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p0orbaby · 2 months ago

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Guy Fawkes Tesco Dissociation

summary: leah flirts with you, your sister isn’t too please by it

warnings: none

a/n: thank you to the anon who so kindly came up with this idea!

word count: 1.7k

You’re standing in the post-match hospitality suite trying to decide if the grey thing in the buffet tray is mushroom risotto or porridge that’s lost the will to live. The consistency is tragic. Congealed at the edges like it’s nursing trauma. Some rogue sprig of parsley sits on top, wilting like a garnish trying to convince you this sludge had aspirations once. You haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t either beige or pre-wrapped since you got here, and now you’re just holding a tiny wooden fork as if it’s a weapon. It’s one of those eco-friendly ones that splinters if you so much as look at it sideways—useless for food, perfect for passive aggression.

The whole lounge smells like disinfectant and faint victory—sweat, floor cleaner, and that metallic hum of a commercial fridge you’re pretty sure is struggling for life. Poor thing. It’s making that low groaning sound, like it wants to die but knows it can’t until the Lionesses are done selfie-ing with extended family.

There’s too much fluorescent lighting. That kind of overhead buzz that makes everyone look vaguely jaundiced. Too many footballers, too many PR girls in patent heels, too many conversations happening in that specific register where everyone’s pretending they’re chill but secretly vibrating with caffeine, adrenaline, and the knowledge that they’re about to be Instagram-tagged into oblivion. Everyone’s leaning too hard into the whole ‘just happy to be here’ thing. Even the champagne flutes look nervous.

You’re mostly here for moral support. And maybe a selfie. You’ve mentally drafted the caption twice—some tasteful mix of “so proud” and “she smashed it” with just enough cleavage in the frame to remind people that yes, you’re here supporting family, but no, you haven’t lost your edge. But also, selfishly, because the England women are hot. Like, disproportionately so. It’s suspicious. Someone should investigate.

“Let me guess,” a voice says behind you, low and amused. “You’re not here for the mini sausage rolls.”

You turn slowly, like a woman who’s watched enough true crime to clock tone, timbre, intent. You assess voices like others assess threats: slowly, carefully, always with an exit strategy. It’s Leah Williamson, living, breathing, taller than expected. That particular kind of tall that still manages to make you feel like you’d look better if you stood up straighter. Skin clear like she exfoliates with diamonds and filtered air. She’s wearing her England tracksuit half-zipped, no lanyard, like she doesn’t need it, like access is implicit. Hair up in a way that suggests zero effort and maximum effect. Like she got ready in two minutes and still managed to look like a Vogue cover. The kind that goes viral.

You blink. “What gave it away?”

She grins, eyes flicking down, then up. A practiced sweep. Not sleazy. Just clinical. “Your face is saying ‘get me out of here,’ but your outfit says you knew you’d be looked at.”

She’s not wrong. You’re wearing the blouse that gaps slightly when you breathe too deeply. The kind of outfit you wear when you want to seem chill but also low-key devastating. Your trousers are high-waisted and aggressive. Your earrings dangle like punctuation. Everything was intentional, even if you’ve lied to yourself about that three times already.

You sip the cava that’s slowly going flat in its flute. It tastes faintly of metal and regret. Like someone once promised it’d be champagne and then quietly backed out. “I like being looked at.”

She steps forward, just enough that you clock her scent—Le Labo Santal 33. Predictable. But still effective. Like rich girl pheromones. Every lesbian in a Soho House bathroom has worn it at least once. She wears it like it’s never been cliché. Like it was made for her skin.

“I like looking.”

You tilt your head. “Do you flirt with everyone who loiters by the catering?”

“No,” she says, completely serious. Not playing it for laughs. Just laying it out. “Only the ones who look like they’d let me.”

You laugh. You weren’t planning to. You’re not easy. You’re just—bored. Entertaining this. She’s entertaining. Her confidence is that particular brand of athlete-casual, like she knows she could outpace any awkward silence if it dared to challenge her.

She watches you, eyes flicking again to your mouth. Slow, deliberate. “You’ve got lipstick on your glass.”

“I always do. Bad habit.”

“I could help you fix it.”

Your eyebrow lifts, automatic. “Are you offering to drink from the other side or lick it clean?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

You hum. “Bit forward.”

She shrugs. One shoulder, casual. “Bit honest.”

“I’m older than you, you know.”

She grins. Not fazed. Not even slightly. “You say that like it’s not hot.”

You turn slightly, lean against the wall, tilt your head like you’re studying her for a project you don’t intend to finish. You’re playing now. Not because you want to win—just because you like the shape of the game.

“What’s your type?”

She takes a second. Bites her lip. Not nervous. Just drawing it out. Like she knows timing is half the seduction.

“Right now?” Her eyes scan, slow and obvious. “Blouse open one more button than is strictly necessary. Earrings from Mejuri. The kind of face that’s used to getting what it wants and the attitude to match.”

You glance at your reflection in the door of the fridge. She’s not wrong. You adjusted that button in the lift. Told yourself it was because it was warm. Not because you wanted attention. From someone. Anyone. Apparently, this is who you got.

She steps in closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel her attention like a spotlight. “Name?”

You sip again. Don’t answer.

She tilts her head. “You’re mysterious. That’s sexy.”

