#and touching them all the time now that that barrier's been broken

[sysig]

Dying about stick figures rn (Patreon)

[ramblingautisticman]

After they get together, Wade is instantly pulling away from physical contact. He is wearing the mask more, wearing long sleeved shirts and huge hoodies- even if it's the summer- and the whole thing really confuses the shit out of Logan.

It wasn’t like they had no physical contact before. Wade would wrap an arm around his shoulder when they had finished a mission, he would lean on him while they watched TV. They would end up holding hands while walking the dog and cuddled up to each other half asleep on the couch. Logan thought that when they officially started dating, it would be even worse. Not worse- but more. Honestly, he liked the gentle touches. Logan hadn't had that in so long, hadn't had someone touch him that softly or kindly with no fear on their face, that if felt special. Made him feel good and safe and cared for.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. They started dating, and not even two days later, it stopped. No more leaning, no more holding hands or cuddling, nothing. And then the mask started being put on more- even when they had no mission- then it was long sleeved shirts and hoodies. Quickly, Logan became all too familiar in seeing Wade head to toe covered up, even in the dead of summer.

Logan didn't bring it up for a few weeks- thought that maybe Wade just needed some time to adjust- but then a month had passed and they barely touched. He just wanted to hold hands while they walked Mary Puppins again. To feel Wade's head on his shoulder as they watched TV. To wrap his arms around Wade as they slept. To kiss him on the cheek for the first time. That was it.

Logan had his suspicions. It wasn't hard to put the dots together. And so he tried to bring it up. He tried to broach the subject casually, sitting at the table eating breakfast while sat opposite Wade.

"Ya not hot in that big hoodie there?" He asked, hoping that maybe just starting with the hoodie would be a good idea. Would be simpler. "What you on about? It's not even that hot." Wade had lied through his teeth. It was boiling in this apartment- the hottest week of the year- and the air con had broken a good few days ago now. He could see and smell the sweat on him. "Don't lie- Wade- just take the damn hoodie off." But he doesnt- he just makes some joke about how hot Logan is instead while finishing the last of his cereal, then heading over to the couch and pressing play on whatever he had paused.

And it hurts. He wants Wade to trust him with this. To let him help. He wouldn't date Wade if he didn't think he was attractive- both inside and out. Maybe he hasn't been has obvious about that as he should have. Maybe Wade is just feeling insecure. Whatever it is, Logan is going to help.

So he hatches a plan. He sits down one morning while Wade is still asleep, and writes down a list of everything he is going to do to help, and to prove he really does like everything about Wade (he isn't ready to say the big scary 'L' word yet). A plan that would respect Wade's boundaries while still breaking down that barrier that had been built.

Step 1) Start giving Wade his favourite snacks.

This would probably seem stupid to anyone else, but Logan knew Wade. He knew that he only had a few foods and snacks that didn't make him feel nauseous or sick (thanks to the good old cancer he had), so buying snacks for Wade that he knew he could actually stomach seemed like a nice but simple gesture to start with. Make Wade aware that Logan payed attention and remembered these things. He needed to work up to bigger stuff later. Make sure Wade didn't freak out or notice what he was doing.

And that's what he did. He bought Wade a few packs of his favourite chips (or crisps (the writer is british deal with it)) and gave them to him when they were sat on the couch one day. A spontaneous gift. Wade seemed more excited that Logan had remembered what kind and flavour they were than about the actual chips themselves, which was fine with Logan. Completely fine. Seeing Wade so happy at a simple gesture was both joy inducing and kind of sad. Had no one else ever remembered his sensitive stomach? Remembered that he had cancer? Whatever. It didn't really matter, because Logan was going to remeber every little detail he could.

Step 2) was a little harder. It involved a little more thought and care, and a little more risk.

Step 2) was to Get Wade a hoodie that smelt like Logan.

Again, something that seemed normal in any relationship, but he wasn't sure how Wade would react. He hoped that because it was a hoodie, and because Wade was currently wearing a lot of hoodies (the same 2 in rotation), it would be a well appreciated gift. He didn't know if Wade would want to change out of the 2 hoodies he was already comfortable in- he wanted to try though. Plus, having something of his boyfriends would be a good gift. Prove that he wanted people to know Wade was his. That he wasn't ashamed. And maybe he just wanted Wade in his clothes. So he headed to the store.

He got one in the same red as his suit, made sure that it was thin enough to not make Wade actually melt in the heat but thick enough to keep him warm in the cold (if he was still like this when it became cold again, he wanted to make sure he wasn't going to freeze), and proceeded to wear the hoodie around for the next few days. Logan made sure Wade was either out or not watching when he wore it, wanting it to be a surprise.

And eventually, a week later when he deemed it good enough, Logan left it out for Wade with his clothes for after he showered. Wade comes out with the new red hoodie on, and Logan can't help but smile at the other.

This is where Step 3) comes in. Step 3) Compliment Wade as much as possible.

"You look real good in that hoodie." He said, stepping closer to the other. Wade laughs a little, sounding slightly embarrassed, and just shrugs a little. The hoodie is massive on him- Logan's huge muscular build is far bigger than Wade's waisting away skinny body- and it looks like Wade enjoys that, because he is wrapping himself up in it like a blanket. "Smells like you. You're a sneaky guy, aren't you Peanut? Plus, it matches the mask. Very well done." Wade responds with an obvious smirk under said mask. "So you like it? Because you are very, very handsome right now. Also cute." Logan mutters, matching that smirk.

And okay, Wade directs the conversation somewhere else then, but he hasn't taken the hoodie off in a week and Logan takes that as a good sign. He also never combats his compliments. He never responds, but he never directly disagrees, which seems like a second good sign.

Next step it is then. Step 4) Start using pet names.

It's not that he doesn't already, it's just that he doesn't really use the normal relationship pet names. Bub and Mouth is about all he has for Wade right now, and he wants to expand on that. Logan likes using pet names for people he dates- people he likes (loves) in a romantic way- he just hasn't really used any yet. And he wants to change that.

"You want jelly (jam (again, british writer, deal with it)) on your toast sweetheart?" "Baby, do you think Mary needs a new bed? She's chewed half the corner of this one." "Honestly princess, I don't think anyone on this stupid show is even thinking about plot." And Wade seems to like every single one, because every time he says any of them (even if it's not the first time), Logan can hear his heart rate pick up, and he freezes for a moment before going back to the conversation.

And he keeps those three in rotation- the three Wade seem to like and the three Logan thinks fit the best- and Wade never tells him to stop, so he doesn't.

Step 5) is honestly one of his favourites, because Step 5) is calling Wade his boyfriend around other people.

He starts of light. Casually mentioning that they are dating to their friends when the see eachother for the first time in awhile. Then when they are out and about, and he casually mentions that "Oh yeah, just out with my boyfriend" "Yeah, just grocery shopping with my boyfriend" "I've got a date with my very handsome boyfriend after this" and he always makes sure Wade hears him.

He wants Wade to know that he isn't ashamed of people knowing they are together- he actually likes it. Being able to show off his handsome boyfriend to his friends or in public is very much fulfilling Logan's masculine side, and Wade is a blushing mess everytime. He can tell, he doesn't need to see. Wade is stuttering over his words, nodding along with whatever Logan is saying.

It's adorable and Logan wants to see it more often.

After another 2 months of dating, and a good two months or repeating his little 5 steps, Wade seems slightly more comfortable. Logan doesn't push him- doesn't want to break what trust he is building- and he accepts every slight change with gratitude.

Wade slowly gets alittle closer as they sit on the couch. He sometimes rests his leg against Logan when they sleep- and he doesn't seem as afraid to flirt back and forth for awhile now.

And now, he can try Step 6) Talking with Wade.

It's the most terrifying step of the 6. That's where all of this careful build up could shatter beneath his feet and he could ruin everything, have to start all over again. Or, Wade might pull even further away than he had at the beginning. But he knows he has to do it- wants to do it- and so he does. It's worth the risk.

So one night, while Logan and Wade are sat together watching some shitty late night shopping channel, Logan decides to bring it up. Not so casually this time.

"Hey Wade, can I ask you something?" He asks, his voice calm and soft, using the others name to hopefully make it seem a little more important. Wade turns away from the TV, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie (he only takes it off when it doesn't smell like Logan, and makes him wear it until he does again), a small nod. "Yeah- what's up babycakes? If its to ask if I think you'd be good on Bake Off, I may have bad news Peanut, because I've seen your attempt at making pancakes, and that would not make Paul proud." Wade jokes, his voice having a tiny hint of nervousness too it, and Logan is kind of glad for the joke but less for the nervousness Wade is expressing.

"Nothing bad, I promise- I just...I want you to know that I care for you. Alot. No matter what- and if you aren't comfortable touching and taking your mask or hoodie of that's okay. I-....well...I just want you to also know that I'm okay if you do. If you do want to take them off aswell. I do like how you look- ya know that, right? Like alot. And again, if you aren't comfortable I get it- but I also need you to know that I think your super handsome and hot either way. Sorry...I'm not great with this kind of thing- but I'm trying..." Logan rambles on like an idiot, something he doesn't do often, but he needs Wade to understand. Needs him to know. He isn't sure if it works or not, because for awhile there is a deafening silence filling the room.

Logan starts to panic, because, why was Wade so quiet? And still? Had he overstepped? Had what he dreaded would happen actually happened?

But all of a sudden, he hears quiet sobs. Which makes him freeze. "W-Wade?" He asks, his voice breaking a little. He had made Wade cry. Wade was crying. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. This wasn't how it was meant to god. He really had fucked up, and he wasn't sure how he was going to fix i-

"I'm sorry." Is all he hears, cutting him away from his thoughts, and his heart breaks even more at that. "Hey- no, why are you sorry baby?" Logan asks quietly, moving alittle closer to Wade. He desperately wants to reach out and wrap his arms around Wade, pulling him close and rub soothing circles on his back, but he doesn't want to make Wade feel worse. He respects Wade's boundaries.

"Because I'm such a fucking mess....I'm ugly and-and I just...you can't really think that- can you? Your so fucking stunning and I'm....and I'm me! I'm covered head to toe in fucking scars and-and they aren't even good looking scars- and....and I just....I'm sorry.. I can't be...be normal.. " and every word is breaking Logan's heart even more. How the hell could Wade think that? Any of it?

Logan like- no- loved every single thing about Wade. His stupid jokes, his rambling, his cute little voice he put on for Mary Puppins, how he always helped any kids that asked for it, his body, his voice, hell- he even loved the nicknames. He loved everything this man did, does and will do. No matter what.

And here Wade was thinking he was ugly- thinking he was some fucking disgusting creature. Logan should apologise to him for failing to do what he set out to do. Failing to prove to Wade he loved him no matter what.

"Wade...listen to me right now. I...I love everything about you. Everything. I love every scar and every blemish because that makes you, you. I think you are the best boyfriend in the multiverse, and I am so fucking happy that you are mine. That you chose me, the worst version of me. I think you are a handsome, sexy, extremley good looking, kind, gentle, crazy, person, and I love it all. And I want to see you baby, I havent seen your face in so long. I want to see your pretty eyes again and that stunning smile- and I want to hold your hand in public, to kiss you on your cheek, to cuddle you at night- I want all of that. So...so please...please- if you want and only if you want....take the mask off- of just the hoodie. Please? Because I promise, I am going to spend the rest of my days proving that everything you think about yourself is wrong. That anything negative is positive." And maybe this is another messy ramble, but Logan doesn't care because he can't let Wade keep thinking like this. He gets having bad days- knows that there will come days in the future where Wade wants to wear the mask and the hoodie for a day, but he can't let him feel like this all the time. He can't. He won't. He refuses.

Logan stares at Wade, patiently waiting for any reaction. Anything at all. And there isn't one for a moment, until Wade is slowly pulling his mask off. As soon as he does, Wade looks at him scared, tears rushing down his face, eyes looking anywhere but Logan.

And it's been so long since he has seen that face- that face he fell inlove with- that he can't help the tears in his own eyes start to rush down his cheek. "Hey...there you are." He whispers, a small smile spreading across his lips. It feels so good to see him. To actually see him.

"H-hey..." Wade whispers back, his voice sounding broken and too quiet, and Logan is determined to fix that. "Can I...can I touch you? Just your cheek or hold your hand? If not that's okay. Take your time. I'll be waiting as long as you need." Logan says softly, waiting for Wade to shut him down- the mask being off already such a huge step, but suddenly he is nodding and Logan is placing a gentle hand on Wade's cheek, gently running his thumb over the scared skin.

In this moment, he can't understand how Wade thinks he looks ugly, because to Logan? To Logan he looked like he was sculpted by the gods themselves. Wade looked like something out of a painting. He looks so stunning that Logan just can't understand.

Wade must see this in his eyes, because Wade quickly looks confused. "You...you really do mean all that.." He says, and Logan nods with a smile on his face. "Of course I do. I love you Wade. Nothing is going to stop that- and...and I hate that you feel this way about yourself because you are the most beautiful person I have ever laid my eyes on...and I'm going to keep my promise. I'm going to prove every word." And this time, Wade looks like he understands. Like he truly believes, and Logan can't help but lean in and softly press their lips together.

This time, Wade doesn't pull away from the touch, instead, he finally leans in.

[fratttymatty]

A New Type Of Art

(All characters are 18+)

Luke had always been the kind of guy who didn’t fit into a mold, and he liked it that way. He was an artsy, liberal college sophomore who spent more time with his paintbrush than his textbooks, more time discussing philosophy than politics. His long, blonde hair was usually in a messy shoulder-length style, a reflection of his creative, laid-back personality. People often joked that he looked like he’d stepped out of a 90s indie film, and he was fine with that.

He was proud of who he was—gay, unapologetic, and fiercely liberal. His friends in the dorm loved him for his passion, his endless debates on everything from climate change to gender fluidity. He wore the brightest colors he could find, mismatched patterns, and unashamedly displayed his individuality through his clothes. He didn’t care if people stared—he wanted them to. Being different was his art.

Luke was someone who lived openly. He was out, loud, and proud. He believed in change, in equality, in breaking barriers. But then something strange happened that would turn his world upside down.

It started when he wandered into the obscure little gallery downtown. The art was... different. No, it wasn’t just different—it was weird, unsettling even. All the paintings were of men—clean-cut, athletic, stoic figures that seemed too perfect, too polished, as if they were all carved out of the same mold. They stared down from their frames with proud, almost smug expressions.

Luke felt a tug of unease, but his curiosity got the better of him. He walked deeper into the exhibit, looking for something new, something that would spark his imagination. But what he found was something far more unsettling.

The curator, a sharply dressed man with cold eyes, suddenly appeared at his side.

"You’re not from around here, are you?" the man asked, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

Luke didn’t know how to answer. “I just came to see the art,” he said, glancing at the paintings again, the faces of the men still haunting him.

The curator smiled faintly. “Art is not just for seeing, my friend. It’s for becoming.”

Before Luke could ask what he meant, the curator’s hand landed on his shoulder. And everything changed.

Luke awoke with a start, his heart racing. The room was unfamiliar. The air smelled different—stale, almost like rubber or plastic. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the sudden dizziness that had overtaken him. His mind was foggy, his thoughts spinning like a broken record.

He glanced around. The walls were bare except for a few sports posters—one of a football team, another of a group of athletes holding up trophies. A large computer sat on a desk, the screen blank but sleek, high-tech. The bed he was lying on was too small, too clean.

Then, something caught his eye—a full-length mirror on the wall. He stumbled over to it, his feet feeling heavier than usual.

The reflection staring back at him was... not Luke.

It was a completely different person. His face—his features—were different. His once soft jawline was now square, his cheekbones high and pronounced. His blonde hair was gone, replaced by a rich, dark brown mane that was tousled perfectly, messy but in a way that looked effortlessly stylish. It was a little wavy, but in a way that made him look... well, hot.

The messiness of his hair gave him a rugged appeal, like he’d just rolled out of bed after a late-night party or a spontaneous game of pick-up basketball. His chest was broad, and his body had more definition—muscles that didn’t exist before now rippled under the tight-fitting T-shirt he wore, and his skin had a deep tan that made his features pop even more.

He reached up to touch his hair, the strands feeling thicker, softer than he remembered. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in how it fell around his face, like he was born to have it that way. As his fingers ran through the tousled locks, he caught the faintest whiff of cologne—something strong, athletic, and masculine.

Something inside him—a feeling that had been buried before—shifted. This was right. He was... supposed to look like this.

And then, as if to confirm it, a sudden wave of memories flashed before his eyes—high school memories. Football games. High fives with his teammates. Laughter with his jock friends. A pretty girl’s smile as she flirted with him in the halls. The vague recollection of endless hours spent playing Call of Duty in his friend’s basement, of sports cars and parties. The memories were his now, and they felt... good.

He glanced back at the mirror again. The face staring back at him was someone completely new—someone named Ethan Clark.

Ethan.

It sounded... right. It felt like the right name for the guy he had become.

Ethan’s first full day in this strange new life was a blur of sensations, conflicting memories, and awkward realizations.

He stood in front of his high school locker, the red-and-black track jacket feeling tight against his shoulders. The hallway buzzed with activity around him—students laughing, chatting, rushing to classes—but his attention kept wandering.

He couldn’t help but notice the girls.

They were all looking at him—some giving him shy smiles, others openly admiring him, especially the ones who whispered to each other and then giggled. Ethan had no idea how to handle it, but something inside him surged at the attention. It was like he wanted it. He liked the way they were looking at him. The way his tousled brown hair framed his face just right, the way it somehow made him look cooler, more attractive.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a locker mirror, and his heart skipped a beat. He looked good—like a guy who played varsity football, who could crush a bench press, who wore his hair just so in a way that drove girls wild. It was different, but it felt natural. Comfortable.

“Hey, Ethan,” one of the girls said as she walked by, her gaze lingering on him for a second too long. “You’re looking extra hot today. What’s the secret?”

Ethan blinked, confused at first. Was she talking to him? She smiled, and he suddenly felt this unfamiliar surge of confidence flood his chest. Without thinking, he ran a hand through his dark hair, giving her a slight smirk.

“Just, uh... woke up this way, I guess,” he said, his voice rougher, deeper than it used to be.

The girl giggled, clearly charmed, and kept walking, throwing him one last glance over her shoulder. Ethan watched her go, a mix of pride and something else stirring inside him. He couldn’t quite place it, but he didn’t need to.

This was who he was now. The guy with the dark, messy hair who turned heads, who was adored by girls, who fit right in with the team, the jocks, and the “normal” crowd. He was straight, athletic, confident—and he had no idea who he was before. The memories of his old life were slipping away, like sand through his fingers.

He walked down the hallway, his steps firm and sure. The world was different now. And for the first time in a long time, he was okay with it. In fact, it felt pretty damn good.

As Ethan settled further into his new identity, he quickly realized he was getting a lot more attention than he ever had before. It wasn’t just the girls; the guys on the football team were treating him like one of their own, giving him high-fives, calling him “bro,” and acting like he was the man.

He loved it. And he made sure everyone around him knew it.

One day, during lunch, he walked into the cafeteria with his new crew—a group of jocks who clearly saw him as the alpha in their little pack. The guys were laughing and slapping each other on the back. Ethan’s loud voice cut through the chatter as he cracked a joke about how the girls were practically throwing themselves at him now that he’d "finally started dressing like a real man." His comment earned a chorus of laughs from the table.

“I swear, bro, these chicks don’t know what to do with themselves,” Ethan said, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his now perfectly tousled hair. “Like, calm down. I’m just a normal guy.”

He smirked as the guys around him laughed, but the joke was all too familiar to him now—this was how they all talked. How the guys had to talk to be part of the crew. The alpha energy. The mocking of others. The jokes about the ‘liberal snowflakes’ and the ‘woke culture.’

“So, bro, what do you think of that chick in your history class? The one with the, like, big eyes?” one of his teammates asked, nudging him.

Ethan’s lip curled. “Pfft, she’s cute, but, like... I’m not really into the whole ‘intellectual’ thing,” he said with a scoff. “Girls should be, you know, fun. And pretty. That’s the only thing that matters. Politics are for losers anyway.”

The guys around him laughed, and a few clapped him on the back.

Ethan’s transformation was complete, or so he thought. Each day that passed, the remnants of his old life—the life of Luke—faded into oblivion. The whispers of art, of activism, of painting vibrant canvases of rebellion and love, all became distant echoes, drowned out by the thumping bass of his new life. The image of his blonde, shaggy hair, the colorful shirts, and the feeling of freedom in being himself—they were all gone now. Ethan Clark, the confident, athletic, and straight high school senior, was who he was meant to be.

And honestly? He couldn’t be happier.

The guy who once hated the idea of conformity, who argued endlessly with anyone who didn’t share his beliefs, had morphed into a version of himself that didn’t question anything.

Girls flocked to him. He flirted effortlessly, his tousled brown hair always falling just right, his posture always leaning casually against the locker with a smug smile that made their knees weak. He could tell that they adored him—hell, everyone adored him. The jocks respected him, and he’d even made it to captain of the track team. He was the star athlete, the alpha in his group, and nothing felt more exhilarating.

The few times when a flash of Luke’s old world would flicker—like when he’d overhear a conversation about climate change or a new art exhibit downtown—he’d feel a weird, nagging sense of discomfort, but it never lasted long. He’d push it aside with a loud joke or by tossing a football to one of his buddies, and the feeling would evaporate.

The most recent instance had come during a heated debate in his government class. A kid who sat in the back—one of those annoying guys with a patchy beard and a mind full of "woke" ideas—had dared to challenge Ethan's casual dismissal of LGBTQ+ issues. Ethan had shrugged it off with the kind of condescension that only someone truly at ease in his masculinity could muster.

“Dude,” Ethan had said, his voice dripping with arrogance, “I don’t know what kind of crazy world you’re living in, but we’re not doing that whole ‘gender-fluid’ thing here. I’m straight, I’m proud, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to some liberal lecture about equality. It’s simple: be a man, get a girl, and stop with all this nonsense.”

The guy had opened his mouth to argue, but Ethan had silenced him with a mock chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he’d said, and with that, the room had gone quiet.

The looks of approval from his teammates and the laughter from his group had only fuelled Ethan’s growing sense of power. He was right, and everyone else was just wrong.

