#flinching slightly from the movement but just trys not to react to it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reveriebae · 5 months ago

Text

Mamacita

pairing(s) : Choi San x reader

word count : 2551

summary : After a reckless night out, you return home to find San waiting—possessive, dominant, and unwilling to let you go. The tension between you explodes into rough, desperate passion, leaving no room for resistance. By the end, you're breathless, ruined, and undeniably his.

genre : smut

warning(s) : explicit sexual content, rough sex, dominance and submission dynamics, choking, degradation, spit play, possessiveness, jealousy, slight emotional manipulation, alcohol consumption, and intense themes of control and obsession. Let me know if I missed anything!

part of Songfic

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

The sound of your heels echoed down the hallway as you made your way back to your apartment, the alcohol still buzzing in your veins. It had been one of those nights—tequila shots, loud music, and no real care for consequences. You hadn’t planned on coming back this early, but something about tonight had you feeling reckless.

As you reached the door, you found it slightly ajar. The living room light flickered in the dim hallway. You didn’t need to knock—you knew who it was.

San. Your roommate. Your chaos.

You slid inside, your body moving instinctively towards the kitchen. You needed something stronger than water—tequila, preferably. You grabbed the bottle, pouring it into a glass, ignoring the fact that your head was already spinning from the last round.

Behind you, the sound of a door creaking open made you freeze. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was. His presence was enough to make your pulse race. San was like a storm—you never saw it coming, but when it hit, you were left breathless, unable to escape.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his lips curling into a half-smirk. You could already tell from the look in his eyes that tonight wasn’t going to be any different. He was hungry. And for some reason, you knew you were the one he was after.

“Tequila again?” San’s voice was smooth, but there was a sharp edge to it. “Thought you were done with that shit.”

You smirked, turning to face him. “What’s it to you? I like the burn.” You took a slow sip, meeting his gaze without flinching. There was something dangerous in the way his eyes darkened, something primal, like he was trying to figure out your next move.

His gaze dropped to your lips, the tension in the air thickening with every passing second. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly walked toward you, his movements deliberate, controlled. When he stopped in front of you, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. His presence was suffocating—an intoxicating mix of power and desire.

You didn’t move, didn’t back away. It wasn’t the first time you felt this pull between you two—this unspoken, undeniable attraction. But tonight, something felt different. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through your body, maybe it was the way his gaze felt like it was stripping you bare. Whatever it was, you couldn’t ignore it.

“You’ve been out there, fucking around with everyone else again,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. “You know that’s not gonna keep me away, right?”

You scoffed, setting your glass down. “And why would you care?” You knew what he was getting at. The unspoken agreement between the two of you had never been clear-cut—no feelings, no attachments. Just physical. Just need.

San leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “Because I’m the only one who can handle you.” He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye. “And you’re the only one who can make me lose control.”

His words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. You felt your breath catch, the familiar fire igniting in your stomach, pulling you toward him, making your body ache with a need you couldn’t quite satisfy.

Before you could even react, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you towards the couch. The force of his grip was enough to send a shiver down your spine. He didn’t care about your personal space—he never did.

San sat down first, tugging you onto his lap. You straddled him, the pressure between your thighs already unbearable. The air between you and San thickened the moment you sat down on his lap, your body already aching for him. He wasn’t the type to wait for permission. His hands moved with hunger, and his lips crashed into yours with such force that it left no room for anything else.

His fingers slid roughly under your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. You gasped, the cool air hitting your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from his body. His chest pressed against yours, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart as his hands gripped your waist with bruising force, pulling you impossibly closer.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but suddenly, you were on your back, San’s body hovering over yours. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with need, and his lips twisted into a devilish grin.

"You want it this bad, huh?" he growled, his voice rough and full of dark promise. He was already pulling your legs apart with force, his fingers gliding down your body, tracing your curves before finally stopping between your thighs.

You bucked against him, the pressure almost unbearable, but he didn't give you what you needed. Not yet.

He leaned down, lips trailing over your throat, leaving hot, wet kisses along your sensitive skin. His mouth moved lower, his hands gripping the edge of your panties before tearing them off in one swift motion, not giving a single fuck about being gentle.

Your breath hitched as his lips found their way between your legs. You were so wet already, your body reacting to him in ways you couldn’t control. But he wasn’t going to let you have the release you needed. Not yet.

"Beg for it," he whispered against your skin, the words sending a shiver down your spine. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, the intensity in his gaze making your insides clench.

You shook your head, feeling a burst of frustration mixed with need. You didn’t want to beg, but the way his fingers were toying with you, teasing you, made it impossible to think straight.

San’s smile was predatory as he finally gave in, his mouth moving back up to meet yours. His lips were hungry, demanding, and as he kissed you, his hand found your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath catch. You gasped into his mouth, and that was when he spit into it.

The feeling was filthy, unexpected, but it sent a wave of heat through your entire body. You moaned softly, your fingers digging into his back as you kissed him harder, tasting the salt of his spit on your tongue.

San chuckled darkly, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. "You like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, rough, and full of arrogance.

You couldn’t even respond. All you could do was nod, your lips swollen and your body burning with the need for more. You hated how much you craved it, hated how much you needed him to take control, but it was undeniable.

Before you could speak, his hands were gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch, his mouth descending once again, this time with more urgency. You could feel his breath against your skin, hot and hungry, as he finally pressed his tongue into you, taking you in with brutal precision.

Your body reacted immediately, hips bucking in response to his every move, but you still couldn’t get enough. San was relentless, his grip on you tight as he continued, his tongue working faster, harder, until you were gasping, shuddering beneath him.

"Tell me," he growled, voice thick with lust. "Tell me you need it, need me."

"I need you," you choked out, the words coming out in a desperate gasp. "Please, San, make me come."

He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, that twisted smirk playing at his lips. "You begged for it," he muttered, and then he was up, his body positioning itself above you, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he slid into you in one swift, punishing thrust.

You screamed, the sudden stretch making your body tense before relaxing into him. San’s hands tightened on your hips as he began to fuck you harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

But you weren’t going to let him dominate you completely. Not this time.

You shifted beneath him, rolling your hips to match his rhythm, pushing him deeper inside of you. He groaned, his hand moving to grip your throat again, choking you just enough to send a burst of heat through your body.

You responded by grabbing his face, pulling him down into another desperate kiss, tongues tangling together as you fought for control. But he wasn’t having it. Not tonight.

San pulled back again, his eyes dark and burning with that familiar intensity. He spat down onto your chest, the saliva trailing down your skin in thick, warm rivulets. It was filthy, it was wrong, but it made you want him more. You moaned loudly, your body tightening in response to the overwhelming sensation.

"You like that, don’t you?" he hissed, his fingers digging into your skin as he thrust harder, deeper.

"Yes, fuck—yes!" you screamed, the heat building in your core until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

San didn’t stop. He only went harder, faster, making you lose yourself in the feeling of him. Your world was nothing but the pressure, the friction, the heat. He was everything you needed, everything you wanted.

When you finally came, it was like a tidal wave crashing over you—violent, messy, and completely overwhelming. You cried out his name as you clenched around him, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

San wasn’t far behind. He came with a loud groan, his body freezing above you as he released deep inside. His hands remained gripping your body, holding you in place as he rode out his high.

Both of you were panting, sweat-slicked bodies tangled together in the aftermath. The room smelled of sex, tequila, and something darker. Something you both couldn’t ignore.

He pulled away slowly, eyes still dark with desire as he looked down at you. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and his lips were curled into a satisfied grin.

“That’s my mamacita,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You lay there beneath him, too exhausted to even speak. You knew you were his, in every twisted, fucked-up way.

And deep down, you hated it. But tonight, you needed him. More than you wanted to admit.

San’s breath was still hot against your skin, and you could feel the remnants of his release dripping down your thighs, mixing with the sweat that clung to both of you. You were panting, completely undone, but that wasn’t enough for him—no, not tonight.

With a predatory gleam in his eyes, he leaned down, his lips brushing over your neck before they traveled lower, tracing the sensitive skin of your collarbone. You squirmed beneath him, your body still on fire, but you knew he wasn’t done with you. Not yet.

"You’re not getting away that easily," San growled, his voice thick with need as he moved his hands to your wrists, pinning them above your head. His lips met yours in a deep, possessive kiss, tongue pushing past your lips in a desperate, greedy exploration.

You moaned into his mouth, but before you could fully respond, he was dragging you up against him, his body pushing yours back into the couch, his cock still hard and ready. His hand moved between your legs, fingers slipping between your folds, and he groaned when he felt how soaked you still were.

“Look at you,” he said darkly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re fucking insatiable.”

You didn’t even have the chance to respond before his fingers pushed inside of you again, his thumb rubbing over your clit in rough circles. You gasped, your hips involuntarily bucking against his hand, wanting to feel him inside of you again.

San smirked, watching you squirm beneath him as he slowly pushed two fingers deeper, making you arch your back. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the desperate sounds bubbling in your chest, but he wasn’t going to let you stay quiet.

He pulled his fingers out and immediately replaced them with his cock, his pace rough and unrelenting. You cried out as he filled you once again, stretching you, making you feel every inch of him.

“Tell me you need me,” he demanded, voice raspy with lust. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you onto him as he fucked you harder. “Tell me you fucking need me.”

"I need you," you gasped, the words slipping out between moans. "Please, San... don’t stop."

San chuckled darkly, his hips snapping into yours faster now, each thrust deep and punishing. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, "You want it like this, don’t you? Rough. Messy. Filthy."

"Yes," you whimpered, your body trembling with the force of his thrusts. "I need you. Fuck, yes."

San's grip on your hips tightened, his nails digging into your skin as he fucked you harder, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you that made your body tremble uncontrollably. His mouth found your throat, sucking and biting, leaving bruises that would remind you of tonight for days to come.

You could feel the tension building again, that familiar pressure coiling tight in your core. San's hand moved between your legs, his thumb flicking over your clit as he fucked you even harder, making everything in your body go wild.

“I’m gonna make you come again,” he growled against your skin, his voice laced with arrogance. “You fucking love it, don’t you?”

"Yes, San, I fucking love it!" you screamed, your body jerking beneath him as the tension in your body finally snapped, waves of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You could barely catch your breath, your nails digging into his back as you came undone around him.

But San wasn’t done. Not yet.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his thrusts still brutal, unrelenting, as he chased his own release. His pace never slowed, never faltered, as he fucked you harder and harder, until finally, with a low, guttural groan, he came deep inside of you.

You could feel the heat of him filling you, his cock twitching as he collapsed on top of you, both of you covered in sweat, panting in the aftermath.

But even then, he didn’t let go of you. He kept his body pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling with every breath, as though he was marking you, claiming you completely.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies tangled together in the aftermath, but the room was still thick with the heavy scent of sex, the tension between you two still palpable.

Finally, San pulled back, his fingers gently brushing through your hair as he gazed down at you, his eyes still dark with desire. His lips curled into a satisfied smile as he whispered, “You’re mine, you know that?”

You could only nod, exhausted, but wanting more. You were his, in every way that mattered.

#ateez #ateez fic #ateez smut #smut #choi san #san ateez #san imagines #san smut #san fic #Spotify

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rizzanon · 5 months ago

Text

His place

a tim drake and batsis! reader oneshot | m.list

Summary: you remind your brother what his role is in the family | events somewhat align with pre-Red Robin if you squint

Tim Drake barely registers the destruction around him. The broken glass, the overturned books, the scattered papers—all of it blends into the edges of his vision, insignificant in the face of the storm still raging inside his chest. His breath is shallow, uneven, like he’s just come up for air after drowning. His hands are curled into fists against the floor, his nails digging into his palms, but he doesn’t move.

He can’t.

Everything feels wrong.

Bruce is gone.

Dick is Batman.

Damian is Robin.

And Tim—

He is nothing.

There’s a raw, open wound inside him, and he doesn’t know how to close it. Doesn’t even know where to start.

The word ‘replaced’ makes his stomach twist, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? It had taken Dick all of two seconds to strip the title away from him and hand it over to him.

Damian.

A murderer. A child who barely understood what this family was supposed to be. Who had killed and barely flinched. Bruce had spent months trying to reach him, trying to ground him, and now Bruce was gone, and Dick thought the best thing to do was put Robin’s colors on his back?

It’s like spitting on everything Tim had ever fought for.

He exhales shakily, the weight of it pressing down on him. He’s spent days holding himself together, clenching his teeth and pretending it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care, that he wasn’t unraveling beneath the surface. He knew Bruce isn’t dead, he knew something isn’t right, but nobody would believe now, would they?

And now, standing in the wreckage of his own room, he feels like all that certainty—the thing keeping him grounded—has slipped through his fingers.

His room is a disaster—papers strewn across the floor, glass glinting under the dim light, books lying open and discarded like corpses. The air is thick with the weight of his own fury, his grief, his goddamn exhaustion.

And yet, it still isn’t enough. He still feels hollow.

The room feels too small.

He blinks hard, staring down at the floor. His chest feels too tight. His heartbeat is too loud. The mess around him is suffocating, but he can’t bring himself to move, to clean any of it up.

And then—

The door creaks open. A quiet, deliberate sound.

Tim tenses.

He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you.

You step inside quietly, careful with your movements. He listens to your soft, measured footsteps, the way you move carefully, deliberately, like you’re navigating through a minefield. You don’t speak. You don’t rush. You don’t even let out a sigh, though he knows you must want to. Instead, you just move toward him, stepping over broken pieces of whatever he destroyed, before lowering yourself onto the floor beside him.

Not too close.

But close enough.

Tim stares ahead, fixating on the cracks in the broken lamp, the scattered books, the torn papers. He listens to your breathing, slow and steady, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift slightly.

He wonders if you can hear how unsteady his breathing is.

You don’t push him to speak. You just sit there, patient.

You don’t sigh. You don’t try to fill the silence.

You wait.

Tim clenches his jaw.

For a long moment, there’s only silence.

Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose. “What, did Dick send you?” His voice is rough, bitter, but the exhaustion drags it down, taking most of the bite out of his words.

He regrets it the second it leaves his mouth.

Because you aren’t the problem here. You aren’t the reason everything feels like it’s caving in.

You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his anger.

You glance at him. “No.”

Tim scoffs, shaking his head. “Right, you here to tell me I’m overreacting then?”

“No.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Great. That makes one person in this house.”

You don’t react, don’t flinch, don’t tell him he’s wrong. And for some reason, that makes his chest tighten.

“Why are you here, (Name)?”

You don’t answer immediately. You shift slightly, glancing around the mess of his room. Tim wonders if you’re judging him for it. If you’re piecing together everything that must have led up to this moment. If you’re staring at the wreckage and seeing him for what he really is—angry, bitter, and more lost than he wants to admit.

When you finally speak, your voice is softer than before.

“I just want to talk.”

Tim scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah? What’s there to talk about?”

You glance at him, and he hates the way your expression softens just slightly. Like you’re seeing right through him. Like you already know.

And then, finally, you say it. The thing he didn’t want to hear.

“You know you still have a place here, right?”

Something twists in his gut.

Tim swallows, forcing a scoff, his fingers dig into his knee. “Do I?”

“You do.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s real funny, because from where I’m sitting, it looks like Dick made his choice.”

You don’t react the way he expects. You don’t rush to correct him or try to argue. You just look at him. Your gaze was steady and unwavering.

And for some reason, that’s worse.

“Dick needs you.”

Tim scoffs. “Yeah? Sure didn’t seem that way when he gave my suit to Damian.”

“He didn’t give your suit to Damian,” you say. “He just… gave him a suit.”

“Oh, that makes it so much better,” Tim snaps. “Like I should just be fine with the fact that he handed Robin to someone who doesn’t even understand what it means.”

You exhale through your nose. “Tim—”

“No.” He turns to you now, eyes burning, his voice sharp, bitter. “He knows. He knows what Robin is. What it means to me. And he still—” He clenches his jaw, forcing down the words that feel like acid in his throat.

He still chose Damian.

