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moonstruckme · 9 months ago

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Mae!!! I am so happy to see you opening up requests for Thawing Out because I am genuinely OBSESSED and I haven’t stopped thinking about it 💖💖💖 So, what if during practice, Remus (unknowingly, obviously) said something to r, like making a correction or something, and it’s something Peter had said. And Sirius recognizes it too!! And you can decide what happens 🥰 Love you! 💖

Thank you for requesting lovely <33

collab with @ellecdc

cw: modern au, chronic pain, Peter mention

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 2k words

You’re an angel on the ice. Gliding and sweeping, your movements so ethereal Sirius half expects to look down and find that your skates are floating above the surface of the ice, or that you’ve etched the next great work of art into the canvas beneath your feet. But he doesn’t, because it’s clear as day that the true art is in the creation, and it’s got its fingers clasped around his. Sirius feels lucky to bear witness.

You have the look of someone who’s given themselves over to their craft, your expression poised but eyes sparkling as you transition neatly from one move to the next until you’re coasting alongside Sirius. You’re wearing leg warmers today, far from unconventional in your sport but it’s humiliating how adorable he finds it on you. Your nails are short and neat, fingers surprisingly warm in his own, eyelashes fluttering as you tilt your head back.

You make it look easy. The way you arch your back until you’re nearly parallel to the ice, skating on only the edge of one skate while Sirius draws you in a circle around him. He starts to lower himself, finding the position you’d practiced off ice. Your grip on his hand is strong, your head tilting until the hairs escaping from your bun are whipping just above the ice, until Sirius is sure you can feel its chill on the back of your neck, and he can’t do it.

He keeps you a few inches above where he knows you’re supposed to be, holds you there with the momentum of his spin, and then hoists you up and into your spin.

You look at him bemusedly as you land on your other skate, a questioning flicker of eye contact Sirius pretends not to notice. You finish out the rest of your routine perfectly.

“That was great,” Remus says from the entryway. Sirius has noticed that he’s taken to watching you from there rather than from the bleachers on days when his hip isn’t giving him as much trouble. He wonders if Remus is almost tantalizing himself, standing on the edge of the ice but knowing he can’t go further. “Y/n, you had a lovely arch going into the spiral, but I want to see you stay more on that outside edge during the lutz-loop combination. Just play it safe on that one, alright?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking encouraged. “Sorry, I felt myself slip a bit there.”

“You managed it just fine,” Remus reassures you. He gives you a gentle smile, and Sirius stomach does something fluttery and unsanctioned. “It’s good that you noticed, we only want to keep an eye on it, yeah?”

You smile in reply. The commotion in Sirius’ stomach worsens.

“And Sirius,” Remus turns to him, “we still have to get a bit lower on the spiral. Her head should be below her knee.”

Sirius frowns. “I know.”

It’s a non-answer and Remus knows it, but he doesn’t snipe back at him. His brows twitch together thoughtfully. “We’ve still got a few days. Do you need more time to practice off ice?”

“No,” Sirius replies. He wishes the other boy would get angry with him, give him something to shoot back at, something other than kindness and temperance and this lame, irksome understanding. He almost wants to roll his eyes as he adds, “I’ll work on it.”

Remus seems (frustratingly) appeased with that. “Alright, just be careful on your left pick when you get down there.” His voice takes on a teasing lilt. “We don’t need any more accidents this close to competition, Pads.”

Sirius waits for the flash of irritation. But your laughter rings out brilliant and lovely, and Remus is smiling at the both of you with something like fondness, and he can’t seem to find it.

Fucking James. Sirius ought to know better than to automatically trust anyone his best friend likes—you’ve both suffered the consequences from that once already—but it’s difficult to summon his usual disdain for Remus after watching the two of them chinwag and snicker like old friends at practice the other day. It was odd seeing James so familiar with someone else, but Sirius found he couldn’t muster any jealousy. As much as he loathes to think of it, you were right—learning James and Remus were old friends did make him think. In ways that remind Sirius why thinking is one of his least favorite activities.

He shoots Remus the bird over his shoulder. Unfortunately, in doing so, he fails to notice a blemish in the ice which catches his skate, causing him to pitch forward before righting himself.

Remus’ lips twitch, but Sirius holds up a hand. “You can keep your quips to yourself.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Then you can keep your looks to yourself.”

You implement Remus’ alteration to your lutz-loop combination flawlessly. It’s something you’ve always been good at, confident enough to take feedback and skilled enough to make the changes stick. It’s part of why you’re as good as you are, the amalgamation of every scrap of advice you’ve ever received and a fierce determination that's all your own. You jump and spin and twist your way through the routine beautifully.

Sirius, on the other hand, is not so great with critiques. The death spiral stays exactly the way it is, with your head safely above the ice and neither of you low enough to get full points. And that’s likely how it will stay.

He can tell you and Remus are both getting more frustrated, more disappointed, every time he fails to take it all the way, but Sirius can’t bring himself to go any further. His heart won’t let him.

“We’ll do some more off ice tomorrow,” Remus decides for him as you both take off your skates. “We’ve got the time, everything else is looking beautiful. Sirius, maybe work on getting low on your own today, so we’ve less to cover tomorrow.” Sirius nods down towards his skates. He doesn’t feel like looking at either one of you. “And y/n, the only thing I’m still noticing from you is that landing on your triple axle. You’re a bit wobbly. I want you to focus on controlling your descent and really sticking it. It looks nearly perfect, you’re just making me a little nervous—this would be a shit time to have to go into an early retirement, wouldn’t it?”

It’s said lightly, a hint of a smile at the tail end, but your face twinges like he’s snapped at you. Remus’ brow furrows in mild confusion, and Sirius feels a hard fist clench in his chest. He wouldn’t know what had made you react like that either, if you hadn’t repeated Peter’s words to him yourself.

He told the other coach that I was one bad jump away from injuring myself into an early retirement.

“I’m not actually worried about that—you’re too skilled for an injury that severe to be very likely, I just,” Remus is watching you carefully, clearly trying to reason out where he went wrong, “thought I should bring it to your attention. Only as a precaution.”

You nod several times, quicker and harder than necessary. “Yeah.” Your lips press into a smile. “I’ll be careful, thanks.”

Sirius sets his hand on top of yours, shit at comfort but meaning to try anyway, but your hand slips away as you get up and sling your bag over your shoulder.

“I have to get home,” you say, squeezing Sirius’ shoulder as if in apology. Your expression is tight. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Remus echoes. He watches you go with a half-remorseful look on his face, like he doesn’t know what he’s done but he feels bad for it anyway.

Seeing as you haven’t waited for him, Sirius supposes he’ll be walking home on his own today. He sets his skates in his bag, beginning to tug on his shoes.

Remus broaches the silence almost tentatively. “Did she seem alright to you?” Sirius doesn’t know how to respond to that, but the other boy goes on before he has to. “Did…do you know if I said something to upset her?”

Sirius shrugs. “Nope.”

Remus can probably smell the lie—he’s not gone to any great lengths to conceal it—but Sirius doesn’t care. The look of hurt on your face has set a familiar protective ire buzzing beneath his skin, and Remus is the one who caused it. Neither of you owe him any explanation.

Remus falls quiet again, but he waits while Sirius finishes packing up, walks with him towards the exit.

“How long have you and James been friends?” he asks.

“A long time,” Sirius answers shortly. “I moved in with him and his parents when I was sixteen.”

“Oh.” Remus turns to look at him. Sirius feels his gaze, wide and curious, on the side of his face. “Yeah, a long time, then. It was nice to talk to him again. We used to run into each other so often, but I hadn’t seen him since…well, since I left, I suppose.”

There’s a melancholy that lays itself down over those last few words, the nostalgia in Remus’ voice smothered underneath. Maybe it’s that quiet tone, maybe it’s the image of James and Remus together, laughing and talking about their futures on the ice during early mornings at the rink, but Sirius feels himself softening.

“He mentioned something,” Remus says tentatively, “about your last coach. It didn’t sound like things ended well.”

Sirius pushes out a breath. “They didn’t.”

“Was he not very good?”

“No,” he can hear the frustration seeping into his voice. He wishes Peter were worse at his job. That he’d been an idiot, didn’t understand your styles, and none of you had ever managed to get along. It would have made everything so much easier. “He was good.”

“I’m not trying to pry,” says Remus, “but if what happened with him is going to affect how you two are with me—if it has anything to do with how I upset y/n today—I would appreciate if you told me.”

So Sirius does. He’s not sparing with the details, and Remus doesn’t begrudge him the anger that grips him as he talks about Peter’s betrayal, where it left the two of you, how it’s still coming back to hurt you even now. It makes him furious, but where he’d expected Remus to take it all in calmly, Sirius is surprised when the other boy’s jaw gets tight as he listens. He has questions: How long had you worked with Peter? Did either of you have to get involved with the case, or did his emails speak for themselves? Does Sirius know how long Peter was playing double-agent?

By the time they’re on Sirius’ block, Remus has begun alternating between shaking his head and huffy, revolted exhalations.

“I can’t believe he said that to her.” He shakes his head, guilt digging into the space between his brows. “I can’t believe I said it, either, but I was only trying to make a joke about myself, not…she’s far too skilled to have a fall like that—well, anyone could, but she’s only as likely as anyone else at her level. Which isn’t very many people.”

“That’s what I told her,” Sirius agrees. “I think she was mostly over it, but…”

“I reminded her.” Remus sighs. “I’ll have to make it up to her.”

“She’ll be alright,” he says honestly. “I think it just surprised her.”

“She’s really good.”

“I know.”

“She has to know that.”

“She…” Sirius hesitates. “Do we ever really know it, about ourselves?”

“Oh, come off it.” Remus gives Sirius a knowing look. His mouth tugs up on one side. “You clearly know how good you are.”

Sirius feels a pleased tingle of warmth in his face. He walks backwards up the stairs to his flat, leveling Remus with a cocky grin. “Am I?”

“Don’t. You maintain your own ego well enough without my help.”

“Oh, but it never hurts to have disciples.” He fishes out his key, unlocking the door. “You could remind me from time to time, just for fun.”

When he turns, Remus is watching him from the sidewalk with a gleam of something like amusement in his eye. “Nail the spiral,” he says, “and we’ll see.”

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talesofanarchy · 2 months ago

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Without You

Her hands clutched a sonogram picture, attention fastened onto the small, developing fetus that lay promptly in the still. The tiny being of life looked like a growing human, not so much like an alien anymore. It had 10 fingers and 10 toes, and its eyelashes, and hair on its head were beginning to form. It was about the size of an avocado currently, still very small and requiring mommy to keep he or she safe. The news of her pregnancy had been a big surprise and somewhat overwhelming.

She hadn’t been on birth control and Happy and herself never used a condom, so it shouldn’t have come as much of a shock. Yet, it was. She and Happy had only been in a relationship for a year, still budding in the honeymoon phase, and she wasn't sure how he’d take the news. A big part of her hoped that he’d take the news well, that maybe somewhere deep down beneath his rough exterior, he wanted to be a father.

A sigh passed through soft lips, stress weighing down her chest. She was nearly four months along, the doctor said both she and the baby were healthy, and the little guy or gal was growing at the expected rate. The following week, she would have blood work to do just to make sure there was nothing internally wrong. However, the doctor said there wasn’t anything to worry about, only subduing your worries momentarily. There had been signs that indicated a pregnancy, but signs she overlooked.

There was the slight morning sickness, tender breasts, and the unusual craving for dill pickles. Which she had hated ever since she was a kid. All of this she could only chalk up to an upcoming period, one that had been missing for the last 3 and a half months. Her cycles had always been off, and so the thought of a baby growing inside of her womb had never crossed her mind. Not until Happy pointed out the swelling of her breasts and the small circular curve of her lower abdomen.

Tired eyes skittered towards the clock on the stove, seeing it was only 5:30 pm. Happy would be at TM until 6:30, and that gave her time to stew and worry for an hour. The baby was not just her responsibility, but his too, and they both needed to decide on what to do. How to handle it, how to raise it, and if he even wanted to be a part of the kid’s life.

Oil and grease coated the outlaw’s hands, which were firmly curled around the handlebars of his Dyna. The engine idled lowly beneath him, boots planted on the concrete driveway keeping the piece of machinery in place. On the days that he worked at the auto shop he was usually home by 7 pm, however, when he had business with the club, his arrival varied.

Coal embers glanced in the direction of his old lady's Chevrolet Cruze parked on the street, knowing she was home. Today was her day off from the tattoo shop, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch with her and have a nice, cold beer. Cutting the engine and taking the key from the bike, he’d rise to his overwhelming, full stature. His strides were wide and predatory-like as he made his way to the front door, unlocking it and pushing it open.

The moment he was inside, he was shutting the door quietly behind him and undoing his work boots. “(Y/N?)” He called gruffly, wondering where she was. Once his boots were off and sitting by the front door, he began making his way into the living room, finding his old lady asleep peacefully on the couch. Lips twitched subtly, the corners slightly pricking into a smile, until he shook his head, regaining his hard expression once more.

He silently looked over the living room, finding everything to be in its place and clean. Something he appreciated about her, she could keep up with his neat-freak ways. Y/N wasn't messy, and she always put everything back in the proper spots. The TV played softly in the background, he assumed she had fallen asleep to whatever was on.

Turning, he’d make his way to the kitchen, intentions set on a cold booze. Happy was soon leaning down, rummaging through the fridge, while grabbing ahold of a Corona. Regaining his normal posture, his eyes danced along a photo on the fridge, pinned down by magnets. He did a double take, pupils widening before he grabbed the sonogram with a quick snap of his hands.

He read the name in tiny lettering above the image of the fetus (Y/F/N – Y/L/N) and all he could do was grit his teeth.

Happy’s muscular legs were carrying him subconsciously down the hallway and back into the living room where he flung the picture at her sleeping form. “What the fuck is this?” He spat.

The feeling of fluttering paper on her face, and then Happy’s booming voice spooked her awake. “Wha-.“ She grumbled half asleep, a hand going to her eyes where she began to rub at them frantically. “What’s going on Hap?”

Yet, her question was answered when she saw the sonogram on her chest. Easing herself up, she'd grab the photo, hurt lingering over her heart at the thought of his lack of interest in the picture of the baby they both had taken part in making.

“Answer me, little girl, what the fuck is that?” He growled.

Y/N had seen Happy angry plenty of times before, but his anger had never been directed toward her, not like this. Swallowing harshly, she'd grip the black and white photo a little tighter. “It’s a baby, it’s your baby.” She said.

The look of shock on his face made her stomach churn unhappily, and then he snapped. “No fuckin’ way is that thing mine. And if it is mine, get rid of it. I don’t fuckin’ want it.” He said. His words were enough to send her already elevated hormones, overboard.

Tears made their way front and center, brimming over her eyelids and falling down your cheeks.

“What do you mean get rid of it? I’m not getting rid of it Happy! It’s our baby.” She rose to her feet, hollering at him, trying to make a point.

He stepped closer to her, staring Y/N down with a disgusted scowl. “I want nothin’ to do with that goddamn thing, either get rid of it or get the fuck out of my house.” After that, he turned on his heels and stormed out of the front door with his boots in tow.