It was after that incident that the strangest thing happened—one night, alone in his room, Ethan stood in front of his mirror, adjusting his hair for the hundredth time, as he always did. His tousled, perfectly messy brown locks had become his trademark, and he ran his fingers through them with the kind of pride only a high school jock could have. He looked good. He knew he looked good. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to enjoy the full force of that knowledge.

But then... it hit him.

The reflection wasn’t the problem—it was what was missing.

For a brief, disorienting moment, he could almost see it—the flash of blonde hair, the open, unapologetic expression, the vivid colors in his clothes. The warmth of a smile that wasn’t just for the girls or the boys who wanted to be his friend. It wasn’t just for the applause or the attention—it was a smile that came from being who he was, not from performing for everyone around him.

But the moment passed quickly, replaced by the face in the mirror that he now recognized so well—the face of Ethan Clark, the confident jock, the proud guy who didn’t care about the world of art or politics anymore.

For a second, though, Ethan’s gaze faltered. There was a slight hesitation—a small, uncomfortable ripple in the stream of his new identity.

“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The thought felt foreign, even stupid. He smirked at his reflection, his confidence quickly returning.

“Get over it, man,” he told himself, his hand running through his messy hair again, his grip tight as he styled it just right. “This is who you are now. This is who you were meant to be.”

The unsettling sensation lingered, but only for a moment. Ethan stood tall, shoulders squared, and he smiled—genuinely, arrogantly—at the guy in the mirror. He had everything now. He was popular. He was strong. He had girls after him and the guys at his back. And most of all, he didn’t care about anything that didn’t fit into this new version of himself.

The weeks passed, and the echoes of Luke’s old life grew quieter. Ethan’s friendships with the other guys on the football team deepened, and his bond with the girls only grew more intense as they swooned over his rugged good looks and cocky charm. He spent less time reflecting on his past—less time worrying about the strange feeling in his gut that tugged at him when he thought about what he had lost.

One night, at a house party thrown by one of his teammates, Ethan stood with a group of his closest friends, a drink in his hand, and the girls around him laughing at his latest joke. Everything felt perfect. It was what he’d always wanted—what he’d deserved.

One of the girls, a blonde who’d been flirting with him for weeks, pulled him aside, her voice low and sultry. “Ethan, you’re like... so different from other guys,” she whispered, brushing a lock of his messy hair out of his face. “You’re just... amazing.”

He grinned, the compliment going straight to his head. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar rush of confidence flood him. “Well, babe,” he said, his voice smooth, “I’m just a man’s man.”

The girl laughed, leaning in closer, and Ethan kissed her on the lips. He’d become so used to this attention, this life of being the center of everything. It was a feeling he didn’t just enjoy—it was the only feeling that made sense anymore.

But as the night went on, as the alcohol and the party noise blared around him, a thought flickered again in the back of his mind. It was small, almost imperceptible, like a whisper from a distant past he couldn’t quite grasp. A memory of a world where being himself didn’t mean fitting in. A world where being free meant embracing everything that made him who he truly was.

The thought came and went, but this time it was different. It didn’t make him feel scared—it didn’t make him feel sad. It just... faded.

Ethan Clark was who he was. The boy who had been Luke was gone now. Completely gone.

And as Ethan kissed the blonde girl again, he couldn’t help but smile. He was everything he was meant to be.

There was no going back. There was no reason to.

Ethan’s transformation was complete. Every morning, he woke up in his new life, slipping effortlessly into the role of the popular, athletic jock—his tousled brown hair falling perfectly into place as if it had always been this way. His body was strong, chiseled from hours of training, and he was the star of the track team. More than that, he was a leader among the jocks, a natural at commanding attention without trying. He had the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing he had it all, and he knew the girls were obsessed with him.

The girls couldn’t get enough of his athletic frame, his perfectly styled hair, and the cocky, yet irresistible smirk he threw their way. He had a certain swagger now—one that came from both his physique and the newfound belief that he deserved to be admired. Ethan was a magnet for attention, and it felt so good.

But there was something else—something he didn’t always let the jocks see.

Ethan had always been a gamer. Sure, he was now the track team captain, the guy everyone turned to for advice on their bench press, but late at night, after practice, when the house parties were over and everyone had gone home, Ethan logged into his gaming setup.

The gaming chair, the massive monitor, the LED-lit keyboard—it was all tucked away in his bedroom, hidden behind a door that only his closest friends knew about. But even now, as captain of the team, as the guy who’d casually broken the 400-pound squat record and was getting invited to college recruiters' camps, Ethan was still that guy—the gamer who lived for the thrill of the digital battlefield.

He had always been good at it. No, scratch that—he’d always been great at it.

Every night, he dominated the leaderboards in Call of Duty and Fortnite, racking up kills with ease. He had his own Twitch account, but it wasn’t for the fame. It was just for the adrenaline, the rush of hearing the ping of a headshot, the satisfaction of topping the scoreboard with his friends.

There were nights when he played until 3 a.m., still wearing his track hoodie, drinking a monster energy drink, the glow of the screen lighting up his face as he obliterated opponents. He'd be wearing his headset, yelling at his buddies—laughing, trash-talking, keeping it light. No one knew about his online identity, but to Ethan, it was just as important as any track medal or touchdown. It was where he could be himself without the weight of the jock persona, without the expectation of being perfect all the time.

The football field was where Ethan thrived. The air was thick with the sound of cleats pounding the turf, the shouts of coaches pushing their players harder, and the constant rhythmic thumping of the ball hitting the ground. Ethan, naturally, was right at the center of it all, a strong, imposing figure in his football gear, his dark hair peeking out from under his helmet, his chest heaving with every breath.

As the captain of the football team, Ethan had earned the respect of every player on the field. They respected his strength, his unrelenting drive, and his ability to motivate others. He was ruthless in practice, always pushing the team harder, making sure no one slacked off. But despite his hard-nosed approach, he kept a certain arrogance that kept the guys in line. He wasn’t just the captain—he was the guy who set the tone for the team, the one who was feared and admired in equal measure.

Today’s practice was intense—punishing drills designed to improve agility and reaction time. Ethan’s muscles burned with the effort, but he wasn’t about to let up. He was determined to lead his team to victory this season. They had a big game coming up, one that could secure them a championship spot. And Ethan was more than ready.

He finished his sprints with ease, his lungs pushing through the burn, his legs feeling stronger with each stride. The guys were panting behind him, but Ethan didn’t even break a sweat.

“That’s how you run,” he said, smirking as he jogged back to the sidelines, his teammates panting behind him.

“Jesus, Ethan, you never slow down,” one of the defensive linemen, Jake, said between breaths.

Ethan threw him a lazy grin. “That’s because I’m built different, bro. You’re just not on my level yet.”

The guys chuckled, and Ethan felt the familiar swell of pride. He loved it. This was his world now. It felt right. The jocks who had once laughed at him in high school now admired him. The girls who had once ignored him now threw themselves at him. Ethan was the epitome of what every high school athlete dreamed of becoming—the guy who was good at everything, effortlessly cool and untouchable.

But then something caught his eye—a flicker of doubt. It was subtle. One of the guys on the team, Alex, had been showing Ethan something on his phone earlier in the locker room. He’d been talking about the new Star Wars Battlefront game and how he was crushing it with some of his online buddies. Ethan barely registered it at the time.

Now, as he caught his breath, he couldn’t help but think about it. Alex had mentioned a team—a clan that all played together late at night. The more Ethan thought about it, the more he realized that even though he was crushing it on the field, there was something oddly thrilling about those nights alone in his room, the camaraderie of his gaming friends, and the rush of winning in a world that didn’t care about how many touchdowns he scored or how big his biceps were.

His thoughts were interrupted when Coach shouted across the field.

“Clark! Get your head in the game! We’ve got a season to win!”

Ethan snapped back into focus, mentally shaking off the random thought. He was Ethan Clark, football captain, jock, the guy everyone looked up to. That was who he was.

Later that night, after the last of his teammates had left, Ethan headed back to his room, dropping his gear on the bed and collapsing into his gaming chair with a deep sigh. His muscles ached, but the comfort of his familiar setup—the glowing RGB lights, the cool click of his mouse, and the hum of the PC booting up—was like an old friend welcoming him back.

He was back where he belonged.

Ethan fired up Call of Duty, glancing over at his phone to see if any of his friends were online. Sure enough, a notification popped up: “Your Squad is waiting.”

He grinned.

Sliding on his headset, Ethan clicked “Join” and immediately heard the familiar voices of his gaming buddies flood through the speakers.

“Yo, Ethan, we’re about to wreck some noobs. You ready?”

Ethan’s grin widened. “Always, bro.”

As they dove into the game, Ethan’s body relaxed, his muscles still sore from practice, but his mind fully focused on the game ahead. This was where he felt free. This was where he could shut out the expectations of being the perfect athlete, the perfect teammate, the perfect son. Here, on the battlefield of the game, there were no rules about how to act or what to be. It was just him, his friends, and the rush of winning.

The hours slipped by in a blur of headshots and jokes. The adrenaline was just as real as it was on the football field, maybe even more so. Ethan was still the dominant force here. His reflexes were sharp, his aim precise. He dominated every match, and when they won, the rush was the same as it was when they hit the game-winning touchdown.

"Man, you're on fire tonight," one of his buddies, Tyler, said, laughing.

Ethan leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. "Just like always, bro. Who else can carry the squad like I do?"

The guys laughed, and Ethan reveled in the sound of their praise. It felt good. It felt right.

For a moment, as the squad geared up for the next round, he thought back to earlier that day on the football field—the sweat, the cheers, the hard work that had earned him his place as the team captain. Then, without even realizing it, his mind drifted back to his gaming chair, to his gaming world, where everything was just as real.

He wasn’t just Ethan Clark, the football player, the alpha jock. He was Ethan, the gamer, the guy who could lead a team to victory in both worlds—whether on the field or behind a screen. And for the first time in a long while, Ethan felt a sense of balance between these two sides of him. He had it all.

In this life, no one could touch him.

And that was exactly how he liked it.

Ethan's life seemed to revolve around two worlds: the football field and his gaming chair. But then there was Sophia—his girlfriend—who lived somewhere right between them, a perfect accessory to his newfound high school popularity.

Sophia was the blonde girl everyone noticed—the type of girl who was the center of attention at every party, with a laugh that made guys turn their heads and an effortless grace that made other girls a little jealous. She was the kind of girl who belonged on the arm of a guy like Ethan—athletic, handsome, and undeniably cool. And now she was, and she knew it.

The two had started dating a few weeks ago, and it had been a perfect fit. She was beautiful, outgoing, and obsessed with the idea of being with someone like Ethan—someone who could give her all the status and attention she craved.

Ethan wasn’t the kind of guy who spent a lot of time on his emotions, but when Sophia smiled at him, he couldn’t help but feel a certain rush of pride. He'd caught her eye first, but now she was his, and it felt good. There were whispers in the hallways, and every girl who tried to get his attention was met with the same smug, “I’ve got my girl” attitude. It was the kind of confidence that only someone who knew he had everything could pull off.

Sophia didn’t mind the attention. She was used to it, and she loved the way Ethan’s popularity amplified hers. It was a match made in high school heaven.

Later that day, after practice, Ethan found Sophia waiting by his truck, her arms crossed, a playful smirk on her face. He had been walking out with a couple of the guys from the team, talking about the upcoming game, but when he spotted her leaning against the tailgate, all conversation stopped. His friends shot each other knowing looks, and one of them, Alex, made an exaggerated “Ooooh” noise.

Ethan didn’t even acknowledge them. He made his way over to Sophia with that familiar swagger, not caring if anyone was watching.

“What’s up, babe?” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Sophia grinned, her eyes gleaming. “Not much. I was just thinking about how awesome you looked out there today. You were like, on fire.”

Ethan couldn’t help but smirk. “Of course I was. It’s what I do.”

She laughed, the sound high and melodic, and stood up straight. “Well, I’m glad you’re on fire... because I was thinking you could use some company tonight,” she said, teasing him a little as she walked toward the passenger side of his truck.

Ethan raised an eyebrow as he followed her. “What kind of company?”

She shot him a wink as she slid into the seat, settling in with a practiced ease. “Let’s just say I have plans for us—and they don’t involve any football or video games tonight. Just you and me, Ethan.”

Ethan grinned, his chest puffing up with pride. This was the life—the kind of life he’d always imagined. Popularity. Strength. A beautiful girl who loved him.

It was almost too perfect.

As he drove off, his mind wandered briefly, but it wasn’t to his old self—the person he used to be. There was no trace of Luke anymore, no reminder of the boy who’d been scared to even talk to a girl like Sophia. No, this was his world now. He was Ethan, and Sophia was his, and that was all that mattered.

At least, that's what he told himself.

[elronds-meleth-nin]

Healing Hands

This is just a short little fic, based on this post here. The tall, broad High-King demanded a drabble aside from the ones I'd already started about him, so what else could I do? He is the High King, after all. 🥰👑

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Gil-Galad (RoP) x Half-Elven!Reader

[A/N: This is just fluff.]

Warnings: Spoilers for RoP s2e8, non-graphic descriptions of injuries, mentions of blood, soft!Gil-Galad, affectionate teasing, romantic tension, healing injuries, Gil speaking Quenya, battle aftermath, minor angst with a happy ending.

~*~

Did she truly think she was being subtle with such a limp in her step? The High King and his Herald had led their soldiers and the survivors of Eregion into a valley, establishing around it a protective, magical barrier using the rings of power.

Together, the pair had healed Lady Galadriel, but as they settled her in a soft, flat spot to recover, Gil-Galad saw his lady, clad in her own black-splattered armor, attempting to limp away unnoticed.

"Go. I'll stay with Galadriel," Elrond volunteered quietly, and with a grateful nod of acknowledgement, the King hurried through the trees after her. He hadn't even remembered seeing her struck, but obviously she had been if she was limping.

She didn't get very far. At the edge of a small clearing, he found her sitting with her back against a tree, struggling to remain conscious. His breath caught when he saw how pale she'd become. She'd clearly been hiding this for quite some time.

Without a thought beyond healing his lady, Gil-Galad dropped to his knees beside her and began slicing a window into the leg of her trousers. The cloth parted easily at the behest of his dagger, and at the waft of cool air over her skin, her eyes fluttered open.

"Ereinion?" Her voice was so shaky and quiet. "I'm sorry. Didn't...want to bother you..."

"Hush, I am here, now," he murmured as he beheld the broken-off shaft of an arrow embedded in her leg. She'd lost quite a bit of blood if the dark, drenched fabric of her trousers was any indication. Thankfully, the arrow was not lodged too deeply, and she'd left enough of it exposed for a healer to grip in order to remove it. "Fool of a girl, you should have come straight to me."

She let out a weak laugh at his affectionate scolding.

"Calling your favorite patient a fool? Ondórëa ingaranya," she murmured cupping his cheek and drawing his eyes to her own. There was no real acidity in her tone. Gil-Galad took courage in the fact that she still had enough clarity of mind to tease him. He had, in fact, healed her before, but the injuries were always insignificant and superficial. And, she'd never actively hidden them from him before.

What cause had he given her to do so? Had she been embarrassed?

Without hesitation, he turned his head just far enough to kiss her palm.

"I humbly beg your forgiveness, meldanya." He hoped that she knew he referred to more than his playful jab. He also knew that to call her such, to allow such a slip, would be tantamount to a confession for which he was not certain that he was prepared. But, to call her anything less than his beloved would be a lie. Furthermore, to do so in the aftermath of such rampant death and destruction would summon within his heart guilt in such quantities that he could not abide.

Turning his attention back to her leg, he laid his palm as lightly as he could over her thigh. He whispered in Quenya, allowing the magic from his ring and from his own healing abilities to seep into her skin and numb her pain. Working quickly, he removed the arrowhead and pressed his hand over the wound, murmuring some of the same healing spells he and Elrond had used on Galadriel.

Fortunately, though, this was not a cursed wound as the former had sustained from Morgoth's crown, nor was it as severe. Her skin glowed readily beneath his touch. Within moments, the skin bound itself shut and his lady shuddered in relief as a trickle of light penetrated the canopy of trees overhead to mingle with their own.

Her hand had fallen limply away after mere moments, but Gil-Galad retrieved it once his work was complete, grasping it gently between his own blood-stained fingers. Her pulse beat steady and strong in his grasp, and his eyelids fluttered shut as he breathed a sigh of relief. She would be alright. She had survived.

"Did you mean it?" She breathed, and he was so surprised that she was conscious that his eyes snapped immediately to hers. Despite the dirt and grime coating them both, he felt entirely exposed beneath her gaze - vulnerable and transparent before her.

He relished the sensation of being known so completely. To everyone else, he was Gil-Galad, the High King of Lindon, the bastion of strength from which his people drew their courage when darkness threatened.

To her, he was simply Ereinion. The feeling was more pleasant and intoxicating than he could possibly express.

"You called me your beloved," she continued. "Did you mean it?"

How could he deny it? He loved her. He had for centuries. Since the moment she set foot in Lindon nearly three hundred years before, Gil-Galad had surrendered to the realization that his heart would settle for no other. Her light was beyond compare, shining into even the most uncertain parts of his heart which he hid from all others. She drew him out so easily, comforted him simply by smiling in his direction. She was his strength, his courage, his most luxuriant pleasure and joy.

But, he was a king. Because she knew him, she also knew better than any other how taxing his position was. Over time, he'd convinced himself that she would not wish to bear the burden of ruling by his side, so he'd remained silent - reluctant to steal her own contentment and joy by forcing the responsibilities of a ruler upon her. She deserved to have a life unburdened by the weight of a crown.

In his secrecy, however, his heart had grown accustomed to a more profound loneliness than he'd ever previously known. On too-silent nights in his chambers, he longed to hold her close and whisper poetry in her ear - he'd composed more verses in her honor than he'd expected his heart to harbor. On tranquil mornings before the rush of the day's duties began, he ached with the need to see her curled peacefully in his arms as the light of the sunrise spilled in through the windows.

No longer. After today's battle, Ereinion could no more hold his tongue than the pair of robins who sang so freely in his gardens each morning.

"Yes. With all of my foolish heart, I meant it," he admitted, his heart singing with every word, and she lifted her free hand, threading it lightly into his hair. The King savored the feeling. Never before had she touched him so brazenly - he'd made it clear that she was more than welcome to, of course, but she never availed herself of such liberties.

He bent lower, hoping to encourage her by making his person easier to reach. He felt her bare wrist brush against the tip of his ear - sharper than her own, thanks to her half-mortal parentage - but he could not hide his blush nor the light groan she tugged from his chest.

"You have tempted me...enchanted me since our first meeting. I have eyes only for you, but if you do not feel the same, I swear on my honor that I will not torment you further." The King's oath came from the most sincere depths of his heart. For her, he would. Much as it would pain him, if she wanted nothing to do with his feelings, he would bury them deep so that only he would feel the ache. She would suffer no discomfort at his hands.

Her lips met his, stopping his spiraling thoughts in their tracks, and all his worries fell away beneath the most delicious relief. They were as soft and sumptuous as they looked - as he'd imagined them to be - and Ereinion didn't hesitate to return her affection. He may have healed her leg, but with that once simple act, she had healed the King's heart.

~*~*~

Elvish Words (Quenya):

ondórëa ingaranya = my hard-hearted/pitiless high-king

meldanya = my beloved

~*~

Taglist:

@bigblissandlove1 @gandalfthepimp @horta-in-charge

[andy-15-07]

The Emperor's Healer

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 3616 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Paul Mescal Masterlist

The midday sun cast long shadows across the marble courtyard of the palace. Y/n, her hands stained with herbs and her brow beaded with sweat, knelt beside a wounded legionary. Her fingers, deft and gentle, probed the angry gash in his arm, tracing the path of the barbarian’s blade. She murmured soothing words in rapid Latin, her voice a balm to the man’s pained whimpers.

Lucius Verus Aurelius, heir to the Roman Empire, watched from the shaded portico. He had seen many healers in his time, men and women skilled in the art of mending flesh. But there was something different about Y/n. It wasn’t just her skill, though that was undeniable. It was the compassion that shone in her eyes, the unwavering focus on the patient before her, the way she seemed to pour her very essence into the act of healing.

He had been drawn to her from the moment he first saw her tending to a fallen gladiator in the arena infirmary. The brutal spectacle of the games usually left him cold, but her presence had been a spark of humanity in the midst of the carnage. He had found himself lingering, watching her move with a quiet grace amidst the chaos, her face a mask of serene concentration.

Now, as he observed her in the courtyard, a strange restlessness stirred within him. He was a man accustomed to command, to the weight of empire resting on his young shoulders. Yet, in the presence of this unassuming healer, he felt… lighter. As if the burden of his destiny could be momentarily set aside.

He straightened his toga and descended the steps, his sandals echoing on the marble. Y/n glanced up, her brow furrowing slightly in concern. She recognized the imperial insignia on his tunic.

“Your Highness,” she murmured, rising to her feet. She kept her voice respectful but without the excessive deference he was used to. It was a subtle difference, but it intrigued him.

“Please, continue your work,” Lucius said, gesturing towards the wounded soldier. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting.”

Y/n hesitated, then nodded and returned to her patient. Lucius watched as she resumed her ministrations, her touch feather-light as she applied a poultice to the wound.

“He will recover,” she said quietly, without looking up. “The wound is deep, but not fatal.”

“You are skilled,” Lucius observed.

“I have had good teachers,” Y/n replied, her voice neutral.

Lucius leaned against a nearby column, crossing his arms. “And what of you? Where did you learn your art?”

“From my mother,” Y/n said. “She was a healer in our village.”

“And your father?”

“He was a farmer.”

Lucius nodded slowly. He sensed a reticence in her, a subtle barrier she had erected. He was intrigued, not deterred.

“Tell me,” he said, changing tack. “What is the most challenging aspect of your work?”

Y/n finally looked up, her gaze meeting his. “The most challenging?” she echoed thoughtfully. “It is not the wounds themselves, Your Highness. It is the… the spirit. Sometimes, the body heals, but the spirit remains broken. That is the hardest thing to mend.”

