#but surely they should at least pretend that they do

[cheol-e-kat]

𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘧𝘧𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆

summary: everyone knows you and seungcheol are together, except you and seungcheol

word count: 1.4k

Seungcheol didn’t mind being hit on. Usually, at least. On a normal night, he didn’t care that much. 

But some nights, it was annoying. He wasn’t in the mood to even be out, much less have anyone randomly touch him and call him ‘sexy.’ 

He hated being ‘sexy’ - no person, in real life, was sexy. 

Almost no one. His mind made the caveat the moment he glimpsed you. You were actually sexy. 

And also, maybe, his best friend. Close friend? He wasn’t sure how to categorize your relationship. 

You walked up to him and were immediately what he would normally consider ‘too close.’ You slid an arm around his neck with a cute smile. You leaned close like it was the most natural thing to do. “So who’s bothering you tonight?” You whispered, your lips close to his ear. 

He hadn’t even been sure that he would see you. You were at another party based on your friend’s posts. 

Somewhere in his mind he wondered if this was why he came out just to be annoyed with everyone and everything - because it meant you would intervene. He slid his arm around your waist. “Everyone,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

You were the same year as him, and you’d had this deal since first year - if either of you wanted anyone to go away, the other would just go hard on pda and you would both pretend you were together. 

It always worked. 

He definitely had teammates who were still confused by it, even though he had explained it. He thought it was very simple and reasonable. Apparently, it was also very believable. He could still hear Mingyu asking him if he cared if he asked you out. 

“Why would I care?” - “Because you two are - you just have this vibe, I guess.” Mingyu hadn’t ever asked you out. 

Seungcheol wasn’t sure what the vibe was, even when your lips brushed his. He pulled you closer, letting you deepen the kiss as his hands trailed gently down your back, stopping just before he felt your ass. 

He felt your teeth press gently into his lower lip. He couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped him. The house was loud, no one but you would hear it. You smiled as you pulled away, your fingers tracing just under the collar of his shirt. “Baby,” you whispered, glancing up at him. 

Seungcheol raised his brows slightly, questioningly - pda was normal, but pet names were usually reserved. “Want to leave?” You asked. 

He nodded without a thought. You leaned closer, though. “Will you stay over?” You asked, lips just beneath his ear, teasing his skin as you spoke. 

“Yeah,” he heard himself reply. You didn’t usually ask him to stay, either. And he didn’t ask you. 

It just kind of happened. He was used to it, though. He enjoyed it. 

It felt normal to wake up with you. He liked when you borrowed his clothes to sleep in or wear to class because you were running late. And the way you always slid back into bed to kiss him before you left. 

He liked it even more when your soft kisses became heavy and needy. He would grin stupidly when you pulled away, the look on your face like you were having some internal struggle - stay in bed versus going to class. 

He was, of course, impartial, knowing you should definitely go to class. “I’ll still be here in 55 minutes,” he would say with a grin and watch you roll your eyes. “But you feel so good,” you would whine. He would push you gently and whisper a soft ‘go’ even if he regretted it three seconds after you were gone. 

You didn’t need to ask if he would stay the night with you. He wondered why you had. 

He still left with you, enjoying the cool night air against his skin. 

You pulled his hand gently. “Come on,” you said with a laugh and pulled him to walk faster. 

He pulled your hand back gently. “Why’d you ask?”

“Hmm?” Your pace slowed considerably. 

“You asked me to stay over - you never ask. We never ask...” He trailed off. 

You glanced to the side. “I don’t know.” 

He knew that wasn’t true, so he waited, knowing you hated long pauses. 

“Ugh, why do you do that,” you groaned, “because it feels more official that way? I don’t know - should I not have?” You asked. 

He pouted, shaking his head. “It’s just cute,” he said with a shrug. 

“Not a bad thing then?”

“What? No”—

“Not the asking, the official part - like you and me, maybe?” You muttered. 

He glanced around. You were at a crosswalk, waiting in the cold. This wasn’t exactly romantic. “Are you asking me out?”

You groaned. “Yes, Seungcheol, I am, just ‘yes’ or ‘no’ - stop thinking about the scenery,” you mumbled. 

“I wasn’t,” he tried. 

“You were - it was practically this huge thought bubble above your head,” you said, glancing at him. 

He realized that he hadn’t answered. “Fine, I was thinking about it, but yes, right?” He asked. 

You stared at him. “Are you asking me what you should say?”

“No - I just mean, like we’re kind of together already,” he felt shy suddenly - he could feel heat creeping into his cheeks. 

He realized that he wouldn’t have ever said anything - he was happy with how things were, and the idea of you saying ‘no’ was terrifying. 

You nodded, though. “Yeah, but this way we know, and I can just ask you to parties instead of getting texts about how annoyed you look and asking when I’m coming to get you,” you said softly, only slightly imitating the mystery texter with a shrug, a smile ghosting across your lips. 

He could already guess the source of those texts. “That’s not your job.”

“No, but it’s not like I don’t want to be the one you go home with,” you said and squeezed his hand lightly. 

“You are the one I go home with,” he whispered as he leaned in and kissed your cheek. 

You nodded. “Okay, yes, but maybe I’m tired of people who don’t seem to understand that,” you said, glancing at him - really looking at him, like looking him over from top to bottom and back. 

It was one of those looks he randomly caught sight of - the one that said ‘mine’ loudly. Those looks always went straight to his dick - your little ‘he’s mine and I’ll take him home and do whatever I want with him’-looks. 

Otherwise known as ‘possessive.’ 

Everyone else seemed to notice the way you looked at him, especially when anyone else walked up to him. Maybe that was the vibe Mingyu was talking about. 

But Seungcheol only saw it sometimes. These random little moments when you looked at him like you wanted to devour him, but in a positive way. A way he liked maybe too much. 

He’d definitely jerked off thinking about the things you wanted to do to him, and with him - the best times where when he thought about how you could just use him. 

That was his favorite fantasy - you doing anything you wanted with him, no thoughts from him - he’s just a thing for you. 

You rolled your eyes and pulled him along while he tried to reign in his thoughts. For all he knew you just wanted to watch movies and order food and sleep. Which was completely reasonable and sounded nice the more he thought about it. 

It was the chilly air and the drinks that had left him feeling tired. And as you got closer to your apartment, the more he really did just want to get food and watch something and be cozy and sleep. 

He could be horny anytime. Cuddling though, there wasn’t always time for that. Or maybe that was part of being in this undefined relationship space - certain things weren’t observed as much. 

He hugged you from behind while you opened your door and didn’t let go as he followed you in. You grinned though. “What? You’re being cute - you want something.”

He nuzzled closer to you. “Could we just hang out and eat and go to bed?”

You leaned back against him. “So you mean like a very domestic night?”

He nodded. 

You seemed to think about it. “No fucking?”

“I feel like that’s what the mornings are for?” He said with a shrug. 

“You are really cute when you just wake up,” you said with a small smile. 

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

He spent the rest of the night curled around you, holding you close the way he liked. But for once it didn’t feel like there was a timer on it. There was no rush to do anything else. 

a/n: just some cute fluff, mainly hmm suggestive - idk, i tried

⋆˙⟡♡ 𝒌𝒂𝒕

seungcheol master list & main master list & tag list

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 ^^

𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

angst - [ a ] || fluff - [ f ] || smut - [ s ]

teasers: all but break your heart |୨୧| tonight tonight |୨୧| cold fire (cheol only - attorney au)

drabbles: co-worker & spanking [ s ] | gamer boy [ s ] | professor one [ s ] | valentine's day [ f ] | 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝚌.𝚜𝚌 [ s ] | the unknown sender + nudes ones [ s ] #kat_drabbles

oneshots: profound, not sudden [ f ] || bisou bisou request #001 [ s ] ||

series: obvious affection [ pt. 1 f ] [ pt. 2 f & s ] |୨୧| 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] |୨୧| 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇. 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] |୨୧| 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 [ master list ] [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] [ pt. 3 f & s ] [ pt. 4 f ] |୨୧| all i see is you [ pt. 1 a/f ]

seungcheol bingo [ all s] : knotting + marking | professor (prof. choi, pt. 1) | monster | spanking (neighbor seungcheol) | big dick + hate sex | forced masturbastion (prof. choi, pt ii) | voyeurism + punishment | coffee shop au + forbidden relationship (never let you go pt. 1) | bodyguard + drunk confession | anon sex + hair pulling + mask wearing (all up to you part i) | big dick!cheol + hate sex (choose your own adventure) | sexual frustration + ex sex |

omegaverse (a/b/o): alpha seungcheol [pt. 1] [pt. 2] || never let you go [master list] [part 1 f & s] [part 2 f ] ||

[tag list] ☁︎ @syluslittlecrows [e] ☁︎ @gyuguys [e] ☁︎ @tinyelfperson [e] ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite [e] ☁︎ @livelaughloveseventeen [e] ☁︎ @codeinebelle [e] ☁︎ @ateez-atiny380 [e] ☁︎ @mingcouper [e] ☁︎ @hanniebub [e] ☁︎ @perfectiondazesworld [e] ☁︎ @scoupshawty [e] ☁︎ @peachytokki [e] ☁︎ @coupsbestleader [e] ☁︎ @fleurloovin [e] ☁︎ @babybae-shisui [e] ☁︎ @asyre [e] ☁︎ @dcrlingyou [e] ☁︎ @yeosayang [e] ☁︎ @nanabananananabatman ☁︎ @aaronwarners69thwife [e] ☁︎ @yoongznme [e] ☁︎ @gyuhao365 [e] ☁︎ @jeonghnie [e] ☁︎ @armycarat2612 [e] ☁︎ @shuas-winnie30 [e] ☁︎ @famouspoetrydinosaur [e] ☁︎ @ateezaddict24 [e] ☁︎

☁︎ @haik-chu [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @gigglensnort [e - one/multi/priv] ☁︎ @thepoopdokyeomtouched [e - multi/priv] ☁︎ @stupendouschildnerd [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @tokitosun [e - one/multi ] ☁︎

☁︎ @living0livia [ c.sc - e ] ☁︎ @angelarin [c.sc - one/multi] ☁︎

☁︎ @aaronwarners69thwife [e + wips] ☁︎ @daisymbin [e + wips] ☁︎ @babilou-pov [e + wips] ☁︎ @igetcarriedawaywithyou [c.sc - e + wips] ☁︎ @keyrecsfics [ e + one/multi & wips] ☁︎ @sseungcheols [ e + wips ] ☁︎

[darkbluekies]

Edmund coming home to a darling who keeps having "nightmares" but one day he sees a bruise and finds out the maids have been hurting her, causing her to cry

"Name"

Yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: Edmund realises that the maids have been bullying you behind his back ... and he's furious.

Warnings: bruises, bullying, threats of harm and murder, jealousy, darling feels responsible/guilty for their deaths, guilt, mention of murder, possessiveness

Word count: 1.8k

He’s had to work night multiple weeks in a row, leaving you alone in the bed chamber for hours before he joins you, often in the transition between night and the cold hours of the morning. It had been fine in the beginning. Dare you admit you even found it a bit therapeutic? Being alone for once, without him, where else he’s breathing down your neck like some kind of puppy. 

But then it had shifted. The maids who usually patrolled the corridors started sneaking in when it was clear that Edmund wouldn’t come. At first they talked to you about mindless things that seemed harmless, but you could feel something in the air. That feeling, the one where you know the second you part ways, they’ll start talking. Laughing. Mocking. They always asked you about your background, made comments about your clothes and jewelry. Never any direct critiques, but not any compliments either. A grey zone that made your stomach uneasy.

The talking didn’t last long. In a matter of a few days, it shifted. Evolved to something worse. Darker. They have started to mock you to your face when no one else hears, and hit you when you cry. You don’t dare say anything back, just take it … knowing very well what will happen with them if Edmund gets to hear you shout. So every night you bite your lips shut and take it. 

A part of you screams that you should tell Edmund. Let them die, let them see you’re not someone one can mess with and get away with … if only if it wasn’t for the fact that they will die. Edmund’s not a half-assed guy. His love is never a “I would kill for you”-mantra. He has, and will undoubtedly, kill for you again. Over and over. He’d kill anyone you point at, if you wanted to. And oh, how it makes you feel dirty. You’re not the one pulling the trigger or swinging the sword, but you’re the commander. The reason why. In some capacity, you would be a murderer. 

It doesn’t matter how much you hate these women. Death—murder—is never a justified punishment. Not for jealousy. They deserve to be removed and possibly punished, but not killed. Never killed. Their deaths will wreck the lives of innocents who have nothing to do with their behaviour. And you will be blamed. 

You look down at your arms. The darkness hides the marks, but you feel them like bleeding, salt infected wounds. Edmund hasn't noticed. When he comes to bed it's dark enough to hide them. In daylight they're hidden under your extravagant dresses, thanks to Edmund's modesty rules. 

Maybe you want him to notice. Maybe you want a reason to tell, to get comforted and reassured that their words aren't true. To have someone on your side. Maybe you want him to never find them. 

You sob, pulling the covers closer to your body. They've left for the night. You should lay down and try to sleep, or at least pretend to. But you're unable to. Your body refuses to move from its sitting position. If you lay down and they come back you're powerless. Three against one. One laying down. Easy to overpower.

You're not sure what you're most scared of them doing to you. Cut your hair to the scalp? Touch your features and make you unrecognizable? Too ugly to be attractive to him? They've threatened it one time— “what if we just decide to break your nose? Your jaw? Who'll love you then, your majesty? You'll be thrown to the slums, like everyone else. You're not untouchable just because he finds you pretty. That ‘prettiness’ can easily be taken from you.”

Or are you more afraid of them killing you? They've gotten worse over the days. A quick slippery slope down to madness wouldn't be impossible. They could easily pin you down and slit your throat, stab you.

You’re too in your own head to hear the door opening. 

“You’re still awake?” 

Edmund’s voice rips you out of your thoughts. You gasp, breath getting caught in your throat. Your hands are about to move up to your cheeks to wipe your tears, but you know he’ll catch that. Instead you turn your head away slightly, hoping the darkness will hide the tears streaks. His footsteps seem to echo behind him. 

“My jewel, you’re supposed to be asleep by now”, Edmund says and you feel the bed shift as he sits down. “Having trouble sleeping?”

You nod without looking at him. It has the opposite effect you wish for. 

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” 

His fingers touch your cheek, turning your head to him. You’re unable to stop it. You meet his eyes, those ice blue ones that seem to glow in the dark, and feel yourself crumble under his gaze. Your eyes fill, once again, with new tears. Edmund’s jaw clenches and he quickly moves closer. 

“What is it?” he asks, voice tight. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You shake your head, lowering your chin. Edmund’s eyes start to wander, desperately looking for clues. His eyes stop at a particularly dark spot on your shoulder, just below the neck line of the flowy night gown. His fingertips touch it gently, as if trying to see if it’s real, and you flinch away before you can react. 

“Y/N …”, Edmund breathes out. “What the hell? Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

When you don’t answer, he shifts closer. Close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin as he brings a small, electrical lamp close enough to see the bruise clearer. There’s only a word leaving his throat, but it is enough. “Name.”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“It won’t solve it.”

“It will. It’ll stop them from hurting what’s mine. Give me the name.”

You turn your head down, looking at your hands trembling in your lap. 

“It’s not ‘the’ name—”

“There’s more?” His voice has a sharper edge. “Okay then, give me their names.”

“I don’t want blood on my hands.”

“There won’t be any blood on your hands. Only mine. No one else is allowed to touch you. Nothing else, is allowed to. And if you don’t tell me who gave you these ugly marks I will hunt them down, and I’m sure a few innocent will be struck that way. Give me the cowards names. Do you think a king will let his queen be hurt by unworthy?”

You don’t answer. The sobs come back, rippling through you. You’re on the edge now, so close to ending someone’s life. You have the gun in your hand and all you need is to pull the trigger … or put it down. But if you put it down, he’ll pick it up and shoot without hesitation. As long as you hold the gun … nothing happens.  

“Gosh, these marks makes me nauseous”, Edmund gags as he holds your arm in his hands. He has pulled up the sleeve to get a good look at them. “So brutal.”

“Please don’t look.”

“Tell me their names. My pretty jewel, tell me their names. Please, Y/N. Tell me who did it.”

You shake your head again, sobbing. Edmund sighs heavily. 

“Can you at least tell me how long it’s been going on?” he asks, and you can hear the frustration in his voice, even if half of it is pure worry. 

“Since you started working night”, you mumble, hiccuping through sobs. 

“Since I started work— … you have to be kidding me?”

You shake your head. Edmund bites back a scream and looks around, as if trying to find something to ground himself on.

“So, people have been coming in here when you’re alone and hurt you?” he asks, voice shaking. “And you’ve been silent about it? It’s been two weeks. Why haven’t you said anything?!”

“Because I’m scared, Edmund …”

His eyes immediately soften. Not to a gentle one, but one that isn’t piercing. He pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“Y/N, darling”, he says with his trembling voice. “I’m the king. I am the highest power in this kingdom, yeah? You are my wife, correct? You are the safest person in this country. But I can’t help you if you refuse to tell me when someone is hurting you.”

“You will kill them.”

“Damn right I will. That’s what happens when people think they can touch what’s mine. Touching you is a war crime and I will not let them get away with it.”

He cups your wet cheek, turning you to him. 

“Who hurt my pretty girl?” he whispers sorrowfully. 

Your finger trembles on the imaginary trigger. And, before you can register it, you press. 

His face lights up—not in a happy way, but relief. He’s about to fly up form the bed, but you grab his arm. 

“No, no, Edmund please!” you plead, voice breaking with sobs. “Don’t leave me!”

“I will get those bitches for this”, he tells you, his voice now a venomous deadly calm. “I will snap their necks myself.”

“No … no please, don’t go.”

You hug his arm, pleading over and over again. Edmund seems torn between revenge and protection, but in the end he gives in and climbs back into the bed, pulling you flush against him. 

“Fine”, he gives in, squeezing your trembling form. “I will let them have their final night … but tomorrow they’ll get what they deserve. For now I’ll take care of my beautiful queen.”

He kisses the top of your head. 

“I will never let those creatures near you again", he promises, showering your face in kisses. Too soft for his usual behaviour. “They don’t deserve to touch you. Only I am. I am the only one worthy enough to touch you. To kiss you. To hold you. To be near you. To see you. Tell me what they did to you.”

So you do. His grip on you tightens for everything you tell him, but his lips never leave your skin. They burn. 

“I’ll enjoy tomorrow morning”, he decides, moving even closer to you, snuggling. “I’ll kill them slowly—well, if you can snap someone’s neck slow—and enjoy every bit of it.”

He holds you close, running his fingers through your hair. You feel his cold, golden rings against your scalp. Your face is tucked beneath his chin, against the warmth of his neck. It’s as if he wants to pull you into him, become one with him. As if you’re only safe if you’re beneath his skin. 

“You’re so soft in my arms”, he whispers. “Really soft. Only mine.”

He hums and rests his cheek against your hair, falling asleep. But you? You won’t sleep for a long time. Relieved that you no longe have to carry it yourself … guilty that you’ve pulled the trigger. But you wouldn’t have won anyway. He always does. He always gets what he wants in the end … and this time, it’s to protect you. 

