own tongue in your mouth. Grabbing your face with both his hands, Alastor pulls you closer than ever before. His saliva mixes with the burgundy-colored, smooth substance. It's fresh, new, and most importantly- exciting. Invigorating. It urges you for more.
It urges you to come back again on Thursday.. and then Friday, or whenever he calls you for a quick power trip.
It's not always this smooth sailing, though.
Sometimes this.. man, will call in advance, but will be absent from his place of residence at the appointed time.
It's, frankly, worrying. For you! Of course, as you're locked outside bordering on pushing daisies.
Often he fails to show for a good half-hour, until he finally shows up. Sweat like dew on his pretty caramel skin, rushing to the doorstep you stand angrily at.
He should really consider adding a bench. Or you should raise your prices.
Or both. Who's to say?
You. You're to say.
Quickly, after huffing and puffing all the way here (Ugh), he unlocks the spruce door to his home, politely ushering you in. Of course, he acts like a gentleman, but only for the first thirty seconds of his presence being known.
And then it starts all over again.
With how much he occupies your work schedule, you may as well drop all offers from other people- also considering his odd possessiveness with you.
JONAH CLEMENCE x f!Reader | Ikemen Revolution
2.4k Words | Fluff, Misunderstandings, Angst with a Happy Ending
Prompt: Jonah and his lover have a misunderstanding about the appropriate times to put up holiday decorations.
Jonah’s carriage came to a creaking stop in front of the Black Army headquarters. He saw his brother’s familiar figure waiting for him just beyond the main gates. After murmuring some instructions for the driver to wait for his return, he stepped down and huddled deeper into the plush lining of his coat. The biting cold wind felt like needles scratching at his skin.
Luka fell into step beside him as they both walked in silence towards the main building. Jonah noticed the spruce trees that lined the snowy pathway were decorated with silver bows. There were tasteful holiday tapestries hanging from balconies and windows on the higher floors. Twinkling fairy lights wrapped around vibrant green garlands that hung above the door and window frames.
“I’m surprised the Black Army is capable of such niceties,” he said half-heartedly, a weak attempt at an insult. Luka ignored him and led him up the front steps and they paused in front of the door, stomping the snow off their boots. Jonah glanced at the elaborate wreath hanging in front of him. The giant black bow tied at the bottom of the wreath looked like it was made from real silk. The embroidery was made of glittery silver thread. Luka pushed the door open and moved aside to let Jonah enter first.
It took a surprising amount of willpower to stop the audible gasp that caught at the back of Jonah’s throat. He stared wide-eyed at the entrance hall that was brilliantly lit with candles. Garlands of holly and pine wrapped around the staircase banister leading to the second floor. Similar to the exterior, black and silver bows and twinkling fairy lights decorated the doorways. An enormous Christmas tree stood in the large sitting room nearby. Large glass and ceramic ornaments hung off the branches while strings of colourful lights wrapped around the tree. The only thing missing was a tree topper.
Jonah pulled his scarf loose as he walked around slowly, scrutinizing every detail of the transformation that had taken place here. He wouldn’t call the Black Army headquarters decrepit, but from his few visits in the past he remembered it was normally utilitarian and bland. The Red Army headquarters, although regal and elegant in its own right, had yet to be decorated for the holiday season and was clearly outdone.
Luka must have read his thoughts in the expression on his face because he offered his brother a mysteriously smug smile. “I think we have the Red Army beat this year,” he said. He motioned for Jonah to follow him and they slowly circled the tree. Up close, Jonah could see that the Black Army officers had their own custom-made ornaments hanging proudly from the branches. The officers had hand-sewn snowmen crafted in their likeness. One wore the same hat and cloak as Ray, another had a belt with pistol holders similar to Fenrir. There were several personalized ornaments with the names of other prominent Black Army soldiers too. The elaborate writing on the ornaments was familiar to him.
Jonah felt something sink in the pit of his stomach as realization washed over him. “I suppose you had help planning all this since I doubt your uncouth lot could come up with half these ideas on your own,” he said bitterly, the awe he felt only moments ago turning sour in his mouth.
“Of course we did. Alice has so many wonderful talents, wouldn’t you agree?” Fenrir’s voice echoed cheerily from somewhere above him. Jonah heard several pairs of footsteps descend the stairs nearby and he turned to face them, hackles rising. The unexpected invitation from his brother was beginning to feel like a trap.
“Perhaps she could help liven up the Red Army headquarters as well?” Seth suggested with an innocent tone that fooled no one.
“Oh, wait,” Fenrir said with a drawl, “she already tried that, didn’t she?”
Jonah glared at the Ace of Spades who stood at the bottom of the staircase with his hands on his hips and a triumphant smile on his face. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, however - they glinted with something menacing.
Sirius put his hand on Fenrir’s shoulder and squeezed. It would’ve looked friendly if Fenrir didn’t wince in pain. “Despite how clearly he doesn’t deserve her, we know that Jonah would never hurt Alice knowingly. Isn’t that right?” The older man’s question was laced with an unspoken threat. Jonah bristled with indignation at the accusation.