Lucius considered her words. He had seen firsthand the toll that violence and hardship could take on a man’s spirit. He understood what she meant.

“And how do you mend a broken spirit?” he asked.

Y/n smiled faintly. “With kindness,” she said. “With compassion. With the understanding that even the strongest among us can be vulnerable.”

Lucius found himself drawn to her, not just by her skill and her compassion, but by her quiet strength. She was a woman of simple origins, yet she possessed a wisdom that surpassed his own.

He began to seek her out. He would find her in the infirmary, tending to the sick and injured. He would encounter her in the gardens, gathering herbs and flowers. He would even contrive to be “injured” – a minor scrape on his hand, a sudden “illness” – just to have an excuse to speak with her.

At first, their conversations were formal, constrained by the rigid protocols of the court. But slowly, as Lucius persisted, a fragile connection began to form between them. He learned about her life in the village, her love for her family, her dreams of one day establishing her own healing practice. She, in turn, learned about his struggles with the responsibilities of his position, the loneliness that often accompanied his imperial mantle.

One evening, Lucius found Y/n in the palace library, poring over a scroll. The library was his sanctuary, a place where he could escape the pressures of court life. He was surprised to find her there.

“You read?” he asked, approaching her.

Y/n looked up, startled. “Your Highness,” she murmured, quickly rising to her feet.

“Please,” Lucius said, waving his hand dismissively. “You needn’t be so formal when we are alone.”

Y/n hesitated, then sat back down, though she remained tense.

“I… I learned to read from the village priest,” she explained. “He was a kind man.”

Lucius nodded. He picked up the scroll she had been reading. It was a treatise on medicinal herbs.

“You are dedicated to your craft,” he observed.

“It is more than a craft, Your Highness,” Y/n said quietly. “It is my calling.”

Lucius looked at her, his gaze lingering on her face. He saw the passion in her eyes, the unwavering commitment to her work. He saw something else there as well, something that stirred a warmth within him.

“Y/n,” he said softly, using her name for the first time. “You are a remarkable woman.”

Y/n’s cheeks flushed slightly. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Lucius reached out and gently took her hand. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his touch.

“I… I have come to admire you,” he confessed. “More than you know.”

Y/n finally looked at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

“Your Highness…” she began, but Lucius placed a finger to her lips, silencing her.

“Please,” he said. “Call me Lucius.”

From that moment on, their relationship began to change. They spent more time together, sharing meals, taking walks in the palace gardens, talking for hours about everything and nothing. Lucius found himself falling in love with Y/n, with her intelligence, her compassion, her unwavering spirit.

He knew that their relationship was unconventional, that it would raise eyebrows and cause whispers in the court. But he didn’t care. He was the heir to the Roman Empire, and he had finally found someone who saw him not as a prince, but as a man.

One starlit night, Lucius led Y/n to a secluded balcony overlooking the city. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of the city.

He turned to her, his heart pounding in his chest. He took both of her hands in his.

“Y/n,” he began, his voice husky with emotion. “I… I love you.”

Y/n’s breath hitched. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Lucius,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I…”

“Don’t say anything,” he said, interrupting her. “Just… let me say what I need to say.”

He knelt down on one knee, much to her surprise. He pulled a small, intricately carved wooden box from his tunic. He opened it to reveal a delicate silver bracelet.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Y/n gasped. She stared at him, her eyes filled with disbelief and joy.

“Lucius,” she finally managed to say, her voice choked with emotion. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

Lucius rose to his feet and slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. He pulled her close and kissed her, a kiss that spoke of love, of longing, of a future they would build together.

The announcement of Lucius and Y/n's betrothal sent ripples of shock and excitement through the Roman court. Some whispered in disapproval, citing Y/n's common birth and lack of noble lineage. Others, more pragmatic, recognized the genuine affection between the couple and hoped for a positive influence on the young emperor. Lucius, however, remained resolute. He would not be swayed by the murmurs of discontent. He loved Y/n, and that was all that mattered.

The preparations for the wedding began swiftly. The palace buzzed with activity. Seamstresses worked tirelessly on Y/n’s bridal gown, a masterpiece of shimmering silk, embroidered with delicate silver thread. Jewelers crafted a diadem of interwoven flowers and leaves, a symbol of Y/n’s connection to nature and healing. The grand hall of the palace was transformed into a breathtaking spectacle, adorned with garlands of fragrant blossoms and illuminated by thousands of flickering candles.

Y/n, despite the whirlwind of activity, remained grounded. She was grateful for the love and support of her family, who had been brought to Rome for the occasion. She missed her mother dearly, but she knew her spirit was with her. She also found solace in the company of Lucius. He would often steal away from the official duties to spend a few quiet moments with her, reassuring her and calming her nerves.

“Are you nervous?” he asked one afternoon, finding her in the palace gardens, amidst the fragrant rose bushes.

Y/n turned, a soft smile gracing her lips. “A little,” she admitted. “It is all so… grand.”

Lucius took her hand, his touch gentle and reassuring. “It is grand because it is for you,” he said. “You deserve all the beauty and splendor this world can offer.”

Y/n squeezed his hand, her heart swelling with love. “All I need is you, Lucius,” she whispered.

Lucius smiled, pulling her close. “And you have me,” he promised. “Always.”

The day of the wedding arrived, bathed in the golden light of the Roman sun. The streets leading to the palace were thronged with citizens, eager to catch a glimpse of the imperial couple. Inside the palace, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation.

Y/n, radiant in her bridal gown, walked slowly down the aisle, her father by her side. Her gaze was fixed on Lucius, who stood at the altar, his eyes filled with love and admiration. He was a vision of imperial splendor in his ceremonial toga, but it was the warmth in his eyes that truly captivated her.

The ceremony was a blend of ancient Roman traditions and personal touches. The high priest officiated, reciting the sacred vows. Lucius and Y/n exchanged rings, symbols of their eternal commitment. And then, they were pronounced husband and wife.

A roar of approval erupted from the assembled guests. Lucius took Y/n in his arms and kissed her, a kiss that sealed their love in the eyes of the world.

The celebrations that followed were lavish and joyous. Feasts were held, music filled the air, and dancers twirled in vibrant costumes. Lucius and Y/n moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations and best wishes. They were the picture of happiness, their love radiating outwards, touching all those around them.

As the day drew to a close, Lucius and Y/n slipped away from the festivities, seeking a moment of quiet together. They found themselves on the balcony where Lucius had first proposed, overlooking the city bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

“It is beautiful,” Y/n murmured, gazing at the twinkling lights below.

“Yes,” Lucius agreed, wrapping his arms around her. “But not as beautiful as you.”

Y/n leaned her head against his shoulder, a contented sigh escaping her lips. “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “I am your wife.”

Lucius chuckled softly. “Believe it,” he said. “Because it is true. And it is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

He turned her to face him, his eyes filled with tenderness. “Y/n,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I promise to love you, to cherish you, to honor you, for all the days of my life.”

Y/n’s eyes welled up with tears of happiness. “And I promise to love you, Lucius,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “With all my heart, for all eternity.”

They kissed, a kiss that spoke of their deep and abiding love, a love that had defied convention and blossomed against all odds. They were Lucius and Y/n, emperor and healer, husband and wife. And their love story, a testament to the power of the human heart, was just beginning.

The wedding feast dwindled, the boisterous music softened to a gentle melody, and the last of the well-wishers offered their congratulations. Lucius, his arm possessively around Y/n’s waist, felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with a tender affection. He glanced at his bride, her eyes sparkling with happiness and a hint of shy nervousness. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Are you ready, my love?”

Y/n blushed, but nodded, her hand tightening on his. She was nervous, yes, but also filled with a deep longing for the man she now called her husband.

They slipped away unnoticed, hand in hand, and made their way to the imperial bedchamber. It was a lavish room, decorated with rich tapestries and furnished with a magnificent four-poster bed. But tonight, it was not the opulence that mattered, but the intimacy it represented.

Lucius closed the door behind them, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. He turned to Y/n, his gaze filled with warmth and desire. He reached out and gently untied the intricate fastenings of her bridal gown, his fingers brushing against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

Y/n stood still, her heart pounding in her chest, as Lucius slowly undressed her. She felt a mixture of shyness and excitement as his eyes traveled over her body, lingering on her curves. When she was finally free of her gown, she stood before him in a delicate silk chemise, her skin glowing in the soft candlelight.

Lucius’s breath hitched. He had never seen her so beautiful, so vulnerable. He reached out and gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs caressing her cheeks.

“You are breathtaking,” he whispered, his voice husky with emotion.

Y/n’s eyes met his, and she saw the depth of his love reflected in their depths. She reached up and touched his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw.

“And you are magnificent,” she replied, her voice soft and breathy.

Lucius leaned in and kissed her, a slow, tender kiss that spoke of the deep connection between them. It was a kiss that promised passion, intimacy, and a lifetime of love.

He broke the kiss and gently lifted her into his arms. Y/n wrapped her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his. He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently.

He undressed quickly, his movements urgent but careful. He didn’t want to rush this, but he couldn’t deny the burning desire that consumed him. He wanted to possess her, to merge with her, to become one with her.

He lay down beside her, his body close but not touching. He wanted to give her time, to let her adjust to this new intimacy. He reached out and took her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice low and concerned.

Y/n nodded, her eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and desire. “Yes,” she whispered. “I want this, Lucius. I want you.”

Lucius smiled, relief washing over him. He leaned in and kissed her again, this time with more passion, more urgency. His hands moved over her body, exploring her curves, awakening her senses.

Y/n moaned softly, her body arching towards him. She had never felt so alive, so desired. She reached out and touched him, her fingers tracing the contours of his body.

Lucius groaned, his control slipping. He could feel the heat rising between them, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. He wanted to take things slowly, to savor every moment, but he couldn’t deny the burning need that consumed him.

He moved on top of her, his weight supported on his arms. He looked down at her, his eyes filled with love and desire.

“Y/n,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with passion. “My love.”

Y/n reached up and pulled his head down, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was both tender and urgent. She wanted him, she needed him, she craved the feeling of his body against hers.

Lucius broke the kiss and looked down at her, his eyes filled with a burning desire. He knew that she was a virgin, that this was her first time. He wanted to be gentle, to make it as painless as possible.

He kissed her again, his tongue tracing the outline of her lips. He moved his hand down her body, exploring her curves, awakening her senses. Y/n moaned softly, her body arching towards him.

He reached between her legs and gently touched her, his fingers finding her center. Y/n gasped, her body tensing. He knew that she was close, that she was ready.

He moved his hips against hers, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. Y/n cried out, her nails digging into his back. He felt her tighten around him, her body convulsing with pleasure.

He continued to move, his pace quickening, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He felt himself reaching the edge, the pleasure building to an unbearable intensity. He cried out her name, his body shuddering as he reached his climax.

He collapsed on top of her, his body heavy against hers. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, her breath coming in short gasps. He kissed her softly, his lips lingering on hers.

They lay there for a long moment, their bodies intertwined, their hearts beating as one. The silence was broken only by the sound of their breathing.

Lucius rolled onto his side, pulling Y/n with him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He kissed her forehead, his heart overflowing with love.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/n snuggled into his arms, her head resting on his chest. “I love you too,” she whispered back.

They lay there for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in the afterglow of their lovemaking. The world outside faded away, and they were alone, just the two of them, bound together by the intimacy they had just shared. Y/n, still nestled against Lucius's chest, felt a profound sense of peace and belonging. She traced lazy patterns on his chest, her fingers finding comfort in the warmth of his skin.

"Lucius," she whispered, her voice soft and drowsy.

"Hmm?" he murmured, his hand stroking her hair.

"That was..." she paused, searching for the right words. "Wonderful."

Lucius chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "It was, wasn't it?"

Y/n lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. "I never imagined it would be like that," she confessed.

"Like what?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"So... intense," she said, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. "So... consuming."

Lucius smiled. "That's passion, my love," he explained, his voice tender. "It's the fire that burns between us."

"It was a bit frightening at first," Y/n admitted, "but then..."

"Then?" Lucius prompted, his fingers gently tilting her chin up.

"Then it was like... like being swept away by a wave," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Like losing myself in the current."

Lucius leaned down and kissed her forehead. "That's what love does," he whispered. "It sweeps you away, carries you to places you never knew existed."

Y/n sighed contentedly. "I love you, Lucius," she said, her voice filled with sincerity.

"And I love you, Y/n," he replied, his voice husky with emotion. "More than words can say."

They fell silent again, but it was a comfortable silence, filled with the unspoken language of love. Y/n snuggled closer to Lucius, her body molding to his. She felt safe and secure in his arms, as if nothing in the world could harm her.

"Lucius," she said after a while, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, my love?"

"Do you think... do you think we'll have children?" she asked, her voice hesitant.

Lucius smiled. "I hope so," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "I would love to have children with you, Y/n. Children who inherit your kindness and your strength."

Y/n's heart swelled at his words. She closed her eyes, imagining a future filled with children's laughter and the warmth of family.

"I would like that very much," she said softly.

Lucius leaned down and kissed her, a long, slow kiss that spoke of their shared dreams and hopes for the future. He held her close, his body a protective shield around her.

"We'll have a family, Y/n," he promised, his voice filled with conviction. "A family that will defy all expectations, a family that will be a testament to our love."

Y/n smiled, her eyes filled with tears of happiness. She knew that Lucius would keep his promise, that he would always be there for her, that their love would endure through all the trials and tribulations that life might throw their way.

As the first rays of dawn crept through the window, painting the room in a soft golden light, Lucius and Y/n lay entwined in each other's arms, their bodies exhausted but their spirits soaring. They had found love in the most unexpected of places, a love that had defied convention and blossomed against all odds. And as they drifted off to sleep, their hands clasped tightly together, they knew that their love story was just beginning, a story that would be told and retold through the ages, a story that would inspire and uplift generations to come.

[ellssbellss]

I may or may not have been awake for about 48 house, so I wanted to ask a request before I fall asleep.

The hosts when their SO was up for 2 days straight doing work and starts to slip when get to the host club and acting a little bit too much like the Kyoya.

been thinking about this more than my actual story lately, and i have terrible writer's block, so hopefully this will help! {thank you, anon for the idea!}

The Host Club and their Sleepy, Cranky S.O. {Ohshc X Gender Neutral!Reader}

.oOo.

"mon amour? you need to wake up, darling." tamaki's voice whispers gently in your ear.

the darkness that had surrounded you minutes ago suddenly vanishes as you open your eyes, your head swiftly lifting off of the hard surface that you had rested your eyes upon just a few minutes ago.

it had been just a few minutes, right?

coming out of your tired daze, you feel a warm hand under your chin, and your eyes are turned to meet the concerned, violet gaze of your boyfriend. he is positioned above you, one soft hand resting the club's table in front of you and the other on your face, trailing gently from the point of your chin to the roundness of your cheekbones as his thumb runs gently over the skin there.

"my love, do you know what time it is?" his voice was like butter as dips his head a little deeper, worry creasing his perfect face as he watches you lean into his touch almost automatically.

"mmph..." through his stress about your exhausted state, he giggles slightly as you sigh and shrug, your eyelids dropping more with each second. "i don't know, love."

"it's nine, (y/n)."

"what?" any haze that had chained your brain was broken as you shot out of his gentle hold.

straightening your back, you peer towards the large windows that created a barrier between the club room and the outside world, seeing an endless night erasing any of the natural light you had experienced when you walked in here after class.

"it's nine o'clock?" panicked, the chair screeches across pristine tile as you grab at the things scattered across the table. laptop, charging cords, notebooks and pencils all make their way into your grasp as you hurriedly shove them into your bag. "why didn't you wake me up sooner?"

tamaki had watched the stress bunch up in your shoulders the minute you broke away from his grasp. he watches it wind into your muscles and face as you close up your pack and swing it around one arm, hastily pushing the chair in.

"you look like you needed your rest." he says softly, taken aback by your harsh tone. "i talked to my father to let us stay here a little while longer, since i know you have been working really hard on that project you have, and i thought-"

"exactly!" without raising your voice, he feels the sharp frustration rolling off the tip of your tongue, and it pierces something tender as you whip around to face him. "i have been working so hard not to get behind on my schedule, and now that's all out window. why didn't you wake me up like I asked?"

yellow eyebrows raise as you bite back at him, and he is getting whiplash from the sudden venom in your voice. "i tried, (y/n), but you didn't wake up!" his hands move in an pleading gesture. "you shoved my hand off when i tried to shake you and faced the other way when i kissed your cheek. the end of the world couldn't wake you."

your lips purse as your eyes squint and roll, and you stomp towards the door. stuttering, your golden retriever boyfriend follows behind as you nearly rip the door off it's hinges in your haste.

his words are rushed as he rushes to follow you out of the club room as you make your way down the long, empty staircase. "truly, you're not as behind as you might think, angel, not with all the work you've been doing?"

"you would think, huh?" another frustrated sigh escapes you, but it's more tuned towards yourself than anything. you push through the grand entrance of the school.

tamaki chases you out into the moonlight. his tall form stops in the doorframe though, when he sees the way the pale light drapes over your figure.

your usual bright stance sags in the night, and the hand he loves to hold rakes harshly through your perfect locks before it disappears to run down your face.

"(y/n), mon amour, what's wrong?" you hear his dress shoes click against the pavement. long arms wrap around your waist from behind, and a soft cheek nuzzles against the side of your face. tamaki tightens his hold, encouraging you to melt into his form. "talk to me."

after nothing more than a second, you do, because how could you not?

your head falls back as your spine molds into the bends and divots of tamaki's long torso, and a deep, shuddering sigh ripples out of you.

"i'm sorry, my love." tamaki feels your apology vibrate against his chest. "i just-, i've been extra stressed lately."

"about your project?"

"yes."

"why, angel?"

your neck twists, and you meet your prince's gaze in the complexity of his embrace, and tamaki sees the deep circles under your eyes. he notes how they had darkened since the last time he noticed them.

"i just have a lot riding on my grade for this course. my mother is counting on me for the future of her company, and if this project doesn't go well, then..."

"stop it." the comforting hug he had wrapped you in briefly vanishes as his touch pulls against your uniform. his fingers travel up your waist and forearms, gently grasping your shoulders as he spins you around to face him. "stop thinking like that."

when you're looking at him, his hands run up the rest of your body to your face, holding your jawline in his touch. "you've been working and worrying for two days, mon amour. you haven't been taking care of yourself, and there is nothing more important than your wellbeing."

his tone is different from his gallivanting, and incredibly endearing, dramatics. it's gracefully intense, like when he helped a struggling doctor find his way to his estranged daughter. the way he looks at you is also fierce, love and determination swimming in his purple irises.

"tamaki..."

"why haven't you been taking care of yourself?"

"i haven't had the time!" your voice tries weakly to defend yourself, but tamaki raises another eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "there isn't enough time in the day for me to work as hard as i have been and get a full night's rest."

"then why haven't you come to me about it?"

"i...i don't know." defeated, there is a drop in your gaze as you give up trying to defend yourself. "i thought i could do it on my own."

"you don't have to do anything on your own. not when you're with me." tamaki bends slightly to get into your line of sight. "you know you can talk to me, (y/n); that i'm here to give you anything and everything you need."

your (e/c) eyes whip back up to him. "i know that, love, but i-"

"no buts. you come to me if you need me. that's how it has always been for us."

the moonlight reflects off the small amount of wetness in your eyes, and tamaki's serious expression crumples. all of your stress and exhaustion breathes out of your body at his words. he smiles softly as you bury your face in his chest, placing his hand on your hair and another at your back, kissing the side of your head.

"i need you." your voice sings through the night, into the air as it's carried into the rose garden, red petals fully in bloom.

.oOo.

kyoya has seen this look before.

the tension of your lips as they writhe over your teeth. the slam of your footsteps as you make your way over to your usual seat across from him. especially the small smile you give to whomever greets you.

the smile that doesn't reach your eyes. the smile that falls immediately after you give some random excuse to dismiss yourself from the conversation, and you let it fall because you think no one is looking.

but kyoya was watching.

"good morning, (y/n)." he greets over his laptop as you click open your own, and you meet his gaze briefly before turning your attention back to your computer, giving him the same dismissive smile.

being that he was your boyfriend, that hurt a little.

"good morning, kyo."

he lets his eyes linger on the bored, dull look that you attach to your screen, accompanied by your sluggish movements and purple smudges under your eyes. a dark eyebrow quirks from behind his glasses as your chest rises with a sigh, and your face crinkles despairingly at whatever you are working on.

"what are you doing?"

your lashes flick up to him once more before returning back to your task at hand. "i'm working on the budget."

he blinks a little at your reply. "still?"

the tension from your mouth seeps into your form at his question, and you shift in your seat. "yes, love, thank you so much for pointing that out."

lips parting slightly at the sarcasm in your voice, the club's director raises his fingers off of his keyboard, favoring to clasp them under his chin instead as a more calculating gaze sweeps the figure of his beloved.

he catches an eyebrow twitch, a flare of your nostrils, the way your head bobs slightly before you shake it, as if that could erase the pure exhaustion radiating from you.

yes, kyoya has seen this look before.

in the mirror.

"how much sleep did you get last night, my dear?"

this time, you don't even look at him when you answer. you just shrug at him, too focused on your typing to really concentrate on a reply. "i don't know. maybe an hour or so-."

a sharp flare of concern rises in his chest before you spin your computer on it's base, shoving the screen in his direction with a wary look in your eye. "does this look right to you? i feel like something's missing."

his hands are still at his mouth when he glances at the spreadsheet you two created together, the perfect, color coded numbers arranged into straight columns.

but his brow furrows even more the longer he looks at it. lowering his hands to the device, kyoya pulls it closer to him as he scrolls through, skimming the text for any sign of error or miscalculation.

he finds none.

"(y/n), this is perfect." his pupils dart across the page behind his frames. "i have no idea what you're stressing over."

the laptop is pulled away from him once more as you run a hand through your hair. "no, no." you hit the backspace button on your keyboard, tired eyes squinting over the excel sheet. "something isn't right."

your aggressive typing fills the air once more, a little more frenzied and anxious than a minute before.

kyoya leans back in his chair, still observing. "(y/n), have you been working out this budget since the time i sent it to you?"

"of course."

