#i just. i feel like fucking tearing everything down and just going away

[maskedbyghost]

ghost with a reader who’s really anxious/overthinker during sex 😩😩🥺

i got another request asking for a virgin!reader with some nervous energy but a lot of enthusiasm, so i just combined them and made it soft and clingy and a little bit feral. thank you to the anons who sent those, y’all own my brain. cw: smut, anxiety and overthinking, soft dom simon, lots of reassurance and praise, possessive but gentle vibes, aftercare, clinginess, mentions of crying (but like overwhelmed/happy crying).

you’re already hiding your face in your hands when he leans over you again, big and warm and heavy in the way that feels reassuring instead of overwhelming, and even though you’ve already said “wait” a few times and squirmed away more than once, he hasn’t gotten frustrated or pulled back.

he’s just watching you now, calm as ever, mouth pulled into a faint smile like he finds you endearing instead of difficult, and that only makes you feel more self-conscious.

“we can stop,” he says plainly, and somehow it doesn’t sound like he’s disappointed. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. i’d rather you be comfortable than push through something that doesn’t feel right.”

you groan and keep your face covered. “it’s not that,” you mutter. “i do want to. i just… i don’t know what i’m doing. i’m nervous. and overthinking everything. and probably being really weird right now.”

he kisses your wrist, then gently tugs your hands away from your face. “you’re not weird,” he says, looking down at you with the kind of patience that makes your chest ache a little. “you’re nervous. and that’s fine. it doesn’t scare me off, alright?”

you nod, even though your cheeks are burning and your whole body feels tense and unsure.

he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, and then lower, to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—slowly, not rushed, nor pushing for more.

“you don’t need to have it all figured out. you don’t need to impress me,” he says. “just be here. with me.”

he says it so simply, so easily, and you believe him, even if your body still feels stiff and your mind won’t stop racing. you want this, you want him, but the anxiety is crawling all over your skin and your heart’s pounding so loud it’s hard to stay in the moment.

he settles between your legs again, not moving too fast, one of his hands resting over your stomach like he knows you need the weight there, something to ground you and warm to hold you still.

“just breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. we’ll take it slow. nothing has to happen all at once.”

you feel tears sting your eyes, not because anything’s wrong, but because he’s being so good to you. so calm, so kind, and it makes everything a little easier to manage.

when he starts to push in, it’s barely anything, just the tip, and your fingers immediately grip his shoulders and your whole body goes tense, not from pain but from how big it feels and how intense it suddenly is.

he doesn’t move. just kisses your temple and waits, his breathing shaky but controlled.

“you’re alright. you’re doing so well,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “just tell me what you need, and i’ll give it to you. we’re not in a rush.”

you nod, and he murmurs, “that’s my girl,” in a way that makes your heart clench and your body relax just a little more.

when you whisper, “okay,” he starts to move again, gently easing in until he’s fully buried inside you, and even though it’s a lot, it doesn’t feel too much—not with the way he’s looking at you, not with the way he’s holding you.

“you feel so good around me,” he says, his voice thick with restraint. “you’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart. i know it’s a lot. you’re taking me so well.”

you let out a whimper, both from the stretch and the weight of it all, and his hands are everywhere—holding your hips, stroking your sides, curling around your thigh like he doesn’t want to let go.

he stays slow, keeps his movements careful, and he doesn’t stop talking, just keeps giving you little things to focus on.

“you’re not too much,” he murmurs when you try to hide your face again. “you’re not doing anything wrong. you don’t need to worry about how you look or sound. i want you just like this.”

you try to believe him. and it gets easier when you stop thinking and just feel—his body against yours, his hands gripping tight, his mouth at your neck, the little praises he keeps whispering in between shaky breaths.

when he reaches between you, his fingers find your clit, and you jerk a little in surprise, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps rubbing you gently, patiently, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters to him.

“there you go,” he says. “that’s it. let me help you.”

and somehow, despite how nervous you were, despite how unsure everything felt just moments ago, you’re already on the edge before you even realize it, gasping into his shoulder as your body starts to tremble.

“you gonna come for me?” he says, and his voice is rough now, but still so sweet. “yeah? let go, baby. i’ve got you. you’re safe.”

and you do—you come with a shudder, gripping him tight, burying your face in his neck as your whole body goes hot and soft and overwhelmed in the best way, and he holds you through it, breathing hard and kissing the side of your head, whispering, “that’s my girl, fuck, that’s it, you did so good.”

he doesn’t last long after that, not with how tightly you’re wrapped around him and how much he’s clearly been holding back, and when he finishes, it’s with a low groan and a few rough thrusts, then stillness as he stays inside you and clutches you like he never wants to let go.

you’re both quiet for a moment, your limbs tangled, your skin flushed, and you’re not thinking anymore—you’re just tired and happy and full and feeling safe in his arms.

he kisses your shoulder and pulls you closer.

“you don’t have to be brave with me,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “you just have to be mine. i’ll take care of the rest.”

he doesn’t pull out right away. he just stays there, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours like he’s trying to memorize your body's rhythm.

you’re still a little dazed, arms limp around his shoulders, and your thighs are trembling but you don’t want him to move either, not when you feel so full and warm and safe like this, not when he’s still murmuring little things against your neck like, “you did so good,” and “you were made for me.”

and then, eventually, he does move, carefully easing out of you, and he makes this low, strained sound like it physically pains him to separate from you.

“fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, dragging his hand down his face like he’s trying to stay composed, but his brain’s still short-circuited. “you—fuckin’ hell, you just…”

he glances at you, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to say something too intense.

“you alright?”

you nod, still catching your breath. “tired. but yeah.”

and then he’s back on you in a second, cupping your face, brushing sweaty hair off your forehead, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw, like he needs to check every part of you to make sure you’re okay.

“good,” he breathes. “that’s good. ‘cause you were perfect. you don’t even know—”

he cuts himself off with a laugh that sounds a little overwhelmed, like he’s trying to play it cool and failing.

“what?” you ask, half asleep and smiling now, because he’s acting like you just knocked him flat.

“you don’t get it,” he says, dragging the sheet over your bodies as he settles beside you, still so close his thigh is hooked over yours. “i’ve been picturing this—wanting this—for so long, and now that i’ve had you, now that i’ve seen how good you look like that…”

he kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself back down. “you’re in trouble, sweetheart.”

you snort. “me?”

he nods seriously, brushing your lip with his thumb. “yeah. you. ‘cause now i’m not gonna let you go. ever.”

you laugh, but your stomach flips a little, because the way he says it isn’t a joke—he means it.

he means mine in a way that’s not just possessive, but protective, like he’s decided you’re the most important thing in the world and he’s not letting the universe take you from him.

he’s back to touching you again, tracing patterns over your shoulder, your waist, your hip—hands never still, like he can’t help himself.

“you’re sore?” he asks after a few minutes, voice quieter now.

“a little.”

he hums and shifts. “stay here,” he says. “don’t move.”

you close your eyes, already half-asleep, but he’s back fast—warm towel, glass of water, his shirt that he slides over your arms even though it’s way too big on you.

“you didn’t have to do all that,” you mumble, but he just shushes you and kisses your forehead.

“yes i did.”

you end up curled in his chest, limbs tangled, your face tucked into his neck while he rubs your back in lazy circles. he’s not even pretending to sleep—he’s just staring at you with this dumb little proud look like he just won the lottery and doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“you’re mine now,” he says again, softer this time, like a promise more than a claim.

“i always was,” you whisper.

and the way he holds you tighter after that, you feel it in your bones.

----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[princesssmars]

dry humping with abby aka car sex 2.0

nsfw, fxf smut. dry humping, boob stuff, scratching and pulling. just quick and freaky.

wc : 1.100

“yeah, just like that baby, fuck- show me how much you want it.”

look, you didn't start the day thinking you'd be dry humping your girlfriend into the driver's seat of her car until you were both breathless, but sometimes things like this just happen.

it was no fault of either of yours, anyway. you were equally dedicated to your studies as you were to each other, even holding hour-long study dates every thrusday that you'd yet to miss in months. but with finals just around the corner, both of you were strung thin, barely having the time to greet each other on the phone, let alone spend some quality time together.

so, of course, that had both of you very pent up. you were both studious, yes, but that didn't mean you didn't rock each other's worlds on the frequent occasion. but for the past three weeks, all you've gotten were rushed moments in the dead of night with your moans shared over a phone, hands aching with the force of your thrusts, and hearts aching at the shared sadness of not having your girlfriend there to soothe the ache for you.

so the second you finish your last final, you truly didn't have only sex on the brain when you told abby to pick you up afterwards, ready to spend the rest of the evening in the comfort of her bed and arms as you caught up over everything else that had happened in your lives recently.

but after stopping for some quick dinner and snacks at a store, you can't pretend to ignore how her large hand rests on your thigh, fingers inching higher and higher the closer she gets to her apartment. all it takes is a flutter of your lashes and a throaty moan before the blonde covers your entire cunt through your panties with her hand. and all it takes is a whimper and a buck of your hips before her other hand is roughly serving the steering wheel, finding an empty parking lot and parking the car near the back, away from the streets and any prying eyes that could witness what was going to happen.

it's rough and fast how she grabs you, unbuckling your seat belt for you and literally picking you up from underneath your thighs and dropping you in her lap, cutting off your surprised cackle with her lips crashing into yours.

“abs, fuck, abby-”

“i know, baby, god, i missed you-” she groans into your mouth, a large palm coming up to the back of your neck, pushing and gripping like she mesh the two of you together is she tries hard enough. it's not like you're any better, hands in a similar position on her bare shoulders and scratching at the freckled skin to draw more whines from her throat.

it's not even a few minutes before the sloppy make-out session isn't enough for you anymore, desperation taking hold as your hips start to grind down into hers, the friction of your jeans pushing into your clit sending pleasurable shocks throughout your entire body. abbys hand travels from your neck down to your chest, squeezing your breast through your shirt while her other hand anchors itself on your hip for leverage as she grinds herself up and into you.

seeing abby below you, writhing and panting as her head drops back onto the seat, adorable blue eyes lidded as they stare up at you on top of her only makes you feel hotter, hands rushing down to tear off your shirt to alleviate the heat and so that she can fully grasp your tits in her hand.

“god, you wanted this to happen, huh?” abby breathes, voice light as she takes notice of your very braless chest.

“says the one about to cum in her pants, ohhhh-” your rebuttal is cut off with a drawn out moan traveling up and out of your throat, head tilting back when abby’s mouth wraps around one of your nipples and starts to bite.

she always reacted when you talked back to her.

it's almost like a challenge to see who can bring the other over faster, with abby continuing her sucking and biting on your chest as you continue to scratch at her arms and pull at her hair. it's when her palm sneaks its way down to your behind and squeezes before giving it a harsh smack that you realize you're close to release, deciding some near-orgasm rambles are just going to have to do the job.

“abby, abby, feels s’ good, you make me feel so fucking good-”

“yeah? you like that, beautiful?” her voice is strained, hips bucking at an angle that you know feels just right on her oh so sensitive clit, her freckles barely visible with the intensity of her flush.

“yeah. missed you, missed your talking, your kisses, your fingers…”

“ohh, shit, nghh- baby…”

using the last bit of un-fucked out intelligence you have left, you wrap a hand around her wrist and yank her hand up to your mouth, keeping eye contact as you envelop two of her thick fingers into your mouth.

“missed having you inside me, absy.”

your shared orgasms are a quick sequence of intense events, abby’s moaning combined with her fingers thrusting deeper into your mouth triggering your own muffled cries as you use that last bit of energy to keep humping until you’re thoroughly satisfied.

when it ends, you're left lying on her chest, bodies at a slightly odd angle as she pushes the seat back as far as she can to make space for you without removing her skin from touching yours. after a minute of catching your breaths, you look up at her with your chin rested on her chest.

“guess we were a little pent up, huh?”

she laughs, a breathy and sweet sound that makes your heart flutter in your chest. “yeah, guess you could say that. someone seemed to enjoy it, though.”

“oh please, my throat is still sore because someone got a little too excited at the end there.”

“oh yeah?”

you don't get a chance to respond before you're somehow being lifted and placed in the backseat of the car, abby’s frame placed above you as her hands rest on either side of your head.

“then it’d only make sense if i made some other parts of your sore then, yeah?”

[eraserbread]

what about make up sex with toji after a nasty argument….. kinda need

wife guy, this. ex husband, that. what about toji fushiguro's mistress - the other woman? ✧

→ adultery, toxic relationship dynamics, skin marking, sexually explicit content

it's just the way things are. toji makes it known that you aren't his priority. he has a beautiful wife, a promising son, and an idea of life you can't quite grasp.

but, it surely doesn't have you in mind because he's always shrugging you off. it'll be stupid, like saying he'd call you back and just never will. it's always your fault, because he had to pick his kid up, and you should've known he would be busy all day.

silly you for thinking your boyfriend would act like one.

silly you for thinking he would keep his date night promise. now, you're stuck on a busy sidewalk in tokyo, cars whizzing past and mixed voices making it feel like you're standing alone in a wind tunnel.

it wasn't anything fancy, just stupid tourist ramen downtown. the shop was dark, so nobody could see his face if they recognized it. secrecy is everything.

but he doesn't even show up, and all of your calls and texts go dead.

so, when you see him kicked up in the middle of your apartment, beer hanging from his thick fingers, you're fuming.

"hey, pretty." he drones low, like he knows you love him. after all, you are all dressed up for him—short skirt, makeup, and jewels. it's what he needs from you, something his wife doesn't give much anymore.

but toji has one glaring flaw, he doesn't understand you. you could say he doesn't understand women at all. it's why he's reaching outside of his sexless marriage for help. it's why you're standing in your doorway choking back tears as he drinks his beer down.

"so you just ignored all my calls and texts on purpose?"

"hm... i don't have my phone." he's only halfway looking at you, watching a pretty actress on the tv prance around for his attention. It's so dark, you reach to flip the lights on.

and when you can see him better, that familiar stare is bleak and loveless—taking you in like a predator would prey. yet, he's still so gentle and gruff when he says, "no use fighting when you look like that."

"it would just kill you to pretend, wouldn't it?" you're cursing yourself, not knowing why you're so backed up with unsaid words when you know this is how he acts. toji never, ever changed. "if all I am is a fuck to you, that's fine, but just say it!"

"there's nothing to say—you know what you are to me." he's sitting up quickly, swinging his legs from the table to plant his bare feet on the ground. "so, stop it with the insecure shit. matter of fact, shut up, and come here." dingy beer can crushing on the table, heels digging into the floor, toji wants to leave—but he wants to stay. he wants you to do your job and stop it already.

if he wanted the fights and tension, he would've snuck into his wife's bed tonight. instead, he's crawling to your doorstep. can't you see how special you are to his body him?

but, you're just as stubborn as he is, so you dig your heels right back, fists balled at your sides. "why won't you even apologize? or, say anything... nice to me... ever?!"

toji watches you for a second, his soft, scarred lip dipping into the ghost of a frown. you're a pitiful scene right now, face buried in your hands as you cry—bare knees cold and shaking, makeup smudged, and so overcome. it'd be endearing for him if you weren't so hunched in on yourself; it hides your body.

then, he lets out a throaty groan, pressing his hands to his knees as he stands up. it's buried behind your soft sniffles, but the sound of footsteps is unmistakable, just like the feeling of a firm hand across the side of your neck.

"stop crying, i'm sorry." you're turning your face away when he grabs it, hiding your ruined face with dirty palms. "hey, come on, I mean it."

and, you already forgive him. because, why wouldn't you? now, you're more embarrassed than anything. you want him. he wants you. the sensation—it's in the air, clogging your pores and blocking your airways.

and he tugs your wrists from your face and kisses you like he loves you.

and then, he fucks you like that—finally. raw, pushed face first into your tear-soaked mattress.

toji wouldn't have you any other way. he never really fucks you any other way, except buried to the hilt pressed in doggy. the way your cunt expands around him... god, it just makes him crazy. the bruises that bloom on your ass when he's got two fistfuls, the stretch of skin as he pulls you apart... yeah, he's cooked. he loves this so much. not you. never you.

toji loves his wife to the ends of the earth, but the way you're arching your back and mewl little, embarrassed sounds into your arms is damning. skin-to-skin with your softness is akin to bathing in a bucket of clouds, naked to the core. he opens his eyes to see what he's feeling again, then silently wishes he could see your face.

after all, he made you cry. now, he has to make it all better.

and you two start to feel a bit more even when toji pulls the heaviness of his cock out of you, sharp teeth bared as he goes face-first into your sobbing, stretched hole. biting down on your sheet silences the cry you give him, but toji wants to hear you.

so, he reaches his big arm over your bowed body, grabbing a handful of your hair to pull your face from the mattress. he knows you're cumming before you do, and he wants to hear it.

needs to taste it. yearns to be as close as possible to you.

