#maybe he can hear too much when it's too quiet

[aesthetically-dying101]

Trainwreck

A/N: *sighs* can you guys guess who i wrote for? yes its nanami

warnings: innapropriate workplace behavior (this is all so unrealistic pls), thats mostly it, maybe a bit OOC? idk obsessive behavior, lowkey creepy

Nanami Kento prides himself on being a man of structure. He clocks in at 8:00 AM sharp, organizes his desk with ruthless efficiency, and approaches every task with a quiet, burning determination. But recently—recently, you’ve ruined him.

Completely, utterly ruined him.

You’re not even his boss. No, you’re her secretary. Just the secretary, really.

A pleasant smile in the hallway, the click of heels passing by his office door. You’re always polite, professional. Efficient. And yet, you’ve utterly dismantled every ounce of his composure.

He notices everything about you.

He notices too much.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're focused, the faint scent of your perfume (something floral but not cloying, clean and perfect). The way you laugh softly with the receptionist when you think no one is listening.

God, you never wear a wedding band.

He’s looked.

He’s ashamed of how often he’s looked.

He hates himself for it—hates the way his chest tightens when he hears your voice. Hates the way his thoughts stray in the quiet moments of the day, imagining what it would be like if you looked at him the way he looks at you.

But you barely notice him.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. Why would you? He’s just another cog in the machine, another suit with no significance beyond his output.

Nanami lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s supposed to be working, but instead, he’s replaying that moment from earlier today: the way you’d popped into the breakroom, looking fresh and radiant in that blouse that he’s now convinced was designed to torment him.

“Oh, hi, Nanami,” you’d said, smiling at him as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. It had been such a simple, innocent thing. And yet, his brain had short-circuited.

“Morning,” he’d managed, stiff and awkward, and he’s sure you noticed. God, why did his voice sound so clipped?

“You doing okay? You looked a little stressed in the meeting earlier.”

And that had really done it. Your concern—casual, effortless—had hit him like a freight train. He could barely stammer out a reply before you were gone, leaving him standing there, coffee untouched, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.

He wants to believe he’s subtle about it, but he knows better. He’s not subtle. Not when he hangs back in the breakroom just to hear you chatting with someone, filing away every detail like the pathetic little moth he is, hopelessly drawn to your flame.

“Yeah, no, I’m just focusing on work right now,” you’d said once, when someone asked if you had any plans for the weekend. No mention of a boyfriend. No hint of anyone waiting for you at home.

It shouldn’t matter, and yet it feels like the cruelest kind of hope, igniting in his chest despite himself.

Nanami leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He’s disgusting. Obsessed. You’re probably not even aware of his existence beyond the bare minimum. Why would you be? You’re smart, funny, stunning—and he’s just him. Dull. Predictable. The kind of guy women settle for when they’re tired of the fireworks.

But oh, if you ever gave him the chance. If you so much as glanced in his direction with anything resembling interest, he’d fall to his knees. Worship you. Do anything to make you happy.

It’s humiliating. The longing, the yearning, the ache.

And yet he can’t stop.

His thoughts spiral as the hours drag on, oscillating between bitterness and hope. He tells himself to stop—orders himself to focus—but his mind keeps circling back to you.

Always you.

The end of the day finally comes, and as he’s gathering his things, he hears the soft sound of your voice drifting from the hallway.

“Night, Nanami!”

You wave as you pass, the gesture casual but bright enough to light up the entire goddamn floor.

“Goodnight,” he replies, quieter than he means to. His hand tightens on his briefcase.

You disappear around the corner, and Nanami stays frozen for a moment, staring at the space where you’d been.

*-*

It’s Christmas in the office.

The annual “holiday celebration,” a thinly veiled excuse for everyone to slack off in the name of festivity. Nanami hates it—or at least he wants to hate it. Forced camaraderie, cheap decorations, music that grates on his nerves. It’s the kind of chaos he typically avoids.

But then you walk in, and every ounce of self-discipline he’s built over the years shatters into irreparable pieces.

The pencil skirt.

The goddamn Christmas-colored pencil skirt. It’s shorter than usual, clinging to your hips in a way that feels engineered to destroy him. The matching blouse, festive but just tight enough to drive him completely fucking insane.

It’s not fair.

You’re smiling as you step into the breakroom, chatting with a coworker, utterly oblivious to the wreckage you’re leaving in your wake.

Nanami’s pulse spikes. His gaze darts away, but the image of you is already seared into his brain, lingering like a bad habit.

He adjusts his tie, swallowing hard. Don’t be a creep. Don’t be a fucking creep. But then his eyes flick back, just for a second, and—oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His pants feel too tight.

He grits his teeth, clenching his jaw as he fumbles with a stack of papers on his desk. His hands tremble slightly. He’s mortified, but there’s no stopping it. Not when his traitorous brain is already spinning, conjuring images he really shouldn’t be entertaining in the middle of the office.

Images of you. That skirt riding up higher, your thighs bare beneath his hands. The sound of your laughter softening into breathless gasps. The way your lips would feel against his skin—

Nanami bolts.

He mutters something vague about needing a minute to no one in particular and beelines for the bathroom. The fluorescent lights are harsh as he leans against the sink, gripping the porcelain edge like it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hisses to his reflection. His tie feels like a noose around his neck.

He splashes cold water on his face, but it doesn’t help. Not when every time he blinks, he sees you. The soft curve of your waist, the way your hair catches the light.

Pathetic. He’s fucking pathetic. You’re just trying to celebrate the holidays like everyone else, and here he is, locked in the bathroom, wrestling with his own shameless thoughts.

The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that it’s not just the dirty shit. Oh, no. His brain is crueler than that.

He imagines quiet mornings with you. You in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, smiling at him over a mug of coffee. Your hand brushing his as you pass him a plate, the warmth of your touch lingering long after.

It’s insidious. It’s relentless. It’s everything he doesn’t deserve, and yet he wants it so badly he feels like he might choke on it.

Nanami drags a hand down his face, letting out a groan that echoes in the empty bathroom.

She doesn’t even notice you, idiot.

He stays there longer than he should, collecting himself—or trying to. Eventually, he straightens his tie, squares his shoulders, and forces himself to return to his desk.

But when he passes by the breakroom again, you’re laughing, radiant, and he knows this torture is far from over.

*-*

Nanami doesn’t mean to eavesdrop.

Really, he doesn’t.

But it’s impossible not to overhear you when you’re in the breakroom, talking to someone about the bouquet on the receptionist’s desk.

“Oh, these are lovely,” you say, your voice light and cheerful. “But if I had to pick, I’ve always been more into bold flowers. Red dahlias, spider lilies, roses—things like that. Dark, dramatic colors. They’re so beautiful.”

Nanami freezes in the hallway, a stack of files in his hands. His heart does this stupid little stutter, the same one it always does when he hears your voice. But now it’s worse because his mind is spinning with the image of you holding a bouquet like the one you’ve just described.

Red dahlias, spider lilies. The thought of you cradling those flowers, smiling at them, smiling because of him—he has to physically shake his head to clear it.

He’s pathetic.

He knows he’s pathetic. He clenches the files tighter, willing himself to keep walking, but the image won’t leave him.

Over the next few days, he thinks about it more than he wants to admit. He imagines walking into a flower shop, carefully selecting each bloom, making sure they’re perfect. He imagines handing the bouquet to you, watching your face light up—

And then he imagines the aftermath. You smiling politely, awkwardly thanking him, wondering why the hell one of your coworkers is giving you flowers.

No.

He can’t do it. It’s wildly inappropriate. He’s already teetering on the edge of unprofessionalism just by thinking about you like this.

But then, one quiet afternoon in the office, he hears you mention your birthday in passing.

“Oh, it’s in a month or so,” you say, laughing softly. “I don’t usually do much for it, though. Just a quiet day, you know?”

Nanami marks the date down the second he gets back to his desk. He feels like a creep for it, but the thought of letting the day pass without acknowledgment feels unbearable.

He’s spent weeks overthinking this, debating whether or not he should go through with it. But as he stands outside the florist that morning, the door handle cold in his hand, he decides he can’t let it go.

He picks each flower carefully: crimson dahlias with velvety petals, a few spider lilies that curl dramatically, and deep red roses. It’s a small bouquet—not too extravagant, just enough to feel thoughtful.

By the time he gets to the office, his palms are clammy, and he feels like he might actually pass out.

He doesn’t give it to you right away. He waits until the middle of the day, when the office is quieter and most people are out at lunch. He finds you at your desk, bent over some papers, your hair falling slightly into your face.

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice more formal than he intended.

You look up, blinking in surprise, and when your eyes land on the bouquet in his hands, they widen slightly.

“I, uh—” He clears his throat, trying not to fumble. “I overheard that it was your birthday today. Happy birthday.”

You take the bouquet slowly, your expression shifting from surprise to something softer—something warmer.

“Oh my gosh, Nanami, these are gorgeous,” you say, holding the flowers close to your chest. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide how much they’re trembling. “Just… thought you’d like them.”

“I love them.” Your smile is radiant, and for the first time, he feels like he might actually be able to breathe again.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice sincere.

He nods, forcing himself to meet your gaze for just a moment.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, before quickly retreating to the safety of his desk.

But that's what happens in his mind, in his fantasy... in reality, he simply left those at your desk while you were in a meeting, though he did hear you gasp when you saw them.

As he sits at his desk, his heart pounding, he allows himself a small, private smile. For once, his yearning doesn’t feel quite so pathetic.

*-*

Nanami doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. Again. But it’s impossible not to hear you when your voice floats down the hallway like that, soft and full of joy.

The bouquet sits proudly on your desk, vibrant reds catching the fluorescent light, and you’re standing nearby, talking to another employee.

“I still can’t believe it,” you’re saying, your tone carrying this sweet mix of wonder and delight. “No one’s ever done something like this for me before. It’s just… so thoughtful, you know?”

Nanami, passing by with his usual quiet efficiency, freezes mid-step. His breath hitches in his throat.

“I mean, look at them,” you continue, gesturing to the flowers. “They’re perfect. Whoever picked these out really put a lot of thought into it.” You laugh softly, a sound that makes his chest ache. “I’m not even sure how they knew these are my favorites.”

He stands there, rooted to the spot, his pulse roaring in his ears.

She’s talking about me. She’s talking about me.

He feels ridiculous for the way his stomach twists, for the heat creeping up his neck. A grown man shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t feel this weak, over a few kind words. But goddammit, he can’t help it.

The idea that you’re gushing about something he did, that he made you happy, even for a moment—it’s enough to undo him completely.

“Whoever it was,” you add, your voice softening, “it’s just… it really made my day. Probably my whole week, honestly.”

Nanami swallows hard, clutching his briefcase like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His emotions are a mess—a chaotic tangle of pride, relief, and something deeper, something that makes his throat feel tight.

He knows he should walk away. He shouldn’t linger here, shouldn’t keep listening like some lovesick fool. But he’s stuck, trapped by the sound of your voice and the warmth in your words.

When he finally moves, it’s with a heaviness in his chest that he can’t quite define. He makes his way back to his desk, sitting down and staring blankly at his computer screen.

*-*

Weeks bleed together in the monotony of office life, except for the moments where Nanami lets himself carve out little spaces of joy—tiny gestures that go unnoticed by most but feel monumental to him.

It starts with a single chocolate, placed carefully on the corner of your desk one morning before you arrive. Just a small thing, barely bigger than his thumb, wrapped in shiny foil. He doesn’t linger to see your reaction. He couldn’t stomach it, not when he knows he’d fold in on himself if you so much as tilted your head in confusion.

But the next day, you’re chatting with the receptionist, that same soft laugh spilling from your lips.

“It’s so weird,” you’re saying, holding the empty wrapper in your fingers. “I found this little chocolate on my desk yesterday. I don’t know who left it, but it was sweet. Made my morning, honestly.”