“If you’re all done posturing, I’ve finished the ornament for the top of the tree if you’d like to see it,” a child’s voice said nearby. Jonah glanced wearily at Oliver who was wiping his hands on a handkerchief. He looked almost comical with his sleeves rolled up and a startling amount of glitter and pine needles stuck in his hair. The Black Army officers hurried past him, their excited voices fading away down the hall. “And then we can help you figure out how to fix this little misunderstanding with Alice,” he said, giving Jonah a pointed look before leaving the room expectantly.
“Isn’t it a bit early to be decorating for Christmas?” he had asked Alice one morning when he saw she had hung a wreath on their bedroom door. The fall harvest celebrations had just ended, and the weather was still mild. Her face fell for a brief moment before she smiled at him, nodding her apparent agreement. By the end of the day, the subject was long forgotten from Jonah’s mind. She never brought it up again.
If someone told Jonah his thoughtless question would provoke his darling Alice enough to turn the Black Army headquarters into a winter wonderland, he wouldn't have believed it. Caught up in the frenzied schedule of the holiday season, he failed to realize how much time she had spent here rather than at the Red Army headquarters. He despised the idea that his brother and the Black Army fools were able to soothe her disappointment in him by giving her a place to nurture her excitement for the holidays. Surrounded by the evidence of his failure, he realized that the wreath on their bedroom door had quietly disappeared without him even noticing.
In the large workshop Oliver had commandeered for himself, the Black Army officers were huddled around a table, watching the tree topper he’d made slowly rotate on a mechanical base. On the outside, it looked like an ordinary star shape made of stained glass. Somehow, Oliver’s invention shot out little puffs of real snow accompanied by bells that chimed a loop of different Christmas melodies. Oliver said something about the not-so-legal use of magic crystals to keep the mechanical device inside the ornament filled with water and able to conjure snow at specific timed intervals.
Jonah felt like an intruder as he watched the officers nearby collect the ornament and run off, eager to add the finishing touch to their tree. He slumped over at a nearby workbench, elbows on the table, head in his hands. He’s not sure how much time had passed, but he felt a small poke in his side. He glanced at the child who sat beside him.
“I knew Christmas was her favourite holiday, but I didn’t expect…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the boxes that lined Oliver’s workspace, filled to the brim with unused decorations, “…all of this.”
“Do you really hate decorating that much?” Oliver asked. Not judging, simply curious.
Jonah shook his head. “With all of our other duties taking priority, updating our seasonal decor is usually done closer to the holiday itself. It’s my own fault I didn’t talk to her about it properly as soon as she showed an interest in it.” He looked away, attempting to hide the shamed flush staining his cheeks. “I hate that I made her feel like I wouldn't want this for us too.”
Oliver snorted and hopped up from his seat. “You’re an idiot if you think all these decorations are only for the Black Army,” he said as he pulled a random ornament from an open box and tossed it to Jonah. It was a red bow with Zero’s name embroidered with gold thread. “I think she was waiting for you to be more receptive to the idea, so she’s been making everything and storing it all here. If you want to make up for your stupidity," he said with a smirk, "I’d appreciate your help getting all these boxes out of my workshop and taking them where they belong.”
Jonah thought for a moment before he finally smiled. “If you’ll put up with the intrusion for a bit longer, I have a favor to ask of you and Blanc.”
Jonah paced in the entrance hall of the Red Army headquarters as he watched Alice’s carriage grow smaller in the distance. As promised, Oliver recruited Blanc’s help in luring Alice away early that morning, using some ruse about finalizing celebrations planned in the Central Quarter.
Once she was out of sight, Jonah left with his group of volunteer soldiers to retrieve the boxes of decorations from the Black Army. One of Jonah’s many other tasks that day was securing the largest tree he could find that would reasonably fit in the Red Army hall and arranging for its delivery. He ordered different potted trees, poinsettias, and other festive plants with extras to spare. He was not going to let his plans be side swept by miscalculations on his part.
One task Jonah did not enjoy was explaining his sudden urgency to overhaul the Red Army headquarters within the short window of Alice’s absence. The other Red Army officers laughed at his clumsy rebuke of Alice’s early decorating for the holidays which somehow led to a clandestine makeover of the Black Army’s base of operations. Jonah framed the daunting task as a competition since he knew most of the Red Army soldiers wouldn’t dare back away from a challenge if their pride was on the line.
Once all of the boxes had been delivered and unloaded into the main hall, the officers began sorting through them with obvious appreciation of Alice’s beautiful decorations. The King of Hearts personally took over the task of organizing the exterior displays and installing the new greenery. Jonah watched with dwindling patience as the others bickered over who should get to decorate the tree. He told them to figure it out amongst themselves with as little bloodshed as possible and left the room. When he returned ten minutes later, Edgar stood proudly beside the tree, hardly a hair out of place, with boxes of ornaments and lights opened and ready at his feet.
“How did you convince Blanc to keep Alice away for the entire day?” Edgar asked as he struggled to untie a knotted ball of string lights. No one wanted to risk her early return which would ruin the surprise.
“I suggested she take some of the carrot recipes she’d been saving as part of his Christmas gift,” Jonah’s voice replied from behind the Christmas tree. He had climbed up a ladder and was hanging decorations on the higher branches.
