#because at the end of the day it comes down to feeling ignored and useless. and that's never a good feeling.

[amoscontorta]

Wine time with Sylus | ao3 | other stories in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus invites himself over, helps himself to your first aid kit and your kitchen, manipulates you into tasting wine with him, discusses his latest business venture, and gifts you more than one present before he's good and ready to finally leave.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person pov, no use of y/n

This story contains: fluff, banter, angst, mc with obvious self esteem issues, grief, self-destructive behavior, profanity, alcohol use, criminal activity, allusions to violence, sleepy kissing, biting, inappropriate thoughts regarding kitchen tools, the mental gymnastics mc engages in to avoid acknowledging or recognizing feelings on either side should come with their own warning to be honest, one very thirsty mc whose thoughts are NSFW. This part ends with a misunderstanding that you can bet Sylus will not put up with for long.

In the days following Sylus’s latest little… visit, you’re called out more frequently than usual to counter wanderer attacks. You’re barely home, and the few times you stumble home late into the night, you peel your sweat and sometimes blood-stained hunter’s uniform off right in the entryway, promise yourself you’ll do laundry soon, and drag your aching body to the shower. Then you usually spend what little night you have left lying there with your eyes closed, carefully keeping your mind blank as sleep remains elusive. You have to admit to yourself that the few times Sylus kept you company overnight, you slept like the dead, but you refuse to go so far as admitting that you wouldn’t mind if it were more frequent. If you were to admit it to yourself, which you will not,  you only yearn for it strictly for the sake of your sleep schedule, and absolutely not because you’ve come to crave his warm, comforting bulk against your body.

Tonight is no different, but you’re both looking forward to and dreading the next few days, as Captain Jenna has ordered you to take some time off to rest and recover from the brutal schedule you’ve been keeping for months now, capped off by the recent spate of increased attacks. All of your wheedling to let you keep going, that you’re fine, that the people of Linkon need you, that you need the constant distraction, has proven useless. Apparently the frequency with which you are getting injured remains acceptable, but she is finally at the end of her patience reading your barely coherent, misspelled reports with unfinished sentences that you only manage to submit before Association mandated deadlines by the skin of your teeth.

“Go home, get your head on straight, and come back rested … and literate again, please.” She looks back down at the tablet on her desk, trying to dismiss you, but you stubbornly remain at attention at her desk.

“That’s discrimination, Captain. I can be a perfectly functional hunter without being able to read or write,” you protest, while Xavier winces behind you. “I mean, obviously I can read and write, I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Still able to destroy wanderers!”

Jenna’s already formidable expression begins to darken, but you’re not cowed. You open your mouth to helpfully point out that wanderers don’t care about how well you can spell, when you feel Xavier’s gentle hand on your arm. “Come on, why don’t we go together to get some snacks on the way home? I think they’ve started re-issuing that wasabi flavored chocolate bar we tried at the beginning of the year,” he says softly, and Jenna shoots him an appreciative look before proceeding to ignore you both.

You glumly follow Xavier out into the early evening. Rush hour is over, but the sidewalks are still bustling with life. You weave through the mass of humanity, resisting the urge to drop-kick anyone who cuts you off or brushes against you accidentally. I am a role model for the Hunter’s Association, even when I’m off the clock, I am not allowed to arrest someone for bumping into me…. I am not allowed to arrest someone for…

Xavier tries to distract you from your obvious frustration by describing the plot of the latest manga series he’s reading that he thinks you’ll like as you two make your way  home. You listen absently, feeling slightly calmed by his soothing voice, despite its graphic descriptions of violence in the manga that you are pretty sure you’re going to really like.

“Are there any hot guys in it?” you ask as the mass of people begins to thin the closer you get to your building.

“Hot… guys?” he blinks in confusion, his impossibly blue eyes flashing in the streetlamps that have just turned on.

“Yeah. Like that other one we read, Help, I, a lowly office worker, went to sleep and woke up as the Queen’s assassin in the book I fell asleep reading. The main guy in that was super hot.”

“Well, it is by the same mangaka, so you’d probably like the way they draw the main character in this one too,” he says uncertainly, but with a strange expression on his face, like he suddenly doesn’t want you to read it with him anymore.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. Have you finished the first volume yet? Can I borrow it?”

You’ve reached your building, the trees surrounding the courtyard rustling in the soft end-of-summer breeze.

“…Great,” he says after a brief hesitation. He holds open one of the entrance's doors for you to enter the your building’s foyer. Your boots and his echo on the polished floor as you make your way into the lift. “I’ll be finished by tomorrow. How about we go the bookstore and afterwards you can come over and read since we have the day off? You can start volume one, and I’ll start volume 2. Does that sound good? We can make fancy ramen,” he says, his normally sleepy energy spiking with the idea of adding a boiled egg and some frozen vegetables to the normally plain ramen the two of you consume more often than not while on the go. Xavier’s idea of fancy has always been adorable to you.

The idea of not just sitting in your apartment alone on the first day of your forced leave is a welcome one, and you agree that he can come find you when he’s woken up, so that you don’t risk waking him up. He likes this plan, because obviously, you’re hardly sleeping at all, and he sleeps longer than you ever would have imagined possible for humans until you met him. As the elevator approaches your floor and the doors slide open, you’re about to step out when Xavier’s soft voice behind you has you turning to look back at his pretty face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “I know you feel like you’ve lost everything right now, and that the pain seems unbearable.”

You quickly turn your head—you were not expecting this sneak attack of sympathy and kindness from him. You nod jerkily, trying not to let his warmth sink into you, or else you might start crying.

“It sounds cliché, but with time, even this pain will fade. And you have so much time ahead of you. I can promise you that. One day you’ll wake up, and it will be slightly less unbearable. That doesn’t mean you forget about what you’ve lost. But you can think of it without… without feeling like you’re destroyed again, every time.” He’s looking at you, but you also have the feeling that he’s looking at something else, from a great distance. Knowing how secretive he is, it’s unlikely you’ll ever know what it is he’s seeing.

You nod again, and whatever he sees in you profile seems to satisfy him as he offers you a soft ‘Goodnight,’ and you scurry from the lift to your front door. You tuck away his words, and push them down deep. You know they’re well intended. But you can’t handle crying right now. Not yet. Not yet. So you focus on possible plans for the days stretching ahead of you.

There is a part of you that’s looking forward to possibly being able to rest, it’s true. But the stretch of empty days, without work and battle and the social interaction of colleagues, had been filling you with anxiety before your plans with Xavier were made. But even after tomorrow, you’ll try to make the best of it. You can… try to remember what hobbies you had, before your life blew up. Maybe you can take up a new hobby! Within the span of a few days. Yeah, you can teach yourself to crochet,or make stained glass art, in a day, right? Online videos are super helpful. Maybe you’ll even deep clean your apartment, and go grocery shopping, properly, for the first time in weeks. You’ll buy vegetables that have to be prepped instead of the hottest insta-ramen you can find and slurping packets of applesauce while telling yourself that it counts as fiber, right? You can cook, and bake! You just haven’t in… a really long time. Maybe you’ll bake an entire cake, and then eat the entire cake. Yeah. You have plans, you think to yourself, pressing your fingerprint to the scanner under your flat’s door handle and pushing the door open when it beeps.

As soon as the door closes with a soft whump, you carefully hang up your blades and pistol holsters on your wall-mounted weapon rack, and then you’re furiously undoing the laces on your knee high leather boots, hopping from one foot to the other as you try to kick them off without actually having to sit down and pull them off. You yank off your socks, then shimmy out of your pants, which you also kick off unceremoniously. You’re going to be positive about this little holiday! You’re so close to being comfortable and staying that way for days. You almost rip your buttons in your haste to remove your shirt, and just as you’ve gotten the last one undone, you finally notice the dark, looming figure in the shadows at the end of your foyer.

You’re in your fucking underpants, barefoot, and your weapons are out of reach due to your current strangulation by your own shirt sleeves.

Heart racing, you throw yourself backward against the door, prepared to make a strategic retreat and escape into the building’s hallway to buy yourself some time to free yourself from your shirt, no matter the cost to your pride at being caught out in your underwear, when familiar scarlet-ink tendrils of energy gently wrap themselves around your waist and softly lift you in the air. You find yourself kicking and squirming like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you choke out.

“Why are you still struggling, when you can clearly see that it’s me? Cease, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Why are you using your evol on me without my consent?” you retort, wriggling some more for good measure simply because he told you to stop.

“To prevent you from giving your neighbors the show of their lives without even charging admission,” he responds languidly, eyes the color of sunlight filtering through a glass of wine drifting from your probably red, sweaty face down your barely clothed body.

“Oh, they don’t get a free show, but you do?” you sneer, continuing to struggle to no effect.

“Look at yourself,” Sylus commands, and turns his head as if bored. You note absently that he’s wearing a ruby stud earring in his ear... the one that matches the earring in your own ear. So you never bothered to take it out. That doesn’t mean anything—you’re just lazy. You refuse to think about it anymore deeply than that, and then notice that Sylus not only looks bored, but also looks almost… offended? You do as he asks, and see that his evol is wrapping itself around your body in such a way that its bright-dark tendrils are covering all of your exposed, sensitive areas like a fluid robe.

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“Oh, indeed.” He continues to look away from you, aggressively bored, but his evol gently lowers you enough so that your bare feet rest on the ground, and then it loosens, but remains swirling around you.

“Then I’ll… just go get dressed.” You begin making your past him, but stop when you see him nonchalantly hold up a large, elegant shopping bag. It’s black, with some brand name you don’t recognize written in flowy silver script. “What is this?” You look from the bag to his face. He deigns to look at you again. Your eyes drift to his other ear, and you see that where it is pierced is empty.

“Wardrobe options,” is all he says, jerking you out of trying to puzzle out this opaque maniac’s intentions. You take the bag from him and quickly walk to your bathroom. No way you’re going to put on new clothes while feeling filthy from a long day and night of annihilating wanderers. His evol dissipates the moment your bathroom door shuts behind you.

It’s becoming a pattern. Thinking the worst of him, only to be proven wrong. But you don’t know how to overcome the cognitive dissonance of Sylus from your first meeting, and this Sylus who seems intent on taking care of you better than you take care of yourself.

You rinse off as quickly as you can in the shower, towel yourself dry, and take a peek in the bag that he gave you. The first thing you see is a black…? You lift it out of the bag, and it unfolds into a very large sweater. It’s thick, the fabric obviously of high quality. You touch it gently, running your hands along a sleeve—is it cashmere? It’s unbelievably soft. It’s probably a nightmare to wash. On impulse, you lift it to your nose, and take a deep breath.

Your suspicion is confirmed. It smells like him. This isn’t a brand new piece of clothing. This is one of Sylus’s own sweaters that he has worn before. The scent of his clean skin, the sharp tang of gunmetal, the bright burst of citrus, probably from some ridiculously expensive shampoo or body wash. The mix sends a thrill through your entire body: after only a few encounters, you already have bone-deep associations with the way Sylus smells. Fear and adrenaline, yes, but also anticipation—and bizarrely, safety. Instead of feeling terrified, you feel the way you would before riding a roller coaster. Yes, you’ll be screaming and holding on for dear life the whole ride, but you are also inexplicably convinced that in the end, you’ll have your feet firmly planted on the ground, safe again. A part of you whispers that it’s safer to avoid the roller coaster altogether—bolts come loose, wheels pull free from the track, tragic accidents happen all the time. But standing here in your humid bathroom, bone-weary from the day behind you, sniffing Sylus’s unwashed sweater makes you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a very long time.

You pull his sweater over your head, and you’re basically swimming it, it’s so big. The collar is big enough that it threatens to fall off one shoulder. But it’s so soft. And cozy. You hug yourself, and peek into the bag again. There are a few more sweaters, each dark with varying degrees of dramatic flair. This is part of Sylus’s wardrobe, after all. But there are also little sleep shorts, like the ones you were wearing the last time he invaded your home. You pick up a pair—no way would they fit on his big ass. You try, so, so, so very hard not to picture his thick cake stuffed into these tiny shorts.

You fail.

Your brain short circuits for a few seconds.

When it comes back online, you lift out a pair, and the fabric glides silkily along your skin. You’re pretty sure these are silk. They’re black, because of course, but they also have little red … happy pomegranates? Dotted along the hems. They’re adorable. You pull them on over your own bare ass and the sweater-shorts combo is probably the softest thing you’ve ever had on your body. The sweater swallows the shorts and makes it look like you’re wandering around without bottoms on.

You look at yourself in the mirror, silently telling yourself that you shouldn’t get on this particular ride. You don’t know where the track leads, and it scares you. What if it ends over a cliff, and the last thing you ever see is Sylus’s triumphant, cruel face looking down at you as you fall? There are other, less risky rides, certainly ones without wanted posters, right? Right? On second thought, you don’t even have to go the amusement park at all. You’re just fine with trying to get some fucking sleep, with continuing to hone your combat skills, with just trying to be a good person despite really liking knives and being an enthusiastic hunter.

But maybe you can just. Be friends with the roller coaster? Like, you don’t have to ride him. IT. THE ROLLER COASTER. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO RIDE THE ROLLER COASTER. You can just, watch it from a safe distance. You might indulge in little fantasies about what it’s like to ride… the roller coaster. And honestly, fantasies are almost always a hell of a lot better than the reality ever turns out to be. Not to mention! Sylus has never directly expressed any desire to ride … your roller coaster. Sure, he shows up unannounced and cares for you in ways that no one ever has, and he touches you a lot for someone who has no physical interest in you, but physical isn’t necessarily sexual, right? Maybe it’s an evol thing, and the way he touches you has to do with why you both find yourself inexplicably connected for periods of time. Like charging a battery. The point is! There will be no tickets to either ride, thank you, you aren’t open for business and he definitely does not have the proper safety inspection certificates in order, so. No.

You nod firmly to yourself in the mirror. This should be fine. You can be friends with Sylus. You don’t have to let him drag you over a cliff. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from him—he seems to be pretty competent at a lot of things that might be useful for certain aspects of your job. Like intimidating people. And exploding people with a thought and twitch of his fingers. And convincing them to do things they don’t want to do by sheer force of obnoxiousness.

Having sufficiently deluded yourself into believing that your plan of action has a chance of success, you slip out of the bathroom and find Sylus in the kitchen, next to a pretty wine glass that you certainly do not recall owning on the kitchen island.

He’s slicing strawberries with a very sharp knife that you do recall owning, because you do spend quite a lot of time sharpening the set it belongs to. They’re not kitchen knives, per se; you actually have them for work and they are really nice to throw. You already had so many knives before you moved into this place that you didn’t see the necessity of spending more money on probably inferior kitchen knives. But the large, really nice butcher block-style cutting board that he’s chopping the fruit on is not yours. And neither are the delicately arranged variety of cheeses, thinly sliced meat, and savory tarts set in puff pastry that fill up most of the cutting board. And lastly, you do not recall purchasing two bottles of what look like red wine sitting next to the wine glass, nor cleaning your kitchen so thoroughly that Zayne could probably perform surgery in here without worrying about risk of infection.

Despite your presence standing at the island before him now, he continues to serenely slice the ever-growing pile of fruit.

“Sylus?”

“Have a seat,” he says, not looking up.

“Oh, why thank you for offering such hospitality to me, in my own home,” you mutter, pulling out one of the wooden bar stools at the kitchen island. You’re about to sit down when you realize that the repetitive chop of the knife has stopped, and you look up to find Sylus frozen with the knife mid-slice in a fat strawberry. His eyes drift from your neck and exposed shoulder, down the soft expanse of sweater, to your bare legs, and then back again. You’re suddenly self-conscious—he’s the one who gave you these clothes. And now he’s staring at you like a wanderer is about to burst out of your chest.

“Did I misunderstand the assignment or something?” you ask, plopping down on the bar stool in the hopes of breaking him out of whatever weird trance he’s apparently glitching in. He swallows, flicks a final look at your shoulder, and then goes back to slicing.

“I’m simply shocked that you actually did as you were told, for once,” he responds, seemingly unruffled again. “You should also put one of the sweaters in your go bag as a backup in the event that your uniform gets destroyed, again, which it does at an alarming rate these days. The Association’s overheads for keeping you clothed must be in the stratosphere.”

“Mm, yes I’m sure you’re very concerned about the costs of doing business for the Association.” You rest your head in your hand, propped up by your elbow on the counter. The two of you sit in companionable silence for a while, with only the snick of the knife filling the space between you. The lights underneath your cabinets are on, emitting a soft warm glow from below, but you notice that he hasn’t put on the harsher, brighter overhead lights. The city’s skyline blinks serenely like an endless fleet of starships in the dark expanse of space through your windows, and a cool breeze wafts in from time to time.

Finally, Sylus is done, and he carefully rinses the knife in the sink and sets it on the counter. He turns back to you.

“No interrogation regarding why I’m here this time?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a light sweater in a deep grey, of a style quite similar to the one you’re now wearing. He looks domestic, and delicious, and you tell yourself sternly that he is friend shaped, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster—

You have to say something. “Oh, are you missing my very effective questioning techniques? Sadly, I left my handcuffs at the office,” you lift your shoulders in a what can you do? gesture, and his eyes follow your bare shoulder again.

“Handcuffs aren’t the only means of restraint available to a truly resourceful hunter,” he says, shaking his head as if disappointed.  “Your lack of imagination is boring.”

“Okay, Sylus. But only because you’re basically begging for it: why are you here?”  You lift a puff pastry and brandish it at him like a knife. “Answer honestly, or you’ll really get it this time!” You take a big, aggressive bite as if to illustrate what he’s got coming to him in case of his non-compliance, and then moan because what the fuck, this is so good, is it goat cheese and honey? And suddenly you’re devouring it, licking your fingers clean when you’re done because you can’t get enough.

“This definitely counts as an enhanced interrogation technique.” His voice is low, and has a rough quality to it that normally isn’t there. You glance up from slobbering all over your fingers and find that he’s staring at you in what is probably disgust.

“Ha, yes, and I’ll keep subjecting you to it until you tell me what you’re doing in my home, again. And how did you even get in? I never got you a key.” You finish licking yourself like an animal and reach for a strawberry. If he’s going to play chef in your kitchen, who are you to refuse to enjoy the literal fruits of his labor? You just live here and pay the damn rent.

He holds up the index finger of his right hand, which is sporting a band-aid that you recognize as one of the same kind you have in your first-aid kit. They’re super cute, with a design of sad little cartoon mushrooms. “I was at my accountant’s, which happens to be in this neighborhood, and I got a paper cut while signing some documents.”

You pause before biting into the berry. “You… came to my flat. With extra clothing, wine, wine glasses, and various appetizers, in order to get a band-aid for your paper cut. Is this a correct summary of events?” You decide you’re not going to wait for him to answer, and take a big bite of the strawberry, feeling some juice drip down your chin. You catch it with your index finger, and then suck the juice off after you’re done chewing.

There is a long pause, and you look up to find him staring intently at your finger. You widen your eyes and wave your hand in the universal gesture of hurry the fuck up, get on with it already? He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply. Apparently you’re so horrifying to witness eating that he needs to seek some zen before he can answer. It’s not your fault that he brought you half of his wardrobe and wine glasses but didn’t think to bring any napkins. “Yes, that is a correct summary of events,” is all he offers.

You look at him.

He looks back at you, occasionally flicking his gaze down to your mouth and back to your eyes. You consider baring your teeth at him just in case he wants an eyeful of the strawberry undoubtedly stuck in them, but refrain because you’re polite.

“Okay. Do you care to explain the motivation behind these events?” you ask slowly, thinking that maybe you will brandish a real knife at him to hurry up this so-called interrogation so you can straight up devour the rest of this charcuterie board that this wanted criminal has inexplicably prepared in your kitchen.

Fortunately, you don’t have to go for the knife, because he begins to speak. “There was a wine merchant that looked rather appealing on the way to your place. Since you revealed a deplorable lack of discernment when it comes to selecting a good bottle of wine the last time you hosted me, I thought I’d do my civic duty for the week and educate the less fortunate on how to choose, and enjoy, a decent bottle of wine.”

“I see.” You nod slowly. “That’s very civic-minded of you. You’re truly a model citizen. And the food?”

“It’s not wise to have a wine tasting without something to eat. Otherwise, you might find yourself making questionable decisions. We wouldn’t want that, would we, sweetie?” he seems to have recovered from his nausea at watching you wolf down food, because he says this with a playful lift of a silver eyebrow.

“Because letting a man whose baggage includes a wanted poster into my home whenever he wants could hardly be considered a good decision, and I made that one while sober,” you sigh. “I see your point.”

“Exactly. Just imagine what kind of trouble you could get into after a bottle of wine on an empty stomach?” He tilts his head to the side, and runs a middle finger slowly over his brow.

You shudder, because his big hands. You can’t pursue this line of thought.

“And the clothes?”

“Now you won’t need to borrow your partner’s clothes in case of an emergency. And I’ll have something to wear at my safe house in case you decide to assault me with beverages again.”

“That was one time. And if you don’t show up, then there’s no chance you’ll be assaulted. Therefore, no need for a change of clothes. And, pardon me, but your safe house? I think you meant, my flat. But what you’re telling me is that the whole reason you were coming to my flat in the first place was to put a band-aid on your boo-boo.”

He lowers his hand and begins running his thumb along his lower lip. “Even a small cut can turn life-threatening if not treated properly. And I wouldn’t want a scar, now would I? It’s not much of a safe house if I can’t make use of it when in danger of lasting bodily harm.”

“Mmm yes, what with your evol that renders scarring impossible for you, we wouldn’t want your paper cut to cause you lasting bodily harm. And you couldn’t acquire a band-aid at a pharmacy, perhaps like at the one next to the wine merchant I’m pretty sure you’re referring to?” You refuse to look at his big thumb pressing into his thick, soft-looking lower lip. You stare up at the ceiling, and consider cataloguing wanderers in your head to stem the sudden urge to vault over the island counter separating him from you and pulling that damn thumb into your own mouth.

“They didn’t have a box containing such cute little designs. I never knew I wanted anthropomorphized fungus to decorate a bandage intended to protect an open wound until I saw your own box.”

It takes you a second to remember what the hell the two of your were discussing when you realize he’s talking about your adorable little mushroom band-aids.

“A wine snob, and a band-aid snob.”

“I prefer the term cultured, but yes, I’ve told you before. Life is too short to waste on the inferior. Your sad little champignons surpass all others.”

He’s done it again. He has hardly even moved this entire time, and has managed to exhaust you to the point of blissful indifference. He shows up unannounced, rifles through your first aid kit, decides what you’re going to wear both this evening and in the future when you need a spare change of clothes, and has prepared an hors d’oeuvre spread worthy of at least a mid-ranged restaurant for you to eat while offering you a wine tasting? Fine. “Okay,” you say, reaching for another one of those puff pastries.

He watches you steadily for a few moments, as if trying to sense a trap. “That’s it?”

You shrug. “Sure. I told you that you could use my house if you needed it. I’ve just learned my lesson: next time I’ll be very careful in drafting the conditions of any deal we make, since your interpretation of certain terms appears to vary wildly from any reasonable person’s.”

“I think I’m quite reasonable,” he examines his nails. “I come bearing gifts, and this is how you show your gratitude? By insinuating that I'm unreasonable?”

Another thought occurs to you. “How did you even get in, Sylus?”

“Ah,” he says, squinting and looking out the window, as if contemplating a very deep philosophical question. “While you were sleeping last time… I took the liberty of adding my fingerprint to your door’s fingerprint scanner.”

What. The. Fuck. “What. The. Fuck.”

“Again, it’s not much of a safe house if I can’t access it without your presence. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not like I can’t just use my evol to teleport into your place anyway, but I thought you’d appreciate me coming through the front door. Fewer feathers. You didn’t seem to like cleaning those up the last time I teleported out of your place.”

You just stare at him. How would he even know that you cursed him, loudly, as you were mopping up the mess of blood and feathers he generously left in your entryway after being shot? And then it comes to you. Mephisto. Of course. You pinch the bridge of your nose, and visualize violently shaking that bird until his circuits are rewired.

Sylus continues, ignoring your mounting rage. “Come to think of it, we should probably upgrade your locks, kitten. It was laughably easy to override the system and add my print as authorized for entry.”

Forget riding the Sylus coaster—you think that maybe he isn’t even friend shaped after all. He might just have slid right back to enemy shaped. Frenemy shaped? Where does a frenemy lie on the spectrum of “fuck his brains out” to “polite, but distant acquaintances?” But then you remember that it’s not a linear spectrum, and fucking his brains out is not mutually exclusively to being mortal enemies. You’ve read enough enemies-to-lovers romances to know that perfectly well, so even if he is enemy shaped… you shudder. Why are you like this? You redirect your self-disgust and deflect, like a true emotionally well-adjusted adult:

“Why can’t you be normal? Like, do you do anything like a normal person?”

“Why would I pretend to be normal when I’m so obviously extraordinary?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re the unhinged one in this little situationship.

 “Sylus.”

“Yes, my heart’s delight?”

You stare at him, and he gazes back at you, leaning leisurely back against your counter, arms folded and long fingers slowly tapping out a rhythm on one bulky bicep. You know that if you remove his authorization on your locks that he will just teleport himself right into your place, and you’ll be endlessly cleaning up feathers. And you also really don’t want your neighbors to wonder who the hell the creep is loitering around your door at all hours of the night and then start asking questions if he actually honors your request not to simply appear in your place on a whim. You did previously offer him a key. Which he declined. Apparently because he was already planning this. You run your hand along the back of your neck in an effort to relieve some tension. “You can’t just let yourself into my place anytime you want. There need to be rules.”

“Fair enough. Provided that they’re not moronic, I can follow your rules.”

“And who decides whether they’re moronic or not?” you ask, knowing the answer.

He just smiles at you, radiating satisfaction.

“Okay. Rule number one—” you begin, only to be interrupted as he lifts a finger.

“I’ll follow your rules, if you promise to taste the wine I brought with me tonight.”

Even though you had already resigned yourself to whatever he had in store for you tonight, you can’t help arguing at this little added condition. “No, the deal is, you can use my flat, with your fingerprint, when you need it, if you follow the rules,” you huff.

He starts shaking his head. “I’m afraid not, kitten. You should have set rules at the beginning of our deal. You can’t just impose new conditions halfway through. A deal’s a deal. I suggest keeping that in mind the next time you have to deal with anyone else less… generous, than myself,” he intones, as if you’re a somewhat lacking student in need of instruction.