[randomshyperson]

don't run away without me - wanda maximoff oneshots

summary: Wanda's neglect of everything around her, and constant abuse of the darkhold reaches a breaking point - you can't go on like this anymore. | warnings: mainly angst, hurt/comfort, they fight and actually resolve things through dialogue (crazy ik), mutual pining, fluff by the end (you may consider the canon of agatha all along for the "open" ending) | words: 2.588k

a/n-> A month ago i think @iguirisu request an angst one shot, and here it is, i randomly had inspiration for it today at work hope you like; I actually do miss writing about Wanda's depression state, or dark hold influence era.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

The smell of coffee made you sigh and relax a little.

Natasha smiled affectionately - despite the obvious tiredness and sadness that your gaze hid, it was good to see you a little, even if minimally, more cheerful.

She took her place in the armchair, crossing her legs. In her hand, a hot cup of tea. You, on the other hand, left yours on the table, your fingers nervous.

"You took a while to visit, Y/N." Nat began, without waiting for you to make any excuse, she added; "I was hoping Wanda would come with you."

You look down, a sad laugh escaping you. "Yeah, I asked her to." You mumble, unable to hide your annoyance. “"Things have been... tricky. Ever since Westview. I thought we were doing well, as much as possible, but Wanda..." You sigh, forcing a smile at Nat. "She's been shouting me out."

Natasha takes a sip of her tea before commenting. "She knows none of us hold a grudge against Westview, right? Even though it's been, well, fucked up." 

You laugh weakly at the comment, nodding. You take a sip of your drink too, enjoying the the taste of it. 

Nat stretches out her legs and rests them on the coffee table. "Maybe I should visit." 

You shake your head. "Better not, Nat." You say, and this surprises the redhead a little. You sigh. "It's her magic. She's been restless, and Wanda, well, she gets really nervous sometimes. I tried to talk to her about contacting that witch we faced in Westview, you know? Agatha Harkness. But she won't give in. And that damn book too. I may not be a witch, but I can sense something's wrong." 

The redhead sighs. "Damn, Y/N, that sounds like... a lot." 

You smile weakly. "Yeah, I know. But thanks for having me here, Nat. I guess I needed to get out of that cabin for a bit, to clear my head." 

She shakes her head gently. "Please don't mention it. I think everything would be easier if we all still lived together in the compound. We'd end up making too much noise for Wanda to get stuck in books." Her joke makes you smile, a little nostalgic. Natasha looks at you curiously. "Are you sure you don't want me to visit? We can just, I don't know, talk. Spend some time together. I feel like I haven't seen you guys in... forever."

You smile sadly, looking away at the apartment. It’s exactly how you remember it, the same way Natasha welcomed you from Shield, a safe home for a defected black widow.

“It’s okay, this helps a lot.” You lean back against the couch, resting your back. “Can we talk about something else? Anything. Even if it’s a fantasy.”

She chuckled in confusion. "I don't understand, Y/N."

You sigh sadly. "I just miss you so much, Nat." 

She frowns, adjusting her posture to move closer, taking the seat next to you. "I'm right here, sweetheart." She says, reaching for your hand. You smile, feeling the tears well up in your eyes. 

You lean in to hug her, and for a moment, the feeling is just as you remembered. But it doesn't last long, and with a sigh, you wake up. 

The covers of your bed are tightly wrapped around you, but the cabin is cold and they do little to keep you warm. It's not just the weather, you know. Wanda is reading again, and the darkhold always makes sure that the cold feeling never goes away, even when you turn on the fireplace and sit on the rug in front of it.

You get up without rushing, there's nothing to rush about. You go to the bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, but maintain a relaxed appearance of someone who just woke up, which in the past Wanda would comment on how charming you are - but now, she doesn't even look up from her book when you leave the room.

You're not surprised that there's no coffee; if you don't make it, Wanda will just go on without eating, for hours and hours until her body protests with exhaustion.

It's not healthy, you can insist. But she won't give more than a grumble in return.

This morning you prepare pancakes, and some coffee. There are freshly picked apples that manage to bring a small smile to your face. You think it will be like any other morning, quiet and lonely, but Wanda's physical form appears to sit at the table with you.

"Hi, Y/N." It's almost painful actually. The distance and indifference have grown to the point that greeting you in the morning is almost like talking to a stranger.

Your back tenses before you glance at her from the corner of your eye and murmur a good morning, your attention returning to the preparation of the coffee.

"You woke up late." Your hand hesitates in cracking the eggs, but only for half a second. Wanda sighs. "I thought you weren't going to do that anymore." 

You place the eggs on the tray, and move to find the flour. Your back is to Wanda. "I don't know what you're talking about." You mumble disinterestedly. 

She laughs, humorless. "Come on, you were the one giving speeches about how wrong and dangerous that was, and now you're doing it almost every night." 

You set the bowl down on the table with a little more force than necessary. "What is it now, Wanda?" You demand, irritated but more importantly, upset. Days goes by with Wanda not paying a single glance at you, and now she’s demanding answers. "Just say what you mean." 

She rolls her eyes, and you swallow hard. She can be so… mean. Like Wanda never was. But then again, ever since Westview, and especially since the Darkhold, you've been discovering sides of her that you've never seen. You tried to stay positive about it, because well, relationships are hard. But it was all extremely tiring.

"I just think it's a little funny, when I asked to talk to my boys, you said it was wrong. That I was abusing your power, that it was dangerous to mess with these things, that speech about natural law and the veil of the dead, or whatever nonsense you made up."

"I didn't make it up-"

She interrupts you: "But when it's about you visiting Natasha every night, then it's okay?"

You laugh humorlessly. "Because it's me! Because I hold the connection, because it's my power! I've explained to you this a hundred times, but you don't want to accept it." She huffs, standing up, ready to leave the room, the conversation, and that makes you laugh again. "Go ahead, just run away again." 

She looks at you with irritation: "Me? You're the one who's running away, Y/N! Every night to visit our dead friend!" 

You have to laugh because honestly this has to be a joke. Wanda swallows hard at the sound. "Wanda, you're not even here." You gesture to the other room where her astral projection is reading the darkhold, and she turns her face away, almost embarrassed. You run a hand over yours, sighing. Exhausted. "This is all bullshit. I don't even know what I'm doing here."

You explode. "She talks to me!" And this takes Wanda by surprise, she looks at you with a frown, and you hold back the tears that threaten to fall. "A change of scenery for a change. "

"I talk to you." 

She looks at you as if you've been slapped, in a way, you're almost happy to have some reaction.

"You said you didn't want to leave me alone."

You frown, and hold her gaze, even though you can't hold back the tears anymore. "And in return, you barely look at me."

"Y/N, that's not true. We were ready to have breakfast-" She tries to get closer, to touch you, but you pull away, laughing humorlessly, gesturing nervously to the kitchen.

"Breakfast? Wanda, none of this is real!" You scoff, gesturing around. "This farm, the food, even the fucking animals, you created everything with your magic. All of this is a lie."

"Don't say that."

But you get closer, breathless with emotion, your hands find her face, and Wanda resists the urge to lean into the touch, her gaze conflicted as if she were also resisting something else, something stronger and deeper.

"I'm real, Wanda. And I'm right here. Begging you to let me in." You confess, and some of her certainty breaks. "But you push me away. And ignore me for days, limiting me to a ghost of you." 

She touches your forearms. "I know you don't like it, but astral projection allows me to study without leaving you alone and-" She tries, but you shake your head, cutting her off. 

"Enough, I don't want to hear the same excuses all over again." You walk away, a sad smile on your face. "I think I should just go."

Wanda tries to contain her emotion, but she's crying the next minute. "If that's what you want, I won't stop you." 

You laugh sadly. "What I want. Funny." You retort, walking around her to pack, and Wanda swallows hard. It takes a moment, but she finally follows you to the room, where you search for the few belongings you brought, which weren't fabrications of chaos magic. She doesn't even realize she's forced back her astral projection until she sees the darhold floating alone, almost begging to be read again.

"So that 's it? Are you really just going to leave me alone?" 

You don't look at her. "Clearly that's what you want, Wanda. Enjoy your reading." 

But she stands in front of the door, blocking your way. You sigh impatiently, but she holds her position. "And what do you want?" 

You hesitate, and Wanda tilts her head, her eyes turning red. You snort in protest at the attempt of mind reading. "Unbelievable." You mumble in disappointment, but there's a bump when you try to cross because Wanda won't step aside. "Come on, you said you wouldn't stop me." 

"Why did you come with me in the first place?" She demands to know then, her gaze almost pleading, and that makes you hesitate, take a step back. 

"Wanda." 

"Tell me." She says, and you swallow hard, looking away at the floor. She laughs humorlessly. "Fine, and then you say I don't talk to you." 

She steps aside, turning her back to you to walk down the hallway again, and you sigh, thinking fuck it. Things can't get any worse than they are now. 

"I'm in love with you."

It's the first time you've said it out loud, admitted it to yourself, actually. Wanda frowns at you, and then laughs briefly and incredulously.

"Right." She mumbles, and you take a step toward her.

"I'm serious."

Wanda doesn't flinch. "Well, I don't believe you."

It's your turn to frown, confused and a little embarrassed, as you watch Wanda sigh and walk over to the couch, where she sits. You sigh too before entering the living room again, the bag of clothes loosely in your hand. "What are you talking about? What do you mean you don't believe? This is just a fact, not something to argue about."

But the redhead shakes her head. "That's ridiculous, Y/N. You're not in love with me." You open your mouth to protest, but she keeps talking. "First of all, you never said anything. You didn't even think." She looks at you with a certain certainty that makes you swallow hard. That nosy witch and that bad habit of looking into people's minds. "Second, you're.. off limits. You're Nat' s. You always have been and always will. I mean you visit her even after death now." 

You grimace, and then you finally understand what Wanda is really saying. "Wanda, I," You begin, dropping your backpack on one of the armchairs and approaching where she is, kneeling down to her level. "Natasha and I broke up during the blip. I told you that. We became friends, just friends, over time. I’ve been visiting her because I was feeling lonely, and I missed having a friend to talk to." Wanda looks away, and you try to follow her gaze, your hand reaching for hers in your lap. "And yes, about the first thing, you're right. I'd never thought about it. It took me a while to understand, to realize. I guess I was trying to protect myself." 

She looks at you with some uncertainty. "From me?" 

You laugh shortly, shaking your head immediately. "Oh, no, Wanda, not from you." You clarify quickly. "I was afraid of getting my heart broken, you know? You had someone. And well, Natasha was my first love. And it was mutual. I didn't know how to deal with rejection, with the possibility of well, of living through this right now. It's been hard, but I'll survive." 

But Wanda swallows hard, her cheeks gaining a new color. "But I... didn't reject you."

You laugh awkwardly. "It's okay, I don't need you to let me down slowly, the shock and silence are enough for me to get the message." You joke, but when you make a move to stand up, Wanda tightens her grip on your hand, keeping you in place.

"You just caught me by surprise." She murmurs and it's the only thing she says before advancing on you, a firm kiss on your lips. She barely lets you get used to the feeling - pulling away immediately, her brow furrowed in conflict. "Fuck, don't show me that."

"I didn't do anything-"

"It's not you!" She snaps, her eyes red. Wanda suddenly becomes agitated, standing up, her hands on her head for a moment. You worry, and when you try to touch her, she suddenly grabs you, her arms around you, her face hidden in your chest. She takes a deep breath, as if trying to wake herself up to this moment. "Please, don't leave me alone with it."

You understand, the book, which continues to vibrate in the next room, waiting, demanding a reader.

One of your hands goes to Wanda's head, and the other to her back, trying to calm her down.

"I'll stay with you, Wands." You say, swallowing hard afterwards. "But on one condition." She breaks the hug only to look at you. You sigh. "We'll ask for help."

"What? No-"

"I'm serious." You interrupt. "If not Agatha Harkness, it will be someone from Kamar Taj, like Doctor Strange. You need help, Wanda. You don't sleep, you barely eat. You're paranoid and restless. You're hurting yourself, and I'm not going to stand by and watch."

Wanda sighs tiredly, and buries her face in your chest again, nodding softly. Though the next moment, she mumbles, “Strange won’t help. Sorcerers don’t… help witches.”

You kiss the top of her head. “Agatha Harkness then.”

The redhead groans in protest. "I don't trust her." But you hug her a little tighter.

"I know, darling, me either." You whisper. "But who knows what Westview has in store for us?"

Wanda hides her warm face deeper inside the hug. "I like it when you call me that."

It's your turn to blush. "Lucky for you, I have an endless list of pet names for you, Miss Magic Fingers." She giggles, trying to tickle you so you'll let her go, but the break only makes you laugh and shower her face with kisses.

[hxlxnaaa]

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫��

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a year after the breakup, one fight still haunts them both. when sylus shows up again, it all comes rushing back—every kiss, every scream, every regret. they miss each other. they need each other. and this time, they’re not letting go.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: ex boyfriend sylus, canon divergence, slight angst if you squint, dw there's comfort, brief mentions of zayne, reader is VERY briefly implied to be a student, plot with porn, emotional make up sex, like crying during the deed, slightly toxic but they're in love, they're healing ok, sylus is a simp, reader is down bad, this is soft and filthy at the same time

★ 𝐰𝐜: 10.5k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: this came to me in a prophetic vision and i needed to write it. i LOVEEE the idea of ex boyfriend sylus. like mmmm give me more…. anyways im not very good nor comfortable with writing smut but i had to do it so here it is. i hope i executed it well LMAO. was originally gonna be porn with plot but i got too locked in… enjoy!

Nothing about the breakup was amicable.

It wasn’t one of those slow fades, where two people quietly drift in different directions until they’re just gone. No, it was one fight—loud, sharp, nasty and just downright cruel. The kind that leaves a ringing in your ears and words you wish you could take back. One moment, and everything you were just blew apart. 

You didn’t walk away. 

No, you crashed—hard. Spun out of each other’s lives like planets knocked off course.

You always fought like that—both of you stubborn, neither one willing to back down. It wasn’t anything new. You’re not even sure what exactly made you lose it that time.

Maybe it was the way he embarrassed you in front of everyone. Maybe you’d had too much to drink. Or maybe you were just finally done. Done with the constant tension, the little digs, all the crap you kept letting slide. Just sick and tired of his shit.

You don’t even remember what you said, just playfully whining to your friend beside you.

“You get used to her overreacting. She just needs attention.”

And then everyone laughed. Maybe at you, maybe just at the joke—who even knows anymore. He always had a way of getting people to laugh like that, soaking up attention with that slick charisma he wore like his dumb expensive cologne. And this time? That charm of his came at the cost of your dignity. Your pride.

You bit your tongue and swallowed everything you wanted to scream. Unlike him, you weren’t going to make a scene—not in front of all your friends. No, you kept your mouth shut, had a few more drinks, sat in silence the whole Uber ride home, and waited.

He followed you inside like nothing was wrong, started taking off his coat like he always did, settling in like it was just any other night. But you stopped him. Told him to hang on a second. Then you walked straight to your room, grabbed every single thing he owned—every sock, every hoodie, every stupid little trinket—and dumped it all at his feet.

And that’s when it started. You brought up what he said, how he embarrassed you, how he made you feel like a goddamn joke in front of everyone. And of course—of course—he didn’t take you seriously. Laughed it off, like he always did. Like your anger, your hurt, was some kind of performance he’d already seen too many times.

Like your overreacting was just a grab for attention.

That’s when you snapped. You weren’t just arguing about that night anymore—you were tearing into everything. Every moment you’d swallowed your pride, every time you felt small, every time he talked over you or dismissed you like you didn’t matter.

You started throwing his stuff at him, screaming like your chest was on fire, like you could rip his voice out of the air just to make it stop. Told him to get the fuck out, that you never wanted to see his stupid fucking face again. It was bad, the kind of fight that had cops on the doorstep. That was the only thing that finally got him to leave. The only reason that ugly night finally stopped.

Then came the texts—him cycling through the five stages of grief in your messages. 

‘Sweetie, you know me better than this. What happened to us, to you?’

‘Can we just sit down? I’ll listen, really. I’ll hear you.”

‘Don’t throw away everything we’ve built in one moment of anger.’

You had to silence his calls, his texts. Your phone had practically turned into a vibrator with the way he was spamming it.

But you never found it in yourself to block his number.