Edgar laughed - it was a clever idea on Jonah’s part. Blanc loved anything carrot-related and would spend the entire day in the kitchen taste-testing if time allowed it. “If that’s the case, then we’ll be lucky if Blanc doesn’t just keep her overnight,” Edgar teased. He ducked his head when a golden bauble came soaring at him from Jonah’s direction.
You stood in front of the large doors, stunned by what you were seeing. You first noticed the new brightly-lit trees that lined the path on your return journey home across the Red Bridge. You recognized many of your decorations hanging from the balconies and windows above you. The giant wreath on the front door had two ornamental birds made of felt nested side-by-side on a branch of holly. The red silk ribbon had Merry Christmas embroidered in beautiful golden script. You had only finished making it a week ago; the pine smell was still so fresh.
After a few moments, the doors opened wide and Jonah’s beaming smile greeted you. He had changed out of his uniform and was wearing a simple cream button-up shirt with a red scarf tied around his neck. He took your hands gently in his and led you through the elaborately decorated entranceway. Somewhere nearby a Christmas carol chimed; apparently Oliver had made two identical tree topper ornaments without you knowing.
You didn't know where to look first. You didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry that we couldn’t share this experience sooner than this, because of my own ignorance,” Jonah said quietly, remorsefully, “but I promise to try not to disappoint you so gravely in the future.” You could hear the truth in his voice and saw his eyes were bright and pleading as they stared into your own.
You wrapped your arms around him and hugged him. You felt his hands grasp your waist and pull you closer to him in response. You nuzzled his chest, soaking in his warmth and comforting scent. Your eyes felt hot with tears but when you looked up at him, your smile was wide and full of love. “I’ll forgive you if you give me the grand tour - I want to see the tree!” Your growing excitement was a soothing balm for the lonely disappointment you tried so hard to hide from him all this time.
You and Jonah held hands as he led you from room to room, eager to show you the efforts of a very long day's work. Along the way, Red Army soldiers stopped you to compliment your decorations and thanked you for your generosity. Some of them told you stories about how all the officers had asked for volunteers to help and how Jonah watched every step with a critical eye to make sure no decoration went unused.
Kyle congratulated you when he walked past you both, a red ribbon tied in his hair and a bottle tucked under an arm. Edgar found the pair of you as you were leaving Lance's office. He told you where he’d placed the stockings you’d made for each of the officers. He suggested that Jonah’s stocking be stuffed full of coal - the bauble incident from earlier was clearly not forgotten.
Eventually the hour grew late and exhaustion was finally starting to overtake the happiness you felt. Jonah smiled knowingly and steered you to the familiar hallway leading to your room. He found the wreath you made for and returned it to its rightful place on your bedroom door. Your names were embroidered on the silk ribbon, a memento of your first Christmas together.
“If you’ll permit me, I have one final surprise for you,” Jonah said with a twinkle in his eye. You admired the way his cheeks flushed in the dimming light. It was so adorable when he got flustered about something.
“I’m not sure I can handle anymore surprises after the evening I’ve had,” you said with a laugh as he pushed the door open then pulled you close to him.
“There’s one last holiday tradition that I refuse to overlook,” he said with surprising seriousness, his voice low and tinged with heat. He nodded his chin upwards. You followed his gaze and saw a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the doorway above you. He silenced your delighted laughter with a kiss.
this is just a plot less one-off thing because i enjoy making them have conversations, but anyway, here’s lawlight
__
Light woke up to L staring at him. It wasn't an unusual occurrence - so far, it seemed like the detective only slept in cat naps during the day when he wasn't alone with his suspect - but normally Light didn't wake up until morning. He'd never been prone to nightmares, and couldn't remember ever having been woken up by one, but the Kira investigation was slowly chipping away at everything he'd known about himself until now. He was exhausted. And frustrated. And, right now, his heart was pounding.
"God, Ryuzaki, can you stop staring at me for one minute?" he snapped, glaring because he refused to turn away from L and show even more vulnerability. It felt worse to know L's eyes were boring into the back of his head anyway. Being chained to him was bearable most of the time, when he reminded himself why they had to do this, but Light longed for some privacy. It had been months since he hadn't been constantly under observation. His nerves, in this moment, felt raw and exposed. How much longer could he really keep this up? For the first time in a long time, he wished he had a couple minutes to just be a teenager and maybe have a little breakdown because he had damn well earned one.
Unfortunately, L was merciless.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Light." He didn't even blink, still peering down at Light from where he was perched against the headboard of the bed, illuminated blue by his laptop screen. It made him look almost ghostly, his skin even paler in the dark, his eyes pinning Light down like...
"Were you the kind of kid who'd collect bugs to pin them down and study them?" Light asked, brushing some sweaty hair out of his eyes. Gross. He wanted a shower, but even showering was annoying with L present on the other side of the curtain.
"Books sufficed," L said, thumb between his lips. "But I would never compare you to a bug. That would indicate I think of you as inferior, and that's simply not true. Kira may very well be my equal."