“So you’ll follow the rules if I promise to… taste wine tonight?” you ask, hoping that you can catch him out on a technicality and beat him at his own game. He considers for a moment, but must see something in your expression, because his eyes narrow and his smile widens to reveal his sharp canines.

“I’ll follow your reasonable, and not moronic, rules if you promise to taste the wine I brought tonight, with me,” he says.

You need to work on your poker face. You need to get Sylus to teach you how to improve it. Ugh.

“Fine.” If this means more food can happen soon, and honestly, yeah, a glass of wine, you’ll accept anything at this point.

He straightens from the counter and claps his hands once, looking more eager than you think you’ve ever seen him. “Excellent, let’s begin.”

“You didn’t even wait to hear what the rules are,” you protest, watching him fish out a wine corkscrew from his trouser pocket. It looks heavy, with a handsome wooden handle, and the stainless steel flashes under the soft lights.

“Send them in a text, I’ll redline them and return them to you, you can counter, and so on and so forth until we have an agreement. Like any proper contract negotiation. For now, it’s wine time.”

And with that, he sets to work opening the wine, humming a little tune so off-key that you have no idea what melody it’s supposed to be. It occurs to you that you’ve never used a corkscrew as a weapon, but as Sylus uses the small blade to slice through the foil covering the neck of the bottle, and then unfolds the lethal-looking twisted screw and begins expertly driving it into the cork, you realize that it could come in really handy in a fight. And there’s something else that’s really appealing to you—the combination of the contained savagery of the corkscrew, the assured movements of Sylus’s hands, the penetration of the cork—you feel a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the sweater you’re wearing.

“See something you like, kitten?” Sylus’s smoky voice drifts into your thoughts, and you look up, realizing you’ve been unabashedly staring at his beautiful hands, again, and the corkscrew, with undivided focus for the past few moments, and he has noticed.

You clear your throat, and then gesture weakly at the corkscrew. “That’s uh, a very nice looking wine opener.” You nod to emphasize your very normal approval of this very normal household item, because you are not thinking any thoughts about Sylus’s huge hands or screwing or penetration. None.

“Good eye. I’m rather fond of this model. I’ll have one delivered to you,” he says as he firmly pulls the cork from the bottle with a soft pop. He sets it on the counter, and picks up the other bottle.

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that the kind of wine I drink tends to come with a screw cap instead of a cork,” you decline, shaking your head. You can buy your own damn self a corkscrew for tucking into your pocket if you ever find yourself at a wine bar that doesn’t allow patrons to be armed, but you anticipate needing some kind of weapon.

“Refuse me all you want,” he murmurs, and you feel like there’s an implied part of that sentence that he’s just not saying out loud. But then he’s repeating the opening process with the second bottle, and you suddenly find the night view outside your window immensely fascinating, because whatever is continuing to happen in front of you is just. Boring. Utterly sleep-inducing. You can’t look or else you might just pass out from the tedium of it before you even get to taste the wine. And a deal’s a deal, as Sylus is fond of repeating ad nauseum.

After hearing the soft pop of the other bottle, you sigh and turn back to find Sylus holding the wine glass and pouring the first bottle’s wine along the inside of the glass until it reaches the widest part of the bowl. For the first time, you notice that there’s only one glass on the counter. But before you can comment, Sylus begins to lecture.

“Now, if this were an ideal tasting, I’d have brought a decanter to let the wine breathe properly for an appropriate period of time before pouring. We'd also be using a container for spitting each mouthful out in between tastes, to avoid the intoxication and poor decisions I mentioned earlier and interfering with our judge of taste. But since we only have two bottles to try, and it’s just you and me here, I took the gamble that you wouldn’t mind if we were a little less formal.”  

You wait to see if he has any other fun facts to share, but he’s looking at you to confirm that indeed, you can live with not waiting even longer to taste this wine that better have gold leaf flakes in it or something to justify this amount of ceremony and can also live with not… spitting out said wonder wine after tasting it.

But you recognize that Sylus appears to be truly passionate about this, and he’s looking at you so earnestly—you do not have the heart to meet his sincerity with sarcasm, when he's so sweetly trying to teach you something new.

“Your gamble paid off. I don’t mind at all,”  you say, meaning it. He perks up and gives you one of his almost smiles, with just the corners of his generous mouth lifted. He then proceeds to explain, in great detail, what type of wine this is, where the grapes for it are grown, its signature characteristics, what year it was bottled, and how it was received by the international wine community. It’s all actually quite interesting, except once again, right now you’re at the end of a long day, you’ve run the gauntlet of interacting with this unpredictable force of nature walking around in the body of an extremely attractive man, and you feel like you should be taking notes to actually retain any of this information.

After he seems to have informed you to his satisfaction and is looking at you expectantly, you nod. “That is… very fascinating. So how do we go about actually tasting it?” You might be an uncultured heathen, but even before Sylus’s lecture, you knew there are rules when it comes to tasting wine. You just always had other things you needed to learn first, like the weakest spots on a wanderer or human body. Or the best method of sharpening knives for the sharpest edge. Or how to clean guns to prevent jamming. How to affix a scope on a sniper rifle and measure the effect of wind speed and direction on a bullet’s trajectory. Or whether you should use baking soda or baking powder as leavener when baking certain kinds of cake. You have priorities. But tonight, it seems, is the night for you to learn about wine.

Before he answers, he moves around the kitchen island to where you’re still seated on the bar stool and leans down, gently spinning your stool so that you’re facing him instead of the counter. He then pushes the one next to you closer and seats himself. Even sitting, you have to look up into his face. You suddenly realize that the way he has positioned the stools puts him so close to you that his long legs don’t have anywhere to go—he just spreads them so that one is stretched out on one side of you, and the other is between your own, his knee incredibly close to your lap. If you shift forward even a little, you could grind on him.

Why is he doing this to you? What does he want? But then it occurs to you that Sylus has never seemed to either recognize or respect boundaries like a normal person—maybe this is just how he interacts with his friends. Constant, small touches, no sense of personal space. You wonder if he and the twins huddle together on the couch, sharing a blanket, while watching something on television.

So maybe you’re the freak, imagining riding this poor guy’s meaty thigh when he’s only just trying to share his appreciation of a sophisticated beverage with you. You close your eyes. It doesn’t matter whether he’s playing this little game on purpose or not. You refuse to let him see how much his proximity is affecting you, because then he wins. You don’t know what he wins exactly, but you will beat him before you let him have it. You try to think about his big hand choking you, but instead of having the intended effect of reminding you why you should never even consider buying tickets to the safety hazard now wedged between your thighs, it has … unforeseen consequences instead. What has this man done to you?!

You open your eyes, reach across the counter and grab a handful of carefully cut pieces of cheese, and then promptly stuff them all into your mouth at once. When in crisis, cheese is always a good solution. Except for maybe the blue cheese you accidentally mixed in with the Manchego or whatever-the-fancy-fuck he brought with him. Aaaand now you’re going to smell like blue cheese for the rest of the night.

You stare at him defiantly as you chew with puffed cheeks, and brace yourself for whatever is coming next. He side eyes you, face impassive.

You’re expecting some biting comment, but “Well, that’s one way to make sure you’ve eaten enough to absorb the alcohol,” is all he says. He slowly slides the glass with two fingers along the base across the counter until it’s sitting between the two of you. “Whenever you manage to finish inhaling all that dairy, we’ll be sure that we’ve given the wine enough time to breathe.” He pauses. “It occurs to me now that while I was preparing the food, I didn’t think to ask if you’re lactose intolerant.”

You deliberately chew as slowly as you can, making him wait as a punishment for making you feel things that you should not be feeling. When you’ve swallowed, you shake your head. “Fortunately, not one of my many flaws.”

“It’s not a flaw.” He shrugs. “How can anything you can’t control about your body be a flaw? And Luke and Kieran are lactose intolerant, so I always have lactase enzyme tablets on me to avoid… unwanted consequences when they decide to have a cheese tasting contest.”

You cock your head. “A what now?”

 He rubs his middle finger between his eyebrows. “Yeah, they can’t help themselves from making a competition out of every single human activity, so on the nights the chef prepares a cheese board with dinner, they try to outmatch each other regarding who can identify the most flavors of cheeses without cheating by asking the chef or querying Mephisto or searching online. Or asking me, because I’m undefeated.”

You stare at him, and think if there’s ever any universe in which you voluntarily return to the base where Sylus kept you captive for days and touched you like he owned you, hand violently clasped in his, where you were terrified for your life, exhausted and confused… and if you ever have a friendly enough relationship with the chaos twins, you’re going to practice your ass off so that if you’re ever invited to such a competition, you can wipe the floor with them. Their cheese-off sounds fun.

Your train of thought is derailed as it registers how smug the last thing he said was. “You’re undefeated,” you repeat, giving him a chance to redeem himself. “At identifying cheeses by taste.”

“And smell, yes. So I’m not allowed to play anymore. My palate is too refined, and they know they don’t stand a chance.”

Oh, you’re definitely going to start sampling cheese every week. You cannot let this smugness stand.

“Ah yes, his royal snobness and his impeachable palate,” you roll your eyes. “Now, will his grace the Duke of Gouda please get on with the wine instruction?” You would give him a little mock bow, but that would put your face right in his formidable cleavage and you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from motorboating his unfairly huge pecs. Ugh.

He snorts. “Finally, you’re showing me some long-overdue respect.”

You nod gravely, thankful that the aether core in his eye is not currently delving the depths of your depravity. It’s time to focus. On wine.

“So why do you have to let wine breathe before drinking it?” you ask, because you’re focused.

He looks pleased that you’re interested enough to ask a question. “Much like people, it’s good to expose a greater surface area of the wine to fresh air for a while—it allows undesirable scents and flavors to dissipate, so that it tastes better when you do take a sip than if you drink it straight after opening.”

“Well aren’t you wise, philosophizing about wine and people,” you smile. You find yourself being surprised again and again tonight—at his presence, his bearing gifts, his surprisingly sweet attempt to teach you something, his kind takes on lactose intolerance and what people need to be healthy.

“Did you think I only consist of feathers and spite?” He lifts the wine glass by the stem with one hand, and your hand in his other. He gently wraps your fingers around his own.

“Let’s not forget hubris and violence.” You watch as he gently swirls the wine in the glass held between you. His hand is so warm compared to your own.

“If that’s all, then you still have a lot to learn about me,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t seem offended. Almost as if he’s simply determined. To do what, you’re not sure. “I’d tell you that you should always hold a wine glass by the stem so that the heat from your hand doesn’t affect the temperature of the wine through the glass itself. But your hands are so cold—I don’t think that would be a problem for you. But if you want people to think you’re a connoisseur, you should anyway if you’re ever on an undercover mission. Now, before you take a sip, inhale the scent we’ve just released by swirling the wine.”

You do as you’re told, and lean over, hovering just over the edge of the glass and taking a deep breath. The scent of the wine, warm and deep, fills your senses.

You look up at him and smile again. “It smells really good.”

“Of course,” he lifts the bottom of the glass with his free hand so that you can straighten, and guides your other hand to support the glass while slipping his own from around the stem and allowing you to hold it by yourself. Your hand immediately feels cold again. He leans one elbow on the counter, “I chose it for you. I’m not going to let you drink plonk.”

“Plonk?” What a cute word.

“Shit wine.”

“Mmm, not allowing me to drink shit wine, you’re truly a knight in shining armor.”

“I don’t need armor, kitten. Now that you’ve established that the wine hasn’t gone off by smelling it, you can take a sip.”

You’re about to lift the glass to your lips, when he reaches up and runs his fingertips along your wrist to stop you. “As you do, don’t swallow immediately. Roll the wine with your tongue in your mouth, and try to really think about what flavors you can taste: can you detect the oak from the barrels, earth, tannin, fruit or spices? Is it sweet or dry?”

You nod, mouth suddenly dry. But you follow his instructions and take a slow sip, rolling the rich liquid around in your mouth, and then slowly swallow. A familiar warmth spreads from your stomach, radiating out through your body. His blood bright eyes follow the movement of your lips, your throat. “I taste… fruit.” You pause, trying to appear very serious about finding the perfect description of flavor. You take another sip, close your eyes. “Yes, very fruity notes. Grapes, in particular.”

You open your eyes to find him scowling at you.

“Aren’t you the comedian?” he growls. “I’m going to revoke your wine privileges if you don’t take this seriously. How are you going to feel confident if you ever need this knowledge on a mission? Or on a date?”

You just laugh at him and try to turn a little on the stool, lifting your arm to keep the glass out of his reach, but his knee between your legs prevents you from moving, and he easily leans forward, fingers drifting up the length of your arm to then wrap around your own hand on the stem. He carefully pulls it back between the two of you. Your hand feels warm again. Safely wrapped in his.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my needing to know how to pass as a wine snob on a mission. What kind of missions do you think I’m regularly going on?” You gently lift the glass again, pulling his hand with you, and take another sip. It really does taste so good. You can’t tell if it’s wildly different than the wine you normally get, but you know it doesn’t taste like it’ll leave you with a headache in the morning.

He shrugs. “If we didn’t have to bring the place down when we were at the auction, people would have been watching you at the dinner banquet. What would you have done if people started to notice that you were clutching the wine and swigging it like a drunken toddler and started to suspect that your behavior wasn't matching your cover identity?”

You gasp. “Excuse me, you don’t know how I normally drink my wine!” Who does this bastard think he is? And here you were, thinking he was sweet, sincerely trying to share one of his interests with you. “I don’t need you patronizing me regarding how I’d manage at a formal event or on a date! I’ve been on plenty of dates where I was able to drink wine without driving off my partner.” You try to pull away from him, and the wine sloshes dangerously with your movement.

“Sit still,” he commands, holding your hand tight with his and placing one large palm on your bare thigh. You immediately freeze. “I watched you gulp wine from a mug the last time I was here,” he retorts.

“So you think that just because I don’t care what you think, I can’t read the room and act according to the demands of the situation?” The indignation coursing through you is amplified by the wine spreading through you.

“Then is it fair to say that you didn’t feel the need for any pretense between us last time because you’re so comfortable with me, and not because you’re as civilized as a cactus?” he asks, running his thumb gently back and forth along your inner thigh.

Your brain is being scrambled by his thumb, how close he is to you, his clavicle exposed by the V of his sweater’s neckline, the scent of his warm, clean skin, the wine going to your head after a long exhausting day.

“I’m saying I don’t feel the need to impress you in my own home when you show up uninvited and demand beverages and band aids,” you finally manage. You’re warm. Too warm. “And what’s wrong with being a cactus?”

“Did I say there was something wrong with it? Cacti can survive the harshest conditions on earth and still produce the most beautiful flowers. And they hurt when they stab you.” He smiles like the thought pleases him immensely.

You can’t process this. He says shit like this so easily—he can’t possibly mean it in the way you are trying so hard to deny that you want him to mean it. You refuse to be lured in, only to see the cruel lines of his face when he realizes you have pathetic feelings for him. The man who could as easily rip your spine from your ribcage as offer you a glass of wine, if you lose your usefulness to him. A usefulness you still don’t know the nature of.

You’re suddenly viciously aware of how close he is to you, how he is watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel like the use of his aether core is unnecessary: you’re afraid that he can see everything you’re feeling, and you hate it. You need space. “What are we even doing, Sylus?”

His eyes drift from your eyes to your mouth, and you try very hard to steel your expression, to conceal how utterly raw and exposed he’s making you feel. You can’t tell if you’re successful, when he finally lifts his hand from your thigh and runs the back of his knuckles with such softness along your cheek that it makes you ache. You resist the urge to turn your face and nuzzle his palm.

“We’re tasting wine, sweetheart.” He leans back, pulling the glass of wine you’re still holding with him. He inhales deeply, and then takes a sip, eyes glittering over the rim, watching you. “It is a good vintage. But it’s not the only one I brought.” He guides your joined hands to set the glass on the counter, and then gets up, rounding the counter to rummage in a bag on the floor on the other side. When he stands up, he’s holding another wine glass.

You do a double take. “You brought two glasses?”

He looks from you to the glass in his hand, then back to the glass still on the counter, and then lifts his eyebrows. “Is this a trick question?”

“Why haven’t we been drinking about of separate glasses then?” you demand.

He shrugs. “That glass is for that bottle,” he nods to the glass sitting next to you. “This glass is for this bottle.” He gestures at the other, untasted bottle sitting on the counter. “No need to rinse our glasses in between tastes.”

You want to laugh, and cry. You’re so fucking done with thinking for tonight.

“Okay, Sylus. Whatever you say,” you sigh.

“Oh, I quite like the sound of that,” he smiles, one canine peeking over his lip. “Then you’re going to enjoy the sorbet I brought for us as a palate cleanser.”

He proceeds to go to your freezer, scoop out some of the aforementioned sorbet that has apparently been in there all evening into a bowl, and takes the stool next to you again. This time, he situates one long leg on either side of you, caging you in. He takes a spoonful and offers it to you. “This will help rinse your palate so that you can taste the next bottle without any lingering effects of the other.”

You look from his seemingly guileless face to the spoonful of sorbet. Yup, you’re really done thinking for tonight. You lean forward and open your lips. He slips the lemon sorbet into your mouth. His eyes remain on your lips as he pulls the spoon away, dips it back into the sorbet, and brings it to his own mouth.

After he continues to trade spoonfuls with you until the sorbet is gone, he pours the second glass of wine, and you both take turns sipping it in companionable silence.

“Now tell me. Which one is your favorite?” he asks after you’ve finished the second glass, and return to the first to finish it as well.

“I like them both,” you shrug. “Sorry for not having a more sophisticated answer.” You’re feeling drowsy and loose. He can walk off a tall building for all you care if he doesn’t like your answer.

“They’re both excellent wines. Each one is suited for multiple situations or meal combinations. They’re versatile, just like you are. And I don’t require any particular answer, except your honest one. I think you already know that you don’t need to put on an act for me, ever.”

You rest your elbow on the counter, mirroring his position, and rest your head in your hand. “Why would I pretend with you, if you can just force the truth out of me?”

“I will never do that to you.”

You look away. “You’ve already done it to me once before. What else is there to hide, when you’ve seen the ugliest parts of me?”

“I will not do it again. Not unless you ask me to,” he says so solemnly that you’re tempted to be a fool and believe him. “And is that what you think? That what I saw was ugly?”

You sit up, take the glass from him and knock back the rest of the wine in one gulp. You can't do this right now. You can't think about the the violent hunger, the savage thirst, that his eye brought from the depths of your soul when he forced his way into your deepest, darkest desires the night you met. The extent of how much you wanted to kill him, and make it hurt, when you thought he had killed Caleb and your grandmother. How you still feel that hunger and rage, with every wanderer you kill, every time you hope some dealer in modified protocores resists arrest so you can put them down, with prejudice.

“I’m tired, Sylus. Thank you for the lesson. Now I can successfully fool rich assholes at upscale dens of corruption and unsuspecting dates into believing that I’m a sophisticated connoisseur of overpriced beverages, and swindle them all. And I’ll never horrify you again by swigging wine out of a mug like a drunken toddler. You should invoice the Association for your services. In the meantime, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“I see. You’re still on guard, and defensive, when you're drunk too. How fascinating.” He narrows his eyes, not seeming to get the hint that you want him to leave now.

“I’m not drunk. I’m maybe tipsy, and I’m fucking tired. I’m going to bed.”

“All right,” he says easily. He stands and begins tidying up the counter.

“All right,” you repeat, feeling a little dizzy, a little empty. “You know where the door is.”

“As you say,” he says serenely, pulling out food storage containers you also didn’t realize you own and packing the food away.

“Thanks again,” you say, because you are polite, dammit. You make your way into the bathroom and begin getting ready for bed. When you emerge, your flat is dark. The kitchen looks pristine in the streetlight drifting in through the windows. You stare for a moment longer, wondering if maybe he’s finally given up on whatever his agenda with you is after your little emotional display tonight, and he’ll stop coming by now. You’re fine with that. Maybe this is what you’ve needed to do all along. Get drunk and sloppy. Guarded, defensive, he called you. What an asshole.

You pad into the bedroom, yawning, pulling up your phone to look at it as you walk. Maybe you should try listening to audiobooks to try to help with the insomnia. Like, boring ones with deep, sexy voiced narrators who can bore you to sleep like Sylus did the other night. You crawl onto the bed, and then—

“The fuck, Sylus?”

He’s sitting in the middle of your bed, sweater off and replaced by… nothing. Just the expanse of his big, creamy chest. And he’s wearing a pair of silky looking loose, black pyjama pants. An impossibly soft looking line of silver hair drifts from his tight navel, disappearing under his waistband. His gold-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose, like last time, and he’s scrolling through something on his tablet. He glances up at you, but then goes back to his… spreadsheets?

“Haven’t we already been through that little routine tonight?” he asks, and yawns. “I’m getting déjà vu.”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” you seethe.

“Going over the financials from the meeting with my accountant today.”

“Why?” You just sit there on your knees, on your bed, gaping at him like an idiot.

“To ensure that my next acquisition is suited to purpose.”

“What?”

His gaze flicks to you, and he pushes the glasses further up his nose. “Well, I made a promise that I wouldn’t change a thing about my latest business venture, so now I need to ensure that the next chain of businesses I acquire can serve one of the functions I had intended for the arcades.”

“What function is that?” you ask, curious now, despite yourself.

“Well, one of two primary functions,” he amends, tapping his temple thoughtfully with a finger.

“Okay,” you say slowly, inviting him to continue.

“Money laundering.”

You shake your head. “Come again?”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to. Thank you for the invitation. I wasn’t sure I’d ever receive one again, what with your heavily implied dismissal earlier.”

“Sylus!”

“Yes, my most precious gem?”

“What do you mean you intended to use the arcades for money laundering?” You want to cry even thinking about it.

“To be fair, after you asked me so sweetly not to change a thing, I immediately agreed. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But that’s why you wanted to buy them?” How many times can a heart hurt in one night?

“I said that was one of the two primary reasons I wanted those arcades,” he says, reaching out with one hand and softly stroking your knee.

You look down, watching his calloused fingers drifting so sweetly across your skin. How can this man be so cruel and so gentle at the same time?

“What was the other reason, then?”

“Guess.”

“I’m done playing games with you tonight, Sylus.”

“When was I playing a game tonight?”

“Fine, don’t tell me. Just promise again that you won’t change anything about my favorite arcade.”

He sets the tablet on his lap, and reaches over to grasp your hand. He links your pinkie with his, and lifts it to his lips. “I already promised. And I promise again.” He seals the promise with a brush of his lips, and then rests both of your hands on the bed between you.

You don’t know why, and you will probably never know why, but you believe him right now. It’s clear that no matter what you do, he will not be leaving tonight without great violence on your part, and once again, you’re just too tired to fight him anymore. He reads your body like a damn book, because he silently hands you the glass of water that was sitting next to him on the nightstand. "Even if you're not drunk, but only maybe just a little tipsy," he says, doing an awful imitation of your voice. "You should still drink some water so you don't feel terrible in the morning."

Perhaps because of your easy compliance with his reasonable advice by simply taking the water and drinking it, he seems to deem it safe to pull you into his side. You go down, resting your head on his thick shoulder, and let your gaze wander over his tablet.

“So what are you thinking of buying this time?” you ask, yawning.

 He shifts, lifting your head so that he can wrap his arm around you, repositioning you so that you’re tucked a little closer under his chin, cheek resting against his chest. “A chain of casinos.”

“Casinos?” you laugh softly. “That’s on brand, I guess.”

“Mmhmm.” He runs his fingertips absently along your arm, from wrist to elbow and back again. “Lots of money changing hands. Ideal for functioning as a washing machine for the dirty proceeds from the weapons business, which comes out clean in the pockets of lucky winners.”

“You make your living profiting off the worst in people, you know that?” you ask sleepily, the numbers on the screen blurring.

“They’ll continue being terrible, with or without my involvement. I don’t make them take the bet, or pull the trigger. And if I don't, someone else will put the chip or gun in their hands. Might as well be me collecting the paycheck.”

“Maybe, through the power of friendship, I can change your mind,” you murmur. You don’t think you’ll need that audiobook to fall asleep tonight.

“Friendship, huh?” Sylus asks, but when he looks down at you, he sees that you’ve already fallen asleep. He traces the long sweep of your eyelashes across your cheeks with his eyes, feels your measured, calm breath drifting across his skin. He gently touches one finger to the ruby earring you haven’t taken out yet. The thrill of satisfaction he felt when you answered the door still wearing it would sustain him for weeks. He is absolutely certain that it won’t be the power of friendship that’s going to change him.

He pulls you a little closer into his chest, snorts when he feels you begin to drool onto his pec, and continues scrolling through his tablet.

That night, you dream. You’re walking through your childhood home—but not your childhood home from before your memories, because you will never know what that home looked like. This one, the home from your earliest memories, with its wood panelling on the walls, old-fashioned lace curtains in the windows that you can’t see out of, because it’s pitch black beyond the glass. Hallways lengthening at the same pace as you can walk down them, boots echoing on the polished hardwood floor. You walk and walk, and you can never reach the end. Doors that won’t open, but you know Caleb might be behind them, because in your dream logic, his bedroom is behind every door you pass. You turn the handles, but they remain locked. Sometimes you think you can hear the sound of someone biting into an apple, crisp flesh giving way to sharp teeth, but the door won’t open no matter how hard you throw yourself against it. You hear your grandmother speaking, just around every corner, but you can’t understand what she’s saying. You follow the sound, and every time you think that she’s just around the next turn in the hall, the corridor stretches in front of you again, empty.

You have been in this empty house for years now, and you’re afraid that you’ll never be able to get out. But you’re more afraid that once you get out, you’ll never hear them making these particular sounds again, this slim proof of their existence echoing through the empty hallways.

Slowly, you wake up, and in that endless moment caught between your dream and reality, it’s just peaceful and black—you are coming from somewhere so far away toward something you know will hurt, and you’re not ready to feel that yet. But then a feeling of suffocation is overwhelming you, and you open your eyes to realize you’re literally being smothered by a very big, very warm body.

The relief you feel, the gratitude, that Sylus is still here, that you aren’t waking up alone, again, from the nightmare in your sleep to the reality that the nightmare is real, and you’ll never be able to see your family again, is more overwhelming than your current need for oxygen. Sylus is still here, and the yawning emptiness you were carrying with you for what felt like years during that long dream dissipates in the warmth of his body against yours. You can’t help yourself. Your throw your arm that isn’t being crushed by him over his torso and hug him tightly to you, giving in to the urge to nuzzle his chest and just listen to his steady heartbeat.