The words taste like poison in his mouth.

Like betrayal.

Because he and Dick worked together. Because Tim trusted him. Because Dick should have known better.

Robin was never just a suit. It was never just a name.

Dick made Robin a symbol, but Tim made it a legacy. He had built on everything that came before him, upheld it, protected it. He never saw himself as a sidekick—Bruce never treated him like one. And neither did Dick.

But then, the moment Bruce was gone—

The second he was gone—

Dick had replaced him.

He had given Robin to someone who didn’t understand it. Someone who didn’t earn it. Someone who treated it like it was his by default.

Someone who had killed.

And that—

That was something Tim couldn’t forgive.

“He didn’t replace you.”

Tim can feel your gaze on him. Studying him. Assessing him. You’re quiet, like you’re deciding what to say to him—what not to say, as if he was a bomb ticking. He hates that.

“You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.”

That makes his stomach twist, because you actually mean it. There’s no pity in your voice, no condescension. Just quiet sincerity.

Tim exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His thoughts are spiraling again, overlapping, contradicting. He doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling, how to put it into words without it sounding pathetic.

But you’re still watching him. Still waiting.

So he just—

He lets it out.

“Robin was mine,” he mutters, voice tight. “I—I earned it. I worked for it. I built on it. It wasn’t just a name, it was—” His breath shudders slightly. “It was a legacy. And Dick—he just handed it over to him like it didn’t mean anything. After everything. He didn’t even—” His voice catches for half a second before he forces it steady again.

He hears the shift in your breathing. Feels your hesitation.

“Tim… with Dick as Batman now… you and him can never have a Batman and Robin dynamic. Not really.”

Tim stills.

You hold his gaze. “You were partners. He respects you and your judgement. He trusts you to call the shots, the same way Bruce did.”

Tim’s chest feels tight. His hands twitch slightly against his knees.

“He doesn’t see you as a kid anymore,” you continue. “That’s why he couldn’t make you Robin. Not because he doesn’t want you by his side. But because he doesn’t see you as someone who needs to be Robin.”

Tim’s throat feels tight.

“You don’t need Robin, Tim.” Your voice is gentle but firm. “And Dick knows that.”

His jaw tightens.

“He believes in you, Tim. He always has, and he always will.”

Tim lets out a slow breath, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans. His thoughts are spiraling again, analyzing every interaction, every choice, every word. He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Had he really—?

Had Dick really—?

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, but for some reason, the words hit something deep in him, something fragile and unspoken.

Dick trusted him.

He always had.

But Tim—he had been so focused on what he lost that he hadn’t seen what was still there. It was hard not to. His mom, his dad, Conner—

Tim exhales sharply through his nose, looking away. His hands curl into fists against his knees before slowly unclenching.

You shift beside him, your voice softer now. “You’ve already made your place in this family, Tim. Nothing can ever change that.”

Tim presses his lips together, staring at the floor.

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

Because the anger is still there, the frustration, the bitterness. But underneath it—buried so deep he almost missed it—there’s something else.

Something that makes his breath come a little easier.

He knows you’re right.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

His fingers tighten against the fabric of his jeans. He stares at the floor, at the pieces of his broken lamp, at the mess he made in a moment of pure frustration.

You don’t push him to respond. You just sit there, quiet, patient, letting him process, letting him breathe.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, Tim exhales, voice barely above a whisper.

“…It still hurts.”

You shift slightly beside him. When you speak, your voice is just as quiet.

“I know.”

“Where does this leave me?”

You hesitate. Tim feels the way your breath hitch, feels your gaze on him once more.

“Still here.”

And somehow—somehow, that’s enough.

His hands aren’t shaking anymore.

He barely notices. His pulse is pounding in his ears, his mind buzzing with too many thoughts at once, overlapping, colliding, turning over and over until he feels like he’s going to short-circuit.

His mind is spinning too fast, circling around the same thought, the same certainty that he knows—he knows—what he’s saying is real.

He lifts his head, forces himself to look at you. His voice comes out strained, barely above a whisper.

“Bruce is alive.”

The words are heavy, pressed between his teeth like something sacred. Something unshakable.

You shift beside him. He feels it before he even looks.

A pause.

Then—

“Tim—”

“I can’t tell you how,” he cuts in, sharper than he means to, his chest rising and falling too quickly. “I can’t tell you why.” He turns to you fully now, his hands gripping his knees, his eyes burning. “But I know.” His breath shudders slightly. “He’s still alive.”

You’re looking at him now. Tim watches every movement, every flicker of hesitation in your expression, every breath you take before responding. He can already feel the doubt coming.

You hold his gaze, steady but cautious. Then you sigh, exhaling through your nose as you place a hand on his arm.

“Tim…” Your voice is gentle. Too gentle. It makes something inside him twist, makes his throat go tight, because he knows what that tone means. You’re trying to ease him into something. Trying to let him down gently.

It makes his stomach sink.

“We saw Bruce’s body,” you say, fingers tightening slightly against his sleeve. “We can’t change what happened during Final Crisis. Bruce… he—”

“He’s alive.” His voice rises, strained, cracking on the edges. His pulse is too fast, his breathing shallow. His skin feels too tight, his own body suffocating him. “He’s still alive. I can feel it.”

You still.

You freeze.

Tim sees the way your lips part slightly, the way your shoulders subtly tense, the way your fingers twitch before curling against your lap. He sees it, and it sets something uneasy, something cold, deep in his chest.

You hesitate.

He can feel your hesitation.

You hesitate, and suddenly, Tim can’t breathe.

“We always base things off facts, Tim,” you say slowly, carefully. “You always base things off facts.” Your brows furrow. “But now… you’re trying to tell me Bruce is still alive because you can just… feel it?”

Tim’s stomach twists.

It hurts.

It actually fucking hurts, and he wasn’t prepared for that.

Because—because you were different.

You had always been different.

You were the one he could always turn to, the one who listened, who never brushed him off or made him feel like a stupid, reckless kid. You never doubted him. You never judged him. You never looked at him like he was losing it.

That’s why he told you first.

That’s why he needed you to be the first one to hear it.

And now—

Now, you’re hesitating.

Now, you’re doubting.

Now, you’re looking at him exactly how everyone else has.

He clenches his jaw, his hands curling into fists. His throat works around something thick, something unbearable, something raw and ugly that he can’t let out.

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

Because you’re right.

You’re right.

And yet—

He clenches his fists against his knees. His mind is racing again, replaying everything, twisting the words over and over, trying to find the logic, trying to find the missing piece, trying to prove it.

You don’t believe him.

You think he’s lost it.

Just like everyone else.

His breath hitches slightly, his body tense, his muscles coiling. He can’t tell if his chest feels tight from anger or something worse.

Finally, his voice comes out hoarse, strained, desperate.

“I know—I know it sounds fucking stupid.” He swallows hard, his heart slamming against his ribs. “That I don’t sound sane right now.” His chest is too tight. His vision is too sharp, too focused on the way you’re watching him, on the doubt in your eyes. His jaw clenches as he looks at you again, searching, pleading. He forces the words out, desperate.

“But you’ve got to trust me.”

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Tim watches you. Scrutinizes every tiny shift in your expression, every flicker in your eyes, every breath you take.

You aren’t responding.

You aren’t saying anything.

Your eyes dart slightly downward, like you’re processing, debating, deciding. The way your fingers slowly uncurl from his sleeve before settling against your own lap.

And suddenly, Tim knows.

He knows you think he’s lost it.

Just like Dick.

Just like everyone else.

His breathing hitches slightly, panic creeping up his throat. He tries to fight it down, tries to swallow it back, but he can feel his pulse racing, his hands trembling slightly where they’re clenched into fists.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if you—

“…Okay.”

Tim stills.

“I believe you.”

His stomach drops.

His mind goes blank.

“What?”

You hold his gaze, expression unreadable. “You’ve proven to me so many times that nothing is really what it seems. That there’s always more to a truth. More to a fact.” You exhale. “And if you say that Bruce… somehow… is still alive?” Your voice softens. “If you really believe that, then maybe—just maybe—you’re right.”

Tim doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

He can’t.

His mind is blank, wiped clean, like he just walked into an ambush he should’ve seen coming but somehow didn’t.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know how to say anything at all.

He can’t process what just happened, can’t process what you just said, can’t process the fact that—

You believe him.

You actually believe him.

And suddenly, before he can stop himself, before he can even think—

He’s pulling you into a hug.

You barely have time to react before his arms wrap tightly around you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, his grip desperate, almost painful, his fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like you might disappear if he lets go.

His voice is rough, barely more than a whisper.

“Thank you.”

It’s not enough.

It’s not enough to convey what this means to him, what you mean to him, but it’s all he can manage.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You just return the hug, solid and grounding and warm, and the feeling of it—the reality of it—hits Tim all at once, makes his chest feel too full, makes his eyes burn slightly, makes his throat ache with something he doesn’t know how to name. His heart is still hammering, but for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like it’s suffocating him.

After a long moment, your voice murmurs against his ear.

“So… what are you going to do now?”

Tim swallows, pulling back slightly. He meets your eyes, searching for something—he doesn’t even know what.

“I’m not sure.”

You watch him, knowing. “I can tell you’re planning to leave.”

Tim lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Hah. Maybe…” He smirks faintly, something bitter in the curve of his lips. “But you know I’ll always come back, though, right?”

You sigh, shaking your head.

“You better,” you mutter. Then, softer, “And take care of yourself.”

Tim holds your gaze, memorizing every detail, every flicker of warmth, every ounce of trust.

He nods.

And this time—

He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

lowkey self indulged with this lol 😅🫣 tim was really going through it in the comics during this period but hey! at least it gave us Red Robin Tim Drake 🤭

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass @lithiumval @thephantomdanny @eli-mayhaveatencats @rockyeatrock @dreaming-of-the-reality @shirp-collector-of-fixations @gneepgnorpsneepsnorp @skerbablo @dind1n | ask to be added <3

#batsis #batfamily #batfam x batsis #batfam x reader #batsisreader #tim drake x sister reader #tim drake angst #tim drake hurt/comfort #tim drake x reader #tim drake #x reader #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #platonic batfam #platonic batfam x reader #rizzanon

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enhard · 5 months ago

Text

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:

MEAN!JUNGWON X FEM!READER

(i accidentally deleted their request but i have a pic of it i hope the person knows who they are🙏)

pairing: bf!y.jw x fem!reader

cw: SMUT , fluff at the end, blowjob, rough sex, pet names, unprotected sex, creampie, very jealous won, mean sex, everything is consensual, muscle won🫦

thank u sm for this request anon!! i’ve been thinking about this and it is so sexy and perfect hopefully i wrote what u expected </3

“You’re home!” you exclaim, seeing your boyfriend enter your apartment. You’re innocently sitting on your couch, just wearing his hoodie with nothing but your underwear on underneath. He hits you with a cold “hey” before taking his shoes off. Your smile wipes off your face instantly, not understanding what’s wrong with him.

“Did.. something happen, won?” you say a little worried.

You can see him rolling his eyes at your words while taking his jacket off, revealing his contoured arm muscles. “You’re gonna act like you’re clueless?” he asks.

You ponder on his words, slowly crossing your arms. You furrow your eyebrows a bit, trying your best to make eye contact. He completely avoids eye contact though.

“Clueless… about what.. I don’t understand.” you sigh.

“Well you know, since you wanna act like you don’t know anything, today I found out that you went to the mall with Sunghoon. You forgot that?” he spits out.

You freeze a little. Two days ago you went out to a shop with Sunghoon just so you could waste time. Your boyfriend was busy at the time and Sunghoon offered to take you there… You’re just friends though.

“Jungwon… There’s nothing going on between us. We just went as friends.” you say hesitant.

“Oh yeah? then why didn’t you tell me anything?” he slowly walks towards the couch.

“I didn’t think it was that important…” you say with half a mouth.

He walks in front of you, smacking his hand against the couch arm making you flinch. “Did you enjoy his presence more than mine? Huh? Does he kiss you better than me?” you look at him in disbelief, your heartbeat getting faster.

“What?… Jungwon… I only love you. I’d never cheat on you. Sunghoon and I are just friends.” you really cross your arms now, looking at him a little pissed.

He grabs onto your jaw, keeping your head locked to his eyes. “I’m gonna put you in your place, and you tell me if he could ever fuck you like I will right now.”

You grab onto his arm, trying to make him loosen his grip on your face but to no avail. You lift yourself up to sit on your knees, and he follows your movements with his hand. “Won…” you look up at him with pleading eyes while biting the inside of your cheek.

“Stop looking at me like that or I might just rip these clothes off you.” he says in a low voice.

His words are so hot for no damn reason, he went from being upset at you to this in a split second, how could you even react? You just had to play along, those muscles alone did something to you.

“What’s stopping you from ripping them?” you ask a little pouty.

“That bratty mouth, might need to shut you up first.” he says, rubbing his thumb over your lips. You constantly look up at him, but your hands move to his belt right away. Once he sees what you’re doing, he releases the grasp on your face finally, your cheeks more swollen than before. He stares down at you, licking his lips.

You quickly take off his belt, throwing it across the room. You continue with his tight pants sliding them down to his knees. He gently grabs onto your hair as you palm his dick through his boxers. After you see how serious he looks at you, you act fast; taking his boxers off to see his cock spring up for you. You grab the base of it, leaning it to take the pink tip in your mouth. After his tip makes contact with your tongue, he’s quick to push your head forward, making you take his whole length in one go. You choke slightly, grabbing onto his thighs.

“If your mouth is so big to talk back to me, it can take my dick too, right?”

You nod with tears in your eyes. He slowly pulls out, thrusting back into your mouth with full force making you moan on his dick. Then he goes again. And again. And again.

“That’s what your mouth is good for. You’re taking it so well.” he says, picking up his pace.

You already can’t take it anymore, leaking saliva everywhere. You make a sortiment of different muffled sounds, trying to make him to atleast let you breathe but he loves it too much now. He fucks your mouth a few more times before pulling out. His goal wasn’t to cum, he just wanted to teach you a lesson. He grabs your neck now, watching your saliva run down your chin and on your knees.

“See now you can behave, why do you love being a brat just when i’m mad?” he says, slapping your face with his other hand. The sound of the smack echoes.

“I-I’m sorry… i’ll listen to you now..” you look at him, more desperate for his cock than ever.

He takes his shirt off, and slides off his pants off fully before moving to you. He smiles in his mind seeing that hoodie of his on you, but he’s never been more excited to take it off. Luckily you wore no bra that day, so the sight immediately blinded him. He leans in to kiss your nipples, switching between them every kiss or so.

He immediately moves his hands down your abdomen to the hem of your panties. He makes you spread your legs so he can get between them, ripping your panties apart with one strong movement. You just variate between looking at his hands and his pretty face. He throws the pieces of fabric on the floor, spitting on his fingers to rub your pussy with. You grab onto your knees tightly, getting ready to take him.

He leans in to give you a heated kiss, biting your lip in the process. He positions his dick, getting ready to thrust into you.

He gets his whole length in, in one go, making you gasp. He begins his heavy thrusts, pounding you into the couch cushion with each one. “I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget all about him.” He says, leaning in to bury his head into your neck. He goes faster and faster, grabbing onto your waist. He’s completely destroying your insides with his rough thrusts, you could feel his anger and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Such.. a whore. You’re all mine, understand?”

“Fuck… Jungwon… please.. i’m only yours.” you moan out, and that determines him to lift your legs up to his shoulders. He gets so deep inside you, it’s making you dizzy.

He sits up again, using his thumb on your clit making you shake a little. “S..stop I’m gonna…” you cry.

“You’re gonna.. what? Hm? Tell me love, let me hear you.” he circles your clit faster.

“won… ‘m gonna cum… please…plea..” you say, shutting your eyes.

“Aww.. already? can’t my brat handle any more? cum for me.” he says, squeezing your clit.

You snap right there with loud moans. You cum all over his dick, laying there helpless.

