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

[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.

[slttygeto]

I'd love to see me from your pov — GOJO S.

synopsis: Gojo Satoru seems to struggle with the idea of love and doesn't quite know where to stand. Luckily for him, you're there to soothe his worries every time.

word count: 2,1k

content warning: a tiny bit of angst, but you know me and my love for this man.

note: hi hello there :)! it's October which means it's the 4th year anniversary since the release of ariana's album positions! I adore that album with all of my being, and what better way to show my love than to dedicate some of my favorite songs to my favorite anime men? enjoy reading!

Satoru has never known what love is. His parents’ marriage was an arranged one, his mother’s good looks and her status along with his father’s powerful technique is what brought them together. And nine months later, the wielder of the six eyes was born. Raised in an environment where his father was barely around, the only warmth he’s ever felt was his mother’s hand holding his smaller one as she walks him around the Gojo estate, showing off the boy whose birth altered the balance of the world. 

Then she was off to do her duties as Madame Gojo. 

Satoru remembers his childhood as being extremely dull. He was forbidden from social interactions, was told that they are useless unless the person was of any benefit to him or his powers—which at the time, six year old Satoru didn’t understand but he had no choice but to comply with his father’s words. 

Bright pair of blue eyes would then follow his father’s figure as he made his way towards the sliding paper door, but before he could leave, the tall man turned towards his wife whose eyes remained glued to her lap before announcing. 

“I’ll be off.” Whether that meant for hours, days or weeks, Satoru never knew. 

Logically, that led to the creation of his image on love and marriage. He avoided the two concepts like the plague. Love was always meant to find others before it could even glance his way, and Satoru was okay with that. 

He was okay with spending the rest of his time alone, maybe he would buy a house on the top of a hill and own a nice border collie dog. Perhaps, that dog would show him a little bit of loyalty and love because Satoru feeds it and takes it on walks, but when the sun goes down and the dog goes to sleep, it would be just Satoru and his thoughts. Dying alone sounded scary, but it was better than ending up like his parents.

“Are you okay?” The tall man feels a gentle squeeze on his large hand. Suddenly, he’s pulled back into the present. 

The smell of fresh roses and the cold breeze overwhelm his senses. He blinks and realizes that he must’ve taken off his blindfold somewhere—Satoru can’t remember where, or why he got so lost in his thoughts.

“Satoru?” That voice. That sweet, warm and honeyed voice, barely above a whisper as it calls out his name and he gets another whiff of something—perfume.

Your perfume.

You’re standing next to him, smaller frame and smaller hand squeezing his own and he remembers why he was pulled back into his childhood. 

You had squeezed his hand the same way his mother did. Except this time, you don’t pull away like she does. In fact, you haven't pulled away in years. 

When Suguru left, Satoru was trying to piece himself back together within the confines of his own place. Quiet, cold and unwelcoming. He despised the feeling, it made him feel like shit and Satoru was usually the type to ignore his feelings—so when they come crashing against him in strong waves, the strongest can’t duck down and avoid them, he can’t swim away and find refuge. He chooses to believe that he is his own refuge, even if he’s messy and selfish and quite literally just a jerk. The strongest was unable to save his own best friend from a fate that is so horrible, one that could’ve easily been avoided had he looked harder. 

Had he not been raised that way. 

“Satoru?” 

On a cold October night in 2007, you show up at Satoru’s apartment with food and homemade sweets. You’re sweaty, clearly having climbed up the stairs since you had no access to the elevator. He sees you, he cannot process the reason for your sudden visit until he sees your lip quiver and your eyes fill with tears.

“I’m sorry.” You say with so much emotion that the teenager can only try to stop himself from digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. 

Although he only realizes it years later, the only person who had shown Satoru that he was worth a bit of love was Suguru. He had been your classmate too, your friend. You’re grieving his absence too, but you choose to stay with Satoru that night. He doesn’t say much, you don’t press him about it. 

He doesn’t understand why. 

A couple of months pass, your visits become more regular. He buys you a mattress and even suggests you move in with him in the guest room of his apartment. And after much consideration, you agree and the two of you become roommates.

What had once been a cold, uncomfortable apartment slowly turns into a refuge for Satoru, a place he looks forward to coming back to after a long day of missions. Was it because of the smell of food that fills the hallway as he approaches the door, or the thought of finding you in there when he inserts the key? Satoru isn’t sure yet.

He’s still a bit confused as to why you want to be around him.

Months turn into years, your presence remains a constant in his and Megumi’s lives when he takes him in. You have your own room that you choose to share with Tsumiki and you treat the two children like your own. The strongest believes that your heart is as big as the oceans combined.

For someone whose youth was stolen away by the Jujutsu society, Satoru tries to make sure that his students don’t meet the same fate. So he takes on countless missions, protects students like they’re his own children and promises them a bright future. Even if it’s at the expense of his own. 

You hate that, and you make it clear to him the day he takes in Yuuta.

“That’s such bullshit.”

“Hey, watch it.”

“No, you listen to me!” This is the most emotion you’ve shown since that one night you came to visit him. Satoru looks up from his phone where he’s sitting, and is a bit taken aback when he sees your eyes fill up with tears. “Do you realize how dangerous it is to be going around and doing shit like that?” 

“What–saving them?”

“Ruining your future!” You raise your hands in the air. 

“I don’t have a future.” 

The room falls silent. Suddenly, you’re glad that Megumi and Tsumiki weren’t home. Your eyes meet his, and the white haired male watches as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. There’s a thousand expressions on your face—betrayal? Hurt? Worry? He can’t decipher them.

He is overwhelmed. His six eyes are screaming at him that your cursed energy was elevating, your body temperature was rising and he can see that your chest is heaving. 

He still doesn’t realize what he had just said. 

To him, it was the truth. There was nothing morbid about his words. If he couldn’t see himself marrying or falling in love, then Satoru simply did not have a future. Those children do, and that’s what he should prioritize.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t–”

“Satoru–” you lose your breath as you utter his name, broken and weak. You gulp harshly, heart pounding loudly in your ears. “You can’t say that.”

It’s selfish, you’re aware of that, but it can’t be helped. You watch as the light of the man you had been clinging onto like a lifeline for years starts to dim, and you scramble to find the source of the problem. 

And while Satoru’s six eyes are screaming at him to walk away, his heart pins him to the ground of his living room. Overwhelmed and emotional, it reminds him of that one lonely night. He can’t tell you how he feels, he can’t pinpoint to you that it’s because of his parents that his heart refuses to let him accept the idea of love. He sees the waves coming, large and tall and ready to destroy him years later—as he scrambles to find refuge, his heart finally feels at ease.

Your arms wrap tightly around his middle, chin resting on his shoulder and your hands digging into his shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. You want to stop your chest from stuttering, but your quivering lip gives away your strong emotions. 

“I’ll stay.” 

Why would you stay? 

His arms feel heavy as he lifts them up and finally rests them on your warm body, pulling you so close to him you feel yourself suffocate. It doesn’t matter. Satoru hugs you so tightly that you hear your heart break. 

You don’t comment on the wet feeling on your shoulder, or the way his hands tremble as they grip the back of your shirt. You let him cling onto you as though you were the air he needed to breathe, the warmth he sought in the middle of the coldest nights. 

—

“Thank you.” 

“Hm?” You look to your side, a bit confused. The white haired man thinks you look very adorable when you’re clueless, trying to understand his words. 

“Thank you? What for?” Satoru isn’t one to get nervous, but your stare has him feeling a little hot. He hopes he isn’t blushing, it doesn’t suit his brand. 

“For saying yes.” This time, he is the one who squeezes your hand and you hold back a chuckle at how he avoids eye contact. You squeeze his hand back and lean your head against his shoulder.

“I would be crazy not to marry you.” 

“But you know… given my line of work, and Suguru—”

“Satoru,” you stop the man before he can carry on with his small ramble. You appreciate how vocal he is, it is one of the major changes to his personality ever since the two of you made it official. “I am a sorcerer as well. I understand.”

“You hate the missions I take.”

“I hate the way the higher ups view you, not the missions you take.”

Silence engulfs the two of you. 

You fidget with your hands, feeling as though you might’ve crossed a line your husband wasn’t ready to let you cross yet—

“And you?”

“Huh?”

“How do you view me?” He asks, voice low and small. He still doesn’t look at you, nor does he look anywhere really. Despite being 28 years old, Satoru feels the same way he felt at 6 years old. Vulnerable, worthless and in need of a reminder of what he brought to this world other than his powers–

“You’re handsome.” You break his chain of thoughts with a lot of ease, and he looks up at you with wide eyes. “A handsome, caring young man with a big,” a finger traces his heart over his shirt, “big heart. You have a child-like spirit, and a boy-ish smile that could make anyone fall for you very easily. I don’t want to focus too much on your looks, but they’re unfortunately a huge part of who you are,”

“You’re selfless.” You lean against the balcony railings, staring down at the city. “People take you for granted and either you don’t seem to notice, or you try not to.”

“And last, you’re too good for this world.” 

Your eyes sparkle as you describe every small detail about the man. You pour all of your emotions into your tiny monologue, so you fail to notice that Satoru had removed his hands off the railings. Until you feel something warm on your sides and something heavy on your shoulder. 