"that was two days ago."

"i know."

he stands, pushing out his chair, but you don't notice. "have you slept at all?"

"not really. i've been going through the math, the incoming inventory. sure, it looks perfect now, and we are within this month's spending range, but i know there's a way to save more money. if i could just-"

"that," the lid of your computer is suddenly pushed down, closing the screen in front of you. a pale hand with pianist-like fingers attached to it splays across your protective case. "is more than enough, then."

"kyoya!" you sit in front of him, shock emanating from your face as his name is gasped from your lips. "what the hell?"

kyoya leans in front of you, one hand bracing your laptop closed while the other slips into the pocket of his trousers. his raven hair falls into his eyes a little bit, but the gray color is still piercing and raw.

"my dear," he pulls away slightly, adding pressure onto your computer so that it drags to his side of the table. "you need to take a break."

"a break?" you rise as well, trying to keep a cool demeanor. but your director could tell that your patience was thinning. "i'm on the brink of figuring this out, and you want me to take a break?"

"you already have figured it out, (y/n). i looked it over. you found the solution."

"but it could be better."

quickly, kyoya rounds the table, walking into your space to grab one of your hands.

he places both of his palms around one of your own, trying to get through to you through his touch instead of his words, even if the connection was small.

"how much sleep have you had in the past forty-eight hours?"

abandoned by the distraction your work gave you, you now face your boyfriend head on as he studies your movements.

since the moment you met him, kyoya has always watched you intently. as a man who didn't involve himself with anything that he didn't care greatly for, the process of dating him has and will always include him taking the time to observe and study you; to commit your mannerisms to memory. gray irises will forever notice how you bounce your leg underneath your desk when you have something to say but won't say it out right. or how you take your (f/h/d) in the morning, and the exact brand that you use.

or how your face lights up when he comes into view from down the hallway, and you excuse yourself to meet him halfway.

or how you always seem to kiss him with soothing, deep movements, which always encourages him to respond in kind.

but, very rarely is that intent stare coupled with concern.

yet, here it was, bathing his beloved gaze as he waits for your reply, leaving you with an aching heart. you think back to they way you've been acting, cranky and stand-offish, and a pang of regret sparks in your stomach.

your hand adjusts slightly in his as you hold onto his grasp, albeit a little nervously.

"you want the truth?" your beautiful eyes break his gaze as you stubbornly shift in place.

"always."

"not very much. maybe three hours." he swallows as that sharp flare of concern burns into an engulfing flame in his torso. "in total."

A disappointed frown etches onto his handsome features, but it's not angry. it's sad.

sad that he didn't see your exhaustion before, not in it's totality. he saw your frequent yawns and the way you tended to drift off mid-conversation, but he was busy with work as well, and couldn't connect the dots until now.

"(y/n)-"

"i know, i know. it's not the best." you take a deep breath and look at him with more confidence, ready to admit to your actions. "the perfectionist in me kind of let loose. i'm sorry, i just wanted it to be the best that it could be. for the club, ya know? for you."

tugging on your clasped hands, a deep hum resonates from the ootori son as he draws you closer. soon, your hands naturally loop around his neck while he settles his hold at your waist.

his forehead rests on yours as he sighs deeply, and you close your eyes as his low voice reaches your ears. "i think the best thing for me and the club is for you to get some rest."

he smirks a little as he feels you giggle tiredly against him. "yeah, i think you're right."

kyoya chuckles softly as he raises his forehead off of yours to place a kiss in the same spot. "i'm always right, my dear."

.oOo.

"hikaru! stop it!"

arms caged yours as you writhed against his chest. your legs were wild as they kicked up into the air, barely missing your boyfriend as he picked you up from where you had sat on your desk.

"put me down right now! what are you even doing?"

he grunts a little as your swinging legs hit his calves before throwing you down on your bed. unceremoniously, the bed frame creaks with your weight as you land face first into your duvet.

a loud huff escapes you as you turn around from your position, seeing hikaru standing at the foot of your bed with his arms crossed, a victorious smile plastered onto his sharp mouth.

"well, i asked you to take a break from your studying. and you said 'make me.'" his fingers come to either side of his head to create quotation marks. "so i made ya."

"i didn't mean literally, jackass." you grumble as you shift. your palms push your body up off the bed and spin you so that you are seated properly on your comforter. scooting roughly to the edge of your mattress, you barely stand up before your pushed onto the bed again.

"hikaru!"

"nope. not gonna happen."

"i need to study!"

"that's what you've been saying for the past two days!" his rough voice sounds exasperated as he gestures wildly to you. "in the clubroom, in the cafeteria, on our facetime calls. shit, (y/n), i don't think there has been a single second where i haven't seen that textbook open in front of you."

he points to the hefty calculus book open on your desk, three quarters of the pages turned to one side.

"that's what studying is!" you move to get up again with another frustrated sigh. "my test is tomorrow, my love, i can't afford any breaks right now."

this time, instead of simply pushing your back onto the bed, hikaru pins you down. in a flash, golden eyes fill your vision as his fingers clamp around your wrist. when you fall back, his weight takes you down as he flops heavily on your chest.

"you're not going anywhere, baby. not until you tell me what's going on."

"nothing is going on." you huff, blowing a few of his ginger strands out of his face. "now get off me."

"i don't believe you." ever the stubborn twin, hikaru makes a point to wiggle his body on top of yours to amplify the fact that you have no hope of pushing him off. "and i'm not moving until i believe you."

"what?" you bite back.

a more serious tone laces his voice as he scans you. "today, during club hours, you looked like a zombie."

you shoot him a blank look. "thanks."

"a gorgeous zombie, but still."

"not helping."

a crease forms between his eyebrows at your usually soft, bright tone crackling into dry one. "you were dragging your feet, and talking to yourself more than usual. it was creepy."

you rolled your eyes, and hikaru watches as the bags under your eyes moved with the motion, his jaw setting into a firm line.

"so i'm not getting off of you until you tell me what's been up your ass lately."

offended, you gasp and writhe once more, trying to break free of the surprisingly strong grasp the hitachiin twin has on your wrists. "i don't have time for this!"

he chuckles a little at your flustered expression and sinks more of his weight onto your figure. "well, if you're not going to take a break, than i will. i think i'll take a little nap on this comfortable bed."

realizing he doesn't need to pin your arms down anymore with all of his weight on you, he lets go and nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his arms and legs sprawling out over your uniform.

"don't you dare, hikaru!" you say as you try to bring your arms underneath him to push him off, but he's just a block of dead weight.

his breath hits your ear, and you can feel the mischievous smile on his lips. "oh, wow, this is a bumpy mattress." wriggling, he adjusts so that he locks perfectly into your body, and a deep sigh emits from his lungs. "that's better."

another weak push strains your muscles before you give up completely. flopping back onto the mattress, you let out a frustrated groan.

"hikaru, please."

"oh, the mattress speaks?"

"my love."

laughing, he presses a kiss onto the column of your throat. "what's up, baby?"

like a weighted blanket, hikaru's body flush against yours has calmed your heart rate slightly, and all the exhaustion and stress that you have been feeling suddenly comes to a head.

your arms lift from your sides to wrap around his toned back, and you turn your face into the divot connecting his shoulder and his collarbone, inhaling the comforting scent of his cologne and laundry detergent.

"i've been awake for the past forty-eight hours."

his chest rumbles with a sympathetic hum. "i know."

"i'm tired."

his head pops up from the embrace, and sincerity shines in the liquid gold of his irises. "let's take a nap, and then we can figure something out afterwards, yeah?"

you can already feel your eyelids dragging over your pupils. "yeah, that sounds nice."

as you succumb to your fatigue, you barely register the way hikaru rolls off of you. his warmth returns when you feel an arm wedge itself under your waist and pull you to him so that you can lay on his chest with ease. the other wraps around your shoulders, and you feel his breath tickling the top of your head as he settles in beside you.

"thanks for telling me, baby."

.oOo.

"so, i think because i found the magnitude of this vector, than i should be able to find the acceleration, right?" kaoru asks, back hunched over his desk, spinning a pencil in his left hand as he concentrates on the paperwork in front of him.

when he doesn't get a response, he stops fidgeting and looks over to you: his incredibly intelligent, and usually helpful, partner.

you're sat next to him, slaving away at your laptop while he watches the blue light practically burn your retinas.

well, sat is a strong word.

you slouched, your neck barely able to keep your head on your shoulders as you worked at his desk, fingers robotically clicking at your mouse and dragging images to their predetermined place, your graphic design coming to fruition with each release of a button.

"(y/n)?"

at the sound of your name, your spine flinches slightly as it straightens. you whip your head towards him with such a quick motion, that he winces at the twist of the muscle, hoping you didn't get whiplash.

his hopes are dashed when you immediately face the front, bringing one of your hands up to massage the nape of your neck.

"are you okay?"

"i'm fine," you breathe, exhaustion sprinkled in your sigh. "what did you need?"

cautiously, kaoru slides his paper over to you while you shift closer to him, pulling your chair over until your legs touch underneath his desk.

"i don't know if i got this problem right."

through a yawn, your eyes scan his homework, everything coming together in a blurry font due to your lack of sleep. you can barely make out his handwriting on your best day, so the fact that you hardly think straight doesn't really help.

but you couldn't let kaoru know that.

"it looks good, babe."

he quirks a ginger eyebrow, glancing between the paper and then back up to where you sat.

"yeah?" he asks, studying you carefully.

"for sure."

"okay, well then," your boyfriend flips the paper over, where another disarray of words meet you. he scribbles something out before circling an answer choice from his options, then looks back at you. "that must be right, too, yeah?"

you nod, blinking slowly. "mhmm." you turn to look at him, a small smile on your lips. "you're so smart, love."

his lips curve up into a half-smirk as he tilts his head, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. golden irises squint as he glances over your face once more. "it's a smiley face."

your smile fades. "huh?"

the sneaky twin gestures towards the paper again, and after rubbing your palms over your eye-sockets, a happy face penciled in lead comes into accusing focus.

"i drew a smiley face, and you said i was smart." kaoru summarizes, a deadpan tone only being interrupted slightly as he laughs through his sentence. "what is going on with you?"

a frustrated whine ripples past your throat as you rest your head in your hands. your voice breaks into a quiet groan, and while your volume doesn't rise, your disappointment does. "god, this essay is making me lose my mind! i can't even think clearly, let alone write three more pages of this shit."

"hey, woah." kaoru rests his hand against your spine and rubs it, moving his hand back and forth in calming motions. "talk to me."

another deep sigh rushed out of you as you talk behind your hands, and your poor boyfriend can't hear a single thing.

the hand on your back glides to the side of your face, bringing your chin up and out of your grasp. he locks his gaze with yours as he leans back in his chair. "try again, babe."

"this essay makes me want to jump off a cliff."

"and you were gonna do that without me? i thought we had an agreement."

"shut up." despite yourself, you laugh.

the fingers on your chin shift to your scalp while he laughs with you, pushing only a few of the stray hairs away from your face. "have you slept?"

"not well."

kaoru notes a redness in your eyes he didn't see before. "not well, or not at all?"

you roll your eyes a little, but he knows it's not directed at him. you're disappointed in yourself. "a mix of both." hastily you look back at him, widening your eyelids a little at a poor attempt to look more awake.

"but it's no big deal!" your voice is a little too bright. "i can catch up on sleep once i submit this paper."

the gingered twin squints his eyes, but to your surprise, he shrugs, spinning in his office chair as he refocuses on his work. "yeah, i guess you're right. i get it."

your mouth was slightly agape at the fact that that actually worked. "you get it?"

"yeah. sometimes, people just can't sleep enough with everything going, ya know? i only got two hours of sleep last night, so i understand what you're going through."

there's a pause. kaoru fights a smirk as he scratches an equation into the top right of his paper.

"what?" a concerned voice reaches his ears, and he almost feels bad for lying. "only two hours?"

"mhmm." he hums, not even giving you a second glance.

"kaoru," the sweetest whine escapes your lips as he feels a hand on his shoulder. he steels his expression into one of confused nonchalance as he faces you again, only to be met with the spot you get between your crinkled eyebrow when you're worried. "why didn't you tell me?"

"what do you mean? it's not a big deal."

"yes it is!" your other hand reaches his opposite shoulder, and he turns to face you fully, reveling in your touch as you move to cradle his face. "sleep is important, babe, you can't just-"

his grin widens as a flash of realization flutters across your face. The worry in your features melts into a blank expression, and he laughs as you push his face away from yours, muttering a "jackass" under your breath.

the sneaky twin closes the distance though, pulling your chair ever closer to his to where nothing was standing in his way to pull you to his lap. you resist slightly, pouting as your sat into the space between his legs, but a natural, familiar gravity pulls you towards him anyway, and your face rests gently in the crook of his neck.

"rest for a couple minutes, okay? your paper will be here when you wake up."

a contended sigh seeps out of you as your exhaustion bubbles up to the surface. your eyelids begin to drop when you speak into his neck. "and what about you?"

kaoru's arms come to wrap around your folded form, burying you closer into his chest. "i'll always be here."

.oOo.

mori had gotten used to your talkative nature. being a man of little words, you complimented him well with your bright, energetic commentary about anything that excited you.

he supposed that he hadn't just gotten used to your bubbly personality shining through your lovely voice, he had come to love it; to rely on it.

so, when you entered your usual sparring session with your heels dragging on the wooden floor of the dojo, not only did the air feel off, he felt off.

your white gi hung off your rounded shoulders, the karate belt around your waist haphazardly tied in a knot at the front. and while you still looked as stunning as ever, mori could feel the confusion and worry well up in his chest.

he stood up from stretching out his hamstrings, his long body gracefully walking over to you to greet you with his usual hug. your smile was tired, and when you wrapped your arms around his thin waist, he felt you snuggle more into his hold and release a breath.

still gripping his waist, you looked up at him, your grin still exhausted but content when you propped your chin on his chest to meet his eyes.

"hey." you said, and your voice was airy and cracked.

"hi."

"how was your day?"

"good." his palms tightened on your back. "yours?"

you could barely keep your eyes open as you shrugged. "meh. it was interesting."

"yeah?"

"yeah." still, even in your tired state, you inched your face closer to his, a dazed look in your eye. "but we can talk about it later."

a disbelieving, good-natured scoff left him as a sharp exhale, your boyfriend knowing full-well that would not want to talk about it later. but he met you halfway, and your lips met in a lazy, soft kiss as he lowered his head to yours.

you had nearly put all of your weight onto him at this point, and as you sunk into his grip, he arched his back to counteract the force. his hands glided from your waist to your cheeks as he tilted his head, smirking slightly at the warm hum that left your throat.

pulling away, he kept his forehead on yours as he held you. a breathy left glazed over his face when you separated from him, and he opened his eyes to see a light curve on your plump lips.

"thanks, takashi. i needed that."

that brought all of his worries rushing back.

"(y/n)..." and you opened your eyes at the way he said your name. since mori wasn't the most vocal man you've been with, you learned to pick up on his tonal cues.

your name could be spoken in many ways. a gentle breeze as he tells you that he loves you, a deep inhale as you, yet again, prove your the clumsiest human alive, or maybe a groan in the late, late hours of the night.

this one was a mild warning, forming at the front of his mouth as he stares at you, deep brown eyes boring into yours with earnest.

"what?" you didn't want him to ask. but, he was kind and loving and really fucking stubborn. so, of course he was.

"what's wrong?"

a whine bubbled to the surface of your soft pallet as you dropped your face into the crook of his neck, even if you had to stand on your tip-toes to do so. abandoning your hold on his waist, you preferred to bring your arms up and around his shoulders, locking them around the back of his neck.

"i don't want to talk about it."

"what happened?"

"nothing, really. i promise."

"doesn't feel like nothing. here," gently, you felt a pressure on your hips as mori pushes you out of his hold, instead moving to grab your hand as he leads you to a traditionally decorated wall of the dojo.

letting go, the stoic leans his back against the wall before sliding down, tucking his lanky form into a sitting position before inviting you to do the same. "sit with me."

and he looked so sweet, his gaze hardened on the surface but filled with emotion and weight within it's depths. so how could you say no?

plus, he really wouldn't stop until you told him.

taking a spot next to him, you let your head roll onto the back of the wall before resting it on his shoulder. and the spot was so comfortable, so familiar, you wanted to fall asleep right there.

mori was stubborn, yes, but he was also patient. he waited like a boulder against the tide as you gathered your thoughts, loyal and permanent and determined to help you through whatever was plaguing you.

in your thoughtful silence, he imagined the stress you had been baring when you were assigned that presentation in class. even if you were energetic and outspoken, he knew public speaking terrified you. the pure panic that had erupted in your irises when you told him about the ten-minute powerpoint you had to put together in three days told him everything he needed to know about how your weekend was going to go.

that was two days ago, and he had suggested this impromptu sparring match to give you a little bit of a break. physical activity always cleared his head when he was stretched, and he figured if he could remind you how strong you were, then you could convince yourself that this would be a piece of cake.

but the bags under your eyes and the unanswered calls from him on your cell-phone made him think that this had been harder on you than he had originally expected.

a small snore broke him out of his thoughts, and he looked down at the source.

your eyes were peacefully closed, and your lips were parted as deep, calm breaths washed in and out of your chest. he relaxed slightly into the wall, and smiled as you cuddled closer to him in his small movement.

kissing the top of your head, he rested his cheekbone upon your hair as he rested his eyes as well.

you two would talk later. it wasn't physical activity you needed, or even a helping hand if you had let him.

all you needed, really, was a little bit of rest.

.oOo.

"(n/n)-chan! (n/n)-chan!"

honey bounced up to your desk as you typed away, usa-chan banging against the side of his calves as he stopped at the end of your chair. "wanna play with me, (n/n)-chan?"

you barely spared him a glance, but your eyes met his with a quick shake of your head as you returned your urgent glance to your laptop. "not right now, honey. sorry."

the blonde's bouncing stopped, a little to awe-struck at your rejection to feel sad about it. he was more confused than anything. you never said no to him.

a deep, apparent wrinkle appeared between his brows as the boy-lolita tugged on your sleeve, causing your fingers to slip off the keyboard slightly as you typed. "please?"

"what the-?" your hand having slipped, it gently brushes the cup of tea near your working space, and you gasp before rolling your eyes. "no, honey. i told you, i can't. go play with usa-chan, okay?" you quickly pulled your sleeve out of his grasp and got back to your work, leaving him deflated at your side.

this time he was pouting, and the wrinkle on his forehead turned from confused to determined as he walked around to the opposite side of the table to crawl into the chair across from you.

"what are you workin' on?"

this time your eyes flicked up to him for a longer moment. you wondered why he couldn't leave you alone, but you guessed it was better that he was sitting over there rather than pulling at your uniform and keeping you from your work. "the club's website."

he gasped as he swung his legs on the chair, too short to reach the ground from this height. "ooh, are you making it pretty?"

a sigh came from deep within you as your eyes squinted, zooming in on something on the other side of your screen. "you could say that."

"what are you doing to it?"

you shrugged, still focused on your work. "formatting, graphic designing, boring tech stuff."

"cool!" honey excitedly places his palms on the table, seeing if he sat up straighter, he could get a better view. "how do you know how to do all that?"

you suspiciously scanned him over as he edged closer, pulling your computer forward on the table. "lots of practice."

a high-pitched hum exudes from the third-year as he tilts his head, almost fully on the table now, but something has caught your eye, and your back to your furious typing, not noticing how close he's gotten.

his voice sounds distant in your focus. "couldn't you take a break? for cake? a cake break?" he giggles, but his smile falters when you don't hear his joke.

"haven't taken a break in two days, honey. not gonna start now." your voice is low and inattentive, trailing off as you scroll through the columns and columns of pictures and texts.

still crawling towards you, his brown eyes widen slightly. "two days?" he gasps, and begins to count on his fingers. "that's uhhh..." honey counts his fingers under his breath for a moment before he brightens with an answer. "forty eight hours worth of work! did you even sleep?"

"nope. no sleep. kyoya needs this done by tonight."

"what?!" at that, honey stands to his full height, his small but strudy weight easily supported by the desk underneath him. you jerk back as he points a finger in your face, his voice still young but firm as he speaks down to you. "you need to take a nap right now!"

"honey!" the blonde has your full attention now. "get down!"

"nope!" his pink lips pop the 'p' noise as he shakes his head defiantly. "not until you agree to sleep! kyo-chan can wait."

your hands come up in an exasperated motion and you stand up, pushing your chair out from under you. "honey, this table is not stable. you're gonna fall if you don't get down!"

"will you take a break?"

"i can't!"

"well, then i'm not coming down." folding his arms across his chest, he puffs it out, a proud look on his face.

his confident aura melts, however, when the table shifts with his dramatic movement.

you suck in a breath as honey throws his arms out to balance himself, barely keeping the table at bay as he wiggles side to side.

"okay! okay, i'll take a ten-minute nap! just, please sweetheart, get down from there."

even in the midst of chaos of his own making, honey still finds the. motivation to negotiate. "twenty minutes!"

"fine!" you round the table and extend your arms, and he leaps into them as you pick him up. your heart rate slows as you hold him while the table falls with the loss of his added weight, your tea and computer skidding to opposite sides of the tile.

blankly, you look at honey as he winces at the impact, and then at the dark aura that slowly begins to crowd around your frame.

"i can pay for that." he promises.

.oOo.

your knee bounces under your desk as you watch haruhi's eyes flick over your screen, the words you spent two days writing reflecting back in her dark brown eyes as she reads your work.

your hands are clasped in front of your lips, keeping you from saying anything like 'i changed my mind!' or 'okay, you can stop now', because you're pretty sure haruhi would ignore you anyway.

she had insisted on reading your short story. it was something you did in your free time, and it was something she knew you took pride in.

sometimes, if you felt courageous enough, you would submit them into newspapers, or maybe magazines and blogs if you were really going all out, this past weekend being one of those times. day in and day out, you sat at your writing desk, typing away for what felt like mere seconds as the story in your mind began to unfold onto the pages in front of you. barely any food and close to no sleep rendered a masterpiece of literature, or at least that was what haruhi had assured you she would call it if you let her proof-read it.

your natural host promised that it would take her only a few minutes to read the whole thing, and then you could be on your way to submit it to the magazine's editor. plus, it was the least you could do since you basically ignored her calls and used up all of your study-date time to edit and revise your concluding paragraph.

but finally, finally, after many torturous seconds, your girlfriend leans back. her hands wrap around the edge of your macbook to only shut the laptop halfway and push it aside, turning her full attention back to you.

very briefly, you pulls your hands away from your mouth to ask the question you've been dreading. "what do you think?"

the gentle look that haruhi always wears stays frozen for a moment, but slowly starts to melt into a soft smile as she meets your nervous gaze. "it's good, love. it's really good."

straightening, your eyes widen as you bite your lip. "really?"

her smile gets brighter as amazement floods your cheekbones. "really."

