#Relationship drabble prompt

[cute-sucker]

smile for the camera

˚❀༉‧₊˚

rafe called you his prized trophy, and you didn't mind it. you trotted in your tight skirts, black card and tiny heels. it was a ritual, something calming. you needed a label, something to stand by.

something that branded you to be his. but you didn't mind his demands, sometimes you were sweet about it. sometimes you let things go wild, but you knew he would take care of you. that was the important thing. that was what you needed most of all/  

there was something about him that made you feel protected. and he liked that you let him do that. you fueled his male insecurities of having to be a strong, strong man, because of how desperately you needed someone like that.

you used to be a pageant queen, a girl who had gems stuck to her forehead, makeup drowning her face, teeth bleached white, and the constant need to be loved. one of your vivid memories was getting dragged to get your hair done, your mother screeching about how needy you were. the whole appointment you cried your eyes out, arms flailing out, whispering questions.

"do you love me mommy?"

and she would pull you up, her lipstick clashing againts her leopard orange jumpsuit. you could already hear the insult, and braced yourself.

"would someone love their cash cow?" then she paused watching your expression. you were five. you didn't know what that meant, but you could feel yourself being inspected like an insect, and then finally when you cowered your gaze to the floor, she hummed with contempt.

"no. now, shut up" then her harsh hand would graze against your chin to fix your hair. you whimpered, hands aching to take out your outfit. the rest of the memory was too painful to remember.

but those days were gone. rafe had caught your eye the first time you worked at the country club. you lacked the vanity or the items that would attract someone who had money, but there was something about your smile.

you were dazzling no matter what, and that was when rafe had seen you. you had gone to the bathroom before to serve him, and came back with pink glossy lips and doe eyes that showed him that you were innocent. you needed protection. you needed someone to give you the firm hand, and then kiss you with forgiveness.  

so there it was. within weeks he would only call you to serve him, and you would do so quickly, the same smile plastered on your face, and finally as if he was pissed he pulled you down. your mom had always told you that the one thing she liked about you was your winning smile. but, something was wrong.

"nah, i don't like that."

you snapped to look at him, your fake smile wavering for a moment, "what's the problem, mr. cameron?"

sometimes that would earn a chuckle out of him, and you could tell the way he was sitting that he liked it but - but there was something wrong, and suddenly he was pulling you down to sit with him. you felt shocked seeing him so close. you could smell his breath, and you felt your heart drum faster.

"get that-" he pointed to your face, "-fucking fake smile outta here. if you wanna make me happy? give me a real smile."

and that was it, and then he grunted almost pushing you up. you sniffled, and then got up, hands reaching to fix your skirt and then hurried out to the backdoor. no one called back for you, and it was almost as if his words echoed all the way home as you caught the bus.

you spent hours crying over that moment. as you got home you rushed to the bathroom. your disgusting apartment smellt of cockroaches, and burnt food, and you sat there in your sink. you smiled. stopped. smiled. stopped. smiled. it hurt the way the cracks of your smile etched into your mouth.

what was wrong with it?

for god sakes what was he talking about?

x

those days were now long gone. no longer did you wait tables, or go back to your crappy apartment that made you feel gross. instead you slept in a warm bed in tanyhill waking up to rafe's firm hands on your body. you snuggled closer to him, placing your hands on his chest.

"hey?" he murmered, head buried in the fluff of his pillow. you giggled at his strange expression, and he quickly stuck his head out, eyes squinted, "what's wrong?"

you sighed, "nothing rafey. i-"

he looked at you again, a pointed look on his face, "spit it out."

you bit your lip, your voice a whisper when you asked your question. you had always been told to never ask questions unless you wanted the backhand, but rafe waited patiently.

"um," you sputtered out, "um, you remember that day when you came into the country club and i was serving-"

he hummed appreciatively, "yeah you were so hot, goddamn-"

at this you giggled again, before placing your hand on his mouth, "gotta shut up for a second-" and then you bit your lip before tilting your head, "remember that day when you told me to stop smiling, or something like you didn't like my smile?"

rafe seemed to furrow his eyebrows, "no, baby, i don't really remember that," he muttered out, and you felt your heart prick.

your eyes watered the way they always did, as your throat clogged up, "i was wondering what you meant by that?"

he sighed finally, looking at you. you looked so small in your pink nightgown, lip stuck out as you seemed to clench your fists to the sides of your body. you watched him carefully, hoping that something - some emotions would show on his face.

he sighed again, before reaching out for you, "baby, come here. you seem so far away," he said soflty, pulling you closer until you were in his lap. he held you close, his words humming a sweet vibration through your body. you felt safe, you felt at home.

you felt your breathing calm, as you listened to his steady beat. his hand moved up and down your back.

"listen," he began, his voice a low rumble, "when I said that, i didn't mean I didn't like your smile. i just meant i wanted to see the real you. not some fake, plastered-on smile you thought i wanted to see."

you sniffled, tears brimming in your eyes, but you felt a small flicker of relief. "but why didn't you just say that?" you whimpered, your voice small and vulnerable.

he tilted your chin up, making you look into his eyes. "i was a dickhead, and you seemed like a sweet girl. i wanted to know you as that sweet girl"

you blinked, a tear slipping down your cheek. he make a soft sound of protest as he wiped the tear away with his coarse thumb, touch tender

"you mean that?" you whispered, your voice barely audible. you felt shy now, folding into your self, as rafe smiled against your skin.

"of course, i mean it," he replied firmly. "y'think i'd lie about something like that?"

finally he pulled you up to give you a firm kiss, "my princess."

you buried your face in his chest, letting his words sink in. the weight of the past seemed to lift, if only a little, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. "thank you, rafe," you murmured against his skin.

he held you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "no need to thank me, baby."

for the first time in a long time, you felt a genuine smile tug at your lips.

[nemesyaaa]

a house in nebraska ! rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary ; you were the reason he won't come home but you still call home. this story is based on the song of ethel cain.

warnings : it's angst. fully angst. it's about toxic relationship. so violence, arguing and fighting, sick behavior, daddy and mommy issues, the urge of love and being loved, mentions of drugs, the feeling of being misunderstood and unsteady. home is used as a metaphor of relationship. it's about inner rage too. slight of smut but very little. both rafe and reader being fucked up. southern goth/small town coded.

author's note : it's my first time writing angst so be easy one me please ! as i said, it's based on " a house in nebraska" by ethel cain (because she's my favorite artist and my muse.) and a lot of her songs make me think of rafe, but i also take inspo of her others songs like crush, strangers, and hard times. also a hint of bet on losing dogs by mitski.

i dont know how many words are in this works, but i think around 3k ? it's a one-shot ! BETTER TO READ IT WHILE LISTENING TO A SAD SONG. (a house in nebraska (live version)or anything else)

you lived in the nebraska with rafe, he was your man and you were his girl. it was a small town that allowed you to be just him and you against the world, to be safe from the rest. but the ugly truth was that your house had become a raging mess. the mattresses had become dirty, the silence too comfortable, the night too long, the emptiness too deep, the love too absent and the violence too present. everyone was angry here, even demons and the silence.

rafe was a storm, and every time you tried to calm it, you became further worse. no, you weren't becoming like him, you were becoming him, the mirror of his emotions, full of rage and inexpressible feelings. like a bomb, you needed it to come out, to scream and explode. like a bomb, you needed to hurt, and destroy everything in your way.