Nanami ducks his head, pretending to be engrossed in the stack of reports he’s holding, but inside, he’s practically vibrating. She noticed. She noticed.

He tells himself to stop, to leave it there, but he doesn’t. He can’t. The yearning is too big, too loud, and it demands an outlet, however small.

After a grueling conference one afternoon, he slips a bottle of chilled water onto your desk when you step away. Nothing extravagant—just a quiet act of care. You’re gone for no more than a minute, but when you return, you blink down at the bottle, tilting your head in that way he finds unfairly adorable.

“Huh,” you murmur, glancing around. “Did someone leave this?”

You shrug, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip, and Nanami has to fight the urge to look away too quickly, lest anyone catch the faint pink blooming across his cheeks.

It’s pathetic.

The way he lives for these small moments, like a man stranded in a desert, savoring droplets of water. Every tiny gesture, every unnoticed offering, feels like a prayer he’s too afraid to voice aloud.

He notices everything about you. How you seem to perk up on Friday afternoons, your shoulders relaxing as you chat about weekend plans. How you wrinkle your nose just slightly when you’re concentrating. How you hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening—a soft, tuneless sound that drives him to distraction.

He doesn’t need grand gestures. He doesn’t want them. He just wants to make your days a little brighter, even if you never know it’s him.

And god, does he yearn.

He daydreams when he shouldn’t, his thoughts slipping away from spreadsheets and into fantasies that make his chest ache. He imagines brushing your hair back from your face, the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. He imagines quiet evenings, your laughter filling the silence of his apartment. He imagines the weight of your head on his shoulder as you drift off to sleep.

And sometimes—sometimes, when he’s alone, when the ache feels unbearable—he lets himself imagine things he shouldn’t. Things that make his heart race and his breath catch and leave him staring at his own reflection in shame after.

But he never acts on it. Never says a word. Instead, he keeps leaving his little tokens: a coffee cup placed carefully on your desk when he overhears you complain about a late night, a pack of your favorite pens after you mention running out.

You smile every time, and though you never suspect him, that’s enough. It has to be enough.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

*-*

You’re not an idiot.

No, you may be a little dense sometimes, but you’re not stupid. Someone has been leaving you small, thoughtful little gifts over the past few weeks.

And you have absolutely no idea who it is.

It started innocently enough—chocolate on your desk one morning. You didn’t think much of it at first, but then it kept happening. A bottle of water after a long conference, a cup of coffee after a particularly brutal meeting. At first, you thought maybe it was just a mistake, someone leaving things around and not realizing it was yours. But no, they were always right where you’d find them. Right when you needed them.

It’s sweet. Really sweet. But it's also starting to annoy the ever-living shit out of you because, for the life of you, you can’t figure out who’s doing it.

You’ve spent the past few days trying to narrow it down, your brain doing mental gymnastics over every damn interaction you’ve had at work. And frankly? You’re getting tired of it.

“Alright, let’s break this shit down,” you mutter to yourself as you sip your second cup of coffee of the day, pretending to focus on an email.

Option one: Your boss.

Ha. Right. She’s too busy scheduling her hair appointments to think about leaving chocolates on anyone’s desk. Plus, she’s got the whole “I don’t care if you live or die” attitude, so yeah, not her.

Option two: Kevin from accounting.

Kevin’s an idiot. A well-meaning idiot, but still. He’s the type to forget the coffee in the breakroom and then call it “the best thing ever” for two hours, as though anyone cares about his “discovery.” You’re not buying that.

Option three: That one guy from marketing, Tom.

You nearly burst into laughter just thinking about it. Tom’s an over-caffeinated golden retriever in a human’s body. He’s the type of guy who thinks sending a “Hey, just wanted to check in!” email twice a day is “checking in” on people. He probably couldn’t even remember to get a chocolate from a store, let alone leave it at your desk.

Option four: Nanami.

You pause mid-sip, blinking rapidly. Nanami? The quiet guy from finance? The one who barely says more than a handful of words in a meeting?

Now that’s an intriguing thought. He’s always… there. Always around, like a quiet shadow, observing. Sure, he’s not exactly filling the room with energy, but there’s something there, right? Something beneath that perfectly structured exterior.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. No way. That’s ridiculous.

But then you think about it. Nanami’s the type of guy who doesn’t get distracted by office chaos. He’s methodical. Focused. The guy who lives on routine. He’d be the one to sneakily notice when someone’s overworked and needs a small pick-me-up. He’s just... quiet about it.

But then again, who leaves water bottles, chocolates, and coffee? It’s not like he’s ever said anything about it. Not a single “hey, I thought you might like this,” or anything remotely close to an acknowledgment. Hell, he doesn’t even smile much.

God, he’s so damn mysterious it makes your head spin.

You glance over at his desk. There he is—quiet, as usual. Focused, pretending the world isn’t falling apart around him.

It could be him.

But no. You shake your head, dismissing the thought immediately. He’s not the type. Right?

It’s just… weird. And you’re not even sure why it feels so weird. Maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve got a secret admirer at work, which is fucking hilarious because it sounds like something out of a shitty rom-com you wouldn’t even watch if someone paid you.

"God, I’m going insane," you mutter under your breath, checking your watch. "Seriously. Who the hell is doing this?"

*-*

It took weeks.

Weeks of small gestures.

You’ve figured it out.

It took some careful observation, a bit of deduction, and honestly, a lot of staring at Nanami when he wasn’t looking. But there’s no doubt in your mind now. The quiet, stoic, almost painfully composed man from finance—the one who always has his tie perfectly in place and whose voice could melt butter—he’s your secret admirer.

And oh, it’s delicious.

At first, you weren’t sure. Nanami wasn’t exactly the type to scream “hopeless romantic” or even “mildly interested.” But the more you watched him, the more obvious it became. The way his eyes linger on you just a second too long, the way he tenses when you get too close, the way he seems to disappear right after you find something thoughtful left at your desk.

You caught him once, hovering near the break room as you raved to a coworker about the flowers. He didn’t say a word, but the way he froze mid-step, his jaw tightening ever so slightly? Yeah. That was all the confirmation you needed.

And honestly? You’re thrilled.

Nanami’s hot. Not just conventionally attractive, but smart-hot, the kind of guy who could ruin you with a PowerPoint presentation and a sharp comment about fiscal responsibility. He’s also maddeningly composed, which makes you want to poke at him, see what’s underneath that calm, collected exterior.

So, naturally, you decide to fuck with him.

Just a little.

You can feel the tension building in the air as you move through your day, the little comments, the subtle glances. Nanami’s still trying to play it cool, but it’s clear. He’s a mess. You can see it in the way his eyes dart away when they linger on you a second too long. You can hear it in his voice when he answers you—a little too stiff, a little too forced.

So, you decide to push him.

You start small. Little things. Nothing too obvious, just a few well-placed gestures to see how far you can take him before he finally snaps.

You walk past his desk, and you’re definitely not trying to make sure your skirt hugs your hips just right. You bend over just so to grab a file from your bag, letting him get a full, uninterrupted view of your cleavage.

You’re certain he’s trying not to look—hell, you can practically feel him forcing his eyes up to the ceiling, but you know. You know he’s been watching.

When you straighten up, you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s gripping his pen like it’s a lifeline, his knuckles pale, and his jaw is tight. You smirk, leaning in just a little closer.

“Need something, Nanami?” you ask, the words dripping with an edge of playful mischief.

He swallows, clearly doing everything in his power to maintain his usual stoic expression. “No,” he replies, too quickly, voice clipped. “I’m fine.”

You laugh lightly, keeping the tension alive as you pull away. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him. Oh, this is too good.

You don’t stop there, though. No, you want to see how much he can handle.

The next day, you make sure to wear a skirt that’s just a little tighter, just a little shorter than usual. The fabric clings to you in all the right ways, and when you walk past Nanami’s desk, you make sure to let your hip brush against the edge of his desk, just lightly enough to catch his attention.

As you bend down to grab a report from the printer, you give him the tiniest, most casual look over your shoulder. You’re sure you catch the way his eyes flicker down to your legs before he quickly looks away. Gotcha.

You straighten up, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you walk back past him, barely stopping yourself from humming in satisfaction when you feel his gaze linger on the curve of your back.

It’s all too easy.

And now? Now it’s time to turn it up a notch.

You’ve been toying with him for days now, watching as he stiffens every time you get a little too close, testing how much he can take before his composure cracks. You see the way his breath catches when you “accidentally” brush your arm against his as you pass by. He doesn’t say a word, but you know. You can see it in the way his eyes flash with something darker, something needy, before he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

You know what you’re doing to him.

And you’re fucking loving it.

*-*

For two weeks, you’ve been shamelessly pushing Nanami to his limits.

You flirt, you linger, you brush your hand against his arm just a little too long, your skirts are shorter, tighter—designed to test the boundaries of his sanity.

And he notices.

Oh, he notices.

But what you don’t see is what’s going on beneath that perfectly calm, stoic exterior.

Because Nanami is losing his fucking mind.

Every look, every casual touch, every time you lean just a little too close—it’s like pouring gasoline on the fire inside him. He’s never been this affected by anyone, and now it feels like he’s constantly teetering on the edge of a cliff.

He tries—he really does—to keep his composure. He’s a professional, damn it. A man of control and discipline. But you? You’re unraveling him piece by piece.

*-*

She knows. Oh, God, she fucking knows. Why is she looking at me like that? Is she doing this on purpose? She’s doing this on purpose. That skirt—did it get shorter? That’s not appropriate for the office, right? Should I say something? No. No, shut up, you idiot. Just focus on your work. She’s walking toward you. Act normal. Act—

“Hey, Nanami, could you help me with something?” you ask, your voice sweet, with just the faintest hint of teasing.

His throat goes dry. He looks up, forcing his expression to remain neutral, professional. “Of course. What do you need?”

You lean closer, your hand brushing his shoulder as you point to your tablet. “I can’t figure out this formula. Can you show me?”

He doesn’t miss the way your perfume lingers in the air, soft and floral, and it’s driving him mad.

“Sure,” he says, his voice even, betraying nothing of the way his heart is hammering in his chest.

But inside? He’s screaming.

*-*

This is a problem. She’s doing it on purpose. She has to be. That look she gave me this morning? That wasn’t casual. No, that was calculated. She’s testing me, trying to see how far I’ll go. Does she know how much I—

He can’t even finish the thought. Because the truth is, his daydreams are becoming increasingly inappropriate, increasingly desperate.

He imagines you sitting on his lap in his office chair, your arms draped around his neck as you laugh at something he said. He imagines kissing you—soft at first, then deeper, more passionate, until he’s completely lost in you. He imagines everything he wants to do to you, and it’s enough to make him clench his fists under his desk, trying to hold himself together.

*-*

One afternoon, you’re standing next to his desk, going on about some report, and he can’t take it anymore. You’re wearing a dress that hugs you in all the right places, and the way you’re looking at him, with that mischievous little glint in your eye—it’s too much.

“Enough,” he says, his voice low, controlled.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

He stands, towering over you, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on yours. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” you ask, feigning innocence, though the slight curve of your lips betrays you.

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “The teasing. The looks. The... whatever this is. If you’re trying to drive me insane, congratulations. You’ve succeeded.”

You grin, your eyes sparkling. “Oh? And what are you going to do about it?”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m going to ask you on a date.”

Your grin widens, and you cross your arms, leaning in just slightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, his confidence unwavering now. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, and he feels his chest tighten all over again.

“Okay, Nanami. You’ve got yourself a date.”

*-*

The date is perfect.

Nanami shows up at your door precisely at seven, looking sharp in a navy suit and holding a small bouquet of red dahlias—your favorite. Dinner is a mix of light conversation and laughter, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm that feels like you’ve known each other forever.

When he walks you back to your apartment, the air between you is warm, charged with something unspoken.

“Want to come up?” you ask, your voice soft, your eyes searching his.

He hesitates for half a second before nodding. “Yes.”