You lie like that for awhile, blissfully listening to his soft breathing, when suddenly you realize that pressed so close to him, you can feel every contour of his body, from your chest against his abdomen, his muscular, silk-covered thigh wedged between your legs, and his apparently very, very big dick pressing into your hip.

You freeze, feeling like the creep you have accused him several times of being. He’s just sleeping, and you’ve plastered yourself against him like a vacuum sealed burrito. You have absolutely no business being utterly thrilled that this part of him matches the rest of him in terms of size and intimidation. You will not be taking this joy stick for a test drive. You can get out of this. You’re a very good hunter, and you can evade detection and make a tactical retreat when necessary. And it’s very necessary right now, because you do not want him to wake up and find you attached to him like a love-sick leech.

Slowly, sooo slowly, you slide your arm from where it is slung over his waist, and begin to incrementally scooch backwards, his leg slipping from between both of yours, freezing when he seems to shift a little, and then continuing the slow slide away when he settles again.

You’ve managed to extricate all of your limbs from him, except the one that is currently numb and squashed underneath him. You slowly roll onto your back and contemplate how you’re going to get it out from under him without waking him, when suddenly his arm flops over your waist. You jerk in surprise, eyes flying to his face, but his are still closed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, and then snakes around to take a big handful of your ass. He makes a little happy noise and then pulls your body into his again. In the process, he has managed to jam his thigh back between your legs. You stare at his face, trying desperately to see if he’s starting to wake yet—how did you even end up in this situation? Then he pulls you even closer, causing his thigh to press deliciously against you. You suppress a whine, because it has been so long since someone has touched you liked this. But of course the person who is touching you is a maniac and is doing so while still asleep. You reach up and pat his cheek to wake him up, simultaneously trying to to pull away from him, but tightens his arms around you again, dipping his head to your shoulder still exposed by his too-big sweater.  You freeze in shock as he inhales deeply and hums, and soft kisses trail from your neck down, and before you can push him away he bites into the meat of your shoulder. The pain, pressure, and warmth of his mouth on your skin have you trying to arch away and into him—you do whine this time, loudly, because it hurts but you want.

Suddenly, his whole body seems to tense. The pressure on your shoulder eases, and he sighs, his breath cool drifting along your over-heated skin.

“Good morning.”

You open your eyes, realizing you’d been squeezing them shut through the last few moments, and meet his sleepy gaze.

"Were you awake?” you demand, terrified of the answer. Because if he was, then what the hell was he thinking, pretending to be asleep? And if he wasn't, was he just dreaming? Was it you in his dream, or was he dreaming of someone else? You don't want to know. You have to know.

“Your rather loud response to my love bite woke me up, I think,” he smiles softly. "I didn't realize that I was... dreaming until then."

“So you didn’t mean to—” you start to pull away.

He tightens his arm around your waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sylus, let go. I’m sorry for not waking you fast enough. I was just—I was just shocked. I know you wouldn’t have done that otherwise.” You struggle, but his arm is a steel bar holding you in place.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” he agrees, and you feel whatever fragile, tender root that had been growing in the cracks of your broken heart wither, the dry husk drifting away in an autumn breeze. Replacing that faint feeling of hope, you're livid that you do not share the same teleportation ability that Xavier and Sylus have. If you could, you'd teleport in a poof of glittering light or melodramatic feathers. To anywhere else but here.

You nod, and nod, and nod, because he’s not letting you move but you have to do something or else he’ll see it right on your stupid, open face, and you’d rather he slit your throat than see the pain his rejection is inflicting on you. You had lied to him earlier, about not having anything to hide, about always being honest with him. You've been lying to yourself, and to him, ever since you met him.

“What I mean—” he’s looking at you intently, and you want to cover his eyes with your hands, because as always they’re seeing too much, but suddenly, the doorbell rings through your flat.

You both turn your heads to look at the bedroom door at the same time.

Oh. Fuck.

Xavier.

Sylus turns to look back at you, so close that his nose brushes yours. “Expecting company, kitten?”

“It’s Xavier. Shit.” You try to roll away, and this time he lets you. You grab your phone off the nightstand and see that Xavier has already texted you a few times to see if you’re ready to head to the bookstore yet. The texts grow increasingly concerned the longer you don’t respond. The doorbell rings again. “You have to go. Now.”

You turn to Sylus, who is now lying leisurely on his side, head propped up in his hand, silky silver hair cascading across his forehead, occupying the bed like an imperialist force annexing a weaker neighbor’s territory, with no intention of leaving.

“And what are you going to do?” he asks, eyes drifting from your face, to your shoulder, down to your bare legs.

“I need to answer the door and tell Xavier that I’m running late.”

“Late for what?”

“Sylus, I don’t have time for this. You can’t be here. Xavier helped me get into the N109 zone, he spends a lot of time there—he’s smart enough that if he finds out what you look like, he might eventually be able to figure out who you are. You can’t be here,” you repeat, starting to panic. Sylus may not have any feelings for you beyond friendship or a predator toying with its food, but you still don’t want him to get caught because of you.

“You’re not working today. What plans do you have with him?” he asks, completely ignoring your distress.

“We’re going to the bookstore. We were going to spend our first day free just reading manga and eating junk food,” you rush out impatiently.

Sylus just looks at you for a few beats, the picture of lazy boredom on a weekend morning.

“Okay? Are you satisfied? Can you please leave now?” This is good. You can avoid the inevitable, It was a mistake, thought you were someone else, was dreaming about a giant amorous anthropomorphized ruby, you’re not exactly my type, because my type is someone who has their shit together, can identify what fucking region a certain grape was grown in and its exact soil acidity based on the year of the vintage, my type is someone else, anyone else—you reach down and hit yourself hard in the side of your thigh with a fist to get your head on straight, and start heading to your closet, intent on throwing on a robe or longer shorts so that you don't answer the door looking like you're not wearing any pants.

Sylus's irritated voice follows you. “Satisfied? No, I'm not feeling satisfied. But I would advise against answering the door wearing that.”

You jerk to a halt. “Excuse me?” You turn to find him scowling at you.

He waves a dismissive finger at the sweater and silk shirts you’re still wearing. “I think you should change before you answer the door.”

“I look that bad, huh? Thanks for the advice. You need to be gone when I get back.” You turn, hating everything and everyone, and make your way to the front door.

You throw it open, just as Xavier is lifting his hand to ring your bell again. His sky blue eyes, usually so calm and sleepy, widen when he takes in the dumpster fire that you are today.

“Hi, yeah, sorry. I overslept,” you rush out, hoping you can skip this part and go straight to the moving on with your day and your entire life part. “I just need like, fifteen minutes, and then I’ll be ready.”

“Did you get in a fight with a wanderer last night after we go home?” he asks, hand lifting again, this time toward you, as if he wants to touch you, but then thinks better of it and drops it back to his side. He’s wearing the white hoodie that Sylus stole from him. What even is your life right now?

“What? No, I just had some wine and was really tired.” He’s staring at you, brow furrowed now, and it takes a minute to realize that he’s staring at the sweater hanging off your shoulder. You suddenly get a really, really bad feeling. “Why?”

He lifts his hand again, and points, but in a kind of timid way, like a little kid who knows that it’s rude to point but can’t help himself anyway so just points a little so that his mom won’t get mad at him. “It looks like a wanderer bit you.”

You lift your own hand and touch your shoulder, and feel the too-warm skin there, the ache spreading deep into the muscle.

“Oooh, yeah. Yes.” You decide that you need to take acting classes. That is what you will do as your new hobby, on your few days off. You’re going to win the best actor award if it kills you, because if it doesn’t kill you, the embarrassment will kill you instead. And you’d rather die convincing everyone that everything is normal and you’re fine, and not from the embarrassment of the fact that your not-boyfriend, not-fuck-buddy, not-interested-at-all, probably not even your friend anymore Sylus accidentally bit you while fucking asleep and left evidence of it for all the world to see. “I did respond to a really minor alert in the neighborhood last night. It was only one wanderer. Hiding in a trash can of all places,” you laugh, not at all sounding unhinged. Convincing. “Bit me pretty good, but it really was nothing, I had completely forgotten about it. So, still on for the bookstore?” you ask, chipper, eager, well-adjusted!

Xavier stares at your shoulder for a few seconds longer, and then just nods. “Yeah, just text me when you’re ready.”

Bless him. You’ve almost put him back to sleep with your absolutely stellar performance. “Okay, great! See you soon.” You back into your flat again and let the door shut with a heavy click.

Xavier stands outside your door for several moments after you’ve scurried back inside. He thinks about how sharp his light blade is. He thinks about how he’s going to use it on whatever motherfucker thinks that he has the right to mark Xavier’s partner like an animal. And then he yawns, and meanders back to his own flat to wait for your text because he has all the time in the world, and the patience to match it. Xavier is your partner, and he’s not going anywhere, anytime soon. If he murders whatever asshole was in your flat last night right now, that might interfere with your bookstore plans with him.

You stand on the other side of the door for a moment, just trying to collect yourself. You lean against the cool surface, look up at your ceiling. Breathe in the smell of shoe leather, oiled metal. Absently you lift your hand to your shoulder. Why didn’t Sylus warn you before you went to open the door? He even admitted that he wouldn’t have … done that to you if he hadn’t been asleep. Why would he just… and then it hits you. He did tell you to change clothes before you answered the door. The asshole just didn’t tell you why. But he would know by now that you’d actually do the opposite of whatever he says, because he’s not the boss of you. He played you like one of his fucking records.

But why the fuck would he want Xavier to see what happened between the two of you? Does he enjoy your humiliation that much?

You have no idea if you’ll ever have the chance to figure him out, especially if he got the hint that you don’t want to see him anytime soon. You shake your head. Even though you should be exhausted after staying up so late and ending up on the human embodiment of a roller coaster with its wheels coming off despite all of your promises to yourself last night, you feel well-rested. You will survive this. You can survive anything.

You head back to your bedroom to confirm that Sylus is actually gone, because last night proved that whether he actually listens when you tell him to leave depends entirely on his own whims. As you enter, the late morning sunlight spills into the room. He really left. The room is empty. The books and various weapons on your nightstands have been stacked neatly and lined up just so. The clothes that had been left haphazardly hanging off your chest of drawer handles or strewn over the floor are nowhere to be seen. It would be the tidiest your bedroom has been in weeks, if not for the fact that your entire bed is covered in a thick layer of black feathers.

“This bitch,” you breathe.

It’s going to take at least two full size trash bags to clean this mess up.

You decide then and there that Sylus doesn’t have a choice about whether he’s going to see you again. You’re going to bag up these feathers and then tar and feather him with them the next time you see his gorgeous, petty fucking face.

[minnaci]

i'll chime in a little on the whole. big vs small blog thing. i am a small blog. i don't have a super high follower count. i don't have a bunch of anons clamoring for more of my writing or people asking for my thoughts. honestly, most people, even in my extended "circle", don't know who i am. im not "popular" or "big" by any means, and i know my place.

BUT i know that even with my smaller platform i can still at the very least raise awareness for a cause that is important to me and should be important to everyone. if someone finds out about ficsforgaza through me, and through ficsforgaza finds another, "bigger" author they like better and decide to sponsor or request from them, i would still be ECSTATIC about it. because at the end of the day, the most important thing is happening: people are donating to palestinian families and helping save lives.

with respect to the ficsforgaza movement (and other similar fandom/online movements), it's important to remember the objective of the movement— raising money to help families in gaza. we as writers are not being directly donated to. we as writers are not the focus of the movement. the focus is, and always should be, aiding the palestinians. that is the point.

[bettysupremacy]

hi love ! could you write a fluff!rafe where the reader is a workaholic and ends up getting a cold and rafe takes care of her? 💌🍄

my boyfriend!!!!!!!

“I need to go in today.”

You gaze at Rafe, who returns your stare. It feels futile, yet you persist. You try to sit up, pulling the covers off your legs, but retreat under them when the overhead fan reaches. A dull ache permeates your body. The cold seeps into you, but the blanket is suffocating. Your body feels warm, but the air is biting.

You concede. “Nevermind.”

“Yeah.” Rafe moves to help you gently, he’s fixing the blanket.

“It’s fine.”

“Seriously,” Rafe warns suddenly. “I’m gonna make you cut your shifts down.”

“But-“

“No, this is a ‘I want to pass the time’ job, and you’re treating it like you’re employee of the month.” He’s annoyed, with you surely. “Shit, are you employee of the month?”

You frown, ignoring his question. He’s right. Though, he usually is. He already provides for you through the big money of the company his father passed down, you just don’t wanna be bored. You don’t want to contribute nothing, and you’re treating it like there’s rent to pay and mouths to feed. Well, there is, but not in the demand you

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he huffs. “I just can’t stand seeing you like this.”

“I know.”

He helps you sit, moving the pillows behind you. Your chest feels fuzzy and so do your eyes. Dully, your nausea makes you cough.

“I’m nauseous.” You tell him.

“Jeez.” He murmurs, his eyes round and concerned. “You want zofran?”

“Yes.” You whisper.

Tears pool in your eyes as he sits up, collecting at your eyelashes as you try to blink them away. You bring your hand to swipe at them, sniffling. Rafe’s brain lags.

“What?” He asks, kneeling down again, hands in desperate search of your face. “Baby, what?”

“I’m embarrassed.” You cry.

“Why?” His rough hands swipe at your tears gently. “Everyone gets sick.”

You turn away from him,

“If this is about me being upset earlier, I swear it wasn’t at you.” He stresses. “I-I had a bad day, and seeing you’ve succumbed to illness makes me sad.”

You giggle wetly. “Succumbed to illness.”

He beams proudly. “I knew that would get a laugh.”

You smile up at him, fever working through your veins slowly. You shake again miserably, working yourself up into a fit of fat tears. They roll down the hills of your cheek heavily, pooling under your chin. You blink out three at once and Rafe nearly has a conniption. Why are you crying?

“It’s not.”

He works his hand over your hair, gently, but not cautiously. “Then what?” He pleads. “Help me understand.”

“I just love you.”

“You’re crying because you love me?”

“I don’t feel good.” You correct.

“You don’t feel good?”

“And I love you,” You admit. “but you’re here,” You moan. “seeing me like this, and you’re so pretty.”

He laughs, quickly recovering to a sympathetic face when you frown at him.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” He soothes, lips near your ear. “Sometimes I look at you and I want to cry.”

“But you never do.” You wallow.

“Have you ever seen me cry?”

“Once.”

“Forget that.” He grimaces. “The point is, you’re stressed and sick.”

“I don’t see the point.” You murmur.

“You’re vulnerable right now, to your.. feelings. If I were sick, and stressed, and I saw you, I think I might cry too.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Did the people cry when the angels came down in the Bible?”

“Did the angels.. come down?” You ask. “I’ve never read it.”

“I’m not sure.”

You laugh. “Maybe we should ask Scar.”

“Scar?”

“She’s smart.”

“I think she’s Jewish.”

“So?”

“Different book, my love.”

“Duh, I’m not that sick.” You laugh. It drips with sticky sticky cough syrup. “But still, she’s smart, maybe she’ll know.”

Rafe sighs lovingly. “Maybe. We got off track.”

“We always do.”

Rafe snorts. “You’re feeling better.”

“Get on track.”

“I don’t remember the point I was making with angels.”

You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You’re useless.”

“Abominable girl.” He chastises, sitting up anyways.

“Go get me medicine.” You’re smiling. “Useless, useless doctor.”

[deadsetobsessions]

Once more the hallucinations hit, and once more I am here writing it out.

My brain is fucking terrifying and I want out, so bad. This came to me in the form of a nightmare.

Also, please don’t take the timeline into consideration, because I have no idea what’s going on. Again, nightmares and dreams tend to not have the best coherency when it comes to plot and timelines. The reincarnation doesn’t have a name, I was too busy feeling terrified. Shit in parentheses was how I experienced the nightmare. Everything else is just me adding sprinkle sprinkle.

——

Ra’s al Ghul.

Talia al Ghul.

Two names that she had been aware of, in the peripherals of her hyper fixation. Two characters meant to enhance the story of the Dark Knight. Side characters, on a good day. Perhaps, a main antagonist on a better day.

On a bad day?

Main characters. Real, living people. Real, living, breathing assassins.

Unfortunately, they’re her new family. One she remembered coming into, bathed in a pool of blood and screams.

She was not a baby.

She is now, a baby. The first of Talia al Ghul’s children. The eldest, once Damian al Ghul was born.

Swaddled in emerald green and gold silks, she was presented to a man with silver streaked hair and a receding hairline. He too, was robed in green and golds.

“A daughter, Talia?” He rumbled, the smooth Arabic flowing out of his mouth failing to hide the acrid disappointment. The child, past the haze of confusion of suddenly being deported from her own adult body into one of a helpless child, felt a stirring of irritation. It’s good she learned the language, because now she knew exactly how Ra’s felt about her. The child grumbled a displeased sound. Not that she would have ignored the fact that her grandfather was Ra’s al Ghul. (He smelled like moth eaten fabric and blood- but I think that was because my cat accidentally scratched me.)

“My apologies, father.”

“Do not tell the young detective of this. Had it been a son, perhaps things would have been different. No, a daughter would only hinder him.”

Talia bowed, hands tightening on her daughter. “May I raise her, father?”

“A resource is still a resource. Go ahead, Talia.”

“Yes, father.” Talia took the dismissal and bowed before leaving.

On her way back to the room with the reincarnation’s crib, Talia al Ghul stroked her daughter’s head.

“I wish you were born a boy, my daughter. I am sorry my beloved will never know of you.”

The reincarnation looked at her new mother. She’s young, the woman-child realized. A teenager.

“You’ll have to be useful, my daughter. Your grandfather is not so kind as to keep the useless. I… do not wish for your death,” her mother muttered.

Great. She got new life and it’s already in danger.

——

She learned to swing a knife. Swords. She learned and devoured the teachings. She learned to be useful.

But then they asked her to take the life of a man who did her no wrong.

Her baby blues clashed with her grandfather’s Lazarus green.

She was still young. A child.

“No.”

“No?”

“He did no wrong.”

“He failed, granddaughter.” Ra’s smiled down at her, patronizing. Cruel. “Perhaps you possess your father’s heart, and you are foolishly sentimental, as women and children tend to be. But in the end, you are an al Ghul and you will obey. Plunge in your blade and I will reward you.”

The reincarnation looked at the man kneeling in front of her, resignation and a hint of pity in what little she could see of his face.

She’s already died before. What did she have to be afraid of?

“No.”

They tried to beat the weakness out of her. It didn’t work.

——

The reincarnation stared at the mirror, left alone in an opulent cage of gold and emeralds and precious stones that meant little to her now.

Her hands traced her back, small fingers finding purchase in soft skin. Her mouth opened fruitlessly, noise refusing to escape. She still felt the burning magic, the brand her own blood had carved into her skin and soul because she refused to kill. The chains her grandfather had shackled around her with magic and cruel amusement.

She had killed him, in the end. Obey, or be punished. Her body had moved without her permission, the reincarnation a prisoner in a body that refused to do as she commanded. The knife swung, a life taken, her hands dipped in red.

She learned a valuable lesson that day.

There were things worse than death.

“This is an order, granddaughter.”

The Magic had flared a searing heat at her neck, forcing her to kneel on broken legs. Ra’s loomed above, authority in his voice. She was bound to obey, regardless.

“You will never speak another word of affection, you will never speak another word to anyone unless I allow it. Perhaps this will teach you of your folly, and your place in this world.”

The loss of her freedom and the fear that came with it was a bitter and devastating lesson.

——

Ra’s al Ghul was so much worse than what little she knew of him.

She was right to be afraid for herself.

Her mother had worried, when she’d withdrawn and refused to speak to her. Even if she could, the reincarnation would not have wanted to. The reincarnation had felt furious, back then, when she thought of Talia. Her mother who refused to protect her. Her mother, who claimed she loved her but refused to see the chains Ra’s wrapped around her neck. She who plied the reincarnation with a supportive hand but forced her into the fighting pits.

But, as the reincarnation stumbled out on bruised and used legs from Ra’s al Ghul’s meeting chambers where he had allowed his business partners to partake in her, she realized that Ra’s was a monster in a human’s body and her mother was a victim of his making.

The lesson Ra’s taught her that day was that if she was not useful, if she did not kill, he would take what was left of her and make use of her.

Hate flared in her heart, and the beginning of Ra’s downfall began the day he let her go from the chambers alive. Injured, but alive. Injured and violated, but alive and furious.

——

She carved her hate and rage and helplessness and fear in the bodies of the people he bid her to kill. Her silenced screams were expressed in the way she splattered blood, the way she covered herself in it. A killing machine first, a stress reliever second, and a child… wasn’t on the list of things she was allowed to be.

His enemies were felled, one after another. He gave her his approval, something she detested.

But still, she continued, bodies racking upwards, tens turning to hundreds, hundreds edging into thousands.

The red in her ledger became ichor and guilt. Her language became violence and obedience.

“You have become a sharp tool, granddaughter.”

She was a genius, after all. And now, she could not disobey. A blade that Ra’s believed will never point towards him. She kneeled. She obeyed.

“Thank you, grandfather.” Her words were only allowed to come out- without searing, terrible pain- when she was thanking him. She tried not to do it as often as he wanted. He thought he broke her when he read the obedience she carved into her body language.

But she never bowed. Never. Not to him. Never.

——

“My weapon could learn much from your granddaughter,” David Cain sat across from Ra’s, wine in their stupid goblets. How she detested the green and blacks he’s seen fit to dress her with. She’s dressed provocatively, not of her own choice. She doesn’t have much of those- doesn’t have much in ways of choices- these days.

She was twelve, and Ra’s al Ghul deserved to die.

“Her combat is a higher form of what my daughter has achieved. How did you do it?”

When Ra’s began to reply, she slipped away.

She found the girl. She found… the cage- the black box- the child was placed in. The child flinched from her when she opened the metal box, fear only easing as the reincarnation kept her body language neutral and kind. (It was pitch black, and about the size of like, a closet. No light. Only from whatever door the box had.) (Cass’ hands hurt from banging on the walls to be let out)

David Cain’s daughter, her mind whispered, the memories of another life once more making itself known.

“Cassandra.” She whispered, regretting it immediately when pain wracked her body. She fell to her knees as the punishment for disobeying an order slammed into her.

The girl looked at her in concern, but did not move closer. The reincarnation stared at this girl and saw a reflection of herself.

David Cain would be here for a month. She will free Cassandra in those days.

——

The weapon stared at the girl in front of her, kneeling in pain.

She did not understand.

-

The girl came back. Water. Food. Kind.

The weapon felt warm. The girl was quiet. No sounds. Good. The weapon knew the girl understood. The weapon thinks that the girl is a weapon too.

-

The girl comes back, again. This time, she makes a sound. It hurt her, but she did it again. The weapon understands when the girl points at herself and repeats the sound. The sound means the girl. The girl expects something from the weapon.

The weapon makes the sound, flinching to see if the owner will come to punish it. The girl purposefully sits, relaxed but vigilant… and protective. Of the weapon?

The weapon relaxed. It repeated the sound, pointing at the girl.

The girl smiles, in pain. But approval. The weapon feels- the weapon is warm, like under the blanket. Approval.

The girl teaches her to make sounds but the weapon communicates without it. It does not like the sounds, does not need them, but the girl seems to think it’s important.

The weapon likes the girl, so the weapon learns. They still understand through no sounds, through reading each other.

-

The girl comes back, silently. Secretly. The weapon does not notify the owner. The weapon feels- does not want to.

The girl- the girl with the sound- she says a different sound. Her body tells the weapon that it’s important, this sound.

And when the girl points at herself and says her own sound, then points at the weapon and says that new sound again, the weapon begins to understand.

The girl had given the weapon her own sound.

“Cass—n- ra.”

“Cass,” the girl said, and Cassandra understood.

“Cass.” Cassandra pointed to herself.

-

The owner wanted- wanted Cassandra to end a life. Cassandra watched the owner kill and gesture to the dead thing.

Cassandra did not want to.

When Cassandra is placed back into the pitch black box, she waited for the girl.

The girl came.

“Don’t want.” Cassandra clung to her, reading the welcome and the sadness in the girl’s body. Cassandra tucked her face into the girl’s shoulder. She is cold. The girl is warm.

The girl hugged her back. The girl understood. Sadness hardened into lines of determination. Cassandra felt… light. Felt hope.

-

Cassandra slipped away from the place, water in her pack for the dessert and money to run from the country. The girl stayed behind, seeing her off. The girl tells her to never come back.

Cassandra did not want to leave the girl behind, but the girl could not go.

“Be free, Cass.” The girl had whispered through the pain. “For the both of us.”

——

Her grandfather knew. He allowed David Cain to break her, not kill because she was of use to him still, as a lesson. She found that she hated his lessons. But, she hated his attention more.

And still, she could not regret. How could she, when Cass trusted her with what fragile hope she had?

So, she lets him beat her, and provokes him with smirks and fearless eyes because the longer he’s focused on her, the more time Cass has to run.

Then, he gets too angry, and insults Ra’s, whose eyes grew cold. Her grandfather gestured and while she usually hated the command that followed that gesture, she could not feel that hatred now.

She got back up, legs broken and arms twisted once more, and attacked David Cain.

Ra’s would not follow Cass. Not when she was not his business to deal with, and not when David Carin’s fury amused him so.

David Cain would not follow Cass. Not while she still drew breath. The reincarnation stood, and threw herself at one of the best assassins of the century.

She tore his throat out with nothing but her teeth. She felt, for once, not like a monster. Not even when Ra’s nodded in approval and ordered for David Cain’s broken body to be cleaned up.

——

She’s been granted a mission in New Jersey, once her months of discipline- of torture- ended. She does not get ordered to find Cassandra. She’s fourteen now, and as silent as ever. Her mother had adjusted to her silence by then- long ago, actually, taking it as a quirk her daughter had developed. She hadn’t been a terribly vocal child, after all. Talia praised her for being useful even as a woman- the self degradation something the reincarnation had no doubt Ra’s had insidiously trained into Talia- and for being loyal to Ra’s.

Sometimes, she hates Talia for being- for-

Never mind. She couldn’t afford to hate anyone else.

She killed her targets early, determination and wistfulness urging her movements into sharp . Then, she made her way to Gotham and slipped into the city of darkness- where her father was.

She watched as he hid in the shadows almost as easily as she did. She watched as he flew and glided with the younger Robin. (He was younger than her by a year. She checked.) He was free. They were free.

She wished…

As she turned away, she saw a child tumbling from the edge of a roof. It was an instinct she’d thought Ra’s had managed to bury after the months he’d spent making sure she killed only children.