“Satoru?”

“I’m fine,” his broken voice would beg to differ, but you don’t push him. You rest your hands on top of his and let him pull you back against his chest in a warm, tight hug. 

He had always wanted to see himself through your eyes, filled with so much adoration and trust that it made his heart burst in his chest. He was riddled with confusion and something he couldn’t quite decipher anytime you had told him ‘of course it was you’ when he would do something nice, or ‘you’re not like that’ when you heard Nanami mumble something about Satoru’s playful behavior. 

You wish you could give him your eyes, take away some of that overwhelming feeling of being the wielder of the six eyes and allow him to rest—see himself as the selfless, kind-hearted man that he was to you. 

Since that was physically impossible, you’ll stick to loving him as though he held the universe between his palms.

You make loving him seem as easy as breathing, and the inner child living deep within him is forever grateful for that. 

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[scarletcomalies]

Wanda has been your best friend for almost ten years now, meaning you could trust her to chat about anything, without restricting yourself by prudeness or filters. But that trust went too far one day.

Word count: 1,119

Warnings: 18+ content, guided masturbation through phone call, kind of innocent and inexperienced reader.

A/N: I promise I'm NOT procrastinating this story, you'll have it sooner than you think, but, well, college... 💔

It was a big step, considering that you failed to enjoy every time you explored yourself with your fingers alone. As much as you tried to play music, lie down, and imagine exciting scenes, you ended up frustrated because it wasn't enough. So you opted to buy a little help. Maybe this way you would be able to explore your tastes and to please yourself properly.

Your best friend, Wanda, had recommended an online site. It had all kinds of artefacts, many of which you didn't know existed, or considered too potent a level for a newbie like you. So you went with the safest option; a simple ten centimeter vibrator, with three levels of intensity.

And nothing...

You felt the tingle of the vibration inside you, but nothing built up. It was just a pleasurable sensation that led to nothing.

You had sent a message to Wanda, telling her that you had already received it, and just when you turned off the toy and put it aside, your phone notified a message from the redhead, where she asked you to tell her about your experience.

"It's useless, Wanda!" You answered, such a simple message but all your frustration could be transmitted in this one.

"What do you mean it's useless?" She replied.

"Maybe I'm anorgasmic or something, because I can't finish. I didn't feel it helped me."

You were perplexed when your phone screen displayed her name, indicating that you were receiving a call. This was unusual of her, but you didn't hesitate to answer.

"Honey," she let out a giggle, as soon as you picked up. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Well, when I feel needy, no matter how much I stimulate myself, I don't orgasm. Not even with the toy. It's horrible," you answered honestly.

These kind of talks were frequent between you, and that was something you loved about your friendship. No judgments, no prejudice, much less in the face of topics that, at the end of the day, were completely normal.

"Yeah, but what did you do with the vibrator?" She inquired.

"Well, I put it inside, the usual," you replied matter-of-factly. You didn't understand why other girls did get to feel something when they had something in there, and you didn't. Why you were more complex about everything?

"Just like that?" She exclaimed, and at your confirmation, she let out another laugh. "No, darling, you have to tease yourself, make yourself desperate for your own touch."

"And how do I even do that?" you asked curiously, but also with a hint of relief. She seemed to have the solution to your problem.

"It's complicated, do you want to try it now? I'll guide you through every step," she proposed.

The thought of hearing her voice guiding you, that she would be listening to you as you pleasured yourself, made the anticipation take over, again initiating that feeling that was begging to be satisfied.

When you thought of Wanda, or when you spent many hours together with her, that feeling came no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. It was no surprise when you realized that this was not something usual and that you definitely felt attraction towards her.

But you didn't want to ruin the friendship you treasured so much.

"No, that would be weird," you replied, feigning aversion to such a thing, when really, that was all you needed.

"Oh, come on!" Wanda exclaimed. "It wouldn't. I'd be helping you get to know yourself, please yourself. I won't even see you."

You sighed softly in resignation. She was right, maybe a lot of friends have given each other advice like that.

"Okay, fine," you agreed. "What do I do?"

Wanda was glad you couldn't see her smile of victory when you agreed, or else, she would've also given herself away.

"First, spread your legs, and place the tip of the vibrator on your clit," she instructed you.

You did as she asked, and no sooner had you pressed, when you felt an electric current run through your body in a matter of a fraction of a second.

"Oh, shit!" You exclaimed, withdrawing it as if by reflex.

"What do you feel?" She inquired curiously. She was aware such a cute little thing like you wouldn't be able to take it first time. But that was what she was there for.

"Weird, like a swift current!"

"Exactly! Please try to place it again, and little by little, apply pressure," she replied. "At your pace, there is no rush, darling," she purred, making your core throb in desperation at her raspy voice calling you that pet name.

Again, you did as she asked.

The intense vibration made all the nerve endings in that area react deliciously to the stimulus, and again, it sent that current through your body.

You let out a little murmur of pleasure, feeling yourself lose control over your body. Your back arched, your eyes closed, and your free hand fisted your sheets in an attempt to keep you grounded and resistant.

"Good girl, apply more pressure for me," Wanda added, noting from your murmurs that you were becoming familiar with the sensation.

Applying a little more pressure caused you to emanate your first moan since forever. That snapped you out of your trance briefly, and you realized you moaned with your friend on the other end of the phone.

"I'm sorry," you apologized, beginning to feel your cheeks heat up.

"None of that," she countered. "Don't hold back, let me hear you."

In a matter of minutes, you alone learned to listen to your body. You explored different areas and found your most sensitive spots. You were so focused on not leaving a single inch untouched, that you even forgot that Wanda was listening to the mess of moans, whimpers, and murmurs of her name that you were letting out.

"Mmm, Wanda!" They became more audible tones, signaling that you were close. There was too much to process, but Wanda decided to quiet her thoughts and allow herself to be delighted by the wonderful sounds you were making.

Hearing you cum for the first time was the most beautiful of all, by far.

A scream of pleasure too desperate, even animalistic, for your own good. Your so innocent set could not withstand that longing finally reaching its highest exponent, after so much stagnation. She was even surprised your little lungs allowed you to scream like that.

Wanda provoked all that in you, without having touched you... yet. But she made up her mind that it would change.

"Start over, but don't you dare cum," she commanded you. "I'm coming over in ten," she established, before hanging out.

[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!

[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.

——

[zara-renata]

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.

[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.

[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.

[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

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

Can you do a fic with a really innocent reader who is shy and nervous about receiving oral sex for the first time. But eventually Axl gets her to see that he just wants to help her relax and make her feel good. And he’s super sweet, gentle, tender, and caring towards her and praises her during her first time because he knows how nervous she is and he just wants to treat her the best he can.

A/n: Ik I've been posting a lot the past few days but I have not been writing anything and just posting drafts so I'm trying to write more bc I'm running out of finished drafts and I have so many asks :')

Warnings: Smut, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), praise, cum eating, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

Axl was your first for everything. You’d been dating since high school and you moved out to L.A. with him when he asked on a whim.

Up until now you hadn’t done a lot of things, sexually speaking. You’d given him a blow job, jerked him off. You’d rubbed against each other but nothing much more than that, though he desperately wanted to see what face you made when you came.

You’d been having a shitty week, getting yelled at, ignored, pushed to the side and walked over and at the end of the day you’d come home and tell Axl all about your day. Then, like clockwork, Axl would offer to relieve you of your stress.

It was Friday and you finally had a day off, you just had to make it through one more day of work. That’s what you kept telling yourself over and over again.

Everything was going fine until Axl called. You picked up the phone and listened to him complain about stuff with Guns, then your boss walked past and snatched the phone from you, slamming it back into its place and hanging up on Axl before going on a rant about how ‘useless’ you’d been.

You left soon after, earlier than you were supposed to.

You just crawled into bed and stayed there, unmoving for hours.

Axl can home and called out for you, eventually finding you in the bedroom. He had a bag in one hand filled with snacks.

“Hey sweetheart, another bad day?” He asked, making his way over to you and sitting next to you on the bed. You nodded and reached for the bag but he pulled it away from you. “No candy unless you let me help you.”

“But-“

“What do you have to lose at this point?” He asked, setting the bag down on the floor. You thought about it for a moment before slowly pulling your work pants down. “Good girl.” You smiled at the pet name and let him do the rest.

You sat back against the bed frame, Axl got comfortable between your legs after having taken off your panties. “Just try to take your mind off work.”

You groaned. “But I want to complain.” Axl laughed, his hot breath fanning over your cunt.

“Then you can complain afterwards, right now let me take care of you.” You nodded, a soft gasp leaving you when his tongue slid through your already glistening folds.

His tongue dipped into you, flicking sensitive nerves. His nose, fuck, you couldn't count how many times it bumped your clit, you couldn't tell if he was trying to or not but you wanted more.

"Fuck-! Axl, that-that feels..." You trailed off, unsure of what you were trying to say.

"It feels good, right?" He asked, barely pulling away to speak. He smiled up at you, pretty eyes and shiny lips. You nodded and he went back to fucking you, his tongue swirling around your clit.

"Hah! I-I should've let you do-do this sooner, oh fuck~" Your head rolled back, resting against the headboard. Your hands went to his head, tugging on his hair and drawing moans from him which vibrated through you.

