#never been in one so! winging it as always )

[starwovenkiss]

part two to this concept

“Ja-son, your little friend is back,” Dick sing-songs, voice coming in through his comms and Jason’s brow furrows. 

Roy is somewhere off in Star City, Kory in another galaxy, and Bizarro is off….. doing what Bizarro does. 

“And she’s refusing to leave until she sees you.” 

Well, that only sounds like one person he knows. His head thumps back against the wall before bringing out his grappling hook.  

What could it be now? 

He makes a bet with himself, no training tomorrow if you stole anything over $100K, just to keep himself amused as he swings from building to building. 

He wonders what Selina would think, if she knew about the stunts you pulled to get him to look his way. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, I was voted Bludhaven’s sexiest vigilante three years in a row. What do you even see in him, anyways?” is what Jason is greeted with. Dick’s smile is playful as you stare at him blankly, arms crossed while you watch him casually toss his escrima stick. 

“Not interested,” you reply, and Dick gasps, holding his heart like he’s gotten stabbed. “Where is Red Hood anyways?”

“Don’t worry. Your boyfriend said he was on the way,” Dick’s tone is mocking, dripping with teasing and sarcasm and Jason just knows this is going to somehow make its way back to Bruce. 

“Wing,”he interrupts and both your heads turn. Jason knows he’s intimidating, knows that most people shit themselves and run far in the opposite direction when they hear him coming. 

He never understood why you always looked so relaxed when he came. 

“Get him to leave. He hasn’t shut up since he’s gotten here,” you mutter, stalking over to him and Dick cackles. 

“God, you two are perfect for each other. It makes sense,” he says and Jason fights the urge to shove one of his escrima sticks down his throat. 

“What are you doing?” he asks softly, looking down at the feline figure in front of him. He’s punched with a memory of the day you two first met, barely teenagers facing off against each other in a similar fashion. 

You shrug, lips turning up into a dangerous smirk. “I thought we had an agreement. I steal something, you show up.”

“You’re not the only criminal who wants my attention.” It’s true. Black Mask has been popping up around Gotham more frequently, and even now, Jason is pulled to follow the leads he’s been given instead of standing in front of you. 

You hum, considering his statement. 

“What if I’m the only one who deserves it?” you ask. 

“I can’t keep chasing after you over petty crimes.”

“This is petty?” you smile and from where, he swears he doesn’t know, you pull out a diamond ring and toss it to him. 

Jason registers Dick’s wheezy laughter behind him, and he sighs as he takes a look at the very large engagement ring. 

“Where did you get this?” he asks. He knows this ring, had seen it hanging off the left hand of some Gotham socialite at the last gala Wayne foundations had hosted. And now it’s in his hand, glittering in the moonlight. 

You smile, getting ready to jump off the ledge into the night. “I thought you didn’t have time for petty crimes?”

Jason watches you disappear, there one moment and gone the next before turning to face Dick. 

“Fuck you,” he says, and Dick cackles again. 

“I didn’t do anything!” He holds one hand up while holding onto his ribs from laughing too hard. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Dick asks, and for a moment, he’s sincere. Older brother concern coming out of him in waves. 

“Always do,” Jason responds and he takes another look at the ring in his gloved hand. He pockets it, making a note to give it back to its rightful owner before looking at where Dick is gleaming. 

“One more word, and I’m shoving you off this roof.” 

Dick hums, giving a mock salute. 

“Black Cat and Red Hood sitting in a tree, K-I-S - Oomph.” 

Dick’s taunt is cut off by his own screams of delight as he falls 81 stories down, grappling hook in hand. 

once again i’m stuck writing a fic with no end in sight and these two are helping me not lose my mind. happy mother’s day to anyone who celebrates and happy sunday to those who don’t. 🤍

[mangooes]

Shooting Games

The street market of the N109 Zone was bustling under the soft glow of hanging lanterns, every corner filled with the sizzling of street food and the murmur of weekend crowds. Normally, Sylus Qinche, the most feared criminal lord in the city, would’ve never been caught dead strolling through such a lively, chaotic place.

But here he was—hand in hand with his far-too-cheerful wife—being dragged around like a glorified bodyguard.

“Sysy, look at that!” (Name)’s eyes lit up, pointing towards a stall where skewers of glazed scallops sizzled on open fire. “We have to get some!”

Sylus sighed, though a soft smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “For the record, kitten, I don’t do waiting in lines. Not even for seafood.”

“That’s funny, because you’re literally doing it right now,” she grinned, winking as she tugged him forward. “Look at you. So domesticated. So obedient.”

“I prefer the term devoted husband, thank you.” He leaned down, murmuring into her ear, “Obedient, however, is not part of my vocabulary. As you’ll be reminded later tonight.”

(Name) rolled her eyes, but the slight blush on her cheeks betrayed her. “Behave, Sysy. Public setting. Kids around.”

That earned a low chuckle from Sylus.

But just as they were about to move on, (Name) stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes locked on something across the street. Dangerous. Focused. Sylus recognized that glint.

“What is it now?” he asked warily.

“There.” She pointed dramatically.

A shooting game stand, decked out in neon colors and lined with oversized plushies, stood proudly among the other vendors. And at its very top, hanging like some glorious trophy, was a giant dragon plush. Midnight black, crimson eyes, little wings spread in a cocky flair.

It looked insultingly like Sylus.

“Oh no,” Sylus muttered. “I see where this is going.”

“This one’s coming home with me, Sysy!” (Name) declared, grabbing his arm.

“Sweetie, you do realize those games are rigged, yes? The house always wins.”

“Well, they haven’t met me yet.” She shot him a grin that spelled trouble.

Moments later, she stood at the counter, plastic gun in hand, eyes narrowed at the stacked tin cans. Sylus folded his arms, watching with bemused fondness.

First shot—direct hit.

The cans wobbled.

But didn’t fall.

The gamemaster chuckled nervously. “Oh, tough luck, Missy. Maybe another try?”

(Name), being her stubborn self, didn’t back down. Shot after shot, she aimed perfectly, yet the cans barely budged. A few onlookers began to gather, murmuring quietly.

Sylus could see it—the faint crease of her brows, the downturn of her lips. His wife was frustrated. And as much as he adored that pouty face, seeing her sad was not something he tolerated.

“Tch.” Sylus’s crimson eyes gleamed. “I told you, sweetheart. Rigged. Just say the word, I’ll burn this stand to the ground.”

She stopped him before it escalated further.

“No worries Sysy, let’s not waste our time here tonight.”

Sylus, however, had had enough.

Just as (Name) sighed, ready to give up and step away, a firm hand circled her wrist.

“Oh no, kitten. You’re not walking away yet.” Sylus’s voice was velvet smooth, dangerously low.

He gently took the plastic gun from her hands, his fingers brushing hers, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Let me teach them a lesson in… fair play.”

“Oh? So you think you can do better?” (Name) teased, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.

“Sweetie, I don’t think. I know.” His Evol coiled unseen beneath his skin, licking out like a serpent toward the rigged cans.

With the laziest stance imaginable, Sylus aimed.

Bang.

The cans exploded off the platform as if shot with a cannon.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The gamemaster paled.

(Name) just stared. “You totally cheated.”

Sylus gave her an infuriatingly smug grin. “Kitten, I’d never stoop to such things.” His mist twirled teasingly around her wrist, giving him away. “But if I did, it’d be because someone owes me a prize.”

The gamemaster, still pale, scrambled up and offered the dragon plush with trembling hands. “C-Congratulations, sir…”

With a little bow, Sylus took the plush—far too large for him, hilariously out of place in his arms—and passed it to (Name).

“There. Your dragon awaits you, my queen.”

His wife’s grin was blinding as she hugged the plush to her chest, practically vibrating with happiness. “You’re the best, Sysy.” She tiptoed up, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, my dear husband.”

And just like that, any irritation Sylus had towards the scammy stall evaporated.

“I should make you thank me more often,” he murmured against her ear, tugging her close, “in private, perhaps.”

(Name) merely laughed,

“We could have find something else better to do, you know,” she muttered.

“Of course, kitten. And I could’ve let you.” Sylus’s lips curled into a slow grin. “But you pout so sweetly when you’re frustrated. Consider it my civic duty to intervene.”

“You just wanted an excuse to show off.”

“Always. But more importantly—” he squeezed her hand gently, “—I hate seeing you disappointed. Rigged game or not, no one gets away with making my wife frown.”

Her heart did a little somersault at that.

Linking their fingers again as they continued their stroll. She carried the dragon plush proudly, like a trophy, while Sylus kept stealing glances at her—the way her cheeks still held that glow, the way her smile hadn’t faded.

For him, the real prize wasn’t the game.

It was that look on her face.

Totally worth it.

I hate arcade games smh, i always loose and i suck at shooting but of course sylus doesnt.

[ce1estiall]

already over

summary paige x teammate!reader you got drafted to the dallas wings in the 2026 wnba draft. you and paige got off the wrong foot the year before. now it was time to face her

warnings mentions of suicide, mental health, , cheating, fighting, angst, slight fluff at the end (happy ending ;))

celestial notes based off of this request. the long awaited fic, i stayed up late for this. enjoy! masterlist.

"i know in the end it wont be us, it can never be the same as before.

already over, i erased you, then that day." already - gidle

you felt like you were in a dream, waiting for someone to pinch you. the moment you have been dreaming for, since you were a kid. that orange carpet that made its way to new york for the 2026 wnba draft.

you had one word for what you wanted to wear: cunt. your stylist, claire, blinged you out in a semi-oversized rhinestoned grey blazer with bronze buttons and a matching grey jumper with very thin white stripes, also a handmade belt of the same material. she paired you with silver channel logo earrings and knee high black boots. you hair was curled, but eventually became wavy due to them falling out. you had very natural makeup, barely blush. you had a hint of sparkle eyeshadow on your eyes, that would shine in photos. eyeliner so sharp it could've cut someone, and a peachy pink lipgloss.

photographers were in awe when they saw you walk down the orange carper, all calling out your name to take pictures of you in every single angle imaginable. you walked down with two feelings. confidence on how you looked and anxiety for when your name would be called.

as you entered the arena, you sat down next to your parents. gold-and white basketball engraved with your name. "CONNECTICUT" under it.

not only were you at the draft, but so was your teammate azzi. your teammates came out to support both of you and cheer you on.

you've seen azzi go through so much, but the media was putting you as rivals as who was going to be the #1 pick. mock drafts were changing, switching between you and azzi. but no matter the outcome, you would both be proud of each other.

you've seen azzi go through so much. knee injuries, physical therapy, azzi was the one who really deserved it all. she was also a wonderful teammate and friend to you, always offering to pay for your things or go clubbing together on days you had off.

the draft was about to start any moment now. you were hearing the espn commentators talk about how dallas was on the clock for their pick and you and azzi’s journey to get here. you felt a mix of emotions all forming in your gut. excitement, nervousness, fear, freedom. your future was in the hands of any wnba team. you didn’t care where you got drafted to, you would just be happy to hear your name called.

cathy engelbert entered the stage, signaling dallas had made their decision.

“with the first pick in the 2026 wnba draft, the dallas wings select (y/n), university of connecticut.”

you smile grew as big as the arena. you could almost cry. you got up and hugged your mom, then your dad, then coach auriemma. “i’m so proud of you kid. you deserve this.” he whispered to your ear. you wiped a tear from your face, hoping to not ruin your makeup so early.

you walked up the steps to the stage. the same steps you watch wnba legends walk on. you shook cathy’s hand, as she handed you the wings jersey with #1 on the back. you smiled for the camera. a true, natural smile.

you walked back down to the steps as holly rowe greeted you, wanting to interview you.

“congratulations for going as the #1 pick tonight. i'm sure the fans have seen you work so hard. what are you feeling in this moment?” she asked.

“i’m feeling a lot of everything.” you started to choke up. “i’m trying to not ruin my makeup.” you said with laughter as you wiped a tear away. “but in all seriousness i’m so thankful for the opportunity i got at uconn. it was a once in a lifetime experience for me and i wouldn’t trade it for the world.” you turned around to your table, facing your family. “i just really want to thank my parents for all the sacrifices they’ve made for me to be here in this moment. my coaches, my teammates, the best teammates i could ever ask for.” the audience clapped as they heard your response.

holly continued. “we know that you’ve been going through a lot mentally during your basketball career. how does it feel like that you’ve overcame any challenges you’ve had?”

you smiled, knowing that this would be asked. “uhh it feels pretty rewarding. there was a point in my life where i wanted to quit, not just the sport i loved, but my life as well. i was in a really dark place and i thought i would never get out of it. i questioned my capabilities and my ability in life. i trusted god however and he’s helped me a lot. but credits to my support system who helped me push through and thank god that i’m standing here right now. all glory to him.”

“thank you so much. congratulations again.”

“thank you for your time.” you walked and sat down to your parents again. your worry of not getting called was at ease. you felt accomplished. all you blood, sweat, and tears had paid off. now, it was azzi’s time to shine.

cathy came out again. “with the second pick in the 2026 wnba draft, the los angeles sparks select azzi fudd, university of connecticut.”

you jumped up immediately, cheering her. your uconn teammates all screamed and recorded their moment as if it was a concert. azzi was in a white dress with her hair down, curled. she looked absolutely stunning. jaw-dropping even. thank god she chose basketball, because the modeling industry was not ready for her. azzi then spoke to holly about her feelings. you were smiling, maybe even crying a bit. the camera then panned to a familiar blonde, holding a phone with a smile lit across her face.

your face dropped. “fuck me.” you whispered under your breath, as you turned around to find her. it was her. it was paige. it was so obvious she came to support azzi. she could give two shits about you.

you and paige dated for two and a half years during college, when you were a freshman, sophomore, and junior since she was a grade older than you.

it was just a normal day in december. waking up to paige’s stupid singing in the bathroom as she brushed her teeth, eating breakfast before your 10am class, practice later that day, the normal.

you walked to your class, as the cold wind brushed your face, leaving your nose cold. you wore clothes that would keep you warm throughout the day such as a white scarf with a matching beanie and a warm winter coat.

after class, you got ready for practice. getting taped, laced up, and arriving early for some shooting.

practice was the same like always. running till you felt like oxygen wasn’t in your body anymore, defensive slides and drills, offensive plays, and scrimmaging, and slight flirting back and forth with paige. she loved to annoy you during water breaks. however, you were thankful enough to have an amazing bond with your teammates, which is what makes you look forward to in practice.

after practice you returned to your dorm and showered. you didn’t like to feel the sweat after practice. you took an everything shower—shaving, exfoliating, double cleansing. it made you feel refreshed.

you left you hair down to air dry, when you heard knocking on your door so late. puzzled, but you opened the door.

when the door opened, paige stomped in, furious. you can tell she was mad. and when she’s mad, it’s not very pretty.

“you okay?” you asked her looking confused. both of you standing in the kitchen as you put dishes away. emotions were thick, both of you feeling them in the air.

paige started speaking. "are you fucking kidding me?" she said as she shoved you. she was furious, practically seeing the smoke exit her ears, slowly turning red.

"what the fuck are you talking about?" you slowly walked back to the place before. she stood up to you, getting in your face. you could feel her breath as she was breathing angerly.

"sleeping with some fucking guy from the men's basketball team? what the fuck? after all the shit i did for you and you're fucking cheating on me? you're fucking pathetic!"

"paige, wha-" is all you could say before she interrupted you.

"i don't wanna hear your bullshit and pathetic excuses. you and me? it's over. you didn't think twice about us when you got in bed with that fucker. don't fucking call me, text me, look at me, or even breathe near me." you saw her face. it was a heartbroken girl who cared so much just to be stabbed in the back.

she walked out in a blink of an eye before you could say anything to her. she slammed the door, walls slowly shaking from the aftershock.

where did this rumor come from? the girl you've loved since 20 years old, dropped you from a rumor that wasn't true. you couldn't even explained your side of the story--which you didn't have one because this was all a bullshit lie. tears of anger flowed down your cheeks, a drop towards your lips which allowed you to get a taste of salt, which was how you were feeling.

someone wanted to sabotage you and paige's relationship. you didn't care who, but why. you went to the couch, and immediately cried. you were expressing so much emotion that you though you were gonna become from how much cried. the last thing you remembered was sobbing, then laying down on the couch.

you woke up the next day, heading to practice since it was the weekend. when you entered the locker room, you saw paige in the corner of your eye. she saw you. she left immediately and rolled her eyes. you ignored her and you did your routine--lacing up, getting tapped, and arrived early.

practice was about to start in 10 minutes, then you saw azzi walking in, looking confused. "hey girl! how are you?" she asked, excited to see you. you took a deep sigh. "i could be better."

she sat down on the bench of her locker. "is it about paige?" you nodded, as she immediately knew what was going on.

the evening she confronted you, she told the team about what was going on between you two. she knew it wasn't any of their business, but she wanted them to become your enemy. when azzi heard paige's part of the story, she knew you too well. she knew you wouldn't do something like that, especially with a guy, and even me with the girl you loved and always talked to people about.

azzi continued, watching your face and body emotion change. "she told us what happened last night, but i know you wouldn't do shit like that. so i wanna hear your side of what happened."

you took a breath. "last night, paige went to my room, screaming and yelling at me. she was accusing me of cheating on her with a guy from the basketball team. i would not do that. i'm so in love with paige, i wouldn't be with anyone else in my life but her. i have no evidence of talking to this guy on the phone or in real life. you can go through my phone too. shit, i don't even know him!" the water works were starting to form, slowly causing your eyes to become red. "i didn't even get a chance to speak to her. she just said her shit, saying to not call or text or look at her, slammed the door, and left."

azzi patted your back as comfort. "do you want me to sit down the team your side of the story. everyone except paige?" you nodded, cleaning the tears off your face with your hands. you knew paige wouldn't budge, so you and azzi decided to give her time to cool off.

----

post-draft, you had photoshoots the rest of the evening for magazines, social media, and partnerships promoting you in your dallas jersey and how you were also a #1 pick. your grey outfit shimmered from the flashes of the cameras. you were used to the attention being on you in the media, so it didn't bother you when you had 40 flashes going on at one time just for a single photo. coach chris called you, saying how they were so excited to see you in dallas and see how your hard work has paid off. dallas was excited to see your talent, as home-opener tickets sold out within an hour after seeing you being drafted. before you and azzi left for dallas and la, you took a group photo with your team, as they all received dallas wings and la sparks hats to support you and azzi. you hugged them all goodbye "i love you all and will miss you. get a natty for me. ill visit in the offseason." as you broke down. you held azzi a little longer. "good luck in la, az. can't wait to beat your ass." you both cracked up in laughter as streams of tears were all over your face. paige went to hug azzi, and you knew that was your queue to leave.

you headed back to your hotel room, feeling happy and exhausted from this evening. you had to pack all your items and buy flight and hotel tickets to dallas, as you had to be a training camp right away. the shower and bedroom never looked so nice before. you took a shower to remove the leftover makeup from your face and sweat from excitement that evening, tucked yourself into bed while falling asleep to love island playing in the background.

you woke up bright and early at 2 am, as your flight was at 6am. you woke up, and washed your face, feeling the ice cold water on your skin. you packed any other items you may have missed the previous evening, such as toiletries and your outfit from the previous night before. and now, you were off your way to start history, to finally achieve your dream.

you arrived at the chilly airport. since it was still very early, there wasn't as much security and bag checking as you thought, and thankfully you weren't chosen for a tsa check, so you had 2 hours to kill.

you decided to head over to peet's coffee - your favorite cafe. you got an iced vanilla latte with a cheese danish, which was one of your comfort foods. you deserved it, especially after last night. which you were sitting down, eating your "meal", all you could think about was paige. it was like she was haunting you. you thought about how you would have to face her again, now that you were both professional athletes on the same team. you had hope that she would put the pettiness aside and act professional with you. unfortunately that was not the case.

the flight to dallas was amazing. you loved planes and flights. it always gave you a boost of serotonin. you watched the sunset as all the colors blended together. reds, oranges, yellows, pinks and purple, all eventually met each other to become a beautiful view. that is that hope you had with your future teammates. you were now a little fish in a big pond. you took a long awaited nap the rest of your flight, as jetlag was slowly starting to catch up.

you landed and headed straight to the hotel to unpack everything, get ready for training camp, then head to training camp. all in less than an hour. the pressure and anxiety was clearly on you, you were trying to not have a panic attack from now until arriving the practice facility. at one point, you said "fuck it." and left you clothes in a mess all over the bed. you were starting to run late, and that was not a good first impression on you're part. you brought a practice shirt, shorts, and basketball shoes from storrs. you ubered your way to the facility, in awe on how huge and fancy it was in person.

the moment you approached the doors, you took a deep breath. everything is going to be okay you told yourself. you opened the doors, as a new chapter in your life was about to be written. you headed to the gym, eyeing coach chris. he gave you a big, warm and welcoming hug. you felt the excitement transport between you and him. "we are so excited to have you as a part of our program. the rest of the team is in the locker room. we're about to start training camp in about 30 minutes, so you can go introduce yourself and get to know everyone. let me know if you need anything." you gave a soft smile. "got it. thanks once again coach." he sent you off with a wave.

you walked shyly into the locker room as if it were you first day of kindergarden. dijonai smiled and jumped when she saw you walk in. she ran up to you, giving you a hug. "hi rookie!! we are so excited to have you with us! we know you're gonna fit right in here in dallas." you then saw arike, finding her socks. "oh hey! happy to see you. you're gonna enjoy dallas, i already know it." you smiled from all the attention being on you. "thanks guys for the warm welcome! this definitely put me at ease." you saw the rest of the team, sending you waves and smiles. "well for those of you that don't know me, even though i'm pretty sure you do. my name is y/n and i played at uconn. i'm really excited to start my wnba journey here in dallas not just the coaches, but you guys and the fans."

jj started cheering for you, you gave a bright smile in return to show thanks. then you saw paige, giving you a death glare as she sat under her locker. you rolled her off your back. you were not gonna let her ruin your day - or even this new beginning for you. you just let her roll of your back. you headed out of the locker room and went to the gym after you changed into your dallas wings practice gear. the green and blue wasn't necessarily your favorite, but it was starting to grow on you.

then it was now one of the bumps in the road, training camp. even though there was a high possibility of you making the roster, you still wanted to work your ass off to show that you deserve it. it started off with running drills. you ran like there was no tomorrow, you had so much fuel in your tank. there were suicides, 17s, up and backs, the normal when it comes to basketball. you noticed paige as she was trying to take this as a race. you could see her ego boosting on her face if she made it first before you. nalyssa slowly started noticing, but didn't really take much note. you ignored paige, you had more important things to worry about in your life. it moved on to defensive drills. that was where you really started setting the tone for yourself. you loved defense - because that was your specialty as a player. press, blocks and steals always gave you dopamine, because it was exciting. you felt like an absolute beast. the team was very impressed by your defense, as you read the offender, not falling most of the time for the tricks they were attempting to try on you.

shooting drills were next on the list. were you good at them? sorta. can you put points on the boards however? absolutely. midrange was your cup of tea. occasionally hitting a 3 once in a while. however, this is now the w. they want to make you uncomfortable, set you outside your comfort zone. your stats for this set wasn't the best. 3 makes out of 10 attempts. you could do better. paige was making shots like crazy. 9 makes out of 10 attempts. you didn't want to get in your head at such an early stage in camp, so once again you calmed yourself down and ignore it. the second set had improvement for you. 6 makes out of 10, but something inside of you still was not satisfied. you wanted to make all 10. paige, showing off, made all 10. she shoulder checked you, and thats when it started, the determination to make all 10. but when you were good, paige wanted to be great. when you were great, paige wanted to be better. she always wanted to be one step ahead of you. third and final set, you pushed through. making sure your shots were clean, and not rushed. making sure your form was correct and your jumping was as high as you could be. when you heard all 10 swishes, you were finally satisfied. paige noticed you as she waited in line, rolling her eyes and pretending not to care. coach called a water break.

you went to the lobby to grab a sip of water. maddy was behind you, waiting for you to finish. she looked curious. "hey! you doing all right today?" she caught you off guard, almost choking on your water. "hey maddy! yes i'm good, thanks for asking." she looked outside the lobby, like she was anticipating someone. "i noticed paige is just, i don't know, off. it's like she has something against you, don't you think?"

you shrugged your arms. "it's a long story for another day, maddy. i'm just gonna let her have her moment and let it roll off my back, because i really do not need this this week." she started to head back to the gym, "we'll if you need anything i'm here." she left with a smile.

a scrimmage than happened, then the first day of camp had ended, giving you some relief. your tank was finally empty from today, and you couldn't wait to rest and recharge at home for tomorrow.

---

training camp was what seemed like an endless cycle. it felt like the same drills everyday, with minimal switch ups. paige was still in this competition with you, which started to get on your nerves. she would whisper things under her breath. occasionally, you heard what she was saying, like "unworthly" or "overrated". you were not falling for her childish games. the team started to notice more, whispering to each other about what was being observed between you and paige. dijonai was the one who was paying attention to you both the most out of everyone on the team.

training camp day 4 had wrapped up after your team formed a circle to call it the end of the day. you sat down and slid on a wall while chugging from your gaterade water bottle as if it was your last drops on earth. you were minding your business, closing your eyes trying to catch your breath, when you feel a figure suddenly in front of you. you quickly opened your eyes, when you saw paige.

"you can never seem to leave me alone, huh?" you spoke, getting up from the wall. she shrugged. "funny. looks like you need some practice. 1v1?" the light switched. your confidence was now through the roof, because of wanting the satisfactory to watch her lose. "first to 5. i'll shoot for it."

she chuckled. "not like you're gonna ma-" swish. you smiled. "what were you saying?" she ignored you, checking up the ball. you started, feeling the leather all over your hands as you dribbled the ball. you used one of your favorite tricks. crossover, between the legs, behind the back, step back, and shoot. paige tried to block. swish.

2-0. she grabbed the rebound. "so you wanna be like that?"