*-*

Your apartment is cozy, filled with little touches that are unmistakably you. Nanami takes it all in—your bookshelves, your mismatched throw pillows, the faint scent of vanilla in the air.

But then you’re there, standing close to him, your eyes meeting his, and everything else fades away.

The first kiss is tentative, a soft meeting of lips that quickly deepens as he pulls you closer, his hands resting on your waist. You sigh against him, your fingers threading through his hair, and he groans softly, losing himself in the warmth of you.

“Nanami,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to catch your breath.

“I hate you,” he says, his voice low, a teasing smile playing at his lips.

You laugh, your forehead resting against his. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to your lips. “I hate the way you consume my thoughts. I hate the way you make me feel so... so...”

“Alive?” you offer, grinning.

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the moment.

Before things can go further, your cat jumps onto the couch, meowing loudly, and you both break apart, laughing.

“Excuse me,” Nanami says, his voice soft but firm as he picks up the cat and carries it to another room. “We need privacy.”

When he returns, you’re still laughing, but he silences you with another kiss, his hands cradling your face.

Between kisses, he whispers things that make your heart ache in the best way.

“You drive me crazy... but I don’t want it to stop. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”

By the time the night ends, you’re both a mess of tangled limbs and whispered confessions, and for the first time in weeks, Nanami feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

A/N: sorryyy, this might be ooc for him? im unsure...

Masterlist.

:)

[sleep-0-deprived]

⋆˚࿔Brahms Heelshire thoughts~!𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Taglist: @asher-is-hotxp @unstab1eperson2 @kimisbunny @yyuinaa @silvern1006

A/N: jus some thoughts N’ personal feels bout one of ma fav boys, N’ written specifically for @creepy141dollie <33

𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚—𝜗𝜚

Personally I like thinkin Brahms S’ a big Ol baby, he’s touch starved at’ death N’ when you’re his new baby sitter all he can wonder as’ why’re you a boy? Where’s his nanny at…he’s silent as always creeping through in the walls just watchin the way you do things- he can’t deny how good ya are at all tha domestic stuff, house hubby material S’ what he first thought when he seen ya. You’re a sassy man he can tell that much bout you from the way you scold him and push out your bottom lip when lookin up at him, he doesn’t know how you made it past his old fashioned parents- maybe ya charms work on everyone.

Brahms S’ a total creep, he gives no privacy he stalks ya like a dog, he lurks even when ya ask him not to, he is obsessed all tha time- his infatuation holds no bounds N’ he isn’t afraid T’ watch your most intimate moments in tha shower or when you touch ya’self, Brahms hates when you lecture him, talkin bout how you wont let his cock near you sayin stuff like, “I only reward good boys” even tho knowin you, you’d start T’ feel bad N’ give into him by the end of the night— how could ya not with the way he begs you, his voice cracks N’ you can practically feel his tears behind that porcelain mask.

Bein his babysitter means giving up your life- he’s crazy N’ he’s toxic for you but you can’t bring yourself to leave him…you jus feel bad- he holds you an’ praises you like a god when he wants but he screams N’ throw fits over you when he’s upset— Y’ know you should runaway but you jus can’t- you’re in too far now anyway S’ why even bother to try N’ leave him? Ever since you took that job everything feels cold- the air, Your body N’ it’s all porcelain like, just like his mask. You used T’ love shopping but the most you do is go out into town T’ pick up groceries then ya go back to Brahms…that house has made you isolated from th’ world N’ Brahms doesn’t care at all, he jus wants you to himself.

Brahms is a manipulator, he uses your soft spots to get his ways, he promises all ya wanna hear jus to get you T’ stay. Brahms acts all innocent like he isn’t tha reason for your change in personality N’ he isn’t the reason you’re starting T’ slowly lose that sass, he’s worn ya down into a tired parent like person. Brahms uses his tears T’ wrap you around his finger knowin you can’t resist the way he clings to you like a god, Brahms worships the ground you walk on when you give him what he wants which is to ultimately have you forever.

Brahms S’ pent up all the time, sneakin off into your room when he needs tha love, not Carin bout anything jus getting your shorts down enough T’ shove his dick in ya while you sleepily hiss into the pillows whining bout how he’s bein rough- Brahms whimpers- he try’s ta be quiet but when your hole sucks him back N’ he loses it like a puppy poutin and moaning away on top of you clutching onto you hard while his hips erratically fuck you in ya sheets

Brahms fav position is cowgirl tho it should probably be cowboy W’ you on top- your hand gripping his shoulders working up N’ down taking his cock with ease while his eyes hold contact W’ yours- his breath is shaky N’ he can’t control how weak he feels but somethin bout his fave being covered starin into your soul the whole time has ya buckin down on his cock wildly “please- please, I need you, only you- just you- please” your body melted when those words left his mouth oh so pathetically- how could this be the same man who broke you down? How could he.. before you know it his semen S’ floodin inside you filling ya all full.

[rensukepie]

*ೃ༄ “i wanna ride!” (ride!)

┈─ ੈ✩‧₊˚ o. a

contains : face riding, aiku teases you with his stubble :;(, aiku’s nose hits your clit ^—^, cunnilingus :3, very shy reader, established relationship, pet names (doll, angel).

who is he to say no to his pretty girl when she wants to ride his face?

a/n : inspired by @aikuposer ‘s comment about his nose…

mdni (minors do NOT interact!!)

nsfw under the cut

“you’re very, very shy.” something that was said by multiple people, even aiku said it himself. you can’t really say your thoughts out loud to him, hell—you can’t say your thoughts out loud to anybody! you can’t say them without this flush coming to your face, sounds of your stutters flying out of your mouth.

“how can you not say your thoughts out loud? i’d talk and talk everyday if i had a boyfriend…” your friend said, lips going into a pout as she talks about not having a boyfriend.

“you know… you should reallyyy tell aiku about your thoughts.. especially about that one thing..” she smiles, bursting out laughing when she thinks about it.

gosh, you regret telling your friend about that now.

aiku had a bigger nose, and he’s just so, so handsome! you can’t really believe he’s your boyfriend sometimes, you wanna try something new with him in bed though, you’ve been thinking about it allll week already! the thought of his nose hitting your clit as you ride his face, his tongue licking at your cunt.

if only you weren’t so scared of talking about your feelings.

you knew that if you weren’t so scared, maybe you’d be more comfortable about talking about your desires for him, your needs for him.

“yeah, but what if he thinks it’s weird, what if i get dumped right there—“ you say worriedly before getting cut off.

“i can absolutely guarantee you he won’t find you weird…. c’mon! tell him tonight when he comes home from his soccer game or something!” your friend says in a convincing tone that always ends up working.

“okay.. i”lll try… but if it doesn’t go well, i’m blaming you.”

“and if it does go well, you better tell me everything!” your friend shouts, teasing you even more about your boyfriend before you head back home.

┈─ ੈ✩

you’re at home now, waiting for aiku to come home from his soccer game, cooking a quick meal before you head his key jingling from outside.

“hi aiku!” you say excitedly, turning off the stove before hugging him, the familiar scent of his cologne.“missed you so much…” you whine, your voice sweet like honey.

gosh—he loves when you get clingy like this! you’re so sweet to him, so good to him.

“missed you too, sweet girl…” he says, giving you a peck before heading to the shared room between the two of you.

┈─ ੈ✩

“aiku… wanna tell you something… just really quick! ‘s been on my mind all week..” you softly say, really hoping that he can’t hear the fast beating of your heart as he scrolls away watching those silly baby chick videos he always loved.

“hm? go ahead, pretty… i’ll listen to you.” he faces your face, burning red from what you’re about to say to him.

“i wanna try something new in bed…” you say, your face into his neck, a quiet tone when you speak to him.

“oh? what did you have in mind, angel?”

“i wanna ride your face… your nose would be hitting my clit… m’sorry if it’s weird aiku i—“

“oh fuck…” he groans, his cock hardening at your words. “well, who am i to deny my pretty girl for asking so nicely, right?”

┈─ ੈ✩

“a—aiku… ohh… mmf—!♡” you whimper softly, your clit hitting his nose as you grind your hips back and fourth. if you weren’t so shy, you would’ve done this before!

“hm? feels good, right? don’t gotta be so shy now, angel…” he murmurs softly, his hands wandering to both your hips and ass.

you can’t even hear what he’s even saying to you, but his voice is vibrating into your cunt with his little groans about how good you taste and it just feels so, so good to you! you bet he’s doing it just to tease you.

“y-you’re doing that on purpose—hah..! mmf—..” you moan again, but get caught off guard when you feel his stubble on your clit, the texture of it adding even more pleasure. “aiku—! f-feels s’good…mmf..—you’re teasing me..—♡”

he continues to tease you, his tongue going a bit faster at your cunt, your hip movements getting more lazy as the pleasure catches up to your body, the weird sensation on your clit.

“gonna give up on me now, doll? we’ve only just started…” he groans, the feeling of his lips smirking on your very soaked cunt.

“c—can’t take anymo— aiku! m’gonna cum! pleasepleaseplease—… mmf!…♡”

┈─ ੈ✩

“t-thank you aiku… s’good…. missed you, by the way..” you whisper as you wrap your arms around him on the bed, your fucked out state showing off. the one that aiku always saw when he made you feel good.

what a good boyfriend he is to take care of your needs.

[mrsmangi]

Hibiscus 🌺🌺🌺

late night call - luigi mangione

♡ flower prompt: hibiscus - the realization of a friendship becoming something more - meaning: in victorian times, the gift of a hibiscus bloom meant that the giver was acknowledging the receiver’s delicate beauty. ♡ w.c.: 1k ♡ a/n: hi, love! thank you so much for your request. srry for the delay, i'm a bit backed up with requests. she's a short one, but i hope you enjoy!

♡ send me a flower & i'll write a drabble based off the prompt ! ↪ prompts that have been requested

“Do you ever think people realize just how loud their ceiling fans are?” 

His voice comes through the phone, low and scratchy, like he’s been lying on his back for too long, staring at his own ceiling. You giggle softly, shifting against the pillow propped against your back. Your own fan spins above you, a rhythmic hum filling the space between his words and yours. 

“It’s white noise,” you say, quieter than usual. “After a while, you get used to it and stop hearing it.” 

“Mm, not tonight,” Luigi sighs. “It’s like the fan’s trying to keep me awake for as long as possible.”

You laugh again, a soft, breathy sound that feels just a bit too loud in the stillness of your room. It’s past midnight–long past the time you’d planned to be asleep–but this is how many of your nights with Luigi go. What starts with casual texts morphs into a phone call, then into hours of talking about nonsense; everything and nothing.

“Maybe it’s just your thoughts,” you tease. “What are the voices yelling at you about tonight?” 

He pauses on the other end of the line, just the faint sound of his breathing audible. You know Luigi well enough by now to know he’s not actively ignoring your question; he’s only deciding how much of himself to give away. 

“Life,” he answers lamely, though the vagueness of the reply altogether makes it clear there’s more to it than that. “Do you ever feel like no matter how much you do to succeed, it’s never enough?” 

You roll onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear. The dim glow of your bedside lamp casts uneven shadows against the wall. 

“All the time,” you reply honestly. “It gets exhausting, though. I feel like I’m just running a race no one even cares to watch.” 

He exhales, a sound that crackles through the receiver. When he speaks again, his voice carries the kind of understanding that comes from being seen. “Yeah. I get it.” 

The two of you fall into shared silence, the steady hum of your ceiling fan whispering across the line. You let yourself picture him for a moment–probably sprawled out on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. His phone would be balanced in his other hand. The image feels familiar, like something you’ve seen a thousand times before, even though you haven’t. 

“Can I ask you something?” His voice breaks the quiet.

“Always.” 

He’s quiet again, but you don’t rush him.

“Do you think…” He pauses again, and you can hear the shift of his breathing. “Do you ever think it’s possible for something to change without either person realizing it? Like, to wake up one day and feel like everything’s changed, even though nothing is actually different?” 