“Don’t push it.”

She leans in, voice dropping just slightly. Low enough to feel like a secret. “If I pushed it, you’d know.”

You almost choke on your cava. This girl. This baby-faced, cocky, post-match swaggering captain is throwing out one-liners like she’s seducing her way through a Netflix original. You don’t even know if you’re annoyed or impressed. Possibly both. Probably both.

“Do you work in media?” she asks, suddenly, sharp as a cuticle knife.

You shake your head. “No.”

“PR? Events?”

“Closer.”

“So not here for work.”

“No.”

“Just for fun?”

You give her a slow, unreadable smile. The kind that’s been mistaken for consent, for challenge, for foreplay. “I was invited.”

There’s a flicker behind her eyes—barely anything, but you catch it. A recalibration. You’ve nudged her off script.

“Ah,” she says, tone smoothing out like a hand over a silk dress. “Important, then.”

You nod. Ambiguous. Let her fill in the blanks. You haven’t said who. You’re not planning to. Yet.

She nods towards the glass doors, out to the lower tier where discarded pints sweat on plastic ledges and the pitch glows radioactive green. “Came for the game, stayed for the overpriced alcohol and emotional turbulence?”

“I stayed for the company.”

“Oh yeah?”

You glance at her, deliberate. “Wasn’t expecting this, though.”

She smirks, something feline curling at the edge of her mouth. “Happy surprise?”

“TBD.”

She pauses. Thinking. You watch her do it. It’s almost charming—like catching a model doing Sudoku. She’s calculating the angle. How much charm. How much cheek. Whether to go full throttle or ease off the accelerator.

She chooses both.

“I could give you a better tour,” she says. “Not the literal kind. More… you and me. Somewhere less fluorescent. Less beige carpet. Better soundtrack.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you do this a lot?”

She shrugs, effortless. “Only when it’s worth it.”

“And I’m worth it?”

“Oh,” she says, stepping into your space with the grace of someone used to getting the last word, “I think you might be a little dangerous.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing. For a night. Maybe two.”

You’re just about to deliver a line—something glib, maybe filthy—when a voice cuts the air like a dentist’s drill against enamel.

“Leah?”

Both your heads turn. And there she is: Grace Clinton, blinking at the scene like she’s just stumbled into a deleted scene from Sex/Life.

Her face spasms into an expression somewhere between disbelief and acute spiritual distress. “What the hell is this?”

You smile. Angelic. Like you’ve been caught volunteering at an animal rescue. “Hi, Gracie.”

Leah does a visible double take. “Wait—Gracie?”

Grace’s stare ricochets between you like a hostage negotiator. “That’s my sister.”

Leah looks at you.

Then at her.

Then laughs.

Then freezes.

“Wait, what?”

Grace throws her hands up, righteous as a preacher mid-sermon. “You were hitting on her!”

Leah’s eyes widen like she’s been offered ketamine at brunch. “You didn’t say your sister was hot.”

Grace looks like she’s about to throw up. “Why would I say that? That’s revolting. Are you okay? Do you have a head injury?”

You lift your cava flute like a toast. “To be fair, she was extremely flattering.”

Leah’s still short-circuiting. “This is… not what i was expecting.”

Grace stabs a finger in her direction like she’s summoning a demon. “Stop trying to seduce my family!”

“She flirted back!”

“She flirts with everyone! She flirts with lollipop men and the guy from DPD. It’s chronic. It means nothing.”

You shrug. “Not nothing.”

Grace groans like her soul’s leaving her body. “I need to be exorcised. Or euthanised.”

Leah rubs a hand over her face, suddenly aware of the PR disaster unfolding in real time. “This is going to be so awkward at camp.”

“You think it’s going to be awkward?” Grace gestures wildly, borderline unhinged. “Imagine me, stuck in midfield, watching you eye-fuck my sister from the touchline.”

“Language, Grace,” you say gently, like you’ve said it a hundred times before. A calm, familiar reprimand. Not scolding—just reminding. A soft nudge from someone who changed her nappies and taught her to spell ‘definitely.’

Leah turns back to you, a grin twitching at her mouth like it’s trying to behave. “So… about that better tour…”

“Jesus Christ!” Grace howls.

You grin, all cheekbone and implication. “She’s very protective.”

Leah grins back. “You’re very tempting.”

Grace’s voice goes up an octave, full banshee. “I hate both of you!”

Leah doesn’t flinch. “You gonna tell your mum?”

“Oh, I’m telling everyone.” She’s already got her phone out like she’s reporting a crime. “Group chat’s open. You’re getting dragged.”

Leah leans in, low voice, warm breath. “Still time to sneak out the fire exit.”

You drain the last of your cava and smirk. “I’ll drive.”

And somewhere behind you, Grace wails.

Perfect.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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heliosunny · 3 months ago

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Yandere!Phainon with a reader who tries to run away but with the song- "veronica, open the door" from meant to be yours ifyk wht mean......

Ah, Heathers. You have no idea how much I love it.

Meant to be yours

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

Valentine’s Day was always an eventful time.

You weren’t exactly famous, but you had enough admirers to receive a decent number of gifts every year—small tokens of appreciation, letters with clumsy handwriting, and carefully wrapped sweets. It was harmless. Fun, even.

