#In reality it was to try to keep them as out of the way as possible so they wouldn't spread anymore bullshit to the rest of the engines | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

muniimyg · 2 days ago

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♡ 01: baby, i'm a dog

series m.list // taglist

note: welcome to part 1 !!! this fic is def a diff vibe ,, kinda chill and jus sad LOL … tbh if i hate it i’ll jus edit it as a one shot cos #yolo #idc but also…. i fear this jk is a vibe

the cabin's front door slams shut behind jungkook.

his laughter spills into the cold air as he jogs to his car, tossing the keys to taehyung mid-stride.

the hoseok and nam joon had roped him into a last-minute supply run—apparently, they underestimated just how much beer and snacks a group this size could burn through in one night. the crunch of snow under his boots and the slap of wind against his face brought a sharp clarity, a brief reprieve from the weight he'd felt the entire drive up here.

he works nonstop all year… he only gets a few days of vacation. yet, this is how he spends his precious leisure days.

a part of him is still trying to figure out why he even came.

"think fast, shithead!" taehyung called, tossing the keys back.

jungkook catches them effortlessly, smirking as he spins them around his finger.

as he opens his mouth to make a comeback, the sound of tires crunching over ice makes his chest go tight. instantly, he recognizes that it’s yoongi’s girlfriend’s car—but something about the way it’s driven pulls him further into himself.

jungkook is a car guy.

he’s the car guy and knowing cars means knowing the people behind the wheel.

the way they park, the way they brake, even the rhythm of their turns.

and this car?

it parks too carefully, too smoothly.

it’s muscle memory that makes him stand straighter, his heart stumbling over itself. because he knows exactly whose hands are gripping the wheel before he even sees your face.

taking a few steps back, he watches as the suv rolls into the driveway, something heavy settling in his chest.

the sound of the car door opening snaps him out of his daze.

and it all suddenly feels like a fever dream.

with the snow falling slowly and the way his heart skips a beat—you step out and completely stop his world.

you’re bundled in a cream puffer jacket and your cheeks flushed from the cold…

and you smile at him.

like, really smile at him.

and jungkook thinks to himself;

fuck.

you’re still so pretty.

so fucking pretty.

then, his mind blanks.

he doesn’t know how to move, doesn’t even know how to breathe. all he can do is stare.

“jungkook!”

before he can even respond, you’re walking toward him, arms open.

he freezes when you hug him.

it’s not long—just enough to share a little warmth—but it’s enough to knock the air clean out of his lungs.

three years.

it’s been three years since he’s seen you, and now you’re here, wrapping him in a moment that feels too easy for all the time that’s passed.

is... is this easy for you?

because he can't breathe right now.

“i convinced her to come last minute,” yoongi’s girlfriend, mei, says. she’s practically bouncing with excitement. “the weather grounded her flight, and i told her it’d be way better to spend a few days with us than to sit around waiting.”

you pull back from jungkook and smile up at him like it’s nothing.

like he hasn’t been caught in the shockwave of your presence.

like you aren't the love of his life.

“figured it’d be fun,” you say lightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. you glance around and squeal at the sight of your old friendgroup. “plus, i missed you guys.”

the others swarm in, laughing and throwing their arms around you, saying how long it’s been. jungkook hangs back, struggling to keep up with the reality in front of him. this wasn’t how he thought this trip was going to go.

as jin and yoongi haul your bags toward the cabin, you turn back to jungkook. your shoulder bumps against his as you tilt your head.

“is it okay that i’m here?”

he blinks at you.

“why wouldn’t it be?”

your shrug and look around. “nam joon’s your friend. this is his family cabin… i’m just your—“

“it’s fine,” he interrupts you.

silence.

then, you break it with a question and your signature soft tone.

“did i surprise you?”

jungkook nods stiffly, words caught in his throat.

"good."

... is all you say before you’re gone, following the others into the cabin, leaving him standing in the cold.

it takes a second, but his feet move on their own, trailing after you without a second thought. like a dog, he thinks, tail wagging behind its owner.

his hands clench into fists at his sides as he walks, the cold biting at his skin through his jacket.

you're here.

you're actually here.

they have invited you over and over again to friendgroup trips and you've only attended a handful of times. take note that those specific times were the ones where jungkook had rsvp'd no.

so this...

this?

this is completely beyond him.

you... in the flesh feels like some cruel cosmic joke to him. the kind of joke where the punchline cuts deep and leaves a scar.

three years.

three fucking years of trying not to think about you, of convincing himself he’d moved on.

three years of pretending he didn’t still see you in every corner of his life. he told himself he'd be ready for this moment if it ever came—that he'd have the right words, the right attitude, anything but the mess of disbelief and guilt twisting in his chest right now.

but here you are, running into his arms like none of it matters. like the years apart haven’t clawed at him the way they clearly didn’t claw at you.

he knows he shouldn’t be surprised.

you always were good at carrying things with grace, even when he was busy breaking them—breaking you.

a part of him feels bitter. he wishes you had a mean bone in your body. perhaps, he'd feel better... but you don't and all he's can think about is how good you smell.

“what the fuck," jungkook mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face as he steps into the cabin.

the warmth inside doesn’t reach him.

not really.

his heart is still somewhere out there in the cold, stuck in that driveway where you looked at him like nothing’s changed.

like he’s still someone worth smiling at.

as you get settled, jungkook and taehyung excuse themselves again and leave for their little grocery run.

when they come back, an hour later—the plastic grocery bags cutting into his fingers as he kicks the snow off his boots.

laughter drifts from the kitchen, light and easy, mingling with the clatter of pots and pans. the scent of something savory hangs in the air, and for a moment, he lets it lull him, the warmth easing the tension in his shoulders.

“finally,” yoongi groans, swooping in to grab some bags from jungkook. “we thought you guys got lost or something.”

“tae couldn’t decide between doritos and cheetos,” jungkook mutters, rolling his eyes as he shrugs off his coat. “turns out we needed both.”

“damn right we did,” taehyung calls from behind him, slamming the door shut with his foot.

jungkook lets their banter fade into the background, his eyes instinctively drawn toward the kitchen.

you’re there.

standing near the counter, sleeves rolled up as you stir something in a pot. your hair’s pulled back, a few loose strands framing your face. you’re laughing at something yoongi’s girlfriend says, your hands moving gracefully as you gesture, completely at ease.

the view of you is so clear, yet so vivid in his memory.

it makes his heart ache.

it’s like you’ve always been here, laughing, stirring pots, and looking so effortlessly beautiful it makes his chest ache.

like he’s coming home to you again.

“earth to jungkook?” jimin snaps his fingers in front of his face, smirking when jungkook blinks, caught. “you good?”

“yeah.” the word comes out too sharp, and he clears his throat, shrugging past jimin. “just gonna change.”

he doesn’t wait for a response and heads upstairs. the weight in his chest grows heavier with every step, a knot tightening in his stomach. when he reaches his room and pushes the door open, he freezes.

his bags aren’t where he left them.

instead, a collection of white baggage are stacked neatly in the corner. irritation flares, but it’s quickly doused by confusion—and a sinking realization.

“jungkook?” your voice calls softly from behind him, and he turns to see you at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath.

you’re holding onto the banister, your other hand fiddling with the hem of your sweater. the soft fabric brushes your fingers as you glance at him, your expression tentative.

“the girls—um—mei, bria, and the others—they thought it’d be better if we moved your stuff,” you say, stepping closer. your voice is calm, and measured, but there’s a nervous energy in the way your eyes dart toward his. “i told them it wasn’t necessary, but they figured it’d be easier if... well, you know.”

jungkook leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.

“so you’re gonna take my room?”

“it was our room for three years.”

“it’s been three years.”

“that’s true,” you hesitate, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “they put your stuff in jimin’s room. but i was just coming up to say, i can totally switch and room with joon’s girlfriend and make joon and jimin room together. i mean, it’d be a good chance to bond—”

“take the room.” his voice cuts through your rambling, low and firm.

your eyes widen slightly.

“are you sure? i really don’t mind—”

“yeah,” he says, shrugging. “the only other option would be to share it with me… so…”

you pause, a laugh bubbling out before you can stop it.

“that’d be crazy, right?”

something flickers across his face, too quick for you to catch. then, he straightens, his expression calm but his words heavy.

“would it be though?”

the question hangs in the air, your laughter fading as his gaze lingers on you. his tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something you can’t quite name.

you look away, brushing your hand over the doorframe as if needing something to ground you.

“thanks, jungkook,” you say softly, the words carrying a warmth that feels too intimate. “i appreciate it.”

but before you turn, your hand reaches out, ruffling his hair in that way you used to when you thought he was being ridiculous.

his breath catches, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink as your fingertips graze his scalp.

then you’re gone, your footsteps fading as you head back downstairs.

jungkook exhales, his head tipping back against the doorframe as he stares at the ceiling. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, the weight in his chest now impossibly heavier.

by the time jungkook come down the stairs, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the space he follows behind you, catching the way the group immediately perks up. all eyes turning toward you both, and jin yells out, "look who finally decided to join the party!"

taehyung grins, his voice too cheerful for someone who clearly has something up his sleeve.

“you two are late to the conversation, so you’re being voluntold to go back to town and grab some oil. we forgot to buy oil.”

jungkook freezes mid-step, his brows furrowing.

“the fuck? i just got back. are you serious?”

you turn and see jungkook’s frustration bubbling up already as he turns to bicker with the guys, his voice rising in playful annoyance. “hyung, you couldn't just... check the damn list? are you fucking serious? i don’t want to go back—”

taehyung laughs, “we were too busy enjoying ourselves. you had fun with me! remember? we got both—”

“fuck that,” jungkook huffs. “i’m not going back—”

“you have to—”

“no, i don’t.”

“jungkook, you’re the youngest too—”

“why does that fucking matter?”

the group chuckles, but jungkook’s not laughing.

you watch jungkook’s face twist with irritation, the way his jaw tightens with every word that’s said. he’s always been like this—quick to snap when he feels cornered. it’s like he can’t stand being told what to do.

he can’t.

god, he really hates being pushed around.

you’ve always known that about him. yet, a part of you feels bad for him.

“no. fuck that.” his voice is sharp, a little louder than it needs to be. “i’m not going back—”

the others try to reason with him even more, but his deflection is clear.

it’s always the same with him, especially when he feels like he's being challenged. you can’t help but shake your head a little, a sigh almost escaping your lips as you glance at the group, waiting for the inevitable back-and-forth.

he’s the youngest, of course. always the youngest. always expected to just follow along, to do things because it’s “his turn” or whatever bullshit they’re using this time.

you feel your own resolve settle, the urge to take control bubbling up before you can stop it. without even thinking, you walk over to taehyung, reach over, and grab the the car keys from his hand.

you do it quickly, not even glancing at anyone else, just deciding in that moment that you’ve had enough of the back-and-forth.

“oil. anything else?” you ask, your tone light, almost too casual, as if this is no big deal.

you hear the group chuckle, but you're not listening to them.

you’re watching jungkook now, his surprise registering only for a second before the annoyance flickers back into his eyes.

he doesn’t have a choice now.

he hates this.

jungkook rolls his eyes, but it's too late—he knows it’s happening now. he snatches the keys back from your hand with a heavy sigh. he doesn’t look at you, but the slight dip in his shoulders gives him away.

he’s still annoyed, but it doesn’t matter.

not if it’s about you.

suddenly, he’s putting his boots on and slams the door. then, the sound of his car engine starting fills the silence. everyone turns to you in disbelief.

“huh," you tilt your head. "i guess he's driving.”

the car ride is silent, the engine purring smoothly beneath you.

jungkook’s car is new (to you, at least) and he drives like he’s trying to put as much distance between himself and the group as possible.

his knuckles are tight around the wheel, and every so often, his eyes flicker to you, then back to the road. you can feel the tension building up again, but neither of you says anything.

the store comes up quick, and you both slip inside. jungkook grabs the oil without a word, and as you stand by the aisle, you notice the carton of oat milk in his hand—your favourite brand too.

you blink.

“they didn’t ask for oat milk.”

he doesn’t look at you as he sets the carton into the basket, but there’s a quiet, almost hesitant shift in his posture.

“yeah. i know.”

you want to say something, anything, but you swallow the words.

it’s just oat milk.

back in the car, you both buckle up in silence, and jungkook starts the engine with a soft grumble. the snow outside is heavier now, falling in thick, swirling sheets, the road barely visible.

the car stalls.

jungkook curses under his breath, his hands working over the wheel like he’s already analyzing what’s wrong. you watch him, knowing he’s not going to admit it, but it’s obvious.

“looks like we’re stuck for a bit,” he mutters. “better wait for the snow to calm down.”

you lean back in your seat, the quiet pressing in. there’s nowhere to go but forward now, and it’s strange, this calm in the middle of nowhere with him beside you, neither of you saying much.

the snow pounds against the windshield. jungkook shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers against the wheel as he watches the storm.

as jungkook stares at the snow pounds against the windshield, you stare at him.

you wait for him to say something.

anything.

but jungkook doesn’t meet your eyes.

his gaze is fixed on the road, his hands tight on the steering wheel. you can feel the distance between you two—the years, the hurt, the things that never got said. the things you did say…

“so,” you start, your voice soft, the words almost hesitant. “how are you?”

jungkook scoffs.

“don’t.”