Once, you walked out of class and there he was, waiting outside like he’d been watching for you. He tried to talk to you, and you had to practically sprint to get away. After that, you started taking different routes to your classes, finding back ways around buildings, just to avoid him. It felt like you couldn’t even breathe without him showing up.

He sent gifts to your doorstep; monetary, thoughtless gestures like expensive jewelry, new designer clothes, extravagant bouquets. But on nights you spent cramming for exams or buried in the library, you’d come home to meals from your favorite restaurants or baskets filled with all the snacks you loved.

There was never a note, but you didn’t need one. You always knew who it was from.

But it didn’t take long for it all to stop. The texts, the gifts, the way you’d catch glimpses of him standing around places you used to go. You thought you’d be relieved, but now… it’s different. Sometimes, you almost miss it—the reminder that he was still there, still trying. It felt like you still mattered to him, even if it was twisted.

Despite all the fights, he was good. Good to you, and just good in that rare, complicated way some people are. His heart was made of gold and steel—soft in places, unbreakable in others. He just didn’t always know how to use it.

But you know you mattered to him. You felt it, even when everything else was falling apart.

Right person, wrong time, you guess.

Because despite your 3 year relationship coming to an abrupt, sudden and earth shattering halt—life goes on.

Though, it took a while.

At first, his constant pleas for forgiveness built a wall between you and any real chance at healing. And then there was the regret—that heavy, gnawing feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’d made a huge mistake. That maybe you’d let go of the best thing you ever had. Lost something you weren’t sure you’d ever find again.

It didn’t help that you shared the same circle of friends. He was everywhere—smiling in group photos, lit up in stories, slipping into your feed like a ghost that refused to rest. You’d catch a glimpse, tap the tag, and spiral into his page like it was muscle memory. You told yourself it was harmless curiosity, that you just wanted to know if he was okay now that the begging had gone quiet.

But deep down, you were searching for something else.

Hoping he hadn’t moved on.

Eventually, you found a rhythm. Learned when to look away from social media, which friends to sidestep in conversation. You slipped into a beat that no longer used him as an instrument. 

And slowly, quietly, you began to write a new song.

Without Sylus.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

You sat cross-legged on the floor of Zayne’s apartment, your head resting in your hands as you watched him work. His eyes were locked on his laptop, fingers moving with careful precision, while his glasses kept sliding down the bridge of his nose. Every few minutes, he’d pause just long enough to push them back up, never once looking away for long.

You’d been seeing each other for a few months now. It had been a year, finally a full year, since everything fell apart.  

“Better to get back out there,” you told yourself.

You met Zayne through one of your new friends. He had asked for your number, and you gave it to him without thinking too hard—if you did, you’d start to feel the guilt you were trying to desperately ignore. He’s a doctor, living the kind of life that sounded like ambition carved into marble—precise and immovable. He had plans, timelines, a path so clearly mapped out it felt like there wasn’t room for detours.

He’s sweet. Gentle in ways you didn’t realize you needed. 

He doesn’t set off fireworks in your chest, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe peace was always the thing you were chasing.

But, sometimes, being with him felt like standing in a waiting room of his life. Like you were something brief, something meant for now but not later. A warm presence to come home to, but never quite a part of the long term picture. 

Because of that, you weren’t exactly together—but you weren’t not together, either. It was strange, undefined, but it worked. You didn’t know if you were ready for something more serious yet, a new commitment after what came before.

And Zayne was so different from him.

Zayne was calm where he had been wild. Predictable where he had been chaotic. Steady where he had burned.

But sometimes you missed the fire.

The way he could make you feel like the center of the universe with just a look, the way everything with him was urgent, desperate, alive. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been electric.

With Zayne, it sometimes felt like you were too much for him. Like he didn’t really know what to do with all of you. But with him, it was the opposite—he couldn’t get enough.

Zayne was still a good guy. That should’ve been enough.

Even if you already knew what it felt like to be wanted completely. Wanted like a storm.

"Do you want to grab food?" you asked, tapping gently on the back of his laptop. You knew better than to interrupt his flow, but you hadn’t come over just to sit and watch him work.

He hummed in response, barely acknowledging you.

You sighed. "So you wouldn’t care if I blew up your apartment?"

Another hum.

To be fair, he had promised dinner earlier. He just needed to finish his work—and then he just needed a bit more time… And then a little more after that.

That was three hours ago.

This time, you reach for the top of his laptop screen, and his eyes flick up to you—blinking slowly, like he’s just now registering the reality outside of his research paper.

Zayne frowns, the disapproval clear on his face. You mirror him with a frown of your own, arms crossing over your chest.

"It’s getting late," you say, your tone edging on impatient. "Let me know what you want, and I’ll go pick it up."

“No, it’s alright.” He finally shuts his laptop with a quiet click, then takes off his glasses and sets them gently on the table beside him. His eyes meet yours—tired, a little guilty.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” he says, voice softer now, like he means it.

You shrug in response, but inside, your thoughts begin to stir.

They did this sometimes—whenever Zayne did something even slightly wrong.

He would never do that.

He would never make you wait more than an hour—and that was only if something came up. He always respected your time, always made sure you knew you were a priority. 

He was always there when he said he would be—in every single sense.

The guilt rises again, thick and suffocating in your chest. Guilt for what you did, guilt for even thinking about him when Zayne is right here. The way Zayne’s hesitation, his lack of urgency, makes everything feel distant.

‘If he would never do that, why don’t you go back to him?’ Though sarcastic, the thought cuts through you bitterly. You scoff, but the question lingers.

“Where do you want to go?” Zayne asks, his voice pulling you out of the fight with your own subconscious. You blink, disoriented for a moment, before his words sink in.

“Anywhere you’d like,” he continues, “As an apology for making you wait so long.”

You don’t know why you say it, and you're not even sure if you want to go there, but the words leave your lips anyway. You tell him you want to go to this place across town.

Zayne doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the history of that place, the weight of the memories tied to it, the way it feels like a part of him still lingers there. And you don’t want to taint him with that—don’t want to drag him into this aggressive, aching space inside you.

But it’s like everything in you aches to go there, anyway.

To feel a fragment of him again, even if it’s through something so small, so insignificant. Just to be near a place that once held the kind of warmth you crave now. To feel a piece of what it was, even if you know you’ll never truly get it back.

To just miss him for a second.

Maybe it’s cruel of you to drag Zayne along. He’s clueless, unaware of the heaviness of this strange little hole in the wall restaurant. Doesn’t know why you stay silent the entire ride, eyes fixed on the world outside, every single tree passing by like a painful reminder.

You can feel the hole in your chest, the space he used to fill, and it’s all you can do not to let it consume you.

When you arrived, even the bricks outside were enough to make your heart lurch. For a second—an honest, long second—you forgot who you were with.

You turned, expecting to see silver hair, eyes like cut rubies, that familiar warmth of a presence that used to pull the air from your lungs.

But instead, you were met with something gentler. A forest, not a flame.

Zayne took your hand, his brows drawn with concern. “Are you alright?” he asked.

You forced a smile—too quick, too practiced—and nodded.

“Yeah.”

But even as the word left your mouth, you could feel the lie settle in the air between you.

The inside was just as cruel. Small and warm, familiar in a way that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed. The feeling was a tie between a warm hug and suffocating.

Maybe you were a masochist for letting yourself come here—for asking to be brought back to a place that held a feeling you’d buried so deep it shouldn’t have surfaced this easily.

It was just a small place you found by accident one lazy evening. But once you fell in love with it, he made it tradition.

Every weekend, like clockwork, he’d take you on a date. And more often than not, you’d ask to come here.

Eventually, the owners knew you by name. Knew your usuals, your laughter, your habits—the shape of your love, even.

And standing there now, with Zayne beside you, the warmth and familiarity turned sharp.

You realized what you’d done.

Who you were with.

And for a moment, regret bloomed in your throat like a bruise.

Were you that ex? The one who dragged new boys through old memories like ghosts on a leash?

No.

Zayne wasn’t your boyfriend. So it didn’t count. It didn’t mean anything.

Right?

You found a table in the corner, far from that quiet little booth tucked near the stage—the one that had soaked in your fights, your laughter, your deepest conversations.

The one that still held all of that messy, complicated love.

Far from the exposed brick wall where you’d once scrawled your initials with the red lipstick you always carried.

His favorite shade.

You still have it in your purse. You never took it out.

Why didn’t you take it out?

The band was bustling, the loud jazz music crashing against your thoughts like waves. You knew Zayne would hate it here—too loud and too cramped for him.

The faint frown tugging at his face confirmed everything you already knew.

You had to order at the bar, and you silently hoped—begged—that he’d take the hint, take the lead.

You just wanted to stay in your seat, stay still; let the noise swallow you whole while you slipped quietly back in time.

Just for a little while.

And he did. Zayne stood with a sigh and made his way to the bar, already checking his watch like he couldn’t wait to leave.

You stayed seated.

Let your eyes wander around the room, soaking in the soft haze of memory like it was smoke in your lungs.

You imagined another version of this moment—one where you weren’t sitting there with someone you knew well, but still felt like a stranger; who held your hand too gently, smiled too politely.

One where the seat across from you was filled with someone who looked at you like you hung the stars, the sun and the moon alike. Who never looked at his watch because time was never wasted with you.

From where you were sitting, you knew the only thing you’d be able to see through the crowds of people at tables was the band and that stupid, beautiful booth.

You couldn’t look at it.

You wouldn’t look at it.

You looked.

Oh.

Oh.

You met his eyes, and the world forgot how to spin.

The air stilled. The conversations and music seemed to pause, a single note stretched out across eternity.

Everything—everyone—stood frozen in place.

Time held its breath.

And for one impossible second, it was just the two of you again.

What was he doing here?

Was the universe playing some cruel trick, drawing you both back to this place like gravity? Why your booth?

Why now?

His eyes scanned your face like he wasn’t sure you were real—like you’d stepped out of a dream.

Then came that smile.

The soft one; the one he used to give you in the quiet, perfect moments when the world was small, just the two of you.

There was no venom in it. No pain. No trace of the wreckage you left in each other.

Just something tender.

As if none of it had happened.

As if you were still okay.

You couldn’t help but smile back.

It was instinct, not decision—like your face moved before your mind could catch up. Like your chest cracked open just wide enough to let the light in.

It felt like winter turning to spring, when everything thaws out and comes alive again. when the frost softens and color creeps quietly back into everything.

Your heart bloomed, slow and trembling—like a flower daring to open again.

He lifts his hand in a wave, mouthing “Hello.” 

“Hi, Sylus.” You mouth back

Your lips felt strange shaping his name. Like they weren’t used to the syllables anymore—like they’d forgotten the rhythm of it, the way it used to sit so easily on your tongue. It felt foreign now, like a word in a language you once knew by heart but hadn’t spoken in years.

Everything started moving again when your drink was sat in front of you. You looked up, and Zayne’s face was tired, pained even.

"Thank you," you murmured, fingers idly twisting the straw. He stayed quiet, as he always did, his gaze fixed on the band, listening to the music, indifferent to you.

You glanced over at the booth again, just to make sure.

And he was gone.

Your heart froze up again, going back to winter. The flower that had started to bloom died in an instant.

Did you just imagine him? He was there in a second, gone the next. 

Was coming to this place such a bad idea that you started hallucinating your ex boyfriend?

Suddenly, the once familiar comfort of this place turned on you, becoming suffocating and unbearable. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, a flush of panic exploding beneath your skin. Every hair on your body stood on end, as if now bracing for something that wasn’t there.

Your chest tightened, breath shallow, the music too loud, the walls too close.

What the hell just happened?

You pushed your food around the plate, appetite long gone, and caught glimpses of Zayne doing the same.

The high had worn off—whatever rush or adrenaline that had carried you through the moment had collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a deep, aching hollowness in your chest.

All you wanted was to crawl into bed and fall apart. To let the tears come in the dark, mourning the vision your mind had conjured up like some sick joke.

To sit with the guilt of missing him. Of returning to this place. Of dragging Zayne into the wreckage of your past.

He didn’t know a thing—not really. You never told him. Never told anyone, if you were being honest.

It wasn’t something you ever felt the need to say out loud. You kept it locked away, tucked in a corner of your soul like something sacred and shameful all at once.

But now, sitting here, watching Zayne shrink into his chair, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d tainted him, too. Dragged him into a history he had no business being part of.

Was it you? Or was it this damn bar? Maybe both were cursed. 

You excused yourself to the bathroom, muttering something about needing a moment, but really you just needed to slam your head gently against a stall door and splash cold water over your face. Anything to snap yourself out of whatever spiral this was.

You stood in front of the mirror, blinking hard, like maybe the reflection would shift. That maybe you’d look solid again—real, awake and breathing. But as you smoothed your hair, you really looked. For the first time in what felt like ages.

The circles beneath your eyes were deeper than you remembered, carved in like bruises you forgot to cover. The spark behind those same eyes had vanished, a dull, empty quiet staring back. The color in your cheeks had faded, drained from your skin like it had somewhere better to be.

Where had it gone?

With him.

Your life went with him.

You walked back out to find Zayne at the bar, settling the tab. His expression was unreadable, but it didn’t take much to tell—there wasn’t a smile left in him tonight. His eyes were low, his mouth set in a line.

This was going to be a long ride home.

And it was. Long. Silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t just quiet, but loud in all the wrong ways. The kind that pressed against your ears and made your throat tight. The air in the car felt thick, like you couldn’t swallow a breath. 

Would it have killed him to turn on the radio? Like, just a song? Was he that mad at you for dragging him somewhere out of his comfort zone?

The answer was yes.

“Listen,” Zayne said as the car rolled to a stop in front of your apartment. “Can we talk for a second?”

You knew what was coming.

“Yeah, what’s up?” You replied, turning toward him with a hollowness in your voice. There wasn’t any way this night could get worse.

He let out a breath, one of those slow exhales people do when they’re trying not to make something worse than it already is. His hands fell to his lap, unsure, then found the wheel again.

“You’re great,” he started, eyes fixed somewhere ahead, like looking at you would make it harder. “You’re really sweet. Kind. But I think…” A pause. A swallow.  “I think we’re headed in different directions, two very different people.”

That damn bar.

“Yeah.” You repeat again, hand reaching for the door, “It’s okay. I understand.”

“You’re great though.”

I heard you the first time, you want to say.

Instead you just nod, climbing out of the car and heading inside. 

When you see his car pulling away through the glass of the lobby doors, something inside you gives out. The tears come hot and fast, spilling before you even reach the elevator. You don’t care who sees.

The couple down the hall pauses mid conversation, shifting awkwardly as they juggle grocery bags and avoid your eyes. The old woman waiting by the elevator doesn’t look away—after a second, she rifles through her purse and presses a butterscotch candy into your palm.

You thank her as you both take the elevator up. She doesn’t say a word, just gives you that soft, knowing look only age can shape. The kind that says heartbreak is universal, and survivable.

You’re still crying when you reach your door, fumbling with the keys through blurred vision. The tears come in waves now—messy, relentless—and you’re not even sure what they’re for anymore. It’s like a year’s worth of grief, pressed down and packed tight, finally burst free all at once.

It wasn’t really about Zayne. You’d known for a while you didn’t belong in the future he was building, and he wasn’t ever really yours to begin with. But tonight? Of all nights?

Really, karma? You think, bitterly. Was this supposed to be funny?

When you finally get inside, something feels off. You pause, your hand still on the doorknob. It was light out when you left—had you accidentally turned a light on? You don’t remember doing that. The glow from the kitchen spills out like an omen.

You shut the door slowly, silently, and that’s when you hear it—a shuffle.

Your body locks up. Heart in your throat, you reach for the pepper spray on your keys, hand trembling.

Of course. Of course. Out of all the godforsaken nights for your apartment to get broken into—it had to be tonight. Because why wouldn’t it be. 

What luck!

You catch a quick movement—and without thinking, you lunge, instinct taking over. A desperate swing in self defense. But just as fast, you’re caught. Arms wrap around you, pinning you back against the body of whoever’s in your home.

This is it, you think, panic thundering in your chest. This is how I go. What a night to die.

But then—

“Easy, kitten.”

The world stops. Your entire body goes rigid.

That voice.

That goddamn voice.

A voice you haven’t heard in thirteen months and twenty eight days. Not that you were counting. You tried to stop counting—god, you did—but the days clung to you like dust in sunlight. Every hour ticked by like a relentless grandfather clock, towering in the corner of your mind, never breaking and never missing a chime.

Always ringing.

Always reminding you.

And there it was again. Smooth as velvet, soft like the worn fur of a childhood bear. It wrapped around you with the grasp of memory, gentle and impossible to forget. Like your favorite song buried deep in your mind, untouched for years, and yet the moment it plays—you remember every note, every breath, every rise and fall. 