"i'm not being anything, bueckers. just trying to beat you at your own game." she handed you a bullet pass, purposely aiming for your chest, but you caught it right as it was about to hit you. "since i'm so kind, its losers ball." just as you were about to hand her the ball, you through it over you, not far, but just behind you. that really pissed paige off. "you just an asshole every day or just today?"

she had the ball, jabbed right then dribble left, hitting a pull up floater. you grabbed the rebound, shoulder checking her as you walked to the top of the key, waiting for her to check up. 2-2. "are you just a bitch when i get drafted here or for anyone?" she looked you up and down in anger as she checked up. you shot the 3, but missed. she whispered under her breath, but you managed to hear her. "shot's broken. as expected." she smirked as she ran to get the ball. she went up to the 3 to clear it. "wasn't broken when i did that step back though, huh?" she shot the 3, but you blocked it.

she really started the trash talk after that block. "all bark, but no fucking bite in you. pussy." you gave her a nod as she was underestimating you. you were about to shoot the 3 when she moved out the way. "decided to give you a free lane. accept it while you can. can't fucking making a 3 to save your life." challenge on, bueckers. you looked at her, shooting a no-look 3, smiling from ear to ear when you heard the shot go in. "keep talkin' paige." you stepped up close to her face. "reflecting your insecurities on me because you're fucking pissed i'm here. get fucking used to it, baby. or it ain't gonna look pretty."

dijonai saw from the corner entrance of the locker room. "both of you. locker room, now." her voice was stern, which meant she was not playing around.

you followed paige to the locker room, as you saw the whole team standing in front of you both as you sat down on the bench to your lockers.

arike began. "alright, imma say this shit once and that's it. whatever bullshit y'all have going on between each other needs to be fixed asap because this some bullshit."

dijonai continued. "this is really immature, figure out the battles between both of you. we're gonna head out and leave you two alone and speak your peace. i want this rivalry gone tomorrow morning." both of you nodded as the team headed out.

it was dead silent. none of you wanted to speak first. emotions and tension were thick in the air, you could taste it. you decided to be the bigger person and talk first. "why do you always have to have some sort of competition with me, paige?"

she placed her elbows on her thighs. "because i want to be better than you. i always want to be and always will be."

anger rose throughout your body. "look if you just don't fucking want me here don't be such a pussy and try to sabotage me to leave. be upfront and honest with me."

she got up from her bench. "alright fine, i don't want you here. i was happier without you. i don't like seeing your face here. i want you gone. it will be one less problem for me."

"i'll do you one better paige. give me a good enough fucking reason and i'll be out by tomorrow morning."

silence. paige couldn't think of one. she was still stuck on college, how you hurt and broke her trust. when in reality you did nothing at all. she was brainwashed and fed with lies by someone else to make her hate you. and it worked.

"you look like you wanna kill me half the fuckin' time. like you seeing me happy makes you physically ill." you said, about to surrender and leave with the tone in your voice. "you're not the person i used to know."

she said very unconcerned. "hate to break it to you sweetheart but people change. get used to it."

"see this is why i don't like fucking talking to you! all you do is make shit about yourself paige! have sympathy for once in your goddamn life. or is it just that hard of a concept to grasp for you?" you got up from your bench, slowly approaching her. paige look visibly stunned and offended from what you said. she wasn't upset or sad, she was furious.

"i saw you on draft night paige. i knew you weren't there for me. you could give two fucks about what happens to me. i can fucking die tomorrow god forbid, and you'd show no remorse. no emotion, not one tear shed from your goddamn face. what the actual fuck have i ever done to you to make you act like such a fucking bitch towards me. i've questioned myself day and night for this past week because of how you've been acting towards me. i know you fucking hate me, but that's the only thing i want to know." you were sobbing, crying from the anger that was spilling out of your mouth. paige was angry and numb at the same time. like she wanted to speak, but something was stopping her. finally, she bit the bullet.

"the day i confronted you that you cheated on me. i never saw you the same again. from that day on, you were my enemy. i hated you with every bone in my body that you could do such a thing to me. after everything i've done for you. i was there for you, through it all. i helped you during your injuries, or during the days where you wanted to kill yourself. and that's what you did to me? you stabbed me in the fucking back saying 'i don't want you'. you hurt me deeply, and i wanted you to feel the pain but worse." paige's body now reacted. she stood up and encountered you face to face, while her and eyes turned red from the anger that she was feeling.

"i'm stopping you right there. that day you confronted me, i was gonna say my shit. but you left paige. didn't even give me one fucking chance to explain." you yelled, as your voice increasingly became louder.

paige yelled back. "there was nothing for you to explain."

"can you let me fucking finish?" you gripped your practice jersey, attempting to cool off. "i never, ever, cheated on you paige. someone started that rumor to break us up and it worked. the next day after you confronted me, azzi asked me my side of the story. i didn't even know the fucking guy. paige you could've went through my phone. there was no proof of me ever talking to this guy. plus i'm a lesbian. guys disgust me. why would i cheat on you with a guy?" you took a deep breath. "azzi told me that you told the team what had happened. azzi told the team my side of the story about what happened."

paige intervened. "why didn't azzi tell me? why did she tell everyone except me?"

"because you needed time to cool off and i knew you wouldn't have believed me." you placed your hands on your hips.

paige licked her lips. "i could've understood if you told me what happened." you wanted this conversation to end.

"well i now feel like a dumbass for not telling you earlier paige." you sat back down, legs shaking from anxiety about the venting you just did.

paige sat back down also and turned to look at you. "so if you apparently 'cheated on me' but you in reality didn't, who started that rumor."

you spoke more calmly now. "i don't know. but it was an attempt to break us up. and it worked." you started picking at your nails from anxiety. paige got up and sat next to you. she was the next one about to cry.

"now that you told me this, i'm so sorry for how i treated you. and i know from how i acted earlier that a simple apology is not changing my behavior. when we broke up, i won't lie, i still loved you. i was going insane from not seeing you so often. i've been such a dick towards you, and if i could go back in time to prevent those things to hurt you, i would. i still love you and i care about you so much. i always think about you. on draft night, i mostly went for you. i wanted to see your face again. your smile, your fashion, your dream come true that you told me about." she grabbed your hand and interlocked fingers. "restart our journey with me. a new team, and new beginnings. only if you want to. i understand if you don't." she looked at you, tears escaping her eyelids as she poured her heart out to you. she gripped your hand tighter, making you feel her squeeze. "i've missed you so much paige. more than words can ever imagine."

you both got up from the bench and gave each other a long, warm and meaningful hug that you could've melt into. she placed a kiss on your cheek. "i've missed your touch, your warmth, your scent. i've missed this. all of you."

[edenesth]

ATEEZ as Anime Leads

Pairing(s): anime lead!ateez x female!reader

Word Count: 7.2k

A/N: Y'all, I'm so sorry for going MIA for so long. As you may or may not already know, work has been wearing me down, and I just cannot find the energy to work on By Order of the Black Pirates at the moment, but here's a little something I managed to put together to make up for my prolonged absence for now. (Not tumblr labelling this as potentially mature content before I even posted it lol.)

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong ↠ Levi Ackerman (Attack on Titan)

A legend within the Survey Corps, Captain Hongjoong is ruthlessly efficient, intimidatingly skilled, and always ahead of his enemies. His squad respects him, fears him, and secretly admires the way he silently cares for them despite his harsh words. Off the battlefield, he's a perfectionist who despises messes but has a surprising appreciation for art and music (though he'd never admit it).

He's sharp, disciplined, and highly respected, commanding attention despite his height. But beneath the icy exterior lies a hidden soft spot—a long-time female comrade who's been fighting beside him for nearly as long as he's worn the Wings of Freedom: you. You understand his silences, steady him when the world feels too heavy, and are one of the few people who can challenge him without fear. You're his anchor—the reason he hasn't lost himself to the war.

Like him, you had once been cold and unforgiving, having lost everything—and everyone—you loved to the Titans. Grief turned to rage, and rage into resolve. You rose through the ranks not out of hope, but out of sheer will to survive and destroy what had destroyed you. And yet, somewhere between brutal training sessions and blood-soaked battles, a quiet bond formed between you and him. It was never loud or obvious—but in shared glances, covered flanks, and unspoken understanding, it was undeniable.

Even now, though nothing has ever been said aloud, your feelings for each other linger in the spaces between orders and footsteps, in the way his gaze lingers just a moment too long, or how your voice softens when speaking only to him. More than comrades. More than friends. Something steady. Something real.

He fights not just for victory, but for a world where his people—and you—can finally live freely. It's a dream he clings to more tightly than he'll ever admit.

But even dreams must be set aside when reality demands action.

The air was thick with shouts and smoke as the news spread like wildfire—Titans had breached within Wall Rose. Panic surged through the streets while soldiers scrambled into formation. At the heart of it all stood the Captain—unshaken, sharp, lethal in focus—barking orders with steely precision, coordinating with the Military Police, the Garrison, and scattered Scout units to hold the defence line. His voice was calm, but his eyes never stopped moving—scanning, calculating, already thinking three steps ahead.

Then came the second report. The Royal Family was still within the inner district. Vulnerable. Exposed.

You didn't wait. You tightened your gear with practised hands, stepping forward without hesitation. "I'll protect the Royal Family. You focus on the defence," you said, your voice steady, your gaze locked with his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Hongjoong hesitated.

His hand shot out, curling gently around your wrist. Not to stop you, but to hold you. A plea lingered there, unspoken. His sharp, storm-hardened eyes locked onto yours, and in them was a flicker of something rare—fear. Not for the city. For you.

"We can do it together," he said softly, but his voice lacked its usual command. It sounded almost… vulnerable.

In that fleeting moment, a thousand words passed between you. All the years spent side by side. Every mission, every loss, every quiet glance when words failed. You reached over with your free hand and rubbed your thumb gently over his skin, a simple, grounding gesture—one that somehow spoke louder than anything you could've said.

"I'll be okay, Joong," you assured him, gently. "This is what we've been training for."

And something in him shifted.

Because in that moment, Hongjoong realised that what scared him more than losing the battle… was losing you. But he let you go slowly, reluctantly. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to trust you, just as you'd always trusted him.

"Stay alive. That's an order," he said, slipping on the stoic expression you knew so well—one you'd always admired, even if you could see the storm brewing behind it.

You smirked. "I will, Cap. After all, it's my turn for cleaning duties next, right? Wouldn't dare miss it for the world."

As you vanished across the rooftops, racing toward the inner gates, he didn't call after you. He didn't try to stop you. But his eyes followed your silhouette until it disappeared into smoke and sky.

And for the rest of that long, brutal day—through blood, through fire, through crumbling walls and falling Titans—he fought not just for Wall Rose's survival… but for yours.

And somewhere deep within, a vow was made: Whatever it took, he would make sure you came back. Because the world he was fighting for meant nothing without you in it.

Seonghwa ↠ Miyamura Izumi (Horimiya)

By day, Seonghwa is the quiet, polite, and well-mannered student—the kind others admire from a distance but rarely approach. But behind that calm exterior is a side he shows only to those closest to him: a cool, rebellious heart with quiet fire. With his hidden piercings, long hair, and effortless confidence, he's full of surprises—but the biggest surprise, even to him, is you.

You, his girlfriend. You, whom he once believed was far beyond his reach. He used to admire you in passing, quietly captivated by your determination, your strength, and the way you carried your heavy responsibilities without ever faltering. Back then, he never imagined you'd even notice him, let alone choose him.

And yet, here you are—his, and only his.

Around you, he softens in ways no one else gets to see. He makes bento lunches just the way you like, hugs you from behind without a word when he knows you're tired, and leaves thoughtful little gifts or notes in your bag—quiet reminders that you're always on his mind. He doesn't always speak his feelings out loud, but when he does, his words land with precision and sincerity, like an arrow to the heart.

…A soft heart wrapped in ink and silver—a contradiction only you get to understand.

Even now, sometimes, he still couldn't quite believe it. That someone like you—so bright, so admired, so far from the quiet corner he once kept to himself—had chosen him.

He remembered the first time he truly saw you, not the flawless girl everyone admired from afar, but the real you. Barefoot in oversized clothes, hair tied up messily, gently scolding your little brother as you wiped a nosebleed from his face. Seonghwa had only meant to walk the kid home after a minor scuffle, but instead, he found himself standing awkwardly in your living room, watching as you moved about—washing dishes, sweeping the floor, smiling in a way that felt… unguarded. Unfiltered. Real.

You, the top student. The girl everyone thought had it all together. And him, the quiet loner with piercings and tattoos no one saw under his uniform, always by the window, always apart.

But in that moment, something shifted. The distance between your worlds blurred. And instead of turning away, you chose to let each other in. You kept each other's secrets.

And he kept coming back—not because of obligation, but because of the comfort he found in your brother's cartoons, your overly salty popcorn, and your presence.

One visit became two. Then three. Then too many to count.

Through shared silences, quiet laughter, whispered confessions, and more than a few chaotic turns… here you were. His.

The memory drew a soft, almost dreamy smile to Seonghwa's lips.

Still drifting somewhere between thought and the warmth of the present, he instinctively tightened his hold around you. His eyes roamed over your peaceful face—your lashes fanned gently against your cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly, your breathing slow and steady in rhythm with his own. Your head rose and fell lightly on his chest, your body curled perfectly against his side, as if you were made to fit there.

These quiet afternoons, tucked beneath soft blankets after a long school day, had become his favourite part of the day. Moments like this, where time felt suspended—just you, him, and the quiet hum of comfort in the space you'd built together.

Unable to help himself, he leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin. And still, even now, a part of him couldn't quite believe it. That you were real. That you were his.

He could stay like this forever.

His heart fluttered when you shifted closer, still half-asleep, your lips brushing lightly against the curve of his neck. He bit his lip, fighting the urge to smile like a lovesick fool, and gently tugged the blanket higher to shield you from the world a little longer.

Just a little longer— "Hyung! You've slept long enough! Come play with me!"

Seonghwa stiffened, eyes widening in quiet panic as your little brother's voice echoed through the hallway, followed by the soft creak of your bedroom door swinging open. He turned toward the sound, only to see the boy peeking in, scanning the room to check if you were awake.

"Shh! You'll wake your sister—" he began to whisper, but it was already too late.

You stirred with a sleepy groan, nose scrunching as your hand landed lazily on your boyfriend's chest. "Just go, Hwa," you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Or he won't leave us alone."

He let out a quiet laugh, his palm moving soothingly along your back. "Alright, baby," he said softly, beginning to shift.

But just as he started to rise, your fingers curled around his, holding him back. Still half-asleep, you mumbled under your breath—just loud enough for him to hear, "Just remember… you'll have to make it up to me later."

Heat rushed to his cheeks. His ears flushed pink as he looked down at you with a flustered grin, heart flipping at how effortlessly you made him fall all over again.

"I will," he whispered, squeezing your hand in return. And in his mind, he was already counting the minutes.

Yunho ↠ Suoh Tamaki (Ouran High School Host Club)

As the king of the Ouran Host Club, Yunho is charming, dramatic, and effortlessly lovable. He sweeps people off their feet with his playful nature and signature over-the-top romantic lines, always knowing just how to make someone feel special. But for as long as he could remember, it was all part of the act—attentive, courteous, and dazzling, because it was his job to be.

Until you.

The person he once thought was just an interesting addition to the club—someone bold, odd, and refreshingly unbothered by his theatrics—turned out to be so much more. He still remembers the day he discovered the truth, when the "boy" he'd thought he was mentoring turned out to be a girl with fire in her eyes and a heart just as chaotic and kind as his. At first, it shook him.

Then, it changed him.

Because falling for you wasn't dramatic. It was quiet, unexpected… real.

Now, his attention isn't something he switches on for guests. With you, it's effortless. Natural. Constant. He notices your moods before you say a word. He brings you your favourite tea without being asked. His flirtation, once a performance, becomes a tender language reserved only for you.

The boy who once cared so much about his reputation now finds himself caring only about your happiness.

He still fills a room with laughter, still makes a fool of himself just to lift others' spirits. But when he looks at you, there's no act. No audience. Just him and the girl who changed everything.

It was just another day at the Host Club, or at least that's what it looked like on the surface. Music Room 3 buzzed with its usual golden glow—teacups clinking, girls giggling, soft piano music floating through the air. Yunho smiled on cue, laughed in perfect timing, and delivered another outrageously corny pickup line with the same dazzling confidence that made him the club's beloved king.

But something was off.

He bit his lip behind another charming smile, careful not to let his internal unease show. His patrons swooned at every word, completely unaware that while he played the role flawlessly, his mind was elsewhere, searching.

His eyes swept across the room instinctively, scanning for one specific person. You weren't at your usual spot by the corner table arranging flowers, nor were you behind the curtain where you sometimes read during sessions. In fact… now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen you since this morning.

You'd greeted everyone in passing, your voice cheerful but quick—before slipping away during the chaos of setup. He hadn't even gotten his usual forehead kiss, the tiny daily ritual that kept him grounded more than he liked to admit.

Still, it was a full Friday. The club was at capacity, and Yunho knew he couldn't abandon his post just to chase after a hunch. So he smiled through the growing tightness in his chest, telling himself he'd find you the second this session ended.

But then—mid-sentence, his eyes flickered past his patron to the ceiling-high window behind her… and his heart dropped.

The sky outside had turned a murky slate grey, the glass streaked with raindrops. A flash of lightning blinked across the sky, followed by a low rumble that made the chandeliers tremble ever so slightly.

Crap.

His smile faltered just for a second, barely noticeable.

She's afraid of thunder.

"Would you ladies excuse me for just a moment?" Yunho said smoothly, flashing a disarming grin as he set down his teacup. "I've just remembered we're running low on the special blend. It wouldn't be right to serve you anything less than perfection, now would it?"

The girls giggled, nodding in agreement, utterly charmed. "Of course, King Yunho~!"

With one last practised wink, he turned on his heel and strode briskly away—his expression dropping the second his back was to them.

His heart pounded in his chest as he made his way out of the room and into the hallway, the soft sounds of the host club fading behind him. Guilt gnawed at him.

The skies had been gloomy since morning. Why hadn't he paid closer attention? You had barely spoken to anyone today, and he should've known. Had he been thinking, really thinking, he would've cancelled the entire session. No smiles, no rose petals, no silver trays—just him holding you close, whispering nonsense until the storm passed.

But he hadn't. And now you were nowhere to be seen.

He checked every possible spot—the storage cabinet, the back hallway, even the balcony where you sometimes went for air. Nothing.

"Come on, think," he muttered, brushing his hair back in frustration. Where would she go?

Then it hit him.

The changing room.

Just as another thunderclap cracked across the sky. He broke into a sprint, nearly sliding around the corner before throwing open the door to the old backstage changing room—dimly lit and quiet, the hum of the storm muffled by thick walls.

And there you were.

Curled into yourself in the corner, knees pulled tight to your chest, trembling beneath the soft folds of your cardigan. Your face was turned away, but he could see your shoulders trembling, your breathing uneven.

His heart clenched at the sight. He didn't call your name, didn't want to startle you. Instead, he stepped inside quietly, kneeling beside you with the gentlest touch to your arm. "Hey… It's me," he whispered, voice softer than it had been all day.

Your head turned slowly, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "Yunho…?"

He gave a faint, guilty smile. "Yeah. I'm here. I'm so sorry—I should've noticed sooner."

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you tightly in his embrace. You didn't resist. You melted into him, burying your face into his chest as another low rumble rolled through the sky.

"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, pressing a kiss there like a silent vow. "I'm not going anywhere."

And this time, he meant it more than ever.

He held you close, his arms firm yet gentle, his heart still racing from the sprint—and from the guilt twisting inside him like a vice. "I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "I should've known. I should've been paying more attention to you today."

You shook your head from where you were tucked against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed yourself even closer to him.

"This is why I didn't say anything," you muttered, your voice muffled but clear with emotion. "I know you, Yuyu. You would've thrown everything aside… and I didn't want to be selfish."

He let out a soft huff, cradling the back of your head as he kissed your temple, lingering there. "You have the right to be," he murmured.

You started to protest, "But those girls—"

But before you could finish, he tilted your chin up and silenced you with a kiss—gentle, warm, and firm, the kind that held both comfort and promise. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath soft against your lips. "They can wait," he whispered. "You're my only priority."

Your eyes fluttered shut as you let his words sink in, and for the first time all day, the storm outside didn't seem quite so loud. Because in his arms, you were safe.

And to him, you were everything.

Yeosang ↠ Tuxedo Mask (Sailor Moon)

By day, Yeosang is calm and enigmatic—every bit the poised gentleman who draws curious glances without trying. But by night, he becomes Tuxedo Mask, the elusive, rose-wielding guardian who appears just in time with quiet grace and unwavering resolve. His elegance and composure mask a heart full of silent emotion, a past steeped in forgotten promises and lost love.

Ever since regaining the memories of his past life, everything has changed.

The dreams, the visions—it all made sense. You were his Princess Serenity. The one he'd sworn to protect. The one he'd loved across lifetimes. And the one he'd unknowingly pushed away in this one, back when he was still lost in confusion, detached and cold.

The guilt haunted him—how he'd once kept you at a distance, not understanding the pull in his chest every time you looked his way. But now that he remembered, now that he knew who you were, he carried the weight of that regret every day.

And in its place bloomed a fierce, unwavering devotion.

Now, everything he does—every rose he throws, every enemy he faces in the shadows—is to shield you. To make up for lost time. To ensure that in this life, you'll never have to fight alone again.

Because to him, you weren't just someone he watched over.

You were his beginning, his end—his forever.

No matter how many times you insisted that you could handle yourself—and he knew you could—Yeosang couldn't bear the thought of standing idly by while you faced danger. Not anymore. Not after everything.

As much as he respected your strength and the unshakable bond you shared with your fellow Sailor Guardians, he was always nearby. Always in the shadows. Always protecting you, whether you asked him to or not.

Because what kind of man—what kind of Prince—would he be to let the woman he loved throw herself into danger without him at her side? Especially when he knew the truth better than anyone: that your powers resonated more fiercely, more beautifully, when you were together.

Your Sailor Crystals were tied, always meant to work in harmony.

And tonight was no exception—another night under a starless sky, another battle sparked by Queen Beryl's dark ambitions. As the darkness spread and your transformation light burst into the air, he was already moving. Already there.

Because he'd sworn long ago—across time, across lifetimes—he would always fight beside you.

The clash ignited like thunder through the streets, the Sailor Guardians surging forward in formation, your powers weaving together in a brilliant, unified force. Together, you pushed back the tide of shadow, cornering one of the evil queen's generals beneath the shattered remains of an old monument.

The battle was nearing its end.

Sparks of light clashed against crackling shadows in the ruined city square, and for a moment, it felt like victory was yours.

"We've got him!" Sailor Mars shouted, fire crackling at her fingertips. You stood at the front, tiara glinting under the moonlight, heart pounding with adrenaline and pride. "One final blast—together!" The Guardians prepared their strike, light surging in a vibrant crescendo.

But in that single heartbeat, just as your focus narrowed, a low chuckle slid from the battered general's lips.

Too late, you saw the glint of energy in his palm. A dagger of dark magic, hurled not at your teammates, not even in desperation to escape, but at you. Straight at your heart.

Your body locked in shock.

There wasn't enough time to summon your shield. You couldn't move.

But he did.

A blur of black and crimson. The whisper of a rose on the wind.

"No."

Yeosang.

He crashed into you just as the bolt struck, arms tightening protectively around you. The impact seared across his back, his coat burning at the edges—but you were safe, cushioned against his chest, wide-eyed as you realised what had happened.

He didn't even flinch. Only breathed out your name, shakily, as if making sure you were still here.

You clutched his coat, voice trembling, "Yeo…"

He glanced down at you, the pain in his eyes overshadowed by something deeper. "You didn't think I'd let anything touch you, did you?"

You opened your mouth to protest, but he pressed his forehead to yours. "Not again. Never again."

Behind him, the Guardians finished the final strike, the general disintegrating into dust.

But in that moment, the only thing you could see was him—your guardian, your prince, your Yeosang—holding you like you were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

Because to him, you were.

San ↠ Nanami Kento (Jujutsu Kaisen)

In the world of Jujutsu Sorcery, San is calm, composed, and exudes pure authority. He prefers logic over recklessness, making him one of the most reliable fighters in battle. While he claims to hate overtime and unnecessary stress, he always ends up taking care of others, offering wise advice and silently protecting them from harm. His cold exterior is just a front—he deeply cares, though he shows it through quiet gestures more than words.

Though many assume he remains connected to Jujutsu High out of loyalty to Gojo, the real reason is a little more complicated—and a lot more personal.

It was you.

You, the brilliant alumna who somehow made chaos look graceful. You, who challenged him just by existing, who made him feel something close to warmth, even in a world riddled with curses and blood.

You, a fellow alumna and now a teacher in your own right, were the real reason he never fully walked away. Maybe he didn't mind helping train the next generation… if it meant catching glimpses of you between lessons. Maybe he didn't complain about overtime quite as much when it meant late-night patrols with you.

Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Unbothered king… unless it's you. Then he notices everything.

So when reports of another Jujutsu terrorist attack came in—Geto's name scrawled across the chaos once more—San didn't hesitate. He scanned the mission details and found yours almost immediately.

He knew the curse you were assigned to. Knew it was a special grade. Knew what that meant.

And suddenly, overtime didn't matter.

He was already moving before anyone could stop him, before anyone could question why someone so notoriously strict about his hours was volunteering to stay behind. But he didn't care. He'd assessed the curse, gauged its strength, and the answer was clear.

You could win—but you wouldn't walk away unscathed.

And that wasn't something he could live with.

So when you turned, surprised to find him there as you prepared for battle, irritation lining your voice—"What are you still doing here, Choi? I'm not one of the kids. You don't have to worry about me. It's past your working hours, just go. I'll be fine."—he only scoffed, fingers already at his collar as he loosened his tie.

"I'm not about to set a bad example to your students," he said smoothly, though the flicker in his gaze betrayed deeper concern. "Besides, it wouldn't be very responsible of me to leave a fellow colleague to finish this off on her own."