“Maybe,” you say cautiously, voice softer now. “Sometimes things can change so slowly you don’t even notice until it’s already different. Then, you find yourself wondering how long it’s been that way.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s exactly what I mean.” 

You stare up at the spinning fan, asking him, “What’s different, Luigi?” 

He doesn’t answer right away. His continuous pauses make you grow somewhat uneasy, stretching a distance between you. “Us,” he says. “I think we’re different.” 

You exhale slowly. “Different how?” 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But it’s like every time we talk, it feels different. More important, somehow, like there’s something there that wasn’t before.” He stops and you can nearly hear the way he’s turning the words over rin his head. “I used to just…enjoy talking to you, but now, it feels like I catch myself waiting for it. I’m counting down to the next time I’ll hear your voice. And when we’re not talking, I’m thinking about what I want to tell you the next time I see you, or wondering what you’re doing, or–” He breaks out into nervous laughter, cutting himself off. “Um, does any of that make sense or am I just rambling?” 

It makes perfect sense. Too much sense. Your heart picks up speed, the weight of his words pressing against the thoughts you’ve tried to push to the back of your mind. You notice it too. You’ve felt a change in the way you catch yourself thinking about him at odd moments–when a song reminds you of something he’s said, or when you replay the voice messages he sends just to hear his laugh on repeat. Tonight, he speaks heavier, like he’s cracked open a door you have both been staring at for weeks, maybe longer, unsure of who will turn the handle first. 

“It does,” you whisper. 

There’s a small, nearly imperceptible breath on his end, like he’s been holding it and didn’t even realize. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You chew on your bottom lip, letting the word sink in. “I didn’t know if I should say anything. I didn’t want to ruin what we have.” 

“Me neither,” he says, “but I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it. I do. All the time.” 

You close your eyes, the glow of the lamp behind your lids is a soft orange hue. “So, what now?” 

“I’m not sure,” he says. There’s no pretense, no cleverness to soften the edges of his words. “But maybe we can figure it out. Together.” He says his last word carefully, almost like it’s fragile–like it may break under the weight of its meaning if he doesn’t say it the right way. 

You hear him shift, the faint sound of fabric rustling through the receiver. It’s a small thing, but it makes the moment feel so real, tangible, like he’s not just a voice in the dark. You let his words settle over you. Luigi doesn’t have the answers to all your worries and neither do you. But, it feels comforting somehow–to know that he’s with you in this journey, and you with him. 

“Okay,” you say. A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You know he can hear it, even if he can’t see it. Your heart is full of love for this boy as you exhale: “Together.”

[soobnny]

we'll never have sex — changbin x reader ; established relationship & hurt/comfort (1.2k words)

there is nothing more beautiful than the promise of love even if you cannot guarantee or give that certain level of intimacy just yet

for my girls with a complicated relationship w sex & yes this is based off of leith ross’ song

Facetimes with Changbin always last longer than they should. 

Had it been anyone else, the call would’ve dropped more than an hour ago. You’d have been found guilty for finding any excuse to warrant you some silence–the slightest tinge of awkwardness, the moment conversation runs out, faking plans.

Never with Changbin.

The static of phone calls stretch on, neither of you having moved much. You can’t remember how long it’d been since either of you said something, but you’ve never minded. The quiet that came with your boyfriend had always felt comfortable. Almost safe.

In your periphery, just at the top most right of your screen, you can see him sprawled across his bed, signature hoodie to match the boyfriend look, and fingers lazily scrolling through his phone. 

“Still awake, baby?” His voice breaks the silence, teasing almost, but still gentle. 

“Mhm.” You hum, shifting in your position a little. “But ‘m a little sleepy.”

“You should go to bed.”

“No.” Changbin chuckles at your refusal, deep and raspy through the phone. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, distinguishably fond even with the poor quality of the video.

For a second, you allow yourself to just watch the boy–his glazed eyes, the softness in his features accentuated by the low light of his room, the warmth of his smile. 

Almost safe. Almost reassuring. 

You wonder if it’s all a facade, wonder when he’d finally break, wonder when he’d leave you because you refuse to let him do anything beyond a kiss. Maybe no amount of love, even from the right person like Changbin, will ever be enough to change that.

You try to scold yourself. Self-destructing thoughts are too familiar, they reverberate in your head like you’d been thinking about it for a while, like they’d been practiced and practiced until permanently tattooed. 

The tears come without warning, mid-scolding. Big and heavy and warm. They pool at the edges of your version, and it makes you feel pathetic that you hurry to press the sleeve of your hoodie against your face. 

Changbin notices immediately.

“Hey.” his voice sharpens, the playful edge he’d been sporting earlier gone in a split second. “(Name)? Baby, hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, and oh god, he’s going to leave you. He’s going to leave you because you’re such a crybaby, and anyone with a normal fucking mind wouldn’t do this to him. Anyone under normal—kinder—circumstances wouldn’t think like this. 

“Baby.” He tries again, softer this time. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat tightens around something akin to a lump. You try to swallow it down. 

“Why’re you crying? What’s wrong?” 

There’s a long pause before you finally speak.

“What if I… what if…” You start, voice barely above a whisper. You don’t know how to continue, words disjointed and dismembered. “If I said you could never touch me, would you still want to be with me?”

Changbin pauses for a fraction of a second, eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion. But you go on, inundating him with the fears that have spent your entire life trying to catch up with you.

“I can’t give you what you want. It’s what you want, isn’t it? Would you still stay with me even if I told you that I never want to have sex?”

The boy’s expression softens immediately. He can hear his own heart break at how fragile you sound, at how shattering it is to look at your tear-streaked face through a screen, at the things that could’ve transpired for you to think that he’d ever leave you because of that, just because of something so menial to him in a relationship.

“Of course I’ll stay.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “That doesn’t change anything.”

His words are meant to be comforting, the small but sure smile on his lips should’ve been enough to return your peace, but instead, the tears well up again. Heavier this time. 

“Wait. Wait, wait—hold on.” His face suddenly disappears off the screen as he fumbles with his phone. He sounds rushed. “I’m… I can’t just look at you cry and not do anything about it.”

Then the call ends.

It isn’t until fifteen minutes later when a sudden knock on your door shakes you from your self-pity do you see him again. And he’s standing there, slightly out of breath, the same hoodie you’d seen earlier half-zipped with his hair tousled from the cold wind outside. 

“Binnie.” Your voice cracks. “What are you doing here?”

Changbin doesn’t say anything at first, just allows himself to look at you—eyes tracing over the tear stains on your cheeks, and the way you’re hugging yourself with the sleeves of one of his jackets. 

Then, without a word, he slips a hand beneath your jaw, tilting your face to look you in the eyes. His palms on your skin feel warm, calloused but gentle as he cradles you in his hands. “I think…” He pauses. 

A heartbeat passes.

“I think you look lovely.” He murmurs, tone low and gentle, abating the tempestuous anxieties swelling in the pit of your stomach. “And I love you. Not because of what you think I’m expecting from you, but because I love you. The entirety of you.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck as an ugly sob escapes your throat. The tears spill over again, faster, and you feel so ridiculous for crying even more in front of him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I— I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He pulls back, leaning in to press a kiss to your wet cheeks. His voice is firm, but not unkind. Never unkind. And his eyes held no hesitation, no flicker of doubt in the way he’s looking at you right now. “Did I say anything to make you feel this way?”

Changbin tries to hide how he feels about his question, like he could never imagine being the reason why you’re sobbing like this.

“No, oh my god. Binnie, no. It’s not you.” 

“Okay, it’s not me.” His voice is still kind, relieved. “I’m never expecting anything from you, okay?”

And just as gentle as he’s holding you, he kisses you. Nothing desperate, nothing hurried even. Just slow and lingering, like he’s savoring the moment for exactly what it is. He isn’t kissing you to take you to bed, not to ask for anything more, not even to change your mind.

Changbin kisses you just to kiss you. 

Just to hopefully show you that he means everything he said to you. 

“I’ll take care of you.” His fingers thread through your hair. “I love you.”

Quietly, tiredly, you start to show a small smile. “Thank you.”

Loving you is so easy for Changbin. Like second nature. Like falling in love with your laughter, and the little parts of you that make up your sum. And you’re aware that it’s going to take time to heal yourself—that it won’t be so easy all the time, that there will be days like these again, but you also know enough that he is genuine and that he loves you with no expectations even if it’s hard to believe sometimes.

Seo Changbin loves you with every bit of conscience he was born with. He loves you simply. 

You stay like this for a while. Safe. Reassuring. Until you feel the sickness less and less.

[regressionschool]

"Waiting"

You lean against the window, knees pressing softly into the cushion of the loveseat. The faint rustle of your diaper accompanies every small shift of your weight, a reminder of your predicament. Outside, the world goes on as if nothing is unusual, sunlight filtering through the trees and cars humming in the distance. But inside, it feels like time has slowed to a crawl.

You glance back over your shoulder, hoping to hear the familiar sound of the door opening. But the house remains quiet. Too quiet. You fidget, biting gently on your pacifier, its rubbery texture grounding you just enough to keep the nerves at bay. You try not to think about how far you've let yourself fall into this role, how your day now revolves around waiting. Waiting for him. Waiting for your "Daddy" to come home and take control.

And then there’s the other feeling—an undeniable warmth spreading, so subtle at first you almost don’t notice. But now, it’s unmistakable, a gentle squish as the padding beneath your onesie grows heavier, soggier. You didn’t even try to stop it, did you? No, it just happened, without any real thought or effort on your part. You shift slightly, testing the new fullness, cheeks burning at how much you’ve given into this side of yourself. The soft scent of baby powder still lingers faintly, mixing with something more telling.

Your hands grip the windowsill now, knuckles brushing the cool glass. You wonder how he’ll react when he gets home and sees you like this. Will he tease you for your impatience? Or maybe pull you close, pat your bottom with that knowing grin? The anticipation makes your tummy flutter, and you press your forehead against the window, trying to steady yourself.

But for now, all you can do is wait…

[almostmylove]

SNEAK PEEK(wip) not sure if should continue it.

A binding ring

Part 1

Damien Wayne x reader

Synopsis: after Damien leaves most of his life in the assassin league he forgets one thing, his fiancée, you.

Warning: my spelling is bad and English is not my first language. Unrequired love.( I’m trying to improve my writing)

Damien Wayne was many things. a son, a brother, demon assassin, robin and even an enemy but to you , he was your fiancée and your love.

You two had known each other since birth and you attribute that to the fact that your mother and Talia had been “pregnant” about the same time and due to…surcomstance ,you to were promised to each other.

Grow up as his fiancee was tough due to the training that was mandated from both sides of the family to be able to qualified to be with him. You cuddled up to his mother pretty quickly, seeing her as a aunt and it seemed that she liked you too even tho she could be cold when she wanted to.

Damien on the other hand ,He didn’t like you so much, he really didn’t and you were fine with that since love in the legue was a seen a weakness but there was one problem.

You loved damien.

You loved him more than anything in the world. You didn’t know it was because of his skill, position or even personality but you just love him.

When you were young you would follow him around everywhere like a lost puppy and many times it would annoy him to the point were he would yell at you or even fight you.

The bruises, the endless silent cries didn’t stop you, you were ready to follow him to the moon and back if successor you had to so Image your surprise when Damien, the future leader of the legue of the assassins didn’t come back with his mother after rah al ghul had been murder by slade.

You were confused. Maybe a little heart broken that he left you behind but you were a romantic ( something he never understood ) so You asked around. No matter how hard you tried the only answer you got was “ it’s not your business” or “ go ask Talia , she’s the one who knows” and you did.

You were sure she wasn’t going to say anything so why in the hell were you outside of the Wayne mansion!