“don’t what?” you ask. “it’s been a while. i only really see what you’re up to via social media. you opened your own shop, right? i’m so proud of you. i know how long you’ve wanted to do that.”

jungkook nods.

“yeah…” his response is immediate, but detached. “yeah, i mean… it was a lot easier when i got the right clientelle. so yeah, still doing that. luxury car mechanic bullshit. it’s... all right. not much to update you about.” his tone is nonchalant, almost like he doesn’t care, but you know it’s a front. it’s always been easier for him to hide behind that mask of indifference.

“i’m sure there’s something—”

“i fix up cars people can’t even pronounce the names of. not a lot of excitement there. just... polishing up things people break, and making money for it.”

“okay,” you nod, your fingers tracing the edge of your seat. “jungkook, it’s me. don’t underplay this with me.”

he shrugs.

for the first time in three years; you feel it again.

you feel this… sense of anger? annoyance?

hurt.

jungkook is well known in the city.

he's the go-to mechanic for luxury cars—bentleys, ferraris, lambos—if you've got money and a car that needs fixing, you go to him… and while we’re here; let’s brag about it.

jungkook is not just any mechanic; he's the top of the game. he’s the most trusted in the industry, and somehow, he's built a reputation that makes even the richest clients feel like they’re getting something special.

most of them don't know it, but jungkook is lucky—unbelievably lucky.

he didn’t come from money, didn’t grow up with connections or a silver spoon in his mouth. hell, he's still the kind of guy who wears sweat pants and a hoodie to work… but he's got an uncanny knack for fixing cars, his hands working like magic around every engine and every screw. it's a skill that came naturally to him, no effort needed—he was born with it.

and that, somehow, has carried him through life.

the thing is, jungkook knows he's a loser.

a lovable one, sure, but a loser nonetheless.

he might be great with cars, but he's not the type to flaunt his success. his garage is both chaotic and high-end, a mix of organized chaos and state-of-the-art equipment, the kind of place that looks like it’s one bad day away from falling apart, but in reality, it's the most trusted name in the city.

he's rough around the edges, but that's part of his charm. he's got the grit to keep going when things get tough, but he stumbles through life in a way that makes everyone around him laugh—except when it comes to cars.

then, he's all business.

the fact that he's self-made, that he’s built everything from the ground up, doesn’t even fully sink in for him. he never asks for anything. the success just... happened, like it was meant to.

in the same sense, he’s a scumbag.

he’s gotten into trouble before, and he’s made his share of mistakes. but somehow, with the luck he’s got, he always lands on his feet. and that’s why, despite being a mess in every other part of his life, jungkook is the guy you call when your sports car breaks down in the middle of nowhere.

in fact, he’s the guy to be with in the middle of a snowy road.

yet, with all these thoughts… you figure not to push it any further.

the silence stretches again, but this time it’s not quite as awkward. it’s still heavy, though—thick with the things that were never said. and you can feel it, the weight of all that unsaid stuff, but something else creeps in too. a quiet yearning, a reminder of the closeness you once had.

“how’s work for you?”

you clear your throat and chirp up.

“it’s good. great, actually. dior signed me to be their permanent event planner. i got to work with ysl and chanel last year so that was cool… lots of travelling… i don’t know. it’s been… fun. i think i’ve done a lot since...”

“that’s good,” jungkook breathes. “i’m happy for you.”

“really?”

“really.”

you let out a relieved breath.

“you know, i always refer my clients to your shop. truth be told, i found out about your shop through them before you even posted on social media.”

he flicks a glance at you, but it’s fleeting.

“why?” he scoffs, but there’s no real anger behind it, just frustration. “you shouldn’t have…”

you wince slightly, but it’s not a judgment. you get it. you always have. the way he pushes people away, like he’s afraid of being too close to anyone, like caring might break him.

“we were in it together,” you reply, your voice quiet but warm. “life. our careers… everything. just because it didn’t work out between us doesn’t mean i was going to leave it as it was. i couldn’t help it. i thought of you whenever my clients complained about their cars. i thought of you whenever your favourite model drove past me. i thought of you, jungkook. how could i not? we spent three years together… so, don’t do that please. don’t act like the past three years haven’t been good to you… because as much as i could, i tried to send you some good. there was good.”

“okay,” he huffs out a breath, his shoulders tense. he’s quiet for a beat too long, and just when you think he might shut down, he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible. “i appreciate it. all of it.”

“you’re welcome,” you smile.

then, you turn and watch the snow falling heavier now, the world outside becoming more and more a blur.

“you know,” you say, your voice almost teasing, trying to ease the weight of the moment, “your mom calls me on my birthday every year.”

his eyes flick to you again, almost imperceptibly, but it’s there. a flash of something in his eyes. a crack in the cool mask he’s built up.

“sorry,” he apologizes. “i… shit, ___. you know, you’re her favourite.”

“don’t be,” you smile, though there’s a hint of sadness in it. “she’s my favourite too.”

then, he’s quiet again, but this time, there’s a softening to his expression, the edge of defensiveness slipping away.

you let the silence settle again, the two of you wrapped in the quiet of the car and the storm outside. but this time, it feels different. not easy, not perfect. but it feels like maybe—just maybe—this is the first real conversation you’ve had in years.

and that’s enough for now.

the cabin feels smaller when you get back, and the weight of jungkook’s presence only makes it tighter. the group’s immediately apologizing, teasing him about the oil run, their words sharp but light.

“we totally forgot, man,” taehyung says, looking guilty. “guess you guys are our personal delivery service.”

jungkook doesn’t respond, his face already scrunching into an exaggerated grimace as he heads straight to the kitchen to help. you’re unsure if it’s from irritation or just sheer exhaustion.

maybe both, you think as you follow him.

but the moment passes quickly, and you’re both swept back into the warmth of the group’s energy.

it’s dinner time soon after, and the room is buzzing. the conversation is loud, comfortable, with everyone laughing and sharing stories. jungkook and you sit across from each other, the space between you both thick and quiet. your presence seems to be the only thing that pulls him from his usual nonchalance—every time you speak, even the smallest comment, he cracks a smile, almost like he can’t help it.

yoongi catches it first, raising an eyebrow at jungkook.

“what’s up with you, kid? you only smile when ___ talks. what? the rest of us aren’t funny enough for you?” his voice is teasing but his gaze lingers, as if looking for something more.

jungkook rolls his eyes, brushing it off with a half-hearted scoff.

mei, sitting next to yoongi, shakes her head. she nudges you and you laugh it off. then, you lift your face and meet jungkook’s eyes. he offers you a short-lived smile.

you take it.

the jokes keep coming, but the way jungkook’s eyes flick to you each time you speak doesn’t go unnoticed.

it’s subtle, the way his lips curve just a little, how his eyes soften just a fraction whenever you make a joke or offer your thoughts. but it’s enough. the others catch it, too, exchanging glances behind their drinks, a quiet realization settling between them.

after dinner, everyone migrates to the living room, pulling chairs and sofas closer to the fire. taehyung sets up the drinks, jin and hobi are already messing with the fire, adding logs with unnecessary dramatic flair, and namjoon is flipping through a deck of cards.

“we should play charades,” jimin suggests, his voice light as he pours more wine into his glass.

“charades? yeah, we could use some entertainment,” jin agrees, his gaze drifting between the group. “but i’m not going easy on you guys.”

you end up on the same team as jungkook.

when it’s your turn to act out a word, you both fall into an easy rhythm. your gestures are sharp and exaggerated, and jungkook picks up on your cues instantly, his movements smooth and fluid. there’s an unspoken understanding between the two of you, the way your eyes meet for half a second before you both act out the next part of the clue.

honestly, it’s like no time has passed since you last did this, and everyone else watches with mild surprise, the chemistry between you two almost palpable.

nam joon and taehyung share an amused glance, their eyes widening slightly, while jin snorts quietly.

“okay, okay, we get it. you two are too good at this,” jimin says, shaking his head with a laugh.

“they’re like a team built for charades,” namjoon mutters, and yoongi, always perceptive, smirks.

“it’s like they can read each other’s minds,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you both. “almost makes me uncomfortable.”

you can feel the weight of their glances, the way they subtly watch every interaction, waiting for something to shift. and when the game finally wraps up, everyone is drunk, laughter louder and voices more relaxed.

conversation moves from silly jokes to more serious topics, the kind that happens when the alcohol hits just right. somehow, everyone feels like they’re safe enough to let their guard down.

hoseok mentions work—how it’s been a mess lately, how nothing seems to be going right, and the conversation shifts into the stress of adulthood, of managing expectations and responsibilities.

“sometimes it feels like i’m drowning in it,” hoseok admits, rubbing his temples. “i mean, we’re doing okay, but god, it’s like every time i take a breath, there’s another problem.”

“sounds about right,” taehyung agrees, sipping his drink. “adulting sucks.”

the conversation flows around you, but then someone cracks a joke, and you reply with your usual snark. jungkook chuckles, and it’s a real, honest laugh, something that sounds familiar, something that feels like the version of him you used to know.

bria, who’s been quiet for most of the night, turns her gaze to jungkook, her eyes flicking between him and you with a raised brow. it’s obvious she’s drunk, so jungkook mentally prepares for the worst.

“jungkook?”

“what do you want?” he sighs. “you’re drunk so choose your words carefully, bria. last time we talked while you were drunk like this, i made you cry for an hour.”

bria rolls her eyes at jungkook.

“guess it’s my turn then,” she inhales deeply. “my turn to make you cry.”

jungkook gulps, but he tries his best to mask his fear.

he knows exactly who she’s gonna target.

“yah, do you think you’re slick or something?” bria asks. “why do you always laugh at ___'s jokes but no one else’s? you look at her and practically salivate. are you a dog? do you like her or something?”

the group goes quiet.

it’s then everyone realizes that it’s bria’s first cabin trip. even yoongi, who’s usually too aloof for moments like this, pauses, his gaze sharp as it flicks between you and jungkook. there’s a tension, thick enough to make your chest tighten, and you feel the eyes of the group on you.

it’s like the breath has been knocked out of the room. bria’s words hang between you and jungkook, heavy and unwelcome.

for a second, no one says anything.

you can feel the heat in your cheeks, the way everything seems to slow down.

your mind races.

“we’re exes.”

bria’s voice cuts through the silence again, softer this time. “oh, shit… fuck, right. yeah. i remember now… i guess it never clicked because i’ve only known you for a few months…”

“yeah,” jimin pulls bria close. he gestures towards the direction of their room. she shakes her head, refusing his obvious cue. “babe, let’s get you to bed—”

“no, wait… just w-wait. you and ___? but you two... are literally perfect for each other. what happened?” bria blurts, her tone genuine and almost searching.

you catch the way jungkook’s body tenses up.

from across the group, you chase for his eyes. they meet for the first time all night and you swear—there’s a flicker of something there.

something soft and promising.

something almost like love, but a lot like loss.

as quickly as you see it, it fades away. so, you offer him a soft smile. then, shake your head slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. it’s a signal.

don’t answer.

but he doesn’t look away.

and then, as if the silence is unbearable, jungkook speaks, his voice low but steady, almost like it’s been waiting to come out for too long.

“i fucked up,” jungkook admits. “i fucked up like everyone said i would.”

#bts fic #bts angst #jungkook exboyfriend #jk exes to lovers #jk e2l #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook boyfriend #jungkook second chance #bts fanfic #bts jk

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ennabear · 2 days ago

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Gentle/soft sevika… im starving, lord have mercy

^also im the important exam anon! I dont know how i did in that day since the results would take 2 more weeks minimum, but im pretty sure whether it turns out too good or too bad than usual its thanks to you, imma keep you updated! I also think i did good because replaying what you wrote in my brain was just a the best kind of rewards^

IMPORTANT EXAM ANON HAIII!!!! i’m sure you did good hehe idk who you are or what you’re going to school for but i believe that you’re very smart… BUT THANK YOU!!! i’m so honored heheheh 😭 here’s some soft sevika 🤎🤎

everyone always thinks that sevika is aggressive and scary, especially because she can be on occasion. but in reality, you’ve never really seen her that way.

all of sevika’s violence and crimes are done outside of the walls of your shared home, as far away from them as she can manage. most of her killings and fights are done in a dark alleyway in the middle of nowhere, or closer to topside, where although it’s risky to be so close to those stuck ups who’ve never witnessed a crime before, she always gets away with it.

and she never does it out of cold blood. she only lays her hands on someone if they’ve wronged her first.

to you, her hands are the softest thing in the world. well— hand, technically, because she only has one human hand left. but both of them, whether flesh or metal, treat you with the greatest care possible.

late at night, they can be found wrapped around you, either holding you to her chest in a tight snuggle or pinning you to the bed while she snores on top of you. sometimes her metal fingers will trace little shapes into your back, the pointy tips of them making you shiver as she slowly lulls you to sleep.

sometimes she forgoes her mech arm completely, you being the only person she feels comfortable enough to be vulnerable with. still, her human arm will cling to your hips or your waist as you move around the house. whether that means doing chores or washing yourselves up or taking a well deserved afternoon nap on the couch.

sometimes she’ll even cry in front of you if she feels safe enough— which of course she does around you. you’re the only person on the whole planet who knows about her past and the things that still do scare her. like losing you, for example.

her favorite thing in the world is crying with you, although it seems dark. but to her, it’s like she finally feels seen. whether you’re crying over the same thing or just being mutually sad together, she loves to comfort you and feel it back at the same time. neither of you can even stay sad for long, because the other is trying to cheer you up by making you laugh or crack a smile, and it always ends in two teary-eyed giggles bubbling through the room.