you had built this house together, when he still worked with his hands, oh god, how much you loved those big and strong hands, the dirt and bruises on his skin. the softness of his palms when he touched you, the pulsating veins engraved. they were made to love you, to caging you. they were always rushed with blood and wounds because of his work, but despite how dirty they were when he came home, they were always pure and clean on your body. but you also were so in love with his messy sweaty hair, caressing by the wind. he was tall and handsome, the kind of man who worked all day, and drunk at night, some whiskey or bourbon. but never missed to please the needs of his girl.

when he smoked his red marlboros on the porch, you were sitting on his lap like a sleepy girl to take a nap on his heavy arms that managed to hug your body. when he took a sip of his cold beer, while you had nothing to do but being his own pretty girl. when he allowed you to bathe him, cleaning the mess and the sweat. when you used to learn him how to play some classic music on the old piano, and he was just turned on by the way you used so damn well your fingers, and making you sit on the board, and fuck you right there, even if the windows were wide open.

at this time, you would have die for him.

when he still listened to what you said, when he still answered your calls and did not make you sick by his silence, when you laughed every time he came home . but now you were starting to hate the fact that he was coming.

how did the man who was supposed to make you so happy manage to break you so easily? but you weren't an angel either, oh far from it, you had neither wings nor halo on your head, you didn't even have god in your heart. you made him, like all men, your enemy.

it was four in the morning, it was still dark, you were waiting in the living room.

the tv wasn't on. rafe had broken it during an argument. that wasn’t the only thing he shattered, you had to be the hardest thing he does. not even with his fists, with just the force of his words, the way they were murderous, the way they had the force to tear your heart open and crushed it into pieces.

most people would say that this man was not the type to cry, that a man doesn't cry, but rafe cried. and you had seen him a couple of times, and the first time you saw him burst into tears, you knew straight away that it was the real him. that behind all this hatred, this anger, there was a hurted little boy. and who grew up with an open wound, a wound impossible to heal, even with all the love in the world.

rafe was the kind of man who screamed, who cried, who bled, a fallen angel who had lost god along the way, who had been ignored, but mostly, never heard.

when he opened the door to the house, you hated the strong smell of alcohol, but also of blood. you never asked him for anything, the only thing you wanted was for him to come home on time for dinner, to go to bed with you. but no one, absolutely, no one tamed a dog like him. and you rathered not bet on losing dogs.

“where were you ?? ” you had already started shouting due to lack of patience, getting up from the chair to confront him.

you had seen him sigh, making that bored face, like you had no reason to be upset, that face that made all women become even worse.

“if you had the same energy to scream when we fuck, we would have a fantastic sex life.”

“seriously, rafe? you want to play the asshole, right now ? ”

“ it will suit your bitch behavior, so why not ?”

you slapped him very hard in the face. what obviously rafe didn't find this very amusing, he crushed you in the wall, pinned your hands above your head.

“ don't you dare slapping me again. you want to be mean, sweetheart ? i can be meaner. let's see....oh this is the necklace that your mom offered to you before leaving ? how sweet. maybe, i can sell it for a good price. ”

“ rafe. don't. ”

he shushed you, by putting his other hand on your mouth. “ you're not allowed to talk right now. you had your turn for, now, it's my fucking turn. and i will do whatever the fuck i want ! it's my house, my rules. ”

he unhooked the necklace, as you tried to break away from his grip but he closed his fingers tighter against your wrists.

“I'm going to kill you, no matter what you do, i'm going to kill you. ”

“murder me” he said with a louder voice. “i’m asking you to murder me! it’s probably the only good thing you’ll have done well in your life. you know even if i die tonight, i will die yours. even if you kill me, i will always be here.”

he released you, and you exploded. “you have exceeded the limits, rafe! ”

” since when are there boundaries between us, sugar? we're freaks, remember? ”

you threw away the first object you found, it was an empty coffee cup. you threw it at his face. but he had dodged it with a sick smile. your jaw clenched, eyes blazing with fury, you were out of control. you were what he wanted you to be every time he came home late

” oh you can do better than that baby. i'm sure i taught you how to shoot better than this when i showed you how to kill? do you remember? ”

“ this, this fucking attitude, rafe is why everybody leaves you ! ”

“ yes. and do i fucking care, y/n ? do i fucking care ? i grew up in a family where nobody loved me, nobody reached after me, nobody looked after me, nobody dared to pay attention to me and you tell me i have to care about everyone leaving me ? no, it's not fucking fair ! so do you understand ? i don't care. if you want to leave, you know better than me that the door is open because you're the only one to be stucking in front, waiting like a fucking dog that i come come. ”

“ fine. i leave ! ”

you took the keys of the car, even if rafe hated that you drove, especially at midnight. but you were too upset, too mad.

your man wasn't done with you. he stood in front of the car you were driving.

“if you think i'm afraid of killing you, when you were the one who taught me how to do that, you're wrong. ”

" yes ? then show me how well i did my job. kill me. ”

“ rafe, i’m not kidding. ”

“ perfect, we are both serious then. ”

you moved the car forward, pressing the pedal with your feet. you hitted him with the car. it was strong but not violent either.

you got out of the car quickly to check on him. but he was smiling, a little blood on his face.

“are you sick!? ”

“ i raised you well, i fear. now, lick this face. i can see in your eyes how pretty you find me covered with blood, so please yourself, lick it all. ”

“ wait, i will find some tis….”

“ no, with your tongue. clean my whole face with your tongue. don't waste anything. i want to be able to kiss you right after, and recognize the taste of my blood all over your mouth. you want to be sick ? make me feel sick too. ”

maybe you were too young to realize that some loves could be bad. but this relationship was toxic. you had both destroyed each other, and it was complicated when you saw this world, this universe only through your union. you felt like you had lost a lot, like you had lost everything, like you had failed. maybe, you were the failure, and rafe, the problem. but also, maybe, he was the failure and you, the problem.

and you hated not knowing what was going on in rafe's head, you hated that no one on this earth could figure it out, and that even rafe himself didn't know it. he was crazy, he was sick but that wasn't all, it couldn't be just that.

you gave up the fight, going to the bathroom to take a bath. you needed some peace because the house didn't feel like a home anymore.

sometimes wheezie would call you to see if you were okay, she had grown up, and you lied to her all the time. because it hurt so much to be two in a relationship, but not feel like you were a part of it anymore. and the worst part of it all was that you could kill yourself for just one minute of affection, just one second of happiness, just one moment in the past when everything was okay. where rafe was still the sweet little boy you knew. but the stories were not meant to have a happy ending.

it was hard this feeling, this lack when he still lived with you in this terrible house. but one day you'll be the reason he won't come home again. but you would always call home. you promised yourself. because it would always be yours.

rafe had joined you in the bathtub. and you could tell by his red and empty eyes, his blank stare that he had been crying. he cried and he was not the drugs, he was you, only you.

and you didn't mention it. you didn't say anything. you preferred to stay smart and not start another fight.

“the walls could break down with so much screams. ” you said, laughing slightly.