"Doing so good for me, sweetheart~" His deep voice had your legs shaking. "Making such pretty noises." A hand left your thigh and you felt him push a finger into you. Your back arched as he curled it inside you, dragging against your walls and pulling moans out of you.

"Axl, m'gonna- m'so close!" You whined. Out of curiosity you looked down at him. His gaze flickered between your face and your cunt, tongue slipping past his lips, paying attention to your clit, fingers pushing in and out of your puffy hole. Such an angelic and filthy sight.

Your body shook as you came at the sight, eyes rolling back, pleasure rocking your body. He felt so good.

"See?" Axl sat up, licking your juices off his fingers and wiping his chin. "I told you it felt good." Your mind was foggy as you tried to catch your breath. You smiled tiredly and closed your legs, only for Axl to force them apart again. "No, I want more." He gleamed, leaning in and kissing you, you could taste the saltiness of yourself on his lips.

[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."

[daengtokki]

part five // serial killer!Kim Seungmin/afab reader

WC: 11k

RATING: mature/explicit/mdni—contains: angst, sex, murder, medication usage, hallucinations, sa mention

SYNOPSIS: Seungmin floats through life alone, haunted by his memories—keeping himself under control, and quieting his mind the only way he knows how…killing and watching the life leave his victims eyes. When you cross his path on a morning hunt, something new (something forgotten) starts to move inside of him, leading both of you on a path to confront the unspeakable past.

˗ˋˏ♡ I wasn't sure how many parts I would need to get to the end, but this isn’t it, ha—we’re not done yet! Thank you for sticking with me!

Please support and reblog if you enjoy! Reblogs help your favorite writers on Tumblr! ˎˊ˗

[ ML — DEITY MASTERLIST ]

—taglist: @kkamismom12 / @r0tt1n / @heluvschibi / @feckinbecky / @missystay / @seungluvr / @babrieeee / @curiouscocoabean / @feelikecinderella / @carpioassists / @soulsbbg

Where do you go from here?

You can’t tell yet, because Seungmin hasn’t spoken more than ten words to you in the last three days. The feeling deep down in your gut was right, but despite your heartache, your sleepless nights, and your lonely days…this still feels normal. He heard the words, panicked(?), put a new wall up, and now you’re left with this painful, awkward silence.

But it’s not fair. He started this.

He said it first, and you don’t think he would say those words lightly—it didn’t take all these weeks to figure that out. You knew the night he came looking for you and finally managed to tell you he didn’t want you to leave. It took a lot out of him. Taking you in and caring for you has taken a lot out of him, even though it does seem to be the other way around most of the time. That came naturally, though. Being responsible for the people around you is your normal; taking the blame when things go wrong, or don’t work out…that’s all yours. Damage control is your specialty, but you haven’t done a great job of it lately.

Seungmin looks at you from his spot in the living room. He’s sitting up, but hugging his pillow and resting his head on the arm of the couch. This has been his typical afternoon for the last few days after taking his medicine, and you’re worried he’s adjusting poorly…hallucinating, and just not telling you.

“Did you eat last night?”

He closes his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a no. So, nothing since yesterday morning.”

Maybe if you go over there and beg him to say something; get down on your knees and plead, you’ll get a word. You want to tell him about your nightmare last night. If you were thrashing around and talking in your sleep, he didn’t hear you—he didn’t wake you and comfort you. You woke on your own, gasping for breath and clenching the sheets, and Seungmin’s eyes were shut tight. Trying to get any sleep after that was useless, so you gathered your pillow, a blanket, and Daengmo (he was looking at you, at least) and left him there.

Daengmo is still here on the opposite end of the couch, like a strange mirrored image of his owner.

“I can try to make you something”

Nothing.

“Or I can order it. I haven’t exactly mastered Korean cooking yet.” But not for lack of trying. You’ve consumed nothing but news, dramas, and cooking shows lately to help with learning the language. And to make sure you don’t hear anything else about Seungmin’s last kill. So far it’s been quiet, but it’s only been three days.

“I’ll just go grab something.” You throw your sweatshirt on and head for the door, “you can eat it if you want…” tighten your shoelaces, grab your keys. A mumble comes from him as you reach for the doorknob, and you almost ignore it. “Did you say something?”

“I said I’ll come with you”

It takes him a few more moments to sit himself up, but once he gets that far, he seems to wake up. You wait patiently by the door as he changes, and he makes a point to duck into the bathroom and fix his hair. Another thing you did in complete silence; dyed his hair, and you noticed him staring at the trashcan where the he threw the negative test. Seungmin comes back out looking almost exactly like he did the day you met him; the black and white windbreaker, the calm, somewhat confident look in his eyes. You’re not sure where that came from. He even grabs the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table on his way to you.

“What are you in the mood for?” You tread lightly, not wanting to disrupt whatever jumped into him so suddenly. It was silly to think you got through his worst, but you hoped for just a moment that the closeness and the consistency would help…and the medicine. You still have a long way to go.

“I like your cooking”

You’re not sure where it came from, but you think you see a smile around his cigarette.

“Thank you for cooking for me. And everything else.”

Seungmin watched, or stared absently at you folding laundry this morning. It was then you wondered if it was on its way back—his itch. It has to return eventually, but you hoped you both had more time. The cocky look on his face makes you think otherwise.

“I like doing it.” For him you don’t mind it, and it’s because he doesn’t expect it of you, or demand it.

“Right here”

He opens the door, and you can feel the heat. The smell should help perk him up if his appetite has returned.

“What are we getting?”

“Galbijjim”

It’s small and crowded inside, so when Seungmin finds you an empty table to sit at, you hesitate. “You don’t wanna take it home?” You’ve already gotten a few looks, and you’re not sure if it’s just directed toward you, or the two of you together. It doesn’t bother you much, but you remember how Seungmin felt on the crowded train. “It’s pretty busy in here.”

“No, I’m fine if you are”

But you do notice his eyes wandering around, taking in each person, letting them linger for far too long.

“How are you feeling, still sleepy?”

“Hm?” He doesn’t look at you.

You try to find exactly what he’s looking at, and you do. It’s obvious. Seungmin is staring at one of the girls waiting for an order. His eyes are pitch black, all pupil, when he finally shakes himself free to look at you.

“I said,” your voice shakes, so you shut up and try to calm the wild heartbeat in your throat. “How are you feeling…with the medicine?”

Still he doesn’t answer, but he’s looking right at you.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna go back home? We’d be more comfortable on the couch…we could watch a movie, maybe.”

“I’m good, the medicine is…” he drops his gaze to his hands, and you follow. Seungmin starts to fidget; pick and scratch at the table, stop himself and wring his hands together. “The medicine is fine.”

The medicine might be doing its job, but fine isn’t the word you would use, and Seungmin is not with you right now. He’s somewhere between his own head and the girl ten feet away…the one that is now staring at him. Now you’re hoping his feeling has returned, because the only alternative would be pure attraction, which she clearly shares. He wouldn’t do that to you after everything, though. Your jealousy is just winning over logic.

“Good. You seem less tired.”

Ignoring it is difficult, but you have to. What else are you supposed to do; confront him, ask if this is his next target, and just wonder why? What is it about her that appeals to him, and in what way…murder? Sex and murder? Just sex? You need to know…that will happen again. You remember him telling you that last time. But you remember everything else, too. There is no denying or hiding your jealousy.

“You’re right, maybe we should take our food home.”

/ / /

The two of you start walking, food in hand, but it takes about ten seconds to realize why he changed his mind about staying—he’s following her. Why is he doing this while you’re with him?

“Seungmin, where are we going?”

“I need you to do me a favor.” His tone is flat, uninterested. He’s not asking you a favor, he’s giving you an order…calmly. “Take the food and go home, and then leave for a while.”

“What? Leave and go where?”

“Anywhere…coffee shop, the university library to study…shopping.”

He’s getting rid of you to seduce her. Kill her, yeah, but first he’ll have sex with her in the bed you’ve been sharing. You have to do what he says, though, because you knew what Seungmin was when you decided to return to him, and you knew he’d return to this, eventually. Getting upset about it now might make him upset, and his medicine, combined with the itch, and then you on top of it all being jealous and difficult...it won’t help. You decide you should be grateful for the last few weeks you’ve had him all to yourself.

“Okay, I’ll go”

“Let me know when you leave the apartment”

“I will, I’ll text you”

“If for some reason it falls through, I’ll pick you up wherever you are”

You doubt it’ll fall through, not with the way she was looking at him. He’ll have another kill under his belt by the time the sun goes down.

Seungmin continues straight, and you take a left on the next block, but you watch him for as long as you can before he disappears. The university library is a good idea, but you’d only sit there and wonder what Seungmin was up to the whole time. You’d go through his possible actions, step by step, thinking of the two of them initiating. Touching, kissing, undressing. Her hands on Seungmin’s hips, pulling at his sweatpants to get to what you now believe is yours. Will it just be a blowjob, like the last time? Will he lay her on the bed and eat her out? That feels too intimate for him, but that’s because he’s so intimate with you when he does it. There is no reason for him to be careful and gentle and attentive to anyone else, especially if they die at the end.