He pulls out, easily pulling you on your hands and knees. He begins thrusting into you again from the back, giving your ass smacks every now and then. He lifts one of your legs up just to get in deeper.

You cry out curses and groans while he picks up his pace again. “Look at you, bent over just for me. That’s right. Mine. Don’t ever let me see you with anyone again or I might need to mark what’s mine.” he moans too.

His words make you grab the couch as well as you can, clenching around him like hell. His back arches feeling your sudden tightness, barely being able to go on. “You’re gonna make me cum… fuck that pussy’s so good.” he continues. After a few more thrusts he goes crazy, cumming inside you instantly with more hot moans from him.

He pulls out, letting you finally rest. He turns you back around, pulling you into a tight embrace. He gives you a sweet kiss, moving down to give your shoulders a few kisses too. You both regather your thoughts, and he finally cleans you up and dresses you into some comfortable clothes. “I’m sorry for being so rough on you, my love…” he says embarrassed and you smile. “Don’t worry, you’re so fucking attractive when you’re pissed off.”

You slowly get wrapped into his arms, and he gives you endless kisses. You end up cuddling in your bed while feeding each other snacks. “I love you.” He whispers, on the verge of falling asleep. You run your fingers through his hair, giving him a small peck on the tip of his nose. “I love you more, now rest Wonie, you have a long day tomorrow.” you say softly.

“Don’t care… as long as you’re there with me…” he says, half asleep. You smile, continuing your head massage. He ends up falling asleep in your arms, and you drift off to sleep not long after.

a/n: definitely had fun with this, a little shorter than i thought but u can just call this a drabble sidjejiss thank u anon <33

#kpop #kpop bg #enhypen #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enhypen scenarios #jungwon smut #jungwon scenarios #yang jungwon #jungwon #enhypen x reader #enhypen jungwon #jungwon x reader

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sosa2imagines · 4 months ago

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Finding you again... Part 1

Warning- Hydra, torture, slap, mentions of kidnapping, getting stabbed, angst.

You don’t remember how long you’ve been here. Days, months, years, it all blends into a blur of sterile hallways and cold, fluorescent lighting. You were taken by Hydra, forced into their web of control and obedience.

You were nothing but a tool to them, a pawn in their game Alexander Pierce made it clear from the start, you were to obey, to serve their cause, and above all, to ensure his weapon was maintained.

The Winter Soldier.

They called him that, never by a name, never as a person. To them, he was a machine, a tool to be used and discarded.

But to you?

To you, he was more than that. Beneath the blank stares, the mechanical precision, and the programmed responses, you saw fragments of something else. Someone else.

The first time they let you care for him, you had whispered, “You’re not a machine. You're human.” He didn’t react, but you saw it, a flicker of something deep within those stormy blue eyes. A spark. It was enough to make you believe he was still in there, buried under layers of pain and conditioning.

Days passed, and despite the cold treatment from others, you treated him with kindness, offering soft words, gentle touches, and, when no one was watching, a bit of warmth that had long since been stripped from him. You tended to his wounds, cleaned the blood from his hands, and tried to remind him, in the smallest ways, that he wasn't alone.

But as you tended to his wounds and cared for his needs, you couldn't help but see glimpses of the man he used to be. The Winter Soldier was a blank slate, a weapon without a past, but you could sense that somewhere deep inside him, a spark of humanity remained. Every stolen glance, every subtle movement, and every whispered word you shared felt like a small victory over the darkness that had consumed him.

As the days turned into weeks, your bond grew stronger. You found yourself talking to him, telling him stories, and sharing bits and pieces of your own life. He rarely responded, but you could see that he was listening, that he was taking in every word you said. The blankness in his eyes seemed a little less empty, and his touch, while still mechanical, felt a bit gentler, as if he was carefully testing the waters of human connection.

One night, as you were checking his injuries, you noticed his hand was trembling slightly. A rare show of vulnerability. You gently took his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers with his. For the first time, he didn't pull away. Instead, he held on, his grip firm, as if he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.

In those silent moments, the world outside faded away. You could almost forget that you were trapped in this labyrinth of pain and control. You could almost see a future where he wasn't a weapon, and you weren't a prisoner. But deep down, you knew that this fragile connection could easily be shattered by a single order from Alexander Pierce.

And you were right, because Hydra was relentless.

One day, after a failed mission, the air in the control room was tense. Pierce was furious. The Winter Soldier sat stoically in the center, still bloodied, from the bridge fight with Captain America and his friends. His chest heaved slightly, his face an unreadable mask, but you knew he was processing, trying to make sense of what he saw, of who he saw.

“Who was the man on the bridge?” Pierce's voice was sharp, grating.

The Soldier said nothing, eyes downcast.

Pierce stepped forward, the sound of his polished shoes echoing in the room. Without hesitation, his hand flew, striking the Soldier hard across the face. The crack of impact made your stomach churn, but the Soldier didn’t flinch, just sat there, accepting it like he always did.

That was the moment something inside you snapped.

“Stop it!” you blurted out before you could think. The entire room fell silent. Pierce turned slowly, his cold, calculating eyes narrowing in on you.

“What did you say?” His voice was deadly quiet, but you stood your ground.

“I said stop it…” you repeated, stepping between them. “He’s done enough. He’s been through enough. He’s not a machine, sir, and you know it!”

Pierce’s lips curled into a cruel smile, his amusement short-lived. “Ah,” he mused, circling you like a predator, “I see the little pet has grown some claws.” Without warning, he struck. A flash of silver, the sting of cold steel against your skin.

You gasped, your scream getting stuck in your throat, staggering backward as pain blossomed across your stomach. A deep, searing cut traced from just below your belly to the very edge of your panties, the fabric dampening with blood almost instantly. You clutched your abdomen, vision blurring as you sank to your knees.

The Soldier didn’t move, didn’t react, not yet. Not until Pierce barked, “Wipe him!”

The technicians stepped in, forcing him into the chair, metal restraints clamping down around his limbs. He didn’t fight, but his eyes met yours just before the device powered up. A flash of recognition, a sliver of something almost… concerned. Then the light enveloped him, and just like that, whatever was left of him was gone.

You tried to focus through the haze of pain, tried to stay conscious as Pierce loomed over you with a smirk. “Let’s see how well he takes orders, shall we?” he said before turning to the now-blank Soldier.

“Stitch her up.”

The Soldier stood, moving with mechanical precision, collecting the medical kit from the table. You wanted to protest, to push him away, but you couldn't. Instead, you watched through half-lidded eyes as he knelt beside you, his metal hand pressing you down, keeping you still. His flesh hand hovered over your wound, steady and unfeeling.

As he threaded the needle and began stitching your torn skin with clinical efficiency, you couldn't help but whisper, voice trembling, “You’re still in there... I know it...”

He didn’t respond. His hands moved without hesitation, each pull of the thread sealing the wound but leaving your heart aching. The man you’d come to believe in, the one you saw glimmers of hope within, was gone, wiped clean like a slate.

But even as the pain pulled you into darkness, you held onto one thought.

You wouldn’t give up on him. Not now. Not ever.

Your Winter.

Part 2-

Taglist- @imyourbratzdoll @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

@differenttyphoonwerewolf @vicmc624 @thezombieprostitute @nekoannie-chan

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@pono-pura-vida @renegadesgirl1991 @iwudbutnah @ghalouha @sebastians-love @saranghaey @greatmistakes @baw1066

@bucks-babe @lolzies123r @kandis-mom @purplecolordeer @avioletkurt

@pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss @kpopgirlbtssvt @baw1066 @leviackerman2030

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nkogneatho · 27 days ago

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𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔

a/n: as i said in my prev dbf gojo drabble, i am experimenting different plots and build up since i am slwoly getting back in writing again. your feedback is so valuable to me so lmk how it is. i'll post the smut for every fic once i am sure the style is working for me.

part 2

The bathroom is thick with steam, warm and close, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel a little more intimate. The water’s already running when you step in, the sound a steady thrum against tile, but it’s Toji that steals your attention.

He’s standing under the spray, head tilted slightly back, water running down the sharp cut of his jaw and disappearing along the lines of his chest. His hair’s slicked back, darker than usual, and when he glances over at you, that familiar smirk curls at the edges of his mouth.

You step in without thinking. The heat of the shower hits you instantly, pulling a soft sigh from your lips as your muscles begin to uncoil. Toji doesn’t say anything. He just watches as you close the space between you, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark.

Your fingers reach out first, brushing across his chest. The soap’s still clinging to his skin in little patches, and without a word, you start to help him. Slow, gentle movements, running your hands down his torso, over the dips and ridges of hard-earned muscle. He lets you touch him, doesn’t move except for the occasional twitch when your fingertips graze somewhere sensitive.

You glance up at him and smile, mischievous. You trail your fingers lightly over his ribs, just to see if he’ll react.

Nothing.

“Seriously?” you pout, trying again. “Not even a little flinch?”

He lifts a brow, that damn smirk growing. “You forget how much shit I’ve taken to the gut?”

You roll your eyes but laugh, leaning into him as his hands come to rest on your hips. He shifts the soap between his palms and starts to lather you up, fingers gliding across your skin with a kind of casual precision that sends goosebumps trailing down your arms.

He starts at your shoulders. Down your arms. Across your collarbones. He’s not rushing. He’s taking his time, and you feel it in every careful drag of his palms. When he reaches your waist, his thumbs dip just a little lower than necessary, lingering at the waistband of nothing.

Your breath hitches.

“You good?” he asks, too innocently.

“You’re messing with me,” you murmur, your voice soft and shaky.

He grins. “Obviously.”

You try to move, maybe say something snarky, but his hands grip your thighs and he lifts you before you can think. Your back hits the tiled wall with a wet thud, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and suddenly the air feels a lot heavier.

The only thing you can hear is the water, and the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears.

Toji leans in, his mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, then down your neck. The stubble on his chin scrapes just enough to make you gasp, and his lips follow in slow, heated presses. You tilt your head without even realizing it, giving him more, because it feels too good not to.

“You really let me pick the worst places to tease you,” he purrs against your throat.

“You're the one who started—anh!” but your words fall apart when he bites down just enough to make your stomach flip.

His hips press forward and your breath stutters. You’re suddenly all too aware of just how little space there is between you. The heat of him, the water, the air, it’s all blurring together into something dizzying.

He kisses you then, full and slow. Not gentle. Not rushed. Just deep and consuming, like he’s pouring all the words he won’t say into it. One of his hands stays at your waist, the other gripping your thigh tight enough to leave a mark, anchoring you to him while he keeps kissing you like he’s starving.

You moan softly into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders as your body rocks against his. It’s not even deliberate, it’s instinct. He groans against your lips, low and rough, and you feel it all the way through your core.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, lips wet.

“You really wanna keep playing?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You meet his gaze, flush blooming across your chest, teeth dragging across your lower lip. “Maybe I want you to stop teasing and just ruin me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs under his breath. dark and amused. and dips his head again, this time with no hesitation.

“Say less.”

And just like that, everything dissolves into steam, into skin, into hands pulling and mouths claiming. Nothing else matters at this point. Just the two of you, with your bodies tangled, your hearts racing, the sound of the water fading into the background as everything gets a little messier, a little hotter, and a lot more passionate.

#jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #toji fluff #jjk x reader #toji x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #toji x y/n #toji smut #jjk fluff #jjk toji #fushiguro toji #fushiguro toji x reader

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yo-ri-su-ki · 2 months ago

Note

Hello, how are you? This is my first time here and I would like to know how to make a request if it is okay and if you feel comfortable.

I'm wondering how Vergil would react to Reader, who is half human and half angel, coming to him and asking for help combing her wings, since they are heavy and she keeps them inside her body as a tattoo on her back. But she uses them in battle to help with agility and combat. However, she can't keep them in a hurry for too long because the feathers get tangled and often get knotted. She keeps them hidden because she has suffered from people who have tried to pull or even rip off her wings. She opens and combs them and is liberating, but there are places she can't reach and everyone in the DMC building left. However, not everyone...

Thank you and have a good weekend 😊☺️

Unfurling Feathers

Vergil Sparda x Female!Reader

An: URGHHH THIS IS AN AMAZING IDEAAA I SHOULD'VE THOUGHT OF THISSSSS

The hum of the city outside the Devil May Cry building faded into a dull murmur, muted by the thick walls and the lingering weight of a long day. The clang of weapons being cleaned had gone silent. Nero had left hours ago with a grin and a joke about getting drunk before Kyrie dragged him home. Lady and Trish had followed, bickering about who had the highest demon body count this week.

You were alone.

Or so you thought.

Steam curled in wisps around you, the hot water from the shower doing little to ease the tight ache in your back. Your fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the base of your neck, where the inked tattoo stretched across your shoulder blades in the shape of folded wings. The dark design shimmered faintly, alive with hidden magic, pulsing with the desire to unfurl.

You drew a steady breath and whispered the command.

The tattoo rippled—then burst outward in a sudden, silent motion. Feathers, long and glowing with subtle gold, blossomed from your back like petals from a sealed bud. The weight of them hit you like a second spine. Always heavier than you remembered, always aching with the effort of staying hidden inside flesh and ink.

You exhaled shakily.

Stretching them felt like stretching parts of yourself that weren’t meant to be seen. Not here. Not anymore.

You stepped into the lounge slowly, towel tucked tight around your body, your wings half-draped behind you. Each movement stirred a fresh tangle in the feathers. Your hands worked at the knots carefully, trying to untangle the ones you could see—brushing, tugging, whispering soft apologies when one snapped under your fingers.

You couldn’t reach the worst parts. The ones near the top. The base. The inner curve.

Frustration burned behind your eyes.

You used your wings in battle for speed, evasion, sudden aerial bursts that gave you the edge in combat—and every time, they ended up matted. Twisted. You never had time to properly tend to them. You couldn’t. People stared. People touched. Some even tried to rip them out.

You clenched your fists at the memory. The feeling of claws, chains, greedy hands—

Footsteps.

Your heart stopped.

Vergil stepped into the doorway, Yamato glinting faintly at his hip, his long coat dusted from whatever training he had just finished. His silver hair was loose at the tips, slightly mussed in a way that should’ve been impossible for someone so controlled. His sharp blue eyes landed on you—and the wings.

You froze.

Neither of you spoke.

His gaze didn’t travel down your body, didn’t flinch at your half-state of dress. He only stared at your wings.

You opened your mouth, hesitated. “I… I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

He blinked slowly. “The others left. I remained behind to meditate.”

Of course he did.

You swallowed hard. “I… I know this is strange, but—”

“You are in pain,” he said plainly.

You stiffened.

“It’s not… nothing I can’t handle,” you lied, brushing at another knotted feather that made you wince.

“You cannot reach the base.” He took a step closer, voice quieter now. “May I?”

You looked at him, stunned. Of all people, you had never imagined asking Vergil for help with something so… personal. Your wings were a part of your soul. You had only ever let one person touch them before—and they had betrayed you.

But Vergil didn’t move any closer. He waited, eyes unreadable.

You nodded.

He gestured for you to sit on the couch, and you did, folding your wings forward slightly to allow him access to the tangle of feathers near your shoulders.

His touch was… unexpected.

Gentle. Deliberate. Not clinical, but precise. As if he understood instinctively what not to do. He combed through with fingers like blades dulled to velvet, smoothing through the feathers, loosening knots with slow, practiced care.

“I have read that angelic feathers are sensitive to both pain and memory,” he murmured. “They store remnants of emotion. Is that true?”

You nodded slowly, voice soft. “Yes. Some call it a curse.”

“A burden, perhaps.” His fingers paused on a particularly thick knot. “But not a curse.”

He worked in silence for a while, untangling each section with unwavering patience.

“…You’ve done this before,” you said finally.

“I’ve trained with beings who had wings,” he replied. “Long ago. I learned how they function. What they carry.”

His hand brushed the base of your wing, and you flinched. Not from pain—but something deeper. An echo of fear.

He stilled.

“I won’t harm you.”

You looked over your shoulder. He wasn’t even looking at your body. Just the feathers. As if they were something sacred.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… don’t let anyone see them, usually.”