“maybe we should sell the house. ”

“i like this house. i feel at home here. i have nowhere to go. ” you lied for the two first, but not for the last.

and it was true. you had built everything, paved everything here. you had remade a world. you couldn't leave, you couldn't leave anything. and above all, you were too tired to leave.

it would be a lie to say that you didn't had sex in the bathtub, that you didn't feel his tears on your shoulder, that you didn't feel his thrusts get harder each time a sob broke out his empty eyes, that you didn't feel how much he was breaking every time you took pleasure. because, it was hard for him to seeing you being happy. because it was so hard to take care of you. because it was so hard to feel loved and being loved. you were both too young, too stupid, too sick for love.

and rafe wanted to make you happy without sex, without all this selfish sex. no, he wanted to make you happy by some casual things. but sometimes, you pissed him off so bad to the point, he wanted to leave. but how can a man who hoped to be loved can leave the woman who promised to cherish him ? it was too tired, too angry, and too unsteady to leave. you broke him too. and it was sad for him, because you were the only one he was not scared to tell it hurts.

but at six in the morning you were fighting again as if it were a ritual, a need, a desire to destroy each other, as if sometimes love needed to be violent and destructive to work. actually, for freaks like you, surely.

“why did you throw my fucking drugs down the toilet?! ”

“because you don’t need that!” ”

“you don’t know what i need, you barely know what i want! you had no fucking right to do that. ”

“ don't be a crybaby ! ”

“ repeat. i dare you to repeat. ”

“crybaby! you're a fucking crybaby, rafe! your new personality changes nothing about the boy you were and will always be! what, you don't like the truth ? bad for you, i'm about to tell you what everyone doesn't want to tell you. because i'm not scared at all of you ! you're a fucking crybaby ! ”

“ but you're still here, you're still fucking here. because you know what ? i'm maybe a crybaby, but i'm a river worth wading. and this is why, you're standing in front of me with all this confidence. you wanted a broken man, you wanted someone to fix ? then come on baby, i'm here, i'm watching you, i'm listening, i'm literally at your feets, fix me ! fix the little boy you wanted, make him better. ”

“ rafe…”

“no, i'm asking you now who do you think you are? do you think that because you have this attitude, it doesn't make you a little girl who needs her daddy? because damn, yes, you need him. but i fear daddy was the only one who didn't need you because guess what ? he left. and you make all the men leave around you ! but the difference between us is that you care. when i fucking dont care.”

“ you're sick, a sick asshole. and don't touch me ! ” you pushed him away, but he came back, his hand on your throat. “ but you're the sick one who loves me, remember that ?” he answered.

“ but do you think i still love you ? ” you said with a smirk, taking pleasure to see his widen eyes. “ i'm asking you right now, do you think i still love you, and if one day, someone will like you like i do ? it would be so hard for you to find happiness after me, i can promise you this. you will fight a lot. because ? can you see ? can you see i can breathe without you, i can live without you ? but you, can you do this ? yes, you can fight, you can scream and shout but what else ? ”

“ it doesn't hurt, y/n. it doesn't hurt. and you can't break me, as you can't fix me. ”

“ then why are you crying, big boy ? why are those tears for, if not for me ? ”

“ i built a home for you, i did everything for you. ”

“ and then what ? ”

“ don't make me regret it, y/n. don't make me regret the only good thing i've made well in my life, just don't make me regret...this. you don't understand. why did every house i'm in never felt like home ? ”

“ you destroy everything, rafe. but me too, i guess. the difference is that you have an excuse, a reason for being like that. your dad fucked up with you. and i hate him for that. if he had loved you correctly, you would have known and learned how to love people, how to be attached to them. but you don't know any of that, you don't know what it is to love, and to be loved. everything i do for you, you could call it love, even when i'm mean. but it's false, love is tender, it's beautiful. but you know, i think i'm sick because i also like the way you love me, this violence, this rage, this impulsiveness, it drives me crazy but it makes me alive. so, do you think you could do it again? ”

“ why you didn't leave, why you never leave ? ”

“ because it's our house. we're stuck in forever. this is our house in nebraska, our only heaven. now be a good boy and cry a little for me, i think i'm going away a little...” you said, taking him in your arms, your hand placed on his back, and your hand pressed to his cheek. “don’t worry, i cry a lot too. all the time, even when you make me happy. ” you shushed him, bursted in tears in the hug.

you kissed him on the corner of his lips, your mouth meeting his tears, before he joined you in this kiss, you felt his sad and salty tongue against yours, his hands came squeeze your waist.

but now in the present, you were alone. the house still existed but it was just you.

you weren't sleeping anymore, because you kept hoping that he would come home, you were hoping that he would come home late at night.

but you were alone in a dirty and cold mattress. and you prayed for him hoping he was okay. the phone was broken but you were hoping to hear it ring, the door was open and you were waiting for a sign.

nothing was right, everything was wrong. you just wanted to say to rafe that he had you, that he had a house, and his home missed him, like nobody ever does in his life.

you didn't realize that you had been lying all this time, and that you were silently dying. but at least you died, only his.

[waldau-archived]

17 with cheolieeee

“Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.” + seungcheol

thank you for requesting, i loved writing this <3

seungcheol thinks he’s going to have to get his hand surgically detached from your waist, the way he hasn’t let go ever since the party ended. there’s dishes that need to be put in the sink and cleaning that needs to be done, but he’ll be damned if he lets go of you.

his friends poked fun at him seeing him so head over heels for you even after all these years, but can you really blame him?

“cheollie,” you say, not actually attempting to push him off you. it only motivates him to wrap his other arm around you roll you on top of himself. you bury your face in the side of his neck. “it’s getting late.”

“we’re at home, and we’re adults. we could have ice cream right now if we wanted to.”

“i know, but we need to sleep, baby,” you say, running your hand through his hair. he loves how gentle you are with him. “we could spend all of tomorrow doing nothing.”

“try getting rid of me,” he challenges, wrapping his arms around you tighter.

“as if i’d ever want to do that,” you reply, bending down to kiss his lips. finally. he’d been holding himself back all evening because his friends would’ve just had more ammunition to tease him, but now that there’s no one else around, he can kiss you to his heart’s content.

he lets out a sharp gasp when he feels something cold on his stomach. he looks down to see your hands that have snuck under his sweatshirt.

“baby? you should’ve told me you were feeling cold. you could’ve worn my hoodie.”

“you know i’m always cold,” you say, leaning down to kiss him again. “and besides, didn’t you promise to love me always?”

“i don’t remember saying i’d love you despite the ice blocks you have for hands,” he says, unable to keep a giggle at bay when you pout at him.

“fine. no cuddles for you, then,” you say, pulling away from him, and he misses the feeling of your cold hands on his skin already.

“nooo,” he drawls dramatically, catching your wrist and pulling you back to himself. he loves how perfectly you fit alongside him, tucked into the curve of his body like you were made for it. he takes one of your hands and lets you place it under his sweatshirt again. “i love you and your ice block hands. you know that.”

“i do,” you say with a smile, kissing him enough to leave him a bit lightheaded. “let’s go to bed now?”

anything you say. he’s going to keep you warm all night long anyway.

[letters-unsending]

No. 50

////

Hero and Villain, fake relationship

////

“How are you feeling, dear?”

“My ears keep ringing,” Hero sighed, tucking his icepack further into his neck, “and don’t call me dear. There’s not a soul who needs to hear that anymore. It’s just us.”

“Oh, it’s just us, isn’t it?” Villain smiled and leaned back their head, as if in bliss. The movement exposed a dark cleft of red. A cut ran like spilled wine down from their lips and to the gully of their clavicle, and it gleamed with a satin sheen, obscenely fresh. Hero averted his eyes.