The battle ended quicker than either of you had anticipated. You'd already worn the special-grade curse down, but with San joining in—precise, ruthless, and composed as ever—it tipped the scale completely in your favour. A flash of his cursed technique cleaved through the creature's core, and with one final strike from you, its form disintegrated into black mist.

Silence settled in the aftermath, broken only by the faint hum of cursed energy dissipating. The Curtain flickered once… twice… then dissolved around you, revealing the moonlit city beyond.

Both of you stood there, catching your breath. Bruised, scraped, but victorious. "You know I could've handled that on my own," you muttered with a tired smirk.

San exhaled slowly, pretending to fix his watch, though his hand lingered longer than necessary. "I know… just wanted to help."

He didn't meet your eyes, unsure what he'd see—disapproval, amusement, or worse, understanding. But instead, you stepped closer. Close enough for him to feel your presence settle warmly into the space between you. Your hand reached up, and before he could process it, your thumb gently wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his chin.

"You had something," you said softly, fingers lingering for the briefest second longer than necessary.

The touch froze him.

His breath caught, his usual composure faltering just enough to let the fluster creep in. His mind raced—did you feel it too? The pull? The quiet gravity that had been gnawing at him every time you walked into the room?

You pulled away like nothing happened, but there was a glint in your eyes. The kind that told him maybe, just maybe, you knew exactly what you were doing.

"Thank you, Sannie, for your help," you said, bumping your shoulder into his, your tone light.

And just like that, you turned and walked off, leaving his heart pounding far louder than any curse ever could. He stared after your figure, dazed, on the brink of saying something more—something real—when you spun around with that familiar cheeky grin.

"I'm sure Gojo would be pleased to hear you're so willing to help after hours. Prepared to get busy?"

San groaned, dragging a hand down his face to hide the heat rising in his ears. "You really don't know when to stop." But he was already moving to follow, gaze still soft, expression still dazed.

He wasn't sure what had just happened.

But he knew one thing: he wanted more.

Mingi ↠ Rengoku Kyojuro (Demon Slayer)

With a booming voice, infectious laughter, and boundless enthusiasm, Mingi is the true embodiment of warmth and strength. He fights with passion, determination, and an unshakable resolve, inspiring everyone around him to push forward no matter the odds. He treats everyone like family, encouraging them with uplifting words and radiating kindness even in the darkest of times. He lives without regret, protecting those he loves with everything he has.

Even in the toughest battles, he always smiles and says, "It's okay. I'll take care of it."

He was bright, passionate, and larger than life.

But even the brightest flames have their moments of dimness. And in those quiet, flickering moments—when the laughter fades and the weight grows heavy—he has you.

A fellow Hashira he had met at the very start of his journey. You, who had stood beside him when his fire was still small, unsure, and constantly stifled by doubt. You, the quiet but unshakable force who never let his flame go out.

Not many know, but you are his foundation. The reason he can smile for others. The reason he can carry so much and still say, "I've got this." When his father questioned his worth, when the voices of self-doubt echoed louder than the roar of battle, you were the steady voice that reminded him he was enough.

Behind every smile he gives to the world, there is a moment shared with you. His flame may burn bright for all, but you…

You are the one who keeps it alive.

That thought clung to him long after yet another battle had ended. Tonight's battle had ended, but Mingi's heart hadn't stopped racing. Not from the fight—he could handle demons, wounds, even pain—but from the moment you were nearly struck, the way your blood had stained the ground, the way time seemed to freeze around him in that one terrifying second.

He hadn't let it show. Not in front of the others. Not while the mission still hung heavy in the air. But now, back at the Butterfly Mansion, all he could think about was you.

The Flame Hashira paced past the infirmary rooms, checking every cot—yours was empty.

His stomach twisted.

He scoured the garden, the corridors, a quiet kind of desperation building behind his ribs until—

He paused at the faint smell drifting through the corridor. Sweet potatoes. He followed it like instinct, his body moving before his mind even caught up.

There you were.

He leaned against the kitchen door frame, the sight of your familiar silhouette grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"What, pray tell, could you possibly be making this late in the night?" he asked, a smile playing on his lips.

You jumped, nearly fumbling the tray as you turned, eyes wide like you'd been caught stealing from the pantry. But then your gaze softened when you saw him, and so did your shoulders.

You beckoned him over.

He was at your side in seconds, eyes dropping to the tray of steaming sweet potatoes—his favourite. "I was going to bring them to you—"

You didn't even finish.

Mingi pulled you into his arms, his hold firm, almost desperate, burying his face in the curve of your shoulder like he was trying to make sure you were real. Warm. Alive.

You stood still for a beat, then melted into him, your hands moving gently to his back.

"I thought I lost you today," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

"But you didn't, Mangi," you replied softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. "I'm right here."

He held you tighter, as if afraid you might slip away again. The warmth of the kitchen, the soft scent of the sweet potatoes, the steady rise and fall of your breathing—it was all he needed to breathe again.

You pulled back slightly to look up at him, your hand reaching up to brush a bit of dirt and dried blood from his cheek.

His eyes widened just slightly at the tenderness of the gesture.

"Sit. Eat," you said with a faint smile, trying to lighten the moment. "Even flames need fuel."

He let out a quiet laugh, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. He took your hand before you could turn away again and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, just for a second longer than necessary.

And in that quiet kitchen, long after the chaos had passed, Mingi knew something with absolute certainty: You weren't just the reason his flame stayed lit.

You were the reason he kept burning at all.

Wooyoung ↠ Howl (Howl's Moving Castle)

In a castle that moves across enchanted landscapes, Wooyoung is the enigmatic and breathtakingly beautiful wizard who leaves a trail of admirers wherever he goes. Flirty, dramatic, and effortlessly magical, he revels in the attention and mystery he creates—until it comes to you.

Because beneath the teasing smiles and grand entrances, his heart belongs to one person alone: you.

You, who first stumbled into his life like a quiet storm. You, who challenged his ego and saw through the layers of charm and chaos.

He may have a reputation for dodging responsibilities and laughing in the face of danger, but when it came to you, there was no hesitation. He searched high and low, dabbled in forbidden spells, crossed paths with demons and stars alike—all to break the curse that bound you.

Wooyoung could still joke, still charm, still wear his flamboyant coats and wink at danger. But every spell he cast, every risk he took, was fueled by one unshakable truth:

He loved you more than magic itself.

You didn't know. Or if you did, you never said. And so, he never crossed the line. Instead, he remained near—your chaos and your calm, your shield and your shadow.

He still enjoyed making you blush when he whispered sweet nothings, still tucked roses behind his ear for the sole purpose of handing them to you like he hadn't been thinking about it all day. But that affection, as loud as it felt in his chest, remained unspoken.

Even in the stillness of night, that truth clung to him.

It was well past midnight when the castle's creaks lulled into a rare hush. The stars blinked lazily beyond the ever-shifting windows. Restless, you wandered barefoot through unfamiliar corridors of the castle, drawn by the faint glimmer of soft golden light slipping under a closed door.

You pushed it open gently and paused.

The wizard was alone, standing in the centre of a dimly lit room you'd never seen before. It was quieter here, older. Shelves filled with weathered books, scattered scrolls, and constellations drawn in shimmering ink surrounded him. And in the middle of it all, floating weightlessly, was a glowing orb.

He didn't look at you at first. Just kept his gaze on the swirling light inside the orb, as though caught in a memory.

"What's that?" you asked softly.

He turned his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "A star," he said. "Or… what's left of one."

He lifted a hand, fingers brushing the edge of the light. "I caught it when I was young. Gave it my heart in exchange for power. For magic. For something I thought I needed to survive." He let out a quiet breath. "It used to feel like a mistake."

You stepped closer, drawn not by the light but by the shadow in his voice. "And now?" you asked.

He finally looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes, usually full of mischief and fire, softened like stardust settling over calm water.

"Now I think maybe I gave my heart away for a reason," he murmured. "So it could find its way back to something real."

Back to you, my love.

The orb dimmed slowly between you, as if the memory had played its final note. You were close now—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough to notice the flicker in his gaze as it dropped to your lips before darting away.

You reached up without thinking, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear.

He stilled, then leaned ever so slightly into your touch. "You always ruin my dramatic moments," he said quietly, the smirk in his voice not quite reaching his eyes.

You smiled, not pulling away. "Then maybe you should stop letting me in on them."

"Not a chance," he whispered, stepping back just enough to keep from overstepping. "You're the only magic I trust with the whole show." And just like that, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to stay, to linger, to be near.

The world outside could crumble. But in this quiet room, with unspoken feelings and lingering touches, it felt, for just a moment, like you might already know. Like maybe, you were staying on purpose.

And so you did. You lingered.

You could have made some excuse, about wandering in your sleep or being curious about the light. But you didn't. You simply sat on the edge of a low couch near the wall as he returned to his place by the now-fading orb, casting a spell with a flick of his fingers to let the rest of the room dim into golden quiet.

The silence between you wasn't awkward. It never was. But tonight, it felt heavier. Charged. Something unspoken rested in the space like the star that once glowed there.

You glanced at him—really looked.

Wooyoung, with his dishevelled hair and candlelit skin, the robes hanging off one shoulder like they were too tired to be dramatic anymore. The boy who gave his heart to a star, who smiled through shadows, who searched the world to save you without expecting anything in return.

And suddenly, you felt it.

Not like a burst of clarity—but a soft click, like something that had always been there slipping quietly into place. A feeling that had grown with each glance, each teasing comment, each quiet act of care.

You'd spent so long thinking you had time. That his affection was playful. That maybe your own heart had been mistaken for something fleeting.

But it wasn't.

You loved him.

Not because he saved you. Not because he made you laugh when things were falling apart. Not even because he gave you stars. But because in a world that shifted constantly beneath your feet, he was the only thing that ever truly felt like home.

Your breath hitched just slightly. He must've sensed it, because his eyes met yours again—and this time, he said nothing. Just watched. Waited.

You smiled, quiet and real, and whispered, "Thank you, Woo."

"For what?" he asked, his voice low.

"For giving me somewhere to come back to."

He swallowed, a rare flicker of vulnerability slipping through the practised charm. And though neither of you said what you both now knew, it didn't matter.

Because something had changed.

And neither of you would ever be the same again.

Jongho ↠ Kageyama Tobio (Haikyuu!!)

On the court, Jongho is a powerhouse setter—calm, calculated, and relentless. His focus is razor-sharp, his skills unmatched, and his presence alone can change the pace of a match. He demands excellence, not out of arrogance, but because he sees the potential in every player. That desire to push others forward often earned him the nickname "King of the Court"—a title not of admiration, but of criticism, painting him as cold and controlling.

But off the court, those who truly knew him understood better.

Behind the intensity was someone goofy and awkward in the most endearing way. Someone who practised until his hands were bruised, who carried the weight of the team quietly on his shoulders, and who loved deeper than he knew how to say.

And then there was you.

His personal cheerleader since childhood. The one who never wavered, who stood by him when others misunderstood his passion for tyranny. Who shouted the loudest at his games, defended him in the hallways, and always reminded him that being different didn't make him wrong. You believed in him before anyone else did.

You, who had grown from the tiny kid with scraped knees into someone he now looked at with something deeper than just friendship. Something he hadn't quite found the courage to name—yet.

Maybe on the volleyball court, he was a king.

But to you? He just hoped to be something more.

It was thoughts like these that echoed louder than the sound of sneakers squeaking against polished wood, long after the gym had emptied.

Everyone else had gone home. The lights above buzzed quietly. He was alone, except for the ball bouncing back to him, the tension in his chest, and the self-imposed pressure gnawing at his focus.

Sweat clung to his brow as he reset for yet another drill, breath steady but heart pounding. The upcoming match loomed heavy on his shoulders. He couldn't afford mistakes. He couldn't let anyone down.

He served again. And again. And again. Each time just a fraction off from perfect. Frustrated, he exhaled sharply, pausing to rest his hands on his knees. His mind raced—every error, every comment, every moment where he wasn't good enough replaying like a cruel loop.

Then the door creaked.

He tensed, not ready for any more eyes on him.

But then he heard your voice.

"You know, most people go home after practice ends."

He froze mid-serve, the ball slipping from his fingers and bouncing harmlessly away. He turned slowly, trying not to look too startled—or too thrilled.

You stood there with a half-smile and a bag of snacks in your hands, wearing that same look you always did when you found him overworking himself again: exasperated, but soft around the edges.

"I brought your favourite," you said, walking toward him, holding the bag up like an offering. "Figured you'd still be here. You never know when to quit."

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I'm predictable."

"You're relentless," you corrected, stepping close enough to press the snacks gently into his hands. "And a little too hard on yourself."

He met your eyes then—really met them. The gym felt quieter suddenly, like the whole place was holding its breath.

"I just… I don't want to let anyone down," he admitted, voice low. "I know what they say about me. Controlling. Too intense. But I push because I know they can do it. Because I care."

You smiled, the kind that always seemed to pull the air right out of his lungs. "I know. That's why I've never stopped cheering for you."

His hands tightened around the bag. For a moment, he forgot about the court, the pressure, the weight of the upcoming match. All he saw was you—standing in front of him, as you always had.

"You've always been there," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Even when everyone else looked at me like I was too much… you never did."

You tilted your head slightly. "That's because I've always seen you, Jjong. Not just the King of the Court."

He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before the words slipped out, shaky but sincere. "I think I… I don't just want to be your friend anymore."

Your breath caught.

The gym lights flickered slightly overhead, but neither of you moved.

You stepped a little closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then stop talking like you're afraid I might not feel the same."

He blinked, stunned for a moment, before the smallest, most genuine smile curved on his lips. And in that quiet space between old memories and new feelings, Jongho thought—for once—maybe he really didn't have to be perfect.

Not when you already chose him anyway.

I hope y'all enjoyed this! Sorry if the last few members' parts didn't quite meet expectations because my dumbass worked on them in a pretty sleep-deprived state HAHA anyway, how did y'all like the matches? Do you agree with them?🤭

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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[cinnasite]

the science of sleeping with your best friend

꩜ pairing: timeskip!kenma kozume x virgin!female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 4.3k

꩜ synopsis: you relationship with kenma has always been understated—quiet moments, mutual understanding, and an unspoken connection. but when you open up about your insecurities regarding intimacy, things take a turn. one kiss, a subtle shift in dynamics, and suddenly everything you once knew feels entirely different. caught in a whirlwind of desire and growing affection, you find yourself grappling with feelings that you've ignored for years. is it too late to turn back or is this the beginning of something far deeper?

You vividly remember the day you moved to Japan. You were eleven, your nervousness amplified by the way the airport had smelled—metallic, unfamiliar, cold. Your mother stayed back in your hometown with your younger brother, and you followed your father across the ocean for his new job… your new life. You told yourself it was an adventure, trembling in anticipation.

It wasn’t. Not at first.

Making friends when you didn’t speak the language fluently and stood out in every classroom turned out to be less like an odyssey and more of a series of long, silent lunch breaks. Teachers tried, some classmates smiled, but nothing stuck. Not until high school.

Transferring to Nekoma High at fifteen was your father’s idea. He’d said something about the school’s progressive curriculum and cultural diversity. You hadn’t hoped for much until, one week into classes, the principal cornered you near the shoe lockers and asked if you’d consider being the manager for the boys’ volleyball team.

“It’s part of a new initiative. We’re looking to build an inclusive sports environment,” he said. “And you have excellent organisational skills from your transcript.” You said yes, mostly out of curiosity. And maybe because it was the first time someone had sought you out, instead of the other way around.

The first practice was awkward, to put it lightly. A room full of sweaty teenage guys and sharp whistles. You stood off to the side, notebook in hand, questioning every life choice that led you there with a resigned sigh. Until Kuroo Tetsurō slung an arm around your shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, you’re one of us now. You’ll get used to these knuckleheads.”

The team protested. You laughed for the first time in weeks. That’s how it all began.

They took you under their wing like a little sister, especially Kuroo—he treated you with a big-brother protectiveness that made the transition less lonely. Lev would tell you outrageous lies just to see you smile. Yamamoto always tried too hard to impress you but meant well. Yaku taught you how to be blunt in Japanese without accidentally insulting someone’s grandmother.

But the one you inexplicably gravitated toward was Kenma.

You were the same age, and the same reserved type, at least at first glance. Though unlike him, you didn’t mind talking. People were drawn to you in a way that surprised you. So, Kenma didn’t intimidate you. If anything, you felt safe around him. He was calm, observant, and never asked for more than you were willing to give.

You’d sit beside him during breaks, leaning over his shoulder as he played on his handheld console.

“You’re always watching,” he’d say without looking up.

“I like watching,” you’d plainly reply.

And when he let you try it out yourself—tentatively handing over his console like it was something fragile—you knew you had earned his trust. You’d talk about things beyond video games. Books. Movies. Your homesickness. His dislike of crowds. The weird comfort of silence. He was the only one who didn’t flinch when you talked about the divorce or missing your mom and brother.

By the end of your second year, you were inseparable. Everyone saw it—hell, even Kuroo made a habit of teasing you about it.

“She’s the Kenma whisperer,” he’d joke. “He actually talks around her.”

You dismissed it. You told yourself it was just friendship, that the small twists in your stomach when his shoulder brushed yours were normal. That the deliberate and soft way he looked at you was just how he looked at everyone.

But somewhere near the end of school, when the weight of the future started crawling into every conversation, you realised you felt something more. And it scared the hell out of you. You didn’t say anything. How could you risk losing what you had when it had taken you so long to find it?

After graduation, the team drifted as people often do. University took everyone in different directions, but you all stayed in touch. Kuroo’s group chats were relentless and reunions became an annual thing, something precious to look forward to.

With Kenma, your bond never faded. If anything, it grew.

Even when you were in different cities, the two of you never changed—late night phone calls, half-asleep messages, and meeting up whenever you could. Both of you still talked like no time had passed. Still knew each other in that rare, bone-deep way. However, you dated around, courtesy of your college roommate urging you to move on and get laid. You had simply nodded, telling yourself the crush was a remnant of adolescence. It had to be. It wasn’t healthy to keep holding on.

Tragically, it never went anywhere with the people you went out with. No one matched the way Kenma understood you without trying. No one matched the genuinity and the slow-burn thrill.

And now, in your twenties, with a stable job and a quiet apartment, you were beginning to admit that maybe it had never been just a crush.

But if that was true… what in the world were you supposed to do about it?

Kenma’s penthouse was everything you’d expect: clean lines, muted colors, and minimalist furniture. Expensive in a subtle way. 

He was already curled up on the low couch when you stepped in, barefoot and hoodie-clad, legs tucked under himself like a cat. “You’re late,” he murmured without looking up from his nintendo.

“You’re lucky I even showed up,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door.

“Oh?” His eyes flicked up momentarily, amused. “Is this you playing hard to get?”

You rolled your eyes and sank into the seat beside him, close enough for your knees to brush. “If I was playing hard to get, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

That earned a low hum of laughter. “So self-assured.”

The night unfolded the way it generally did—casual banter, leftover takeout, and dumb inside jokes that had survived since Nekoma. You both sat there, bodies angled toward each other, the city lights painting the walls with a faint gold.

At one point, he turned off the TV, but neither of you moved. There was a falter. A lapse stretching between words. Then, after much thought, you said it.

“Can I ask you something kind of... weird?”

Kenma blinked. “Sure.”

You took a breath. “Do you ever think you’re, like, bad in bed?”

His eyebrows rose. That certainly wasn’t what he’d imagined the conversation would jump to. You winced at yourself. “Okay, wow, that sounded way more self-deprecating than I meant it to.”

“Little bit.”

“I’m serious,” you said, shifting to face him fully. “I’ve dated, right? But it never really went anywhere. And when it did get physical, it just… didn’t go that far.”

Kenma didn’t interrupt. Merely listened.

“I mean, I’ve done stuff,” you continue rambling, suddenly fascinated by the hem of your sleeve. “A little oral. Some handjobs. But, um, I’ve never… had sex.”

There it was. Out in the open. You’d lobbed the confession between you like a live grenade, waiting for it to detonate. Only that it didn’t. The lack of response wasn’t exactly suffocating, though it did make you scream a little on the inside. 

Kenma’s voice was gentler than you expected when it came. “Why are you thinking about this now?”

His words made you hesitate. “Because I’m trying to see people again. But every time I get close to someone, I panic. I keep doubting myself—what if I’m not good at it? What if they expect me to know what I’m doing and I don’t?”

A beat.

“And it’s not about being ashamed,” you added quickly. “I just want to feel... in control. Comfortable.”

Kenma studied you. “You could just tell them.”

“I know. But I don’t want it to be a thing. Like, ‘oh no, she’s a virgin, handle her with care.’” You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want pity sex. Or worse, performance sex.” You dared a peep at him. “Have you…?”

He tilted his head. “Had sex?”

Your ears burned, unsure of whether you wanted to hear the answer. “Yeah.”

Kenma leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “I have.”

The words sat in the air like smoke. You ignored the tightening of your chest. “Was it good?” you asked. Perhaps, a little too quickly.

He gave you a look. “You really want to know?”

You stammered. “Yes. No. Kind of. For research purposes.”

He smirked. “Of course.”

“Shut up.”

He was quiet for a moment before replying, “Some of it was good. Depends on the person, I guess.”

You hummed, eyes on his collarbone. “Would you ever, uh, be willing to show someone the ropes?”

A pause. “What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. The apartment felt charged, causing your fingers to twist in your lap. Without meeting his gaze, you exhaled shakily.

“I was just thinking… if I ever wanted to figure this out—hypothetically—you’re the only person I’d trust not to make it weird.”

Kenma stilled, lips parting. “Hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. A longer one. “You’re asking me to have sex with you.”

Your stomach flipped. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant.” 

You groaned. “Forget it. This was dumb. I shouldn’t have—”

“I didn’t say no.” Kenma looked at you. Not joking, not teasing—just looking. That same sincere care you’d known for years, now sharpened with something else.

Something almost hungry.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, voice low. “Help you?”

Your heart thundered. “Well, I—Only if… you want to.”

He leaned forward. “I want to. Let’s start with a kiss.”

You froze, eyes widening at the abruptness of it all.

“Since, you know,” he added casually, “we’re doing research.” You laughed—nervous, breathy—and nodded. “Right. For the glory of science.”

He moved in leisurely, giving you every chance to pull back. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours once. Gentle and testing, your breath hitching at the sensation. You kissed him again. More assertive than previously. As a result, his hand found your cheek. The angle changed, the excitement deepened.

You realised begrudgingly that your idea had stopped being hypothetical real fast.

Kenma and you grew feverish, your actions slow, then speedy, like you couldn’t get enough. You gripped his hoodie in an act of desperation. His fingers trailed along your waist, reluctant yet calculating. You felt his touch at the hem of your t-shirt and gasped, pulling back.

“I—I need to stop,” you whispered.

Kenma, breathing heavily, nodded. “Okay.”

You sat there, chests heaving, foreheads nearly touching.

“That was…” you began.

“Mhm,” he said, voice hoarse. “It was.”

You didn’t sleep together that night. Be that as it may, something had undoubtedly shifted. Something you couldn’t take back. Neither of you were prepared for what that first sensuous encounter had unlocked. 

After the kiss, everything was different. Not in a dramatic, movie-like way, mind you. There were no whispered confessions or next-day declarations. You didn’t even text about it. Not directly, though every message after did have a different weight to it.

gamer boi: you left your ring on the bathroom sink

You: OMGTHANKYOU i’ve been searching for it all day :(

gamer boi: how did you even forget it?? isn’t it your favourite????  

You: it’s not my fault someone kept me distracted with his mouth 🙄

gamer boi: don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it

The next time you saw Kenma, you were wearing a sundress with zero intentions of escalating anything. Apparently, it didn’t matter.

You were barely inside before Kenma tugged you in by the wrist, your back hitting the front door with a loud thud. His mouth was on yours again, hands roaming like he’d been starved of touch. His fingers curled around your waist, dragging you flush against him. You let out an embarrassingly needy whimper, arms looped around his neck for balance.

It was supposed to be another kiss. Nothing too intense, nothing too fiery. But soon his tongue brushed against yours—mischievously coaxing. When his knee slid between your thighs, you knew that you were done for.

Your nails dug into his shoulders and he groaned into your mouth.

“Okay?” he checked in, lips grazing your jaw.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just—you… it’s all very new. ”

He paused. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I will.”

That night, you didn’t go all the way either.

But you let him touch you. Really touch you.

You ended up in his lap on the couch, your dress hiked up, his t-shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. His motions were maddeningly drawn out—smoothing over your thighs, teasing under your panties, fingers slicking gently over you until you were shaking. One thing you’d grown to learn thanks to these electrifying escapades was that Kenma neither rushed nor demanded.

Just observed.

He watched you unravel, watched you fall apart with nothing more than his hand between your legs and his mouth pressed to your throat.

You’d returned the favour a week later—kneeling between his knees in that same living room, palms steady even though your mind was a mess. He had gripped your hair, but not harshly—more like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

And after, when you wiped your mouth and leaned your cheek against his thigh, both of you panting hard, he murmured, “You’re dangerous when you’re confident.”

You smiled. “Guess the research is working, huh?”

His only answer was a smirk.

Life, as it usually does, got in the way. You were swamped at work and Kenma had his own obligations. Days passed. Weeks, even. You didn’t meet up with him, but you felt him everywhere. In your skin. In your thoughts. In the aching, restless emptiness of your bed. And worse: you missed him. Not just the way he touched you—but the him of it. His deadpan humour. The way he’d pause in conversation like he was thinking four moves ahead. The attractive rasp of his voice. The way he drank you in.

You missed your friend. You craved your… something.

You didn’t know what you were to him anymore. In spite of that, you knew that you needed him.

Kuroo’s reunion couldn’t have come at a better—or worse—time.