“Why?”

“Because when they do, they try to take them.”

Vergil was silent.

Then, very softly: “Fools. They see only beauty. Not the strength it takes to carry them.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He resumed combing, slower now. With reverence.

Minutes passed. You felt your heart beating too fast, your wings lighter than they’d been in months. Your eyes prickled.

When he finally stopped, your feathers were smooth. Gleaming. You hadn’t realized how much pain you’d been in until it was gone.

“Thank you,” you said. “I didn’t expect… I didn’t think you’d help.”

He stepped back. “You did not ask anyone else.”

You blinked.

“I was the one you trusted.” His eyes met yours. “Do not doubt the wisdom in that.”

You turned fully now, your wings folding behind you with a grace that surprised even you.

Vergil’s gaze lingered.

Not on your body.

On your wings.

Then—so softly you barely heard it—he said, “They are… beautiful.”

And he left the room before you could ask if he meant just the feathers.

Or all of you.

You didn’t see him for three days.

Not that you were keeping track. Not that it bothered you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But every time you walked past the lounge, you remembered his hands—how they’d moved through your feathers like he wasn’t afraid of touching something sacred. Like he understood that pain could be quiet, that softness could be armored.

You still felt the ghost of his touch when you stretched your wings, still found your breath catching when you thought of the way he’d said beautiful.

You should’ve said something. You should’ve asked what he meant.

But Vergil was Vergil. Elusive. Sharp-edged. As unreadable as a locked gate to an old library filled with ancient regrets. You didn’t pry. You didn’t beg. But something had shifted. And you weren’t sure if he felt it too.

---

The fourth night, you found him on the roof.

Moonlight silvered his coat, and the wind tugged gently at his hair as he stood there with his eyes closed, arms crossed, Yamato glowing faintly at his side.

You stepped forward quietly.

“You always train in the dark?” you asked.

He didn’t turn around.

“It is quiet up here.”

You took a breath, stepping beside him. “Thank you again. For helping me the other day. I never got to say that properly.”

He opened his eyes. “You already did.”

“Yes, but…” You hesitated. “Not like this. Not face-to-face. I don’t… usually let people see me like that. Not just the wings. The rest of it.”

His eyes flickered over to you.

“And what is the rest of it?”

You looked at the stars. “Vulnerability. Trust. Needing help.”

His silence stretched, but it wasn’t cold.

“…You are not weak for needing someone,” he said finally. “Strength and solitude are not the same.”

That surprised you.

“I thought you believed the opposite.”

Vergil turned to face you fully now. “Once, perhaps. But solitude becomes a cage when you build it high enough.”

You couldn’t stop the soft sound that left your throat. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition.

You let your wings bloom again, this time slow, deliberate. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His gaze remained steady as they unfurled beside you, stretching wide into the night air. The wind caught in them, and for a moment, you felt weightless.

You saw his fingers twitch faintly—like he wanted to reach again. Like he remembered.

“…Would you like to touch them again?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His expression didn’t change, but you saw the faintest trace of tension leave his shoulders.

“If you’ll allow it.”

You stepped closer.

He reached out.

And this time, he touched them not with caution—but with something like familiarity. His fingers brushed gently through the outer feathers, curling slightly where they caught in the breeze. You shivered, but not from the cold.

“They’re warmer tonight,” he said softly.

“So is the moonlight,” you replied.

His hand lingered, then rested just at the joint where wing met shoulder. It was a place no one had ever touched before—at least, not without pain. But here, now… it felt like trust made flesh.

“Have you ever flown?” he asked.

“Not in a long time.”

He stepped behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his body along your spine. “Then let me watch when you do.”

You turned your head slightly. “You want to see me fly?”

“I want to see you unbound.”

Your breath caught.

Vergil’s hand left your wing then—but his fingers brushed against your own, a silent echo of what might come later.

---

Some time later…

You find a letter left in your room, sealed with his calligraphy—neat, sharp strokes of ink:

“I find myself dwelling not on your power… but on the peace I felt, combing your wings in silence. I do not understand it. But I want to. If you are willing.”

You reread it three times.

Then you smiled.

You were falling.

And he was beginning to reach.

The next morning, the rain had passed, and the sky cracked open into soft gold.

You stood on the same rooftop where Vergil had trained nights before, your wings extended, your bare feet curled against the cool stone. The city below moved on in its usual noisy chaos—unaware of the weight pressing on your shoulders. The ache in your back had faded, soothed by his touch, by his words.

You hadn’t flown in years.

Not since the last time you were hunted.

But Vergil's words echoed in your chest, deeper than marrow:

“Then let me watch when you do. I want to see you unbound.”

And for the first time, you wanted to be seen.

---

He didn’t speak when he joined you. No footsteps. Just a familiar shift in the air, a presence at your back that brought calm instead of fear.

You turned slightly. “You came.”

“I said I would.” His eyes roamed the curve of your wings—not with hunger or awe, but with a kind of reverence, quiet and grounded.

You looked out toward the sky, jaw tight. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know.”

“What if I fall?”

He stepped closer.

“Then I will catch you.”

The words were simple.

But they settled inside you like truth.

You stepped to the edge. The wind brushed your face, curling in your hair, dancing between feathers that now gleamed from careful untangling.

You exhaled.

Then you leapt.

For one terrifying heartbeat, you dropped.

Then—your wings caught.

Not as smooth as they used to be, not yet—but strong. They beat once. Twice.

Then the air lifted you.

The world tilted away as you rose into the sky.

Wind rushed past you like laughter. The sun hit your face and filled your chest with something like joy—and something dangerously close to freedom. You circled once, then twice, higher now, your wings responding like second nature. You laughed—a sound you hadn’t made in too long.

Below, Vergil watched.

He stood still, head tilted up, the faintest trace of something like awe softening the hard line of his mouth.

You swooped low, flying over him in a gentle arc. Your shadow passed over his face—and for just a second, your eyes met his.

And he smiled.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold.

It was quiet. Almost reverent.

You landed gently moments later, stumbling slightly—but he was there instantly, steadying you with one hand at your back, the other bracing your arm.

“You flew,” he said softly.

“I did.”

You looked up at him, breathing hard.

“I didn’t think I could anymore. Not really.”

He studied you with something unreadable in his eyes—then leaned in.

And kissed your forehead.

It was brief. Chaste. But deliberate.

You felt your breath catch.

“I am glad I was here to witness it,” he said. “Even angels deserve to remember their sky.”

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!

An: TYSMM IM SORRY I COULDN'T MAKE IT SOONER, AS I SAID I'M VERY SICK!! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING LOVE YOU MWAAAH

#devil may cry #dmc #yo ri su ki #fanfic #heh...#vergil x reader #what...#dmc vergil

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ankababy · 4 months ago

Text

A Home (part 7)

Part 1 Part 6 Part 8

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

You couldn’t avoid this forever, could you Y/N?

(TW: murder, manipulation, vomiting and Y/N’s heart breaking)

Niragi dragged his feet into the living room, shoulders loose with sleep, hair a little messy from however he crashed last night. His eyes were half-lidded as he adjusted to the light, then flickered toward the kitchen.

There you were. Already awake, moving around, hands busy with something. He watched as you grabbed a plate, then shifted to the stove, fluid and soft in all your little movements. You were too fucking light on your feet, too gentle for this world. It was like watching a ghost move through a home that didn’t belong to them.

“You’re up early.” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

You turned to look at him, smiling—because of course you did, because you were you. “Wanted to make sure you guys wake up to breakfast.” you said. “Since you played yesterday.”

Niragi scoffed, padding into the kitchen with a roll of his eyes. “Played.” he repeated, mocking. “You say it like it’s a fucking card game or some shit.”

You shrugged, unbothered, returning to your task. “It is, isn’t it? A game.”

He exhaled sharply, like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t be bothered. “Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You hummed, grabbing something off the counter. “I don’t sleep well anyway.” you admitted easily. “You guys do, though. That’s good.”

Niragi leaned against the counter, eyeing you. “You’re fucking weird, you know that?”

You smiled again, unshaken. “I know.”

God, that annoyed him. The way you never reacted the way you were supposed to. The way you didn’t take the bait, didn’t flinch, didn’t get all stiff and quiet when he tried to be an asshole. He was an asshole. He knew that. He wanted people to hate him, to push back, to give him a reason to hate them back.

But you? You just stood there, making food like some housewife, treating him like a person even though he’d given you every reason not to.

He didn’t get it.

Didn’t get you.

And that made him want to push you more. Break you open, see what was underneath all that fucking warmth.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” he said, tilting his head at you.

You just blinked at him. “Do what?”

“This. Acting like you give a shit.”

Your expression didn’t change, didn’t waver. “I do give a shit, Niragi.”

Something in his jaw tensed. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.

You weren’t lying. He could tell. That was the worst part.

You turned back to what you were doing, calm as ever, as if Niragi’s words hadn’t just tried to scratch at something under your skin. Like always, they didn’t land.

“Sit down.” you told him lightly, motioning with your chin toward the table.

He just stood there, staring at you, like he was trying to figure out if he wanted to listen to you or not.

After a few seconds, he clicked his tongue and dropped himself into one of the chairs with a sigh, legs sprawled, posture lazy. He leaned back, watching you.

You set something to cook, then turned around, leaning your lower back against the counter and folding your arms loosely over your stomach.

“How’d you get along with Chishiya yesterday?”

Niragi’s expression immediately soured. “Get along?” He scoffed. “The fuck are you talking about? I tolerated him, if that’s what you mean.”

You smiled. “That bad?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing at his temple. “Fucking guy is annoying. Stares too much. Doesn’t fucking talk unless he’s got some smug little comment to throw at you.” He shook his head. “Like a little rat with a superiority complex.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of words for ‘we didn’t kill each other.’”

Niragi’s eyes flicked to yours, narrowing. “You want us to get along or something?”

You gave a soft shrug. “Not really. Just curious.”

He clicked his tongue again, shifting in his seat. “Yeah, well. He’s an asshole.”

You didn’t argue with that. You knew that already. Knew both of them were, in their own ways.

Still, you watched him for a moment, noting the way he spoke about Chishiya—annoyed, sure, but not furious. Not hateful.

“You didn’t hate having him there, though.” you pointed out, eyes soft but knowing.

His brows furrowed. “What?”

You tilted your head, your expression thoughtful. “You’re talking like you hate his guts, but you don’t actually sound as mad as you should be if that were the case. Like, I don’t know… Maybe it wasn’t that bad, having him as backup.”

His face twisted in something like irritation, but you could see his mind turning behind his eyes. “Tch. Don’t be stupid. I would’ve done fine without him.”

“I’m sure.” you said easily. “But still. He was there.”

Niragi exhaled sharply, looking away like he was done with this conversation.

You smiled.

That was an answer in itself.

Silence settled between the two of you for a moment, the only sounds in the room being the quiet cooking noises from the stove. Niragi tapped his fingers on the table idly, eyes flicking toward you every now and then, like he was expecting you to say something.

And you did. But not about Chishiya.

“You didn’t have a lot of people watching your back before, did you?”

He stilled.

You didn’t push. Didn’t clarify. Just let the words hang there, weightless, giving him the space to take them however he wanted.

After a long moment, he leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to the side with a lazy sort of smirk. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

You smiled back, unbothered. “I am smart, Niragi.”

He didn’t answer your question. But he didn’t need to.

Because if he had people watching his back before, he wouldn’t be like this. Wouldn’t need to push people away first, just to make sure they couldn’t leave him behind. Wouldn’t have turned himself into something that nobody could get close to.

But here he was. Sitting at your table, eating your food, letting you talk to him like this.

And he hadn’t left.

You heard how Chishiya walked in, as quiet as ever, his presence only noticeable once he was there, lingering at the entrance like some kind of ghost. His hoodie was slightly rumpled, and his eyes immediately locked onto the scene in front of him.

You glanced over at Chishiya and smiled.

“Stop staring.” you teased, waving a hand at him. “Those pretty eyes are making me nervous. Just sit down already.”

Niragi’s expression immediately soured, his head snapping toward you like he just knew that you were going to say some shit that would piss him off.

And you did.

Because right as Niragi’s glare intensified, you hummed, tilting your head slightly and adding, “Your lips are pretty too, Niragi.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“What the fuck?” Niragi shot you a look of pure disgust, as if you had just committed some unspeakable crime right in front of him. “Don’t fucking say weird shit like that.”

Chishiya, meanwhile, just blinked. No real reaction, just a slow, measured look as he finally moved, stepping into the kitchen properly and taking a seat.

“Relax.” you said easily, looking at Niragi with a smile, putting his plate down in front of him. “I’m not hitting on either of you. Those were just the first things I noticed about you two, that’s all.”

Niragi still looked pissed, his brows furrowed like the very concept of you complimenting Chishiya in any way was personally offensive to him.

“Fucking bullshit.” he muttered, shaking his head and stabbing his fork into his food.

Chishiya, on the other hand, seemed mildly intrigued. He picked up the cup of tea you had placed in front of him, his gaze flicking to you as he lifted it to his lips. “The first things you noticed about us?” he echoed, his voice smooth and quiet, like he was picking apart your words just to see what was inside.

You hummed, nodding. “Mhm. First time I saw Niragi, I thought, wow, those are some really pretty lips for someone who runs his mouth so much.”

Niragi scowled. “Shut the fuck up.”

You ignored him, your attention shifting to Chishiya. “And you,” you continued, tilting your head slightly. “your eyes stood out to me first. They’re just… really nice to look at. And intense. Kind of like you could see through people.”

Chishiya didn’t respond right away. Just watched you.

You met his gaze without hesitation, soft and unbothered, because you meant it. None of this was flattery—just observations. Just things you had noticed about them right away, things that had stuck in your mind.

Chishiya’s lips curled slightly at the edges, the smallest hint of amusement flickering through his eyes. “And what about you?” he asked, setting his cup down. “What do you think people notice first about you?”

You blinked at the question, caught a little off guard. Then, after a moment, you shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably that I talk too much.”

Niragi snorted. “Yeah, no fucking shit.”

You gave him a look but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

Still, you turned back to Chishiya, your voice softer now. “But if I had to guess?” You exhaled lightly, thinking. “Maybe that I’m… kind. Or at least, that’s what I hope people notice.”

Chishiya’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, as if considering something.

You didn’t press him.

Niragi, however, made a disgusted noise, shaking his head. “Ugh, fucking stop.” he muttered. “This shit is giving me a headache.”

You laughed, light and warm. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop.” you said, finally pushing off the counter and moving toward them, setting down more food. “Just eat, both of you. You need it.”

Niragi muttered something under his breath, but he did eat.

Chishiya, too, lifted his utensils without complaint.

And you? You just smiled to yourself, watching them for a moment before settling down with your tea.

But then you scoffed, shaking your head as you watched Chishiya eat.

“Don’t eat like that.” you said, voice light, your eyes fixed on him.

Chishiya barely reacted, just flicked his gaze up to you, swallowing his bite of food before speaking. “Like what?”

“Like you can’t fucking see.” you shot back. “Your hair’s all in your face.”

And without hesitation, without overthinking it, you leaned over—close, warm—and gently tucked his hair behind his ears.

It was effortless. Natural. Like you would’ve done it for anyone.

Because you would’ve.

For a stranger on the street, for a friend, for someone you’d only just met. You weren’t selective with your kindness—it wasn’t calculated, wasn’t something you gave out only to people you deemed worthy.

You just were.

And that was what made it so strange.

Chishiya sat still beneath your touch, but he was aware of it, of the way your fingers brushed against his skin so easily, like it didn’t mean anything. And maybe to you, it really didn’t. Maybe you would do this for a homeless man, for someone bleeding out on the pavement, for a person who could offer you nothing in return.

That was the thing about you.

You were open. Too open.

Niragi made a disgusted noise, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, what is this? Babysitting?” he grumbled through a mouthful, chewing loudly just to be an ass. “If he can’t see his fucking food, he can deal with it himself.”