You don’t know if you want to turn around. There’s a part of you that’s afraid he won’t actually be there, that if you look, you’ll just be staring at an empty room or some figment your mind cooked up to fill the silence—because maybe you’re imagining him again. After the night you’ve had, it wouldn’t be too far off. 

Maybe you’re just tired, emotional, and your brain is pulling memories of your ex out of storage. And honestly, with the way things have gone, that would be exactly your kind of luck.

You’re yanked out of your spiral when he turns you around, slow and careful. And there it is—his face. That same stupidly beautiful, maddeningly familiar face. The one that made you laugh, made you cry. 

Sylus, Sylus, Sylus, Sylus, Sylus.

You don’t know whether to swing at him for breaking into your apartment or hold onto him so tight you melt into his bones—crawl into his skin, make a home in his ribs. Never leave his side again.

He searches your face, stares at you like he’s just as unsure of your existence as you are his. 

You take a step back, putting some space between you, letting your eyes scan him like they might find something new. But he’s the same. Same worn coat, same styled hair he swore looked better like that, same silver “S” hanging from his neck. But his eyes—they match yours, tired and drained. Like everything of the past year sits on his chest, just like it does on yours. And suddenly, he doesn’t look so untouchable anymore. He looks just as haunted.

It’s on you, if you’re being honest. Sure, he said some things that cut deep, and yeah, you were exhausted—mentally and emotionally by that point. But you’re the one who tossed three years away like they didn’t matter. Like they were disposable. One angry moment, one impulsive decision, and it was all over. You didn’t stop to think about what it would do to him—or to you. And when the dust settled, you were too damn proud to go back, to say you messed up, to admit that walking away wasn’t really what you wanted. You both lost something special, because pride got in the way. Because despite all the arguments, he was your person. And you were his.

“I made coffee,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

“At this time of night?” you reply, eyebrows lifting but not really questioning it. 

You can’t find it in you to ask how he got in, or even why he’s here. The words don’t form, caught somewhere between exhaustion and surrender. Tonight has taken too much out of you—emotionally, mentally, physically. You’re too drained to be angry, too hollow to press for answers. And maybe, deep down, you don’t really want to know. Maybe pretending is easier.

Pretending you came home from a hard night, and he was here, waiting for you like he used to. Like nothing ever fell apart between you. Like the months without him hadn’t happened, like the space between you two had never formed in the first place.

You know it's ridiculous. 

Definitely unhealthy. 

But in this moment, you don't care. You're tired—so, so tired—and the comfort of familiarity, even a fractured one, feels like the only thing keeping you upright. Because maybe you're a little crazy. Or maybe you’re just lonely. Maybe you’ve spent so long missing him in silence that your heart doesn’t know how to stop.

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s trying to smile but can’t quite get there. And that’s when it hits you—since seeing him today, not once has he worn that usual smug grin he always carried so effortlessly. No teasing, no playful glint in his eye. Just this look, like you’re something out of a dream. Like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and he doesn’t fully believe it. Like you’re some kind of miracle, and he’s still trying to convince himself you’re really standing there.

You walk past him and into the kitchen, where two mugs sit on the counter. You stop when you notice them—your matching mugs, the ones you picked out during that trip, the ones shaped like a cat and a crow. You remember how you practically screamed when you saw them, all excited like a kid in a candy store. Of course, he bought them for you, because that was just who he was. 

He’d do anything for you.

You don’t know why you’ve kept them, not after everything. But there are certain things, small things, that you can’t bring yourself to let go of. These mugs are one of them. They hold too many memories—too many nights spent tangled in blankets during movie marathons, too many late night conversations at the kitchen table over cups of coffee just like this.

And the moment you take that first sip, you realize—he still knows exactly how you like it.

Sylus leans against the counter, watching you. Analyzing. 

“What’re you thinking about?” You mumble over the rim of your mug. He raises an eyebrow in surprise before standing up straight, rolling his shoulders back as if he's gathering the confidence to speak his mind. It’s strange to see Sylus like this—like he has to work up the courage to say something, something you’ve never seen him do before.

"Who was the guy you were with tonight?" He takes a drink. 

You scoff. "Sylus, be for real."

"Is he your boyfriend?" He sets his mug down a bit too forcefully.

"You really broke into my apartment over a guy?"

"I asked you a question first, sweetie."

"Fine." You roll your eyes, setting your mug down and crossing your arms. "No, he's not my boyfriend. Well, kind of. But whatever he was, he’s not anymore." You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head at the irony. "Actually, he ended it outside."

"Is that why you were crying?" Sylus’s expression hardens, and you regret your choice of words for Zayne’s safety.

Sighing, you shrug, not really sure how to answer that. “No, I think that was just the straw that broke the camel's back.”

"Do you... want to talk about it?"

He was never great at comforting people, but Sylus was one of the most caring and empathetic people you’d ever known. He just wasn’t always good at showing it.

"I don’t know." You avoid his gaze, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. "I went to the bar tonight because I wanted to feel something. Feel a part of you again. And I don't think I realized just how much I missed you."

You surprised yourself with how easily the truth spilled out, after all this time. But that was always the way with him—honesty never felt like work. It came naturally, like breathing. You used to hate that about him, about what he brought out in you. Because maybe if you'd kept more to yourself, held your tongue a little tighter, you wouldn’t have fought so much. Maybe silence would’ve saved you both some hurt.

"Seeing you again brought everything back, and it was just a lot all at once. Then I got dumped after all of that. Kind of felt shitty."

You were ready for him to bite back, make a remark that would start a fight. Say something about how all of this was your fault anyways. Ignite the flame. 

Honestly, you kind of wanted him to. Wanted to feel some sort of sick piece of your previous life together.

But he didn’t. Just pressed his lips into a line while he paused to think. 

“I’m sorry.”

The apology felt foreign, strange even, coming from him. He was never one to admit he was wrong, and for a moment, you wondered if this was one of the rare times you’d ever hear him say he was sorry.

“For... what?" Confusion flickered across your face. It was painfully clear for once he wasn’t the one in the wrong here.

"I'm sorry things ended that way."

You weren't sure if he was talking about the night or the entire relationship, but as you looked at him, sincerity in your eyes, you whispered, "I'm sorry that it ended at all."

Sylus finally smiled—really smiled—the kind of grin that cracked through the solemn silence like sunlight after a storm. Like he’d been holding his breath this entire time, just waiting for you to say those words.

You lifted your hand, stopping him before the moment could get ahead of you. “The fight we had was stupid. And breaking up? That was impulsive. Irrational.” Your voice wavered. “And maybe... maybe you were right. Maybe I do just overreact.”

“No.” he said, already making his way to where you sat, each step careful, like approaching a wild thing.

“No?” you echo, blinking up at him.

“No,” he says again. “You were hurting. And I didn’t see it. That’s on me too.”

He kneels beside your chair, resting his hands on your knees like he used to when he had something serious to say. His eyes search yours, looking for anything and everything.

“I should’ve asked you what was wrong instead of trying to fix you like you were some project. I didn’t know how to handle you—us sometimes. But I never stopped—” His voice catches for a quick second. 

Sylus swallows hard, eyes glancing to the floor. “I never stopped thinking about you. Missing you. Hoping you were okay.”

You stare at him, heart tight in your chest. You want to say something but your throat burns with unshed tears, eyes stinging and cheeks hot.

He lifts his hand, hesitant, brushing his fingers just barely against yours. “I don’t want to keep pretending like losing you didn’t tear something out of me.”

You don’t even realize your hand is moving until it’s already holding his. It fits the same way it always did—like nothing had changed, and everything had.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss to each of your fingers, then lingers at the inside of your wrist like he’s afraid to let go. 

“Come back to me, sweetie. Please.”

You lower yourself to the floor beside him, knees brushing the cold tile as you refuse to let him bear the weight of this alone. He didn’t belong down there—not without you. If blame was to be shared, so was the burden. You had always been equals, and you’d meet him where he was, just like always.

Gently, you take his face in your hands, cradling it like something fragile. Your thumbs brush over his cheeks as you tilt his head from side to side, memorizing the features you never truly forgot.

He’s Sylus. He’s home. He’s your heart and soul.

“I never really left,” you whisper.

Sylus leans in, slowly and carefully—just enough for his nose to brush again yours, a quiet question hanging in the air between you. Not demanding, just hoping and waiting.

You close the space with a kiss, gentle and unsure at first, like trying on a memory. But the moment your lips meet, it all comes rushing back—how seamlessly you fit. Like you were made with the shape of him in mind.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, tentative at first, then grounding. The kiss deepens just a little, and it’s not desperate. It’s not about lust. It’s about grief and forgiveness, about missing someone so deeply that your soul aches and yearns to touch theirs again.

Yeah, that doesn’t last long.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But suddenly your hands are tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer like the space between you is unbearable. Like air doesn’t matter if he isn’t in it.

His lips crash back into yours with more urgency this time—less hesitation, more ache. It’s not soft anymore. It’s desperate. Months of wanting, of regret, of missing, all boiling to the surface and spilling out through every touch, every kiss, every small gasp between breaths.

Sylus groans against your lips, his hands everywhere at once—your hips, your back, your jaw—as though he can’t decide what to touch first, only that he has to. Your fingers slide under his shirt, palms skimming fever warm skin, and he shudders like the contact burns. He decides on one hand sliding up your back, the other buried in your hair as if to anchor himself there. You let him. You want him to. You want to feel all of it—everything you’ve been pushing down since the moment he got dragged out of that door a year ago.

When he pulls you into his lap, it’s not gentle. It’s a need—as if not having you near him physically hurts. 

At least, it hurts you.

Your thighs cradle his like instinct, and your bodies slot together like they never really stopped belonging to each other. Like you’re two atoms destined to combine.

The kiss deepens, grows messier—teeth and tongue clashing. Breath shared like oxygen. You’re not even kissing anymore, not really. You’re devouring, rediscovering. Worshipping with your mouths. He breaks only to gasp, to mutter your name like hes singing a psalm, saying a prayer, like he’s drowning in the taste of you.

“You didn’t waste any time,” you pant, lips swollen, eyes glazed.

He grins against your mouth, finally giving you that signature, smug smirk he wears so damn well. “I’ve had thirteen months and twenty eight days to starve, kitten.”

Your laugh is breathless, and it breaks against him as your hips roll forward just once. He chokes on a gasp and grips you harder, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down your throat, dragging teeth and tongue and heat as he goes.

Clothes shift. Shirts inch upward, skin revealed in patches, in hurried grazes of fingers that tremble with the weight of too much time passed. You could cry from the way he touches you—like he’s both reverent and ravenous. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again if he blinks.

Sylus.

Sylus.

Sylus.

“I missed you,” he says, and the words hit you like a lightning strike—hot and electric. It’s enough to draw a sound from your throat, a soft whimper at how deeply you feel it, in your heart and your core. Like music played in a key only your body recognizes, a melody you’ve been yearning to hear.

Because he wanted you all this time as badly as you wanted him.

No, he needed you. And hearing it now, in that voice, in this moment, feels like being set free.

Set free from all of that guilt and pain that’s been haunting you like a vice.

You cup his face again, thumbs sweeping over skin you used to call home. The skin you’ll call home once again. “Then take me back,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “Right here. However you need.”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t remember standing—you don’t think you did. All you know is the feel of Sylus’ arms wrapped around you; he carries you down the hallway like muscle memory, navigating your space with the ease of someone who never truly left. And in that moment, all you can think is, ‘please don’t leave again.’

He’s on you again before you can exhale—lips crashing to yours like he’s been waiting to breathe, to feel, since the moment you left. Since that moment the cops had to practically drag him out of your front door.

It’s desperate, disheveled, the kind of hunger that comes from months of lonely nights and phantom memories traced on cold sheets. Nights where you buried your face in the pillow that still held the faint shape of where he used to sleep, moaning into the echo of him, aching and wet for the hands that weren’t there.

And now, they were.

You backpedal until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and he follows you down with a gentleness that betrays the way his hands feel when they touch your skin. You fall together, mouths never parting, tangled limbs pressed into the mattress that hasn’t known this kind of weight in far too long.

Your shirt peels away, slow and careful. As if he’s trying to savor every second, like this will never happen again. 

It will—it has to. You may die if you have to go through separation again.

He stares at you like he’s seen heaven and hell and finally made it back to the beginning. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, voice ragged. He’s barely holding himself together, a fierceness in his eyes that makes you think he may eat you alive.

You hope he does.

You reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him back down to you with need. “Then stop looking,” you mutter against his lips. “Start remembering.”

Clothes come off in stuttered gasps—half laughed, half moaned—as if each layer is a wall you’re tearing down together. Skin meets skin, the kind of touch that makes you feel tethered again. Anchored to something. 

Someone.

Sylus’ mouth traces a path along your collarbone, down the hollow of your throat, over the curve of your ribs. He bites, he sucks, leaving behind a pattern of bruises and blooming marks—claiming you in color. Like jewelry only he could give you, like tattoos etched in heat that say, without words, mine. You arch into him, a whimper escaping you, and he groans in response—low and guttural.

He sinks between your thighs like a man starved returning to his favorite meal, settling into the place he’s always called home. A low, satisfied sigh escapes him—as if the world’s weight has finally lifted now that he’s right where he belongs. His hands grip your hips like an anchor, grounding himself in your heat, in you. 

He trails open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, nipping at the tender flesh as a warning when you push towards his face.

When he finally buries himself in the place you’ve ached for most, it’s not gentle—it’s ravenous. He devours you like he’s been starving, like every second apart built up into this fevered need to taste and claim. His tongue moves with purpose—etching your name in cursive, apologies, confessing I love you in strokes and swirls only your body can understand.

You’re flushed, burning from the inside out, your skin damp and glowing like firelight. It’s heaven, you’re sure of it—though the way Sylus tears into you with sinful devotion, he might just be a demon sent to drag pleasure out of you until you forget your own name.

But don’t worry, he’ll spell it back out for you. Again, and again, and again.

Your moans pour from your lips, unrestrained and embarrassingly loud, the room echoing with every gasp and whimper. But you’re desperate, and past caring. It’s been too long. You missed this—missed him—the way Sylus touches you like he was made to, the way he knows your body better than you ever could. Missed the way he always, always finds his way back to you.

You haven’t felt this good in ages.

It doesn’t take long—your body coils tight, then shatters, release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your vision whites out, ears ringing with the force of it. You try to push him away, trembling hands lost in his hair, but he just smirks against your skin like the devil he is.

“One more?” he murmurs, low and wicked. It’s shaped like a question, but you both know it isn’t. It’s a promise. A command. A sentence you’re more than willing to serve.

His arms tighten around your thighs as he drags you back to him, wearing your legs like a crown, worshipping you like a man possessed. His mouth doesn’t stop—it never stops—and you break apart again, undone and helpless beneath the weight of his hunger.

You cry out his name, babbling through the overstimulation, letting the walls shake with the sound of it. Let the neighbors hear. Let the world know. You’re his—you’ve always been. And now, with his mouth rewriting every nerve in your body, you know you’ll never be anything else.

When he finally pulls back, your body is trembling, skin electric. It’s like the universe was reborn beneath your skin—like some celestial detonation bloomed inside you and scattered your bones into stardust. Every nerve feels like it’s glowing, every inch of you humming with aftershocks, like you’ve been rewritten molecule by molecule in his name.

You’re not sure if you're floating or falling, only that Sylus is your anchor in a sky full of stars he put there.

He moves back up your body slowly, this time trailing kisses along your skin like he’s putting you back together with his mouth. When he reaches your lips, he kisses you gently—like you’re something fragile and precious.

In his eyes, you are.

There’s nothing rushed now. The hunger’s still there, sure—it burns under the surface like wildfire—but it’s laced with something softer, sadder. Like you’re making up for lost time. For all the nights you didn’t have this. All the apologies neither of you knew how to give until now.

Your chest is still rising and falling, breath uneven from the waves that just crashed over you, when he finally presses against you—trembling with restraint. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his. He searches your eyes, desperately looking for anything that says no, anything that tells him to stop. There’s fear in his gaze, quiet and vulnerable—terrified this might be too good to be real.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

Instead, you nod, certain, and push your hips toward his like an answer he’s been begging for. Gently, you press a kiss to his forehead.

And when he finally sinks into you—not just physically but emotionally—it’s not about sex. It’s about return. 

Reunion. 

The sacred act of becoming known again, flesh and heart and harmony folding back into one another.

You cling to him like you might fall apart otherwise. He holds you like he’s scared you already have.