"oh my god." releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding, you throw yourself into the back of your chair. pulling your palms up and around, they rake over your face before scratching through your hair, a groan morphing into a laugh as relief sputters out of you. you feel like you need to say it again, probably louder for good measure. "oh my god! you really liked it?"

the honor student's deep laugh joins yours as watches you bask in a job well done. "why would i lie about that?"

touching down to earth, you shrug, your hands falling into your lap. "because you love me, and you would do anything to make me happy?"

she snorts, leaning forward as she is drawn into your space. "you're right. i do love you. probably just enough to never lie to you again."

a teasing smile curves your lips as you fake offended disbelief, scooting closer so that your knees slip between her own. "again?"

brunette eyebrows work upwards as haruhi mirrors your smirk, nodding as she gets even closer. "mhmm."

"and what have you lied about, haruhi dear?" her breath is mixing in with yours now, and she keeps her kiss barely out of reach, her lips grazing yours as she responds.

"about letting you leave tonight."

"wha-?" your eyebrows knit as haruhi shoots out of her chair, and before you can protest, she is straddling your hips, one of her legs on either side of you as you blush at her sudden proximity.

"haruhi!" but even if your voice sounds surprised, you hold her closer, your palms coming to rest on her thighs.

"when was the last time you slept?" she asks, suddenly serious as she cups your face in her hands.

"last night." you say, but she squints at your response.

"for how long?"

"enough." you whine, bringing your hands around her waist, encouraging her to be flush against you. "don't worry about it."

"(y/n), you look exhausted. i'm going to be worried about it."

you look at her for a moment before realizing that she isn't going to back down. shoulders slumping, you drop your head onto her shoulder, hugging her close to your body. "two hours. maybe."

a displeased noise expels from her throat, but suddenly you feel slender fingers rubbing your back, toying with the hairs on the back of your neck. "you need to sleep."

making a grunt of blind agreement, you melt into her hold, the excitement and anxiousness you felt about your story being blown away by a gust of drowsiness. the scratches on your scalp weren't helping.

"like right now." she emphasizes, and tries to wiggle out of your hold, but you were stronger. tightening your grip around her slim waist.

her shoulders shake with another endearingly low laugh as she hugs you back. "let's get to the bed, love."

you don't think you've ever slept deeper in your life.

.oOo.

starting to write again, and i used this as a little exersise to get back into it. hopefully it can tide you over! i'll see you soon :)

[shivunin]

Breath and Bone

After Rook is injured in the Crossroads, a spell gone wrong makes the injury dramatically worse. With Rook unconscious, Lucanis must help her reach the Lighthouse and safety.

(Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook Ingellvar | 6,360 Words | AO3 Link | CW: broken bones, implied past child abuse)

“It's never enough being one. Why do I hope to contain you: always undoing and undone; every place you touch me changes shape.” —Robert Fanning, “Song of the Shore to the Sea”

“Nice one, Rook!” Lucanis shouted from the other side of the clearing. 

Rook, stepping back from the fresh corpse she’d just driven her spellblade into, did not have the breath to respond. The Crossroads was a dizzy thing, ridden with a resonant hum. When she fought here, she could feel it all through her, as if the place was singing in her bones. It was easy to get lost in that rhythm. It was especially easy when she was fighting like this, Venatori swinging blades everywhere she turned, no space at all to breathe or strategize.

A missile hissed as it passed her, and Lenore summoned a barrier just as a second might have hit. Somewhere behind her, Bellara shouted something she couldn’t hear. Days like this invigorated some of the others, she knew. After battle, Taash or Davrin seemed energized, as if the adrenaline rush of combat clung to them a little longer than the act itself.

It wasn’t like that for Lenore. Death was a familiar friend; killing was an entirely different creature. She had long since accepted its necessity. That didn’t mean she loved the fight. Quite the contrary, in fact. If there had been any other path for them, she would have taken it a hundred times over by now.

She ducked nimbly, drawing a miasma of death from the ground to drive the nearest foes back. They choked and gagged at its touch, so familiar to Lenore, and staggered away from her. 

The field had been whittled down somewhat. As she watched, Bellara waved her arms to draw the attention of an assailant. When the warrior turned to fight her, Lucanis appeared behind him as if from the air itself and drove a blade neatly between his ribs. 

This! This was what she’d been working toward! It was so heartening to see that their group combat practices were paying off, that their techniques and strategies were interlocking so effectively. She would have to bring this up to both of them later, because it deserved to be pointed out. She would—

Something struck her leg, midway between her knee and her ankle. There was an ominous crack somewhere in that region and an answering swell of pain. She’d made the first, most basic mistake in combat and taken her attention from her enemies. Luckily for her—for all of them—her instincts had been honed by the constant fighting, too, and she reacted without thinking. Lightning arced from her hand and spread, striking the one who’d hit her and spreading to the two behind him. One toppled immediately, arms splayed, eyes hollow. The other shook, caught in place as the power coursed through them, and crumpled to the ground a moment later. 

“Nice try, filth,” said the one before her, and swung his blade at her again. 

Not good. She could barely put weight on her leg, which would dramatically hinder her maneuverability. The pain was getting to her already, crawling from her leg to her chest and choking her lungs. She couldn’t think straight; needed to do something to fend him off. Something—

He swung again, and her shield flickered into existence just before the blade would have connected with her forehead. Her reserves had been drained by the lightning, and they drained further as he added a second hand to the hilt of the blade to bear down on her. 

Lenore gritted her teeth. Her head felt fuzzy, her face clammy. She hadn’t the strength to hold him off now. She barely had the breath to hiss between her teeth, let alone call out to one of the others for help. Healing magic was out of the question—she’d never had the knack of it. 

None of them could heal, really; up to now, they’d mostly been working around this with potions. Not for the first time, she wished she’d formed the sort of bond with a spirit that might’ve given her this skill. Alas, her talents lay elsewhere—her hands had always been for death, never life.

Wait. There was an idea. 

In the Necropolis, inhabited skeletons often encountered the sort of damage that cracked a bone or two. There were spells to mend them when this sort of thing occurred, and materials to patch missing pieces if necessary. She’d learned those spells when she’d been an apprentice, but hadn’t needed to call upon the knowledge in years. 

Her bones were still covered in living tissue. It would be risky to try this herself, but she had little choice. In a moment, he’d break through her barrier. If she could just remember—

“Give in to me,” the Venatori demanded. “Kneel!” 

Lenore panted with effort and dragged the words from her memory. The shield dimmed around her, bright where it touched the blade and nearly insubstantial everywhere else. She had so little energy left. This would take most of it; she’d only have one shot at patching herself up. She had to make it count. 

“Rook’s hurting!” Bellara yelled somewhere beyond her. 

Rook tensed, sucked in a breath, and spoke the words of the spell. Several things happened in quick succession: 

Devoid of the power it took to sustain it, her shield faltered and the sword broke through. Lenore ducked to her right, taking her weight off her injured leg, and hammered the base of her staff into the Venatori’s throat. 

As she moved, the spell took effect. Pain swelled within her and broke like a wave, the bone in her leg mending itself over and over again until it had multiplied itself enough to break through the skin. She screamed without knowing it, without really hearing it, as if the pain itself made a tunnel from her leg to her throat and poured itself forth from there. 

Bolts laden with electricity shot from somewhere in the distance, hammering into the unbalanced Venatori’s back. He stumbled, nearly tripping over one of the many spurs of bone now projecting from Rook’s leg. 

“Rook,” Lucanis shouted from what seemed like a great distance, “hold on!” 

She’d no idea what she could possibly be holding on to when the whole world was shuddering like a freshly reanimated corpse, but she tried anyway. She must have fallen at some point in the chaos because her hands scrabbled at stone and dirt now, not thin air. If her leg hadn’t hurt so badly that it eclipsed all other feeling, her head and tailbone would no doubt be aching from the impact.

The Venatori, now bleeding profusely, staggered to his feet. Behind him, a violet blur felled first one, then another of the remaining Venatori who stood between Lucanis and Rook. There were few of them left, which was probably good. It still wouldn’t save her if she fell to this one right now. 

Her staff had fallen behind her. Rook dragged herself backward, scrambling for it. Her hands were slick with something and they moved slower than they should, as if the air itself was more viscous than it ought to be. Every time she tried to grasp the smooth wood, it slid away from her. A flash of teal and brown flickered at the corner of her eye: Bellara was running toward her from the other side of the clearing. Even as she identified her friend, another Venatori darted into Bellara’s path and blocked her from view. 

Only five left now. If she just held out—

The violet blur spread tenebrous wings and shot closer, impossibly fast. Fast enough? It was hard to say. Everything looked—felt—so very strange. Her head pulsed in time with the wound in her leg.  The Venatori lifted his sword and swung, a blow that would connect precisely with her breastbone. At last, at last, her hand wrapped around the polished wood of her staff, though it fought to slip from her grasp.

Unbidden, her mind began to recite, in clinical and removed tones, precisely what would happen to her body when the blow connected: if her sternum did not collapse, one of the sternocostal joints would. The force of the blow would penetrate her chest, likely striking her heart. If it did not, it would certainly rupture the pleural cavity and steal her breath away. The latter would not kill her immediately. She’d tended plenty of corpses that’d taken at least one more blow to die after this precise strike. If she hung on for long enough, one of the potions the others carried could still heal her. If not…

If not, she’d already shown Emmrich exactly where she wanted to be buried. 

Behind the Venatori, Lucanis—or maybe Spite—struck down two more Venatori; they fell before him like sheaves of wheat before the scythe. She might be impressed at his accuracy and speed if she weren’t possessed by mortal terror. Perhaps Emmrich would be able to coax that thought from her corpse after she—after— 

The blade whistled through the air, a silver gleam meant for her heart. At that precise moment, Lenore finally grasped her staff and summoned another barrier. It failed almost immediately, but held just long enough to arrest the sword’s motion in midair. The Venatori grunted and lifted the sword again. 

This had to be it; she had nothing left, not even a drop of magic.  Rook took the staff in both hands (it was so heavy; so heavy that she almost couldn’t lift it, though she’d been wielding it for months now) and held it over her chest. It was a poor shield, especially when she was shaking so hard she could barely see straight, but it was better than giving up entirely. 

“For Razi—” the Venatori began, but the word was cut off abruptly. 

Between one blink and the next, the air was filled with that purple glow, illuminating her attacker from behind. Even now, Rook held her staff in shaking hands, warding as best she could against whatever blow may yet come. It wasn’t necessary; already, blood trickled from her attacker’s mouth, still open to speak a syllable that would never come. 

When his body dropped, it fell to the side and away from Lenore. Lucanis stood behind him, his face like stone. Spite’s wings spread from his back. His knife dripped blood onto Rook’s boot. She looked at that instead of her—instead of the bones branching above it. 

There was no clever comment, no regards from the Crows. Instead, his eyes held hers. 

“Can you walk?” Lucanis asked, eyes gleaming with the telltale sign of Spite’s ascendance though it was undeniably his voice she heard. 

“No,” she managed through gritted teeth. 

Behind him, Bellara shouted as the last of the Venatori fell. Lucanis must have seen her leg by now; his face grew more grim, eyes pinched at the corners. She could hardly look at it herself, though she could see the jagged, pale sections from the corner of her eye. 

Lucanis stepped closer and crouched, neatly blocking her view of whatever she’d done to herself. Without meaning to, she reached for his elbow and squeezed, far harder than she would have under any other circumstances. She couldn’t have said what kind of comfort she sought then; there was nothing he could do for her and both of them knew it, though he was already reaching for the vial at his belt. 

“Bad idea,” she told him, lifting a hand to clear the sweat from her brow and realizing at the last minute that mud, blood, and something green dripped from her hand. She used her elbow instead, though it wasn’t much cleaner. When she drew her arm away, new red streaked over the fabric. 

“Why?” Lucanis asked. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and lifted it to her forehead, carefully dabbing at something there. His face was so very grim. She did not like it; did not like that she was the cause. 

“What I did—” gorge rose at the back of her throat. Lenore swallowed and tried again. “Healing is the problem. It might make it worse. Unless you’ve got something for—for pain or sleep…”

“No,” he told her, tucking the vial away. “Only this. Can you bear it until we reach the Lighthouse?” 

“Don’t have much choice,” she said. Bellara rushed into view, face already paler than usual. 

“Rook, that looks really bad,” she said. “What can I—is there anything I can do?” 

Lucanis rested his hand over Rook’s at his elbow and looked up at Bellara. 

“I am going to carry her back. Can you find something to keep her leg stable?”

“I—yeah. Yes. Give me just—give me a few minutes. I have an idea.” 

Bellara darted off again, flitting from body to body. After a moment, she perched near the collapsed pile of metal that’d once been a guardian of the crossroads. Something pulled Rook’s attention to a pile of rock floating past and she watched its slow, gentle path across the sky. It was not engrossing; it was something she had seen dozens of times by now. Nonetheless, she could not look away. For a moment, every other sound was drowned out by the rush of her blood in her ears.

“Rook?” Lucanis said. “Rook. Can you hear me?”

It took some effort to unclench her teeth. Lenore nodded instead, turning her head to look at him. He’d leaned closer while she’d been distracted. He reached for her hand now, apparently unbothered by the muck still caking her palms. 

“Hold on,” he said. “As tight as you need to. I am here. I will stay.” 

At last, she managed to part her lips. Her mouth was dry, but she didn’t dare reach for her waterskin. Any movement felt like it could upset the delicate balance she was maintaining. An ounce more pain and she would be lost. 

“I will pass out,” she told him as clearly as she could manage. 

His hand tightened around hers—surprising, since she had his hand in a vice grip and couldn’t seem to unclench her fingers. She hadn’t expected him to hold her back. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging as she blinked it away. 

“When you lift me,” she clarified. “It’s—going to jostle the–the wound. I won’t be awake. That’s good. You can move faster if you aren’t worrying about my comfort.”  

“I understand,” Lucanis said. “Don’t try to talk. Rest now; we will do what we can.”

“Stupid,” she told him, and took in a shaky breath. Bellara was moving toward them again, something golden in her hands. “My fault.”

“Leave it,” he told her. “You can blame yourself later.” 

“Got it,” Bellara said, skidding to a halt beside them. “This will hold your legs in place. There’s a bit that should keep anything from hitting the, um—pieces directly. I’m going to put this on now, okay?”

“Wait,” Rook said. The adrenaline was wearing off; she was thinking less and less clearly, the pain echoing and magnifying with each passing moment. “Tell—tell Emmrich—the spell is the one for—for mending bone. He’ll know—so stupid, tell him I’m sorry—”

“I’ll tell him, I promise,” Bellara said, her voice soothing. Briefly, she rested a hand on Lenore’s shoulder. “I’m putting the brace on now, alright? I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

She couldn’t help the noise she made when Bellara reached under her leg to fasten the brace. Without thinking, she turned and pressed her face against Lucanis’s knee to muffle the cries, uncomfortable as it was. All the while, his grip on her hand held steady. 

“I know, I know, I know,” Bellara chanted, her voice strained. “Almost done, just a little more—sorry!—almo—”

Between one syllable and the next, the universe blinked.

Now, the wind rushed through her hair. They were no longer in the same clearing. Instead, the Crossroads sped past on either side. The ache in her leg had intensified, though she could feel from the tight band around her thigh that the splint was still in place. 

“How close?” Lucanis asked. 

“We approach the requested destination, Dweller,” the serene voice of the Caretaker responded. 

Warm leather curled more tightly around her shoulders and the scene resolved itself into something that made sense. Lucanis held her at the prow of the rowboat, one foot braced on the bench before them. She turned her head to see him better and found him examining her already, his face solemn. 

Something about his chest looked odd, but it took her a moment to place it: he’d removed the blade and all the vials from his armor there. Why? Nothing made sense. 

“I’m sorry,” she told him, and his brow furrowed.

“For what, Rook?” 

What could she say? She turned her face into his chest instead, closing her eyes for a moment. It would be easier, she decided, if the world would just stop spinning. 

“It was a stupid mistake,” she mumbled against his chest. 

“You’ve said that,” he told her. “More than once. I will tell you again what you told me after Weisshaupt: we all make mistakes, Rook.” 

She tried to hold onto his words, but they scattered to the winds. His grip on her shifted slightly, his hand curling around her shoulder. 

“Look at me, Rook. You have to stay awake. You have a concussion. That’s why you aren’t thinking clearly.”

Staying awake was a singularly unattractive prospect. Everything hurt; the dizziness was only getting worse and she’d made the mistake of looking at her leg again. Just the sight of it, bone jutting from her leg in three directions and curling in on itself like the horns of a halla, was enough to make her stomach lurch again. 

“I’m sorry,” she told him. 

Through his armor, she could hear his heartbeat. 1, 2, 3, she counted, 1, 2, 3—like a waltz, played in double time. She couldn’t remember why she was apologizing. Had she played a waltz for him before? She’d played for him—for all of them—but she couldn’t remember—

“I’m sorry,” she told Lucanis again, and the grim lines branching from the corners of his eyes deepened. She wanted him to never let go of her; when she turned her face into him again, the world felt quieter.

“Don’t apologize to me, Rook,” he said, and the universe blinked again. 

|

It was quiet in Rook’s room, for which Lucanis was grateful. There had been far too much noise in the infirmary from when he’d carried her there to when Taash had brought her here. Neve’s sleeping spell yet held her; Rook’s face was still, though the space between her eyebrows remained faintly creased. If the spell had not failed when Taash had rebroken her leg and Davrin had set it, Lucanis did not think it would break in the face of too much noise. Even so, he was relieved that she was here, in her own space, and that the others had gone away for a time. 

“Why does she still sleep? Wake her up,” Spite said from the head of the settee she slept on, peering down at Rook’s drawn face. 

“Waking will hurt her,” Lucanis told him. “Her leg is still broken.”

“Then fix it, if it’s broken,” Spite said. 

Lucanis ignored the demon and leaned forward, glancing at Rook’s leg. The cold spell had reduced some of the swelling, though it was still visible under the second brace Bellara had brought her. The damage was clear beneath the metal and leather: her skin gone red and purple around the break, sliced to ribbons where the new growth had speared through it, dried blood still caked in the creases of her ankle where Lace hadn’t quite washed all of it away.

Like most Crows, his knowledge of healing was limited to the most basic necessities. In a fight, it was better to remove your opponent from the battle than to stop moving and patch up your fellows. He had studied certain medical writings in training, but only to better identify the weak points of his opponents. At most, he might’ve been able to bandage her wound long enough to get to safety, or perhaps offer one of the potions he kept on hand. In this—the bone jutting from her skin, the way she’d cried out when he’d lifted her from the ground, the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks now—in this, he’d been of no use at all. 

Even now, he was not entirely sure what she’d tried to do. Emmrich’s explanation had mostly been different versions of a horrified “why that spell” or “what an incredibly inadvisable course of action.” Lucanis had not disagreed with either statement, but he had not found them especially enlightening either. The necromancer had undone her spell, at least. He was glad of that.

“She smells all wrong,” Spite said, still peering at Rook. “All wrong.”

All the long way back to the Lighthouse, Spite had been uncharacteristically helpful. He had slipped beneath Lucanis’s skin seamlessly, as he once had in the early days in the Ossuary. He had done nothing but help speed them along, pushing their body faster than Lucanis might have been able to alone. It had seemed that they were, for once, of one mind, one mission: bring Rook somewhere safe and get her the help she needed. Everything else had been peripheral. 

It was…quiet now that the others were gone. This was a relief. It also meant he had far too much time to think. He might almost—almost—be grateful for the distraction Spite provided now. Whenever he turned to look at the fish, the water behind him, his stomach turned and his hands shook. As long as he faced forward, he could still pretend to ignore it. 

“Wrong,” Spite repeated. “Blood and elfroot and pain. Not like Rook.”

Lucanis sighed. He had not enjoyed carrying her back, though he would do it a hundred times over if she ever had need of such assistance again. It had been a fraught thing, willing her eyes to open again even though she would go on apologizing to him every time they did. He had a great deal of experience trying to hold still, but it had been worse to know that every involuntary shift of his body had caused hers pain. 

He had not liked carrying her, but it had been—he had felt—something to hold her pressed against him, to wrap her in his arms. She had clutched him to her, hands snarled in the belts at his chest, face pressed into his body. He had wished, on that long ride back, that he could curl himself around her and shield her from what she’d done, though it was a useless impulse. 

Useless and foreign besides; he had never felt such a thing before and did not know what to do with it now that he had. 

Now, his hand rested beside hers on the bed, close enough that he could feel the faint movements of her body when she breathed in and out. When Emmrich had finally deemed it safe, Lucanis had administered the healing potion to her himself. He’d slid a hand under her neck to tip her head back and ease its passage into her throat. Though he was no longer touching her, he could still feel the memory of the softness of her skin against his palm. 

Once, he had watched Rook tune her violin on one of the balconies outside the main tower. She’d struck a tuning fork against her knuckles and held it between two elegant fingertips, eyes closed to listen. The tone had spilled out into the air long after she’d touched it, humming until she finally set it aside to turn the small knobs at the top of her instrument. 

Lucanis supposed he did not feel so very different than that tuning fork now. The touch of her skin still hummed inside him, though he had long since let go. He could not help wondering if he should reach for her hand now, if only to still that hum. 

 “She needs to rest and heal. Then, she will smell like herself,” he told Spite.

Spite crouched, his nose an inch from Rook’s. Slowly, Lucanis’s smallest finger brushed against Rook’s.