She hated him.

She caught him, swooping in and tucking him against her side as she plucked him from the air and plopped him back onto the crumbling roof of Gotham’s slums.

“Oh, thank you! So much- are you a vigilante?” The boy asked, looking at her masked face. It’s a good thing she wasn’t exactly dressed like a regular League operative.

She shook her head. Her eyes fell onto his camera, faint memories rising once more. She had an inkling-

“I’m- uh- Tim!” The boy introduced himself nervously, edging away from her silence. “Thank you for saving me…?”

She nodded. She pointed to the camera, tilting her head.

“Oh- you… want to see it?” He clutched his camera closer. Oh, he did have some sense of self preservation. She wondered why a seven year old was allowed to roam these streets… but she did worse at seven.

She held her hand up and back up. The boy hesitated, and then showed her the camera. “Uh- I took pictures of Robin and Batman!”

They sat on that roof for hours, and she let Tim Drake tell her stories about her father and his son. Ward. Son.

She could tell that Tim didn’t have anyone to listen to him.

She didn’t have long until she had to go back or risk severe punishment, but… she could make time for Tim, to listen to him.

She wondered if Cass managed to escape completely. She wondered if her sister all but in name and blood learned how to smile.

——

Tim had never had a friend before!

She listened to him! And gave him hugs the one time he was brave enough to ask! And she seemed to like Batman and Robin as much as he did! No one who didn’t like them would listen to his endless rambling otherwise, right? (Tim was super skinny, like ribs poking out skinny. He looked like a sickly Victorian child and he was kind of cold)

“And then, Robin went like this,” he pantomimed the awesome punch Dick Grayson did on a Joker goon. “And the guys got knocked out just like that!”

His new friend nodded, looking interested.

“Sorry, am I talking too much?” Tim asked anxiously. He didn’t want to make his friend hate him!

She shook her head, and gestured for him to continue.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

His new friend was so cool! She even taught him how to throw a punch and to fight!

——

When she had to leave, she prepared Tim for it.

“Do you have to go?”

She nodded and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Her other hand held a duffle bag with an assortment of weapons she carefully kept from him. (One of the blades still had guts on it, which, ew.)

“Try not to fall off anymore roofs, little photographer.” She said, smiling at his shocked look before leaping away.

“Wait, you can talk?!” He shouted at her back. She smiled a little wider.

——

“A son, this time.” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice echoed in his disgustingly flashy throne room. It rings of approval.

The reincarnation stood behind her mother, eyes cast downwards.

“Well done, Talia. I finally have a worthy heir.”

Damian al Ghul cooed.

The reincarnation was scared. But… she could not allow her younger brother to be trapped like she was. She’s fifteen now, a decade of slavery having worn her down and nearly broken her. But with her brother… no, she could not allow it.

She met her mother’s eyes and knew then that they agreed. Protect Damian, at all costs.

She ignored the sting of envy. So what her mother could not find it in herself to protect her daughter? So long as she protected Damian, it didn’t matter.

Maybe she didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t worth anything. Maybe- maybe- maybe.

She also ignored the seed of disgust she had for mother’s actions in conceiving Damian. She couldn’t do anything about it. Talia was also a victim.

A louder voice in her asked if she could really excuse that, when Talia had a choice and she chose to hurt and violate Bruce Wayne like that. She wondered if she could truly ever forgive Talia. She wondered if Bruce Wayne got therapy.

——

She stared at the tome in front of her, eyes blank. (Actually, she had no eyes. Like? Empty sockets, but then later she had eyes???)

The brand- the shackles- the chains could only be broken if Ra’s died. She wasn’t opposed to that. But if he died, so did she. She couldn’t even kill herself to get out, because the chains would be there even if she died. If she was revived- a high chance, thanks to the fucking pits- then the chains would still be there.

Perhaps… she could use the pits?

Her mind turned and turned.

——

“This is your ukht.” Her mother pointed at her. Damian stared up at her, and she melted. Her brother was too damn cute.

“Ukhti?”

She nodded as her mother smiled in joy. “Yes, habibi.”

She was better at hiding the pain, now. She was better at enduring it, too, that fucking burning feeling. She spoke more, but only to Damian.

It would not do for her brother to grow up not knowing how to receive verbal expressions of affection. Not like she did, in this life.

Still, it hurt to speak. But then, she had an idea, based on Cassandra.

She could not speak, but speaking wasn’t the only way of communication. She’ll teach Damian sign language- standard, as commanded- but also her own version. Yes, she could do it. It wouldn’t be hard.

She was a genius, after all, and creating languages wasn’t as hard as people seem to think.

——

Damian copied her, small fingers patting his hand four times.

She did it back to him. “I love you.” She tells him, with sounds and with motions.

He does it back, excitedly, because he had a secret with ukhti!

——

Sometimes, she dared not to touch Damian. She wants to ruffle his hair and give him hugs but the ichor on her hands reminds her to not get to greedy. She did not deserve it.

Not when her hands were stained with the lives of so many people.

——

Another mission.

She was twenty now, and not much closer to escaping her bonds. Though, once she hit her majority, Ra’s lost interest in her in that way. A blessing, even if she had to seduce his “business partners” into giving him better deals more often now.

She stops by Bludhaven. The Robin she watched so many years ago- six, by her count- had grown new wings and moved. She wanted to see if he could fly still.

He could. He flew as free- no, freer than his days as Robin.

She dipped away to complete her mission (nuclear weapon trading, really?) and swings back to see a spider trying to break the former Robin’s wings.

“No.” Nightwing whispered, staring upwards at the cloudy sky blankly. “Please, stop.”

She didn’t need to hear any more. She saw red, and dove feet first straight onto the spider’s head, knocking her out.

She picked up a near-catatonic Nightwing, and helped him to his apartment. She left Tarantula in the rain and felt zero guilt about it.

He changed mechanically, some kind of instinct keeping him from removing his domino, but it was a bit pointless considering she escorted him to his personal apartment.

She watched as Nightwing slipped into an exhausted sleep before leaving. She had a spider to squish, and traces to hide.

——

Dick wakes up, drained and exhausted. He… someone saved him.

He sees a scrawled note, handwriting impeccable enough to be a font, written with his pen. He picked it up from his table, and his eyes tiredly read the message.

“Don’t worry about Tarantula. Or your identity.”- A friend.

He remembered- the mask- the mask of the stranger that saved him vividly. He’d remember. And he’d thank them if they ever came back.

——

She was in charge of training assassins, these days. A year and a half later after Bludhaven, she was back in Nanda Parbat, and she’s devoured every magical tome she could get her hands on. They all say the same things.

Her assassins were trained well, and Ra’s praises her with more responsibilities as he followed the pit in his obsessions. Her mother began to splinter the group, not knowing that as Ra’s began his descent into madness, people looked towards her instead of Talia for leadership. They did not know that her unwavering presence by Ra’s side wasn’t voluntary but it is their true that she became his right hand out of pure skill. And flawless obedience, of course.

Then, someone new joins.

Someone with pit rage and empty eyes that goes rigid when she approaches.

Then again, most of the operatives freeze up when she walks towards them.

Her memories roar. A child.

He bowed, and her eyes followed the streak of white hair at the forefront of his skull.

She gestured at him to follow, and ignored the pitiful eyes the rest of the assassins gave to the kid- they act like her training was hard when she went easy on them (it was)- and led the kid towards the training rooms.

She knew who he was, even if her grandfather and mother didn’t think she knew.

Her… Bruce Wayne would probably appreciate his son being returned relatively sane.

But first, she had to beat the Pit out of him. Then, she could assign body guarding duties to him, in an attempt to protect him.

——

“Grandfather, I will take Damian’s punishment.”

“A whipping girl, granddaughter?” But he nodded anyways. He made Damian watch.

She kneeled and allowed the punishment. She couldn’t always protect him from Ra’s, but this she could do anytime. It’s not like she was unfamiliar with the torture. (The whip had barbs. Rusty. And they sprinkled salt.)

——

“I liked poetry….” Jason Todd tells her after a training session. “I think.”

“Sure. I’ll call you Grave, then.” Pain. But she was used to it.

He tilted his head, eyes going blank once more. She sighed. There went his memories again. (His eyes were blank and glazed. Like looking at someone you love and knowing they’re looking through you.)

——

“I would not trust her,” she says to the air, next to a Red Hood emerging from Talia al Ghul’s chambers. She could see it, the beginnings of Gotham’s new crime lord. But still, “Talia al Ghul is known for her lies.”

She pushed away from the wall. It was up to Grave if he listened. It was out of her hands now.

——

She’s twenty-five, and she’s helping Damian pack for his first meeting with Bruce Wayne.

“You must not tell him about me.” Because he’d come rushing here, and she had worked too hard to save Damian for her fool of a father to come and ruin all of that effort.

“I promise.” Her little brother said solemnly. Ukhti said it out loud, which meant it was important and she expected him to keep that promise.

The only other time he’d heard her speak was to tell him she loved him.

The reincarnation smiled and told him through their special sign language, to treat the current Robin with respect and to try his best to get the current Robin to pass down his title.

‘Robin is earned. They have different rules, over there. Try your best to learn those rules.’

Her brother was sheltered. She loved him, but he was spoilt and sheltered. Of course she was worried. Talia barely mothered him.

“I know. You do not have to remind me so often, ukhti.”

She smiled, and patted his head.

“Be safe,” she whispered. “I will miss you.”

Damian darted in for a hug. “Of course. Goodbye, sister. See you soon.”

She hoped not. It was hard enough to convince Ra’s that Damian would learn more under Bruce Wayne.

(She was locked in a small closet- like Cass- for about a week, because she brought up the idea first.)

——

She found it.

The answer to pit rage laid in an old, all but crumbling tome from Atlantis- answers “from a ghost.”

——

Bruce Wayne died. Months after Damian came to live with him. That- irritating- she sighed and worked with her mother to turn Ra’s al Ghul’s attention away from Gotham, lest he called Damian back in Bruce Wayne’s absence.

The little photographer caught grandfather’s attention. She stood vigil as he played chess with Ra’s. His interest in Damian wavered. Anticipation blurred in her veins.

She saved his friends. Her assassins. She let them go, telling them to wait for the little photographer’s plan. (Y’all miss girl had fucking bloody handprints on her pants like someone tried to grab it.)

The first few people who had an inking she might not be loyal to Ra’s… and it was them.

When her other assassins attacked Red Robin, she cut them down before they could touch him, helping him with a furious League of Spiders or whatever operative. She hated spiders.

“What…?”

“You’re a lot of trouble, little photographer.” She sighed. His jaw dropped.

“It’s you!”

“Go,” she cut him off. “Blow this place up. I left a surprise for you outside.”

——

“Owens?! Z?!” Tim trembled, exhaustion and shock and wonder hitting him at once.

“Heya, boss!” Z chirped. Owens helped Tim up while Z helped Tam. Pry walked around them, looking out for further threats. “The nightmare trainer let us go. She knew you, I think.”

Tim smiles, all shark teeth and zero hero. (In the background, the song zero to hero from Hercules 2, played in reverse.) “Tell me more.”

——

Damian grunted, bracing himself for the magical creature’s attack.

“Robin!” His father barked out, panicked. Damian hoped he’d survive-

Shhhlk!

He looked up and there stood his ukht. She bounded forwards, using the odd fauna of the magical plane to bolster her movements as she sliced the creatures apart with her swords, magic humming brightly as she cut through them… and the magicians attacking them.

“What- what are you doing here?” He asked. She greeted him, three fingers curled over her shoulder.

‘My question is,’ she signed. ‘Why were you here without a magical weapon.’

Damian sighed as father stepped in between them.

“Who are you.”

“Batman. Cease your excessive worry. I trust her with my life,” Damian snapped. He stepped around a shocked Batman, looked him in the eyes, and unsheathed his katana. He handed it over to his ukht, who took it with amusement.

‘See?’ His eyes seemed to say. Father tensed when his sister unsheathed her own blade and handed it to him.

‘Are you here for a specific reason?’ His sister signed to him.

“Uh, you gonna introduce us, little man?”

Damian sent the Flash a derisive look and ignored him.

“We’re looking for a magician. He set a squadron of demons loose into D.C. last night. He has a tower.” Damian added.

“Robin,” Father growled. “Who is this.” Damian shot him a look and turned back to his sister.

The reincarnation tilted her head. ‘Tower… it’ll have to be that way.’

“Could you take us there?” Damian asked. Truthfully, he could find the way himself. But he wanted more time around his ukht. She nodded and Damian straightened.

“I feel like we should be concerned that Robin’s friend just murdered a bunch of people.”

His sister glanced back and ignored them.

“Silence, incompetents. Speak another word against her, and Batman’s no killing rule will be applied creatively.” He hissed. (The fucking surroundings hissed with him y’all what the fuck)

He turned when his sister ruffled his hair (Superman muttered a super shocked “what the fuck.”) and Damian allowed it. He had missed his sister.

——

[snowballseal]

Breathe

Zayne X Reader

Summary: Trying to cope with losing Caleb and your grandmother, you throw yourself into work and push yourself to the very limit, only to break at the end of a particularly bad day. Thankfully, Zayne is there to get you through it.

Word Count: 2953

Warnings: dealing poorly with grief, depression, anxiety, what could be considered a panic attack, this is all hurt comfort folks, Zayne calls you good girl cause it's CANON and I can't get over it

Enjoy

---

One person can only take so much before they break. And the harder they try not to, the worse it gets.

Your day sucked. First you were late to the team meeting because you spilled coffee - piping hot you might add - on yourself right before leaving. Then, you and Xavier got into a stupid fight - he thought you were pushing yourself too hard. A part of you knew he was just concerned, they all were, but as soon as those pitying eyes turned on you, you could feel yourself bristling like an angry street cat.

You were fine.

Was it that wrong that you just wanted to work? You hate being home alone, which happens often since Zayne has to work extra hours, what with the increase in wanderer attacks. Not seeing him has already made you a little grumpy. But even worse, is the deafening silence of that apartment. Every time you’re alone, every time it gets just a little to quiet, you can’t stop your thoughts from drifting to Caleb and Gran- 

So you work. You take extra hours, cover shifts, field the reports nobody wants to do, even if it means you stay up all night, even if it means you skip a few meals. At least then you don’t have to think about it, you don’t have to deal with the nightmares. Maybe if you throw yourself into work, you might be able to outrun the storm creeping on your horizon.

And that’s how you ended up messing up on a mission. Pushed to your limits, your mind was foggy and your body just. wouldn’t. move.

You hadn’t gotten out of the way fast enough. A stray energy blast narrowly caught your shoulder, sending you careening into the nearest wall. The impact sent your head spinning, your vision going blurry for a second too long. You could hardly make out Xavier’s face when he kneeled beside you, telling you to stay down, that he could handle it.

A bitter taste had filled your mouth when he said those words.

You were utterly and completely useless. And that thought seeded itself somewhere in your chest, wrapping tight around your ribs until you couldn’t breathe.

Jenna sent you home after that, with a stern command to rest. You wanted to argue, tell them you’re fine, but your shoulder was screaming and the look she gave you when you opened your mouth was seering enough to shut down the most experienced hunter.

So you threw your jacket over your shoulders and stormed out of the office, trying to ignore the way your team’s gaze followed you, not even bothering to hide their concern. You could feel it burning on your skin all the way home. And that was only the beginning.

Now you find yourself laying on your couch, staring blankly at the television, the volume turned up too loud, just to drown out the thoughts swirling like a storm in your head.

You hate it. This feeling. Like you’re stuck underwater, trying so hard to reach the surface, but everything you do just drags you deeper and deeper. Your muscles are burning for any relief, but you can’t let yourself stop. You’re too scared to let yourself stop. Because if you do-

“Are you aware that listening to the television at this volume could cause damage to your hearing?”

You jump at the sudden calm voice that speaks behind you, flipping around to come face to face with a rather unamused Zayne. Quickly, you snatch the tv remote, turning it down until it’s barely a whisper in the background.

“Zayne! I thought you were working late tonight,” you chirp, the waver in your voice almost unnoticeable.

Almost.

Zayne’s eyes narrow, making you shift uncomfortably. Sometimes it feels like he can see right through you, right to the very core of your being.

“Things were not as busy as expected, so I decided to come home early and make sure you eat a full meal,” he explains, voice calm despite the way his gaze burns through you.

Skin prickling with unease, you jump from the couch, forcing a playful laugh, “What are you, my doctor?”

“Yes.”

Right. You awkwardly shift around him, heading towards the kitchen, “Well, then I guess we should start dinner, huh? What do you want?”

“You are also home early.” It’s not a question, merely an observation, but it makes your throat go dry.

Sometimes having such an observant boyfriend is amazing. You love Zayne more than anything, love how attentive he is, but in moments like this, you feel like a creature under a microscope. Every single flaw and action under his sharp scrutiny. There’s nowhere to hide, and all you want to do is run.

“We have some leftover moo shoo pork,” you hum shakily, hands unsteady as you pull it from the fridge. “And I could make some rice, I think it’s up he-”

Forgetting about your shoulder, you reach up to one of the cupboards. Pain shoots up to your fingers like electricity, searing back down your spine. You inhale sharply, momentarily paralyzed as you clutch it to your chest, eyes squeezing shut.

Zayne is there in an instant. His fingers ease over your taut jaw, his skin cool to the touch. He doesn’t say a word, but you can practically feel his concern in the way he barely touches you, like he’s scared you’ll break. It makes your chest tighten.

“I’m fine,” you breathe, gritting your teeth.

“You’re injured,” he counters, voice still irritatingly calm, “Why don’t you let me-”

“I said I’m fine,” you bite out again, this time with a little more force, “I’m perfectly capable of making dinner. I’m not useless.”

Zayne pauses, partially taken aback by your words. They feel out of place, and he can tell you didn’t mean to say them when you glance away, cheeks burning a vicious pink. His brow furrows, confusion flickering over his features.

“I wasn’t suggesting you are,” he says, each word measured carefully, like the wrong ones could set you off.

And now you feel guilty. God, you can’t do anything right today.

Biting your tongue, you grab the rice with your good arm, stepping around him to busy yourself at the counter. Not that setting up the rice cooker takes up much time. Soon enough you've nothing more to do, bracing yourself against the counter just to stay upright. The silence that creeps between you is unbearable, thick enough to cut, especially when you can still feel Zayne’s eyes following you so closely.

“God, this is so stupid,” you huff out, false bravado broken as your voice warbles, “I’m fine. I can handle it. I’m a hunter. I’m supposed to handle it. I’m supposed to- I’m supposed to help people. Not-”

You bite off the rest, fingers digging into the counter. The pain in your shoulder distracts you, keeps the tears at bay. You can’t cry. Not now. Not-

A hand traces lightly against your waist. You tremble at the gentle touch, a lump forming in your throat as his arm circles around you. Zayne pauses for only a moment before pulling you back into a rare embrace when you show no signs of moving away. He presses his face against your hair and holds you like you’re the most fragile thing in the world, like you’re made of the thinnest ice, which is how you feel.

Tears blur your vision. You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to hold it all together. Until-

“It wasn’t your fault, (Y/n).”

His voice is so quiet, so certain.

And you break.

You don’t know what sound leaves your body at that moment, but you’re sure it’s ugly and broken. Your entire body trembles in his hold, but he doesn’t waver, simply holds you tighter as everything spills out.

It’s so much. So much weight, so much grief, your throat is raw in seconds from crying. Every breath is like knives, until suddenly, you can’t breathe.

It’s like your lungs are full of sand, your chest spasming as you fail to take in air. It hurts. It all hurts.

“Darling, I need you to breathe,” Zayne’s voice speaks urgently at your ear, and you want to, you need to, but all you can muster is a pathetic whimper and shake your head. Before you can blink, Zayne has you turned around and lifted onto the counter, slotting himself between your legs. He catches one of your hands, pressing it firmly against his chest as his green eyes bore into yours, a hint of desperation pulling at his features. “I know you can. Be a good girl and copy me, alright? Can you do that?”

You nod shakily, trying to focus on him and not the burning in your chest. Zayne takes a deep, exaggerated breath, his chest rising against your hand. You try to do the same, your body shaking with the effort.

“Now breathe out.”

His chest falls and you once again copy him, the breath leaving you shakily. It takes a few repetitions until your breathing comes to any normal pattern, and Zayne silently tracks the time in his head. He traces your wrist gently, subtly checking your pulse to see how your heart is doing. It’s racing, but still within a normal range, which is enough to ease his firing nerves a little.

Not that this is over.

“‘m sorry,” you hiccup softly, gasping down breathes, fresh tears spilling over your cheeks. “God I’m sorry, Zayne. I didn’t mean, I didn’t mean to snap at you, and I just, I-”

The doctor hums, tone stern, making you fall silent. He traces his fingers against your cheek, the cold of his touch welcome against your overheated skin. He carefully wipes your tears away.

“I accept your apology. It is very common for people dealing with grief to lash out at those closest to them. I am merely thankful you trusted me enough to let me help you through it.”

You sag into his touch, lips wobbling. To most, that wouldn’t be comforting. But for you, knowing Zayne, it’s like finally having a hand to hold you above the water. He’s unmoving, unyielding in the way he loves you, all of you. Even like this.

“I trust you with my life, Zayne,” you whisper and lean forward to press your forehead against his chest.

“Then I assume you’ll allow me to examine your shoulder.” It’s not really a question, but you nod anyway. Zayne leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your hair. “I will go get the first aid kit. Please take off your shirt if you feel comfortable doing so. If not, I ask that you change into something that will give me access to do a thorough exam.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“That’s my good girl,” he hums approvingly, a ghost of a smile in his voice.

Your heart jumps a little at that and you’re thankful for the curtain of hair hiding your face. It’s not often Zayne indulges you with such soft praise and you can’t help but soak it in, especially now. Your eyes flicker shut when he presses another kiss to your head, the touch lingering before he disappears to go retrieve the kit.

Sighing softly, you set to work on trying to get your shirt off. The nerves have settled back in your chest, not sure what to expect. You haven’t looked at your shoulder once since the fight, dead set on ignoring it as long as you could. Which was stupid. If the pain tells you anything, it’s probably pretty bad.

Bad enough that you can’t actually get your shirt off. You’re able to slip one arm out, but wince when you try to lift your bad one. So you're stuck like that, half undressed. Which is how Zayne finds you when he comes back, medical kit in hand.

He glances at you, dark brow raising a fraction. If he’s amused, his face doesn’t give it away.

“Will you um, will you help me?” You ask, voice quiet, “I can’t…I can’t lift my arm.”

Zayne’s lips press into a thin line. He nods, setting the kit aside. You can’t help but hold your breath as his fingers brush against your knee, slowly tracing up your thigh, jumping to your waist and brushing against your ribs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is unbearably soft, and your heart squeezes as you watch his face, noticing the way his brows twitch as he works, and how focused his gaze is. Every movement is calm, self-assured. You hardly have to move as he lifts the shirt over your head, sliding it down your injured arm.

 And once it’s off, his hand returns to your waist, thumb brushing tenderly over your ribs. His eyes stay focused on your shoulder, and yours stay glued to his expression, catching the smallest flicker of shock.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” You ask, biting your cheek.

Zayne carefully schools his expression, but you can still see his disapproval in the tight set of his jaw, “You should have gone to the hospital immediately. I am surprised your team let you walk away with such an injury.”

“They didn’t know,” you mumble, trying to defend them at least a little bit. It really was your fault.

“So you hid this injury from your team?” He doesn’t hide his disapproval this time. You flush, looking down at your lap again, though that’s hard with him settled right between your legs.

“I didn’t…” The words get caught in your mouth. It’s so silly now, you know that. Your team would never look down on you for being injured, but- “I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t handle it. I just, I didn’t want to seem…useless.”

Zayne clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t say anything else. His fingers graze lightly against your shoulder and you wince, a low hiss passing between your teeth. Murmuring an apology, he moves to grab a few things from the kit. The silence returns as he sets to work, though this time, it’s not so uncomfortable.

Your head feels a little clearer now. You’re not through it, that’s for sure, but the pain from losing Caleb and your grandmother lingers a little less sharply. Zayne’s words from before repeat like a mantra in your head, and for once, you can feel yourself almost accepting them.

It wasn’t your fault.

There’s nothing you could have done. You can’t change the outcome of that day in the same way that you can’t change the color of the sky. That doesn’t stop how deeply you feel their absence, though.

“I miss them so much,” you admit, mostly to yourself.

Zayne pauses, already wrapping your shoulder after applying some medicine and deciding that the hospital could wait until tomorrow. He finishes pinning the bandage down before shifting back, eyes trailing over your face. You look up at him, exhaustion gleaming in your wide, (e/c) eyes. It’s like looking at a sad, little puppy. He breathes out a low sigh, brushing a few rogue hairs from your face.

“Your grandmother and Caleb were kind, caring people,” he says slowly, thoughtful, “It is right that you should miss them. It is not a sign of weakness to feel grief.”

“I know.” You reach for his hand, desperate for some form of contact. He gives in without hesitation, fingers brushing against your jaw to hold your face. You turn, nuzzling into his palm with a sigh. His touch gives you the comfort to continue, “Sometimes it just feels like if I let myself sit with it too long, I’ll be swallowed whole. And that…scares me. A lot.”

A pause. You keep your face tucked against his palm, enjoying the way he pets you as he thinks. Zayne has never been the strongest when it comes to emotions. With everything else he likes to distance himself from them to stay objective, so you know he needs the time to figure out what he wants to say. 

“I suppose…” he starts, and you glance back up at his face, catching the serious gleam in his eyes, “if it gives you any comfort, I would like to remind you that I will always be here to bring you back from whatever depths you fall to. Even if risking your life is your choice of coping mechanism.”

He pinches your cheek ever so lightly, and finally, finally, a smile pulls at your lips.

“I’ll work on it, I promise.”

He doesn’t look like he truly believes you, but Zayne nods.

“As your doctor, I would deeply appreciate it if you would.”

Eyes dancing with a bit of mirth, you lean forward, pressing a loving kiss to his cheek. Zayne catches you before you can pull back, fingers curling along your jaw as he draws you into a deeper kiss. It’s slow, his lips slanting perfectly over your own, like a well-rehearsed dance. When he pulls away, you can’t help but sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest again.

“What on earth would I do without you, Zayne?”

He presses another kiss to your hair, voice a low, teasing murmur, “You would likely die from an untreated wound.”

And just like that, you’re laughing. Zayne smiles, relief washing over him at the sound. 