#sorry these are short oops but i hope u like them hehehe #ALSO YES PLEASE UPDATE ME LMAO IM INVESTED NOW #I LOVE U NONNIE #sevika #sevika fluff #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x female reader #sevika arcane x reader #arcane sevika #arcane #arcane netflix #arcane league of legends

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multipleoccupancy · 2 days ago

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Theo took some comfort in the thought that Samantha would be careful. She was sensible and certainly a very capable agent, more so than him he believed anyway. He had to have faith in her and make sure he did his part right to help protect her. "Yeah, it's kept me safe so far," he smiled about the knife though he didn't really believe in such superstitions, not yet anyway.

She got him to laugh about him being Robin Hood, tickled by the image and comparison and the thought of how to pull it off as NYC's Robin Hood did cross his mind for a moment before he let it go, he had a job to do just as he was instructed. "I'd rather you were safe from the bears, but I think I would make an awesome Robin Hood."

He set the net down carefully when they walked onto the green and he spared a stretch of his own shoulders. That was heavy! But that meant it would be hard to get out of. "Do you think we can help this student?" Theo was hoping so but he also understood the reality of the situation. He had been exposed to the unnatural, tainted by it even, he likely wasn't safe to keep alive or at least free. But perhaps they could reverse what had been done and he would just believe it was all a wild fever dream. Or drugs.

Sloane laughed and shook his head, "I have many talents, but actually flying a plane is not one of them." Though it was in some way flattering that Violet even thought that of him! He would have liked to have been a pilot if he had the chance, but he had often been told he was too tall for the role. Oh well.

Inside the admin office the man behind the computer looked up to assess them, confused and a little intrigued that a professor was there and apparently his young daughter. "Very nice, Astrid," Sloane was sure to tell Violet for her greeting the man but it was also a little subtle praise for her less is more adaptation to the situation. Oh he was already proud.

"I find myself in a bit of a mess," Sloane began with the man, leaning on the counter a little and clearly looking that little bit exasperated. "My daughter, Astrid," he gestured to Violet, there was a warmth in the movement, a natural hand wave that in some ways offered protection as well as attention, "she's had to come to my work while her mom is..." he pretended to stop himself in his tracks, glancing at Violet and then to the man behind the counter, "busy. I have to work late and the poor child is very tired after a long and trying day. I don't suppose there's a dorm room for her to use, just until I am done working for the night? I'll take her home after my work is completed of course. Marking, sucks the life out of people and time right out of the day."

The man looked to them both, his attention turning onto Violet for a long moment while he considered his options. "Can I see your staff card, Professor?" He held his hand out and Sloane handed over his university ID, fake of course, and then put his enormous hand on Violet's shoulder as if trying to keep her warm and comforted in her cold and tired state. Quietly tugging on the heart strings of the man in front of them.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

Samantha smiled softly. "I know. It's hardly ideal, but it's our best shot at catching the monster." Still unable to hold his hand to comfort him, she nudged him gently instead. "I'll be careful. And I have your knife. I'm sure it'll be good luck." She didn't want to think about all the ways their plan could go wrong. What was the point? She'd rather stay positive.

The bear argument had worked even better than she hoped. "No, no, you can have it," she assured him, "Violet gave it to you. It's yours. I'll just keep it safe in the trunk of my car, and use it on the occasional bear." Samantha would surely become a local legend if she killed a bear with a crossbow. "I'll bring it along on our missions, and you can use it. You'll be a proper Robin Hood." She winked.

They were approaching the patch of grass they had picked to set up the trap, and Samantha wasn't unhappy about it. The net was quite heavy, and even with Killian helping, her shoulders and arms were getting sore.

"You have a pilot costume? Can you fly a plane?" Violet didn't like that at all -as cool as a pilot costume surely was, that meant the Sloane from her timeline probably had the same disguise, and could get inside a plane if he wanted. A dreadful idea.

But she didn't have time to think about it. They were already stepping inside the admin office. She painted a tired look on her features -only stifling a yawn for now. Less was more had said Sloane, and she was eager to do a good job. "Yes, Dad," she said, and the words tasted like ash in her mouth. She smiled through it.

"Good evening," she politely told the man sitting at the desk. Violet had positioned herself slightly behind Sloane, as a shy daughter would. He was so tall and large that he made for quite the reassuring presence -when he was not the threat.

#hvbris #killian #violet #asoue au

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theonottsbxtch · 2 days ago

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GIVEN ENOUGH | LN4

an: nessa barrett's new album has been pure inspiration i swear to god, listen to given enough while reading this because LORD, i fully felt bad for this version of lando even though i wrote him

wc: 2.8k

LANDO EXHALED, HIS JAW TIGHTENING as he glanced at her from across the room. She was draped in a crimson dress that clung to her like a second skin, every inch of her perfect for the cameras that flashed relentlessly. The evening air was heavy with champagne and ego, the kind of event he loathed, but his manager had insisted. "Keep the image alive," they’d said. The golden couple, the picture of perfection. But the truth of it all lingered like poison in his throat.

She caught his gaze and smiled—small, distant, rehearsed. He knew the curve of her lips too well to be fooled. That wasn’t a smile for him. That was for the photographers. For the sponsors. For the endless charade they’d both been roped into.

Lando took a sip of his drink, amber liquid burning his throat. The taste was bitter, but not nearly as bitter as the memory of last night. Or the night before that. The endless cycle of her tears, his apologies, the shouting, the silences. She always cried so beautifully, like it was an art form, and he hated how it disarmed him every time. How it left him apologising for sins he didn’t remember committing.

Haven’t I given enough? The thought tore through him like a cold wind. He clenched the glass tighter, ignoring the laughter that rippled around the room. She always needed more—more attention, more promises, more of him. And he’d given it. Again and again, until he didn’t know what he had left.

And yet, she stood there, radiant and hollow. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold her or disappear entirely.

“You’re staring,” her voice came, soft yet sharp, as she stepped beside him. The closeness was suffocating, the scent of her perfume almost too much.

“Am I?” His tone was flat. Detached.

“Yes.” Her smile didn’t waver, even as her words dropped lower, meant only for him. “You should try looking at me like you actually care.”

He laughed, quiet and humourless. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, a warning, but she didn’t say anything else. She turned back to the crowd, her hand brushing his arm in a way that seemed deliberate, calculated. It was always like this—a performance. For everyone else, they were untouchable. Together. But behind closed doors, there was nothing left to save.

For a brief moment, Lando wondered if she knew how much she’d drained him, how much she’d taken. Probably not. She’d smile, shed a few tears, and take more. Because that was what she did best.

And he’d let her. Every single time.

Lando adjusted his tie, trying to loosen the invisible grip around his throat. The gala was a success, he supposed—if success was measured in hollow conversations and counterfeit smiles. The air hummed with whispers of power, of wealth, of people pretending to matter more than they did. She thrived in it. He endured it.

As she floated away to join another circle of admirers, he downed the rest of his drink. It was always like this: her holding court while he played the silent shadow. To the outside world, they were the perfect pair. To him, it felt like being dragged across broken glass.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration pulling him back to reality. He fished it out, hoping for an excuse to leave, but the screen only held a reminder of tomorrow’s schedule. Another meeting, another event, another night like this.

He sighed, setting the glass down with more force than intended. The sound drew a few glances, but he ignored them. Instead, his eyes found her again, across the room. She was laughing now, the soft, melodic sound he used to adore. Now it only made him tired.

“Rough night?” The voice came from behind him, low and sardonic. Lando turned to see a man, older, sharp-suited, with the kind of smirk that made you want to punch him.

“Just another one,” Lando replied, his tone clipped. He didn’t know this man, didn’t care to.

The man nodded, his gaze sliding to where she stood, radiant under the chandeliers. “She’s something, isn’t she? Always knows how to light up a room.”

Lando didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

The man chuckled, a knowing sound that grated on Lando’s nerves. “But I suppose that’s the thing about women like her. They take everything you’ve got and leave you wondering if it was ever enough.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. The words cut too close, too deep. He turned back to the bar, signalling for another drink. The man didn’t push further, just gave a slight nod before disappearing into the crowd.

When the bartender slid the glass toward him, Lando stared at it for a moment, the amber liquid catching the light. How many of these nights had he survived? How many more could he endure?

“Lando.” Her voice was soft, cutting through the noise.

He turned to see her standing there, her smile as flawless as ever, though her eyes held that familiar edge. The one that always seemed to ask, Are you going to fight me, or are you going to give in?

“We should leave soon,” she said, brushing a hand over her necklace. “People will start to talk if we stay too long.”

He almost laughed at that. People always talked. It was the only constant in their world.

“Right,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He grabbed his jacket, the movement sharp, deliberate.

As they walked toward the exit, arm in arm for the sake of appearances, Lando felt the weight of her against him. To the onlookers, they were untouchable, unstoppable. But he knew better. She wasn’t leaning on him. She was pulling him down, piece by piece.

And no matter how much he gave, it was never enough.

The ride back to the hotel was suffocating in its silence. Lando stared out the window, watching the city blur into streaks of light and shadow. She sat beside him, her fingers scrolling idly on her phone, her face unreadable. They didn’t speak. They rarely did anymore unless it was for show.

When the car finally pulled up to the grand hotel, she stepped out first, the driver opening the door for her as though she were royalty. Lando followed, loosening his tie as they made their way through the lobby.

They looked like a power couple—walking in step, polished and composed. Heads turned as they passed, whispers trailing behind them like a faint echo. It was always the same. People admired what they thought they saw.

When they reached their floor, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. She stepped out first, her heels clicking against the marble. Lando followed a step behind, his feet heavier with each stride.

She stopped in front of her door, the number gleaming under the dim hallway lights. “Goodnight, Lando,” she said, her voice smooth, pleasant. Polished for the cameras that weren’t even there.

He nodded, already turning to head to his room further down the hall. But then her voice stopped him.

“Lando.”

He turned back, his hand still on the keycard in his pocket. She stood there, her hand on the doorframe, her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” she said, her tone light, teasing, but there was something else in her eyes. Something sharp.

“Am I?” he replied flatly, his exhaustion bleeding through.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she took a step toward him, closing the distance between them. Her perfume reached him first, soft and heady, the kind he used to find intoxicating. Now it just felt cloying.

Her hands slid up his chest, her touch feather-light, deliberate. “You don’t have to sulk,” she murmured, her voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “You could come in. Stay with me tonight.”

He stiffened, his eyes searching hers. “I thought you said goodnight.”

She smiled, that perfect curve of her lips that had fooled so many. “I changed my mind.”

Before he could respond, she leaned in, her mouth brushing his. It wasn’t gentle. It never was with her. Her lips moved against his with a hunger that felt practiced, calculated. Her hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He didn’t move at first. He didn’t want to. But then her tongue traced his bottom lip, and he gave in—not because he wanted to, but because it was easier. Because blowing off steam with her was less complicated than the alternative. Because if he left her standing in that hallway and found someone else, people would notice. They’d talk. They always did.

His hands found her waist, gripping tighter than he intended. She moaned softly against his lips, her body pressing into his as if she could melt into him entirely. It was almost enough to make him forget the hollowness behind it all.

Almost.

He broke the kiss first, his breath uneven. She leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, her lips slightly swollen, her expression unreadable.

“Come on,” she whispered, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “No one has to know.”

The irony of her words wasn’t lost on him. No one has to know. As if they weren’t already a living spectacle. As if their lives weren’t dissected and discussed by strangers every day.

He nodded, wordlessly, and followed her into the room. Because it was easier. Because it was expected. Because it was all he had left to give.

The door shut softly behind them, the click of the lock cutting off the world outside. Her heels echoed against the hardwood floor as she stepped into the room, shedding her wrap and tossing it onto a nearby chair. The suite was immaculate—too pristine, too perfect, just like everything else in their lives.

Lando stood by the door for a moment, watching her. She didn’t glance back, already unfastening the clasp of her necklace and setting it on the dresser. The silence between them was thick, stretching taut like a thread ready to snap.

She turned, her eyes locking onto his. “Well?” she asked, her voice soft but challenging. “Are you just going to stand there?”

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were stalling for time. He didn’t know why—he already knew how the night would go.

She closed the distance between them in two strides, her fingers hooking into his shirt and pulling him closer. Her lips found his again, more insistent this time, and he let her. His hands settled on her hips, his grip firm but distant. She pressed her body against his, the warmth of her skin bleeding through the thin fabric of her dress.

“You’re so tense,” she murmured against his lips, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. “You need to relax.”

He almost laughed at that. Relax. As if he could. As if this—they—weren’t part of the reason he felt like he was drowning. But he didn’t say it. He just let her guide him, her movements fluid and precise, like a dance she’d perfected over time.

Her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, her fingers deftly working them open. She kissed along his jaw, down his neck, her breath warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to feel something. Desire, anger, anything. But all he felt was the gnawing emptiness that had been with him for months.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“Just tired,” he said, the words coming out flat.

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t press. Instead, she reached for his hand, guiding him toward the bed. “Come here.”

He followed, his steps heavy, his mind already elsewhere. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands trailing up his arms as she pulled him closer. Her lips found his again, her kiss slow, sensual, calculated.

For a moment, he let himself get lost in it. In the warmth of her skin, the softness of her lips, the way her body moved against his. It was easier than thinking, easier than feeling.