[arabella0001]

cn: explicit sexual content [nsfw / 18+]. aggressive sex. biting. slighty ehibitionism. aphrodisiac use. dirty talk, 4k+ words.

⟡ fandom: attack on titan | pairing: levi x reader

⟡ request

𓃠

To have feelings in times like these it’s such a selfish thought sometimes; it makes you want to scream into your pillow every chance you get.

And worse than that?

To have feelings for the captain of the recruitment division, the irreplaceable, cold, and strict Levi Ackerman was way worse.

You were one of the few left from the old squad. The camaraderie between you and your old comrades was cut off instantly after their death, as if it never existed. And sadly, it created a strange, clumsy distance between you and Levi. The only two survivors.

Not that he was the friendliest man, but the respect between you two was something admirable. Still, delusionally, you sometimes thought… maybe it was more than that.

Maybe he didn’t yell like that at everyone, so loud you’re sure it echoed to the other side of the world, when he thought you’d died on a mission two years ago.

Maybe he didn’t carry everyone in his arms, even when his own body was collapsing from pain, prioritizing your life.

Maybe not everyone got that subtle twitch of his lips that resembled a smile when you two shared tea now and then—and you teased him for being too strict, poking at his side just to get a reaction.

But those childish fantasies crumbled the moment Historia Reiss, the new queen, arrived at tonight’s gathering… and stood a little too close to Levi. The very same Queen who once slapped him—and he let her—and smiled back at her.

The gathering had been Erwin’s idea, a rare celebration after a successful mission. One of the only times there was plenty of food and wine without guilt along with it.

You sat at the table with Hange, who was talking with her mouth full, a mirror of Sasha doing the same. They both gulped down wine afterward, cheeks flushed red from the alcohol.

Though Hange was tipsy, she was still sharp. She noticed it. That quick, nervous glance you threw when Historia’s hand touched Levi’s arm. His gaze wasn’t detached like usual. He was leaning against the wall, engaged in conversation. Actively.

That alone made your fingers tap angrily against the table as you looked around, pretending you were simply bored. Hange gave you an amused look, tilting her chin toward the pair.

You rolled your eyes, but her eyes gleamed with some forbidden idea she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet. Instead, what came out of her mouth was:

“Hm. Did you know the air outside is way fresher in this season? Might be good to check.” Her double-meaning didn’t go unnoticed.

Sasha, unfazed, was more focused on a piece of pork on fresh bread.

“Maybe you should go. You both seem a little heated.”

Hange and Sasha laughed, leaning their heads together, grinning with the euphoria of wine-soaked joy.

“You got us. At least we’re not some bitter old lady who forgot how to have fun.”

You glared. “Hange.”

She raised both hands, mock-defensive.

“What?! I’m just saying, girl!”

But her plan needed to move faster.

“You know what? Follow me.”

Hange stood. Sasha glanced at her but didn’t care enough to ask. Hange didn’t wait—just started walking toward the exit.

You stood too, and you felt someone’s gaze on you from across the room. You ignored it.

But Levi watched your back a little longer than he needed to as you left. Then he returned his attention, somewhat distracted, to Historia’s strategy proposals. He was tired. Too much socializing for one night. Ten minutes of talking with Historia already felt like ten hours. She talked too much. Like everyone else here.

…Except you.

He always sensed the distance between you, one he blamed himself for. It wasn’t a priority, but sometimes, somehow, his thoughts always ended with you. The feelings inside him were small?, faint—but they echoed. He couldn’t name them. They were useless anyway. A weakness.

That’s how it should be. That’s how it must be.

You probably didn’t see him that way anyway.

And he understood. He wasn’t the warmest person alive.

┈─┈─┈─

When Hange saw you dragging your feet, she tugged you by the elbow and threw you into her chaotic, paper-filled office.

Then, from a box, she pulled out a dusty bottle sealed with a wooden cork and tied with twine.

“Let’s make some magic, shall we?”

You wrinkled your nose as she handed it to you, letting you smell it first.

“What the fuck is this? It smells awful.”

Hange waved her hand dramatically, a little wobbly.

“You don’t know what’s good! The old stuff is the best. Heals the body, solves your problems—I’m serious. I’ve tested it.”

“Just because you’re a research freak doesn’t mean I believe everything, you know?”

Still, you took a drink. Your emotions were buzzing too hot in your veins to think straight. The taste was awful but you didn’t stop at one sip.

Hange watched you with something close to admiration. She was happy—mission complete. But her face turned panic-stricken as you kept drinking. She grabbed the bottle out of your hands.

“ENOUGH! This wine is very precious. We should save it.”

You licked your lips. now stained wine-dark and your cheeks flushed fast. You looked at Hange, and your gaze made her grin.

Not me, pretty lady. I’m flattered, but not me.

“I’ll be back in a second. Gotta get some cheese to go with this wine.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

You collapsed into her surprisingly comfy chair and stared at the wall. But your thoughts turned—obscene. What the hell is happening?

You hadn’t drunk in a while, but this was something else. Your body felt too warm. Too restless. You shifted in your seat, fidgeting endlessly.

⸻

Hange rushed down the hall, nearly crashing into the door—right as Levi was walking out.

“Oh! Just the person I needed!”

“Spare me, Hange. I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Hange just planted a hand on her hip and the other under her chin, dramatically pondering.

“Hmmm. Then who should I ask to help Y/N?”

Levi was about to walk past her but stopped. Gave her a side-glance.

“Help? With what, exactly?”

“Well, let’s say… too much wine can make you lose control of your brain and body? Yeah, that definitely applies.”

Really? You? Drunk as hell? Since when?

“Where is she?”

“My office.”

She smiled far too innocently for Levi not to be suspicious. But he didn’t say anything. He just went straight to you.

┈─┈─┈─

When he opened the door, he found you waving your shirt like a fan, wide open—exposing your dark blue bra.

“Thank god. What the hell took you so long?! I’m dying over here!”

Your eyes shot to the door— And locked on Levi, standing there. His gaze was sharp. Angry. But also very much fixed on your chest.

“Fuck—? What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Your voice cracked, not angry—just embarrassed. You buttoned your shirt furiously.

“When did you become this irresponsible?”

“What? I had a few sips! Are you calling me a alcoholic or what?!”

Your words slurred slightly. Levi’s eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle.

“Looks like it.”

“Oh, shut up. Didn’t you have a conversation to get back to? Or are you just here to lecture me too?”

His thoughts faltered. Your tone… sounded accusing. Jealous? No. Can’t be.

“It’s over.”

You started fanning yourself with Hange’s scattered papers, your body feeling annoyingly uncomfortable—especially in certain areas.

“Nice. Maybe something good will happen.”

Levi froze at the double meaning.

“Something good?”

He picked up the bottle and took a slow sip.

It was disgusting. Weak. This got you drunk?

When you didn’t answer, which was unusual. Levi looked over. You were ignoring him, staring out the window with a sulky expression.

“I asked you something.”

You sighed. “You know… something. You and the bubbly new queen—what a ray of sunshine in this battlefield.”

Your sarcasm wasn’t subtle. Levi’s quiet, firm steps drew closer.

No. No, stay away.

Standing in front of you now, he looked down. Your expression—almost… embarrassed?

A strange wave of heat hit him. Unfamiliar.

“You find that funny?”

“Maybe. The bright little queen with the cold, sharp captain. What a pair.”

You snorted nervously, trying to mask it with a smile. Levi didn’t know why this stupid conversation was continuing. Why he was still standing here. You were fine. He should leave.

“You sound offended.”

The fact that he didn’t deny it almost made you want to push him from your face. But instead… the vulnerability in your body, his presence, pushed you in another way.

“Do you like her?”

Levi didn’t know what shocked him more, your question, or how red your cheeks suddenly were.

“No.”

You stared at him until you were sure he wasn’t lying. Then looked away.

“Why ask?”

“Curiosity.”

He stepped closer.

“Do I look like someone who doesn’t think clearly?”

“No?”

“Then why lie to me?”

You avoided his gaze. But when Levi’s hand gently tilted your chin toward him you froze. His fingers were shockingly gentle on your skin.

And just like that he knew something was off.

“What did Hange say before she left?”

You groaned.

“That she’d be right back. That traitor.”

Something was missing. Levi picked up the bottle, poured a bit onto his finger.

“Hey! You’re wasting precious wine—”

“Shut up.”

You muttered, “Mean.”

He didn’t answer, even though he should’ve.

You were talking too much. More than usual.

The liquid glistened faintly. Levi frowned. Aphrodisiac.

He looked at you again and slowly scanning from head to toe. You gulped.

“I think Hange tricked us both into drinking it wine with aphrodisiac…For… some unknown reason. That fucking psycho—”

But he cut himself off when he saw you sinking into the chair in shame.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“No?”

“Y/N.”

A pause.

“No.”

“No, or you don’t want to say?”

He was being so persistent, it scared you. The fact that you both took it. That he was this close. That you couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful he was. How badly you wanted him right here, right now. You slammed your head onto the desk.

“Leave. Please.”

“Speak now, or I’ll go.”

“Why should you need to know? It doesn’t matter.” You muttered, head still buried.

“I don’t like lies. Or people hiding—”

You shot up suddenly, furious.

“OKAY. I fucking like you, okay?! For a long time…since we were…nevermind. She probably set me up!”

Levi’s ears rang. He didn’t hear that right.

But your heaving chest and the brutal honesty in your eyes said otherwise. And he couldn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

He just stared.

Embarrassing. God, this was so embarrassing. You thought.

You stood up clumsily, ready to storm past him and vanish but Levi reacted instinctively. His hand grabbed your arm.

“W-what?”

Levi considered himself an idiot before making the most impulsive decision of his life. But all thoughts vanished when his lips pressed against yours.

┈─┈─┈─

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment when you moaned the second Levi tried to deepen the kiss. His veiny hand cupped your cheek while your hand found the back of his undercut curtain hair. When his lips left yours, you chased them, but his darkened gaze locked you in place, your breath irregular.

Fuck it, Levi thought.

He kissed you again, dominating the way his lips pressed onto yours, forcing you to open them. But you were far too happy to do it now, your tongue dancing with his in an aggressive competition over who wanted the other more.

He guided you backward until your ass hit the desk, lifting you by your thighs instantly so you were sitting on it. Returning between your legs and dragging them until they locked around him. He groaned in your mouth when he felt you grind on him.

How did it come to this?

He began to move slower until he tried to calm himself down, to regain control, his head dropping over your shoulder.

“This isn’t okay. We’re not in control.”

“You don’t want me?”

Levi’s head tilted back to meet your gaze.

“Don’t want you? I want to fuck you this second if I did what I wanted now.”

You gasped, chasing his hips.

“Y/N.”

“You only want me now?”

Your gaze was so convincing, lustful, that if he stayed here much longer, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. But he thought twice before making an irresponsible confession in a situation like this. Fuck you, Hange.

“No.”

His short answer made your heart leap out of your chest. And the look in his eyes was enough to confirm he wasn’t lying.

“Then fuck me.”

He let out a low, mocking laugh.

“Tomorrow morning to be damn sure you’ll regret how brave you were last night.”

The pressure between your legs made you squeeze them around him, chasing relief.

“I don’t care.”

He tilted his mouth into a small smile, whispering in your ear.

“Yeah?” He took your earlobe in his mouth, making you shiver. “I even think you don’t want me to fuck you.” Your whine urged him to bite your earlobe before soothing it with his lips. “Two fingers are all I need to get the job done.”

“L-Levi.”

Your mind couldn’t comprehend how he was speaking to you right now—only that it made you unbearably wet.

His fingers traveled along your body before cupping your breast and chasing your mouth. You moaned against his lips, your hand on the back of his head pushing him further into your kiss. He was already addicted to how you responded to him.

Levi’s fingers went lower, raising goosebumps across your skin until he teased your inner thighs.

You whimpered in his mouth, furrowing your brows in impatience from his teasing. But he couldn’t wait anymore—he needed to feel it. He let out a low growl at your wet, clothed panties.

“For how fucking long have you been thinking about me to be like this right now?” A string of saliva connected you both, his hand cupping your pussy before you leaned into his mouth, but he didn’t give you the choice. “Tell me.”

“All night.”

“You fucking kidding me.” His lips left wet kisses along your neck, marking you again with his teeth, still biting lightly.

His fingers pushed your panties aside to reach your clit, starting to move in quick circles considering how wet you were even before he went lower for one of your holes. He tested with one finger, but when he didn’t find much resistance, your moan lingered in your throat before continuing with harder finger-fucking until he added a second finger.

“F-fuck, Levi!”

His dark strands, now damp with sweat from how hot his body felt, stuck slightly in his serious gaze, dilated pupils pulling him far from his image as a strict squad captain. He didn’t look like one anymore. He looked like a man who would do anything in this moment to make you feel good.

Levi had been fed up for some time now with being such a control freak, suppressing his emotions even though Erwin had never advised it—just something Levi knew how to do best. But now? He didn’t give a shit anymore. At least once, he could allow himself this.

“Yeah?” Levi’s lips brushed against yours faintly, his warm breath on them.

“More, I need more—”

He moved you instantly and pushed you forward even more, exposing your ass under your skirt, still covered by the white tights he immediately tore apart.

“Levi, for fuck’s sake—”

He slapped your ass—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to sting—then soothed it when you whimpered. Then he did it again in the same spot before switching to the other cheek. Your breathing was difficult to control, your eyes wide open in ecstasy. It wasn’t hard to guess he liked things like this, and it wasn’t hard to guess that you liked them too.

“You want more? Then fucking take more.”

He spread your ass cheeks, and you felt too aroused to feel shame as he knelt down, right in front of your ass, and began to lick you. It shocked you so much that your back arched even more, your mouth wide open from the sensations his exaggeratedly attentive tongue gave to every spot in your most intimate area. Your legs started trembling as Levi continued licking both holes, then up toward your clit and pushing his fingers back in.

“Please, please. Now, I can’t wait—”

He stood up, leaning over you, his hand moving in front of your body until it found your chin, lifting it while your skin shivered from your ear downward.

“And what can’t you wait for, cadet?”

You almost groaned in frustration, but your hole clenched around nothing, your body telling you directly what his words did to you. If you had known Levi was like this in bed, you would’ve listened to Hange a long time ago. But you knew the aphrodisiac played a role too.

“Damn it, Levi—”

He turned your head further, your body instinctively arching into him, feeling how affected he was by your presence too.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t wait any longer for you to fuck me, Levi. Fuck me, please!”

Your voice was rushed, yet full of sensuality mixed with desperation.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His mocking tone didn’t disappear—behind closed doors, his usual attitude still lingered.

“S-shut up. Lock the door!”

He was undoing his pants, and all you heard was the rustle of clothing and the sound of a belt falling to the floor.

“I don’t care about that damn door.”

You couldn’t lie that it turned you on a little. The probability of someone coming here was very low, considering how far your desk was from the others. But with how loud you were, that probability could rise.

You looked over your shoulder, noticing, in your opinion, one of the most beautiful cocks—veiny, with the tip dripping proof of how turned on he was, its considerable length adding to the effect. You looked at his dick, then at him, with an awe-struck expression that made Levi’s mouth twitch slightly. Not that he cared about this kind of thing; his ego had been completely unraveled a long time ago, back in childhood. But the scary, lustful look on your face? It drove him like a caged animal to give you more than you could take.

He teased you, slowly moving his cock between your ass cheeks and barely penetrating your pussy. You didn’t even have time to complain before he began thrusting into you, both of you opening your mouths in sync from the pleasure.

He pushed in to the end—some of him still outside—and bent over until his mouth touched your shoulder, sucking it before he began moving inside you. He had to calm himself a little so he didn’t come like some pathetic teenager who couldn’t handle puberty.

His heavy breathing turned you on even more, and when his thrusts became slower but deeper, your voice didn’t stop moaning his name until he put his hand over your mouth.

“You want me to close the door for what? You’re still yelling loud enough for everyone to hear.” His groans didn’t stop though, a sound you never thought you’d hear from him. “Never thought you’d feel so good.”

He moved his hand from your mouth, letting one finger stretch your lips as he fucked you harder. The other hand stayed on your back to support his rough thrusts.

“You’ve thought of me like this before?” Your answers irritated Levi because they turned him on even more, letting him speak too openly about something he shouldn’t.

“You have no idea.”

His answer came voluntarily, simple, but it still made your heart clench. You let out a sound of frustration when he pulled out, your body leaning back toward him to find him again but he turned you to face him, which was even worse.

His piercing eyes immobilized you and suddenly you remembered what shame felt like when Levi was staring at you, perplexed by how beautiful you looked, his gaze dropping from your swollen lips, to your aroused breasts, then between your legs.

You pulled him by the shirt to kiss you, and he didn’t pull back; on the contrary, his hands cupped your head to keep you in place while he devoured you, the kiss messy again, you moaning into his mouth, trying to pull off his black shirt, wrinkled with passion. Your hands felt the muscles he built through harsh training and punishment, your eyes tracing the scars that reminded you how strong he was.

Your vulnerable gaze after Levi kissed down your neck and looked back at you was too much for him to handle. He couldn’t think about what he felt for you right now. It was out of the question but his softened eyes still caressed your soul.

He placed both hands on your thighs and lifted you slightly on the desk before spreading your legs and entering you. Your hands went around his shoulder, your head falling there too as Levi grunted in your ear with every deep thrust.

“Come for me first.”

He turned his head slightly toward you to meet your gaze while his fingers moved to your clit to help you. The excessive wetness made it easy for him to bring you to the edge, even though you could’ve stayed in this moment forever with Levi inside you. So close.

You turned to face him, making sounds that bordered crying while you looked at him, and he can only murmur:

“Yes, just like this. Do it for me. Do it now.”

His eyes never left yours until your head tilted back slightly, your body shaking uncontrollably as your legs, previously locked around his ass, loosened and fell until Levi’s hand grabbed one of them and the other cupped your cheek, not letting you look away as you came. He couldn’t forget this look. He needed it.

His erratic movements became harsher until he pulled out, stroking himself until the last drop spilled on your belly and a little lower. Your hands were barely holding you up on the desk. The aphrodisiac was almost halfway worn off, but your mind was still obsessively drawn to Levi and his presence.

But the shame you felt now was even stronger, trying to cover yourself, not wanting to feel so exposed anymore. But Levi only memorized how special you were to him; and not just because of the sex, but in general. Memories rebuilt themselves in his mind as if they were yesterday, of how much you’d been there for him through his life.

He pulled himself out of those thoughts, not allowing himself to drown in them. Hs hadn’t even allowed himself to get here before, but here they were.

He looked through drawers and around the desk until he found some wet wipes to clean you, at least superficially, because he couldn’t stand making a mess, especially not on someone like you. He lifted you off the desk, seeing your fragile legs, but you surprised him by hugging him tightly, not letting him protest how hard you held him.

“Y/N.”

Even if he couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t do anything to stop it. His hands still weren’t touching you.

“Hug me back, Levi. Please.”

He felt a lump in his throat, suffocated by your love. But he hugged you back, one hand cradling your head as he stared blankly. It was hard to accept this from someone. But you weren’t just anyone.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay naked much longer.”

Your voice was muffled by his shoulder.