Maybe shopping will keep your mind more occupied.

You unlock the door and look around the deserted apartment. The two of you have barely left before today and since the trip to Uljin, so it makes everything feel even more strange. The bedroom is cold, and you’re glad. Hopefully it stays that way for his guest, and it moves things along quickly.

You look around for yourself in the room…your clothes—you left the shirt you wore last night on the floor, but it’s technically his and isn’t out of place. Your bedside table is mostly bare, save for the end of your phone charger and a single necklace you haven’t worn in weeks. You open the drawer and drop it inside. There isn’t much of you in here, and it took until now for you to notice.

Next, you check his drawer. Everything is neat and exactly where it should be.

Seungmin feels out of practice. He’s gone this long without plenty of times, but he at least had most of the voices pushing him forward during his lull. Everything was silent this time; the spaces in his head were filled with your voice, and filled with thoughts about you if he let it wander long enough. They were filled with sex—good sex, the kind of sex he doesn’t get from his victims, and the butterflies you give him when you look at him as he wakes up every morning. But he can’t think about that right now. He needs to focus. He can’t think about the way you make love to him when he needs it. The way you actually love him.

“Are you following me?” The girl turns and asks, but there’s obvious flirtation in her voice. One hand, the one not holding her bag of food, lands on her hip.

His focus came a few steps late. “Following you? No. What makes you think that?” Seungmin licks his lips and puts on his best charming smirk. “Just headed in the same direction.”

“Where’s the food you got? And the girl…that definitely wasn’t your sister.”

“It doesn’t matter. Are you in a hurry?”

“Well, I do have a bagful of food, but if you let me drop it off to my coworkers…I can slow down for you.”

“I’d like that”

/ / /

He was a little worried you would put up a fight about returning home without him just to leave again, but the apartment is empty when he brings his guest inside.

“This is your apartment? You’re here all alone?” She takes off her coat, and Seungmin grabs it, taking a moment to get closer. He catches her eye, and then the scent of something sickeningly sweet…too much perfume. “No girlfriend?”

“Just us”

“Good, let’s get you out of jacket so I can get a good look at you”

Seungmin obliges and pulls at the zipper, and he’s thankful when he finally feels the blood moving to his dick. As soon as it’s over his head, her hands are on him, sliding across his stomach as his tshirt is pulled up, and he has to shut his eyes as she pulls him closer.

“Where should we take this?”

The touch is overwhelming. It’s like static as her hands slide up his bare chest. It’s off of him, and they close around his neck as she leans in—tall enough to get to him without Seungmin accommodating, and she puts her mouth on his. More static, and the taste of something sour.

“No,” he pushes her back, “don’t kiss me.”

“Damn…sorry”

“Everything else is fine”

“Are you sure?”

He wipes his lips, “yes,” and runs a hand down his dick, because he can feel himself losing momentum. “Take your clothes off.”

“You’re not gonna take em off for me?” She takes a step closer and touches his chest, his stomach, and her hand slides under his waistband. “You wanted this. Don’t you wanna touch me? Oh…”

“Yeah,” Seungmin grabs her arm, but she keeps her hand closed around him.

“Nervous?”

No, he doesn’t get nervous. Whatever he’s feeling is something else. Something he hasn’t dealt with before, at least not to this extent. He’s distracted, just like the day he met you and tried to make up for it with a quick kill—when you sent him that text thanking him for his kindness. “Take your clothes off.” He closes his eyes, moans it as her hand moves up and down his length, over and over, and he feels his dick growing again.

“I will,” she pulls Seungmin closer. “I want this. You gonna give it to me?”

Eyes still closed, he lets himself enjoy the slow, firm movements of her hand. “Yeah, I’m gonna…”

“Where’s the bedroom?”

“The bedroom?”

“Take me to your bed and fuck me. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

His legs shake as she frees him, and then she’s gone…looking for the bedroom herself, maybe. The first door she tries isn’t it—she flicks the bathroom light off and on a few times before slamming the door shut. Seungmin follows as she heads for the right one.

“Wow, this is cozy”

It is, Seungmin thinks, because you made it that way. The lamp on his side of the bed is clicked on, and the one on his dresser is as well. The lights around the bookcase are casting a warm glow on everything; the books and records, the music box, the flowers. The pillows are fluffed up and arranged in a way Seungmin never did it—a little chaotic, but still neat. And the bedspread is pulled down and out of the way. It wasn’t like that before the two of you left this morning.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, and he’s relieved when she finally starts stripping off her clothes. But then she heads toward the far side of the bed. “Over here.”

“Other side? Picky…” her pants drop to the floor and she sits, not so patiently waiting for him to come closer.

Time to stop fucking around and get things moving. He doesn’t want to leave you waiting somewhere longer than he has to—Seungmin didn’t want to do it at all, but there was no other choice. “I am picky. Take those off.” He heads to his drawer, and from the corner of his eye he sees her move up the bed and toss her panties to the floor. Right next to your tshirt. He bends to pick it and sets in neatly on the table as he slides it open.

“Where…what the hell?” He mumbles.

“What’s wrong? Please don’t tell me you’re out of condoms.”

There’s one left, and he quickly closes the drawer after grabbing it and the lube. “No, I’m not.”

“Good, get over here and let me look at you.” By you, she means his dick, still trapped in his sweatpants.

He slides them down his hips, just enough to pull himself out and stroke to get back to one hundred percent. No matter where he lets his mind wander, he can’t keep himself hard, and it’s beginning to piss him off. If he can’t use his anger right here, right now, then what’s the point? Maybe he can’t do this right anymore, either. Instead of letting his mind wander, he tries to shut it down to nothing; darkness, black…no, the white noise of an old television set. The fuzzy hum fills his ears as he goes for her, crawls on the bed, and pulls her thighs apart.

“That’s much better,” she says in her best seductive voice.

Shut up, he screams in his head. The relief of pushing his dick in makes him lose control immediately. He slides in without a single tease, and without much effort. Her cries of surprise and pleasure wipe out the static and he hears nothing but her. He hates it. He slams in harder, getting himself close as quickly as he can manage, but he can’t seem to get anything in return.

His hand works his way up, resting on her stomach as he fucks her, then to her chest where he can feel the shake of her screams and moans. Finally, it lands on her neck and it wraps around it with no protest from her. He squeezes, but not enough to scare her, because he hasn’t decided yet how long he wants to work to reach his orgasm…but there’s nothing. He forces a moan when their eyes connect, but it’s all he can force himself to do.

Tighter. Still, she reaches out only to touch him; his stomach, his hips as they roll back and forth. His arms. One hand grips his wrist, and the other holds onto the forearm flexing as his fingers squeeze even more.

“Okay…let go,” she croaks and smacks his arm.

Seungmin doesn’t let go, but his mind goes to tv static again.

“Let go!” She pushes her nails in, and it stings, but still he continues…and then something hits hard against his hip, and it burns and almost knocks him backward. Her kick somehow lands perfectly.

Fuck, his mind turns back on. He sees her scrambling to her feet and off the bed as he drops to all fours. “Fuck…”

Just as he turns and gets to his feet, she reaches for the doorknob and the door swings open. Again, he forgot to lock it. If he didn’t lock the front door…he’s close behind, but not close enough. Her hand is on the knob, it turns freely—and then you’re there.

You stand blank-faced at the threshold, and the girl stops in her tracks when she realizes she’s trapped. But Seungmin feels his heart drop at the thought of you being in the line of fire.

“What the fuck, both of you?”

She takes a few steps back. Seungmin can’t figure out why, because you’re smaller, and probably not much of a challenge to get through. It’s then that he sees the glint of his missing knife, gripped tightly in your fist.

“Okay,” Seungmin says softly. Now what? This is not where he expected the day to go, and his mind is racing as he tries to picture where it’s going to end. The girl is frozen, terrified at which way to turn; Seungmin’s hands, or your knife; his knife, his hilt digging into your soft, innocent fingers. He steps to the right and finds your eyes, but you don’t look at him. And he can’t tell you to drop it, because if you do, she’ll run, and she might make it out if this building with a story.

“Please,” the girl begs.

Seungmin wonders if she’s thinking of taking her chances and pushing through.

“No.” Your voice is so soft, but he hears it.

“Nae salang…” do you even know what that means? Seungmin isn’t sure, but he saw your notebook full of Hangul practice; his name written over and over, pages full of 김승민, 안녕하세요, 사랑해요, your name, his name and your name together like a lovesick teenager. He didn’t know how to feel when he saw it because it seemed so private, but you weren’t hiding it from him. Thinking back to it now gives him that familiar feeling in his stomach.

You look at him for just a moment before your eyes move back to the girl, and you take a step over the threshold. She moves back, too, and Seungmin takes a cautious step to the side.

“Please don’t.” Now Seungmin begs—he begs you not to do what he sees happening in your eyes. “Close the door, and give me the knife.”

You shake your head, and Seungmin sees the tears brimming in your eyes.

“Please don’t unlock that part of you…it’s too much. It only feels good for a moment.”

“Minnie…”

“Yes, love?” He watches your knuckles stretch and your forearm flex. His heart pounds, but his stomach swirls and his cock fills with blood again no matter how hard he tries to calm himself. The sight of you standing there wielding his knife—it’s the same feeling he gets when it’s in his hands.