“Yes, just us,” Hero agreed, indulging in Villain’s cryptic mood, “unless we’ve got ourselves a visitor you’re not telling me about.”

“I would tell you. I’ll always tell you,” Villain turned their head back down, leveling Hero with a stare, “this is our home after all.”

Hero stared back and wondered if his ears were ringing Villain’s words into nonsense. Beneath his gaze, Villain sprawled, languid and liquid as a cat, in their armchair.

They’d bought the chair–a chaise so high-backed it looked like it’d grown wings–the first week of their contract and displaced the original furniture that had come with the pre-furnished house. Quickly thereafter, they’d taken to redecorating the rest of their temporary rooms with utmost fervor. Decor spilled out, the chair its center point: fur rugs, velvet throws, glass-shaded lamps.

“You can keep the house,” Hero blurted, “it's not ours anymore. Contract’s over.”

“My, how generous,” Villain smiled wider, snake-like, and Hero feared they would bleed from the strain, “would you really leave this all to me?”

“Sure, you seem comfortable here,” Hero shrugged, “you put a lot of time into the place. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“You’ve decorated over the past year as well. Don’t give me all the credit, darling.” Villain waved their hand, nails flashing in the light. Following their fingers, Hero recognized his coat tossed over the back of Villain’s chair. Pens and papers, which he’d sworn to clean up, lay sprawled over the oil-dark coffee table.

“I only left a mess. That’s hardly decor.”

“It could never be a mess.” Villain reached a hand back and rested their palm over Hero’s coat. “I enjoy your additions. They make the place feel lived in.”

“Lived in,” Hero echoed, “guess it helped with our cover. Probably made this whole sham marriage look real enough.”

Villain’s face turned flat. The curl of their smile snapped like elastic, pinching into a terse line, and a bead of blood rounded their chin as they spoke.

“Why are you still wearing the ring?”

Hero let go of the icepack and it tumbled into a heap in his lap. “If it bothers you, I’ll just go on and take it off.”

“It does not.” Villain drawled, sweeping out their hand. “I am far from bothered.”

Their ring and its exquisite gem fluoresced upon their finger, a beacon casting its gleam over the mountain of their knuckles.

“It just, you know, feels wrong to take it off after so long.” Hero muttered, squeezing at his wrist. “I even have tanline from it.”

Villain smiled again, soft, but their skin still broke. Blood slipped along the underside of their jaw and Hero swallowed; he could almost feel it roll down his own throat.

“You shouldn’t have taken the bandage off.”

Hero glanced once more at his ring, before pushing himself off his chair. Pain shot like a bolt through his wrist. Staggering, he snagged a tissue from a box on the coffee table and then shuffled toward Villain, who met his approach with gleam in their eye.

“I don’t like being restricted.” Villain explained as Hero propped his hip into the chair arm and leaned over. “I couldn’t speak or move my head with that infernal contraption on.”

“Must’ve been hard for you to be so quiet.” Hero grabbed Villain’s chin and tilted their head back. “You had a long time for reflection in that hospital, didn’t you? Might be why you’re being so odd.”

“I didn’t need time to reflect,” Villain murmured, suddenly quiet, “I have considered this for a long time.”

“And what have you considered?” Hero set the tissue upon Villain’s skin, feigning focus, avoiding Villain’s gaze crawling shamelessly over his face.

“You.”

“Me?” Hero dabbed their throat, careful of the scab. He moved his steadying hand to the side of Villain’s neck.

“The both of us, [Hero].” Villain grabbed Hero’s wrist, draping their fingers and the gleaming ring over his arm, trapping Hero’s touch to his throat. Their carotid pulse drummed against his fingertips. “You see, my dear, I want to keep living in this house. I want to keep my ring. You must understand what I mean when I say this.”

“[Villain], you couldn’t possibly–”

“Will you stay?”

[3-coffees-no-lunch]

It's strange how we think of our partners as soulmates all up until it ends.

Like the 'perfect dress' in a store until you find a better one

And then you look at your last choice with disgust.

[whumpshots]

Whump Snippet Saturday #19

Caretaker has been watching whumpee for quite some time now, having witnessed their body relax more and more around them and the group. It's something small and subtle, but great progress for someone who has been through so much shit.

Accidental touches don't cause them to panic anymore, a well-meant hand placed on their shoulder causes only a soft flinch - and most importantly - some relaxation afterwards. Sometimes caretaker gets the feeling that whumpee seeks the touch, but doesn't know how to communicate it.

Which is why caretaker has been watching them from the sofa for the past few minutes, patting the cushion next to them. "Want to sit down for a moment?", they ask and wait for whumpee to sit down next to them, not as vary as they were months ago.

It takes some awkward silence until whumpee scoots over, inch by inch, gaze averted like they are watching something interesting in the corner of this room. Until their shoulders touch.

Caretaker tries to hide their smile and carefully puts their arm around whumpee, who tenses up a little until they relax more and more. "It's okay, you can stay as long as you want." And whumpee does.

[interstellarlyinlove]

Fall (October 2nd)

word count: 464

@wolfstarmicrofic

“It’s just how it is, you know?” Sirius whispers. In their dark and large bedroom, it feels like he’s talking to himself. He stares at the ceiling above him and sighs. “I can’t really help it. It’s not like I woke up one day and just decided to make my life a hundred times harder by loving my friend.”

“Salazar knows you love to make things harder for yourself, Sirius,” Comes Regulus’ voice a few seconds later, low and soft, from the lower bunk of their bed. 

“Very funny, Reggie.” If Sirius is being completely honest, he’s not sure how he’s speaking to Regulus at all right now. The same Regulus that professionally ignores him when they’re at Hogwarts. Sirius thinks it would be infinitely harder for Regulus to pretend Sirius doesn’t exist when they’re back at home and share one bedroom.

He’s not necessarily complaining, though. He misses his little brother more than he can admit even to himself. 

Sirius also doesn’t know when he decided to flat-out tell Regulus about his feelings for Remus. It sort of just came out of his mouth a couple of nights ago when the silence between them became a little too suffocating for Sirius.

He can’t say he regrets it, though. It feels good to have it in the open, not to be the only one who knows. His feelings weigh less on his shoulders after sharing them with someone else for the first time. No one knows. No one can know, especially not when Sirius himself doesn’t even half understand what he’s feeling. But Regulus isn’t just anyone, he’s his brother, and Sirius hates that he somehow forgot that these last few years. 

“I guess this could be worse,” Regulus says after a while. “Remus is quite alright. His scars are hot.”

“Regulus.” 

“Isn’t being brave your entire thing?” Regulus asks. “Why not just rip the band-aid and tell him already? Or are Gryffindors really all talk no walk cowards?”

Sirius scoffs. “As if. Says the person who would not sleep on the top bunk because he’s too scared to fall.” 

“You couldn’t pay me to sleep on the top bunk, brother,” Regulus says seriously. “And this isn’t about me, anyway. This is about you being too much of a pussy to-”

“But it’s not that,” Sirius interrupts. He sighs. “It’s just that– Remus is my friend.”

“Okay.”

“I would never do anything to hurt that friendship.” Sirius shakes his head. “It– it means too much to me.”

“That’s sweet, actually,” Regulus says awkwardly. 

Sirius laughs despite himself. “Thank you, Reggie.”