You stare at the white double doors, taking a minute to take everything in. The mansion was beautiful, with a magnificent garden right behind you and the way the soft yellowish night lights lit up the trees and surrounding area was the piniful of rich money( tho it wasn’t anything that was out of your league) it still managed to amaze you.

You knock on the door, your knuckles white with strain as the sudden quietness fills your ears, waiting for someone, something to fill the blank space.

You stand there awkwardly until you hear the soft and turn of the golden handle. Quickly you straight your outfit which was personal picked by Talia, a white almost dress like with golden accents that looks like it was made for a goddess( your hair accessories in a similar way).

The door opens and your are surprised to see an old man? Maybe a butler base of his clothing, that is now looking at you curiously with a prominate eyebrow raised.

Before you can say anything he speaks up first with proper but heavy British accent.

“ good evening young miss, what may I help you with this fine evening? He enquires , staring down at you . It’s only there when you realize how small you are compared to the aged butler.

You clear your throat. “ I’m looking for Damien Al ghul? Is he around here?” You shift to either side of your feet, your gaze pushing past the side of the butler and onto the hallway behind him trying to peak to see a glimpse of him.

Your vision is interrupted by the door sliding to side which makes you look up at the figure was standing in the way. It seems like the butler had no plans in letting you in . You had to find a way to let him in?( maybe by telling him your relationship with Damien?)

“ excuse me miss?” His voice interrupted your thoughts. “ but I’m curious. Who are you? And why have you come to find master Damien ?”

Perfect!

You stand up straight, lifting your head and the sides of your dress before showing curtíos bow. “ my name is [ name][last name] , i come from one of the branching clans of the league of assassins and current finance of Damien al ghul”

Perfect! You nailed your introduction! You high-fived yourself mentally and by the look of surprise on the butler face it seems he agreed too.

With any other greeting you would try to mask were you came from but Talia had already told you much about them including their nightly activities so it was only fair if they knew too. Worst case scenario the butler would know nothing about the league of assasins and would think you were crazy. Yet it seemed your speculation was right.

“ Damien’s fiancée you say.” The speculation and suspicion in his tone of voice was expected but hearing those words from him was a joy, it was an acknowledgement of your statues with Damien and your future.

“ why don’t we discuss this over tea” he offered, a slight smile on his wrinkled face.

“ of course, I would love to” a bit surprised by his offer but you would never decline an opportunity to talk about him

Carefully he guides you inside , never leaving your side and showing a small tour.

“ what’s your name good sir?”

He chuckled slightly before answer “ you can call me Alfred”

“ so you like tea right? What’s your favorite type”

“ I have quite the pallet for black tea.”

“Quite sophisticated I must say, a classic”

Say miss [name] have you tried cucumber sandwiches ?

“ I don’t think so? Are they good?”

“ i personally like them but you’ll have to try them yourself”

“I’m looking forward to it!”

The soft hum on the car engine runs thru the walls of the enclosure vehicle, only helping to fill the tense awkward atmosphere.

It wasn’t too often where the whole family is in the bat mobile after a mission. It was awkward and everyone knew it, Being crapped in a car that mainly only seated 2 people ( 4 max).

Jason sighs. His face facing the side window, a way of not facing anyone he didn’t want to talk to. Dick in the other hand tried to make conversation with just about anyone, talking about the mission they just completed.

It had been a while since he come to Gotham from blodhaven. He told them is was for a mission that lead him here but being honest he just wanted to check up on his family.

Jason on the other hand wanted nothing to do with them. It was purely by accident that he stumbled onto the battle and (hesitantly) decided to help and here he was now.

Tim as silent as ever, concentrated on something in his tablet.

Damien and Bruce where still aloof as ever, showing no other expression that doesn’t show how though they are.

The car ride was silent until a ring shined , shining on the center screen. The name displayed [alfred] caught the attention of almost everyone in the car.

“ answer” Bruce command with a low and smooth voice.

Damien looked away in disinterest in whatever the butler had to say, the car ride was going to be quick!so couldn’t it had waited.

“ what is it Alfred” he waited for the butler to answer, while keeping his eyes on the road as he took a sharp turn. Dick in the back saying a quick hi to Alfred that didn’t go unnoticed.

“ we have company “ he says, his thick accent turning and moving in cursive.

“ who is it Alfred? Just send them away until tomorrow. ” he commands dismissive

Alfred on the side of the screen , clears his throat as if preparing for the next sentence.

“ I can’t master Bruce. It’s an important acquaintances of master Damien”. Damien who was solum and disinterested now has straighter up , now having his ears perked up with a questionable look.

“ what do you mean Alfred? Tell who it is?” His voice is high pitch and reaping with answers? Who’s would visit him at this time and what did they need.

Dick who was listening in shimes in with excitement. “ a friend of Damien’s? I would like to meet them!” He says with a bright smile that is almost blinding.

“ Damien? Friends? That’s a first.” He chuckles mockingly.

The short boy in the front seat scouls, ready to bite back but stops short at the voice of his father.

“Quite.” He glares to the people in the back seat before turning his attention back up front l”Alfred we will be there in five”

“ right at it. Dinner should be ready by then Il see you until then” the old man mentions before hanging up the call.

Once the beep of the call ended question filled the car, mostly directed towards the boy. Not knowing the answers he stayed quiet only answering in a “ we will see soon enough” before turning his head back to the window. The tapping of his gloved fingers on his thighs didn’t go unnoticed by his brooding father.

Closing into the bat-cave , past the hidden sewer and into the long futuristic tunnel everyone held their breath. Specifically Damien who now was more curious then before.

The car raced foward finally landing on a rotating piece that spun them around, their back faced away from the entrance before they could see anything.

Everyone off loads from the car, the first one being Damien. You watch from above the railing in the batcave as he gets out looking around curiously for anyone and taking the opportunity you pounce on him before his vision darts upwards making both of you land on the ground.( him accidentally cusenishg you fall)

[sammyluvr]

✶ the object of his affections — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, sunshine!reader, fluff, lawyer!sam, talk of feeling unloved, unedited, 1K words. requested ! for my 900 followers event [ closed ] .

prompt : in the patch of sunlight cast through a window + “you’re loved.” “but how do you know?” “because i love you.”

you’re not yourself today, that much is apparent to sam as you stand at the window, bathed in early evening sunlight. most days, the soft light on your face would make you smile. you’d look out at the hills and grin at the sight, even if you see them most days. and somehow, your face would become ever brighter when you hear his dress shoes clacking against the marble on the third floor of the courthouse and turn to see that it’s him.

he’s glad to see that you perk up just a bit at the sight of him still. he likes the way your eyes look when they catch the sunlight for a moment as you turn. they look a little sad, maybe run down, today. he’d like to fix that, though he’ll have to pry it out of you somehow. sam has a feeling that quiet you is the complete opposite of your normal talkative self, and it won’t be easy to get you to tell him what’s bothering you.

if only a love confession could lift your spirits; he’s been working up the courage as he’s gotten to know you. he’s a young lawyer, but a skilled one, and you’re working your way up, interning here for the semester. you’re professional when needed, but outside of that you’re sweet and nerdy and always happy to talk his ear off.

right now, your face is missing that bubbly smile he so loves to see, though he can’t deny that your subtler, softer one is quite pretty too. another day, you might bound up to him with news of something from earlier in the day. this time, you let him approach you the whole way, eyes staring back outside by the time he’s leaning against the windowsill. the fabric of his smart, well fitting black blazer brushes against your light blue button up. a little closer, and his shoulder would be pressed right into yours.

“something special out the window today?” he asks, mostly teasing and voice quiet to match your mood. there’s something special standing at the window, that’s for sure. you are very special to him. all four hands resting on the ledge are cast in shadow from the way the sun hangs in the sky, but your faces are lit. he’s not even looking out the window to see what you might be peering at so intently; his eyes are on you. your nose looks pretty in this lighting, he thinks. all of you looks just lovely.

“no,” you murmur, the word almost leaving your lips as a sigh, “nothing special.” your voice falls a little flat, almost as if you’re a bit upset that there isn’t anything special, or maybe that you can’t seem to find anything that feels that way right now.

will it cheer you up if he tells you he’s pretty confident he’s going to win his case? you always seem so happy for him when he succeeds in even the smallest of things. but he frets that you’ll just feel like you have to act glad for his sake, so he thinks he won’t say anything about it until he’s sure you’re feeling better.

his pinky is so close to yours. he wants to touch you, be as near to you as he can, all the time. silence reigns for a few long moments. most people have left the building for the day by now.

“can i tell you something sort of pathetic?” you ask quietly, almost out of the blue if he hadn’t caught the sound of you breathing in before you spoke. he likes the sound of you breathing in. out, too.

“you can tell me anything. i’m sure it’s not pathetic,” he murmurs. the look on your face tells him that you still think that it is.

it takes you another moment or two to feel composed and unashamed enough to actually let it out of your mouth. it’s very soft when you say it, nearly drowned out by the sound of footsteps down the hall. it’s not late enough that everyone’s gone. but sam leans in close, and he has a certain affinity for your voice. his ears tend to filter out all else when you speak.

“i’m having a bit of trouble feeling loved,” you whisper. his heart aches. you’re the most loveable person he knows. but everyone feels that way sometimes, he supposes, including you. he thinks you deserve to never feel that way, though, out of everyone that he knows. “i- i know i am, but i… i’m having a hard time feeling like it right now.” 

besides the pang in his chest, he feels honored you’d tell him something so vulnerable and intimate. “that’s alright,” he says, very gentle. “knowing isn’t the same as feeling, and it’s not your fault if you’re having trouble feeling it.” he knows that sometimes all you need is to hear it from someone else. sometimes you need a reminder from someone other than yourself. so, he tells you, “you’re loved.” he sounds very confident and sure of it. he leans over, the side of his head pressing against the cold glass as he tries to meet your eyes.

those words wash over you, and he’s right that you need to hear them, but you’re still sort of unconvinced. “but how do you know?” you ask, avoiding eye contact. you feel a bit ashamed to ask it, but you’re still in need of reassurance. you expect him to give it through compliments; he knows because you’re nice, you’re pleasant to be around, you’re smart. “because i love you,” he says instead, and frankly it gives you quite the little shock. you finally meet his gaze and there’s no doubt that he really, really means it. the way he looks at you fixes it all. there’s no second guessing whether or not you feel loved in this moment, because his face tells you that he loves with all that he has, and you are the object of his affections.

[hergrandplan]

(after that 'tidal waves' chapter i fear asking for this but)

'Break Me' -> Wilmon

Leave a "Break me" in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble.

My dearest Jay. I am... so sorry it took me almost half a year to get to this. It kind of got lost in my inbox and then I had other things taken up my attention but hey it happens! (to me. often.)

Also because originally this was going to be longer, but as I was rereading this just now, I realized that anything I wrote after this kinda took away from the first half of the story, made it less impactful. So, after 6 months, here it is!

“Simon!” Wille shouts, pounding at the door with his fists again. His knuckles feel raw, beaten, but he keeps going, unable to stop.

His banging echoes through the gallery, loud and frantic. It’s probably, no, definitely, too loud for this time of night. He wouldn’t be surprised if a neighbor came up to him telling him to stop, or even call the police on him. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if he wakes up the neighbors or the whole building or the whole fucking world. He just needs Simon to answer him.

“Simon!” he yells again, before leaning his head against the front door and stuttering out a broken ‘please’.

Wille knows he’s in there. Sure, the lights are off, and sure, no sound has come from inside the apartment, but it’s 3 am and even if he has woken Simon up, he’s probably ignoring him.

Which, all things considered, is only fair.

Wille turns around and slides down the door, his head coming to a rest against the cool wood.

It’s quiet, the peace of the night returning now that he’s no longer screaming at the top of his lungs. He’ll have to apologize to the neighbors – or the world – tomorrow. Now though, now he just wants Simon.