But even as he sank into the motions, a voice in the back of his mind whispered the truth: this wasn’t love. This wasn’t even connection. This was survival. For both of them.

Her hands slid lower, tugging at his belt, and he let her. Because if he stopped now—if he pulled away, if he walked out—he didn’t know where he’d go. Or what he’d do.

And so, he stayed. Not because he wanted to, but because it was what was expected. Because it was what he’d been trained to do. Give enough to keep the peace. Enough to make it through the night.

But even as he moved with her, his body going through the motions, his mind drifted. And he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could keep giving before there was nothing left of him at all.

A little while later the room was dark except for the faint glow of the bathroom light spilling into the corner. She’d slipped out of bed without a word, the soft click of the door barely registering in the haze of his thoughts. Lando lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The sheets were tangled around his waist, their warmth suffocating despite the cold air in the suite.

He ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. His body felt heavy, his mind heavier. The act itself had been mechanical—motions he’d gone through so many times before, with her, with others. It should’ve been release, a momentary reprieve from the weight he carried. But instead, it only added to the weight.

In the bathroom, water ran softly from the tap, and he could hear the faint shuffle of her movements. She was thorough, always. Her routine was perfect, every step deliberate. He imagined her wiping off her makeup, smoothing out the lines that cracked her carefully crafted image. She’d come out in a silk robe, her hair pinned back, her expression serene, as if none of it ever touched her.

But him? He was cracked straight through, and no amount of polishing would make him whole again.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhaling sharply. His mind churned, fragments of thoughts colliding like shards of broken glass. He could end this. He could say the words, let it unravel, walk away. She’d be fine. She always landed on her feet. And him? He’d finally be free.

But what then?

Lando swallowed hard, his hand falling back to the mattress. The truth of it burned in his chest, heavy and bitter: he wouldn’t end it. He couldn’t.

Because this—this mess of a relationship, this performance they lived—was the most stability he’d ever had. It was the closest he’d come to something resembling a home. And even though it was killing him, it was better than the void that waited outside of it.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. There were none, of course. Just the same gnawing emptiness that followed him everywhere.

The bathroom door opened, and she stepped out, exactly as he’d imagined: her robe cinched at the waist, her hair swept back, her face bare but flawless. She glanced at him briefly, her expression neutral, then moved to the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, slipping under the covers.

“Goodnight,” he replied, though the word felt hollow.

He lay there for a moment longer, the silence pressing down on him. Then, with a sigh, he pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Leaving?” she asked, her voice calm, almost indifferent.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for his shirt on the floor. “I’ve got an early morning.”

She didn’t respond, simply turning onto her side and closing her eyes. It was the same every time. No argument, no questions. Just this unspoken understanding that this was how it worked.

He dressed quickly, buttoning his shirt with practiced efficiency. His tie was a crumpled mess in his hand, but he didn’t bother fixing it. As he grabbed his jacket and shoes, he cast one last glance at her. She looked peaceful, like a portrait in a gallery—beautiful, untouchable, and completely detached.

He stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence out here was colder, emptier, but he welcomed it.

As he walked toward his room, his shoes dangling from his hand, he felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders again. The routine was almost comforting in its predictability. Wake up. Smile for the cameras. Go through the motions. Give enough to keep the world spinning.

Because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

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halfgirl-halfdolll · 18 hours ago

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Self-indulgent again, also very much a vent. For the girlies who don't wanna be moms, not even in fictional settings, who kinda need some representation. Tw: angst with (almost) no comfort and self-deprecation.

You don't want kids.

You have nothing against them, really. You even like most children, think they're cute and all, but it's just not for you. You have never liked baby dolls, nor have you ever dreamed of motherhood; never had that tug of maternal instinct that most women your age felt.

And for a long time, you felt wrong. It was yet another broken part of you that you couldn't possibly fix, and that alienated you from your peers. You still feel wrong. An annoying, loud part of you still thinks you're broken, but what can you do?

You scroll through your instagram feed, seeing post after post of old classmates either with a big, round belly or with a little bundle in the arms, all bright smiles and hands entertwined and hugs.

And you think maybe you ARE doing things wrong. Maybe you were supposed to do that too. Try to conform to what everyone apparently thinks you should do, push through and endure something you know you weren't built for – maybe it'd fill the hole inside your gut, who knows?

Then you hear a baby cry – a soldier's wife was visiting with their kid – and you lose your breath, quickly approaching a meltdown as you feel your hackles raise despite how much you think it's wrong to feel this way.

You lock yourself into the nearest room.

Truly, you don't mind children. In fact, you respect them so much you know they deserve someone who has maternal instincts, and you know that you're not that someone. Not when you fucking derail at the sound of a kid crying.

"What's wrong, love?" Your eyes focus and you finally realize that you had entered Price's office without realizing. Probably your subconscious seeking the comfort of his presence.

"... Nothing." You lie, breathing deeply and waddling your way to one of his couches. The other men observe your movements with the some focus of a scientist finding a jumpy animal in the wild. Simon gets up to give you his seat on the couch.

"Yer pale as a sheet, lass. What happened? Saw a bug on yer way here?" Soap says playfully, as he scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and anchoring you back to reality.

You huff out a sad, tired laugh and shake your head. You feel the familiar pressure build up behind your eyes and your throat constricts, but you close your eyes and keep breathing deeply, willing the tears away.

A few moments pass of you trying to keep your emotions at bay while the men silently watch you, patiently waiting for you to open up in your terms.

"Do you think I'm broken?" You finally whisper and Ghost is kneeling right beside your seat in the blink of an eye, a strong hand squeezing your knee.

"Why would we ever think that, love?" Kyle asks as he sits on the ground and swiftly takes off your shoes, massaging your feet.

You clear your throat, trying to ground yourself through the feeling of Soap, Ghost and Gaz touching you, all while Price stands to the side. The comforting woodsy scent of their colognes envelops you like a cocoon, but it doesn't stop you from thinking.

It is during moments like this that you can feel your heart breaking – remembering how much you ended up loving them and how much you don't deserve them at the same time.

Your mind flashes back to late nights at some hole-in-the-wall bar, all four of them in different stages of drunkenness, talking about distant dreams they have – a family. Kids running through the house. You'd usually smile and keep quiet, knowing you were drunk as well; at the danger of making some self-deprecating comment you were sure they wouldn't appreciate.

It's good, how things have to be nipped at the bud, you think. It's best to have your fantasies ruined than indulge in them and then hurt yourself later on.

You look at Johnny, a sorrowful smile on your face as he raised his eyebrows in concern. He'll be a great father, you're sure of it. All of them will. It's just sad that you will never be the one to fulfill their fatherhood dreams. You can't disrespect their dreams out of selfishness. You can't disrespect a child just because you were too greedy to breath the same air as those men.

Your breathing slows down, emptiness burrowing its roots deep inside the painful muscles of your heart and your gut.

If you're going to be miserable either way, you'd always choose the option in which you would never drag any of them down with you.

"Forget I said anything." You squeeze Simon's hand, still firmly clutching your thigh. "I'm just having a bad day. I'll feel better soon."

You lean forward, gently removing Kyle's hands from your feet, and put your shoes back on. You get up, still feeling like there's a scream stuck in your throat – something fierce inside of you that begs to be loved without needing to create life; something desperate, that wonders if anyone would want to stay with you without a child to tie them down.

Oh god, are you going to die alone?

You clear your throat as you get up before images of the 141 with other women begin flooding your mind. That would have to wait till nighttime. You could cry freely then.

You force a tight-lipped smile and nod your head at Price. He subtly narrows his eyes.

"Sorry I barged through your door with my nonsense, Captain. I'll be taking my leave now."

Price crosses his arms and watches you leave, steps slow and deliberate as if you were hanging by the thinnest thread. He's very aware of the eyes of his men boring through his head, egging him on to do something, say something. Isn't he the Captain, after all?

"Love." Price calls out for you as you open the door. You look at him with watery eyes and reddened lips. No matter how much you tried to hide how awful you felt, you always wore your emotions on your expressions.

"You're not broken." He murmurs and your eyebrows twitch. "No matter what hurts you. We would never think you're broken."

You bite your tongue, holding back any bitter protest of his words. Instead, you smile.

"Thanks, Cap. I do hope so." You say as you step outside and close the door before any of them could try to retort. You can't discuss anything right now. Not when your mind is yelling silently, desperately begging for acceptance of you as you are.

Most times, you just hate yourself too much and too loudly to be able to notice how they would never care about the choices you have made for yourself and your life, as long as you could stay inside their arms; as long as you could be their girl.

#call of duty x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #141 x reader #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #poly 141 x reader #simon riley x reader

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lizziesangel · 12 hours ago

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RAFE CAMERON - ugly addiction

x FEM!reader - MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: based on this request

WORD COUNT: + 1.1k

GENRE: angstish

CONTENT WARNING: mentions of alcohol and drug abuse!

rafe was spiraling deeper into his addiction, unable to keep a grip on reality. the drugs and alcohol had become a crutch for him, a way to silence the guilt and pressure he felt from his family and the growing animosity with the pogues. he started drinking earlier in the day, downing shots before noon and then chasing the high with pills or cocaine. his paranoia grew, and so did his temper.

shoupe wasn’t blind to rafe’s antics. the sheriff constantly caught wind of rafe's involvement in shady deals, reckless behavior, and violent altercations. each time, shoupe gave him a warning, but ward’s influence often shielded him from real consequences. that only emboldened rafe to push the limits even further, leading to more run-ins with the law and dangerous situations with the pogues.

the pogues, on the other hand, weren’t about to let rafe off easy. they knew he was behind their misfortunes and tried to expose his crimes, but rafe always seemed one step ahead—or at least covered by his father's wealth and power. his rivalry with them turned increasingly dangerous. the fights weren’t just physical anymore; rafe started threatening them with weapons, and lashing out when cornered.

the drugs only fueled his instability, amplifying his insecurities and anger. he’d disappear for days at a time, emerging with bruises, wild eyes, and more trouble on his heels.

it was a vicious cycle—one that rafe couldn’t seem to break. his addiction and rage consumed him, isolating him from anyone who tried to help.

but despite the chaos and darkness that consumed much of rafe’s life, his relationship with you was the one place where he could find peace. with you, he was a completely different person—a version of himself that he rarely showed anyone else. he was soft, patient and caring in a way that seemed almost unrecognizable compared to the volatile person he was around everyone else.

he never raised his voice at you nor made you cry. even on his worst days, when the weight of his addiction and troubles with the pogues or shoupe bore down on him, he made an effort to keep you shielded from it. you were his anchor, the one thing that reminded him he wasn’t completely lost. whenever you spoke to him, your voice seemed to cut through the haze in his mind, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

but when his addiction began to creep into every corner of his life, and no matter how much he tried to keep it from affecting your relationship, it was inevitable. the drinking became heavier, the nights longer, and the excuses harder to believe. he started disappearing without telling you where he was going, coming home with glassy eyes and the smell of alcohol and drugs lingering on his clothes.

at first, you had tried to be patient. you’d seen the good in him, the version of rafe who was kind and soft, who cared deeply for you in a way that made you feel safe. but as time went on, that version of rafe started to feel further and further away. he became irritable, snapping at little things, and you could see the walls he was building between you, even if he didn’t mean to.

one night, it all came to a head. he stumbled through the door hours after he’d promised to meet you, his pupils blown and his words slurring. you tried to hold back your frustration, but when he brushed off your concern with a half-hearted apology, it was like something inside you broke.

“where were you?” you asked, your voice sharp with concern. “you said you’d be back hours ago, rafe.”

“do you even see what you’re doing to yourself?” you asked him again. “you’re destroying yourself, rafe, and i don’t know how to help you if you won’t even try.”

he froze, his face twisting with guilt and frustration. “i really... don’t need a lecture right now,” he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. “i’m fine, okay? i can handle it.”

you crossed your arms, trying to hold back the sting of his tone. “this isn’t a lecture! i’m trying to talk to you because i care, because i’m scared for you! do you even see what you’re doing to yourself?”

rafe’s hand ran through his hair, his frustration bubbling over. “i don’t need you to babysit me, alright? i’m fine. i don’t need this right now.”

“no, you’re not fine!” you shot back, your voice rising. “you’re drinking too much, using too much, and pushing away everyone who loves you. including me!”

that seemed to set him off. “you don’t get it, okay? you don’t know what it’s like!” he yelled, his voice echoing through the room. “i’m doing the best i can, but it’s never good enough for anyone. not for my dad, not for you!”

the anger in his voice hit you like a slap, and tears instantly welled up in your eyes. you took a shaky breath, trying to hold it together, but the weight of his words broke something in you. “rafe, just stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the tears spilled over. “i’m trying to help you. why can’t you see that?”

as soon as he saw the tears streaming down your face, his expression shifted completely. the anger drained from his face, replaced with wide-eyed panic. “no, no, no, angel,” he stammered, stepping toward you. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean it. i swear i didn’t mean it.”

you turned away, wiping at your tears, but he wouldn’t let you pull back. he reached out, his hands cupping your face gently. “please don’t cry. i didn’t mean to yell at you. i’m so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “God, i hate myself for making you cry. please don’t… don’t leave me.”