She chased after him, grabbing ahold of his bicep, wishing he’d just cool down.

“Don’t touch me.” He warned, snatching his arm away from her and backing his bike in reverse before roaring down the street.

She stood there in a confused stupor, he hadn’t acted in the way that she had hoped for. This was nothing close to what she expected. She had never seen anyone react so harshly to the news of a baby in her entire life, but then again Happy Lowman wasn’t just any sort of man. He was an outlaw, a renegade, white picket fences and kids just weren’t a part of the biker lifestyle. And if it was, it only happened rarely and far in between.

There was no denying the heartache she felt, each tiny intricate sliver of her heart was breaking into pieces. Shattering and ceasing to exist, because the man she had given her all to, wanted nothing to do with the life they had created, together. So, she stood there, dazed and confused, incapable of understanding where it went all wrong.

Tears were wiped on the back of her hand before she began retreating inside, deciding that it was time to go. There was no way in hell that she would abort their baby, no way in hell she'd ever choose Happy over the life blossoming in her belly. The moment she stopped putting herself first, was the second she found out she was pregnant. No one would ever come before that baby, not even the man who branded his name on her heart.

By the time Happy arrived at the clubhouse, he was fuming. A baby wasn’t a part of the plan, it never had been. Did he like kids? Sure. If they weren’t his, because he had no patience nor wish to deal with kids of his own. They were needy, grabby, attention-seeking leeches, that would demand everything from him and Y/N. The two of them had only been together 12 months, he wanted to be selfish with her, and he didn’t want to share her with anyone, ever.

He wanted to be able to lounge around the house with her, to fuck her on any surface of their home, to allow whatever feelings he had for her, to grow. He didn’t want to raise a kid, he didn’t want that kid putting a strain on their relationship. Something he had already done by blowing up on her. He had been a jackass to think that not using a rubber wouldn’t end in a mistake.

Cause that was what that thing growing in her was, a mistake. He couldn’t fathom why she would want a baby with him, he was a criminal, a brooding outlaw. The life was something he would never give up, not even for his kids. Were all women like that? Wanting to be married and to pop out mini versions of themselves and their partners? Apparently so.

Yet, Y/N had never brought up having kids with him, but he saw how she reacted with Abel and Thomas. That motherly instinct being worn with pride, the desire to have one of her own, evident in that dreamy gaze of hers.

If she didn’t get rid of the baby, then that would be the end of the relationship. So, was he willing to risk their relationship all for the sake of a baby they made together?

A baby that was made from admiration, carnal need, and pure love?

He hadn’t the slightest fucking clue. All he did know was that he wanted to drown his rage in liquor, to forget for a while. So that’s what he did.

Sometime after arriving at the clubhouse Happy had begun drinking, and not some feeble beers. He ordered round after round of Whiskey, easily downing it, the heat of the alcohol scorching any thoughts from his mind. When he was intoxicated enough, he pried some scantily dressed sweet butt from Half Sack’s arm, growling out. “You can have her when I’m done.” His arm dipped across the woman’s shoulder, leading her back to his old dorm room. A room in which he hadn’t spent any time, since moving Y/N in with him. Now here he was, about to bury all his frustrations and anger into some random bitch.

Yet as she was kissing his neck, and shimmying her way down to her knees, all he could think about was his pregnant old lady. Images of her kept repeating in his head, even new scenarios of her with a plump belly that housed his unborn son or daughter. Her smile, laugh, and gentle touch haunted his drunken mind, making him grunt in hindrance.

His dick didn’t even budge, refusing to get hard for anyone but Y/N. That woman had completely captivated him, enthralled him with her entire being. She had her claws in him and let it be known that he would have one hell of a time getting over her. Happy Lowman had never admitted it, but he was very much in love with her. She had said it many times, confessing all the feelings she held for him, but all he could do was shy away from the subject.

She understood though, that he wasn’t one for emotions, or much else. Y/N had accepted him when hardly anyone else did, she loved him for the piece of shit that he was, and she made him want to be better, for her, for the relationship.

“Get off me.” He snarled, shoving the broad away from him and redoing his buckle and jeans. The unknown girl could only look at him with a stupefied expression, not knowing what had changed his mind. She was just there for a good time, which was now ruined by the indecisive biker.

With nothing else to say, Happy was exiting the room, intent on finding his girl. Wherever she was, he’d go and get her, bring her back home where she belonged. Looking towards HalfSack, he motioned towards the back room. “Didn’t touch the bitch, she’s all yours.” Then he was strutting towards the clubhouse front door, the crisp air of the coast marching across his face.

Just as he was mounting his chopper, he heard the familiar voice of his VP. “Hey, Hap!” Called the blonde-haired Son, who was now striding towards him with a swaggered strut.

“What’s goin’ on with you and (Y/N?) She’s at my place with Tara, she’s a mess brother.” Jax sussed.

Happy sighed before running his hand tersely over his face. “She’s pregnant, and I flipped the fuck out. And I just realized what a dumb ass I was.”

Jax’s mouth was shaped somewhat into an ‘O’, before patting his friend’s shoulder. “Having a kid is scary, no one will tell you that, but it’s true. Their these little human beings who just take over your life and you find yourself falling in love with them. Just know, no matter what. You and (Y/N) will be great parents, we all know you love her. We ain’t blind.” The VP chuckled before squeezing his shoulder. “Now, go kiss some ass.”

“If Happy doesn’t realize how great this is gonna be for you both, then you can do it on your own. You got a great head on your shoulders, and I'll help however I can.” Tara sounded from the kitchen where she was fixing a bottle for little Thomas.

Y/N could only stare blankly at the wall, her back pressed into the sofa. Tara had become a close friend over the last year, one she confided in with everything involving Happy and the club life.

If anyone understood it, it was Tara Knowles. She had her fair share of shit-fests with Jax, and so far, the two were hanging on strong. The good doctor was raising a baby that wasn’t even hers on top of Thomas who was biologically hers. Y/N didn’t know where else to go after the blowout with Happy, so she went to the only friend she had in Charming who wasn’t one of the SAMCRO boys.

“Jax will talk to him, knock some sense into him. And if he doesn’t, I will.” Tara said, now standing beside the backside of the couch. “I’m gonna feed Thomas if you get hungry or thirsty. You know where the kitchen is.” The doctor allowed her fingers to brush over Y/N's shoulder in an attempt to soothe her before disappearing into the nursery.

All she could do was slump forward, elbows on knees, and face in the palms of her hands. For the last hour, all she had done was cry, and she was tapped out. The stress wasn’t good for her or for the baby, and she refused to jeopardize the kid’s health, despite her heartbreak.

“Fuck.” She breathed, running a hand through her tattered hair, brushing a few locks from her face.

Her head jerked towards the front door when she heard a loud knock. It was the sound of knuckles rapping over and over on the wooden frame. Glancing down at her phone, she realized it was midnight, who the hell was knocking at Tara and Jax’s house at this time?

Exhaling gently, she'd rise to her feet before trekking towards the door where Y/N cautiously peeled it back.

“Happy?” She said, dumbstruck.

Her outlaw stood disheveled in front of her, eyes dark and glossy, most likely from the liquor that she could smell seeping out of his pores.

“Are you drunk?” She snapped out with an agitated tint to her tone.

“I fucked up (Y/N.)” He swayed back and forth on unsteady feet, which made her slightly worried.

Yet when he said he fucked up, her mind instantly went to him cheating on her. “Did you go and fuck some croweater Hap?” She said low, trying to mentally prepare yourself for his answer.

“Almost. But I stopped it because I couldn’t get you out of my fuckin’ head.” He said.

And out went her sadness, which was quickly replaced with anger. “You what? Are you serious? I tell you I’m pregnant and you got out and immediately try to bag a fucking lay. You’re ridiculous!” She cried, her hands shoving into his stone-like chest.

He didn’t say anything, instead, he let her continue to berate him. Knowing that he deserved it and if anyone was going to beat him down, it would be her. Cause that’s the only person he’d ever let beat him down.

“I hate y-.” Her words were cut off by his bruising kiss, his calloused fingers tangling in her hair, drawing their bodies closer together. He protectively embraced Y/N and bit into her bottom lip claiming. Then the words he had been dying to say for months, finally slipped out.

“I love you, (Y/N.)” His warm breath danced across her cheek, his black irises boring into her lively gaze.

His thumbs began stroking her cheeks as he confessed everything. “I love you, but I don’t want to end up like my pops. I don’t want to be a deadbeat dad. Findin’ out you were pregnant was the scariest shit I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve committed murder, I’ve tortured people just for the pure fuck of it. But knowin’ ya were havin’ my kid, just, it stilled me.”

Y/N had waited so long to hear that he loved her, she honestly thought he’d never say it. But he did, and he meant it. She saw the look of terror in his eyes when he spoke of the unborn baby, and all she could do was calm his worries, all she could do was be there for him like she had been since day one.

“I always thought you’d be a great dad Happy, I never doubted that. And you will be the best daddy to our little one, you’ll never be like your father. Don’t ever think for one second that you are anything like him, 'cause you’re not.” She said.

Happy pressed his forehead against hers, his large hand sliding over her small baby bump. The first real time he even acknowledged that it was a baby and not just a thing. It was his baby, his child, and the woman he loved was carrying it.

“I love you Hap, even if you’re a pain in my ass.” She chuckled, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Likewise, little girl.” He cracked a smirk before laying another passionate kiss on her lips, his fingers flexing over her growing stomach.

#fandom #happy lowman #jax teller #juice ortiz #samcro #smut #tig trager #sons of anarchy fanfiction #sons of anarchy #charlie hunnam

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bedlam-barbie · 4 days ago

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Meddle about

Or Attention part 10

Meddle about

Pairing: In-ho x recruiter!fem!reader; Salesman x recruiter!fem!reader (As always reader’s addressed as is Dancer, her title within Squid Game)

Word count: 5k

Summary: Torn between two obsessions, reader finds herself unraveling. A night with Gong Yoo sparks heat and honesty neither can afford, but peace is short-lived. When a gift from In-ho arrives—too precise, too personal—old wounds split open. And when he calls, it’s not just with affection. It’s a warning: he’s not letting go. Not now. Not ever.

Author’s note: No smut in this chapter, but it's pure tension and emotional undressing. Gong Yoo’s control slips. In-ho tightens his grip. The fuse is lit. Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted. I have went through some very major life transformations from finally finishing my dissertation to getting fired so I couldn’t find the time to write. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this part, I haven’t gotten the chance to watch season 3 but I am ready and excited. Love you all!

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Hongdae area ; 03:30 AM ; Outside a bar

The night clawed at the city with fingers of frost, the early grip of Seoul’s winter creeping in through the seams of coats and the cracks of neon-lit alleys. Hongdae was still pulsing—its arteries full of intoxicated laughter, spilled drinks, and stumbling bodies. Music bled from every doorway, basslines colliding in the air like a brawl no one could win. And from one of those bars, she emerged.

Dancer stepped out of the bar and into the chaos, the door slamming shut behind her with a finality that felt too symbolic. She didn’t flinch at the cold. If anything, she welcomed it. The sting on her skin grounded her, and offered a kind of clarity that alcohol and fluorescent lights inside couldn’t. Her breath curled in front of her like smoke. The real battle wasn’t out here, not really. It was still waging war in her skull, twisting around memories and questions that refused to be buried.

Work kept her sane. The recruiting kept her focused, sharp. But moments like this, alone, outside, under Seoul’s indifferent sky, her mind spiraled. Always back to them. To him. To both of them. To the way In ho kissed her in that cold, sterile conference room. No warning. No softness.And to how close she’d gotten to Gong Yoo lately. Too close. She lit a cigarette with a flick of her thumb, the flame briefly illuminating her face, tired, calculating, unreadable.

“You know,” she muttered, voice low and sardonic, “if you’re going to stalk me, you could at least pretend to be subtle.”

A shift in the shadows. She turned.There he was.

Gong Yoo leaned against the crumbling brick wall like he’d been carved into it, still, deliberate, dangerous. The glow of his own cigarette highlighted the edges of his face: sharp jaw, hungry eyes, unreadable expression. His suit looked untouched by the night, pristine like he’d just stepped off a private jet instead of trailing her through Itaewon’s gutters. Hair slicked back, the man was a paradox of elegance and menace. The cigarette barely clung to his lips, but he didn’t move to take a drag.

“Call it personal curiosity, princess,” he said, voice smooth, lazy, too calm for someone who’d just been caught tailing her. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke like it bored him. “And trust me… if I didn’t want you to know I was here, you wouldn’t.”

His voice was ice dipped in velvet, casual but edged. A warning laced in flirtation. The kind of tone that made people lean in and regret it.

She didn’t reply immediately. Just stared. Heart pounding harder than she wanted to admit. How the hell could someone look like that—like a wolf in a three-piece suit? Like the city itself had conspired to spit out something beautiful and terrifying? The bruises were still there, faint beneath the streetlight, faded purple blooming beneath his jaw, a neat line of stitches on his lip and brow. In-ho’s work. She remembered the sound of it, the sharp crack of bone against tile in the HQ shower room. She hadn’t stopped it.

“Hmm,” she murmured, tilting her head, inspecting him like one of the contestants—wounded, calculated, dangerous. “Is that the best you’ve got, Ghostface? Because honestly… I’m unimpressed.”

The smirk that tugged at his mouth was slow, deliberate. But it didn’t reach his eyes.She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the pavement, her coat falling open just enough to reveal the hem of her dress hugging the tops of her thighs. She wasn’t cold anymore. Adrenaline had burned that away. She shifted her weight lazily, watching his gaze flicker—just for a second.

Not a flinch. Just a recalibration. The air between them tightened.

“How about we get a drink?” His voice cut through the tension like a blade—calm, deliberate. Too deliberate.

Dancer turned her head slowly, trying to gauge his angle. She didn’t answer immediately. Just let the silence stretch between them, heavy with all the things they’d never said—and never would.

“A drink?” she echoed, finally. Her tone was light, playful. But it was armor. “Is this you asking me on a date, psycho killer?”

She flashed a crooked smile, but her heart was sprinting in her chest, wild and reckless. This wasn’t how they worked. Their rhythm was violent. Primal. They fought like rivals and fucked like enemies, teeth, nails, scars. They didn’t do soft things. They didn’t dodrinks.

And yet here he was, calm as a loaded gun.

“And what if I am?” he asked, smoke curling from his lips, eyes fixed on her like he was dissecting her soul.

That stopped her cold. No grin. No smirk. No deflection. Just those words, bare and real.

It was disorienting. For a split second, it felt like the entire city had gone quiet. Like they had slipped out of the game, out of time itself, and landed somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere dangerous.Her mouth opened, then closed again. She was supposed to laugh it off. Call him delusional. Make some joke and walk away. That’s how they survived each other. But now?

Her throat tightened. Because this wasn’t him playing. This wasn’t some manipulation. There was no calculation in his expression. No mockery. Just a quiet, almost exhausted sincerity. And it scared the hell out of her.

Because her heart, stupid, stubborn, starved for something real, melted at the offer.

Just a little.