You’d dressed without overthinking it. Okay, maybe a little overthinking. The black corset hugged your curves like sin. The skirt hit mid-thigh, leaving appropriately enough to the imagination. The oversized leather blazer added a touch of effortlessness you didn’t actually feel. And the platform boots? Tall enough to be seductive.

When you walked into the high-end restaurant, every eye turned. On the contrary, you only looked for one.

Kenma was at the bar, drink in hand, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was tousled, face unreadable. But when he saw you, he froze. Eyes trailing down greedily, taking his sweet time. He didn’t smile or wave.

Later, after hours of group toasts, dodging Kuroo’s banter, and pretending you didn’t itch with anticipation, Kenma found you on the rooftop balcony.

The city buzzed beneath.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, not turning around. 

He stepped closer, “You’ve been busy.”

“So have you.”

All you hear for a few seconds is the cacophony of traffic and pedestrians.

“You look good tonight.”

You swallow, your feet carrying you to him. “Yeah?”

Kenma appears just as tormented as you. “Too good.”

Your breath caught. “That a problem?”

He didn’t bother with an answer. Reaching for you, he hastily tugged you close. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and aching, weeks (he’d argue, proclaiming ‘years’) of self-control slipping like sand through fingers.

You didn’t even remember getting into the cab.

The moment Kenma’s apartment door shut behind you, it was chaos.

Lips crashing. Hands fumbling. Breath caught between kisses that were all teeth and tongue, no space for thought. Kenma backed you against the wall while you yanked at the buttons of his shirt like you were unwinding every second you’d spent pretending this wasn’t what you wanted. He dragged your blazer off, then your corset. His hands slid up your thighs, underneath your skirt, finding nothing but heat and skin.

“You planned this?” he muttered, strained, against your neck.

“I thought about you,” you whispered honestly.

He cursed, kissing you deeper—ravenous, like the time apart had built a pressure in him he could no longer contain. Soon, you were in his bed. Limbs knotting, bare. His weight on top of you was crushing—so real with almost a decade’s worth of tension, of friendship, of everything unspoken.

His touch skimmed up your stomach, pausing at the curve of your breast.

“I need you,” he said, hoarsely. “Tell me I can have you. Please.”

“I’m yours,” you reassured—just a whisper, but your whole body yearned to meet his. “I want you so bad, Kenma.”

He reached down between your thighs, fingers running through the mess there, working you open. You moaned, legs falling wider to allow him to move inside you better. You were drowning in sensation. His teeth nipped at your chest, hips grinding just barely against yours, and yet—

You wanted this. God, you wanted him. But—

“Wait,” you muttered, voice thin and trembling.

Kenma froze immediately. His eyes locked on yours, reading your face with terrifying precision. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I—”

Your hand pressed lightly to his chest. “I can’t—I can’t do this like it’s solely physical. Not with you.”

The room shifted.

“I thought I could,” your voice was so low, one might believe you weren’t speaking at all. “I told myself this was just for fun. A learning thing. ‘Research.’ But I can’t pretend anymore.”

You looked up at him, shame creeping in. “If I sleep with you, I’ll fall completely. I already have. It won’t just be sex to me. I don’t think it ever was.” You gulped, words turning rawer. “And if that’s not what you want… then this was a mistake.”

Tranquility. Thick. Cracking at the seams.

You felt your panic rise. “Sorry. I know I fucked things up, god. I should leave—"

“Stop,” Kenma finally spoke. Your blathering halted.

His fingers trailed up your cheek. “You think I’d let you in like this—have you like this—if it was just physical to me?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

“I’ve been in love with you since high school, you idiot,” he said, and your stomach dropped. “I just never thought you’d want me back.”

You blinked up at him, stunned.

“When we kissed that day,” he continued, reverent, “everything changed. I didn’t want to risk scaring you away, so I thought if I gave you what you needed… eventually you’d see it too.”

He kissed your forehead. “See that I’d burn down the world for you.”

You gazed up at him, shaking slightly. “You’re not serious.”

He kissed your cheek. Your temple. Your nose. “I’m dead serious.”

Emotion swelled in your heart, hand cupping the side of his face. “Kenma…”

He leaned into the touch. “Talk to me.”

“I used to wait for practice to end just to walk home with you. I used to sit in the stands and pretend I was watching the match, but I was only watching you.”

The corner of his lips twitched. His hands ran down your sides.

“I thought I was broken for never wanting anyone the way my friends did,” you whispered. “But then you showed me it wasn’t about anyone. It was about you. It was always you.”

The atmosphere in the room grew charged with something sacred.

“I love you,” you declared, like the words were stolen from your ribs. Like they were always there between the two of you, waiting for someone to speak them to life.

Kenma was silent for one moment—just one—before… “I love you too,” he kissed you like a man reborn. This time, there was no rush.

He moved over you like he was making a vow—hands smoothing over every curve of your body, lips mapping every inch of your skin, like he was trying to memorise the sound of your breath as it caught in your throat. 

When he lined himself up and pushed inside, it was slow. Intimate. He didn’t look away once. You clung to him, gaping at the fullness, the sheer gravity of him inside you.

“Alright?” he murmured, brows furrowing in concern.

You nodded, breath shaky. “Better than alright.”

He kissed you again, explosively possessive. After what felt like ages, he moved.

Each thrust was deliberate and claiming. His hand tangled with yours above your head. His other gripped your hip, holding you steady as he rocked into you, building a rhythm that made your back arch.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured into your ear. “Dreamed about you under me, begging for more.”

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering. “You have me now.”

“Trust me, I’m never letting go.”

Your bodies danced in a symphony that blurred the line between pleasure and worship. You came first, legs trembling. He followed right after, whining your name against your lips, pulsing with everything he felt and couldn’t say fast enough.

While you both lay there—spent and dizzy—you clung to each other. Because you knew this wasn’t the end.

You woke up to sunlight. Golden, slithering between silk curtains and spilling across the sheets in hazy lines.

Next to you was Kenma, his arm draped over your waist. The slight scrunch of his forehead indicated he was still deep in thought even while asleep. The sheets were rumpled around your legs, your body still sticky with sweat and afterglow, and every inch of you ached deliciously.

Oh my god, you thought with a giddy smile.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You reached out, careful not to disturb Kenma, and blinked at the screen.

8 Messages from loser

1 Missed Call

1 Voice Note

You opened the texts, bracing yourself.

loser: where the hell are you?? kenma’s vanished too tf                  

loser: you better not have left. lev tried to arm wrestle yamamoto and lost. to YAMAMOTO                                                                    

loser: i swear if you ghosted the reunion i’m kicking your ass        

loser: wait                                                                                                    

loser: waitttttttt                                                                                         

loser: OH MY GOD DID YOU AND KENMA LEAVE TOGETHER???!!! 

loser: TELL ME THIS ISN’T HOW I’M FINDING OUT                       

loser: ANSWER ME FUCKER

You choked on your laugh, snorting into your palm. Kenma stirred beside you, yawning.

“Mmm… what time is it?” he mumbled, exhaustion evident in his voice.

“Too early for our best friend to be having a meltdown,” you giggled.

Kenma cracked one eye open. “Kuroo?”

You held your phone up. “He’s in panic mode.”

Kenma blinked. Then closed his eyes again and guided you down into his chest. “Ignore him.”

You laughed, cuddling into his warmth. His hair was mussed, bleached strands falling into his eyes. His fingers rubbed lazy circles into your back, like he couldn’t stop touching you in his tired state either.

“I still can’t believe last night happened,” you remarked dreamily.

Kenma nuzzled your shoulder. “I can. I’ve imagined it a thousand times.”

You flushed. “Okay, damn.”

He smirked against your skin. “You think I didn’t spend high school losing my mind over you?”

You were about to answer when his hand slid lower. Then lower still.

“Kenma—” 

He rolled on top of you before you could finish. You sucked in a breath as his mouth found yours—inviting at first, then insatiable. Your legs parted instinctively as he settled between them, hardening length grinding slowly into your wetness. His body was still warm from sleep, but his touch was awake. Very awake.

“You’re gonna start something you can’t finish,” you warned.

He kissed your jaw. “Wanna bet?”

You fisted his hair, pulling him back to meet your eyes. “We’re seriously doing this again? First thing in the morning?”

“You’re naked in my bed,” he deadpanned. “If anything, this is on you.”

You were mid-laugh, mid-moan, mid-thigh squeeze when… 

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU—”

The bedroom door slammed open. You both stopped, unmoving. 

Kenma’s mouth was on your neck. His hand was on your thigh. Your legs were definitely wrapped around his waist. Kuroo stood in the doorway like a horror movie freeze frame.

One hand still on the doorknob. Jaw hanging open. Eyebrow twitching.

You screeched and dove under the sheets like they could erase the last thirty seconds of reality. Kenma… just sighed. Still completely on top of you, showing no signs of clothing himself.

“Get out,” he said flatly.

Kuroo was pale. In a shocking display, he turned red. If possible, redder.

“I—WHAT—SHE’S NAKED—YOU’RE—WHAT—WHY—"

“By the way, I didn’t give you the code to my penthouse so you could come and go as you please,” Kenma muttered, frustrated.

“I thought you were dead!”

“Kuroo—” you poked your head out, expression absolutely boiling—“I’m begging you to forget this ever happened.”

“Oh no. This is burned into my soul. Wait till the group chat hears about this.”

Kenma finally stood up, arranging the blanket properly to cover you like a true gentleman. Instead of being embarrassed, he looked rather annoyed at being interrupted. Like this was your regular Saturday afternoon in the Kozume household.

Kuroo glanced between the two of you, hands on hips, processing.

Then he scoffed, “I watched you two lunatics dawdle around each other for YEARS. Years. You think I didn’t know?”

“Then, why are you surprised?” Kenma asked.

“Because I thought you’d tell me through a well-structured text, not with your fucking nipples out!”

You screamed in humiliation and retreated into the covers again.

Kenma shrugged. “We were busy.”

“Oh, no need to tell me.” Kuroo turned, still muttering to himself, “I'm gonna need bleach. For my eyes. For my brain. For my…”

The bedroom door slammed shut and it was peaceful for all of three seconds. At the same time, you and Kenma burst out laughing. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck as you wheezed into the pillow, your body shaking.

“Never living that down,” you gasped.

“Worth it,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you again—slow and soft—like he had nowhere else to be.

[reavesluv]

Cameras

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x influencer fem!reader.

Summary: You and Paige are big figures in the internet, Paige just came out to the world as a lesbian and you've always been open about your sexuality. So your managers got a plan.

Fake dating + she plays hard to get

Part 1.

Part 2. “Moving to Dallas.”

notes: Im sorry if this is so bad i honestly have writers block right now 😔

You never thought a fake relationship could change your life in so many ways as it did now that you’re with Paige.

Honestly, Paige wasn’t so bad at all. You two shared a lot of time together while pretending to be lovers, it was actually fun.

Going together to a mall, date nights, park walks with your little Pomeranian called “Cherry.” – Which Paige loves, by the way.

“Cherry! Come here!” You screamed, running behind your dog.

“Y/N, is a damn park. She’s not gonna leave!” Paige screamed watching you run around.

“I don’t care, what if someone steals her?” You screamed back.

“Oh gosh.” She thought. “What did i do to get involved with this girl?”

Paige started running your way to make you stop chasing Cherry.

She was faster than you, obviously. So it wasn’t long until you felt her arms wrapped around your waist making you stop.

You were a little sweaty, trying to calm your breath. But she hugged you anyway.

“I promise you, she’s not gonna leave.” Paige said, wiping away your sweat with her hand.

“Fine.” You pouted. “But if she leaves, i’ll leave you.”

She laughed, amused at what you said. “Oh, you wouldn’t.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, no. But anyway you’re gonna have to find her.”

She chuckled. “Okay, love.”

Oh, love.

Paige had no idea how much you actually cared about her, and she just loved to make all the “pretending” stuff so difficult for you.

“Come here and sit with me, we’ll take some pictures while Cherry plays around.” She adds.

“Okay, sure.” You answer, smiling at her like an idiot.

Being with Paige became more than just a “fake relationship.” But, you were not sure if it was only you, or if she felt the same way.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Now you were packing your things, your life, inside three suitcases to move to Dallas, literally the other fucking side of the country.

Draft night was pretty fun, Paige being number one overall pick was amazing, you couldn’t deny that you were really proud of her.

“Congrats, Paige.” You say. Standing up from the table you both were to give her a hug.

“Thanks, pretty.” She answered.

“You’re just teasing me.” You chuckled.

She got closer to your ear so no cameras could record what she was saying.

“Maybe, but is not difficult to pretend i’m not, right?” She said. And after that, she left the table to grab her Wings jersey.

It killed you the fact that Paige loved to pretend. Because that was what she was doing, just pretending.

The after party was worse, everyone blackout drunk, messing around other people. And Paige was definitely one of them.

“Fuck Y/N, you look insanely gorgeous tonight.” She says, getting closer to you. She smelled so much like alcohol you could tell she was not in her five senses.

“Thank you Paige, but you’re too drunk to think.”

“Am i? Naaaahh.” She took another sip of her drink. “Bet you love pretending to be with me.”

“What?” You asked, curious.

“Yeah, don’t lie to me Y/N. I know you love to walk around while everyone thinks i fuck you.”

“Is not like that, Paige.”

“Isn’t it?” She said wrapping an arm around your waist. “Because we could stop pretending and you should let me fuck you.”

Your heart started beating so fast, you didn’t know what to say or do.

“Paige–” You took a deep breath. “I’m taking you home.”

She smirked. “Oh really, now?”

“Yeah, but is not like that. You’re too drunk, and you’re not even gonna remember this tomorrow.”

“Come on, baby. You know you want to.”

Fuck, it was really so difficult for you.

“Whatever Paige, but not tonight.” You ended.

She pouted at you. “Can i at least get a kiss? So the cameras can have a little pic of us going around, y’know.”

Your heart was beating so fast you thought it would explode. “Ye–ah.?” You tried to answer.

And that was it.

She kissed you. Like she loved you.

And you knew she didn’t.

Next morning, she didn’t remember. Neither of you saw pictures.

So she never knew she kissed you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Do i really have to?” You ask Lena.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. But yes, if you wanna keep up with all of this, you need to move in with her.”

“I didn’t expect you would tell me to move in when she got drafted!”

“Well it was obvious, wasn’t it?”

“No.”

Paige was already in Dallas, waiting for you.

You had to text her to tell her the new plan your managers came up with, she didn’t seem bothered by it.

Paige, i have to move in with you, did you hear?

Yeah, Louis told me

You okay with that?

Yeah, i guess we can work it out

Okay, i’ll be on the first plane to dallas tomorrow morning

Alright, i’ll see you then

You weren’t ready, like, why would you be ready to move in with someone you’re not even dating, and worse, in the other side of the country?

The plane landed on dallas. You were not a texas type of girl, so everything was going to change.

Some of the stuff and furniture you had to bring with you from LA was in another plane, so you had to wait for it.

Paige, i’m in texas!

That’s good Y/N, i’m heading to the airport right now

Okay, thank you

see you there, love

Your eyes brightened when you saw her. In a slick back ponytail, nike dunks and baggy jeans.

“Heeey.” You said.

“Hey, welcome to our new city.” She answered.

You chuckled and hugged her softly. “Is it good in here?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “Just a bit hot, though.” she laughed.

You both chuckled. Paige noticed you had a worried look on your face, so she held your hand softly.

“We’ll make this work Y/N. We complement each other.”

“Yeah, i know.” You sighed. “I just really miss California.”

She chuckled. “Hey, but at least you have me.”

You chuckled back. “You’re right. I’m here, but with you.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

finally part 2, i’m so sorry, im a lazy writer 🤓

tags! @niya500

[yvesssssssss]

hey ...gulps...heh got this crazy idea where Sakamoto days men (shin, nagumo...idk who else anyone) go for a mission maybe for sum months with their girlfriend n they come back w a whole ass baby?????(3!_!# love ur writing btw☺️☺️🥳🥳🌅🙇🏻‍♀️

Sakamoto days men coming home with a baby..

Thankyou so much!!>⩊< i hope you lyk it!!

࣪ ִֶָ☾.Nagumo Yoichi

You hadn’t seen him in three months.

You kept your cool at first. After all, he was on a mission—long-term infiltration, Sakamoto said. "Nagumo’ll be back when he’s back," he told you, munching chips like it was nothing.

So you waited. Painted the living room. Reorganized the kitchen. Took up knitting. Cried a little into a stuffed alpaca he won you last year.

Then one day, you hear a key turn in the lock.

You bolt up from the couch, halfway between yelling at him and tackling him—and then you freeze.

Nagumo Yoichi, King of Chaos, saunters in like he never left. His coat’s a little scuffed, sunglasses on indoors like an idiot, and strapped to his chest is…

“…Yo,” he says, lifting his hand casually. “Guess who’s a dad now?”

You blink. Hard. “Is that a baby?”

“Yup. Pretty sure.”

“…Why?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Mission went sideways. Baby’s mom was a target, turned out she was innocent. Long story short, I uh… may have promised not to let the kid end up in the system.”

The baby—chubby-cheeked, yawning, dressed in a pastel strawberry onesie—blinks up at you with round eyes.

“Nagumo,” you say slowly, “you’ve been gone for three months and come home with a baby strapped to your chest.”

“Technically, he clung to me. You should’ve seen the way he latched onto my coat. Cute little parasite.” He grins.

You stare at him. The baby burps.

Nagumo tilts his head. “So, uh… can we keep him?”

You: “WHAT—”

࣪ ִֶָ☾.Shin Asakura

You were doing the dishes when the knock came. It wasn’t even dramatic. Just three soft taps, and then the door creaked open.

You dried your hands and turned the corner—then stopped dead in your tracks.

“Shin?”

He looked exactly like he did three months ago. Tired. Ruffled hair. That guilty, wide-eyed expression he always wore after getting caught snacking at midnight. But this time, he had a baby cradled in his arms. A real one. With soft, dark hair and the world’s tiniest sock hat.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Shin panicked first.

“I KNOW HOW THIS LOOKS.”

“…Do you?”

“It’s not what it looks like!! Okay okay okay listen—I was supposed to evacuate this research compound, but there was a childcare wing because of some scientist’s kid, and I didn’t realize there was a baby hiding under the desk and then he just—he started crying and I was the only one who could calm him down and I tried to leave him with an agent but he screamed and they told me to just—keep him?? And now I’ve memorized his bottle schedule and I haven’t slept in 76 hours—”

You blink.

He breathes hard.

The baby coos in his arms.

“…He likes your voice,” you murmur, dazed.

Shin looks down like he just remembered he's holding a baby. “He also likes the Naruto opening songs. Which is… weirdly specific.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

Then: “Did you bring diapers?”

“…No.”

You sigh, already grabbing your keys.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.Gaku

It’s almost midnight when he shows up.

You hear his heavy boots first—scuffed, stomping up the stairs. You rise from the couch just as he slides the door open with his foot.

And there he is. Gaku, messy as ever, hoodie stained, wild hair even worse than usual.

He’s holding a child.

A toddler, technically. Maybe two or three years old. Grubby cheeks, messy bangs, and a permanent scowl that matches his exactly.

You stare.

The toddler stares back.

Gaku grins. “Hey babe. Look what followed me home.”

You blink. “…Why does he look like you?”

“Right? That’s what I said!”

“…Gaku.”

“What?”

“What. Happened.”

“Okay so the mission was supposed to be just recon, right? But turns out there was this war orphan sneaking through the compound—kept stealing rations, sneaky little gremlin—and one night he bit me. So I bit him back. Now he won’t leave me alone.”

You just blink again. “You bit… a child?”

“He started it.”

You inhale. Deep. Controlled. “And now?”

Gaku shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Guess I’m his dad or something.”

The child sneezes. Then tries to kick Gaku in the shin.

Gaku snickers. “He’s got spirit.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Do you even know his name?”

“Yeah! I think. Pretty sure it’s Tora. Or maybe that was the dog. Either way, we vibe.”

࣪ ִֶָ☾.Natsuki Seba

You were just finishing your nightly skincare routine when you heard the sound of a cabinet slamming. At first, you thought it was a burglar. You grabbed a spatula.

Instead, you found Natsuki in the kitchen.

With a baby in his arms.

And powdered formula all over the counter.

And flour. And egg yolk. And the faint smell of burnt croissants.

He looked at you like a deer in headlights. “I—I can explain.”

You crossed your arms.

He looked down at the baby, who was snuggled in a dish towel with bunny ears.

“Okay maybe I can’t explain, but I’m trying. There was a bakery next to the mission site. I was buying flour. The owner was in trouble. There was a fire. A getaway. And then someone handed me the baby and said ‘Protect him with your life,’ and now he only stops crying when I hum recipes at him—”

“Recipes?”

“…Mostly sponge cakes.”

The baby yawned and gripped his apron with a tiny hand.

“I made a makeshift bottle,” he whispered, “and I think I cried more than the baby did.”

You stepped forward and placed a hand on his back.

“…We’re keeping him,” you said softly.

Natsuki blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Only because he already knows your voice. And because he’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” You pause. “Besides you.”

He flushed pink to his ears.

Then the baby spit up all over his collar.

[yo-ri-su-ki]

The blade can also tremble

Jealous!Vergil Sparda x shy reader

An: here's your first story, thanks for 250 likes!!

The sky outside was the color of bruised lilac, heavy with rainclouds. It had been raining all day—soft, persistent, and cold. Water trickled in slow streams along the stone pathways of the ruined fortress, dripping through the cracks in the old roof and pooling near broken columns. The fire in the hearth crackled quietly, offering the only source of light and warmth in the vast room.

You sat curled up in an armchair far too large for you, legs tucked under your body, a worn blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cocoon. A book lay open in your lap, though you hadn’t turned the page in what felt like an hour. Your hands were too busy clinging to the warm mug of tea Vergil had left for you earlier without a word.

He was always like that—silent, composed, distant. A shadow with a sword and eyes like sharpened ice.

But he had brought you here. He had protected you from the chaos, the demons, the bleeding sky. And while he never said why, you had stayed.

Across the room, Vergil stood by the broken window, watching the rain. The faint wind tugged at his coat, the dark fabric fluttering like wings around his tall frame. He was impossibly still, as though carved from stone. The only movement came from the faint rise and fall of his chest.

You glanced at him, heart skipping. The silence between you was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just full of things unsaid.

You liked it that way, honestly. Words were hard. You were never good with them, especially around someone like him.

Vergil’s voice, low and calm, broke through the hush.

“You’re trembling.”

You startled. Not because of the words, but because he had noticed.

“I-I’m fine,” you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You gripped the mug a little tighter, heat seeping into your cold fingers.

He didn’t move from the window at first, but his gaze flicked to you, unreadable. Then, slowly, he walked across the room—his steps silent, measured. When he crouched by the hearth, you could feel the temperature shift. Not from the fire.

From him.

“I told you before,” he said, his voice as calm as ever. “You are safe here. No harm will come to you while I draw breath.”

You swallowed. It should’ve been comforting. And it was. But it wasn’t fear that made your hands shake.

“I’m not scared,” you said, softer than before. “Not of you.”

Vergil turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing with interest. “Then what is it?”

You hesitated. Every instinct screamed to retreat, to deflect, to stay quiet. But the words came anyway—fragile, halting.

“I’m just… not used to someone like you.”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened—curious, perhaps even cautious.

“Someone like me?”

You met his gaze for a moment, the intensity of it stealing the breath from your lungs. But you managed a small nod.

“You’re… controlled. Strong. Quiet. It’s intimidating. Not in a bad way,” you added quickly, eyes darting to the fire. “Just… different.”

Vergil stood slowly, shadows licking at the hem of his coat. He said nothing at first. You wondered if you had said too much, crossed an invisible line. You always worried about that.

But instead of walking away, he moved to stand beside your chair.

“You think me intimidating,” he said, voice low. “Yet you speak the truth to my face.”

You blinked up at him. “I… don’t want to pretend.”

Something flickered across his face—a shift so subtle, you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been looking. He turned slightly, one hand resting on the back of your chair, fingers curled loosely.

“I find… no reason for you to pretend,” he said. “Your presence does not demand masks. It is… honest. Quiet.”

You weren’t sure what to say. A part of you didn’t believe him. Another part, the smaller, braver one, clung to those words like a lifeline.

He looked down at the floor for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then:

“You remind me of stillness,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Stillness?”

“Yes.” He straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “In the eye of a storm, there is a moment of calm. Silent. Untouched. That is what you are.”

Your heart thundered.

Vergil’s gaze returned to the window. “I’ve chased power my whole life. Lost myself to it. But when you are near…” His jaw clenched slightly. “There is quiet.”

You couldn’t move. Could barely think.

He turned back to you, eyes softer now—less like ice, more like mist.

“You don’t need to speak if you don’t wish to,” he said. “Your presence… is enough.”

That was what undid you. Not the poetic metaphor. Not the fact that Vergil—cold, stoic, unreachable Vergil—had just compared you to the eye of a storm.

It was that he meant it.

You looked down quickly, cheeks burning, fingers tightening around your mug. “I’m… glad,” you said, voice trembling.

He was quiet for a moment, watching you.

Then, slowly, he reached out—fingertips brushing your shoulder. Light. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

Your breath hitched. The contact lasted a heartbeat. Maybe two.

Then he pulled away.

“I will return before nightfall,” he said, already turning to the door. “The wards will protect you in my absence.”

You nodded, still too stunned to speak.

The door creaked softly as he left, the cold air swirling in after him before it settled into stillness again.

And you sat there, tea cooling in your hands, heart still racing.

Because despite all your doubts, despite your quiet, awkward nature…

You were not just tolerated.

You were seen.

And to Vergil Sparda, that meant more than any declaration.

It meant you mattered.

The days blurred after that moment.

Vergil continued to vanish for hours at a time, leaving you behind in the forgotten fortress, guarded by invisible barriers and the echo of his words. But something had shifted between you. His glances lingered longer. His silences felt less like walls and more like invitations.

You noticed the small things first.

A second mug of tea placed beside yours without a word.