This year was no different. The morning started with a few gifts waiting for you, a mix of chocolates and little trinkets from people who admired you from afar. Phainon watched with mild disinterest as you sorted through them, his sharp gaze flicking over each item with the wariness of a guard dog.

"You really accept anything from anyone, don’t you?"

"It’d be rude not to. And most of these are just harmless chocolates."

Phainon didn’t seem convinced, but he let it go—until later that evening when you bit into one of the sweets and felt a sharp, searing pain tear through your mouth. The metallic taste of blood spread instantly, and you recoiled, coughing as you spit out the candy. A glint of something sharp caught the light, coated in crimson.

Phainon was at your side in an instant. His fingers gripped your chin, tilting your head so he could see the damage. His expression darkened, eyes narrowing as his gaze flickered between your bleeding lip and the candy on the floor.

"Who gave this to you?"

You barely managed to answer. You had seen Phainon irritated before, but this was something different.

Phainon didn’t give you a choice. One moment, you were still reeling from the pain, and the next, he had you on your feet, practically dragging you out the door.

"Phainon—!" You tried to protest, but his grip on your wrist tightened.

"You’re going to the doctor" he said, his voice eerily calm, but the way his nails dug into your skin betrayed the tension in his body. "No arguments."

The trip was a blur. You were vaguely aware of Phainon keeping an arm around your shoulders, his pace quick and his grip firm, as if he expected you to collapse at any second. The moment you stepped into the clinic, he didn’t even let you speak for yourself.

"My friend ate some sweets" he informed the doctor, "Something sharp was inside."

"You're lucky you didn't swallow it." the doctor said, peering into your mouth with a critical eye. "The cut isn't too deep, but it'll be sensitive for a while. Avoid anything too hot, spicy, or hard to chew. And definitely no more mystery chocolates."

You winced as they dabbed disinfectant on the wound. You felt Phainon's entire body tense beside you and his gaze burning into the side of your face, but you didn’t dare turn to look at him.

The doctor sighed, scribbling something down. "Just be careful. If you start feeling unwell, dizziness, nausea—anything unusual—come back immediately. But for now, you're fine to go."

You muttered a small thanks before sliding off the chair, but before you could even move toward the door, Phainon’s hand was already on your wrist.

He didn’t let go.

Not even on the way home.

That night, you lay in bed, staring at the dim light of your phone screen.

Phainon [11:07 PM]: Does it still hurt?

You sighed, rolling onto your side before replying.

You [11:09 PM]: It's fine. Just a little sore. You [11:09 PM]: Stop worrying so much.

He didn’t reply right away, but you could see the three little dots appearing and disappearing as if he kept typing, deleting, and retyping his response.

Phainon [11:12 PM]: I’ll handle it.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Handle what?

You wanted to ask, but something in your gut told you not to.

Instead, you turned off your phone and tried to sleep.

The next morning, Phainon was already waiting for you outside, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. When he saw you, he immediately straightened, his gaze sweeping over you like he was checking for any signs of harm.

"Did anyone bother you last night?"

You blinked. "No? Why would they?"

He didn’t answer, but then, as you turned the corner, his body suddenly went rigid.

"Go inside"

You followed his gaze and spotted the person standing at the far end of the street. A man, older than you, dressed in plain clothes. He wasn’t doing anything suspicious, just standing near a lamppost, looking down at something in his hands.

"Phainon, what—"

"Inside."

You hesitated but took a few steps toward your door. When you turned back to glance at him, he was already walking toward the stranger.

At the time, you thought nothing of it.

But later that evening, the news spread.

A man had been found dead in an alley. His throat slit cleanly, the wound too precise to be from a random attack.

And when you saw Phainon again, there was a small, almost unnoticeable red stain on the sleeve of his jacket.

----

The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the glow of Phainon’s phone screen. The soft click of his nails against the glass echoed through the silence as he scrolled through your social media.

His eyes flicking between posts, comments. He was thorough—checking likes, reactions, and replies. It was a routine now.

Then he found it.

An unusual profile.

The account was old but recently active. No personal photos, no real name, just vague posts and replies under your pictures. Nothing overtly hostile, but something was off.

His fingers hovered over the screen.

Phainon [12:47 AM]: Who are you?

The response was quick.

Unknown [12:48 AM]: Who’s asking?

A slow smirk curled at the corner of Phainon’s lips. Interesting.

Phainon [12:49 AM]: Someone looking to talk. Face-to-face.

Unknown [12:51 AM]: Lol. You’re coming off strong, man. What do you want?

Phainon [12:52 AM]: You seem close with Y/N. Thought I’d introduce myself.

The typing bubble appeared, vanished, then returned.

Unknown [12:55 AM]: …You’re not their boyfriend, are you?

Phainon’s grip on the phone tightened.

Phainon [12:56 AM]: Meet me tomorrow. Let’s talk.

He sent a location. An alley. Quiet, empty at night.

The typing bubble flickered again.

Unknown [12:57 AM]: Sounds shady as hell.

Phainon [12:58 AM]: Just a conversation. Unless you have something to hide?

Unknown [1:00 AM]: Fine.

The air was cold. The alley was dimly lit, Phainon leaned against the wall, idly spinning a cutter knife between his fingers. The silver blade glinted under the light.

Footsteps approached.