You’ll be alright. He knows that today was just the first step, that grief is complex and differs from person to person, and you might have another bad day like this, but he doesn’t mind that. Not now that he’s finally by your side and can take care of you.

Nothing could drive him away.

---

I literally started this game 11 days ago and I'm so down bad for these characters, it's shameful. Anyways! Hope y'all enjoyed!

Feel free to send requests!

[weird-is-life]

Don't deny it

Pairing: Rockstar!Sirius Black x fem!reader

Summary: Rockstar!Sirius keeps denying your relationship and you finally have enough

Warnings: angst, fluff, use of pet names, use of y/n, swear words, mentions of head injury, happy ending ofc

Words: 2.4k

You thought, that you've been just imagining it, but as you hear Sirius getting interviewed now, you know, you haven't.

Sirius has been keeping your relationship secret. Like everytime he got interviewed in the last few months, he played it like he was single. No mentions of a girlfriend, meaning no mentions of you.

Like you get it, that the band is really famous and that mentioning your name would kind of make your life a bit more difficult. With less privacy and everything.

But he doesn't have to say your name, he could just admit having a girlfriend. No need to go into details.

And you think, you've finally had enough when you hear him reply to the reporter's question.

"So my last question is for all of the fangirls, is Sirius Black taken?" the reporter chuckles as she asks it.

You hear Sirius laugh too," taken? No, I'm definitely not taken. Still very single, sadly."

You hear him laugh some more, before you turn the interview off. You feel like the dumbest fool.

Obviously, Sirius is too embarrassed of you to even admit he's dating anybody, there can't be any other reason.

And you've definitely had enough of it. Everytime he denies your relationship, you feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest and stumped on.

You can't go on like this. You don't want to hurt like this anymore. You can't keep hoping that one day, he's going to admit having a girlfriend. You just can't, it pains you too much.

So with that, you decide to ignore Sirius, hoping he'll understand, that you don't want to see him ever again. You know, he shouldn't be home for at least 2 weeks, so hopefully by the time he comes home, you'll move on (too optimistic).

You stop responding to his texts, answering his phone and eventually, you even turn off your phone. You don't give him any explanation, you don't think he deserves one.

Sirius on the other hand is going crazy with worries just after a few hours of radio silence from you. He even calls your best friend to find out if you're okay. Apparently, you are, but you friend refuses to tell him anything more and just hangs up on him.

That doesn't ease his worries at all. He rakes his mind for an answer to what's he done? But nothing comes to his mind.

He tries to contact you again and again, but still, no response. You don't respond even when James or Remus try. So Sirius starts to loose his mind over you.

But he can't leave to go to you, no matter how much he wants to. The band is in the middle of finishing the new album, so he can't just bail on them. He tried it and got yelled by the management pretty badly. Threatening of getting let go by their label if he just leaves.

Sirius becomes completely useless at the studio and the band rehearsals, messing up everything, because his mind is stuck on you.

"Please sweetheart, pick up, please" Sirius whispers brokenly as he once again tries to call you.

You don't pick up and the phone call ends. Sirius throws his phone across the room from the frustration. He slumps onto a sofa and puts his head into his hands in defeat.

He sits there with tears freely running down his cheeks. It's a heartbreaking sight, seeing him so hopeless.

James and Remus find him like that and immediately know, that they have to push him to go see you.

"Go, " James tells him.

"What?" Sirius looks up confused, eyes red.

"Go after her," Remus adds encouragingly.

"But the label....I can't....they'll cut us off-"

"Doesn't matter, we'll just find some other label, there's plenty of them, that want us," James says, maybe a little smugly at the fact, that are are many labels that would kill to have The Marauders.

Sirius looks at them unsurely, "are you guys sure?"

James and Remus groan in frustration, "fucking hell, will you just get out of here, please?" James tells him.

Both Sirius and Remus chuckle, and Sirius quickly gets up. He comes up to the boys and hugs them tightly, squeezing them almost death, until they are pushing him away.

Sirius basically sprints out of the studio. He just grabs all the essentials and runs to the airport. One of the benefits of being famous is the private plane, which he happily uses on his way to you. He gets home in a record time.

The walk through the halls towards your apartment is very nerve-wracking. Sirius doesn't know what to expect, but he certainly doesn't expect all of his stuff, that he's left at your apartment to be sitting outside waiting for him.

"Shit," he curses under his breath and runs a trembling hand through his hair. He can't believe this is happening. He hopes it isn't. He hopes, it's just a nightmare, that he'll soon wake up from. He can't just loose you, he won't survive it, he's sure of that.

Sirius checks under the rug for the spare key and as expected, it isn't there. So Sirius just knocks.

No answer.

He tries again, because he knows you're inside, he can hear the shuffling of things.

"Y/N, please it's me, please open. I-I....can we please talk?" Sirius begs and begs, but you're too stubborn for your own good, you've always been like that, so you don't open.

He knocks and begs, until the neighbours are threatening to call the police on him. Sirius, defeated, sits down with his back to your door.

"Please, love, c-can we just talk?" his tired voice still doesn't break you, but Sirius doesn't give up, " okay, it's okay. I'll wait 'till, you're ready."

And he means it. He makes himself as comfortable as he can on the floor, intending to stay there however long it takes.

You, on the other hand, put on your headphones to ignore Sirius pleads and knocking. You just can't see him right now or anytime soon, your heart is too broken for that.

Even if one part of you wishes to see him and hug him, your body craves the comfort of him. But the rational part of you knows, that'd be too bad for you.

Sirius keeps hiding you and you keep hurting, you can't go on like this, not anymore.

You go to sleep, full of raw emotions, and even if sleep doesn't come easily, eventually you drift off.

In the morning, you wake up just as tired as you were, when you went to bed. And when you open your fridge, you realise, you don't even have anything to eat for breakfast.

You groan internally, you don't feel like going out of your apartment, like at all, but you have to, you can't go on without food.

You put on your most incognito clothes, hoping that you won't meet anyone you know, especially Sirius.

And as you open your door, they suddenly slam wide open, because of some weight pushing against it front the outside.

Said weight, you realise, is Sirius. You yelp in shock, when you see him and look at him bewildered.

Sirius wakes up with a groan. He wasn't thinking of you opening the door, when he first leaned against it. Now he kind of regrets it, as his entire head hurts from hitting it on the floor.

"What the fuck, Sirius?" you whisper yell, you would yell loudly, if it wasn't so early in the morning.

Sirius, upon realising that he can finally see you, stands up quickly. That isn't the best idea though, because his head starts to spin.

"Sweetheart, i-"

"Don't sweetheart me, Sirius. What the hell are you doing here? Have you been here since yesterday?" you question, angrily. You notice, that Sirius looks just as bad as you. Huge eye bags under his eyes, hair dishevelled like crazy.

"Yeah, I told, I'd wait until you were ready to talk," he just replies, giving you a small, hesitant smile.

You don't know, what to say. Your head is full of emotions and you can't decide, which ones are right and which ones aren't.

While you are thinking of what to say to him and glaring at him at the same time, Sirius head starts to spin badly.

"I think, I'm going to pass out," Sirius quickly tells you as he almost tumbles on the ground.

You, without thinking, catch him by the arms.

"W-what's wrong?" you ask a little scared. You find Sirius at your door and suddenly, he's passing out?

"I hit my head..." he mumbles out and hisses as he touches the back of his head.

You sigh, "fuck, okay, c'mon." You help him to your couch and swiftly go to retrieve some ice pack for his head and some water.

You put the ice pack at the back of his head and Sirius winces some more. "Sorry," you whisper.

"It's okay-....I- thank you, sweetheart." Sirius calls you 'sweetheart' again and you want to slap yourself for feeling the butterflies.

You quickly go to the kitchen, so he doesn't see the redness at your cheeks. "Shit," you whisper to yourself, "what am I going to do?"

You've wanted to stay away from Sirius as far away as possible and now he is in your apartment? You don't know if you want to run away, punch him in the face or kiss him stupid.

You stay as long as you can in the kitchen, basically just hiding away from Sirius and you complete forgot about your intention of going to the shop.

Sirius is unusually quiet, so after a longer while you gather all the courage you can to face him, only to find him fast asleep.

You sigh at the sight of his peaceful, asleep face, you quickly throw a blanket over him (before you can think it through) and head out to actually get something to eat, 'cause you're starving.

When you come back, Sirius wakes up at your arrival.

"H-hi, "he says with a groggy, sleepy voice. He smiles at you like nothing has happened, like everything is normal and it makes you suddenly so so angry.

You drop your grocery bags on the ground and quietly, but sternly ask, "you are embarrassed of me, that's why, right?"

Sirius is quickly woken up from his half asleep state by your mad voice and baffles," e-embarrassed? What? Of course, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," you say exasperatedly, you can feel, that your eyes are filling with tears, " you are!"

Sirius stands up slowly, but steadily and comes closer to you, not entirely close, he still wants to give you some space. "I could never be embarrassed of you, y/n, never."

"Then why?" you ask desperately as one tear rolls down your cheek, Sirius's hand itches to wipe it away.

"Why what? I don't understand," Sirius begs for explanation, while he rakes his mind for an answer to his question as well.

"Y-you keep pretending like I don't even exist, like you don't want me!" you try to suppress the little sob, that escapes your mouth. Sirius wants to fucking beat himself up for making you cry, even if he doesn't really know the reason why yet.

"What do you mean?" Sirius asks stupidly and you sob again.

"What? What? What? The fucking interviews Sirius, I mean them," you pretty much yell it to him, the frustration being too much for you.

Sirius finally understands and the realisation hits him like a crushing wave. He didn't know you were feeling this way about them," why didn't you say anything? I thought, you were okay with keeping our relationship private."

"Private yes, but not to the point you are literally chuckling and saying how incredibly single you are," you argue," that's just wrong. But if you want to be single so badly, i won't fight against it."

"No," Sirius blurts out instantly, " I don't want to be single."

"Then what do you want?" you sniffle.

"You. Just only you, nobody else," Sirius is trying to catch your gaze, but you refuse to look at him, "sweetheart, please look at me."

You hesitate, but eventually you look at him. You notice, that tears aren't only on your face.

"Have you been feeling like this for a long time?" Sirius questions and you nod, he curses under his breath.

"I'm so sorry, i didn't notice. Shit, I'm such an idiot, " he starts and without thinking he takes a few steps closer to you," I'm sorry, angel. If I knew, you were feeling this way, I would have never ever continued denying our relationship. Fuck, It was killing me to stay quiet about us, I wanted to tell them everything about you. Please believe me."

You stay quiet and your sobs slowly start to go away. Sirius waits for you to say something, anything really.

"N-not everything please," you whisper. You can't stay mad at your Sirius long, even if you'd really want to sometimes. It's just not possible to be angry with him, especially when he loves you so much.

"What was that?" Sirius doesn't catch it.

"Don't tell them everything about me please," you tell him as you, after a few days, smile. Truly smile.

Sirius takes it as a permission to finally touch you. He has you in his arms in a matter of seconds, squeezing you oh so tightly, while he laughs happily.

"Does this mean, t-that I am forgiven?" he asks you unsurely, as he reluctantly eases you out of his tight embrace.

"Maybe," you grin at him

"Maybe? What do I have to do to get a yes, huh lovely?" Sirius softly asks, he takes your cheeks into his hands and gently wipes the tears away.

"You could kiss me, you know," you say with a sheepish smile. You look too cute, cheeks red and puffy, for Sirius to say no to you. As if he would every deny you a kiss or anything else for that matter.

He instantly leans it and kisses you, it's soft and maybe a little desperate kiss, but it doesn't matter to you or him.

You let him kiss you as long as you manage without breathing, even if you know there're still things to talk about. You'll talk about it, just later, after you get enough kisses.

[writeriguess]

Can I request one where the reader has a crush on katsuki but suffers from insecurity surrounding her looks? Like she is strong but on the thicker side with bunny teeth. I would love it if you wrote something like this in sweet accidental confession way. If you don't want to pls ignore this request.

Have a nice day.

Your hands gripped the edges of your desk, trembling slightly. Class had just ended, and your gaze found its way, like it always did, toward Bakugo Katsuki. He was packing his things, moving with the same briskness and confidence you admired, completely unaware of your flustered state.

"Hey, you okay?" Mina's voice snapped you out of your trance.

You blinked and looked at her, managing a small smile. "Yeah, I’m fine."

Mina raised a brow. She’d known for a while about your crush on Bakugo, though you always brushed it off whenever she brought it up. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the idea of someone knowing — it was more about your insecurity that weighed on your chest.

You weren’t slender or petite like some of the other girls in the class. You had thick thighs, a soft stomach, and a pair of front teeth you were painfully aware of every time you smiled. You were strong, you knew that. But you still found yourself comparing your body to others, wondering if you’d ever be attractive enough for someone like Bakugo to notice.

Suddenly, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned around only to come face-to-face with Bakugo, who was glaring at you in that typical intense way he always did. But to you, it felt like a fire igniting in your stomach, nerves making your heart thump loudly in your chest.

“Hey, dumbass,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’ve been staring at me all day.”

Your eyes widened, and heat rushed to your cheeks. “W-what? I wasn’t staring! I-I was just thinking!”

Bakugo huffed, narrowing his eyes. “Yeah, well, stop it. You’re makin’ me lose focus.”

The embarrassment was overwhelming. Of course he’d call you out for something like that. You opened your mouth to respond but quickly shut it, unable to come up with anything coherent. Instead, you grabbed your bag, mumbling a quick “sorry” before brushing past him, your heart racing.

As you made your way out of the classroom, you could feel the tears welling up. It wasn’t fair. You were a good hero-in-training, a strong fighter. You didn’t need someone to tell you that. But every time Bakugo spoke to you, the walls you’d built around your self-esteem crumbled. You weren’t confident in your appearance, and it hurt to think that maybe, just maybe, he thought you were annoying or… worse.

You rushed to an empty stairwell, leaning against the wall as you took deep breaths. Your mind raced, and for a moment, you hated yourself for having such a big crush on him. It was useless. He’d never see you as anything but some girl in his class.

“Why do I even bother…?” you whispered, resting your forehead against the cool wall.

“Because you’re an idiot, that’s why.”

You jumped, turning around to see Bakugo standing there with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“K-Katsuki?” Your heart felt like it was about to burst out of your chest. “How long were you—?”

“Long enough to hear you whining about yourself,” he cut in, stepping closer. “Tch. What the hell are you even talkin’ about?”

Your cheeks burned again, and you glanced down, feeling small. “I’m not… I’m not like the other girls, okay? I’m not thin or… or cute. I’m just… I don’t know. You wouldn’t get it.”

Bakugo was silent for a moment, and you could feel his intense stare burning into you. You shifted uncomfortably, bracing yourself for the teasing or the harsh words you expected.

But instead, he surprised you.

“What kind of bullshit is that?” Bakugo muttered. When you looked up at him, he was frowning, his brows furrowed in frustration. “You’re strong as hell. I’ve seen you train. You don’t need to look like anyone else.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just stared at him in disbelief. “I-I know I’m strong, but—”

“Then what’s the problem?” he interrupted, stepping even closer. His voice softened just a little, and that was what shocked you most. “You don’t have to be like anyone else. I—”

Bakugo stopped himself, a scowl crossing his face as he bit the inside of his cheek. You blinked, waiting for him to finish, but he seemed to be struggling with something.

Finally, he growled in frustration, running a hand through his spiky hair. “Damn it… What I’m tryin’ to say is… I don’t care what you look like, okay?”

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes wide as saucers. “Y-you don’t?”

He scoffed, but there was something softer in his gaze. “No. I’ve seen enough to know you’re strong and you work hard. That’s what matters. The rest… I don’t give a crap about.”

You felt tears sting your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from insecurity or sadness. They were from a warmth that blossomed in your chest at his words. You never expected Bakugo of all people to say something like that.

Before you could respond, though, he spoke again, this time his voice barely above a whisper.

“And I do notice you, okay? Don’t think I haven’t.”

Your breath hitched. Was this… a confession? Did Bakugo Katsuki actually…?

“Katsuki, I—”

“Shut up,” he muttered, his cheeks pink as he looked away. “Don’t make this a big deal.”

You couldn’t help it — a small laugh escaped your lips. Bakugo glared at you, but there was no real heat behind it.

“Thanks, Katsuki,” you whispered, your heart finally feeling light.

He rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. “Whatever. Just stop starin’ at me so much. It’s distracting.”

“Can’t make any promises,” you teased, feeling more confident than ever.

Bakugo shot you a look, but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips.

Requests are open. Send as many as you like.

[rayshippouuchiha]

Ray, more of the Assassination Classroom Fem!Tsuna hit. This is entirely your fault, so you get to deal with it.

Tsuna has a sinking feeling in her gut the first day of middle school. She gets turned around and mixed up, and somehow she ends up on a bus, and she’s racing through the woods and into a classroom full of strangers. She’s too embarrassed to say anything so she slinks into a seat in a corner. She’s in the wrong school, the senpai at Namimori Middle have her in entirely the wrong town. Even a dame like her can recognize Kunugigaoka uniforms. Hibari-senpai is going to be so angry with her.

Nothing could have prepared her for Koro-sensei. — Tsuna is petrified. She’s too young for this. After all the ruckus, everyone’s attempts, that’s all that rings in her head. She’s too young for this. She’s not even supposed to be here. — Tsuna is stuck. She can’t afford to take the bus, or the time to take the bus, from Namimori everyday. In retrospect, she really does have to hand it to her old senpai. They’d gotten up early to ‘walk her to school’ and paid to get her on the bus. But it’s coming close to the end of the day, they’ve come no closer to assassinating Koro-sensei, and she doesn’t have bus fare home anyway. She’s not even sure Mama would be able to keep it together long enough to come get her.

Everyone in Namimori knows her Mama needs, help sometimes. Everyone is glad to give it to her. Tsuna just doesn’t trust that anyone would think helping her Mama help Tsuna would be a good thing. — Trembling, Tsuna stays in her seat at the end of the day. What should she do? What can she do? She’s just Dame-Tsuna, in the wrong grade, in the wrong class, in the wrong school, in the wrong town. She keeps her head tilted down to allow everyone to ignore her tears.

A gentle touch to her shoulder makes her flinch. She tilts her head up to see Koro-sensei standing at her shoulder. — Calling Mama was useless, just like Tsuna knew it would be. She’s just thrilled that her “Dame-Tsuna” managed to get into the prestigious Kunugigao despite her, everything. Tsuna loves her mama, she does. But sometimes Tsuna thinks she could hate her a little too. Karasuma-sensei and Koro-sensei are both very angry.

Tsuna wants to cry that it’s not her fault. Mama tries to love her and pay attention to her, but Mama is sick. Something doesn’t work right in Mama’s head, like something doesn’t work right in Tsuna’s. But while whatever went wrong in Mama’s head means that she has a hard time remembering things if she doesn’t see them, whatever’s wrong with Tsuna is just everything. — They get her an apartment. It’s close to the school and a market. It’s basic and bare and empty and tiny, but Tsuna supposes she’s tiny so that makes sense. Karasuma-sensei is her neighbor, but she’s left to basically make it on her own. She gets a small stipend, the only one in class to do so. It’s not much, but it should be enough for groceries.

She doesn’t know how to cook. She never learned how to do what her homework is asking her to do. At least she can tell herself it’s because it’s work two grades above her and not just because she’s dame. — Karasuma-sensei is kind enough to get her to school the next day. He’s also nice enough not to say anything about her still red eyes, or how long she sobbed last night. He just handed her a handkerchief.

Tsunami can’t remember the last time someone was so kind to her. She waits for the ridicule to start, but it never comes. — After a few days, when it becomes obvious and impossible to ignore that she’s just as stuck here as the rest of them, Nagisa-senpai gives her a girl’s uniform. It’s big on her, but at least she doesn’t stand out this way. As much.

Tsuna pricks her fingers bloody, and her stitches are crooked, and the seams are bulky, but at least it kind of fits her a little better now.

[demonpiratehuntress]

steal the show

Trafalgar Law x F!Reader

summary - Based on 'Steal the Show' by Lauv. Law has seen many women before, but had never paid any attention to them. you, however, have him staring as soon as you walk into a room or when you do anything basically

warnings - none

Trafalgar Law is not a man known for being good with women. He is, in fact, not, and has never felt the need or want to be. He's never expressed interest in romance, and didn't even entertain the idea of one-night stands.

Then you came into his life and flipped it upside-down.

The whole crew notices when Law develops a crush on you, because suddenly his cheeks are just slightly more pink than they were a few seconds ago because you had just smiled at him. Suddenly his eyes are only on you when you enter a room, as if magnetically drawn to your figure.

"Captain!" You called cheerily as you slipped into his room without knocking, something he seemingly only allowed you to do.

At once, Law's eyes shot up to greet your figure. He cursed himself silently, annoyed that he would instantly gaze at your beautiful figure gracing him with your presence. You hadn't done anything to your clothes or hair, but you looked absolutely radiant and Law had to try his hardest not to blush when you gave him your sweetest smile yet.

"Happy to see me, captain?" You teased, unknowingly hitting it spot on.

"You called, (Name)-ya," he coughed, trying to keep the lovesickness out of his eyes and voice. He apparently failed, because you smiled more.

"We're approaching an island."

Suddenly, your babbling has become very interesting to Law, even if it isn't anything scientific and is actually completely useless information.

"And then Nami told me Luffy got them stuck on this sky island, and..." As you rambled on and on, Law listened intently, despite the fact that what you were saying meant absolutely nothing to him. "Sorry, captain. I must be boring you."

"And then what happened?" Law asked, tilting his head slightly. He ignored your comment, because you could never bore him.

You were surprised, but smiled again and then launched into an even longer explanation of the Straw Hats exploits in Thriller Bark, as told to you by Robin. But then your smile faltered a little, and Law frowned.

"What's wrong, (Name)-ya?"

You sighed, "Robin's so smart and so pretty. Just your type." You thought you'd murmured the last part, but Law heard it. Before he could question you or say anything, you excused yourself.

And Law wanted to so badly stop you and tell you that you're his type, but he was frozen, unsure what to actually do.

Law can't help it. He's never had a crush on anyone before. He's never been in love before. This is completely new to him, but somehow because it's you, he feels okay with it.

But he's afraid to tell you.

He tried to bring it up in another conversation you had with him a few days after you'd said Robin was his type, but he was interrupted by Bepo coming to get you to finally teach him how to make cookies shaped like him, just like you'd promised. And Law watches you go, pained by the fact that he can't tell you how he feels.

So he asks the bear for help.

And a few days later, he finally gathers up the courage to follow Bepo's plan and invite you to a private dinner in his room, set up and arranged by Shachi, Penguin and Bepo because Law himself had no idea what to do.

And when you walked in wearing the prettiest yellow sundress, braving the cold of the submarine just to look nice for him, Law ends up staring at you for so long that you get nervous and think he thinks you look weird. Or that he's going to reprimand you for not wearing your boiler suit. But he says something you never ever expected.

"You always manage to steal the show, (Name)-ya," he blushed as he said it, looking a tiny bit flustered, as if he couldn't believe he said it.

"Thank you, captain," you smiled at him, a blush of your own dusting your cheeks. Butterflies bloomed in your stomach, but despite your nervousness you were so incredibly happy that this was happening.

Law was thinking about what to say as you both ate. You looked so cute when you got food on your face and quickly apologised, flustered, making it hard for him to concentrate. Again, he couldn't help but stare and his heart beat wildly in his chest just looking at you.

"I want you to be mine, (Name)-ya," he finally spoke, slowly. Then his eyes widened, "Not because I think I own you-"

"It's okay, Law," you giggled, "I know what you mean. And I've always been yours."

He relaxed and smiled at that, before leaning over to kiss you sweetly. It was unlike anything you'd ever felt, and you immediately wanted more. You kissed him deeper, longer, dreading the minute you'd have to let his warm, soft lips go. It came all too soon, but he cupped your cheek in one of his hands and affectionately brushed his thumb over your warm, red cheek with a soft smile.

"Good, because I've always been yours too."

[alexwritingspot]

okk um instead could you do a percy x fem!reader with prompt 1?? And could you do it so its kinda like they are already in an established relationship and throughout the week he realises that slowly his gf has been a bit more distant and nearly getting hurt in training from being so out of it, and them whilst theyre just hanging out in his cabin he asks her whats wrong n yadyada 😍😍

Sorry if that didnt really make sense but thankyouuuu❤❤

Are you alright?

Your boyfriend gets worried about you after seeing you stress out so much

Prompt 1: “hey, c’mere sit down, tell me what’s going on”

Pairing: Percy Jackson x fem!reader

words count: 1.4k

warnings: slightly mention of injury

A/n: Thank you for requesting! I would like to apologise with all the people who are waiting a fic, but lately I’ve been REALLY busy with school, and writing became impossible. 😓🧡 In these days I’ll try harder to publish as many requests as possible, thank you so much for understanding! 🧡

——————————————————————————

You were on the right front of the river. Dressed up for catch the flag you were ready to give your best. To your misfortune though, your boyfriend, Percy Jackson, had ended up in the other team. Of course, being part of the g/p’s cabin also meant ending up in the red team all the times. But you sticked with that because you couldn’t do much else.

The game started, you had a defensive role in your squad, and you were okay with it. Armour on and senses awake you examined your surroundings in search of any possible ‘enemy’ in the near area. You could hear the sound of words sparring in the distance, and that only alerted you more, they were becoming clearer by the seconds. You took out your weapon, ready to fight. The river was behind you, so it was unlikely someone would try an attack from there. Other than that you were surrounded by trees and vegetation.

A noise coming from a near bush caught your attention, you were ready to defend yourself, and eventually your flag.

But then… a sharp pain had hit your dominant arm, and you let out a groan of pain, finding yourself with a much younger camper of the blue team.

You didn’t loose another moment, you tried to move quickly, to dodge his attacks and try to get him to drop his sword, but it was useless. In the end you had found yourself, butt in the water, and the other camper having surpassed the spot where just a few moments before you both were sparring.

You didn’t even pick up your sword again, you stood there in the water, dumbfounded. How did a younger camper managed to beat you so easily?! You couldn’t believe it. Slowly you pulled yourself out of the water when you heard the horn that indicated the end of the game, your team had lost.

You made your way back to where all the other campers were supposed to reunite at the end of the game. The blue team was cheering and laughing, all of the half-bloods obviously happy of having won the game. Between them stood Percy, still happy, but less thrilled than the others, it wasn’t his first victory, so he didn’t party like the others.

It was then that he noticed you as you walked away to your cabin, quick to avoid his gaze, and when he tried to approach you, you had skillfully managed to avoid him. Saying that he was confused would have been an understatement. Why did you avoid him? And why your back was wet with water? Was that a cut the one he saw on your arm?