Light ground his teeth together until his jaw protested with a stinging pain. "Well, I'm not Kira, so I guess I am a bug."
Kira was the very last thing he wanted to talk about right now. So he did finally turn his back to L and tugged the blanket tightly around his body to signal he was going to try to go back to sleep.
"Was that what your nightmare was about?" L hadn't gotten the message at all. Or, more likely, he'd chosen to ignore it.
Light had to resist the urge to do something childish like try to smother L with a pillow. He glared at the wall instead. "I'm not going to talk about that with you."
A beat of silence. "So it was about Kira."
Light wished he could just storm out right about now. It wasn't an unfamiliar instinct. "Ryuzaki," he growled, "I will punch you again."
L hummed. "Interesting."
Fucking. Interesting. Light turned his head into his pillow and let out a drawn out groan of frustration. "I'm just going to go insane from this," he told the pillow, "I'm going to go insane, and then when you catch the real Kira, you'll look like a real idiot."
"If you're not insane at this point, I doubt being in my proximity will be what does it." There was still no inflection whatsoever in L's voice, but Light knew better than to judge his emotions based on that. He didn't even think it was on purpose, L just didn't express himself like other people did. Light could still tell that he was amused, based on his words alone.
"But if I were Kira, I'd already be insane and hiding it. So me keeping it together this well until now could be suspicious in itself." Light hated that he was playing along. He couldn't help it. Something compelled him to say out loud what he suspected L was thinking. There was a thrill in those little hums of agreement, in the way L naturally expected him to be on the same page, barely waiting for a breath when he spun his deductions. Light's ego was easily stroked, apparently. At least when it was the world's greatest detective doing it. Keeping pace with him was exhilarating. Using his brain, even against himself, made him feel alive. And L knew that, too.
"Normal human reactions would alleviate some of my suspicions, yes," L agreed, "Though whether or not Kira is insane depends on the definition we apply. Insanity is so unspecific. I believe he is delusional and has a God complex. A dangerously overinflated self-confidence, and a sense of self-righteousness that he uses to justify his actions to himself."
Light turned his head away from the pillow to look up at L, who wasn't looking at him anymore, but staring out the window with his thumb caught between his teeth.
"He sounds like a real piece of work. It'd be really unflattering if you were talking about me." Light didn't think he was any of these things. Alright, maybe a little self-righteous. But not to the point where he would murder people and call it justice.
"Yes," L murmured, that lilt to his voice that Light could only ever describe as wistful. "I suppose it would be, wouldn't it?"
Silence. Light didn't want to think about how he didn't hate some of Kira's ideals, as far as their understanding went. Some people were too dangerous and shouldn't get away with their crimes. But Light also didn't think himself above the law in any way. He knew that rules were in place for a reason, and while he was exceptionally smart, he was only human and didn't have a right to decide who should live and who should die. In the end, neither the current system nor Kira were ideal. What would his solution be, if he could choose? What would L's be? Clearly he thought very little of Kira's idea of justice. He also didn't think very highly of Kira himself, but also considered him an equal. Hm. Maybe he had self-worth issues that he hid incredibly well.
Light tucked an arm underneath his head, still peering up at L. "Ryuzaki, do you think you're a good person?"
Normally, he never would be asking such personal or direct questions. It was deeply impolite, for one. His father would have been mortified. But it was the middle of the night, and it was just him and L. And L understood him so intimately that Light found he didn't mind dropping his manners just a bit. Normal human reactions would alleviate his suspicions? Fine, then Light would act like a normal human being with fears and doubts, who could slip up and be rude. L didn't expect him to be perfect. If anything, L probably appreciated authenticity. He'd overanalyze everything Light did and said, but it wasn't like Light had anything to hide. Annoying and callous as he was, Light needed to... trust L. That was something Kira definitely would never do.
"An interesting question," L said, and Light could guess that his train of thought had wandered in the same direction. "How would you answer if it was directed at you?"
Deflecting. He wasn't going to answer. Light shrugged. "I'd say that I try to be, but nobody can be perfect. Nobody is free from flaws and selfish impulses. All we can do is work to be better."
"A very diplomatic answer." L sounded like Light had just confirmed something he'd been thinking. Sometimes Light wondered if he scripted out entire conversations in his head before they happened, and then just followed along the predicted lines.
"... are you going to give me yours?" Light asked, already suspecting a no.
But, to his surprise, L turned to look at him and shrugged. "I don't believe in good or evil people. And if we're considering a hypothetical scenario where the world is like that... then I would still not fit into either category, I think. I do a lot of good. But are my motivations pure? Am I terribly arrogant to believe my own judgement to be superior? Would everyone agree that my methods are justified, or would there be months of debate on whether I am going too far, whether I need to be controlled somehow? Whether I'm a monster that they can't understand?"
Light stared at him. He thought back to what it had been like in that cell. That was something he'd agreed to, he himself had asked L not to let him out until he could be sure. But it had still been awful. He'd drifted off into a dream world half the time, trying to hold onto his sanity. And then, his father pulling a gun on him. Misa begging for his life. Screaming.