Regulus doesn’t say anything for a long while and Sirius thinks he’s asleep but he startles when he hears Regulus whisper, “Merry Christmas, Sirius.” 

Sirius smiles. It must be past midnight. “Merry Christmas, Reggie, love.” 

[whumpback-wail]

A whumpee who can astral project

Whumpee would work together in a team, team leader monitors their vitals, another team member keeps them safe while unconscious, and caretaker sits beside their bed, never leaving their side and keeping track of the time to wake them.

Whumpee would go to "sleep" and gather intel on various matters, conduct investigations, and so many more. Their team would be so well known for their skills in gathering information, not knowing how it was done.

Until one day whumpee went to "sleep" to spy on whumper. The team are on their usual positions. But this time, long before whumpee was supposed to wake up, team leader noticed whumpee's vitals dropping, and caretaker couldn't shake whumpee awake.

The team member who was guarding the room rushed in to see what the commotion was about, only to see caretaker desperately pumping whumpee's chest and team leader rushing to get the crash cart. Whumpee's heart was failing, and nothing anyone do can make them wake up.

What happened? What did whumper do? Whumpee should not be seen or heard if they are only there in spirit, so how did whumper get them? What could they do to wake whumpee?

[roxygen22]

21. Collapse

From this list

Timothee or his characters

https://www.tumblr.com/roxygen22/750844187588673536/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story?source=share

Micro Story Prompt

Collapse

"You look like you are about ready to collapse."

You didn't need to look up from the espresso machine to know who was talking to you. But you wanted to. As expected, the voice matched the tall, lanky figure of your favorite regular customer.

"Hey, Timothée. Yeah, I've been staying up late to do some last-minute cramming for finals. The last one is today after my shift," you explained.

"Got any plans to celebrate the end of the semester?" he asked.

"To be honest, I haven't even thought that far out," you shrugged as you wiped down the counter.

Timothée rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Your breath caught. The mere sight of him gave you butterflies every time he walked into the coffee shop's door; however, you had no clue it was reciprocated. Your hesitation made him start to panic.

"Umm, I mean, it's totally cool if you already have pl-"

"I'd love to, Timothée." Relief visibly washed over his face. "How long have you been waiting to shoot that shot?" you teased.

"A few weeks." A faint blush tinted his freckled cheeks.

"So, what time should I be ready?"

<><><><><>

Masterlist

Tag List:

@croatianprincess

@bluizh

@jindongdongie

@groovy-lady

@pmak2002

[rattkachuk]

for the hurt/comfort starters I've gotta ask for mattdrai with "Please tell me I don't look as bad as I feel" please! <3

"Please tell me I don't look as bad as I feel."

Matthew frowns at Leon’s image on his phone screen. The dejected tone of his voice is more than enough to tell Matthew just how bad he’s feeling, but there’s also a slope to his shoulders and the stress in his eyes that he can’t miss after loving him as long as Matthew has. He knows how much responsibility Leon carries with him, and is very familiar with the helpless feeling of not being able to show up for your team.

“You don’t look great,” Matthew says truthfully.

Leon scoffs and rubs a hand over his face, “Oh, thank you.”

The image goes blurry for a moment while his phone re-establishes it’s connection with the shitty Boston hotel internet. He knows there’s not much he can really say to quell Leon’s worries, and it’s late and they both have a game tomorrow. Important games. He doesn’t know the full extent of what’s up with Leon, and doesn’t dig (he’ll find out later and chastise him for it then, just as Leon did to him last year), but he knows that it’s worrisome enough to make Leon call him in the midst of their playoff run.

“Hey,” Matthew says gently, “I know it sucks and I know that I really can’t ask anything of you that I wouldn’t do myself…”

“But?” Leon bites.

“If it’s really bad, please don’t push yourself,” Matthew pleads, quiet but sure. He can’t say much more than that. Can’t tell Leon that it’s not worth it. Can’t sooth him and say that everything would work out for the Oilers without him, for fear of the falsity of his words being too glaring.

Leon sighs, but is silent beyond that. Matthew gives him the space, doesn’t push, listens only to the faint sounds in the background of Leon’s room, and watches the soft flickering light of his TV. Matthew wonders absently what’s on.

There’s a set to Leon’s jaw, and he’s pointedly not looking at Matthew, but even through the pixelated video call he can see the shake to his body as he breathes in and out, “Matthew, you know-there’s just so much riding on this, right? What am I going to do if this season ends in another failure? I’m running out of fucking time, here.”

A pang of unfounded guilt hits Matthew, knows that Leon is a few years ahead of him and in reality it’s not that much, but in hockey it’s everything. Maybe he’s not as well acquainted with the hourglass of time taunting him just yet, doesn’t have to worry about the sand falling through the middle, faster every time he gets another blow to his body. Doesn’t know the pain of making it within reach of the thing he’s always striving for, only to have it ripped away in a blur before you can even get your legs underneath you. Every. Time. Matthew can see it ruthlessly eating away at Leon year after year, chips away at him and seeps into the corners of his being.

Matthew had been closer than Leon ever had, and he felt confident his team could do it again, could see his chances in the coming years only increasing. Coming from him, it felt wrong to placate Leon and tell him that next year would be better, when he’d already had so many years of loss under his belt.

“Then you’ll figure it out. We'll figure it out, alright?” Matthew swears, wanting Leon to know he never had to face this giant thing all by himself, that he didn’t have to cross any bridge without Matthew’s hand to hold, “I’m always with you, Leon.”

There’s a helpless gasp of air from Leon’s mouth, maybe the tail end of a sob stuck in his lungs, “Yah, yah. I know. Thank you.”

Matthew offers a small albeit sad smile, and they don’t say much else. Matthew doesn’t hang up, though, can't bring himself to sever the one line of connection they have in the moment. Leon doesn’t look in a rush to go, he’s three hours behind and has time yet. Matthew sleeps eventually and lets the video call go, so Leon doesn't have to be alone.

ao3 drabbles <3

[cute-sucker]

going on a dinner date with season2!rafe after you'd told him you'd broken up was probably your lowest low.

you were still pretty glammed up for him, a tight black dress and glossy lipgloss on your lips. your blush shimmered under the light, and you felt a little ache in your stomach. but the worst part isn't that he's your ex, it's the fact that your panting into his mouth after an hour of meeting.

rafe's got you in the back of his truck, rough hands wiping away tears from your eyes. you're so overstimulated you can't be away from for a second. you need this.

"fuck, i know you've missed this—" he grunted, pulling you closer. you melt into his embrace letting out soft pants. rafe got you pinned down, a cocky little smile on his face as he grabs your clothing to feel you even closer.

you've got your eyes closed, muttering softly to yourself, "i-i-i-i can't do this again!" you cry out, but his skin is too soft on yours, and the way his arm drapes around you leaves you breathless. you've missed this, you can't deny it, but you wonder at what cost your dragging yourself back to step one.

finally he stops kissing you, a harsh breath leaving his lips before you mewl for him. your eyes blink, trying to ajust to the lack of closeness. your hands still reach out for him. always reaching out for him. always.

it's then when you see a bit of darkness in his eyes. the way rafe's fingers glide across your stomach. proding, and a bit demanding. you let out a shaky breath. you can already tell what type of question he's going to ask before he opens his mouth. both of you are waiting for the other to speak.

"did you let anyone touch you?"

you knew it was coming but you still feel stunned. you shake your head in a quick succession. rafe's lips travel down to your earlobe, as you bite your lip.