The next morning you presented to breakfast in a way more tired demeanour, dark bags under your eyes and sloppy movements. You didn’t even sit at the Poseidon table, which was the standard. Your arm was covered by a short bandage that cover your cut to avoid possible infections.

And then Percy sat by at your table, ignoring the glares your brothers and sisters were giving him “hey” He tried to start a conversation with you “mornin’ ” you simply said, answering back in a dry way, something didn’t feel right.

“Do you want to sit to my table?” He asked again, a slight frown on his face, green eyes holding a spark of worry. You replied dryly again “If you want” and then the two of you got up and sat at the Poseidon table. Percy attempted to make small conversations, but none of it were working, so he decided to try a different approach

“You good?” He asked, and while he was searching for the truth in your eyes you looked for at your food “yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He sighed “look at me” you were focused on your food “y/n please. Look at me?” You didn’t move your head fully, you just glanced up “I told you, I’m fine” you then stood up and walked away, leaving your plate on the table, your food almost untouched.

the rest of the week went by in a similar way, you acting off of it, and Percy worrying over you more, every day that passed. He found you in the training area, exercising with a mannequin “You need a sparring partner?” He tried, expecting once again a negative response.

Instead you hesitantly looked up and nodded your head “I… yeah, actually yes, it would be helpful” and with that you two started sparring. Percy took a mental note of how much your stance was uncoordinated, which was strange, cause you usually fought very well.

Your feet moved fast, you had only a thought in your mind

I need to win.

you usually weren’t like this, you didn’t care too much if you won or not when you sparred with your boyfriend, but this time it was different. You had to prove yourself that you knew how to fight, how to spare and how to handle a weapon.

It was that taught that distracted you and almost got Riptide stabbed in your stomach. Luckily you had been fast enough to move, and even if you fell to the ground you had avoided the hit of the celestial bronze blade.

Percy let go of his sword immediately and rushes to your side “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” But you didn’t even hear him, your mind was elsewhere.

you had lost. Again.

And even if you knew that Percy was great with his sword you couldn’t help but- “Y/n!” Percy had you sat to the ground when you came back to reality. He was holding your face and it was crystal clear the distress on his face. “Yeah, yeah sorry, I’m fine, you didn’t hit me”

He insisted to take you to his cabin to actually check he didn’t hurt you, and even if you were hesitant if you should follow him or not, in the end you both ended up in his cabin.

“Are you sure, but like 100% sure that you’re fine? Because these days you are way more absent and you’re spending all your time sparring.” Before you could reply he continued “And honestly, your movements were so uncoordinated before that…” you didn’t hear the rest.

your movements were uncoordinated

that was enough to stop your whole body to move, even breath. Percy noticed. Of course he did. He also tried to get you back to the real world by putting a caring hand over your shoulder. “Hey, c’mere, sit down, tell me what’s going on” and you did. You sat down by your boyfriend’s side and told him about the younger boy that had beat you so easily.

“I can’t even fight! He was like 10 Percy! If I cannot keep up with a 10-years-old then how will I be able to fight monsters? How will I be able to handle quests?” Now there were tears streaming down your cheeks. So that was what you were worried about. Percy pulled you into his arms “shh, please don’t cry, you’re good with fighting, I can assure you” but you didn’t believe him, you just sinked deeper in his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“Please darling don’t cry, I have proof you’re a good fighter yeah?” He rubbed your back, trying to sooth you, he had no intention to go away until these insecurities of yours would have been solved. “Remember about a month ago, when you made me drop Riptide only 2 minutes into the sparring session?” He began, you weakly nodded your head, hugging him close

“And do you remember about two weeks ago when the mechanical taurus of the Hephaestus cabin who broke, and you stopped them from destroying the dining pavilion?” You looked up at him, still tight in his embrace “but-“ he cut you off “no buts, you are great, you have great skills and you have to believe in them and in yourself, trust me when I say this.”

His words sinked in. He was right, you had amazing skills and you couldn’t let the first person to win over you let you down like that. “I love you Percy” you whispered

“I love you too, with all my heart” he answered, and the two of you fell asleep like that, in each others arms…

——————————————————————————

A/n: hope this was what you were searching for babe! Thank you for requesting 🧡

[l4zyb0n35]

HOLD ME AGAIN

ANGST-FLUFF FIC

PAIRING: Alastor x Reader

SUMMARY: Alastor has been neglecting you recently ever since a fight, and it gets to you.

WARNINGS: GN!reader (i think), usage of Y/N, Emotional Distress, Mental Health Issues, Self Harm but not physical, Depiction of strained communication, Intense emotional scenes, Brief mention of Physical discomfort, Subtle mention of codependency, really good writing skills, Overall angst but major fluff at the end because you will never see me write angst w/o fluff. Lmk if i missed anything.

NOTICE: please don't copy or steal or translate any of my work or you will be haunted in your dreams and i will spawn something unpleasant at your porch the next day. But...thanks for liking my work !! >.< Based off this post i posted an hour ago. Damn that means this was written in an hour. Property of @l4zyb0n35 and @genderlessdude92

Requests are open, support is highly appreciated!

WORDS: 1.4k

〰ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ..。.:*･ﾟ♫₊ ♪ *♬‧₊enjoy!~

You and Alastor loved each other.

That’s how it all began, too.

the two of you meeting, and at first sight, when those feelings sprawled in your hearts at eye contact,

you guys knew there was a connection.

So, what was happening now?

Well, you were sitting in bed…spacing out into the bayou. You couldn’t sleep because there was a light on, and it usually bothered you whenever you were going to sleep.

You were tired from today though.

But you couldn’t ask Alastor to turn it off, as he kept it on to sit in bed and write his script.

“…Alastor…how long are you going to be…writing your script tonight?” You looked over at him.

Nothing.

He ignored your question. His pen stopped writing for a moment, but nothing more than that as he continued on seconds later.

You felt like a failure.

When did this all start?

Alastor has been ignoring you for a while now- well- i wouldn’t say ignoring you…no, you’ve been feeling useless around him for a while.

It started after you guys had a fight about safety and how you were scared to lose him.

That was the topic.

It was settled, you forgave each other, Although he didn’t seem to forgive you deep down, you just needed to hear it.

And then he just started acting like this.

You hate comparing your relationship from before to now.

Alastor would stay in his office with the light on until he was done so you would sleep.

You would always conversate with Alastor before laying down for slumber.

Alastor would always know whenever you were upset, he would keep hearing about it until you burst.

“Hey.”

You snapped out your thoughts. You turned to Alastor,

“Yeah?”

“…You okay? You just…” He looked at your cheek and then back to your eye contact, “Have a tear down your cheek.”

“…I don’t know-no, it’s nothing.” You stammered out.

“…okay.” He went back to writing.

…You couldn’t stay here.

Quickly, you got up from your bed and walked over to the bathroom, trying to keep your composure as you closed the door and locked it.

You turned off the light,

Laid in the tub,

and slept.

***

You woke up to knocking.

“Y/N? Are you in there?”

Alastor.

You quickly sat up from the tub, “Coming, coming.” You stood up in a haste, ignoring the dizziness in your vision from it, and quickly opened the door.

“You look like a mess.” He said, furrowing his brows.

“I’m surprised you noticed for once.” You snapped back in a mumble, shuffling past him and over to your wardrobe.

“…Y/N.” Alastor said, making you stop in your tracks. “What has gotten into you, lately? You’ve been acting so strange, and now you just show me no manners whatsoever.” He said, stepping into the bathroom. “I expect better from you.”

…That bitch.

You quickly threw something on, (of your choice),

Took Alastor’s pillow, a picnic blanket,

And went off into the bayou.

It was quiet after a moment of entering, which pleased you.

You couldn’t hear the sink running from Al’s daily routine, nor the bustling sounds of the hotel from outside the door.

Only crickets, water, and leaves rustling.

You knew where you were heading, as well.

Alastor used to take you out to picnics in a certain spot a lot.

Before the fight.

And you haven’t gone since.

***

The walk calmed you down enough to settle down into the spot without recalling memories and seeing at the same time.

You set the blanket down, anchoring it with some rocks so the wind wouldn’t blow it away, and sat down in your usual spot, hugging the pillow to your chest as you closed your eyes, and daydreamed.

You were at a picnic with Alastor.

You were eating his mother’s dishes.

You were gossiping about cannibal town drama.

You were dusting off each other’s clothes after chasing each other in the Bayou.

You remember how much bruises and cuts you got from that ridiculous game.

“Y/N? What has gotten into you?” Alastor said from behind you.

You turned around to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

He scoffed, “First the bathroom and now far into the bayou. You could’ve gotten lost.”

You felt guilty now. Great.

“…Maybe if you just leave me alone, you wouldn’t have to worry so much.” You mumbled into the pillow.

He put his hands on his hips, “Y/N, it’s been 11 hours since you left the room to here i guess, how could i not worry.”

11 hours?

Now you felt the intense hunger in your stomach, the weight of your eyelids begging to close, the stiffness of your back.

“…Probably because you haven’t in a while, I supposed.” You said truthfully.

“…You’re acting like a child Y/N.” He said, walking around the blanket to look at you.

“…Can we talk, Alastor?” You said, clutching the pillow tighter.

“I feel like that would be best, yes we may.” He said, setting his cane down and sitting across from you on the blanket.

“…Why do you hate me?” You said, looking into the small lake next to you.

“…Hate you? I could never, why do you say that?” He said, clearly offended.

You held back a sob, “You…you never have conversation with me anymore and w-whenever i start one you just…blow it off…” You tried to keep your tears in as you finished your sentence.

After a moment of deafening silence with the crickets to keep you company, you looked up.

Alastor was frowning.

“…I-I know that’s just one thing, b-but,” You took a deep, shaky breath, “You…you also never check on me you…used to always freak out whenever i was upset, always harass me until i told you what was wrong- but now w-whenever i don’t t-tell you…i don’t know…you j-just blow it off as well…” You squeezed your eyes shut.

“…Y/N…” Alastor called out to you.

You didn’t answer.

“…Y/N…” You felt something block the breeze next to you.

And then, something rubbing your shoulder.

That’s when the dam burst.

You let out a sob sob into his pillow, feeling the relief of releasing all those tears, those breaths, the lump in your throat disappearing.

You cried even more when you didn’t feel warmth on your shoulder anymore.

Or when the breeze was back to blowing on you.

But only for a moment.

“Y/N, it’s cold,” Alastor draped his coat over you, “…Y/N…?”

You looked up at him.

He looked scared.

“…I’m sorry for crying Alastor…I-I just couldn’t hold it in…”

“-No, no,” he cut you off, “No, hey, I want you to let it out, okay?” He sat in front of you, and held his arms out.

You only looked at him, pathetically.

“…Come here, Y/N.”

Another sob broke out as you quickly crawled into his lap, discarding the pillow stained with your tears.

“…I’m so sorry Y/N…I’m so sorry i let all of this happen. It was never…never meant to be this way.” He said with an ache in his voice.

You only cried more at that.

And he only rubbed more at that.

He rubbed your back as sobs racked through it, he kissed your head as aches raged in it, and he only held you tighter every time he felt like you were going to slip away, recalling the memories he never thought would bring them here.

“…Am i making you uncomfortable, Alastor.”

“…I’m just uncomfortable with myself right now, darling.”

You squeezed him tighter.

“…I’m sure you’re hungry, no?” He sighed, picking up his cane as he stood up with and exhausted you in his arms.

He tapped it once, and both the blanket and pillow were held between your bodies, his jacket back over his body as well.

“Let’s go get some left overs.”

***

As the two of you arrived back to your room, Alastor set you down into the bed, putting the blanket and pillow away, and then walked back over to you.

“I’m going to get you a meal, okay?” He picked up your hand and kissed the palm of it.

“Don’t um…forget to smile.” You said just below a whisper, “…You aren’t smiling.”

He smiled softly.

“I’ll be right back.”

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

END NOTES: If you cried, HIT THAT LIKE BUTTON! If you didn’t cry, HIT THAT LIKE BUTTON! This fic is just pent up rage from a manga i just read that had no happy ending and my life in general , but that’s okay. I don’t have anything to say. Sorry it’s short xx

-Lynn Lazybones

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

Masterlist Link

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Headlines

Day #16 - Struggling | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Substance Abuse, Addiction, Minor Mention of Pregnancy | POV: Gareth | Pairing: Gareth/Di (OC, Off-Screen), Minor Steddie | Tags: Clawing Your Way Out Of Rock Bottom, Tough Love, But Love

The headlines never stop coming, never relent, and if he dares to step foot out of his house there's a camera shoved in his face. Struggling, apparently, isn't allowed. The fall from grace must always be captured for the masses to gossip about.

His phone rings again, and again, and he lets it. He's not about to answer the phone and listen to anyone that's on the other end. He's heard it all before, and he doesn't have the energy for more of it. Not for Eddie's nagging or Steve's next plan of action. 

He's tried. They've all tried. It's useless.

He's useless.

Now, there's annoying banging on the door. He ignores that, too. 

"Hey, asshole, I know you're in there!" Goodie hollers through the door, and he's sure the next headline will read:

Former Drummer Evicted, Noise Complaints

Goodie can't actually get into the shitty apartment Gareth's been renting, so Gareth just props his feet up on the couch and ignores him. If he wants to yell through the door like an asshole, Gareth will let him. Gareth puts his headphones on, and blocks out the world. 

He's been good at that recently. Has had to be, if he hopes to survive this.

He closes his eyes and leans back.

Goodie lost the right to talk to him when he voted him out. All three of them, turning on him. Steve too, and Di. His own fucking wife. Giving him ultimatums that they all damn well knew he'd never be able to make good on.

Interventions that would never work, that he never wanted to work. He was fine. He was still showing up, drumming, and they thought they deserved more from him than his work. 

He can drum.

He can't stay sober. 

He jumps when the earphones are being plucked off of his head. 

"Jesus Christ, Goodie," Gareth snaps, but it isn't Goodie. At least, not just Goodie. 

It's Eddie, of course it is, who else could have picked the fucking locks? And of course, that means Steve, too, who is already gathering up the mess, shoving it into a trash bag by the handful.

Jeff standing there, holding it open for him.

They all wrote him off, months ago, and now here they are, harassing him further. It's bullshit. They wanted him gone? Great. Then they need to leave him alone, now. 

"Enough," Eddie says, "bender's over."

"Fuck you," Gareth snaps. He'll be done when he's good and ready, and he doesn't see that day coming anytime soon.

"Get up, let's go," Eddie says, and he pulls on Gareth's arms until he's standing, and then he's dragging him to the bathroom, Goodie kicking him on the ass the whole way, shoving him along.

"Stop it!" Gareth snaps, wheeling around on Goodie, only stopping because Eddie's restraining him.

"Goodie," Eddie warns, shutting the bathroom door, locking Goodie out, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Kid," Eddie says, meeting Gareth's eyes in the mirror. 

Gareth hasn't looked in a mirror in, well, a while. It isn't good. His eyes are dark, and purple underneath. This isn't what he should look like, and he knows it.

He's fucked it all up. His job, his band, his friendships, his goddamn marriage. 

His chance to be a dad in anything other than name.

"She had that baby?" Gareth asks, looking down at the floor.

"Not yet," Eddie answers, opening the shower door, "Here, get in."

And Gareth doesn't want to fight with him, so he does. Undresses and showers, and he feels a little better. Still awful. But a degree less, maybe.

"You can still turn this around," Eddie says from outside the shower door, "it's not too late. I'll help you."

It is too late. Di won't take him back. The band won't take him back. It is too late. Has been for a while.

"I can't fix this, I'm too far gone," Gareth mutters back.

"You're fucking not, shut up," Eddie snaps.

His own band kicked him out, replaced him. His wife left him, is having a baby that's he's not sure he'll have any parental rights to, or ability to see, and for good reason. He's a fuck-up. Unreliable. 

"Let me help you. We have all summer off."

Gareth looks at him, "You took the summer off? Why?"

Corroded Coffin never takes the summer off. They go, go, go during the summer. Five shows a week, at a flat run. That's what they're good at. Covering ground, entertaining crowds. 

"Because you're more important. I'm so sorry that we haven't gone about this right."

It's not Eddie's fault. Gareth knows that. Knows he only has himself to blame, even if most of the time he likes to lash out, and pretend otherwise. 

Down deep, he knows.

Down deep, he'd like to crawl out of this hole, but he can't really see daylight.

He's been digging too long.

"I don't think I can," Gareth whispers.

Eddie pulls him to his chest, hugging him tight, and it's been too long, and Gareth hugs back, "That's okay. I know you can."

And Gareth wants that to be true. Wants the trajectory to change. Wants his life back. All of it. Di, Eddie, the band. 

If he's making wishes, he's gonna wish big. 

"What do I do?" Gareth asks, face pressed into Eddie's neck. 

"Want it back," Eddie says, rubbing his back, "Take it back. Work for it."

Gareth lets Eddie hold him, then finally asks, "Have you talked to Di?"

"All the time," Eddie whispers, "she's wants it, too."

And that's when Gareth breaks, "She'll take me back?"

"Yeah, kid, I think she will if you can show her you're serious about turning this shitshow around."

"She's having a baby," Gareth says.

"You both are," Eddie says, "and wouldn't it be nice to be involved in that?"

It would, it really would.

"And Corroded Coffin?"

"Waiting. Always," Eddie says, and Gareth squeezes him, tight. "What do you say, kid? You in?"

Yeah. Gareth's in.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

[daengtokki]

𝒮𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒹 𝒟𝒶𝓉𝑒

Kim Seungmin/Female Reader

wc: 7.1k

rating: Mature, NON-explicit (part 2)

→ PART ONE

Part 2 of 4

The sun is coming through the trees and leaving freckles of light over Seungmin’s face and chest. His eyes are closed, hands propping him up as he leans back and stares up at the sky.

You’ve been meaning to ask the question bouncing around in your head for several minutes, but you can’t stop staring at him like this. You reach out and gently shake his foot until he looks at you.

“Hey, sorry…I didn’t mean to get quiet.”

- Seungmin is tired.

Car rides are his worst enemy if he’s trying to stay awake, especially if he ends up in the backseat. His head keeps swaying side to side. The ride is far too smooth, and he feels like a baby being lulled to sleep.

The car turns left, then right, then right again. He doesn’t need to feel it come to a stop to know he’s home.

As happy as he is to finally be done with traveling—for now, he doesn’t think he has the energy to get himself back on two feet.

He hits his neatly made bed immediately. No unpacking, no snack, no checking text messages. There is zero time between thinking about sleep and passing out; there is only a deep dreamless sleep.

____

It’s dark and warm in his room when he wakes up. His eyes stay closed tight, but he can feel how late it is. He knows he’s been sleeping far too long. Nobody bothered waking him for dinner or checking up on him, because that would have been useless. He doesn’t even mind that he missed the Giants game.

He feels much better now, until he looks down at his phone to check the time. The first problem is it’s already past midnight. The second problem is he has 43 notifications to open.

Seungmin scans over them to see if he missed anything important. Most of them look deletable, but a few he duly notes, and definitely needs to answer in the morning.

He opens the text from Choonhee, though.

Are you here for the long weekend?

He doesn’t mind texting her this late. He sends back a quick response without much thought: “I’m here until Wednesday!

Time to shower and eat.

Seungmin stands in the shower for a good fifteen minutes—clearing his mind, easing the tension he always holds in his shoulders— before finally, somewhere in the back of his memory, the part where he puts things and never ever remembers them…he remembers something.

“Oh…” he cups his face in his hands and scrubs at his cheeks, “shit.”

He takes his time getting out. An extra half an hour accidentally ignoring you isn’t going to make much of a difference now. Hair gets dried; fresh clothes thrown on. He clicks the fan in his bedroom so it pushes the warm air around. The cool night air is at least trying to find it’s way in.

Now he notices how hungry he is. Might as well find something in the kitchen before getting into a conversation. One that goes well, hopefully.

A bowl of oi-muchim, a beer, and his phone in hand, Seungmin makes himself comfortable on the couch. He pulls up Choonhee’s text messages again and hopes she still awake…

“Is it too late to text her? Do you think she’s up?”

He sends it off and tries not to watch his phone for her reply. He clicks the tv on and eats, but before his second bite, his phone goes off.

She won’t mind if it’s you

Seungmin hopes Choonhee’s right. And hopes you’ll still actually want to speak after two months of accidental silence.

Now he puts his food down, drinks some of his beer, and thinks…”what am I supposed to say at one in the morning?” He mumbles it to himself. But he starts typing anyway, letting his thumbs and his heart do the work. If he thinks too much, nothing will ever come out.

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m texting you so late. And also sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I hope you can forgive me. I’m in town for a few days if you’re interested in seeing each other.”

He reads it and rereads it. Then sends it away. It’s the best he can do.

The rest of the night is nothing but a long wait. The nap he took served perfectly as a good nights sleep, so the next few hours are spent catching up on baseball highlights, finishing a drama, and then silently obsessing over whether or not he’ll get a text back while a new show plays out in front of him .

At 7:30, Seungmin’s phone buzzes in his hand. He’s sound asleep, but still holding onto it. It wakes him right away, but it takes a moment before he can remember where he is, and what he’s doing there. Too much sleep makes his head fuzzy, and yesterday and this morning must have been a combined eleven hours.

He looks at the notification and remembers. Only the name on the screen registers in his mind before he unlocks his phone and sits up. He shakes the sleep from his head and rubs his eyes before reading…

I would love to see you

A sigh of relief. You’re not mad. Seungmin’s heartbeat picks up in his chest as he types.

“Tonight? Or today. Any time is good.”

This reply takes a little longer. He gets up to change just in case he has to run out the door to meet you. Your reply comes a few minutes later. Seungmin reads it as he’s jumping into his shorts.

I’m free all day. Do you want to come over for breakfast?

“Come over for breakfast? Are you going to make me breakfast?” he thinks out loud. He’s hoping that’s what you mean.

“I’ll be there in an hour”

____

Your internal alarm hates you. At precisely 7:25, you’re awake. Even on the weekends, you can’t sleep in. It takes a couple of minutes before you can even think about moving, but the warmth in the room and the sun peeking in eventually forces you up. You can only take so much.

Your phone, charging on the nightstand, buzzes softly. Probably an email. It buzzes again. You thought you put it on sleep mode last night, but maybe not. It’s a miracle nothing woke you up. You grab it and unplug it…

Email Spam email Work email you never opened or cleared Instagram

Text from Seungmin

“Seungmin,” you say his name out loud in case you’re still a little bit asleep. Seungmin, who you haven’t had a text from in months; who has probably been very busy and very tired when he isn’t busy, sent you a text at one in the morning.

You open it quickly, butterflies in your stomach, and read. You read it a few times. His texts are always a little longer, never one or two words. And you always read him in his voice. You’ve listened to him singing and speaking enough now that you hear it in your sleep. You don’t have to think much about your reply.

“I would love to see you”

____

There’s little time to pick up the apartment and figure out what you’re going to make for him. You do your best with what little time you have. Shower, hair, makeup…outfit. You probably should have given yourself a little more time. Too late now, he’ll be on his way soon.

It’s been nearly seven months since your blind date, but it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long. The time between his last text and today somehow felt longer. You feel like it’s going to be a first impression all over again, so you really want to give him your best. Maybe even better than last time, now that you know what you’re getting into.

In the kitchen, you start pulling things out to make, and you’re relieved to find you have something to cook for him.

You hope he likes American breakfast. You do know he likes coffee. Just a few days ago a care package came from your parents; coffee, snacks…things you miss from home. You pull out the bag of beans and start grinding.

Minutes later, or at least it feels like minutes, (the full hour, plus 20 extra minutes, has passed) you hear you phone buzz. Before you can get to it, the intercom buzzes. You grab your phone and run to the door.

“Hi I’m here”

You smile at his message and let him into the lobby before texting back, “543.” You’re surprised and a little flattered that he remembered where your building was and was confident enough to come without even confirming.

He sends a smiling emoji in reply.

Your back is against the door, eyes closed. Your picturing him walking to the elevator, pushing the button, waiting…

The elevator here is pretty slow…

He gets on and hits the 5th floor button. It comes straight up without stopping, considering the early hour. Everyone else in this building is definitely sleeping in. He turns right and walks, maybe a little hesitantly, toward your apartment, looks at the number on the door, then at your text.

He knocks gently. Three soft little knocks. You take in a deep breath; you’re more nervous than you thought you’d be. The deadbolt clicks.

When you crack the door he’s smiling down at you. You pull it open the rest of the way and stand there awkwardly for a moment. You feel like one of your eight-year-olds trying to find the right words in English. You stupidly breath out a wow and desperately hope he didn’t hear it

He stands there with one hand in the pocket of his shorts. The other hand is holding a paper bag. He swings it a little as he takes a careful step over your threshold.

“Morning.” You finally manage to say.

“Good morning,” he closes the door behind him, and his smile grows as he moves closer to you.

His face looks a little different. It’s been long enough that you’re thinking his braces have changed his smile, or maybe he’s just gotten older. The spring sun has turned his skin a few shades darker compared to October. His hair is dark and straight across his forehead; different then the last time you saw him. You’ve also gotten used to seeing him only in videos and photos. None of that does him justice. In front of you, he’s better—and you forgot how much better.

“Are you okay?” Seungmin reaches his hand toward you as if he’s going to touch your cheek, but he stops just short of you, and his hand falls slowly.

“Yeah, yeah…sorry,” you set your hand on your face where his hand should have been. “I uhhm,” you still can’t seem to find the right words. So much for a new first impression. Now what?

You put your other hand around his waist and pull yourself to him. You’re relieved when he reciprocates the embrace. He holds onto you for a while, not letting up on his grip.

“I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch.”

Even though you had plenty of old texts to return to; to re-convince yourself that Seungmin liked you and wanted to see you again, you still needed this physical reassurance. The last two months were a lot more lonely than you care to admit, and part of you was starting to let go.

“It’s okay, I know you’re busy.”

“Still a bad excuse.” He loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t let go completely. The bag he’s holding shakes a little in his hand. “I brought this for you.”

“Another gift? You’re making me look bad.” You slide away from his grip (very reluctantly) and head toward the kitchen.

“Well, you did make me coffee. It smells good.”

Seungmin follows closely behind. The kitchen is a little bit of a mess, but cooking and cleaning at the same time is not one of your strong suits. You grab a few things and toss them in the trash, the sink, the dishwasher. You don’t even realize he’s right behind you until you turn again to grab two clean glasses.