"You do what's necessary." Light tried to sound firm. "It's not like any of it is your fault. You react. It's the criminals that make the first move, and you do what it takes to catch them. When a case reaches the point where your involvement is needed, the situation is already bad enough that we need to compromise on ethics. Kira is a monster. He's killed an insane amount of people. Anything you might try to do is fully justified. It doesn't make you not a good person. It just makes you utilitarian."
L tilted his head and blinked. "You sound like you're trying to reassure me. I don't need it. I'm content with the way I am, regardless of some morality others might assign me. But I suppose it is interesting that half the things you said apply to Kira as well. He reacts. He compromises on ethics for his own image of justice. And yet, you call him a monster but not me?"
And there it was again. Why hadn't Light ended this conversation when he'd had the opportunity? Now L's suspicions had grown a bit again. How was he supposed to talk his way out of this one? He didn't agree with Kira!
"You don't go as far," Light said slowly, calmly, "It's ridiculous to compare the two of you. He's delusional, as you said. It might be more about his ego than justice... and I know you're driven by winning, too, but you'd never kill people to prove a point, like he did with those FBI agents. You're not a murderer. You still work with the authorities and follow procedure. You don't claim to be above humanity as a whole." L was... odd. He didn't act like other people did. But when he did show real emotion, he was almost painfully human. At least to Light. L was more real and authentic than most people he knew. And Light thought that L loved humanity, in his own, distant way. Despite seeing all the horrors people inflicted on each other. He obsessed over justice because he saw it as his form of kindness. Giving victims the closure they deserved.
L wasn't particularly good at being nice. But he certainly was kind.
And Light believed that was where the difference between him and Kira lay. Kira was cruel and callous and treated human lives like chess pieces on a board that he owned. And while L played the game with him, his true feelings were different. L had placed himself upon the board with firm courage, and he intended to see it through side by side with his team. Fighting for the world as part of the world. Not as a capricious deity.
Light turned around again, resolute in his intention not to roll back over this time. "You're not a monster. You're human, and you're aware of it. At peace with it. Kira's pushing away his own humanity. That's what makes him monstrous."
L was silent for a long time. Long enough that Light was actually starting to get sleepy again.
"It seems you've studied me closer than I thought you would be able to," he finally murmured, in that soft tone again. "You might be the only person in the world who could do that and like what he sees."
Light didn't know what to do with that. So he didn't say anything.
He did like L.
He liked him quite a lot, even if he was the most frustrating human being on the planet.
"... that lack of humanity is why you're so afraid of being Kira, isn't it?"
Never mind.
Light glared at the spot of the wall that had become his designated glaring spot days ago. "Ryuzaki, I know you don't need to sleep, like, ever, but I'm actually quite tired and if you want me to be useful at all tomorrow, you should probably let me sleep."
L was quiet again. But it was clearly the kind of quiet that meant he was deliberating on what to say next. "The truth always shows itself much more readily during these hours. You're tired and your guard is down. That's also why you've been refreshingly open with me."
Was L really just keeping this conversation going because Light was more likely to slip up and say what he was thinking? ... yeah, that sounded like him. Opportunistic bastard.
"I've been..." Light broke off. If he told L that he had been honest with him all this time, the lie would either be called out or brushed over. But L definitely wouldn't buy it. L always knew. Instead, Light changed gears. "I've been worried about your suspicions being right, that's true. And yeah, it's not because I'd get arrested and executed if that were the case. At the moment, I don't wish for anything more than to not be Kira."
He hadn't planned for this much actual honesty, but maybe L was right and the slight drowsiness and the late (early) hour was influencing him more than he was aware of.
Something warm touched his shoulder, but it was gone by the time he craned his head to look up, and L had his face turned towards the moonlight, eyes closed. "If it helps you at all to hear it, I'm hoping for the same thing. For once, I would be quite happy to be proven wrong." He sounded sad again, and Light watched him for a long moment.
L really did care, didn't he? He was a kind person, somehow. He believed, at the moment, that Light wasn't Kira but had been and could be again, and so he was offering him all the comfort he could at this time. This in-between. Light cleared his dry throat.
"Do you think I'll disappear? If I become Kira again? Do you think I'd still be in there, or would I be a completely different person? Dead, for all intents and purposes?"
His nightmares had him watching helplessly as his body moved about his life, as his mouth formed around honeyed lies, as he watched his victims drop like flies. Not just people Kira had actually killed, but his father, his mother, Sayu, Matsuda, Aizawa, Watari, sometimes even Misa. Often it was L. He knew the detective believed he was capable of such things, and as long as it was all in theory, Light could pretend to think like Kira, could visualize his thought processes and relate to his ideals. But in practice... it made him feel sick.
"I don't intend to find out," L said softly, opening his eyes to look at him, "You have my word that I'll do my best to protect you, Light. Even from yourself, should that moment ever come."
His eyes seemed darker than usual in the night, boring into Light. Intense, like he'd just sworn an oath.
Light rolled onto his back. "For all that it's worth, I'll try to protect you, too, Ryuzaki. I would, even if our fates weren't tied together by these handcuffs. You really are my first friend, too, you know?"