She stepped closer, the space between them taut like a wire. Her voice came out lower, more steady than she felt.

“One drink,” she said. “And you’re paying.”

His mouth curved, slow, dangerous. “I wouldn’t expect anything else, little girl.”

The nickname still hit like a whip. Sharp. Undeniably possessive. But tonight, it carried something different beneath the bite. A flicker of memory. Maybe even regret. She hated that she noticed.

He flicked his cigarette away, the embers scattering like sparks on concrete, and without another word, turned and started walking. She hesitated only a second before following him. As they disappeared into the neon-soaked dark, side by side like strangers pretending not to be intimate, the air between them pulsed with something volatile, something that could either become salvation or completely destroy them.

They didn’t touch. Of course they didn’t. That would’ve been too easy, too exposed. But as they walked, her shoulder brushed his arm now and then—barely noticeable to anyone else, but electric to her. Yoo didn’t pull away. Didn’t shift. If anything, he seemed to lean into it, like the heat of her skin was anchoring him too.

They said nothing as they passed flashing club lights and late-night food stalls, their silence its own strange rhythm. Eventually, he slowed in front of a narrow door wedged between a fried chicken joint and a half-lit convenience store.

It wasn’t much to look at—just a cracked sign in faded Hangul, one red light overhead, and thick glass so fogged with time and smoke it reflected nothing at all.

Perfect.

Yoo pushed the door open without a word. She followed.The inside was dim, soaked in amber shadows and secrets. The air reeked of old cigarette smoke, sweat, and cheap alcohol—but not in a way that repulsed. It felt honest. Like the place didn’t care who you were or what you’d done, as long as you paid in cash and didn’t bleed on the floors.

A few locals nursed drinks at the bar, eyes barely flicking toward the newcomers before returning to their own quiet misery. A low, grainy record played from somewhere in the back—slow, mournful jazz. The kind that made you think of dead lovers and rooms you shouldn’t have left.

The bartender was an older man, maybe late fifties. He had eyes like he’d seen war, and a face that had given up on smiling years ago. He gave them a nod—just a fraction of one—and went back to wiping down glasses that would never truly be clean.

Dancer let her coat slide off her shoulders, draping it over the back of the booth they claimed. The cracked leather seats squeaked under her, but the warmth of the enclosed space started to seep into her skin.

She looked at Yoo as he settled across from her, his suit still perfect despite the walk. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but there was something different about him here—like this place stripped away the mask just enough to let something more human slip through the cracks.

“Want soju?” she asked, arching a brow. “Or are we saving that for our second date?”

Her voice was laced with sarcasm, but her heart thudded like a war drum beneath her calm facade.

“You wound me,” he replied with mock gravity. Then, to the bartender: “Two glasses of whiskey.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like whiskey.”

“I know.” He met her gaze without flinching. “Time to give up the pretty girl drinks, princess.”

Her jaw clenched at the nickname again—part taunt, part ritual—but she didn’t argue. Not out loud.The drinks arrived in short, heavy glasses that smelled like smoke and fire. She stared at the amber liquid, then back at him. He was already watching her, elbow on the table, fingers loose around his glass like he was holding something far more dangerous than alcohol. She took a sip. It burned like hell. She didn’t wince.

“You bring all your hot dates here?” she asked, voice low almost amused.

He didn’t answer right away. Just sipped his whiskey, eyes never leaving hers.

“No,” he said finally. “Just the ones I don’t know what to do with.”

That stopped her. Just for a second. Then she smiled, tight, dangerous.

“Well,” she said, fingers curling around her glass. “Here’s to bad decisions.”

They clinked glasses. The sound was small. But in that dim bar, it echoed like the beginning of something that couldn’t be undone. The bar wrapped around them like a cocoon of shadows and low heat, the scent of tobacco and stale whiskey clinging to every surface. Dancer leaned back into the cracked leather booth, her legs crossed lazily, one foot brushing the inside of Gong Yoo’s calf beneath the table. He didn’t flinch. He never did. But his eyes sparked with something—amusement, warning, hunger.

“I still don’t like whiskey,” she said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way the dim light fractured through it like flame behind stained glass.

“That’s not why you’re drinking it,” Gong Yoo replied, voice low and unapologetically smug. “You’re drinking it because I told you to.”

She snorted, lips curving. “You mistake tolerance for obedience, darling.”

He tilted his head, slow and deliberate. “And you mistake defiance for power. But I’ve always liked watching you pretend.”

His gaze dragged across her face, down her throat, pausing briefly at the delicate pulse beating in her neck. The silence stretched—loaded, intimate. Her skin prickled.

“Careful,” she murmured, voice like velvet over a blade. “You keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you feel something.”

Gong Yoo leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands still wrapped around his glass. “You think I don't?” he asked, quiet. “You think I spend nights bleeding for women I don’t feel something for?”

Her smirk faltered. Just for a moment. Then she leaned in too, the space between them charged enough to burn.

“You don’t feel, Gong Yoo. You consume. You break. You haunt. That’s not the same thing.”

He smiled then. Slow. Wicked. Like a man who knew how the story ended.

“I don’t remember you complaining when I was haunting you against that wall last month. Or when you begged for more.”

Her cheeks didn’t flush, she didn’t give him that. But her eyes darkened, her pupils dilating in a way that wasn’t from the dim lighting. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, slow and deliberate, and Gong Yoo’s jaw tightened.

“Oh, I remember,” she said. “I remember everything. Your hands. Your mouth. That knife.” She leaned forward, her voice a whisper now, her breath ghosting over his skin. “You ruin people with such precision, it’s almost poetic.”

He reached out, slow, deliberate, and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his fingertips lingering against her jaw longer than necessary.

“And yet you keep coming back, little girl.”

She didn’t pull away.

“I like collecting monsters,” she whispered. “You’re just my favorite.”

Their eyes locked.

The bar seemed to dissolve around them—no music, no smoke, no bartender polishing glasses and pretending not to watch. Just the two of them, locked in this unholy gravity. They didn’t need to touch. The tension between them was touch.

Gong Yoo leaned back slightly, the smile returning, dark, knowing.

“One day, you’re going to wake up and realize I’m the only thing left standing between you and the abyss.”

She raised her glass in a mock toast. “Then I guess I’ll have to make the fall worth it.”

They clinked glasses again, and this time the sound was less a toast and more a fuse being lit. For a moment, silence blanketed them—dense, deliberate. But it wasn’t the brittle kind that demanded to be filled. No, this one pulsed with something heavier. Intimate. Dangerous. It wrapped around them like a second skin.

Dancer took another slow sip of her whiskey, the burn grounding her. Her gaze never left his—studying him, dissecting the angles of his face, looking for fractures in the mask he always wore so well. He stared back, unblinking, unreadable. Then her voice cut through the quiet.

“Tell me something real.”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a challenge.

Gong Yoo tilted his head slightly, watching her like a predator might watch something smaller, more dangerous than prey, but not untouchable. The edge of his mouth curled, not quite a smile. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. Once. Twice. Each click a measured pause, a slow exhale. The air between them thickened.Then finally he spoke.

“I have a daughter,” he said.

The world stilled.

Dancer blinked, the words crashing into her like cold water. Her foot, previously brushing against his beneath the table in a game of unspoken tension, stopped. She leaned back slightly, unsure if she’d misheard.

“What?”

Gong Yoo didn’t repeat it. He just looked at her, eyes black and flat, like he was waiting to see what she’d do with the information. For a second, her brain refused to process the sentence. She blinked once, twice, as if trying to shake it loose. Her body went strangely still.

Not the kind of answer she expected. Not from him. No smug quip. No deflection. Just that single, brutal truth dropped between them like a blade.

“I didn’t exactly peg you as the family man,” she said slowly, her tone laced with disbelief but not cruelty. Her mind raced. Trying to square the man in front of her—the recruiter, the sadist, the flirt who spun ddakji games and dripped violence—with the image of him reading bedtime stories or braiding hair.

“I’m not,” he said. “That’s why she lives with her mother.”

Something in his voice shifted. Not softer—but real. There was no bravado, no baiting smirk. Just brutal honesty wrapped in ice.

“I send them money every month. Clean, untraceable. She doesn’t know who I am. What I do. Just that I’m… gone a lot.”

“And you think that’s enough?” Dancer asked, not accusatory—just stunned.

“No,” he said. “But it’s the only thing I can give her that won’t get her killed.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. And for the first time since she’d known him, Dancer saw something fracture across his features. Not guilt. Not warmth. But control slipping. There was something underneath it. A tired kind of grief. A truth shaped by years of separation, by decisions he’d buried long ago.

Dancer watched him closely now, the edges of her sarcasm stripped away. There was nothing performative in her expression—just stillness, and a rare, reluctant tenderness she didn’t often allow herself to feel.

“She looks like me,” he added after a beat. “Except her eyes. Those are her mother’s. Warm. Trusting.” His jaw flexed, voice tightening. “It terrifies me.”

The confession made her throat go dry.

“You’re scared of your own kid?”

“I’m scared of ruining her,” he said plainly. “And I ruin everything I touch.”

There it was. The truth beneath the mask. Not a sob story. Not a redemption arc. Just a man too broken to fix, standing at a distance from the one thing that could make him human, and choosing to stay away to keep it safe.

Dancer stared at him. At the man who had ripped her open more than once, emotionally, physically, and who now sat in front of her confessing the only thing in his world that wasn’t for sale. She sat back slightly, processing. Trying to find a foothold in this new terrain he’d just laid bare between them.

“Does anyone in the organization know?” she asked finally.

He looked at her then—really looked. Eyes dark and flat, voice almost a whisper.

“No. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep them invisible. Changed their names. Moved them to Busan.”

“And you expect me to believe this?” she asked, arching a brow.

He shrugged. “I don’t care if you believe me.”

There it was. The chill beneath the truth. Not warmth. Not humanity. Just strategy. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasn’t. But the factthat she couldn’t tell was more disturbing than the confession itself. He leaned in, the dim light catching in his eyes. “You asked for something real, princess. I gave you something real”

Her breath caught.

Because that was the game, wasn’t it? Everything with him was a test. A maze. A dare.

“You’re a sick bastard,” she muttered, finally.

His smile widened just slightly. “That’s the part you like most about me.”

She looked away then, downing the rest of her drink in one go. It burned all the way down. But not nearly as much as his words did. And when she looked back, he was still watching her. Still waiting. Like he knew exactly what he’d done. Like he always did. And even then… a part of her knew he wasn’t lying.

And that? That scared her more than any lie he had ever told.

Itaewon area ; 05:07 AM ; Dancer’s apartment

She entered the apartment in silence, closing the door behind her with a dull click. The air inside was still, untouched. Like the place had been holding its breath while she was gone.

Dancer didn’t bother turning on the lights. She let the darkness swallow her whole. Her heels clicked against the wood floor—soft, tired echoes—before she kicked them off near the threshold with a heavy sigh. Her coat slid from her shoulders and landed somewhere near the sofa, forgotten.

Yoo had walked her to the building.Not up the stairs. Not to her bed. Not to the parts of her that always stayed raw after him. Just to the building entrance. And then—like some twisted parody of a man with manners—Gong Yoo kissed her knuckles. A single, slow, deliberate press of his mouth to her skin. Like they were in some ridiculous melodrama, not co-conspirators in something dark and bleeding.

The kind of gesture that should’ve made her laugh.

But instead?

It made her freeze.

The bastard. She hated the way he looked at her then—like he saw her. Not her body. Not her role. Her. And she hated even more how that soft, stupid gesture had sent a shiver crawling up her spine. She’d smiled like an idiot. Like some breathless teenager who didn’t know better.

God. Get it together.

She moved deeper into the apartment, the soft ambient glow from the city spilling through the windowpanes, casting thin shadows across her furniture. Everything was as she’d left it.

Except for the box.

It sat in front of her door. Neatly placed. Too precise. A black box. Sleek. Minimal. No logo. No tag. Just one detail: a pink ribbon, tied in a perfect bow.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t need a card to know who it was from. Only one man sent packages like this. Only one man wrapped cruelty in satin and called it affection.

In-ho.

A quiet shiver ran up her spine, not fear. Not exactly. Something colder. Older. Like déjà vu dipped in dread. She crouched, fingers trembling slightly as she picked it up. The weight of it was deceptive. Heavy in all the wrong ways.

By the time she made it to the coffee table, her hands were shaking. She sat, legs folded beneath her, and slowly unwrapped the ribbon. The box opened with a gentle creak.

Inside: black dahlias.

Her breath caught. They were her favorite. And he knew that.Which is exactly what made it feel like a knife hidden in a silk glove.They were perfect. Just like always. Not a single petal out of place. The way only In-ho could orchestrate something so effortlessly haunting.

She didn’t reach for the flowers. She reached for the note.

It was thick, cream paper—elegant, textured, expensive. Handwritten, of course. He wouldn’t have typed this. No, this needed to be personal. Her fingers curled around it, hesitating for a breath she didn’t take. Then she flipped it open.

The ink was dark. Immaculate. And unmistakably his.

You didn’t flinch when I touched you. You didn’t stop me when I kissed you. And you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Neither have I.

I know who walked you home tonight. I know how he looks at you. I wonder if he kissed your mouth the way I did.

I wonder if you let him.

– I.H.

The breath she’d been holding escaped in a sharp, guttural exhale. Her fingers tightened around the card until the edge bit into her skin.

Of course he knew.

Of course he was watching. Of course he was always watching.

She stood abruptly, the note slipping from her hand and landing on the table next to the box. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Too small.

That kiss, it hadn’t been nothing. But it hadn’t been safety either. It had been heat and history and the kind of ache that never really healed. A scar that reopened the moment his fingers brushed her skin.

And he knew.

He always knew.

She stepped back from the table like it might explode. Or worse—call her back. Because a part of her wanted to keep the flowers. Wanted to touch them. Breathe them in. Hold onto whatever twisted affection he was offering between the blades.

But the smarter part, the cold part, knew better. This was the pattern. It had always been the pattern. In-ho would vanish, retreat behind masks and silence, hide behind duty and discipline. Let her suffocate in the absence. And then, just when she started to breathe again, just when she remembered how to be alone without aching, he’d reappear. With flowers. With whispers against her skin in locked boardrooms. With that look.

Like he still owned a piece of her soul and didn’t care how many times he had broken it.

But after today, it felt different. Because this time, he had apologized. Not with words alone, but with his eyes. And silence. And regret that didn’t feel performative. He had looked at her like he saw her, not as a weapon, or a pawn, or a ghost from his better past, but as the woman standing in front of him. Still wanting. Still waiting.

So, she did something stupid.Reckless. She picked up her personal phone, not the encrypted work line, not the safe, sterile one, and called him. The screen lit up with his real name. Not Frontman. Not a title. A man.

The line rang. Once. Twice.

And for a breathless second, she thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Are you okay, little dove?”

Her heart lurched violently. Stupid, traitorous thing. His voice was steady, quiet. But not detached. There was something beneath the calm, coiled, raw, almost careful. As if he, too, didn’t trust what might come out if he let the wrong word slip.

She swallowed hard, words catching in her throat. “I got your flowers.” A pause.“How… how did you know what kind I liked?”