“It's too late for that”

His body shakes. His mind goes back and forth between the static and his clear view of you, the tears running freely down your cheeks. Have you really been here before? Is that why you came back to him?

Seungmin sees you move, and he hears the familiar sound of knife against flesh. The blade disappears into the girls chest, right between her ribs, and she falls to her knees as she gasps for air. You finally let go and take a step back to watch the aftermath of what you’ve done.

The gasps slow down and quiet as she lets herself collapse to the floor. Blood trickles onto the hardwood, but not much…you left the blade in place, and that’s slowing things down. Seungmin watches you watching the body, and he’s getting dizzy from his pulsing erection.

“Seungmin?”

He almost falls to his knees when you look at him, but he forces himself to move—one step, another step around the almost lifeless body. He slams the door shut and grabs your throat, guides your blank stare upward. Your eyes soften when they meet his.

“What have you done?” He whispers and kisses the corner of your lips. “Hm?”

“I’m sorry”

“No.” He kisses you fully, and brings you close enough to feel every aching inch. The grip on your neck tightens, he can’t help it. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Yes”

“You heard everything?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t take hearing you in the bedroom…so I went out in the hallway…”

Seungmin is patient as you begin to sob quietly, and he frees you to hide against his chest. He has to be grateful that you didn’t leave, and that you were exactly where he needed you right outside the front door. “Why did you have my knife?” With his knife in hand, no less. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been much of a challenge. Right? Maybe he’s underestimating you. “Were you planning something else?”

You take a deep, shakey breath and he pulls you away from him. “I’m not sure."

“You wanted to kill her…even if she hadn’t almost escaped, you still would have done it.”

“I would have tried ”

“You succeeded,” he looks at the now lifeless body at their feet, and his hand finds your neck again. “And you have a lot of explaining to do,” Seungmin kisses again, working his tongue to the back of your throat as his free hand starts undressing you, “but not right now.”

You both nearly trip on your way to the bedroom, first coming through the door, and then again on the discarded jeans of your victim. The yelp down Seungmin’s throat doesn’t deter him from his kissing, but you pull away and look at what you stepped on.

“We’ll take care of it afterward…I will.” Seungmin is not worried about the disposal right now, even as blood slowly drips onto the living room floor, and text after text pops up on the dead girls phone. “I need you, now.”

You’re flat on your back, eyes on the ceiling, and Seungmin’s hands work quickly. His mouth works slowly, and his tongue moves just how he knows you like it. He takes his time with you, slowing down even more when your hands reach for him, and your fingers comb through his hair and pull. Seungmin takes your hand and gives you what you were stupidly afraid the dead girl would get—his hunger, and his overwhelming need for you. Seungmin doesn’t let go until you come, and you wait for more, because he always wants more, but this time he works his way up until he can kiss you on the lips.

“So,” he mumbles against your cheek, leaving little kisses as he goes. It’s not something you’re used to getting from him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Minnie”

“You can tell me”

“Tell you…”

“Anything you think I should know.” One more kiss and he’s up, heading for the door. “You can’t just be okay after this.”

Maybe he’s right. No, he is right, but you still don’t know how to start, or where to start. What you do know is that this is now partially your responsibility—the clean up, and getting rid of the evidence. Seungmin said he would do it, but he probably wouldn’t have made this much of a mess if you had listened to him. You snatch up her clothes, the panties and the jeans, and her phone slips from the back pocket and onto the floor. The phone…how does Seungmin get rid of the phones, and does he not worry about them getting tracked? He hasn’t been caught, so he must be doing something about it.

There’s a long string of notifications on the screen, mostly text messages, and all from the same person.

“Seungmin?”

He’s busy laying out a piece of thick plastic drop cloth, but he smiles sweetly when he looks up at you. “Yeah?”

“What do you do about the phones?”

He reaches for it, and as soon as his eyes scan over the messages, his face changes for just a moment. He scrolls through, and to his surprise, there’s no passcode. A few moments later… “I need another favor, a very big favor.”

“Yeah?”

“Pack a bag, bring whatever you might need…but not much. Start one for me, too.”

At first, you just nod. His voice is so calm, and nothing about his body language suggests you should be questioning his request. “Yeah, okay…”

Seungmin didn’t say to hurry, but you do anyway. And take what you might need? It depends on where you’re headed…his medicine, clothes, obviously. Oh, the clothes. You take the girls clothes to Seungmin, because the gears are starting to turn in your brain, finally. After that massive surge of adrenaline, and then coming down from your orgasm, your mind is in a strange, untrustworthy place…but you’re getting there. Every piece of damning evidence needs to be collected and destroyed, now, and there may not be that much time. What was it he read on the phone notifications?

You start packing faster, and start another bag for him. Eventually, you stop and scan the room, knowing you’re forgetting something.

“Oh, we need you…” you head for the bookshelf and scoop up the music box, opening it and swiping a few loose petals before you wrap it and shove it in your own bag. His drawer—it can’t stay, but is he bringing it along? You don’t bother him with the question, you just find a small box to throw everything in and add it to the growing pile.

Does Seungmin have anything else in the room? As far as you know, the drawer is where everything goes, but the minute you stop and think, you start to hear your heart pounding in your chest and throat and ears. It’s so loud. But you feel calm, despite it, because Seungmin is calm. You grab more clothes from the closet, and scan every corner while you’re in there. If Seungmin wasn’t so organized, you wouldn’t even bother, but the neat stack of shoe boxes catches your attention. There really isn’t time for this, but a quick peak won’t hurt.

The one on the very top has something scribbled out, but underneath in black marker there’s more writing: 00-03. Inside are photographs, not organized in anyway aside from the years written on the box. The first one you pick out and look at is baby Seungmin in the arms of his mother, and on the back is Hangul you can’t read except for his name. You wonder if his father took the photo. The next one is him again, a little older, sitting in a man’s lap—his father, you can only assume. You leave them out and open the next box: 06-08. This one is much lighter. Inside is, again, Seungmin and mom. You add that to the others. The next one is a family portrait; Seungmin, his mother, and his stepfather. Nobody looks very happy. You decide to try one more, and you finally find one of just him…a close-up of his young face, seven years old according to the year written on the back. Same chubby cheeks, same big brown eyes, same sideways smirk. You keep that one, too, and put everything else back in its place.

The shuffle and drag of something against the living room floor makes you move faster. Seungmin is probably working as quickly as he can, so you need to be ready when he is. The last stop is the bathroom, and you watch him work for a moment as you walk by; he’s zipping up a suitcase identical to the one from before, and he glances at you before you look away.

“Are we ready?” He looks at the bag you packed for him, and only adds a few more things.

“I think so. Where are we going?”

“We’ll figure that out after we get rid of the body”

Seungmin is quiet and focused as he drives, and right now, you’re not headed in the direction you expected; east, toward Uljin. You’ve been driving north for half an hour, and you still haven’t spoken up and asked him exactly what happened, or if he figured out a destination.

He looks at you, though, because eventually, he feels you watching.

“Hey,” you say as softly as possible. You’re turned toward him, knees hugged to your chest, “Minnie?”

“You should put your seatbelt on…you’re making me nervous.” His hand reaches out, and his fingers slide from your ankle all the way to your toes.

“That’s what making you nervous?”

There’s nothing nervous about him, actually. Seungmin bit down on his lip once since you’ve been watching, sighed twice, and mumbled to himself twice, at least that you caught. Very normal for him. If he is, he’s keeping it together for your sake, and you hate that.

“Yeah, a little.” He smiles at you and licks his lips. “We’re almost there.”

“And then you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes. And you’ll tell me…whatever I need to know, I hope.”

The seatbelt clicks, “I will, I promise.”

“Did you bring my music box?” It just hit him. He grabbed a few things, and he even checked his drawer. You assumed he saw the empty spot on the bookshelf, but he may have forgotten. Just as you suspected, he looks calm, but he isn’t. His mind is moving much faster than he’s letting on.

“Yeah, it’s in my bag”

“Thank you”

“We’re not going back, are we?”

Seungmin doesn’t answer right away, because he comes to an intersection and turns, and then turns again into an almost empty parking lot. “I’m not sure.”

“The Jasmine…we’re staying here tonight?” It's nothing special, and it's not very big, but the vacancy sign is lit up in the office window. Seungmin got here without directions, so he must be familiar with it.

He looks at the building, sees the sign already glowing in the early twilight, and then his face falls. “I forgot your flowers.”

“My flowers? The forget-me-nots? That’s alright.”

“No, I got you something else, and I was waiting until I felt better to give it to you”

“What was it, what kind of flowers?”

“Moonflowers. I’ll find you more somewhere. Let’s get inside.”

/ / /

Thirty-five miles away from home isn’t very far, but the small town you ended up in feels safe enough for the night. The man that checked you in hardly looked up from his book as Seungmin counted out enough money for two nights, just in case.

He withdrew a significant amount of cash before leaving Seoul, and brought even more that he had hidden even further back in his closet. Seeing such a large amount in one place was surreal, and sitting in the passenger seat putting the two separate amounts together for him was even more bizarre. You did your best counting it, writing it down, adding it up…

“Twenty-six million won…how much is that in American money?”