L blinked, and Light knew he'd managed to surprise him a little. That lifted his mood somewhat. It was rare. Then, the corners of his mouth raised into an oddly wobbly smile. It looked out of place on his face, but somehow endearing at the same time. It wasn't the mischievous little smirk that Light had grown accustomed to. It was... cute. "If we both survive this, I would like to stay friends," L said, his voice a little firmer than before, as if he wanted to convince Light he was serious about this. It was also warmer. Less calculating. This was an honest desire L was voicing.
Light watched him for a moment, letting him stew, then he laughed. "If we both survive this, I'll give you a run for your money as the world's greatest detective soon enough. I'm currently learning from the best, after all. A little competition between friends has a lot of benefits for everyone involved."
L's smile was wider now, and a deep chuckle rose from his chest. Light had never heard that sound before. He stared at L, dumbfounded for a moment. It was such a nice sound. Warm and rich. A shame he didn't get to hear it more often. Unless he tried harder to make him laugh again.
... that was a totally normal and heterosexual thing to think, surely.
"I dare you to try and come for my title," L said, holding out a hand.
Light grinned as he propped himself up and reached over to shake it. L's hold was strong and firm, his skin a little cool to the touch. Their eyes met, understanding flaring between them, and... oh, who was he even kidding?
Light dropped back down onto the mattress and closed his eyes.
Shit.
He really liked L, didn't he?
This had to be the worst timed crush in the history of the world.
The detective shifted next to him, and the chain connecting them jingled in a way Light could only describe as mocking him specifically.
Summary: It has always been Phylicity’s deepest wish to find a partner that understood and respected what she could not change. Perhaps it’s Jay, or maybe it isn’t. Jay, on the other hand, recognized awhile back that Phylicity does things in stages, and while he wants, he knows it’s better to wait, instead.
Pairing(s): Jason “Jay” Choi x Phylicity “Phy” Carr
Warning(s): Awkward shenanigans
I write in second person though Phylicity is an original character with her own developed personality and background. Although it’s not exactly stated or remarked on at any point (so far), Phy is on the graysexual spectrum side of things. Jason Choi, or Jay, belongs to PrettyInk and is apart of the College Craze universe.
The sneak peeks are highly subjective to change. Some scenes might star in a chapter going forward, or they might not. I’m mainly flexing my out of use writing muscles and trying to work up the nerve to eventually get back into smut writing.
To keep up wit me on my never ending bs about Jay and the other characters of this game, y’all can join the fan server here.
~
You’re on a mission and you’re going to succeed.
That was the single thought ringing through your brain as you stride from the hallway entryway over to where Jay is seated on the leather couch. He looked up as he heard your approach, lips parting to say something, but then his mouth snapped closed as you carefully set yourself astride his lap face forward, legs spread and bent at an angle so that they’re on either side of his waist.
Arms winding around his back and leaning forward to brace your chin against the crook of his neck.
“Phylicity.” Jay’s normal confident tone is slightly strained, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping an arm low around your back in return, probably trying to make sure that you’re comfortable and didn’t do something embarrassing, like fall. How that could happen while sitting as y’all are is a mystery but with your luck, it’s possible. “What is you doin’, girl?”
“Missed you.” It’s simple and easy, the truth tumbling from your lips as long as you’re not making direct eye contact. “A lot.” And it’s even easier to press a kiss against his tattooed throat. Pressed up as close as y’all are, it’s impossible to hide the fact his pulse is hammering, and now that you’re actively paying attention, he’s…
“Oh.”
He’s got a slight hard-on.
Not that you consider it an accomplishment, as he wasn’t fully hard, that is.
Jay chuckled quietly. “I can practically hear yo galaxy brain spinnin’,” His hands find their way to your waist, about to lift you. “And we already covered that I ain’t an experiment or yo little distraction.” Thankfully, he doesn’t seem mad, just bemused by the overall situation.
RATINGS — s , smut | f , fluff | a , angst | d , dark content
none yet…
⋆˙⟡♡ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
˖⁺ ⊹୨ monster boyfriend who… ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( s-ish ) ━━ some headcanons exploring your relationship with your monster boyfriend, nothing serious just for fun. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
⋆˙⟡♡ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
none yet…
── ·˚꒰ 𝐇𝐄𝓐𝐑𝐓 & 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐌𝓞𝐍𝐃. ꒱ ₊˚ˑ
˖⁺ ⊹୨ candy coated hearts ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( a-ish ) ━━ you’ve been kidnapped somehow or another, bound to be another plaything for this pair of twisted brothers. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ✧･ﾟ:* This drabble is based off of A Dimensional Tune, an og trilogy I read many many years ago. I remembered how much I loved the brothers, Heart and Diamond. So, I wanted to make my own story with brothers based off of them. There’s many similarities but the differences are clear. Anyway, yeah, enjoy 🥰
Pairing(s): Helms x Phy (one-night stand; offscreen). Jay x Phy.
Warning(s): Light angst. Fluff. Spoilers for the game.
This one-shot is based on the idea that Helms would be miserable if MC got pregnant by him. 💀 The twist I talked about in the server is that Jay would stick around and raise the kid as his own 🥰😈
So here we go! Let’s get it!