There was a beat of silence on his end, just long enough for her to think he might laugh. Mock her. Twist the vulnerability back on her.But he didn’t.

“Contrary to what you might believe,” In-ho said, voice low, almost gentle, “I do actually listen when you speak.”

The confession landed softly, but its weight was enormous. Because it wasn’t just about flowers. It was about the way he’d cataloged her. Piece by piece. Emotion by emotion. The way he’d memorized her not just as a woman, but as a person he wasn’t supposed to want. Wasn’t allowed to care for.

And yet. Her fingers tightened around the phone. “I don’t even remember telling you.”

“You didn’t,” In-ho said.

His voice dipped lower, roughened by memory. “It was after your first VIP event. Three years ago. The American tried to offer you a rose, remember? You laughed in his face and said you’d rather have black dahlias… or nothing at all.”

Dancer said nothing, but in her mind, the moment came flooding back in fragments. The oppressive heat of the underground theater. The American’s oily smile. The weight of the mask she had to wear—then, and now. She had said it without thinking, a sharp remark meant to bite.

She never imagined anyone had been listening. Especially not him. But he had. She pressed the phone tighter to her ear, as if trying to hear the shape of his expression through the wire. And she could almost see him: standing alone in some sterile office, fingers curled around his phone, half a smile playing at his lips. That same damn smile that had always made her ache in places she tried to ignore.

The thought made her chest tighten.

“In-ho…” she began, voice caught somewhere between warning and invitation.

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. Not a command. A plea. “Not yet.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Not hollow, charged. It held every unsaid word between them like a blade held at the throat. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath barely steady. When she finally spoke, it came out quiet, threadbare.

“Why now?”

It was a question that had been blooming in her chest since she saw the box on her doorstep. Since the kiss. Since the moment he stopped pretending not to care.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might not answer. That he might retreat again. Cut the line. Leave her in the dark like he always did, wondering what was real, what was manipulation, what was just madness cloaked in memory. But this time… he didn’t disappear.

“I intend to fight for you, little dove.”

The words were soft. But they detonated inside her. She inhaled sharply, but the breath caught, lodged in her throat like splintered glass. Her hand trembled slightly as it held the phone, and her teeth found her bottom lip, biting hard enough to taste copper. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to believe him.But when she closed her eyes, it wasn’t him she saw.

It was Gong Yoo, leaning against that brick wall in Hongdae, smoke coiling from his lips, smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Watching her like he already knew how the story ended.Calling her princess and little girl like she was his.

Her eyes flew open, snapping back to the present. They landed on the bouquet. Those perfect, poised black dahlias. And for a second, just a second, she hated them. Hated what they represented. What they didn’t answer.

They were beautiful. And utterly unhelpful.

On the other end of the line, In-ho exhaled softly. When he spoke again, the softness was still there, but his tone had shifted, back to business. Back to structure. The shift was sharp, like he was re-drawing a boundary he had already crossed.

“You should get some sleep,” he said. “It’s late. And I still expect the full report tomorrow. Your recruitment numbers from Hongdae.”

And just like that, the moment, whatever it was, was over. The mask slipped back into place. But the words he left her with lingered like smoke in her lungs.

I intend to fight for you.

She stared at the flowers long after the call ended.

And for the first time in weeks… she had no idea who she was hoping would win.

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icewindandboringhorror · 8 months ago

Text

Recent things.. mostly just writing screenshots lol

#There's a water problem in the apartment so thats been taking most of my attention lol.. the way maintenance happens here is just #this big long vague wait with no clear communication. You just send in a request to the apartment building and then you might hear from the #any weekday from 8am - 4pm any time after that. Sometimes it's quick but sometimes its like days before you hear anything. So then #you just have to be operating under the assumption that at any time during working hours you might get a call or a knock at the door #Like if you were expecting company at any time for a week straight ghjhj.. ANYWAY.. I've been working on making a little discord #server thing for the game maybe for playtesters to communicate in initially i guess but then also after it's out or... something like that.#no idea how all of that works. but you hear about people doing it. or something... Still not entirely sold on the idea since I'm not really #a big user of discord format speaking (like little chats and stuff) but.. again idk.. seems like.. common.. for things...(< socially odd #hermit fumbling through trying to imitate what '''normal''' people do/enjoy/desire lol..). Since I think my biggest issue is I am very bad #at socializing and thus marketing since a lot of that is social. The type to just google ''what do people do about games once they've #made them'' and just go after whatever the top 10 things apparently are hjbjhbjh... But like I said. still unsure it will be utilized. it #all feels very awkward to me. then again most things do. But that's what the ''overall progress'' screenshot is from. the little channel #where I've been posting updates to myself lol. Also ''coding'' in that being used very lightly consdering it's ren'py and I'm only using #the very bare bones most basic functionality of it lol. Extremely intense highly daunting master level coding such as ''if x then y''. gbjh #slacked on writing a lot due to the evil maintenance and such things... and just general... appointments... events... aughhhhhh #I think it's Goose Time here or something because nearly every day I hear big V shaped rows of geese flying by like multiple #times a day and they're so pretty and neat to watch. They've really inspired me somehow. Today it was rainy and gray skied and high winds #and cold (some of my favorite most beautiful weather) and I went out to check the mail and like 6 or 7 rows of geese fluttered #by in the air. I felt like that meme image of that guy that looks kind of weird (william dafoe??) and its like black and white and #he's looking up at something almost teary eyed wide eyed in awe.. The goose... those are my goose.. the universe sent those gooses just #for me and the high speed winds blowing my coat open and chilling my face... a tender platonic kiss from the world is often delivered #by way of chilly weather and bird formations.. peace and love on planet earth truly..#OH and of course.. boy with boy!!!! shout out to those little mcdonalds toy animal plushies from like 2006 or something. I found the #gray cat one and was like.. hrmm.. I have one of those as well (a real life gray cat). surely they're friends now.

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hivemuthur · 6 months ago

Text

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 8.

viktorxfemale!reader explict! (we got there)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 5,4K

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: ok, I'm covering my eyes while I drop this. I'm sorry for making Viktor such a drunk fuck. Also tw: alcohol and drunken groping with consent.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

You sat in the library; the complete silence, save for the rustling of papers around you, made your head pound with your own blood pressure. The stacks of books and papers in front of you felt heavier than usual. Your eyes kept drifting to the sheet of notes Viktor had given you—notes for the classes you had missed while you were sick. You hadn’t been able to focus much earlier, and now, even though the words were neatly typed and clear, your mind kept coming back to the small annotations Viktor had written in the margins. His handwriting was precise, almost mechanical in its neatness, but there was something about the way he added little reminders or tips for you that made your heart skip a beat.

“Don’t overthink this part—just get to the point.”

You read it again, your finger tracing the lines, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Typical Viktor, trying to simplify the most complicated concepts. You imagined him sitting at his desk, brows furrowed in concentration as he wrote those words. You even found yourself wondering if he’d been thinking about you when he wrote them—if he had anticipated you being confused or struggling with the material.

The thought caught you off guard.

You shifted in your seat, trying to shove the feeling down. Stop it, you told yourself. Focus on the work. No distractions.

But it was hard. The more you tried to ignore it, the more vivid the memory of Viktor’s teasing smirk and his quiet intensity became.

You’ve been thinking about him too much, you told yourself, rubbing your eyes as if the physical motion could shake the thoughts loose.

Your gaze flicked back to his notes, and something in your chest tightened again. You should’ve been mad at him for being so distant, so... cryptic. It was easier to be angry, but the more you thought about him, the more complicated things became. The frustration of his mixed signals—the way he acted like he didn’t care, even though you could tell that there was something more beneath the surface. Or you had made it up. Or not. The way you fought each other for control was… annoying, at best.

Your finger paused mid-air, hovering over another annotation. “You’re doing fine. Trust yourself.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear them. There it was again—the subtle way Viktor pushed you to believe in yourself, even when he barely acknowledged you beyond your academic interactions.

You leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes, trying to push the confusing swirl of emotions away. It’s just a stupid crush, you told yourself. It doesn’t mean anything.

But then a thought popped into your head—one you would never say out loud, but it made your lips twitch. “If you’re ever feeling lost, Viktor, just look at your own notes. They’re like a secret map to your soul.”

You laughed quietly to yourself, imagining his dry, deadpan response. “I’d rather get lost, honestly.”

The sound of your own laughter felt strange, almost foreign. You hadn’t allowed yourself to be this relaxed in a while, not with Viktor constantly invading your thoughts, making you second-guess everything you thought you knew. You could picture him standing in front of you with that smug grin, the way his voice would carry a teasing tone. You could almost hear it now—the way his eyes would narrow in mock annoyance, pretending to be unaffected by your joke.

The brief moment of humour quickly faded, replaced by a familiar ache in your chest.

God, I’m such an idiot. You clutched the notes tighter, but the thought wouldn’t leave. What if he actually is a secret softie? What if he’s not as distant as he pretends to be?

Your breath caught at the realisation. You were in deeper than you’d ever wanted to admit. But the idea of confronting it—of facing whatever was brewing between you—felt overwhelming. You didn’t know if you were ready to open yourself up to someone like Viktor.

You don’t even know what he wants from you, you reminded yourself. And you definitely don’t know what you want from him.

But somehow, the more you thought about it, the more you realised you did know. You wanted something real. You wanted more than whatever it was that passed between you—the teasing, the tension, the moments of quiet connection that always seemed to slip away too fast.

But Viktor? He wasn’t the kind of guy who did anything real, was he?

You shook your head, trying to clear the mess of thoughts swirling around. You needed to get a grip. You couldn’t afford to get lost in whatever this was. Not now.

But as you reached for the next page of notes, you found yourself wondering, with a small, reluctant smile, what it would be like to get lost in Viktor after all.

You closed your books with a sharp snap, taking a deep breath as you stood from the library table. Your mind was a tangled mess of notes, formulas, and Viktor’s handwriting, and you needed a moment to clear your head.

Just as you were about to step out into the corridor, a flash of movement caught your eye. Viktor and Jayce were leaving the building, walking side by side, their heads tilted together in what seemed like an animated conversation.

You froze.

Your heart skipped a beat, but it wasn’t excitement—or perhaps it was, the kind of excitement immediately tempered by fear. Viktor’s familiar figure cut through the dim evening light, and for a split second, all you could do was stand there, rooted to the spot.

But then, before you could even process it fully, you spun on your heel and ducked back inside the room, retreating into the shadows of the library. You didn’t want to see them. You didn’t want to deal with that knot in your stomach, the one that seemed to tighten every time Viktor came too close. You needed to focus. You had work to do in the lab, notes to catch up on, and you couldn’t afford to get tangled up in whatever... this was.

***

Viktor felt the effects of the alcohol settling in his veins as he stepped outside the pub with Jayce, the cool night air cutting through the haze of tipsiness creeping in. He’d been enjoying the conversation, savouring the camaraderie and the easy flow of ideas. Jayce’s energy had a way of drawing him out, pushing his thoughts into unexpected places, and Viktor appreciated the stimulating nature of their late-night discussions.

“So, you think we’re really on track to finish our little side thing by the end of the next semester?” Jayce asked, slinging an arm over Viktor’s shoulder in a way that was both familiar and mildly irritating.

Viktor grinned, brushing away the alcohol-induced warmth clouding his thoughts. “I’m absolutely certain. We’ve already made significant progress, and the pace we’re setting is impressive.” He paused, squinting as the streetlights flickered overhead. “But I have to admit, I’m too drunk to keep up this stimulating conversation. I think it’s time I bow out gracefully.”

Jayce chuckled, nudging him playfully. “Don’t worry, man. You’ve earned a break. You can retire for the night, and Mel and I will take it from here. You’re not sticking around for the after-party?”

Viktor glanced at Jayce, catching the way his friend’s face lit up at the mention of Mel. A teasing smirk tugged at Viktor’s lips. “You two are practically attached at the hip tonight. If I stayed, I’d just be interrupting something. Besides, it’s been a long day—I’ll call it a night.”

Jayce laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Go sneak off to your secret lair, then.”

“Whatever you say, Jayce,” Viktor replied, his tone light but with a faint edge that didn’t quite match the usual banter. As much as he enjoyed Jayce’s company, there were moments when retreating felt like a necessity—tonight was one of those moments.

He stepped back, nodding to his friend. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be heading back to my room.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face. “No mysterious rendezvous tonight?”

Viktor hesitated, the question lingering in the air. For a moment, he considered coming clean—acknowledging what had been weighing on him. But instead, he gave a nonchalant shrug, masking the flicker of unease.

“I think I’ve had enough socializing for one night,” he replied, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of ambiguity.

With that, he turned and began walking away, leaving Jayce and Mel behind. The cool air felt sharper now, and Viktor found himself taking a longer route back, weaving through the quieter parts of the campus. On a whim—or perhaps out of habit—he let his feet carry him toward the science lab.

As he passed through the corridor, his eyes caught a glimpse of movement. You were there, slinging a bag over your shoulder, the edges stuffed with notes spilling out. You looked like you were wrapping up your study session for the evening.

“And what is a pretty girl such as yourself doing here all alone at this hour?” Viktor’s attempt at charm came out more slurred than he had intended, but he smiled to himself when he saw your startled expression.

“Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack!” you whisper-shouted at him, clutching your fist to your chest. “I was studying. What the hell are you doing here?”

Before you could measure your reaction, your feet carried you closer to Viktor of their own accord. He smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. “Ah. Celebrating?”

But Viktor didn’t respond. He simply looked at you, his eyes molten yet sharp, as if he were still trying to calculate something. You were about to ask him again but didn’t get the chance, as his lips landed on yours. You could taste the alcohol and cigarettes on his tongue, his skin cold from the night air—a stark contrast to the burning heat of his mouth.

Despite his coordination being compromised, he grabbed the bag slipping off your shoulder and swung it over his, then walked you both toward the lab you had just left, never breaking the kiss.

Once inside, he dropped the bag and his cane on the floor, cupped your face, and pushed his mouth deeper into yours. You pulled his shirt free from his pants and instinctively slid your hands underneath it, to splay them flat against his stomach. He flinched at the sudden warmth of your touch, a groan escaping him as a sharp pang of lust twisted low in his belly.

“Careful there,” he breathed against your lips, his voice rough. He could feel the blood travelling down his body, as his pants became tighter.

“Or what?” you teased, your tone playful as you tilted your head back against the door, granting him full access.

A shiver coursed through you as Viktor’s hand gripped your ribcage, his touch sparking a memory of your other night together. But this time, it wasn’t gentle or cautious—this time, his touch was filled with raw want and need, clumsy from the drinks he had poured into himself in wistful celebration.

“Or this,” he smirked, and the next thing you could feel were teeth clenching on the tendon of your neck, a bite painful enough to make you squirm and send a current of pleasure all the way down to your toes.

“Fuck you,” you breathed, tugging his head back by his hair. He met your gaze with a playful glint in his eye, his words slurring slightly as he threw the challenge back at you. “Fuck me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you didn’t reply. Your thoughts tore through you, scrambling to decide if it would be a wise choice. As if reading your mind, Viktor leaned back into you, his forehead resting against yours. He nipped at your lower lip, his voice a low whisper against your mouth. “I know you want to.”