A warm tear tracks down the side of his face. Wille knows Simon has all the rights in the world to ignore him, but a part of him had really hoped that maybe this once, he would answer him. But why would he? Wille had lost all rights to Simon when they broke up a month ago, when they realized that this, them, simply wasn’t working anymore the way it should. The way it did.

It’s strange to think how a month ago, if he had been feeling like this, he would have just used the key Simon had given him, walked inside and crawled into bed with Simon without thinking twice. He would have wrapped his arms around Simon, squeezing him tight, and if Simon had woken up, Simon would have just turned over and smiled, maybe given him a soft kiss, a welcome home – even if both of them knew this wasn’t his home –, before drifting back to sleep.

It would’ve been so easy.

Everything used to be easier.

Wille closes his eyes and leans back against the door.

He needs Simon. He needs Simon to answer him and open up the door and just, for one night, to look at him again. Needs to hear him, see him, smell and feel him, even if it’s just one more time. Mostly, Wille needs him to hold him so he can finally fall asleep.

Wille is exhausted. His whole body feels heavy, and all he wants to do is sleep, but he can’t. Not even here, against the wood of his ex-boyfriend’s door, when his eyes are doing everything in their power to stay open, he can’t.

He lets out another truly desperate please, for no one to hear except the stars. And they don’t seem to care.

Maybe being against the door is enough. Simon has touched this door, this wood. It’s his door. Wille grimaces at how he sounds. His door. As if it could contain any piece of Simon. As if anything at all could contain the bright sun that had lit up his life for two years.

Two whole fucking years.

Wille closes his eyes, right as footsteps sound through the gallery. He doesn’t pay it much attention – it’s probably one of Simon’s neighbors coming in from a night out. Or finally that one neighbour asking him to shut up.

They’ll pass by, probably write him off as some drunken sleeper. They come closer and closer, and then,

“Wille?” Oh. That’s not some drunk neighbour. Though he hasn’t heard that voice in a month, he would recognize it anywhere. He could pick it out anywhere. Even in a crowd of thousands, he’d always find him.

Wille opens his eyes and only to find himself looking right at Simon, hovering over him, arms crossed and staring at the pathetic figure Wille must be making.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He sounds cold, angry but Wille hears the nervous edge in his voice. Simon tries his best to hide it but Wille knows Simon. He knows what concern looks like on his face, how his brows knit together, how his jaw trembles, how his eyes ever so slightly widen. Fuck, Wille can even see his hand twitching, wanting to reach out, and Wille both wishes that he fucking would or that he wouldn’t. And he doesn’t know if he’s happy when it remains by Simon’s side, or devastated.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that leaves Wille’s mouth, once he has finally managed to talk past the lump in this throat. It’s a thousand apologies, all at once.

I’m sorry for showing up at your doorstep like this.

I’m sorry for not leaving you alone like you asked me to.

And, of course, I’m sorry for ever hurting you.  

“What are you doing here?” Simon simply repeats, mouth now drawn in a scowl, his arms crossed, every part of him telling Wille to leave.

Fuck, Wille almost does. He’s never had Simon look at him like that, all his anger directed towards him, and it hurts. Simon used to look at him with love and adoration, as if Wille was someone worth looking at.

“I can’t sleep,” Wille admits, his voice trembling. He hates having to admit this, hates that he can’t just be normal and move on. “Please, Simon, I know it’s a lot to ask but I can’t sleep without you.”

He used to fall asleep so easily when he was with Simon. He’d gotten used to the way their bodies fit together, always touching somehow. He fell asleep so easily and quickly with Simon beside him. Now, he’s lucky if he gets a few hours.

“Can I stay here? Tonight?”

Wille braces himself, expecting Simon to send him away – he wouldn't blame him. It's a lot to ask, and Wille wishes he didn't have to ask. But he needs this – he needs sleep, and even more importantly, he needs Simon.

But then, Simon’s shoulders slump. “Sure,” he sighs, closing his eyes as if he can’t quite believe he just said yes. Wille definitely can’t believe it, but the sigh that leaves his mouth is one of utter relief. “Yes. You can stay.”

Send me a prompt from this list and get a little story!

[kryllia]

Strings of Obsession

Yanndere guitarist x reader

art from pinterest

The spotlight bathed the stage in a warm glow, illuminating the band as they launched into their opening number. My eyes were drawn to the lead guitarist, his fingers dancing across the fretboard with effortless grace. He was a whirlwind of energy, his grin infectious as he poured his heart into every note. When his eyes met mine across the crowd, he faltered—just for a moment. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before his smile grew sharper, almost predatory.

His name was Eli. After the set, he approached me with a mix of boyish enthusiasm and something darker. “Did you like it? Did you have a favorite part?” he asked, his golden eyes locking onto mine like a hunter cornering prey. There was a magnetic pull to him, and I felt myself nodding along, unable to look away.

Over the next few months, Eli wove himself into my life with deliberate precision. He invited me to every gig, insisting I sit front and center. He’d send me voice memos of riffs he wrote “just for me” and pouted if I took too long to reply to his texts. It was flattering… but it was intense.

One evening, after a performance that left the room thrumming with energy, Eli dragged me to their cramped rehearsal space. The air was thick with the smell of old amps and cigarette smoke, and I perched on a sagging couch as they played. Every time Eli nailed a solo, he’d glance at me, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk.

“Did you hear that? All for you,” he whispered, his voice dripping with unspoken meaning.

His bandmates – Liam on bass and Noah on drums – teased him relentlessly. “Dude, you’re gonna write her a whole album,” Liam snorted, strumming his bass absentmindedly.

Eli didn’t deny it. Instead, his eyes glinted as he looked at me. “Maybe I already have.”

"Oh good maybe it will be new hit dude. Maybe I can add some my own love songs." Noah thinks about new album and wathing you.

Later that night, as he walked me home, his arm draped possessively around my shoulders, a group of guys passed us on the sidewalk. One of them lingered a moment too long, his gaze sliding over me appreciatively. Eli’s grip tightened, his knuckles brushing against my arm in a silent warning.

“You’re cold,” he said abruptly, slipping his jacket over my shoulders. His voice was low, almost tender, “You look better in this than I do,” he murmured, but his eyes stayed locked on the group until they disappeared around the corner.

From then on, Eli’s possessiveness deepened. If someone at a gig so much as smiled at me, he’d appear at my side, his arm around my waist, announcing himself as “her boyfriend” in a tone that left no room for debate. He’d kiss my temple, murmur how much I meant to him, and shoot venomous glares at anyone who dared linger.

One night, after a particularly packed show, Liam offered me a ride home while Eli packed his gear. As I started to follow Liam out, Eli appeared in my path, his expression dark.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice low and taut.

“Liam offered me a ride,” I said, confused by his sudden tension.

“I’ll take you home,” he said flatly. His hand clamped around mine with a strength that made my heart stutter. Liam raised his eyebrows but didn’t protest, leaving me alone with Eli’s smoldering presence.

The walk was tense, Eli unusually quiet. When we reached my doorstep, he turned to me, his expression raw with emotion. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?” His voice was low, trembling. “Promise me you’ll always stay with me.”

The words didn’t feel like a plea—they felt like a threat.

Days later, Eli invited me to his apartment. It was cluttered but cozy, an intimate window into his chaotic world. But when he led me into his bedroom, my breath caught. The walls weren’t just covered in posters of bands—they were covered in pictures of me.

Photos I didn’t remember posing for. Photos from angles I couldn’t have noticed. Some were printed from my social media, but others… others were taken when I wasn’t looking.

“I wanted to keep you close,” he said, his voice soft but laced with something unyielding. He stepped closer, cupping my face with calloused hands. “You’re mine, aren’t you? Say you’re mine.”

I stammered something, my mind racing for an escape. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Over the following weeks, Eli became omnipresent. He’d appear at places I hadn’t told him I’d be. His texts came in waves—affectionate, frantic, demanding. His gifts became lavish: jewelry, custom-written songs, a notebook filled with sketches of me.

Then came the darker moments. His frustration when I spent time with others. The way his smile never quite reached his eyes when he saw me with Liam.

The breaking point came one night at a café. Liam and I were discussing a project when Eli walked in. His presence was like a shadow overtaking the room. He slid into a chair uninvited, his gaze fixed on Liam with quiet menace.

Liam left quickly, leaving me alone with Eli’s simmering anger. “Why him?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

“We were just working—”

“You could’ve asked me to help,” he interrupted, leaning closer. His hand found mine, his grip vice-like. “I don’t like sharing you.”

When I tried to pull away, his fingers tightened. “Eli, you’re hurting me,” I whispered.

His face crumpled in remorse, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t fade. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “I just… I love you so much. Too much, maybe.”

That night, I received a text from him: “You’re mine. I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

The next morning, I woke to find my apartment filled with roses. Hundreds of them. My phone buzzed with another message: “You deserve the world. And I’ll give it to you—even if it kills me.”

A knock sounded at the door. My heart raced as I approached, but I knew who it would be.

Eli stood there, a bouquet in one hand and a knife in the other. His smile was heartbreakingly tender, his eyes glowing with devotion.

“Let’s make it official,” he said, stepping inside.

[yeonmuse]

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ Curtain Call ·˚ ༘

ᥫ᭡ f!reader x lee heeseung ── 𝒢enre. Uni au. fluff, non idol enha. feats. ot7 [reqs are open] ᝰ.ᐟ 𝓁ibrary 🪷

authors notes This is a follow up to Heeseungs side story in Can You Hear My Heart. It takes place directly after the final chapter of Jungwons Mini Series. This is not a Hee X Reader series, but if youd like to replace the characters name with your own feel free to. This is part of admins University series

IN WHICH 𖤓 Heeseung has a thing for the theaters golden girl, he’s been crushing on her for months. He’s got it so bad for her that he somehow lets Jake talk him into attending auditions just to get closer to her.

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Quiet on set

The hell-like weekend had finally ended and it was now time to get back to classes and rehearsals. The fact that so much had happened in the timespan of just two days still completely shocked sakoia, obviously life was unpredictable and moved fast but she had never expected her weekend to turn out as it had. In two days alone she had met a new friend and lost her due to her being a complete snake.

Aside from the agonizing events of the weekend Sakoia did find herself smiling at the thought of Heeseung going out of his way just to make sure she knew he wasn’t an asshole. Though as quick as the smoke spread across her face it went away, she wouldn’t allow herself to sit and swoon over someone so easily. Though he made it hard, the last 2 months since Jungwons party, any time she’d seen him around or conversed with him he always had this way of making her laugh or smile. The confidence and charm he held could obviously draw a woman in, but it made her feel so easy how simple it was for him to worm his way into her thoughts.

She had been completely lost in her thoughts of the events from last night. She hadn’t realized Heeseung creeping up at her side as she walked.

“Lost in your pretty thoughts so early in the morning?” His voice snapped her back to her senses , warning a smile from Heeseung when she actually made eye contact with him.

“Mm thinking about everything that happened over the weekend, it was a complete shitshow.” Heeseung chuckles seemingly unbothered by the mention of the events, as long as she had forgiven him he truly didn’t care about anything else that had happened over the weekend.

“Mm yeah, ill have to find some sort of way to make it up to Nezz, since it was partially my fault her night was kind of spoiled.”

“Mm don’t worry too much about it, she knows it wasn’t your fault, her and Yuan were completely understating everything once I told them why you blew up like that, we all thought..”

“You thought?”

“We thought that maybe she was just a fling to you, earlier that night Nezza had said that you were the type to mess around, that you don’t usually date.” The tension in the air grew thick as the words left her mouth, she usually wasn’t the type to pre judge but the events of that night had her convinced that it was true up until he explained it all to her. As much as she hated it though, there was part of her that was still holding onto those words, wondering if they were true.

“She was right.” Sakoia felt her stomach twist in knotts at his response.

“She was right about back then yeah, way before, before a few months ago I couldn’t bother dating anyone, didn’t trust anyone enough to date them so yeah there were a few i did have flings with but, wasn’t exactly for me.”