A book, carefully left on the table, written in your native language despite the region’s ruins offering only old demon-tongue scrolls.

A blanket, folded and left on the arm of your chair—not just one of the tattered ones from the storage room, but his cloak. His cloak.

You touched the soft blue fabric hesitantly, heart fluttering. It still smelled like him. Steel, rain, and something ancient. You never quite had the courage to wear it, but its presence was enough.

Vergil never asked questions, never demanded conversation. But one evening, as the rain stilled and the clouds began to part, you found him sitting—not standing—by the hearth for the first time.

A book rested in his lap, unopened. His gaze was distant, eyes reflecting firelight.

You hesitated in the doorway, unsure if you should speak.

“You always hover,” he said suddenly, voice soft. “Come closer.”

You flushed but obeyed, padding silently across the stone floor. You sat a little closer than usual. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. Not just from the fire.

Vergil didn’t look at you at first. “I find myself… restless when you’re far.”

Your heart skipped. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

“You don’t.” He turned his head, gaze cutting to yours. “You never have.”

You looked down at your hands, shy. “I don’t really know what I am to you.”

He stood slowly, as if needing to move just to think. “You were once a burden,” he said bluntly. “An inconvenience I accepted out of necessity.”

The words stung, but he wasn’t finished.

“Now,” he said, turning to face you fully, “I find myself searching for your presence the moment you’re out of sight. I notice when you don’t speak. I wait for your quiet footsteps down the hall. I listen for the sound of your breathing at night to remind myself I’m not alone.”

You looked up at him, lips parted, heart in your throat.

“I do not understand this attachment,” he said, voice tight with restraint. “It weakens me, and yet… I cannot bring myself to let go.”

You stood then, nerves buzzing, and approached him slowly.

“I never asked you to let go,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. His eyes searched yours, and for the first time, his hand reached up, hovering near your face—hesitating, as if waiting for permission.

You gave a tiny nod.

His fingers brushed your cheek.

It was such a gentle, reverent touch—like you were something sacred.

“I don’t know how to love gently,” he admitted.

You smiled faintly, heart racing. “That’s okay,” you whispered. “I’m not fragile.”

The days grew warmer. The fortress, once cold and dead, now stirred with quiet life—flowers growing through cracked stone, moss softening sharp corners, and the ever-present fire that never seemed to burn out anymore.

You noticed Vergil spent more time within the manor walls, staying close to you. He didn’t say it, of course. But you saw it in how often he stood outside the door while you read, or how he’d walk in with some half-destroyed object—an old carving, a page of poetry—and silently place it on your desk as if gifting you a piece of a forgotten world.

Then one morning, while collecting water near the ward’s edge, you met a traveler.

A human. Lost, scared, clearly out of place in the demon realm. He was kind, though—a bit loud and nervous, but friendly. He kept talking to you as you guided him back toward the safe boundaries. Asked your name. Offered his. Told jokes.

And you… you laughed.

Not much. Just a little.

But it was enough.

Vergil was standing at the edge of the courtyard when you returned, Yamato gleaming on his back, his coat fluttering gently in the breeze.

His eyes locked on the traveler. Then you.

And something shifted.

The man’s words slowed as he looked nervously between you and Vergil’s piercing stare.

“Uh, thanks for the help,” he mumbled to you before hurrying away. You turned back toward the doorway—only to find Vergil still watching you, unmoving.

You swallowed. “He was lost. I couldn’t just leave him.”

“I didn’t say you should,” Vergil replied. But his tone was too calm. Too sharp.

You stepped closer, frowning. “Are you… angry?”

His jaw clenched, just slightly. “No. But I find myself… displeased.”

You tilted your head, trying to read him. “Why?”

Vergil looked away, gaze cast toward the horizon. “Because you laughed.”

You blinked. “Is that… bad?”

“You laughed for him.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Vergil finally turned, stepping closer. His presence was magnetic—intense and overwhelming.

“He looked at you like he could touch you,” he said, voice low. “Like he had the right.”

Your breath caught. “And you don’t?”

That made him freeze.

His eyes softened. For the first time, something cracked. The mask slipped.

“I want to,” he whispered.

The admission felt heavier than any weapon. His fingers twitched at his side, unsure.

“I see the way others look at you,” he continued. “Like you’re someone to be claimed. Possessed. They don’t know what it means to deserve you. I have killed for less.”

You stepped forward, heart thudding. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

Vergil’s breath hitched. Then, in a voice raw with restraint: “Peace. And peril. A calm that undoes me.”

You reached for him. This time, you were the one to touch first—your hand gently resting over his chest.

“I don’t want anyone else,” you said softly. “Just you. Even when you’re cold. Or cruel. Or distant.”

His hand came up—slow, deliberate—and cupped your cheek.

“This… thing inside me,” he murmured. “It burns. It claws. But when I touch you…” He leaned forward, foreheads nearly touching. “It goes quiet.”

And then—finally—his lips brushed yours.

Soft. Careful. But desperate in the way he trembled.

You kissed him back, shyly at first, but the moment deepened when his arms came around you—pulling you close as if he feared you'd vanish like mist.

He kissed you like he didn’t know how, but wanted to learn. From you.

When you parted, he pressed his forehead against yours, breath shallow.

“I will never let anyone take you,” he said. “Not while I breathe. Not even from myself.”

And for the first time, you saw it.

Not just his power.

But his fear.

Of losing you.

Of loving you.

And it only made you hold him tighter.

Vergil’s gaze burned, locked on yours. “Yes, you are. And still you remain.”

You leaned forward, just enough that your forehead touched his chest.

He froze—but only for a moment.

Then, his arms came around you. Slowly. Carefully. As if he were afraid you'd disappear if he held too tightly.

You could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek—steady, controlled… but faster than usual.

“I don’t need grand gestures,” you said softly. “Just… don’t leave me behind.”

He bent his head slightly, lips brushing the crown of your hair.

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Even if I wanted to.”

There was no kiss that night.

But his arms around you, the way he held you like a promise, said everything you needed to hear.

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

an: YALL PLEASE REQUEST MORE VERGIL STUFF I FUCKING LOVE HIMMMM UGHHH

[daylighted]

american beauty ─ ⌞ 00, the great escape ⌝ ／ meet subject avi-000, the miracle survivor of the failed testing trial, seraph. with her pair of white wings and natural quick wit, she is set to be a surefire candidate for post nocturnis operations.

classified information implications of child neglect / ab*se medical malpractice cages, physical & metaphorical graphic depictions of blood & violence 6,056 words

the cage that holds her is small. every which way that she turns, a piece of herself is digging into the bars of it, leaving inflamed imprints on her impressionable skin. 

the other rooms are loud, but hers is quiet. she is the only one in here, surrounded by cages that would have been filled, if the others had survived. but they did not, and for this reason, the angel was kept in a cage not even big enough for the animals that also resided in a section of the nocturnis building. 

the door at the very end of the darkened room opens with a loud creak. a sliver of light peeks through the small gap, lighting one of the empty cages with gold before abruptly snapping shut, leaving the angel in the darkness again. somehow, the sound of the labcoat’s echoing footsteps in the darkness is more frightening than if she’d been able to see him. 

it is always the same one, like his sole purpose was to take vials of her blood for testing and experimentation. this was how she knew it was morning. the sun rose outside of the windowless prison she was kept in, and in came the labcoat with the needles. 

“the little angel is awake,” he says as he bends, knees cracking as he forces himself to eye level with her. he’d have a handsome face if his eyes weren’t so empty. all traces of kindness have been desensitized from him, like he was nothing but an empty shell of what a person should be.

angel does not move closer to him. there is no space where she is kept to move at all. when her wings fully come in, they will have to do something about where she has been raised; they would not want to damage the assets as they have the cargo.

he reaches through the bars to grasp her arm, guiding it to the edge of the cage. it is the nicest thing that the man is capable of, because he is never gentle with the needle that he pops into her vein. 

“squeeze your hand real tight,” he whispers, rolling her fingers up into a fist. “there we go. keep that tight for me, yeah?” 

he turns, only the outline of his face evident. she can see the sharp angle of his nose, the jut of his jaw, as he fidgets with the vials in his pockets. the needle in his fingers clatters to the ground, with a hissed word that angel thinks sounds as cruel as these cages. 

his hands brush all over the ground, trying to find the tip of the needle. butterfly, he called it, the first time he’d come in here and angel cried her eyes out over the sight of it and the prick into her arms. cute little things with wings, he’d explained, too, to distract her as her blood left her body and filled up his vials. they fly and fly, like you’ll be able to.

like its namesake, the butterfly needle had flown away from his grasps. his back is to her, the white back of his labcoat stark in the dark room. 

not as stark as the glimmer behind the heel of his shoe.

she sees it only for a second. her arm is still through the bars, still small enough to fit with ease. it is the only thing that fits with ease in this cage. 

he steps farther away, muttering to himself with no concern about the little girl behind him, and angel snatches the glimmering needle from the ground. 

“looks like we’re only working with one needle today, little angel,” he breathes out on a sigh, the familiar glint held between his fingers from where he’d pulled it from the other of his pockets. angel keeps the needle she has beneath her leg, hidden away from his eyes. 

she is lucky that he has gotten comfortable with this process. she is lucky for many reasons. 

the needle breaking her skin hurts as it typically does. an uncomfortable pinch in her arm, the man’s grip on her forearm just a little too tight to be considered caring anymore. 

“tell me your name,” he says, tapping her inner elbow to draw her attention up to his empty eyes.

it takes effort to pull her eyes away from the blood leaving her veins, the nausea it brings making her fisted hand shake. “avi-000.” 

he nods, tsking to himself. “good, good.” he caps a vial, grabs the second one to begin its fill. “you’re one of the good ones, little angel. some of the others…” 

angel has never met them. she only hears them through the walls, their howls and wails like the sound of impending doom. it scares her that the only thing keeping them away from her is a door that can unlock. 

the second vial is capped, and the man gives her a smile that does not reach his eyes. “same time tomorrow,” he assures, though it feels less like a promise and more like a threat every time she hears it.

“tell me your name,” the man says, though angel has now learned that his name is steven. steven has not gotten any gentler over the years, or more interested in her wellbeing. he collects her blood and leaves without any of the reassuring small talk he offered when she was younger.

angel shifts uncomfortably, the cage still the same impossibly small one she’d had when she was young. the top feathers of her wings catch in the bars, the bones aching with lack of space for growth, the muscles in a constant state of soreness. “a-v-i-000.” 

he nods along with her words, hardly listening. she could have called herself little angel or bird in a cage and he would have given the same response. 

still, in the back of her cage, is the needle from long ago. she didn’t know what to do with it, then, maybe stole it so that she could say she possessed something of her own. now, she has consistently been trying to work it through the padlock on her cage.

steven pulls the needle from her vein, the vials of her blood tucked in his palm. angel does not understand why they need so much, why every day, they take two vials, only for it to run out by the next. 

with age, the other rooms surrounding hers get louder. if she spoke, she figured she would sound that loud, too, but the only words she gets to say anymore are her name. 

the door opens with the same metallic creak, and she closes her eyes as she waits for the click of the door shutting. there are not many things in her life, so routines have formed out of the little events she knows. the door opens and the man takes her blood, and the door closes behind him. a few howls of laughter or screams come from the surrounding rooms, and then she is brought a meager meal. she sleeps. it repeats.

the click does not come. for the first time, the crack of light in the door stays past steven’s departure.

angel is not certain, at first, what she is supposed to do.

this feels like a trick. good things did not happen to girls like her, who lived in a cage and did not ever see the light of day. she has a feeling that if she tries to take advantage of this one thing, she will not make it to bear the fruits of the labor it took. 

still, the needle calls to her from the corner of her rusting cage. she has not been successful yet with picking at the lock, but if there was ever a time to attempt it, it was now, when she’d actually have some place to go beyond the ghostland of her cellblock. 

the side of the lock has been scraped away with the sharp edge of the needle, flecks of the metallic coating littering the small space of her cage, and the pale gown she wore. she is thankful for the fact of steven’s disengagement for this reason, too, because the glimmer of metal shavings is evident even to her untrained eyes.

the toe of the shackle is visible, now, through all of her efforts. she does not know anything beyond these four barred walls, but she has become incredibly familiar with the mechanisms of the things she does have access to. she knows that, when the padlock is undone in the rare occurrence that she is let loose, the shackle disengages on one side. that was the side she focused on. 

her strength is brittle at best, but she wedges the tip of the needle into the circular blockade, bending the needle nearly in half with the effort it takes to try and pop it out. she lets out a low, desperate whine, her frustration mounting. 

it pops. clatters to the ground and echoes in the emptiness of the space. 

angel waits for the guards to burst in. she has never earned their attention, but she has heard them with the children surrounding her room. the sounds of their screams and voices, sometimes, is soothing, but the screams those days were different. 

she can barely see in the darkness of the room. it’s been so long since she’s walked that she stumbles over her feet, unsure of how to work her legs immediately. 

behind her, her wings try to catch her at the first stumble, but she doesn’t know how to work those, either. she is nothing but a girl thrown to sea, left to drown, with her arms tied behind her. 

but she has been brave to this point, even in the faces of evil. she will not falter when it matters, after the mistake of a simple man. she is stronger than that, even though they have tried to keep her brittle and complacent. 

it’s with heavy steps that she makes it to the door. the gap is somehow more daunting, seeing it get closer and closer as she wobbles her way to it. 

the light is on in that room. bright and sterile white, and not like the dimmed gold ones she’d been exposed to in the few rooms outside of the seraph room. 

with one hand braced on the door’s frame, she leans forward, not prepared yet to broach the gap and conquer this step. bravery comes in many shades, and hers was a dulled gray, not yet as bright as the sun like she assumed director genevieve wanted her to be. 

cages line the walls, so tightly packed that they were stacked atop each other, no gaps between them. some of the bars shook with furry fingers grasping at them, others were hauntingly empty. the pathway in the middle was dampened, the heavy scent of some chemical in the air. 

there, about halfway into the expansive room, with his face pressed to the bars so hard that his cheeks puffed around and through the gaps, a boy watched her. 

quickly, angel ducked out of view, her heart hammering in her chest. she’d never seen someone her age before. she’d never seen anyone besides steven and the doctors that poked and prodded with knives and words. 

this boy had hair to his shoulders and sharp bone structure and intense eyes, an unsettling brown that somehow was light and dark at once. he reminded her of the dogs she’d seen when being led down the dim hallways to the training facilities, kept in similar cages to these. 

“aren’t you going to come out?” he asks, and the room goes silent. no more horrible nails-on-metal sounds, or whining whimpers, or throat tearing howls. no more shaking metal bars or creaking cages. it is as silent as it was when angel dropped the pin to the padlock in her cage. 

seeing no way out of this, angel gaps the thick metal door open just enough to slip through, keeping a strong hold on it for support. she was not going to fall in the face of so many watchful eyes. 

the boy’s never leave her face. he studies her like he’s never seen someone like her before, and he probably has not. she is the only surviving of the seraphs, she’s heard; she could not predict what any of these children have heard, too, about her.

“you’re the seraph.” he does not ask it, but rather tells it to her. 

she nods, and does not open her mouth, does not trust what her voice will sound like. letting them hear it crack, although from disuse and not completely fear, felt like a terrible idea. 

the boy nods a couple of times, finally lifting his face from the bars he’d pressed it against. deep red marks engrave his skin, angry with the force he’d pushed against it. 

he tilts his head, lifting his chin. “do you know who we are?” 

angel shakes her head no this time. she doesn’t know much about the others that live in these facilities, just that they are in much bigger numbers. again, the awareness of how many children are in the room compared to her oneself made her want to shrink. 

“the lycans.” he points at his wrist, where his code is printed in dark ink, just like hers. “i’m eighty-three,” he explains, dropping his arm before she can make sense of the implications of it. 

he was eighty-three. in that room, there were at least eighty-two other children.

she takes a further step into the room, just enough to break past the invisible barrier separating their two rooms. she wanted to see each of them, to see if it was true. never again would she see what eighty-three people in one room would look like again. she wanted to memorize every bit of the picture, so that she’d never feel lonely again. 

“you’re not like what they say you’re like.” 

angel cocks her head at that. who was they? the labcoats? the guards? the other lycans in the room, who were still unnervingly silent? 

she clears her throat, trying to dislodge the wedge of fear in it. “what do they say i’m like?” 

eighty-three leans close again, his dog-like features emphasized by the wild grin he wears. two sharp teeth jut out from behind his upper lip. “very scary.” 

“very scary?” she did not think she was scary. how could she be? the entirety of her existence was in a cage. 

“they say you’ve got sunfire in your blood,” he nods toward her wings, still adolescent in size with the lack of space for them to grow out in her cage, “that those feathers are sharp as blades.” 

the labcoats would tell her if she had fiery blood, and if her wings were made of downy-soft weapons. they wouldn’t keep that secret. the guards were never needed for her, so they had no reason to gossip. this must have been a rumor spread by the other lycans, considering their close proximity to her but never seeing her. 

she opens her mouth to tell him that all of it was untrue when something behind her grabs and yanks. she lets out a yelp of surprise, whirling around just in time to see one of her feathers in the fist of a little girl’s hand.

she looked younger than eighty-three, but had the same angular appearance and feral smile. “not true, eighty-three! i’m lookin’ at it, and it ain’t sharp at all!” 

“can it, one hundred forty-two!” eighty three snaps, and angel gawks as she yanks the feather from one hundred forty-two’s hand. 

one hundred and forty-two children in this room. suddenly, her solitude felt so bleak. how much of her life would be different if she had this many people in her room with her? certainly she’d have a bigger cage, if that was the case. it made her feel so incredibly unworthy to have been the only one to make it of the seraphs, when so many hadn’t.

she forgot all of her self-made rules when her mouth opens again. “there are one hundred and forty-two of you?” 

eighty-three snorts from behind her, and she spins around again to look at him. his limbs are lanky, even more tangled up in his cage than she was. “no. a lot didn’t make it both trials. there’s about forty-three from the first, and sixty-seven from the second.” 

none of it made much sense to her. she’d been told that they were not doing another trial for the seraphs even though she was just one remaining, but the lycans had two? 

something hard and heavy bangs on the metal door at the opposite end of the hallway, and angel nearly jumps out of her own skin. she stumbles, catching herself on eighty-three’s cage. 

his fingers curl around her shoulder, sharp nails poking at the thin cloth of her gown. “fly away while you can, pretty bird,” he singsongs, nodding toward the door to her space, “i’m sure you’d rather not meet the gunmen outside.” 

“gunmen?” her voice trembles, but she can’t tear herself away yet. this is the most interaction she’s ever had. she doesn’t want it to end so soon, even if they weren’t very nice and were scaring her. 

eighty-three holds up his other hand, counting down from three fingers. then, once his hand was in a fist, another set of bangs echoes off the other side of the door. “i don’t think they’re very nice to the winged ones,” he whispers to her, a shiver going down her spine as the hairs on the back of her neck raise. 

“there’s others?” there is so little she knows, and so much more to where she’s grown up than expected. her lip wobbles, a nearly imperceptible whimper falling out of them. she didn’t care if they knew that she was scared. she may not have been as little anymore, but that didn’t immediately eradicate the fear she felt. 

eighty-three points toward her door. “hurry. those were just the warnings.” he presses his face into the bars again, holding so tight to them that his fingers went white.

“wait, i’m scared—” she manages to breathe, her head shaking. “promise me you’ll keep this secret. promise it!” 

eighty-three’s grin comes back. his head dips in a nod, just as he raises a finger over his lips. 

the bangs start up again, and angel disappears through the door, shutting it with a loud click. for a moment, she just stands there, the building ruckus on the other side keeping her frozen in place. 

the screams become the bad screams as she slips back into her padlocked cage, her fingers clutching tightly to her plucked feather as if it were any protection at all. 

steven does not take her blood today. 

he comes into the room and leaves the door wide open, the blinding glow of the lycans’ room burning her eyes. it had been years since she first opened that door, and never once returned. the risk became too much with how much older she was getting, and her life was worth more than a quick conversation. 

“when i open this,” he starts slowly, staring down at her like she was still the little girl he stole blood from every day, and not a young woman. she could not even blame him; the cage did not change once. “you will step out. you will put your arms out. you will not make any sudden movements.” 

angel does not answer him. until now, it was pointless to. he didn’t even ask her name anymore, even though she knew at that point that it was protocol. as tired as she was of the strenuous processes, he seemed to be just as much. 

the padlock pops open, and steven lets it clatter to the ground. kicks it away from himself. her rusting cage door opens with a loud squeal, the scrape of metal on metal echoing throughout the empty space of the room. 

angel crawls out of it, rising to her feet on shaky legs. she is even more of a fawn, now, her legs shaking under the slight increase of weight that came with her age. she cannot grab onto the cage for support with her arms stuck out, so she only hopes that whatever is about to happen, it does not involve her standing on her two feet for long. 

steven disappears into the darkness of the shadows. for a moment, she thinks that this is a test. is he pretending to leave to test if she will make an escape? surely they did not learn of her earlier escape years ago, and were not trying to catch her off-guard with something as simple-minded as that. 

a door she did not know existed opens, revealing another dimly lit hallway. now, she can see steven in his entirety. he is much taller than her, though most people were. the cage did not just destroy her posture and her muscles’ strength, but also stunted her growth. her wings were still the size they were when she met eighty-three.

“follow me.” 

angel falls into step behind him, and it is only then that she sees the gun on his hip. 

i’m sure you’d rather not meet the gunmen outside.

steven was a gunman. the thought crept in with a sinking feeling of dread. 

i don’t think they’re very nice to the winged ones.

angel kept her arms out, still, using it to her advantage to feel the stone walls beneath her fingers for support. she was shaking despite herself. 

the stone walls of the hallway give to tall windowed spaces, revealing the interior of scientist’s laboratories. they are similar to the ones that she had attended for testing, but much bigger. 

the ones on the right were empty. the ones on the left had children so striking that it drew a gasp from her. 

scaled skin, beady eyes, gills in throats, and wings. black leathery wings that looked nothing like hers, but just as beautiful. 

there were others, locked away even deeper in the building than she could imagine. she wondered partially if the screams she heard came from these rooms, from children she’d never met and might never see again. 

steven turns to the right, unlocking one of the doors with a keycard that he then slips into his right pocket. the left one, she knows, is where he keeps the butterfly needles and the vials. 

“avian zero is here,” he announces, and angel doesn’t know why until she catches the movement in the corner of the room.

with her white labcoat, she blended in nearly identically to the sterile of the room. all of angel’s fear melted away in an instant. director genevieve was here, so that meant that she was safe. 

“good morning, avian zero,” director genevieve says with a warm smile, nodding toward the paper-covered bed in the center of the room. angel crosses the space to drop into it easily, though her eyes do not leave the director’s, or steven’s in the corner of the room, for long. 

angel does not answer, and so the director continues. “i’m sure you are wondering why you’re here?” 

she nods. her eyes scan for any indication of what was to come, but she only finds the director’s clasped hands.

“after many unsuccessful attempts to revive the trial that you were apart of,” the director says with a sympathetic smile, “we have finally decided on what your future will look like here at nocturnis.” 

again, angel does not speak. she has not talked to enough people in her lifetime to know when is acceptable or what to say, so she instead chooses silence. it is safest that way.

“all of the years that you were locked away, graciously and unknowingly giving your blood for the cause of potentially another seraph trial, the other subjects of project nocturnis have been tirelessly training for what has always been known to them as their post nocturnis operations.” she raises a hand in gesture to angel, that sympathetic smile becoming more saccharine. “you have not had the luxury of such affairs, i’m afraid. though with what we have learned of you, avian zero, you will quickly adapt and catch up to them in no time at all, i’m certain. though, because of these shortcomings, the introductory period of meeting each trial of subjects might be… overwhelming.” 

throughout all of her explanation, angel could only focus on one part of it. every day that they drew her blood, so quickly that it left her weak and weary, even with the enhancement of her senses and genetic code, was for nothing. every ounce of it went toward nothing. and now, she was being forced thrown to the wolves with the certain belief that she would catch up easily. 

anger was not something she felt often. there were not many things for her to be angry about when her routines were so repetitive and predictable, and all things she was used to happening to her. now, the anger burned inside of her like a physical fire. 

they say you’ve got sunfire in your blood.

it plays in her head, over and over, intermingling with the director’s weary reassurances. maybe eighty-three was right after all. 

“that is a death warrant.” she says it matter-of-factly, figuring that if she were to speak, the truth was the best way to begin it. “you are looking for a reason to kill me now that i serve no purpose and wanting the blood off of your hands.” 

director genevieve’s lips twitch. it reminds her, somehow, of the feral grin that eighty-three wore, though much more sinister. “you have purpose, avian zero. and much more promise than a lot of the ones we have killed with our own hands.” 

angel shakes her head. how was she meant to get out of this? she did not have much life to her name but she did not want to die, not for people that kept her in a cage from the moment she was born, and convinced her that despite that, the woman before her was nurturing and kind. 