Your head tips back with a moan, mouth parted as pleasure ripples through you. He presses a kiss just beneath your ear tenderly, like he’s trying to keep you from floating too far away. “Stay with me, sweetie.”

As if you could be anywhere else.

His movements are slow—painfully slow—the kind of rhythm that feels like he’s savoring every second, every inch of you. He’s chasing something deeper than pleasure—he’s trying to feel all of you, to touch the parts of you he lost when you walked away. But even then, it’s not enough. God, it’s never enough.

You meet him halfway, hips rising to meet his, your body pleading before your voice even does.

“Sylus, please,” you whimper, voice cracking.

One of his hands slides down, gripping your hip harder, pulling you to him. “Tell me what you need,” he rasps, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours. “Say it, sweetie. I’ll give you everything.”

And you know he would. You could ask for a kiss, a kingdom, his last breath—he’d give it without hesitation. He’d peel the stars from the sky just to light your way home. He’d carve out his heart, wrap it in gold leaf, and place it on a priceless platter if it meant seeing you smile.

Sylus made you greedy—gave you a gold thumb. He spoiled you without hesitation, fed your hunger. And he reveled in it. Got off on the way you used him, adored how you took and took, because giving to you was the only thing that ever felt right.

Your fingers thread through his hair like you’re spinning silk, tugging at the silver strands. You press open mouthed kisses along his jaw, his cheek—anything you can reach while writhing beneath the weight of him. “Quit going so slow,” you whisper, breath hitching with every drag of his hips, “you’re gonna kill me.”

You knew exactly what you were signing up for the moment he chuckled against your lips—low, dark, dangerous. He shifted you easily, legs hooked tight around his waist. Then, with a teasing snap of his hips, he drove forward, and the sharp gasp that tore from your throat was instant, involuntary.

You barely had time to say his name before his arms locked around your body—thrusting into you with a punishing rhythm, fast and merciless. It felt like he was trying to brand you from the inside out, like he was trying to replace every cell in your body with the shape of him.

If this was how you died, gasping his name, your body split open with pleasure and your heart cracked wide, then so be it. There was no holier death than this—than being completely, utterly taken by the man you loved.

His hands gripped you hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in like he couldn’t bear the thought of ever letting go. And you clawed your nails down his back until you were sure you’d drawn blood—your bodies leaving marks like they were writing poems on each other’s skin.

It wouldn’t be the first time you two had broken a bed—and at this rate, it wouldn’t be the last. Not that he cared. He’d buy you a hundred more without blinking. Hell, he’d buy you a house just to ruin every room in it. He’ll put a baby in you right now to turn that house into a home, just to make sure you never even think about leaving him again.

Sylus groaned your name like it was the only thing keeping him alive. And you? You could only hold on, begging for more through breathless moans, because you knew—no one would ever fuck you like he did.

With every thrust, he drove you deeper into the mattress, your fingers twisting in his hair. You could feel the tears streaking your cheeks, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming rush of it all—of him, of pleasure. It was too much and not enough all at once. You’d never felt so full. So wanted. So his.

Your mascara was probably a mess, your lips swollen from kissing and your heart aching from the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“Sylus,” you gasped, barely able to breathe through it. “Oh, fuck—”

You were close, clinging to him like your body knew this was it. That after all the nights apart, all the words left unsaid, this was where you were meant to be.

His pace faltered for just a moment, a soft hiss through his teeth as you tightened around him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and shaky. You felt him everywhere—his hands, his heart, his love.

You shattered around him, sobbing as your climax overtook you, nearly screaming. It wasn’t just pleasure. It was months of longing, of everything you’d buried now clawing its way to the surface.

All you could think about was him.

His name, carved into your mind like scripture.

His eyes, the way they always burned through you, even when he tried to hide it.

That damned smirk—infuriating and addictive.

The scent of his cologne clinging to your sheets, haunting you even after he left.

His old jacket, the one you swore you hated but wore every chance you got.

The booth in the back corner of the bar where he first kissed you like he meant it.

Everything about him hit you at once—your body, your mind, your heart. Like coming home after wandering lost for far too long.

He followed suit, pulling you so close you half expected to disappear into him entirely. Like your skin was made for his and your bones had always bent to make room for him; as if you were his lifeline—and if that were true, he’d never sign a DNR. He’d beg the universe to keep you beating.

He clung to you like salvation, chanting your name between breathless gasps like a mantra. You were his altar, his ritual, his divine obsession.

His hips finally stilled, buried so deep inside you it felt like you’d been stitched together. His breath was shaky, chest rising and falling against yours, sweat slick skin pressing close as your hearts raced in unison.

And then he kissed you—the kind of kiss meant to seal a vow. It was quiet, sweet, full of all the things he didn’t know how to say.

I love you. I’m sorry. I’m yours.

So you say it—for the first time in thirteen months and twenty eight days.

“I love you.”

It slips out as a whisper, your voice rough, frayed at the edges. But there’s no hesitation in it. No fear. It’s the most certain thing you’ve ever said in your life.

Sylus freezes, eyes locked on yours, like those three words shattered and rebuilt him in real time. And then he exhales, relieved.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Say it again,” he murmurs, almost afraid it was a fluke. A dream he’d blink and lose.

You smile, “I love you.” And this time it’s louder. Stronger.

“I love you too.”

He says it like a vow, a promise, then begins to pepper kisses across your face—each one a quiet apology for every day he went without touching you. Each one a reminder: I’m here. I’m back. I never stopped loving you.

You start to drift, the weight of the night settling into your bones, your body warm and sore and sated. Sleep tugs at you gently. But then Sylus nips playfully at your cheek, and his voice, low and teasing, curls against your ear. “Not yet, sweetie. Let me get you cleaned up.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “No, I’ll shower in the morning.”

But you don’t stop him when he pulls away, don’t open your eyes as he disappears briefly and returns with a warm cloth, gentle as ever. He moves with care, cleaning both of you in the quiet hush of the room.

When he’s done, you reach out, fingers circling his wrist like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t. “Don’t go,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “Stay here.”

Sylus leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, that soft smile tugging at his lips—the one he only ever wore for you. “Where else would I go,” he whispers, “if not here with you?”

He climbs back into bed and pulls you into his arms like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head, guiding you to rest against his chest. You breathe him in, his scent, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his heart under your ear—home, in every way that matters.

Sleep comes easy like that, safe in his arms, as if nothing could ever take him away again.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed, and your stomach dropped. For a second, it felt like none of it had happened. Like you'd imagined it all in some sleep deprived dream.

You thought you were going to have to call a therapist for psychosis.

But then you noticed the dent in the pillow beside you. The sheets were still messy, warm where he’d been. And then you heard it—the faint sound of something clinking in the kitchen.

He hadn’t left.

You lay back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, heart slowly steadying. He was still here. After everything, he was still here.

It was strange how easy it felt, slipping back into something that used to be second nature. The routine. The comfort. The quiet knowing that someone else was there. It didn’t feel forced or awkward. 

It just was.

And maybe that said something. Maybe that was enough proof that this wasn’t a mistake. That loving each other had never been the problem. That the space between then and now hadn’t broken anything that couldn’t be fixed.

After one night, it was like everything was finding its place again.

You crawl out of bed and grab the shirt he left on the floor—It smells like him, that familiar mix of expensive cologne and soap that always lingered on your skin long after he was gone. 

The apartment smells like coffee and something frying. You can already guess what it is. He never cooked with precision—just intention. Eggs were his go to, even if they were usually either barely set or borderline burnt. But he tried. He always did.

You pad quietly down the hallway and stop in the kitchen doorway. He doesn’t notice you right away—he’s too focused, standing at the stove with his back to you. Shirtless, muscles shifting with every little movement. He’s wearing those pajama pants. His pajama pants. The ones you stole and swore you’d thrown out during some emotional cleanse, only to find them months later shoved behind your laundry basket. You never brought yourself to toss them again.

They hang low on his hips now, like they never left.

You lean against the doorframe, just watching him for a second. Listening to the sound of him cook, the birds chirping with the morning sun outside, and the peaceful quiet that this life brought you. 

It was home again.

“Like what you see?” Sylus says without turning around. You’re not sure how long he’s known you were standing there, but then again, he always knew. Could feel you without looking—like you were some extension of him, stitched into the same thread.

You walk up behind him and slip your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to the warm skin between his shoulder blades. “Maybe.”

He chuckles low in his chest, then reaches forward to turn off the stove. In one fluid motion, he spins in your hold, facing you. That smug grin is already there, the one you used to pretend annoyed you. His eyes sweep over you, stopping at the oversized shirt you’re swimming in.

You glance over at the table. The same old mugs. A bowl of fruit. Two plates—simple, a little uneven, but made with care.

“You didn’t have a lot to work with, kitten,” he adds, brushing a piece of hair from your face, “Someone hasn’t been buying groceries.”

You kiss his jaw, lazy and slow, still waking up. “Doesn’t matter. You showed up. That’s enough.”

“Then sit.”

You snort, let him guide you to the table, and as you sit, you watch him pour your coffee the way you like it—still remembering. Still yours.

You two sit in silence—soft, easy. The fruit’s a little mushy, the eggs slightly too done, but not enough to matter. Sylus sits across from you, half smiling, half watching.

‘This is it’, you think. ‘This is the life.’

You think, for a moment, that maybe you should ask him how he’s been. Catch up like normal people. Trade stories from the months apart—what he’s done, what he’s seen, what you missed between the snapshots friends posted with him barely in the frame.

But only one question makes it past the swirl in your chest.

“Sylus,” you say, folding your arms and leaning over the table, eyes narrowing. He mirrors you, brow lifting in challenge. “Yes?”

“How the hell did you get into my apartment?”

He laughs—loud and unbothered. He juts his chin toward the counter where, sure enough, a single key lies.

“I still have that,” he says, far too smug.

You gasp, lurching forward to swat his shoulder. “Why didn’t you give that back?”

“You never asked for it, sweetie.” He shrugs, leaning in like he’s telling a secret. “Besides… I figured it might come in handy one day.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm,” he hums, biting into a slice of melon. “And yet, here I am. Still your favorite bad decision.”

You scoff, sipping your coffee to cover your laugh. And maybe he is. Maybe he always has been.

But as you sit there with him, sunlight pouring in and the scent of overcooked eggs lingering in the air, it will never feel like a mistake at all.

[callsignpxnguin]

John Price Feared Dead

AO3

The call wasn’t like anything you had been expecting.

You knew your husband’s job was dangerous. Of course you did. But you had never really known. Not until now.

The stuff you were aware of only scratched the surface of what his life was like — dinners with his team, listening in on Laswell’s briefings, being alone for months on end as he was send out of the country to fight the enemy and whatnot.

But it never seemed real. Never affected you, all that much, until you got the call.

“Hey, Mrs. Price.”

You would’ve recognised that Scottish accent anywhere. Only, today it didn’t hold its usual joy and cheek.

“Good evening, Johnny. What can I do for you?” You replied cheerily, phone pressed against your ear as you worked on stirring the stew you had been making especially for your husband’s return after three weeks away.

The man didn't respond, which you considered strange, since he usually couldn’t shut up. “Johnny?” You repeated. “Hello?”

“…I’m sorry,” he suddenly said, voice breaking.

Immediately, your pulse quickened. “Sorry for what?”

There was a crackle of static over the line, before a new voice, deeper with a different accent, rang out.

“Last op didn’t go so well. Captain didn’t make it to evac with the rest of us. We need you to come to base as the… last effort to find him is sent out.”

You froze. “Repeat that, Simon?”

Ghost grunted quietly. He was a cold man, but a good man at heart. You trusted him — and the other two, for that matter — with your life. “Captain’s feared dead. Need you to come to base.”

The bowl you had been holding dropped like a dead weight, shattering across the tiled floor and slicing into your bare feet in jagged shards.

“What the hell was that?” Simon grunted. But his voice wasn’t as assertive as usual. He was genuinely concerned.

And for a man as stoic and uncaring as him…

“I’m coming,” you whispered into the speaker, before promptly ending the call, rushing outside uncaring of the mess you had left, and hailing the first taxi you saw.

•

On the ride to the base, you were silent.

Silent, but sobbing — thick tears completely blocking your vision and rolling down your cheeks as you stared at nothing, the roaring in your mind too loud to think about anything but Simon’s words. They reverberated over and over again, haunting and tormenting you.

Captain’s feared dead.

Fucking hell.

Even the driver had noticed — a poor man who had watched the young woman with bare, bleeding feet and puffy eyes jump into his car and not say a single word except for her destination, and could offer only the timid comfort of, “Everything okay?”

To which you didn’t respond. Not out of intention, but pure shock.

The world seemed to rush by at an odd pace, your vision zoning in and out as trees rushed by the window. Reality didn’t feel real. This was something out of your nightmares, and yet it was plaguing you in the waking world.

John hadn’t made it to exfil. They were sending out a last-ditch effort to collect him. But in his line of work?

People who didn’t make it back were rarely ever seen again.

He could have been dead. At that exact moment, as you sat rigidly, he could have been taking his final breaths before he left the world forever.

John. Your John. Gone.

And they didn’t even know where he was. It wasn’t like there was even a chance you would ever get to say goodbye, just to his unresponsive body. He could have been lying in a ditch, bleeding out, dying in the middle of nowhere — and that would be it. You wouldn’t even see him again at the funeral. He’d be food for the worms and nothing more, destroying you are everything you had built together.

The onslaught of tears came on again, flooding your face and wetting your flushed cheeks. This time, they didn’t subside.

The rest of the car ride was torture.

•

“Where’s Ghost?”

The security guard at the gate had let you in immediately — you weren’t exactly a stranger to everyone after all the years you had spent turning up to surprise your well-respected husband at work — but you hadn’t found anyone you recognised yet on base, and the Task Force’s usual quarters were all empty.

The poor rookie who you had hissed the question at trembled under your piercing gaze. At this point, all the sorrow that you felt had solidified into something sharper as your body strained to process the devastating onslaught without shutting down. Right now, all you could feel was rage. “I— I think he’s at the heli pad, m-m-miss…”

You were striding off before he even finished his sentence.

Every step hurt. Every step thrummed in your head like a gong, blurring your vision and deafening your ears.

Heli pad.

Was it good news that the team was waiting on a heli to return? Bad? There were only a handful of possible things that could be brought with a chopper’s arrival — John alive, John dead, or no John at all.

You still weren’t sure, out of the latter, which would be worse. And you couldn’t bring yourself to hope for the former.

Couldn’t bring yourself to think of much more than the pain. Physical, mental, it all seemed to ebb and flow into one vessel of agony that tormented you endlessly.

Cold air bit your skin as you left the main quarters and stepped outside into the yard, where most machinery and vehicles were kept. You spotted them immediately — three 300-pound-men were hard to miss, even in camouflage gear — but their backs were facing you, and their heads were upturned to the sky.

Again, you spotted the reason why immediately— because a helicopter was descending.

You could feel your heart stop in your chest. Freeze into a screeching halt, because this was all too soon. You didn’t want to find out the answer. It was too soon for you to reach the final conclusion. You had only found out mere hours ago, and now came the final reckoning?

The hulking metal beast touched down, whirring propellers slowing and humming engine quieting. So quiet.

Too quiet.

Then the front door opened, and—

“John?”

Oh God. He was there, in the flesh, right in front of you — a stupidly confused expression on his stupidly handsome face as he stood there stupidly casually…

He was alive. Oh God. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…

Rough beard, soft blue eyes, and rugged physique as he stumbled out from the helicopter. Beaten and bruised, but alive.

The tears came back in tenfold, rolling down your flushed cheeks uncontrollably as your numb legs propelled themselves forwards, pushing past the surprised team in front of you, and flung you into his chest, sobbing.

“John,” you whimpered, ignoring the calls from Soap.

“I— hey, sweetheart,” he rumbled, voice unsteady.

You trembled violently. “They told me— I thought— thought you were—“

“I know, love, I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here.” His voice was so thick and raspy, as if he still couldn’t believe it himself. “I don’t know how, but I’m here. Hey, don’t cry…”

You kept crying, salty tears soaking though his vest and gear. He made no move to stop you.

After a good while, you finally managed to pull your gaze up to meet his baby blues, and you swore you could’ve seen heaven reflected in those glassy, gorgeous irises.

“I love you, John,” you whimpered quietly, body still trembling. You weren’t sure if it was ever going to stop, after the fright you had experienced.

Even those words, once full of so much meaning and love, seemed weak and void of the substance you wanted to convey as you uttered them to the man you would give your own life for. Three words did nothing to describe the way you felt.

But then again, what else was there to say? You didn’t need metaphors or meticulous poetry to express yourself, because loving him wasn’t a story but a fact, a part of you — plain and simple.