“I can bring you your coffee. It’s a mess in here, you don’t need to see this.”

“Oh I don’t mind. You are definitely a messy cook, though. You should clean as you go!”

“Believe me, I try.” You pour the cooled coffee into a glass over ice. “I hope you like this…have you ever had Kona coffee?”

Seungmin shakes his head and smiles. You briefly wonder if he realizes how cute it is, then you pour some for yourself, “I’m sure you’ll like it.” He takes it from you and follows as you lead him out of the kitchen and into the living room.

You sit. He sits, and sips his coffee, then adjusts so he’s a little closer to you.

“How long have you been in town?” You bring your knees up to your chest and turn your body to him.

“I got in yesterday afternoon, but I fell asleep and woke up very late.”

“Oh, that explains the late text.”

“Yes, hopefully it didn’t wake you. Choonhee told me you wouldn’t mind if I texted you so late.”

“It didn’t wake me up. It was a nice surprise this morning.”

He’s bouncing his legs up and down; knees are moving together, then apart, then together again. A nervous tick, maybe. All you do know is that the movement of his thighs is distracting. You tear your eyes away, and when you do, he’s looking at you.

“How have you been?” He asks, and he’s not just making conversation. The way he speaks is sincere. “Anymore blind dates?” He whispers the last part.

“Oh, no…no,” you stare into your coffee and shake your head. “Nothing special, not since our date.”

He smiles, but says nothing.

“I did keep up with you. I caught a few of your lives, checked YouTube for new videos…”

Seungmin laughs and lays his head back against the couch, “next time we don’t see each other for a while, I will call, and we can have a real live.”

“Is that a promise?”

He thinks for a moment, “yes, promise. I’ll be a better texter…also.” He adjusts and moves himself a little closer to you.

“I’ll take either.”

“I think I just…don’t know what to say sometimes. I don’t want to say something stupid, so I don’t say anything at all. And then I forget.”

“I don’t mind if you say something stupid.” You reach out and move a piece of hair out of Seungmin’s eyes. “I’d prefer it, actually. Then I can say something stupid back.”

He tilts his head and his hair falls back over his eyes. “Good to know.”

“Are you hungry?” You move his hair again.

He looks at you without answering for a very long moment. His eyes are impossibly big and dark; bottom lip a little bit red from biting down on it. Your eyes jump from the beauty mark on his cheek (you’re also thinking about how nice it is to finally see him again without makeup), to his eyes, his nose, his lips. His hair swings back down in front of his eyes.

He brings his hand up and attempts to fix his hair, but he just shakes his head again and smiles, “yes, I am. Very hungry.”

“I guess you can help me finish up,” you reach for his hand, which he happily takes, and lead him back to the kitchen. You prepped everything, but wanted it to be fresh when you sat down to eat.

“What are we having?” He looks at the counter. Four thick slices of bread and a bowl of something milky, eggs. “Oh these I can do,” Seungmin picks up an egg and holds it next to his face. “I can fry a good egg.”

“Okay, that’s your job.” You freshen his coffee while he examines the half dozen eggs in front of him. “Make however many you want.”

“Can I make all of them?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, “I have more if that’s not enough.”

“French toast?” He examines the milky batter next to the slices of bread. “I’ve had it before, but not for a very long time.”

“Is that okay? I can always make something else.” You turn the burner on low and let the pan get warm.

“No, I want to try your french toast.”

You reach for the butter, taking great care to reach around him by placing your hand on the belt of his shorts. He watches you closely as you dip each slice of bread into the batter, and when the butter melts completely, place them neatly in the pan.

“Nice sizzle,” he whispers. And then he laughs when you laugh. “Oh, I’m doing the eggs…” He turns his burner on low, butters his pan, and cracks four of the six eggs.

Seungmin looks at you, “I don’t want to crowd them.” He nods his head at two intact eggs. “They can wait.”

“You’re the expert.”

“They will be good, I promise.”

“Even if they’re bad, I’m sure I’ll love them.”

You hear him laugh as you tend to the French toast, shaking on the cinnamon, flipping them when they’re just crispy and brown. Seungmin ooohs at them as he seasons his eggs.

“Do you prefer maple syrup or…honey?”

“Hm?” He flips the eggs carefully and takes them off the heat before turning to the selection of toppings you’re setting out.

“Can you turn my burner off?”

He clicks it off, and Seungmin finds his way to the cupboard to get a plate. He gently sets his finished eggs onto it and cracks the remaining ones into the warm pan.

“Do you like maple syrup, or do you want honey?”

“Oh…maple syrup! And strawberries.”

“And whipped cream?”

“Dessert for breakfast…” he takes one of the strawberries and bites into it.

____

You have one dining table in your tiny apartment. It has two chairs, and it’s right next to the large picture window that sits just between the kitchen and the living room. Outside is a limited view of the city. It’s nice, though. And you can afford it.

Seungmin is watching the city slowly start to move, chin resting in the palm of his hand. He has a smile on his face–it’s very subtle on his lips, but not in his eyes. You made him sit while you got the rest of the food ready, and eventually, he listened.

“Is this enough strawberries?”

He looks at you first and smiles, then at his plate. “Yes, thank you,” he waits for you to sit before whispering jal meokgetseumnida and when you pick up your fork, he follows. Seungmin opted for maple syrup, strawberries, whipped cream. He goes for the whipped cream first, eating a forkful by itself.

“Did you make this, too?” He takes another bite of it, this time with a big piece of strawberry.

You nod.

“It’s very good, it’s not too sweet.” He cuts into his French toast now, getting a bite of all three at once.

“If everything is too sweet, it ruins it.”

“Sometimes…” he says in a singsong voice, almost a whisper.

You sneak glances at him between your own bites. He’s a quiet eater this morning, but you’re comfortable sitting there with him in the silence.

“How has work been?”

“Kind of crazy.” He takes a drink of his coffee, “we will be in Japan in two weeks, and then to the US after that.” Seungmin nods to himself and divides the four eggs between you.

They do look perfect and exactly how you usually make them. Over-easy. “That’s exciting…but I’m sure it’s very exhausting.”

He picks one up and shoves the entire thing in his mouth. You can tell he wants to speak as soon as he does it, but he chews patiently. “I wouldn’t want to do anything else, but some days it is a lot. And very tiring.”

He rests his face in his hands again. He finished his food. Now he’s looking at you with the same tired eyes he’s given you before. 

“Thank you for making time for me.” You say.

He sits back in his seat, smiles, shakes his head a little.

You look at him questioningly. His mannerism are cute, but you’re not quite sure how to interpret them sometimes. “What is it?”

“I’m happy to be here.”

“You are?” When you stand to clean off the table, he stands with you to help. You let him.

“Yes,” he bites into another strawberry when he gets to kitchen sink with his dishes. “I like you. You're...you're relaxing to be around. I don't feel any pressure here."

You look at him and smile, unsure of how to respond at first. "Thank you." It's not enough of a reply, you know that, but you're a little lost for words.

"Is that a weird thing to say?"

"No! Not at all. It might be the sweetest complement a date has ever given me."

Seungmin follows you wordlessly to the living room, and sits when you sit. You move a little closer to him and relax, hoping he continues to mimic you. And he does.

“Can I ask you something…um,” he purses his lips as he thinks, covers his cheeks with his hands. “Something personal I guess. Kind of. Maybe not really personal but-”

“Yes, of course you can.” You take one of his hands away from his face and hold it in yours. It’s starting to feel like the first date, except now he seems a little different than last time. Maybe he’s worn out from performing. Maybe it’s just an off day.

He’s looking down at his hand clasped in yours, “do you ever feel like, um…I guess it’s hard to put into English.”

“That’s okay, we can use whatever words feel best for you.”

Seungmin can’t help but smile at that, and a tiny laugh escapes. “I almost forgot, you teach kids. You do sound like a teacher.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I mean…whichever language.” You pull his hand closer to you and put your other hand over it. “I’m sure between us we can figure it out.”

“You’re so sweet.”

“What’s bothering you?” You squeeze his hands even harder.

“I don’t know if you will, but if you ever meet my friends…the other members.” He stops for a moment to look at you.

You nod at him, but at the same time you’re completely unprepared for that statement. Meeting his friends? It's a big jump from where you're at right now.

“I guess I’m worried you might like them more than you like me.” His head falls back on the couch and he covers his eyes with his free hand. He sighs loudly.

“Why would you think that?” You pull him closer and shake him a little, “Seungmin…Seungmin, what do they call you when they don’t call you Seungmin?”

You get him to laugh, at least.

“Minnie,” he looks at you through his fingers. He says it again under his breath. “Min…puppy.”

“Puppy?” you scoot even closer to him, until you can almost set your chin on his shoulder. "Puppy."

He closes the gap a little.

Your forehead is almost touching his. You hold his eyes there. Then you kiss the bridge of his nose.

He leans forward and sets his head in the space between your neck and shoulder. His hair is tickling your ear, and his lips are brushing against your skin. You’re certain he can hear your blood pumping through your veins.

He lets out a long sigh. You don’t really want to say anything, you’d prefer it if the two of you could just stay like this for a little bit longer. And suddenly thinking of him leaving again (for another six months, maybe) gives you a horrible sinking feeling in your stomach.

But you need to talk to him.

“Why do you think that?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds as he searches for the right words. “There are eight of us…and sometimes I end up feeling, uhm…”

There's a long pause while you both think. He's searching for the words; you're searching his mind and his face.

”Do you feel like you're stuck behind everyone sometimes?” You think that’s what he’s getting at. You can see it in his eyes.

”Yes, I guess so. I mean, I know I am not as popular.”

It’s a hard comment for you to respond to, but the sad smile on his face makes you a little angry. Not at him, just at every single person outside of your apartment. 

“Well, you’re my favorite.”

A hesitant smile appears.

Your hands close around either side of his face, and you graze your fingertips over his ears, “I’m sure the others are great, and I’m sure I could be friends with them someday...but they’re not you, and I already told you we wouldn’t make very good friends.”

You’re not sure why him being vulnerable and honest is suddenly, making you so bold, but you’re not going to question it. He’s quiet and calm as you speak, so you must be doing something right.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else here with me.” You hope he believes you, but you also aren’t a stranger to the hesitant feelings he’s obviously processing. “And I wish you could stay.”

“I can stay today!”

____

Seungmin falls asleep on your couch again. This time, though, he’s lying comfortably with his face shoved into one of your pillows and his curled up legs are almost on your lap. It’s a small couch.

You put a movie on, but he didn’t last more than a half an hour. It’s been two hours now, and you really don’t want to wake him. You’re certain he’ll get up on his own soon.

The kitchen is clean, the movie is over. You’re a little tired yourself, honestly, but you don’t think you could fall asleep while he’s here and almost in your lap. He’s a quiet sleeper, and he’s hardly moved, but you can hear his big sighs every few times he exhales.

He shifts a little when your hand touches his leg, but he settles back down immediately, and is out again. Even when your palm slides over his skin, he doesn’t move.

The soft buzz of his phone doesn’t wake him, either. But it’s going off again, and it’s the third time. You’re wondering if it’s important, but you don’t want to pry.

You run your hand over his leg again. Still nothing. It goes off again—this time it’s ringing. You can see the name on the screen without looking very hard.

“Seungmin…” You whisper. This time you gently drag your fingertips across his skin. “Seungmin?”

A little groan. His leg stretches out across your thigh. You squeeze his calf a bit and he seems to react, but not enough, so you gently move him and get up.

“Seungmin?” You kneel down until you’re face to face with him. He looks so peaceful and content, and while you hate to disturb him, you’re kind of looking forward to him slowly waking up. Saying his name isn’t getting through, though, so you place the tip of your finger at his temple and lightly trace a line down the side of his face.

A raspy mmm is all you get in return.

You bury your fingers in his hair and comb through it, kneading into his scalp a little. “Minnie?” You move down toward his neck, knead a little more, this time into a soft part of his shoulder.

His eyes open slowly, eyelashes fluttering a bit as they readjust to the sunlight in the room. He looks around before his gaze settles on you, and for the briefest moment he seems lost. But then he remembers where he is, and he smiles at you.

“Hi,” his voice is sleepy and raspy, like he hasn’t used it in a long time. He closes his eyes again.

“No no, eyes open.”

“I’m awake,” he mumbles.

“Look at me,” you lean toward his face until your noses are almost touching.

Eyes open again and he blinks a few times. “Are you gonna kiss me?” He asks, and the sleepiness in his voice is unbearable.

Yes, if he wants you to, you will kiss him. You lick your lips. But first, “your mom is calling you.”

“Oh, she’s probably wondering why she hasn’t seen me since I got home.”

“Do you want me to call and tell her you’re busy?”

Seungmin laughs and finally seems to be fully awake. He shakes his head and slowly sits himself up. “Do I have bedhead?” He rubs his eyes and runs his hands through his hair.

“A little bit.” You comb a hand through it and fix his part, “it’s cute, though.”

“Nooo it’s not,” he flattens it more and lays back against the couch. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“You apologize too much.”

“Do I?”

You nod and sit down next to him, “I’m glad you were comfortable enough here to fall asleep.”

“Did I snore?” He looks a little embarrassed.

“No, you were pretty quiet. You kicked a few times, though.”

He almost apologizes, but stops himself and picks up his phone. He reads through his messages and eventually types a reply to one of them. Then he turns to you, “what should we do now that I’m well rested? Are you tired?” He throws his phone down and turns the rest of his body to you, “did you sleep at all?”

“I didn’t sleep, but I’m fine.”

“Maybe you should rest,” he smiles and tilts his head. “I can leave for a while and come back, if you’d like.”

“No, I don’t want you to leave.”

He nods, “We can try another movie,” Seungmin relaxes on the couch, pillow at his side, and extends an arm. “And if you fall asleep, we’ll be even.”

You stare at him for a long moment. It’s not until he beckons you with his hand that you realize it’s an invitation to cuddle up to him. And you take it without another moment of hesitation.

Your cheek settles against his chest, open hand spread out over his stomach. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in a little tighter.

“Are you comfortable?” He grazes his fingertips over your forearm, very slowly, as if he’s still testing the limit of touch between you.

“I am.” You feel the goosebumps jump up on your skin, and Seungmin runs his fingers over you again, like he notices.

He does notice. You hear a breathy little laugh come from him. “Good.”

Now you think you could definitely fall asleep. He’s warm, but a good warm; not like the summer heat moving around the room. You push your face further into the space under his arm and inhale.

“What should we try to watch? Maybe something funny.”

He browses through Netflix. Meanwhile, you can feel yourself slowly slipping into sleep. But you don’t want to fall asleep. Sleeping now would just be wasted time with Seungmin, so you adjust yourself and sit up a little more.

He sits up, too. His eyes are big and a little worried.

“I don’t want to fall asleep.”

“Okay, how can we keep you awake then?”

You stare at him thoughtlessly for a few seconds. Then you feel like maybe you’re blushing because he probably (probably?) isn’t thinking the same thing your sexually frustrated mind is thinking. Now you can’t get the thought out of your head. You try not to breath out like you’ve just been holding your breath for too long.

He grins a little, so you think the thought may have crossed his mind after he said it. But he stays quiet.

“Maybe we can…go for a walk,” you say it as you exhale and then take a steady breath in. At the same time, your brain is slowly unbuckling his belt and lifting his shirt. “We should go for a walk.”

“Okay, that sounds nice.”

____

It’s warm out, but not enough to be uncomfortable.

You changed into something to show a little more skin, because you might as well try to get his mind where yours is. He may not even be interested in going there.

“So, are you allowed to date yet?” It comes out before you even decide if it’s a good thing to bring up.

Seungmin giggles. You look at him and see him covering his mouth with his hand, but the smile in his eyes is obvious.

“Sorry, that came out of nowhere…”

“It’s alright. You can ask me anything you want,” he shoves his hands in his pockets and slows his walk a bit.

“Okay, I’ll just throw questions at you as I think of them.”

“Good,” he stops and bounces on the balls of his feet, “ we should get some boba.”

You were already concerned about Seungmin being recognized on your walk, and going into a boba place seems like the most obvious way for him to be seen. But you’re not going to tell him no.

“Maybe I should go in and get us both something, it seems a little busy in there.”

“If that makes you feel better, yes.”

“It doesn’t. I just don’t want you to get any unwanted attention.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” He brushes his hand against your arm and leads you across the street. “I’m not as popular or recognizable as you might think.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“If nobody expects to see me, they’ll miss me,” he hops up on the curb like a kid. It feels like he becomes more and more relaxed as the day goes on. “But…” he pulls a black face mask from his back pocket and loops it around his ears. “I’ll be much happier if you’re more comfortable.”

____

The sun is coming through the trees and leaving freckles of light over Seungmin’s face and chest. His eyes are closed, hands propping him up as he leans back and stares up at the sky.

You’ve been meaning to ask the question bouncing around in your head for several minutes, but you can’t stop staring at him like this. You reach out and gently shake his foot until he looks at you.

“Hey, sorry…I didn’t mean to get quiet.”

“I have a question.”

He sits up fully and smiles, “oh I never answered you before. No dating. Openly. Technically.” He says it like he’s not sure if he’s using his English words correctly. “Maybe that wasn’t the question.”

“It wasn’t, but I did want to know that, too.” You sip your drink and think about your question again. You had it ready to go, but Seungmin said the word openly and you lost it. “Do you know that I’m older than you?”

“No, I didn’t know. But I don’t mind.” He gets on his hands and knees and crawls closer to you. “If you don’t mind that I’m younger.”

A breeze picks up and his hair is swept across his forehead. He tousles it a little until his bangs fall back in front of his eyes.

You shake your head. “No, I don’t,” the question starts forming in your head again. “Would you ever consider dating, uhm, me? I mean, let’s say you weren’t who you are and we still somehow met. Is that something you’d…consider?

Seungmin looks at you, and his eyes have certainly never been this big before. His ears and cheeks are slowly turning red. And he’s quiet. His mouth opens a bit, but no words come out. You’re afraid you asked the stupidest question you could have possibly thought of.

You made it weird.

“You don’t have to answer. I’m sorry. Please pretend I never said that.” You lift your knees to your chest and bury your face in the space there. You whimper a little to yourself and hope he doesn’t hear it.

“That’s a tough one.”

You can’t see his face, but you can imagine it.

In reality, he’s thinking and playing with his straw. Still blushing, still smiling. If you’d just lift your head and look at him, you’d see that he’s unable to contain his smirk.

“Let’s go back to you looking up at the sky and me not talking.” You relax as much as possible and your back gently hits the grass. You spread yourself out, hoping to sink into the ground.

“No,” he sips his drink and leans back on one hand. “You asked, now it’s out there forever.”

You peek up at him briefly and see his face in the sun again; eyes closed but smirk still tugging at his lips. Quiet and thoughtful.

“Seungmin?”

No answer. You look back at the sky, but you can hear him moving and getting closer. His shadow blocks the sun from your eyes, so you open them.

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay if you wouldn’t.”

Still no answer. Your eyes close again, and then he lays down next to you. It’s a nice moment, or it would be. The birds are singing and there’s the sound of the wind through the trees. The only other people around are far enough away that you can barely hear them.

You feel like you could cry.

Maybe he just isn’t very good at letting people down. He can’t find the right words to tell you it would never work, and that’s understandable, really. He’s sweet and thoughtful and kind. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He just wants to be friends.

You cover you eyes with both hands and sigh as quietly as possible.

“I would, but…I don’t know…” he hmmms and uumms a few times. “Nobody has ever asked me out before.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t believe much.”

"If that's true, it's because you're intimidating."

"Me?" He's trying not to laugh. "I'm not intimidating! Am I? Is it my face? Do I look angry?"

"Okay, wrong word to use. You're too handsome to approach, I mean. I would have never, on my own, started a conversation with you had I seen you at that coffee shop by yourself."

Now you sit up and shade him from the sun. There’s a stray eyelash on his cheek, so you lean forward to gently blow it off.

His eyes flutter open. "I am not too handsome to approach." He whispers and lets himself laugh out loud.

“Okay fine…so I’m your first.”

“So you’re not taking it back?”

“You mentioned meeting your friends earlier. Did I interpret that wrong?”

He shakes his head.

“Then no, I guess I’m not taking it back.”

----

The trip back is not awkward. You expected him to keep his distance, physically and mentally, but he walks almost shoulder to shoulder with you the entire time. He hasn’t given you any type of answer yet, but you’re not worried about it. Part of you still wants to take it back and let things flow at a slower pace. This is, after all, only your second date. The other part of you is already on fire. It’s a tough line to walk.

Inside the apartment it’s gotten much warmer, and you regret not starting the AC before leaving. It’ll take forever to cool down now. You close the windows, lower the shades, and pull the curtains closed. Then you head to the couch and collapse onto it.

Seungmin makes himself at home by heading to the bathroom, then finding himself (and you) something cold to drink. You’re too distracted to even care that he’s digging around in your messy fridge.

“I forgot about this,” he grabs the bag from the side table and dangles it in front of his face. “Your gift.”

You sit up against the arm rest and smile at him, “thank you, Seungmin.” Inside is a small yellow dog plush. “Oh, it’s you!” You squeeze him and adjust the hoodie he’s wearing before bringing him up to your face. “Was he yours?”

“Yeah, he was mine.”

“He smells like you.”

“Is that a good thing?” He sits down by your folded legs and sets a hand just above your knee.

He’s touchy today...almost as much as you. And for never being properly asked out (now you wonder what else he hasn’t experienced), he knows just what to do to make you squirm.

You sit up a little more, bumping his hand off of you by mistake. He pulls it back a little, so you reach out and take it in yours. “Yeah, it is.”

He squeezes your hand and pulls you closer so he can place a kiss on your lips. You kiss back, but your brain takes a second to catch up with your mouth. When it finally does, you kiss hard enough to force him back against the couch.

Seungmin is better in action than he is with words today.

He doesn’t struggle against you or ease up, but pushes on with just as much enthusiasm.

You don’t know what to do with your hands, though. You have a lot of options. Through the hair? No. Neck? Maybe, but you don’t want to be too rough at this angle, and he might not be into that. Face? It’s a good option, and his cheeks are soft and nice to touch. And it's not too much.

Before you can decide, he takes your other hand and pulls until you have no choice but to swing a leg over his lap. And then his hands are on either side of your thighs.

You pull back and look at him.

He stares back, catching his breath. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at answering your questions.”

“You don’t have to.” You let your hands wander over his chest and down his sides. He squirms just a little; probably ticklish. When your hands settle on his belt, you lean in to kiss him again. On his lips, over his cheek. “I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

“I’m glad you did,” he looks down at your hands. “It was nice to be thought of like that. It felt good.”

“If I can see you again, that’s enough for me.”

“Is it?”

It really isn’t, but you decided on the walk back that anything with Seungmin would be okay. “If it’s what you can give me, yeah.”

Your needy, clingy heart feels like it’s crumbling, but you do your best to keep it from showing on your face.

“I can’t promise much, but I can try.”

You kiss him again, and without thinking it through properly; without thinking at all, really, you slide your fingers down and over the zipper of his shorts and feel the significant bulge that you somehow didn’t notice before.

Seungmin’s tiny oh and his hand wrapping around the offending wrist makes your stomach sink. His eyes are wide and fixed on you.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you gently push yourself away from him and sit against the opposite side of the couch, hands covering your red face. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking…”

“It’s okay,” he giggles and adjusts himself, and you watch from behind one hand as he runs a palm between his thighs. “Please don’t be upset, you didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice softens as he speaks, and the last part is a barely audible whisper, “it was my fault.” But the grin on his face only sharpens. He’s looking down at his hands as they nervously fidget with the hem of his shorts.

“Was that uh, a first, too?” You regret asking it as soon as it leaves your mouth.

He doesn’t answer right away. You’re worried he feels embarrassed about it. And you feel weird for bringing it up. The urge to get closer to him is kept under control for now.

“It’s no big deal, Minnie…if it was.”

Using his nickname breaks him from his trance, and he looks at you, blinks, nods. “Yeah, it was.”

“Did you want that? I mean, when you pulled me on top of you.” Now you scoot a little closer. “You can give me boundaries.”

“I got caught up in the moment.” He starts, thinking and picking his words carefully. “But I did want to kiss you like that.”

“Got it,” closer still, until your knee is brushing against his thigh. “You can always stop me if I go overboard. Sometimes I can be too much.”

“Is that bad? Too much is sometimes nice.”

“I guess it depends…”

You lean forward until your forehead can lay on his shoulder. His cheek rests on your head. You stay that way until you feel yourself relaxing and drifting into a half-sleep.

“I think it’s time to rest.” You don’t move, but Seungmin lifts his head.

“That’s a good idea,” He grabs the pillow to his right and puts it on your side of the couch. “Do you want me to stay?”

You lay back on the couch and sigh. “Yeah, I do. If you want to.”

“I do…move over.”

[vulturv0lans]

hiiii lovely! can i please request a dom!brattamer!diluc smut in which the sub!fem!brat!reader has been teasing him all day on shift at the winery and being a massive brat, so he decides to punish her by teasing her back and eventually fucking her behind the bar? and bonus points for choking + leaving marks! thank you sm, have a good rest of ur day! ^-^ <3

sorry if its a big request :>

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴜʀꜱ (ᴅɪʟᴜᴄ)

eeeek a request!! this is my first time writing & publishing smut hope u enjoy hehe sorry it took so long!!

listening to azeru's audios while writing has its benefits <3 anyway i think i might need some holy water after this

tags: dom!diluc, sub!reader, brat taming, oral, semi-public, choking, marking, creampie, rough & spicy & kinky but soft at the end because i want it to

word count: 3.3k (oops)

requests open!

diluc swallows thickly as you saunter across the room, hair a little too bouncy on your shoulders and chest pushed up a little too high out of the neckline of your shirt, your eyes dancing a little too tantalizingly from patron to patron, lingering a second too long on the intoxicated figures drooling over you, before landing squarely on his with a knowing smile.

you've been doing this all day, and the clock cannot strike midnight fast enough. for the past few hours, all diluc can think of is throwing you against the wall and teaching you a lesson about teasing him in public, or wearing less revealing clothes around useless drunks, for that matter.

but several of them still remain, and he cannot close the bar for another good thirty minutes. even though most of the crowd has thinned out, the room reeks of alcohol and sweat, and there is nothing he wants to do more than physically throwing everyone out the door.

no, he must wait.

the knuckles that gripped the bar counter turn white from the pressure, and he takes several deep breaths to maintain his composure. you ignore the antics of the drunk customers, though, expertly dodging the haphazardly placed stools on the floor and opening the latch on the door that clearly says "employees only", before coming to a stop next to him.

the air is filled with the scent of you and diluc feels lightheaded from the sudden lack of oxygen. you support yourself with both hands on the counter, and he has to force his eyes away from the perfect shape of your breasts, now almost threatening to spill out of your low-cut top with the way you're leaning over the bar.