“Is it because of her, Rena?”

“She’s part of the reason yeah, after that it was always hard for me to trust anyone so I steered away from the relationships and titles, though now I’ve had my eye on someone for a while now, been trying to get close to her, she’s the only one I’m really interested in dating.” There was a subtle silence between the two, she seemed lost in thought but all he could do was stare at her as they walked, all he could do was admire how beautiful she looked when she was lost in her own head.

The two of them eventually arrived at the auditorium, sheltered from the cold outside, and engulfed into the warmth of the building. This was their first official practice since the roles had been announced, and thankfully Heeseung wasn’t as nervous as before. Having spent more time with her he was now a lot more confident and comfortable in the role when it came to scenes with her.

Sakoia found heels watching him as he took off his jacket and threw it onto a seat in the front row. She found heels a little distracted after hearing his words earlier, so he was interested in someone. She was forced to come to her senses as the rest of the cast started sauntering into the auditorium, and the two were no longer alone.

For the first time since she started acting she found herself somewhat distracted when she’d look at him. Whether it was her trying to figure out who he had his eyes on, or her trying to distract herself from the fact that she did in fact find him attractive.

Meanwhile all Heeseung could think about was her, how pretty she looked, how angelic her voice sounded as she delivered her lines. The way her nose scrunched up whenever she was deep into her thoughts in between scenes. She was all that he saw.

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🔖 @sol3chu @butterflywonz @jwonistic @squiishymeow @river-demon-slayer @lillotus17 @dreeki @jiamini @st4rryst4r @firstclassjaylee @right-person-wrong-time @pkjay

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: On your fifth birthday, the world fell apart, and survival became the only thing that mattered. That day, your dad saved you from more than just the chaos outside—he protected you from a truth you weren’t ready to face, even as it shattered the life you once knew.

warnings: parent death

It’s funny–even now, after all this time, you can still remember that day vividly. The day fungus infiltrated every corner of your life. But you do still have faint memories of before, too. Like static while turning for a radio station. They came and went as time passed, flickers of things, but never as vivid as the life after the outbreak. Memories of the TV blaring Sunday football, cookouts with the neighbors, your mom brushing your hair before school were the most foggy, but they were still there. Back then, you never realized how much you’d taken those things for granted. But how could you know? You were only a kid.

It was your fifth birthday when everything changed. That’s the day you found your mom too—the same day the military rolled into your small town, scooping up survivors and making promises of safety in quarantine zones, military aid, and FEDRA housing. News had been broadcasting for weeks about these safety zones, but even at five years old, you didn’t buy it. Maybe you were too much like your dad even then. Luckily, you’d been at his house that weekend–mom and dad had been divorced for years by then, though she still lived nearby. You were out back, dad grilling burgers just for the two of you, with ice cream cake waiting in the fridge. You can still smell those burgers—he had this way of getting the perfect char, never overdone but always juicy and mouthwatering.

There had been a lot of sirens that day, but if your dad was worried, he didn’t show it. He was tough as nails—always had been. When the military trucks started rolling through the neighborhood, though, he scooped you up and hurried you into the bunker beneath the house. The blue emergency lights flickered on, casting everything—the wall of guns, the bookshelves of survival guides, pickling recipes, and how-to’s—in cold, sterile light.

“Daddy, what’s—” you’d started to ask, but he pressed a finger to his lips, guiding you further into the cellar. He settled into his big, well-worn security chair, just as the sound of boots thundered above you. He watched the security footage from the cameras that could see the perimeter of your home, his eyes casting around at the screens, watching the men in uniform enter the house. You held your breath as his hand tightened around yours. Then, for a moment, he stared up at the ceiling as if he could see through it, tracking their movements as they stomped room to room.

Little did they know about the underground bunker your dad had built years before you were even born. Deep, below the basement, where no one would think to check. Your mom used to say he’d done it because you were born, that he became obsessed with the end of the world, and he’d needed a plan to protect you when it all inevitably went to hell. 

She called him crazy for it.

But that day, his paranoia saved you.

As the boots overhead began to fade, he finally muttered, “Not today, you New World Order jackboot fucks.”

“Daddy!” you giggled, both at the words and the fire in his voice.

He turned to you, smiling faintly as he grabbed a shotgun off the wall. Strapping on a PPE helmet with a face shield, he knelt down and said, “Don’t you worry, honey, I’ve been expectin’ this for a long damn time.” his voice echoed on the plastic between you, “Daddy’s got ya. Stay here for a minute, alright?”

When you nodded, he made his way up to the basement floor, and you could hear his quiet footsteps through the house, tiptoeing around. When you’re young, seconds felt like an eternity, and minutes were like a lifetime. The sound of his steps disappeared altogether and you sat there, fidgeting, your heart pounding in your chest. The flickering blue emergency lights painted eerie shadows across the bunker walls.

You tried to wait like he’d told you, gripping your knees and staring at the screens showing the empty house above. But the silence was unbearable. What if something happened to him? What if the men in uniforms came back?

Your eyes darted to the wall of guns. They looked huge, intimidating—and heavy. But your dad always said you had to be ready when the world went to hell, didn’t he? You stood up, wobbling a little as your nerves got the better of you, and reached for the smallest gun you could see. Even that one felt like a boulder in your hands, but you managed to yank it off its hooks.

The weight made you stumble backward, but you caught yourself, clutching the weapon tightly. "Okay," you whispered to yourself, channeling every ounce of courage you could muster. "Be brave.”

You pushed open the heavy bunker door, the cold metal scraping against the concrete floor. Step by step, you climbed the narrow staircase, the gun heavier with each step. By the time you reached the top, your arms were shaking, but you didn’t stop.

The house was eerily quiet, every sound amplified—the creak of the floorboards under your feet, your heavy, nervous breathing. You crept through the kitchen, gripping the gun like you’d seen in the movies.

When you turned the corner into the living room, you froze. Your dad was standing there, his face a mix of surprise and anger as he stared at you.

"What the hell’re you doin’, girl?" he asked harshly, crossing the room in two quick strides. His voice wasn’t loud, but the tension in it was impossible to miss.

“I—I came to help,” you stammered, holding up the gun like it was a trophy. Your arms trembled under its weight.

He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Help? Jesus, kid. That thing isn’t even loaded,” he said, taking the gun from your hands with ease. “You could’ve hurt yourself, lugging this around.”

“But I was scared!” you blurted, tears welling up in your eyes.

His shoulders softened, and he crouched down to your level, setting the gun aside. His neat beard ticked as he lowered his voice to be gentle, “I know, hunny. I get it. But I told you to stay put, didn’t I?”

You nodded, sniffling.

“I can’t keep you safe if you don’t listen to me. You’re all I got left right now, understand?”

You nodded again, biting your lip to keep from crying harder.

His hands found your arms, giving you a quick squeeze in his large hands, then stood up, grabbing the gun he’d set down. “C’mon, then. We’re gonna go see if your mom’s still home or if she went with those government assholes. She knew about the bunker, so maybe she waited me out. But you stay right next to me, ya hear? No runnin’ off, no playin’ hero. Deal?”

“Deal,” you whispered.

“Good. Now let’s get movin’.” He cocked the gun and tipped his head toward the door, his tone firm but not unkind. “Stay close, and don’t make a sound.”

You followed him out of the house, your little hand clutching his shirt as tightly as you could, determined not to let go this time.

The neighborhood was unnervingly quiet as you and your dad climbed into his old blue truck. The engine rumbled to life, a low growl that seemed too loud for the silence surrounding you. You clutched the seatbelt across your chest, staring out the window as the houses you knew so well rolled past, each one darker and emptier than you remembered.

Your dad didn’t say much, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror or the road behind, as if he expected someone—or something—to follow.

The air felt heavy, and the only sound besides the truck was the faint hum of distant sirens, carried on the wind moving further and further away. You wanted to ask if he really thought your mom would be okay, but the words kept getting caught in your throat.

When you finally reached her street, it looked exactly the same, like any other day. But knowing the houses sat there, just hollow shells with neatly trimmed lawns still pristine with blossoming gardens was enough to bring goosebumps to your skin. The truck slowed to a crawl, your dad squinting out the window as if he was searching for something—anything.

He pulled into the driveway, and you could see the front door was open, the storm door the only barrier of the threshold. So maybe she was still home. You rolled down your window, leaning out as far as your little body allowed, hands gripping the edge of the glass.

“Mommy!” you shouted, excitement bubbling in your voice.

But just as the word left your lips, you felt a hand clamp down on the back of your shirt, yanking you back into the truck. You suddenly heard your dad screaming your name: “Get down, dammit!”

“But if she’s—”

“We don’t know if she’s in there. We need to stay quiet, and you’re going to stay here,” he said firmly, his voice low but sharp as he turned to you, a finger pointed harshly at the seat next to him.

“But—”

“No buts,” he cut you off, his tone furious and unyielding, but then he lowered his voice, “I mean it this time. You don’t move from this seat. Understand?”

You nodded reluctantly, your stomach churning with unease.

The thing was, he hadn’t even needed to get out of the vehicle to see if she was home. Because from inside the house, someone—or rather, something —had heard you.

Your mother…what was your mother, now twisted into something monstrous, burst out of the storm door. She was covered in grotesque, swollen fungal growths that bulged from her face and arms like spongy mushrooms trying to break free. Her screams—god, it was still her voice—pierced the air, raw and filled with pain.

“Mommy?” you whispered, frozen in disbelief.

You watched as she barreled to the front door, her movements jerky and unnatural, as though her body no longer obeyed her. When her wild eyes spotted you and your dad in the truck, she charged. The storm door flew off its hinges as she hurled herself into the front yard, her body slamming against the passenger-side window of the truck.

You screamed as her twisted, red and yellow fungus-covered face pressed up against the glass, her hands clawing and smearing bloody streaks. The sickening sound of her infected screeches filled your ears, and you fell back into your dad’s lap, trembling and sobbing.

At the suddenness of your fall, he snapped out of his horrified trance, slamming the truck into reverse. The tires screeched as the truck lurched backward, your mother’s hands scraping against the doorframe until she lost her grip and tumbled to the ground.

He slammed the brakes, grabbed his shotgun, and rolled down the driver’s window.

“Daddy, no!” you screamed, trying to climb over him to stop him. “Don’t hurt her! DON’T HURT MOMMY! ”

“That’s not mommy anymore,” he said quietly, his voice trembling but firm.

She rose to her feet with inhuman speed, her limbs flailing wildly as she lunged down the driveway toward the truck. His hands steadied the shotgun, his jaw clenched.

“ No! ” you wailed, clawing at his arm, but he didn’t flinch.

As she reached the edge of the driveway, he pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared, and the recoil sent you sprawling back onto the bench seat.

You sat there, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you stared out the window. The world seemed to tilt sideways as you took in the sight. Your mom— your mom —lay crumpled on the pavement, blood pooling around her still body. The red stain trickled down toward the sewer drain at the bottom of the driveway.

Before he could stop you, you shoved the door open and bolted from the truck. You heard him yell your name, felt his hand swipe at your arm, but you were too quick.

“Get back here!”

You dropped to your knees beside her, your little hands reaching out hesitantly. Her eyes stared blankly up at the sky, her body still twitching slightly as the fungal infection spasmed through her.

“She’s… she’s still moving,” you whimpered, tears streaking your face.

Your dad was there in an instant, pulling you back roughly. “Don’t touch her!”

“But—”

“No!” he snapped, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you lightly to snap you out of it. His voice softened, but the edge of urgency remained. “She’s gone, kid. That wasn’t her. You hear me? That wasn’t your mom anymore.”

You sobbed, shaking your head, but he pulled you into his arms, holding you tight as you cried into his chest.

When you finally pulled away, his face was pale but resolute. “We have to be strong now,” he said, his voice low and steady. “These things—they’re not people anymore. They’re dangerous. And if we’re gonna live here, we need to keep this place safe. For us. That’s what she would’ve wanted.”