You barely spared Niragi a glance. “You’re just mad nobody’s tucking your hair back.” you said, smirking slightly before refocusing on Chishiya. “There. Now you don’t look like you’re eating through a curtain.”

Chishiya didn’t move right away. Didn’t blink, didn’t react. Just… existed there, watching you. “Hmph.”

That was it. No sharp retort, no sarcasm, no witty comeback. Just a small, noncommittal sound before he went right back to eating.

But Niragi? Oh, he hated this.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Niragi shot at Chishiya, eyebrows knitting together in irritation. “Say something, you weirdo.”

Chishiya didn’t even look at him. “What do you want me to say?”

“That was weird as shit.” Niragi spat. “Fucking act like a person.”

Chishiya did look at him then, lips twitching at the edges like he was mildly entertained by Niragi’s outburst. “Why?” he asked simply. “So you can sleep better at night?”

Niragi clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “God, you’re fucking insufferable.”

You only laughed, leaning back. “You’re both ridiculous.”

And yet, they were still here. Still sitting with you, still listening, still reacting.

And you? You were just sweet enough to make them stay.

You exhaled, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m playing today.”

Niragi barely paused mid-chew before scoffing, looking at you like you’d just told him the dumbest thing imaginable. “Are you fucking stupid?”

Chishiya, ever so observant, simply leaned back in his chair, stirring his tea, watching.

You tilted your head at Niragi. “I haven’t played in a while.” you said, tone light, as if that was all the explanation needed. “I should go before my visa gets too low.”

Niragi licked his teeth, clearly unimpressed. “And you’re going alone?”

You shrugged. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, my ass.” he shot back immediately. “You didn’t take me last time, so you’re not going without me this time.”

Ah.

There it was.

It wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about him—about his pride, about how you left without him before, how you chose to go alone instead of letting him come with you.

You bit back a knowing smile, tilting your head playfully. “Oh? Now you want to play with me?”

“I don’t fucking want to,” he corrected sharply “but if you’re going, then yeah, I am too.”

Well. That was easy.

So you turned to Chishiya. “What about you?”

He blinked slowly. “What about me?”

“Are you coming?” you asked, tone soft.

He wasn’t obligated to. You weren’t asking because you expected him to—this was different. Niragi had his own reasons, his own stubborn pride. But Chishiya?

You genuinely didn’t know why he would.

And yet—

“I suppose I could.”

That was all he said. No reasoning, no explanation. Just… an agreement.

You frowned slightly, leaning in with curiosity. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know.”

You studied him. “Then why?”

Chishiya didn’t answer immediately. He just watched you, like he was calculating something in that pretty head of his, before he finally offered, “Maybe I’m interested.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Interested?”

“In seeing how you do.” he clarified, though something in his tone suggested that wasn’t the full truth.

Still, it was something.

“Hah!” Niragi let out a sharp sound. “You’re so fucking weird, man.”

Chishiya didn’t look at him. “You’re still sitting here.”

Niragi sneered, biting into his food. “Whatever.”

You smiled to yourself, warmth spreading through your chest. “Well, then I guess we’re all going.”

Niragi clicked his tongue. “Guess so.”

Chishiya simply took another sip of tea.

The three of you were waiting, leaning against a cold, concrete wall, the looming neon game arena lights flickering overhead. You were between them naturally—Niragi to your right, arms crossed, chewing on his lip impatiently, and Chishiya to your left, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Excuse me.”

A voice.

A man, maybe around your age, stepping hesitantly toward you, awkward and nervous, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey.” he said, voice a little shaky, clearly unsure of himself. “I, uh, I just— I just wanted to say you’re really pretty, and I was wondering if, maybe, after the game, you’d wanna—”

You blinked, a little taken aback by the sudden confession, but before you could even register your reaction, you felt both Niragi and Chishiya shift.

Not toward him—no, just around you, subtle movements that felt like the equivalent of a pair of guard dogs raising their heads.

You could feel Niragi’s glare like a heatwave, practically burning a hole through the poor guy’s skull. Chishiya, on the other hand, didn’t move much—he didn’t have to. His presence was quiet, but it was there, his steady gaze landing on the guy with a look.

You, however, remained calm.

You smiled, soft and kind, tilting your head slightly. “That’s really sweet of you.”

The guy visibly perked up, looking a little hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you assured him, sincerity dripping from every word. “But I’m sorry, I don’t think I can. There’s just… a lot going on right now.”

His face fell slightly, but you reached out, giving his arm a gentle pat. “You’re sweet, though. I’m sure someone will say yes.”

That little bit of hope you gave him made him soften, a little more at ease despite the rejection. “Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks, anyway.”

And then he walked off, still awkward, but not crushed.

You had a way of doing that—letting people down without breaking them. Leaving them with a little bit of light, rather than just shutting the door completely.

It was kind.

It was you.

And it pissed Niragi off.

“The fuck was that?” he snapped, turning his glare onto you now, irritated. “Why didn’t you just tell him to fuck off?”

You blinked at him, confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” he scoffed. “he was wasting your time. That was pathetic.”

“He wasn’t hurting anyone.” you said simply, shrugging. “Why would I be mean to him?”

“Because he deserved it.” Niragi muttered, sneering. “You let him walk away thinking he had a fucking chance.”

You sighed, giving him a look. “And why is that a bad thing?”

Niragi opened his mouth, then shut it, clicking his tongue in frustration, before scoffing and looking away, muttering something under his breath.

You turned to Chishiya instead, tilting your head. “Do you think I should’ve been meaner?”

Chishiya blinked at you, then offered a lazy shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to Niragi.” you mused. “Why do you think that is?”

“Because he’s a fucking asshole.” Niragi snapped, irritated that you were analyzing him now. “Obviously.”

Chishiya smirked slightly. “Obviously.”

Niragi scowled. “Shut up.”

You just smiled, folding your arms as you leaned back against the wall again, between them like you belonged there.

Niragi liked to pretend he was untouchable. He built himself up as someone who didn’t care, someone above the rules, above consequences, above people. He wanted to be seen as violent, erratic, unpredictable—because fear kept people at a distance. It kept them in check. It made him untouchable.

And yet, underneath all that fire, all that psychotic bravado, all the teeth-baring and gun-slinging and joy he took in chaos—was something much uglier.

Insecurity.

It gnawed at him constantly.

He hated that he cared. He hated that he needed.

Because needing was weak.

Because the last time he needed, the last time he wanted, it got him nothing but pain.

The world never handed him anything freely, never offered him kindness without a price. If he wanted something, he had to take it. Steal it. Destroy for it. Kill for it. That was how life worked.

But then there was you.

You, with your sweet voice and your warm hands and your ability to smile at him like he was human. You, who saw everyone as something soft, someone worth protecting.

It made him feel stupid.

It made him feel small.

Because every time you touched him, every time you spoke to him in that voice, with that tone, so full of care, he wanted to melt into it.

That was weakness.

And Niragi hated weakness.

So he tried to push it down, mask it with cruelty, mask it with laughter, mask it with insults. He made fun of you, made fun of the people you were nice to, made fun of the way you let that guy down so gently instead of ripping him apart.

Because deep down, he knew—if that had been him, if he had been the one to walk up to you, all awkward and hopeful, if he had tried to ask you out back when he was nobody, back when he had no power, no confidence, no ability to strike fear into people—

You would have let him down gently, too.

You would have pitied him.

And he couldn’t stand that thought.

So he lashed out.

Because you made him feel like something less. Like something breakable. Like someone who could hurt.

And Niragi didn’t want to hurt.

He wanted to be above that.

But every time you looked at him like that, with all that sweetness, all that love, he remembered something deep inside of him, something he tried so desperately to kill—

That once, a long time ago—

Before he learned how to set the world on fire—

Before he learned how to hurt first—

He just wanted to be loved.

The screens lit up.

There were maybe fifteen people total—not a large group, but big enough for things to get messy if the game forced them to turn on each other.

The screen flickered, then displayed the familiar, clinical text in bold letters.

GAME: WARDEN’S ESCAPE

DIFFICULTY: 6 OF SPADES

Spades. Not a surprise. Niragi clicked his tongue, stuffing his hands into his pockets, while Chishiya barely reacted, his head tilted as he examined the screen.

A voice began to explain.

RULES:

Players have 60 minutes to reach the exit.

The "Warden" will attempt to stop you.

The exit will only open if a keycard is scanned.

A keycard can be only used once for one person.

Keycards are hidden throughout the area

You may take a keycard from another player by any means.

When time is up, the building will lock down, and all remaining players will be eliminated.

Your stomach twisted slightly at that last part.

No immediate death penalty—no bombs strapped to your neck, no instant game-over if you broke the rules. But there was an implied death sentence. If you failed, if youtook too long, you would die.

"Tch." Niragi scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "They should've made this harder."

You shot him a look. "It's a six. That's high."

“Not for me.”

You sighed, but before you could reply, the screen flashed again.

GAME START.

The moment the words appeared, the heavy metal doors at the front of the lot groaned, then began to slide open.

Inside, dim lights flickered in a massive industrial warehouse, rows of old machinery and storage units creating an uneven, winding path forward.

You could already hear people muttering, debating whether to run inside first or hang back.

Then—

A loud, echoing bang. The unmistakable sound of a shotgun firing.

Screams erupted, and you snapped your head toward the source.

At the top of a metal catwalk, partially hidden by shadows, a figure stood—tall, clad in armor, a full-face helmet obscuring their features.

The Warden.

They pumped their shotgun slowly, casually, before raising it again.

“Move.” Chishiya said, already stepping forward.

You didn’t need to be told twice.

People scattered, some sprinting inside while others dove for cover. The Warden didn’t seem interested in killing anyone just yet—just herding them.

You stayed close to the boys as the three of you entered the warehouse, quickly taking in your surroundings. It was huge. Dark corners, looming machinery, multiple levels.

A death trap.

And somewhere inside, the keycards you needed to escape.

Niragi turned to you with a grin that was nothing short of wicked, his rifle already slung off his shoulder, finger twitching near the trigger.

“Can I shoot him?”

The question was almost casual, but the look in his eyes said he wasn’t really asking. He was just waiting for an excuse. A reason to unleash whatever violent itch he always seemed to have crawling under his skin.

You didn’t even flinch at the way he spoke about it so easily. You just glanced up at the armored figure above, still watching the players scramble.

“…I doubt it’d work.” you murmured.

That was the truth. If the game allowed the Warden to be shot and killed so easily, what would be the point? There had to be a catch.

Niragi scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah? You wanna test that theory?”

He raised the rifle just slightly, as if already prepared to aim.

You reached over and grabbed his arm, just a gentle touch on his wrist, but his movements halted anyway. “Don’t.”

Chishiya, who had been scanning the area, finally cut in. “She’s right. He’s probably bulletproof.”

Niragi clicked his tongue, but he lowered the gun again, though you could tell he didn’t want to. “Fucking boring.”

His lack of concern for the situation almost made you laugh. It was such a Niragi thing to be disappointed that the game wasn’t letting him kill the guy.

You turned your attention back to the rest of the warehouse. The layout was a mess—rows of towering metal shelves, abandoned machinery, rusted pipes. It looked like an old industrial facility, the kind of place that was full of hidden nooks and blind corners.

Somewhere in here, those keycards were scattered.

And time was ticking.

“Alright.” you breathed, glancing at the boys. “Let’s find one of those cards before that asshole decides to stop playing around.”

Chishiya hummed in agreement. Niragi just shrugged, adjusting his grip on his rifle.

Then, you moved.

It didn’t take long before you realized just how ruthless this game was.

Not because of the Warden, though he was definitely a looming threat, stalking the catwalks, occasionally firing off rounds that sent players sprinting.

No—the real problem was the players themselves.

People weren’t just searching for the keycards.

They were fighting for them.

You’d barely made it past the first few aisles before you saw a guy get tackled, shoved hard against a metal beam as another player yanked a card from his hands.

Another group was already ganging up on a girl, three against one.

The rule had said it clearly: you can take a keycard from another player by any means.

And that meant they would.

Chishiya barely looked surprised. Niragi? He just smirked. You, however, were starting to feel that familiar knot in your stomach.

You’d been in enough games to know how quickly people turned into animals in situations like this. And you also knew that while you weren’t willing to hurt someone over a damn keycard—these two definitely were.

Well. Niragi was. Chishiya would just watch.

Still, you had to be careful.

Because the more chaos that unfolded, the more Niragi thrived.

At one point, a guy lunged at you, probably thinking you had a card.

You barely had time to react before Niragi was already stepping in. He caught the man by the collar, yanking him back so violently that he slammed into the nearest wall.

The guy groaned, dazed, and Niragi leaned down, his grin sharp.

“Wrong fucking choice, dumbass.”

The man scrambled to get away, tripping over himself.

You shot Niragi a look. “Was that necessary?”

He just snorted. “What, you wanted to handle him yourself?”

Before you could answer, Chishiya finally spoke. “There.”

You followed his gaze—and saw it.

A keycard.

Sitting on the edge of a high metal shelf, partially wedged between two rusted boxes.

Niragi laughed. “Well, that’s easy.”

You, however, frowned. “…It’s too obvious.”

Chishiya hummed. “Probably a trap.”

The three of you stood there for a moment, assessing the situation.

Behind you, the Warden fired again, another warning shot that sent players scattering.

Before either you or Chishiya could say another word, Niragi was already moving. He didn’t give a shit about whether it was a trap or not. If anything, the idea of it being dangerous probably made it more appealing.

He reached up and snatched the keycard from its spot.

You braced yourself, half-expecting something to go off—maybe an alarm, maybe another shot from the Warden—but nothing happened.

Just the sound of Niragi flicking the card between his fingers like it was nothing.

“Hah.” he scoffed. “You two worry too much.”

You exhaled, trying not to roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s keep moving.”

You weren’t even annoyed, really. It was just so Niragi to pull shit like that.

The three of you continued through the warehouse, stepping over rusted pipes and empty crates. The space smelled like dust and old metal, the air thick with tension.

You could hear the violence unfolding around you. People shouting. Footsteps pounding against the concrete. And the occasional gunshot.

Not from the Warden.

From the players.

Because of course some of them had weapons.

Somewhere to your left, two guys were fighting over a keycard, one of them already bloody from a deep gash across his arm. Further down, a woman was on the ground, unmoving, while someone else rifled through her pockets.

And Niragi— Niragi was eating it up.

You could see it in him.

That twitch in his fingers, the way his grip flexed around his rifle.

He ached to use it.

It was almost funny, really.

The guy had been holding back all night. You weren’t sure if it was because of you or because the rules of the game weren’t clear enough for him to start shooting, but either way—he was itching for an excuse.

Chishiya noticed it too. He flicked his gaze toward Niragi, unimpressed. “Don’t get trigger happy just because you’re bored.”

Niragi let out a low, amused laugh. “Bored? Are you kidding me?” He gestured toward the nearest body. “This is entertaining.”

You sighed. “We’re not here to kill people, Niragi.”

He turned to you, grinning. “You’re not. I don’t see the problem.”

You frowned. “You don’t even need to shoot anyone.”

He tilted his head, still smirking. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”

You knew that tone. That taunting tone. The one that meant he was daring you to try and stop him.

But before you could say anything else, a figure moved in your periphery.

Fast.

Coming straight for you.

A man, eyes wild, face streaked with sweat and dirt. You barely caught a glimpse of the knife in his hand before he lunged.

You reacted fast—moving just in time to dodge, stumbling a step back—but Niragi was faster.

The crack of the gunshot was deafening.

The man barely made it another step before he crumpled.

You stared.

Not in shock. Not even in fear.

Just… annoyance.

Because of course Niragi took the first opportunity to shoot someone.

He huffed out a laugh, lowering the rifle. “What? He was coming at you.”

You gave him a look. “You could’ve just kicked him.”

He grinned, sharp and shameless. “Yeah, but this was more fun.”

Chishiya sighed, already looking disinterested. “Wonderful. Now we have to keep moving before his friends show up.”