“She should smell of incense,” Spite told her, as if to remind her. “Leaf-rot. Rosemary. The rest is wrong.” 

“She doesn’t smell like rotting leaves,” Lucanis said, as he had a dozen times before. Spite bared his teeth. “I don’t know why you always say that.”

“You’re wrong. She smells of sweet rot. Always. Only Rook ever does.” 

What use was there in arguing? It hadn’t swayed the demon yet, though they’d had this argument more than once. Lucanis shifted in his chair and found his hand resting against Rook’s. Should he let go? Leave? Work on finding a healer in Treviso they could bring her to? 

Her hand was so still, soft and cool in his.

When he had been a boy, there had been an illness (he could not recall what it had been; a fever, perhaps) and a dark room, bed hung with dark cloth. It had not been in Villa Dellamorte, but the home his parents kept. It had been—warmer, he thought. Less marble, more carved wood. One night, Lucanis had lain in the dark, ill and horribly lonely, and he had woken to find his father’s hand in his. What a comfort it had been, to know that he was not alone in the dark with his pain. 

Lucanis ignored Spite and curled his fingers around Rook’s. There were calluses on odd places near the first joints of her fingers. Musical in origin, he supposed, not caused by her staff. He had not seen them before, but now he could feel scars across her palms, across the backs of her hands. Where had she gotten them? He wondered if she would answer, should he ask.

It had seemed…foolish, potentially dangerous to hold her hand in most of the places they’d visited. What if one of them needed to draw a weapon? Precious seconds might be wasted in untangling themselves from each other. Beyond that, she would be a target if anyone knew that he wanted—that he thought—

“You will make sure she’s fixed,” Spite said, voice abruptly louder, and he leaned across the bed to put his face near Lucanis’s. “She won’t stay like this. It isn’t right.”

“Yes,” Lucanis agreed. “Neve is looking for a healer who can help. Emmrich has already undone the worst of whatever she did to her leg.”

Spite had been with Lucanis for more days than he’d been able to count, but he still had difficulty reading the demon’s expressions. He did not even know if they were facial expressions or if that was just how his mind interpreted Spite’s existence. On someone else, he might have thought the narrowed eyes and sneer meant displeasure. On Spite, it must have been approval instead because the demon winked out of existence a moment later. It was a relief when he was gone, as if some imperceptible background noise he never really heard had finally ceased.  

“Don’t worry,” Lucanis told Rook in the ensuing silence. “The others will find somebody to help. I’ll wait with you until they do. It’s not like I was sleeping anyway.”

She would have laughed at that. She liked to laugh, his—Rook liked to laugh. 

Her hand didn’t move in his. Still, he did not think he was imagining the growing warmth in her palm. Lucanis reached for the cup of coffee he’d set aside and sipped it without letting go of her. Whatever came next, he would be there. 

Even if nobody else had heard it, he’d made her a promise.

|

The first thing Lenore felt when she woke was the warmth wrapped around her hand. 

Pain followed quickly, but she’d been braced for that. She had not been braced for comfort and was less sure about what to do with it. 

“You’re awake,” Spite said, and Rook opened her eyes to look at him. 

The demon sat in a chair beside her bed, one foot propped on the seat while the other rested on the ground. He was the one holding her hand, of course. 

“I am,” she answered, studying him. “Did Lucanis fall asleep there or did you walk him here?”

Not what she was asking, really. What she meant was, which one of you decided to wait beside me while I was out? It would have been harder to ask that; harder still to admit to him how much she wanted to know. Better to sidestep it entirely. 

“Here,” Spite replied. “He promised. To stay.”

“And you didn’t want to make a run for it while everyone was distracted?” 

The ache in her leg was…significant, but better than she remembered in her awful, cluttered recollection of the moments following her injury. A cautious glance downward revealed only the usual quantity of bones. Nothing twisted past her shin, bones projecting outward and curling around each other like halla horns. She almost wished she believed in a god so she could thank them. 

“He promised,” Spite replied, as if it was the obvious answer. 

“Does Lucanis know that you keep his promises?” she asked, smiling at him. 

Spite smiled back slowly, each side of the mouth creeping up in turn, as if testing himself to see if he could. 

“No,” he said. “Are you. Fixed?” 

Mentally, she felt along her body. Her head felt better, she thought, though her leg was a miserable tangle of pain. The rest of her was stiff, as if she’d been lying still for a very long time.

“Not all the way. Something still hurts down there. But better than earlier, yes.” 

“Good. Your pain. Was wrong.” 

Wrong?

“Did it bother you to carry me around?” 

Rook thought to push herself up, try to sit, but thought better of it. She’d have to let go of his hand if she wanted to move and it hardly seemed worth it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her hand. Actually—now that she was thinking about it, she couldn’t remember a time when anyone living had held her hand for longer than the time it took to lead her where she was supposed to be.

“No,” Spite replied at once, and looked as if he would go on. Abruptly, his face went blank and Lucanis blinked himself awake. 

“Rook,” he said. “You’re awake.”

“So are you,” she said. 

Now that she was awake, he would take his hand away. She was certain of it. She held very still so he wouldn’t notice that they were still holding onto each other. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked. His forehead creased as he leaned closer, shifting until both feet rested firmly on the ground. 

“I’ve been better,” she said, but he did not laugh. “Feeling a little stupid. I feel like I should apol—”

“Don’t, Rook,” Lucanis said, lifting the hand that wasn’t holding hers as if to halt the words. “I think you’ve apologized enough. If I never hear you say ‘I’m sorry’ again, it will be too soon.”

“Did I? I don’t remember that.”

“Hm,” Lucanis said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Some strong emotion suppressed; not a smile, she thought. “Emmrich called it…perseveration. He said that those with head wounds often repeat phrases or thoughts, and you’d happened to choose that one.”

“You disagree?” Lenore asked. 

His thumb traced something on the back of her hand, slow and soft. She repressed a shiver at the sensation—so comfortable, so easy. It was like they touched each other casually all the time, which they certainly did not. He had made his interest clear—clear enough for her, at least—and yet they had still remained largely hands-off until now. 

“These marks on your hands,” he said, and paused. “I have seen others like them.”

“Have you?” 

The urge to snatch hers back and hide it under the blankets was immediate, the effort to ignore it not inconsiderable. Lucanis lifted his own hand, angling it so the light shone over the scar tissue there, criss-crossing his knuckles and the back of his hand in straight, silvery lines. Thicker than the ones on the backs of her hands, yes, but mostly the same.

“You are not a Crow,” he said. “You were not trained the way I was. Emmrich’s hands are largely unscarred. Those are very old—before you left the Necropolis.”

“Correct on all counts,” Lenore told him, and turned their hands so hers was pressed against the blanket and out of sight. 

He watched her for a moment, free hand settling slowly on the cot beside her leg. She wondered what he’d read in her face. She wondered what he wasn’t saying nearly as much as she hoped he wouldn’t keep talking about it.

“You do not have to apologize to me,” he said at last. “I was glad that I was the one with you when you fell.”

“You shouldn’t have had to carry me back,” she told him firmly, shifting her weight onto her elbow. Her grip tightened on his hand. “I’m meant to look after myself better than that. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” Lucanis said, squeezing her hand in turn. “Stop. I would do it again.” 

He was so very close—she hadn’t noticed him getting closer—and she still felt so awful, so grateful, and his hand was so warm in hers—

“Lucanis,” she murmured, as if speaking too loud would ruin something precious and fragile, “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

Lenore hadn’t been touched or held in so long. She had almost—almost—convinced herself that this didn’t bother her, that she didn’t care. She’d been wrong, though; she cared a great deal. Cared like a plant cared for watering, like strings longed for a bow. Before she could change her mind or retreat from him again, she was lifting her face to his and kissing him.

|

Lucanis could count on one hand the number of times he had kissed somebody, and nearly all of them had been in the process of completing a contract or training for the same. They’d all been more or less the same to him, the experiences blurring together into the same dull sensation, all duty and never desire. 

This—Rook’s face upturned, her soft mouth pressed to his—was like none of those other times. He hardly had time to recover from the shock of it before she was pulling away again, eyes searching his face. Too fast; not enough time to understand. He needed more.

On instinct, he reached behind her and cupped the back of her neck as he had before, carefully pressing her close to him once more. Her lips were soft and surprised under his, as if she had expected him to pull away. When he kissed her, she made a surprised sound and squeezed his hand.

 Had he worried that it was Spite, not Lucanis, who wanted to kiss her? Had he somehow believed that touching her would quiet the hum of fascination under his skin? All ridiculous, all incorrect; this was something entirely different. His hand fit at the back of her neck perfectly, as if it had been shaped precisely for this. He was barely kissing her, but the faint pressure of his mouth against his was almost overwhelming. He was already touching her, already holding her to him, and yet he was hungry for exactly that—as if the touch by its very existence required more of itself, required more of him. 

Too much. He withdrew, though he didn’t let go of her yet, and found her eyes still closed, her lips softly parted. 

What was he to do with this? He wanted to press his thumb to the pulse beating at her throat, wanted to lift her from the bed and hold her again, wanted to kiss the hand he held in his until—until what? 

“You should rest,” Lucanis told her, his voice so quiet he found himself surprised he’d said it aloud at all. 

Rook nodded once, eyes still closed, and pressed her lips together. When she moved, he could feel the shift of her spine under her skin. Would it feel the same if he held her hand while she moved, while she played her music for him, when she drew magic from the Fade? Would it feel the same with his hands around her hips, or her—

The thought was strange enough, foreign enough, that he let go and climbed to his feet. For a moment, Rook held very still, face still tilted. Lucanis took a step back, lest his hands betray him and reach for her again. 

“You’re still healing,” he told her, and took another step back when her eyes fluttered open. Her eyelashes were so fine against her skin, her eyes so warm and soft in the pale light of the water. He wanted to look closer. Instead, he stepped back again and wished he had something to do with his hands. Anything that would remove the sensation of her hand in his, her mouth so sweet against his. 

“I’ll check on you later,” he went on. “Somebody needs to start dinner, and a note from Teia and Viago arrived while you slept.”

“Lucanis,” she said, her voice soft and quiet. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you. For staying, I mean. Both of you.” 

“Of course, Rook. Anytime,” he said, and slipped from the room before she could take him up on the offer. 

“Coward,” Spite hissed. 

Lucanis, striding briskly away from the door so he would not turn around and open it again, found he could not disagree.

[evilfrogcereal29]

Pizza guy!Nikto - Chapter 1

(ok... This is going to be like, maybe one of the most weirdly specific fanfics you've ever read. For context: I work at a pizza place IRL. Thats it. Thats the only context. I was at work and. Thought about Nikto working there too. That's all you need to know. Enjoy :]!!!

This is going to be a Nikto x GN!customer!reader, but reader is NOT introduced in this chapter.

Cw/tws: mentions of violence- including towards an animal! I think thats all? Enjoy :)!!

NOTE: all text in red & italics are Nikto's voices

Nikto was bored.

Retirement was miserable, and Nikto found himself restless day in, and day out. Unable to find peace while wasting away at home. Sure, he had lot's of retirement money, but he had this urge to work, to kill. He would give anything to be on a plane to another mission right about now, but he was too 'broken'. That's what they basically told him. Too mentally unwell to keep working. A hazard to his own team.

Heh.

What the fuck do they know? They don't know what goes on in his head. So what he broke that recruit's arm? They touched him when he warned them of the consequences. Or who cares that he hit one of his higher-up's service dogs with the buggy? It should've been servicing it's owner, not under the damn vehicle! He's not a danger, the other voices are!

Speaking of voices, they aren't reacting well either, metaphorically biting away at Nikto's psyche each day he did fucking nothing. He felt useless, and they reminded him of that. You idiot, you deserve your suffering for being the way you are. Broken. Broken little solider.

He still gets calls from his mates in the service, especially Krueger, who always makes sure to call as often as possible to keep the man updated on missions, even if they didn't concern him anymore. He suggested that Nikto pick up a part-time job, not for the money, but the work. God (and Krueger) only knows what Nikto's mind gets upto when left to its own devices.

Nikto scoffed at first, he didn't like the idea of working at some measley fast food job, he was above that. He crawled through the fucking trenches and ripped out the throats of women and men, and would be reduced to... What? Cleaning a fucking stove? Heating up processed foods for weak civilians? No. He wouldn't. The voices mocked him, this is what we've been reduced to? Patheic.

And then the rot set in.

Krueger had been very insistant on a visit the second he had time away from work, flying out to see Nikto even as the man ignored his texts and calls. He wasn't dead, Krueger knew that, but he also wasn't in a good place. He couldn't let his companion live like this pathetic slob. Cause that's exactly what he was becoming.

Water and alcohol bottles littered the floor, stacks on stacks of old, half eaten take-out. Junk that should’ve been tossed long ago created walled barriers throughout the house. It was a scene out of horders, and the smell was awful. Christ. Krueger was no clean freak, but this? He'd rather sleep next to corpses than this cesspool of rotting filfth, and in the middle of it all, sat his balaclava-ed, smelly friend on the sofa. Krueger grimmaced, taking careful steps. He nearly stepped on poor Sputnik, who had become content with spending her days lazying about, peeing in places without Nikto's knowledge, and eating off his leftover scraps of food, growing just as lethargic as her owner.

"Nikto... Scheiße..” he would almost be outraged at the man’s carelessness if he didn’t understand how the other functioned, without a job, without a purpose, Nikto was truly a nobody. He lifted the man’s head with a gentleness, an action only someone like Krueger could get away with, looking into those glazed-over icy blues.

“This is… this is bad Nikto..” he mutters, eyes filled with..love? Concern? Something Nikto wasn’t used to often. Nikto finally shows evidence of life as his eyes flicker up in wordless understanding. Krueger continues,

"I can't stand to see you like this. You can't stand being like this. I'm going to help you."

Krueger lifts his friend up, albiet with mild arguing and growling from the disguntled bear of a man that Nikto is. He sets Nikto's cheap laptop on his lap and types in job sites, which already has Nikto tense.

"Krueger- чёрт побери! you're acting like my fucking mother-"

"good, about time someone comes in and wipes your ass, if not yourself." Krueger grumbles, scrolling through the job offers, "what's your SNILS...?"

After a painstaking back and forth, and Krueger prying for all of Nikto's personal info, he sent in a few applications on his friend's behalf. Patting the other on the back as Nikto's thumbs rubbed at his temples, fighting back the urge to pulverize his only real friend. You really should, he's a nuisance...

"this is... Not ideal.." Nikto finally grumbles, finishing the last of some lukewarm whisky from the bottle.

"none of this is, meine freund, but this...Is worse." Noone has ever seen them like this, so...domestic. In reality, this was as hard for Krueger as it was for Nikto, The Alligence wasn't the same without the Russian, fighting wasn't the same. Krueger rested a hand on his shoulder.

"everything is going to change, can you try to change a little with it?"

Change? Krueger wanted him to change? Was that even possible? He'd been so set in his ways ever since the incident. But the look in Krueger eyes let Nikto know that there wasn't really a choice.

What are you kidding? You could change as far as you could throw a boulder! Never!

He sighed, deeply. His shoulders slumping miserably as he exhaled.

"fine. But If we don't like the job-"

"ja, ja, you don't have to stay. I get it. I can't make you." He interupted, waving his hand dismissively, "but don't just give up right away. Can you promise me that?"

Nikto hated making promises, he hated feeling like he owed anyone anything, he didn't take on debts or deals. Go ahead, make more promises you can't keep. We know the truth.

Yet here he was, being interviewed by an elderly couple, who pitied him for his past as a solider.

"me and Martha are going to see how you fair in the kitchen, and if that's turns out to be too overwhelming we can move you to a more simple job like delivery. Just bring the customers their pizzas." The eldery man said with an acknowledging smile.

He nodded to the man, Michael, reaching across the table to shake his hand, thanking him begrudgingly for this... 'Opportunity'. Thats damn well what it was, but Nikto didn't quite see it that way yet. As he left with a work shirt displaying the place's name and logo, he felt his heart drop. And a shrill, annoying voice invading his mind.

You are truely a fucking Развалюха. Good luck ever trying to live a normal life!

And now Nikto was worried.

------------------------------------------------------

Hai :3 I hope you enjoyed this first chapter, I wanted to introduce reader in this first part but it was getting long and I also just wanted to get something out. There will be more chapters for this, but they might be kind of slow to come out😭 work takes up a LOT of my time tbh, but also working inspires me cause...yk pizza place setting so- its a double edged sword. But if you enjoyed pls like and reblog it means sm♥️♥️ ty for reading!!

And to the person who sent me an ask in my inbox about the relationship dynamics between NiktoKrueger + criminal!reader, I see u and ur creative vision, I started writing something today in response ;) just gimme some time!!!

Also an @ list for some mooties who I think would like to see this :3

@simp4konig @lizzy019 @fishsinsareacknowledged @zoloftwithdrawalnausea sorry If I missed anyone, lmk if you'd like to be tagged (or not tagged) in future chapters!!

[kirain]

Can I pls request Rook helping Emmrich through a panic attack?

TW: Panic attack and talks of death.

Emmrich's sleep was uneasy, as it so often was. The weight of his burdens seeped into his dreams, weaving them into feverish, incomprehensible nightmares. His body twitched beneath the sheets, his mind caught in a dark loop of impending doom.

"No..." he whimpered weakly.

The room was suffocating. His breath quickened, shallow and strenuous, as if the air itself had turned into a thick, unyielding poison. Sweat slicked his brow, his chest heaving, his unconscious moans becoming strained cries that filled the small, dim space.

In his dream, he was falling—an endless plunge into a void with no bottom. The sensation of his heart racing, of his lungs screaming for air, bled through into reality. His limbs thrashed, tangling in the sheets.

Then, suddenly, he was awake. With a harsh gasp, he shot upright in bed, clutching his chest. His wide, panic-stricken eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the fear that gripped him. His heart pounded violently, a drumbeat of dread that drowned out reason.

"I can't... breathe," he gagged, his voice trembling. "I'm dying!"

The thought consumed him, spiraling out of control. His hands shook as he clawed at his shirt, desperate for relief, for escape from the invisible weight that crushed him. His throat felt constricted, as though it had sealed shut, and the edges of his vision blurred.

Across the room, Manfred shifted with a faint creak. He was sat in his usual favourite spot, his gemstone eyes emitting a green, spectral glow. He'd seen this many times, their nights often shared, though he didn't understand it. He only knew that his friend was in pain, and he didn't like it.

As the sound of his broken gasps echoed in his skull, Manfred stood with deliberate, jerky movements, his bones clicking softly with each step. As he approached, his scrawny hand extended in a gesture of concern, but he knew better than to actually touch Emmrich. Instead, he knelt by his bed, a low, mournful rattle escaping his ribcage, like wind blowing through hollow reeds.

Emmrich focused on that sound, his frantic breaths beginning to slow. Each exhale came with a wheeze, but the world around him began to stabilise as he pressed a shuddering hand to his cheek, wiping away the tears he hadn't realised were falling.

"I'm all right,” he muttered, though the words were hollow. "I'm all right."

Manfred stayed by his side, his large orbs fixed on him with an uncanny, unspoken empathy. Emmrich was lucid enough now, giving the kind spirit the confidence to grasp his shoulder. So he did. The firmness of the touch—cool, yet oddly comforting—helped pull the shaken man further from his spiral of terror, but the silence of the room closed in on him, as oppressive as his nightmare had been. He needed to move, to feel blood flowing through his veins.

Slowly, he swung his legs over the bed and rose to his feet, his knees quaking. "I just... n-need some air," he stuttered.

Manfred stepped aside but lingered, his doleful gaze following Emmrich as he fled.

The corridor was empty and still, the sweeping hum of the Fade's energy thrumming in the background. Grateful no one was around to witness his breakdown, Emmrich made his way outside, the stone walls of the chamber giving way to the Fade's endless horizon. He could've chased that view forever, lost in a trance, if not for the balcony blocking his path. With a pained grunt, he collided with the marble, his hands instinctively gripping the barrier.

He tried to steady himself, to ground his thoughts in the physical sensations around him: the cool surface beneath his hands, the raw air against his sweat-soaked skin, the light breeze brushing against his face. But the vast expanse of the Fade stretched before him, a stark and unrelenting reminder of his own insignificance.

Of his mortality.

He was nothing. A fleeting speck destined to fade away. The thought sent his heart racing again, a sickening lurch that made him clutch the railing tighter, his knuckles turning white.

"No more," he sobbed. "Please... not again."

He grit his teeth, images of his shriveled body, then his grave, then darkness flashing in his mind. His own torturous ideations threatened to shatter his sanity—and perhaps they would have, if not for the kind, unexpected hand on his back.

Emmrich flinched, whirling around with a gasp.

"Easy," Vae hushed. She stood close, her dark hair glowing faintly in the otherworldly light of the Fade. "I'm right here. You're not alone, Emmrich."

"I'm dying!" he screamed, still lost in a haze of delirium. "I-I'm going to die!"

He stared at the sky, his breath catching, though he didn't fight her when she took his hands into hers, prying them from the railing. Gently, she eased him onto the ground.

"Emmrich," she said, her voice low and soothing, "look at me."

For a single beat, the storm inside him quelled, and somehow he met her gaze.

"Breathe with me," she urged, setting a steady rhythm. "Follow my pace. In through your nose, hold it... and out through your mouth."

He struggled at first, his breaths frayed and uneven, but her calm demeanour pulled him back from the precipice.

"You're alive, Emmrich," she said, her voice unwavering as he slumped forward, his eyes squinting shut. "We're both alive. You can feel it." She carefully intertwined her fingers with his, resting his weary head on her shoulder. "You're alive, darling. You're alive."

Time froze, but Emmrich's anxieties eventually waned. His pulse relaxing, he became more aware of his surroundings—of Vae's heat against his own. His shoulders bucking, he lifted his head, his umber eyes meeting hers with an allayed expression of gratitude.

"There you are," she said, her lips curling into a fond, encouraging smile. "Welcome back."

Emmrich blinked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Though he remembered the intensity of the attack and Vae guiding him through it, nearly everything that happened after he woke was a blur.

Still clinging to her hands, he looked to the door behind them, wide open and wanting. He wasn't sure how he managed to stumble outside or how long he'd been there, but Vae's presence, a beacon of calm amidst the chaos, had done what he couldn't do alone.