“You’re drunk,” you said weakly, as if trying to convince yourself. Viktor didn’t listen. He drew breath after breath from you, his hands roaming your body with a dull pressure, leaving a burning sensation everywhere they touched.

“Did you touch yourself thinking about me when I came over?” he rasped into your ear, making you stiffen. “I do,” he added with a smug smile you could feel blooming against your lips. Your gasp was swallowed into another greedy kiss. When the kiss broke, it was only so Viktor could continue murmuring his sweet nothings.

“Whenever I touch myself, I think of you.” It was barely a whisper, but it rang in your head like a bell.

“I think of your bare thighs under my hands that night,” his voice sultry, as he gripped your thighs and slid his hands upward toward your ass. “I think of your sweet moans,” he murmured, capturing your lips in another kiss. “I imagine it’s your sweet mouth around my cock, when I come into my hand, thinking of you.”

You only gasped again, the obscenity of his words making your core clenching on nothing. Viktor walked you toward the nearest workbench, beckoning you to sit on top, as he pressed his hands on your thighs, rubbing them up and down.

He then undid his belt clumsily, his trousers sliding down under the weight of all the items he had stuffed in his pockets, to reveal his cock, still straining against confines of his underwear, sogged embarrassingly in precum and sweat. You gaped at him, completely transfixed with the raw want he had for you.

His hands shot back to your neck to pull you in for a colliding kiss, his tongue invading your mouth, your teeth clacking against each other, as he rubbed himself against your thigh, the wetness of his boxers soaking into your pants. “Please, touch me,” he pleaded pathetically, as if mocking your uncertainty.

It had struck you, how Viktor being such a hot mess somehow still remained the one in control. Your hand travelled to grab his cock through the material of his underwear and give it a painfully slow stroke. Viktor’s body almost bent in half pulling you down with him, as he gave you the most vulgar sounding whimper you had heard in your life, “Yes, fuck.”

Holding your neck with one hand, he snaked the other under the waistband of your pants only to gasp in awe. “Oh, do you enjoy having me all hot and bothered over you? It seems like you do.” You were so wet he had to spread your slick with a flat palm all over your inner thighs and pubic bone to be able to work his fingers with precision. And despite his current state, the dedication to the task was admirable.

You moaned into his mouth as his fingers worked you, your grip on his cock tightening and Viktor just wouldn’t shut up. “Do you like how much I want you?” he breathed against your neck, his length twitching under your fingers. You clasped your hand to your mouth, suddenly very aware that you were in a public space and if the two of you could be here, anyone could walk past and hear whatever was happening on the other side of the door.

It had earned you a scold, when Viktor pulled your palm away from your lips and kissed you greedily, whispering in to your mouth, “Don’t you dare.” He retreated his other hand from between your legs and you whined at the loss of his touch.

“Oh, no need to be sad,” he cooed mockingly, as he grabbed your bum to pull you closer and rub his aching cock against your core. You shuddered, but obliged, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his shoulders.

“Hmm,” Viktor muttered, pressing his face into yours like a huge cat. “Please, fuck me now, I can’t bear it.” Another mockery of affection surged through you, dressed in his lustful voice, framed by his glassy eyes, his eyelashes tickling your cheek. His hands, so grabby, so needy, groped you, kneaded your flesh, his desire on full display, burning with alcohol travelling through his blood stream.

Stripped of his defences, Viktor was ready to whisper any filth into your ears, only to have what he wanted. And yet, even though the touch of his hands burned through your clothes, even though the emptiness between your legs was painful and his hair smelled so nice, you managed to gather all your strength and say, "As much as I’m enjoying this... ah!" You gasped as he bit your neck again. "I think... you're too drunk, Viktor." The last attempt at evening out the ground was met with a chuckle.

"Ah, that's alright," he said sweetly, pushing his thumb into your mouth. "I'm better in a casual setting anyway."

You stiffened, your body going rigid at his words. What? You pulled back slightly, confusion and irritation flooding your chest. You glanced at him, your brow furrowing as you met his dazed eyes. Viktor, still too drunk to realize the weight of his words, tried to cling back to you, his hands seeking your body once more.

He murmured your name, his voice thick with alcohol. But you pushed him away, your breath catching as the reality of the situation hit you.

“No,” you snapped, your anger flaring. “What the hell does that mean? Casual? When did I give you the impression that I wanted something casual with you, Viktor?” Your voice was low but edged with fury, a tremor of disbelief beneath the surface.

Viktor froze, his expression faltering, confusion clouding his mind as he tried to piece together what you were saying. "I—" He cleared his throat, trying to find his words, but they felt like they were slipping away from him. "You’ve been avoiding me," he muttered, trying to hold onto something that made sense, pulling his trousers up in embarrassment.

“Because you are all over the fucking place!” you shot back, your voice trembling with frustration. “You keep dropping these half-confessions, these hints that don’t mean anything, and it’s like I’m supposed to just figure out what the hell you want. It’s not… fair, Viktor.”

Viktor’s chest tightened, panic creeping in as he watched you, unsure how to fix the mess he’d created. His breath came shallow, his hands trembling. “Listen, that’s not—” He swallowed hard, trying to grasp his thoughts, but they were all tangled. “I didn’t mean to... I’m not—”

You shook your head, your lips curling in disgust. “You’re not what? Honest? Open?” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head again. “You’ve been playing me, Viktor. All these little games, these words, and I don’t even know what’s the prize, what is it that thing you are trying to win.” Your voice cracked on the last sentence, the anger giving way to hurt.

Viktor’s heart pounded in his chest as his panic heightened. “I—hey, I didn’t want to hurt you. I... I’ve been trying, I just... I can’t—” His words were a mess, his mind too foggy to communicate what he truly felt.

Sliding off the workbench, your face hardened with determination. “Get a grip, Viktor. Drunken slut doesn’t become you.” The words hit him like a slap, sharp and final, and you didn’t even wait for his response. Grabbing your bag, you slung it over your shoulder before turning on your heel and heading toward the door.

Viktor watched you, rooted to the spot, his chest aching with the weight of everything he’d failed to say. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were stuck, lost somewhere deep in his throat. By the time he found the strength to call your name, you were already gone.

***

“Please get dressed,” Sue’s voice came muffled through all the blankets you were shielding yourself with. The party was the last thing you needed right now.

“No.”

“Please get dressed!” Sue tugged on the blankets but to no avail. She sighed heavily, as if bracing herself for something, then said, “You made me do this. I had to call for backup.”

“Darling,” you heard Hale’s voice and felt a hand being placed firmly on your back, which was wrapped in, give or take, four layers of blankets and clothing. “It’s for your own good.”

You groaned into the pile of blankets, curling tighter into yourself. “Please, go away.”

Sue wasn’t having it. She pulled at the blankets again, her voice an annoying mix of determination and playfulness. “Nope. You’re going. It’s a Halloween party, and you’re dressing up. I won’t take no for an answer.”

You muffled a sigh. “It’s a month after Halloween. What’s the point now?”

“You’re right, but Mel decided we couldn’t let the season go to waste. We’re fixing this mistake,” Sue said, her voice light with excitement. “And if you won’t go, I’m calling more backup.”

That was when Hale’s voice chimed in, smooth and amused. “Darling, you’ll thank me for this later.” You felt Hale’s firm hand press against your back, pushing through the layers of blankets. “It’s for your own good.”

Your tired groan was muffled by the blankets. “I don’t need any good, I need sleep.”

Sue leaned in, her tone softening a little. “You can’t just hide away. You deserve better than this. He’s a jerk, and you know it.”

You hesitated, but Hale’s voice broke through your thoughts. “It’s not about him anymore. It’s about you. Show him how insignificant he is. The show must go on.”

You frowned, burying your face in the soft warmth of the blankets. “I don’t want to, I just…” You trailed off, feeling the weight of everything that had happened. You hadn’t told them yet what had actually happened between you and Viktor—you couldn’t bring yourself to. It was too much. You didn’t want to hear what Hale would say if he knew.

Hale’s expression softened slightly as he sat beside you, his voice more serious now. “Do you remember what I told you? You are a king, and you don’t bow to anyone. Not to him, not to anyone.”

You remained still for a long moment, feeling the soft weight of Hale’s words settle on you. Slowly, you rolled over, sighing dramatically. “Fine. But I can leave at any time I want to.”

Hale grinned, leaning back against the couch, arms crossed. “Oh, I’ll make sure you won’t want to leave.”

Sue and Hale took the opportunity to help you get dressed, turning it into a mini celebration of the ridiculousness that was their last-minute Halloween plans. You had the red fluffy tulle dress from the theatre department that Hale had snatched for you, one that made you look like you’d stepped straight out of a dream. You were going as Beetlejuice and Lydia Deetz on their wedding night, a perfect match of eerie elegance and chaotic energy. Sue found it hilarious to go as a Sandworm.

As they worked on your makeup and hair, you finally took a deep breath, ready to push aside the weight of the past few days. You weren’t doing this for Viktor, but for yourself. The night was yours to own.

You gave each other a once-over: Sue looked ridiculous in her striped onesie with a foam sandworm hat on her head, but she clearly loved it. Hale was a completely pimped-up and glamoured version of Beetlejuice. And you? You looked like a beautiful, cursed ballerina. Perfect. After taking one last selfie together, the three of you marched toward the theatre halls.

It was the most impromptu party you’d ever seen, but somehow Mel made it work. The catchphrase was We’ve got a Halloween party at home, which played perfectly with the mix of decorations from all seasons: sheet ghosts wearing flower crowns, bats cut out from pink glittery plastic sheets, and, instead of cobwebs, toilet paper scattered across the ceiling of the very same room where Viktor had kissed you for the first time. Trash Halloween.

Mel caught you immediately and pulled you into a tight hug, whispering in your ear, “I don’t know what this jerk has done, but I stand with you.” Her hug tightened even further as she added, “I’m so, so happy you’ve made it. I haven’t seen you in ages, and you look… fucking amazing.”

“Thanks, Mel,” you laughed despite yourself. “You’re not so bad yourself.” You waggled your eyebrows at her. She was dressed as Mia Wallace, which could only mean Jayce...

"You can tell a lot about a man by the way he carries himself. Style isn’t just about clothes; it’s an attitude,” Jayce tried so hard to make a Vincent Vega impression, he ended up laughing at himself. He hugged you and boomed, “I love your costumes, guys! But… who are you dressed as, sweet Sue?”

“I’m a Sandworm!” Sue squeaked, giving them a little twirl, which made the entire group laugh. Hale hooked his shoulder over yours as he marched you toward the bar, bridal style. You had to flatten your skirts and bend forward to be able to reach the bartender when a familiar voice startled you.

“You’ve been ignoring my texts,” Viktor said, turning toward you in his seat. He was wearing a vintage tweed suit and a pair of thick square glasses.

“Are you… dressed as an old man?” you chuckled reluctantly. “And you know, I thought texting doesn’t exactly align with your whole… casual thing.”

“I’m not just any old man. I am Carl Fredricksen.” Seeing that you didn’t catch the bait, he went straight to the point. “Can we talk?”

“You’re not very good at talking, and I’m here to have a good time,” you said, paying for your drink and getting ready to march off. You were dying to talk to him, to yell at him, slap him, and be all sorts of dramatic about it, but Hale had put so much care into doing your makeup that you didn’t want to ruin it within the first ten minutes of your arrival.

You were about to walk away with grace, but you couldn’t help yourself. “I know damn well you are a sweet old man from Up, and let me tell you, you should be dressed as something far more vile.” Despite the venomous message, your voice was soft, and Viktor smiled weakly.

The music was a mix of musicals, classic pop hits, and songs from films, so the royal couple, Mia Wallace and Vincent Vega, could have their iconic dance. Mel had definitely planned to boost your ego, weaving songs from Hamilton into the playlist so you and Hale could have a repeat of your five minutes of fame.

You got so stupidly drunk, you wouldn’t leave the dance floor, and Hale kept bringing you refills of cocktails you would inevitably spill anyway. He wouldn’t leave your side for a moment that evening and danced with you through every tear and sorrow that showed on your face when you glanced over at the bar toward Viktor. You reached your peak when someone put on a slow song for a change. Casual.

You gave one of your exaggerated performances, the crowd dispersing around you to make more space for the show. You were singing your lungs out, obscene lyrics falling from your lips, all dedicated to the bane of your existence. When the song finished, the only thing you could do was laugh. You laughed at yourself and at the stupidity of the situation—there you were, in the arms of your best friend, serenading the man sitting at the bar in the costume of a romantic old man from an animated film.

Jayce slumped drunkenly next to Viktor, elbowing him as both of their gazes followed you on the dance floor. “What’s going on there?” he asked, his gelled hair falling into his eyes.

“I… have royally fucked up.”

“Are you... telling me you can’t get the girl you want?” Jayce slurred, giving Viktor a sideways glance. He was clearly tipsy but still managing to follow the conversation, sort of.

“Nope. She’s been using her scary dog privilege the entire evening.” Viktor’s voice dropped into a mock whine, looking dramatically toward you and Hale.

“Wait… are you telling me you want the girl?” Jayce squinted, pretending to be deep in thought. “You? Viktor? Want her?” He pointed vaguely in your direction.

“Fuck yes, I want the girl. Look at her,” Viktor gestured wildly, his finger almost hitting a random passerby. “She’s everything.” His eyes were glued to you as you spun across the dance floor. “And the way she laughs... it’s like, it makes me—” Viktor suddenly slapped a hand to his chest, his face contorting. “I can’t even explain it. I am fucked, Jayce.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow, still processing Viktor’s emotional spill. “Shit, man. Do you need anything?”

“Not from you, I don’t,” Viktor laughed bitterly, his slouch deepening as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s fine. I prefer her sober anyway.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You know, it’s just that... when she’s sober, I feel like she might actually like me back. Not... whatever this is.” He gestured to the mess of alcohol in his hand.

“Wait, hold on.” Jayce leaned closer, trying to follow Viktor’s emotional rollercoaster. “You actually want her to like you? Like, for real?”

Viktor sighed, looking like he’d just realised he might be the one on the wrong side of drunk. “Yeah, Jayce. Do you think I was just playing some game? No. This… this was real. But I’ve made such an ass of myself, there’s no way she’d ever—” He stopped himself, as if hearing his own words was sobering him up slightly. “Shit. I am fucked.”

Jayce, now trying not to laugh, leaned back and patted Viktor on the shoulder. “Well, if you ever needed to not fuck something up... now would have been a good time.”

“I know!” Viktor groaned, his hands going up in the air. “But I’ll figure it out. I always do. I just... needed her to see that I wasn’t as bad as I made myself out to be. That I—” Viktor paused, his face lighting up. “I was actually a catch, Jayce.”

Jayce burst into laughter, then immediately sobered up as Viktor gave him a serious look. “What?” he asked between chuckles. “That’s like... the worst plan I’ve heard of.”

Viktor stared at him blankly for a second. “Okay, yeah. Maybe not the best pitch. But she’d get it. Eventually. I just needed to stop being a fuck-up for... like, five minutes.”