The man—young, nervous—stepped into the alley. He hesitated, shifting on his feet, eyes darting around.

"You’re the guy from the messages?" he asked, voice guarded.

"I am."

"You’re kinda creepy, man."

Phainon chuckled. "Am I? You’re the one lurking around my friend’s profile. You ask a lot of questions. Seem awfully curious about where they are."

"So what? You got a problem with that?"

"I do, actually."

The knife clicked as he extended the blade.

The man’s eyes flicked to the weapon, then back to Phainon’s face. "…Dude. You’re seriously pulling a knife on me?"

"That depends. Were you planning something?"

The man scoffed, shaking his head. "You’re insane. I just follow their posts. It’s not illegal."

"You’re right. It’s not."

The blade slashed upward, catching the man’s throat before he could react. A sharp, wet gasp escaped him as he stumbled back, hands flying to his neck, blood gushing between his fingers.

Phainon caught him before he could hit the ground, gently lowering him as if handling something delicate.

The man’s mouth opened, choking on air, struggling to speak.

Phainon crouched beside him, tilting his head. "You know," he murmured, "you’re right. Maybe you weren’t a threat. Maybe you were just some nobody with too much time on your hands."

The body twitched. The blood pooled. And Phainon wiped his blade clean against the man’s jacket before standing.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. Then, with the same casual ease as someone finishing an errand, he stepped over the body and walked away.

Tomorrow, he would check your social media again.

----

It didn’t stop with that first body.

The deaths began piling up. Some were dismissed as tragic accidents. Others, the authorities labeled as suicides.

The first was a boy from your school—a popular guy, known for his playful flirting with you. His body was found hanging in his bedroom one morning, the door locked from the inside. A suicide note was placed neatly on his desk. The handwriting matched his own.

But his friends swore he had been fine the day before.

Then there was the girl who used to compete with you academically, often smugly boasting about outscoring you on tests. She was found in a bathtub, wrists slit open. Her phone—dropped carelessly on the bathroom tiles—had messages on the screen. Ones she had apparently sent to herself.

"I’m sorry." "I can’t do this anymore." "Goodbye."

People mourned. Teachers gave sympathetic speeches. Candlelight vigils were held.

And Phainon?

He never said much.

Then, days later, another death. A boy who had confessed to you once, only to be rejected. He had jumped from the school rooftop. The security footage showed him stepping over the edge without hesitation.

No one had pushed him. No one was there.

And yet… the way he stood, completely still, right before he jumped—almost like he was listening to someone.

The pattern didn’t go unnoticed.

The police arrived at your school, officers questioning teachers and students alike. But no one knew anything. No connections were found. No evidence of foul play.

And Phainon?

He answered their questions with ease.

"I didn’t know them well." "I don’t think they were struggling, but I can’t say for sure." "It’s really tragic."

No one suspected him.

Then, one night, you learned the truth.

It was late. But you had left something at school- your book, forgotten in the rush to leave.

The campus was empty, eerily silent under the flickering streetlights. You moved quickly, slipping through the hallways, grabbing your thing, ready to go home.

But then you heard it. Someone's voice.

And there he was.

Phainon.

Standing in front of a student you vaguely recognized. A trembling figure backed against the wall, eyes wide with terror.

And in Phainon’s hand…

A stationery knife.

"You don’t have to do this..." the student whimpered.

"But I do, You’ve been getting too close."

"I-I won’t say anything, I swear—!"

"You think I trust you? Come on. Let’s make this easy. No unnecessary pain."

The knife glinted.

The student collapsed.

Phainon let the body fall, crouching beside it, tilting his head in quiet observation. Then, just like always, he wiped the blade clean and pocketed it.

You stumbled back, breath ragged. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

You had to leave.

You turned and ran, slipping away before he could notice.

The next morning, you couldn’t look at him.

Phainon greeted you as usual, "Did you sleep well?"

You didn’t answer.

"Something wrong? You seem off today."

You forced a nod, gripping your bag tight. Your palms were clammy.

And from that day on, you avoided him.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t text.

But Phainon didn’t like it.

It started with a knock at the door.

Your stomach twisted the moment you heard your mother’s voice: "Oh, Phainon! What a surprise! Come in, dear."

You sat frozen in your room, staring at the door as your mother led him inside.

"Is Y/N in?"

"Yes! Upstairs. Let me-"

"Ah," Phainon interrupted smoothly, voice as polite as ever. "No need to bother Y/N. I’ll just stop by another time."

Your mother laughed lightly. "Oh, don’t be silly! They’ll be happy to see you."

You weren’t happy to see him. You weren’t happy at all.

But the doorknob didn’t turn. There was no knock on your door.

Instead, after a moment, you heard his voice downstairs again.

"Actually, I have to run. Thank you for having me."

You thought you were safe.

You thought he had left.

But as you walked through the quiet streets that evening, heading anywhere but home, you felt it.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

His voice cut through the air, close.

You turned sharply. Phainon stood behind you. The dim streetlight cast eerie shadows across his face.

"I—"

"You haven’t been talking to me. You won’t even look at me." He took a step forward. "Did I do something?"

Your should pretend that it’s fine. Pretend you don’t know.

But the image of the knife, the blood, the lifeless bodies flashed in your mind. And before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out.