"I... I'm so sorry," he whimpered. "I thought—"

"I know, darling," she intervened, brushing his disheveled silver hair back into place. "But you're not. You're still here, and you have nothing to apologise for."

As the last tremors of his panic subsided, Emmrich pushed himself up proper, his movements frail and tremulous. Without thinking, he shifted onto his knees and reached for Vae, wrapping his arms around her with all the strength he could muster.

For a while, neither of them said anything, his chest rising and falling as her fingers graciously massaged the most tender points of his back. The fit left him thoroughly exhausted, as well as mortified, but in her embrace, he felt safe. He knew he could be honest with her.

"I'm so... afraid," he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice making Vae wince with sorrow. "Of losing my life. Of you losing yours. Of you losing me and having to mourn. It's... beyond debilitating."

"I know," she said, moving one hand to caress the back of his head. "But you're not alone in that feeling, Emmrich. It's a bridge we all have to cross some day, and that thought can paralyse even the bravest of men." She pulled back, cupping his cheek and peering into his tired eyes. "But focusing too much on death will rob you of the moments you have now. The very fact that you're afraid shows how much you value being alive."

"Which is precisely the problem," he argued, though not boorishly. "I'm sorry, I... I'm not trying to be difficult."

She smiled, running her thumb along his gaunt skin. "I know. And I wish I had answers... but I don't. All I know is that death gives life purpose. Makes it count, makes it precious. That's why we have to treat every day like a gift."

"But what if it's all for nothing? What if it's all for something? What if—?"

She put a merciful finger to his lips. "No more 'what ifs'. Right now, you're alive, Emmrich. That's what matters. And if you're ever feeling overwhelmed, you have me. I won't let you do this alone."

He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. Her words didn't erase the fear, but they softened its edges, giving him something to hold onto.

"Thank you," he murmured.

With a sigh, he curled back into her arms, willing her to hold him as long as he needed—and she did, her devotion the only other assurance in his life. It wasn't a cure, and perhaps there would never be one for an affliction such as his, but as long as she shared his journey, he knew he could find peace.

Even in the face of the unknown.

[nerdycolorcupcake]

And now for my second post related to Castlevania season 2 our messy mxm couple

Spoilers down below

THE TWISTS AND TURNS OF OLROX AND MIZRAK

Now, some people have been debating that Mizrak turning into a vampire by olrox wasn't fully consensual due to the way Mizrak reacted

But i like to think that in a way he did, but didn't really were able to put too much thought in what he was about to sacrifice after "cheating death"

Mizrak was scared to die, because everything he always believed was turned upside down, as a monk he was supposed to preserve his sexuality, but slept with Olrox

As a man of god he was supposed to fight evil, but had to allow Abbot to make night creatures from corpses provoked by the unsacrated alliance with the vampires

Everything Mizrak was taught to was nothing but lies and he can't deal with the idea that everything he did in the end would cast him to hell

Just like the Abbot, he couldn't face death with courage at all

And then i remembered the conversation he had with Olrox on s1

When he asked if Olrox would turn him like he did to their previous lover

Olrox said no, that he didn't loved him, but he was bluffing

The thing is, Mizrak didn't knew that, so he assumed that Olrox would let him die

When he obviously didn't, preventing him from charge to battle and die, it confused Mizrak to no end

Once again, what was said to him was another lie he had to make thought of it

Olrox loved him, but he had a terrible time saying it to his face, so his actions were misinterpreted by Mizrak time and time again, hence why he tried to dehumanize Olrox by saying he was a "soulless animal" and pushed him away

Even if Mizrak couldn't admit himself that he got attached to them as well, he tried to cling to the notions he still had

Miscommunication at their worst, baby

Until that fateful moment

Olrox turns Mizrak, proving to the later that yes, he loved him

It's too much

Mizrak is turned, he glances at the sun he can no longer touch, he glance at Olrox in the bed, that says absolutely nothing after the ordeal

No funny remark, no words of comforting, no apologies, nothing

He just laid down, bare, awaiting the other to claim him, Olrox knows Mizrak is mad, and he just uses his body as a punchbag (or rather bloodbag) for the other to use

At the end of the day, any care Mizrak had for Olrox is now twisted, he's gonna have a real good time to come to terms with himself before he can even show or say

That he loves Olrox too

Their relationship is complicated, messy and most of the times apparently inexistent

But it's not, all the signs, the glances, their words

I liked the tension when they first met

It didn't felt like two enemies meeting, but two silly guys whom happened to be on opposite sides, that clicked and now have to deal with these new feelings they created

They're desperately trying to avoid confessing the inevitable

For Olrox is to be in love again, facing the same fear that they may lose them once more

And to Mizrak the greatest barrier was to see his own faith crumble and surrender himself to these feelings

To admit that Olrox wasn't what he said he was

It's all too much for that broken man now vampire

If there's another season, i hope they get their due

[inevitably-johnlocked]

I haven't checked in a lot lately (real life is busy as hell), but hi! hello! Do you maybe have some good fics where Sherlock and/or John are multilingual? <33

p.s. this feels sooo nostalgic.

Hi Lovely!

I do have a selection of fics on this post here... it's a bit messy so here are the fics on that post, plus others I know of :)

L'Instinct Suffit by Kate_Lear (E, 2,360 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock Speaks French) – A shamelessly smutty fill for a prompt on sherlockbbc_fic that just said ‘Sherlock speaks French during sex’.

Coup de Foudre by prettysailorsoldier (T, 6,446 w., 1 Ch. || Teenager/University AU || Alternate First Meeting, Skiing, Winter, Sherlock Speaks French, Christmas Fluff) – When John and his friends decide to blow off some steam after finals with a holiday to the Swiss Alps, he's expecting a week of roaring fires, hot chocolate, and snow as far as the eye can see. He is not expecting to fall head over heels for a fellow guest--a young Frenchman known only as "Blue Scarf"--but John's not one to let a little language barrier get in the way, and, with the help of Google Translate, it might just be a Christmas to remember after all. Part 7 of 25 Days of Johnlock

Pardon my French by archea2 (E, 8,232 w., 3 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff, Language Kink, Voice Kink, John in Afghanistan, Fever, Drunk Sherlock, Paternal Lestrade, Clothed Sex, Drunken Confessions, Humour) – Sherlock's closet Jekyll resurfaces when he's drunk, making him tender, earnest and extremely talkative with John. It's all fine with John - or would be, if Sherlock's Subconscious bloody let him speak English on these occasions.

Not Your Average Roman Holiday by StarlightAndFireflies (M, 11,253 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting || Rome, Vacation, Flirting, Romance, First Kiss / Time, International Crime Solving, Language Barrier) – After his relationship with Mary falls apart, John finds himself on what should have been his honeymoon, alone and directionless. Then, a chance encounter with a handsome, intelligent stranger changes his entire outlook -- but this gorgeous man doesn't seem to speak any English... AU in which John is a tourist and Sherlock is working on an international case, and they meet by chance. Sparks fly.

A Gossamer Dream by CarmillaCarmine (E, 15,985 w., 4 Ch. || Writer/Teacher AU || First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Writer John / Teacher Sherlock, Fluff, London, Holding Hands, Online Friendship / Romance, Phone Sex, Anal Sex, Happy Ending, Alternating POV, Scottish John, Online Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, Hand Holding, Forehead Touching, First Kiss/Time, Texting/Sexting, Rimming, Toplock, Sherlock Speaks French) – Sherlock had never realised one could care so much about someone they'd never met in person. Now he is about to meet the friend with whom he's been chatting online for months and his anticipation is reaching a crescendo. Part 19 of Johnlock Smut (with Feels)

Common Tongues: Unassuming Brilliance by jinglebell (E, 41,174 w., 11 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Anal, Rimming, Snowballing, Language Kink, Blow Jobs, BAMF John, Size Difference, Height Difference, Sapiosexual Sherlock, Barebacking, Size Queen) – John may be predictably average in most things, but there are a handful of areas in which he knows he is uncommonly skilled. He can make a great cup of tea, for one. He's also good at patching folks up, putting bullets precisely where he wants them, and listening.The one skill that John is perhaps most exceptional in, though, is language. John is a polyglot.

A Study in Winning by Jupiter_Ash (E, 106,658 w., 11 Ch. || Tennis AU || John POV, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Sherlock Speaks French, Switchlock, Wimbledon) – John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything? Part 1 of Tennis

====

If anyone has any more, please do add them!!

[kingofthecotas]

broken hourglass | ao3

soulmate au, barcelona 2016 | 1.3k

i know i said this au was over and done with. um.

——

It’s a good race, in Montmeló.

Bittersweet, of course. Valentino only catches what Marc’s done, the 39 on the front of his bike, when they’re lined up in parc fermé, and it rises thick up his throat like tears. Then he turns away.

It—the mark—hurts, almost all the time now, but like a bruise, or a stiff muscle: dull, unrefined pain. Easy to ignore. Easy to pretend that Marc isn’t there, part of him, inked in his skin.

He knows—what he said was practically sacrilege. What he did, even unintentionally, was blasphemous. The middle finger he’s always wanted to throw towards the sky. Uccio never cared—still doesn’t care. Sticks with him. The mark in the crease of Vale’s elbow—the mark that matches Uccio’s—never aches, never pulls. It’s always easy, with him.

It was easy with Marc once, too. Before—

Before he branded himself into Valentino’s skin.

Even after, they were good. They’d been so good. They’d been—something. Something Vale might have wanted, might have chosen, if choice had been a luxury afforded to him.

Uccio holds out his bottle, his cap, pats his helmet. W ell done. Good race. Keep looking forward.

As if sensing that Marc is close, his arm throbs beneath his leathers, a broken bone. Vale knows pain, knows what it is for his bone to protrude through his skin, for his leg to be so foreign, detached from the rest of his body. He can muscle through this too. He will not reach out.

Marc does, though.

Catches his eye as they both wait at the barrier while Dani gives his interview. Holds his gaze even as he sips from his bottle. Reaches a hand out like a challenge. Magnetic.

So Vale meets it, clasping their ungloved hands together and pretending it doesn’t send a shock up his arm. The appreciative rumble of a crowd drawn to their feet by a thrilling race pitches up to a roar, thundering across the track, shaking through the soles of their boots, and Marc’s smile is so wide it hurts to look. Vale could scoff; as if these people know anything about them. As if it’s their place to cheer when their hands touch, shouting their approval from the brimming colosseum stands.

The mark tingles when Marc pulls away, just another fucking reminder. Forever.

Valentino doesn’t pull at his helmet until he’s turned away entirely, until he’s out of range of that sunlight-blinding smile, until his brain can stop overlaying Marc on Marc on Marc: Marc in his bed in 2013, wide-eyed and disbelieving when Valentino’s fingers brush his mark; Marc in his home in 2014, like he belongs there; Marc flinching away, swallowing, as Vale spits out what he’s always thought (but never believed) on the worst nights; Marc now, smiling at him, bright and happy.

Marc.

So Valentino swallows it down and raises his arms to the crowd, accepts their adulation, their forgiveness. Fans have long memories, yes, but sometimes short ones when it suits them, and they know who he is. They know he is more.

It’s autopilot through the interview, yes, a good race, a tough weekend, and a subdued shuffle to the podium past Marc’s inverted number. He might be something more, but they’re all mortal, in the end.

And that’s what Marc never—he never fucking understood. Still doesn’t.

Before they walk out, Vale watches it in slow motion, the moment Marc’s presence had faded, no more warning crawling icy down his spine: the bike slipping, angle too acute; Marc’s left knee on the ground, right foot in the air. He still rides as if he owes nothing to anyone, as if he wouldn’t half-kill Vale in the same fell blow. It itches, grates, and Valentino has to curl his hands into fists so he doesn’t claw at his arm.

His name is called, and he shoves it all down, curls his left arm around his helmet, and lifts his right arm to the sky. It almost doesn’t hurt.

Marc is electric beside him, warm in the sun, and it’s almost, almost how he looked when they were good: young-god golden, ichor humming in his veins; golden, when his fingers would find the fragment of his own soul on Valentino’s arm.

They’d been—Vale might have believed in it all for a moment, a wonderful terrifying moment, because how could he not have wanted this? How would he not have chosen this, if it had been up to him?

He turns to the crowd instead, lets them roar again. Closes his eyes.

On the way to the press room, Marc and Dani speak in rapid Spanish, too easy and flowing for Vale to bother trying to follow; Marc throws both his arms to the side, fists balled, as if saying I nearly lost it.

Yeah. He did. It shouldn’t be so fucking remarkable by now.

He schools his face as they file to their seats, the careful layers of yes I’m listening, yes I care what you have to say, yes I won. Polite jubilation is what people respond to; he’s learned that.

“First question for Marc—”

He can slouch his way through press conferences by now, over-relaxed, careful not to give them a hint, an idea that he might say anything controversial, because they will swarm. When he does again, it will be obvious. They will know.

“—and yeah, a good race, just not the pace to catch Valentino.” Marc sits back with a closed smile.

Not the pace. Not that he nearly slid out, nearly crashed.

The next journalist takes the microphone, says, “Question for Marc and for Vale,” and Valentino thinks here we fucking go again, but it’s a good fun race and a difficult weekend and putting things in perspective, and, “Do you hope that this weekend will help improve your relationship again, going forward?”

Marc looks at him first. Go on. Ducking his head, deferring, waiting to assess Vale’s mood, even now.

It shouldn’t be this difficult. Marc shouldn’t have made it so fucking difficult. If their shared marks meant anything, if he ever felt the weight of Valentino’s soul with the importance it should have held, Marc should have known how much the title meant to him. Marc shouldn’t have fought him every step of the way.

If it meant anything, Marc wouldn’t throw himself around the track weekend after weekend, race after race, like everyone is mortal but him.

And that’s—

He’s going to fall hard one day, too close to the sun. Vale doesn’t want to be there when his wings finally slip. He doesn’t want to see the cracks Marc will leave when he hits the ground.

But Marc looks at him first, wary, from under the brim of his cap, and—God. God. “Yes,” he says, before he can work through what that means in too much detail.

“Okay!” Marc’s brimming with it now—what’s that phrase the English like? Curiosity killed the cat, yes, but satisfaction brought it back. And Marc never fucking thinks, never thinks of the consequences, never reads the crash from the warning signs, so of course he reaches out to clasp Valentino on the shoulder.

It shouldn’t—it shouldn’t, not through his leathers, not through the shirt. But, as if in anticipation rather than a reaction to the contact itself, the mark hums, golden flecks in Vale’s bloodstream. Just a faint echo of what it used to be.

They used to be so good.

There’s something in Marc's eyes as he pulls his arm back, like he understands what this has done, what it will do. Something knowing. Something devastating that might be hope.

Because Marc knows it’s always going to be there, he’s always going to be there. And Vale wants to choke it down and cough it up, wants to rake his nails down it over and over again, but that wouldn’t—he’d still be there, still on Marc’s body. Forever. Forever. Forever.

It thrums in Valentino’s pulse points, throbbing under his mark like a bruise. He swallows and turns his gaze forward.

He will not reach out. He will not—he cannot be there when Marc falls from the sky.

[sleepiexx]

Better Than Your Average Sleep Medication

Carlos Oliveira x fem!Reader

Note: it is real hard trying to find words to describe a vagina and a penis without getting cringy

Summary: Carlos is a pal and helps (Y/N) fall asleep.

Warnings: afab reader, smut

Word Count: 2074

(Y/N) and Carlos had been spooning in bed for hours, though neither could sleep. Ever since the Racoon City incident, insomnia seemed to take over more and more.

“I can’t sleep,” she huffed, “can you?”

He shook his head, “Me neither.”

She hummed in dismay, “It’s like ever since everything went down, all I’m seeing when I close my eyes is RC and those… things.”

His eyebrows furrowed. He knew the feeling, of course, but some part of him felt that he was partially to blame. Although, realistically, none of it was his fault, shit added up. He’d thought back to it a million times. What he could have done different, saving (Y/N) sooner, better, not putting her on the subway car that got ripped up by Nemesis, moves he could have used on Nikolai to grab the sample and save those infected. It was all dead ends, yet the simple fact that he had worked for Umbrella gave him a sense of responsibility toward (Y/N) and helping her in the aftermath of the tragedy.

(Y/N) herself had grown attached to Carlos in the midst of the disaster. Although she hadn’t known him before, he protected her every step of the way. Even taught her to protect herself. The trauma bond they built was what made it so easy for him to wiggle his way into her life outside RC. To repair what he felt he’d broken.

He’d take it all one step at a time. Now, his mission was coaxing her to sleep. But how to take her mind off of everything? A thought popped into his head, as though there were a lightbulb shining above him.

“I have an idea on how to help, do you trust me?” He asked.

“With my life.” She murmured.

He nodded, voice seemingly deepening, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Before she could voice her confusion, his hand moved down from where it was wrapped around her side to gently press against her bare stomach where her shirt had ridden up. He gave her time to object before slowly slipping his hand toward the waistband of her night shorts. She allowed him to put his hand in her pants, breath hitching as his hand slid over her underwear.

She bit her lip as his fingers traced up her clothed pussy, testing the waters. Steadily, he cupped her, pressing his hand directly against the area where she felt need growing. With his middle and ring finger, he once again traced her from vagina to clit, letting them linger in the clit area where he pressed down, slowly moving his fingers in circles.

She let out a quiet moan, feeling herself growing wetter.

“Does that feel good?” Carlos husked.

(Y/N) let out a shaky breath, “Mhm, so good.”

“Are you okay if I take these off?” He muttered, lightly snapping the waistband of her underwear against her skin before continuing drawing patterns into her covered clit.

“Please,” she whimpered.

He wasted no time, pulling down her shorts and underwear at the same time and tossing them somewhere to his side. Still in the spooning position, he grabbed her top thigh and pulled it back so it was flush against his own, spreading her out for easy access.

With the barrier between his fingers and her vulva gone, he dipped the tips of them into her vagina, wetting his fingers so he could glide them across her slit. His fingers now lubed up, he graced her clit with his touch once more. She gasped at the feeling.

He started off slow but quickly fastened his pace as she moaned for him.

“Nnngh Carlos,” she whined, writhing in his arms, back arching.

“So responsive,” he cooed, placing kisses to the crook of her neck.

Her mind became fuzzy, taken over by pleasure. She closed her eyes, chewing on her bottom lip in attempts to muffle at least some of her moans. Her jaw went slack at the feeling of Carlos licking up her neck before biting down and sucking.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She cried. She tapped on his arm to get his attention. “Inside… need you inside me.”

“My fingers or-”

She cut him off, “Your dick, need your dick, Carlos, please.”

With the state of his penis, he wasn’t one to object. The combination of her moans and her squirming right up against his crotch had him rock hard. But, ever the gentlemen, he still wanted to help her finish at least once before penetrating her.

“Would it kill your drive if I got you to cum on my fingers first?” He asked.

She shook her head, “Mm-mm.”

With her okay, he didn’t hesitate. Now that he knew he had to prep her to take him, he gently slid his middle finger inside of her, having his thumb take over rubbing her clit.

After pumping just his middle finger in a few times, he added his ring finger. He curled them inside of her before going back to pumping them in and out. As he got into a rhythm, his mouth drifted back to her neck, going back to where he left off in marking her up.

“Carlos,” her moans spilled out more frequently as she felt her orgasm fast approaching, “I’m- fuck, ‘m close.”

He detached from her neck, tilting his head up so his lips brushed her jaw. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Yes, oh god yes.” She shook as her orgasm tore through her, cumming all over Carlos’s hand. He smirked against her jaw, fingers never once stopping until she came down from her high.

When he finally pulled his hand out, she turned over so she could look at him. Her gaze shifted from his lips to his eyes before she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. He reciprocated, pulling away only to laugh.

“Someone’s eager, huh? Why don’t you let me pull my cock out before you swallow me whole?”

Dazed from her recent orgasm, she whispered a quiet, “Please.”

“Your wish is my command,” He muttered. He stood and took off his shirt, pausing for a second when he got to his pants and looking down at her, “Take off your shirt for me, yeah?”

She nodded, scrambling to pull her shirt over her head. She tossed it across the room like Carlos had done with her other articles of clothing and went back to watching Carlos strip.

He pulled down his pants, leaving his underwear on so that he could drag out her eager gaze watching him. Ever so slowly, he slid his boxers down off his legs and stepped out of them. Her eyes widened at his size. She hadn’t realized how much he was packing until now.

He walked to the edge of the bed where (Y/N) was splayed out, ogling him. He took his penis in one hand and laid it on top of her stomach, showing her how big he really was.

As she felt the weight of him on her stomach and saw his length and girth, she murmured, “Jesus you’re huge.”

He tilted her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I want this.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated for a short moment, looking into her eyes and finding only pure desire (and maybe a little bit of adoration too, but emotions are too much to deal with for one night).

“I’ll start slow and then you tell me when you adjust, okay?” He asked. She nodded in agreement.

With the reassurance from her desperate gaze and eager nods, Carlos wasted no more time.

He rubbed his penis down her vulva from clit to vagina, slowly pressing the tip in. He carefully pushed in, inch by inch, keeping watch of (Y/N)’s facial expressions to make sure she wasn’t in pain. He planted his arms on either side of her, leverage for when he would eventually start thrusting. His arm muscles tensed when he bottomed out, she had a similar reaction, tensing her jaw.

When (Y/N) finally adjusted, she tapped his forearm, “You can move.”

And he did. He started off slow, exploring her body to find out her inner workings. What made her tick, what pleasured her to the highest extent. His experiments offered high reward.

As Carlos switched up the angle ever so slightly, (Y/N) let out a loud whimper. His eyes flitted to her face and he leaned down so his cheek would be flush against hers.

“Oh?” He rasped, thrusting again in the same spot, pleased with the noise that spilled from her lips, “Did I find your sweet spot?”

He knew without a doubt that he had, but he wanted her to admit it. He smirked as she nodded and whined, “Mhm.”

Carlos sped up the pace, keeping the exact same angle. (Y/N) clenched hard around him, leading him to let out a long moan, closer to his fast-approaching end.