“Man, you got a real gift for pushing people away and then wondering why they stayed gone,” Jayce said, grinning widely. He took a swig of his drink.

Viktor glared at him, trying to muster some dignity, but he couldn’t help laughing at his own ridiculousness. “Hey, I was just saying, I could be that guy. For her? I could be... I could be that guy who actually didn’t screw everything up.”

Jayce patted him on the back with exaggerated force, nearly knocking him over. “I am gonna need a drink to survive this,” he muttered, eyes still on you as you twirled again. “So, what was the plan? Were you gonna talk to her after this?”

“If she didn’t kill me, yeah.” Viktor grinned sheepishly.

“Okay, dude, slow down. One step at a time.” Jayce laughed. Viktor laughed as well, and they began a long debate on how he had fucked up, which ended with them telling themselves that they loved each other and a series of exaggerated hugs.

Before Viktor could get to his grand plan, Hale had already carried you over his shoulder safely to your bed, your heels dangling from your hands as you giggled all the way through campus. He put your phone away on your desk so you wouldn’t see Viktor’s new text message.

“I like you.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #the game of teaching body

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kcrossvine-art · 11 months ago

Text

Hey folks! Itsssssssssssss timeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee for another dungeon meshi cooking time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Isnt that neat.

Its weird to think how long its gonna be before season 2 of the anime drops. Anyway go read the manga i promise you wont regret it. This ones from senshis lil garden on legs-

Today we'll be making Golem Field Fresh Veggie Lunch!

(As always you can find the cooking instructions and full ingredient list under the break-)

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes in to Golem Field Fresh Veggie Lunch?” YOU MIGHT ASKIts vegetables, vegetable wauter, and not Much else! Knife is there too.

Head of cabbage

4 carrots

3 potatoes

2 onions

2 turnips

Thick slice bacon

Butter

Seasoned rice vinegar

I lied theres pork did you fall for it did u catch it.

AND, “what does Golem Field Fresh Veggie Lunch taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASKSon, have you ever eaten a vegetabel

Broth is surprisingly flavorful considering the limited spices and short cooktime

Potatoes are perfect texture for dipping

Cabbage absorbed a lot of the juices!!!

Was more impressed by the salad part of the meal-

The turnips need to be sliced enough to Barely see through, and the carrots julienned thin enough to be almost peels

And its this wonderful vegetable confetti tasteful in its simple pleasure

Rice vinegar of any kind will work, seasoned rice vinegar is just what i had

Salt both parts of the meal generously

In the future i wouldve shredded or cut the cabbage much smaller. We'll talk more on that later. Its also intentionally barebones with spices and oils, me using butter and rice vinegar is even pushing the limits of show accurate because in the show they used plain olive oil.

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From idea to execution, this was a very quick recipe. For starters, nothing gets cooked all that long (the water spends more time empty than it does ingredient'ed) and for lasters nothing gets cut all that much. It was tricky finding good sources for stewing a whole cabbage because most recipes call for either shredding or at least chopping smaller. And they do this for a reason. Its unwieldy trying to eat a whole half of cabbage, you never quite know when to start or where to start. Do you bite chunks out? Peel leaves? Spear it with other things? I dont know. I still dont. Im not a huge raw cabbage fan and it wasnt raw, but it wasnt transformed much either. Minimalist.

This was a feast in the show and i bet that the freshness of the veggies were a factor, considering they were plucked fresh off the living rock guys. I wouldve killed to be able to brown the onions, roast the carrots, or maybe cube the potatoes (though the consistency was perfect for forking and dipping them in butter so! Bonuses.)

Oven roast bacon is a beloved treet for me. It seemed to absorb some of the vegetable broth and vice versa with the broth absorbing the oils from the bacon, which enhanced all the flavors. Maybe in the future itd be nice to try cooking the bacon a bit ahead, and then adding it to the pot while everythings boiling? Also adding a spritz of lemon juice to either/both is always nice!

I give this recipe a solid 7/10 (with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.) for its simplicity. With modifications like shredding the cabbage and more seasonings, it could become an easy 10/10. hit that like and subscribe or kill me

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

Head of cabbage

4 carrots

3 russet potatoe

2 white onions

2 turnips

10 slices of thick slice bacon

Butter

Seasoned Rice vinegar

Stew Method:

Preheat your oven to 400f. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil and place a baking rack on top (alternatively you can use a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper and no baking rack. but the baking rack lets the air circulate better and the grease drip off!)

Cook your bacon for about 18 minutes or until crisp. Flip halfway through.

Chop your carrots, peel and slice your potatos in half, and slice your onions into rings.

Get a large pot with a tight fitting lid, add water, salt, your carrots, your potato pieces, and your onions. Cover and heat to a low boil.

Cut the cabbage head in half down the middle. Once the pot is boiling, carefully add your cabbage to the pot and arrange the halves so theyre fully covered.

Cover and cook for about 13 minutes, the cabbage should be slightly crisp but have give to them.

Remove from heat and laddle contents into a bowl, arrange some of your bacon along the sides so the fat and the broth mix :) salt and pepper to taste. And get a little saucer for butter so you can dip the potato pieces and/or coat the cabbage pieces.

Salad Method:

Peel your carrots and turnips. Cut off the ends of both. Julienne your carrots, and thinly slice your turnips.

Add your carrot greens (or your chosen leaf filler) to a bowl, then add your carrots and turnips.

Coat with seasoned rice vinegar, salt, and pepper. Thoroughly mix and enjoy :)

#dungeon meshi #food recipe #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon #digital art

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itacats · 7 months ago

Text

Butcher Shop Connection

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: After waking up in a hospital, you find yourself face-to-face with Simon, whose steadfast presence reveals the emotional toll of staying by your side. As you recover and transition back home, Simon becomes an anchor, offering comfort and reassurance in your most fragile moments. Together, you navigate the challenges of trust and vulnerability, taking tentative steps toward a deeper connection. Through shared laughter and quiet confessions, you begin to rebuild not just your strength but also a foundation for a relationship rooted in patience and understanding.

A/N: Alright, so this chapter is basically “healing, but make it emotional.” You’ve got antiseptic smells, painful realizations, and a guy with perfectly imperfect hair showing up like the world's most exhausted knight in slightly rumpled armor. Simon’s here to prove that not all heroes wear capes—some just sit on hospital beds looking like they haven’t slept in 72 years but still manage to care more about you than their own well-being.🩹💞

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 10

Part 9 - Healing in His Shadow

As your consciousness slowly returns, the relentless grip of sleep loosens its hold on you. The sterile scent of the hospital room fills your nostrils, mingling with the sharp, lingering odor of antiseptic. Blinking, your eyes adjust to the harsh overhead lights, and the world begins to come into sharper focus. It takes a moment for your senses to catch up, but when they do, your gaze lands on him—Simon Riley, seated on the edge of your bed.

His presence is comforting yet worn, the kind of presence that speaks of countless nights spent by your side, keeping watch. The toll of those nights is visible on him—dark circles beneath his usually bright eyes, a tiredness that seems to have settled deep into his bones. His hair, usually neat and controlled, is disheveled, strands of it sticking out in ways that tell the story of a restless man who’s been running his hands through it one too many times. It's a reflection of the silent endurance, the emotional weight he’s carried since you’ve been gone, both of you suffering through the same storm in different ways.

You let out a soft sigh, the sound barely more than a whisper, but it’s enough to catch his attention. His head jerks up at the sound, his tired eyes instantly locking onto yours, and in that moment, something shifts within him—hope, raw and desperate, flickers to life in his gaze. It’s as if the world has exhaled for the first time in days.

"Hey, you’re awake," he says, his voice a mixture of disbelief and relief, the words tumbling out of him like a breath he had been holding for far too long. The exhaustion on his face doesn’t mask the joy of seeing you awake.

You try to sit up, but the movement brings a sharp pain that makes you wince. Before you can even fully register the ache, Simon is there, his hands steady and gentle as he supports you. His touch is firm but caring, as though he’s afraid you might shatter under the weight of your own fragility.

"Just take it slow," he murmurs, his voice soft, the kind of tenderness that tugs at your heart. "You’ve been through a lot, love."

In that moment, the world outside your hospital room fades away, leaving just the two of you in this quiet, fragile space. The pain in your body is real, but the warmth of Simon’s presence makes it easier to bear. You might not be whole yet, but with him beside you, maybe, just maybe, healing is within reach.

As the days pass, you finally hold the discharge papers in your hands. Your heart flutters at the thought of going home—of returning to the place where you’ve always found comfort. Some part of you yearns to feel the warmth of familiarity wrap around you again, to breathe in the scent of home, so different from the sterile, clinical atmosphere of the hospital. But as you look up at Simon, standing beside you with an anxious devotion that stirs something deep within, you realize it’s not just the walls of your home you long for. It’s the unwavering presence of him in your life, a constant that you’ve come to rely on.

Your first night back in your own space feels surreal. The quiet is almost unnerving, the hum of the outside world muffled by the closed windows. Simon is there, too, in the living room, running a hand through his hair, a penitent expression etched across his features. “I can stay on the couch if you’d like,” he offers, his accent softening every word, adding an intimacy to his suggestion. "Just to keep an eye on things, yeah?" You can’t help but smile at the sincerity in his voice.

“You don’t have to, really, Simon. I’ll be fine,” you reassure him, though deep down, the idea of facing your own fears alone feels daunting.

Simon narrows his eyes, determination flooding his expression. “I want to. Besides, I’ve been to hell and back; I can handle a few ghosts in the night.”

You can't deny the comfort his presence brings, as he sinks onto the couch, making the weight of the world seem a little lighter. Over the next week, days blend into one another, each moment flowing seamlessly into the next as you grow accustomed to the rhythm of his being in your life. Laughter spills easily during shared dinners, hands brushing as you both reach for the same plate. Conversations flow naturally, and for the first time in a long time, you let go of the burdens of the past, allowing them to gather dust while Simon's patience and kindness help you heal in ways you never thought possible.

But as your emotions deepen, a quiet fear begins to creep in—reminders of the mistakes and scars you thought you had buried long ago.

One evening, as the sun sinks low, painting the sky in shades of tangerine and lavender, the two of you share a moment of silence. The air is thick with unspoken thoughts, and you feel a flutter of anxiety in your chest. His gaze locks onto yours, steady and warm, as he breaks the silence. “I care about you,” Simon says, his voice low and sincere, carrying a weight that makes your heart skip a beat.

You turn away slightly, unable to meet his eyes. “I’ve heard those words before, Simon. They didn’t mean anything then. It ended in betrayal. It ended in pain.” When you glance back at him, his expression softens, and you can see the hurt flash across his face, the vulnerability in his eyes.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and filled with unsaid things. You take a breath, trying to steady yourself, searching for the courage to confront your own fears. “I’m afraid, Simon. Afraid of repeating the past, of letting someone in again, only to be left wounded.”

Simon shifts closer, the distance between you shrinking. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not like that. I promise, y’know?” His voice is soft but unwavering, and the sincerity in his tone grips your heart, forcing you to reconsider everything you thought you knew about trust.

Your heart beats erratically, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t want to get hurt, Simon. I don’t want to end up like before. I still feel the echoes of it.”

“Then let me prove it to you,” he says, his voice a low murmur that feels like a promise, wrapping around your soul.

You fight the self-doubt creeping into your mind, hesitant to trace the lines of another relationship. But as you look into Simon’s earnest eyes, something shifts within you. The instinct to trust, to open yourself to him, begins to cut through the fog of fear.

“Let’s take it slow,” you whisper, asking for the time to rebuild the connection between you, to truly get to know one another again.

A smile breaks across Simon’s face, a smile that carries warmth, tenderness, and a promise. “Slow it is, love. One step at a time, I’ll be right here with you.”

In the days that follow, you both navigate this new, fragile space—testing boundaries, sharing moments of laughter, and allowing each other to be vulnerable. Every conversation, every shared glance, becomes another piece of the foundation of trust that you are building together.

And slowly, amidst the laughter and quiet moments, a tentative relationship begins to blossom once more—one rooted in strength, resilience, and the understanding of kindred spirits. With Simon, you find a harmony you had long sought after, a promise unspoken but felt deeply between you. It’s a journey, imperfect and flawed, but one you’re ready to embrace with open arms, hoping to rewrite your own story with him by your side.

Tag List:

@jessicab1991

@hotaruteba

@daydreamerwoah

@angelic-thingys

@alessias-art

@lilynotdilly

@secretsideofbree

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

#bt extra #call of duty #fanfic #cod fic #cod #simon ghost riley #gn reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost #ghost cod #butcher!ghost #butcher!simon #butcher shop connection

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borkunlimited · 4 months ago

Text

Take Your Time, Miss Deer (Sylus x Reader) - Ch. 6

In a tailor shop tucked in the calmer side of the N109 zone is a little room where all clothes of many different designs come together under the delicate hands of an unassuming deer living in the den of all sorts of beasts and sitting on them is the dragon who wears your clothes.

Your many interactions with Skye, Mr. Sylus’ messenger or-

-Sylus is waiting for you to finally figure out he is playing his own messenger.

A Deer Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Fic

Tags: Sylus x Reader, Hybrid AU, Suggestive Themes, Fluff, Angst, Predator/Prey

Trigger Warning: Sexual Harassment

Chapter Summary: A horn, a tail, and canines so sharp. He will wear the title of monster gladly if it means not one cut will bloom in your skin.

Author's Note: Just a dragon and a deer having a little adventure. I had so much fun building the world in this AU! As always, I want to thank everyone for their kind support~ A few more chapters (+ an epilogue, of course!)

Enjoy!

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch.4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

6: My Dearest, Sincere

Daisy perched on the railing of the steps of your shop, wearing a little straw hat tied around its neck in a perfect red bow, his optics adjusting on each hybrid passing by your shop who did a double take at you before quickly walking away or returning your wave with a weak one.

You didn’t pay attention to their reactions much, your excitement superseding everything because you have been looking forward to this day ever since.

A red circle marked today’s date in your calendar, the numbers printed on the museum ticket that arrived inside a black envelope handed over to you by Skye, a gift from Mr. Sylus who thought you needed a break after hearing what happened, a little adventure outside the N109 zone accompanied with a small reminder.

The red gemstone in the brooch Mr. Sylus gifted to you shines brightly on your chest, wearing it as he instructed every time you go outside. You put on your best clothes today and in your head, a matching hat similar to Daisy’s.

There is a quiet hope that he will also come along today but you know he doesn’t have any reason to do so and you already surrendered to the fact that he will always stay elusive, distant but watchful.

Perhaps Skye is right, his boss is indeed a very private man but even so, he conveyed his fondness to you in his own unique way.

Is he lonely?

Does he also have bad days as well?

Is he taking care of himself?

Your thoughts were cut short when Daisy let out a caw and you smiled when you watched it perch on the shoulder of the person who will bring you to the museum today.

“Good morning, Skye,” you greeted him, your boots clicking on the little stairway of your shop that also served as your home, skipping every other step while you made your way towards him.

His sweetheart, always so adorable.

Sylus took a few strides from his car to meet you at the bottom, taking a closer look at you. Your attire is quite different from your usual work clothes, your hair tied in a neat french braid and he smiled in approval when he saw you wearing the brooch.