“i’m not leaving you, rafe,” you managed to choke out, your voice raw. “but i’m scared. i’m scared you’re going to lose yourself completely, and i won’t be able to pull you back.”

his hands shook as he held your face, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “i won’t. i swear i won’t. i’ll fix this. i’ll fix myself. just don’t give up on me. i need you, angel. you’re the only good thing i have left.”

his words were raw, filled with fear and sincerity, and for a moment, you saw the rafe you fell in love with, buried beneath all the pain and addiction. You wanted to believe him, to believe that he could fix it, but the cracks in your heart made it hard to be sure.

you wanted to believe him, to trust his promises, but the pain in your chest made it hard to be sure. he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if he could stop you from slipping away with the sheer force of his desperation.

“i’ll be better,” he whispered, his voice cracking against your hair. “i promise. just don’t leave me. please.”

and even though you wanted to trust his promise, deep down, you knew this was a fight neither of you could win alone.

#lizzieswrites𝜗𝜚 #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x female reader #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey

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koifishhies · 3 days ago

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Yess you’re so right about her perception of him changing after the dinner!! Don’t mind me I’m gonna yap about this now.

The way I see it, his job is a kind of special interest / hyperfocus for him, so while he’s working he’s completely locked in, and past the point of caring about masking and forcing himself to appear friendly. The thing with autism is that, for me at least, socializing and connecting with people isn’t something you can casually do on the side; you have to put in active effort into “acting normal” enough to do that. And that’s really fucking exhausting. For Alec, pairing that reality with the fact that he fumbled his last case partly BECAUSE of his personal relationship with Tess getting in the way, I can totally see how he forgoes even trying to put in that effort at all. He drops the mask and completely zeroes in on the task at hand.

Because of this, he’s direct and blunt and disregarding of social etiquette, and it comes across as cold and rude. Paired with all the trauma he went through with Sandbrooke making him a generally pessimistic, depressed person, the people in Broadchurch end up disliking him (if “shitface” is anything to go off of).

But then you take him out of work—and not only that, but put him in a position where he actually has to try and connect with these strangers, and socialize just for the sake of socializing—and he’s immediately awkward and unsure and doesn’t know what to say. It’s the horrifying moment where you realize, oh shit, I am in a Situation, and I have to try and Act Like A Human. And you’re all tense and frozen up and a little too hyperaware of your every action, and next thing you know you’re going on a rant about how unnecessary first names are and your coworker and her husband are looking at you like 😃😃

I feel like seeing this completely other side of Alec gave Ellie more perspective about him, and made her realize that the earlier actions that ticked her off didn’t come from a place of rudeness and entitlement. It was just cuz he’s not very good at socializing, and prefers to get straight to the point. In reality his motivations are quite sincere.

And she’s just kind of like, oh, okay. And adjusts accordingly. Simple as that. Which is so fucking cool!!

Mind you, this doesn’t mean she doesn’t voice her opinion when something he does outright bothers her. She’s quite vocal about that, and that’s fantastic. She’s open and understanding about his perspective while also setting boundaries.

Their interactions are rough at first, misunderstanding and butting heads, but they keep compromising and bouncing off each other enough until they find a balance. And if you notice, even out of work, Alec is never the level of awkward and tense again like he was during that first dinner. Because he’s not masking around her anymore. They’ve genuinely connected on a level that works for them.

And it doesn’t really go much deeper than that, because it doesn’t have to. And I just really like that.

I just love how broadchurch (unintentionally) made an autistic-coded detective, but instead of going the sherlock route they made him just. a guy. he’s not special in any way, he’s not a savant, he’s just kinda There and Traumatized About It the entire time.

like alec hardy wants one thing in life and it’s to do his job, but he’s also constantly faced with the unfortunate reality that his job Sucks. he’s also actively dying half the time. and that’s it that’s his character.

also he’s not a twink like most autistic coded savants in media, and I may not be a middle aged dad but that’s the kind of representation I can get behind

#my favourite type of tumblr interaction is when someone reblogs my post with an equally passionate long analysis #we are speaking the same language #alec hardy #ellie miller #broadchurch #op is autistic #autistic alec hardy #autism headcanon #autistic characters #david tennant #olivia colman #character analysis

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 19 hours ago

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Follow You Anywhere 13

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: because of this

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You shiver as the night air swirls round you. You keep your arms crossed as you lean forward to watch the twigs crackles at the bottom of the flames. The metal ring constrains the fire, smoke furling up to the stars with the smell of cinder. You sink your teeth into your lower lip, a groove stamped there from your constant gnawing.

You sit, silent and still in the lawn chair. You don’t dare speak or move again. The smell of dirt clings to you as the scrapes on your legs burn. You clasp your hands around your upper arms and chatter again.

You wince as the shadow next to you moves. Sy’s been just as quiet. No, he’s The Captain now. He stands with a sigh and strips off his flannel shirt. He drapes it over your shoulders. His sweat cloys from the fabric. You keep your head down and gulp.

“Thank you... Captain,” you eke out.

You tug the shirt around you even as your skin crawls. You’re freezing. You shift your legs and the tug on your ankle stills you. It isn’t a reminder of your reality because you can’t forget that. There’s no escaping it. No getting away from him.

You stare at the rope knotted above your foot. Aika kept you down as The Captain tied it. He didn’t need her help. You have nothing left in you. Only shame. You might not have asked for any of this but it’s all your fault. It’s all because of your own poor choices.

As The Captain sits back down, the rope bristles in the dirt. He holds the other end, wrapped around his thick fist as he watches the fire next to you, petting his loyal dog with his other hand. You languish in that tableau, waiting for it to break.

You can’t help but wonder about him. He’s a soldier. You try to piece together why he did this. Why he is the way he is. Something horrible must have happened to him. Yet, you can’t forgive everything he’s done. It might be an explanation but it can’t be an excuse.

You don’t know why you care. He’s a villain to you. He’s picked apart your whole life. Infiltrated it and shattered it right before you.

Your breath wisps out sharply as he stands again. You peek over and let your lip pop free of your teeth. It sticks out in a pout as you watch him. He stirs around on the folding table and takes one of the long sticks there. Plastic crinkles and the impales a large pillowy shape; a marshmallow.

“Good night for smores,” he comes back to you, the rope looped around two of his fingers. He could untie you. He’s won. He knows it. “Don’t let Aika snatch it from ya.”

Despite his attempt at humour, his voice his vacant. You’re both just biding time. You take the skewer and turn it in your hand. You cough as he looms over you.

“Thank you, Captain.”

He clucks and backs up. He returns to the table. More crinkling as he fumbles around. You hold the marshmallow to the flames and watch the outside blacken. That’s how you feel. Ready to melt.

“Eh!” He exclaims and grabs the skewer as the marshmallow catches alight. “Careful! Don’t wanna burn yourself, sweetie.”

You can sense the rigidity in his words. He wants to sound like Sy but his cadence is that of a commander. What he says, he wants heard; obeyed.

He tosses the burnt clump of sugar and pokes a new one onto the end. He roasts it himself, precisely so that it doesn’t singe. He turns back and squeezes it between the crackers and chocolate, sliding the gooeyness free before offering it to you.

You’re not hungry. Your insides are in turmoil. You can’t deny him. You take the sandwich, another obedient thank you as you do. You consider it. Your stomach churns.

You bite into it and the oozing middle drips onto your hands. You cup one under your chin to catch the mess and let out a squeak. You chew and pull it away, the insides dripping onto your palm. You glance up as the Captain remains right beside you, watching you.

You lick your sticky lip and swallow. You hum, an unconvincing ‘yum’. ��Really good,” you nearly choke.

“Mm, is it?” His face is consumed in the darkness as he stands with his back to the fire.

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

He stares down at you. You force yourself still as he reaches for you. He drags his thumb along your chin, “got some here.”

He trails up to your lip and over it, shoving his thumb into your mouth. You gasp as he drags the pad of his finger over your tongue. Your eyes widen as you stare up at him. He pushes deeper, pressing down as you cradle the cooling sandwich.

“Suck it,” he snarls.

You murmur around his thick thumb. What choice do you have? You press your lips around him and do as he says. He turns his hand to grip your chin as he keeps his finger in your mouth. You suck as he groans.

“That’s it, sweetie. You gonna be a good girl for the Captain, aren’t you?”

You stop and blink. Your terror surges and your eyes brim hotly. You gulp as your lips tremble around him.

“The Captain can be good to you,” he slowly pulls his thumb free. “Finish that.” He points to your handful of cracker and slop. “Then I’m gon have some dessert of my own.”

You dip your head down and your tears flow over. There’s no mistaking what he means. You shakily pick at the mess in your palm and try to scrap up the chocolate and marshmallow with the gram cracker shards. He watches you as he toys with the end of the rope.

You peek at Aika. No leash for her, only you. She’s entirely unaware as she lays and listens to the distant waves. Or she might not know any better for her owner’s behaviour.

You choke down the last of the sickly sweet glop. You hold out your sticky hands helplessly. You want to vomit it all back up. You might just do that once he has his way...

Oh god.

“Come on, sweetie, I’ll get ya cleaned up,” he yanks the rope and your foot kicks out at the subtle force.

You don’t say a word. You rise and the rope goes slack. There’s just enough for you to take small steps without slipping.

Aika sits up on her paws and he speaks to her in that mysterious language. She puts her head back down and stays as she is. You walk away from the fire, shrouded in the weight of The Captain’s shadow.

He takes you inside. The old bulbs glow amber and almost thrum in their effort to stay lit. He leads you down to a narrow doorway and takes you into the kitchen. He removes the flannel shirt from your shoulders and folds it on the counter.

He brings you to the sink and cranks it on. It whines before spitting out water then chugs noisily. He holds your hand under as it scours your hands coldly.

“Water heater is lit...” he mutters and does his best to scrub your hands between his large ones, the rope tucked into his belt haphazardly. It’s only a symbol now, he knows you’re not going anywhere.

He shuts the water off and dries your hand with the coarse cloth hung from a hook. You move numbly, only to his whim as the strength drains from you. He takes you out of the kitchen and down the hallways. He gets behind you as you approach another door.

You stop short as you see the outline of a bed. Only the light from the hallway seeps in through the door. He collides with your back as you stare. He drops the rope entirely and grips your shoulders instead. He walks you forward.

You lock your jaw to keep from hurling up the smores. The saltiness of his skin is still stained in your mouth. He urges you towards the bed and spins you to face him. He nudges you until you sit on the mattress.

He lumbers away, the floorboards creaking under him, and there’s a crackle over you. The single bulb hung from the ceiling sends a weary haze over the space. He approaches you again.

You stare at the front of his shirt. The jagged letters of the band’s name blur together. His hand moves beneath your vision, a subtle snap as he frees the large hunting knife from its sheath. Your gaze moves to the blade. You quake as you brace for the incision.

He doesn’t speak as he angles it towards you. He cuts the straps of your halter top. You mourn it in a moment of foolishness. It’s easier to cling to those small things in that moment. He slices up the sides and peels it away, exposing your bikini top.

He spreads his hand across the top of your chest and pushes you onto your back. You go limp as you recline on the lumpy mattress. He makes quick work of your denim shorts. The rope chafes on your ankle as it dangles freely.

He tugs free the shorts and drops them with the remnants of your shirt. You lay prone and unmoving. He puts the knife on the table near the top of the bed and steps back. He bends and unlaces his boots. You stare at the cobwebs in the corner.

As he nears the bed again, you don’t react. He drags your weak body up and around so your head is propped between the pillows. He climbs up on his knees, legs wide as he sits on his heels between your legs. He reaches over his head to tug off his tee shirt.

His furry chest puffs out, bigger than ever. Each time you look at him, he’s bigger than the last. His arms bulge as he whips the tee behind him and his pecs strain. His stomach is thick with muscle and a layer of excess that doesn’t detract from his physique.

He reaches for you and you swallow a whimper. He hooks a hand under you and makes you sit up. He takes your wrist and guides you to touch his hairy chest. You wince as your fingers twine into the coarse hair. He looks down at your hand as he forces you to caress him. You comply and rub your fingertips against his skin.

He purrs, or growls, he sounds like an animal. He pulls you onto his lap as he shifts to sit on his rear. You don’t resist. He reaches around your nape and tugs on the string of your bathing suit. It untangles easily and the cups fall away from your tits.

He shivers out a breath and brushes his fingertips over the curve of your chest. He traces along you tits and circles your nipples, his touch growing firmer by the second. He groans and cups you, squeezing as his cheeks dimple.

He bows his head as his other hand creeps up your back. He leans you away from him and you let your head loll over his knuckles. He nuzzles along your cleavage and his breath dampens your skin. He nibbles the swell of your breast and his tongue flicks around your nipple. You quiver as he seals his lips around the hard bud and suckles.

He curls into you as he fondles and sucks at your chest. You close your eyes as he leans with you and lifts you as he once more brings himself to his knees. He puts you on your back, flattening you beneath him as he continues to devour you.

You mop at your cheeks as your tears flow once more. You blink away the moisture wicking in your lashes and tilt your head to look down at the top of his head. Short hairs cover his shaved head and his shoulders round with his undefeatable power. His hand trails from beneath you and frames your hip as he groans and growls.

You cannot move. You’re stuck. Trapped. That fear that’s been simmering under the surface for days boils over and consumes you as he does. You surrender. To inevitability. To The Captain.