And when he repeated them back to you, you knew he understood.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip on your arms tightening. He didn’t let go until much, much later.

•

Later that evening, John was sat on the couch, you curled up in his lap and gripping him firmly even in sleep. A few medics and recruits he knew were there too, but he had one question meant for one specific person.

“She was really that bad?” He asked Simon lowly, pulling you a little closer to him.

The man only grunted. "A'most hysterical. Johnny thought she was close to jumping off the roof."

John shuddered, before sighing thickly and looking down at you. Peaceful in sleep, chest rising and falling evenly, but… the way you clung onto him and the way your eyebrows furrowed suggested more stress in you than he would've ever wanted.

God. This had always been his fear when you two first became official. It had been why he always distanced himself from partners in the past, and why it had taken him so long to let you in.

John didn’t know what to say. Because whilst his role in the military was vital, the sleeping angel on his chest was… everything. And he knew he’d give up everyone else he’d ever worked for just to keep her for a little longer than the universe set out to allow.

He looked up at Simon, and nodded once. In understanding, but also in communication. The other man understood.

Understood that from now on, no matter what happened, he would always choose you.

[ruewrote]

𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆.

PAIRING: josh washington x gn!reader WARNINGS: the shed scene, no use of y/n GENRE: angst SONG INSPIRATION: basic instinct by the acid WORD COUNT: 856 NOTE: josh is back!! how we feeling?

navigation | request | josh washington masterlist

josh sat tied to a chair in the middle of the room, rope biting into his wrists, ankles locked down. his head hung low, hair falling over his face. he looked... small. he wasn’t fighting anymore. 

no more screaming. no more manic laughter. he was quiet now, too quiet.

you stood off to the side, arms crossed tight against your chest. your mouth was dry. your stomach churning every time you looked at him, it got worse.

"don’t look at him like that!"chris shouted, making you flinch. "don’t feel sorry for him. he hit ashley. you know that, right? he fucking punched her!"

"and jess is dead," mike added, quieter but no less biting. “she’s dead. because of him. he set this whole thing in motion.”

the words slammed into you. you couldn’t breathe.

you had no defense for what josh did. none. he did hurt people. he did orchestrate a sick, twisted game. and you weren’t going to stand there and pretend he hadn’t. 

but the way they were talking, the way they were looking at him.

he wasn’t a monster. he was josh. the boy who used to fall asleep mid movie with his head on your shoulder. the boy who never let anyone he loved feel left out. the boy who made you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. the boy who got vulnerable when he got too drunk. 

“i know what he did,” you snapped, your voice cracking. “you think i don’t know? you think i don’t feel sick knowing people got hurt? that jess is–” you had to stop. swallow. breathe.

“but look at him. look at what’s left of him.”

josh didn’t even lift his head.

your eyes burned. “you’re not helping him. you’re hurting him. how is that any different than what he did to you?”

mike turned on you, furious. “different? he terrorized us.”

"and now you’re tying him to a chair and screaming in his face!" you shouted.

“you think this is going to fix anything? you think this is going to bring jess back, or erase what he did to ashley? it’s not!”

they both stared at you, stunned.

“he’s sick,” you said, tears slipping past your lashes now, voice hoarse. “he’s not okay. and you’re all treating him like he’s some villain instead of someone who needs help. what if this was ashley? what if it was jessica losing her mind, and someone tied her up and treated her like an animal? would you still be okay with this?”

mike’s jaw clenched.

chris looked at josh, then looked away. his voice was soft now. “so what, we just let him off the hook?”

“no,” you said, stepping forward, finally letting your arms drop. “you don’t let him off the hook. but you don’t throw him to the wolves either.”

it was quiet again, but not heavy this time.

chris sighed and reached down, loosening the ropes around josh’s wrists. mike didn’t say anything, but he stepped back, hands on his hips, looking somewhere over your shoulder. 

no one met your eyes. you didn’t need them to.

you stood frozen as they slowly helped josh down from the chair and onto the floor, his hands now free but limp in his lap. his lips moved. whispering to himself.

“no, no, no…”

you took a step forward.

his voice rose slightly. “it wasn’t me… they were laughing, they were all laughing…”

you dropped to your knees in front of him, careful, slow. “josh?”

his eyes flicked up, and the moment your eyes met his, pain spread throughout your chest. that wasn’t just pain in his eyes. it was despair. 

“i didn’t… i didn’t mean to…” he mumbled, trembling. “i just wanted them to know. i just… i wanted them to feel it.”

your heart shattered. “josh…”

“i messed everything up, didn’t i?” he asked, voice almost childlike. “even you. i messed you up too.”

you reached out and took his hand gently. he flinched. you didn’t let go.

“you didn’t lose me,” you whispered. “i’m right here.”

his eyes were red. the tears came fast.. it was as if he didn’t even realise he was crying until they were soaking his cheeks, his breath stuttering in his chest. 

when you reached up and wiped them away, your own tears fell to replace them.

seeing you cry made him freeze.

his hand tightened on yours.

“no,” he whispered. “don’t– don’t cry. not you…”

you laughed a little, through the hurt. “i should’ve seen it. i should’ve seen how bad it was.”

he shook his head. “i didn’t want you to.”

“but i still should’ve known.”

he looked down again, lips trembling. “i’m sorry.”

“i know.”

the others stood across the room, watching in silence. no one said anything else. maybe they didn’t know what to say.

but you stayed there, on the floor beside him, his hand clutched in yours, your forehead resting lightly against his. listening to the sound of his breathing even out, just a little. 

the two of you clinging to each other, neither of you wanting to be the first to pull away.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

© 2025 ruewrote all rights reserved.

[pink-november]

and so their love destroyed the world (and so the world is brittle)

And yet, the world grows ever silent, the fright and dread ebbing like waves crashing into the shore, the terror soon being overwhelmed by something, drowning in it before dissipating into nothingness. The sands of his guilt are washed away into the depths, quickly replaced by something new. Something intoxicating, spreading across him like a steady flame burning through wood.

A burning sensation that he could only call the grotesque fire of madness.

“What did you do?” He asks breathlessly, clutching at his head as it throbs in pain. “Skeptic, what did you do?”

“What didn't I do?” Skeptic coos, rocking him gently. “Everything I do is for your sake.”

It had been a week since he and Skeptic had their fight.

Honestly, the details of their fight are a little blurry by now and all Opportunist is left with is the urgent need to apologize and reconcile with his partner.

The meister had spent the entire week moping around in Hero's home, listlessly letting the hours pass by while he helped with their chores or studied for their upcoming tests. He would have crashed into Cold and Smitten's place just like old times but they haven't exactly returned back yet from the witches’ abode.

It felt like he was missing a great part of himself, struggling to wake and stand up on the third day without bursting into tears. Of course, Opportunist is not one to bawl so he grits his teeth and bears a smile for the day.

Skeptic didn't even attend school the entire week.

Of course it was Paranoid who had enough of his bullshit, literally kicking him out of their house while Rookie barks in agreement with the weapon, a rare camaraderie between the two spiteful enemies. Hero was unfortunately absent during this and Paranoid managed to scream ‘Get back with your fucking boyfriend or I swear to Quiet, I will shoot the both of your stupid asses to oblivion!’ before slamming the door at Opportunist’s face.

If that was his way of encouraging Opportunist to humble himself and go back to their home then it was surprisingly effective because ain't no way he was about to return to living off scamming people in the streets.

The walk back home is filled with an uneasy silence, like the air itself is tense. The lamppost ahead flickers, shadows nipping at Opportunist’s heels until he begins jogging, cold sweat running down his back.

He hesitates at their front door, steeling himself before exhaling, raising his fist to knock.

It opens before his knuckles could even touch it.

“Oppy!” Immediately, Skeptic greets him, eyes bright and smile beaming in joy, as he moves to hug Opportunist tightly. So tight, he could feel his back creak from the pressure. “You're back!”

“H-hey, Skeptic,” he pats him quickly on the shoulder, trying to make him ease his hold on him. Still, he couldn't fault his partner for it, Opportunist terribly missed him too. “Glad to be here again.”

Skeptic sighs, his warm breath tickling his ear, causing some of his feathers to fluff up in response. Yep, he missed this too, despite how embarrassing it is to be so easily flustered by his boyfriend.

They stayed like that for a while, just basking again in each other's presence. Opportunist squirms a bit, soul reaching out to meet Skeptic's–

The other pulls away, breaking away first while he fondly looks at Opportunist, his hands resting on his shoulders.

“I'll cook dinner for us then. Come, my dear.” Skeptic tugs at him and Opportunist stumbles inside their home, the entire place eerily silent and dreadfully cold. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

———

Catching up involved remembering the reason why they had a fight in the first place: Skeptic insisting on studying the nasty-looking egg they acquired during a mission. It was a foul thing, cat-Witch hissing and scratching whenever she catches a glimpse of it. Moppy likes to curl around it though and even though it was a rather cute sight, Opportunist is perfectly aware something is inherently wrong about it.

Skeptic doesn't mind it though and it irks Opportunist how… nonchalant he was about it now. But he’s not about to complain or start another argument with him. He… doesn’t want to see Skeptic screaming at him to stop meddling in his business again.

He’s glad that he doesn’t look mad anymore. Maybe the one-week separation really did help him cool down that odd temper flare he had? Opportunist is just glad that they seem to be getting along again.

And going back to the same old routine too! He hums while he holds a plate of sandwiches in his other hand, knocking on Skeptic’s door. He hears something scraping before heavy footsteps echo closer from behind, his partner opening his door, looking only mildly surprised at his appearance.

“Hey there, hotshot,” Opportunist grins, appreciating the glasses on Skeptic’s face and how it enhances his handsome features by a lot. “Bet you missed me delivering you your lunch.”

“I certainly do now.” Skeptic chuckles, inquisitive eyes narrowing at him. The feathers on Opportunist’s neck seem to stand on end but he shakes his head. There’s no need to be wary of his boyfriend of all people. “It had been quite a challenge trying to remind myself to eat while you were gone.”

He doesn’t look thin enough if that were the case or even if it was, Skeptic would probably be in a hospital for accidentally starving himself. Though, he does look more exhausted than usual, the light behind his eyes murky and unrecognizable. Still, maybe Opportunist shouldn’t have stayed too long at Hero’s house.

“Come in, love.” Another thing he’s finding he quite likes now is how Skeptic seems to call him pet names more often. It makes his face warm and his chest tight so much that Opportunist feels like he’s actually caught a cold or something. It’s exhilarating in a way and he finds himself brushing off any other concerns he has about everything wrong, especially when Skeptic lays a hand on the curve of his back and pulls him along inside.

Skeptic’s room used to be incredibly messy in its organization. There is an order to it only his partner could decipher and something Opportunist wanted to understand too, if only to help Skeptic clean up his room. Now, it’s just a chaotic mess, papers strewn across everywhere, books haphazardly left open and scattered around, with some even looking like they were thrown from across the room.

And the most striking of all, the ‘kishin egg’ on Skeptic’s desk, glowing malevolently with its bulging veins. It seemed alive too, even if the Professor assured them it isn’t anything but a decayed lifeform, merely clinging to the concept of life rather than being, well, alive.

Skeptic places the plate down beside it while Opportunist smooths down the bed sheets so he can sit there, bouncing a bit as he swings his legs idly, watching as Skeptic continues to write down in his notebook with furious scribblings. Occasionally, he would touch the egg bare-handed, stroking the shell as if he was mesmerized by it.

“Is that safe?”

“Hm?” Skeptic turns to him, eyes bright. “Oh. I have no reason to believe it is dangerous.” The yet seems to ring even after the other pauses, a secretive smile spreading his lips. “I don’t think anything is different from me either, so there’s no need to be paranoid about it.”

“Uh-huh.” Opportunist finds himself being nervous, wringing his hands while he chooses his next words. “Can I… can I touch it then?”

Skeptic’s eyes flash, a soft smile on his lips. “Of course. I wouldn’t let you be in harm’s way if I wasn’t absolutely certain.”

That is undeniably true. He doesn’t doubt Skeptic regarding this and even the thought of it otherwise makes him nauseous. Still, the same uncomfortable feeling surges through him as Opportunist stands up, walking closer to Skeptic while the latter moves away, the smile never leaving his face.

The egg lays there innocently, occasionally pulsing with that strange light, the air around it cold and stale. He reaches out, hand shaking as if his very soul is trying to reject it, until Skeptic’s hand lays atop his, his warm palm steadying him as he guides his fingers to rest on the egg’s shell.

Nothing happens.

“How is it?” Skeptic asks, his voice curling pleasantly around Opportunist’s mind like a warm blanket on a winter day. “Phenomenal, is it not?”

“Yeah.” He sighs out, feeling silly about the entire thing. Maybe his fear is unfounded after all. How embarrassing, showing a side of him like that. Then again, Skeptic probably knows everything there is to know about him at this point and he doesn’t know whether to be flustered or be incredibly touched by it.

Skeptic places a peck on his cheek and Opportunist jumps at the sudden contact. He didn’t notice his partner standing up at all, too focused on the funny sensation of the egg on his hand. His boyfriend chuckles, leaning closer, his voice taking on a teasing and conspiratorial tone.

“Would you be interested in some findings I have of it?”

Opportunist grins, nodding enthusiastically. He always loves listening to Skeptic discuss and teach him about different topics. It’s been too long after all.

———

“You're starting to reek of him.”

Opportunist blushes, fumbling and sputtering in disbelief. “Haha! I do not know what you're talking about at all!”

Witch, in her cat form, licks her paws, before she glares at him with all the vitriol her little body could hold. Which is surprisingly a lot. “Get your head out of the gutter, you wretched fool. Do you not notice yourself lately?”

He huffs, busying himself with making sure his clothing isn't creased. If only Skeptic was here, he could have helped him to look neater. “And you should mind your own business. I saw you and Moppy rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. I'm not the guilty one here!”

Witch hisses, tail swishing furiously. “You and he are treading a dangerous path. Any further than this and you'll be signing yourself up for something you cannot possibly return from.”

“Geez, why are you sounding so cryptic now? We're fine.”

Witch scratches their couch and Opportunist immediately tries shooing her away.

“Is everything alright?” Skeptic enters the room and Witch scrambles out of sight almost instantly. Opportunist sighs, scratching the back of his neck.

“Witch is just being an annoying bitch again.” He crosses his arms, tongue tingling as if he said something wrong just now.

“Is that so?” Skeptic hums, covering his mouth while he makes a thoughtful expression. Opportunist waits with bated breath if Skeptic will scold him for saying that. “I rarely see her these days. Maybe she's finally growing bored of us?”

“I wish!” The meister shrugs, relieved, stretching his arms while he comes next to his partner. “One less nuisance to worry about then.”

His love chuckles fondly, grabbing him by the waist as he gives him another kiss. “Of course. Whatever you say, dear. Shall we get going then? It's been a while since we've been out on a mission.”

“Finally! I could use the exercise!”

———

That was the most thrilling fight they’ve had yet. His blood courses through him, heart pounding from leftover adrenaline, as he watches the corrupted soul float gently in the air.

It was also the most brutal one yet.

Opportunist blinks, the belated shock of the horrific scene before him dawning on him. He… he hadn't realized how violently they fought against their enemy, manic glee blinding him as he slashed and hacked away with no restraint.

There was the sound of someone crying, something young and naive, and he felt vaguely sick as the scent of blood drifted, his hands sticky from the violence he enacted.

“I'm…” Is it wrong not to feel guilty at all? “I'm…”

“Sssh.” All at once, the discordant cacophony of noises is muffled as Skeptic takes him into his embrace, arms shielding him from the world Opportunist does not wish to face. “Good job, sweetheart. We defeated the enemy, just like always.”

Not without casualties. And potentially fatalities. Opportunist doesn't have soul perception like Skeptic but he very well knows the difference between a normal soul and a corrupted one.

“Yeah.” Still, he clings to the lie, to him. Everything is fine. Everything would be alright. As long as Skeptic is here, they could handle anything. “Our teamwork is as impeccable as always.”

His love runs a hand through the feathers on his head and Opportunist faintly realizes he was crying, sobs wracking his entire form. He feels sick but yet so undeniably allured by the power he feels right now. He can still feel the traces of his opponent's melted flesh sliding down his cheek, the poison of their soul resonance lingering like rotted meat in the air.

And yet, the world grows ever silent, the fright and dread ebbing like waves crashing into the shore, the terror soon being overwhelmed by something, drowning in it before dissipating into nothingness. The sands of his guilt are washed away into the depths, quickly replaced by something new. Something intoxicating, spreading across him like a steady flame burning through wood.