"no, no of course not," you breath out, voice hitching as you squirm under his touch. rafe's humming, a soft smile on his face as his fingers trail to your jaw. you take a sharp intake of breath. god you hate how much you belong to him. you hate the way his smile makes you heart flutter, or the way that a single touch of his can bring your body to life. he knows you too well.

rafe kisses the space in between your eyebrows, "good. good." and you feel your body relax. you're in the clear, and this is going to fine. you're not going to regret this, because he's changed. he's changed, of course he's changed.

it's only when his fingers stop trailing down your body where you feel yourself tense up, "because i would know...i would know if you have someone around."

you nod, panting softly as you try to kiss him. he just leans away, a sharp look on his face. he's dazed almost as if he's thinking about you with someone else. panic rises in your chest as you try to center him back to you. back to looking at your soft eyes, and rising chest.

"i wouldn't do that to you rafe! you're my one. you're the one for me."

"yeah, yeah," he lets out a small laugh, scratching his chin before looking back at you. his tone is teasing, but you can feel the darker undertones. god, you feel as if you're about to choak, "but my pretty baby also left me...so i'm not sure if i know that you know i'm the one."

"just trust me. please," the last word comes out as a whine, and you know you're begging. you're so close to begging. it's then when he lets out a small laugh, and then a small peck on your shoulder.

"i hope you're not lying to me," his thumb brushes over your lower lip, and the tenderness of the gesture makes your stomach twist. you want to learn into his softness. you want to remember him as somone you can see a future with.

rafe leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine as his fingers thread through your hair. “because i can tell,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your skin, “when someone’s hiding something.”

now he's leaving small kisses down your neck, and your heart races as he kisses the side of your neck softly, his grip tightening just enough to make you aware of the power he holds over you in this moment. you tilt your head, letting him in, hoping it’ll ease the tension. "rafe, please… i'm not hiding anything."

for a moment, he relaxes, his grip loosening as his hand slides down your neck. “good,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your forehead in a soft, almost tender kiss. "i'll drive you home, yeah? i know your parents will be happy to see me."

but even as rafe pulls you close, holding you as if the tension between you has melted away, the ache in your stomach lingers. everyone loves him, you know that, but how much longer can you continue loving him, letting him in?

at least now you know you're on a ticking clock. you know it when rafe puts his hand on your thigh, so you let him put on your favorite singer on the radio, and you let him give you a sweet goodnight kiss, and you let him come into your house.

you know you let rafe do it.

but how much longer can you let him in with the pit of darkness that lurks in his eyes?

[sculptorofcrimson]

My Angel

@kit-williams I take FULL responsibility. Behold, more scary golden boys!

~~~~~

“Je prie les anges et les anges m'ont pris”

Translation from French: I prayed to the angels, and the angels took me. 

~~~~

It's not a pretty feeling, is it, when you are denied even the right to die?

The Aquilan Shields. The desire of any, the saviors of countless. The gilded heroes in gold and crimson, thundering from the skies. 

But they are not heroes.

They are not saviors. They are not angels, they are seraphims bathed in fire and brimstone and choking smoke. They do not chase off death, but rather prolong it, until you can die by their command. 

It is a tradition, they say, a practice that carried over from the First Custodian and into their Order. The First to seal what belonged to him in gold and crimson, the first lifebringer who preserved life in a dead man walking. The outcast dead, preserved beyond an end, beyond life, beyond even adoration itself, until love curdled into obsession.

He was the First of the Custodes, the First to adore so vehemently it was beyond even death itself. 

It is a tradition for them not to love, but to protect, to adore and nurture, to keep. It should be an honor. It should be adoration. Many want to be loved. No one wants to know. Many yearn for that pretty delusion, the warmth of the fire without fearing its heat. You cannot love a heartless man. 

It was hard to imagine Leinth had once wished for the stress of their regard. 

“You seem melancholy today.” He observed. His voice filters through perfect vox lines, yet she could detect no waver beneath it, no human imperfection. It was as if he had been mastered as a machine, without deviation, and without error. 

Leinth offered a wan smile, the girl kicking her thin shins out over the rooftop’s edge. He had found her with ease, as he always had, regardless if she was in the Palace’s grand gardens or had paid a civilian to carry her to the outskirts of Terra. He would always find her, after all. 

Sekhmet Andas of the Aquilan Shield made no noise as he shifted to a resting position besides her, making eerily little sound for one as large as he. For a moment they were silent, watching the setting sun bathe the slums of Terra to red, then crimson.

“I had thought Terra would be beautiful.” she spoke, after a long while. Sekhmet inclined his head. 

“What makes you think it is not?” 

“These.” Leinth gestures with one hand. Her fingers, still unused to the exercises she had been subject to, awkwardly form crude signs in thoughtmark. + These. The ones you never show. + Her voice had yet to be taken away from her in her ascension to a full Sister, but her freedom to roam certainly was. 

“You cannot drape wraiths in raiments and call them beautiful, Leinth. You cannot show the shadow of the sun.” Sekhmet, with surprising tenderness, gently nudges her index finger to the proper form. "Longer, Ley. Thoughtmark is not an unelegant language."

"But are they too not loved?" she bats his hand away. "These wraiths." Leinth couldn’t help but feel irate at the simple use of her endearment. It had once belonged to her brother once. 

"I cannot speak for them." he replied. "Only that they were not graced by His light."

"Like I wasn't?" Leinth chuckles softly, bitterly. "Like I wasn't blessed, for the first decade and half of my life? Worthless, until my gift was seen?" 

“No. You were…exceptional.” Sekhmet’s tone was as level as always, even in the face of Leinth’s capricious wrath. The thin girl was shivering, but seemed unnoticing of the setting sun’s cold. Sekhmet reached out, and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. Leinth never looked up. 

“Oh, you.” Leinth’s giggle sounded far too jaded, far too cruel for a girl of her age, all of twenty-three and as bitter as a veteran. “You’ve spent so long in the gold, you’ve forgotten how to speak of the bronze.”

Sekhmet did not respond to that. He simply wrapped the cloak around her, and tried to fasten the clasp. Once more, Leinth shakes his hand away. Sekhmet contends with draping the fabric around her. 

When she next spoke, her words were laden with vitriol. “I had a brother once. Down here. We were together.” There was an old rancor here, an ancient ache. Her eyes had become unfocused, her legs swinging out into the void as she gazed upon Terra’s slums from the shelter of the rooftop. 

She sounded almost wistful. 

“We were together when Father died. You wouldn’t know. Of course you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t care how Liaser fed me, clothed me, fought off a gang and ended up losing a third of his index finger from a knifethrust that was meant for me. You never saw the bodies left in the streets to rot, the trashheaps we buried ourselves in to hide from the gangs, how he took in a pariah at the age of twelve and refused to abandon her. You never knew what it felt like to starve, not knowing if you’d live long enough to scavenge from the streets. But he refused. Not even when my gift suffocated him, not even if he hated my soul, but loved me enough even when I drew “visitors”. When my aura drew…others here. Visitors that beat him. Visitors that tortured him. Visitors that hated me, hated my mind. Visitors wanted me.” her eyes had become unfocused, bitterly embroiled in the past. Sekhmet placed a titanic hand on her shoulder. He could feel the Pariah’s pulse from here, beating fast and hard like a dying rabbit’s, her shaven head bobbing from side to side with seemingly no consciousness. She was shaking. His other hand, still clad in gold auramite, rubbed soothing circles next to her spine. 