“I don’t care.”

You squeezed him tighter, now that you had him this open, you couldn’t let go so easily.

He leaned toward the desk, stretching his hand to grab a shirt to cover you. That melted your soul even more.

“I wanna sleep with you.”

“Y/N, you know it’s not allowed for a commander to sleep in the same bed with another—”

“Please, Levi. I don’t think I can breathe well without it.”

He was annoyed at you and your rule-breaking, exhaling an irritated sigh—but didn’t say anything at first.

“If you don’t come as subtly as possible in the middle of the night, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

You lifted your face from his chest and smiled at him, sincerely. Though his expression seemed serious, there was a playful one underneath. Levi’s walls were down tonight for you. And maybe, they would stay open more often. Life is too short not to love each other in the limited time you have.

You pressed your face back into his chest, hugging him tighter. From the outside, the image was as romantic as it could be—the two of you at the center of the office, moonlight covering your bodies and leaving only your shadow as proof that, in this moment, you truly belonged to each other. No one else.

[bejeweledinterludes]

blame it on the alcohol.

OR dean’s drunk— and makes it your problem!

「 pairing 」 : drunk ! dean x reader

「 word count 」 : 1.6 k

「 content / warnings 」 : fluffy fluff / comedy, alcoholic!dean, drunkness, NOT violent— purely just my thoughts of goofball drunk dean winchester off his rocker with reader hehe

‧˚₊⋅ ──── faith’s tell-all. welp i got drunk off my ass the other night and finished this draft that’s been rotting for actual months but i love the way it turned out. i hate to drop then dip immediately— but ‘if i wrote this then y’all need to see it’ has always been my policy around here (with finished works at least), and that includes regardless of my mental status. idc y’all are my ride or dies for life, no take backsies! that being said though, i still need to respond to everyone who reached out to me over the last month(ish)— which feels overwhelming rn, so i promise to do it at some point.

and for anyone that was wondering, things are pretty okay for now— but i still don’t plan on coming back back on here anytime soon. it’ll probably be more just me posting works here and there since i don’t really write like i used to + don’t really feel like i belong on here anymore yk? i’m sorry to let everyone down, but just know i appreciate and love every single freakin’ one of you that interacts with and (hopefully) enjoys my writing. it means the absolute world— it always has and always will. enjoy this one, miss you all dearly <3

( p. s. ) . . . this should be obvious, but: DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO READ ABOUT ALCOHOL OR DRUNKENESS !!!

𖤐 ────────────────────────

you were cozied up in bed at your motel room for the night, pretending to be reading a book on the lore of a specific hybrid of werewolf— god, don’t even ask. it was like pulling freakin’ teeth trying to get through a page, even the words. you were debating lighting the while thing on fire— and maybe sam, too, for suggesting that you decipher it.

but the sudden and loud-ass bang against the door had gotten your attention, and you instinctively snatched your gun off the nightstand, expecting the worst. fight or flight kicked in— and of course, fight reared it’s head immediately.

but there was no need, since the door swung open— and dean was attached to it, leaning on it as it hit the wall with a thud.

“stupid fuckin’—” he lifts himself off the handle, looking offended at the thing, like the door was the reason he almost fell face-first into the room and not himself.

then, he meets your gaze.

and the only way to describe it was like if the freakin’ sun just came out and hit dean’s face.

“hey!” dean bursts your name out, somehow kicking the door shut behind him— while smiling. like, full-blown, teeth and all. at you. and you know he’s never been that happy to see you in your life, ever.

it’s about now you realize he’s absolutely hammered beyond belief.

of course you knew that dean had his… issues with alcohol— and everything he’d been through? shit. you probably would, too. but still, you never pushed him to talk to you about it. not like sam does— yeah, no, that wasn’t your place. you were a good friend, sure, but still, you didn’t need a ‘okay, mom’ from dean, or a cussing out. so you weren’t about to try and force him to tell you anything. that was a line you refused to cross.

“hi,” you give your own smile back— because come on. your eyes clock how dean was swaying on his feet, so you slide off of your bed, meeting him halfway and grasping his shoulder gently— because you knew if you didn’t take action right now, he’d end up face-first right on the carpet. “you havin’ a good night?”

and dean’s glazed eyes seemed to sharpen for a moment as he took in your presence— now he could smell you, foo. his lips curved into a lopsided, drunken grin as he attempted (and failed) to focus on your face.

“jus’ livin’ the dream,” he quipped, trying to muster a cocky smirk— but the way he leaned right into you standing up told you otherwise.

“needed sum company. your room was t’closest, thank god— ‘n sam’s bein’ mean.” dean explained, almost pouted at that last part, his words being pretty much incoherent. dean somehow got an arm around your shoulders, the other waving floppily at the door— most likely, at sam.

of course you’ve seen dean drunk before, but he’s never sought you out while completely wasted like this. not that you were complaining or anything like that— it was just new.

you were trying not to think about what that meant.

you now realize that you can’t exactly sustain holding dean up like this, with just your own body weight— so your arm wraps fully snug around his shoulders and your free hand presses onto his chest, holding him upright.

“i see,” you guide dean in your grasp towards the edge of your bed. “well, come and sit down before we both end up face-planting, huh?”

surprisingly, as you guided him toward the bed, dean stumbled along more willingly than you’d expected him to, even as his movements were jerky and completely uncoordinated. he flopped right onto the edge of the bed, head lolling momentarily as he fought to focus on you, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

then, as if that wasn’t enough shock factor, dean reached out, his hand clumsily searching for something to hold onto— his fingers found your hand and wrapped around it a smidge too tight, as if to ensure you wouldn't leave.

a beat passes, then—

“yer my favorite, y’know that?”

damn.

maybe you needed to sit down, too.

so you do.

“your favorite, huh?” you inquire softly, sitting next to dean. you never took him to really be sentimental drunk, but hey. at least he wasn’t upchucking. a smile tugs on your lips, too. “like, ever? or just right now?”

you’d think you’d asked for the equilibrium constant of freaking iron, the way dean huffed and actually thought about it, hard.

a beat, and then, he nodded, confirming.

“yeah, ever. well, ‘cept sammy... or m’baby.” he said slowly, trying to form the words through his inebriated brain, looking back to you. “but yeah. ever.”

while listening, you glance over at the clock as you’re sitting on the edge of the bed— well, you’re sitting. dean’s now just kinda… more slumped against you than anything.

but you didn’t mind it.

“well either way, i’m honored,” you lean a little into dean playfully, but your voice is still quiet. “and you know somethin’? you’re my favorite, too.”

oh, damn.

if dean was sober, he'd probably scoff and play it cool— find some sort of joke to spin off of it. but drunk dean was a different man. instead, he squints at your face, cheeks flushed for a different reason, his expression… hopeful.

“really?” he slurred, looking unconvinced and squeezing your hand like it would help. it did. “not sammy or baby?”

“i like you both,” you clarify with a soft laugh, voice still quiet, eyebrows scrunching together as you remind him: “and baby’s your girl, dean.”

“true,” that got a chuckle out of dean, “baby’s m’girl, and you…”

dean paused, his mind taking a moment to process the thought. and people say that drunk people had no filter. he lifted his head slightly, his gaze attempting to focus on your face.

“y’somethin’ else.”

dean finally said, his words barely above a whisper. his fingers fidgeted a little with yours, lightly tracing patterns against your skin.

damn damn.

even drunk, dean sure was vague when he wanted to be. his tone was genuine as ever, though— so that made you feel a little better.

“‘somethin’ else’, huh?” is what you respond with to dean as you smile again, eyes flicking between his. “well, thank you— i think.”

dean manages a lopsided smile back. he’s uncharacteristically quiet now, a stark contrast to earlier.

“mean it. you’re special,” he murmurs after a moment, his voice dripping with sincerity.

now how the hell were you supposed to respond to that.

you weren’t used to compliments— in general, but from dean? that was essentially nonexistent. it was like he made a point not to compliment you sometimes— and now this? it wasn’t just a random compliment.

he called you special.

so you just kinda… stare at dean for a second, your cheeks heating up a little as you look down at your entwined hands, trying to ignore the warmth in your chest before you get the courage to look up at him again. 

dean, however, doesn’t seem to notice the way you reacted— if he did, he didn’t point it out. his fingers continued tracing small patterns on your hand, almost absentmindedly. the gesture, despite the alcohol swimming through his body, was still somewhat… deliberate.

gentle. 

“thanks, de.” you managed to get out, glancing back down at your hand in his.

dean’s somewhat half-lidded gaze follows your glance down to where his fingers are tracing patterns on your hand, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he lifts his gaze to meet yours again.

“love when you call m’that,” he murmurs, a soft, albeit, drunken honesty to his voice. “feel s’like a hug.”

you knew that sober (and definitely hungover) dean would be absolutely losing it if he could hear himself, but you don’t dare call him out on it.

you gape at dean again for a second, your chest doing that thing, more intensely now as your cheeks flush a little harder.

the chest thing usually happened daily, hourly around dean: whenever he said your name, wiggled his brows at you from the rearview window of baby, or got right into your personal space— but it felt so much more with his words.

and it didn’t help that you were holding hands.

“i’ll try and say it more often, then,” you affirm to dean with a nod, giving his hand a little squeeze.

“good,” dean nods back, like he was in a haze— but he couldn’t tell if it was from you or the alcohol. “i’ll hold y’to that.”

oh, yeah. you knew he would.

even drunk, that might be the only thing he remembers— but you’d take it.

it was bittersweet. knowing that this dean seemed to have all the troubles off of his mind, the burdens off of his back for once in his goddamn life— but you knew the reality. the one deep down, the monster under the bed:

the fact that dean needed alcohol to do so.

and a lot of it.

maybe someday, you’d talk to him about it in that way you always did, like a deep conversation, but not really; one that left him all light and drunk on something very much you instead of a brewski— and maybe he’d even listen. 

but you knew tonight wouldn’t be the night.

tomorrow wouldn’t be the day.

so you’d let him have tonight.

you’d let him have you. 

if he wanted.

──────────────────────── 𖤐

🏷️ : @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlejackles @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @honeyyxxbee @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @missus-ackles + if i missed anyone or you want to be added / taken off, please let me know <3

[b33zlebubz]

six months | simon riley

you accidentally ask your ex for a ride home after six months no-contact tags: vomit, themes of ptsd and depression for both characters, alcohol, angst, fluff, soft simon

It’s raining.

Your hair pulls on the concrete whenever you adjust uselessly, tugging at the bottom of your dress so that you could sit on the ground in a way that won’t leave bruises you won’t remember.  Balance clumsy as you sink against the stone and press your face against the soothing coolness of the bricks.  Listen to the music that still pulses inside and try to imagine what your friends are doing, dancing and drinking.

Your phone slips onto your lap, the blue light obscenely bright against the dim, dingy alleyway and incandescent street lights.  A text conversation pulled up and untouched for months suddenly dinging with updates.  You barely realize you texted him to pick you up until you get a response to your drunken gibberish, short and sweet.  Three little letters that bring more relief than you’ll ever admit.

Omw.

You’re surprised he’s able to read what you sent.  You sure as hell can’t, from the combined effort of the rain and the dumbness of your fingers.  And maybe some part of you would be fond of the fact that he had replied so fast, kept your number unblocked.  Hadn’t just ignored it like he probably should have.  Hadn’t discarded you completely.

Six months.  Six months since he said he’d never marry, six months since you left.  Time went by faster when you weren’t staring at your phone callender aching for his return.  Waiting by the front door of your shared apartment like an anxious puppy when he was late to return, as usual.

Maybe it was muscle memory, tapping his contact.  Maybe it was subconscious.  Either way, you couldn’t go back on it now.

You hear it before you see it.  That same old sleek, black car rolling around the block and stopping some ways in front of you.  There’s a headache blooming in your skull and your hair is slick against your face whenever you open your eyes to the sound of boots.  

He’s there, in front of you.  Kneeling down in dark jeans and a darker T-shirt.  More tattoos up his arm than you remember.  A fresh, diamond-shaped one—stark against the faded sleeve of his forearm.  A more sober you would have at least pretended not to stare, not to rake your eyes up lean muscle and tall stature to the permanently tired, grey-ish eyes of Simon Riley.

“You’re a mess,”  He grunts, and his velvet, smokey accent really shouldn’t make your chest warm over as much as it does.  Unearth memories and feelings you thought you packed away with the rest of your belongings whenever you moved out of his flat.  

You huff, glance away.  “Mess is an understatement.”

“You alright?”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching a dumb hand up to rub at your face.  You’re not.  You’re really not; not with him finally within arms reach.  Not when nausea claws distantly in your throat and your brain feels like it's been knocked loose in your skull.  But, as always, you lie.

“Yeah,”  you breathe, and your voice is hoarse from yelling and singing.  You curse yourself for drinking so much.  Curse yourself even more for asking him to come pick you up; you wanted this interaction to be something else.  Coffee, maybe, or a few drinks at the bar.  Talking.  Reminiscing.  Discussing what led you to split in the first place; his job and your loneliness.  Not getting baby-sat because you partied too hard and your ride got too drunk.

“Why’d you come?”  You mutter, voice hoarse and slurred, and even to you it sounds pitiful.

He huffs in response.  Quiet.  Barely a breath and a twitch of his lips, but it still happens.  Maskless, eyeblack still stained around his exhausted eyes.  Stuck to his blond eyelashes and caught in his brow.  He must have just gotten home from whatever he’s been up to the past few months, you probably don’t want to know.  It might make you want to stick around more than you should.  Make sure he’s alright.  That he’s eating and sleeping.  You’re probably the only one alive that knows he struggles, coming home and adjusting back to civilian life.

Simon reaches out, warm hand tenderly holding the side of your face and wiping away runny mascara.

“Because you called,”  he says, genuine.  Without an ounce of the annoyance you somehow expected, although he’s never once been annoyed before.  “Can you stand?”

You swallow again,  “probably not.”

He shifts.  You watch as he shuffles closer, snaking a large hand under your knees and the other around your back.  Lifting you with no visible effort other than a stifled grunt, tucking you close to his chest.  Careful not to jostle you too much as the movement makes you dizzy and you clutch hard at his bicep.  Hide your face in his collar and shut your eyes tight as your head swims.  Try to focus on the pulse between his ribs. His shirt smells like cigarettes and old leather, something distinctly him.

“Your heartbeat is fast,”  you breathe.

Simon's boots splash against the puddles on the street.

“Mm,”  he hums, adjusts his hold on you.  “A little.”

“Why?”

He pulls the door open with a finger and sets you down carefully in the passenger seat.  Gets you situated.  Something about it shoots a distant memory through your brain; wrangling a wet German Shepherd into your old car.  Thunder rumbling across the sky.  Driving home with a very relieved Simon in the backseat, curled up and rain-soaked with the dog he thought he lost forever.  

That was the first time you met.  Spotting him dejectedly along the side of the M62 motorway, leash in hand.  Trying to find his dog Riley who had jumped from his car in the midst of the worst rainstorm you’ve seen in years.

“‘Was worried,”  he confesses, low and sincere.  “Reckon you’d have to be real desperate to ask my sorry ass to get you.  Thought I'd have to beat someone up."

Hurt wells, hot and upset, through your chest.  Makes you clutch his shirt a little tighter as he gets to his car, even if he did intend for it to be a lighthearted joke.

“I’m sorry,”  it’s genuine.  You don’t exactly know if you’re apologizing for not staying in touch, the argument before he left, or bothering him in the first place. Either way, the apology is genuine.

He smiles.  Warm, tired, sad.  Much like he would whenever you’d drop him off at the airport or when he’d climb into bed after his return: sore, exhausted, and apologizing.  Something you like to think is reserved for you, although you know might be wishful thinking.

“S’alright, love.”

The drive itself is quiet.  You press your face to the cool of the window and let your eyes shut.  You’re still shivering from the rain despite Simon cranking the heat up.  A part of you is glad for it, it gives you something to zero in on.  Keeps you from vomiting in his car as you listen to the rain tap against the windows.  Watch the city lights come and go as he navigates traffic carefully.

“Where to?”  He rumbles.

“Same flat,”  you slur.  “The one on 8th.”

He sends a glance your way.  You meant to leave the city after you left but with money so tight you haven’t had enough time to go looking, so you moved back into the apartment complex you inhabited before the both of you got together.  Easy, cheap.  Sketchy neighborhood but close to work.  Small, but you never needed a whole lot of space, anyway.

He doesn’t comment on it.  Just flicks the turn signal on and takes you home.  You’re a little grateful.

Simon carries you inside.  Still avoids that one stair that is higher than all the others.  Still ducking his head down just a little under that one doorway he hit his head on once.  Water drips from his clothes and taps against dusty linoleum floors, boots squeaking as he sets you down carefully outside your door.

By the time your shoes hit the floor again, it seems to contort and dip underneath you.  Your heartbeat pulses in your ears and hands shake as you fumble for your keys.  Swaying as you clumsily press them into the knob and turn.

“Hm,”  Simon huffs, blinking at the familiar, dark, empty living room around him.  “Looks exactly the same.”

You barely register his comment before the lump in your throat grows unbearable, barely hearing what he says.  Stumble across the room to the bathroom just in time to collapse by the toilet and retch a night of drinking, painfully, into the bowl.  It hurts.  The kind of vomit that only happens when you go too long without eating before having a drink.  The kind of sick that carries a thick kind of shame with it—a kind of oh no, I’m getting bad again.

Simon's at your side in an instant, a roll of paper towels under one arm and a glass of water in the other.

“Bloody hell, easy,”  comes his voice as he wipes at your face, fuzzy and distant behind the headache that pounds in your skull.  You breathe and it burns down your irritated throat as you lean your head against the porcelain. Let him fuss over you as you recover.

“Fuck,”  you curse yourself as the sobriety of throwing up brings with it a massive wave of clarity.  You run a shaky hand over your eyes, swallow thickly.  “I’m sorry, Simon, I—”

“It’s fine."

“I shouldn’t have texted you,”  you continue, voice cracking as you grimace.  “Should’ve just walked home or Ubered or something.”

He sighs,  “love—”

“I’m a fucking mess and I really didn’t want to—”

“Stop,”  Simon finally says, stern but never mean.  You shut your mouth tearfully.  Look up at him with that look that he knows all-to-well by now; from date nights he had to miss to disappearances without goodbyes.  Nights you needed him to stay but he couldn’t because the job needed him more.  When he shot down your suggestion of getting married because he didn’t want you in harm’s way should anything happen to him.

He wasn’t mad when you got tired of it, when you broke the news that you were packing up and leaving.  Left his flat jarringly empty and made his life outside of the Task Force a lot quieter.  A mediocre partner at best, really; he should’ve expected it.  Too tired to do much and too messed up to love you like you deserved.

He wasn’t about to leave you hanging here, too.  Wouldn’t.  Couldn’t.

“I’d rather me pick you up than some creepy bloke,”  he tells you, tone almost somber.  He runs a warm hand comfortingly over where your dress exposes your back.  “You’ve sat beside me while I puked too many times.  ‘Bout time I returned the favor.”

That gets a weak scoff out of you.  A twitch of your mouth just barely visible through the dark of the bathroom.

“This feels a little more pathetic, though,”  you breathe.  “At least you can hold your alcohol.”