“if you need convincing, little angel,” steven pipes up from behind her, the emptiness in his expression now filled with a masochistic glee that made her blood turn to ice, “i would love to present you with alternatives to sway you in the right direction.” 

angel turns back to the director, her lips fallen open with words that did not make it out of her throat. “i don’t…” 

understand. want to. like this. the sentence does not get finished out loud, but the responses circle round and round in her mind. 

the director glances behind her toward steven, and if angel had anything better to do besides study steven’s mannerisms and micromovements and expressions, she would not have seen the slight nod of her head. but she had spent many years in a cage with no entertainment at all besides the needle she’d stolen and the padlock she’d taken apart over and over and the man who said few words out loud but so many with his facial features. 

it happens so quickly that angel does not entirely know what, exactly, did. a single footstep comes from behind her and suddenly, the world has slowed completely for everyone besides her. she spins around to see steven’s booted foot one step closer and his hand on the gun at his side, and that is all it takes for her to burst into light.

sunfire in your blood. it sings in two blinding beams out of her eyes, so bright and hot that its heat burns the skin of her outstretched arms, folded over her eyes for protection. one moment, steven is about to unload a bullet into her. the next, he is nothing but charred skin and ash. 

the director wails behind her. when angel turns to look at her, her eyes are pinched tightly shut, collapsed to her knees on the hard flooring. 

panicked guilt crashes inside of her like roaring waves, freezing her in place for a second too long. that second is all it takes for the lights to go out, replaced with a loud blaring alarm and flashes of red in the pitch black. 

angel scrambles toward the door. on the ground is steven’s labcoat, partially on fire on one of the sleeves. she bends quickly to rummage through his right pocket, shaking fingers pulling out the card he’d used to unlock this room. 

she swipes it and the lock mechanism goes from red to green. in a panic, angel turns left towards the direction of the seraphs room. it was the only way that she knew in the dark that had doors, even if she didn’t know where they led. 

she unlocks the door toward her space and pauses, once it clicks shut behind her, trying to catch her breath. she needed to think. what good would this do if she messed up even once and ended up back in that cage? or worse? 

it’s not much, but it’s hers, and before she makes a sprint to the door, she collects the needle from the metal floor of her cage. its prick in her palm is a stinging reassurance, a silent confirmation that this was the right thing to do. 

the door to the lycans opens as she barrels through it, not even bothering to shut it behind her. the gunmen and guards would come after her anyways, each with the same keycards that she had. there was no point. 

“eighty-three!” she shouts, her voice a broken rasp with the panic and the disuse. “eighty—”

“did you cause this?” his voice, albeit much deeper and matured, cuts through the alarms and her frenzied shouts, and she nearly sobs at the sound of it.

she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, clutching at the bars of his cage. “how do i get out of here?” 

“shit, you did,” he says around a disbelieving scoff of laughter, “well, well, well, angel. if someone was gonna do it…” 

she smacks her hand on the bars, trying to get him to pay attention, to realize the height of the situation. “how do i get out?” 

“you’re the last of the blocks.” he nods toward the open door to the seraphs. “keep going straight down these halls until you get to the aquariums.”

aquariums? angel couldn’t even ask, didn’t have the time to. “then what?” 

he reaches through the bars as best as he can, two fingers grasping the thin, hollow bone of her small wing. “put these to use. you’ll know what to do when you get there.” 

“i— i can’t—” how could she explain that she’d never flown before? that she wasn’t even certain the disfigured wings were capable of it? 

bang! bang! bang! 

they were not the hard hits on a metal door this time, but the sounds of gunshots, echoing from the labs. a sob tore out of her throat, her eyes welling in the state of her fear. 

“go straight until the aquariums, and then go up.” eighty-three nods at her again, and the simple motion helps to ease her worries at least for the moment. “hurry. those were just the warnings.” 

angel starts toward the door at the opposite end of the hall, pausing once the mechanism went from red to green, to look over her shoulder. 

eighty-three did not look away from her once as she slipped out through the open door and did not turn back. 

the room she wound up in was dimly lit and eerily silent. the harshness of the alarms was muffled in there, overtaken by a buzz of silence. she did not have time to figure out what this room was, though, and could only barrel toward the door at its opposite. 

“the sunfire girl is here!” someone hisses from behind her, and with sinking dread, she realizes that the buzzing hum was not because of the silence but the rattling hiss of snakes, “her doom is near! the sunfire girl is here…” 

she disappears before the voice can finish its dark rhyme. the next room is just as dark as hers, somehow darker. she cannot see in front of her or around her. it is only by her muscle memory that she continues straight. 

a flutter comes from behind her, and she spins over her shoulder with a gasp, just in time to see beady red eyes blink open. wings flutter again, black and leathery, their tips scraping along the ground. in the dark, white fangs protrude from upside down people. 

angel shuts the door to that room, horrified by what lived in there. the adrenaline was the only thing keeping the fear from grappling her and paralyzing her in place. 

this room was bright, a welcome sight after the last two terrifying darkened ones. she does not slow, but her eyes catch on a tall figure on the very edge of the wall of cages on her left. golden hazel eyes watch her like a predator, somehow making her feel small despite her being the one free. 

you are not going to last beyond your gilded cage. 

a voice whispers into her mind, cruel and seething even without angel being able to see its source.

she is grateful for when the door unlocks, and she ducks through it to reveal the most grand of all the rooms. her head tips back and she is met with the warm glow of sun on her skin from the glass ceiling, fresh light and wind pouring through the reflective surface and into the two giant aquariums lining each wall. 

inside, beady and lifeless eyes watch her. some have gray skin, some do not. all of them, though, have no ears, and rows upon rows of sharp teeth they snarl at her in threat. 

she can hear footsteps from the halls on either side of her. her heart races so fast that it makes her feel lightheaded. there is only one way to go, and she does not know if she can even get there. 

feathers as sharp as blades. they were not, but maybe they were as durable as them. if she believed that the glass would not tear her skin and wings to pieces, that she could soar upwards and through the one thing keeping her from freedom, then it had to be true. 

the door from the golden eyed subject’s room slams against the wall behind it, guards with heavy guns on their backs and in their arms pouring through it. at the same time, angel leapt up, feeling the wind catch in her feathers and the unused muscles. 

she did not think anything happened at first. her legs were exhausted from the exertion she’d just put them through, already feeling weightless, so she did not at first process that she was off of the ground. 

not until a bullet whizzed past her ear and she quickly dove in the other direction, just to spin haphazardly in the air. 

the dwindling adrenaline came back tenfold. she forgot that she did not know how to fly and tucked her wings with a couple of flaps, the motion sending her hurtling upwards. 

her wings’ feathers were not sharp as blades, but she was. she cut through the thick glass like it was paper, the cuts on her skin not registering in her mind even as the shards shattered and fell into the nocturnis building. 

bullets flew left and right around her, but she was too quick for any of them to do anything other than blow quickly past her skin. 

with no idea where she was going, angel flew. the wind tore through her ears and through the feathers of her wings, drowning out the sounds and memories of nocturnis just as it faded into obscurity behind her. 

she truly was a butterfly like steven had once told her she was. her time to fly and fly had come, away from the captivity and seclusion of nocturnis and into the open awaiting arms of the glorious real world.

notes a little introduction to angel :') very very proud of this. i thought a good starting point would be the place in which her and ben are paralleled the most, being their time in captivity although days away from each other hehehe. hope you like her! and this! and everything!

special tag to @h8aaz bc i promised yep 🙂‍↕️ love u so much!!!!

tags @pieandflannel @pearlsvie @viluren @yulianie @angelicjackles @beausling @love2liz @lanasgirlfr @bejeweledinterludes @veyveyx @tinas111 @briisbananass @cowboysandcigarettes @spiritkissin @deanswidow @aurevina @bruisedfig @soldiersgirl @jensenacklesballsack @honeyroots @blossomingorchids @idk6505 @funkycoloured @mahi-wayy @k-slla @fairychris @bluemerakis @lilyyyjcb @theosaurous @maeji-may @rositaslabyrinth @v1v1-3 @nymphet-quenn @ltotheucyy @barnes70stark @pinkspiitz @blue-d @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @the-fandoms-onceler @dollyfetti @0ccvltism @honeyyxxbee @honeyryewhiskey @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thesevnthseal @littlesoulshine @chevroletdean @collywobblvs

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[teamintwithice]

DEVILHUNTER!READER. Part 1.

-> Masterlist

"Hah...welcome to your own prison."

Y/n smiled slyly as the Devil, Madolrift, picked up the book they had intentionally hidden in their body. As soon as he steps away from them, Kellian's ability activates and traps Madolrift inside the book.

Everyone in the overworld must have reached the final steps.

It's over...Mother, I've saved the civilians!

Dying like this is not so bad, right?

Y/n closed their eyes, feeling the blood drain from their body, the embrace of death tightening around them. Then their consciousness gradually sank into darkness.

That afternoon, the sunset was red in a corner of SorrowLand.

"The patient is showing signs of waking up!"

"Call the doctor!"

In a daze, you heard a flurry of voices around you, and Y/n noticed the strong smell of disinfectant filling the air.

No way... saved again?

Their body ached all over. Y/n kept their eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness, ignoring the nurses and doctors bustling in and out. They didn’t want to face anyone—not the scolding, not the pity. Especially not Vivian. He’d give them an earful for getting injured like this. They had always been able to hide their injuries successfully, but this time they were caught red-handed. They knew they would be nagged for months.

Their mind was sluggish, drifting in and out of sleep, and before they knew it, they had fallen into a deep slumber again.

The next time they woke up, the hospital room no longer reeked of disinfectant. Except for the machines and IV tubes surrounding the bed, the place resembled a luxury hotel room.

Sitting up, they blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings.

This wasn’t one of the headquarters' rooms. Their family had its own private facility. And the government? If they’d stepped in, Y/n would be locked up in a lab by now, not lying comfortably in a VIP recovery room.

As for the other organizations, don't even mention saving them. If Y/N L/n dies, they'll pop champagne to celebrate.

What a weird thing...who saved me?

Y/n propped themselves up, then froze.

The arm that met their gaze was wrapped in white bandages—but it was tiny. A child’s arm.

They blinked, then turned toward the window, searching for a reflection.

Staring back at them in the glass was a black-haired child wrapped head to toe in gauze, with wide E/C eyes. The name on the hospital gown read: Y/n Drapètes.

Does time run backwards?

No. At this age, Y/n was still playing the role of the Drapètes family's obedient young heir. Puppeteered by the elders. But at least then, they’d eaten well, dressed well, and didn’t want to die yet.

A six-year-old shouldn’t be covered in wounds like these.

Their eyes drifted to the array of medical tools nearby.

Something was very wrong.

At six, they should’ve been safe under their mother's wing, alongside their twin, Orion—not lying half-dead in a hospital bed.

Click

The sound of the door opening drew Y/n's attention back.

"Y/n! You're awake!"

A ginger-haired man with a signature moustache hurried into the room. His face was lined with worry.

Commissioner James Gordon. His face was full of worry and concern, and Y/n’s memory stirred. Gordon had been a pretty close friend of their mother's before she was massacred along with the rest of the main family, and they had never met him until the massacre happened and they were sent to live in Gotham with their 'father', wait- don't tell me?! "You were badly injured Y/n- I thought we wouldn't be able to save you..."

Y/n said nothing; they just stared at him in silence. There wasn’t enough information yet. Acting rashly could be dangerous.

James Gordon studied the last living member of the Drapétes family. Their body was small, thin, and wrapped in bandages. Pale skin. Black hair hanging limply over wide, warily shining eyes. Like a stray that was afraid of someone entering its territory when it bristled up. The last time he saw the child was when the Drapètes family held a birthday party to celebrate the child's fifth birthday. That night, he received news that the child had been murdered by an assassin targeting the Drapètes family, and a few days later, he attended the funeral. Who would have thought that the family would fake your own death and use you as a lab subject? A witch clan playing politics always ends badly. But to implant a cursed spirit into their own bloodline? Those people deserved to die.

Many things were running through his head; Gordon still tried to smile and started talking nonsense to the child he had just met for the first time as if to comfort them.

“Don’t remember me? It’s Uncle James,” he said gently. “I used to carry you around, back when you were little. Look at you now—already six!”

Y/n remained silent, only blinking slowly.

"You don’t remember anything?" he asked, watching their expression. "Do you know why you’re here?"

Y/n shook their head, quiet and obedient. Gordon instinctively reached to ruffle their hair—

Unfortunately, Y/n avoided him. Gordon raised his eyebrows slightly, but seeing the child's fleeting look of fear, he didn't pursue the matter. When kids go through such things, even if they don't remember anything, their bodies still react conditioned, which is normal.

“The Drapètes estate burned down,” he said quietly. “You were the only survivor.”

"....Oh...."

Y/n’s reply was flat. A mere acknowledgement. The family massacre was the main reason why they were sent to Wayne Manor after all.

Gordon was not surprised to feel the rejection from the kid. But he could not understand why this child with no magical power had become a test subject for those people.

From the moment he walked in, he knew—this child was different. They wore emotions like a costume. He’d seen many traumatized children, but this one… this one was empty.

A failed experiment, maybe. The records were mostly destroyed, but even the fragments painted a grim picture. It made him sick.

Perhaps the government initially turned a blind eye to their research, and only when they felt their position was in danger did they start to take action.

Gordon looked at the poor child who probably didn't know that because of the magical experiment on their body, the government had decided to order their death sentence.

Y/n was the first person he ever saved from execution. After all, the kid didn't show any fluctuations in their magical power even when the scientist tried to stimulate them. He couldn't stand to see those bastards bully a poor child.

"Sorry," Y/n said suddenly. Their voice was soft, but steady. "But don’t call me Y/n Drapètes."

Every time that name was mentioned, they felt sick.

They looked up. Eyes deep and unreadable.

Gordon raised an eyebrow.

Lost memory but still rejects their identity? Well... they were forced to do experiments anyway. It's not strange to have psychological trauma. Besides, even he wouldn't want to accept that kind of family, a good thing that they're a Wayne now.

"Alright then," he said gently. "What should I call you?"

Y/n gave a faint smile.

"Y/n L/n."

Taglist: @isabellamorettosworld; @yhin-gg; @simpingpandas; @blackhood1229; @aaaaailo

[princess-ish-shit]

WOUNDED

based off a lil anon request! i did tweak it but i hope you still enjoy !! also i write but am new to the whole one shots and such so if you hate it 😪 then i’m so sorry, but i’m learning!

Contains: age gap (Sevika is 35 reader is 22), mentions of violence, slight angst, fluff fluff fluff

1.8k words

You had been nineteen when Silco had taken you under his wing, brought in from the streets. Having no family, no ties, no connections.

Sevika had always been there. Always. When Silco had brought you in, when you had first learned to fight, when you had gotten drunk for the first time, when you had… you get the point. She said little to you, never engaged with you, but she and Silco, your self proclaimed ‘dad’ (although you were far too old to be his actual daughter), were obviously close, seeing as she worked for him. You knew she watched, knew she was observing from afar.

You had watched her as well. Watched how she trained, watched when she would play cards and drink, watched when she would be speaking in hushed tones with Silco, and whenever she was around really. It sounds creepy, I know… but it was yearning, longing glances, and noticing when she walked in the room. Of course Sevika was far too old for you and you were sure she found you a nuisance, but you had had a small crush on her from the moment you laid eyes on her and since then your attention could not be taken away from her when she was near.

You, however, were unaware her feelings were the same.

Sevika would never admit it but the minute she saw you she knew you were different. She would never admit that she felt anything remotely positive toward you.. not negative either, just… neutral. Her protective instinct had kicked in immediately and she had watched over you ever since. Had watched you become the woman you were and had, to her dismay, developed feelings for you. Though she would never admit to that. You were like her boss's daughter and you were far too young for Sevika.

But she was always watching, always there in case of emergency, but she kept her distance.

She had left that morning. You had been sitting in the common area of the small shacked up place you called home behind The Last Drop. Jinx had been tinkering on the other side of the room, Silco having dropped in to inform you that you had to work today due to most of the crew going out on a highly important job. Sevika had come in to speak to Silco and you had shot a small, soft smile at her, Sevika’s eyes briefly passing over you with no expression before settling on Silco. You had tried to stop the frown forming on your face but it had been hard.

You had been so upset and embarrassed that you hadn’t noticed a small, barely there frown form on Sevika’s face. She hadn’t intended to make your sweet self sad. A part of her wanted to go to you and cup your cheeks and force you to smile again. But, of course, that would be wildly inappropriate. All Sevika could do was wish you’d look back up at her so she could remedy the situation by sending a smile your way or… she didn’t know.. something.

Now, here you were behind the bar, this being the only job Silco actually let you do, due to your lack of fighting skills, and let's be honest… your lack of interest in wanting to fight. It had been a long morning and even longer stretching into the afternoon. You had seen some of the crew come in earlier looking beat and worn from the job but hadn’t seen Sevika, who was usually with them. You sighed and continued drying out glasses when the front doors of ‘The Last Drop’ opened and there were three crew members coming in, shouting.

But your eyes only saw her, in between her two comrades, pale, limping, head hung low. There were already people rushing to help so you stood back, people in the bar turning to see the commotion, some of the crew ushering the trio to the back. You only watched, worry flooding you, the urge to go after her and just be with her so strong you could barely contain it. But you refrained, you couldn’t, you wouldn’t do it.

The rest of the evening went by agonizingly slow. The bar was busy but your thoughts were on her. None of the crew had been back out and worry gnawed at your stomach. You had broken several glasses and had forgotten to get drinks to people who had ordered over a half hour ago. The night had been a mess but soon your shift was over, the late night workers coming in to take over. You thanked them and quietly slipped to the back.

It was quiet as you walked into the living space behind the bar. You quietly walked down the hall, your shared room being one of the first doors, but you passed it.

Sevika’s was at the end, across from Silco’s quarters. You stood in front of the door for a long time, waiting, listening, measuring whether or not you should knock or just go to bed.

Just as you were about to turn on your heel back to your room the door was opening and Silco was standing there, eye widening at the sight of you. Your own eyes widened and you stumbled over words to explain why you were there at this hour. Silco didn’t let you get far into your mumbling before his hand was on your shoulder.

“She’ll be glad to see you.”

Your eyes widened again and you were quiet. Sevika? Glad to see you? You doubted that, and your face said as much. Silco lifted your chin, “You are unaware of how much I see and know, my girl. She will be glad to see you. Go.”

He didn’t say another word and slipped past you, leaving the door open and you standing there, peering into the dimly lit room. You saw her sitting, back to you. You were debating again if you should just close the door and leave when you heard her.

“Are you coming in or not?” Gruff, quiet, rough, almost harsh you thought, but no, that wasn’t it… her tone was soft.

You took a deep breath and stepped in the room, closing the door behind you but only getting that far and freezing in your place again.

“Well don’t just stand there. I need help wrapping my stomach.”

Sevika still hadn’t turned to look at you but her words set you into motion and you quietly but quickly padded over to her, standing next to the seat.

“I- how… I don’t know what to do.”

She looked up then and your eyes were lost in hers, breath caught. Sevika was also taken aback and her eyes widened slightly. There was a moment between the two of you until Sevika cleared her throat, “It’s already been cleaned, so you’ll need to grab the wrap right there on the floor. You’ll be best on your knees and I’ll sit up so you can reach around.”

You gave a soft single nod and followed the few instructions, kneeling comfortably in front of Sevika and grabbing the bandage wrap. You looked up for further instruction and you found Sevika already looking down at you, eyes the softest you had ever seen them. Sevika held your gaze again, taking a few measured breaths.

She didn’t break it this time, and you didn’t think she would have if you hadn’t which made your breath hitch. You awkwardly fiddle with the bandage in your hand before asking, “So how do I do this?”

Sevika hesitates but answers, in a low, gentle voice, and explains how to wrap the bandage. You take a deep breath and then nod, starting to wrap the bandage as she instructs. You have to wrap your arms around her to reach around and your face comes into close contact with her abdomen. It’s a difficult task to regulate your breathing as you continue.

It’s quiet for a few moments as you carefully wrap Sevika’s wound. You feel her eyes on you and do your best to follow her instructions, wrapping it securely but not tight enough it will hurt. Sevika instructs you how to finish and you sit back on your heels after you’re done, glancing up at her for approval.

And there are her grey eyes again, already staring intently at you and you blush. “Did I do ok?” You ask softly, somewhat nervous.

Sevika waits for a moment, just looking at you kneeling before her, before she starts to answer but stops herself and just nods. You smile softly and give a single nod back, beginning to stand, “I guess I’ll take my leave then… let me know if you need any further help.”

You stand fully and are about to start walking to the door when her flesh hand reaches out, grabbing your wrist. Your eyes widen as she speaks, “Wait.”

You look down at her form, now freshly bandaged, sitting on the cozy looking chair.

“Stay.”

You are stunned and stutter out something but she stops you.

“It wasn’t a question. Stay. Sit.”

Your eyes widen as she gestures to a comfortable looking couch on the other side of the rug. You hesistate but end up making your way over to sit, now facing her only a few feet from where you had been kneeling moments ago. You look at your hands in your lap before looking up at Sevika, who is, once again, already looking at you. Silence fills the space between you as you both stare. The first time you’ve looked at her and she’s been looking back, not with disgust or hate or dislike, but with something softer. You don’t know why but your eyes well up with tears. Sevika notices and stands slowly, walking to the couch, tears beginning to roll down your cheeks. And now she’s kneeling before you, looking into your glassy eyes with concern. You look away, embarrassed but a large calloused hand cups your jaw and you’re looking at her again.

“Don’t… don’t look away from me.”

“I- Sevika…”

“I don’t hate you.” Your eyes widen at her sudden admission and you are struck speechless.

She takes this as a sign to continue, seizing the opportunity, “I don’t hate you, I never have, and I don’t think I ever could. No… I know I could never hate you.” You go to stop her but she plows through, “I like you. I always have and I told myself you were too young, that it could never be, that my lifestyle was too dangerous, that- that I wasn’t good enough for someone as innocent and whole as you.”

You feel your heart crumble.

“I like you. No, I love you. And I’m sorry I ever made you feel different-“ Your arms are around her neck as you launch off the couch, being mindful of her recently wrapped wound. Her arm instinctively wrap around your waist, drawing you closer.

“I do too, you know.” You whisper in her ear, voice cracking slightly, tears still rolling down your cheeks but not because you’re sad this time.

“Yea? You what?” You hear the smirk in her voice but also the soft tenderness.

“I love you, Sevika.”

[zepskies]

God, I just love these chapter titles! So perfect for each one! 😆💛

Ben’s brow shot up, coughing out a cloud of smoke. “She’s in the furnace?” “Checking my work,” the engineer added with bitterness in his voice. Ben bit back a snort. “Why the fuck would you let her crawl in there?” “Sir, all due respect, but she ain’t listening to me, and I hate arguing with her,” Fred told him bluntly.

lmfao I already love this opening. She too smart to take one iota of shit from men, and it's a joy to watch 😂

For two weeks, Ben had taken you out now every night, playing tour guide around Philadelphia and showing you everything the city (and 1942) had to offer.

This is so cute!! That's the first thing I picture when I think of a 1940s "date." But reading about all of their other dates, big and small, was like getting a deep dive into '40s culture and Philadelphia history, complete with "jitterbugging." 💗

And seeing the progression of how her powers are slowly coming back on line is both so interesting and a great narrative element for the pacing of all this.

The click was your ability to fast forward, backward, pause and play. Like the movie with Adam Sandler! Get it?

Absolutely got this one! 😂 This aspect of her powers matches so well with her mischievous "Puck" nature lolll

(Though she strikes me as too classy for this^, you get my point lmao)

Anyway, you’d frozen Homelander long enough for Soldier Boy to charge up, your nose had started bleeding, your brain had almost exploded, you’d landed in a coma for three days afterward, and that was that. Never had tried doing it again since. That had been some scary shit.

Oooh shit, no wonder she lost her "click" for a while, poor thing. 😰 I wonder how worried Ben was during her coma, since he already remembered her and tried to get her out of the final showdown with Homelander. ❤️‍🩹

Thinking about them made you realize how much they would surely judge you for your actions here. Shit. Honestly, that only made you want to avoid home even more.

lmfaoo honestly so valid. They'd judge her sooooo hard 😅😅 (though I love Frenchie's imagined reaction the most LOL)

On the other hand, you missed parts of your old life – your friends, your own clothes, your own space. Worst of all, your memories of the future began to fade a little more each day.

This is such an interesting side effect of being so long in the past where she "isn't meant to be." I wonder if that resolves once she returns to the future and spends enough time there, or are those memories just gradually wiped like an Etch a Sketch? 🥲

Spread your wings, little butterfly, and cause a hurricane!

Ah yes, the Butterfly Effect! If only we had Jeff Goldblum to explain it to us 😂

JK, the reader needs no man to explain science to her. 😌

“Oh, big mistake, sweetheart.” With a mischievous grin, he placed his hands on your waist and pulled you flush against his strong and firm body, instantly conquering your mouth with a searing kiss. Ben always kissed you like there was no fucking tomorrow. No future, no past, no doubts, no regrets. Just you and him caught in a moment.

And this is right about where my brain fizzed out and melted 🫠🫠🫠

The way Ben kisses (aside from his other talents) is probably why he gets so many women hooked on his charms lol. I absolutely love how you wrote this first really romantic/smutty scene between them. 💛 My favorite smut is the teasing and the banter leading into the sensuous and sexy, which this absolutely nails (pardon the pun lmao) ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

But this part right here is where I malfunctioned, of course on this beautifully poetic line:

You found the magic word, and two perfectly thick and long fingers breached your entrance just like that and delivered you from your misery but added to your sins. You sang his name in fucking relief.

Weren’t you conning him a little? He didn’t know who you were or where you came from despite trying to warn him as much as you could. You didn’t want anything from him – not his money, not his secrets, not his death. You didn’t even know why you were doing this – why the fuck you were still entertaining this charade! Your insides were full of butterflies and bees these days.

Goddamn it, why'd you have to remind me of this??! lmao

"Butterflies and bees" is such a subtle but brilliant way to describe it -- lovely butterflies, warm feelings of falling in love, but the sting of knowing you shouldn't. 😭

But Ben gave you a kind smile in return, his features softening with something deeper than the playful attitude. “That’s okay. There’s no rush, sweetheart. You’re worth waiting for.”

*cryingcryingcrying*

She's losing her memory and living a lie, but it's ok, she built him a projector and gave him his first genuine gift ever. It's ok. 🫠🩵🩵

Also, I really feel bad for Ben on this side of things. He's starting to get clues that there's something off with her, can't figure out why she still doesn't trust him entirely, even though he's giving all he has of his heart to her. ❤️‍🩹

And now with that ominous cliffhanger of the parents arriving, you really get the sense that this is the real point of no return...