A burning sensation that he could only call the grotesque fire of madness.

“What did you do?” He asks breathlessly, clutching at his head as it throbs in pain. “Skeptic, what did you do?”

“What didn't I do?” Skeptic coos, rocking him gently. “Everything I do is for your sake.”

Opportunist looks up at him, claws gripping at Skeptic's chest, eyes desperately roaming to see where and how things went wrong.

Instead all he sees is himself reflected in Skeptic's thoughts, raw and strained and eager. So eager, like Opportunist is an integral part of him he can't bear to part with, a possession he carries inside his coat pocket to take out and admire anytime he wants. His eyes are different and yet the same, even in its tainted gaze, Opportunist is the only thing reflected in the swirls of madness lurking beneath.

Maybe it isn't so bad to break. Break apart just like how Skeptic wants, leaving him to pick up the pieces and rearrange them how he sees fit. Locked in his embrace forevermore that even the thought of escaping doesn't come to him.

It was tempting.

“I wanna go home.” He says instead, closing his eyes tiredly. He can't bear to look at him any longer. “Let's just go home, Skeptic.”

If the other was disappointed, he didn't show it, squeezing him tighter as he raised Opportunist’s hand, pressing a kiss to his wrist.

“Alright.”

———

His mind races, snapshots of the past days, weeks, months flashing quickly in his mind. He realizes that Skeptic had always kept him close, watching him, guarding him, and patiently planting the seeds of corruption right into Opportunist’s soul.

How far had he planned for this? How long? Why had Opportunist not noticed anything amiss? Or perhaps he had, but he had fallen into Skeptic's thrall before he even knew it. How much had he blindly followed him, how much did he change without him knowing? All of these questions and yet no answers to satisfy them. It is beyond frustrating.

And yet… and yet… he can't even feel betrayed by this.

Was this how it felt when Smitten and Cold fell into madness? Intoxicating in its mellowness, erratic and senseless and yet so incredibly gentle and tender, cradling him as the madness laps at his ankles, ticklish and light.

It felt just like Skeptic.

He can faintly hear its call now, clawing at his rationality and inhibitions like an untamed beast, slowly drowning him in its sweet serenade.

They needed help. Before he loses it. Before everything is too late.

Skeptic isn't at home right now, going about the day like any other day, the massacre they left from days before nothing more than a regular outing to him. Opportunist can theoretically escape and fly away to ask for help at school, but he isn't sure how fast Skeptic would come running once he notices he's not staying in one place. His partner's soul perception's perfect precision is a damned thing working against Opportunist.

But, this may only be the chance he'll get. If he delays it any longer, who knows if he's still sane the next time?

A terrifying thought to consider, one that made him spring to his feet and dash towards the door. He hasn't seen Witch for a while now and he's worried because the possibility of Skeptic doing something to her might have caused it. And Moppy is probably cuddled next to that despicable egg and Opportunist isn't confident he'll keep his thoughts straight when he's near the wretched thing.

The moment he's out though, he gets dragged into an alleyway by a vice grip, wings flapping against the thugs aiming to make a quick steal from him.

“Don't touch me!” He hisses, clawing at the arm still clutching to him. Did he seem that easy to apprehend that these guys thought they could get one over him? He's not like before, the past him could never fight against these bullies. But now, he has–

… nothing. Skeptic isn't here to assist him.

“They say the academy students are filthy rich, boss!” One of the grunts enthusiastically yells. His disgusting demeanor is enough to send shivers down Opportunist's back. “Do you think we can pawn some good stuff from him?”

A group of common thugs dared to try and steal from him? In broad daylight no less? Opportunist can do this, he can fend them off and still fly off to ask for help. He just needed to fight them off first.

He knees the guy holding him hostage in the gut, wings giving him the height to kick him in the face and send him flying to the wall. Opportunist only feels the rush of adrenaline fueling him as the other thieves bring out an array of tools and weapons to scare him with.

“He's just a meister with no weapon! We can swarm him with our numbers !”

Opportunist didn't even let them get the first hit in. He can fight dirty too.

There is power flowing through his knuckles, each strike bone-shattering as he dispatched the group one by one. Nimble yet strong, his training and battle experience comes into play as he leads the dance with calculated hits. He can win this stupid fight.

Until a lucky guy managed to slip past his defenses and land a stab wound on his back.

Opportunist’s breath quickens, panic blinding him as the pain sends electric shocks straight to his brain, nerves alighting in agony. He twists his body and bashes his head against his assailant, taking the flimsy blade that dug through him with a tight grip, anger making his vision red as he buries the knife straight into the pathetic creature's neck.

Blood splashes out like a geyser, warm and fresh against his clammy skin, and Opportunist turns to the rest of them, teeth bared as he advances towards them menacingly.

“You guys picked the wrong opponent to mess with.” He declares, spinning the ugly knife in his hand. It doesn't feel the same as his own weapon, heavy and wrong in his hold. “I'm not as weak and flimsy as I was before.”

And he charges ahead.

———

Rain begins to pour, washing away the pavement of dirt.

The shadows dance as the light of the souls flicker like a candle burning its wick and the squelch beneath his boots couldn't be determined if it was due to the rain or the blood staining the ground he stands on.

Footsteps approach, measured and calm. Opportunist didn't need soul perception to know who it is.

“Did you plan this?” He asks, a whisper to the raindrops pelting the streets.

“Perhaps.” Skeptic answers vaguely as if he's still waiting for Opportunist to lay out the answers he so wanted to have. “How fascinating to see the true nature of every living creature is depravity at its core. It seems my hypothesis is correct.”

“You used me.”

“I merely showed you the truth you deny.” Soft lips caress the wound that healed over minutes prior, the thrum of the madness within enhancing every aspect of his being. “I cannot let you confine yourself to deception and reject me.”

“It was petty.”

“It was necessary.” This time, Skeptic wraps his arms around him, pressing his frigid body against him, his soul asking for a resonance.

Opportunist allows it.

“You could have been smarter about it.”

“Well, you didn't give me much time to prepare.” Skeptic intertwines their fingers. “I couldn't know when you'd try to fly away from me. Patience may be my virtue but even I can grow so impatient when I see you teetering between the edges.”

His claws were drenched in crimson and yet Skeptic dutifully kissed each finger, a touch of reverence lingering on his skin. “Would saying sorry suffice, my love?”

The answer to that couldn't be no.

And yet Skeptic continues to shower him with affection, as if waiting for Opportunist to say the words he wants to hear, despite how their souls practically melded against each other, their thoughts bare and hearts open, no secrecy and lies between them.

Skeptic speaks the truth. But it is a truth oozing with the influence of madness.

“Kiss me, Skeptic.” He pleads and commands in equal measure, glancing at his partner as if their souls resonating wasn't enough to convince him of a truth he had long accepted as fact. “If the entire world is a lie, then I want you to be my only truth.”

Skeptic obliges, leaning in close and sealing their lips together in a vow.

It feels like icy fire bursting all around, running in waves within him and turning his blood into blazing hot-white flames. Despite the fright, the horror, the exhaustion shredding his mind, ethereal power mends the scars and aches and pains of his mortal shell. Opportunist cannot resist the allure of madness anymore. Especially not when Skeptic cups his face gently between his palms, nibbling on his lips like a starved man.

He could barely hold on to his sanity, his very soul being immersed into murky waters, drowning any protests in delirium and euphoria.

It felt almost refreshing to finally appreciate this understanding between them. It leaves Opportunist feeling like he can soar high up to the skies, have the entire world at hand, no line to test, lost between lucidness and insanity forevermore.

“How funny.” He laughs when they part, wrapping his arms around Skeptic's neck, “For the world to seem so brittle when you accept the reality of its delicate foundation.”

Skeptic spreads his hand along Opportunist’s back, pulling him flush against him. It feels electric, tingly, it turns reason to snowy black ashes, shades in inky black eating away what sanity is left of him.

“And so it must be rebuilt.” He whispers like a confession, forehead resting against him.

“Perhaps.” Opportunist hums, smiling. “I would like to see it all go up in flames first.”

“We can dye the world in red.” Skeptic promises, “And let everyone see the truth they so desperately need.”

“Together.”

“Together.

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Just discovered your baby series and wondered in the "nothing fucks with my baby" chapter if you could write (can be short) an alternative ending in which joonie actually gets beaten the shit out of hwa (as in baby not cooperating) just cuz I dont like im in here 😒 it doesnt have (or more like shouldnt) to be canon since baby is a good person,

Thanks in advance!! Love you work!

➯a/n: oooo okaaaay this was actually fun to explore !! thank you for reading and for askiiing <3 i made it canon that she would go along with joonie because she IS a good person in a shitty, shittyyyyy situation and i think because, at that point in time, she hadn't seen hwa hurt any of the members — she would get too sacred to follow through buuut i think i worked my way around that pretty well

Nothing Fucks With My Baby

Alternative Timeline: Uncooperative Baby

❥Yandere Park Seonghwa x fem reader

Baby Series !

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, angst

♫Baby Playlist♫

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: ANGST. WHUMP. (mostly off screen) physically violence, blood, trauma collective bonding, mental illness, not proof read

➯disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and does NOT represent a healthy little and caregiver relationship, or a healthy relationship of any kind. everyone in this story needs therapy and LOTS of it.

MINORS GO AWAY

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"Don't you remember? You said you wanted to play hide and seek with Scoups, but you fell asleep before we got to seek... remember?" He knows that you know it's bullshit. He knows you know that he knows you wanted him to feel your pain. To come to the realization that Seonghwa wasn't above hurting him. And he can only hope you'll play along — because you clearly feel bad.

     You do feel bad. You do want to end this, just tell the truth and end this before it escalates. But whenever you lie — Seonghwa always knows. He always does. But you've already gotten away with it this far, so you don't want to jinx yourself by saying another single word.

    So... you keep your mouth shut to save your own ass from what would be an undoubtedly painful punishment for lying. Hongjoong's face drops even further as you bury your head back into Mingi's chest.

Seonghwa is about to cause him a whole lot more pain than a stinging cheek and a small cut on his head.

Everyone knows it. You know it. Mingi knows it. Hongjoong certainly can feel the pain before it's even started because the look in his Hyung's eyes says everything that his pressed together lips can't.

Seonghwa is holding back — really holding back — so he doesn't beat the leader within an inch of his life right here and now and force you to witness it. You've been through enough today, he thinks.

When one of your barely contained whimpers reaches his ears, almost all of his self restraint flies out of the window. How dare he make his Baby cry?

"Get up," he speaks through gritted teeth, yanking the younger man up by his shirt, "get the fuck up." He ignores his pleads, his insistent refusal of guilt, and looks to the way you're cradled in Mingi's arms as you shiver ever so slightly with the force it takes to hold back your sobs. "Don't move a muscle. Either of you."

With that, he's fighting with Hongjoong to drag him out of the room. The door closes with a deafening — SLAM!

You sob freely into Mingi's chest immediately, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt and clinging to him.

"Shhh-" Mingi jumps when there's another bang in the apartment, followed by a loud shout of pain. He holds you tighter, tears of his own held back as he closes his eyes. "It will be okay, shortcake. It will be okay."

He doesn't know if he repeats it for you — or for himself. Either way, it doesn't work to calm either of you down as you can still hear Seonghwa yelling and Hongjoong pleading.

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

San doesn't know what to make of the scene infront of him. He stands in the doorway with a shell shocked expression, hand still on the handle and halfway through kicking off his shoes.

Hongjoong is crumpled on the living room floor. Bloody lip, blood dripping from his hairline, blood coming down his nostril — blood everywhere. Bruises swelling up on his arms and face; he wouldn't be surprised if the man is covered in them. He looks near fucking dead, and he thinks he might be for a second if not for the small wheezing breath that he catches him take.

Seonghwa is on the floor a good bit away from him. Back pressed against the couch, head in his hand — his bruised and bloody hands. His breathing shallow, exhausted.

You and Mingi are nowhere to be seen. And that worries him almost as much as the condition of his members. Wherever Seonghwa is, his Baby is sure to be found near.

"Hyung...?" San speaks slowly, carefully, as he closes the front door quietly and bolts it back.

"My poor Baby..." Seonghwa whispers, his voice distant and disconnected. "Why did you do that, Hongjoong? Why... I don't like hurting you..."

San steps forward; again, slowly.

"It breaks my heart every single time but you- I can't- I can't stop it. I can't stop myself. I just get so frustrated and you know that. You know that and you still made her cry!" Seonghwa flings himself back against the couch as his aching knuckles urge for more violence. "My poor Baby... I wasn't here for her..."

"Seonghwa?"

The man finally looks up and meets San's anxious gaze. "Sannie?"

"What-" He hesitates. "What's going on?"

"He took her stuffie- her favorite! Her-"

"Okay," he nods quickly, already seeing Seonghwa getting worked up again. "Okay, I get it." No, he really doesn't. Seonghwa beat Hongjoong into a bleeding, wheezing mess over a plushie? He'll have to ask Hongjoong after he helps him. "Why don't you go clean up, Hyung?"

"Yeah..." He stands up slowly, looking down at Hongjoongs curled up form with something sad that quickly turns back to angry. "Nothing fucks with My Baby. You got that?"

His only response is a weak groan, but that's apparently enough to let the man move on; making a bee line to your shared bedroom.

As soon as Seonghwa is out of the room, San is running to Hongjoong and falling to his knees next to him.

Seonghwa didn't savagely beat Hongjoong over a stuffed animal. No, that's not it at all. He did it because of you.

He's done far worse. He's killed for you and he has no hesitation in doing it again. It broke his heart to hurt his best friend. Every punch and kick he landed made a crack in his heart.

But it was all worth it in the end as he gently picked your sleeping form up off of Mingi's lap. Cradling you in his bloody hands like the precious thing you are.

You held your stuffed raccoon to your chest as you leaned into his body warmth.

He had to balance out karma. Had to revenge the wrongdoing that you went through. His poor Baby, all alone without her comfort items... He had to set things straight —

Nothing fucks with his Baby.

❝you're my baby, say it to me❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

[urinarythreatinfection]

Wider View

Shanks x Woman!reader. Very suggestive. 589 words. Bottom Shanks. Outside POV.

a/n: can be read as transfem probably. posting early bc impatient

It’s a slow day for an adult store, the shop owner, bored, looks around. They already don’t have a lot of people that shop in person, but there is the occasional person or delivery person. Today though, nothing, and the sun has almost set. They perk up when the little bell rings as someone walks inside, finally something to do. “Welcome!” They say happily, which falters when they see a sudden 6’6 man walk in. Scar over his eye, muscular, even missing an arm. He looks like bad news. His blood red hair moves as he does, making them nervous. ‘He wouldn’t try to rob an adult store right? Maybe the register? Should I call someone?’ Their mind runs through options as he peruses around. He seems to sense their unease because he turns to them and gives a friendly smile.

“Hello! Do you have this in a bigger size?” He asks, holding up sexy red lingerie. So he is here to shop, and that smile didn’t look fake.

‘Is he getting something for his girlfriend? That’s bold.’ They think to themselves before answering. “Yes! It should be in the back, how big would you like?”

“An extra large, and if you have the stockings longer that would be good too.” He explains and the shop owner goes to the back.

‘He’s got a big lady, I guess he could handle something like that.’ They grab the larger size and go back, handing it to him. He looks it over, then goes to a mirror and puts it to his body. ‘He’s gay!?’ Their eyes widen in shock, the man unknowing as he smiles looking at himself. ‘I would’ve never guessed..’

Ring ring

“O-Oh, welcome!” They snap out of it and spot a woman.

“Yes, is my husband here?” She asks and then spots the redhead, who quickly hides the lingerie behind him. The shop owner’s heart tightens, is he hiding his sexuality from her? A secret gay lover? “Shanks, there you are!”

“Sorry, love, just buying some condoms.” He lies and she hums.

“Well okay, hurry up because I already made a reservation for the restaurant.” The shop owner looks away, they can’t watch this. Telling her feels out of the question too, he looks like he could kill them in seconds. Their eyes go back when she continues. “Oh, and buy more lube. I don’t think even a slut like you could handle getting fucked rough without it.” Their eyes widen when she gets closer to him, her hand trailing to his ass and giving a small squeeze. “And I’m not slowing down even if you cry~” He shivers with a shaky breath.

“Yes, love.” He says submissively and she smiles.

“Good boy, I’ll see you at the restaurant.” With that, she leaves and the man takes a moment to catch his breath before grabbing lube and condoms. He places the items on the register while the owner is frozen. They manage to tear themselves from their mind and ring the items up. While the man is giving the berries they make eye contact, and he suddenly gives a mischievous smile.