"I saw you."

"You what?"

"That night. At school. I saw you. I saw what you did."

"You’re not making any sense."

"Stop lying." Your voice wavered, but you forced the words out. "Just say it. Confess. Admit what you did."

"So....You’re scared of me."

"No....I..."

"Why? I did it for you-"

"Because I should be.. Because you're a murderer."

You turned and walked away. Left him standing there.

You didn’t look back.

Not even when he called your name.

----

Phainon was gone.

He didn’t show up at school.

No texts. No calls. No messages.

And somehow, that scared you more.

Because Phainon never left without a reason.

And whatever he was planning next…

You wouldn’t see it coming.

For days, Phainon didn’t return to school.

At first, you tried to convince yourself that it was over. That maybe—maybe—he had finally decided to leave you alone.

But then, the feeling started.

That creeping sensation of being watched.

At home. On the way to school. Even in broad daylight.

You stopped leaving your curtains open. You avoided walking alone. You tried to tell yourself that it was paranoia.

Then, one night, you saw him.

Through the window.

Standing across the street.

Watching.

And when your eyes met—

He smiled.

You kept your door locked. You double-checked the windows. You kept your phone close, ready to call for help.

BANG

You jolted awake.

Someone was pounding on your front door.

Your phone screen lit up. Phainon. Calling. Again. And again.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

You stayed frozen in bed, your breath shaky.

"Y/N… Open the door."

You squeezed your eyes shut. No. No, no, no.

"I know you’re awake."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stay silent.

"Come on… just come out and talk to me."

"You used to talk to me." His voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Why won’t you talk to me anymore?"

"I miss you...."

You gripped your blanket tight, every muscle in your body locked up.

More knocking.

"Y/N, open the door please..."

"I won’t leave until you talk to me."

More pounding.

"Please, Y/N... I just want to see you. Everything I did.. I did it for you. I protected you, cared for you,.. Don't you see? I... was meant to be yours..."

No more pounding.

After awhile, you forced yourself to move, crawling out of bed, tiptoeing toward the window instead of the door. Hands trembling, you peeked through the blinds—

And there he was.

Not at the door anymore.

Standing in your yard. Staring straight up at your window.

His phone still in his hand.

Your own phone vibrated again. Another call.

Then, a message.

"I can see you."

You stumbled backward.

Another message.

"If you won’t open the door…"

The typing bubble appeared.

"I’ll come in myself."

Your hands shook as you backed away from the window, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the sound of your own breathing.

You can't seem to find a space to hide.

Click.

Did the door just unlocked? How? How?!

The door creaked open.

A hand clamped over your mouth. An arm wrapped around your torso, yanking you back before you could even scream.

Your muffled cries were useless as your back slammed against his chest.

"Shh," Phainon whispered against your ear. His grip tightened as you thrashed, "It’s okay, I’ve got you."

You tried to scream, but his palm pressed harder against your lips.

"You kept running. Kept hiding. That’s not very nice."

Tears pricked your eyes. You twisted in his grip, your nails digging into his wrist.

"I didn’t want to do it this way, but you left me no choice."

Do what?

"I took care of your parents."

Your eyes went wide, frantic, searching for any possible meaning—any possibility that you misheard him.

But he only smiled, voice gentle. "Don’t worry, they didn’t suffer."

No, no, no—!

Your scream was muffled against his hand, your entire body wracked with terror.

He killed them.

"You don’t have to be scared" he whispered. "You have me now. I’ll take care of you."

But just when his grip loosened slightly, and in a blind surge of desperation, you bit down on his hand.

"Ah—"

He flinched, just enough for you to break free.

You stumbled forward, sprinting toward the door. But the second you stepped into the hallway, you saw your parents. Sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, eyes empty, throats slit clean.

A sharp, ugly scream tore out of you.

The world spun. Your knees buckled.

-----

Your body was heavy.

Something soft beneath you—a bed. But the air felt wrong.

Not your room.

Your head throbbed as your eyes fluttered open.

"Finally awake?"

You turned your head slowly to see Phainon sat at the edge of the bed.

"Sorry about earlier" he murmured. "I know that was… a lot to take in."

Your hands clenched the sheets.

"But it’s okay now," he continued, leaning forward. "You’re safe here. No more bad people. No more threats."

He reached forward, his fingers brushing your cheek with disturbing tenderness.

"You’ll start your new life here," he whispered. "With me."

----

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ If you don’t see me posting as often, it’s either because I’m busy or feeling sick. I have over 130 requests, but I’m working on the plots and will finish some of them soon!

#yandere x reader #yandere #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #phainon hsr

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swarvey · 1 year ago

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how they react to you getting hurt | sdv x g/n reader (part two)

part one

paper rings - harvey x reader

a/n: part two with the rest of the bachelors ! let me know if you guys want to see the bachelorettes <3

—

alex

this big softie starts to blame himself when he sees you with scratches and bruises

insists on following you on your adventures from that day forward

pretty much acts as a personal bodyguard for a week

you wince as you rub a disinfectant pad on the large scratch on the side of your arm, thankful your husband isn't due to be home for another couple of hours. he worries enough about you as is — the last thing he needs is something to feed his paranoia, as cute as it is. just as you're about to apply some ointment on your arm, you hear the front door open, alex's familiar voice ringing through the house.