#captain syverson #dark captain syverson #dark!captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #follow you anywhere #sand castle

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ilovecatfr · 21 hours ago

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Getting Comfortable in the State of Preparation

Why Shifters Often Get Stuck Here

Have you ever caught yourself spending hours making scripts, mood boards, and playlists for your Desired Reality (DR) but rarely (or never) actually attempting to shift? You’re not alone—this is super common in the shifting community or so I noticed after one of my posts. Many shifters fall into a pattern of preparation, where the process of getting ready feels more comfortable than the act of shifting itself.

Why Shifters Get Stuck in Preparation

1. Preparation Feels Safe

Making scripts and mood boards gives you a sense of control and progress. It’s exciting and comforting because it connects you to your DR without the frustration or fear of a failed attempt.

2. Perfectionism

Feeling like you need the perfect script, playlist, or method before you shift. This turns into an endless cycle of preparation because you never feel “ready enough.”

3. Dopamine Rush

Planning triggers a dopamine release—the thrill of imagining your DR can be addictive! It gives you a taste of your DR without actually shifting, so it’s easy to keep doing it.

4. Community Validation

Sharing your playlists, scripts, or mood boards in the shifting community can feel nice. It’s a way to bond with others, but it can also make the focus shift (pun intended!) from actual shifting to just the idea of shifting.

5. Procrastination as a Defense Mechanics

Procrastination is often rooted in fear. For some shifters, it’s easier to stay in the “preparation” phase.

6. Overwhelm

With so much information out there about shifting methods and scripting, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. Instead of figuring out where to start, many shifters default to preparing because it feels more manageable.

How to Break Out of the Preparation Loop

If you find yourself stuck in this cycle, here are some tips that may help you refocus on actual shifting:

1. Shift the Focus to Actual Attempts

Remember that prep work is meant to support your shifting journey, not replace it. Set clear intentions for when you'll shift and stick to them.

2. Limit Prep Time

Give yourself a specific time frame for scripting or making mood boards (e.g., one day to make your script/ 1 hour a day for week). Then spend the rest of your time focusing on shifting.

(make sure to not be overwhelmed if you set a specific time that you are not comfortable with)

3. Visualize Instead of Overplanning

Focus on feeling like you’re in your DR. You don’t need every detail scripted; your subconscious can fill in the blanks.

(for people who feel like they can't trust their subconscious: your subconscious is YOU, it knows what you want. Your subconscious is never going against you; it always working with your desires you only need to allow to give it to you)

4. Try a “Prep Detox”

Take a break from all the prep work and focus solely on shifting for a few days. You might find it easier to connect with your DR this way. You'll see how easier shifting will become when you focus your energy on actually doing it rather then on finishing your script or making a new Pinterest board (no shade)

5. Reframe the Habit

See scripting and playlists as stepping stones, not the destination. Keep reminding yourself: the real reward is your DR, not the finished script.

6. Consistency Over Perfection

You don’t need to feel perfectly prepared to shift. Trust that you yourself is enough.

Getting stuck in the preparation stage doesn’t mean you’re not capable of shifting. It’s just a habit, and like any habit, it can be shifted (pun intended again)! Remember, your DR is waiting for you—it’s time to take that leap! :)

#reality shifting #shifters #permashifting #shifting community #scripting #shifting advice #shifting motivation #shifting reality #shiftblr #shifting blog #shifting consciousness #shifting antis dni #shifting diary #shifting to hogwarts #shifting stories #subconscious #pure consciousness #shifting

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meazalykov · 22 hours ago

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she will come back

esmee brugts x reader

summary: she didn't love you? you thought wrong.

warnings: acl injury, angst

you lay on the green grass during el clásico, your screams piercing through the heavy atmosphere.

the clash with olga carmona felt like nothing more than a stumble in the moment, but the instant your knee twisted unnaturally, a sharp pain *crack, pop!* shot through your leg, forcing you to the ground. it was immediate, searing, and unmistakable—something was wrong.

the pain grows unbearable as you clutch your knee, tears spilling freely down your face. the crowd noise dims in your ears, replaced by the pounding of your heartbeat and your choked sobs.

misa and olga, two of the madrid players, are the first to reach you by the goal post, their expressions mirroring the horror you feel. misa crouches down, her hand hovering awkwardly before settling gently on your shoulder.

“you’re okay,” she says softly, though her wide eyes betray her uncertainty. she doesn’t know you personally, but shes heard about you through her friends alexia and jenni– who look at you as a little sister.

olga kneels beside you, gripping your hand tightly, whispering words of comfort in a tone so quiet you barely catch them. she says sorry too. however, no words can cut through the agony coursing through your body.

in the corner of your eye, a blur of blue sprints across the pitch. alexia, her presence is unmistakable as she drops to her knees beside you, her face stricken with worry.

“it’s okay,” she murmurs, brushing the sweat-damp hair from your face.

“you’re going to be okay, y/n. i’m here.”

you nod faintly, though you can barely focus on her words. the medics are on their way, their movements hurried as they reach you. you see your teammates gathering a few steps away, their faces etched with concern.

through the haze, your vision catches on esmee, standing frozen near the halfway line. the dutch’s expression is one of pure anguish, her lips parted like she wants to call out to you, but she doesn’t move.

you can’t tear your gaze away, even as tears blur the edges of your sight. she looks heartbroken, and for a fleeting moment, a different kind of pain stabs through your chest.

the medics secure your leg and prepare to carry you off the field. alexia walks beside the stretcher, her hand gripping yours firmly. you squeeze her hand as best you can, grateful for her presence, though your focus keeps flickering back to esmee. the woman’s figure grows smaller as you’re carried away, but the memory of her pained expression lingers.

the hospital room is sterile and quiet, save for the occasional beep of the machines monitoring your vitals. your knee feels heavy, weighed down by the aftermath of surgery and the reality of what has happened.

alexia, ingrid, and fridolina are there, their voices hushed as they hover near your bedside. you can tell they’re trying to be strong for you, but the worry in their eyes is clear. you appreciate them more than you can say, especially since they’ve become your family here in barcelona—a necessity, given that you don’t have one back home to fall back on.

“she’s going to be okay,” alexia says quietly, though you’re not sure if she’s trying to reassure herself or the others. the woman remembers her own acl surgery, but it feels worse seeing you go through it.

a knock on the door pulls their attention. fridolina stands to answer it, expecting kika or another teammate like ellie or ewa. instead, the door swings open to reveal esmee.

the dutch woman’s presence sends a ripple of surprise through the room. she holds a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an iced latte in the other, her movements hesitant as if she’s unsure she should even be here.

her eyes dart to you, still asleep, then to alexia.

“can i come in?” esmee asks softly, her voice barely audible.

alexia exchanges a glance with ingrid and fridolina before nodding.

“of course.”

esmee steps inside, placing the flowers and the latte on the table beside your bed. she lingers, her fingers brushing the edge of the cup as if she’s debating whether to stay. the tension in the room is palpable, but no one says anything. eventually, alexia motions toward the door.

“we’ll give you both some time.”

the other two follow her out, though fridolina pauses briefly, her gaze lingering on esmee before she closes the door behind her.

esmee sinks into the chair by your bedside, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. she watches you in silence, her expression a mixture of sadness and longing. her eyes trace the contours of your face, memorizing the details as if she hasn’t seen you every day for months.

its not like you died.. she told herself. however, your presence on the team will be lost. the excellent right-back you are, everyone will miss you for the rest of the season.

esmee knew that being in the hospital room was different. this is quiet, intimate—a moment she doesn’t know if she’ll get again.

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the dull ache in your knee. the second is the figure sitting beside you, her presence so familiar that your heart stutters in your chest. you blink, your vision adjusting to the dim light of the room.

“esmee?” you croak, your voice hoarse from hours of disuse.

es’s head snaps up, her eyes meeting yours. there’s a softness in her gaze that you haven’t seen in a long time, and it takes your breath away.

“hey,” she says quietly, her voice steady but tinged with emotion.

the silence that follows is heavy, but it’s not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that speaks volumes, the kind that carries years of unspoken words.

“how are you feeling?” esmee asks, her voice gentle.

“i’m okay,” you reply, though the ache in your knee tells a different story.

there’s a long pause before you speak again.

“why are you here?”

her eyes soften, and she leans forward, her hands resting on the edge of your bed.

“i still love you, you know?”

your breath catches in your throat.

“you do?”

she furrows her brow, confusion flashing across her face.

“yes? you thought i didn’t?”

you look away, your fingers picking at the edge of the blanket.

“that’s why i left, es.”

esmee’s voice drops to a whisper, barely audible but filled with pain.

“why? i loved you so much when we were at at psv. i still do. it’s part of the reason i came to barcelona with you.”

your words spill out before you can stop them.

“i saw you and dan at lynn’s party back in the netherlands. you were laughing together, and i thought…” you swallow hard.

“i thought you wanted her back.”

esmee blinks, her expression shifting from shock to frustration.

“dan? are you serious? we were joking about how bad we were together. we laughed because we were so obviously incompatible. that’s all it was.”

“oh.” the single word feels inadequate, hollow.

“why didn’t you talk to me about it?” she asks, her voice trembling.

“why did you just… leave?”

you sigh, the weight of your past pressing heavily on your chest.

“i was scared. my family left me, and i guess i developed this… thing where i leave first before anyone else can.”

her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she leans closer, her hand brushing against yours.

“oh… you’re in therapy now, right? i heard alexia mention it to you before..”

you nod.

“yes. she and barcelona helped set me up with someone. it’s helping.”

she nods, her fingers curling around yours. the silence stretches again, but this time it feels lighter, less suffocating.

“i brought you an iced latte,” she says suddenly, gesturing to the cup on the table.

“extra ice, chocolate cold foam. your favorite.”

a small smile tugs at your lips.

“you remembered.”

“of course i did.”

you reach for the cup, and she helps you lift it to your lips. the familiar taste is a small comfort amidst the whirlwind of emotions. after a sip, you set it back down and look at her.

“can you lean down?” you ask softly.

she complies, and as you wrap your arms around her, you press a kiss to her cheek. she pulls back, her face flushed, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“what are you doing?” she asks, her voice tinged with amusement.

you shift slightly, wincing at the movement as your body fully moves towards the left side of the large hospital bed.

“making room. it’s late, and you need to sleep.”

she hesitates but eventually climbs into the bed beside you, careful to avoid your injured knee. the proximity feels natural, like slipping into a familiar rhythm.

“can we try again?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

her answer is immediate.

“absolutely.”

the door creaks open, and alexia peeks inside.

“can we come back in?”

you glance at esmee, and she nods.

“of course,” you reply.

the trio steps inside, their eyes widening when they see the two of you curled up together. fridolina raises an eyebrow.

“so… you two are back together?”

you exchange a glance with esmee before grinning.

“yes,” you say in unison.

the room fills with laughter, the tension of the past finally dissolving.

masterlist

#esmee brugts x reader #esmee brugts #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #barcelona femeni #fc barcelona #oranjeleeuwinnen

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wearysparrows · 12 hours ago

Text

I (Almost) Shot You Down

Summary: A chance encounter with Sylus snowballs something much larger, and you're pushed even deeper into the depths of his world -- whether you like it or not.

Chapter 1: A pillar of Salt

After being forced on leave from the Hunter's Association, you try to find respite outside of the safety of your apartment. By chance, you see Sylus engaged with someone else. You nearly take his head for it -- but he gets his way, in the end.

CW (18+): Sylus/reader, no use of ' Y/N,' Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Guns, MC is chronically depressed and exhausted, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Not Beta Read, Explicit Sexual Content, Blood and Violence, Drug Use, Gambling, Reader is MC, AFAB reader is implied but no pronouns are used

A/N: This is my long, ongoing work that is still being updated. There are many more chapters up on ao3, and I'm working on getting them to tumblr. They're also being edited and improved from their original postings, so if you've read it before, there may be some changes as I upload!

You had finally begrudgingly accepted a few days off from your work with the Hunter’s Association, at the behest of your primary care physician (citing your declining physical health), your boss (citing your declining work performance), and your work partner (citing your declining mental health). The aforementioned meddlers had teamed up in an effort to finally tear you away from hunting, and would not allow you to return, despite your valiant attempts at protest. Work was your escape – from yourself, from the reality of your life, from your relationships – and everything in between. Hunting never changed, and you only got better at it.

Your blatant disregard for yourself had failed to continue to go unnoticed by those who cared about you, though. Now, here you were, sitting in your empty apartment with only the all encompassing silence to keep you company. Left alone with your thoughts. Again. You hadn’t bothered to kick the lights on. Only the sound of the heater clicking filled the otherwise empty air around you. Your mind went where it always did, then. That day. No bodies were ever recovered. You didn’t even have something to bury. Caleb’s dog tags had found their way into your hands at some point, and you gazed at them listlessly in your palm. You could still feel the heat from the residual fires of the explosion radiating off of the metal. The warmth of his hand in yours. It was all you had left to prove he ever really existed.

You desperately needed to get out of the house. Anything was better than being here, and perhaps you would accidentally run into some wanderers while the ghost of you made its way about Linkon city. Throwing yourself at hordes of wanderers was the only coping mechanism that had shown any signs of taking your mind off of things. Sort of. With this scheme in mind, you quickly dressed yourself in your usual, strapping your gun to your thigh, concealing its comforting weight under your coat. It wasn’t like you were on forced bedrest, so a walk wouldn’t hurt, right? You stashed Caleb’s tags in your nightstand drawer, returning them to their safe place. You imagined that someday, they’d burn a hole in that wood, and you’d come back to nothing at all.