**The name of the hospital mentioned in the story is the creation of Ageha from the fan server (I’m notoriously bad at naming things and people, we all know this ❤️)
~
“I… are you sure that… that it’s mine?”
So it seems that men remain little boys regardless of age, especially when it is time to take responsibility.
Giving Helms a tight-lipped smile, Phylicity looked the chief of police straight in the eye. “Considering the delicate nature of the situation, don’t you think it would be wiser to speak more carefully to me?”
Clearing his throat, Helms sternly stared the young woman down. “Miss Carr, if you think that you can blackmail me…”
“I could,” Phylicity stated simply, bored of his blustering. “And you can even look at it as I am, however in the interest of saving my precious time,” Reaching down, she picked up a simple clutch and unzipped the purse, pulling out several officious documents. “Fill these out, please.” Leaning forward, she placed the papers onto the desk before sitting back in her chair.
“What is….is…this is-” Reaching into the desk drawer, he pulled out a glasses case and then placed a delicate pair of spectacles onto the bridge of his nose. Phylicity watched as he read the documents slowly, the furrow in his brow deepening. “I, I-.” Lost for words, he flicked his gaze up to hers.
Perhaps for anyone else, the torment clearly visible in that icy blue gaze would be enough to feel guilty. “It’s essentially me granting your wish. The termination of your parental rights.” Clicking her tongue, Phylicity tilted her head to the side just slightly.
Tearing his spectacles off, Helms tossed them onto the desk. “I-I couldn’t…” Placing a hand over his eyes, he spent several long minutes quietly weeping. Phylicity rolled her eyes but made no move to comfort or hush him.
Eventually, he got himself together, removing his hand over his eyes to see her patiently watching him. He blinked more stray tears away. “I’m… I’m a good man. I have a loving wife. I go to church on Sundays and my kids, my kids…”
Sensing his wavering, Phylicity decided to go for broke. “You’re still a good man, Joe.” The lie fell off her tongue quickly. “Sometimes good men…make mistakes. It doesn’t define you, I promise.”
Much to her relief, that seemed to do the trick. Helms signed the documents without any more fanfare and then slid the documents back over to her. Phylicity gathered everything up briskly, placing the papers nearly back into her purse before standing up and striding for the door.
Hand on the knob, about to leave, Phylicity paused as she heard him call out her name. Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at the chief of police, waiting.
“Be safe out there. Things are getting violent with these new dealers.”
Something about that sentence... Part of her being wanted to just leave, not entertain the ramblings of a guilty man. After all, what are the chances she’s going to run into any drug dealers?
Yet her feet didn’t move.
Turning around fully, Phylicity made eye contact with Helms once more, mouth unconsciously pulled into a frown. “‘New dealers?’”
The guilt grew stronger in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”
Irritation crawled up her throat but Phylicity’s tone remained level. “Do you have any leads? Names?” Some emotion flickered across his face and Helms pressed his lips together, silent. “Please.” Her right hand went to the flat of her stomach and his eyes followed the gesture.
Helms sighed, looking away for a moment, visibly struggling with his (shaky) moral compass. “Well, there's two of them we suspect are involved, even if only one pulled the trigger. Trey Clemmens is one, he goes by Triggs. The other just goes by Jay, but his real name is Jason Choi."
Feeling a pit open up in her stomach as she recognized those names, Phylicity nodded curtly and kept her features neutral as she swung the door open and Jose nearly fell face forward, obviously trying (and failing) to properly eavesdrop.
“Jose!” Helms barked sharply, aghast. Disgusted but not altogether surprised by the other man’s reprehensible behavior, the police chief rose up from his seat.
Shaking her head and rolling her eyes heavenward, Phylicity walked around the man and quickly left the premises.
The last thing she needed is to be caught up in all that drama.
~
9 months later
Aleida Arroyo Memorial Hospital
“He is so small.” Chris marveled, voice barely above a whisper as he nestled his grandson (he had a grandchild!!!) carefully in his hold. “So small, and ohh, ladybug, he looks like you.”
“That’s funny. I was thinking he looked like you, Papa.” Phylicity chuckled, voice quiet as well, still mildly exhausted but gaze locked on her son.
It had been a difficult road to get to this point.
Mostly brought on by Phylicity’s independent streak and stubbornness, really.
The thought that it was her choice, so she had to face the consequences of being pregnant alone. Or so she attempted, anyway. Mal was the first to catch onto the fact that something was wrong with her baby cousin, followed by Stephen. The duo shifted their schedules and routines in order to better help Phy out, taking her to doctor’s appointments, buying baby essentials, etc. etc. And perhaps in the end, it was inevitable that everyone else would find out the truth too, though thankfully, that happened closer to the end of the second trimester, when her pregnant belly became far more noticeable.
Christopher had pretty much hit the roof and made some unreasonable demands and assumptions, the most audacious being to know the paternity of the unborn child. Phylicity had refused to disclose that information and simply stopped talking to her father altogether, for months. Honestly, if not for the combined cajoling of Mal and Aunt Tara, Phylicity would never have spoken to her father again.