"baby, i'm home!" he calls out, voice as bright as ever. you hear your pet pattering over to greet him. "aw, hey buddy! where's y/n, huh? have you seen 'em?" you swear under your breath as your pet betrays you, leading alex straight towards the bedroom. "are you in there, honey? grams didn't need as much help as i thought—"

you hear him suck in a sharp breath at the sight of you and the first aid kit spread out across the bed.

"i'm fine," you assure. he ignores you, eyes glued to your injured arm as he makes his way to the bed. "seriously, it's not even that bad."

"here, let me do it," he says, and you swear you've never heard him speak so softly. blinking in shock, you hand the bottle of ointment over to him, watching as he gently begins to apply it.

"alex, you're scaring me a bit," you half-joke. he's never been one to be so silent. "it's okay—"

"it's not, though!" your eyes widen as alex looks at you with gleamy eyes. "see, i knew you'd get hurt one day, and i still let you go off and do all these things alone. i should've been there to help you." his head bows in shame, and your heart breaks. "i'm sorry. i'll be by your side next time, i promise."

shaking your head, you wrap your unhurt arm around his neck and pull him into a hug. he gladly hides his face in your shoulder, his arms holding onto your midsection tightly.

"alex, there's nothing to be sorry for," you reassure, rubbing his back to provide some comfort. "this is part of my job, it's what i signed up for." he pulls away suddenly to look at you with serious eyes.

"then quit!" he exclaims. "i'll do it all, you can teach me."

you laugh. "as much as i love you, you are not taking over my grandfather's farm."

"well, i'll just do everything with you, then." alex nods to himself, grabbing the roll of bandages from the kit and beginning to wrap your arm. his eyes widen when he notices the bruises on your legs. "how did this even happen?"

"oh, i was gathering hardwood and some slimes snuck up on me. i fell, but i was able to fight them off." no response. "alex?" a dark look comes over your husband's face.

"get me a sword."

"what?!"

sebastian

seb is one of the bachelors i see respecting your strength the most, always subtly bragging about your fighting skills and the work you do on the farm (sam and abigail are thoroughly impressed)

that being said, he is all the more startled when he sees you limping home from the clinic after nearly passing out from exhaustion

tries to keep his cool, as he always does, but it's hard for him to see the person he cares about the most in pain

"wear the brace for a week, then stop by for another appointment with me so we can see how you're doing," harvey instructs, clasping the brace around your ankle. "drink plenty of water and eat something when you get back. and be mindful while you're working on the farm, i don't want this to be a regular occurrence," he chides.

the doctor had practically dragged you into his office after running into you in front of pierre's, half-conscious as you claimed you just needed some coffee.

"i will," you sigh, using his arm for support as you stand. "thanks, harvey. i owe you."

"no need to worry about that, just get some rest at home. i'm sure sebastian is wondering where you are."

shit. you chew your lip as you slowly make your way back to the farm, trying to find the right words to say to your husband. it's not like you to overwork yourself like this on the farm, but after waking up a bit too late in the morning, you'd found yourself rushing to get everything done. seb had been sound asleep as you worked, but with the sun beginning to set in the sky, you knew he had to be up and waiting for you at home.

sure enough, as you walk towards your front door, you see him already sitting on the front steps, a book in hand. his head quickly turns at the sound of your footsteps.

"you're back! did you have errands to run?" seb asks, setting his book down. "i thought you had a lot to do this morning?"

you hesitate, nodding slowly as you avoid his gaze. "i did," you answer, swallowing. "i was, ah, at the clinic."

"what? why—?" only then does he notice the bags under your eyes and the brace wrapped around your ankle. "hey, what happened?" he walks over to your side, slowly guiding you to the steps and helping you sit down.

"i'm alright," you say, though you unsuccessfully hide your discomfort as you stretch your hurt ankle out. "i twisted my ankle, is all."

"right." you know sebastian well enough to tell when he's worrying; his brow is furrowed, his eyes glued to the ground.

"come on, seb, don't be so dramatic," you joke, shoving him lightly with your shoulder. "it's not like i'm dying." he looks at you suddenly with squinted eyes, as if he's trying to decode your words. "what?"

"people tend to say that when things are worse than they are," he says, looking you up and down. "what really happened?"

"what are you talking about?"

"maybe i'll go talk to harvey." he begins to stand, but you grab his wrist and drag him back down.

"okay, okay!" the last thing you want is for him to take the doctor's words too seriously and put you on a house lockdown. "i just overworked myself in the heat, alright? seriously! harvey said i should be fine with some rest."

"really? that's all?"

"yes."

"all you hurt was your ankle?"

"yes."

"did you set up another appointment with him?"

"yes, seb, i'm fine!" you grab his arm and pull him closer, looking straight into his worried eyes. "look, see? i'm in one piece."

sebastian sighs, grabbing your hand and holding it tightly. "i know, you've always been strong," he says, smiling lightly. "just . . . don't overdo it, okay? i'm here to help you, too."

you smile back at him. "i know." you pause. "you know, harvey said i need to lay off the rest of my work today."

"yeah?" seb grins, helping you stand. "what are you thinking?"

you pretend to ponder for a moment. "maybe some dinner and TV? we still have that show we need to catch up on."

he laughs, wrapping an arm around you as the two of you head inside.