You left your apartment with no particular aim in mind, being sure to lock the door behind you. The biometric lock shifted into place with a soft whirr behind you. You may have been utterly exhausted, but you were never complacent. The weather outside wasn’t ideal for a walk, and the wind buffeted your hair about your face, and bit at your skin, as if you were offending it with your mere presence outside. Your eyes watered, protesting the assaults by the air. You opted to ignore these sensations, and continued to walk in what you thought was the direction of the nearby shopping district. Your appetite had long since left you – months ago now – but you knew you could find a small measure of pleasure in a cup of coffee on a day like today.

After many twists and turns, your weary feet led you to an area you weren’t wholly familiar with. Maybe it was new? This was more upscale than your usual, you realized – your Hunter’s salary was decent enough, but definitely not this decent. Cobblestone that looked suspiciously new made the click of your boot-heels echo loudly off of your surroundings. You scrutinized the buildings before you, searching for somewhere that your presence would not offend, where you could also acquire what you were after. Everything was just a touch too upscale, too unwelcoming. All of the storefronts blurred into one image, one place where you weren’t welcomed. You chased thoughts from that same morning out of your mind that threatened to break through as you were forced into a moment of mental silence, and the still of the air and the lack of bustle kept returning you to reality. The last place you wanted to be.

After a time of aimless searching, you spied a place that looked acceptable. It was smaller than the other establishments, tucked away conservatively into an alley, lit by warm sconces along either side. Unlike the other buildings, it was painted in a warm, sandy beige. You couldn't tell much else about it from the outside, other than that the interior was dimly lit. The imagery of the cup of coffee on the signage was enough to guide your way. You pulled open the heavy glass door, and half expected it to be partially empty on the inside, but you had no such luck. It was bustling, but warm as a result, and you realized how cold you had been before you had stepped in. The change in temperature almost immediately made you feel too hot in your coat.

The patronage was definitely outside of your tax bracket. The patronage was clad in an array of expensive looking furs and fabrics, all speaking to each other in the lowest of dulcet tones. You felt their eyes on you, but disregarded them. It wasn’t as if you weren’t allowed to be here, regardless of how out of place you may have looked. Which, you thought, wasn’t that much. You might not have been born into high snob-society, but you took good care of your looks. Your fingers were still moving slowly in protest to the inclement weather as you fished your wallet from your coat pocket, stepping towards the counter with the intention to order. You hardly glanced at the menu. You didn’t even have a drink in mind. Just something as a distraction. Liquid, hot enough to burn your tongue. A sensation to chase the thoughts away.

This course of action was quickly interrupted, however. In your periphery, you caught a glimpse of a shock of white hair on someone who seemed to tower over the rest of the people in the room, even while sitting. Clad in blacks and velvet reds, he both fit in perfectly and stood out starkly all at once. He was talking to someone else you couldn't see in a hushed tone.

Sylus?

Surely not. Why would he even be here, of all places? Sure, it was nice, but not places-Sylus-frequented nice. Or at least, the places you imagined he frequented. You still didn’t have a full idea of all of the things Sylus did with his free time. Short of that, what was he doing cavorting about in Linkon in public? Your eyes bored holes into the back of his head, trying to catch wind of what could have possibly brought him to a place like this. You side stepped into a corner table that allowed you to get a better look at who he was speaking with.

A woman?

This clearly wasn’t just any woman, either. A cascade of elaborately curled blonde hair fell down her back in elegant waves, and a deep red dress clung to her like a second skin, outlining her perfectly against Sylus’s dark form. A small nose, and full lips. Long, dark lashes. She was saying something to him, but you couldn’t make out the words in the den of the conversations from the other patrons. He laughed in response to her words, and leaned closer to her. She was smiling at him, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. Her other hand touched his shoulder.

Stones stacked neatly in your stomach as you watched them. You felt like a voyeur. They looked exquisite together – it was undeniable. She was even wearing the perfect color of red. It looked as if she had exsanguinated someone and dyed the dress in their blood – a perfect match for Sylus. Everything else – everyone – in the room paled in comparison. Sylus was still smiling at her, full of charm. You thought about what Zayne had said to you before forcing you to take time off.

You look like you’re two steps away from death. Take a few days off.

Well, his observation was more astute than he realized, clearly. You certainly felt that way now, in light of the spectacle that was playing out before you. Maybe only one step away. Half a step. You told yourself this was none of your business, that you should just quietly take your leave before he noticed you had ever been here. There was no reason for him to take notice of you while he was attending to his private matters. You were just passing through his life. Brushing through his fingertips. Never actually touching him in any way that mattered. Physically, mentally, spiritually.

You decided you needed to leave. Urgently. Despite telling yourself staring down the couple wasn’t bothering you because there was nothing between you and Sylus anyway and what the hell was your problem, you had begun to feel nauseated. You clutched your arm about your midsection, and hurriedly peeled yourself out of your seat. Every one of your muscles protested at the movement, reminding you that you should be at home right now. On forced bedrest, probably.

That just wasn’t in the cards. You weren’t sure you had a hand to play at all. You silently cursed the great dealer in the sky.

You made a beeline for the door, but not before you took one final glance at Sylus and his companion. Even if you were to turn into a pillar of salt for looking back, you just needed one more glimpse. To satiate your curiosity. But luck wasn’t on your side (when was it ever?), because you met Sylus’s eye as you looked, as well as those of the beautiful woman. You saw surprise pass over his features, and thought you saw his lips part as if he were going to say something. The woman peered back at you curiously. You cast your eyes away from the bewitching image before you.

You could feel all the water being sucked from each of the cells in your body, one by one. You would shrivel up on the spot, and leave behind only the base impression of yourself in the wake of your shame. Hopefully, your rotten yearning soul would be freed to roam elsewhere, far from here, in this place you didn’t belong.

Ah, take me, O salt pillar!

There were no such mercies in this life, of course. You left the cafe as quickly as your feet would allow. The glass door slammed behind you. You were running now, for reasons you couldn’t (didn’t want to) quantify. It wasn’t as if he was chasing after you, coming to explain that no, she’s just a friend, just someone I work with, don't worry. Faster you went, the need to see the comforting outline of your apartment against the sky becoming more desperate by the moment. Fortunately, the run home was certainly shorter than the walk to the cafe, and the image you so desired to see appeared before you, blessedly.

Only then did you allow yourself a moment to rest. Your lungs screamed in protest at your outburst, and you sucked in great mouthfuls of air, trying to forcibly still your rapidly beating heart. It was always betraying you in one way or another, even now. You bent over, your hands on your knees, and took a moment to collect yourself. You were grateful no one had been around to see this display, from you leaving your apartment, to running away from a damn coffee shop empty-handed. You curled a fist in your hair, willing it out of your face as you righted yourself. A few stray strands came away in your fingers. That had been happening more and more often, as of late.

The walk up the stairs was nothing else if not excruciating, and you thanked even your unluckiest stars that Xaiver didn’t seem to be home from work yet to see the unfortunate events of your life play out as they were. You stumbled into your apartment – being sure to lock the door behind you, as always.

The safety of your home did good work to soothe your nerves, a stark contrast to the horrid occurrence in the cafe. You shrugged into something more comfortable: a camisole and a pair of soft, cotton pajama shorts. This set had yet to let you down in the comfort department. Even as you changed, the events played over and over through your mind, and you burned with the embarrassment of it all. Sylus’s smile at that woman, his laughter. The way his gaze had twisted into something else entirely when he saw you. Your nausea refused to calm. Your mouth kept filling with too much saliva, over and over.

Why did you have to run away, of all things? You had left like a petulant child who was unable to cope with the sight before them, instead retreating to your small corner of safety in the world.

Wry thoughts came to you. This is what I get for taking a day off. You knew you had been wrong to do so. Your prophecy was always fulfilling itself. Take that, Dr. Zayne.

Still, you were yet unwilling to heed the siren’s call of your bed, despite the increasing intensity of its song. You flopped onto the couch instead with a sigh, the air entering and leaving your lungs easier now. You longed to be rid of the image of Sylus entangled with someone else, and decided you needed to busy your hands with something to scrub the thoughts from your mind.

As a result of not taking nearly any days off lately, you were definitely behind on the maintenance of your weapons. It technically wasn’t work. It was only related to work. You bent over from your position on the couch, and peered underneath it. Here was where your smallest gun safe lived. Perhaps not the most ideal place for it – but it wasn’t as if you had company over often, anyway. Save for Xavier, your steady and ever-reliable partner. And more recently, Sylus, who you hadn’t yet found an accurate definition for. His presence was usually accentuated by some excuse to intrude on your space.

You unlocked the safe. It was an old-school version, not biometric like the newer models. Pure, vintage analog goodness. A gift from Grandma when you had entered the Hunter’s Association. It came open with a soft, satisfying click. Only two weapons were usually inside – your Hunter’s issue handgun, old faithful. You returned it to its rightful place, now, as it had dutifully attended the cafe fiasco with you. With it was a piece that had forced itself into your possession – or rather, Sylus had forced it into your possession. You eyed the offending object, picking it up gingerly and placing it on the coffee table in front of you. It was considerably heavier than your standard issue. It had thunked onto the glass of the table, as if it were moderately offended to be there. Did even his gifts take on aspects of his personality? His influence seemed to know no bounds, so nothing would surprise you at this point. He certainly had a penchant for creating objects with personalities, if Mephisto was any measure.

This gun wasn’t the only firearm Sylus had thrust upon you. A gift, he had said. You weren’t wholly unconvinced he wasn’t using your house as his millionth-whatever-armory. You had accrued so many weapons that you had to acquire a secondary safe, the hulking mass of which sat in your bedroom forebodingly. It held all of the other “gifts” inside, tucked safely away in the darkness, waiting to be used for their dark purpose. You hid it underneath a spare sheet. The second safe was another gift from Sylus. It reminded you of him, in a way – it imposed its presence in your house: tall, cold, stark, and white. It didn’t fit here at all. And it was full of things meant to rend flesh from flesh, flesh from bone. Life from this plane into the next. You thought about the first time you met Sylus, and how he had obliterated a man from existence before your eyes with his evol. There hadn’t been so much as an ounce of recognition in his eyes for the life he had taken. The memory made your nausea threaten to return to you.

Your eyes came back into focus on the gun in front of you. You liked guns, and as much as you hated to admit it, this one was no exception. It was a beautiful article – a faithful reproduction of a vintage Colt 1911. A classic, by anyone’s measure. It was a forty-five caliber, with an eight-plus-one round capacity. The recoil of your Hunter’s association issue paled into comparison to this, and it affected your accuracy negatively. You had recently replaced its bullets – standard full metal jackets – with hollow point rounds. Higher accuracy, higher damage. You planned to test this on the next Wanderer who was unlucky enough to be at the other end of your barrel. Or the next man. Those had only recently come into your sights, as a result of your exploits – at the request of Sylus. He had never actually asked you to gun a living person down, though. You weren’t sure you were even capable of doing so. Or if he would ask.

The wood grip was custom engraved with your name, and encrusted with jewels, courtesy of him. Naturally. The body was scrubbed of any serial number. Naturally.

Ugh.

You placed it on your knees, with the intention to take it apart to clean and maintain it. You intended to add a suppressor, which you had purchased with your own money. Not a gift from Sylus. Small victories.

Just as you began to take the weapon apart, you caught a sound. There was a sort of shuffling at your door, as if someone were standing behind it. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, prickling. Your intuition told you that whatever was behind it was something to be feared. You loaded the spare magazine of hollow points into the piece with a soft click. You flicked the safety off. Your hands had already begun to sweat.

You pointed the gun at the door. It was too heavy in your hands.

Whoever was behind the door was making quick work of the lock, despite it necessitating your biometric data to unlatch.

What if it was the same people who had taken the lives of Caleb and Gran? Had they finally had enough of this game of cat and mouse, and come for you?

You held your breath to steady yourself. The extension of Sylus’s violence wavered back and forth in your grip. The door came open at a painfully slow pace, and a large figure in black slipped through. You cocked back the hammer, which had previously given you difficulty. Now adrenaline bolstered even the strength in your fingertips, any previous weakness forgotten. The figure turned, closing the door behind him. Upon seeing you on your makeshift gunner’s perch on the back of the couch, he raised his hands in surrender, showing you the calloused tan of his palms. One of his hands was nearly the size of your head.

“Sylus?”

His eyebrows had initially shot up in surprise at your current posture, but he quickly relaxed his face into that of his usual mask of easy confidence. You hated that about him, his composure. You adored it, too. He couldn’t even bother to look afraid at the end of a gun. The gun he gave you. You exhaled the breath you had been holding through your nose.

“Expecting someone else?”

He sounded pleased, of all things. You suddenly felt very exposed, in nothing but your camisole and shorts. Despite the gun in your hands, it was as if you were at the other end of his. Your head felt hot. Your forearms began to protest at the weight of the weapon. You blinked new wetness into dry eyes.

“Why the fuck are you breaking into my house?”

You didn’t lower the gun. You didn’t want to. It wasn’t as if it was the first time you two had ended up like this. You, trying to kill him. Him, accepting your choice. Probably not the last, either. You were angry with him – not for breaking in, no. Not for his casual nonchalance in the face of death (could he even die?), not for his disregard for your poweress as an opponent. But for his date with someone else. Someone who was decidedly not you. The feeling bubbled up, stronger and stronger until it was burning you from the inside out. Shame accompanied it, hand in hand.