You sniffled, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours for some kind of understanding.

You nodded slowly, though the ache in your heart didn’t lessen.

“Good,” he said, standing and adjusting the shotgun over his shoulder. “C’mon. We’ve got work to do.”

As he led you back to the truck, you glanced over your shoulder one last time, your mom’s lifeless body a haunting picture of the world you now lived in.

[sschizoid]

Could I have the Tulpar crew visiting the zoo? What animals they'd love to see, any of them they would want to pet, etc.

ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ I've got you, nonny

--

curly

his favorite animals to view are the koalas. such cute little guys, sleeping their lives away with their only worry being when they were set to get their next meal. he envied them in that respect; wished he was able to embrace a similar lifestyle and just relax. but he didn't really have the luxury to slow down these days

takes loooots of videos. most of them are of the animals just sitting there doing nothing while he really choppily zooms in on them. in the background you can occasionally hear him mutter a quiet "would you look at that," or, "wow. isnt nature just something else?"

makes others pose behind those cutout photo props where there's a hole to put your face, turning you into a tiger or monkey or something like that. claims he never asks anyone for anything ever, so the least they can do is indulge him with this

jimmy

doesn't care much for animals, but has a particular affinity for wolves. there was something to be said about their strength, their loyalty, their perseverance. they were apex predators for a reason. survivors, like him. how much humans could learn from them, he thought, if only they were willing to embrace their baser instincts

somehow always gets stuck walking behind the family of five with a stroller or wagon and is forced to slow his pace to 1.5mph. maybe if he sighs loud enough they'll think to pay attention to their surroundings, realize they're not the only people at the zoo, and get out of the goddamn way

tries to sneak a few shooters inside to at least make the experience a bit more tolerable, but gets caught at the gate. when he's told alcohol isn't permitted on zoo grounds, he looks the worker straight in the eye and downs them one by one, unflinching. shoves the empties into the worker's hands, pats them on the shoulder with a tight-lipped smile, and makes his way inside

anya

finds herself absolutely entranced by the capybaras. there's something about their simplicity, their slowness, and their calm temperament that has her feeling an odd sort of kinship toward them. also, she thinks they're super cute and its so silly that the babies look identical to the adults, just 50% smaller

loves the petting zoo. she's a very tactile person, and feeling the soft wool of the sheep and the little nibbles of the goats eating treats from her palm makes her giggle

enjoys watching those events held at the amphitheater where zookeepers and their animal ambassadors educate the public about the animal's diet, habitat, environmental roles, etc. bonus points if they allow the animal to be pet or have photo ops afterwards

swansea

some might jump to thinking he enjoys tougher animals like the rhinoceros or lion, but he really has a soft spot for penguins. not only are they, well, adorable, they're also brave, social, and incredibly captivating to watch in the water. he's especially partial to the adélie penguin because frankly, they just look kinda funny and he finds them endearing

"come on, if you have to use the bathroom, go while we're next to 'em. no, I don't wanna hear you sayin' you gotta go later 'cause you didn't have the sense to listen to me the first time. go."

lowkey is a bit intimidated by the goats at the petting zoo. once had a billy goat headbutt his leg when he wasn't looking and earned himself a pretty nasty bruise. now opts to stand on the opposite side of the fence whenever in their vicinity. he's not scared, he's just... too old for petting zoos. yeah, that's it

daisuke

thought his favorite animal exhibit was going to be a tie between the lemurs and flamingos, but then came across the pygmy slow loris. he'd never even heard of them before visiting, and they were just so wildly ridiculous that it was love at first sight. took at least 3 photos of himself pointing at it like this

LOVES the free-roaming peacocks that just strut around the zoo grounds doing nothing but flaunting their face cards and serving absolute c/nt. they're literally living his dream

insists on visiting the gift shop before leaving, obviously. they don't have a plush for the pygmy slow loris sadly, but he settles for a dopey-looking orangutan that has velco on its palms so he can wear it around his neck. refers to it as his son and is constantly whipping it against people while quietly vocalizing action sounds under his breath like "pow. pssshhew. wa-bammm..."

--

hello beloved mw fandom, I am back !! sorry for the inactivity as of late, currently going in order making my way through requests from oldest to newest. i love all of your ideas so much, they're all so creative and fun ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)

[danieleansworth]

Ian's voice was so quiet as they admitted that yes, they really did care about Mari quite a lot, and Daniel was struck by the sincerity in their voice. He'd hit the nail on the head, it seemed, perhaps even more than he'd thought when he made the observation. And it seemed like his encouraging Ian to say something to Mari was helping, too, maybe...? What with Ian saying he was right that it would be okay if they talked to her. They even asked if he'd be around for talking to afterward if it didn't go well.

"Yeah, of course," he assured his friend. "Even if I'm working, as long as it isn't some sort, of -- I dunno, plant emergency. I can always take a break." It said a lot about how much less afraid he was these days, probably, that he was so ready to suggest that he could take a break at any time. It wasn't like the plants needed anything urgently... ever, really, as long as he kept up with taking care of them well each day, but in the early days it would have terrified him to take a break, lest he be seen by Daphne or Robin or anyone else as shirking his duties even though he wasn't. The idea wasn't even a blip on his radar now.

"But I do hope you'll come talk to me after either way, yeah? Even if it's not of urgently if it does go well, of course -- I'd just love to hear about after if it does, so I can be happy for you," he added, smiling warmly (and he hoped encouragingly). He really did think that this would go well, after all.

When Daniel spoke up, Ian felt weirdly caught, actually, like he’d accidentally dropped his soul somewhere and his best friend had picked it up and looked through it. He didn’t know why his stomach sank at Daniel’s realization, or why he expected the words to be followed by some sort of rebuke or teasing. Then he felt quite a bit silly for thinking that--his Daniel would never. Still, he’d tried really hard to hide those kinds of feelings, just in case, and now that Daniel sort of had an idea of the extent of Ian’s feelings, how would he react to that? But it was followed by nothing even resembling judgment, Ian sagged a bit in his chair, a strange, deep part of him feeling as if something were lifted from his shoulders, just by someone knowing him. Ian nodded slowly. “Yeah, I really do. A lot,” he returned, his voice small.

He wanted to ask something after that, did Daniel think that was weird? Should he be feeling like that? But he didn’t know how to ask without sounding, well, dumb. Ian listened to him further instead, taking in what he was telling him with a small frown. A weird sense of action stirred in his chest, like he actually wanted to say something to Mari now. “It’s not--it’s not really that easy for me, no,” Ian started. He could go on about his developed fear of rejection, though he figured Daniel already had some idea it was there, festering, preventing him from running out and asking out anyone he remotely had crushes on. He’d only made himself confess to Daniel when he felt Daniel was owed an explanation, which he was, while knowing nothing would happen. And he was still afraid to go on and tell Ryder after the fact. What beyond-friendship feelings he felt for Mari ran much deeper than what he’d felt for those two, and if he messed things up, causing her to never want to talk to him again, he’d never get over it.

But as Daniel said, and if Ian looked at the situation with a clearer mind, he knew Mari wouldn’t react like that, and maybe he had to just trust that things would turn out okay. “I’ll still care about her no matter what, though, you’re right,” he went on. “Even if she doesn’t like me back like that…it’s okay. I love being her friend so much, I just love her. So if I talked to her, it would be okay, I think. But um, in case it doesn’t, would you be around for um, talking to afterward? Just trying to be prepared...”

[maxladcomics]

But HOW does he spell it like that

Nova belongs to @fluo-skeletons

[sammyluvr]

✶ out of my head — spencer reid

cw : gn!bau!reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, mental exhaustion, very little dialogue, unedited, 985 words. requested ! for my 900 followers event [ closed ] .

prompt : a motel bathroom + “i can’t get you out of my head.”

the town is small, the case is hard, and the nights aren’t restful. for this week, it’s two to a seedy motel room. spencer’s your roommate this time around, which helps nothing at all. you should be used to how beautiful he looks when he’s sleepy and just woken up in the morning, but it makes your chest tighten to the point where you nearly stop breathing. it’s not as if you haven’t shared a room with him for a case before, but there’s some weird intimacy about sharing this room.

he’s in the bathroom, washing his hands, as he’s been doing often this trip. the first time you walked into the room with him, go-bags heavy after a long flight, he sprouted off some statistic regarding the cleanliness of motel rooms, or rather the lack thereof. you think he was trying to cover up how nervous it made him, and you offered to take his sheets and blanket to the laundromat you passed. the signage had told you that it’s always open late. you certainly wouldn’t mind extra clean sheets either.

he refused, though, saying he’d do it himself if he really needed to, and that you shouldn’t have to do that for him. but you don’t really think about it in terms of should or shouldn’t, more so that it makes you glad to do anything for him at all. you stay quiet though, and let this one slide. as long as he sleeps alright, it’s fine with you. 

sleeping well is a relative term, of course. it’s two in the morning right now, and you’ve just gotten back from the station. hotch sent you all to bed after a break in the case. the night shift detectives will keep working until you all get at least a bit of rest.

you drift over to the bathroom, its warm light casting spencer’s form in soft shadow. he hears your sigh before your quiet footsteps, and turns his neck to look at you. he gives you a soft smile, drying his hands on the small towel. you try not to stare; he has very pretty hands.

“hey,” he murmurs, making no move to leave the bathroom. he can tell by the way you padded over that you don’t actually need the room for anything. that, and you used it and brushed your teeth first thing after getting back. you’ve already donned your sleep clothes, too. you move forward, and he steps back, leaving room for you at the sink. the heels of your hands meet the cool ceramic of the sink as you lean against it, facing him from less than a foot away. the bathroom most definitely is not a generous size.

“hey,” you echo, voice just as soft as his. to him, you sound even more tired than usual. resigned, even. he’s trying to decide if you’ll respond decently to him asking if you’re okay. you speak again before he can decide. “spence?”

“yeah?” he wants to call you honey, but he doesn’t. but the way you say his name is begging for him to respond with equal sweetness and intimacy. or maybe honey is doubly sweet and intimate, but to him, your voice saying his nickname like that is the same as if you called him baby. he’s shy, but he wishes you’d call him that.

you look at him with sad eyes and he wishes that look would go away. i can’t get you out of my head, you want to say. “i’m tired,” is what comes out, anticlimactic and falling flat on the tile floor.

but his eyes fill with sympathy regardless and he gives a little frown on your behalf. even if you were going to say something else, the words that leave your lips are just as true. you are tired, very much so. not just from the case or the lumpy bed, but from everything, you suppose. it’s a bone deep type of exhaustion, and somehow your growing love for him is the only thing you can think about these days. it’s pressing to get out and make itself known, and now it feels heavy and oppressive.

“it’s been a long day,” spencer agrees. he knows how you feel, at least in terms of the exhaustions, and that it’s really about just today. but he also knows that you know that, and that there’s not much to say. not right now, at least. it’s not the time for that sort of conversation, he can tell.

you swallow, suddenly nervous. you’re asking yourself why the hell you walked into this damn bathroom, put yourself so close to him without the option to actually close the distance. but you sort of just want to hug him. you want to get it off your chest, because you think it’ll make some of the exhaustion go away. though things could certainly get worse.

“i can’t get you out of my head, you know.” this time, the words slip out before you can stop them. you’re not sure if it’s the right thing to say, the right way to tell him, but you suppose the meaning is implied and that you’ve gone out and said it, finally. that makes your shoulders drop, and a relieved huff of breath leaves your lips. even if he doesn’t feel the same, at least you’ve said it.

most other days, spencer would’ve kissed you, maybe after clumsily telling you that he can’t get you out of his head either. but today, you’re sagging and tired, so he pulls you into his arms with a certain sort of ease that tells you he doesn’t mind being close to you. he likes it, even. he presses a kiss to the bare skin of your forehead, and that’s your answer. he’ll stay stuck in your head, but it will be far more bearable because he loves you back.