"do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

you jump slightly at his sudden proximity to you, but his words send a delightful shiver down your spine nonetheless. so you feign innocence.

"i can't say i know what you're talking about."

diluc huffs in frustration and shifts out from behind you to serve a customer, and your feel the cold now that his presence is gone. still, the thought of rendering your lover helpless in front of the patrons is too exciting to pass up. when you notice a plastic cup on the floor next to diluc's feet that must've missed the previous night's cleaning, a bright idea pops into your mind.

glancing around to make sure no one is paying attention to your forthcoming disappearance, you shuffle closer to him and bend down, pretending to care enough about the cleanliness of the bar. but your hand stop short of the cup and reach for his legs instead, earning a surprised gasp from diluc before crimson eyes are glaring down at you.

"what do you think you're doing?" he hisses, only loud enough under the music and chatter for you to hear.

you blink innocently at him, but your hands don't just stop at his knees. they snake higher and higher until you grab ahold of his belt, expertly undoing the buckle and slowly pulling the fabric down his legs, stopping only when the evidence of his arousal is clear and present before your eyes.

large hands roughly grip yours before you have time to make another move, a dangerous look in his eyes intended to halt your actions only spurring you on further. you wriggle free from his grasp to gently trace the outline of his erection through his boxers, until a small wet patch stains the fabric and he inhales deeply through his nose.

you giggle quietly at his current state. kneeling down on the floor under the bar counter and settling back onto your heels, your nimble fingers hook under the waistband and finally free his aching cock from its confinements. you almost drool at the sight before you, feeling dampness pooling in your own pants.

if he really hates this so much, he would've stopped you a long time ago. you take his inaction as encouragement and lick a bold stripe up his length, earning another sharp inhale from him. you get to work almost straight away, closing your tinted lips around him until he hits the back of your throat.

you groan at the taste of him, the slight vibration making his body tighten under your hold. thankful for the music that drowns out his heavy breaths and the lewd sounds of your mouth, you swirl your tongue around his tip and the thick veins, feeling the warmth of him filling up every part of you.

you'd be lying if you say you hadn't dreamt of this, teasing and milking him dry all without a way for him to seek revenge, at least not until later.

the neckline of your shirt stretches as it gets pulled down lower, until your breasts are out on full display under him. his knee buckles at the sight, and he almost cums right there when you let go of his cock with a wet pop, before settling his length between the valley of your breasts.

your lips wrap around his tip once again as you start moving, the smooth skin on your chest now glistening with a mixture of your spit and his pre-cum. you take more of him into your mouth with his every thrust, pressing your tits together tighter around him. it isn't long until he is a mess above you, knuckles even whiter than before as he desperately tries to hold on to whatever little composure he has remaining.

he is so close, so close to spilling his seed all over your tits and that pretty face of yours. oh how he longs to see you covered in his cum-

and then you stop. right as he is nearing his climax, you release him from your mouth and pull your shirt back up over your chest, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before pulling his own pants up as well, as if nothing happened at all.

he is almost furious. but there's only so much he can do in his current position, cock red and angry and leaking from lost pleasure, and he shoos the remaining patrons out of his bar with harsher words than usual, despite it not being time to close yet. the second the last customer steps out and you turn the lock, your body is shoved up against the wood and his mouth is on yours, tugging harshly at your bottom lip.

you moan into him, finally getting a moment alone after fantasizing about this all day. diluc doesn't seem to share your excitement, however. his hands are rough on your body, firmly settling them on the round of your ass and lifting you up effortlessly.

you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you over to the counter, his lips continuing their assault on yours before moving down to the nape of your neck, roughly sucking at the sensitive skin. your core tightens at the sensation, knowing that you'd have to cover the marks with makeup for days to come. still, you're too engrossed in him to care.

when he finally breaks from you, lips swollen and eyes half closed, you know you're in for a ride tonight.

"what did i say about teasing me like that in public?" he whispers darkly into your ear, and you shiver at his hot breath on your skin.

"don't act like you didn't enjoy it-"

before you can even finish your words, a large hand wraps around your throat and you're forced to swallow the rest of your sentence, yet the wet patch in your panties only grows.

he resumes his assault on your neck, trailing his lips lower until he reaches your chest. mumbling something along the words of "get this off", your shirt roughly tugged below your chest to expose your breasts, nipples hardening in the cold air.

it's his turn to tease you now, to teach you a lesson about disobeying him.

he latches his mouth onto your breast, but instead of licking and swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud, it's all teeth and biting. you throw your head back, the pain soon turning into pleasure.

it's getting too warm in this room, and you need to feel his skin on yours, now.

you reach to unbutton his shirt, but nothing escapes diluc as he pins your wrists down to your sides.

no touching until you learn your lesson.

he tuts, and you whine in response, growing frustrated at the unfairness.

diluc doesn't seem to care, only releasing your breast when he feels satisfied. the skin is red and teeth marks litter the soft skin, but you barely have time to register it before your shorts are slipped down your legs, leaving you exposed in only your panties.

he chucks the denim aside in disdain. "you're almost begging people to stare at your ass in these," he grunts and forces your legs open with his knee, "is that what you want? for all those men to look at you?"

you give your head a hard shake, wanting so desperately to close your legs and relieve the pressure but with his built body settled squarely in between them, you can only dream.

a finger comes to rest below your chin, tilting your head and forcing you to look at him,

“use your words.”

"no! that's not what i-"

once again your sentence is cut short as his lips unexpectedly latch around your most sensitive area. your body jolts at the sudden pleasure, but it ends all too soon.

he runs a finger up your folds through the soaked fabric of your panties, enjoying your pathetic whimpers, "so wet already. getting off on people catching us, hm?"

you shift your weight, trying to pull him closer, but he merely hums in response as he presses kisses to your inner thighs, their softness a stark contrast to the dark hunger in his eyes.

you don't know how long he spends paying attention to everywhere but where you want him, but by the time he finally pulls your panties aside and licks up the length of your core, you almost explode right there. he groans at the taste of you, and before you even have time to react to the delicious vibrations, a finger is inside you and you see stars behind your eyelids.

the ministrations of his tongue do not stop as he pumps his hand in and out, soon adding another finger and curling them upwards to reach that one particular spot. he can feel you clenching around him, and despite wanting nothing more than to feel your tightness around his cock instead, bad girls don't deserve to cum just yet. and he knows that.

every moan and whimper out of your swollen lips is more higher pitched than the last, and diluc knows you're close. all the words in your head have been replaced with his name and mindless begging, and you can only repeatedly whisper cute little please's at him, hoping that asking nicely would get you what you want.

but diluc has other ideas in mind.

just as you're about to reach your high, he abruptly pulls back and withdraws his fingers. a mix of emotions washes over you, frustration, desperation, and downright horniness longing for something other than his fingers inside of you, now. your eyes start to water as he leans back and admires your current state with a proud smirk. you’re propped up on your elbows with matching littered marks and bruises on your neck and inner thighs, legs spread wide open and glistening with your arousal, your pussy pathetically clenching around nothing as you desperately chase your high.

"diluc, please," you breathe out, tears betraying your resolution to remain composed. you feel your orgasm fade with every passing second and you’re clawing at every chance to reach it again.

"please what?" he teases in a singsong voice, lifting his hand to your mouth and you obey almost too quickly, swirling your tongue around the fingers that were just coated with your own taste.

you hide your face in his shoulder, suddenly too embarrassed to confess all the dirty thoughts racing through your head, all the things you want him to do to you, whatever dominance you had established with that sloppy blowjob under the bar counter long dissipated like the wind.

seeing no response, diluc draws back a little and lifts your chin with one hand, forcing your tear stained eyes to look up at him. slowly, he leans down and presses a languid kiss to your lips without breaking eye contact, and for a moment you thought he has finally had his share of fun being mean to you.

this is where you’d be wrong, of course.

his teeth catch on your bottom lip as he breaks away, tugging a little too harshly and earning a moan from you before you could stop it. the corners of his own lips curl up in a sly grin as a firm hand slides up your chest before coming to a rest around your neck, and your eyes widen.

“use. your words.”

the letters tumble out of his mouth and directly into yours, the fingers around your throat tightening slightly until every last bit of rationality is squeezed out of your brain.

“i want you.”

he grunts with what can only be described as satisfaction and excitement, but his hand remains closed around your throat.

“you’re gonna have to be more specific than that, baby.”

your pussy is aching with arousal, craving for something - anything to fill you up, bringing you back to that euphoria you were so senselessly robbed of.

“i want you to fuck my pussy so good i can’t walk in the morning,” you blurt out with a pathetic sob, “i want you to fuck me like i’m your little toy, please, diluc, want you to fill me up!”

he lets out a low growl, composure and patience running out as he finally snaps his hips into you, bottoming out without even giving you a moment to adjust. your head falls back and you cry out at the sudden pleasure. you feel so full. so blissfully full as his cock slides in and out of your walls, fitting so perfectly inside you like missing puzzle pieces.

he starts moving in slow, long strokes, reaching deep inside you and hitting that one spot with every thrust. your hands roam each others’ bodies like animals starved for days, and your skin is on fire. diluc reaches for the hem of your shirt and you comply a little too quickly, raising your arms so he could rip it off of you and finally free your breasts from the constraint of your bra.

despite the heat of the moment, he takes a second to admire your body, so perfect before him. your breasts pushed against each other in your lacy bra, and he doesn’t waste anymore time before running his hand down its smooth curve, until a nipple is freed from its constraints. he moans out as if he wasn’t just sucking on them a few minutes ago, as if he hasn’t seen you naked plenty of times already.

he was planning on saying something sappy at the sight before his eyes, but a sudden clench of your walls around his length makes him jump with pleasure.

you can wave goodbye to whatever sentimental words he had in his mind, the warmth and tightness of your pussy replacing all of his thoughts with a primal, burning desire to fuck you stupid.

diluc quickens his pace, his hands doing fast work unclasping the hook of your bra before moving down to rub rough circles on your clit. you wrap your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his back in a feeble attempt to bring him even closer, even deeper. the air is filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the lewd noise almost making you tighten even more.

“fuck. do that again.”

he seethes through his teeth, and you obey, clenching repeatedly around him until you are close to your own release.

diluc must’ve sensed it, too. his hand makes it way back up your stomach, past your perky tits bouncing with each thrust, and firmly settles around your neck again.

you’re reduced to a blubbering mess as he tightens his grip while maintaining fast, steady thrusts, the lack of oxygen somehow fuelling your arousal even more.

“is this what you wanted? to be fucked and choked like this?”

you nod fervently, the tip of his cock hitting your spot over and over again until you almost see stars.

“do you want to cum?”

if you nodded any faster you’re sure you would’ve broken your neck. the coil in your stomach is tightened to an impossible amount that you feel it might burst at any moment.

“do you think you deserve to cum?”

you let out a breathy whimper, avoiding his question.

“answer.”

his hand tightens again as a warning, and you shake your head - as much as you could in your submissive position.

satisfied with your answer, diluc finally loosens his grip and you gasp for air. seeing this as your opportunity, you clench down on him, hard.

a line of curses splutter past his lips as he almost cummed first from your vice-like grip on his cock, the embarrassment soon turning into anger as he fucks you even faster, harder, until you’re almost passed out from the pleasure.

you’re so close. if he just touched you-

a harsh slap landed on your clit and you jolt. this is not what you had in mind, but it’s surely getting you where you need to be nonetheless, if not faster. seeing this side of diluc is a bigger turn on than almost anything else, which is what prompted you to tease him in the first place.

he can barely hold back anymore. your hands are slipping on the counters, trying to hold onto anything as you near your release.

“cum for me baby, i want to hear you.”

that’s all the permission you needed as the coil inside you snaps, powerful pleasure washing over you and rendering you helpless as you shake uncontrollably, juices dripping down the counter onto the hardwood floors and the sheer force of your orgasm pushing his cock out, your face contorted with pleasure. the sight of your pussy, still squirting and clenching from your release, makes his head so clouded that he can only think of one thing, and he roughly thrusts into your sensitive hole again without second thought.

a few more sloppy thrusts and he’s cumming deep inside you, his cock spurting thick ropes of cum to the rhythm of your clenching as you come down from your high. the air is filled with a harmony of both your moans as he collapses on top of you, completely spent after the hour of rough sex.

you lay limp on the counter, head still reeling from your high. if a man of his stamina and strength is exhausted, just imagine your pathetic fucked-out state.

but you’re happy. perhaps a little too happy at finally being brought to your release, and soon that sensation is amplified as diluc slowly pulls out and you feel the warmth of his cum dripping out of your abused pussy.

you remain still for a few moments, legs still pressed against your chest and your heat exposed to the air, which is now hot and humid from your activities. it’s a sight diluc wishes to have imprinted on his mind for the rest of his life.

he leans down to kiss you, gently this time, smoothing out the hairs stuck to your skin. coming down from his high, he breaks and kiss and leans his forehead against yours,

“are you alright?”

you nod, a blissful smile on your lips, and he has never seen a more beautiful sight.

“i love you, y/n.”

“i love you too, diluc.”

diluc m.list | m.list | rules | inbox

© vulturv0lans 2023, do not copy, repost, or translate without permission

[mollyrolls]

all shades of blue; hinata shoyo

track 10 / now playing / track 12 : ̗̀➛ weatherman collection

Broken bottles shine / just like stars, make a wish anyway. / Just your smile lit a sixty-watt bulb in my house / that was darkened for days. / Been thinking you probably should stay.

tags: gn!reader x timeskip!hinata, established relationship, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, mentions of blood and alcohol, happy ending.

wc: 2k

an: this one is dedicated to the lovely @nectardaddy, because wine-drinker hinata is so canon that it literally changed the original idea i had for this song. I'm proud of this one :)

Superstitions are a funny thing. You don’t necessarily believe in them, but you pick up the penny anyway, avoid cracks in the sidewalk, throw the salt over your shoulder. They feel too simple to avoid.

Superstitions make it easier to explain away the shitty things that happen to you, rather than letting you spiral into despair about what you’ve done and why you deserve it. 

Superstitions also have a lot to say about the broken glass you find lying around your feet, your glass of wine long gone.

Some people would say that it's a sign of demise and betrayal. Others claim that wreck and ruin are just around the corner. Most people would agree that it’s a sign of heartbreak.

Regardless of what they have to say, you have a mess on your hands that you are too paralyzed to fix. Your mind is screaming to move, get towels, do something, but all you can do is sit and stare.

Maybe on a better day, you could ignore it. Chalk it up to a shaky hand or a loud noise from the movie playing in the other room. Wipe away the spill, brush the glass into the trash, and forget that it happened.

But today there’s something about this mess, ruby liquid spilling and staining the floor, bleeding out like a wound, that makes your heart ache and renders you useless to the world. A sense of foreboding sends a chill down your spine.

You barely notice your boyfriend crouching next to you, examining the damage and trying to fix things. He’s not looking at the mess on the floor but rather at your body, turning your hands over in fear of cuts or scrapes.

And you're not quite sure what it is, maybe shock, maybe a cut, maybe the sudden feeling that everything is too much for you to handle right now, but the pressure building behind your eyes is bursting before you feel it start.

One measly tear drops, landing cleanly on the back of his hand. That single tear seems to worry him more than the glass ever did, and the emotions flooding his eyes are overwhelming: worry, fear, relief, panic.

“Are you okay?”

Hinata is a lover. He might as well be the personification of it. His love is unconditional, abundant, no one is too insignificant to get a piece. It’s one of your favorite things about him, but it's also the thing that causes most of your despair.

Because you are not like that. Yes, you love him, but nowhere near as easily or openly. Your love is not explosive and all-encompassing, but quiet and steady, falling into the background. Sometimes you wonder why he sticks around at all, when he could easily find someone that can give him the love that he deserves.

You’ve never voiced your concerns to him, somewhat worried that he’ll realize you’re right and leave you in the dust. But more realistically, you know he’ll deny it. And that hurts worse.

You don’t think he’d understand how you feel, to no fault of his own. Going above and beyond in everything he does is in his blood. 

You forget he’s like that because he also knows how it feels to not be enough.

So when your thoughts get to be too much, you box them all up and push them under your bed. Waiting for a night alone where you can cry and mourn and worry. He’ll come home and soothe you like he always does, but you vowed a long time ago to never let him know the worst of it. 

“Are you okay?”

You hum distantly, letting Hinata continue his examination. When he finds a small cut on your finger, he’s immediately up and getting you aid. All you can do is stay in your position on the floor, pathetic, like a dog waiting for their owner to return.

He’s gentle when he cleans the wounds. Apologizes when the saline stings, like he’s responsible for the pain. Kisses your finger after wrapping the bandaid.

Once he’s done, he settles back on his heels, kneeling before you. He cups your hand in his, a warm and sturdy presence you drink up. 

It’s quiet, movie in the other room muffled. Quiet moments with Hinata can often be overwhelming, but that might be due to the circumstances you find them in. Him waiting for something you can’t provide, an impossible persistence that’s somehow never overbearing. 

And it’s hard. It’s just another way that you’re not enough for him. He deserves someone who can open up, share what they’re feeling. Someone who can care for him the way he cares for you.

“Hey- hey, what happened?”

You didn’t feel them start, so the tears rolling down your face are unwelcome. Blinking them away just produces more and you can’t make them stop. 

“Are you upset about the glass? We can get a new one.”

You chuckle horsely. “No, that’s fine.” Prying a hand from his, you scrub at your eyes, hoping the sting will keep you from unraveling. Hoping to feel anything but this unbearable sadness. 

“Then what is it?”

“It’s stupid.” 

He stays crouching with you, tracing the lines in your hand. “I’m sure it’s not.” 

His finger settles at the topmost line, smoothing along the sloping curve, finding the path easily in the depths and grooves. 

And he stays sitting with you, letting the wine seep into the floorboards, just waiting until you’re ready to share.

At times like these, you resent your boyfriend and his patience. You know he’ll wait until he gets an answer. As more time passes, the more guilty you feel. 

Finally, you sigh, resigning yourself to a truly miserable conversation. 

“Do you know what they say about broken glass?”

He shakes his head no, brows pinching together just slightly. You don’t like seeing him worried, especially not over things like this. Like you.

But in his funny way of showing up, he squeezes your hand to keep you going. You feel your pulse humming beneath him.

“Some people think it’s a sign of heartbreak. If you break a glass, there’s something bad about to happen in your life, like losing a job or breaking up with someone. And I know it's stupid, but I just got scared.”

The admission leaves you breathless. He just hums. Lifting one hand to trace the curve of your jaw, the other hand never leaving yours. He won’t let you look anywhere but his eyes and all you see is raw devotion.

Instead of some grand speech, some large gesture about how much he loves you and he’d never leave you, he just stays. Admiring you in this moment, the luminescent bulbs of the kitchen lights casing you in warm light.

After a while, he lets go of your face and picks up a shard of glass sitting next to you. Thinking as he turns it over in his hand.

“It’s not stupid, but I don’t think it's true. I’m not going to let your clumsiness dictate that we’re over.”

He raises the shard of glass up to you, letting the light hit it. 

“I think that it's how you look at it. You don’t have to let it be heartbreak, but maybe it’s something that gets a new life.”

“How?” You whisper, fearful you’ll shatter the moment with even a breath that’s too heavy.

“Anything you want. We could put it back together, use it as stained glass, throw it away, make wishes. I’ll eat it if you want.”

“Don’t eat glass, Shoyo.”

When you laugh, he looks at you. His shoulders drop, relieved you’re no longer crying.

“Okay. I won’t.” The relief is palpable in the air and it makes breathing just a bit easier. He’s always made things easier. 

“Can I ask you something else?”

You nod, voice too caught in your throat to say anything.

“Why did this upset you so much? Did you think I wanted to leave?”

And in one soul-crushing move, he shrinks into himself. So insignificant you might have thought he was just breathing. But you love quietly and steadily and know his mannerisms like a second language.

“Did I do something to make you want to leave?”

The idea makes your mending heart shatter once again. 

It’s your turn to grab at him, cupping his hands in yours and bringing them close to his chest. The proximity feels right. 

“No. Never.” 

“Then why?”

A simple question, one that makes you feel like you’re drowning. Because he sounds so gutted, an indiscernible voice crack that only the most attentive would pick up on. And you have to disappoint him once again with your answer. You know it’ll turn into him comforting you, like always, when you need to be the one there for him. 

But you’ll do anything to make him happy again, and right now that means sharing the truth.

“It's just… sometimes I feel like I drag you down. You love everyone so easily and it's so hard for me. You don’t get enough from me, so why should I keep you here when you deserve so much more?”

He sits there, letting your words soak into him. While you’re waiting for the final blow, to your surprise he laughs. A wholehearted one, one so joyous you can’t help but laugh along, even if it's strained.

Once his laughter subsides he sighs, your name a whisper on the wind. “You think I don’t get enough love from you? Really?”

You nod, not sure what else you can do.

“Then I must be doing a horrible job at showing my gratitude. I feel so loved by you it can be overwhelming.”

You can hardly believe the words he’s saying. They hit you like a shock to the system, turning your world inside out.

“But I don’t do anything crazy or romantic like you. Does that not get to you?”

“Not at all. I don’t want to be with another version of myself, and there’s not a gesture you could make that would mean more to me than you coming to all my games with my name on your back. Having you in my corner is more than I need.”

You hear the words he’s saying, but your mind and your heart are at war. He’s breaking down your walls without even trying but your brain refuses to accept it. 

“Don’t you ever get tired of having to do so much for me?”

“I like taking care of you. Don’t say that like it's a chore or a burden. It makes me feel wanted.”

He answers all your questions with ease, never once diminishing you or making you feel wrong for asking them.

And bit by bit, piece by piece, you’re starting to believe him. Hinata has taken up the jagged pieces of your heart, reached into the darkest parts of your soul, and brought them back to life. 

Just to drive it home, he pulls you in closer, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady, racing just a bit faster now that you’re so close.

“I want you to tell me if you feel like this again. I can’t believe I let you go on so long thinking you were anything less than enough. You’re-”

His voice falters, and he changes direction.

“Let’s make a wish, okay?”

He picks up a shard of glass and carefully places it in your palm, covering it with his. You’re protected from any jagged edges or loose flecks by the expanse of his hand.

“You can’t say it out loud though. Or it won’t come true.” You warn, right before the words fall off his lips. 

His radiant smile peeks through, shining a few rays down to illuminate the scene before you. 

“I wish that you’ll always be by my side and that you’ll keep loving me the way only you do. Nothing can take that away from me, broken glass or anything else.”

When his golden eyes meet your gaze, it’s like you’re falling in love all over again. 

And sitting here, crouched on the floor with your lover, admiring a broken shard of glass, you’re glad he’s here.

[reminiscingtonight]

Starring-fruit-goal (Jana Fernandez)

Camera Shy (Jana Fernández x Reader)

[WOSO Masterlist]

It’s Lucy’s fault.

The idea of “First Touch” with random objects which eventually devolved into a game of keepy uppies with some lettuce all came from the English big brain, pitched minutes before the camera crew arrived to film a segment for the champions league. Claudia and Patri were instantly sold, the first two to jump into the locker room at the word “challenge.”

There was one person who was less than excited about it though. 

Jana.

“Justice for the goal keepers!” your girlfriend huffed, ignoring your whispered pleas to let it go. “When do the goal-savers get to do anything fun?”

Really, it was more of a misplaced subject to defend than anything. Unlike your girlfriend, you were more than happy to sit quietly out of the spotlight. As the second goalkeeper, you’ve learned a lot from just observing. Your introverted self enjoyed coming to practice, doing your job, and leaving it at that. There was no reason to film silly videos, no reason to risk embarrassing yourself on the world web.

But it didn’t matter. 

Because it all leads to now. 

There’s an assortment of friends standing opposite you, your feet placed firmly in front of goal.

Claudia’s at the front of the line, a fruit bowl in hand as she grins mischievously your way.

“And you tested it out? This is safe?”

Jana shoots you two thumbs up, though you’re not wholly convinced. 

You nervously rub your gloved hands together. “Are you sure I have to do this? Sandra really couldn’t make it to filming?”

“Enough talking chicas. Time to save some goals!” Patri hollers, scooping up a banana and a peach into each hand before nudging Claudia to the side. 

You gulp.

The first few go fine. 

It’s a bit daunting, seeing your teammates cock their arms back to throw literal fruits at you, but you stop them with ease. Your gloves are padded enough that you can swat them away without too many problems. 

You even get into a rhythm, catch a pear here, knock away an entire cluster of grapes there. Your nose scrunches up in disgust when a bundle of strawberries explode the second they touch your gloves, splattering all over your shirt.

With each save your confidence grows. Jana never participates in chucking fruit at you, but you can see her cheering every time you manage to stop one. Between your successful stops and your girlfriend’s excitement, you feel like you’re at the top of the world.

It isn’t until Mapi steps up to the line that it all comes crashing down.

It begins just like everyone else. Back turned to you, Mapi selects her fruit, only turning around when she’s content with the one she’s chosen.

The only difference?

Mapi’s apple zips through the air with startling speed and accuracy, smacking you right in the nose before you can even blink. 

Yelping, you stumble onto your ass in shock. Your hands come up more as an afterthought, a useless attempt to stave the warm liquid you can feel dripping down your face.

The chattering and laughter instantly ceases as everyone looks on in shock. 

From across the field there’s a loud shout. 

“What are you idiots doing?” 

Alexia. 

Jana’s kneeling by your side, rubbing a soothing hand against your back when your captain makes it to you. 

Everyone else has scattered at this point, desperately trying to evade Alexia’s anger. Anger that instantly dissipates the second the Spaniard catches sight of the tears in your eyes. 

The older girl sighs, crouching down in front of you. “What did Jana and the others rope you into?”

Your girlfriend lets out a squawk of indignation. “Why do you think I did anything?”

Alexia gives her a look. “Did you do something?”

Jana doesn’t dignify her a response. 

The video never ends up getting posted.

Not that that stops Mapi from posting her own picture of you, broken nose and all, onto her instagram story the next day. 

In it you’re frowning, Jana halfheartedly trying to block you from the camera. Mapi’s toothily grinning as she shoots a thumbs up through the lens.

[In another life I would have made a good pitcher]

Alexia makes her run extra laps.

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