Of course, you had no real justification for this feeling. You and Sylus weren’t dating, as you needed to remind yourself more and more frequently. You weren’t even sure you could call your relationship friendly – it was somewhere in the bizarre stage of you wanting him, and him accepting your every move with grace. He took you for all you were in stride, met you for all your whims, and you trailed after his every word. You had something he wanted – what it was, you were never quite sure. It changed with his tides. You couldn’t pry it from him. Questions were only answered with more questions, so you had given up on asking them. Sylus’s response to your question cut through your thoughts. His voice was soft, imporing.

“You didn’t answer my texts or calls. I was knocking for a while, too, but there was no answer. With the way you left, I came to make sure.”

Make sure of what?

You hadn’t heard any knocking. You also hadn’t checked your phone.

He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, and they came in a slow, steady stream into your consciousness. You thought about the first time you had shot him. How his blood erupted from his chest in hot streams. It stained your hands as you tried desperately to stop his bleeding, pressing against the pulse of the open wound. When you thought you had taken his life. When he had pressed the trigger for you. When he didn’t die. The heat of him was still there, under your palms. It wouldn’t wash off. He was under your skin.

“I’m glad you like the gift, by the way.”

He took a step towards you as he spoke. You adjusted your grip. He was still in your sights. Your breath came quick, your mouth dry. You licked your lips, cracked from worrying your teeth on them so often lately. You thought about the woman and Sylus. Together. The red dress. Sylus’s blood. His laugh, for someone else. Not you.

“You’re welcome to take my life again,” he murmured soothingly, “But it might disturb the neighbors. Particularly the one downstairs. Of course, I’m willing to help you deal with the aftermath. Either way.”

He still had his hands raised in submission. The image of it was practically ridiculous. This wasn’t a posture that Sylus took up under any other circumstance. You knew it was all a show for your benefit, and that you were no match for him, despite your own prowess. Something about his unrelenting acceptance of his own death at your hands (again) dragged you out of your stupor by your achilles heel. You lowered the gun. Sylus took the opportunity to stride forward, and quickly slipped it from your hands with his own. You let him. His touch lingered just a moment too long, fingers pressed to yours. He was warm. Too warm for someone who had just been out in the cold. You resisted the urge to take his hand. His evol materialized, and quickly turned the safety on, ejecting the magazine. It returned the gun to the safe, shutting it away as if it had never happened. The red cloud disappeared as quickly as it came, as if it never were at all. The process took no more than a few seconds of silence between the two of you.

“You were going to modify it?” He asked, nonchalant. As if you hadn’t just been almost making an attempt on his life. He glanced at the suppressor, now cold and lonely on the coffee table.

“Yeah. I was going to...add a suppressor.”

You could hear the flat affect in your voice. It reflected how drained you were beginning to feel by all of this, on top of everything else. Your shoulders sagged under the weight of it.

What the fuck was this conversation, actually?

Sylus nodded, still managing to look pleased with the situation. You felt your life force actively draining from you as the seconds ticked by, as if you were the one who had almost been shot. His gaze shackled you in place, still. The sterling of his hair and the garnet of his eyes were just as enticing as ever. Radically out of place in your modest apartment.

“Can I help you down?”

His soft inquiry brought to your attention that you were still perched with one foot up on the back of the couch, poised to kill him. Your hands were now very much without the gun. Nothing connected you to the world below you concretely, anymore. Except him. He was standing before you with an offered hand. At some point during your conversation, he had rolled up his sleeves, revealing the rippling capability of the muscle of his forearms. It enticed you without voice. You took his outstretched hand, wordlessly. To your surprise, he pulled you over the back of the couch and towards him, catching you like you were nothing, his free hand supporting your waist. You landed softly on your feet in front of him, still in his arms, hand in his own. For a moment, the posture reminded you of how you had danced with him at the auction. You looked up at him, he down at you. His expression was inscrutable, save for a little smile. You were close enough to see the soft sweep of his eyelashes. The circles under his eyes. Proud nose and soft lips. You pulled away, hugging your arms to yourself. It was much colder for his lack of touch. His hands hovered at the place where he had held for a moment, and then fell back to his sides.

“What has you so wound up? I tried to call out to you this morning, but you bolted before I could greet you.”

Sylus had his head cocked at you now, as if the answer you had for him was something very simple. He adjusted one of his sleeve garters. You averted your gaze, studying a now very interesting speck of dust on your floor. You wanted to put all of this behind you, to forget it had ever happened. You would have never brought it up had he never shown his face. But he had to be here, asking questions. Making you lie to him even more than you already did. You had never been a liar until you spent time with him. You tried to keep your tone level as you spoke.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your date.”

Even saying it made your insides crawl. You spat the last word out with more venom that you had intended. Your lower intestine was trying to creep up to your diaphragm, and seemed to be succeeding. Sylus raised an eyebrow in your direction.

“Date?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. The movement made his biceps all the more prominent. He sounded puzzled, and was scrutinizing you, now. You couldn’t comprehend what was so hard to understand about all of this. You sighed, despite your best attempts to keep your emotions from bleeding through your cracks.

“Yes, date. What would you have me do? Come up and introduce myself while you’re clearly in the middle of something?”

You were aware you were completely out of line here. None of this was any of your concern in the first place. You had stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. Sylus had, quite literally, no obligation to you whatsoever. Certainly not to explain himself, or who he chose to spend his time with. You wanted to shrink and disappear into the floorboards. Perhaps you could seep through the cracks like smoke, and escape this confrontation all together. But you didn’t have that kind of power – unless Sylus was with you, holding you in his arms.

He had been quiet for a time. He started again.

“The woman I was with today is one of my contacts in Linkon. She helps me smuggle things in and out when I can’t attend to them personally. I’ve been working on...procuring something. For you.” He cleared his throat a little, as if he had just told you an embarrassing secret.

You gawked at him. He was still smiling at you. His eyes met yours. Seeing everything you didn’t want him to see. He didn’t even need to use the protocore in his right eye. It was all bared to him, regardless.

“And yes,” he continued,

“I would have been very pleased to introduce you. You only let me show you off every so often – I wanted to seize the opportunity by the horns.”

There were too many things you didn’t understand. How he could move about Linkon so nonchalantly. How he could be having conversations about smuggling in an upscale Linkon cafe. How the man before you, who gained all of his income from untold numbers of criminal activities, was the same who willingly spent his free time with you playing Kitty Cards and screwing around in the arcade. It was too much. You turned from him, and instead returned to the safety of the couch. You sat on it, grounding yourself with the feeling of your own belongings. You heard him follow after you. His shoes were still on, but you didn’t have the heart to scold him for his disregard for your floor's cleanliness. He sat next to you. The couch sunk under his greater weight, and caused you to slip a little closer to him on the furniture.

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Sylus.”

It was all you could say. Better to keep the respectable distance between you just as it was. Any further and you wouldn't be able to keep up this facade around him anymore. He kept pulling at your threads, trying to reveal your insides.

“No one owes anyone anything. But I wanted to tell you. Besides,” you felt his evol touch your hand, ever so gently. It was as if he was holding it without actually holding it. The little red extension of himself curled around your fingers playfully. You remembered how it had choked and shackled you in the past. Now it sat in your lap like a beloved pet, curling about your knees and fingertips. It’s usual crackling intensity was gone, now only a light, pleasant buzz against your skin. You focused on the sensation. It was warm, like him.

"Here I was, excited to think that you were going to shoot me because you thought you saw me out with someone else. I’m a little disappointed that wasn’t the reason.”

He was chuckling, like what just occurred had amused him. Something to spice up the usual banal repetition of his everyday life. You felt yourself deflating. There was no more hot air left inside – just the residual exhaustion, both emotionally and physically. You found yourself wishing, again, that you hadn’t taken a day off. If you hadn’t, Sylus wouldn’t have broken into your apartment to explain he wasn’t out with someone else. To you. The person he was also decidedly Not With. You fiddled with his evol in your lap. You had been around him often enough to know this teasing was his way of trying to cheer you up – to take your mind somewhere else besides exhausted and angry and I want to leave this plane of existence.

“I’ll be sure to follow through with it next time.”

There was no real bite to your words – to your ears, you only sounded exactly as you felt. Like you were threatening the man you had feelings for who did not return them, yet still refused to leave you alone. A plaything for his own amusements. Sylus merely nodded. His evol had since made its way to the drawstrings of your shorts, and it was tying them in various intricate knots, there. You wondered at it. It seemed to have a mind of its own – but you were certain that this, too, was another idle whim of his.

“I’m looking forward to it, then.”

His statement was quiet, nearly a sigh of pleasure. The back of your neck and ears burned in tandem. You examined the knots that were now likely forever tied into your poor drawstring.

What the fuck kind of knots even were these?

You pointedly ignored the minor arousal that threatened to arise at this.

“There’s something wrong with your brain. Seriously.”

“It takes a thief to catch a thief, my dove.” You could hear the smile in his words as he spoke.

“You have a few days off, right?” He was rolling the previously abandoned suppressor around in his fingers, examining it. You swore he had somehow gotten closer to you on the small couch – with the way his legs were spread, his knee was just barely touching yours.

“Yeah. Wait, how did you know?”

He ignored your question. As he almost always did, as it suited him. Instead, he responded with another question of his own.

“Why don’t you come back with me to the N109 zone? You can rest there, instead of here. Or, we can go out. Whatever you’d like.”

You were about to deny him, but his voice took on a more serious tone as he continued to speak.

“This place is going to claim your life if you don’t leave it every once in a while.”

You look two steps away from death. Take a few days off.

Why was everyone in your life so thoroughly convinced of your impending collapse? Even your criminal mastermind was in on it. You scrunched Sylus’s evol up in your hands. It wiggled, protesting your treatment in your fingers, but not dissipating. You wondered if he could feel your touch through it. If he could feel it when he killed. Maybe you did need to leave – maybe this place was killing you. If it wasn’t Wanderers, it would be your own disregard for yourself. Maybe the air was forever tainted by the death of your family, and the miasma would never quite leave your lungs. Maybe running away was the best thing to do. Sylus was giving you an out – at least for a little while. Maybe there were strings attached. There had to be, without a shadow of a doubt. He was silent while you mulled it over. You expected him to comment on your lack of response, but he said nothing.

Irritatingly patient.

You sighed. You turned to Sylus.

“Fine. But I only have a few days. Give me a few minutes to pack my things.”

Sylus had the good grace to look surprised at how easily you had agreed to his suggestion, but it quickly turned into a look of barely concealed smug satisfaction. His evol vanished from your grip, and you found yourself missing its comforting touch.

“You technically don’t need to pack anything. I have everything you could possibly need at the base. Clothes, food, weapons, shampoo, conditioner…the kinds you like.” He trailed off. You couldn’t tell how serious he was being, what with the expression he was serving you. You shot him a look.

He raised his hands, showing you his palms, submitting once again.

“Like I said. Give me a minute to pack my things.”

Sylus leaned back on the couch, relenting. He dropped his hands.

True to your word, gathering your things for a trip to the N109 zone took little time at all. It wasn’t that you were particularly Spartan with your assets – but rather that Sylus really did keep all of the things you needed around, and much more. Knowing you could trust him on this front made warmth creep to your face, and the cold began to seep from your bones. After changing, you returned to the living room with your bag, where Sylus was patiently awaiting your return. He was peering out your window. The sun hit him just right, and it illuminated his eyes with its beams. The red only intensified in the light, the color of blood only just exposed to air. You could have stared at the image of him forever. He always claimed to be unlucky, but it seemed to you as if every aspect of the world bowed to him. For someone who was so weak to its rays, he was lit brilliantly by the sun. He turned to you, squinting. Your eyes fell to your gun, which was in his hands. You recalled that he had definitely returned it to the safe, previously. He waved it at you, careful not to point the barrel in your direction.

“Don’t forget this.”

He stood as he spoke, and stepped toward you. His form loomed over you, and you felt him slip the gun into your thigh holster (where you had planned to put your standard issue) underneath your coat.

Bastard.

His hand lingered on your hip before he put it in his coat pocket. He smelled good. He was wearing something today that you couldn’t quite place. His natural scent was there, too.

Rosemary? Figs? Cloves?

“Shall we?”

His voice cut through your mental musings on men’s fragrance notes. You nodded, following after him as he led you out of your apartment. You were sure to lock the door behind you. Again. His bike was waiting faithfully for you in the parking lot. Sylus slipped your helmet on for you (why did he even have a second helmet on him today in the first place?), making sure your hair was tucked neatly away behind your neck. After repeating the action on himself, he kicked the stand out from under his bike, and you got on behind him. You always had no choice but to wrap your arms around him when you rode. You wondered how it made him feel – or if he felt anything about the contact at all. His back was broad, solid, and warm underneath your touch. You swore you could feel his muscles ripple underneath you, even with the barrier of his clothing between you. You squeezed him a little tighter as he began to drive. Even through your jacket, the air nipped at you for your speed. As he pressed the bike harder, you felt something tickle around your waist. You peeked down as best you could through the visor of your helmet. Sylus’s evol was keeping you neatly attached to him, as if your arms weren’t enough. The inside of your helmet suddenly felt hotter. You tried not to think about why he did the things he did. Sylus offered no acknowledgement or explanation for any of this. As always.

The bike sped on to the N109 zone, eager to return to where it belonged.

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