“At least you made it home,”  he smiles.  “I wouldn’t have moved.  ‘Woulda spent the night sleeping against that building, most likely.”

You chuckle a little at the thought and he shifts, taking you into his arms again.

“You gonna get sick again?”

“No,”  you breathe, eyes drooping.  You swallow and it tastes like bile, but the tightness in your throat is gone.  “M’good now.”

He hums, but you barely hear it.  Letting the world fade into black just as he carries you down the hall.

You don’t remember much else.

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in bed.  Warm, golden sunlight settles in through the cracks in your blinds and irritates your eyes.  He somehow got you out of your dress last night and into one of the large T-shirts you’re always wearing to bed, wiped off most of the makeup on your face so that only stubborn mascara dots your pillow when you turn over.  Tucked you into all the blankets he could to ward off the worst of the rain's chill. It's the most care anyone has shown you in a while.

There’s water on the nightstand, your tumbler damp with condensation. Two red ibuprofen pills next to it.  In front of your messy side table, on the floor, is Simon.  Blond head perched up on an extra pillow, softly snoring away as he sleeps on his stomach.  Fresh tattoo on display thrown over a light blanket from your couch.  

For a moment, you blink at it.  Confused by the jarring difference in it compared to his others; all dogtags and fire and death.  A diamond with a landscape of a rainy highway inside, a road sign the main focus. A breath fills your lungs as you realize, then, what it is.

M62.

You stare at it for longer than you’ll ever admit.

[carlislefiles]

family man | nanami kento ╰►things between you and kento have been casual the past couple of months, at least that’s what you think. he’s been crushing on you for a lot longer than that. he just adores everything about you. all of your little quirks, the way you smile, how you style your hair…it’s all a wondrous kind of beauty to him. problem is, you’ve been keeping a secret. not necessarily on purpose, but now that it’s coming to light, you’re sure it will be nanami’s deal-breaker, that he’ll have no choice but to break up with you. 7.4k words

a/n: hello hello!! thank you anon for this lovely idea :] I don't really know how to feel about it, it's not my favorite thing I've ever posted, but I'm proud of it nonetheless. I tried to make it angsty like you asked, but my man nanami is too pookie for that kind of behavior. warnings: infertility/talking about having children, cussing, mental health stuff, fem!reader. I hope this is what you were lookin' for anon, and thanks again for requesting!

it begins innocently. dinners that stretch long past closing time, candles burning down to nothing while you trace the rim of your glass and ask him what he wanted to be when he was ten. sleepovers that don’t end in sex, not always, but do end with your fingers curled against the inside of his wrist like you’re anchoring yourself there. like you’ve chosen him as your safe place, if only for the night.

he tells himself it’s casual. you say it like it’s obvious. casual, like the way you slip your shoes off by the door and tuck your legs under you on his couch. casual, like the shared toothbrush you pretend not to notice in his medicine cabinet. like the text you send after your first night staying over: thank you. I felt safe. safe. it echoes in his chest louder than it should.

you bring him warm bread on tuesdays. always from the same place, always still wrapped in wax paper, still warm when it hits his desk. he pretends he doesn’t notice the way your hand brushes his as you pass it to him. he pretends he doesn’t linger on the smell of it—of you—after you leave.

you remember things. things no one else ever does. the way he takes his coffee. the kind of tie clip he prefers. how he dislikes certain textures in food, but won’t say it outright. you remember, and more than that—you accommodate, without making a spectacle of it. just gentle kindness. just care. like it’s easy for you. like it’s instinct.

and he adores you for it. completely. wholly. it’s frightening, if he lets himself think too long about it. because he is falling. fast. and he cannot stop. more terrifying still, he doesn’t want to. 

he thinks the first time he realizes he’s in trouble is on a wednesday afternoon. you’re sitting across from him at a coffee shop, the kind of tucked-away place he would’ve never found on his own. your hands are wrapped around a cup of something absurdly sweet, syrup lining the lid, a dollop of whipped cream sliding sideways, threatening a spill. he’s still mildly horrified you ordered it in front of the barista without shame.

you take a sip and immediately hum like it’s divine. “want to try it?” you ask, sliding the cup his way with a knowing smile. he declines, politely. you shrug. “your loss.” he watches you drink it with pink whipped cream on your nose, and he’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body.

he takes you on walks down along the waterfront, half because it gives him an excuse to spend time with you without distractions, and half because he likes the way the wind makes your nose pink and your hair messier than usual. you shiver even under your coat, but you never complain. never ask to turn back. you’re like that—endlessly game, endlessly bright. and he always walks just a little closer, always tempted to sweep you up and carry you the rest of the way home. not because you ask him to. because he wants to. because you’d let him.

the first time he does, you squeal in delight, burying your frozen face in his neck. “this is ridiculous,” you giggle. maybe it is, but he keeps walking. he doesn’t put you down until he’s set you in front of the heater in his apartment with a blanket and a steaming mug of chamomile.

god, his apartment. you never seem to want to leave it. and he never wants you to. it’s simple—neutral tones, clean lines, warm light. soft rugs underfoot, a record player in the corner he hardly ever uses until you put something on one night and danced barefoot in his kitchen. the walls smell like sandalwood and bergamot. like him, you say. and you breathe deeper when you step inside. there’s a throw blanket that’s permanently yours now. the first time he found it crumpled on his bed with your perfume still clinging to the fibers, he sat down and held it to his chest for an hour.

you are everything soft and strange. and he cannot get enough of you. you wear gowns to his formal jujutsu events—effortless and devastating, like you walked out of a painting and into his life. and the second you’re through his front door again, you toss your heels into the corner with a groan, flop onto his couch with your dress bunched around your thighs like royalty gone rogue. he offers you clothes. you always pick his ugliest pajama pants. plaid, red and black, cotton-worn and embarrassingly beloved. they swallow you whole, cinched tight with the drawstring, and yet somehow you make them look like high fashion. you always do.

you tell him they’re hot when he wears them. you call his biceps “biteable,” and once actually bit him mid-workout because you “couldn’t help it.” he’d blushed so hard he had to pretend he was suddenly exhausted and needed to stop. you just laughed and poked at his chest like you knew exactly what you were doing.

when he’s away—missions, business trips, one unfortunate week-long summit—you facetimed every night. it wasn’t something he ever asked for. he assumed you’d want space. assumed, foolishly, that your affection was casual, fleeting, like you said. but you answered every call, bundled up in his hoodie, hair messy, cheeks sleepy. you always had a tub of ice cream with you. “it’s fine,” you told him once. “this counts as dinner.” he frowns, but he memorized the flavor. wrote it down in the notes app on his phone along with a list of everything else you like. your favorite flowers, the perfume scents you like, the chapstick you buy. 

and it all…it overwhelms him. because you are funny and vibrant and strange and shameless. you make him laugh out loud, which is something he didn't even realize he’d stopped doing. and you like him. really like him. he thinks. but you also call it casual, so he plays along. because the alternative—the possibility of losing you if he asks for too much—terrifies him more than silence ever did.

he hasn’t dated much. not like this. not anyone like you. before you, there were stilted dinners with ambitious businesswomen who wanted to compare portfolios. brief, forgettable flings with jujutsu sorcerers who talked about curses even during sex. there was never laughter. never whipped cream mustaches. never someone pressing their cold feet against his calves under the kotatsu and nuzzling into his chest. 

he is terrified of how easy it is. how hard he’s falling. how none of it feels casual. he doesn’t know how to ask you what this is—what it could be. so instead, he folds another note into the pocket of your coat when you’re not looking. be safe. text me when you get home. you send him a selfie when you do, flashing a thumbs up with a big grin, and he saves the photo in a folder he visits on the rare occasions you don’t sleep at his apartment. 

—

of course you like him. you must. you let him hold your hand, fingers woven like thread. you steal sips from his tea and grimace when it’s bitter. you wear his shirts to bed—always the same faded one with the loose neckline and a bleach stain at the hem, like it’s your favorite thing he owns. maybe it is. he wouldn’t know how to ask.

you press kisses to the back of his neck when you pass behind him in the kitchen. you text him on your lunch breaks. you beg him to take the little personality quizzes that float through your feed (“if I was a moth, what kind of lamp would I love most?”) and you call him on missions just to say goodnight.

he’s not imagining this. you like him. and yet—“he’s just so good to me,” you’re saying, in the distance, sitting with utahime and shoko. his students are warming up on the training field, practicing stance drills. gojo’s yelling about something in the background, but nanami hears your voice so clearly it’s as if the whole world falls quiet. “he’s so nice. I like him so much. I just hope he likes me as much as I like him.”

he stills. the sound of it—hopeful. uncertain. your voice, so soft. like you don’t know. like he hasn’t made it obvious. he’s disgusted with himself. furious. nauseated.

what more can he do? what hasn’t he offered you? you’re in every fold of his routine now, the gravity that orients his every plan. and still, somehow, you are unsure. tentative. wondering if he likes you. likes. as if that word could ever come close to what he feels for you. no, nanami doesn’t like you. he adores you. reveres you. he is obsessed with your every breath, every freckle, every sigh you release when you crawl into his lap and pretend you aren’t using him like a weighted blanket.

his hands tremble where they hang at his sides. he grips them into fists. he wants to walk over. wants to pull you away from shoko’s amused smirk and utahime’s knowing grin and push you against the side of the school’s old brick wall and tell you that you’re everything. that he’d marry you today, right now, if you let him. that you’ve already taken root inside his chest and every time you walk away he’s left scrambling to piece himself back together until you return.

but he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. that’s not nanami; he’s not prone to the big gesture. instead he adjusts the cuff of his dress shirt, turns back to his students, and counts their stances like his blood isn’t burning beneath his skin. you hope he likes you. god, if only you knew.

—

he’s trying.he’s never tried like this before—not with the businessmen who introduced him to their high-powered daughters over stiff white-tablecloth dinners, not with the jujutsu sorcerers who flinched when he reached for their hand or laughed at the idea of a quiet life. but he’s trying now. because it’s you.

ever since that overheard confession—soft, tentative, delicate like glass he didn’t realize he was holding—he’s been desperate to prove it. not through grand speeches or some dramatic declaration (he’s never been one for performance), but in the little things. the small, deliberate choices. the love that blooms in the details.

he takes a personal day, for the first time in months. you both take the train to shimokitazawa, wandering bookshops and vintage stalls while you try on every oversized pair of sunglasses you find. he buys you a ring from a local vendor, nothing flashy—just a simple band with a tiny pearl. he doesn’t say what it means. he doesn’t have to.

you drag him to a matcha café, one of those absurd ones with neon signs and floating cloud decor, where everything comes shaped like a bear. you bounce on your heels with excitement as you order a matcha parfait, and because you look so happy, he orders one too. he takes one bite and regrets it immediately. it tastes like earth. bitter, grassy earth. but you’re smiling. so he takes another spoonful, and he nods when you ask, “isn’t it good?”

when you get home, you curl up on his couch and complain about your chipped manicure. he wordlessly disappears and returns with your polish bag, setting a towel across his lap and gesturing for your hands. the color you chose is a soft pink—subtle, warm, gentle. you tease him for concentrating so hard, and he only grumbles under his breath, a small crease between his brows as he perfects the edges. later, you’ll hold up your hands to the light and marvel at how clean the job is.

and through it all, sprawled across his lap like royalty, is cat. ceremoniously named kento jr. by you because of it’s soft, almost yellow fur. nanami simply calls him cat. nanami doesn’t like animals. they’re unpredictable, often messy, always shedding. but you showed up outside his apartment one afternoon with a kitten swaddled in your scarf, whispering “he followed me home,” and now cat lives here. cat purrs like an old engine, sleeps on his tax documents, and shredded one of his ferragamo oxfords. “cat, please remove yourself from the stovetop,” nanami sighs, gently lifting him away with a dish towel.

you just laugh and kiss his cheek. “he loves you.”

nanami’s not sure how he ended up with a clawed little gremlin in his apartment. but then again, he wasn’t sure how he ended up with you either. not sure what on earth he must’ve done in some past life to deserve even a fraction of you in this life. 

he is completely, irreversibly in love with you. and god, he thinks you might be trying too. you set your alarm for 8:45, even though you’re the kind of person who thrives at 2am. you groggily crawl into bed beside him and wrap your arms around his waist, sighing into his chest. you pack him a lunch for work, slicing fruit, wrapping sandwiches with care. you even bought that odd oat milk he likes for his coffee and told him you’re “trying to acquire the taste.”

you’re always trying. meeting him halfway. offering him your time, your care, your thoughtfulness. but he sees it—the shift.

the way your smile falters when he holds your gaze too long. the way your laughter dips into something unsteady when he jokes about how cat will love having a little one in the house one day. how the idea of a family, of permanence, of building a life together—makes you shrink. retreat inward like a tide pulling back from the shore. and it kills him. because everything else is perfect.

but this—this love, this intensity, this truth in his heart that he can’t seem to temper—it seems to scare you. makes you look at him like he’s offering something too fragile, too heavy, too much. so he hides it. quiets the way his hands itch to hold you tighter. swallows the words burning the back of his throat every night he watches you fall asleep beside him. he’s trying not to drown in all of it. because he loves you. and if loving you quietly is the only way to keep you, then he’ll whisper his affection into the smallest spaces, again and again, until you believe it. until you let him stay.

—

it wasn't supposed to happen like this. nanami kento does not do impulsive. he is meticulous—every sock drawer, every budget spreadsheet, every vacation itinerary color-coded to match the mood of the trip. he is calm. calculating. the kind of man who triple-checks his grocery list before stepping into the store. so how—how in god’s name—did he let it slip?

the words taste like a wound the moment they leave him. not because they aren’t true—no, they’re so true they ache—but because they came uninvited, messy, chaotic, dropped into the air like a match over kindling. 

and your face. your beautiful, expressive face. you turn to him on the steps of your little apartment, all golden light from the porch lamp spilling over your features. your lips part softly. your eyes widen. fingers twitch like you’ve been caught in the middle of a note you don’t know how to sing. he’s ruined it. he knows.

the night was already teetering on the edge of bittersweet. you’d told him earlier—softly, apologetically—that you’d need to be back at your place tonight. something about work. something about the morning. and he tried not to let his heart sink like an anchor in his chest. of course he understood. he always does.

you’d tucked yourself into his coat anyway, your frame swallowed by the warm fabric that still faintly smells like him—cedar and clove and the faintest trace of ink from the pen always clipped to the inside. he’d walked you home, matching your rhythm even though you kept stopping to point out interesting architecture, store signs, passing cats. you do that—wander through life like you’re tasting it, sampling it, delighting in every odd flavor.

and he loves you. god, he loves you. he’d been looking at you then, your cheeks flushed from the walk, lips moving a mile a minute about something he couldn’t even track anymore, too busy counting the ways your hands moved when you got excited, the way your lashes fluttered when you laughed. and suddenly the words weren’t in his head anymore—they were out there, between you.

"I love you."

he sees it happen in real-time. your body stills. your breath catches. your smile falters at the edges. and nanami panics. “I—I didn’t mean to pressure you,” he says quickly, too quickly, his hands rising in that calm-the-situation motion. “you don’t have to say anything. I know you weren’t expecting it, I just—I was trying to say that I've really enjoyed—”

but you stop him. not with a hand or a voice, but with a look. one he can’t quite name. something soft, and afraid, and reverent. "I love you, too.”

his world stills. but before he can breathe again, before he can even start to hope—you whisper it. broken. "I love you, too...but I don't know if I'm good for you." it knocks the wind from him.

you look at him like he’s divine. like he’s a monument to all things pure and steady. and you—you look ashamed, small, like loving you is something that should be hard. “you’re perfect, nanami. you’re thoughtful, and brilliant, and good to me. and I'm just…” you trail off, eyes glassy. “I'm just a mess. there are–there are things you don’t know about me. things I haven’t told you. I don't know how to do this the way you deserve. you should have someone funnier. someone better. someone who can give you what you want.”

someone who can give him what he wants. he’s never wanted to yell at a sentence before. scream at it. tear it into ribbons with his bare hands and cast it into the wind. but that one? that one skewers him. because what he wants—what he’s always wanted—is you. not a checklist of traits. not a curated resume of romantic compatibility. just you. with your chipped nail polish and your cracked phone screen and your way of flopping across his bed with a bag of chips and asking “so what did gojo do to piss you off today?”

he loves you, and he’s not ashamed of it. so he takes your hand, slowly, gently. as if you might run if he moves too fast. "I want you,” he says. quiet but firm. "I don’t care about perfect. I don't care if you’re a mess. I care about you.”

“I—thank you, nanami.” nanami? no, that’s kento to you. “I'll…I'll—we can talk about it more tomorrow.” talk about what? he wants to haul your ass back down the steps and talk about it now. give him what he wants? you’ve given him everything he could ever possibly want just with the mere presence of you in his life. but he lets your hand slip of out of his, chest cracking at the lingering look you give him before stepping inside. 

he may have said it too soon, he may have jumped the gun. but still—that is not the reaction he’d been expecting. you’d said it back. you love him, too. so why does this hurt so badly? why does it feel like you just broke up with him? he sits down on the steps outside of your complex and replays every moment he can possibly think of that would’ve ever made you think you weren’t exactly what he wanted. it doesn’t help. it fixes nothing. 

what on earth do you think you could tell him that would take away this ache; this gnawing, beautiful love that pervades his very being? there are things you don’t know about me. things I haven’t told you. and you continued not to tell him. you could’ve, right then and there. he’d have stood on this steps all night and listened to you tell him, and yet, you chose not to. 

you hadn’t broken up with him, but the dynamic of your relationship had changed. and despite his most desperate efforts, you did not seem willing to let him fix it. 

—

he spends the next few days in a kind of quiet agony. there are no words for it—not really. it’s not heartbreak, not yet. it’s the ache before the break, that slow pressure behind the ribs, like waiting for a wave to crest and not knowing if it will carry him gently to shore or drag him under.

you don’t disappear. not completely. you still text him goodnight. still send him a photo of the way your cat has somehow managed to crawl inside your hoodie again. still tell him, casually, sweetly, that your coffee tasted better when he makes it.

but he can feel it. that subtle shift. the quiet retreat. the way your sentences grow shorter. your replies more scattered. he knows people like you don’t mean to slip away. not deliberately. you don’t want to hurt him. you’re just scared. and he can’t blame you for that—not when he’s scared, too.

but god, he doesn’t know what to do. he’s never had to fight for something like this before. in his line of work, everything is practical. there’s a technique for every enemy, a strategy for every battle. but this? this is a war he doesn't know how to win without hurting you in the process.

so he gives you space. he doesn’t text first. doesn’t press. lets days pass where he imagines you curled up in your apartment, lights low, pretending it doesn’t hurt to not be near him. but he’s crumbling. because the truth is simple and terrible: he cannot lose you. he cannot.

so he tries the only thing he knows. not big gestures, not flowers or speeches. but the quiet language of effort, a language he’s fluent in. he drops off pastries at your office in the school, still warm. a book you mentioned once—once—three months ago, now wrapped in brown paper with your name in small, careful print. a single note, tucked beneath the ribbon: you said you liked stories with hopeful endings. he sends a photo of kento jr. in the windowsill, captioned only: he misses you. I do, too. he walks past your favorite boba shop and brings home your favorite flavor, sets it in his fridge, and never drinks it.  just in case you come by. and all the while, he’s trying to understand.