Time After Time – Chapter 6

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language and smut, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, FLUFF, a bit of an angsty cliffhanger

Word Count: 6.8k

Posted on Patreon April 4, 2025

A/N: And here comes the smut (at least the beginning stages of it). Ben might not know a lot about economics, but he clearly knows his way around the ladies 😜 ✨ Chapter title comes from The Maltese Falcon (1941)

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Chapter 6: I Don't Mind a Reasonable Amount of Trouble

Ben checked the big clock on the wall of his office and sighed. Of course you were late again, probably lost somewhere between math equations and arguing with Fred.

He treaded down to the factory floor, finding Fred with his hands on his hips and a grim expression on his face, standing idly by the furnace they were currently upgrading. Ben’s brow knitted when he couldn’t find you anywhere near, however. He told Fred to fucking watch you. What was so hard about that?

“Where’s our little physicist?” Ben prompted, glaring the engineer down as he lit a cigarette.

Fred swallowed nervously and nodded toward the furnace. “In there, sir.”

Ben’s brow shot up, coughing out a cloud of smoke. “She’s in the furnace?”

“Checking my work,” the engineer added with bitterness in his voice.

Ben bit back a snort. “Why the fuck would you let her crawl in there?”

“Sir, all due respect, but she ain’t listening to me, and I hate arguing with her,” Fred told him bluntly.

Fair enough, Ben thought. He hated arguing with you, too. There was never any winning. He was still wondering how you fucking did that.

“I can hear you guys, by the way! This thing isn’t soundproof,” your amused voice echoed out of the furnace in sing-song.

“Sweetheart, you okay in there?” Ben checked, leaning a little closer to the opening to peek inside.

But you jumped out at that very same second, letting Ben help you out when he offered you his hand. You dusted off your clothes with a smile, your skin covered slightly with ash.

Ben eyed your outfit, tilting his head. “Why are you wearing overalls?”

“Oh, Fred lent them to me. Didn’t want Ms. Vivian to yell at me for getting my dress dirty,” you replied, giggling.

Ben chuckled and then gestured toward the furnace. “How’s it coming along?”

“Good! I think we can throw it on tomorrow and test it before we move onto the next one. Fred has done a great job these last two weeks,” you reported happily, and Ben could audibly hear the engineer pass a breath of relief upon your praise.

“Perfect!” Ben smiled warmly and tucked a strand of wild hair behind your ear. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, just let me change and wash up first,” you told him, returning his smile with blushing cheeks.

“Where are you taking her this evening, sir?” Fred asked curiously.

“Oh, he’s taking me to the pictures tonight.” You grinned excitedly.

For two weeks, Ben had taken you out now every night, playing tour guide around Philadelphia and showing you everything the city (and 1942) had to offer.

For your first date, he’d chosen an intimate and charming French restaurant, which had led you to chat with the waiters in French all night. Ben hadn’t minded as much since you’d been smiling brightly the whole time and everything you’d said had sounded incredibly sexy.

The next night, he’d taken you to the restaurant at the top of the Six Towers Building, offering the most stunning views of the city. When the two of you had watched the starry night sky, you’d told him all about planets and universal theories that he couldn’t possibly understand, either. But again, you’d been smiling all the way through, and so had he.

The following nights, the two of you then had explored Philadelphia’s vibrant nightlife, which definitely had been more Ben’s area of expertise. He’d taken you to two night clubs and two jazz clubs, enjoying live music the whole night before Ray had to pick the two of you up in the early morning hours.

Ben had also taught you how to swing dance and explained jitterbugging in great detail to you. As far as you’d understood it, it was the twerking of the 1940s.

Another night, he’d taken you to the Philadelphia Opera House for a musical (Gershwin’s Of Thee I Sing) before the two of you had gone ice-skating together.

Then there had been the daylight dates: He’d taken you to the Philadelphia zoo, to something called a soda fountain (and no, to your disappointment, there hadn’t been a giant fountain spewing soda), and to the Museum of Art.

Some days, you’d come to work with him and annoy Fred, while others you’d stay home and either tinker in the shed or play piano in the drawing room. You hadn’t played properly in ages and were getting really good. So far, you’d perfected Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun to air out your frustrations about this period’s blatant sexism and some All Through the Night to calm yourself again.

Moreover, you did a little more than just tinkering in George’s shed and were trying to overcome your blockage and get your powers working again.

And you’d even made some progress. Eureka!

While the memory bank, which was what you called the weird part of your ability that let you see little glimpses throughout time, worked just fine (much to your dismay), you hadn’t been able to click since that night you all took down Homelander.

The click was your ability to fast forward, backward, pause and play. Like the movie with Adam Sandler! Get it?

Anyway, you’d frozen Homelander long enough for Soldier Boy to charge up, your nose had started bleeding, your brain had almost exploded, you’d landed in a coma for three days afterward, and that was that. Never had tried doing it again since. That had been some scary shit.

Yup, Homelander had fought tooth and nail against your little spell, and you still had no fucking clue how he’d done it. You’d easily done it to Be–

Soldier Boy! Fuck. You’d easily done it to Soldier Boy all the time till he had started watching clocks around you like an eagle and be pissed as fuck whenever he’d realize an hour had suddenly passed (and then you’d started to pause the clocks in whatever room he was in, too).

To be fair, most of those times had been due to the relentless begging of Butcher and Hughie.

Butcher with a “Oi, can you make the cunt shut up for a second? I’m trying to bloody think ‘ere.” And Hughie with a “Please, make him stop. I need-, like, I just need a ten minute break from this gross piece of shit.”

Thinking about them made you realize how much they would surely judge you for your actions here. Shit. Honestly, that only made you want to avoid home even more.

You hated facing consequences, which was a bummer with an ability like yours.

Butcher would probably tell you he was disappointed in you, mostly for not killing Ben in the most brutal and messiest way possible. Then, he’d tease you for the rest of his cancer-ridden life about you throwing out your morals for good cock (which you hadn’t even done!).

Both Hughie and MM would look at you full of disgust and confusion, repeatedly asking why. Frenchie would say something along the lines of: “Mon cœur, pourquoi n'as-tu pas dit que tu avais besoin d'une bite ? Je te l'aurais proposée. C'est ce que font les amis.”

Why didn’t you say you needed some dick? I would’ve offered. That’s what friends do.

Then there would’ve been the girls. Annie and Maeve would’ve questioned your sanity and, after more wine, asked you if it had been the huge cock that eventually convinced you, to which Kimiko would’ve leaned in and proceeded to gesture different length variations with her hands till you would’ve picked one.

And no, you hadn’t slept with Ben yet.

He kissed you and touched you and held your hand, but he never pressured you or pushed you to do more. It was all PG-13 and above the waist. Ben was the perfect gentleman.

Honestly, no one was more baffled by that than you.

The problem was, however, Ben could be the nicest, sweetest, and kindest person on the planet, more innocent than little Hughie, and you’d still have a hard time fully trusting him with your heart.

But you tried not to let it affect you, to judge him preemptively, although the nightmarish memories of his dirty deeds were still plaguing you every goddamn night. They never stopped, and you weren’t sure they ever could, considering the sheer body count Soldier Boy had left in his wake during his reign of terror.

On one hand, you loved your somewhat quiet time in Philadelphia. People were different and life was different. No one was stuck to their phone all day, no one really had a fear of missing out or cared about their social media following, no one was obsessed with binge-watching trashy reality TV shows, and the extensive consumerism took a backseat altogether.

Even with a war going on, life ran at a more peaceful, unhurried pace. You sort of even began to understand some of Soldier Boy’s grievances with the 21st century. You’d always thought he had exaggerated, but he really hadn’t.

On the other hand, you missed parts of your old life – your friends, your own clothes, your own space. Worst of all, your memories of the future began to fade a little more each day.

You couldn’t remember Annie’s birthday, Hughie’s last name, Butcher’s first name, Fenchie’s face… What the fuck does MM stand for? Kimiko was from… You wanna say Vietnam? Japan? No… Fuck!

This wasn’t good by any means. You should start writing down what you could remember to read it whenever you’d forget.

Your theory regarding this particular problem was that the timeline was starting to reshape and rewrite itself. The longer you stayed in the past, the bigger the changes in the future had to be.

Spread your wings, little butterfly, and cause a hurricane!

Your fading memories were the reason why you still were trying to get yourself fully powered up again. You at least needed a Plan B, an exit strategy, a goddamn insurance policy in case things went south.

So far, you could throw an object into the air and pause it and freeze staff members around the house, even two at a time.

The click was back.

It was your remote control, while the memory bank was your Google (although a lot more graphic – memory-searching someone’s birthday brought you right to a baby’s head crowning through a vagina).

But hey, everyone’s superpower had its downsides. At least you didn’t have to time travel butt-naked.

You had the memory bank, you had the click, and now all there was left for you to find were your ruby slippers.

While you didn’t necessarily hate your life here – far from it even – a part of you missed your independence and despised the societal norms of the time. Feminism was basically considered sailor talk.

But Ben tried to never make you feel like less, even when he’d slip from time to time. You couldn’t really fault him for that. He was just doing and saying what he was raised to do – what everyone around you was raised to do.

However, he slowly began to respect you and your opinions, taking your advice more often than not. He fucking tried, and you could tell, even when he never said too much. He also never missed a beat to back you up whenever Fred or anyone else dared to doubt you.

“Oh, how nice! What are you two going to watch?” Fred asked, and you knew he was only all too eager to get rid of you again. He probably cursed Ben in his sleep for ever bringing you to the mill.

“We’re doing a double feature at the Boyd,” Ben replied.

“Yes! We’re seeing The Lady Eve first and then The Maltese Falcon,” you added with a big grin. You’d really been looking forward to visiting an old school movie theater. Who wouldn’t be?

Ben chuckled warmly and rubbed your back. “And as you can see, she’s apparently very excited. It’s almost like she’s never been to a theater before.”

Recently, Ben had started to tease you whenever you got too exuberant about a 1940s thing (not that he was aware you called them that). But it was sometimes hard to fully hide your enthusiasm once your geek brain lit up like a Christmas tree.

1942 had its pros and cons, its ups and downs, but you tried to adjust as best as you could, getting used to the idea of staying here for good.

So did Ben.

After washing off the dirt and slipping back into your clothes – an emerald green silk dress with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves – you strolled cheerily into Ben’s office, where he was already waiting for you.

“Alright, I’m ready. We can leave,” you told him, the excitement swinging in both your voice and smile.

“You sure about that? Aren’t you missing something?” With an amused smile, Ben then held your pair of shoes into the air. “Found them in the furnace.”

“Oh, I didn’t even notice! However did they get there?” you feigned your innocence, shifting around on your bare feet.

Ben chuckled and sauntered over to you. “I’m sure you have not the faintest clue, sweetheart.”

“Well, cut me some slack, okay? Ms. Vivian isn’t making you wear pantyhose all day long,” you sassed, grimacing.

Ben only smirked. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t wear them.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Oh, but I think I am.” Ben’s smirk rose higher with a devilish gleam in his green eyes.

“Fine,” you huffed playfully, accepting the challenge. “They’re coming off!”

Your fingers worked eagerly to unfasten the clips of your garter belt – and oh God, how much you hated that fucking thing – and then rolled each stocking down your legs, finally tossing them on the leather chair.

“Oh, big mistake, sweetheart.” With a mischievous grin, he placed his hands on your waist and pulled you flush against his strong and firm body, instantly conquering your mouth with a searing kiss.

Ben always kissed you like there was no fucking tomorrow.

No future, no past, no doubts, no regrets. Just you and him caught in a moment.

He twirled you once and spun you backwards into his embrace like he’d shown you during your dance lessons, causing an eruption of giggles to spill from your throat. His breath ghosted along your skin in the nape of your neck, his broad chest pressing against your back, strong arms around you, holding you tight. His mouth trailed wet kisses along the exposed parts of your shoulder. His hands smoothed up and down your curves.

And then, they became a little more daring, a little more adventurous.

His right hand palmed a gracious amount of your ass over your dress while his left hand lingered dangerously close below your breast on your ribcage.

“And what exactly is your plan here, huh?” you incited, causing him to chuckle against your throat. It wasn’t like he’d never tried to test the boundaries before with you.

“You know, I’ve been thinking–“

“Uh-oh, that can’t be a good sign,” you quipped with a bubble of giggles.

“Are you teasing me, hm?” Ben pinched your sides where you were ticklish, laughing puckishly when you squealed and squirmed in his hold.

Needless to say, Soldier Boy wouldn’t have reacted with a tickle attack upon that comment.

“I’ll be good! I’ll be good!” you swore between your infectious laughter till he stopped and welcomed you back into his arms. You let yourself fall back against him. “So, what were you thinking, huh?”

“Well, I know we’re not sleeping together yet–“

“Yet? Wow, that’s some confidence you got there,” you continued to tease him.

“Yes, and completely your loss, by the way,” he retorted, spreading kisses down your neck to prove his point.

“Obviously.” You laughed softly to indulge him, but you couldn’t deny or ignore the little electric shockwaves traveling to your throbbing core. You clenched slightly, pressing your thighs a little tighter together, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he did and smirked triumphantly against your skin.

“As I was saying,” he continued, still carrying a smirk, but his voice dropping seductively low as he nibbled a path down your throat. His hand slid from your ass to the front of your thigh – slow, deliberate, knowing – rising higher and higher with each sinful syllable that left his plump lips. “Just because we’re not doing that yet–,” you felt the sharp smugness against your pulse point, “–doesn’t mean there aren’t… other ways I can make you feel good if you want me to, sweetheart.”

You laughed it off – barely, weakly, unconvincingly. “Ben…”

But there was no ‘I can’t,’ no ‘please,’ no ‘stop.’

“Yeah?” Amused, he kissed each vertebra down your neck, your little shivers pleasing him, his knuckles dragging along your ribs over silky fabric. “Need me to convince you a little?”

His perfect fingers tiptoed up your inner thigh – a brush, soft and fleeting. You bit your lips hard, close to tasting iron. Then, those five little sins traced up under your skirt, tugged teasingly at your garter straps, and ghosted along the hem of your panties.

And you fucking whimpered.

He smiled against the back of your head. It was like an invitation. A celebration! He’d finally won an argument.

“Yeah? You want me to touch you… there, sweetheart?” he tantalized raspily into your ear, your lobe caught between sharp teeth. His fingers teased along the cotton material, never going beyond where you wanted them.

Needed them.

His other hand then slid up your ribs, up and up and up, till he palmed your tit with the same ferocious grip he’d shown your ass.

“Or here?” His knuckles only lightly rubbed over your nipple, but it peaked underneath the thin material of your dress.

“Ben…” you moaned softly, not noticing how you sunk into him more and more. You were lost.

Pleasure. Bliss. Euphoria.

“Here it is, then.” He chuckled, victorious.

Gently, slowly, tortuously, his fingers ran along the cap sleeve before letting it fall down your shoulder. And as soon as it did, his hand generously cupped your breast. Massaged, groped, and fucking squeezed.

But his thumb and forefinger did the worst damage, tweaking, rubbing, and twisting your pebble between them till you sighed his name.

“Ben…”

“Yeah?” he answered in that same smug tone, enjoying you fall apart at his every touch. “You want more?”

“Yes,” you sighed breathlessly, grinding against him, desperate to find friction goddamn anywhere.

“Beg.” His diabolical chuckle caused your whole body to vibrate and catch fire.

You felt the outlines of his hard cock press against your ass, slotting himself right between your luscious cheeks. Each roll of his hips was deliberate. Teasing. Always teasing.

Fucking bastard…

His teeth sunk into your shoulder. His hand slipped inside your panties, cupped your whole pussy before two fingers stretched out, middle and pointer, and dove between your wet folds. Dragged and rubbed over your fucking clit.

“Well, look at that,” he chuckled into your ear. He palmed your tit roughly, fingers sliding over that little bundle of screaming nerves down low in relentlessly slow and measured strokes, gathering your wetness like it were the last drops on Earth. “And here I thought I never have any effect on you…”

“Ben…”

“Ben, what?”

The heel of his palm pressed against your pelvic bone, pushing you more against the hardness straining his slacks. Each rock, each push, each roll of his against you aimed to make you feel each inch of solid, thick, long mass. Aimed to make you wonder what he’d feel like inside of you.

Aimed to make you crumble enough for him to catch you when you’d finally fall from grace.

“Ben, please…”

You found the magic word, and two perfectly thick and long fingers breached your entrance just like that and delivered you from your misery but added to your sins.

You sang his name in fucking relief.

He curled his fingers in your drenched heat, right against that deliciously throbbing spot, scratching and coaxing every drop of arousal out of you, letting it trickle into his palm as if he were fucking saving it to drink later.

“You know–,” he rasped, breath hot against your cheek, “–this is why Ms. Vivian tells you to wear a fucking bra, sweetheart.” He rolled your aching nipple between his fingertips. “So men like me don’t have easy access and take fucking advantage of it.”

You clenched around his fingers. He grinned against your jaw.

“Although, I wouldn’t have minded if you forwent the panties, sweetheart,” he continued, deep voice thick with filth. “Wouldn’t have minded at all for those guys down there to see you fucking drippin’ for me to touch you.”

A moan bled from your lips as he ploughed his fingers harder through your wrecked pussy with every letter.

He brushed your hair to one side, hand lazily moving from your breast to your throat to your jaw, lifting your gaze to find his lust-laden and filth-filled eyes.

“You’re goddamn perfect,” he murmured, smirk twitching in the corners of his lips, making you chase them but never giving in to your desire. You whimpered, and he chuckled. His thumb pressed against your clit, adding slow circles to his torturous pumps. “Can’t wait to own every little part of yours. Can’t wait to make you mine.”

In 2023, you would’ve wanted him to choke on the possessive vile spewing out of his mouth.

But here, in 1942, with his fingers deep inside you and his voice cursing your mind, you fucking shattered.

You squeezed his fingers hard with a moaning and shuddering fuck, the last part of your resolve focusing even harder on not goddamn breaking them.

Sometimes, you still forgot he wasn’t a supe yet, made out of the same steel that was created below you, and that you could actually hurt him.

With a strangled scream that drowned out the factory noise of hammering steel beams (and red fucking cheeks), you came undone and soaked his goddamn hand.

Your frame shook, muscles trembled, and knees gave in, only to be caught and saved by him.

And then, finally, when your breathless lungs had wrung for enough oxygen, when your wild heartbeats had steadied, he let you catch his lips, perfectly desperate and starved and needy.

Your hand reached to cup his face, pulling him closer, fingers tangling in his hair, tongue down his throat. Ben groaned into the kiss, wrecked and just as desperate as you.

You twisted in his embrace as his fingers dropped from your heat. You faced him, kissing him with the sole intent to rob him of air. Your lips trailed down his jaw, his throat, and the little bit of exposed skin on his chest that was visible through the first opened buttoned of his dress shirt.

He growled when your hand reached down and eagerly palmed his rock-hard cock through his pants. Your trembling fingers hurried to unbuckle his belt, wanting to return the favor, but his hands snapped to your wrists, holding them still before gently moving them away.

“Oh no, sweetheart. We’re gonna be late for the pictures.” He smirked that smug smile again and gave you a cheeky wink. Coolly and completely unbothered, he then stepped away from you and grabbed his coat, swinging it over his shoulders and closing the front to hide his massive boner. “C’mon, let’s go!”

With an amused grin, Ben lit a cigarette and waited patiently by the door for you to snap out of your stupor and take his hand.

The crisp February air hit your face, your breath coming out in little swirling clouds as you and Ben emerged from the warmth of the movie theater. The snow-covered streets of Philadelphia were hushed, the city falling asleep as the glow of streetlamps bathed the cobblestone sidewalk in amber hues.

You adjusted the collar of your coat against the chill, tucking your hands into the pockets. Ben, sensing the shiver that ran through you, pulled you a little closer, interlacing your fingers with his.

“How’d you like the movies?” he asked, smiling softly and giving a quick peck to your temple.

“I loved them! Can’t go wrong with Bogart and Fonda,” you replied with a smile that soon turned teasing. You playfully nudged his shoulder. “So, you scared yet I’m gonna pull a fast one on you like Barbara Stanwyck did to Henry Fonda?”

Ben laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “I don’t know. So far, you haven’t really been interested in my money, so I think I’m safe. ‘Sides, I’m not as easy as Fonda.”

“You sure about that? You do look a little naive and fresh-faced to me,” you quipped, grinning.

“Well, just so you know, if you’re really trying to con me… it’s working,” he joked and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling you into his arms with a fond smile and whispering a kiss onto your lips.

Your heart wildly fluttered for a beat but was swiftly slain by a sting in the same breath. Weren’t you conning him a little? He didn’t know who you were or where you came from despite trying to warn him as much as you could. You didn’t want anything from him – not his money, not his secrets, not his death. You didn’t even know why you were doing this – why the fuck you were still entertaining this charade!

Your insides were full of butterflies and bees these days.

“Oh, yeah? Guess I’m the one who’s in trouble then,” you replied with a soft smile as you got lost in the green galaxies of his eyes.

“I don’t think you have any idea how much you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, sweetheart,” Ben said and lifted your chin softly to meet his lips in a sweet, tentative kiss. An affectionate smile grazed his face as his large palm warmed your cold cheek. “But I think I know something else, too.”

“And what’s that?” You bit your lower lip, leaning in closer, your hands sliding up his chest to drape around his neck.

“I think you’re falling for your mark, sweetheart,” he replied with a quiet smile, resting his forehead on yours.

Your heart stopped, his words stunning you into silence, tears beginning to brim in your eyes that you tried to swallow down. Was that what you were doing? What kept you tethered here? Were you falling in love with him?

“Maybe, I am,” you admitted softly, watching a hint of a smile flash alive before he pulled you to his lips in a searing, wanting, claiming kiss.

“You know, if you were the Maltese Falcon–,” he said, voice rough and low, thumb stroking up and down your cheekbone, “–I’d follow you across continents just to keep you safe.”

“Hmm, I can see you as Bogart. You like to brood in the shadows as well,” you teased him, feeling the vibrations of his chuckle against your body as his words sunk in.

Was he–… No. That’s ridiculous. 

“Well, I did always want to be an actor when I was younger,” he shared, laughing self-consciously.

“Really? I guess I can see that. You do have a very Hollywood look,” you entertained his idea with a warm smile. You figured it was best to breeze over his actual acting skills altogether. He had looked pretty on screen when Soldier Boy had forced his movies down your throat. “And what would you want in return for saving me, huh?”

“Well–,” he licked his lips, his hands slowly, deliberately, seductively opening your coat and slipping them inside around your waist, “–there’s still a few things I’d like to unravel about you.”

Your cheeks hurt with a smile. Oh, he was a charming devil. It was hard to deny.

“I’m not quite sure I’m ready to be unraveled yet,” you said with a coy giggle, fingers gently carding through the hair in the back of his neck like a nervous tick as your heart hammered in your ribcage.

But Ben gave you a kind smile in return, his features softening with something deeper than the playful attitude. “That’s okay. There’s no rush, sweetheart. You’re worth waiting for.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead as if he was making a vow at that moment. The night felt intimate, like it was just a world for the two of you.

And you realized then that you were truly falling head over heels in love with him, unaware that Ben was already miles ahead of you.

Unfortunately, he didn’t know that, much like the Maltese Falcon, you were only a fake – a mere illusion, too.

C.

“Lying in my bed, I hear–” You adjusted your fingers on the ivory keys.

Em.

“–the clock tick, and I think of you,” you sang softly, holding the note.

Am.

“Caught up in circles, confusion–”

F.

“–is nothing new...”

C.

“Flashback, warm nights. Almost–” your fingers switched back to E minor, “–left behind.” Am. “Suitcases of memories…” F. “Time after–”

You exhaled a soft sigh, your fingers sliding from the keys with a few random notes. How did the chorus go again?

Why were you forgetting the lyrics? You knew that song by heart. Earlier, you couldn’t play Sia’s Elastic Heart either.

C.

“If you’re lost, you can look, and you will find me–” Em. “–time after time.” Am. “If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting–” F. “–time after time…”

You expelled a breath of relief. The memory fog was getting worse every day. You wondered how long you still had before not being able to remember anything at all.

“Why are you stopping?”

With a small yelp of surprise, you startled and turned to Ben, leaning against the doorframe and watching you. You didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. You hadn’t even heard him come home.

“Oh, uh, I can’t remember the rest of the song,” you replied, your cheeks blushing as you rose from the little stool to greet him, tiptoeing up to meet his lips for a sweet kiss. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Ben chuckled. “Luckily. Otherwise, I might have missed your little performance.” He winked, caressing your cheek in his palm. “The only proof I had of you actually playing so far were the bedazzling whispers of the staff. Glad I finally got to catch it, too. You have a beautiful voice, sweetheart.”

Your brow quirked unnoticeably at his last sentence. Why the hell did that sound familiar to you? It felt like déjà-vu.

“Thank you.” Your cheeks turned pink under the soft light of the crystal chandelier in the drawing room.

“What song was that? I don’t know it. Did you write that?” Ben asked curiously.

You shook your head quickly, brushing it off. “Oh no, just something I heard once somewhere…”

“Huh. I like it,” he said, and you internally sighed in relief. He then hauled a full bouquet of sunflowers from behind his back, holding them out to you with a smile. “Got something for you.”

You took the bouquet gratefully, burying your nose in the beautiful smelling flowers. You’d told him not too long ago that they were your favorite.

“For me? Thank you, uhm… Where did you even get sunflowers in winter?” You shook your head then suddenly. “You know what? Don’t answer that. It’s probably a rich people trade secret,” you muttered, making Ben snort. “What exactly are those for?”

He offered you a warm smile. “We threw on the second furnace today. The two new ones now produce ten times as much as the others. We’re gonna get that government contract, all thanks to you.”

Should you be concerned you had a hand in helping rich people get even richer?

“I’m glad it worked out,” you said instead, smiling softly.

“Fred seemed a little nervous since you hadn’t checked his work on the second one,” Ben said jokingly.

“I’m sure it was fine.” You laughed with a playful eye roll. “Oh, uhm, I actually have something for you, too!”