You exhaled, rubbing your temple.

This game was a mess.

And Niragi? Niragi was having fun.

You moved quickly, eyes scanning the ground, the edges of crates, anywhere that might hide another keycard.

Time was running out.

It wasn’t immediate panic—not yet—but the last thing you wanted was to cut it close.

Your fingers brushed against something smooth, something just barely poking out from beneath a stack of old wooden pallets.

A keycard.

Without a second thought, you grabbed it and shoved it into Chishiya’s hands.

“Here.”

He blinked at you, fingers curling around the card. He hummed, slipping it into his pocket like it was nothing.

Everywhere you turned, you caught glimpses of movement. Some players were still searching, scrambling in desperation.

Others were… already dead.

Then you saw him.

The guy from earlier. The one who had been so sweet, so shy when he asked you out.

He was standing near an overturned forklift, chest heaving, a keycard clenched tightly in his fist.

Not smart enough to hide it. Not nearly paranoid enough to be holding it like that.

He turned his head, and his eyes met yours.

You both froze.

You weren’t sure what was going through his mind, but he had to know.

Had to realize he was fucked.

Because it wasn’t just you staring at him.

It was Niragi.

It was Chishiya.

Niragi moved.

Slow. Casual. Almost too relaxed as he turned toward you, smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

And then he lifted his rifle—and slid it into your hands.

Your breath hitched.

Oh.

You curled your fingers around it instinctively, feeling the weight settle against your palms, the coolness of the metal pressing against your skin.

The guy was still staring at you, wide-eyed, frozen in place.

Niragi leaned in, voice just for you.

“Go on.” he murmured, almost sweetly. “Take your shot.”

The words slithered down your spine like a dare.

Like temptation.

You didn’t move. Didn’t raise the rifle. Didn’t even blink.

Because, honestly? You weren’t even looking at the guy anymore.

You were looking at Niragi.

At his expression. At the way his dark eyes gleamed with something hungry.

He was watching you. Not just watching—studying. As if this was some kind of test. As if he wanted to see what you’d do. As if he liked this.

The weight of the rifle in your hands felt wrong.

Not because you’d never held one before.

Not because you were scared.

But because this?

This was exactly what Niragi wanted.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t raise the rifle.

Didn’t look away from Niragi, either.

You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—the fact that he had handed it to you, the fact that he was watching so intently, or the fact that part of you could hear what he wanted before he even said it.

Go on. Take your shot.

Kill for me.

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening against the metal.

The guy—god, you didn’t even know his name—was still frozen, wide-eyed and waiting. Waiting for you to lower the gun. Waiting for you to raise it. Waiting for something.

“Oh, come on.” Niragi scoffed, stepping just close enough that you could feel his presence behind you. He tilted his head, eyes flicking lazily toward the poor guy standing there, helpless, keycard clutched in his fist.

“What’s the problem?” Niragi drawled, voice syrupy-sweet. “You think he wouldn’t kill you if he had the chance?”

The guy sucked in a sharp breath. “I wouldn’t—”

“You would.” Niragi cut him off so smoothly, it was brutal. “Because you’re desperate. And desperate people do anything to survive.”

The guy clenched his jaw.

“I’m not like that.” he muttered, shaky.

“You will be.” Niragi murmured, tilting his head. “That’s the fun part.”

His hand—big, warm, solid—came up behind you, wrapping loosely around your wrist.

Not forcing.

Not yanking.

Just pressing.

Guiding.

“Just pull the trigger, sweetheart.” he murmured. “It’s easy.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You’re insane.” the guy whispered.

Niragi grinned.

“No shit.”

Fuck.

“Well.” Chishiya’s voice broke through, flat. “He has a point.”

You turned your head just enough to see him, leaned against a crate, arms crossed. He looked utterly unimpressed.

Indifferent.

Like this wasn’t a thing to him. Like none of it mattered.

And then he raised a brow at you, ever so slight, ever so mocking.

“You do want to live, don’t you?” he asked.

Your lips parted. “Of course—”

“Then kill him.”

A cold sensation slid down your spine.

Chishiya didn’t move. Didn’t force anything. He just watched you, head tilted, eyes scanning your face like he was reading something there. Like you were an experiment.

“I mean,” he continued casually. “you do understand how this works, don’t you?”

You knew what he was doing.

He was so good at it.

Not yelling, not forcing, not pushing—just speaking.

“Even if you don’t kill him, someone else will.” he said simply. “Because there aren’t enough cards for everyone. There never are.”

You swallowed hard.

“But—”

“And say we let him go.” He shrugged. “What happens next time?”

You said nothing.

“If he makes it to another game,” Chishiya continued. “he’ll remember this. He’ll remember that you let him live.” A pause. “And he might assume you’ll be just as kind next time.”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s—”

“That’s dangerous.” He held your gaze, perfectly calm. Like he knew he was winning. Like he knew that somewhere, in some part of your mind, you were listening.

Understanding.

“You can’t afford to be soft.” Chishiya murmured. “Not here.”

You felt Niragi smile against your hair.

“C’mon, angel.” he murmured, voice dripping with something too sweet. “Just one little squeeze.”

He tapped your wrist lightly, still guiding the gun in your hands.

“So easy.”

The guy took a half-step back, hands tightening around his keycard. He knew he was fucked.

And you—god. You were shaking.

Because what if they were right?

What if next time, he wasn’t some helpless, wide-eyed kid?

What if next time, you were the one standing there with nothing?

“You can do it.” Niragi crooned.

You weren’t sure if he meant that.

Or if he just wanted to see if you would.

Your ears were ringing.

Your hands shook, the weight of the gun suddenly unbearable.

The guy was on the ground.

Still.

You couldn’t even hear if he made a sound.

You just saw the blood blooming beneath him, the way his body twitched before going slack, the way his fingers—his fingers that had been wrapped around the keycard, holding it so tightly—slowly unfurled, limp.

He was dead.

You killed him.

Fuck.

You killed him.

A shaky breath clawed its way out of your throat.

You barely registered Niragi shifting behind you, leaning in close, the heat of his body pressed against your back.

“See?” His voice was warm, wrapping around you like something deadly. “Told you it was easy.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your chest rose and fell too fast, too uneven, heart hammering against your ribs, trying—failing—to make sense of what you’d just done.

Chishiya walked over, crouched, pried the card from the dead man’s fingers, and straightened.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He just turned, stepping back toward you, pressing the keycard into your palm.

Like he was handing you change after buying something.

Like this was just another transaction.

“You did well.” he murmured.

Your stomach twisted.

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

But you felt Niragi’s grin against your hair, his breath warm as he leaned in closer.

“You got a taste now, angel.” he murmured, voice laced with something dangerous. “Bet it wasn’t as bad as you thought, huh?”

You swallowed.

You wanted to say no.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to undo it.

But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t bring him back.

Couldn’t change what you’d done.

And they—they wouldn’t let you. Because Niragi was still so close, still guiding your hand, still treating this like it was some kind of victory.

And Chishiya—Chishiya, who barely even blinked at your shaking hands, who just straightened, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“You should keep moving.” he said.

As if that was that. As if there was nothing else to be said.

You didn’t realize you were shaking your head until Niragi’s fingers curled, tilting your chin up.

“Don’t freak out on me now, sweetheart.” he murmured.

You swallowed hard, breath shuddering, pulse hammering in your throat.

And Niragi—Niragi just smiled, his voice dipping into something low and sweet.

“C’mon, angel.” he crooned. “One step at a time.”

And you—you stepped. Because what else could you do? You could still feel the gun in your hands. Even though Niragi had taken it back, even though your fingers were empty now, they still twitched, still ached with the weight of it.

Still remembered.

Your vision blurred as you walked, the world turning into nothing but smears of color and light, the edges of your mind closing in like a vice.

You killed someone.

Not because you had to.

Not because you were cornered, not because you were threatened, not because you were fighting for your own survival.

But because they told you to.

Because they pushed you.

Because Niragi whispered in your ear like the devil himself, because Chishiya stood by and let it happen, because they both knew what they were doing—what buttons to press, what words to say, what weight to put on your shoulders until the only choice you had left was the one they wanted.

Niragi’s arm slung lazily over your shoulders, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. His touch was warm, grounding, suffocating.

“You won, angel.” he murmured, voice dipped in honey, in poison, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “Look at you.”

Your stomach twisted. Your steps faltered.

But his grip on you was firm, tugging you closer, keeping you moving.

Chishiya, walking on your other side, glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“You did what you had to.” he said simply, like that was enough to justify it.

Like he didn’t care whether it was true or not.

And maybe he didn’t.

Maybe all he cared about was you, unraveling before him.

Maybe that was what made you interesting.

Your breath shuddered out of you. Your vision swam again, and you realized—fuck, you were about to cry.

Not here.

Not now.

Not in front of them.

But Niragi must have felt the way you tensed, the way your breath hitched, because he cooed, low and sweet.

“Oh, angel.” he murmured, fingers curling into your waist, squeezing. “Getting all emotional on me?”

Your throat clenched tight.

“Let me guess.” he continued, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your skin. “Feeling guilty?” A dark chuckle, something indulgent, almost affectionate. “That’s cute.”

You winced. Physically.

Chishiya saw it. You knew he did. And yet, he didn’t comment. He didn’t intervene. Of course he didn’t. Because why would he? This was his test, wasn’t it? Watching you, watching how far you’d break before you snapped entirely.

And Niragi—Niragi was reveling in it, dragging his fingertips down your spine, all soft and slow.

“Don’t overthink it, sweetheart.” he said. “No point crying over someone who would’ve died anyway.”

That—that wasn’t true.

That wasn’t fucking true.

He wouldn’t have died.

He wasn’t fighting anyone.

He was just playing. Just trying to win, just trying to live, just trying to get through the same fucked-up world you all were stuck in.

And now he was dead because you pulled the trigger.

Your breath came out uneven, sharp and shallow, but Niragi just sighed, dramatic, pressing more of his weight onto you.

“You’re really gonna cry about it, huh?” he mused, his voice dipping into something lower, something almost sickly sweet. “Poor baby.”

Something inside you twisted, something ugly, something that wanted to cry but refused to, something that wanted to break but couldn’t—not with both of them here, watching.

So instead, you swallowed it down. Forced it back. Took a slow, shaking breath. And kept walking. Because what else could you do?

They wouldn’t let you stop.

Wouldn’t let you dwell.

Wouldn’t let you fucking feel anything about it.

Because they didn’t care.

They never cared.

You were breaking.

And they were just watching you fall.

The doors clicked open as the keycards were scanned, the heavy metal giving way as the lock released, and the three of you stepped out into the night air.

Cool, fresh, crisp against your skin.

You sucked in a deep breath, shaky, uneven, trying to ground yourself in it. Trying to make it settle something inside you. But it didn’t.

It couldn’t.

Because nothing could take away what you just did.

Nothing could erase the fact that someone was lying dead in that building because of you, while it was unnecessary. It would’ve been fine, if you had to kill him. But you didn’t.

You stumbled slightly as you stepped down onto the pavement, your legs weaker than you expected, your body suddenly so much heavier. The world felt wrong, the air too thin, your chest too tight.

The first tear slipped down your cheek.

And once it started, it didn’t stop.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. You couldn’t keep it inside, couldn’t keep swallowing it down, couldn’t pretend you were okay, because you weren’t.

A choked sob forced its way out of your throat, your hands shaking, your whole body trembling under the weight of everything that had just happened.

Niragi sighed.

Dramatic.

“Aw, baby.”

His voice was so sweet, so syrupy, so thick with indulgence. His fingers brushed against your cheek, slow, wiping your tears away with the pad of his thumb.

Like he cared.

Like he wasn’t the one who did this to you.

“That bad, huh?” he murmured, his voice low, soothing, soft in a way that felt so fucking wrong. His other hand found your waist, fingers curling into your side, warm and steady. “Poor thing.”

You let out a broken breath, something caught between a sob and a gasp, your vision blurred, your throat tight.

You stepped into him.

Into his warmth.

Into his arms.

Into him.

Your forehead pressed into his chest, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt as your body trembled against his.

And Niragi—Niragi smiled. Over your head, he lifted his gaze to Chishiya, smirking, something smug and victorious curling at the corners of his mouth.

Chishiya smiled back. Small. Knowing. Dark.

Because you—you had just proven something to both of them. That no matter how much you tried to fight it, no matter how much you thought you wouldn’t fall—you still ran to the thing that hurt you.

Still sought comfort from the very hands that broke you.

Still let yourself be pulled under, be swallowed whole, be owned by them.

Niragi pressed his nose into your hair, inhaling, sighing against you like this was nothing.

Like you weren’t breaking in his arms.

“You did so good, sweetheart.” he murmured, his voice soft, dripping with something thick and intoxicating. “I’m proud of you.”

A sharp breath shuddered out of you. Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt.

And Niragi—Niragi just kept smiling.

Chishiya pulled the door open, stepping inside first, but he didn’t bother waiting. He just walked ahead like he hadn’t just been there to witness it all. Like he hadn’t watched you crack, hadn’t watched you fold, hadn’t watched you melt into Niragi’s touch like you needed it.

Like you were made for this.

Like it was inevitable.

And maybe it was.

Niragi guided you inside with an arm draped over your shoulders, heavy and firm, warm in a way that you should’ve hated.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t hate it at all.

You leaned into him, the weight of his hold pressing you close, grounding you in a way that made your skin prickle. You should’ve pulled away, should’ve stepped back, should’ve done something—but instead, you let him steer you deeper into the apartment, let him touch you, let him own you in that moment.

“You tired, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice low, sweet, laced with something that you couldn’t quite name.

You nodded, sluggish, your body still running on the adrenaline crash, on the aftershocks of everything that had happened.

His fingers curled into your arm, a slow squeeze, and then he leaned down, close enough that you felt his breath against the shell of your ear.

“You were real cute back there, you know.” he hummed, the smirk obvious in his voice. “All shaky, all teary-eyed… fuck, you’re just the softest little thing, huh?”

You inhaled sharply, something catching in your throat.

He liked that.

He liked you like this.

Weak.

Folded.

His.

But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t even want to. And that was the worst part. Because this—this warmth, this safety, this sick, cruel comfort—was what you needed right now.

And he knew it.

Chishiya’s footsteps were quiet as he passed by, heading straight for the kitchen, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. He didn’t have to say anything.

He had seen.

He had won.

Niragi hummed, shifting his grip, sliding his hand down your arm until his fingers curled around your wrist, leading you toward the couch.

“Come sit with me.” he murmured, like you had a choice. Like you wouldn’t just follow if he told you to.

And you did.

Because you wanted to.

And because they had made you that way.

You barely even realized you were sitting until you felt the couch cushion dip beneath you, Niragi pressing close, his arm still slung over your shoulders, his body warm, solid, unyielding. He was the one holding now. Touching.

And you let him.

You barely even knew how to exist in this moment—head spinning, ears still ringing from the gunshot, from the way his voice had cooed so sweetly in your ear, from the way Chishiya had shoved the keycard into your hand without a second glance.

You had killed someone.

And they had been so proud of you for it.

Your body still felt shaky, unsteady, like you weren’t really here, like if you let yourself sink too deep, you’d just slip away entirely. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe—

Something was placed in Niragi’s hand.

Chishiya.

You looked up at him, blinking slow, the exhaustion in your bones so thick you could barely lift your head. He was standing there, looking down at you both.

And then you saw what he was holding.

Biscuits.

Your biscuits. The ones he must’ve seen you eat a few times, the ones he knew you liked.

Chishiya didn’t say a word as he handed them to Niragi, barely even acknowledging you as he turned away and walked back toward the kitchen.

But Niragi grinned.

And that was worse.

“Aw, look at that.” he teased, holding up the biscuit between two fingers. “Chishiya being all thoughtful. That’s new.”

Chishiya didn’t respond, didn’t even look back, and Niragi only laughed before shifting beside you, turning slightly, pressing even closer.

And then he held the biscuit up to your lips.