“there are things you don’t know about me,” you’d whispered, voice trembling just slightly, not quite meeting his gaze. “things I haven’t told you.” and then silence. you never told him what. and god, it eats at him. gnaws at the base of his spine like a warning he can’t decipher. he wakes up breathless in the middle of the night, palm stretched toward the empty side of the bed, heart hammering like it knows. like it understands something he doesn’t. like you feel guilty. about something he can’t name. something he won’t be able to name until you let him in.

and what did you mean? someone who can provide what he wants. what did you think he wanted? perfection? structure? someone who could wrap their life in neat little boxes, a future on a clipboard? 

no. he wants you. you, chaotic and wonderful. you, with mismatched socks and dreams that shift like the tide. you, who once said "I love you” like it hurt, like it burned your mouth to admit something so soft.

he doesn’t need a provider. he doesn’t need a flawless partner. he needs you, in whatever form you’re willing to give him. if all he gets is weekends and laughter and maybe a few stolen mornings in between, he’ll take it. if you can never say the words again, but still show up with coffee and curl up in his bed and whisper your thoughts into his chest, he’ll take that too. because he’s in love with you, fully, painfully, and beautifully. and he will not lose you without trying to tell you, in every way he knows, that you are already enough. you always have been.

—

you’re internally freaking the fuck out. full-body, bone-deep panic—like you’ve been flung from a moving train and left to crawl in the gravel. like there’s a hole in your chest no one else seems to notice, widening with every passing second. you want to be calm. composed. rational. but how can you, when you’ve seen this story play out before?

because this isn’t the first time. you’ve been here before—watched someone’s face change when you told them the truth. not right away. not always. but eventually, it always came.

that first boyfriend, the one who’d laughed too hard and kissed with teeth—he’d told you it wasn’t a dealbreaker, then stopped answering your texts three months later. the second had been kinder, in the way a storm is kind when it gives warning before it hits. he’d held your hands when you cried. said he understood. and then he left anyway. it’s not you, he’d said. I just always pictured kids. a family. you understand, right?

so you do. you understand perfectly now. this is the part where nanami realizes you’re broken. this is the part where he walks away, too. you don’t want to pull away from him. don’t want to shut him out. don’t want to feel your own body curl into itself like a dying star every time he mentions a future, or a home, or anything tender and terrifying.

you want him. desperately. deeply. you want to stay. but you can’t think of any other direction in which the story goes. you’re devastated. desolate. alone in a way you haven’t felt since long before you met him. before his laugh became your favorite sound. before his apartment started to smell like your shampoo. before his cat started crying at your door even when you weren’t there.

you try to talk to shoko about it. try to piece the words together in a way that doesn’t sound pathetic or pitiful or broken. she listens quietly, eyes soft behind her usual sarcasm. and then, in typical shoko fashion, she gives it to you straight: "you have to tell him."

you hate that answer. it’s not the one you wanted. you were hoping she’d tell you to run. to hide. to change the subject every time he brings it up until the fear stops chewing at your insides. but she doesn't. she just says, "he loves you. but he can't prove that if you won't let him see all of you." and maybe—maybe that’s what terrifies you most.

because you want to believe that this doesn’t define you. that you are more than the parts of you that don’t work the way they’re supposed to. more than the absence of something you were told should come naturally. more than your inability to give him what others can. but some days, that lie feels bigger than your body.

—

you open the door and he’s there. you didn’t know he’d come. weren’t sure if you wanted him to. weren’t sure if seeing him would make it easier or worse. but then there he is.

coat unbuttoned. shoulders tight. hands wrung together like he’d been trying to warm them against his own pulse. his gaze finds yours, and you know in that instant—he’s been worrying. unraveling. trying to reach you with little scraps of normal: texts about his book, a photo of his coffee, a blurry picture of the cat sitting in his briefcase. all attempts to touch you without pushing you. and you’d ignored them all. not because you don’t love him. but because you do. so much that it hurts. so much that it’s unbearable.

when he steps in, he closes the door behind him like it’s something gentle. something ceremonial. he doesn’t speak right away, just takes you in—your red-rimmed eyes, your oversized hoodie, the way your fingers tug the sleeves over your hands like a child hiding in plain sight.

then he pulls you into his arms. you let him. and it wrecks you. because he’s always so steady. he smells like bergamot and cedar, like clean laundry and the pages of whatever novel he keeps on his nightstand. his arms wrap around you like he was made to hold you, and you think: he deserves everything.

and that is precisely why you feel so ruined. so broken. so wrong. you swallow hard against the burn in your throat. keep your face tucked to his shoulder so he won’t see your tears, not fresh ones.

it’s been years. years since you got the diagnosis. since they used soft words and gentler voices and still managed to gut you clean open. since they told you—kindly, technically, permanently—that you’d never be able to have children. you don’t talk about it. not with most people. not with anyone, really.

you tried, once. with someone you loved. and he blinked and said, “oh.” and two weeks later, he started canceling plans. three weeks after that, he forgot your birthday. it happened again with someone else. different name, same silence. same empty goodbye. some of the relationships had been serious. some had been casual. the result was the same. it happened again and again until you learned. learned to shut your mouth. learned to make jokes about not being the “motherly type.” learned to make peace with a future you never asked for and didn’t want. 

and then nanami came along, and it was just supposed to be dinner. just a few dates. just something light. but then he smiled at you like you were the punchline to the universe’s best-kept secret. held your hand like it was precious. built a quiet, sacred little life with you like he was laying bricks, one soft moment at a time. and now here you are. your chest against his, your breath hitching quietly while he strokes your back in slow, careful lines.

he’s everything. everything you want. and he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know what you can’t give him. doesn’t know what the future couldn’t hold. and worse—you know he wants it. the future. the house. the family. and you know you can’t be the one to give it to him. the thought alone makes you dizzy. nauseous. your stomach twists in on itself, a familiar kind of sick. the kind you’ve only ever felt in sterile clinics and cold bathrooms.

his hand comes up to cup your face. “hey,” he whispers, brow creased. “what’s wrong?” you want to tell him. you do. but the words catch like glass in your throat.

he lowers his face to your hair. breathes you in. and then, quiet—just for you, just between your temple and his lips: “whatever it is. whatever you’re carrying. it doesn’t scare me. I'm not going anywhere.” you tremble. just once. oh, you think, but you will. 

finally, you cave and tell him right there in the doorway because it’s where you finally ran out of strength to keep lying by omission. the words come out of you in a tremble, like they’ve been waiting at the edge of your throat for months and now that they’re free, they don’t stop.

you try to make it sound calm, like it’s not a big deal. like it doesn’t matter. like you don’t matter. you tell him he doesn’t have to stay. that you’d understand. that it’s okay if he doesn’t love you anymore. because he was always clear. from the beginning. he wants a family. he talks about it like it’s holy—like he’s been building a future in the back of his mind since he first learned how to daydream. he deserves that. and you can’t give it to him.

and you hadn’t told him. until now. he doesn’t speak for a beat. or maybe two. maybe a hundred. you can’t tell. the silence is a living thing—wide and wet and crushing. you can’t look at him. you’re not even sure you can breathe.

you can feel it coming before it hits: the tears. the ugly kind. the sobs that crack open your ribs and scrape your spine and turn your voice into something broken and raw. it’s humiliating. it’s crushing. you curl in on yourself like your bones are ashamed of their own structure.

and then he’s holding you. arms around you, hands clutching, not tight but firm. like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you steady. you don’t even register the way he shifts—lifting you effortlessly, carrying you to the bedroom. your legs draped over his arm, your face buried in his chest. his breathing is shallow, jaw clenched tight, but he doesn’t let go.

not when he lays you down. not when you curl against him like it’s instinct. not when your hands fist in the fabric of his dress shirt. you sob into him, and he takes it. absorbs it. one hand cards slowly through your hair. the other stays planted firm between your shoulder blades, as if keeping you from falling apart further.

you can’t speak. you can’t stop crying. and still, he says nothing. just shh. just a thumb brushing over your temple. just a soft, steady rhythm like a heartbeat saying I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. you don’t know how long it lasts. the tears dull eventually, worn out. your hiccuping breath evens into something closer to sleep, though your eyes stay shut tight—more out of shame than rest.

and nanami? he lays there in his slacks and wrinkled shirt, staring at the ceiling. arms locked around you. unmoving. he feels sick. not because of what you told him. but because of what it must have taken for you to tell him. how many nights had you laid awake beside him, wondering if you were enough? how many times had he mentioned the future, noticing how you flinched, and still didn’t say anything? what kind of man had he been, to make the woman he loves believe that this would ever change anything?

he presses a kiss to your hairline. closes his eyes against the heat building behind them. it will not change how he feels. not tonight. not tomorrow. not ever. he’ll tell you when you're ready to hear it. when your heart can bear it. but for now, he will hold you.

—

he wakes alone, which is strange. your side of the bed is empty. the blankets are rumpled but cooling, the soft dip where you’d been curled against him already rising in the absence of your weight. it’s early. he can tell by the light: pale and silvery and just barely brushing against the walls. he takes a moment. not to get up, not yet. just…to sit with it. your confession hums behind his ribs like a second heartbeat. steady. aching. unforgettable.

you’re in the kitchen. he can hear the soft clink of porcelain, the hush of your steps across the floor. and the domesticity of it punches the air from his lungs—because you’re here, because he still gets to have this, have you, even after everything.

he gets up eventually, shuffling toward the bathroom to splash cold water over his face. and then he looks up into the mirror. and there he is. tousled hair. wrinkled shirt. swollen eyes and a face carved too deep by worry.

but underneath it all? he looks so—loved. so in love it’s fucking humiliating. how could you ever think he’d walk away? he grips the edges of the sink and lowers his head, lets his thoughts come one at a time.

you think you’ve failed him. you think you’re broken. you think what you cannot give him will outweigh what you already do. every day. every moment. every time you smile at him like he hung the stars, or curl into him like he’s safe, or talk to him like he matters. he tries to imagine a future without you in it. he can’t. you’re already home. you’re already his.

he never said any of this out loud, not because it wasn’t true, but because he thought you knew. thought it was obvious. that his love was written in every action, every gentle moment. the matcha, the cat, the painted nails, the way he moved through life only slightly tilted now—always leaning toward you.

and now he realizes it wasn’t enough. not for this. not for the dark thing in your heart you’d been too afraid to name. not for the pain you’d been carrying alone, right beside him. and that—god, that kills him. he takes a breath. deep. calming. grounding. then another.

and he resolves, right then, that you’ll never have to feel that kind of alone again. he doesn’t know what he’ll say yet, not exactly. doesn’t want to startle you. doesn’t want to overpromise or speak too quickly or smother the tender wound between you. but he’ll say something. not to fix what was never broken—but to make sure you never question your worth in his life again.

you’re already bracing for it when he walks into the kitchen. arms crossed, jaw tight. like armor. like if you steel yourself hard enough, the blow won’t land as deep.

he just watches you for a moment. in his white button-down and rumpled slacks. eyes soft, sleep-warm. he looks like everything you want and everything you don’t deserve.

“you didn’t have to stay,” you say before he can speak. “you should’ve gone home.”

“this is home,” he says simply, and it shatters something inside you.

you laugh—mean, small, sharp. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“don’t act like this is still okay.” he doesn’t move. not toward you, not away from you. he knows enough about cornered animals not to reach too quickly. you swallow. look past him. “it’s not okay. I should've told you earlier. I should've said something before you got this involved. before I got this involved. and now—”

your voice cracks. you cover it with more bitterness. more bite. “now you have to figure out how to make a clean exit and I'm trying to make that easier for you.”

his brows furrow, but only slightly. like even confusion comes gently from him. “I'm not leaving you,” he says.

you scoff. “don’t say that.”

“I'm not.”

“kento,” you snap. “this isn’t some temporary thing. this isn’t a bad day or a bad week. this is forever. forever. I'm never going to wake up and be able to give you children. I'm never going to become someone who can give you what you want.” he’s already shaking his head. “don’t look at me like that,” you say, stepping back like the affection in his gaze is poison. “I'm not going to be your pity case. I'm not going to be some compromise you settle for out of obligation.”

“you’re not,” he says, calm. like he’s reciting scripture. “you’re the one thing I've never had to compromise on.”

you press your hands to your face. “why are you being so calm?”

“because I love you,” he says, stepping forward now, slow, deliberate. like trying not to spook you. “and because you’re scared. and because I know that if I so much as raise my voice, you’ll shut me out and convince yourself it was because of you.”

“you’re damn right I'm scared!” you hiss, and he’s in front of you now, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. not yet.

you meet his eyes, angry and aching. "I can’t do the whole exes-who-still-text thing, kento. I can’t. if this ends—if you walk out—I can’t have you in my life in pieces. I'm not built that way. if you’re going to leave, just do it now.”

he exhales slowly. “I'm not going to leave,” he says again. like it’s the simplest thing in the world. and when you go to interrupt, to say something cutting or final or cruel-to-yourself, he hushes you. he cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he’s memorizing it. “you think I want a future that doesn’t have you in it?” he whispers. “you think that not having children is some dealbreaker for me? you’re it. you’re the thing I want. the only thing.”

your eyes burn. your lips tremble. "I would bear every sorrow you carry, for the rest of our lives, if it meant I could wake up next to you,” he says. “and I'd never regret a second of it.” you try to look away. he doesn't let you.

“you’re not a burden. you’re my everything.” and when you start crying again, shoulders shaking, he finally wraps his arms around you. like the safest, warmest place on earth. he swallows, pain tightening his jaw. “it hurts. not because it’s hard for me. but because it means someone made you feel like you were unworthy of love because of it. and I'd like to kill them for that.”

you snort, even though it sounds half like a sob. “but then,” he says, softer now, brushing a hand over your arm, "I might never have found you. and you’re all I want.”

you shake your head, whispering, “you don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

“maybe not,” he admits. “but I know it comes with you. so I don't care.” your lip quivers. he holds your gaze. he can’t pretend that this is fixed, that you all of a sudden feel differently than you did before. but he is sure that he’s not going anywhere. he’ll wait as long as he has to for you to figure that out as well. 

—

he doesn’t leave. you wait for him to. expect it in the small silences, the shifts in routine, the pauses in conversation where your anxiety gnaws at you like an old, familiar ache. but nanami doesn’t budge. he shows up. every single time.

you tell him you’re still afraid. sometimes out loud. sometimes just with the way your eyes linger too long on his, like you’re watching a sunset you’re sure will end too soon. and he answers with tea brought to bed. with a new toothbrush waiting for you in his bathroom drawer. with the way he never lets you wash the dishes alone.

it isn’t dramatic. it isn’t sweeping. it’s something better. steadier. it’s him pressing a kiss to your temple while you fold laundry together in the late afternoon. it’s the sound of his socks padding across your apartment floor as he carries two mismatched mugs—yours floral, his plain ceramic—and offers you the one with slightly more sugar, because you always take your coffee a little too sweet.

it’s brushing crumbs off your sweater after breakfast. it’s wiping toothpaste off your cheek. it’s silent glances across a grocery store aisle. it’s you realizing—slowly, carefully, achingly—that he means it. all of it. he chooses you, wholly and without expectation. not in spite of the parts of you that you’ve tried to hide, but with them. because of them.

he still talks about family sometimes. but now, it sounds different. family, for him, is no longer defined by children or legacy. it’s defined by warmth. by consistency. by mornings like this. by you. 

people ask, sometimes. they ask at parties, at weddings, in checkout lines. older women with kind eyes and too many opinions. Coworkers with harmless smiles. even family, every now and then, with a tilt of the head and a hopeful sort of tone. “so, when are the kids coming?”

nanami handles it the way he handles most things—with grace sharpened at the edges. sometimes it’s a polite smile that never touches his eyes. other times, it’s a look—quiet but cutting—that makes them change the subject fast. and when he’s feeling especially tired of it, he pulls them aside, voice low and firm, and says something you’ll never hear. you’ll only notice how he looks at you afterward. like you’re the whole of his world. like they should know better than to ask for more. because he doesn't need more. his family is already complete.

[cherrycrvsh]

biiiiiig sigh. ,,,, hi. this feels terribly awkward for me, so bare with me.

some of you might’ve known me as @/spcherryygirl or viridiana. i hadn’t quite intended to return so soon—or at least, not publicly—but it seems a few anons (plural? singular? lol i’m not sure) have been going around telling people that i'm back. i’m not angry,,,,, exactly, but i can’t pretend i’m not a little upset. not at anyone in particular. just this. it’s not that i don’t want to be moots again or that i’m hiding from people i genuinely care about. it’s just that i had hoped to keep things quiet for a bit.,, like baby steps( that's a horrible example, but pretend it isn't. ) but now that the 'asks' were sent, there is nothing i can do about it. oh, and to clear things up( bc i think it'll cause some confusion ): the reason i deactivated wasn’t because of my parents or because someone forced me to delete all of my socials. it was because of the anons. specifically, the ones who kept sending awful things to my inbox. i know others go through similar things, and my heart goes out to them. but that doesn’t mean i didn’t feel unsafe. i mean, would you feel okay when someone tells you that you should get ____ because that happened to a character with your name?

i’m sure some of you saw the post on my old blog about the asks. how the asks were so,,, yikes.( will show one ask under the cut. tw: ew-ie nonnies ) i don’t even like to name it. but god, it was disgusting. it started last month, it was kept going. three, five times a day. every single day( like, dude, how many accounts do you have? ). it got to the point where just opening tumblr made me feel sick. so i deactivated without goodbyes. which, i know, wasn’t fair to both my moots and followers. especially because i promised a 1k event. and i’m sorry for that. i had planned to return( publicly )when things felt okay again. i was always going to find my way back to my moots, just not like this. really, i was. especially because all of you are such sweethearts. patient and understanding enough even though i lied about my reason of leaving.

but i cannot undo what has been done. so, hi. bye.

tagging a few of my moots since i didn’t tell them about this post directly. i just want to say thank you for being understanding, for not being upset with me when i left,,, and for supporting my decision to step away. xoxo ♡.

@yeoniverseee , @bloodwrittenletters , @petalbcrnes , @rainforcsts , @jjsblueberry , @simpingmyassoff , @yintous , @xoxorory , @gibsluv , @laufeysgoddess

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director's Obsession - Phase 2

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 3,553

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , -

Phase 2:  The Second Date.

The next morning at ISB HQ was exactly as you feared. The moment you stepped inside, the teasing began.

Jung greeted you first with a sly grin. "So, the Emperor himself, huh? Look at you."

"You're becoming quite the celebrity," Dedra added with a smirk.

Major Partagaz, sipping his caf, gave you a sidelong glance. "Do let us know when Krennic finally promotes you as co-director. Since he seems to take half of your credit anyway."

You exhaled sharply, waving your hand dismissively. "Alright, enough. Back to work."

But the grins never faded.

Then came your day off.

Well, why not? You were exhausted, but you could use the distraction. At least this time, Krennic wouldn’t be barging into any restaurant. Surely.

Your friend, ever persistent, messaged you.

"Okay, new blind date. This one's different. He's a musician. You need this."