“I’m not sure,” he laughs and watches as you carefully sort the last few paper-clipped bundles. “Around twenty thousand maybe.” Seungmin smiles and laughs so easily, and it doesn’t seem the time for it.

“Definitely more than I’ve ever had at one time...maybe ever“

“Well now you have it, it’s all yours”

The room is small, about the size of Seungmin’s bedroom, but it’s clean and warm, and you don’t really care where you are as long as it’s with him.

“You packed a lot”

“Did I? It didn’t seem like much at the time…sorry”

“It’s alright. Maybe we just have a lot of important things.”

You unzip the biggest bag first and dig around, “that must be it,” pull out Daengmo, and toss him to Seungmin. He was almost left behind, but luckily he caught your eye as you were headed out the door.

“I thought we forgot you”

The way he holds him and looks at him reminds you of the little boy in the photograph—happy for the moment, comforted by his friend, and maybe a few good memories…but he can never quite hide the sadness in his eyes.

“Minnie?”

His mouth squishes to the side, and he looks even more like his seven year old self. Even the haircut matches. “Yeah?” The words get stuck in your throat when he looks from Daengmo to you. “I know, we have a lot to talk about—“

“No. I mean, yeah I know. I just wanted to tell you again, that I love you.”

“Still?” He smirks. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” If he says it back, you’ll feel better, lighter. You just want to hear it again.

Seungmin doesn’t speak right away. He falls back on the bed, and you can hear him sigh. “I don’t want you to get hurt if something happens. It’s not fair. None of this is your fault.”

What is he talking about? You were the one holding the knife when it pierced the girls heart, not him, and that’s exactly how you wanted things to play out. He picked her, yeah, and he fully intended to do what you did, but something happened, and you got your chance.

He sits up again. “I’ve never had to protect anyone but myself.”

“I know I’m safe with you, Minnie”

You watch as he hears the words, takes them in, understands them. Maybe it’s like saying I love you to him again…maybe better.

He joins you on the floor and crawls closer, “I hope so.”

“I am”

He sets his lips against your shoulder, “I love you, too.” It’s just a mumble—barely enough to make out, but you hear it.

Seungmin waits a few moments, feels your lips on the top of his head. He knows it’s time to explain the situation to you, and then you have to explain yourself to him.

“You should eat before we talk”

The forgotten galbijjim is replaced, and Seungmin smiles sweetly as he watches you take your first spoonful of rice. “This looks better than the place we bought from earlier." It gives you butterflies, his still hesitant smile. "Are we sharing? Did you just get one bowl?"

"I'm not hungry"

You stare at him and wait for more of an explanation, but he just sits silently. Not having an appetite makes sense, and you can't really blame him. You shouldn't have much of one either, but you do, and you plan on feeding it.

"You haven't eaten in a while, Minnie. I'd feel better if you had some."

He just shakes his head and changes the subject. “The phone. The notifications. They read like a friend checking in on her, and then worrying when there was no reply, which is bad enough, because I usually manage to get rid of the phone before we get anywhere near the apartment. Not every time, though, and if I do and they notice it’s missing, they freak out and leave to look for it.”

He pauses and seems to gather more of his thoughts, and maybe give you a chance to say something.

“So you forgot to take her phone?”

Seungmin nods and takes a drink of his coffee. “I fucked up the whole thing before I even got started. My head was not in the right place to do this, but I thought it was what I needed. I was stupid and selfish."

The two of you stare at each other, and it feels like he’s trying to tell you more without opening his mouth—something he doesn’t want to say out loud, but his acknowledgment that it was a mistake from the start is a relief. He seems to be out of that fog that had him gripped so tight for days.

“She was sharing her location the whole time…to the same friend who was texting her. So the phone is gone and burned up with everything else, but the damage was done as soon as I let her in.”

“Seungmin, this is bad”

He sets his mug down, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…I may have ruined everything. The girl will be reported missing, and the friend will have some information about the guy who took her back to his apartment. I’m sure they’ll find some evidence I left behind, and if we’re lucky—”

“Minnie…”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll have a little more time together before my face is all over the news.”

“And if that doesn’t happen? If they don’t find evidence, or a body…or find you, if they even manage to come to that conclusion? The location she was sharing won’t be the apartment, it will be the building…and it’s a big building.”

“I like how practical you are, even now…yes, there are sixty-two occupied apartments in the building.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

Seungmin laughs and picks up his coffee again. “I own the building. I guess I never mentioned that.”

You’re surprised he still has any sense of humor, considering how worried he revealed himself to be. “No, you didn’t. That explains a few things, and might complicate them, too.”

“I know. They’ll look for me because I have everyone’s information, and I won’t be there, which might be suspicious.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Going out of town isn’t evidence for murder. I tried to clear out anything that would be suspicious—the drawer, the ten boxes of hair dye. You may have had other things I wasn’t aware of, though.”

“No, the drawer was the worst of it…that was everything”

The memory of finding your ear cuff in his drawer pops into your head. You probably threw it in the box with everything else without realizing. “You don’t keep trophies?”

“No, I don’t. If anything gets left behind,” he thinks back to the silver hoop earring dropped on the floor, “it’s because I messed up. I have no desire to remember them after they served their purpose—what?”

You’re grinning at him, and you don’t even realize it. Seungmin charms you, if you can call it charm, with little effort, and without even realizing it. “I like your brain. And learning more about you every day.

“You like my damaged brain?”

“I love your damaged brain”

“That’s a first”

“I'm sure another one of your victims was hoping for a second date before the first one ended abruptly"

"Like you?"

"Yeah, exactly like me"

Seungmin has to think. How many people does he have to think backward through; two dozen? More?"

“I have taken people out on real dates before…before taking them back. Sometimes it seemed like they were genuinely interested in me, but I never got the impression that those feelings stuck around.”

“Why not?”

“Mm, there was a girl I brought back to the apartment a few years ago. She was nice, even though I assumed the whole time we were both working toward one thing. But she seemed kind, and when we got to the apartment, she told me how badly she wanted to meet someone and develop something real, and that she was tired of being alone. Tired of dating apps and first dates, that's exactly what she said, and I don't know why I still remember that."

“So what happened?”

He returns to his silence, but you know there’s more to his story. The memory is returning to him slowly. “We got to the bedroom, and everything seemed to be going well, but then she saw Daengmo,” he turns and looks at him sitting on the bed, “and she laughed…asked me why I had that on my bed.” He sighs deeply, “she made me feel stupid.”

You remember the first time Seungmin took you to his room, and how out of place his little dog looked. The mood of almost everything in his apartment is grown-up and dark, except for a few things—Daengmo being one of them. But asking him about it was the furthest thing from your mind, especially the second time you ended up in his room.

“We didn’t get any further than that”

“You let her go?”

Seungmin shakes his head, “I’ve never let anyone go,” then smiles at you. “Did I seem weird? My apartment, and me…you left in such a hurry the first time. You must have thought something was off. Or thought I was off.”

Sort of, you think to yourself.

“Oh, you did call me weird. I remember now.”

Should you tell him what went through your mind on your first visit? “No, not you…your patience with me is what was weird.” Something tells you he can handle it, at least if it’s coming from you. “The expensive apartment was a little odd, only because I could tell you were young. But yeah, I did always assume something was off about you—the way you looked at me and touched me when we sat on the couch, I wondered if I was over-looking something. I wanted you—I wanted your attention, and your touch. That’s why I ran.”

“Because I was giving you attention?”

You nod.

“You seem to think so little of yourself…why?”

It’s hard to put into words, and it’s so much to dive into. Seungmin is going to want to know more—he’ll have questions, certainly more tonight than he had this morning. But you believe he’ll understand what you have to say more than anyone else you’ve ever spoken to, and that’s a comfort you’ve never imagined. “I was tolerated by everyone my entire life.”

“Tolerated?” He rolls the word around in his mouth and his head. His English is almost perfect, but some words are just not in his vocabulary.

“I was cared for, but nobody really cared about me.” You speak as simply as possible, but you’re sure he’ll understand. “I was fed, sent to school, had somewhere to sleep, but there was nothing else. No bedtime stories, and no help with my homework. No advice or comfort when I came home with a black eye from a playground fight.”

“Nobody loved you?"

“They may have, sometimes. It could be that I’m just forgetting…but when I think I remember something, it was because my sister was there with me.”

“She took it all?”

Spilling everything to him is easy. Every time you think you should stop for fear of scaring him off, you catch him looking at you with a warmth he probably doesn’t realize he has in him. “It wasn’t her fault. It was given to her. If they gave it to me, I would have taken it all, too.” And you remember exactly who he is, and how far away you are from scaring him.

“I’m worried I won’t always have enough in me”

"Enough?"

“Love. I’ll give you all I have, I promise.”

/ / /

Seungmin watches as you slowly dig through your bag. He’s grateful for how much you actually managed to pack so quickly and so well, because he already misses being home. You pull out one of his old t-shirts and hold it to your chest, and then find another small bag holding the contents of your important nighttime ritual.

“Shower? That will help you feel better.” He feels your kiss hit the top of his head, and a wave of pleasure travels all the way through him.