“Open.” he murmured.

Your stomach clenched.

Something in you knew this was wrong, knew this was twisted, knew this wasn’t how this should feel. But the moment his fingers brushed your mouth, the moment his tone dipped into something soft, something sweet, something that made your skin feel too tight—

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and he slipped the biscuit inside, watching you so intently, so fucking pleased with himself, like he had just won something important.

And he had.

Because you let him.

You chewed slowly, your jaw stiff, your stomach knotting, but you swallowed it down anyway.

“…Thank you.”

His grin stretched wider.

“Good girl.”

Your chest ached.

They had broken you.

You didn’t even care anymore.

Niragi shifted beside you, stretching with a quiet groan before getting to his feet. The absence of his warmth was immediate, the weight of his arm slipping away leaving you cold in a way that made your stomach turn.

He reached out, fingers brushing through your hair, gentle, too gentle, and you barely managed to keep yourself still as he pushed strands back from your face, thumb tracing along the edge of your jaw, pressing lightly into your cheek.

Soft.

So, so soft.

You almost flinched.

His lips curled, head tilting as he looked down at you like he was taking in his favorite thing, and for some reason, that made your chest ache even more.

“I’m going to bed.” he murmured, his voice light, casual, easy—like none of this mattered, like what happened tonight was just another night, another game, another kill. Nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to you.

“You can come with me if you want.” he added, thumb still lazily dragging over your cheekbone, his nails barely scraping over your skin. “Door’s open.”

The weight of the words settled into you, deep, curling around your ribs like barbed wire.

It was an invitation.

A choice.

But you knew what it really was.

He was so sure of you now. He knew you’d cave, knew you’d follow, knew you needed him—needed them, because they had made sure of it.

And that made you want to scream.

But you just nodded. Didn’t agree, didn’t refuse. Just let him think you might.

He grinned. Then, he pulled away, fingers slipping from your face as he turned and padded toward the hall, disappearing into the darkness without another word.

The room felt too big without him in it. Too empty.

You exhaled shakily, staring blankly at the space he had just been, at the air he had just occupied, and—

You did this.

You killed a man.

Not because you had to. Not because it was survival. Not because there was no other choice.

But because they wanted you to.

Because they told you to.

Your stomach twisted violently, nausea curling up your throat, thick and suffocating, and you shot up from the couch so fast your legs nearly gave out beneath you.

You stumbled toward your room, feet unsteady, vision blurring at the edges, chest tightening with every breath.

Bathroom.

You barely made it before you dropped to your knees, hands gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl as your stomach turned, your body rejecting everything—every part of tonight, every part of them, every part of you.

It burned coming up, acid clawing at your throat, choking you between gasping sobs, and you couldn’t stop it, couldn’t slow it down, couldn’t breathe.

Tears dripped from your chin, slipping into the water below, and you squeezed your eyes shut, hard, trying to will it away, trying to make it stop, but—

You had killed someone.

And you couldn’t take it back.

Couldn’t fix it.

Couldn’t do anything but cry.

Fingers slipped into your hair, threading through the tangled strands and pulling them back, careful, almost like he cared.

Almost.

You hiccuped between ragged breaths, shoulders trembling as you gripped the toilet bowl, knuckles white, trying to ground yourself—trying to breathe.

“Careful.” Chishiya murmured, voice quiet, close, almost gentle. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

A sharp, wet laugh broke from you, bitter, empty.

You were sick.

Sick with guilt, sick with horror.

You did this.

You let them make you do this.

And now, Chishiya was kneeling beside you, soothing you, hands in your hair, voice soft, like he wasn’t the one who had forced that card into your hands, like he wasn’t the one who had let this happen. Like he wasn’t just another reason you were here, shaking on the floor, your stomach convulsing with guilt.

“You really did good today.” he said, his tone almost sweet—a voice meant for comfort, for reassurance, for manipulation.

Your breath hitched, eyes squeezing shut.

Don’t listen.

He was doing it again, weaving his words into you, curling them around the pieces of you that were already cracking, twisting his voice into something safe, something soft, something you needed.

And that made you feel even sicker.

Chishiya’s fingers continued to move slowly through your hair, nails grazing lightly against your scalp, almost absentmindedly, like this was second nature to him, like he had done this a thousand times before.

He hadn’t.

Not for anyone.

But now?

Now he was here, taking care of you.

Because you weren’t just useful anymore.

You were his.

“I know you don’t think so.” he continued, as if reading your thoughts, as if he knew exactly how your mind was spiraling. “But you made the right choice.”

You swallowed, throat raw, chest heaving.

No, you didn’t.

You had a choice.

And you failed.

“Do you know what would’ve happened if you didn’t?” he mused, tone shifting, threading in something heavier, something just barely condescending. “He would’ve turned on you the second he had the chance. He was weak. People like him don’t survive long, and if you hadn’t done it, someone else would have.”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to sting, hard enough to keep the sob rising in your throat from slipping out.

“He wouldn’t have spared you.” he murmured, voice tilting into something softer, dipping into something that almost sounded kind. “But you? You did it so nicely.”

A shuddering breath broke from you, chest clenching.

Because he was right.

And that was the worst part.

That voice in the back of your mind, the one that still belonged to you, the one that wasn’t his or Niragi’s, whispered, no, no, no—

But the rest of you?

The part that had listened to them, that had let them win, let them warp you into something they could mold—that part wasn’t so sure anymore.

And Chishiya knew it.

His fingers in your hair, his words curling around you like a blanket, shielding you from the cold, from the truth—

You wanted to believe him.

Chishiya moved slowly, deliberately, shifting so that he was no longer just kneeling beside you but instead sitting down properly, his back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. And without even thinking, without hesitating, you let him pull you into him.

Your body fit too easily against his, back pressed into his chest, his arms draping loosely around you, the heat of him soaking into your trembling frame.

You let him hold you.

You wanted him to hold you.

And that made something ugly curdle in your stomach, because you knew, somewhere deep down, that this wasn’t safe, wasn’t right.

Chishiya wasn’t safe.

But he was warm.

And you needed that warmth more than anything.

“I didn’t want to.” you whispered, voice small, shaking. “I didn’t want to do this.”

His arms around you shifted slightly, almost as if he were adjusting, settling in, but his hands never left you. One rested over your stomach, the other near your wrist, fingers tracing absentminded circles against your skin.

Comforting.

False.

“I know.” he murmured.

And maybe that was what broke you.

Because he didn’t know. He couldn’t. He would never know what it felt like to do something like this and feel it, to carry it with you, to ache over it.

Because he didn’t feel anything.

And yet, somehow, the way he said it, soft and low against your ear, made you believe him.

Tears welled up again, spilling fresh and hot down your face, and your hands curled into the fabric of your own clothes, gripping at yourself like you were trying to hold yourself together, trying to stop from unraveling completely. “I don’t—I don’t want to be this person.”

Chishiya hummed, something slow, something thoughtful. “You don’t have to be.”

You let out a broken laugh, a pathetic, shaking thing. “I already am.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, his fingers skimmed along your wrist, up to your elbow, a slow touch. “You’re only doing what you have to.”

You shook your head, eyes squeezing shut. “No.”

“Yes.”

You sniffled, pressing the heel of your palm against your face, trying to wipe away the tears, the weakness, the everything. But it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t work.

“It wasn’t necessary.” you said, voice cracking. “I—I didn’t have to do it.”

“You would’ve died.” Chishiya murmured, like he was speaking to a child, to someone naive, someone who didn’t understand.

It should have sounded condescending. It should have made you feel small, should have made you angry. But instead, it just made you want to believe him.

You were breaking apart, and he was so solid. So unwavering.

So certain.

“You think people survive in this world by hesitating?” he continued, voice so steady, so sure. “By giving other people the benefit of the doubt?”

You swallowed hard.

You wanted to say yes.

But you couldn’t.

Because you knew. You knew what this world was, what it had turned people into, what it had turned you into.

And Chishiya was still talking, still curling his words around you like a vice, still getting into your head.

“He would’ve done it to you if he had the chance.” he murmured, and his arms tightened ever so slightly, just a fraction. “You know that.”

You shuddered.

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would have.” Chishiya corrected. “Maybe not then, maybe not tonight. But if he had to choose between you or himself, he wouldn’t have hesitated.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because maybe—maybe he was right.

And if he was right, then maybe—maybe you didn’t do the wrong thing.

Your breath hitched, and you turned your head just slightly, forehead pressing against the fabric of his hoodie. He smelled like something neutral, like clean clothes and cool air and a faint, lingering trace of something you couldn’t quite place.

It was comforting.

It made you believe him.

“I don’t—I don’t want to think about it anymore.” you whispered.

Chishiya hummed, his fingers pressing lightly against your wrist again, like a heartbeat, like a rhythm, like something designed to lull you into a state of calm.

“Then don’t.”

You exhaled shakily, a slow, trembling breath.

And you listened.

Because Chishiya purred his words like a lullaby, wrapping around your tired, aching mind like a soft, warm fog. His voice was a drug, intoxicating and numbing all at once, slipping under your skin, settling in your veins, filling the spaces inside of you that were breaking apart.

He was dangerous.

You knew he was dangerous.

And yet, you listened.

Because it was easier to believe him than to believe the ugly truth weighing heavy in your chest. It was easier to sink into the lie than to face the reality of what you had done.

And that’s what they wanted.

What he wanted.

He didn’t comfort people. That wasn’t something he did. Because what was the point? Why waste time and energy on something so useless?

But this?

You?

You were something else entirely. You were soft in a way that people in this world weren’t supposed to be. You were light in a way that should’ve burned people like them alive.

But instead, they took it.

They twisted it, shaped it, owned it.

And now, look at you.

Falling apart in his arms, hands still trembling, breathing still uneven, but no longer shaking quite as violently as before.

Because you were believing him.

Because he was making you feel safe.

And safety?

Safety meant control.

Safety meant they had you right where they wanted you.

The cruel truth of it all was that you weren’t breaking them down. You weren’t making them better, weren’t softening them into something kinder, weren’t saving them from the monsters they were.

No.

You were taming them.

And that was so much worse.

Because taming them meant making them yours.

Which meant you were theirs.

Their girl.

Their soft, sweet, breakable little thing, so easy to twist and mold and shape into exactly what they wanted.

And you let them.

Because you needed them now.

You needed them to tell you that what you did was right.

You needed them to make you feel like this wasn’t wrong.

You needed them like they needed you.

And that wasn’t cruelty, no.

That was just their love showing.

❤︎︎ @lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango

#alice in borderland #aib chishiya #aib niragi #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x reader #niragi suguru #niragi x reader #niragi alice in borderland

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anakinca · 4 months ago

Note

i crave taking care of ani after he gets like hurt after a mission.. it'd be so cute and fluffy :((💗

—❝so utterly consuming❞

anakin skywalker x reader

tw ; nothing, just pure fluff

a/n ; I LOVE THIS PROMPT SO SO MUCH ANGEL LIKE ITS SO.. SIGH. LIKE ITS JUST A NEED. but yah anyway... enjoy, angels <33

THE SKY OUTSIDE THE WINDOW IS PAINTED IN BREATHTAKING HUES OF GOLD, PINK, AND SOFT ORANGE. The setting sun casts a warm glow over the cityscape of Coruscant, with the light filtering into the penthouse. It stretches long shadows across the floor, wrapping everything in a golden embrace. The air is calm, carrying the distant hum of speeders passing by, a stark contrast to the uneasiness you hold, still waiting for Anakin to get home. You hear the door hiss open behind you, and instinctively, you turn—only to find Anakin standing there, looking like he’s been through hell and back. His Jedi robes are slightly tattered, the edges of his tunic singed, his hair messier than usual. His usual confident stride is still there, but there’s a slight stiffness to his movements, like he’s trying too hard to act normal—like he’s trying to keep you from noticing something. Your arms cross over your chest as you narrow your eyes at him. “You’re hurt.” He sighs, already knowing there’s no point in denying it. “It’s nothing.” “Let me see.”

He hesitates, but the moment you step toward him, hands reaching for the fastenings of his outer robes, he relents. The fabric slides off his shoulders, pooling onto the floor, and as you push back his tunic, your heart clenches at the sight. A burn stretches across his chest—a blaster graze, angry red against his skin, likely from whatever battle he’d been thrown into today. It’s not deep, but it’s fresh, and it must have stung the entire way home. Yet, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch. “Anakin,” you murmur as a frown graces your lips, fingers hovering over the wound, not touching it but close enough to feel the heat of his skin. “You should have told me.” “I didn’t want to worry you.” His voice is softer now, quieter, and his eyes hold something so reverent as he watches you. Your brows furrow as you glance up at him, frustration flickering in your gaze. “That’s not how this works. You don’t just—just brush off a blaster wound like it’s nothing!” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just watches you, letting you fuss over him, that same small smile you hold so dear to you tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s infuriating—he’s standing there like he finds your worry adorable, like he enjoys seeing you all riled up over him. You shake your head and turn away, muttering under your breath as you grab the medkit from its usual spot. When you turn back, Anakin is still watching you, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. "Stop looking at me like that." "Like what?" He says, pretending to be all innocent. Shooting him a glare, you huff and roll your eyes. “Sit down,” you instruct, pointing to one of the sofas. He obeys with a lopsided grin, stretching out lazily, but you don’t let yourself get distracted. Kneeling beside him, you press a cool cloth against the wound, wiping away the soot and dried blood with careful, precise movements. He barely reacts, only flinching just a bit, but you still blow softly on the area, soothing whatever sting might be left. “It’s just a graze,” he murmurs, watching you with that quiet, affectionate gaze that always makes you weak. You roll your eyes again, staying focused, though it’s hard to ignore the way your heart pounds in your chest at his tone. “Quiet.” He chuckles but doesn’t argue, allowing you to finish applying a healing salve and gently smoothing a bandage over his chest. When you’re done, you let out a relieved sigh, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “There. All better.” Your lips curve up into a cheerful grin. You expect him to thank you—or maybe tease you again—but instead, when you look up, you find his gaze already on you. The golden sunset light catches in his blue eyes, making them glow all the more. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even glance at the bandage. Instead, his eyes are fully locked on you, filled with something so warm, so utterly consuming, it nearly steals your breath away. “What?” You ask, suddenly feeling shy under his intense stare. Anakin tilts his head, a slow grin spreading across his lips—so fond and innocent. "You’re cute when you worry about me." Your face heats up instantly. "Shut up," you mumble, looking away. He laughs, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch. Before you can react, he cups your cheeks, squishing them just enough to make your lips pout. “Anakin—” Before you can protest, he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, his warmth melting into you like the last light of the setting sun. “The cutest,” he murmurs against them, his voice full of nothing but love.

@thesassypadawan @anakinstwinklebunny @sydkneez @dessxoxsworld @nikiloveshayden @sweetcheesecakesblog @throughparisallthroughrome

let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the tag list, angels <3

#anakinca #angelreqs #anakin skywalker #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen imagines #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin x reader #star wars anakin #star wars fanfiction #clay beresford #james kelly #star wars

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yokumirumerafan · 3 months ago

Note

| Demon slayer reaction request |

Reaction to Y/N hiding her injury

Thanks a lot :)

Demon Slayer Characters Reacting to Y/N Hiding Their Injury

Hashira

Rengoku Kyojuro

Notices your odd movements and slightly off breathing almost immediately.

His warm and encouraging demeanor shifts into serious concern.

"Y/N! You must never hide an injury! The body is a warrior's greatest tool!"

He insists on checking it and will personally carry you to the Butterfly Mansion if needed.

Scolds you, but in a kind and protective way.

Tomioka Giyuu

He silently watches you, noticing how you wince but try to play it off.

Doesn't say anything at first but later corners you, giving you a deadpan stare.

"You’re injured." No room for argument.

If you try to deny it, he simply picks you up and takes you to get treated.

Quietly watches over you as you recover, subtly making sure you don’t do it again.

Shinobu Kocho

She already knew before you even thought about hiding it.