She regained her voice after a few moments, still trembling. “One of them tried to skin him alive unless I showed myself, were you there to protect me from then?” 

“Ley, you know that-”

“Were you there?” She half screamed. “Were you there when they broke three of his ribs and I robbed a clinic with my gift, when I walked in and the doctor called me a soulless monster and ran? When I left that dingy, rundown place with credits in my bag, knowing they feared me, knowing they looked at me and saw nothing but loathing? Knowing how it felt like not to be unnoticed, but to be utterly hated?”

“The golden do not know hate, dear Ley.” His hand wrapped around her, tightening and dragging her close when she tried to move away. Leinth snorted in derision and annoyance. He continued on. “And they will never step foot nor hide, so long as you’re beneath my gaze, little Sister. Where love is made impossible for you, Pariah, then contend yourself with fear.” With more tenderness than thought possible for a creature so cold, he reached out and gently turned her head towards him, tilting her face up until they were eye to eye. Leinth saw nothing, not even the cold spark of life, behind those eyes. It was like gazing into the eyes of a corpse, a corpse that would hold her, love her, suffocate her, for eternity.

“Contend yourself with fear, little Pariah. Where they cannot love you, they will learn to fear.” 

Leinth pulled away from his grasp. “But I do not want to be feared.” 

She did not ask to become a Sister, she did not want to be plucked from her brother’s arms and paraded like a trophy before golden eyes. She did not ask to be in that alleyway when they came, her thin arms over her head as the blows rained down one by one, still hearing her brother screaming at her to run. Sobbing for her life, pleading to be spared, praying for the angels to come and save her. And she prayed, and the angels came to save her. 

“I do not want to be feared.” she repeated. 

“But you will be.” His grip was like iron. He did not allow her to turn away. Instead, he dragged her close, cold auramite upon her shoulders and her neck. “You will be feared, not loved. Because, after all, who else would love you except for I, little Pariah?”

Who else would love you, when the world itself has turned away in fear and horror? Who else could love her, when even the Emperor’s light could not warm her?

Who else would love her if not for him? 

Leinth tried to move away, but his auramite grip was unbreakable. He dragged her against him, and this time she didn’t even struggle. Unshed tears had dripped steadily from her lashes, her sobs too proud to be spoken yet too painful to be restrained. Her small frame was shaking, but her voice was bitter, and filled with more vehemence than either of them had known. 

“I prayed that night you saved me, you know. I prayed for you, Sekhmet. I prayed that you would find him and bring him back. But you never even tried, did you?”

The silence was his answer. 

“You never even tried to find him. You left him there. And you took me.”

[kybercrystals94]

Too Young to Grow Up (Drabbles Collection)

Read here on Ao3!

Rated: G | Words: 500 | Summary: Moments and memories of Omega growing up on Pabu.

**To simplify my Summer of Bad Batch Master List, I am compiling my drabbles that are part of the same series...the links to the individual posts are provided below!**

Splinter

“Hold still,” Omega mumbles around a needle pressed between her lips. She squints at the thin splinter driven deep in Wrecker’s palm. “This would be easier with tweezers.” 

Wrecker squirms despite Omega’s clear instruction. “Just get it out, will ya?” 

“Kriff, be patient. This is a delicate operation.” 

“Language,” Crosshair chides from his side of the boat. 

Omega rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk.” 

“What was that? I couldn’t understand you with that advanced medical instrument in your mouth. Is that sanitary?” 

“Will you shut up and let me focus?” 

Wrecker guffaws. “Yeah, Cross, shut up! The doctor’s workin’!”

Wishes

“I just saw a falling star!” 

“Did ya make a wish?” 

Omega hums. She’s tucked under Wrecker’s arm, melted into his side. “Like what?” 

“I dunno, anything. Ice cones, Mantell Mix, candied meiloorun,” Wrecker lists off. 

His sister giggles. “Sounds like you want a snack.”

“How’d you guess?” 

Omega laughs again, and it lulls into a comfortable silence between them. Finally, Omega sighs and whispers, “I wish Tech were here.” 

Wrecker’s breath catches in his throat. He tries to think of something to say. Something comforting. But all that comes out is, “Me too.” 

Because some wishes don’t come true.

Calm Down

Crosshair gives Omega her pack. “Got everything you need?” 

Omega groans. “Yes, I promise I got everything.” 

“And you’ll check in every rotation,” Hunter reminds her. 

“At thirteen hundred local time,” Omega says, flicking her fingers in a sloppy salute. 

“Phee, ya sure you got enough food?” Wrecker asks. 

The pirate fixes the brothers with a look. “Will you all calm down? We’ll only be gone for three days.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t come,” Crosshair grumbles. 

“Then it wouldn’t be a girls’ trip.” Phee grins. “Omega, give your brothers a hug so we can get outta here.”

Blaster Bolts

“I hate you!”

She didn’t mean them. But she’d said them. Ugly, anger fueled words. They shot out of her mouth like a blaster bolt, hitting their mark with devastating accuracy. Like a blaster bolt, they wounded. Like a blaster bolt, they couldn’t be taken back. Couldn’t be unspoken. 

The space between them goes glacial. 

Omega wants to cry.  

Hunter won’t meet her watery gaze, her fiery rage extinguished by hot tears. “Go cool off,” he says, low voice tight. Controlled.

She retreats, all too aware of the eyes that watch her go. Crosshair. Wrecker. They’re disappointed. 

She is too. 

****

Hunter is reading a message from Echo when Omega sits down next to him on the couch. Rigid and ramrod straight, she has her fingers knotted together in her lap, white knuckled. “I’m sorry for what I said,” she says, voice flat and careful. “I didn’t mean it. I never could.”

“I know, kid,” Hunter says. He puts his hand between them, palm up, an offering. Omega swallows audibly, unknots her fists, and puts her hand in his. He grips it tight. “I love you. Always will.” 

Squeezing back, Omega says in a soft, breaking voice, “I love you too.” 

[my-lovely-writing]

(Note: as always, please check the tw tags before clicking read more. Also, if formatting isn't the same for every post, I'm experimenting, but it should be relatively the same.)

"I've always held fast to the belief that we're reborn. That we live in the world we created." The hero circled the villain, dragging their nails across the dining table with a sharp screech. "You better pray I'm not right, [villain], because the only thing you've ever created is massacre."

The villain paused, fork and knife hovering over their steak as they chanced a glance at a nearby booth of curious onlookers. They turned back to the hero. "Sit down. You're drawing attention to yourself, to us."

"And why should I?"

"I just said, you idiot. Are you going to eat that or what?" The villain sat down their fork and reached for the hero's salad, who smacked away the villain's hand, glaring.

"It's mine."

"Then sit," the villain growled, careful to keep their voice quiet.

The hero rose taller. "Not with you."

At the commotion, a few hushed murmurs rippled through the room. The villain exhaled through their nose. Their voice was a whisper, but it dripped anger: "I swear to whatever almighty being you believe in—are you here only to make a fool of me?" They shoved the knife into their steak. Possibly a threat.

"No," the hero said, a bit more quietly. Their jaw clenched.

The villain narrowed their eyes and stared at them for a long, silent moment. Their next bite felt hard to swallow. "Then why, [hero]?"