Just a quick measure especially now there are too many people for his liking whose eyes lingered for too long on his precious deer.

“There’s my girl,” he greeted you back and he lifted you up effortlessly, spinning you around.

A small, surprised yelp escaped your lips, clearly not expecting him to do that and you buried your face on his hair, a reflex, to hide the blush that bloomed on your face and you accidentally took in the scent of petrichor with faint notes of expensive tobacco, gunpowder, and burnt pinewood.

A strange combination of fragrance synonymous to safety.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” you said when he put you down and he held your waist gently, a quiet reassurance when he noticed you shifting back and forth anxiously.

“I don’t mind, sweetheart,” Sylus chuckled and he raised his brow when he noticed you trying to peek behind him, as if checking if there are other passengers inside the car.

“Looking for someone, miss seamstress?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if-”, you fiddled with your right sleeve, biting your lip while you avoided his gaze.

“Wondering if?”, he encouraged gently, a small smirk on his face.

The curious gaze, the hint of anticipation in your eyes. He had seen this expression too many times, his deer always looking forward to the day she would finally meet the elusive ‘Mr. Sylus’.

As always, all of his patience is reserved only for you, waiting for his favorite tailor to piece it all together.

And maybe, a piece of him is hoping this little charade will last long. You are the only person he sees looking for him without any hint of selfishness, just genuine intentions of hoping to thank him for everything and yet, you have already returned everything back to him tenfold, even when there is nothing you need to do, even when there is nothing to repay.

“If Mr. Sylus tagged along?”, you finished your question quietly, your sheepish smile hidden behind your hat while you looked up at him.

Perhaps he also takes pride when you look for his real identity, a constant reassurance to him that even if you don’t know the face of your benefactor, you still want to get to know him better.

“No, I am afraid not, sweetie,” Sylus replied, pinching your cheek, “It is just me and you today if that’s alright.”

Your deer ears drooped slightly at his answer but you don’t want Skye to think that you don’t like his company, in fact, you do enjoy it and you are hoping to thank Mr. Sylus not just for his presents this time but for allowing Skye to stay longer every time he comes over.

“I don’t mind,” you replied cheerfully, “You’re my favorite visitor after all.”

“Is that so?”

“Very much so.”

“Maybe I should visit more often. I wouldn’t want to lose that spot to someone else, little doe.”

“Mr. Sylus wouldn’t mind?”, you asked, your tail wagging slightly at the thought. Does that mean he will come over everyday? It must be too much to fit in his schedule, especially since you heard from the twins that Mr. Sylus can be very demanding.

“He’ll be very pleased that someone’s looking after his favorite tailor, sweetie,” Sylus answered, tapping your nose, “He knows how fond I am of you as well.”

He wouldn’t deny that he has multiple meetings, negotiations, and auctions he has to attend but even then, he will always make time to be Miss Deer’s second assistant because it looks like he wouldn’t be able to take away the title of first assistant from Mephisto anytime soon.

“Ready to go, miss seamstress?”

“Can Daisy sit with me in front?”

Mephisto let out a beep, certainly pleased, and Sylus rolled his eyes, fully understanding that the bird was holding it over his head and acting like an indoor pet bird when around you.

But with you sitting on his passenger seat holding a basket lined with white cloth for Mephisto to rest? He will let it pass.

How is it that all the henchmen he sent to you become so docile?

Not like he minds, not when he sees his crow already made itself comfortable on your lap, preening itself.

Now he wonders when it's his turn.

────────────────────

Linkon City is one of the few cities in the country that allows hybrids and humans to mingle together.

Still, a crowd is certainly not something you are used to after residing in the N109 zone for a while. There are too many noises and you have become more used to the hum of the sewing machines, the sound of the fabric scissors cutting through the cloth, and the distant gunfight muffled by the thick walls of your shop that unfamiliar and sudden noises tend to overwhelm you easily.

You held on Skye’s sleeve before you stepped inside the museum, hiding behind his back and Daisy, always quick to sense your discomfort, nestled itself on the crook of your neck.

“Feeling a bit spooked, sweetie?”, he asked softly, his tail wrapping itself loosely around your waist and pulling you closer.

Even then, he waited for your reply, your eyes switching back and forth between him while the small crowd dispersed around you. You glanced up to him with a small smile, a silent request, to give you a few minutes to take in everything around you.

“I just need a moment, please.”

“We are in no rush, little doe, take all the time you need.”

As always, Sylus complied with your request, his gaze trained at your hand on the cuff of his sleeve that acted as your anchor on your new surroundings.

He can sense the cautious looks mixed with curiosity directed to him and you both by humans and hybrids passing by but he pays them no mind as long as they do not pose a threat. To you.

With his imposing height, your petite frame, and the sharp contrast of your species, everyone is likely to assume you are coerce in this meeting by him but people who take a closer look will realize that this rare hybrid-

-Is as obedient as a housepup, his crimson eyes only trained to you when you pulled on the cuff of his sleeve gently, a signal you are ready to explore the large halls with a new found confidence.

Should you go to the main hall first?

Or take a look at the paintings?

Perhaps the tapestries?

It has been so long since you stepped on a place such as this that you realize you may have been dragging Skye around.

“Oh I am sorry,” you said, suddenly letting go of his cuff much to his disapproval, “I did not ask where you wanted to go first.”

“Didn’t Mr. Sylus said today’s your day? Go wherever you want, little doe.”

“But I want you to enjoy it as well.”

“I am already having a good time, sweetheart,” he replied, playfully tweaking the brim of your hat then fixing it, making sure the ribbon under your chin is secured.

“Oh, don’t you make a unique pair?”, a voice behind Sylus back commented cheerfully and you immediately hid behind his back when he turned to check the person who spoke up.

A young rabbit hybrid stood in front of you, clearly someone working here in the museum based on her name plate, offering you a map to the museum. There is no hint of judgment in her gaze while she waits for either of you to take the brochure from her.

She opened the map, pointing at a specific area further inside the museum, “Here. People usually go here when they are on dates.”

Date?

You looked up at Skye who did not bother to correct the staff, thanking her and studying the map after she bidding you both to have fun and then walking away.

“Can I also take a look please?,” you asked, tugging his sleeve for him to bend down slightly and he immediately complied, letting you view the details of the brochure and making sure you don’t have to stand on your tiptoes.

“Anything you want to see first, sweetie?”

“They all sound interesting. I want to see all of them.”

“Same here but we can’t start exploring just yet, miss seamstress. Where do you want to start?”

Your brows furrowed slightly, a small thoughtful hum escaping your lips, and he playfully tapped the crease between your brows, amused at the fact how you are indeed weighing your options while Mephisto tilted its head in beat with you.

“How about this one?”, you asked, pointing at the room displaying a series of paintings from an obscure artist.

He nodded, “Good choice, little doe.”

If you walk, he will follow. If you stop, he will halt. With you leading the way, your footsteps will be replaced with his, tracing the same path his deer left just for him but today, there will be not one set of footsteps but two when you hold the other end of the brochure he had in his hand while both of you walk side by side.

For a brief moment, his fingers brushed against yours.

────────────────────

When night comes, what fairy tales do every human and hybrid tell to their children before they tuck them to sleep?

The lullaby of the music box plays in the background of the small room you have, in the humble two story house your father managed to purchase with his savings to build a tailor shop in the Bloomshore District.

It was during those years when the humans on the top are kinder, determined to erase the lines all of your ancestors collectively have set over the years but with change comes resistance and grand plans of building cities become smaller and smaller and out of it came a little portion of Bloomshore District, empty because of its close distance from the industrial zones.

It was home and it was yours.

Every night, your father will leave his work downstairs, taking a break from sewing together uniforms for employees working in the factories nearby and each step creak, on his hand the first picture book you bought from a second hand bookstore and his other hand helping you climb the stairs.

It was always his soft voice who put you to bed while you watched the little dragon figurine frolic on the field of red wildflowers, in a world where it is neither the hero nor the villain.

“Are all dragons born bad?”

It was the same question you asked him, confused why it is always the nameless dragon who is given the role of the villain, the one who is always slain at the end and their death celebrated. Savage beasts who only know how to take and with every place they arrive, they leave a trail of black snow.

They should be punished, the knight of every story always proclaimed, pointing his blade at the chest of the dragon smiling with its pointed teeth in the picture.

“I don't think anyone is born bad, twig.”

He always let out a sigh, seemingly amused at your question and he always give you the same answer before pressing a kiss on your forehead, reminding you to sleep or else you would not grow taller, even if you try to point your ears up or add more tree branches on your antlers and the day ends when he closes the door behind him, his exit punctuated with the lullaby coming to an end.

You always forget to ask him why people said otherwise.

“Skye, I am sorry,” you said quietly, looking up at the dragon hybrid whose expression remained neutral while he gazed at the large painting in front of you.

Dragons are born with sin.

Dragons should not have friends.

Dragons are liars, nothing good comes out of their mouth.

It is the same lines repeated even by his fellow hybrids and in the crowd that part ways when they recognize what he is, it serves as a cruel reminder that he will always be alone in the long and winding path that looms ahead of him.

How many times did Sylus see these drawings in books he had read when he was young? Even his fingers and toes are not enough to count the instances where someone plunges anything sharp right through the dragon’s chest.

“You have nothing to apologize for, sweetie,” he spoke, his gaze softening when he turned to look at your ears drooping, guilty. Both you and him did not expect one of the paintings would have a subject such as this and even when he looked away, it was always the truth, a fact of this world.

He will always remain as it is, a fiend.

“I should have chosen a different exhibit for us to see,” you replied quietly, and his tail wrapped around your waist.

“I’m fine, miss seamstress. A simple picture is not enough to hurt me,” he chuckled, and inside the four corners of this wide, wide, room, he can only hear the small rustle of your clothes as you shuffled closer next to him, offering small comfort.

He has seen these images too many times, in reality and in dreams, but here you are, treating him as if he shouldn’t be stained with violence when he already is, that it is true, he is indeed a selfish dragon sitting on his hoard and even then, it is not enough.

All the shiny trinkets in the world but there is no material thing that could ever fill the already gaping hole left by nameless people who hated his kind.

He had convinced himself that he would remain that way, fractured and fragmented, held together by sheer determination and strength. Even then, there are pieces that slipped through the gaps, never to be found, forever lost.

But, that was before.

“Maybe the dragon did not die, Skye,” you decided to venture further, your eyes trained at the painting, “Maybe it flew far away after that.”

And then, someone picks up a thread and a needle, slowly, carefully, mending them.

You.

You with the dearest voice, with the gentlest of hands, with the scent of cotton and wildflowers enough to sooth the pain of wounds from years past.

“Perhaps. Maybe he managed to find someone to stitch his wounds together, little doe.”

“Well, he certainly does need help. I don’t think he can hold a needle and thread with such large claws.”

“You’re right. His claws are better suited for holding treasures.”

“Or protecting the people he loves,” you smiled at him, the two of you walking away from the painting and moving to another one.

Now that sounds like something a hero would do, not a villain and Sylus is more than aware he will never be one, the thought is almost amusing. He too once held a cardboard sword thinking he can also venture to the tower the princess is locked away but those are childhood follies, delusions.

No, he will never be one.

Yet, there is a glimmer of hope, small but enduring, shielded with both of your hands from the smallest gust of wind.

Maybe, maybe, you are right, the dragon had fled away, away from everything until he met a deer who led him deeper, deeper in the woods to rest while her forest friends looked on.

The uncaring world will continue to march on but his wounds will close, his scars will fade, and in the hidden grove of red wildflowers where it is just you and him, he has discovered that not all dragons are fated to live inside towers of iron and stone.

If the time comes that his precious deer, the caretaker of this little paradise, would be harmed then-

For your sake, he will be as monstrous as you need him to be.

────────────────────

In this small enclosure, your heartbeats sing in a steady rhythm, a slow and gentle melody. Sylus had always compared it to a lullaby, a melody you can only find on old music boxes in antique stores tucked far from the city centers and only if you listen closely. A melody no one would be able to replicate, uniquely yours.

Small and soft, a faint humming, but he is beginning to think he has been gifted with sharp senses so that he can always spot you in a dense and loud crowd.

The wreath of flowers he is weaving together in his hands is almost complete and Sylus gazed at you in amusement, your eyes closed and your hands folded on your lap.

The little glasshouse you and Sylus entered isolated you further from the rest. Every person who will step inside will not find any plants of interest, the blooms kept are of common variety, plain but these are not the reason why this place is here.

Various butterflies of different colors fluttered around you and you told him of your plan on staying still ahead, attempting to attract as many of these little creatures as you can because you want you and him to make friends with them so he also played along.

Little insects slowly make their way to you, some rest their wings on the tips of your antlers and a butterfly sharing the color of your eyes landed on your bandaged finger, the movement of its wing barely even making a sound in the already quiet sanctuary.

He supposed he should give his thanks to that young rabbit hybrid who pointed you two to this area isolated from the main building of the museum, and he hummed a low tune, stealing a glance to check if your eyes are still closed before fastening the red ribbon you have gifted to him in the wreath he just completed.

A little hint that you will only find out before you call it a night or, maybe the morning after.

“They seem to like you, sweetie,” he spoke softly, making sure to not scare your nameless friends.

You opened your eyes slowly to see for yourself and you smiled, moving your finger closer to look at the butterfly then peering at the white butterfly with crimson spots that made itself comfortable on his shoulder, a stark difference against the black leather of his jacket.

“Look, Skye. You have a little friend.”

“So I do but I believe they are more fond of you than they are of me.”

“They are just shy. I’ll introduce you and your friend to them,” you said softly, a quiet whisper, moving your hand slowly to move the butterfly on your finger so it can sit beside his nameless companion on his shoulder, “See, now, you have two.”

And they make a pretty pair.

“Well would you look at that, sweetheart,” he chuckled quietly, not wanting to disturb the butterflies you are transferring to him one by one, “It seems my entourage grows.”

Nameless friends.

Sylus is more than aware the lives of these creatures are fleeting, they do not have enough time to realize the differences in their colors and sizes while they dance together among the array of common blooms, a kaleidoscope rotating endlessly, different beings flowing into one stream of consciousness.

He let the first butterfly rest on his finger, bringing it close to his lips and even then, the words he had whispered are barely a gust to the little being.

“What did you tell our friend, Skye?”, you asked, a soft giggle escaping your lips when he let it rest on the tip of your nose.

Among the rows of blooms bursting with colors, the brightest flower stood out of all them.

Delicate.

Soft.

The closest you have to having thorns are your antlers that reminded him of branches of a mighty tree.

Must the strong always have sharp teeth and claws? No, Sylus disagrees. Strength comes in various forms and you, the deer who found comfort among the beasts shunned by their fell ow kind, is one of the few who dared to look past such loathsome faces they have.

“I told our new friend that it is lucky to be sitting on the most beautiful flower in the greenhouse,” he answered, reaching out to twirl a lock of your hair and gazing at the wings of the creature who had already made itself comfortable, fulfilling a small favor from him.