“Much better if you join me”

“I’ll grab my stuff…I’ll be in”

Now it’s his turn to dig around his bag, except he has no idea what you packed and where you put it. He pulls out his pill bottles and sets them somewhere he won’t forget them. Whether he’s adjusting to them or not is still a mystery, but if today is any indication…probably not. He’s been in a fog most of his time awake since restarting them. He's been seeing things far more frequently, and his dreams are still as intense as they've ever been.

The bathroom door is cracked and Seungmin can see the steam already starting to swirl out. You aren’t in the shower yet, though. You’re partially undressed, crouched down, back against the wall across from the sink.

“What’s wrong?” Seungmin’s drops to your level and his hands cup your face, but he doesn’t move you. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and then relax, over and over until he says your name. And they finally open. “What happened?”

“Just dizzy. I’m okay now, I think.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“I get vertigo when I’m anxious, and sick in the stomach from both. It’ll go away.”

He turns the hot water down, and you’re already attempting to stand before he can get to you again. “Please let me help you—hold onto me.”

“You gonna hold me in the shower, too?” You smile and squeeze your arms around him, but the dizzy feeling has mostly passed.

“Yes, if you need me to. I’m sorry you don’t feel well. I’m going to fix this, and I’ll get us back home."

somewhere in the middle of the forest, pine trees on every side, and up…he can hardly see the sky through the mist and crowded treetops. he doesn’t know where he is, this scene is new. if it wasn’t so unsettling, it’d be beautiful. but seungmin doesn’t get scared so easily…no, He’s not around this time to scare him. but someone is getting closer. footsteps crunch across the thick, cold forest floor. someTHING, maybe. the steps are off and far too light to be a person.

a black cloud bounces in the corner of his eye. and then again on the opposite side

crunch crunch

but it’s so loud. snowflakes start dancing in front of him. no, not snowflakes…what is this? the dead remnants of a distant fire.

scratch scratch

fingers…claws, digging into the bark

His eyes open, slowly and calmly. No pounding heart; no tears; no sweat rolling from his neck and forehead. It’s quiet for a moment and the only thing he hears is the tick of the old alarm clock. Seungmin wonders how you fell asleep with that sound in your ears.

scratch scratch

The door moves ever so slightly. The loose doorknob shakes. Two scratches, and then three. Over and over. He thinks he hears a whimper. Maybe he’s still asleep. Seungmin reaches back and squeezes your hip. He’s relieved to feel you shift and turn and wrap around him.

“I thought you were asleep,” you whisper and settle against his curled up body. “Bad dream?”

“Did you hear that?”

You stay quiet for a few seconds and listen. “No, what—“

scratch scratch

“That”

“I don’t hear anything”

Seungmin sits up, and your hands fall away from him. “You don’t hear it?” But he’s going for the door before you can answer him. “That scratching?”

Again, you listen and hold your breath, but nothing happens—no sounds, no scratching anywhere in the room. Seungmin is hearing something that isn’t there. You watch as he listens carefully, inches from the door, hand flat against it. The muscles in his neck and back tense as he goes for the lock, and then the knob, and he turns it so slowly.

There's nothing, but your heart still pounds like crazy because Seungmin is so sure something will be on the other side. He stops and releases it, turns to look at you, and he seems confused; tired, sad, and very confused.

“I think it’s gone, whatever it was”

Before you can respond, his hand grabs the knob and swings the door open. And nothing is there. Seungmin is standing alone in the empty doorway, and he steps out into the dark until you can’t see him.

“Minnie?” You really don’t want to get up and go after him, but you will. “Seungmin, please come back to bed.” Just as you throw the blankets off, you hear the creak of his footsteps in the hallway, and it’s hard to tell if they’re getting closer, or further away. He doesn’t reappear, though.

“Seungmin?” It’s so dark. It’s impossibly dark, even though it’s nearly dawn, and you don’t even feel his presence out here. Where could he have gone? He wouldn’t leave you by yourself with the door wide open and unlocked. “Please, Min—” the floor creaks again, as if someone is putting their weight down gently. Now you feel him there, and the outline of him slowly comes into view. “Hey, you’re scaring me…say something.”

He reaches out and grabs you, or someone does. It looks like his hand, but everything feels wrong. It squeezes your wrist and pulls you, and you’re face to face with something else—something that isn’t quite Seungmin. This isn’t who you just woke up next to. Two angry eyes stare you down, and lips pull back from its teeth before you manage to pull your arm free, but you lose your balance and fall backwards.

“I’m here, open your eyes...look at me…that’s better”

Everything is a blur, but you keep your eyes open and blink until he’s finally there. It’s really him…

“Hey, good morning”

It’s his brown eyes, big and full of worry, his pretty smile, and his messy morning hair. That horrible face won’t go away, though. It’s burned into your mind.

“Morning?”

Seungmin nods and comes down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah, we made it through the night. Bad dream?”

“Yeah. Strange one. Did you wake me up last night?”

He tucks you back under the blankets and curls up next to you, “no, I slept through the night for a change. I had a dream, but it wasn’t my usual one.”

“So you didn’t hear anything last night?" It's the second thing you remember after that face; Seungmin, if he were truly a monster. "Scratching?” You’re floating, suddenly…the room warms, or you do. Yeah, it’s you. A cold sweat starts as you force yourself up, and now your stomach spins. “I have to—”

“What? You have to what?” His hand touches your cheek. “You’re cold.”

Both feet touch the ground, but your legs won’t hold you up. He makes it to you quickly, and his arms wrap around you as you sit there doubled over in pain. All Seungmin can do is wait and listen to you quietly cry—there aren’t many people in the hotel, but it’s not empty. You can’t risk the attention.

"What can I do?"

"It's okay...it'll pass"

"I can get you to a hospital. Last night, and now your stomach."

“We can’t go to hospital, we don’t even know if they’re looking for you”

Seungmin knows you’re right, but he’s avoided checking any sort of news because he doesn’t want his world to truly come crashing down on him yet. “Can you look at me? At least let me get you back into bed.”

You sit up slowly, and he’s right there steadying you, hands on your shoulders. He doesn’t want to tell you how worried he really is. Seungmin thinks he’s done a great job so far of keeping himself and you calm, but he knows this isn’t going to go away so easily. “Where does it hurt?"

Everywhere, you think. You take his hand and spread it out right above your belly button. And then you slide it down below it. He pushes a little and the whimper catches in your throat.

“Let me know if it gets worse, or better.” His hand moves to your forehead, cold and covered in sweat. “I think it’s time we checked the news.”

/ / /

There’s not much you can do aside from observe until the pain eases up, and it doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere. It gives you time to dwell on the dream, and the dream within the dream. Were you inside of his? “Where are you checking?”

Seungmin finds and turns on his phone for the first time since you left yesterday. “A few local news sites, social media. Looking on Twitter would be easier if I had gotten a name.”

“Is there anyone in your building you trust enough to talk to and ask if anything strange happened?”

Something hits him—some clarity, the sudden realization that his mind has been moving so fast it’s made him overlook the most obvious solution. “The security cameras.”

“You have cameras up?”

“I’m required to have them at every entrance and exit, but I turn them off as needed. That’s the only thing I didn’t fuck up yesterday.” He’s back on his phone, typing, and then watching silently. “Did you bring your laptop?”

Now you can clearly see what he sees—the screen is split into four separate camera feeds, and the quality surprisingly good. Seungmin turned the cameras off when he escorted the girl into the building, but he forgot to turn them off again after that. At 50x speed, he watches the main entrance, the side and back exit, and the elevator starting around the time the two of you snuck out the back.

Twenty hours of footage...tenants coming and going, and you assume Seungmin recognizes the faces that are supposed to be in and out. His eyes don’t leave the screen, and you keep quiet and let him watch. Three hours of footage later, he pauses it to rest his eyes.

“Nothing strange yet?”

“No, not that I can tell”

“You should eat something”

He shakes his head. “Maybe last nights food got you sick.”

“I didn’t eat very much”

Seungmin starts the footage again. Another three hours of almost nothing. “This doesn’t make sense. Did her friend not report her missing?”

“Maybe the police didn't believe her. At least not six hours after.”

Another three hours. Nothing. “How is the pain?”

You flip onto your back and let his hand wander over your chest and stomach. “A little better.”

“Good”

Three more hours. Seungmin picks up the speed between midnight and sunrise, and then slows it down again—9 am, 10, 11…nothing out of the ordinary. He switches to the live feed, and still nothing.

“So the apartment is safe for now”

“For now. We’re not going back yet, unless you start feeling worse.”

“Are we staying here?”

scratch scratch

Despite the pain, you push yourself up and look at the door. Did you actually hear that? Seungmin doesn’t move, so he obviously didn’t. You definitely heard it, and it sounds just like it did in your dream.

“We can stay another night, or we can find a new place on the way to Uljin”

The live feed still has his attention when you turn and set your feet on the carpet, and this time, your legs hold you up. Pain shoots from your belly button to your chest, and then back down, but you try to breathe through it.

“Where are you going? Get back in bed”

“You didn’t hear that?” You reach the door and open it, and the hallway is empty…just like your dream. “Let’s stay somewhere else.”

Now you head east, and you drive much longer this time. Seungmin’s gaze falls on you every few minutes for the entire first hour, but he stays silent until you get to the new destination. Wherever you are, surrounded by mountains…it’s nice.