You hurried back to the piano and laid the bouquet down on top of it, knowing Florence would pick them up in the next five minutes, already noticing her scurry down the hall upon hearing Benjamin’s voice. Then you walked over to a long, polished side table, gesturing Ben over to you.

His brow knitted a little more with each step he took, jade green eyes focusing on the somewhat big and clunky machine propped up on it. And then, finally, he looked at you, his expression somewhere between completely bewildered and bountifully confused.

“It’s a movie projector,” you told him while Ben kept silently staring at you like you were an alien. “Because you said you liked movies? Now you can watch them at home. You just have to steal a white bedsheet out of Florence’s linen closet. And of course, you’d have to get a movie from somewhere, but I’m sure that won’t be a big problem for you. You just need to make sure it’s 35mm.”

Ben’s eyes widened; lips curled. “Where-, uhm–” He scratched the back of his neck. “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I built it,” you replied.

“‘Course you did…” Ben clicked his tongue.

“George had most of the materials in the shed, and he was nice enough to get the rest of them for me,” you added, barely hiding the excited grin. “Do you like it?”

Ben’s features softened, a smile curving his lips. “Yeah, I like it very much, sweetheart. Thank you.”

There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite place – like your gift was special, which confused you greatly. He could buy himself anything he ever wanted to, including a movie projector, and you were sure he had also received plenty of gifts throughout his life. You didn’t even really want to imagine what kind of spectacle his birthdays probably had been.

“You’re welcome,” you said, and Ben pulled you closer by your hand, kissing you.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked as he withdrew from your lips, your cheeks still safely in his warm palms.

Uh-oh.

Ben had gotten curiouser and curiouser about you the last couple of weeks. It was as if he expected you to open up more, the longer the two of you were going out, which would’ve been a pretty fair assumption to make in a regular relationship. But the problem was nothing was normal about this, and you couldn’t share more with him. Not more than you already had. You’d never be able to tell him the full truth.

“I guess?”

Ben chuckled lightly at your response, caressing your cheek as if to assure you. “Where did you learn how to do all of this? I mean, this seems to go a bit beyond… regular schooling. Not that I’d know for sure.”

Ben’s little self-deprecating laugh was supposed to calm your nerves, but your heart only pounded faster by the second.

Hesitantly, you pursed your lips and exhaled a long breath. “I suppose you have a point. I-, uhm, I learned it in college.”

And downloading instructions from the memory bank. 

“College?” Ben’s brow almost met his hairline, green eyes wide in surprise. “You went to college? Where?”

“I-, uhm, I studied physics at McGill. It’s a university in Montreal,” you told him the truth. Luckily, you remembered your college’s long history of co-educational programs, including the sciences.

“French…” was all Ben mumbled, nodding along as if puzzle pieces were falling into place. “Are you from Canada?”

You snorted a giggle, shaking your head. “No, I just studied there.”

“Physics?” Ben checked once more like he couldn’t believe it, his brow intensely furrowed. But it wasn’t doubt that caused the creases – only disbelief.

“Yes,” you confirmed slowly. “I have a… PhD.”

Ben’s brows raised a little higher. “You-, uh, you’re a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re actually… smart-smart,” Ben deduced, causing you to laugh slightly, visibly seeing the gears turning in his head.

“I guess you could say that,” you replied, worrying your lower lip as you watched his various expressions.

“Huh.” Ben hummed and smacked his lips. “Why wouldn’t you have told me that?”

He wasn’t offended but generally baffled why you’d hide an achievement this big, one you should be proud to show off.

Your lips hitched a smile of amusement. “I’m not a man, Ben. Not as easy for someone like me.”

“Right…” He nodded quietly, still thinking. Still considering you.

But he didn’t have more questions afterward. You couldn’t really read the look on his faintly freckled face, and before you could figure it out, he claimed your lips in a deep and long kiss that robbed you of your breath.

However, pulling back, his smile faltered at the corners, brows shaping back into the familiar creases. His gaze trailed down your throat, landing on a particular spot at the slope of your neck. His fingers reached out and tentatively traced along the curve.

“What?” you asked with a small giggle upon his questioning look and the ticklish touch, but your eyes were wary, your heart accelerating its beats again.

“Nothing.” He shook his head as if the thought that had crossed him was silly. An amused smile then curved his lips. “Did you know I’ve been trying to leave my mark on that little spot for weeks now? Doesn’t seem to take.”

Fuck! 

You hadn’t even thought about that. He was getting way too observant. How long could you possibly keep this up before he’d burn you on the stake?

“Oh, uh…” Self-consciously, your hand clasped that very spot on your neck, feeling your eyebrows shoot up before you tried to rein them in and keep your composure. “I don’t… bruise easily, you know? Kinda neat…”

Fortunately, Ben seemed to buy your lie, his smile widening in kind. You really had him wrapped around your little finger. And shit, did you feel guilty about it, but you were also fucking relieved.

How long would that last, though? This wouldn’t be the last time he’d ask you questions or take note of oddities.

“Yeah, guess you don’t.” The smile morphed to a smirk. “Guess I have to try harder then, huh?”

The challenge sparkled in the deep green of his eyes before he entangled you in another kiss, tongue breaching past your lips as the hands on your waist dragged you flush against him. His hands slid higher, his embrace tightening as he retreated a few inches from your lips, only to place a gentle kiss on your temple.

“You’re special, sweetheart,” he said against the top of your head as he held you, deep voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I promise I won’t ever forget that, okay? And I’ll make sure everyone else fucking sees it, too.”

Shit.

Your heart dropped. You fought against the flood of tears in your eyes and tried to keep your breathing steady. Don’t fucking cry, you reminded yourself.

No one had ever said something like that to you. How did he know? And why on Earth did it have to be him?

And you knew then why you were still here and hadn’t ended this madness yet – because Ben was the one, across the vastness of the universe and the infinity of time, that saw you in a way no one else ever had.

He was the only one.

“Ben, I–”

Before you could form the right words to say, both your heads snapped to the hallway upon hearing the heavy thud of the front door. Who was at the door? Did he finally decide to get Mrs. Helen for you, after all?

But the tension that crept into Ben’s broad shoulders and the deeply creasing brow told you he hadn’t expected the visit either, and your stomach sank as it dawned on you.

“Shit,” Ben muttered, telling you enough with that one little curse word.

“Your parents?” you asked quietly. Ben nodded, but his worried eyes were fixed on the hall that led to the foyer. “I thought they weren’t supposed to come for a few more days?”

Ben had never explicitly said it, but you knew he was nervous about you being here when his father eventually returned. A week ago, he’d subtly introduced the idea of getting an apartment for you in the city, so you’d known Florence’s suspicion had been right all along.

You were not welcome here and were only trouble for Ben.

“Yeah, uhm…” Distraught, he turned to you then, and you swore you could see his heart beating in his throat. “You think you could, uhm–”

You nodded without him needing to say more. “I’ll sneak up to my room through the servants’ quarters and lock myself in there, alright?” you said and quickly kissed his cheek in reassurance, Frances already knowingly holding the door open for you to follow her upstairs.

▶️ Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

Poor girl never stood a chance with him 😅 How did you enjoy their dates (and their little office session)? Are you nervous or excited to get a glimpse of Ben's parents in the next part?

✨ TRIVIA FACTS: The title is a quote from The Maltese Falcon (1941) with Humphrey Bogart. The movie is about a group of people hunting a valuable artifact, the Maltese Falcon, before it is revealed at the end that it was only a fake. The second movie mentioned is The Lady Eve (1941), which is about a female con artist trying to scam a millionaire on a cruise ship before she falls for her mark. I found both of those very fitting for obvious reasons 🤓

Coming Up:

And then, his eyes landed on the bed – on your clothes spread out, half-packed. He froze, demeanor shifting immediately, color draining from his face. “What the hell is going on here? Are you fucking leaving me?” The baritone voice was suddenly sharp now, carrying an edge that cut through the haze of his drunkenness.

“I don’t wanna cause more trouble for you,” you confessed quietly, panic rising in your chest.

“So that’s it? Just like that? You’re just gonna fucking walk out on me?” His voice was jagged with emotion, gripping a handful of his hair in disbelief.

“No, but I-… I don’t belong here, okay?” you argued, your tone laced with desperation. What else could you say?

“Dammit, you think I don’t fucking know that?” His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, there was an unsettling silence between you two. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck Dottie told you, but this-… this isn’t some game to me. You think I do this with everyone? That I’m using you because I’m bored? That I’m just some spoiled rich kid who gets whatever I want?” He stared at you, disappointment, incredulity, and betrayal swimming in his eyes.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

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@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[whimsicalsesquipedalian]

Some thoughts on Andor, and that final shot everyone hates so much.

I don’t. I’ve been sitting with this show for a while now. This whole season I’ve been waiting to hate Bix’s arc with the same fervour that some of the more vocal fans do. I’ve been waiting to feel the injustice done to a “strong female character” (a phrase I fucking hate by the way, but that’s an argument for another time). I’ve seen the arguments that she should have stayed with the rebellion, that she was a fighter sidelined for the sake of a man, that she was reduced to a baby-factory straight out of right wing propaganda (Jesus Christ). And I disagree with every fucking one of them. 

For me, in season two, Bix is the heart of the show. She is the ethos, the drive, the reason that rebellion matters. Bix becomes, in a way, the most important character Andor has to offer us.

Andor has always been very clear in its ideology. Blatantly so. And one of the ideals it strives to impart to its audience is that we are not meant to live in fear. We are not meant to live under oppression. We are not meant to live looking down. For Andor the heart, the drive, the reason behind rebellion is to create a future where we are free. And where love, and peace, and community, and kindness, and hope are our foundations and are the only matter of our lives. 

Andor doesn’t want its characters to be fighters. They are forced to be. Andor doesn’t want its characters to live hiding and scared and clawing for any glimpse of peace and love and hope they can get. They have no other choice. Rebellion is important. It is so so fucking important. But it is only important because of what it fights for. 

Bix is not a fighter. In Andor’s first season she is a mechanic selling to Luthen on the side for extra money. She is not struggling against the empire. She is not joining a rebellion. She is getting the fuck by and living her fucking life. And one day her connection to Cassian puts her under the empire’s gaze and she is invasively tortured and horrifically traumatised because of it. And she endures. 

Bix is, also, an incredibly important character to me personally. There can often be a narrative surrounding trauma that it should make you the fighter everyone seems to think Bix should be. That you should take your pain and terror and suffering and turn it around and let it make you stronger. Use it to beat back against the person, or group, or institution that traumatised you. That you should pick yourself up, dust yourself off, take that horror, and fight back (girlboss-ify yourself and take those motherfuckers down). And to that I say, no. I don’t want that. I’ve done my fighting. I’ve lost my battles and I’ve come out the other side scarred in ways that still hurt to touch. What I want is to stop. Is to rest. Is to put this pain down and move out the other side of it and live, finally. 

For me, watching Bix as an horrifically traumatised woman live stuck in that fight for the first half of the second season was harrowing. To see her spend her time in the Coruscant safehouse grappling with the true cost of what it means to fight the way she needs to in this war, never at peace as the life she lives and the things she must do force her to stay held in her trauma, had me aching in ways I didn’t realise I would. To see her stuck in the dark and the gloom and the cold, and yearning the whole time she is in Coruscant to be able to go out and live without having to look over her shoulder, hurt in ways I struggle to put words to.

And then, to see her get out. 

I know there is a lot of contention about seeing Bix have little to do on Yavin. And to that I will say, it’s a big show, there are a lot of characters, and she is on Yavin during a storyline that arguably should not narratively or structurally be focusing on her anyway. I know there is also a lot of contention about writing her leaving Cassian for the sake of the rebellion. That it diminishes her character to a plot beat. And while perhaps the tropes at play feel trite in comparison to the more grounded beats the show is known for hitting, this is still storytelling. All the characters are, functionally, still devices serving a narrative. Bix leaves, and narratively becomes our ethos. Becomes the heart of this story. Becomes the reason we have been watching this all play out for our two-season run. Bix becomes the most important character in the show. Because this is why we must fight. For Bix. For everything she represents in that moment. She becomes the way Cassian’s life should be if it weren’t for this war, and in doing so becomes the way all of their lives should be. Should have always been. And will be one day soon. 

She is the reason. For all of it. For every loss, for every death, for every fight. It is her. She is the hope at the heart of the rebellion.

That last scene on Mina-Rau; the gentle light, Bee playing, the table set for a community to eat and laugh and be. People smiling and content and together and peaceful. And Bix, free. Of the trauma, of the loss, of the death, of the fight. Looking up at the open sky with her child. Literally holding in her arms the life that the rebellion has always been fighting for. 

That is the hope at the end of our story -- that Bix is the one that gets to live. 

And you can pry that fucking ending from my cold dead hands.

[holo-dok]

It would be funny to see the other students reaction to vanilla just scooping up his chaotic goblin wolfdog familiar like a sack of potatoes. 😂

(I wanna actually draw a comic for this au soo not gonna sketch all their reactions now BUT BUTTT)

It's been nearing the end of their first semester together. Cool winds blew across the University territory, scattering fallen leaves.

Pure Vanilla has never been fond of the cold weather, used to staying inside during the off-season of his shepherind duties. Or tending to the stock, sinking his cold fingers into their soft wool.

He shivered, clutching cloak closer to his body in an attempt to keep the biting winds out. The 5 of them were sitting in the outside patio near the library, presumably having gathered to study but in reality it soon escalated to a heated debate between Golden Cheese and Dark Cacao. Something something etgics of transfiguration magic. Really, he was too cold to care right now. Where was his precious Blue with his long soft shadowy coat when he was needed the most..?

All others had their familiars close by, ready to answer any command. Golden's cheese phoenix was flapping her wings in agitation, fully supporting her master's position. Cacao's twin-headed salamander curled on his shoulder - one head trying to sleep while the other was staring daggers at the cheese bird. Even Hollyberry's seemingly lazy honey bear cub was stealing snacks from the table with the helf of Lily's faerie moth. Not his wolfdog Blue, nope, never him. He always had a mind of his own, coming and going whenever he pleased. Vanilla knew he was supposed to train his familiar better, but he couldn't quite bring himself to discipline the creature, not when he gave them those literally puppy eyes or seemed just so so intelligent!

Sometimes he seemed just.. too intelligent.

Young student shook his head, fixing the mage cap on top of his head. He sighed, letting out a puff of air that came clowdy in the chill atmosphere. It seemed to redirect the conversation a bit.

Cheese: Oi, Vanilla! Are you cold? You're all shivering, jeez! - she laughed without malice, being always the one to dress the least modest and never feeling any cold. Maybe it was because her familiar was a literal fiery cheese bird or her strong magic running through her veins.

Hollyberry: Yea, Nilla, should we head inside? It's not like we are doing any work anyway, hahah! - she brought a warm hand around his shoulders, laughing and bringing him into a bear hug. Cacao hummed in approval. White Lily, the only one who was actually reading put her book down.

Vanilla: Oh thank you, you're being very thoughtful, really

Before he could continue he felt shadows shift beneath his feet and a familiar mu zzle materialize. He quickly reached down to scoop the still forming shadowy body of his wolfdog.

White Lily visibly tensed, seeming having something to say but before she could he yelled in delight.

Vanilla: Blue! Oh, you came! Just who I need!

He shamelessly hoisted the big heavy thing in his lap and shoved his entire face in his fur. Hands came to pet the warm fur and he let out a content sigh.

Cheese bird squeaked, reflecting her owner's flabberghasted expression. Others went quiet, observing the interaction. Everyone, even the one going by many names, one of which was "Blue", were in different stages of surprise, cuteness agression and bewilderment.

Lily was crossing her arms, clearly not happy with how close her best friend was with that weird suspicious familiar of his. Cacao was cautious and told Vanilla multiple times not to put too much trust in a magical creature, cuz even the most tame ones can snap and bite your face off. Holly was delighted, smiling widely - it Was a cute sight! She just never realized he could be so strong. And Golden Queen of First Year Students? Well she was staring daggers at the wolfdog in questions like he owns her money. Or like she wanted to prevent Cacao's fears of becoming a reality.

Lost to the world in the sea of white-black and blue fur that sometimes blinked back at him, Vanilla decided that he was pretty happy to stay outside at the patio for a while longer.

[extremely-judgemental]

Rhysand wearing Illyrian wings to the High Lords meeting is incredibly insulting, and due to the lack of discussions around it, I suppose it’s a personal opinion.

On Feyre’s suggestion, Rhysand agrees to show his true face in the meeting so they can build trust with the other courts, the ones they wronged in the past. And the way he does it is by flaunting his wings.

‘Bad guy act’ is instantly related to open threats and violent villainy like Rhysand is seen resorting to in CoN. But his ways have always been about dominance and manipulation, which he maintains throughout the meeting.

Rhysand doesn’t stop Azriel when he attacks Eris, even though a moment later, he doesn’t hesitate to use his powers to subdue Tamlin for lesser reason. Feyre attacks another as well, hurting an innocent bystander, but Rhysand allows it to happen though he saw the signs of oncoming outburst. He doesn’t play the overtly vindictive role he is known to play, but he doesn’t stop his court from acting out either when he is in charge of them and when he’s shown to do it easily every other time. He finds no harm in controlling another High Lord’s mind but won’t try to keep his men in check. He’d rather give out a command and let them decide if they choose to obey. He’d rather let Feyre have another meltdown in front of others than pacify the situation.

If he was showing his true nature and trying to foster better alliances, it would include proving his intentions and having a better control over his court. But in every way he is usually expected to behave, Feyre and the IC take over and do it on his behalf, which he allows.

His wings are meant to imply his attempt to be vulnerable with his enemies for the greater good, given nailing the wings was one of Amarantha’s preferred ways to torture him and the fate of his mother and sister. By exposing this side, Rhysand is showing his ‘weakness’ to the others and his trust in them.

Meanwhile, his mask has everything to do with the atrocities he committed his entire life in the name of Night and playing Amarantha’s right hand man. Except for revealing the truth about the Winter Children massacre and admitting his own sexual abuse, there is no change in Rhysand’s behaviour.

This is why the wings feel like a racial slight, instead. It’s a common knowledge that Rhysand is part Illyrian and trained in their ways. He even boasts about completing the Blood Rite. Irrespective of whether the wings are a secret, his heritage isn’t.

What is meant to be his physical or emotional vulnerability, it comes off as a source of his embarrassment. He’s not revealing his weakness but his flaw as if that side of him explains all his crimes. Not to mention, it is also a power play, reminding why he is the most powerful High Lord to ever exist. The whole act was never about honesty.

[slytherin-pen]

Never Again

pairing: Bodhi Durran x Riorson!Reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: canon typical violence

tags: no use of y/n, gn!reader, set during OS but barely includes a spoiler

summary: A flashback to the day you and Bodhi’s parents were captured and how it has affected you in the present.

written for day 3 of Bodhi Week @empyreanevents

Bodhi Masterlist

628 AU

The ocean had always comforted you. Even in the looming tension that had settled like fog over Riorson House, you pressed your forehead to the window and tried to lose yourself in the gray-blue horizon. You were fourteen—old enough to understand that not all silence was good.

Your father and brother tried to keep you out of it, and they did for the most part, but you weren’t stupid. You could hear them whispering in the halls before they rounded the corner to see you and immediately ended their conversation. You knew Colonel Mairi and your dad’s other friends weren’t always coming over to have dinner.

Behind you, Bodhi paced, his boots scuffing across the cobblestone floor of the sitting room. At sixteen, your cousin carried a mountain’s worth of anxiety. Always fidgeting, always listening.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered for the fifth time.

You turned to him. “They’re just late.”

“No, they’re not.” His tone was low, tight. “They’re not coming back.”

You didn’t ask who he meant. You knew. Your parents had gone to meet with trusted allies in Samara two nights ago. They were supposed to return before dawn.

They hadn’t.

Before you could speak again, a sharp knock snapped both of your heads toward the doors. Two servants entered—Arran, the butler, and Rory, the head maid. Their faces were pale.

“They’ve been taken,” Rory said softly, closing the doors behind her. “Your parents. Captured last night outside Samara. There are whispers they’re being brought to Calldyr.”

“No,” you breathed.

Bodhi’s eyes went wide. “How do you know?”

“We have friends,” Arran said, already grabbing the pack he’d left tucked between the wall and the couch. “But Navarre will come here next. We don’t have much time.. We’re getting you out.”

You stood frozen, trembling. “Where are they taking them?”

Rory didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a line as she reached for your coat. Bodhi’s jaw clenched so hard you heard the click of his teeth.

“We’re not leaving them,” he snapped.

“You don’t have a choice,” Rory replied gently. “You are their legacy now. You survive. That’s what they would want.”

“What about Xaden?” you asked, your voice cracking.

Rory gave you a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure he wasn’t there. He was probably able to run, and you’ll see him again soon.”

Arran turned to you. “We’ll go through the servant tunnels. They’ll take you to the old stables. From there—”

The door exploded.

The boom rocked the room. Shards of wood and metal scattered as smoke and soldiers poured through the entry. Navarrian uniforms. A mix of rider black and infantry blue.

Rory shoved you behind her. Bodhi surged forward but froze as one rider raised his hand, ice shooting from his fingertips. A spear of ice impaled Arran, sending him flying into the stone wall.

“No!” Bodhi roared.

A woman flicked her wrist. Fire erupted from her palm and engulfed Rory. Her scream pierced through the haze, searing itself into your mind.

“Run!” Bodhi grabbed your wrist and yanked you into motion. You stumbled behind him as he tore through the halls, weaving between portraits and overturned tables.

The house burned behind you. Screams echoed from the wings.

Your lungs burned, your legs barely keeping pace with Bodhi’s. “Where do we go?” you sobbed.

“Out. We’ll find Xaden. We’ll find someone—” But then Bodhi skidded to a halt.

Around the corner ahead, more soldiers emerged. Their eyes gleamed with glee as they spotted you.

“No,” Bodhi whispered. He spun on his heel.

Only to find more soldiers coming from behind.

You were surrounded.

“Take the boy,” one growled. “He’s a Durran. She’s a Riorson. They’ll make good examples.”

Two grabbed you. Four tackled Bodhi. He fought like a wild animal, snarling and thrashing as they forced him to his knees.

“Let her go!” he screamed.

You tried to break free, but a hand yanked your head back by your hair so hard you cried out. One of the riders leaned in close enough that you could smell his breath. “Stop crying,” he demanded through gritted teeth.

You couldn’t.

Before you knew it, he had grabbed your arm in a bruising grip and a burning pain reached your skin.

You screamed as the flames licked your arm. Searing agony tore through you. You thrashed, the heat scalding your nerves. The handprint sizzled into your flesh, a permanent brand.

“STOP!” Bodhi roared.

But they didn’t.

He watched as you collapsed, sobbing, clutching your ruined arm.

His scream ripped from his throat. Pain. Rage. Desperation.

Everything was a blur as they dragged the two of you outside. When you came out of your pain-induced haze, you were shackled inside a carriage. Every jolt of the wheels sent fresh agony down your nerves.

Across from you, Bodhi sat slumped against the wall, wrists chained, lip split, and eyes bruised.

“I’m sorry,��� he whispered.

“It’s not your fault,” you said. You tried to give him a reassuring smile but it looked more like a grimace.

Silence fell, and you looked out the small window of the carriage, watching the view of the ocean over the cliff side get smaller and smaller.

634 AU

You watched Bodhi and your brother Xaden attempt to teach cadets how to wield their signets in a fight. Xaden gave advice on how the cadets could use their signets to their advantage, while Bodhi was there as assurance that no one would accidentally burn the school down.

You were a first year now, and channeling but haven’t yet manifested. You were nervous, to say the least, but Xaden’s girlfriend Violet told you about how hers had waited until nearly the last minute. It made you feel slightly better.

You sat in the third row watching the cadets circle each other on the mat. Xaden was currently advising a cadet with a fire signet to wield. She did, the flames erupting in her palms and a shudder ran down your spine, but then she started flailing her arms. Balls of fire landed on the mat and flew towards the ceiling.

She was panicking, screaming that she didn’t know what to do. Xaden remained calm as always and told her to grab ahold of the thread of power, but she wasn’t listening.

Then Bodhi stepped closer and twisted his wrist like opening a door, and the cadet’s flames receded. There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the lecture hall, but yours was the loudest.

Later that night, while Bodhi was in your room to help you with your Battle Brief homework, your mind continued to wander to earlier today. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bodhi wield his signet, but it was the first time you weren’t too distracted by ongoing battle and chaos to give it a second thought.

You kept glancing at him from the corner of your eye as he went on about the outpost raids and what the venin could have been looking for before you finally blurted, “Do you know why you manifested a signet counter?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, slowly, he turned to you and pulled your arm into his lap.

The scar was still there.

A burn, shaped like a handprint, long since healed but never gone. You didn’t flinch anymore when he touched it. But sometimes, in the dark, you still remembered the heat. The pain.

“I didn’t care what my signet would be,” he said hoarsely. “Not like the others. They wanted power. To hurt. To destroy.”

His fingers gently traced the edge of the scar. “All I wanted was to make it stop. The hurting. The burning. The crying.”

He looked up at you.

“I think my signet was decided for me the day I couldn’t protect you.”

Tears stung your eyes. “Bo..” you whispered.

He smiled ruefully and tucked your hair behind your ear. “I couldn’t protect you that day. Or Arran, or Rory. But now with this,” he lifted his hands and as if you could see the power he wielded, “nothing like that will ever happen to you or anyone I love again.”

You sniffled and launched yourself into his arms. “You know it’s not your fault, right? We were just kids.”

He didn’t respond, only hugged you tighter.

You sighed, nuzzling further into his neck. You hated that he carried that day with him as much as you did, but instead of it just being a horrible memory like it was for you, it was a burden he carried with him every day. A burden so heavy he developed a signet from the weight of it.

As the two of you sat there in the silence, you hoped that you’d manifest a signet that could help, too. Because as much as you loved your brother, your cousin was the one you wanted to be like.