You dressed up, nothing too formal, but still enough to feel human again. The café was cozy, yes, there were cafés in the Empire, even under its cold grip. Citizens still needed places to drink caf and pretend life was normal.

You met him, Rylek, a musician who played an odd but beautiful string instrument. He had soft eyes, an easy smile, and was charming in a gentle way. You laughed more than you had in months. He even recited a little improvised poem about your eyes under the starry sky.

For a moment, you almost forgot who you were.

Then the room fell silent.

You sensed the shift instantly.

Everyone's eyes, including Rylek's, were fixed on the entrance. You had a bad feeling about this. Slowly, you turned around, and your breath hitched at the sight that had silenced the bustling room.

You cursed inwardly.

Four Death Troopers stood at the entrance, clad in black, imposing, their presence drowning the room in fear. The customers froze. The band stopped playing. Even the air seemed to grow heavier.

Only the most powerful individuals in the Empire could command the deadly squad–elite, intimidating enforcers of Imperial Intelligence. That meant only one person: Director Orson Krennic.

One of them marched directly toward you.

Rylek stiffened, his face drained of color. His hand trembled slightly as he gripped his glass. You couldn’t blame him.

The Death Trooper extended a gloved hand and handed you a data chip.

You inhaled sharply, keeping your face calm. "Understood," you whispered.

A simple note was displayed on the screen.

"Phase 4. Agent. No delay. Send it tomorrow morning."

"I,I should… we… what’s happening?" Rylek stammered, his voice shaking.

You gave him a soft but tired smile. "I’m so sorry. I have to go. Urgent work."

He tried to mask his fear, but his pale complexion gave him away. "I, I’ll… I’ll call you?"

You nodded, but you both knew the answer.

With a sigh, you grabbed your coat and walked past the Death Troopers, who turned and exited like silent shadows.

Straight home. Straight to work.

*******

By morning, you were back at ISB HQ. Phase 4 was still unfinished. You had not even slept because no ideas had come to you. The exhaustion pulled at your eyes as you barely sat down, but you did not even get the luxury of a moment's rest. The door to your office opened without warning.

There he was. Director Krennic. Of course. Perfectly composed, perfectly smug, as if he had not sent four walking nightmares into what should have been your peaceful evening.

He strolled in with his usual swagger, his pristine uniform immaculate, his cape trailing behind like some royal banner. His eyes flicked toward your datapad and he spoke in that infuriatingly smooth tone.

"Ah, you are early. Efficient, as always."

You glared at him, your jaw tightening. "You couldn’t just send a message? You had to send Death Troopers into a public place?"

He raised a brow, thoroughly amused. "They are very punctual. I find punctuality comforting, don’t you?"

"You humiliated me. Again."

Krennic offered a careless shrug, completely unbothered. "You were on a date again, weren’t you?"

"That’s not the point."

"Oh, but it is." His voice lowered just enough to make every word sound like deliberate provocation. "You want to balance your personal life and your work. Admirable, in theory. But you, my dear, are far too valuable to indulge in such distractions right now. Your work remains unfinished. Phase 4 still needs to be polished. Perfected. And you," he allowed a small, infuriating smirk to deepen, "you are my finest piece of work."

You stood up, arms folding tightly across your chest. "You are impossible."

He stepped closer, closing the distance with that same predatory grace that always made your blood boil. His voice dipped into a velvety whisper.

"And yet, despite my impossibility, you keep delivering exactly what I need." His eyes gleamed sharply. "That is why I tolerate your little hobbies. I even let you pretend you have choices. But let’s not forget something important."

He paused, allowing the silence to weigh heavy before delivering the next blow.

"Without me, you are still working in the lower ground, buried in files no one reads. It was my hand that pulled you out of obscurity. I made you into what you are."

He was right. If it hadn't been for him choosing your work, you wouldn't have gotten promoted to the upper level. You clenched your teeth. Every word dug under your skin, but you could not argue its truth.

"You joined the Empire because you sought to improve, didn't you?" Krennic stated, his gaze piercing. He was right. You were tired of living in the shadows. "As you well know, only the best truly survive here."

He continued, a smug satisfaction in his tone, "I unearthed your potential. And thanks to my discerning eye, the Emperor himself has taken notice of you." His voice then dropped, a silken threat. "But understand this: if you fail, you will drag me down with you. And if I fall, I assure you, I won't be falling alone."

"You understand?" Krennic's voice was a low rumble, his eyes fixed on you.

"I understand, Director," you replied, your voice steady, though a tremor of unease ran through you. You added, with practiced formality, "Long live the Empire."

A slow, knowing smile spread across Krennic's face, a hint of triumph glinting in his eyes. He gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Good. Very good."

******

Phase 4 was torture.

Perfection.

That was what Director Krennic demanded now. No more "good enough", no more "acceptable." Every chart, every slogan, every color palette on the propaganda posters had to be perfect. He visited your office three times a day, sometimes more. And worst of all, he developed the most infuriating habit of finding you during your lunch breaks.

Today was no different.

You barely had time to take a sip of your caf when the familiar sound of polished boots echoed through the cafeteria. Heads turned. Krennic strode toward your table, datapad in hand, utterly unapologetic.

"There you are," he said, voice smooth as ever. "I need you to review the updated casualty projection charts. The earlier numbers were off by point-three percent."

You looked up, blinking. "Director, I’m on my break."

He feigned surprise. "Break? I don’t recall authorizing extended leisure during Phase 4." He placed the datapad on your tray like it belonged there. "Besides, this will only take a moment."

Partagaz, sitting a few tables away, watched the scene unfold with his usual calm demeanor, though his eyes held a hint of sympathy. After Krennic left, he even muttered under his breath as he passed by your table.

"Poor thing. He doesn’t even let you chew in peace."

Dedra and Jung, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly, leaned closer.

"Your work husband is insatiable," Jung whispered with a grin.

Dedra added, "He’s obsessed, honestly. I’ve never seen him hover like this over anyone."

You tried to glare but couldn’t suppress a weary sigh. "I’m not having this conversation."

But of course, they continued, snickering like schoolchildren.

*******

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Phase 4 was finished. You submitted the report, ahead of schedule, no less. And just when you hoped for some breathing room, a new assignment arrived.

A temporary deployment. To Dareth Prime. A peaceful trade hub world known for its data archives and agricultural exports. You would be stationed there for a few days to collect regional data for future propaganda angles.

Krennic wasn’t pleased.

"You’re not going," he declared sharply the moment he saw the order.

"It’s from the Emperor," you said firmly. "I don’t have a choice."

Krennic paced your office like a caged loth-wolf. "Ridiculous. You just completed Phase 4. You should be resting and preparing for the next phase, not being sent off-world for some routine data collection."

Partagaz walked in during Krennic’s tirade, folding his hands behind his back. "Let her go, Director. She finished her assignment early. Orders are orders."

Krennic shot him a withering look but finally exhaled and turned to you. "Fine. But this isn’t a holiday. Don't get too comfortable."

You saluted mockingly. "Of course not, Director."

********

Dareth Prime was a breath of fresh air. Literally.

The air was warm but crisp, the skies clear. The pace here was slower, and for the first time in months, you could think without hearing Krennic’s voice echoing in your mind.

You don't exactly have official duty here,  but the Emperor kinda wants you to spread propaganda quietly there. You don't show that you're an ISB agent; it's easy for you to blend in. Since you also create the propaganda, it's your duty.

You handled your assignment with ease. The local officials were cooperative, the data was clean, and the work was simple. On your last day, before heading back, you decided to explore the markets to buy a souvenir for your friend Mia.

That’s where you saw it: a Death Trooper. From afar, you knew it was watching you. You wanted to avoid it, because you knew enough about who had sent it here.

That white devil. 

When you make a sudden turned. Then it happened suddenly. A tall man was shoved by you, he stumbling hard and nearly falling into a cart of fruits. 

You instinctively reached out and steadied him.

"I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" you asked.

He offered a small, reassuring smile, still a bit flushed from the collision. "No harm done. Really."

You let out a breath of relief. "I didn’t see you there."

"It’s alright," he said, his voice warm. "Honestly, I should’ve been paying more attention too."

For a moment, both of you stood there, the awkwardness easing into a strange kind of pleasant tension.

He introduced himself as Marlon, a merchant who traded in rare fabrics and spices. The two of you struck up an easy conversation as you helped him collect his scattered goods. He was charming in a genuine, non-political way. A refreshing change.

As you chatted, you noticed movement from the corner of your eye. One Death Trooper who stood at a respectful distance starts moving towards you. You don't want to make a fuzz and make everyone around you scared

Marlon noticed you seems restless  “Are you busy? Need somewhere to go? ” 

"Something like that," you said with a small smile. "I’m afraid I have to go."

He hesitated, then quickly added, "Maybe we’ll meet again? Where are you from?"

"Coruscant," you replied, adjusting your coat.

His smile widened. "I do business there sometimes. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

You nodded politely before following your black-armored escort.

*********

The next morning at ISB HQ, you returned glowing. Relaxed. Even humming softly as you walked through the stark white halls, still riding the high from last night.

Jung was the first to notice. He narrowed his eyes like a predator smelling something new.

"You are in a suspiciously good mood," he said, watching you closely. "Did you meet someone over there?"

You gave him a playful smile and nodded. You did not need to say more.

"Ooooh!" Dedra gasped dramatically, eyes wide with surprise. "Finally!"

Even Partagaz peeked up from behind his datapad with a rare amused chuckle. "Coruscant will be more interesting soon, I take it."

You said nothing. Just kept walking toward your office, letting their assumptions hang in the air. You could feel their eyes following you, their curiosity practically radiating.

Then it happened. His voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

"My office. Now."

You froze mid-step. Your heart jolted violently inside your chest. He was right behind you.

How long had he been standing there? Did he hear? The conversation replayed in your mind in an instant, your stomach tightening with every word that might have reached his ears.

You turned slowly, carefully schooling your face into neutrality. Director Krennic stood there, composed as always, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. That dangerous gleam in his eyes sent a fresh wave of unease crawling down your spine.

Without a word, you followed him, pulse quickening as you tried to gauge how much damage had just been done.

Inside, the familiar pristine walls and cold lighting of his office seemed more suffocating than usual. The doors hissed shut behind you.

He stood behind his desk, arms crossed, looking at your latest report. His eyes scanned the data thoroughly before slowly nodding in approval.

"I must say," Krennic started, his voice low and deliberate, "this report is… impressive. You’ve outdone yourself."

You straightened your posture, professional, composed. "Thank you, Director. I take my work seriously."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning back in his chair. "I can see that. Your focus has returned... despite your recent little holiday."

The way he said holiday made your jaw tighten.

He continued, casually twirling a stylus in his hand. "Tell me. Did you meet someone there?"

You blinked. "I met a lot of people. It was a professional assignment."

"A boy or a man?" His voice dipped dangerously low, the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You stiffened. "That’s none of your business." 

His smirk grew wider. "Oh, I see. So there was someone."

Your temper flared. "Director, with all due respect, my personal life has no bearing on my efficiency or loyalty to the Empire."

The room filled with that thick tension you hated, the kind that burned under your skin. His gaze sharpened, studying you like you were some rare crystal slipping out of his grasp. His voice lowered into a silky threat.

"You should be careful who you let distract you, Agent. I require your full attention. Always."

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your face neutral. You couldn’t afford to let him see how much he got under your skin.

"I’m fully committed to the job. Always have been." Your voice was clipped, cool.

His eyes locked on yours, that damned smirk never leaving. "Good. I’d hate to see you slip… after I’ve spent so much time polishing your potential."

You inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing at the arrogance of that remark. "I polished my own potential, Director. You just gave me the assignments."

He laughed softly, not denying it. "Of course."

The moment grew heavier, neither of you willing to break first, but finally you exhaled and turned toward the door. "If that’s all, Director?"

"That’s all… for now."

You left his office, heart racing, frustrated and confused. What was that? That wasn’t a professional conversation. That was something else entirely. You shook your head, trying to shake off the heat rising to your cheeks.

Shake it off. You had work to do.

*******

Burned out and restless from the ongoing Phase 5 preparations, you decided to get some air. You found yourself strolling through the Coruscant shopping district, where you ended up wandering into a small, cozy antique store tucked away between towering buildings.

As you examined a few old holoprojectors, a familiar voice caught your ear.

"Hey, you. Surprise, seeing you here. A wonderful surprise."

You turned sharply to see Marlon, the handsome merchant from Dareth Prime, smiling warmly.

Your eyes widened. "Marlon? What are you doing here?"

He gestured around the store with easy charm. "Selling a few pieces to the owner here. I do some trading with Master Rael." He nodded toward the shopkeeper, Luthen Rael, who gave you both a polite smile but kept out of your conversation.

Marlon’s eyes sparkled. "Since fate has reunited us... Would you consider joining me for a caf? Or perhaps, since you seem quite the expert of the capital, could I hire you as a tour guide?"

You chuckled lightly. "Tour guide? I don’t think I’m qualified for that."

"Then just accompany me," he said with a boyish grin.

You agreed. The evening passed in a blur of pleasant conversation and gentle laughter. Marlon was easygoing, talkative, sharing tales of his travels and trade. And yet, despite the warmth of his company, there were moments where your thoughts drifted, unexpectedly,to Krennic. His cold stares. His clipped words. His sharp focus. His frustrating control.

You shook your head discreetly. Why on earth would you think of him now, when you had a charming, attentive man sitting across from you?

Before you parted, Marlon grew bolder. "Would you have dinner with me? A proper one?"

You smiled. "I’d like that."

You returned home giddy, already pulling out your comlink to message your best friend with all the details.

******

The next morning at ISB HQ, your glow didn’t go unnoticed.

Partagaz raised an eyebrow the moment you entered. "You seem to be floating. Enjoying Phase 5, are we?"

You grinned. "Yes. I had an idea last night. I’m submitting it to Director Krennic today."

"Ooh, inspiration and romance do wonders for productivity," Dedra whispered teasingly.

Jung added, laughing, "Careful. Too much happiness might violate ISB regulations."

You just smiled and walked past them, datapad in hand.

Inside Krennic’s office, he glanced at you as you placed the updated work in front of him.

He skimmed through the material carefully. His fingers paused now and then, tapping lightly against the glass, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

Finally, he looked up.

"This is... sharp," he said, voice lower than usual. "Efficient. Very efficient." His gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, as if searching for something beyond the report.

"Thank you, Director. I take pride in my work," you answered calmly, purely professional.

He nodded slowly. "You’ve finally… settled into your role, it seems."

You felt the weight behind those words but kept your face unreadable. "The Empire’s propaganda division is my priority. I love my job, Director."

His lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "Yes, yes, you do." He sat back, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Excellent. Perhaps I’ve finally succeeded in binding you to my leash."

You clenched your jaw but kept your tone neutral. "I serve the Empire, Director."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering with both amusement and something darker. "Of course."

After a beat, he waved his hand dismissively. "You may go. For now."

As you exited, you caught yourself exhaling sharply. Whatever game Krennic was playing, he was playing it well.

*******

You returned to the ISB cafeteria, where the usual group was already gathered around the long table. As you approached with your tray, the chatter gradually died down. Everyone watched you, wide-eyed, as you sat down and started eating.

And kept eating.

Slowly. Calmly. Enjoying your lunch.

It was a sight so rare that it nearly paralyzed the table.

Finally, Dedra broke the silence. "You’re… eating."

Jung leaned forward like he was studying a classified case file. "And enjoying it."

"I eat every day," you replied evenly, cutting into your food. "Just usually not with an audience."

Partagaz raised a brow. "You look… rather content today. Something happened?"

"Nothing unusual," you answered smoothly.

Dedra smirked. "Early submission for Phase 5? Perhaps the Director finally praised you properly?"

"Maybe," you said with a polite smile, still giving them nothing.

Jung tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps you got inspired during your little break. Or maybe you're seeing someone?"

Your fork paused briefly. Ah, there it was,a trap question.

"I might have plans," you answered, keeping your tone light.

Jung’s eyes lit up. "A date?"

You shrugged you shoulders. 

The table erupted instantly.

"Ooooh!"

"Finally!"

Dedra clapped once. "And here we go…"

Jung grinned devilishly. "Will Director Krennic ruin your date for the third time?"

Dedra shook her head, laughing. "As they say, third time’s the charm."

Everyone around the table started chattering, joking, and even making bets right there.

"I give it fifteen minutes before the Death Troopers show up again," someone whispered.

"Ten credits say Krennic calls her in the middle of dessert."

"I’m betting the Director himself will just show up at the restaurant," another snickered.

You just rolled your eyes, sipping your drink, determined not to let their voices cloud your mood.

"Whatever happens," you said calmly, "I intend to enjoy my evening."

The group erupted in more laughter and teasing, but you simply smiled. This time, you were going to have your date, and no amount of Director interference or ISB gossip was going to ruin it.

At least, you hoped.

Sorry if I tagged you without permission. If you want to be removed, please let me know.

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[thezombieprostitute]

See Right Through You

Summary: A business meeting leads to something new.

A/N: Written for @gremlin-girly's 20 Questions Challenge.

Character: Baron Helmut Zemo; Question: "Do you ever shut the fuck up?"; Trope: Fake Dating

Warnings: Sexism, Unwanted flirting. Please let me know if I missed any!

A/N2: Reader is female. No physical descriptors used.

"C'mon, Princess, let's go!" Blaine barks at you, smacking his hands together in a 'chop chop' motion. "We've got an important client and I'm not gonna let you ruin things."

You roll your eyes. He's the whole reason you're even going to this meeting. He's the CEO's nephew and your boss assigned you to be his babysitter. Your first week with him almost resulted in disaster because he thought your "job" was to sleep with him. Even after you told him it wasn't he tried to press the issue until you told him you had a boyfriend, even though you don't. He hasn't stopped "flirting" with you but at least he doesn't push the issue like he used to. Instead you've had to get yourself valentine's day stuff and occasional flowers to convince Blaine that your boyfriend is real.

On the elevator up to the meeting room you pretend your going over your notes, hiding the fact that you're reminding Blaine of everything he keeps forgetting.

"Okay, the client is Helmut Zemo, he's a Baron and likes to be addressed as such."

Blaine snorts, "friggin' commies."

You close your eyes and breathe. "He's looking to work with our company on a construction project in Sokovia, it's the kind of joint venture our company is known for."

"At least he recognizes that we're the best," Blaine replies, unwarranted pride dripping from every word.

The elevator dings and Blaine exits the elevator and turns down the wrong way. You give a gentle, "Sir?" to get his attention before pointing at the sign indicating which direction the meeting room is in.

"They must have switched things up since the last time we were here," he grumbles.

"That makes sense," you lie. Whatever it takes to keep the peace.

When you finally reach the meeting room, you're quick to address the man waiting for you.

"Baron Zemo, it's a pleasure." You hold out your hand and introduce yourself but Blaine grabs the Baron's hand first.

"It's very good to meet you," Blaine says, his smile too big. "Glad you recognize our company's the best at this. Let's see what we can do for each other." For his part, Baron Zemo took the interruption gracefully and returned the handshake without qualm before finally shaking your hand.