“I hope it surprises her as much as it did you.” His eyes go dark, and the owner is suddenly reminded of those demons in legend that feed off of sexual energy. “See you later~” He winks and leaves the store, leaving the store owner with a dropped jaw and flushed cheeks.

‘Well. I’m glad they’re happy.’ They think, but their world has definitely gotten larger.

I got too excited. Anyway, this can be read as transfem reader, but i didn't really know how exactly to tag that since ive never read about transfem reader stories. Anyway either fem with a strap or transfem no bottom surg. Taking everything in my body not to just post the rest. im a little nervous.. what if i hyped this and its trash.. its just a drabble.. gotta remember to keep my head on straight.

[moony-mybeloved]

Under Pressure

The Marauders band au I suggest in my last post received a resounding yes so heres chpt 1! comment to be added to the taglist 🫶

The last thing Remus Lupin expected to be doing after a very successful show was driving home in his shitty car, down his shitty road, to get back to his shitty apartment, without his shitty boyfriend.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Sirius wasn't supposed to say those things, he himself wasn't supposed to flip his lid, but here he is, and now he has to pull over before he kills someone because he can't see the road past the tears blurring his vision.

The break up was messy, backstage of a show, Remus was angry already, Sirius had been a dick before the show, going mental at James for taking a shot before the show, yelling at Peter for snapping a string on his guitar right on their 5 minute call, and scolding Remus for showing up with his cane in hand.

'You can't play with one hand! your gonna have to, I don't know, lean on something, just make it look cool ok!?'

Make it look cool? Remus had been livid, it was a bad hip day, he could barely walk on his own, but god forbid he run Sirius Blacks big show. He would have blamed it on the mans nerves, if he hadn't been acting like this ever since the band got a big break, and now The Marauders are a known name, then Sirius changed, been more like a boss than a boyfriend of 10 years, it pissed him off, to say the least, and he couldn't handle the diva he turned into.

Remus wants the days when they had fun, played in pubs where the only people who came to really see them was James' parents, but now Sirius black is a ridiculous control freak who is now more focused on the fame, the money, the opinions than the fun of it, the passion that he once had.

Its the radio that snaps him out of it, Sirius' energetic, belty voice along with his own smooth tones that bring a fresh wave of sobs wracking his aching body.

Under Pressure. The song that made the band and broke the bond, his shaky hand freezing when he hears Sirius sing 'Can't we give love, one more chance?'

No. Not with the way you've changed.

That's the only thing running through his mind as he manages to drive home, unlock his apartment and immediately find a bottle, when the phone rings, he lazily grabs it off the wall.

'Hello..?'

'Alright, mate?'

'..What do you want, James?'

'We just like..y'know, wanted, to know if you were, serious about the whole break up, with sirius..no pun intended-'

'Yes, I am, and..'

He hesitates. Does he really want to do this? Throw everything hes worked for since school, away? Because of a break up?

'I'm quitting the band,'

'What!?-'

He hangs up before James can try to convince him to stay, because it would work. Instead, he takes a long sip of his beer, rolls over on the sofa, and closes his eyes.

Remus doesn't leave his house for about a week, moving boxes scattered about the place, he had been supposed to move in with Sirius that week.

James and Peter had been ringing, from Sirius? Radio silence, which tells him all he needs to know. Hes angry. Hes upset. He regrets it. But hes free.

And so Remus deals with his feelings the only way he knows how, he writes music, he pours his anger into the lyrics, thinking about meeting sirius in school, who was desperate to fit in, despite his stupid posh parents, how Remus had fallen in love with him, but once a stuck up, arrogant prune, always a stuck up arrogant prune, I suppose.

When he finishes, he feels like he can take a deep breath.

He names the song 'Common People'.

After writing a song, crying, quitting his band, drinking, smoking, drinking and crying a little more, and sleeping for a week, only one thought is clear in Remus' mind.

I fucking hate Sirius Black.

Short first chapter ik!! but it was more of a setting the scene kinda thing, but the next ones will be longer promise! hope it lived up to expectations, and i plan to post a new chapter every Wednesday!

[batsandbirdbrains]

Tonight’s incessant thought that’s keeping me awake

The one where Raptor is actually Dick’s dad (sort of)

So like I read one (1) fic where Raptor, Mary, and John were in a polyamorous relationship and all three raised Dick together and now I’m obsessed with the concept.

But since he had no legal claim of Dick, he never was given a chance to petition for custody of him or whatever. And so basically Raptor has watched him from a distance, and he knows he’s Robin and then Nightwing, but he can’t stand Bruce Wayne so he just stays in the shadows and keeps watch over his baby boy.

And now cue my usual yj post-season 2 set up where dick is aged down to hmm let’s go with 15 this time (I always just assume there’s less of a timeskip between the two seasons when I age him down btw it’s not that everyone else on the team is way older than him). But also Artemis refused to go undercover, so he was also acting as both nightwing and renegade, Deathstroke’s apprentice, throughout like the whole invasion shit. And now everyone is mad at him and being mean to him. Maybe Bruce has kicked him out, maybe Dick is living out of a safe house in Blüdhaven just to spite him idk

But no one has spoken to him in like 4 months now. And suddenly Nightwing is being called to the Watchtower for some important meeting abt a new criminal they’ve captured for interrogation or smth.

And when he’s up there, standing in the corner of the room avoiding everyone bc they’re all whispering abt him, he feels like his heart stops.

Because that’s his papa that Superman brings into the room. That’s his papa that they’re being so harsh with. That’s his papa that they’re questioning.

That’s his papa.

Who he hasn’t seen since his other two parents fell.

And a breathless little, “Papa” leaves his lips, and he ignores the way everyone turns towards him, because all he can see is his papa still held in Superman’s tight trip.

Then Raptor turns to him, a sad little smile on his face. And he says so clearly in French (bc he and Mary were in France in that flashback in the comics so fuck it I’m making them both French) “mon petit Robin” and Dick just breaks. Because his mother always liked the way Robin sounded in English better than French, and she would mix the two languages all the time when she spoke to him, and all three of his parents always called him mon petit Robin and it makes something inside of him snap.

And everyone around them is either gasping or confused but Dick just darts to his papa, tears him away from Superman, and then breaking down when Raptor holds him tight and starts whispering to him in rapid French that everything is alright, everything will be alright, it’s okay my little Robin, don’t cry. But it only makes Dick cry more.

Idk I just like making Dick suffer

[strzxrin]

Ough just had a thought abt Wei zhong..hear me out, since he's a bunny hybrid and all...mating season. Like he'll prolly be cooped up in his room trying to relieve himself in any way but then the reader (theyre dating) comes in nd is like "u gud? I heard weird nois-" nd then he pounces on the reader begging them to ride him

OR

Hes somehow still a sub even tho he's on top of you

i just can't help myself, i'm actin like an animal !

synopsis. ┆  he's in his mating season and it hurts so bad, he needs some relief. thank god he has you! now he can finally do something about the ache.

tags/warnings. ┆  male!reader, just smut, porn w/out plot, fucking like rabbits (literally), rutting, handjob (giving), blowjobs (both receiving), cow girl(boy), praising, dacryphilia, overstimulation, dumbification

characters. ┆  wei zhong ( nerd . bunny demi character )

a/n. ┆  MALE READERRRR soz gang i really wanted to write a male reader for this scenario specifically. i know this was probably intended with a gn!reader, so you can still take it as a gn!reader with a strap on instead if you want to! i had so much fun writing this though

masterlist ┆ character wiki

you just came back from classes, having done with them today and you went to your boyfriend’s place. but you didn’t see him in the living room which made you confused at first, thinking that he’s in his room. 

but what you didn’t expect was hearing him moan out your name desperately.

his door was unlocked, and it was opened just slightly, letting you take a quick sneak to see him humping against your sweater with your underwear shoved against his nose as he whimpered. 

you were one of the few who can see through the mist, but it seems like your boyfriend doesn’t realise what he is. you knew what was going on, and you couldn’t help but find the cliche of this all.

“seems like someone really did miss me” you cooed which made him gasp and cummed at the sound of your voice. he turned his head and saw you, his face flushed and he looked like a mess. 

“( n-name )” he stuttered, his words almost slurred and you can’t help but get hard at how unbelievably hot your boyfriend looks. a temptress he is. you cooed even more and go up to him, to which he was so desperate and grabbed onto your clothes, sniffing you.

“my poor bunny.. so fuckin horny aren’t you?” you whispered, watching him nod with teary eyes. you hummed, cupping his cock in your hands and slowly stroking it. he moans into your neck and his ears twitch.

your hand feels so good on his cock that he can’t help but mewl like a desperate slut. he needed more, making him move his hips, humping against your hand as you kissed his tears away. “there there, i promise i’ll make it feel all better, yeah?” you murmured, stroking him a couple more times as he inevitably cums.

you pushed him on the bed gently before you went down, taking his cock in your mouth as he gripped onto your hair for support “( name )!” he cried out, moaning and rolling his eyes back while you suck and tease his cock to make sure he feels everything you’re doing to him.

with your hands, you undid your belt and took out your cock from your fly. you stroked your dick alongside with your head movements. wei zhong cums quickly, but you don’t hate him for that. in his defense, everything you do to him makes him melt.

“fuckfuckfuck m’cumming again” he slurred as you feel him pouring his cum into your mouth. you swallowed everything and pulled off with a pop. the moment you stood up, suddenly wei zhong was on his knees, giving you a blowjob in return.

you groaned softly, feeling his warm mouth sucking you with desperate need. you gripped onto his hair, guiding him to take your cock just how you liked it and he obeyed everything. you always made him feel good, so he wants you to feel good too.

you watch him gag and his movements becoming sloppy. it took every restraint in your body to not shove his head further and cummed into his throat directly. “fuckkk that’s it, take it all,” you grunted before cumming.

he swallowed it all and pulled off, giving a kiss on your tip before opening his mouth to show you that he took it all. “such a good boy for me, yeah?” you murmured, pulling him up to kiss him. 

you could taste your cum on his lips and he could taste his cum on yours. it was a heady mix and he can’t help but moan even more.

you sat on his bed, and he sat in your lap, grinding his dick against your thigh for friction which made you hum from the kiss. you pulled away and placed your fingers into his mouth, to which he eagerly sucked and licked. 

“so filthy..” you murmured, kissing his neck, littering hickeys all over as he whimpered with his mouth full of your fingers. seeing how it was wet enough, you pulled your fingers away and pushed it against his asshole, stretching him open.

he moaned loudly, his back arched as you started to pump your fingers into him, making sure that he could feel every bit of you. he babbled into your neck, grinding against your digits as he gets close to cumming again, and you could tell with how he tightens up. 

so, with your free hand, you stroke his cock again and he was a goner. he cummed and made a mess with your shirt but you paid no mind. you did it again and again, hitting his prostate until he was stretched enough. 

he was fully overstimulated and dumbed out when you finally pushed your cock in. he screamed and you cooed softly, patting his head and letting him take it slow. when he got comfortable, he started to bounce up and down, riding your dick as if it was the last time he would be able to do this.

“there you go.. suck a good bunny, jumping on my cock like that” you murmured, putting your hands on his hips as you guided him with his ride. there was drool leaking from his lips and his eyes glazed with lust. so irresistible, that you felt like you were the one that was having a heat.

well, it’s going to be a long night for the both of you, but you doubt that neither of you mind.

[apheliaholmes]

And when we had that fight out in the rain

me - wolfstar - @taylorswiftmicrofic- word count: 909 

☆ AO3

It started with a stupid comment over dinner. Something about the Order, about Dumbledore expecting too much. Sirius made a joke — stupid, dry, sharp-edged and mean — and Remus didn’t laugh. He quit the opposite. He just set his fork down, looking at Sirius with a tense face.

“Stop pretending this isn’t a dangerous situation we are in.” 

“I’m not!” says Sirius looking up at Remus, upset to see him not understanding his twisted humour. 

“You are!” Remus stands up quietly, the palms of his hands on the wooden table, his sharp gaze looking at Sirius. “You always do this! Deflect when it’s hard, make stupid jokes and avoid a serious conversation!”

“I make a joke and suddenly I’m emotionally unavailable or some shit? Are you for real?” 

“Sometimes, yeah!” screams Remus. 

They argue through the dishes and into the hallway as Sirius walks away, like always. 

“Could you take this seriously for once? Sirius!” Remus tries to grab his arms, but Sirius laughs bitterly at the sentence, and that’s when he slams the entrance door. 

Remus signs and looks at the ceiling, on the verge of screaming. He doesn’t chase Sirius, not at first. But twenty minutes pass, then thirty, then an hour. And the rain starts outside. 

Out of rage or concern, he doesn’t really know, Remus takes his coat and walks outside. Sirius is on the narrow path, just outside the cottage, arms crossed, looking away, hair dripping wet. They often walk around the property after dinner, taking in the last rays of sunshine. But tonight it’s different. Dramatic, the air was tense and the weather awful. 

“I’m not out here for the dramatic effect. I just need some air.” Sirius says, not looking at Remus. 

“Air? Or space from me?” He asks nervously while looking at the grass. 

They stand here for some time in silence. The rain is falling quietly.

“I didn’t mean to be cruel, I just… I’m tired.” 

“You weren’t cruel. You just… weren’t really here, you always avoid the conversation, baby…” Said Remus softly, taking a step closer.

The wind picks up, and Remus hugs himself, his jacket and his hoodie don’t warm him enough, and he feels too uncomfortable asking for a hug from Sirius. He hates this kind of silence, the kind where everything feels like it’s one sentence away from being over. One comment made Sirius want to break up with him and leave his side forever. He’s scared. Remus hates arguing with Sirius, he hates saying when something feels wrong. But every relationship needs a bit of confrontation to move forward, right? But what if it’s too much for Sirius? What if he gets tired of him? 

“I know… I don’t talk about things the way you do…” Sirius finally says. “I don’t know how to carry it… It makes it too real if I say it out loud.”

Remus watches the way Sirius’ jaw clenches when he’s trying not to say too much, it’s familiar, it makes him think of Regulus. It’s frustrating. 

“I’m not asking you to spill your soul out on the table, love…” Remus says while taking a step closer. “I just want you to show up. To be there. To stop leaving, avoiding.” 

“I’m trying.” Sirius says, looking up, seeing Remus getting closer. “Even if it looks like I’m disappearing. I swear I’m trying but I’m fucking scared of losing them, losing you…” 

Remus’ voice softens. “I know, I’m scared too. But I’m going nowhere, baby.” 

The rain falls slowly.

“I think I don’t always know how to be with someone who’s not going to leave.” Sirius says in a whisper. 

The air gets heavier. The rain seems colder. 

“I think I don’t always know how to be with someone who already has…” Remus exhales. 

Sirius bites his lips, and nods. 

“Fair.” He says with tears in his eyes. “I keep thinking you’ll wake up one day and realise I’m too much.” 

“I keep thinking you’ll realise I’m not enough.” Answer Remus. 

They both chuckle awkwardly. 

“We’re kind of pathetic.” 

Remus smiles softly. “A little.” 

They look at each other tenderly. 

“You still want to do this?” Sirius asks nervously. “Us?” 

Remus is quiet for a second, looking at Sirius’ eyes.

“Yes. I do.” 

“Even when I mess up?”

Remus steps forward. Just close enough to feel Sirius’ breath on his skin.

“Especially then.” 

Sirius nods, looking down.

“I love you.” He says looking up. 

Remus just leans in, gentle, tired, and soaked through. He presses his lips against Sirius’ like a quiet “thank you” or “I’m sorry for all of this.” It turns into a desperate kiss when Sirius grabs Remus’ coat to drag him closer, their chests touching. It’s a sad kiss, a heartbroken one. They struggle to communicate but still know how to show they love each other when they kiss like that. 

Remus pulls back, just a bit, enough to make Sirius sigh, upset. 

“You’re freezing, let’s get back inside.”

“You love it when you can warm me.” Sirius says teasingly. 

“I really don’t.” Says Remus trying not to smile. He grabs Sirius’ hand.

“Liar.”

“Shut up, let’s get inside.” 

They walk back inside together, hand in hand. Sirius leaves his boots just outside the door, next to Remus’ ones. 

When they kiss again, it’s not a sad one, nor a desperate one. It’s a needy one. They both need to feel each other. And maybe, they’ll talk after.  ☆

remus "i need to talk about it" lupin, and sirius "i don't understand why!!!" black

[ripgray-moved]

it's the way i just want people to love and be invested in peter after all the hard work i've put in him tbh.

[dullahandyke]

Mark your calendars girls, this is the summer I go fully insane from being cooped up in my parents house in the countryside