"whatever you want, dear."

sam

he thinks you're invincible.

completely freaks out when he sees you actually hurt for the first time

makes you spend the rest of the day in bed and brings you some of his mom's food

(claims it has healing powers)

the sun is still high in the sky when you leave the mines. your plan had been to spend the whole day gathering resources, but after a rough tousle with some monsters, you don't have the energy to keep going. your head is throbbing, and you're mildly aware of the cut on your forehead that finally stopped bleeding.

you make your way across the farm and toward your house, and you can hear sam practicing on his skateboard. you hope you can avoid him, at least until you're able to clean up your injury.

as you open the front door, though, a loud creak fills the air, and you freeze. the sound of the skateboard stops.

"baby, is that you?" sam calls out, walking around to the front porch. you keep your back turned. "did you forget something?"

"uh, no! no, the mines were just a bit empty today, so . . ." you trail off. you turn your head away from him as sam tries to look at your face, but sigh in defeat when he cups your cheek and makes you face him.

immediately, his eyes widen. "you're hurt!"

"i'm fine—"

without another word, sam grabs your hand and drags you inside, bringing you into the bathroom. he spends the next few minutes tenderly cleaning the cut on your forehead, apologizing every time you flinch in pain. then, he brings you to your shared bedroom, covering you in the sheets and bringing you a mug of your favorite drink.

"stay here," he instructs, "i'll be right back." he turns to your pet, tail wagging as it sits at your bedside. "you're in charge while i'm gone, alright? make sure they stay put!" you laugh lightly as sam hurriedly leaves the house, hearing the sound of his skateboard rolling away. you let out a sigh, closing your eyes as you begin to fall asleep.

"baby, wake up."

your eyes open to the sound of your husband beside you once again, holding a bowl of steaming soup.

"i stopped by mom's to get some of her soup. you know i'm not the best cook," he admits, "but you need to eat something with lots of nutrients to get better."

you laugh lightly, gladly letting him feed you the first bite. the warmth of the soup makes you feel already a bit better.

"thank you, sam," you say, looking at him gratefully. "i don't know what i'd do without you."

"hey, shouldn't i be saying that?" he jokes, planting a kiss on your cheek. "here, eat up. you need all the strength you can get!"

after you finish eating, you begin to sit up, stretching your arms.

"hey, what are you doing?" sam questions, setting the bowl on your nightstand.

"i need to check on the animals one more time," you sigh, ignoring the ache in your arms. he scoffs, grabbing your arms and sitting you back down in bed.

"right, and just what kind of husband would i be if i let you do that?" he straightens his back and crosses his arms, smiling confidently. "leave it to me!"

"sam."

"yes, dear?"

"do you even know what you'd be checking for?"

he pauses, arms dropping. "right," he says, sighing. "i guess i don't." you laugh, standing back up but grabbing his hand.

"come on, you can be my assistant for tonight."

"yes!"

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mrpenguinpants · 6 months ago

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Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Part 2: Stepping Stone Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

838 notes · View notes

eyesoulhand · 21 days ago

Text

금성제 — my hand in yours, in mine [1.5k]

the air of your bathroom is clinical, the smell of sanitized bandages and antiseptic coming faint from your first aid kit, like a homemade hospital with an exhausted pine-scented air freshener. when you get close enough to the boy in front of you, sat on the closed lid of a toilet, you can smell blood on skin. whether or not it’s his or some other poor, hospitalized soul is another story.

“fucking idiots,” seongje heavily sighs, iron on his tongue. he still won’t stop talking even while you’re wiping at his busted lip. the hand you have at his neck presses a little firmer and you continue, zeroed in on the way you press a wet towel wrapped around your finger to the wound.

he’s about to say something again before he hisses when his skin pulls just a little too much, and you have to refrain from making him a little worse. god, you want to hit him—but you can’t. so, you settle for sliding your hand down and laying it heavy on his shoulder with a huff, digging your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth beneath your palm.

he just smiles, entertained. you try not to meet it with hostility.

his lips part a little as you try to wipe at the blood, try to be gentle—you catch the way the corners of his lips still tug upward, the way his gums peek out. his smiles are probably better described as teeth-baring than anything, but you indulge yourself in the idea that it’s something friendlier with you than it is with others.

“what’d you do to piss them off this time, hm?” he asks, jutting his chin, your hand retracting from his face. a scoff presses through your teeth. he tilts his head when you give up on that general area and take his hand instead, watching the way you grimace at the blood and dirt.

it reminds you of how one of the guys from earlier came at him with brass knuckles—left with broken knuckles.

idiots. fucking idiots.

you’re too preoccupied with the mental checklist of medical supplies lined up on your countertop to consider replying to him. you busy yourself with rinsing the rag and pumping some soap on it before lightly wetting it again, cleaning around the wounds on his hands. out of your sight, his face falls a little, left with his own thoughts.

“they could’ve seriously hurt you, you know,” seongje says, voice dropping a little flatter, a little less teasing. he states it like a fact and not a what-if. his tone grazes the single-minded state you’re in, enough to derail you for just a moment to spare a glance at him.

“you were there, weren’t you?” you reply, gaze dropping again as you fall back on track.