As he nailed her g-spot over and over again, she reached her hands up to grip his back. He adjusted too, moving his arms so that they wrapped around her waist, one hand on her lower back. He took their close proximity as a chance to kiss her, bodies and lips pressed together as Carlos continued thrusting. They exchanged muffled moans and saliva, both dreading having to separate for air.

After they parted, Carlos felt her tap his shoulder, he looked down at her, ready to stop in case she was about to tell him to do so. “What do you need, princess? You want me to slow down? Stop?”

(Y/N) shook her head, “Mm-mm, I wanna mark you, can I mark you?”

Carlos laughed at the question, “Baby, if you saw how many marks there are on your neck right now, I don’t think you’d feel the need to ask. Go ahead.”

She nodded, trailing kisses across his neck and collarbone, moving lower. He groaned loudly as she bit down right on his upper pec, sucking on it for a good length of time to ensure it left a mark. She kissed where she bit and then continued kissing his neck.

He could feel his resolve breaking down but he was dead set on making her finish first. He slipped one hand down to her clit, fingertips gently rubbing patterns into it. As she felt herself on the edge, she buried her head into the crook of his neck and bit down. He grabbed her jaw and pushed her down into the pillow, making her whine.

“No hiding, sweetheart, I wanna watch you cum.”

He got his wish, with Carlos’s words being the tipping point, (Y/N) came. Her orgasm was intense, mouth open, moaning, practically clawing up Carlos’s back.

As Carlos got close to his own end, he let out a whimper. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, where do you want it?”

“I’m on birth control, just stay inside me, please.” She pleaded, shaking.

He did not object, spilling inside her while whispering sweet words of praise in her ear, “Atta girl, just like that. Fuck, such a good girl.”

His erratic thrusting slowed and he gently pulled out. He couldn’t help but watch his cum leak out of her, mesmerized at the sight. As it leaked onto the sheets, he finally realized he should probably clean up.

After kissing (Y/N)’s forehead, he leaned in and whispered, “I’ll be right back,” before heading to the bathroom to wet a washcloth with warm water. He hurried his way back to the bedroom so he could clean her up.

He looked at her apologetically while she winced at the feeling of the wet washcloth touching her sensitive heat, “I’m sorry baby, I’ll hurry up.”

She nodded and tried to muffle any sounds of discomfort and leftover arousal that escaped her mouth from the contact.

“All right, all done.” He muttered, tossing the dirty rag into the clothes hamper.

She looked down at herself, “there’s cum all over my side of the bed.”

“We’ll just have to snuggle on my side then,” he smiled, crawling into bed and patting the area next to him, “I’ll deal with it in the morning, don’t worry.”

She nodded, cuddling up to his side.

“Goodnight, Carlos.” She whispered.

“Goodnight, (Y/N)”

[fairytail-whathesays]

thoughts/headcannons on laxeel!? not sure if you’ve made posts about them

Oh I have, but you don't know what you've unleashed!

picture taken directly from @gajeelenjoyer's tumblr header

You know that sidequest that's super fucking involved and tedious but it has some of the best rewards so you always make sure to play it even though you kind of hate it? That's kind of like what Laxeel is for Gajeel. For them both, really.

Laxus is a fucking beast. He's broken. He's OP. And most days, Gajeel doesn't bother to comment on that, but this is a man who is very concerned with how he stands among others, where he ranks, and who has the right to judge him. It sucks ass being attracted to him. In most days up until he joined Fairy Tail, Gajeel hadn't been so egotistical he'd thought no wizard could equal him--he worked for Jose, a Wizard Saint, after all--but before then, he'd never been mistaken when measuring an opponent. Finding out someone like Laxus was not only stronger than him, but could probably kill him as easily as snap a twig, was extremely humbling. Hell, it was terrifying. Bro straight up walked into the bonus boss fight at lv 10.

And that never really goes away. He respects Laxus, he does. Even kinda likes him a bit, openly at least. But he can't actually pursue someone like that and feel secure, it's a huge barrier for him. Ever since Metalicana left, he's learned a hard lesson about putting people on pedestals, so the fact that he lowkey thinks Laxus is the coolest thing ever is kept under strict wraps because he thinks it's not healthy for him.

I'd love to tell you (for the sake of the #drama) that Laxus has an equally hard time coming to terms with the fact he likes Gajeel...but honestly he accepts it pretty readily. He's equally quiet about it, but that's just because he's a lil bit shy and waits out his fortunes. There's a lot he admires about Gajeel, which is strange to say, because he downright hated Gajeel before his excommunication. He likes Gajeel's punk attitude, his big heart, how he seems to be as much of a loner with as much of a struggle with social skills as Laxus is. Laxus is by far the more ready of the two for a relationship.

Many things Gajeel does to make himself distinct and individual are off-putting to others (the piercings, the punk clothing, the studded knuckle dusters), but attractive to Laxus--the same thing goes for things people usually don't like about Laxus (the aggressive fashion sense, the music taste, the unapologetic attitude), Gajeel is into that. Once they click, they get along really well.

Here are just a few headcanons:

They could chat for hours, and have, but there's also days when they barely talk at all. It's not that they're in a fight, it's just that once they start learning each other in and out, nonverbal communications take up much of their relationship. Touch, smell, energy. That stuff.

Sensory issues and sensory overload are a big, big thing with Gajeel. His senses are extremely heightened, to a degree that's special even for dragonslayers, and this is part of why he's such a loner--he gets overwhelmed easily. His hearing is second only to Cobra's and his sense of touch is extremely refined. Laxus has similar sensory issues and this helps them bond and they support each other in these regards.

There's a huge scent thing with them. Scent forms a huge part of how they navigate the world, including their relationship. Laxus' scent--ozone and the grass just before a storm--used to put Gajeel's hair on end and make him think he was about to be struck by lightning. Now he associates Laxus with the smell of furs and fabrics, not to mention leather. Gajeel, similarly, has a scent like iron tang and a slight gasoline edge to it that lowkey drives Laxus crazy.

On the topic of sensory stuff, Gajeel's hair is not as long as it is because he likes having long hair (although he does like how it looks on him). It's because not only does he hate the sound of scissors right next to his ear, he fucking despises the itchy sensation of hair clinging to him. But he ends up disliking how the electric energy in the air around Laxus affects his hair, so he does end up keeping it mid-shoulder length and only once cut it super short.

Wanna know how well Laxus gets to know people he likes? He has an extra sense--electroreception. Not only can he detect people, he can sense shifts in their physicality or mood by how the electric field around them changes. When Gajeel is getting overstimulated, his skin starts to harden and his hands start to ball into fists unconsciously, and the electric energy field around him changes. Laxus picks up on this and often separates him from or talks him through whatever's happening that he doesn't like.

Kissing Laxus lights Gajeel's heart on fire, it actually makes him so elated and breathy. Even a small one will make him smile and getting to kiss his man after not seeing him for the whole day will make a shitty day a little bit better immediately.

You think Gajeel dislikes Ivan? Bitch, Laxus doesn't fucking like Metalicana. Laxus may have his own daddy issues, but the fuckin abandonment thing, without even saying anything, rubs him so far the wrong way and he has no problem saying so. Thank god--these two are united in hating the other's parent. In-law struggles, that's how you know they're staying together.

Let's just suppose for a minute that Metalicana didn't fucking vanish into the ether after stopping FACE. Being with Laxus gives Gajeel the edge to tell his parent--who he still loves, albeit from a distance--that he's doing his own thing, and that's just how it fuckin is, thank you very much. Adorable cat and aggressive boyfriend included.

Laxus is actually obsessed with Gajeel's eyes. He loves the color, he could stare into them for hours. Similarly, Gajeel has a major thing for Laxus' hair. It is very very fluffy (Gajeel likes fluffy hair--it's part of why he likes cats so much).

Now, on the topic of sensations...

It takes Gajeel a long, long, long time to do what he really wants to do, and bottom for Laxus, even though Laxus straight-up offers to bottom first if only to get him to ease up a bit. No matter how much he gets over his issues with homophobia and self-deprecation, he still has that nugget of ingrained shame that gets in the way. Thank god Laxus is a service top and knows how to please, and how to make Gajeel feel sexy. He's not the only one, either.

Laxus still tops most of the time but Gajeel on occasion wants to switch things up, and Gajeel is a fucking pro at it. He has a very big d/ck and knows how to use it to get Laxus on his back, shaking, gasping, and melting. These two learn a lot from each other.

Gajeel's lowkey obsessed with Laxus' pecs and likes to kiss and bite them. Laxus has just as much of a thing for Gajeel's shoulders and biceps.

When they're going at it super rough, they bite each other, and it's a testament to how fucking strong Gajeel's teeth and jaws are that some of Laxus' only permanent scars are just straight-up bite marks from his iron dragon boyfriend.

They both have to keep conscious control of their magic when having intercourse, with the more dangerous consequences being if Laxus doesn't keep a lid on the electricity. Gajeel does it too, though, which is much funnier because if he's riding Laxus too hard his skin suddenly turns to iron and he gets way heavier out of nowhere.

Laxus is an oral god. So is Gajeel. They are the dragon gods of satisfying oral stimulation. Match made in heaven.

Gajeel isn't into electric play but wow, the static bouncing between his piercings and studs is...kinda...wow, like.... ya know?

Laxus can and will offer massages. Gajeel often needs them if his day's been rough, his muscles tense very easily. It doesn't always lead to a happy ending, but it very often does.

In general, the sex is bomb. Like, they are 100% into each other and love doing mansex things.

[hearted-anon]

Broken eggs, mended hearts

Words: 1317

Note: minjeong

T/w: angst, soft tickles

Lee: Jeongin

Ler: Minho

Jeongin smiled brightly as he held the carton of eggs in his hands, staring at it like it was an ancient artefact that had just been restored. The staff briefly explained his mission to the maknae, resisting the urge to melt themselves with how innocent he looked; what was not to like about him looking up at you with such adoration?! Waddling out of the room, his task was simple: keep his egg babies alive, all of them. However, his mood flipped with a simple action.

“Haha!” Minho snickered triumphantly as he crashed not one, not two, but all of Jeongin’s eggs down into the sink, his babies spilling out their insides as the shells lingered on the older’s hands. Meanwhile, the youngest stood frozen in spot, only able to watch after wrestling in a futile attempt to save his mission. Quietly, he began washing down what was left of his failed mission while the members walked away with happy smiles, pursing his lips into a thin line.

“Wait wait-!” Minho exclaimed as he tried to close the door to the room, the rest of the members giggling along. All except Jeongin, who was tugging at the older’s sleeves aggressively.

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN GIVE ME FIVE MINUTES!” Jeongin yelled back, taking the entire group by surprise. Anger was practically seething through his teeth, hands clenched into fists so tightly they were as pale as Minho’s skin. The atmosphere began to grow tense, so thick a knife could cut through and serve a slice before the maknae stormed off, leaving the group in complete shock of what had just occurred in the room. Time seemed to slow down, Lee Know snapping out of his guilty daze when a door slammed shut so loudly it rang through his ears like a gong.

It wasn’t often that the roles were swapped in the group, it upset the members with the unorthodox ways both Minho and Jeongin were acting towards each other, avoiding even meeting the other’s eyes for a brief second. However, one simple thing told them apart: their expressions. The younger wore an unwavering scowl on his face, everything he touched crumpled and wilted, and every door opened slammed the wall with a thud. The older’s face was morphed into an ashamed frown, flinching whenever the sounds of metal cracking sounded, and jumping whenever another wall cried for help.

“I know you’re upset, but it gives you no right to act like this. Yang Jeongin, look at me. Go to your room and reflect, now.” Chan’s stern voice was easily distinguished, the sounds of feet thudding throughout the hallway coming after. This time, the maknae didn’t slam the door, didn’t openly curse when something went even the slightest bit wrong; it seemed the leader managed to temporarily break the upset barrier the fox had put up, chest squeezing knowing that it wasn’t entirely his fault that he was acting this way.

“Min, you need to go see him and apologise.” Chan sighed, eyes weary as he tried to coax the cat to make things right. Minho knew he was right, he had done nothing but sulk the entire day, putting zero effort into rectifying his mistake and just worsening the situation.

“But I can’t! W-What if he’s upset, slams the door, or-” Minho wailed, he felt so weak, tears streaming down his face as his mind engulfed himself in thoughts of any possible outcome. Usually he was meant to be the ‘emotionless’ one, yet he found himself cracking so easily under the pressure when applied just right.

“Yes you can. He’s just as distraught as you are, please.”

“Innie, can I come in, please?” Lee Know barely managed to get out, fingers curling around the wooden door as he saw a clump on the bed. It was unresponsive, but since he wasn’t yelling any insults, Minho took it as a sign that he could enter. Tip toeing his way in, he sat down on the soft bed, cringing internally when it creaked under the new weight. He stared at the clump of fluffy fabric under him, before taking the risk and peeling it off gently.

“Hyu- Hyung..I’m sorry..” His heart was sliced in half as he was met with a sobbing Jeongin, eyes completely bloodshot when he came up to cling to the cat, tears rolling down his scarred cheeks. Cooing softly, he doesn’t miss the opportunity to scoop the maknae up and into his arms, cradling him back and forth. He didn’t even know what the fox was sorry for, pressing a gentle kiss to the wet skin.

“Shh..you didn’t do anything wrong, I’m sorry for going overboard on the eggs..” Minho whispered, like a caress to the younger’s head as he tried to soothe his cries. Despite his exterior, Lee Know felt himself wanted to bawl alongside his member, but he held back, seeing how upset and guilt-ridden Jeongin was for something he had no wrong in. After what felt like hours under the radiant moonlight, only hiccups rang through the room, Jeongin clinging onto his hyung for dear life.

“C’mere, let me cheer you up.” At first, the fox stared up curiously, making the bunny giggle at the puffy eyes he was being flashed with. Bringing his hand down, he gently scribbled over Jeongin’s stomach, earning a quiet squeak before he dissolved into giggles. His hands shot up to cover his face, cowering behind his happy grin.

“Ah ah, let me see your face.” Minho tutted, his ministrations stopping for a moment to pull the maknae’s hands down, and again scribbling against the taut tummy. His hand that was snugly wrapped around the younger’s waist for support drummed against his side, eliciting a shocked squeal from below him; how adorable was that?

“Hyuhuhung hyung! Plehehease!” Jeongin whined, but didn’t push at the invading fingers on his torso, his hands simply curling around them like a child; his face heated up at the happy squeal that Lee Know let out from his small action. A dimpled smile became evident on his face slowly and steadily, cracks of dried tears forming when he crinkled up his eyes to continue his giggle fit, he swore that this was the epitome of adorable.

“I love you~” Minho ignored the younger’s endearing pleas, taking the hand on his stomach away to wipe away the dried tears, the rest of his nails scribbling ever so gently onto his cheeks. Jeongin shrieked with bubbly giggles, shaking his head side to side in a fruitless attempt to rid the nails on his scars; they were too sensitive for this..

“Ehehehe! H-Hyuhuhung!” The maknae tries again with his breathless begging, beginning to curl up into a tiny ball to ward off the fingers; of course it never worked. Minho could’ve sworn he himself was smiling so hard his cheek bones began to hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop the wide grin; Jeongin’s cuteness was going to be the death of him right now.

“Yes? Mr Giggles?” The cat teased lightly, the hand on his side now softly digging into the skin between his ribs, snickering when Jeongin arched his back with another sweet squeal, it made him want to bash his head into a pillow from the overriding cuteness aggression that washed over him in waves.

“Noho more! Plehehease!” Once the maknae had become a puddle of teary, snort-filled giggles, the older relented, once again wiping away the same tears; but now with an all different, more comforting reason. He didn’t miss the opportunity to give one last scratch to his scarred filled cheeks though, making the younger snort endearingly. Pulling him up, they both went in for a long, long cuddle, feeling the negative weight on their shoulders be relieved.

The next morning however, Jeongin had quite the ‘stress relieving’ session, and Minho had a great start to his morning.

[iiktty]

Shattered Echoes

a/n: hey, so um here is an oc x M/N fic, its only part one, bcuz i was writing on google docs beforehand and half of it got deleted so I HAVE REWRITE THE ENTIRE FUCKING THING, anyway its just angst with no comfort, but I might add comfort in part two? btw this is EXTREMELY SHORT. also i had no creativity for the title names...

warnings: cursing , angst, no comfort , scared reader , chars are married , NOT PROOFREAD

again sorry for the ugly layout

also no context as to why this is happening, just make it up

The apartment was a war zone, the silence between them suffocating, broken only by the pounding rhythm of Kane's footsteps as he paced. His eyes were wild with fury, chest heaving, lips curled in disgust as he looked at M/N, who was sitting on the couch. His eyes were swollen, red from crying, face flushed and bruised from the fight. Every inch of M/N's body ached, both physically and emotionally. The words that had been thrown at him still lingered like a venomous fog, suffocating his ability to breathe, to think.

"You think you can just ignore everything and I’m supposed to fucking deal with it?!" Kane’s voice was a thunderclap, and it made M/N flinch, his chest tightening in fear.

"I—" M/N started, his voice shaky, but Kane didn’t let him speak. He couldn’t.

"No! You don’t get to talk," Kane snapped, his voice dripping with venom. "You don’t get to sit there and act like nothing’s wrong when you’ve been fucking shutting me out for weeks! You think I can’t feel it? You think I don’t notice how you pull away, how you fucking hide from me every goddamn time I need you?!"

M/N swallowed thickly, his throat dry, every word stabbing him like a knife. He wanted to apologize, wanted to explain, but the words never made it past his lips. His mind was spinning, overwhelmed with Kane's accusations, with the memories of all the times he had failed—failed to communicate, failed to show up when it mattered.

"I fucking try, M/N! I try so damn hard to make this work, and you—you just sit there like I’m invisible!" Kane was pacing again, his hands running through his hair in frustration. "Do you even care about us anymore? Do you even care about me?!"

Each word cut deeper, carving out pieces of M/N that he didn’t even know were there. His chest felt hollow, the sting in his eyes threatening to break the fragile barrier he had been holding onto. But he remained silent. He didn’t have the energy to argue. He couldn’t do this anymore.

"I’m fucking done," Kane said, his voice quieter now but still thick with fury. "Done trying. Done begging. Done with you, M/N."

The words hit M/N like a slap in the face, even though Kane hadn’t physically touched him. His stomach twisted, the ache in his chest growing more unbearable. He didn’t know how to make it stop, how to make Kane see that he was trying too. But nothing ever seemed to be enough. It wasn’t enough for Kane.

The next moment happened so fast that M/N couldn’t process it. Kane had moved forward, standing over him, his eyes wild with anger. Before M/N could react, Kane’s hand was on his shirt, jerking him forward. The movement was harsh, aggressive, and it sent a shock of fear straight through M/N’s veins.

"You don’t get to make me feel like this!" Kane screamed, his grip tightening around M/N’s collar. "You don’t get to fucking make me this angry and think it’s okay!"

M/N gasped, his body trembling, and before he could say anything, Kane’s hand struck him—hard. The slap was quick, vicious, sending M/N’s head spinning to the side. He barely had time to process the pain before another wave of rage washed over Kane.

"You think this is fucking fair?!" Kane shouted, breathing heavily, his face twisted in rage and something darker—something that looked a lot like regret, but it was buried beneath the anger. "You think you can make me feel like this, like I’m the one fucking destroying everything, and you just get to sit there?!"

M/N didn’t move, didn’t fight back. He couldn’t. He could barely breathe as the sting of the slap pulsed through him, the burn on his cheek spreading like wildfire, but it was the words that hurt more. The way Kane spoke to him—as though he was nothing but a weight, a burden, something to be discarded.

"I… I didn’t mean to…" Kane muttered, his voice quieter, softer now, but the damage had already been done. The words had been spoken. The slap had landed. The emotional distance between them was as wide as a chasm, and no amount of regret could close it.

"You didn’t mean to?" M/N’s voice cracked, but he couldn’t stop the words. He couldn’t stop the anger that had built up inside him, the quiet rage of feeling so small, so worthless. "Then why do I always feel like shit, Kane? Why do I always feel like I’m fucking nothing to you? If you didn’t mean to, why do I always end up like this—broken, bruised, alone?"

Kane opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His expression faltered, and for a split second, M/N thought he saw something—something that resembled guilt—but it was gone before Kane could even process it. Instead, Kane pulled away, stepping back, breathing heavily, his face flushed with both anger and shame.

"You’ve done this to yourself," Kane muttered, but his voice wasn’t as strong now. "You make everything so goddamn hard, M/N. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. I don’t know how much longer I can keep fucking pretending that it’s okay."

M/N’s heart shattered, the pieces of him falling apart as Kane’s words sank in. He had heard them before, but never like this. Never with so much contempt, so much finality.

The silence between them was unbearable, and the only thing that filled it was the sound of their breathing. M/N could feel the weight of everything—the tension, the anger, the regret—pressing down on him, and he was suffocating. He wanted to scream, wanted to fight back, but the strength was gone. The energy was gone. All that was left was this hollow, aching emptiness.

"I can’t do this anymore," Kane said finally, his voice softer now, but the finality in it made M/N’s blood run cold. "I can’t keep doing this. You need to sleep on the couch. I need space."

M/N stared at Kane, disbelief coursing through him, the words sinking into his bones. He felt like he was dying. Every part of him—the love, the hope, the trust—shattered in that one sentence. Kane’s eyes were tired, distant, and even though there was regret in them, it wasn’t enough.

He knew it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.

"You want me to sleep on the couch?" M/N repeated quietly, his voice shaking. "You think that’s going to fix this? You think that’s going to fix everything that’s broken?"

Kane didn’t answer. He just turned, walking away, his footsteps loud against the silence that followed. M/N sat there, his body aching, his soul cracking with every breath. He wanted to scream, wanted to beg Kane to stay, to stop the destruction that was happening between them, but his voice was lost. His heart was lost.

The silence grew louder, and the weight of the last few months crushed him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fix this. And maybe, deep down, he knew Kane couldn’t either.

And as Kane disappeared into the other room, M/N collapsed onto the couch, tears streaming down his face, and all he could feel was the unbearable emptiness. The silence.

It had all been a lie.

And now, there was nothing left but regret.

Yua/Yuan , 2024