Blaine is quick to overtake the conversation but you notice Baron Zemo only asks you questions. Blaine seems to think it's a question for both of you, but the Baron's eyes always go to yours for each one. You also find yourself drawn to him. His polite, professional demeanor, his intelligence, are a stark contrast to the man-baby you're forced to work with. Every so often Baron Zemo tries to steer the conversation to something for the two of you to actually talk, but Blaine, boor that he is, quickly takes back control. Each time you see a flash of irritation in the Baron's eyes and you give him a knowing look.

After the fourth or fifth time, Baron Zemo turns to Blaine. "Do you ever shut the fuck up?" For the first time all day, Blaine shuts up. The Baron turns back to you. "It's clear who has the brains here."

Blaine scoffs. "Look buddy, if you're trying to talk her up to get in her pants, you should know she has a boyfriend."

Baron Zemo raises an eyebrow at you and you struggle to meet his gaze. "I'm sure she does," he answers calmly. "She's quite beautiful, charming and intelligent."

"Thank you, Baron," you nod, cheeks warming. You're almost regretting the lie you told Blaine.

"I think it is time to end this meeting," he informs you and Blaine. "There is much to think over, but I am optimistic."

"Glad to hear it!" Blaine slams the table. "We'll just get outta your hair so you can think and call me up if you've got more questions."

The Baron smiles politely at you. "Would you be willing to show me the way to the front desk?"

"Of course, Baron," you nod.

"She's a good girl, ain't she?" Blaine winks at Baron Zemo who gives a simple nod in return.

The Baron waits until you are alone in the elevator before speaking again. "I can see right through you, my lady. There is no boyfriend, is there?" he says flatly. "It was a lie you made up to keep that...infant from harassing you?"

"That's correct," you confess.

"You are smarter, more capable than anyone in this company gives you credit for."

"I'm not so---"

"I see it in the way you carry yourself," he calmly interrupts you. "Your answers to my questions. The way you directed that imbecile without him ever knowing or suspecting. I respect these skills."

"Are you offering me a job, Baron?" you inquire.

"You would be good for my company," he nods. "But I think I'd prefer to have your company for a meal. Or several. If you are interested."

"Does my interest affect the contract with the company?"

"Not at all. I am a professional. And an adult. I know how to handle rejection."

"Then I would be happy to join you for a meal, or several, Baron Zemo."

He smiles and kisses the back of your hand. "Please, call me Helmut."

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @iwudbutnah; @kmc1989; @lokislady82; @peaches1958; @ronearoundblindly

[yon-shi]

DELTARUNE theory: KRIS analysis

(also a bit about their relationship with PLAYER and why they aren't do too well).

Don't tell me that Kris doesn't like the Player - it's a fact. It's so obvious that you should be absolutely blind if you go through all chapters and haven't noticed it yet. No offense.

But it can't be all, isn't it?

After new chapters, some comparisons, and analysis, we can say that they at least don't hate us... if we are not some kind of WEIRD psycho, of course.

*Spoilers ahead*

Let's start with basics. What do we know about Kris?

We know their family and neighbors;

We know some random situations from their past (mostly childhood)

We know some of their food preferences...

... And that's actually all facts that we can gather. The rest of the things are just too speculative and hardly touch the surface. We know that Kris used to scare Noelle, pretending to be hurt with ketchup on his hand. But we can't say Kris did it because they is some kind of psycho that enjoy people being afraid they actually aren't or because their young self couldn't tell when it's too much for a simple prank.

And what we don't know?

Their character

Their motivation

How the hell they can take soul away... is this soul, even their?

Why their half of the room so empty

What their opinion about other people around

and it goes.

We have only one way to know them better - observing their reaction. Is this enough? In some cases actually yes!

Player give answers almost always on their behalf, but we can say if they think the same by the form of options on choice or their behavior.

My favorite example of this:

Kris can not give us only options they like, but at least they can show their disapproval.

And what I want to say... they're NOT fully bothered by our actions. Or at least some of them. And visa versa, we can suppose that they do their best and put it all if they like the situation (or at least don't mind what's going on):

Sometimes, the way they form options can be very emotional and eye-catching (unlike usual style).

Kris do their best after flirt command and do not sabotage it by doing it bad, even more - they do it SO GOOD, Susie consider take some flirt lessons later (they cringe about it later, but still...)

They do some things without Player order: cool posing, high-fiveing, etc.

They coughed / bit their own hand as hard as they could to just not say: "I'll never play piano again."

Kris can choose some answers themselves on the first round of Tenna's show! The player just needs to wait a little bit.

When Kris didn't want to peek at Asriel room in Queen Mansion, they closed their eyes after entering. Kris can try to abort our order, and it's even successful from time to time. (At the same time, they didn't care about picking into other people's room)

We can even make a guess that Kris is the one who forms the way options will be!

The narrator used to describe KRIS's feelings and actions (not Player's, even tho it normally goes with "you"), and we can't be 100% sure it's accurate, but their rare actions are correlated with what narrator says.

Their reactions on certain things also can tell a lot:

So what we can say about Kris in summary: they're quiet and not talkative, but know how to flatter others, quite silly; they like jokes and pranks. They are also very caring about people that close to them.

And very against the Player, the intruder from outside, who took away control from them. What's worse, it's that fact that Kris actually CAN make Player leave their body... but for whatever reason, they must continue being like this.

Kris is annoyed, mad at Players, and actually wants them to leave. Or we can say something more?

In chapter 1, Kris pulled us, player, away to just... eat a pie. As much as THEY want. To fully feel the taste. No harm was done to us; moreover, it's seems like Kris was in pain during the process of taking soul from body.

In chapter 2, they did it to ruin tires - so Susie would be invited to sleepover by Toriel.

In chapter 4, Kris just wanted to be alone and rest (without our interventions) after quite stressful day.

In chapter 3, they did it, so we wouldn't be able to find a shelter code or lead Susie.

Cool ways to annoy player, yeah?

...Oh wait, we forgot something very important.

Weird route.

This way, Kris isn't just annoyed by Player. They also feel toward them disgust and fear:

In the normal route, we can scare them during playing "true" mini-game (if we suddenly attack them or Susie with pixel Kris); they also looked at us after we killed pixel Susie and Ralsei.

But still, they aren't afraid of us; Kris beat Player (soul, to be more concrete) with hockey stick, when we were at Dess closet and doesn't seems like they afraid of consequences (maybe they believe we won't hurt them? Or rather *only them).

But in the Weird route, Kris is terrified. If we gave them a little more time, they'll just grab Noelle's hand and ran away, so we wouldn't bring any more harm to her; if not - all they would be able to do is beating sh*t out of Player, even if it means to hurt themselves.

*If Player try to attack Kris with pixel Kris, they will fall back in shock. But their reaction on attempt to attack Susie way more clear: they immediately pull her back, will start breathing heavily (up to hyperventilating), and clench their teeth. Kris are also more emotional when it comes to Noelle protection; they're more afraid about others than themselves.

They don't care about their own body and life or just don't have another choice, so they let it go. Because of some kind of promise (it doesn't seem like they are very willing to do it), Kris works with Knight and try not to let us mess everything up. Maybe they're not even part of Propecy! (Or, at least, not without Player).

But hey, let's move a bit from that sad note.

Even if we know, Kris against the Player, we at least have chances for changes in this dynamic!

Kris promised something to Knight and last one even should remind them about it - it can mean they aren't very willing to do it;

In fight in chapter 3, Kris deals more damage if Susie and Asriel fell (around 80+ instead of 19) - even though they're siding Knight, their friends are still on top of priorities - and it can make them change their actions;

In the end of chapter 3, Kris come to shelter and tell us about entry fields and symbols of codes (even thought they have no reason to do it if they a fully on Knight side).

Kris also stopped us from learning first part of the code by ripping soul only AFTER we have got 3 numbers already. And if only first part hasn't more than 4 digits, Player can easily pick a combination. Considering that fact, that they can sabotage Player's order (and that Kris can raise their hand before reading and just wait until they'll come to 3rd number), they were quite lazy about it this time.

It all gives a hope that in the end Kris and Player will be able to fight in one side. Together.

[krispdreemurr]

One thing ive seen ppl theorizing about the prophecy is that maybe its kris specifically whos supposed to die, and I dont really buy that if only bc i feel like susie would NOT have reacted that way if ralsei was keeping the secret that one of her friends was supposed to die (assuming the prophecy DOES end with one of the trio dying)

It being something like ralsei being the one whos supposed to die seems like the most obvious option, because his entire thing is "serving his purpose", dont worry about ralsei hes fine and gonna get thrown away eventually so its not really worth worrying about him over, and kris and susie should really make new friends once hes gone etc etc. it really feels like he assumes hes gonna be a temporary presence in their lives, and thinking that his fate is to die in the name of saving everyone else would track for that. plus his insistence on being happy and pretending like he isnt scared as hell because that would be "selfish". it would make susies reaction make sense, getting angry at the prophecy and reassuring ralsei that she and kris wouldnt let it happen

I could MAYBE see the reaction working if susies the one whos supposed to die in the prophecy, if only bc susie is maybe less likely to get pissed at herself being "doomed" than her friends, but i still feel like it wouldnt fit as well with ralseis everything. why would he care so much about what happens to susie and kris after hes gone and making sure she "makes new friends" if hes convinced shes gonna die at the end of all this?

Meanwhile, if its kris who is prophesized to die? you cant convince me susie wouldnt be pissed as hell at ralsei for keeping the fact that their friend is supposed to die from her and not even giving her a chance to TRY to change fate. why the hell would she be smiling and comforting ralsei over that if he knew that and kept it from her?

(of course the prophecy may have nothing to do with any of the trio dying, at least not directly. Maybe it says that the dark world will collapse, leaving only the light. Maybe it says that the connection between dark and light will be forever shattered and theyll never see eachother again. Or maybe all three of them are supposed to die, which. idk works at least a lil based on the reactions. maybe its some completely outta left field shit. idk. i just really dont buy that it ends with anything about kris specifically dying, or susie probs would have been yelling at ralsei instead of reassuring him.)

hm, I do think it could be Kris still - they both do have very strong reactions to it in ways that suggest it's not themselves, and like. i think Susie is past asking why Ralsei didn't tell her things bc he's already made it clear exactly how much it was tearing him up. like, she's clearly upset, she fucking punches thru glass, but she already dealt w how angry she was at ralsei and wouldn't get angry as easily again. i take her smiling and reassuring as very much her trying to keep herself from panic, too, so it's not like she's doing Well there

but yeah could be pretty much anything at this point. i do hope it's not the "the dark worlds have to end forever and you all have to grow up" type stuff tho bc it's been done (unless the point is to complicate/subvert, ofc)

[emmiesoverthemoon]

i never really did

pairing: junhan x reader wc: 1.9k. summary: you and junhan are longtime rivals, always clashing in the studio— until one late-night period to catch up on a partner task stretches too long and the tension finally snaps. tags: eventual smut. soft dom junhan. enemies to lovers. college au.

here damn @burlesquerade

the room smells like dust and varnish—strings, wood, that faint metallic hum of instruments not yet played. it’s too early for this. the campus’ studio is cold, sterile, with flickering fluorescent lights that buzz just slightly louder than junhan’s presence in the corner.

he’s already there when you walk in. headphones on. work book open. he does not look up when you enter.

you drop your bag with just enough force to make a point. “you could at least pretend you hate this as much as i do.”

his pencil halts mid-stroke.

“i do,” he replies quietly, without inflection. “i just don’t complain about everything, unlike you.”

you scowl. “that’s not noble. that’s boring.”

finally, he glances over. no smirk. no frown. just that unreadable calm that somehow manages to feel smug anyway.

your professor paired the two of you together for this semester’s songwriting project. you are chaos and impulse. he is vigilence and silence. oil and water, pretty much. and yet— every time he plays something, you find yourself listening too long. every time you add a line, he hums it under his breath like it got stuck in his head.

neither of you say it, but the tension between your styles makes something real.

you perch across from him, arms crossed. “so what, we’re just doing verse one today?”

he shrugs. “not sure, we can do as much as possible if you have a melody that actually works this time.”

you narrow your eyes, but pull out your notebook. “at least i bring ideas.”

he does not argue. he just plugs in his guitar to the nearby amp, testing the strings gently, the quiet riff curling between you like smoke. his fingers are elegant, precise, and you catch yourself staring.

you look away first.

and you feel it again—that strange heat in your chest, not quite anger. not quite admiration.

something dangerous. something inevitable.

you try not to look at his hands again.

it feels stupid, really, the way your chest tightens every time his fingers slide up the fretboard. there is nothing special about it. just movement. just sound. but the notes linger in the room longer than they should, and his gaze flicks toward you like he knows.

you clear your throat and drop your eyes back to the page. “we need to include a bridge, the brief says,” you say, more to the paper you’re reading than to him.

he replies with nothing at first. the silence stretches, frays, tugs at the edge of your nerves. then, quietly, he strums something softer. it is slower than the verse he was playing previously. hesitant, almost shy. and pretty in a way that makes your stomach flip.

you glance up. “is that new?”

he nods. his eyes train on his pick, he doesn’t look at you. “made it last night.”

you want to ask if he wrote it thinking of this song. of this project.

of you.

but that would mean admitting you care more than you pretend to.

and you would rather drop out entirely than do that.

instead, you hum along, trying to catch the rhythm. your voice wavers a little, but he doesn’t flinch. just adjusts the chord progression to match you.

for a moment, his presence feels easy.

strange, absolutely.

but easy.

and then he speaks.

“you always rush the high notes.”

you blink. “and you always write in a key that’s too low.”

“i like the way it sounds,” he murmurs.

“yeah?” you challenge, tilting your head. “or you just like making things harder for me.”

he looks at you then, properly. his gaze is steady, unreadable, but not cold. his voice is softer than you expect when he replies.

“you always handle it. i know you can.”

your breath catches. not because of what he says, but how he says it. low. certain. a quiet admission that slips under your skin before you can build your next defense.

and then, like nothing happened, he goes back to playing. like he did not just disarm you with such simple words.

you watch his profile in the studio light. something shifts in you.

and god, he is so beautiful when he thinks you’re not looking.

not everything that starts as rivalry necessarily has to stay that way…. right?

the hours slip by in fragments. verse, pause. pre-chorus, silence. bridge, stillness. your voices loop the same melody until it becomes muscle memory, until you forget whose line came first. the sky outside bruises purple, and still, neither of you have a desire to leave.

your phone buzzes. a text, to which you ignored. you glance at the time. too late to be just practice.

you both are sitting closer together on the studio’s couch now. not closer much by much, per-se, but just by a subtle shift. his knees angled toward yours, his arm brushing against the notebook you abandoned somewhere between lyric drafts. he does not touch you. not quite. but every time his fingers strum another chord, you feel the vibration in your bones.

you tilt your head, watch him. his hair falls into his eyes and he does not push it back. his mouth is set in concentration, lips parted slightly as he hums the bridge you wrote earlier. it sounds better in his voice.

“try it with the harmony,” you murmur.

he glances at you, then plays the first few notes again. this time, your voice joins his, softer than usual. for once, you are not trying to one-up him.

you are just… letting whatever happens happen.

and whatever does happen.

your eyes meet when the last note fades. you are both quiet, like if anyone speaks, the spell will snap.

his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second. you feel it like a lightning strike.

“what?” you whisper, breath catching.

he shakes his head. not a no. not quite. more like a silent war behind his eyes. his fingers flex around the neck of the guitar. “nothing.”

but it is something.

it’s the way the air tilts between you. the way your knees brush again, this time on purpose. the way he exhales, slow and shallow, and his eyes do not leave yours.

“you’re doing it again,” you murmur.

his voice is low. hoarse. “doing what?”

"looking at me like that."

he does not deny it. does not move away.

“like what?”

“you don’t look like someone who hates me,” you add, quieter now.

“maybe i never did,” he confesses. he said it so quiet, so gentle.

and that—that—is what breaks it.

you lean in before you mean to. he meets you halfway. his hand cups the back of your neck, tentative at first, like he is still unsure. but your lips find his like they have always known the way. soft, then harder. slow, then hungrier.

he quickly moves the guitar off his lap and lays it to the floor without breaking away. once it’s situated, he moves you to straddle him.

you kiss him like you’re falling apart.

he kisses back like he’s there to collect the pieces.

and for once, there’s no noise between you. just breath. just skin. just this.

his kiss deepens until it swallows you— slow and hot, all breath and tension and long-held want finally breaking loose. the guitar lies forgotten on the floor, notebooks scattered, and the only thing you can feel is him— his hands on your hips, his mouth trailing warmth down your throat.

you’re still straddling his lap, his back pressed against the creaking leather of the studio couch. it smells like dust and old songs. it smells like him.

“do you want to keep going?” he asks, low against your neck.

you nod your head instantly. “please don’t stop.”

his breath shudders. “okay. okay, come here.”

his hands slip under your shirt again, slow and sure this time, sliding it up and over your head. he takes a second to look at you— eyes heavy, reverent, like he is seeing you for the first time and memorising every detail.

“you’re so—” he swallows. “wow, you’re unreal.”

you kiss him before he can get shy with it. his fingers curl around your waist, thumbs brushing up your spine. when you shift against him, your hips press to his— friction blooming hard and dizzying.

he groans into your mouth, hands guiding you into a slow grind. “that’s it,” he murmurs. “keep moving like that.”

you roll against him again and he sucks in a breath— sharp, shaky. his self-control is unreal, and still he gives it all to you. still, he’s holding you like you’re something sacred.

“can i taste you?” he asks, barely a whisper. “here?”

you nod. breathless. dazed. and he lays you back across the couch.

he lowers himself slowly, kissing down your stomach, your thighs, until you are squirming under his mouth. the room is dead silent except for the subtle creak of vinyl and the soft, wet sound of his tongue lapping into you—slow, unhurried, like he is playing your body by ear.

you moan— quiet at first, then louder when his fingers slip in, curling in time with his tongue.

“jun—god—”

“i’ve got you,” he breathes against you. “let go for me.”

you do— shaking, thighs clenching around his shoulders, breath coming in gasps as your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and messy.

he groans softly, still licking you through it, still holding your hips down with gentle strength.

when he finally comes up, mouth glistening, eyes dark, you are barely holding yourself upright.

“still with me?” he asks, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“yes,” you pant. “need you inside me.”

his jaw tightens. he kisses you again— messy, deep— and you fumble for his jeans. he helps, tugging them down just enough, and pulls a condom from his wallet—hands trembling.

“you sure?” he asks one more time.

“yes. fuck. please.”

he lines himself up, slow and careful, easing in with a low groan that sounds like it’s been waiting in his chest for weeks.

you cry out— full, stretched, perfect. he stills, breath caught.

“you feel—” he chokes on the words. “so so good.”

he starts to move, slow and deep, one hand braced behind your head, the other wrapped around your thigh. the couch shifts beneath you with every thrust, the quiet rhythm echoing in the otherwise still room.

he leans close, panting against your neck. “wanted this for so long,” he murmurs. “wanted you.”

you cling to him, nails digging into his back. “jun, i’m—”

“yeah?” he whispers, you feel his lips curl to a smirk against your skim. “come for me again. let me feel it.”

you do— your whole body tightening, pulling him in deeper as you fall apart for him a second time.

his orgasm follows after you fast, hips stuttering, moaning your name into your mouth as he spills into the condom, fingers gripping you like he never wants to let go.

the silence afterward is soft. buzzing. sacred.

you lie tangled on the couch, half-naked and still catching your breath.

he brushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple.