Of course, with beauty comes recognition and with the wreath of flowers held together by the ribbon you both created, he crowned you with blossoms of various shades of yellow, vibrant as the sun, and he will forever remember their scent mixed against yours that haunt him even in his dreams.

Even when you have never stepped foot in the base and much along his bed, the faint aroma of springtime lingered at the empty side of his bed he had reserved just for you.

A blush bloomed on your cheeks upon his compliment, red as the spots of his first friend, and you stifled a soft laugh, your body trembling while you moved your eyes back and forth from him to your side.

Your affections for him has changed ever since that day when he wrapped the red bandage on your finger, the warmth of his tongue lingered on your fingertip and even when you are fully aware of your differences, you also wished during the lull of the quiet nights that you don’t want this to be folly, a passing fancy, just a temporary reprieve before you found someone of the same species.

You slowly reach up to him, letting one of the butterflies perching on one of the bases of his horns crawl on your finger, and you bring it close to you.

He watched your lips part while you mumbled softly to the little being and its paper thin wings before you let it go, watching it join the others.

“What did you tell that one, sweetie?”

“I told it that it is very fortunate to be friends with the kindest dragon I’ve met.”

He averted his gaze from you, chuckling softly, and you tilt your head when his fingers reach out to play with your pinky with his ears tinged red.

Certainly a word you would never describe a repulsive beast.

“You don’t believe me, Skye?”

“I am not a very good dragon that you think I am, miss seamstress.”

“But bad dragons don’t fix wounds and kiss them, do they?”

“Moments of kindness should not be mistaken as a change in character, sweetie,” he chuckled softly, the sound a cover for the thin layer of sadness hidden beneath a despicable casing that is him.

You hummed in thought, your eyes quietly studying his face and the corner of his lips lifted in a soft smirk under your curious gaze. Quietly, you reached out for one of the flowers both of you picked on the way and carried here using the underside of your hat.

“Can you come closer for me, Skye?”, you asked.

“Like this, little doe?”, he said, leaning closer without any hesitation and your hand brushed against his horn, tying the yellow blossom together with the good luck ribbon he always wears.

A small whimper almost escapes his lips upon your gentle touch, the top of his head pressing against your hand for more of it.

“I will try to put more flowers and ribbons on you then, Skye, until you finally believe that you are a good and friendly dragon,” you smiled, shifting through the stems of the array of blooms and picking those you think would suit him nicely, tucking them in his hair.

Tell him, tell him that he isn't a monster and he will believe every word you will say.

He chuckled softly, “Even if I am, do you think people would see the same as you do, sweetheart?”

“I’ll make as many ribbons as I can for you then.”

“Are you trying to turn me into a living, walking present, little doe?”

“But you are already one, Skye. You’re the best gift Mr. Sylus gave to me,” you replied, as if it is an absolute truth, a sincere declaration and his eyes widened for a fraction of a second then softened.

“More than the hairpins that he gave to you?”

“More than them, yes.”

“More than your favorite vinyl records he sent you?”

“You can sing them for me anyways."

“You’re such a strange little deer, miss seamstress,” he commented, laughing in amusement and you tilt your head at how his ears are redder than earlier, his smirk faltering to a lopsided smile.

“Will wearing a bow on your tail make you feel better if I wear one as well, Skye?”, you asked, your hand brushing against the soft petals tucked on the strands of his hair.

The image was almost whimsical, but both of you made an unlikely pair. In the thin line that divides your kind, both of you are mirror images, the same but not quite.

“I suppose I’ll have to follow suit, won’t I?”, he replied playfully, then poking your cheek, “It’s only fair.”

Having a bow on his powerful tail will be an amusing sight, you wearing one certainly does have appeal and as he follows you closely while you leave the small greenhouse, his eyes lingered on your tail swaying and he can only picture the perfect ribbon that would compliment you the best.

Although, he wouldn’t mind pulling it off as much as he looks forward to putting one on you when the time comes.

────────────────────

Everyone looks after each other in the small community of all hybrids back at the small corner of Bloomshore District.

The sheep hybrid lady with her canine hybrid husband, their two children, Simon and their daughter, who bakes the perfect strawberry shortcake. A yearly treat you always look forward to, the package familiar.

The elderly owl hybrid that runs the clinic, the one who always reminds you to take your morning walks after your father’s check-ups.

The fruits and vegetable stall ran by a rabbit hybrid who gives you a playful wink every time she slips in an extra apple on your bag, her thanks to you for fixing her apron.

The raccoon hybrid and her group of panda bear hybrid friends who play baseball at the empty lot, their jerseys you put together with their numbers.

It was a small area the government allowed hybrids to settle in but even then, they are selective to who they will let in, hybrids they believe are harmless and they all want you to follow one rule:

Do not help your other kind.

You were your father’s assistant back then and both of you have tailored clothes for hybrids and humans. All of your customers were kind, every person who entered the shop courteous with an exception.

Humans who claimed they are looking after you.

They are always the last people to enter your shop every end of the week. They don’t ask for money or anything at all but you and your father kept your head low.

Even then, averting your gaze does not mean the onlooker will do the same.

Your tail stroked. Your ears tugged. Your antlers pulled. The touches laced with malicious fascination.

That human sees you as an animal in a petting zoo.

Perhaps, it was a twisted fascination towards your kind, an exotic catch, fresh meat, and everything culminated when the advances had become too much.

It was that same human everyday and you have paid the price in full when you decided you had enough. A cry for help, small but audible, and that small baseball team who loves hanging around your shop did not hesitate to hold him down.

Your father did not forget the look that human is wearing who did not even struggle against the hold of the tallest panda bear hybrid child.

A victorious smirk.

There was barely enough time to gather up your belongings when the fire happened.

A few of your finished works and personal items, the rest you watched turned ash outside the place your father had built when he was allowed to settle in this district while you were still a toddler.

You held the music box closed to your chest, your eyes unable to tear away at your home where all your hopes and dreams had taken root, bloomed, and finally, crushed.

Your father watched the young Simon back then and his much younger sister put a blanket over you, whispered a few words and then slowly stepped away to give you space.

He will remember the looks of your hybrid neighbors, silent anger mixed with fear while they part to give way to the cause of everything.

“I just think you are cute, you know? Maybe this time you will learn how to put up with it now everything’s gone.”

Did I make the wrong decision?

He asked himself back then but the question is maybe more to your mother who had left you both too early. He had witnessed everything, heard every word that human whispered to you and among the silent mumbles of kindly neighbors, they all pointed to the most unlikely place that could possibly be your new home.

There will always be a price in every bargain struck.

His beautiful daughter, always reserved, and your father will be your voice to your talents and if he needs to face the most dangerous hybrid just so you can continue your work, then so be it.

Better in the company of beasts than men.

It was your father’s love for you and his promise to your mother that gave him courage to face Sylus and ask for capital. The double doors inside Sylus’ estate in the N109 zone is an iron gate and ahead is a young dragon who had hoarded everything and more.

He wore his best suit that day and he was not just a proud father but a businessman who knows his wares. Never did he falter under Sylus’ gaze and when the dragon hybrid agreed, he only let out a sigh of relief once he stepped out of the dragon’s home.

Your father may have skipped on his way back to you in your temporary home. Happy, grateful, and hopeful.

The smile on your face returned when you opened the door to your new studio and he didn’t stop you when you immediately went to work on your commission, dedicated to the first request that will eventually bring in more clients and the proud owner of that suit is no other than-

Sylus.

From there, an unlikely relationship bloomed and your father, an audience sitting in the front row.

It was around evening when Sylus returned to your shop, carrying you in his arms. You were already fast asleep, your head against the dragon hybrid’s chest and dangling on Sylus’ arms are paper bags containing souvenirs from the museum he took you earlier.

Where do you even get this courage? Your father will never know but he is sure your mother would be thoroughly amused to see her daughter all cozy against a predator hybrid.

“Mr. Sylus!”, your father immediately stood up and made his way to him, “My apologies. My daughter did not mean to impose.”

He was about to take you from the dragon hybrid’s arms but Sylus only shook his head, amused and he noticed how Sylus’ gaze at you fondly when you mumbled something in your sleep.

“There’s no need to apologize. She’s just exhausted from walking. Fell asleep on our way back,” Sylus replied, holding you tighter and you instinctively seemed to seek warmth from him, burying your face further, “Let me bring her to her room.”

If you are an odd deer then Sylus is certainly the same, an odd dragon.

There is no mistaking it.

This is the gaze of a man hopelessly head over heels for you.

“Second room from your left, Mr. Sylus,” your father politely answered, “The fifth step creaks. Might wake her up.”

Sylus gave your father a polite smile, passing by him and making his way upstairs with you.

For a body large and powerful, he moved with a certain tenderness, not wanting to startle you. His steps are quiet, your quiet breathing the only sound he can hear. It took him to reach your room but for Sylus, it is certainly longer, much longer than the distance you both took to explore the museum.

He knew this little adventure would come to an end, that he must return his precious deer to her grove eventually but he refused to move just yet from your side after he laid you down on your bed.

Call it greed, but after having a taste of a sliver of his many wishes, he is now fervently asking for more chances of bringing you to bed and maybe, just maybe, the bed would not just dip with your weight alone when the time comes.

With the crown of flowers on your head, it is as if you are a princess waiting for your knight to wake you up.

Unfortunately, the knights are too afraid to even come close to the dragon’s most precious treasure.

Why would you need a knight when you already have a terrifying monster who doesn’t need a sword to pierce the heart of any person who would hurt you?

Sylus sets down the bags of souvenirs you brought with him and he slowly pulls out the newest trinkets that would bring more color to your room.

A wind-up dragon that he set beside your music box, the horns you said reminded you of his.

A deer plushie with a red ribbon tied around its neck that he set beside you, a stuffed animal you playfully voiced over with a high pitch voice and with its snout, you pecked Sylus’ cheek.

A crow plushie with a white collar around its neck that he set at your other side, the object of Mephisto’s glares back at the shop when Sylus joked about it being its replacement.

With your new gifts, your room overflows with more trinkets that he has brought just for you.

Sylus has never set foot inside your room before but he recognized it based on the photos and records Mephisto has brought to him.

It is a simple room but it was decorated lovingly by you. All the vinyl records he sent to you neatly arranged near the player. On your desk is a basket of yarn and your crochet needles, piles of red scarves that are clearly a work in progress. On the handle of your cabinet your white apron. By your window are pots of daisies lined up together, little animal figurines on their soil with their own houses.

A small, small world, fragile, but welcoming and here he is, the strange visitor, accepted by your subjects.

Yet, Sylus knows he shouldn’t linger for long, not wanting to cast any doubts to your father who let him bring you here and after giving you a once over, his sweetheart, he stood up.

“Skye,” you whispered softly, catching him by the cuff of his sleeve.

“Yes, miss seamstress?”

You didn’t answer, just gently pulling his sleeve until he finally relented and sat at the side of your bed again.

He could never deny you.

“Did you enjoy today, Skye?”, you asked, each word breathed out slowly and it was clear you are standing in a thin line between dreams and reality.

“Of course I did, sweetie,” he chuckled softly, brushing a few strands of your hair, “Any day spent with you is a day well spent.”

He paused for a moment then asked, “Did you have fun today, little doe?”

You let out a soft laugh, your arms reaching out for the crow plushie by your side and hugging it.

“I had lots of fun,” you nodded drowsily and with your voice muffled against the soft fleece of your new friend, you spoke, “Can you-”, you let out a yawn but continued, “-Tell Mr. Sylus thank you for me?”

“Sure, I’ll make sure to pass it along when I get back.”

“Don’t forget to-”, you yawned again and the next words are unintelligible but Sylus managed to piece it together with your last words, smiling softly while waiting for you to finish your request, “-His souvenir. I hope he likes it.”

“I am sure he’ll love it. You picked it out for him after all.”

With your half lidded eyes and gentle smile, it is certainly one of the adorable expressions he hopes he will wake up to in the future.

“One last thing,” you mumbled softly, your eyes closing but it was clear you wanted to do something as you struggled against the hold of sleep, “Come closer, Skye.”

“Like this, sweetie?”

“Closer.”

“How about now?”

He is basically hovering over you at this point, his hands at the sides of your head to support his weight and up close under the moonlight, his gaze lingered longer at your lips slightly parted.

A sigh, and then you pressed your lips on his cheek.

At least, that’s what he thinks was your intent but instead, your fleeting reward landed on the corner of his mouth.

His grip on the sheets tightened, a small, soft whine escaped his lips.

From him of all people.

An involuntary sound in response to the unexpected act of intimacy he had always yearned from you.

Close.

You were so close to giving him one of the many things that haunt him in his sleep.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed out but you were already asleep this time, your heartbeats steady.

The shadow of the dragon loomed on the walls of your bedroom, its gaping maw wide open upon you, the unassuming deer, too trusting, too sweet.

His baser instincts are yelling at him that a nip wouldn’t harm you, that the blood pumping on your veins is sweeter than candy. A little drop of spring water that would satisfy his thirst.

But Sylus' desires have always been clean-cut.

His eyes landed on your neck, beckoning. He had always wanted to sink his fangs on the soft skin. Not because he wanted to draw blood.

No, not that.

He wanted to be so much more to you.

The flapping of the wings, a warning chirp and the music box suddenly playing made him jerk back away from you and Sylus froze at how close he was biting down on your neck while Mephisto looked at him, concerned.

Sylus only sighed heavily, sitting back as his fingers traced the outline of your ear.

He hopes you can forgive your lying dragon.

Before he left, he lifted your hand, pressing a kiss on your bandaged finger, a reminder of the promise he made.

Then, another on your cheek, a playful correction to your sleepy mistake but he doesn’t blame you. In fact, he is honored to receive your thanks.

Finally, on the top of your head near your crown of flowers.

May his beautiful deer sleep well tonight, your dreams to be as colorful and vibrant as the smiles you gave to him today, and when you wake up, let the sun be a little forgiving tomorrow morning, to give you a few more moments to say goodbye to your friends from the realm of unconsciousness before leaving.

“Sleep well, my precious doe,” he whispered softly in your ear, “I’ll see you later tonight.”

If the gods would be kinder to fulfill another one of his wishes, then he hopes when he closes his eyes and calls it a day, he will also find his way to you, in your quiet paradise.

The door closed softly behind him and the lullaby of the music box came to an end, the little dragon, exhausted from chasing his white ribbon on his horn, had also decided to rest on his field dotted with red wildflowers.

Good night, Daisy.

Good night, Mister Dragon.

Good night, Miss Deer.

────────────────────

Author's Note:

I hope this brings clarity what Reader is doing in the N109 zone and why she chose to let go of so many privileges she has when she used to live at Bloomshore District.

Will that human get it? Stay tune! Don't want to spoil you all!

I also have a tumblr! Feel free to feed me your conspiracy theories or send memes or anything, I don't judge! (The fact we are all playing this game means we have broken free from the chain of judgment. ISTG, the amount of guy friends who poke fun of me playing this is wack but that won't stop me. Why can they have anime girls but I can't have my 3D men (and anime girls)?)

Also, the lullaby of Reader's music box: Storyteller (Music Box ver.)

AO3

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch.4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / Side A / Side B

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #hybrid au #lads hybrid au #lads #lads sylus

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