“are you stupid?” he murmurs, not missing a single beat. “you think i’m going to be there every time you need saving?”

“you said so yourself,” you murmur back, all too assured, all too focused on his hands, and he stares back at the top of your head like you’ve grown a second one. you continue dabbing at his skinned knuckles, eyes hardening when you come to bits of blood that are too dry. he really couldn’t care less about how precise you are about disinfecting and cleaning something this minor, to him, but you were nothing if not particular. the damp and soapy rag makes his wounds sting but he can’t even bother making a snarky, halfhearted remark about it—not when you’re standing there in front of him, knees knocking against his, tending to him like this. it doesn’t bother him when you press down a little harder to get rid of the stubborn clots, but you clench your teeth anyway.

tense brows press down on narrowed eyes and he finds himself mirroring you. seongje’s lip curls—not in contempt, though the expression was almost identical to the one he wore when some piece of shit got on his nerves.

that look could never be directed at you. he was just… confused.

he guesses he did say it, before. it was around three months ago, the first time you’d really witnessed the damage he could cause, beginning to end.

(some group of boys you’d never seen before were following you—they knew your name, knew your school, knew about how you’d been ‘hanging around seongje.’ you think it was some idiot trying to get one up on him for revenge. it’s a shame they obviously didn’t think it through enough. his glasses are loosely held at your side, folded in your palm.

you watch as he stands in the middle of a wreckage, tracing the rise and fall of his shoulders, his uneven breaths. the foggy street lights cast in front of him, showing nothing more than his silhouette. you can’t see his expression like this, head hung low over battered bodies, but your vision of it is clear all the same. wild eyes, a storm behind a smile.

he smiles like he’s off on a high from the metallic smell of blood that permeates the air surrounding him, smiles like a warning siren. danger, danger. you watch the shadow of his back as he lets out a ragged breath, and you catch the tail end of an even rougher laugh. his shoulders roll back, relaxing, a brief second spent to look at the darkened sky.

“if you ever come near her again,” he starts, languid as he drops his gaze, foot prodding at the side of a limp body. “i’ll know. you got it?”

it’s a silent declaration. you want to see me? fine. wherever she goes, i go.

he huffs, pulling a pack out his pocket. a cigarette slips out with a flick of his wrist, and he takes it between his lips as he turns to you, stepping over an arm, a leg. a pause, and the flash of his lighter illuminates his face, long enough for you to see faint specks of blood. he takes a drag.

“are you hungry?” he asks, wisps of smoke slipping between his words. he comes to you, palm open, and you silently hand him his glasses. he sighs and walks past you, glasses quietly clicking as they unfold. “i’m fucking hungry.”

you’re still staring at the wreck he’s left behind in his wake, a reminder of the whirlwind that waits inside of him. you think you count five bodies, knocked out on wet cement—one of them tried running away as soon as the first guy was out. you sigh. just another mistake to add onto their list of grievances:

1. coming near you, 2. laying a hand on you, 3. thinking they could beat geum seongje, and 4. trying to run away from geum seongje.

oh well. they’ve learned their lesson.

seongje turns around, eyes landing on you like there’s nothing else to look at. “are you coming?”)

times like this, he remembers you’re not exactly right in the head.

“you trust me that much?” seongje scoffs, recovering quickly enough, voice lifted by the almost mocking smile he wears.

“you trust me, don’t you?” you offhandedly return like a kick to his shin, reaching for petroleum jelly. the thin layer you spread across his knuckles is soothing, but he finds that his hands still burn hot under your touch.

he stares at you, letting out an amused breath. sometimes you shoot him down like a sedative and the chaos that runs rampant through his mind slows for half a second, the corners of his lips losing a fraction of their edge. (almost like he fades a little into something soft, maybe—but soft doesn’t seem to suit seongje.) his eyes flicker but despite that familiar glint, that brief dilation, the sharpness of his glare dulls when he’s directing it at you. (he manages to fit into it, anyway, that softness, or something close to it. as long as you’re the one holding him.)

he can’t look away—he never looked away from the face of someone challenging him—but your words hit him somewhere he didn’t feel like dissecting. he realizes he does trust you, more than he should. more than he thought he’d let himself. granted, you’ve gotten to know a lot about each other these past few months, but seongje still finds himself at a loss.

he hands a little bit of himself to you without realizing it every time he shows up at your door knowing you’ll patch him up, with every step he takes in front of you, knowing you’re right behind him.

he laughs, derisive, dry like there’s something biting at his throat.

“why should i trust anyone?” he responds instead, his gaze fixed on you. you suppose there are things he still can’t trust you with, but that’s okay. there are things you don’t tell him either. the two of you are still here, anyway, his hand in yours as you wrap gauze around and between his fingers with set practice.

you don’t say anything after that. you don’t have to. his lack of a real answer is an answer in itself.

maybe you also trust him more than you should. you’ve come to expect a degree of mutuality from him. but there’s one truth that hangs above the both of you like a promise scarred in your palms, held in bloody-knuckled fists: seongje was never going to leave you. he would never think to.

that’s enough trust for the two of you.

a/n seongje brainrot is real… release me from my shackles. i didn’t have any real direction for this but i hope it turned out well :’/) any feedback is very appreciated <3

#seongje x reader #geum seongje x reader #weak hero x reader #whc2 x reader

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