“we’re still in the studio,” you mumble, dazed.

he huffs a quiet laugh, burying his face in your neck. “no one’s coming in. they know i book it late.”

“you planned this?”

“i hoped this would happen eventually,” he murmurs. “but no. not like this.”

you glance up. “regret it?”

his eyes meet yours, gentle and warm. “not for a second.”

outside, the sky is black and the building is quiet.

inside, you’re finally still.

and he is still holding you. like he means to keep doing it. always.

this is my first xdh work so if its bad don’t tell me im newgen to this fandom🫩😀

shout out to jay for helping me ily

[innermind-au]

Inner Mind: The Beginning

The Celestial family finally settled on a movie that they had wanted to watch.

Everyone in the family was there.

Everyone but Cosmos, since he was off being an astral in their original home dimension. It had been at least five years since they last saw him…

He had been gone for a while, but he had said goodbye before he had left. Cosmos said that the Astrals wanted him to complete a mission, and he wasn't sure how long it would take. The family of course missed Cosmos, they missed his presence, his ass, his humor. It felt as if their happy little family wasn’t whole.

Especially for the holidays, and other events. Such as Terra’s and Monty’s wedding, and birthdays… Cosmos had already missed five of his birthdays, but each year the family got him a gift, hoping that he would return.

He never did.

But they couldn’t focus on the things they didn’t have, sulking around wouldn't do any good. So they tried to pretend and be a whole family, even though each one missed Cosmos in their own way. They knew that Cosmos would one day come back, even if they didn’t know when they would come back. The family knew that Cosmos would make their way back.

Sun had the controller in hand, they had settled on a family movie. Since the children were also watching, which no movies that were rated R. But the kids still wanted to watch something mature. After at least have an hour of debating, and 3 popcorn refills. The family had decided on SpiderMan into the Spiderverse.

“Okay, okay settle down, we have decided to watch Spiderman into the Spider-Verse for this family movie night” Sun announced before facing towards the TV, and looking up the movie in the search bar.

“Yep!” Everyone in the family all agreed in unison.“Okay, I’ll turn it on,” Sun said, as he had finally found the movie, he was about to click on it before he heard his daughter speak up.

“Woah, Dad, what’s that?!” Dazzle exclaimed, as she ran towards the window.Sun halted as he and everyone else peered through the window, and there in the night sky, a fiery blaze fell from the sky, that streamlined through the stars.

The family looked in awe.

Looks like a shooting star…” Sun said, as he watched it fly across the sky.

“Shooting star?! Make a wish!” Jack exclaimed, he shook his hands in excitement, before quickly closing his eyes, and clasping his hands together. “OKAY!” Dazzle gasped, as she did the same and shut her eyes tightly. “What should I wish for…?” Molten thought out loud as he just stared at the falling star.

But the Moon noticed something, that star… it wasn’t just flying across the sky… it was falling, falling towards the earth. It was starting to make a crash course from across the lake and near the woods by their house. “Wait… That looks like… it’s falling…” Moon said out loud, which got the family panicked. “Really close-” Moon couldn’t say anything before a loud noise exploded from where the meteor had fallen.

“GAH!” The family screamed, Terra grabbed onto Monty, who held her close. Jack ran to Solar, and Dazzle ran to Sun. “PAPA!” Jack screamed out in fear, as he latched onto his father. “It’s okay Jack…” Solar said, trying to calm him and his son down.

“Dad, will we be okay!?” Dazzle exclaimed, looking up at her dad. He could see tears welling in her eyes, she was afraid. And to be honest, so was Sun. He was still shaking from the loud noise. “Yes, we’ll be okay.” He said wanting to comfort his daughter, but frankly, he wasn’t sure if they would be. He was glad that the meteor hadn’t struck their house, but he worried that maybe some sort of space radiation would hurt them.

While Moon looked outside in curiosity, he could see the crash site from where they stood. Smoke rose from the forest, and it didn’t appear too far away. He could reach there on foot if he really wanted to. “We can go out and see-” Soon tried to say but was immediately cut off by Sun.

“Are you crazy!?” Sun exclaimed, before Terra very quickly jumped in. “THat’s how people die in horror movies!” She said she hadn’t watched too many horror movies, because they frightened her. But the ones she had seen were with Monty, and from what she gathered. Doing stupid things like going towards a crash site, when you should be running away, could very well kill you.

“Good thing, we aren’t in one.” Moon said, as he watched the smoke start to float above the clouds. Did the government know about this yet? Would there be CIA agents coming to take over their property pretty soon? Or was this out of nowhere?

“Moon, what if it’s radioactive?!” Sun exclaimed, he wasn’t wanting his metal layers to melt off or anything! They weren’t even sure if this space rock, or whatever fell from space was even safe! “We’re robots, Sun, we won’t die. I think.” Moon shrugged it off, as if he was talking about the weather, and not something that could very well kill them!

Moon went to put on his shoes, and then he started to head for the back door. “YOU THINK!?” Sun exclaimed in outrage. Frustrated by Moon’s lack of survival skills, and rational reasoning. He knew his brother was smart, maybe the smartest person in the entire dimension, but his brother could be so stupid something.

“Look, I just feel like we should go check it out…” Moon says, as he placed a hand on the door, he looked at the smoke that was coming from the crash site. It was if some imaginary string was pulling him to follow it. To see what had landed so close, yet so far.

“Feel?! You're doing this based on feeling!?” Sun screamed out, why was his brother this unpredictable?! Why couldn’t they have stayed at home? “Sun, can we just go check? If it’s just a space rock, I can collect it in the morning, and we'll go back to our family night.” Moon promised, turning to his brother, with a determined look on his face. Sun stood his ground, but so did the Moon.

After a period of silence, Sun finally gave in. They could go investigate, but it was most likely some space rock. This way Moon wouldn’t be nagging him, and they could go back to watching their movie. “Fine…” Sun sighed, Dazzle turned to him. She looked at him with her eyes, and she looked like she was begging him to stay. But she didn’ t say it out loud, not wanting to scare some, because she was 12 years old! And they don’t get scared!

“Dad?” She asked, still worried about what she had heard, could the shooting star be dangerous for her dad? She didn’t want her dad to get hurt! “Don’t worry Dazzle, me and Uncle Moon will be right back!” Sun comforted his daughter, planting a kiss on her forehead, before following Moon towards the back door.

“You guys better not and get yourselves killed!” Solar yelled at them as they were both headed out the door. “We won’t!” Moon shouted back, as he headed off into the cool night. “You better!” Monty added on.

The celestial twins made their way to the crash site, which was about two miles away. Which wasn’t that far, especially since they weren’t humans, and could easily walk that time. They knew they were getting close when they saw trees which were knocked down, and some branches were burnt off.

Though Sun was still bitter about this whole situation. He just wanted to have a normal night with his family, just like every other weekend had been! “Ugh, I just wanted to have a normal time, with our family, and a shooting star just comes out of nowhere-"

Moon froze in front of the crash site, his eyes peered below into the carter that it had left. It stretched across a football field, to the rating place of where the shooting star had finally come to a complete halt. Those cool colors were unmistakable…

But Moon tried to find anything, anything that was proof that it wasn’t who he thought it was, but there was no mistaking who lay in the crater below.

It was his little brother.

Moon couldn’t see the facial features, the hood of his cape was hiding his face, but he could tell from the other clothes he had worn, his pants, and those colors, along with a dim glow coming from the body. And he could see golden liquid that had spallated on the clothing, making Moon feel at unease.

 “Sun…” Moon said, his voice shook, and sounded as fragile as glass. One wrong step and it would shatter. “What!?” Sun exclaimed angrily, but his facial features softened by the sheer horror and fear on Moon’s face. He turned down to look into the crater and part of him wished that he hadn’t.

“I don’t think it was any ordinary star…” Moon said, as he slid down into the crater, as he slowly approached the body of the former animator. “Cosmos…” Moon said in a shush voice. As if trying to keep everything a secret. As if saying something too loudly would trigger enemies to arise from the shadows.

Sun followed behind, and his eyes widened as he got closer to his little brother. His breath started to become panicked. What happened?! “COSMOS!” Sun shouted as he started to run towards the young astral, but something grabbed his arm, and held him from reaching Cosmos. He extended his hand, tears burning at the corner of his eyes.

“WAIT!” The Moon shouted, Cosmos would be scorching hot from the fall. He had fallen from an unknown height, but he fell down fast enough that it appeared like a shooting star. Cosmos skin might melt metal if Sun would dare touch him. “He’s still piping hot from the fall!” the moon animatronic exclaimed.

But Sun couldn’t care any less about that. He could see a glowing golden liquid dripped from all parts of Cosmos’s body. It was blood, or whatever astral equivalent it was, but he had clearly lost a lot of it. Could Astral die of blood loss? “He’s bleeding, Moon!” Sun exclaimed, as he pointed to his smaller brother, who had never looked smaller than now. Sun realized that Cosmos had been missing an arm, it was leaking with astral blood, and a nub was left behind. “Look at him! He’s missing a limb!”

“Ugh, fine!” Moon shouted, because he also wanted to save Cosmos, but wasn’t sure which would be the best method. Though he knew that doing nothing, and letting him bleed out, wouldn’t fix anything. “I’m calling Solar to get a room ready.” Moon said, as he let go of Sun’s arm, and he dialed Solar’s number

The phone rang, and it felt like an entirety of waiting before Solar picked up. “Hey, what’d ya find?” Solar sounded relaxed, far too relaxed, even if he was unaware of the current situation. “We found Cosmos, but he’s hurt, like real bad.” Moon said, trying to keep himself calm, but it was hard not to with his little brother, for unknown reason, being brutally mutilated and laying in a crater.

“What?!” Solar exclaimed, Moon could hear him stand up as he started to walk away from the group. “How’d he even get here!?” Solar yelled in a hushed tone, most likely not wanting the children to hear. But what confused him is how did Cosmos get to this dimension? Wasn’t he in their home dimension!? So how’d he even get here?!

“I don’t know, and frankly, we have to worry more about his wounds right now.” Moon said, as he glanced back to see Sun trying his best to hold Cosmos, but clearly unsure what would be the best way to hold him. “Can you prepare the room downstairs?” Moon asked, “Yeah.” Solar said, as he could hear Solar walking towards the entrance of the basement.

“Thanks.” Moon said, before he very quickly added. “Can you make the kids go upstairs, it’s pretty bad from what we can tell…” Moon gave a worried glance to where Sun kneeled. He couldn’t see Csomso clearly from his angle. and Solar ended the phone call, and with that Moon turned his attention back to his twin, who was currently trying to pick Cosmos up. “Yeah, sure thing.” Solar said, before hanging up the phone.

With that Moon turned his full attention back to his twin.

“Cosmos, what happened to you-” Sun whispered to his little brother, he tried to take the hood off, for it was blocking the complete view of his face. But once he lifted it up, he dropped the hood down. Sun froze at what he had seen, but he lifted the hood up again hoping what he had just seen was a trick of the lights.

But it wasn’t.

He really wished it was

There was a gashing hole in the side of Cosmos’s face, and that’s where most of the astral blood had been spilling from. And Sun could see that whatever had caused the wound, it went directly through Lunar’s head, it was a gushing hole. And then Cosmos’s eye… Oh his eyes…

It looked so cold, and they looked so empty…

It was open but unseeing…

What happened to you, Cosmos?

“Moon…his head…” Sun almost burst out into sobs. What had happened to Cosmos for him to receive such a big? What could have happened for him to be this badly injured?! Was Cosmos even alive?! Moon didn’t know, and his head was buzzing like a hive of bees. All his questions needed to be answered, but nobody knew the answer beside Cosmos, and he was bleeding out.

“We have to get them home right now, Sun.” Moon said with urgency, the sight of the wound almost made him throw up. The wound clearly looked fresh, and how Lunar looked so empty. Cosmos’s eyes were always filled with life, and excitement. But now they looked so devoid of life.

He looked dead.

“Right…” Sun says as he holds Cosmos, as he would a child. Letting the small astral’s head rest on his shoulder, he held the lower portion of the body with his hands. The astral blood soaked into his clothes, which left his clothes feeling wet, and made Sun shiver. Though Sun could care less about that. Clothes could be washed, but Cosmos was irreplaceable. “You’ll be alright, Cosmos, you’ll be alright.” Sun whispered to Cosmos, as if he was still conscious. As if he was listening, and for Cosmos’s sake, Sun hoped that he was unconscious, so he wouldn't be able to feel the pain.

Moon quickly opened a portal, since they knew the coordinates of the house, but once they ran through it. Moon realized he had gotten the coordinates wrong. They were outside of the house and not inside where they needed to be.

But Sun and Moon quickly ran towards the warm glowing house, as Moon slammed the door open, and Sun came running through it.

“Solar!” Moon exclaimed as he swiftly turned to the orange bot, who was waiting at the entrance of the downstairs. While Sun followed Moon, swiftly, and carefully maneuvering through all the furniture. “It’s ready downstairs!” Solar said, as he let Moon rush down stairs. “THANK YOU!” Sun nodded his head in gratitude.

Solar got a glimpse of Cosmos’s body, and his eyes widened at how grotesque the injuries were. “Holy sh-” Solar almost said, the sight alone made his stomach churn, and want to reject all food he had eaten. “Yes, we know it’s bad, but we need to look at him and see if we can save him.” Sun said, as he raced down the stairs.

“Is he even alive?” Solar questioned, as he also went down the steps. Sun wanted to freeze at that, but he couldn't freeze, every second counted, so he continued. “We don’t know.” Sun said truthly, but practically prayed that whatever god was out there, that Cosmos would be okay.

In the basement, the bar table had been converted to a surgical table of sorts, a sheet was placed over it. And everything that was once on the bar was removed. Sun gently placed Cosmos on the table, before quickly moving aside for the mechanics to do their job.

Moon watched Cosmos, he had to save Cosmos, but he had to make sure he was actually alive so he could be saved. If he was dead… He didn’t know what he would do…

Moon watched, as the room was dead silent, but from the silence arose shallow breaths. It was coming from Cosmos. “He’s breathing…” Moon gasped, he could feel a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, he wasn’t sure that Cosmos would be alive, but he’s alive. And that’s what mattered.

“But it’s shallow…” Sun murmured, still worried for his little brother’s safety, would Cosmos even survive? It was shallow, he could barely hear it. If a fly had been in the room, or any other noise, they would have missed the breathing.

While Solar was impressed, and maybe terrified at how Cosmos managed to survive a hit like that. He didn’t know that was possible. “How did you even survive a hit like this…?” An even better question is how did he get so wounded in the first place.

“We don’t know, and frankly I don’t care.” Moon came to the conclusion, they could ask questions later. Later being when Cosmos was stabilized and his wounds were all patched up. “He’s alive, and we need to save him.

“We need to stabilize him.” Solar said, as he analyzed Cosmos’s body, he noticed how the structure seemed to be based on the endoskeleton of an antimonic. He was part astral, part animatronic. Very interesting. "It looks like his body is made up of stars, and animatronic parts.” Solar noted out loud.

“We don’t even know how this body works!” Sun said, realizing another problem, did Astral anatomy work differently from humans? What did he need? Did he need food, nutrients!? “Well, we’re going to learn, we have to.” Moon determined. He didn’t even have a doctor's degree, but he bet he could download a textbook of some sort. He’ll learn, one way or another.

But one mistake could be fatal.

“I-I’ll go get spare parts from the Pizzaplex…” Sun stuttered, as he looked at Cosmos’s body, before turning towards the staircase. Seeing his body in such a horrifying manner, it was sickening to even imagine it. “Yeah, and call Monty down, we need his assistance.” Solar said, as he pulled out a spare toolbox that Jack kept downstairs.

“Sure will.” Sun whispered, but he bet that Solar and Moon didn’t hear him.

When Sun reached upstairs he shouted for the gator. “MONTY!” The voice rang throughout the household, and Monty appeared from the second floor. “What!?” The gator shouted back. “Solar and Moon need your assistance, Cosmos is in bad condition…” Sun said, fidgeting nervously with his rays, trying to think too long about what he had seen. Yet the astral blood stained his clothes, and his mind.

Cosmos’s blood

Cosmos’s blood

“Sure thing-” Monty said, but was interrupted by Sun, who realized that the kids were gone. “Hey where are the kids…?” Sun asked, worried, and shopping the kids were in a safe place. “Terra took them upstairs to watch Gravity Falls.” Monty grumbled.

"Oh, okay!” Sun sighed, that easing his mind slightly. “I’ll be back with some spare parts.” He said, as he grabbed his keys. “Okay, hurry, sounds bad from what I’ve heard so far!” Monty said, before he and Sun both went their separate ways.

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Deep in the forest lies a guardian.

One that protects something far more valuable than all the gold and money in the world.

One that protects this person from people that may want to hurt it.

Protects them from people who have hurt them

But something went wrong.

The shadows no longer moved, and the whispers had stopped

It was never that quiet in the forest.

The guardian knew something was wrong, and what he did not know.  “Something's wrong…” He whispered to himself, he put the weapon in his hand away. There was nothing to fight anymore.

“It’s so… quiet… That’s not a good sign…” The guardian faced towards the center of the forest, in which the person they meant to protect resided.

They could be hurt.

“Luz…” They whisper, before running towards the center.

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In the center of the forest, lie a little field, one that was filled with flowers, pens that you could create flower crowns, and play in the fields without a care in the world.

And in that field lie a little house, one that was homey and cozy.

And in that little house lies a child, one that was short, had blue and white, pink eyes, and that much too big for their small body.

And they lie in fear, because something had gone terribly wrong, and they didn’t know what to do.

“Something went wrong…” they muttered to themselves, as they looked out the window, hoping for a friendly face to show up soon. Yet he was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh… dear…” They mumbled, as they grabbed a stuffed reindeer, which had been given to them by their big brother, one christmas that was so long ago. They had proudly named the deer spigot, and it had resided as his friend ever since.

“Where are you, Orion…?” They whispered, as they waited by the window, clutching their stuffed animal close to their chest.

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

You may now ask questions for Luz and Orion

[hunrising]

What’s baffling to me is that according to what western governments/media said these past days, hamas shouldn’t have attacked civilians in response to the violence they’ve been suffering for decades because it violates international laws, and I agree, civilians shouldn’t have been victims of an attack like this. However now, according to those same people, Israel has the absolute right to defend itself and have no other option but to respond aggressively, no matter how many civilians get caught in the crossfire, and thus also violating international laws? I’ve been racking my brain to see if I’m missing something, or if all of these politicians and journalists are intentionally contradicting themselves in order to please each other?

[myokk]

“She’s tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me”😤😤😤

(Regency AU with Eloise and Sebastian inspired by my slow trek through Bridgerton these days & @bassicallymaestra ‘s AMAZING regency inspired art😮‍💨😇🙏)

[alicentflorent]

“Valeryian steel armour felt like something Aegon the conqueror would have had from his time in old Valeryia.” - Ryan Condal

Guys.. who’s gonna tell him?