The hero shook their head, as if that was an answer. Why would they, of all people, accept the invitation, much less show up? The question left them reeling just as much as the villain.

Perhaps it was the idiocy of the moment. Of spitting out blood and shaking on their knees, their body so wracked with pain that the pouring rain felt like a thousand shards of glass embedding into their skin and hearing the villain ask, not unkindly, "How does dinner on Monday sound? Olive Garden at midnight?" Or maybe it was the comfort of somehow waking up the next morning, safe in their bed, a bottle of painkillers tucked beneath their pillow.

The hero frowned. Maybe it was the creepiness of the villain knowing where they live. At least there was nobody else they could hurt with that, but still.

"What's that look?" the villain asked.

The hero blinked and snapped back to reality. "You know my house, and that's creepy."

"Your house—that's what I was going to discuss, if you would ever sit down." The villain pointed a sharp finger at the chair.

Their house? That was worth all this? The hero crinkled their nose. For a moment, they gauged the villain—they looked sincere enough, slightly less ready to murder. And they did pay for the food. But on the other hand, the villain had caused so much pain and suffering, all for a reason the hero couldn't name. They struggled with themselves. The villain waited patiently for a few moments, before shooting them another scathing look. The hero sat down.

"I know what you're thinking," said the villain. "Why is this evil man/lady inviting me out to dinner? Why do they want to talk about my house?" They nodded towards the salad. "Eat that—I know you're starving. And the truth is, I don't really want to talk about your house, that was an error of phrasing on my part. I want to talk about your home life."

The hero's frown deepened. They were starving, but how did the villain know that? The villain seemed to pause and wait for the hero to follow the command, and curiosity got the better of them, so they did. An acidic taste filled their mouth—tomatoes. The hero would have spit it out if they weren't so hungry.

"I've noticed that you always show up to stop me, no matter when I decide to blow up the next building." The villain arched an eyebrow. "Getting enough sleep? You're getting weaker."

"I don't see how any of that is your business."

"I'm not much of a villain if my arch-nemesis can't take a hit, now am I?"

So that's why they asked: villainous pride. The hero snorted. Of course.

"Something funny, [hero]?"

"Hilarious, actually."

The villain's lips quirked into something like a smirk but not quite, at that, deep green eyes slowly roaming up their face. The hero felt, distinctly, like the villain could see every microscopic muscle and twitch like a one-way mirror to the heart beneath their skin, all with the poise of a cat. No need to bloody their claws ripping out their ribcage, for that.

"You're adorably misguided, [hero]. I mean, veganism? Really?" The villain chuckled. How terribly casual they were, signaling the waitress over in the midst of this. "Starving your body of nutrients and being a hero don't go together well."

"What do you want?" the hero demanded. They were getting sick of this one-sided game. They were so infuriated they barely noticed the clacking of the waitress's heels as they suddenly appeared beside them—if they had, the hero would have wondered why they were so quick, if the waitress knew the villain was [villain]—but they didn't.

The villain took their sweet time in answering the hero, first telling the waitress to bring [hero] crackers for their salad—crackers, of all things to interrupt them for!—and then went even further in annoying the hero by taking long, slow bite of their steak before responding with a lithe smile, "For you to eat your dinner."

"Bullshit. You want something more than that."

The smile never left the villain's face even as they turned their attention to the returning waitress, going so far as to take the crackers and crush them into [hero's] salad themself. [Hero] never said they wanted them, but they politely thanked the waitress anyway, even as they seethed at the fact the waitress hadn't double checked with the hero themself. Children are usually provided that courtesy.

"So, what's your favorite color?" the villain asked.

The hero was caught off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"Your favorite color. What is it?"

And, perhaps in defiance of such inanity, the hero jammed a bite of their salad into their mouth. And then another and then another and then another until the conversation had long since died. They kept expecting [villain] to reiterate their question or order them to answer, but the villain didn't seem to mind at all, and instead merely turned back to their steak.

When their bowl was finished, the hero took the liberty of gritting out an insult at the villain who, despite everything logical and sane that would contend otherwise if there was anything logical and sane about them, seemed to be expectantly awaiting their answer still. "You have no taste. You said this restaurant is the best in town, but the crackers here taste fucking stale."

"Huh." The villain's hand slid underneath their chin, elbow resting on the table. "I've always wondered what it tastes like."

"What wh—" And then it hit them, and the hero's head was swimming with tired and dizzy and the world was a spinning blur of the villain's signature black and blue—and how horrifically funny to notice now that the restaurant was a black and blue thing. A heartbeat and [Hero] was up, stumbling away. They fell like a newborn doe.

The villain watched from their seat as the waitress caught them—no need to bloody their claws.

The hero awoke, alive, on something soft. Their body was coiled like a boom of thunder, fast and furious and inconsequential, but the hero was wise. They waited, eyes closed, for the sound of breathing, but none met their ears. They slowly peeked an eye open—no one that they could see, and they didn't feel anything around their wrists or ankles. Only after their eyes were adjusted and they were absolutely certain no one was with them did they slip out of the unfamiliar bed, testing the cold wooden floorboards beneath them before surrendering their weight. They didn't creak.

The hero's hand twitched at their side. They wanted to test if the door was locked, but they didn't put it past [villain] to wait in the hallway for that tell-tale half twist of the knob and really, they already knew the answer to that question, didn't they?

So instead they decided to search the room on the off-chance that the villain had accidentally left anything useful—and froze as they spotted a neatly folded up note on the nightstand, a small circular mirror beside it. They—the hero—was dressed in a stunning dress/tuxedo of black and blue. Faint taste of bile of their tongue and hands trembling, the hero unfolded the note.

"Good morning, [hero]. Since you didn't tell me your favorite color, I thought about it for a while and I decided that you'd look amazing in mine. I'll be home at five, okay? :D"

[voctorianwriting]

〃And we sat there,

me, leaning forward from the bench behind and, you, turning yourself ever so slightly, just so our eyes would meet as we talked, engrossed in each other's words, until the professor called out "Eyes on the board lovebirds!"

When both our heads whipped around, until our eyes met again, as the symphony of our giggles was lost in the cacophony of the whistles and laughter from our classmates, when we realized,

it wasn't us who the teacher was talking to, for when we're together, we're truly in our own little world,

subtle enough for only the other to notice... 〃

♡

[peakyscillian]

Hello! Can I slide in and request number 2 with Cillian for your prompt list thing. Please and thank you 😊🩵

Hey Scarlett!! Of course you can 😘

Obvious

Once again just fluff!

'Giggling about how their friends haven’t found out about them yet even though they’re being so obvious.'

Obvious

She followed him back into the pub, fingers tangled together as they headed back to the table full of their oblivious friends.

Cillian turned to her with a smirk after a few minutes of rejoining the conversation, she flicked a look across the table before she swiped her thumb across the dark red lipstick mark at the corner of his mouth.

The same shade she had painted on her lips.

No one at the table had even noticed that going for a smoke had ended up with them being all over each other on the deserted street.

It had been weeks, they'd been so glaringly obvious since the morning she'd woke up in his bed with a blinding headache and a satisfying ache between her legs.

Maybe it was the fact all their friends were used to their flirty behaviour, the way Cillian always held her hand when they were leaving the pub, how she always ended up staying the night at his.

Hours later in the taxi home, she's giggling into the warm skin of his neck as he laughs about how obvious they'd been all evening.

-

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