Approaches you with a knowing smile, but there's a sharp glint in her eyes.

"My, my~ Trying to hide something from me, Y/N? That's quite bold of you."

Playfully pokes at the injury, making you flinch before she scolds you.

Makes sure you get properly treated and warns you to never do it again.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

Absolutely furious.

"ARE YOU AN IDIOT?! HIDING AN INJURY COULD GET YOU KILLED!"

Definitely yells at you, but it's because he genuinely cares.

Forces you to sit down and get treated, no matter how much you protest.

Probably nags you about it for days afterward.

Muichiro Tokito

Barely reacts at first, simply blinking at you.

Then, suddenly, you find yourself sitting down while he starts treating the wound himself.

"You shouldn't hide injuries. It's a hassle if you collapse later."

Despite his seemingly indifferent tone, he keeps a close eye on you for the rest of the mission.

Obanai Iguro

Glares at you the moment he figures it out.

"What do you think you're doing? Are you trying to die?"

Doesn't let you move until you're properly treated.

Kaburamaru hisses at you in disapproval.

Absolutely does not let this slide, will call you out if you ever try it again.

Mitsuri Kanroji

Gasps dramatically when she realizes.

"Oh no, Y/N! Why didn’t you say anything?!"

Panics a little but quickly composes herself and makes sure you get help.

Super gentle with you and constantly checks on you afterward.

"Please don't do that again! You mean so much to us!"

Gyomei Himejima

Instantly notices, even without seeing you directly.

"You are in pain, Y/N. Why do you hide it?"

His disappointment is enough to make you feel guilty.

Very careful while tending to you, treating you like something fragile.

Prays for your quick recovery and makes sure you're fully healed before letting you fight again.

Main Trio + Genya

Tanjiro Kamado

His sharp sense of smell gives you away immediately.

"Y/N... why do you smell like blood?"

Genuine concern in his eyes as he gently insists on checking your injury.

"You should never endure pain alone! Let me help you!"

Treats you with extreme care, like an older brother would.

Zenitsu Agatsuma

Freaks out the moment he finds out.

"WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY ANYTHING?! WHAT IF YOU DIED?!"

Super dramatic about it but still helps treat your wound.

Won't stop worrying about you afterward and constantly asks if you're okay.

"If you ever get hurt again, tell me right away, okay?!"

Inosuke Hashibira

At first, he doesn't even notice.

When he does, he gets MAD.

"WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME, YOU DUMBASS?!"

His way of caring is aggressively yelling at you while helping bandage the wound.

"IF YOU DIE, WHO AM I SUPPOSED TO FIGHT WITH, HUH?!"

Afterward, he keeps an eye on you but tries to act like he doesn’t care.

Genya Shinazugawa

Notices when you start moving differently.

"Oi, Y/N, you're hurt, aren’t you?"

When you try to deny it, he just clicks his tongue.

"Tch. Don't be stupid. Lemme see it."

Super gruff about it but is extremely careful while treating your wound.

"Next time, just tell me, okay?"

And that's how they react! Hopefully, Y/N learns their lesson and stops hiding injuries! 😤✨

#demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer x y/n #hashira x reader #rengoku x reader #giyuu x reader #shinobu x reader #sanemi x reader #muichiro x reader #obanai x reader #mitsuri x reader #gyomei x reader #tanjiro x reader #zenitsu x reader #inosuke x reader #genya x reader

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rosierin · 4 months ago

Text

a place to fall apart │ osamu miya

synopsis; osamu comes home without a word. atsumu, suna and (y/n) know something’s wrong. in the dead of night, (y/n) hears him cry—and she refuses to let him face it alone.

aka osamu gets his heart broken and (y/n) comforts him through the night

disclaimer; despite the tags, this is not a ship!! 'tis purely platonic!osamu x reader

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

The front door clicked shut.

No heavy footsteps. No sigh of relief. No muttered complaint about his long day.

Just quiet.

(Y/n) glanced up from her spot on the couch. Atsumu and Suna barely acknowledged it, too caught up in their conversation—until Osamu walked past the living room and straight into the kitchen without so much as a glance their way.

That was the first sign.

Her brows furrowed. That wasn’t right. Osamu always acknowledged them. Even if it was just a nod, a wave, a passing comment—there was usually something.

Suna was the first to catch on, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. Atsumu followed, twisting where he sat with a frown on his face.

“Oi," he called after him. “What’s with the long face? Barely heard ya come in."

No response.

(Y/n) and Suna exchanged a glance. Neither had the heart to address it. Not yet, at least.

Atsumu, on the other hand, pushed further without missing a beat.

“Seriously, what’s up with ya? Ya look like a slapped ass."

Still, nothing.

Osamu opened a cupboard, grabbed a glass, filled it with water. His movements were slow, measured—almost like he was just going through the motions.

Atsumu scoffed, shaking his head. “Geez, what, did ya get dumped or somethin’?”

It was a joke. A bad one, sure, but that was just how Atsumu was. He could be awfully tactless at times.

Still, it was bait—and Osamu always bit back.

But this time—

Osamu barely reacted. Not a flinch. No eye roll. Didn't tell his brother to shut up.

Just grabbed the glass. Lifted it to his lips.

Took a sip.

Set it down.

Shrugged.

“M’fine. Just tired.”

A beat of silence.

Suna and (y/n) exchanged glances once more. A flicker of concern passed between them—because this wasn’t right.

Osamu was always composed, always level-headed, always the one who kept things moving.

But now, he just stood there. Staring at nothing in particular.

(Y/n) stood up slowly, stepped closer, tilting her head inquisitively. “Osamu…”

Her fingers brushed his arm—light, tentative, just enough to say I’m here. You can talk to me.

Instead, he stepped back. Brushed past her.

“I’m goin’ to bed.”

The words were flat. Hollow.

He dragged his feet up the stairs.

Then—the quiet click of his bedroom door.

And with that, it was as though the air had been sucked out of the room.

(Y/n) turned back to the boys. This time, Atsumu’s face flickered with something different. Not amusement. Not exasperation.

Concern.

Suna offered a light shrug, but even his usual impassive features flickered with something solemn.

(Y/n) swallowed hard, biting her lip.

But—she was (y/n). Ever the optimist. Ever the one to try.

She pushed herself up, padded over to the base of the stairs, tilting her head back just slightly.

She forced a little brightness into her voice.

“There’s lasagna if you want some!” she chirped. “It’s homemade!”

Light. Sweet. Hopeful.

Maybe he’d come down. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe—

A meek voice came from his bedroom.

“Not hungry.”

A tiny, broken exhale slipped past (y/n)'s lips.

Her heart sank.

Her bottom lip wobbled.

Slowly, she turned back to the others.

Grief flashed across her face, crept in, before finally taking over.

Atsumu was still staring at the stairs, brows pulled tight. Suna exhaled through his nose, tipping his head back against the couch.

No one had to say it.

They all knew it.

Something was seriously wrong.

Nobody saw or heard from Osamu that entire evening.

The house felt off without him—like a puzzle missing its final piece.

There was nobody for (y/n) to have her usual, easy-going chats with. Nobody to keep Atsumu in check. Nobody to add onto Suna’s dry quips with an equally witty remark.

And speaking of Atsumu—

He had been restless all night. Fidgeting with his phone, tapping his foot, staring blankly at the TV without really paying attention to those around him. He had barely spoken since dinner, aside from the occasional grunt or muttered response.

The air was heavy, to say the least.

Thick with something almost oppressive, like a dark cloud looming over their heads.

It settled over the apartment, making even (y/n) feel on edge.

And yet—Osamu’s door stayed shut.

The next time she heard from him was in the dead of night.

Muffled. Broken.

(Y/n) stirred awake, blinking sleepily before realizing—no. She wasn’t imagining it.

The soft, shuddering sounds bled through the thin walls.

There was doubt about it.

Osamu was crying.

Her stomach twisted.

Her Osamu. The calm one. The reasonable one. The one who never wavered.

Crying.

She laid there, frozen, her chest aching at the sound. He was so close—just on the other side of the wall—and yet, she had never felt so far away from him.

Her fingers tightened around the bedsheets. She felt useless.

Her mind reeled, trying to grasp at possibilities. What could’ve happened?

And then—Atsumu’s voice from earlier.

"What, did ya get dumped or somethin’?"

(Y/n) winced.

The words felt so much heavier now.

Because—what if...?

That idiot.

She exhaled sharply, staring at her ceiling.

Should she go to him?

Would he even want her there?

Osamu wasn’t the type to seek comfort. He was the type to push through on his own. The type to wipe his face, inhale deep, and pretend like nothing happened.

Maybe he wanted privacy.

Maybe she should let him be.

But then—

A quiet, shaking breath. A stifled sob.

(Y/n) made her decision.

She slipped out of bed, padding softly across the floor, careful not to make a sound.

The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow under Osamu’s door.

She stood outside it, suddenly hesitant.

Then, gently, she raised her hand—

Knock, knock.

Soft. Barely there. Just enough to let him know.

A pause.

Then, as quietly, as gently as she could manage—

"It’s just me..."

Her voice was small. Careful. Afraid that if she spoke too loud, she might push him away.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then—shuffling.

(Y/n) waited, fiddling with the sleeve of her pyjamas.

Would he send her away?

She didn't have much time to ponder before the door clicked open.

Just an inch. Just enough for her to see a tired pair of red eyes peeking through the crack.

Her heart broke all over again.

She tilted her head slightly, offering a tiny, reassuring smile. No words. Just presence.

(Y/n) swallowed, hesitant.

“…Can I come in?”

Osamu stood at the doorway, still sniffling lightly, his knuckles rubbing against one tired eye.

She wasn’t sure if she was imposing. She wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone.

But she couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the thought of him curled up in the dark, crying alone in silence.

If it were her, she’d want someone there.

So maybe—just maybe—he wanted the same.

Osamu didn’t respond at first. He just inhaled sharply, then nodded. A small, tired nod.

And then, without a word, he stepped aside.

(Y/n) slipped past him, padding softly across the room. She settled onto his bed, hands loosely clasped in her lap, waiting for him.

The air inside his room was thick.

Not just from the heat lingering under the covers, not just from the faint scent of laundry detergent and cologne—but from the weight of everything left unsaid.

The mattress dipped slightly beside her as he sat down.

She shifted just a little—just enough for her thigh to brush against his. A subtle, silent kind of comfort.

Osamu sat stiffly at first, shoulders hunched, body language closed off. She thought of ways to break the silence—but he beat her to it.

“…You come in here to ask me to cook for ya again?”

It was meant as a joke. A light-hearted jab.

But it wasn’t him.

It felt off. Forced. Like he was trying to be okay—trying to play the part of Osamu Miya, the easy-going, steady one—but the cracks were showing.

Somehow, that hurt (y/n) more.

She forced a small laugh anyway, shaking her head. “No.”

Then, gently—

“…What’s wrong?”

Her voice was soft. As soft as she could muster. Like she was afraid that if she pushed too hard, he’d shatter all over again.

“I’m worried about you, ‘Samu.”

She saw it immediately.

The way his shoulders stiffened. The way his breath hitched. Like he was holding something in—like it was going to burst out whether he wanted it to or not.

Osamu let out a slow exhale.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know you are.”

He ran a hand through his messy, sleep-tousled hair, fingers raking harshly through the strands before his shoulders sagged. His gaze drifted away, his voice almost empty.

And then—

"My girlfriend broke up with me."

(Y/n) froze.

The words knocked the wind out of her.

Atsumu’s voice from earlier replayed in her mind.

She clenched her jaw, eyebrows marring into a deep frown.

She'd make sure to smack him the next time she saw him.

Her chest ached as realization set in.

It all made sense now.

Why Osamu had come home so quiet. Why he had barely looked at them. Why he had shut himself in his room.

Sensing her mounting rage, Osamu smoothly cut in before she could explode.

"I know what yer thinkin' and it's fine. He didn't know. He didn't mean it."

Her eyes flickered up to his face, trying to get a read of his expression, if he was being sincere.

The tension slowly left her shoulders, heading his words.

That's when another sharp flash of anger curled inside her chest—not at Osamu, not even at Atsumu—but at the girl, this time.

Because who the hell would be stupid enough to leave Osamu?

He was funny. Smart. Thoughtful. Sweet. A great cook, for god’s sake!

She almost said it.

But then she caught the look on his face.

And she swallowed it down.

“Why?”

It slipped out before she could stop herself—before she could decide if it was the right thing to ask.

Osamu gave a weak shrug.

“Dunno,” he muttered, voice strained. “Said she lost the spark, or somethin’.”

(Y/n)’s brows furrowed.

Her chest tightened with confusion. Frustration. Sadness.

What did that even mean? How could she just leave? How could she just walk away from someone like him?

Osamu’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants.

It was clear—he didn’t understand it either.

Another beat of silence passed.

Then, softly, (y/n) exhaled.

“…I’m so sorry, ‘Samu.”

Osamu swallowed, shaking his head. “S’alright.”

But they both knew it wasn’t.

The room went quiet again. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on his wall, the slow, uneven breaths from the boy beside her.

Then—

(Y/n) moved.

She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t need to.

She just reached out—and pulled him into her arms.

Osamu stiffened at first, caught off guard—but then, suddenly, all at once—

A sharp, hitched breath—

And then, before he could stop it—

A sob.

One. Then two. Then more, spilling out like he couldn’t keep them in any longer.

(Y/n) held him tighter.

She felt his fingers clutch at the back of her shirt, gripping like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

Her own eyes burned with unshed tears.

Because—in a very Miya fashion—Osamu loved deeply. Blindly. Without reservation. And that’s what hurt the most.

The fact that he must have really, truly loved this girl.

And now—he had to learn how to unlove her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, resting her chin against the top of his head, rocking him just slightly.

“It's okay,” she whispered. "It'll be okay."

And for the first time that night—he let himself believe her.

Moments later, the sobs slowed.

Little by little, his shaking breaths steadied, his grip on her shirt loosening.

But Osamu didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

And (y/n) didn’t let go.

She just kept holding him, kept running her fingers soothingly through his hair, as if keeping him together with the simplest of touches.

The weight of him against her was heavy, but not unbearable.

He needed this.

And, in a way, she did too.

Osamu exhaled, long and tired, his forehead still resting against her shoulder. He wasn’t crying anymore, but there was something hollow in the way he sat there. Like an empty shell. Like his body had given up before his mind had caught up.

(Y/n) swallowed. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “…What do you need?”

She didn’t ask if he was okay, afraid that wasn’t the right question to ask right now.

Osamu let out a slow, shaky breath in response. His shoulders lifted in a weak shrug.

“Dunno.”

He didn’t sound sad anymore, if not just exhausted. A deep kind of tired that wasn’t just from crying.

(Y/n) hesitated, glancing around his room.

Then, carefully—tentatively—she moved. Still slow, still gentle, she reached for his blanket, tugging it over both of them before leaning back against his pillows.

Osamu finally lifted his head, brows furrowing slightly in question.

(Y/n) patted the empty space beside her. “Lie down, dummy.”

He blinked at her.

She offered a small, tender smile. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

A weak huff of amusement left him. It wasn’t a laugh, not really, but it was the closest thing to one tonight.

And that was enough.

Osamu let out another breath, heavier this time, but he listened.

He shifted, moving to lie down beside her. The bed dipped slightly beneath his weight, the warmth of him settling next to hers.

A beat of silence passed.

Then—a soft, tired murmur.

“…Thanks, (y/n).”

She turned her head to look at him, threading her fingers through his hair. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion. But for the first time tonight, he looked a little lighter.

She smiled softly. “Anytime, ‘Samu.”

The room fell quiet again. The only sound was the occasional hum of cars passing outside, the faint thrum of the A.C.

Then, without thinking, (y/n) reached out. Just a small gesture—her pinky hooking lightly around his.

Osamu didn’t react at first. But, with time, his pinky surely curled back. A silent way of saying thank you.

Neither of them spoke again.

And for the first time that night—Osamu finally, finally let himself sleep.

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