“Where are we now?”

“Hongcheon”

“Dal…”

Seungmin looks at you, and waits patiently as you attempt to read the Hangul on the motel sign.

“Oh, double k…g. Dalkkum?”

“Very good...Dalkkum.” He says it properly, and it sounds pretty coming from his mouth.

“Dal means moon, right?”

“I’m not surprised you remember that, yes. Dalkkum means moon dream.”

“That’s nice. We should stay here for a while, I like it.”

He turns the engine off and sighs, but it’s a good sigh; one of relief, and a little bit of satisfaction. The lack of activity at the apartment may have put his mind at ease, but you both know it's still too early to truly relax. “Yeah, we can stay more than one night if you want”

The pain in your stomach is mostly gone, so maybe you can convince Seungmin to go on a walk around town. It’s cold, but the fresh air might be good for both of you. “Can we get kimbap?”

“Yeah, whatever you want”

“Cheesy kimbap?”

“Yes, I will eat if we get cheese kimbap”

/ / /

The sun is warm, and Seungmin doesn’t mind the walk, but he eventually drags you and the food to a nearby bench. He checks the bag, and you can tell he’s taking in the smell. “Are you comfortable here, or should we head back to the motel?”

“We should eat it now, while it’s fresh”

“And can we talk?”

“Talk?”

He clears his throat, fidgets a little. Seungmin actually seems a little nervous now, but he unbags all of the food and separates it before continuing. “Yes…about what happened, and what you said.”

“Oh, right”

Seungmin jumps in before you can change the subject. “You said I already have. What exactly did you mean…that you were ready to do it, or that you’ve done it before?”

This is what you’ve been ruminating on for weeks—from the moment you came back in his bed, and tried to escape. When he let you go, and when you couldn’t stop thinking about him even though he should have been far behind you, and quickly getting further and further away. Seungmin kept catching you in your own thoughts, and in your dreams. You went looking for him, and it worked—he still wanted you just the same as you wanted him. He’s been wondering why, you assume...wondering why you want to be close to him, but he’s stopped pushing the question. That’s good, because you still don’t have an answer.

“It’s hard to talk about. I’ve never spoken about it to anyone, ever, and I never expected to. I had planned on taking this to my grave.”

“I understand. You’ve kind of answered my question, so if it's too difficult, you don’t have to."

“No, I do. This is something I need to say, and it’s something I need to give to you."

“It must be too heavy to carry around all by yourself”

You nod as Seungmin lifts a bite of food up to your mouth, and you can’t help but smile when he does. It seems like his way of putting you at ease. “Yeah, but also…” you let him feed you, and then he takes his own bite. It’s a relief to see him eating, finally, after three days. “It’s something you deserve to know.”

“Who did you kill?”

The question, asked so bluntly, throws you back in time. You stand in your living room, bare feet on the dirty floor, tv on and blaring in the corner. He’s sitting in front of you where he always does every single night, and you know in a few hours, he’ll do the same sick shit he does every Thursday night while your mother is at work.

“My dad”

“Your dad? You killed your father?” He sets his chopsticks down and stares at the food, and you wonder if this was too personal. Seungmin doesn’t know his victims, and you already know he was very close to his mother. His stepfather, no…but killing a parent is personal. Maybe you’re actually worse than he is. “When?” He’s looking at you again, but he’s looking at you the way he always looks at you when he’s not in a fog, or having a bad day—like he wants to kiss you.

“I was fourteen, so…almost twenty years ago”

“Fourteen? You were so young”

“I had to”

“I don’t doubt that…and we don’t have to get into it, unless talking about it will help”

“It is heavy to carry around, and sometimes the guilt catches up to me. But he was a very bad person.”

Seungmin finds your hand and squeezes it between his. “We are strangely similar, despite being a world away from each other our entire lives.”

“You don’t think I’m terrible for killing my father?”

“Are you forgetting who you’re talking to?

“No…but, it seems different. It's worse than killing a stranger.”

His stare goes straight through you, and you're so exposed again. Whatever is going on behind his eyes is locked up, though. You need to know what he's thinking about. “Let’s go back to the room and finish this. You’re getting cold.”

[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 🧡

[kitchenisking]

September Fic Rec

History in these Streets by orphan_account - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 3,988, sterek)

Its Derek's birthday and now that Stiles doesn't have Malia, he misses Derek even more than before. Fortunately Braeden is back and gives him a way to contact Derek. In doing so however, old emotions resurface and grow as the two talk on the phone almost everyday. Derek says he probably won't come back though, and that hurts Stiles more than anything.

Or Stiles misses Derek so they talk on the phone but will Derek come home for him?

(We both failed each other in a way) by hellodickspeight - (Rating: T, Words: 742, sterek)

"Why are you laughing ?" he asks through his teeth.

"Are you actually hearing yourself ? Me, cheating on you ? That's like reverse day. If someone did the cheating, it would be you--""

In which Derek thinks Stiles is cheating on him.

Say You Love Me by sunnydalewerewolf - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 1,540, sterek)

“Say it,” Stiles repeats, kissing him on the lips again.

“If I say it too much it might lose its meaning,” Derek jokes.

“If you never say it at all it will definitely lose its meaning.”

Derek sighs. “Why don’t you say it?”

“I asked you first.” 

AKA: Stiles and Derek have sex and say I love you a bunch of times.

Bravery is a Loaded Gun by DefNotForWork - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 17,389, sterek)

“No, I’m not asexual, Stiles,” Derek said shortly.

The teen’s heart sank in his chest, his palms going clammy and his neck prickling with the familiar feeling of rejection.

“So then it’s,” Stiles swallowed, throat clogging, unable to give voice to the facts he would much rather ignore. The silence grew between them, growing tense the longer it was left. For the first time in years, Stiles couldn’t speak. The weight of inadequacy held down his typical stream of useless banter. What does one say in this sort of situation? ‘I’m sorry you don’t find me attractive?’

In which the boys speak in half sentences and have two totally different conversations. What they can agree on, eventually, is that they love each other. And that Derek should jerk off more.

No Stones in Heaven by DothTheRaven - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 9,652, sterek)

Derek knows the moment he meets eleven year-old Stiles that he’s found his mate. Of course he doesn’t tell the boy this, because he knows that would be creepy and would probably get him arrested. So he bides his time, and befriends the boy and falls in love and waits for the day when Stiles can be a part of his life, forever.

And really, in the end, it’s all Derek’s fault.

Stiles will become a more permanent part of Derek’s life, just not in the capacity he’s been hoping for. Not in the capacity he needs.

It’s because Derek wanted his privacy. It’s because Derek lied to his family. It’s because he wasn’t paying close enough attention.

It’s about happiness and sacrifices and loving your family and doing what’s right, even when it feels like the worst decision of your life.

The Same Old Blood Rush (With A New Touch) by rainsoakedshoes - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 29,564, sterek)

“Friends with benefits,” Derek stated. “I just happen to be in a position to provide a few more benefits than your usual hook ups.”

***

Derek was an Alpha with a pack and a multi-billion dollar company to take care of. Stiles was a college kid with assignments and student debt to worry about. Neither of them were looking a serious relationship. A one night stand turned into an easy no-strings-attached arrangement. Although nothing is ever as easy or as simple as it first seems.

Cause I Built a Home (For You, For Me) by noneedforhystereks - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 59,719, sterek)

Mechanic!Derek and Daddy!Stiles

Derek Hale is a mechanic in the sleepy town of Beacon Hills, where he has lived all of his life. He spends his day in a simple routine: wake up, fix cars, go home, sleep. It's what he's good at, and it keeps things simple and uncomplicated. Derek doesn't let people in and remains emotionally distant from everyone except his sister, Laura, and her daughter. This all changes when Boyd tows in an old blue Jeep that needs a lot of work and Derek meets the owner of said Jeep.

Because once Derek meets Stiles and his kids, he can't stop himself from caring. And he doesn't want to stop.

my wings a hurricane by kellifer_fic  - (Rating: T, Words: 20,322, sterek)

Stiles had been like any other kid growing up in the era of dragons. He'd watched the cartoons, the news stories, had the lunch box. When his screening at Beacon Hills High had come up negative, he'd been disappointed but unsurprised. His positive results were returned three years too late for it to be in any way convenient or cool.

Or, the one where they ride dragons.

Becoming Yours by dbeaux - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 46,688, sterek)

As a dom and owner of Stockholm Syndrome, Stiles takes pride in providing a safe place for people to scene. After a bad breakup, he's not looking for a sub, isn't sure he wants a full time sub again.

College student and curious sub Derek needs a full time dom but hasn't found anyone willing to take him on so he spends as much time at Stockholm Syndrome as he can, pairing up with various doms willing to take him on for an evening.

When their worlds collide, can they find what they need in each other?

Beacon Hell by alikatastic - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 4,693, sterek)

It had been easier than he thought to talk himself into the field to save Derek's furry ass. The raid was over, and, hell, he couldn’t believe it went as well as it did. Stiles had lost his job, but they hadn’t sent him to some supernatural jail, so he would take his wins where he could. Except, Stiles wasn’t ready to go home. He’d just gotten away; he was free.

[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! 🦇