Almost as if he could hear her pensive thoughts, her father looked at her, eyes wet with unshed tears, “Ladybug, I know I didn’t say it enough, but I am sorry,” he said simply, but sincerely. “I acted like….like….my father,” There’s decades of unresolved pain in his voice as he brought up his old man. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
Breathing in deep, she contemplated addressing the elephant in the room that was her fraternal grandparent and ultimately resolved to let sleeping dogs lie, “No. No, I did not.” Phylicity stated simply, tone even.
“...What are y’all gonna name him?” Christopher inquired, returning his grandchild to his daughter’s arms and turned to the other occupant sitting quietly in the corner of the room, easily overlooked.
Jay rose from his seat to amble over to Phylicity’s side. “Phy chose the name Jeremiah.”
“And we agreed that if I had another boy, he’d get to choose the name first.” Exasperated, Phy briefly glanced at her father. “Don’t be fooled, Papa. I was super into him being involved with picking the names too, but he was all ‘its up to me’ and ‘whatever you want’.”
“Sounds like a guilty conscience, ladybug.” Christopher joked, unable to help himself.
“Papa!” Phylicity whisper-yelled. The baby, Jeremiah, woke and started to fuss.
“See, look what you did.”
Jay shook his head with a wry little smile. “Let me get em, Phy.”
And just like that, it was as if the duo forgot that he was in the room.
Their focus entirely dedicated to that baby. That suited Christopher just as well, as he watched unobtrusively as possible, taking note of the little things, such as the quiet yearning in Jay’s expression as he fed Jeremiah and the way Phylicity watched him with her child, fiercely protective but equally as yearning.
Right until the critical moment, Phy hadn’t uttered a word about the paternity of the baby’s father. Though when it was time to sign the birth certificate, Jay had stepped up to sign... and Phylicity hadn’t contested the decision. Still, he let these observations go and resolved to let the secret remain buried as so many he’d collected, for far less altruistic reasons.
~
5 years later
“L’l man, l’il man, where you hidin’?” Making a show of glancing around the baby and toddler proofed living room, Mal pretended not to see the tiny boy underneath the table. “Could you be…by the tv?” Turning her back just slightly, hearing Jeremiah as he darted from his current hiding spot to behind the couch. “Maaaybe the bookshelf?”
Jeremiah darted once again from his hiding place, straight for the door. And right into Stephen’s leg, falling backwards onto his rump, little tears appearing at the corner of his eyes.
“Adventurer Jer thwarted again! Oh no. But never fear—“ Stephen said dramatically as possible, bending down to swoop the boy up into his hold, making airplane sounds.
“Cap’n JerJer is here!!!” Tears forgotten, Jeremiah hollered excitedly at the top of his lungs, hanging onto his uncle’s neck tightly as he ran away (i.e. he briskly walked) from auntie and down the hall, into the kitchen. “Daddy!!!!”
Stephen helped his rambunctious nephew down and the little goofer immediately latched onto Jay’s pant leg, staring up at his father with Bambi eyes. To Jay’s credit, he did resist - for 2.5 seconds then he was lifting his son onto his unoccupied hip.
“Don’t say it.” Jay murmured, adjusting Jeremiah in his hold as he unlocked the back door.
The scent of barbecue ribs, pork chops, and hotdogs wafted into the house. Triggs is working the grill, Phylicity had a little girl in her lap, and there was music playing softly in the background.
Mal entered the kitchen just as Jay stepped outside, closing the door behind him. “I ain't even say nothing!” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Sensitive ass…”
Flicking him on the neck, Mal lifted their chin as Stephen turned his head and pecked her on the lips, not once but twice. “I love you, Mr. Reed,” Hands wrapping around his middle, Malicia rested her ear against his chest, hearing how his heart was beating so steadily.
“Love you more, Mrs. Reed,” Squeezing gently, Stephen did nothing to stop the tender moment. Didn’t tease or joke, just enjoyed it.
Meanwhile, outside, Jeremiah was let down at his pleading and he played (gently) with his baby sister, Kamilah. Jay wandered over to Phylicity’s side, as always, wanting to be close and from her seat, she looked up at him with that happy, contented little smile, reaching out and grabbing his hand and his heart stuttered.
“Wanna know a secret?”
He nearly teased that she was terrible at keeping them. “Depends. Is it a good or bad secret?” Jay instead decided to play along. Phy made the gesture for him to lean down and he did so.
“EWW MOMMY, DADDY, DON'T KISS! DONT LOOK, SISSY! DON'T LOOK!”
“Ay, ay, ay, what’s this ‘ew’? How else y’all bad selves think y’all was made?”
“By KISSING? Unc...you lyin...”
Maybe he would be more worried about emotionally scarring his spoiled as all hell children, specifically, Jeremiah, but as it is, but Uncle Triggs got that handled, and even more than the kiss, Jay is reeling from the ‘secret’ he’d been told.
Or secrets, rather.
Jay looked at Phylicity, then her stomach, and the words slipped out. “I get to pick the baby names out this time.”
Phy guffawed. “You’re impossible!”
The arguably most precious secret, those three words he had been waiting to hear back, he kept those close to his heart.
